Others' episodes
 
Cor's episodes
 
News / site info
 

- - 17 - -

Four hours later, Brent finally comes around. Laying on my couch. I got it a while ago - for Erwin's visits.
There's much moaning and groaning. He sits up, and looks all around -
Not too steady on his feet, but he goes for the door anyway.
Locked.
His eyes get bigger. Oh, I'm liking this...
The kitchen door is locked too.
He pounds on the window over the sink a few times. Looking defeated, he goes back into the living room and raises the miniblinds. All there is to see is the forest.
He rears back, and gives the picture window a mighty kick.
Bulletproof glass. All around. Oh no you don't, babe.
The doors to the bedrooms and bathroom are locked too. I'll let him snoop around later.
Only one knob turns in his hand. The cellar.
Brent opens it, and sniffs a few times - because I've been letting a few cigarettes smolder downstairs. Bait. It gets 'em every time.
He pats his pockets. "Fuck..."
And then he looks at the stairs.
Up where he is - a couch, a kitchen table, locked doors to the other rooms. The cellar is more intriguing. The place to be. All the good stuff is waiting for him.
If I know my Stinger at all, he's wanting a smoke. He sticks his head through the doorway, listening hard.
He takes a step down. And another...

There's a door at the bottom of the stairs, wide open. Oh, don't mind that, sport. It's just an old door - from the look of it. Not solid oak, with recessed hinges and two industrial deadbolts.
He stands just outside that door, staring into the gloom. Sniffing now and then - but I've let half a pack of cigarettes burn, to cover the other smells that might... set him off.
Stinger leans in, trying to see.

I'm ready to grab him. But now, even more than in Texas, there's a great old cartoon that I can't get out of my mind.
A dog, trying to lure a cat into a clothes dryer, with scrawled signs promising "kat fud" inside. The dog hides and watches, thinking, "Oh please, oh please..."
That's me. C'mon in, Brent. Two more steps. Just clear the door, and I c-
Slowly, maddeningly, he takes a step. Halts. Waits...
Oh please oh please oh ple-
Another step. The last step. I think he's clear.
So I throw that door!
Wham!
He jumps three inches off the floor. I shoot the deadbolts and feel much, much better.
Then I click on the track lights. Soft illumination. Not enough to make him squint, but I want to make sure he can see. So much to take in.
I watch his face as he looks around...

There's a webbed sling of thick leather straps hanging above.
Thick steel manacles, chained to the wall... lined with big hooks for adding straps and supports.
A sensational angled rack - like a weight bench that got pissed off, and wrapped itself in leather... sprouting giant wings for torso and legs and arms, studded everywhere with chrome rings. His coffee table is close by, keeping his hubcap ashtray handy, a carton of Winstons, a huge bottle of Jack Daniels... and a urinal.
Except for the shit that came from his apartment, the furniture and fixtures are brand new. Clean. Never used before. That wonderful reek of cowhide and mink oil. Shiny.
There are three big shelving units loaded up with feathers, gloves, oil, lubes, brushes, cock toys, butt toys, hoods and gags and paddles.
A thick, wide pad on the floor, ringed with big eye-bolts, covered in white satin. New down pillows, in matching pillow cases, rest on top.
The entertainment center with a huge TV, a stereo system - and his collection of videos and CDs. His porn on the top shelf, and next to it a much larger pile - current issues of the same magazines, and a few specialty publications focusing on my favorite activity.
Scattered everywhere are his own belongings - prints and maps from the walls of his apartment, lamps, signs, dusty candles, a pair of Testor model muscle cars.
Loose black satin covers the ceiling.
It's a bit crowded. But I'm getting exactly the effect I wanted.
His facial expression - seriously gratifying. He backs up, very slowly, and reaches behind, feeling for the doorknob. But he tugs on the door vacantly, almost going through the motions...
I can't wait any longer. So I pick up a wrist-cuff, and then another. He watches them rise, not even daring to blink.
Since his arms are behind him, I press gently on his shoulders, and give him a kiss. Not hard or mean, just firm enough -
He squirms, at first. Then he relaxes... and kisses me back.

"Hey, Stinger," I say flirtatiously. "Make yourself at home."

- - 18 - -

As much as I love it when his eyes beg, with that desperate yearning... this look of confusion runs a close second.
I quit leaning on him, and his shoulder blades lift off the door. Leaving the wrist-cuffs in midair, I pick up a pair of the ankle restraints -
And he snaps out of his little trance. "Shit," he says raggedly. Turning around, he gives the door a proper tug or two. "I walked," and he kicks the door, "right in," kick, "again -"
"Brent, honey -"
"How fuckin' stupid am I?" Kick. "Shit! I walked - I did it again..." He winds up and plants a real hard heel-kick.
"Brent. Knock it off. I won't have you hurting yourself."
He turns and starts to pace. It's all I can do not to laugh. "I walked right in again! Aaaaaww, shit!"
"Don't be too hard on yourself," I say. "I would've dragged you in anyway."
That stops him in his tracks.
"C'mon," I say, floating the cuffs over to the rack. I bring a pair of leather gloves there too. One beckons him with a finger, and the other pats the padded seat. Right here, babe. You and me.
He seems to be having trouble swallowing.

I do giggle at the sight of that. But it seems to help. He relaxes a little, and his face gets stony. He shifts his weight from one boot to the other.
"There must be some way... I can talk you out of this."
"No way at all. Just go with it."
"I'll do anything you want, get you anyth-"
"Stinger, there is nothing on this earth I want more, right now, than you. On this... chair." I doubt he's going to warm up to it if I refer to it as a "rack".
He snorts, and looks the room over again.
"Now, don't pout. There's no other exit."
"You're going to drive me crazy," he says distantly. Taking a step toward me! "Plumb insane."
I laugh that off. "Not a chance. What fun would that be? Hell, sport, you just spent six wild days with me in Texas, and I d-"
He takes another step. And another! "Six days?" he says frantically. "Six? That was only six days?"
"I can't believe I'm saying this... but boy, do you need a cigarette."
"Oh, wow." He rubs his face. Takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. His face is sterner...
And he walks to the rack. Chair, I mean.
"Vik. Please. I'm begging y-"
"And I just love it when you do."
He sighs.

"Now, you can pull your boots off," I say reasonably, "or I can wrestle 'em off ya."
But he reaches... for the cigarettes. That irritates me, until I see how bad his hands are shaking. He rips it open, gets a pack out and a smoke in his mouth with unthinking efficiency, and he looks around.
"Oh," I say. I have one of the gloves fetch a disposable lighter. "Here," and I lob it to him.
He snags it and lights up. Dragging hard. By the second drag, I can see a clear improvement. I let him take a couple more, and point with one of the gloves. "Boots."
"Yeah, yeah," he mocks.
But he sits on the chair, side-saddle, and takes his boots off.
"And the socks."
"Well, hell. Yeah. Of course."
"That's quite an attitude you've got there."
"You sounded just like my ex when you said that."
I fight off the urge to strap his ass down and lay waste to him. Telling myself, that's a dig I haven't heard before. I'll have to think about that one later.
When I don't reply, he wisely peels off his socks. And just sits there, smoking.
I take hold of his left arm and move the cuff down to it. He tugs. Once. Involuntary, I think. Then he doesn't fight as I get it buckled. Right wrist...
I hike the legs of his jeans up a little, and he makes a quick sound of protest, deep in his throat. But he lets me put his cuffs on without any more reaction out of him.
"There," I say.
He looks at the gloves. "Well?"
Well. Sassy son of a bitch. Well, now I'm going strap those cuffs down and rock your world -
But that's what he's expecting me to do. So I switch gears. He has no idea how hard it is for me. I'm aching to lay into him. And he's all rested up, too -
But the pleasure will be that much greater when I do start in. I wouldn't mind loosening him up first.
"How about a burger?"
That throws him for a loop.

His shoulders sag. "Yeah. sure."
"Look," I say casually, "I can't have you bracing for impact all the time. Might as well try to enjoy yourself."
"Crazy," he mumbles, "I'm gonna go nuts for sure, I'm telling you."
"Sit back. Get comfortable," I order, lowering the gloves. "Start in on the whiskey. I know you like it..."
On an impulse, I find the remote and cruise it over. Shove it in his hand.
He blinks at it, and groans softly.
"It's supposed to be a very comfortable... chair."
"Sure. Fuck. I just bet it is."
I go up and microwave some food.

He's been taking my advice. Sitting uneasily, but testing the chair - and with his legs laying on the pads like that, it takes another battle to keep from attacking him. Maybe two shots are gone from the bottle. And he used the urinal...
He's smoking hard. I bring the bag down, through a flap over the shelves, and set it in his lap.
"Thought you said there wasn't another exit," he growls.
"Not for you. An old laundry chute. Maybe ten inches square."
"Huh."
He looks inside the bag. "What is this? Are these -"
"White Castle."
"Great."
Ooooooo. "A - I haven't had time to go shopping. Prisoner. If your suffering is enjoyable enough, later, we'll make up a list. And B... you stupid goof... you'll eat whatever I tell you to eat, when I tell you -"
"Okay." He nods irritably, takes a last drag and pounds the cigarette out, reaching into the bag as he does.

When he's through, with a cigarette between his fingers, gulping from the water bottle, I sigh with contentment. His eyes move, all around, as he drinks.
"Are you sleepy?"
"Uh, yeah."
Liar. "I think you're stalling."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Touché." I pick up the remote, and turn on the TV. "You like baseball, right?"
He stares at the TV screen. "Okay..."

- - 19 - -

It's odd. I had planned to be working on his second delirious cum-shot by now. Have him cuffed neatly on the leather swing, whooping with all he's got.
Instead, I have a nice quiet conversation with him.
Getting intelligence on him, I tell myself. The more I learn, the more ways I can totally kick his ass.
My real goal, even though it's incredibly frustrating - in a way that almost makes me dizzy with excitement - is to get him settled in. I can see now that I've thrown him a hell of a curve. That talk about going insane was a yellow flag...
Stinger's definitely not glad about being here. He knows what's coming. But I'm astounded to see him... well, relax. Like he never did in Texas.
Of course, if I can move him from one cell to another - and get him to walk in - I've got to be looking pretty damn tough to defeat. I think the kiss I just planted on him isn't hurting my case either. Or it could be that I'm not going right for those skittish feet.

He chain-smokes. I let him. And I had seriously planned to cut him off. Tease the hell out of him...
Well, I will tease him. But the cigs are helping him cope. Wait until I take 'em away again, sport. And force 'em on you, and take 'em away.
Maybe I'm the one who's gone nuts. I have big plans for him. Nothing will stop me.
And as we talk, it's obvious he understands that.
He say something, just in passing, that hits me real hard. Not what he says, but the truth it points out...
I have all the time in the world.
He thinks I have nothing else to do - no other responsibilities - except to play with his body.
I let it pass for now. Let him think that. It'll keep him in line. Maybe it helps him accept this...
He's noticed that I didn't have to start right in on him. Even better, he told me he's aware of it. In my plans for a lusty tickling marathon, I've built in some actual... uh, comfort for him. And I chose to do it. It won't all be supersonic torment.
That isn't lost on him. He has such solid confidence in the long, long term arrangement we've got here.
I start to wonder if I can possibly take his cigarettes away now. He needs them so much. I think I'm being manipulated.
He might be smarter than I thought.
I'm actually enjoying this conversation. To my surprise, he has a dry sense of humor. Joking around with me, before I make him laugh himself hoarse.
That makes it so much better... Big contrast with the pure animal glee he'll be swamped with, later.

Stinger yawns, and tugs less often on his cigarettes.
Wrestling with my options, I finally let him start to snore.
All the time... in the world.

But I can only make it about four hours. Those feet. Already cuffed...
I have a fun time with a single feather. Mastering my own enormous hunger, I tickle each foot all over - without waking him up.
And he responds anyway. Thrilling little grunts and twitches.
As slowly as I can stand, I open his fly. Ease his underwear down. Use another feather.
He whimpers, so quietly. Eyes on the move. What are you dreaming of, Brent?
I dust and dust. Pre-cum soaks the feather, so I use a new one. Dust his glans, the delightful rim. Lay off for awhile, and concentrate on his feet.
Finally, wonderfully, he jerks hard. A very different grunt.
He's awake.

I have a single candle lit, on the coffee table to his left. Otherwise, his room is dark.
"Oh," he says thickly. "Dream."
And his seductive eyes travel down to his cock. Out, and standing there at full attention.
He sighs.
"Vik?"
"Right here," I say, from down by his feet.
"Fuck..."
"I can't stand it. Another second."
He gets himself a cigarette...
I move his feet a little further apart, and fasten the first set of straps.
He just looks at the ceiling.
I decide on two for each ankle, two for each wrist. And a thick one over his beltline.
"Are you in any discomfort?"
He takes a long, slow drag. And finally, "Not yet."
I laugh, and take the cigarette from him. Punch it out. Make him drink some water...
Searching for the perfect thing to say, something that will really torque him up every time he remembers it... I blurt out what I'm really thinking. "You're so... brave."
To my amazement, he shudders. A big one, all the way down to his hypersensitive toes. Bulls-eye! That'll work. Hit him nice and hard, whenever he's reminded.
His courage won't help him now, though.
One pair of feathers for each restless foot.
Laugh for me, Stinger. Until even laughing is impossible. Then just focus on it all, slamming home...
"Noooo hooo hooo noooo Vik awww noooooo Vik vuh aaaah huh huh huh huh heeeeeeehh..."

I cut his shirt off, and his jeans, and his underwear.
And I dance all over his body. Building the speed very gradually, adding brushes, then fingers. More fingers. Firmer. Faster.
Full power...

There are many short breaks for water and nuts, candy bars.
He lasts for eleven perfect hours.

While he snores... I go shopping.

- - 20 - -

When he finally wakes up, he's securely cuffed in the swing.

And he gives it a full workout, for the first five hours. After that, he just hangs there, tickled vigorously from above and below.

I like that so much, I leave him there the next day. I pester him with questions, and finally I believe it - no cramping. I see no bruises. His limbs are slightly bent, and I've been adjusting the supporting straps a little...
It really isn't causing any pain. I'm maybe too alert to the possibility of anything providing a distraction. But he seems completely frustrated when I ask him, because it's so perversely comfortable.
Until I start in again.

Sometimes, during a break, I swing him. He doesn't get motion sickness. Apparently. And it annoys him a lot.
"V-Vik?"
"Yeah?"
"You cleaned out my apartment? Right?"
"Yes I did." Close enough...
"You went and got my tools?"
Uh-oh. I catch him at the top of his arc. "Tools?"
"Y-yeah."
"I didn't see any tools, babe."
"They're at work."
Work? Well, what was I supposed to do? Go steal back all the stuff he'd lent out to friends, too?
My pause answers his question. "Oh, shit."
"I didn't know," I say defensively.
"I spent years collecting those."
"Are they insured?"
"Well... no."
"Huh."
He starts pulling at the straps. "Dammit. I had, like, ten thousand bucks' worth of tools."
"Do you see any cars here to take apart?"
He sighs with frustration.
"Do you understand your present situation, here? You're my captive. My toy. You gotta get with the program, Stinger. You're here now. Staying in. You're gonna tickled within an inch of your miserable life. You got that?"
He takes a drag. Then, "The other guys will steal 'em -"
"Brent! Let it go!"
"You don't fuck with a guy's tools, Vik."
My turn to sigh. "All right. Fine. I guess... some restitution is in order." His expression stays the same. "Money."
"Oh." There it is. Greedy pig. And I bet "ten grand" is a big exaggeration.
I start to pull his smoke, and wait for him to take a last drag. "We'll work something out. That's not your most pressing concern right now." Why do I have to tell him that?
"I know," he growls, watching the water bottle arrive. "I thought of 'em yesterday... I think... and, uh, you were in a... wild mood."
"I'm getting in it again," I warn him. "If that's what it takes to get you to stop thinking about anything else."
He's guzzle enough water. I take the bottle away, and pick up four gloves.
"I wasn't thinking about 'em that muh huh heeeeeee heee heee heee haaaawl hah haaah haaah haah haw haw haw haw haw..."

I'm finally satisfied with the photographic timer I bought him. With a rheostat added, I can slow the hands dowwwwwnnnn. Just seeing them barely move, at maybe one-tenth normal, makes me want to drill him. Hard. Then I bring them to a full stop.
Oh yeah. I see a lot of hopeless bets in his future. There's no limit on how long "one hour" is.
And it glows in the dark. Little marks on the face, and the hands.

- - 21 - -

I'm not taking any chances, so I lay him out on the pad. Spread wide. Nice, simple restraints. Perfectly daunting.
He has to pull at the cuffs for awhile, so I keep the cigarettes coming.
When he gives up, and drinks some water, I pull the pillows out from under his head and light a new smoke off the old one.
Slowly, tauntingly, I start peeling the satin off the ceiling. The track lights are directed away. Weak indirect light -
I whip the cloth down and to the side of the room.
He stares... at a huge mirror. Most of the ceiling, covered in square-foot tiles, giving him one of the views I enjoy so much.
"Hey," he says nervously.
I take a pair of gloves and massage his neck.
"Hey..."
"You're safe."
"Like hell -"
"I gotcha." And I giggle, by his ear.
"But you... let me break the other mirror."
"Uh-huh. The standing mirror. The one that reminded you of some movie you'd seen."
"Well... what's the deal?" He's pissed off. I knead his shoulders, deep muscle-work, definitely not tickling. I'm glad he's annoyed, and not frightened.
"I don't want you to be afraid of mirrors."
"C'mon -"
"Or of anything else."

He smokes. "Don't act like you're being nice to me. This is... mean. Big ol' mirror."
"Merciless."
"You're fuckin' torturing me, here."
"And loving every minute of it," I say huskily, kissing his cheek.
He jerks his head away. And looks in the mirror. "You're think I'm gonna watch?"
"You can't help it. It's hypnotic."
"Huh."
"You have yourself one more gigantic drag." He does. "Seriously, do you want to know why I got a mirror in the first place?"
"No."
I bring a scarf up, and roll it slowly. "I love the sight of a hot stud... laid out." I pick at a strap, which snaps back against the pad with a thud. "Tethered. Helpless."
"Nnnmmmmf," he barks, as I tie the gag.
"Caught, parked... in bonds that are meant to keep you perfectly stuck. I want you to be able to stare at them, like I do. And at yourself, held here, vulnerable..."
He rolls his eyes, and shuts them. Waiting.
"More hours than you can count, laying right here. As the tickling goes on, and on. No matter how bad you want to move - you can't."
I slide the gloves down to his belly. He squirms as they drag over his pecs. Lifts his head a little, to see where they're going...
And he drops his head. Looking, instead, at the reflection. In the mirror.
"See?" I start scratching lightly around his belly-button. "Isn't that convenient?"
"Nuuuuunh hnnnh hnnh hnnh huuuuulff," he laughs, shaking his head.
But he watches, in the mirror, as he does.

All that day, and the next, he keeps watching.
Well... most of the time he can't keep his eyes open. But whenever he does, squeezing the tears of pleasure out and blinking hard, he checks in on the outrageous show going on. Now he can take it all in. Look from one tickled spot to the other. Really focus...

He's riveted by the cock pump, and the cordless drills. I've designed a few attachments. Fur, mostly. On a low speed, in the right places, they're devastating.
I have a dozen battery packs and eight chargers, so the fun never has to stop.

And it doesn't.
He discovers the proper use for the rack. We explore the way the leg-pads separate. Shackle his wrists down, well out from his sides... then alongside his neck... then way over his head.
 

The next day, I try out the wall-manacles.
He finds them uniquely frustrating.
 

Back to "bed". Snoring, after a long day making me happy.
I clean him up, and consider what to do next. To him...
And I have another annoying problem. Erwin.
I think for hours about what to do with Stinger... when I go back to work.

I decide on a plan.
A visit to the office, in the early morning hours, gets me everything I need.

- - 22 - -

"Have you been enjoying your break?" he says.
"Oh, you know me," I say evasively.
Dry chuckles come out of the speakerphone. I'm upstairs, rolling Brent a joint or two...
"There's a situation I think you'll appreciate," he says. "Latin America."
And I was just in Texas. "Yeah. Um... Erwin. I have a little situation of my own."
"Oh?"
"When can you come out to my place?"
There's a pause. I cringe...
"Will there be Irish coffee?"
"Good grief," I laugh, relieved. "All you can drink."
"Yes... you'd like that, wouldn't you? Get me in a compromising position?"
"You're always in a compromising position, with me. I can get at you any time I want."
"True." He hums for a few seconds. "We were going to a poetry reading tonight... but I doubt Esther will be all that surprised if something comes up."
"You're a prince."
"Especially if it's work-related. Hmmmm?"
"Oh, it is... in a manner of speaking..."

"Hey, Brent."
"What."
I start loosening the cuffs. He watches his right wrist, being freed...
"Company's coming."
"Aw, no."
"Human company."
He swings his legs over, sitting sideways on the chair - and stretches. Intoxicating to watch him do that. I don't know why. He reaches for a cigarette. "Are you serious?"
"Uh-huh. Can you stand up?"
"Well, I don't know..." But he has no trouble, really, although it takes him most of a smoke.
"I must be doing something right, with the restraints." I hand him another cigarette, and he puffs it to life using the last one.
"If you're looking for a compliment, there, you can go straight to hell." He rolls his head around experimentially, leaking smoke.
"Oh really? You'll pay bigtime for that crack."
He nods - arrogantly. "No doubt."
"Look. Here's how it is, babe..."

First, I give him an vague idea of where we are. How far it is to the only highway, all the forest surrounding my place. He can never elude me. I know these woods.
He finds out that I have a... colleague coming over.
And I open the door.
Scoot him up the stairs, and into the bathroom.
Turning on the shower, I get stern with him. "I'm going in with you. If you fuck around, I'll scrub you -"
"No," he says quickly. "No. Okay."
"And that little window is bulletproof glass, too. No funny ideas..."

I help him towel off, until he starts yelling about it. Sometimes he has no sense of humor.
While I like him much better with, oh, two days' stubble, he's still got the vaguely haunted look of a guy who's been tickled - expertly tickled! - for a couple weeks. I need him to look less pathetic. "Can I trust you to shave, without nicking that pretty face?"
"Shit," he drawls. And a faint blush appears! One confused pup, that's what I've got here.
That is my cue to shut up. While he shaves, I lay out his uniform for the night.

He walks out of the bathroom, toward the kitchen - and stops when he sees the threads.
"Go on," I order him.

"You have to admit... I do know what sizes to get for you."
He scowls, looking himself over. I think he looks hot. And I can read him a little better than I could the first night - he's not entirely disgusted.
He's got a nice Western shirt on - black, with thin black stripes. Black leather vest, so his ever-present smokes have a handy place to live. Black leather pants. Nice snakeskin boots.
For my personal enjoyment, I included a leather thong and silk socks. Constant little reminders.
The crowning touch is a pair of thin black gloves. He was really nervous about 'em. I finally had to take the pack of Winstons out of his vest pocket, meaningfully, to get him to behave...
The wrist-snaps are snug, but not too snug. I coated both halves of each snap with superglue and let them dry for a little while. The heat, from closing the snap, should liquify the glue just enough.
"Now try to take 'em off..."
He tugs, and cusses.
"They look good, Stinger. Complete the ensemble. You are one badass prisoner."
"Vik..." He frowns at 'em, making fists.
"And I am a bigger badass tickler. Sit," and I push the ashtray closer to him, "and smoke."
He starts to obey, and stops suddenly. There's a simply delightful expression on his face. Those blue eyes, widening...
"What's the matter?"
"The... pants."
"Oh, shit. Too tight?"
"N-no." He sits, frowning like he just stepped in dog shit.
I figure it out. "First time? You've never worn leather pants before?"
"Nope," he finally mumbles, getting his pack out.
"You'll get to like 'em. I must say, I really like the way they look on you."
"So that's what I wear," he sighs.
"Oh, yeah."
"When I'm wearing... anything."
I get a beer out of the fridge. "Get that man a Lone Star. Actually, only rock stars wear 'em all the time."
He fires up the lighter - and I stop him. Using his glove. Pulling the flame back a little...
This is a new one on him. He looks scared, but only for an instant. "What is this? Some new head games?"
"Always, babe," I say. I make his left hand take the cigarette away. After a momentary tug of war over control of his hand, he sighs... and quits fighting. I win!
Those fingers reach way down into the left vest pocket...
And pull out a joint.
"Oh, shit," he says.
"Good shit. Only the best, for you." I have no way of knowing if it's "good" or not. I just want to see him blush again. It's so cute.
But he doesn't turn red this time. I make him light up, nice and casual. He has much more practice than I do, but - obviously - we make a great team. He takes a little hit, and nods. Then a long monster drag...
Under my control, his hand puts the lighter back into his vest pocket, and reaches for his beer.

I keep him there, and talk to him.
And I tell him things I've never told anyone else. Erwin already knows, so I'm not counting him.
About me.

Stinger knocks the coal off the roach. Well, I do it, while he watches. I pop it into his mouth, and he eventually chews it up...
After another long pull off his beer, he sighs. I get another bottle, and open it.
"That's a lot to take in," he finally says.
His eyes are beautiful, in a whole different way, when he's stoned. "I know. But it's the truth." I make him light a cigarette.
"Can I just... y'know... think about all this?"
Ouch. "Yes. I'll - I'll make time, so you can... get used to it."
"I don't like it."
"No," I almost whisper. "I wouldn't expect you to."
And thankfully, Erwin's car is pulling in. "He's here."
Brent snaps the ash off his cigarette. Angry. Working himself up. "Good."
"Sit right there. Don't even dream of bolting for the door. I'm onto you."
His eyes narrow, but he says nothing.
And now, the last hurdle. The moment I've really been dreading...
I open the door, and let Erwin in. "Hi there."
"Hel-" He freezes, staring at Brent.
"Erwin, this is Brent. Brent... Erwin."
"Havik'a," my boss says, packing each syllable full of disapproval.

On to Part 4   -  
Back to Part 1   -   Part 2