Spellbound

When I'm done, he releases my neck, and stands. "There's a bathroom down the hall, to the right. You might want to clean yourself up before we talk." As an afterthought he adds: "I'll have someone bring you your clothes."

It ought to be a relief to be dismissed, but the spell won't let me feel any joy at it. I still want him. The sick, simmering, unrelenting desire that brought me here in the first place is still in my blood, and hate him as I may, I still cannot bear the thought of being denied his presence. But at the same time I want to please him, and right now, pleasing him means climbing mutely to my feet, lightheaded and weak, and go look for the bathroom he directed me to.

At the sight of the warm bath prepared for me I almost break down. I don't know if this is cruelty or kindness, another mindgame or just something he does for every boy he takes home and fucks, but the relief is so great that, as I sink down into the hot water, feeling it ease the aches and pains of my used body, I am unable to hold back my tears.

***

He keeps his word. Breaking the spell proves to be a trivial matter, and once I'm able to think clearly again, it takes me no time at all to realize that I could have done it myself all along. Needing him was just an excuse. I can see in his eyes that he knows this. He expects me to be mortified by the knowledge that I came to him willingly, needlessly, but I feel only cold.

It is not the worst I've ever done for power. I'm not sure it even rates among the ten worst things.

The night air is sweet like overripe prunes as I walk home through the darkened streets. From the taverns comes the sound of brawls and laughter. I keep my hood back, my head high, and though this part of town is crawling with thugs and cutpurses, not one of them would dream of getting in my way. This is my neighborhood. I am known here.

He thinks he's won. But he came inside of me.

Like I said. It's not the worst I've done for power.