Max - Bey Deckard Page 0,26

hung gigantic canvases covered in uneven, blurred lines of bright colour, reminiscent of alien landscapes, and the furniture was white and very modern. In one corner of the big open space was a king-sized bed, made up with a duvet that matched the paintings. It was neat, visually-pleasing, and completely without personality. Crane felt disappointed.

What did you expect? A sex dungeon? Walls covered in confessions scribbled in blood? A dead hooker wrapped in a rug? There was a display table near the trendy steel-and-repurposed-wood kitchen, and when Crane approached it, he saw that beneath the glass case there were probably a hundred miniatures.

“These are different from the ones I design for work,” Max said mildly, “but I use their 3D printer. Do you like them?”

Flaring his nostrils, Crane peered down into the case. To one side, three tiny green ogres held down a tiny blonde woman while a fourth knelt between her legs, his erection disproportionately large. Inside a tiny replica of a spaceship, a tiny alien creature had his arm inside a tiny man’s ass, up to the forearm. There was a tiny puddle of blood on the floor beneath them.

No matter where his eye landed, it was met with a miniature tableau of depravity. Centaurs raping a maiden, an elf nearly split in two by a giant’s cock… He even saw a detailed reproduction of one of the famous Whitechapel murders—Mary Jane Kelly mutilated beyond recognition by Jack the Ripper—and a diorama of Dr. H. H. Holmes’s World’s Fair Hotel complete with the murderer himself dissecting a woman on a table. He was horrified by the level of detail… and incredibly impressed.

“The fantasy and sci-fi ones… They’re taken from the CG movies I make. You wouldn’t believe how much money people will pay for a two-minute video of Ripley from Alien getting her holes destroyed by a bunch of xenomorph-dog hybrids.” Max laughed. Then his expression went sly. “Do you want to see it?”

“No!” Crane felt sick because, yes, he did want to see it. “I… need a drink. Get me a drink.”

Without a word, Max padded over to a low metal table on wheels that held a number of bottles. He filled a cut-crystal glass with some amber liquid and presented it to Crane with a flourish.

As Crane lifted the whisky to his lips, Max deftly undid Crane’s Dockers and slid down his boxers. “Come…” he beckoned. When Crane didn’t move, Max grabbed his hand and pulled him along. “I’ve poured a bath. You can just soak, you poor thing, and I’ll massage your shoulders and your feet if you want. And then I’ll give you a lovely blowjob and get you all relaxed. Does that sound nice?”

Crane was so anxious and sleep deprived because of guilt that, yes… Yes it did sound nice. His resistance slipped away while he sipped his whisky, Max leading him to the bathroom. Yeah, Max would take care of him.

“Blowjob first,” he mumbled, already feeling weirdly tipsy from his drink. “Then massage.”

“Whatever you’d like, Doc. You’re safe here. Just think of this as your home.” Max squeezed his hand gently and turned his big brown eyes to Crane, a tender smile on his handsome face.

“Yes,” Crane slurred. “Home…”

8

Beautiful Fucking Madness

Friday, August 19th

Crane felt like his mind was trapped in a dark lake, barely breaking the surface to consciousness before he sank back into the deep gloom. One time he surfaced only long enough to see that he was naked, and Max, laughing and sweat soaked, straddled his hips. Another struggle to the surface had him in semidarkness, his body cold from the concrete he was lying on. He saw there was dirt under his fingernails. Another time, Max was coaxing him away from the door, his voice gentle. Crane’s cheeks were wet with tears. There were apologies, yelling, he found himself hugging the toilet, a sour taste in his mouth. Then Max was sucking his cock—they were on the white leather couch and music surrounded them, fast and frenzied… Or was that a woman moaning and screaming? Where was his phone? He seemed to recall that Max had taken it away. He groaned. Sore. It was too much. He tried pushing Max away, spilling the whisky in his hand, and suddenly he was back in the bathroom, staring at the reflected silhouette of his head in the toilet bowl. The water was clear. He spat and watched the ripples distort his shadow. Leaning his cheek against the cool seat, he closed