Page 123 of Brainwashed
“I don’twant…you…” I grunt again, tumbling over the edge into a whirlwind climax.
I gasp and pant while my dick throbs out long, almost painful streams of cum all over me.
Fuck this.
My head spins while I come down, and I slap my laptop shut. It’s hopeless. None of this makes any sense.
I’m not attracted to you, Felix Darcey.
I’m not.
I can admit when my mental state is wearing thin. I seem to be teetering on the edge of an episode, and I’m entirely unsure when I might snap.
Clomping down the steps, I follow the scent of delicious food. The chefs are preparing Chinese food, per my earlier request. Because I’m nothing if not a man of my word. And a bet’s a bet.
Meandering over, I find them transferring the contents of a wok into a couple of plastic containers.
“Good evening, sir,” the chef, Marla, says. “I have your lo mein here. The Moo shu is already done and there are wraps for you, if you prefer. Oh, and I also took the liberty of whipping up a few spring rolls.” She winks at me. “My treat.”
I nod at her politely, picking up the containers and plastic silverware, stuffing everything into a paper bag. “Thank you, chef. It smells fantastic.”
“Enjoy, sir.”
Outside, Kent is already waiting to take me over to the prison. It’s dark outside, just past nine at night, but I can’t help but notice that I haven’t seen any partygoers lingering around. Nor do I hear the thumping bass of music from upstairs.
Maybe they’re taking the night off.
We drive the five minutes to the prison, and I enter through the side door with my bag in hand. Walking down the hall, I can’t help but peek inside the windows of each rubber room leading up to Felix’s. I count six inmates in padded cells.
Reaching Felix’s, I glance inside before unlocking the door. He’s in a straitjacket, barefoot, wandering around the circumference of the room. I watch him for a moment, searching myself for any sort of fondness. I think it’s there, but I don’t understand it. It’s too confusing for me to even process…
All I know is that a strange, confounding part of me is eager to get inside this cell with him.
He makes a face like he smells something and looks up. Our eyes lock and he grins.
“Dear God, get in here,” he pleads.
I scowl at him, frustration taking me over at him demanding I do something. But I open the door anyway and step inside, kicking it shut behind me.
“Your dinner, Sir Darcey,” I mutter, tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Perfect.” His grin widens, then he nods at the floor. “Please do have a seat on the Vanderkolff.”
My lips twitch, but I force it away and place the bag on the floor. He goes to sit, but I stop him. “Come here, for fuck’s sake.” He simply gives me a deer in headlights look, so I stomp over to him, impatiently tugging to undo his laces. “There.”
He shrugs out the straitjacket, dropping it and stretching his arms out. “Thanks.”
“Sit,” I grumble, plopping down and opening the bag of food.
He sits gracefully across from me, a little too close, but I ignore it, handing him his containers.
“Ooh! Spring rolls!” He pops the whole thing into his mouth, chewing blissfully.
“Chef made them,” I say, eyeing him in between opening my food. “Just for you.”
He looks impressed, and I refuse to acknowledge the pleasant warmth it’s giving me. We both dig into our food, eating in silence. But the strangest part is that it’s not awkward. I guess silences between us aren’t usually awkward, now that I think about it. Hell, we begin most of our sessions just staring at each other.
“Thank you for doing this,” he mumbles in between bites.
