Page 16 of For You, Sir

“They’re paying month-to-month, based on your updates,” Deborah said. “They have to give two weeks’ notice, but could pull out any time.”

I pressed my lips together. Ideally, I could help Sir get back to work and everyone would be happy, but that decision was hardly mine to make. He seemed dead-set against writing, even though that was the obvious solution. I pinched the bridge of my nose. So much for having full control over my kingdom.

“I’ve got another call. I have to let you go,” Deborah said in a rush.

“Okay,” I said, but the line was already dead.

The need for a cigarette roared through me. I pushed it down.

What did they expect me to do? I was good with clients who had difficult personalities, but I was never expected tochangethem. Even if I improved Sir’s quality of life, that didn’t mean he’d write again.

I took off my apron and slid my thumb along the sunflower print. I could tell Sir liked it. He glanced at it a lot while we ate lunch. Lots of male clients liked sunflowers—something about their unsubtle boldness appealed to masculine sensibilities. The next time I picked up groceries for Sir, maybe I’d get a bouquet for his table.

But I knew his staring wasn’t limited to my apron. He lookedatmea lot. When I’d first arrived, he’d watched me with wide-eyed alarm like I was an intruder. But lately, those looks had grown moreappreciative. He stared a lot while I was cooking and thought I didn’t notice.

He was probably just bored and desperate for mental stimulation, like a caged animal with zoochosis, but it was still flattering. And Ilikedthe way his glances made me feel. Special. Desirable. Especially since the man checking me out was strikingly handsome himself—a rugged jaw and golden hair, like a hunky blond from a superhero movie.

If Sir liked me, could I use that to my advantage? When I made Sir shower before eating lunch with me, he’d done it right away. Could I try a similar approach to entice him into finishing the script? An image flashed through my mind of servicing Sir on my knees…

No! What was I thinking? That was completely unlike me, not to mention unethical.

I tried to brush the thought from my mind, but the image lingered with disturbing clarity.

~

That evening, while I was driving home, my brother called, but I let it go to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message, and I already knew I wouldn’t call him back when I got home. What was there to say? Was I supposed to pretend to enjoy Mom’s drunken company when I didn’t? Pretend I didn’t care that Ho-Sung was poisoning her into an early grave?

I couldn’t support Mom and Ho-Sung’s self-destructive behavior, nor could I get them to stop. What else could I do but avoid the whole situation? I was already the black sheep of the family; why stop now? They had each other, woven together by financial and chemical dependency—maybe that was enough. Visiting regularly wouldn’t make them like me more. And if I couldn’t make them happier, then why should I make myself miserable?

Selfish, selfish, selfish.I was exactly the bad son they thought I was.

I considered going to the gym and disciplining myself with another punishing run, but decided against it for Sir’s sake. I had been moving slowly all day from exhaustion, queasy with nicotine sickness. That’s probably what made me break the stupid coffee pot. I needed to go home and rest so I could do better tomorrow. Sir was recovering, and I would not screw up the one thing in my life that was going well. I couldn’t help my mother, but I could help Sir.

When I got to my apartment, I made some packet ramen and added a soft-boiled egg. With my lonely bachelor dinner prepared, I settled on the couch with a pair of chopsticks. Mr. Cuddles curled up on my lap, and I pulled a blanket over him.

While I ate, I watched a streaming version of Sir’s breakout movie,The Fringe. It was obvious why this was his most popular. It didn’t have an uneasy ending likeCorrupted Crown,and featured an ensemble cast, all of whom lived on the cusp of two worlds—adolescents, bi-racial adults, divorcees, bisexuals. The story was more about the characters than the plot—the intersections between the protagonists’ disparate lives, and the ways they influenced each other, usually for the better. I enjoyed its uplifting message. Artsy but approachable, sincere and high-concept. I could see why a movie like this would attract both fans and detractors.

I had no idea how someone could attempt to write a sequel for such a work, though. Poor Sir’s efforts were probably doomed from the start. For a moment, I was tempted to peek at the leaked script, but decided not to. It touched me the way he overlooked my mistake and swept up the broken pieces of the coffeepot. The least I could do was overlook his misfortunes as well.

I was still thinking about the movie while I got ready for bed.Corrupted Crownhad left me with a lingering unsettled feeling, butThe Fringemade me feel hopeful instead. Inspired by a character from the movie, I set my alarm a little early so I could take a more scenic route to work the next morning.

That night, I had a strange dream. I was trying to make Sir a coffee, but there wasn’t any cream and for some reason I couldn’t buy more. Sir was acting uncharacteristically stern about it. “Cream, Jun! I need it!” He grew more and more agitated, but I just stared at the cup of black coffee, feeling paralyzed and distressed.

Then Sir pressed up against my back, his arms all around me. He opened the front of my slacks, grabbed my hand, and put it on my cock. He said, “Take care of it!” and made me jerk myself off, his hand encircling mine, forcing me to make the motions. He expected me to produce “cream” for his cup, and I tried; I wanted to. I was so hard, I was aching. Stroking and stroking endlessly, but never getting anywhere.

Sir started biting my neck and shoulder from behind. He’d meant it as a punishment, but it felt so good, I moaned a little. That made Sir angry, and he slapped my hand away, gripped my cock in his fist, and jerked me with brutal determination.

I woke up with a throbbing erection. In my muddled half-sleep, I felt like I was supposed to be doing something. Buying Sir a carton of half-and-half, maybe.

My cock was so hard it hurt, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. The skin down there was painfully taut, like it could barely contain my swelling. I groaned and took my silicon stroker out of my nightstand.

I was going to continue where the dream left off—Sir’s savage stroking, his teeth on my neck—but shame burned my cheeks and I stopped. What was I thinking? Fantasizing about my client was wrong on all sorts of levels. I squirted lube into my stroker and returned to my Viking fantasy instead.

My cruel, blond captor had returned to the hut where he kept me. I was bound at the wrists, my ankles hobbled with impossible knotwork. When he approached, I obediently sank to my knees and reached for his wolf-hide loincloth. He flapped it open before I could reach it, and brandished his jutting, red cock at me. I leaned forward, parting my lips, but he didn’t want my mouth. He grabbed me by the hair and yanked me around, shoving me face-down onto a pile of furs. He climbed on top of me, cock in hand, and nudged himself into position.

I clenched my teeth and braced for pain, acutely aware that my feelings didn’t matter. I was merely an object to be used, soft flesh to ram himself inside, until he was fully satisfied.

Chapter 8 (Einar)

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