Max - Bey Deckard Page 0,34

Max. If you’re fucking around, and you gave me some disease, and I gave it to Mary… Christ, she’ll never take me back.”

“Oh, Doc,” Max said, shaking his head. “You don’t want to go back to her, you silly goose. You had the rug pulled out from under you, and I know you’re trying to find your footing, but I think this is good for you. You were so… closed before. I’ve opened you up to a whole new range of experiences. Once you get acclimatized, you’ll see it the way I do.”

Crane pushed himself off the couch and approached Max. “You didn’t answer me,” he pointed out, his hands at his belt. The buckle clinked as the leather slid through it. Crane felt like a ghost… like if he were to look over at the couch, he’d see his body still sitting there. He wasn’t even stoned, but that’s what it was like. Max would have him believe that he was a butterfly who’d just emerged from its cocoon. He frowned at Max, and Max licked his top lip, his eyes narrow as he gazed up at Crane.

“You want to know if I’m fucking around because you want me all to yourself, don’t you, Dennis?” he said quietly.

Crane pulled his belt out and doubled it over in his fist, glaring at Max, angry that he was so transparent. “Turn around.”

Max’s brows popped up, but he smiled and turned so he was bent over the bed.

Teeth clenched, Crane lifted his arm and brought the loop of leather down across Max’s bare ass.

Max let out a yelp that ended on a chuckle. “Come on, Doc. You can do better.”

With a growl, Crane smacked him again. And again. Harder and harder until his arm ached and Max’s cries took on the real timbre of pain. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dropped his pants. While he waited for the receptionist to pick up, he spat a few times into his palm.

“Clinique Hélios, puis-je vous aider?”

Crane wet his cock. “This is Dennis Crane. I had an appointment today with Dr. Durant at four. I need to reschedule.”

“Ah… euh… yes? I will take a new rendezvous…”

“I’ll call back, thanks.” Crane tossed the phone on the bed and placed his cock between Max’s burgundy-streaked ass cheeks.

“There’s lube in the, huhh,” gasped Max, as Crane forced himself in.

“Shut up,” said Crane, fucking him quickly. “Just shut up and take it, and then you’re going to get the beer and the goddamn shrimp, and you’re going to make me supper and spend the rest of the night playing the good little wife because you’re the one who fucked up my marriage.” He paused and shoved Max’s head hard into the mattress. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes” came the muffled reply, and Crane continued thrusting. He groaned, and right as he was about to peak, he pulled out and painted Max’s back and ass with thick strings of cum. Panting, he stood there, staring down at his work. Max was bruised and dirty and defiled.

Just like you’ve made me. “Is there anyone else?” he rasped. “Tell me.”

“No. No, there’s no one else,” Max growled, turning his head to scowl at Crane. His cheek was red from being pressed so hard into the bed. The anger in his eyes looked real, and Crane felt a frisson of unease, wondering whether he’d gone too far. However, Max’s expression shifted to amusement, and when he winked at Crane, Crane could almost believe he’d imagined the anger.

10

Just a Matter of Time

Friday, September 16th

“Hello, Dr. Crane. It’s nice to finally meet you,” said Dr. Durant, smiling wide—a gentle admonishment for having rescheduled his appointment a third time. Crane let out a dry chuckle and nodded.

“Likewise,” he said. He followed her into a spacious corner office with big windows—across the street, a small group of people were doing yoga by a fountain in the park. He turned to the comfortable-looking leather chairs, wondering which he was supposed to take. It had been a long time since he’d been in therapy.

“Choose whichever you like, I don’t mind,” Dr. Durant said, walking over to the desk to pick up a small notebook. The blonde woman was as tall as he was, which was exceptional given that she wasn’t wearing heels, and was slender almost to the point of gauntness. However, she moved with a grace and economy of movement that gave Crane the impression that she wasn’t thin out of vanity. His suspicion was confirmed