Lucian, Ch. 4. free porn video

Lucian, Chapter Four. What if the people you hate become the only ones to turn to? November turned into December, and the weather refused to really get cold. It was wet and misty, though, but that didn't stop Lucian Gaines from running two times a day, just wearing his long lycra tights and a top. The park had maybe become the only place he felt save anymore, escaping the eyes that were everywhere, the whispers and the giggles. Wherever he saw Barbs, he wondered if they might be the ones that raped him. Maybe they were the two blondes whispering behind their hands. Or the Asian girl - what's her name - pouting her lips at him. He tried to ignore them, but they were always there - winking and waving. Only running set him free, in dawn and dusk, rain and sunshine. Not many of the Bobs accompanied him anymore. In the end he often ran alone; sometimes he saw Drew - they hardly talked until one day she suddenly crossed his path, making him stop. Her hair was damp, so was her top. She panted. "Do I have a disease, Lucian?" she asked. He danced on his feet, trying to get past her, but she didn't budge. "I guess it's something really bad and contagious," she went on. Her eyes were dark under a frown, but her lips smiled, giving her a sardonic look. He shrugged. "What do you mean?" he asked. She stepped forward, bringing her face close to his. He saw the myriad of tiny raindrops on her skin. He also saw that her irises had a steely hardness to them. "You don't understand," she said, her voice toneless. "What's new? But I do, darling. I understand that you're a fool - no, a spoilt, ungrateful child." The venom in her voice almost physically pushed him back. Drew rose on her toes; it made her taller than him. He looked up into her angry eyes as she went on. "Poor, poor Lucian, sulking for months, oozing self-pity and thinking the world should be shocked by his fate. I guess we're all supposed to pity poor you." Her breath on his face was the only warmth she exuded. "Oh my, the sorry fate of Lucian Gaines," she proceeded. "Living in his own private room, being pampered day and night, fed and dressed, living like a fucking princess, not lifting a finger - and all he can do is moan and cry that he's a captured prisoner and wants to run. But when he runs, he's back within hours, no doubt missing the soft life and the sweet pampering." Her voice broke at the last word, and tears yet again ran down her face, mingling with the rain. "You have no idea, do you?" she finally said through sobs. Lucian felt like a stone. The emotions, the crying, the accusations were an icy shower. Here was this girl he'd made love to - a sweet, yielding creature - now yelling at him, spitting fire and venom; first telling him it was just fucking what they did, now telling him he's an ungrateful, spoilt child. People dumped him, abandoned and ridiculed him, raped him - and now he had to be thankful? Irrational anger seized him and he pushed her away. "You're crazy!" he yelled. "They're cutting me, injecting me, feeding me drugs and making me paint myself and dress like a whore - they rape me and ridicule me when I report it, and now I'm the one being ungrateful? You're crazy!" Drew had sagged down, crouching in the mud, sobbing. The sight of her misery confused him. She attacked him, accused him and now she was in tears? He sank down and crouched next to her. Her arms flew around his neck and she pulled herself into him. "I'd kill to be you," she muttered into his shoulder. "But why, Drew? Why want to be me?" he said, hugging her back. "You're so much more. I'm a fake. You're you - beautiful and sweet and lovable, so at home here, so sure of yourself." She guffawed. Their embrace muffled the sound. "So very kind of you to say," she said. "And such a crock of bullshit." He gently pushed her away. "I mean it," he said. "Of course you do," she answered. "You mean it with all your sweet, stu.... na?ve heart." He knew which word she'd swallowed. "Why am I stupid?" he asked. She chuckled. "Sorry for that one. But you are na?ve - and blind. You have no clue." She rose to her feet, rubbing the tears from her eyes with small, angry movements. "You know that most Bobs sleep in a dorm," she said. He nodded. "I sleep with two other Barbs," she went on. "Why do you think that is?" He hated it when people asked things like this while already knowing he had no answer. "You have no idea, do you?" she asked. "No idea why Nico does chores, and Audrey, my other dorm mate, and I? And Honor and Mac and all the others? You have no idea why Harper rakes leaves in the park, and Jo and Kelly clean class rooms?" "No, I guess," she went on after a pause, answering her own question. "Neither do you know why you don't lift a finger, or Mu, or little Charlie." Another pause. Drew retracted her arms and sat straight. "Because Nico and Harper and I are poor, and you are rich," she said, emphasizing the last word. "Someone pays for you, your parents or a trust fund or whatever. I am an orphan, so is Nico, Jo too. Harper's parents are too damn poor to pay for him, so he has to earn his stay by working, doing chores like Nico and I. Helping in the kitchen, the hospital. It is why we have to..." She broke off her sentence. He saw how she shook, holding her chest. He reached out, but she stepped back. "Speaking of the devil," she said. "I have to go. Chores waiting." She slipped past him. "Drew," he said, turning around. She disappeared behind a clump of dripping evergreens. *** Christmas came and it wasn't white. The boughs on the huge tree in the central hall nevertheless groaned under loads of artificial snow. It shone with baubles and lights, and at its foot laid a veritable mountain of boxes wrapped in colorful paper and glittering bows. The Bobs milled around in front of the tree, their colors competing with the presents. As was tradition at Norton's, they'd dressed up in a common theme - this year's was Carnaby Street, the famous London place that stood for a distinct fashion hype in the Sixties: mini skirts, garish colors, white nylons and fat-heeled platform shoes. Their make up allowed for pale lips, fat long lashes and black-shadowed eyes. Lucian stood with a champagne glass of sparkling water, knowing he looked the part, as did Harper and Jo and the others. Most Bobs were there; only Taylor and Kelly had left to be with their families, much to their own regret. In the days before, the excitement had been palpable. The boys were running around, trying on things, cutting and restyling, comparing, posing, trying out make up and jewelry, playing music from the period, and all the while giggling - they did a lot of giggling. Of course Lucian's first impulse was to condemn the whole charade as ridiculous and fucking awfully gay. He knew by now that it was easy to do that and be the cool one, the lone wolf; to stand on the side and mock the whole thing. But in the end you'd pay for that - you'd be the outsider, the unhappy one, wouldn't you? He'd already tried to run off, and failed. So now he decided, while he was here, not to be unhappy anymore. So he'd plunged in, yielding to the sweet attraction of make belief, like he'd done when he was Romeo. He'd dressed up and tried out with all of them, discussing their look, cutting and sewing and styling - and most of all: talking and giggling, going through piles of old magazines, watching video's, walking imagined catwalks and being shamelessly silly. He never slept better. Of course there were moments of discomfort, standing on the platform shoes, feeling the big earrings bump against his neck and the short skirt's hem against his thighs with every step he took. But when he looked into one of the tall mirrors, he saw what others saw - an endearing teenage girl looking at the world with the wide-eyed gaze of first-time arousal. Young was the word, heartbreakingly young and most of all: not him. Cute was another way to see it, cute they were, like newborn voles prancing around on high, thin legs. Older people might call it 'touching,' he guessed - and envy them for it. There was comfort in looking different and not being himself, if only for just a moment. Walking on heels inside a cloud of perfume was a thrill. The delicate taste of lip-gloss brought a buzz to his head. Everything was fine, wasn't it - just for now, just a playful charade - children dressing up from granny's boxes of vintage clothes? Since returning from his botched escape Lucian knew where a possible way out could be found. He didn't have to run away at all. He could hide behind the masks of make up and make belief. He took a sip and saw the delicate pale crescent his lipstick left on the thin glass. He also heard the rattle of his colorful bracelets, smelling the authentic sixties perfume they'd all chosen. "Ah man, you look great," he heard. Turning around he saw Jo, grinning. His kinky hair was teased into a huge Afro, his eyelids a blazing mint over long fake lashes. The pale lipstick made his pulpous lips stand out against the blushing butterscotch of his face. His mini dress was very short, and the same mint as his eye shade. "Mmm, I could say the same about you," Lucian heard himself say with a chuckle, graciously touching the boy's glass with his. It was hard to tell why, but when amongst themselves the Bobs kept saying things like 'man' or 'dude,' giving high fives even after dressing up. They could grin toothy grins one moment, and curtsy graciously the next. They belched and then giggle behind their painted fingernails, or say: "Hey asshole, pass me the lip gloss." They were boys after all, he thought - boys dressing up, but needing to let the world know it was an act. When Charlie walked in, though, they all felt their supposed comfort slip. Charlie wasn't a knobble-kneed vole, needing a regular escape into boyhood. He would never belch or give high fives or say 'dude.' Charlie didn't play make belief, he was the real thing. Thinking of him as a him felt out of place. When Charlie wore a lumpy sweat suit, he was a girl - small, angelic, gracious. Even when Charlie was naked, showing his tiny pink-tipped penis, he was a girl. He moved like liquid, he smiled like a cherub, and his laugh was made of the same tingling silver as his hair. Lucian remembered seeing the boy practice at the ballet studio. He remembered watching the frail body bend and stretch against the tall windows' backlight - feather light and utterly natural. He also remembered the tightening of his crotch. Now, at the Christmas party, Charlie once more oozed an attraction that ridiculed Lucian's carefully built defenses of make belief. Kelly guffawed, showing his buckteeth. Pretty Jo seemed to nurse a remnant of swagger in his walk, and Harper fought the height of his heels. But Charlie mocked all their denials. "Hi Lucian," he said with his soft shy voice, as a blush blossomed through the porcelain of his cheeks. His violet eyes were enormous, enlarged by dark shadow and fat mascara on his long lashes. The big cloud of white curls had been dusted pink. White-nyloned legs ran forever from under his mini skirted dress to end in silver platform sandals. "Hi, Twiggy," he said, forcing his nerves away with the little joke. Charlie really looked like the famous sixties fashion model. Taking the compliment with a giggle behind his little pink-tipped hand Charlie again was the shy and very real teenage girl. The Barbs were fashionably late of course. Quite a few of them seemed to have left for the holidays. As it happened only six appeared. Maybe their theme was 'slinky' as they all wore slinky dresses falling down their slender bodies from their throats to their high-heeled ankles. The thin fabric lazily followed their movements, showing off long thighs. Some had splits up to their hip, others a backside cut deep enough to show the dimples of their ass cheeks. Two wore black, two red, one blue and one silver. The dresses were simple, but they all wore a lot of jewelry with them - silver and gold earrings, bracelets, colliers and broaches. Most of them had done up their hair to show off the baubles. As they walked in, they spread soft tingling sounds, the rustling of their gowns and a cloud of perfume. "Hi Lucian, you look picture perfect." He turned and saw Drew, wearing a powder blue dress. It was long and tight, even her arms were covered. There was jewelry and her hair was up, teased and curled. She smiled, but despite her make up her face was pale. Her eyes looked tired. A wave of nervousness washed over him. It wasn't shame for being seen all dolled up, he thought. Stage fright maybe, he decided, hearing his bracelets jingle. His lips trembled when he tried to reflect her smile. "Thank you," he muttered. "So do you." She touched his arm; then walked on, picking up a glass. Lucian felt abandoned. He followed her, not sure if she wanted him to - or if he wanted it himself. When she turned around at the opposite wall and saw he'd followed her, he thought he saw a cloud descent on her face. Then she smiled. "I remember my Christmas as a Bob," she said, nodding at a group of Carnaby girls. "We had Ancient Rome for a theme - short toga's and things, lots of crazy fun. Was it as thrilling for you?" He stared at her. She'd been away for days and now all she had for him was a forced smile and small talk. "Where have you been, Drew?" he asked. "I missed you." She closed her eyes and frowned. "Nothing special," she said, opening them again, but not looking at him. "Just dreary chores." Suddenly she wiped the fatigue from her face and cried out: "Everybody happy?" There was a lot of shrieking and shuffling as the other Barbs came over to hug and air-kiss her. They obviously hadn't seen her for a while either. Soon he was hustled to the side, left to watch bare backs, big hair and shining bottoms. So he guessed he was to be ignored, considered a stick in the mud asking the wrong questions at the wrong moments. He shrugged and turned away, right when Ms. Parker, Dr. Kurtz and some of the staff walked in. Having mostly seen them dressed in their work gear, they were a sight to see. Parker was a fortress of black silk, her milky tits being pushed up and her waist laced in. She must be wearing a corset, he supposed. Dr. Kurtz followed the slinky fashion lead of the Barbs, but her adult curves did quite different things to her dark blue gown. Today her body seemed quite in sync with her crooked smile. Ms. Fontaine and Mamselle were their gracious selves, but Coach was a huge surprise. Lucian had only ever seen her in spandex and lycra, stretching around her Amazon muscles, but today she wore what might have been called a little black dress if the word 'little' could ever be used on her. She looked great in it, like a Marilyn Monroe enlarged in every direction. They mingled with the Barbs and the Bobs, trying to shed their professional reserve for the occasion - some overdoing their joviality, others obviously forcing it, like Ms. Fontaine. Coach struggled with her heels. Lucian saw Harper and Jo walk around on their vintage platforms carrying silver trays with little snacks. Chores for the poor, he thought, recalling Drew's words. Then Parker tapped her glass with a ring, asking for attention. "My dear students," she began. In the following pause Lucian heard a voice whispering words into his ear. "Yet another year passed at our great school. How time flies," it said right before Parker said exactly the same. "So many things have happened to shape your lives and further your wonderful talents," she went on, but the whisperer had already beaten her to it. He turned his head and looked straight into the face of a grinning Drew. She nodded and whispered the next line: "We are so honored to be able to give you this save haven in a world of cruelty and neglect." She snickered when Parker repeated her words verbatim; guffawing as she tried to hold back her glee. The headmistress's speech was an endless string of clich?'s singing the praise of her unique institute and the qualities of its students. And Drew was always one step ahead. Then Lucian knew what the subtle tang to the girl's breath was. It was alcohol; Drew must have been drinking, even when she held a glass of water now. He decided to pull away a few steps. Drew shrugged and grinned, raising her glass in a toast, before turning around to her group of Barbs who were giggling as inane as she was. The speech petered out to an uninspired ending and a "Merry Christmas" to which they all toasted. Lucian turned around to refill his glass and maybe find a snack, when Dr. Vivian Kurtz blocked his view. It was quite disturbing to see her up close the way she looked. Her suggestive smile stuck to her pale face, or should he say it was plastered on it? Her gown allowed quite a deep cleavage to be seen; it must have been artificially enhanced with some ingenious bra-construction. "Lucian," she said, touching his bare upper arm. There was a slight slur in her voice. He nodded and smiled, trying to move on. Her hand stopped him. "Lucian," she repeated, "We have to talk. Please come with me." He didn't want to - not talk, not be with her. But her hand closed around his wrist and she pulled him with her to a small adjoining room. She almost tripped, entering. The room was cozy, having a burning fireplace and a couple of easy chairs around a low table with empty wine glasses and a bottle. A few candles burned on the mantelpiece. "Please sit," she said, nodding at one of the chairs while she closed the door. She walked over to the mantelpiece, leaving her glass on it; it was half full, the white wine sparkling. As she turned to Lucian he saw her smile had gone. It made her look older, softer. She clasped her hands in front of her chest, making her bracelets rattle. "You are not happy," she said. He shrugged, only then realizing how he had automatically joined his stocking-clad knees together in a graceful sideways stance, adjusting the hem of his dress. The doctor walked over to him. He saw how uncertain she moved in her heels. Was she drunk? Sinking to her haunches, she placed a hand on his upper knee. Her position allowed for a cavernous view of her cleavage. "Why do you keep fighting it, Lucian?" she asked, her voice hushed and a bit hoarse. "It is so obvious what you need." He stared at her, noticing her tired eyes and the wrinkles around them. Was she right? And if so: could he ever agree she was? "How would you know what I need?" he asked. She sighed, looking down. Her fingers picked invisible lint off his skirt; then smoothed over non-existent creases with her hand. The touches irritated him. She rose and sat down in the other chair, draping the gown around her legs. He was relieved she did. "I had a son," she said. "He was very much like you, blond and slim and beautiful." Lucian saw her swallow. He'd noted her using the past tense; it made him nervous. The fire painted her face with hills and valleys of black and orange, being unkind to her age. "He...," the doctor started again, looking down on her hands. "He was the ideal prey in this predators' paradise they call high school. He was bullied, beaten and humiliated." She looked up; there was pain in her eyes. "I bet you know what names they called him." He didn't answer. "One day," she went on. "One afternoon he came home with a shiner and bruises. He begged me not to go to the school and complain. He also refused to change schools again, as we had done twice before. Starting anew was worse than staying, he said." Lucian nodded, wishing he were elsewhere. The story was too close for comfort. "A week before that day I'd heard about this school," Kurtz went on. "Norton's, I mean. They'd opened only a few years earlier. So I showed him a flyer and asked him to at least go and see." She sighed, sitting more upright. "He didn't want to. He was adamant. He was no faggot, not a fucking sissy, he said. And when I went on about it, he fled to his room." There was silence, filled with far off laughter and soft music. Lucian saw her hands clasp and unclasp in her lap. He wanted her to stop. He wanted out. "Please," he said, raising a hand. The jingling bracelets tumbled down his forearm. Kurtz's gaze seemed to re-focus, returning from a far away place. "I'd like to return to the party," he said. "I really am sorry for your son, but..." Kurtz jumped to her feet, almost stumbling. Her eyes were huge; her hands reached out for him. "No!" she hissed. "You listen to my story. It is as much about you as about my son." Almost physically repelled by her vehemence, Lucian fell back into the club chair. The woman in front of him stood with balled fists and high shoulders. She trembled as tears ran down her face. Medea, he thought. Or what was the name? She looked like an ancient Greek avenger in her long gown, her face ghastly pale, her eyes dark with smudged mascara, her mouth a bloody gash. "He... he hanged himself, you know?" she whispered. "In... in his room, all alone, alone. His beautiful face swollen and purple; his sweet, lovely body broken - hanging like a sack. Only sixteen he was... sixteen. Life gone, beauty gone..." She stood, arms wide, eyes empty. Lucian felt a force pulling him out of the chair, up to his feet and on to the woman. A force from outside it seemed, beyond his will. It made him want to embrace her. But Kurtz fought him, muttering "no, no..." Her fists punched his chest. He felt awkward, not knowing what to do, but not knowing how to stop either. So he closed her into his arms, hugging as he felt his own tears ruin his make up. They stood and cried for minutes. Dr. Kurtz's resistance melted, her padded body pressing into his now. She felt soft, like down - no bones there, just weak, shifting flesh. So very different from Drew, so very different from his mother. Then again, when had she ever hugged him? "You are so much like him, Lucian," she mumbled into his shoulder. "I am so glad your mother saved you by sending you here. She must love you very much." Lucian stiffened. Then his body started shaking with laughter. He pushed the doctor away, looking into her red-rimmed eyes. He couldn't stop laughing; it made new tears run down his face. "Love," he hiccupped. "Love indeed." Kurtz just stared - confused by his reaction. Lucian stopped laughing. "My mother," he said, "not only doesn't love me. She doesn't even hate me. She dumped me here so I would be out of her way. I am an embarrassment. My father would have me killed if he knew he'd get away with it." The doctor shook her ruined face from left to right. "No," she said. "You're wrong. She loves you, Lucian, believe me. She is like me. The way she talked about you when she was here the first time had us both in tears, Ms. Parker and I. She really cares about your life and your future. We feel honored she trusts us with your fate." 'And her money,' he couldn't resist thinking. "I need to get out of here," he said. "I really need to." But Kurtz didn't let him go. She held on to him with her arms and her weak, yielding body. "We love you, Lucian, all of us," she breathed. "And we can save you. You must believe that." Her mouth was close to his ear, hot breath tickling it. Lucian was very aware of her soft breasts, her thighs and round belly pressing through two thin layers of fabric, spreading heat. He wrestled until he was free. He felt he was blushing deeply as his hands automatically smoothed his dress. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I really must..." And then he moved past her, hearing his platform heels rattle the wooden floor as he stumbled to the door, opening it and running down the corridor. 'Fuck!' his mind repeated. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck." "Lucian?" He looked up, stopped by a hand on his arm. Harper's eyes hid in dark eye shadow and mascara, hooded by his bluish-black bangs. "God, you look awful!" he cried out. "What happened? Did you cry?" Lucian tore his arm free, wanting to pass, but the boy blocked his way. "Come," he said, pulling Lucian with him into a restroom. "No," he said, but Harper clucked. "You really don't want to show them that face," he said, pushing Lucian in front of a mirror. He was a mess - his hair, his face, and his lips. The rims of his eyes were red and swollen; dark traces ran down his pale cheeks. His nose had pink blotches. Fingers touched his chin and pulled his face aside. The moist dab of cool, fragrant cotton made him shiver as an experienced hand started to cleanse his skin. The next moments were a whirl of action. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the reflections of a beautiful olive-skinned teenage girl restoring the make up of this other beautiful curly-blond teenage girl. He groaned. The other girl giggled. *** Snow came the next day. It turned the park into a fairytale landscape with the ancient building at its center, windows spilling golden light over the white expanse. The fat, dancing flakes had an age-old effect on the Bobs. They ran outside in the early morning, screaming and throwing snowballs or soaping their classmates with scoops of the chilly powder. Yesterday they'd been giggling teenage girls, today they wrestled and pushed and pummeled while Barbs huddled on the steps, shrieking comments while shivering in their woolen shawls. The boys had ran out in just their silk nothings, but no one seemed to care as they rolled and slid and tumbled through the snow - cheeks ablaze and skin tingling. Then the group of Barbs opened up and from its midst came Parker, dressed in a long fur coat. She clapped her hands. "That's enough boys, get inside," her thin voice cried out. "Enough of this." And to Lucian's surprise all raucous activities stopped at once. He stood panting, his heart racing - a huge snowball ready to throw. Feeling the melting snow slide down his face and legs, he watched the boys turn back into sweet smiling, gracious creatures patting down each other's clothes and walking up the steps to join the Barbs. They greeted their headmistress with a little bending of their knees. He shook his head to clear his hair from newly falling flakes. Dropping the snowball he followed them inside. That day there was neither running, nor gymnastics. Wearing pastel, tight-fitting ski outfits a big group of Bobs and Barbs filed into the snowy expanses for a cross-country hike on skis. They left the property through a small gate at the back, and skied in a long, meandering line through the white, rolling landscape. Lucian watched the clouds leaving their mouths against the clear blue sky as they all chattered and laughed, pushing and pulling their long skis through the snow. The air, the laughter made him feel weird, but it was an easy weirdness - a feeling he had no name for. Was it freedom? Elation? It was a bit of what he felt while running, but more. There was the physical exhilaration - the being outside in a wide, white expanse, cold air kissing his cheeks, making his exposed skin stiffen and his fingers tingle inside his gloves. But that wasn't all of it. There was safety in the feeling, a soothing sensation that made his shoulders relax, and his lips smile. Everything anyone around him said was funny - every face he saw looked kind. Maybe the word that eluded him was 'belonging.' He felt part of a group. There was no pressure, no need to be someone else, somewhere else. Of course he was out there in an outfit that was tight and shining and candy-colored. But he didn't care. They were sports tights, weren't they? Runners wore them, and athletes. "Hey, psssst, honey!" The sound came from his left and he'd already slid past it before he realized what the male voice said. Looking back he saw a man waving at him as his tongue danced lewdly in the O of his open mouth. Lucian bent his back and sped forward without looking, hitting Harper's skis. They both fell into the snow, soon joined by two other Bobs, creating a heap of bodies with skis and poles pointing in all directions. They looked like a giant, colorful hedgehog. When the first shock subsided, they laughed, trying to extract themselves from the knot of limbs and things, rubbing cold snow into each other's faces in the process. Lucian felt a hand in his armpit, pulling him up, and another hand squeezing his butt. He jerked his head around and saw the face of the man that had 'pssst' him before. The guy smacked his lips and winked as his hand squeezed harder, sliding forward to find Lucian's crotch. Lucian cried out, pulling himself free. Then he raised his hand and made his ski-pole land with a crash on the man's face. Not pausing to see what he'd done, he turned away and pushed his skis forward to find the track and disappear over the next hillock. 'Fuck you, fuck you!' his mind repeated as he pushed and pushed until he reached the skiers in front of him and overtook them. He never stopped until he came back to the school's entrance. *** "Meet Mister Landowski, Lucian." Ms. Parker's face floated high and distant above her strict, gray suite. She didn't smile. Her hand was raised, palm up, and presented a man in a brown jacket. Lucian saw he was the man who'd groped him at the cross-country track. He looked quite different, though. His face showed a fiery diagonal weal that ran from his left eyebrow to the right side of his chin. The brow seemed split, and his lower lip sported a dark, blood filled boil. One eye was closed. Lucian returned his gaze to Parker. "Don't you have something to tell Mr. Landowski?" she asked. He once more took in the man's wounded face, and shrugged. "Maybe something like: 'I'm sorry'?" she went on. He shrugged again. "What should I be sorry for?" he asked. The headmistress didn't seem to like his response. Her fleshy face darkened, and so did her eyes. "Mr. Landowski here just told me," she said, "that while helping you up after falling, you hit him with a ski pole, right in the face. He had to see a doctor to have his eye brow stitched." She shook her head in wonder. "What on earth came over you, Lucian?" she asked. Lucian again looked from the one to the other. "He's a liar," he then said. Parker's eyes widened. As no one said anything, Lucian explained: "He didn't tell you how he groped my ass and my balls. I just had to defend myself." The man shook his damaged head vigorously. "I never...!" he protested. "Of course not, Mr. Landowski," Parker interrupted. "As I already told you Norton's Academy of Excellence deeply regrets what happened and offers you our heartfelt apologies as well as a modest compensation. Lucian?" She frowned, looking at him. He wondered if she'd ever smile again. His eyes focused on the piece of paper in Barnes' hand - a check by the look of it. "Apologize, Lucian," Parker said. "Tell the gentleman you're sorry and thank him for his help. This is all very embarrassing." Lucian agreed with the embarrassment, but he doubted Parker meant the same he did. "He's a damn pervert," he said. "Why would I ever thank him, or apologize? He's a fucking dirt bag." Lucian trembled. He felt nude in the short robe he wore over his thong. Parker had summoned him to her office right after he'd showered, not allowing him to dress. And now he stood half naked in front of the man he had fled from because he groped him in public. And Parker said he should say sorry. He turned around to leave the room. Coach was between him and the door, slowly shaking her head sideways. She was twice his width and two heads taller. He turned back to Parker. "I won't apologize," he said. "He should." The room fell silent. Lucian sensed all eyes on him; it made him feel afraid and alone. But he was right, wasn't he? The man had taken advantage of him, feeling him up as he pretended to help him. Or was he wrong? He looked around when he heard the door opening. Drew came in. She wore a thin white, almost childish mini dress; it flared where its hem touched her upper thighs. The shimmering fabric accentuated her nipples. They seemed swollen. Her hair had been parted and braided into two tails that stood sideways away from her head. Her face had been scrubbed from any trace of make up; her feet wore white bobbysocks. It made her look scandalously young. Walking over to Parker she curtseyed, raising the hem of the dress as she did. She was naked under it. "You called me, Ms. Parker," she said. Parker nodded. Then the headmistress moved her head in the direction of the man with the wounded face, nodding again. Drew's eyes followed the nod. She stood and took in the man before slowly walking over to him on her bare feet. In front of him she went down on her knees. Her hands found the buckle of his belt, opening it. Then she undid his zipper and pulled down his pants with one hand while pulling his penis through the slit in his boxer shorts with the other. It was red and swollen, contrasting with her pale hand. Drew leant forward and inhaled the exposed head, making it slide past her lips. A wet sucking filled the silent room. Lucian wanted to move; he also wanted to scream, but he did neither. He felt as if strangled by coils of rope wrapping themselves around him. They only left his eyes free to watch - and watch. He felt sick; his throat was a desert. *** Panting, Lucian pushed his body into a last sprint back to the main building, savoring the easy, supple bending and stretching of his body. Winter had been a short-lived phenomenon at Norton's. After two weeks of frost, followed by days of sudden thaw only the paths and lanes still showed slippery remnants of dirty snow where feet and wheels had packed it down. The rest of the park was covered in mud and soggy grass. In the wet, black trees cold water leaked from shards of glassy ice, sometimes hitting his neck, sending shivers down his spine. As his legs moved automatically, his mind turned back to the scene that seemed etched on his memory - Drew's face being fucked by a man's hard cock in Ms. Parker's office. The picture kept returning, swimming through his days and nights. He shook his head to get rid of it, but all it ever did was recede. He remembered every detail his eyes saw and his ears heard: the huge cock slamming past wide-open lips - the bulging of the narrow throat; the wet gagging; the oozing threads of saliva. The man's hands had been on her head, his fingers clawing her skull as he pulled her in. The numbness he'd felt watching still spread whenever he remembered. Like then it made it impossible for him to think. Only much later did he realize this must be what Drew called 'just chores.' He wondered if this was what Parker meant with apologizing. Should it have been him kneeling and taking the ugly cock in his mouth? Why Drew? Why didn't they force him? 'We are poor, you are rich,' he remembered Drew saying. Had he been na?ve supposing those chores were just making the beds, raking the leaves and serving the food? Had he been childish to think that was all? He'd stared and watched as gray-white slime drooled out of Drew's mouth. Remembering how she'd choked on it, he could only admit he'd been a fool. The sight of her cleaning the fat, blood gorged penis with her tongue made reality crash past his numb defenses. He turned and ran out of the office - never stopping until he was in his room, in his bed, the blanket pulled over his head. During the days that followed it had been easy to avoid Drew, as he never saw her. But he couldn't look at the other Barbs without seeing them in Drew's position, sucking cocks of faceless strangers, choking on their sperm. And what about the boys? Watching sweet Charlie using a fat lipstick on his pillow-lips in Beauty class made him look away, feeling sick. Noticing Jo pushing out the tip of his pale tongue while concentrating on plucking his eyebrow caused a rush of nausea. He knew it didn't just come from disgust; it came from imagining them in Drew's place. And if he could imagine them doing that, what about him? Parker of course summoned him to her office the next day. He expected to be punished, but he wasn't. She told him she understood. She believed him about the groping even if she could never condone his violent reaction. He'd asked her about Drew. She'd smiled, laying a hand on his arm. "Don't worry," she said, "she is all right. She knows it's all for Norton's. The man had to be bribed and we couldn't force you to do it, could we? We never force anyone, not even to make you apologize." Then she'd produced a set of photographs. They showed a check of a thousand dollars. They also showed it in the hands of the man. And then there were a few pictures of teenage Drew sucking his hard cock. "We took the money out of your tuition trust," she said. "Remember that the next time you go bonkers. As for the pictures, we needed them to shut him up, you understand? Our school is, well, vulnerable." "Why Drew?" he asked. She smiled, squeezing his arm. "You like her, don't you?" She tried to catch his eyes. "We know." Running through mud and melting snow he realized what she meant. There had been a message to the man, but there also was a message to him. To make him feel guilty about Drew; to make him an accomplice in some convoluted way. To make him think twice a next time. Lucian Gaines felt dirty ever since. Right after seeing Parker he had been summoned to visit Dr. Kurtz. He'd tried to avoid her since the awful experience on Christmas Eve - another moment of mental blackmail, no doubt. The suicide of her son should make him understand and accept what Norton's did to him - even that they had noble motives. Of course his thoughts weren't as clean-cut as this, but another thin film of dirt clung to him ever since that day. Sitting across from her he expected to be asked to strip, but she didn't. She just looked at him, and the crooked smile wasn't there. It made her seem older. "I never thought you were the violent type, Julian," she said in a low, soft voice. He shrugged. "We hate violence in our students, here at Norton's," she went on. "It goes against everything we believe." He tried to keep a straight face, remembering how this same woman had treated him with injections, and circumcised him while he was made unconscious. Kurtz looked pointedly down on her desk, where he saw a syringe. Then she looked up again. "I am going to help you fight that violent streak, Lucian," she said. She picked up the syringe. It was small and contained a clear pinkish liquid. "You will visit me once a week," she went on, " and I'll give you another shot of this. It will clear your mind and help you avoid sudden flares of anger like the one that caused you to attack poor Mr. Landowski." 'Poor Mr. Landowski.' Lucian looked at the syringe; then up to her eyes. "I won't let you," he said. It brought a smile back to her face, but it was small and tired. "I expected that, but I'm afraid you have no say in this, Lucian." She raised her eyes and looked at a point behind him. He turned around and saw the impressive frame of Coach looming over him. He'd never heard her come in. The lycra-clad giantess stood with her strong arms folded under her bosom, and she slowly shook her meaty head. "And don't bother to call your mother," Kurtz went on. "She agrees." He turned back to the doctor. She rose to her feet, carrying the syringe. As she took his arm and rubbed the crook of his elbow, her smile was back in full force. "You see, darling," she said. "We mothers always know best." Reaching the school building on his run, Lucian went straight to his room. He peeled off his soaked outfit and stepped under a hot shower, shivering. Inside the cloak of scalding water he let his mind wander, while his hands did the same on his chest and belly. The skin felt slick and creamy over the firm, well-trained muscles below. Tightening his buttocks he tried to remember how his body had felt before coming to Norton's - weak it had been, and covered in a layer of pudgy fat. He could feel his ribs now, and the edge of its cage around his flat, hard belly. His chest had soft patches, but the slippery nipples at their center were hard; they poked out and felt sensitive. Closing his eyes he reached down for his genitals. Spreading his thighs he placed the palm of his hand around the package. The flesh was as sensitive as his chest. It felt hot and it throbbed as he just barely squeezed, but it stayed soft and slippery. Looking down his smooth legs he watched the pink polish on his toenails, shining through the splattering water. Lucian knew what they did to him; he guessed he always had. He knew there were no boys and girls at Norton's Academy of Excellence. There had been a time when denial made him believe that Bobs and Barbs were separate groups, boys and girls growing up side by side. Of course the boys were treated like faggots, but to be honest: hadn't they always been treated like that? Hadn't he? As he squeezed the soft ball of flesh, Lucian knew he should feel mad and indignant. Closing his eyes he saw Charlie pulling gracefully at the hem of his tiny skirt, throwing him a flirty gaze with his violet eyes. He remembered Harper's slim fingers drawing circlets on his bare thigh. He recalled Jo giving Kelly a butterfly kiss after glossing the boy's lips. And of course there had been him sucking Drew's pitiful cock. He should feel disgusted. Why didn't he? Was it the injections; the pills? Or was it just that he at last... All he knew was that his penis got firmer from the images inside his head, and that his left nipple started spreading electrical waves from where his fingernails tweaked it. The exposed head of his penis nudged his palm with a series of little spasms. He spread his hand and watched a stream of milky fluid pulse from the purple-pink glans, dissolving into the falling water. He shook and a moan welled up from his throat. He knew he'd feel ashamed soon - but not now; not yet. *** The envelope was pale lavender; a color he knew. His name was on its front in a bold, round handwriting he also knew well. A trace of familiar perfume rose from the paper when he held it close. It was a letter from his mother, and he didn't have to open it. It already was. A knife had severed the upper side. He knew who'd done that. Ms. Parker opened all correspondence, even the obviously private letters. She'd done that with the one single letter he'd received before, and she hadn't even listened to his protests. There was only one sheet of paper inside the envelope. "Dearest Lucian!!" it opened. He winced at the exclamation marks and the little heart on the i in his name. She 'hoped he was well' in the first line of the letter, the words adorned with a multitude of question marks. The purple ink must have flown from the classic gold fountain pen she used. Closing his eyes he saw her slender, lacquered fingernails around it. She held the shaft between her first and second finger, unlike most people. "I have news that is both awful and wonderful, sweet honey!" she went on writing. "I have filed for divorce!!!" She proceeded with explaining how she fought all the time with his father over him and the way he should be brought up. And she'd realized how they 'had grown apart.' How 'insensitive' he was. She used words like 'callous' and 'cruel.' "How can I stay married to a man who despises my son, the dearest thing I have in life???" Lucian stared at the sentence, reading it again and again. He thought back to his youth, seeing a procession of nannies. He remembered falling asleep from pure exhaustion, sitting forgotten in a corner of her boudoir-like bedroom while she drank and smoked and gossiped with numberless friends, pampered and botoxed like her, and dressed in silks and panther patterns. He'd heard his parents scream and fight through the wall of his bedroom, but hardly ever was it him they discussed. "The dearest thing I have in life." He returned to the letter. "Sweet Lucian! I have contracted the best lawyers, so be assured that I'll fight for the both of us!! He'll pay for this, the bastard! I'll take him to the cleaners." He didn't know that expression, but it was easy to see what she meant. She'd try to take as much of his money as she could in the divorce. She would need it, he thought, knowing how high maintenance she was. "Never panic!!!" his mother went on, giving him a first taste of exactly that. He was rich, Drew had told him, and it was the only reason why they left him alone, never asking him to take part in the chores - the serving, the laundry, helping in the park, the kitchen... A flash of Drew sucking the cock flared through his mind. Never panic. He stuffed the letter back into the envelope, grabbed a robe and went looking for Parker. Waiting to be received in her office, Lucian sat down reading the letter again. A divorce over him? He shook his head with disbelief. Through the years all his mother had done - when she talked to him at all - was complaining about the absence of his father, often suggesting he cheated on her with anything from secretaries to just plain whores. That was what she called them, sluts and whores. And most of the quarrels he heard at night were about them. She'd painted her father as a monster ever since Lucian was very small; and the way his father treated him didn't much to correct that picture. Of course he knew why his mother never left. It was a matter of money. She spent all her days and nights on spending it - clothes, nannies, expensive furniture, art, entertaining friends, dining out, visiting spas, holidays, cars... He often heard his father complain about that through the wall. "You wanted to see me, Lucian?" Parker stood in her doorframe, wearing a gray, tight business suit, dark stockings and patent leather heels. He went inside and sat down. "I need my cell phone," he said, adding "please." Parker sighed, standing behind her desk. "No use, she won't answer," she said. "She sent me a letter. I have to talk to her about it." "I know. I read it. There are things I have to tell you, I guess." A very old wariness overwhelmed him. People knowing more about him than he did was a fact that had shaped his life. Parker sat down. Her bracelets clattered on the desktop. "You see, sweetie, she was here," she said, raising her hand when he jumped to his feet, yelling unrelated words like "what" and "when" and why she hadn't seen him on her visit. "Sit down. It was months ago, even before Christmas." "Why didn't you tell me?" "She asked me not to," Parker said, shrugging her stuffed shoulders. "She was here with her lawyer to inform us about her divorce. She'd already filed." Months ago and not a word. Lucian's eyes burned with tears. "Of course," Parker went on, "your mother's divorce is a private thing that's not our business. What is very much our business, though, is you." She allowed a pause. "You are in our custody, so to speak, Lucian." Looking up she waited until his eyes met hers. "The lawyer assured me that your tuition would be at the very top of every negotiation the divorce process might encompass." Parker studied his face; then she leaned forward. "But, just like you should, sweetie, I hate to gamble," she said. It wasn't hard to understand what she meant. "You think she will stop paying?" he asked. She blinked as she sat straight again. "Of course not," she went on after a short pause. "But whatever happens, we won't let you down." *** The spotlights were hot; they soaked his bare skin. Floating in a huge, steaming bath of light all he could see through the glare of the lamps were disembodied shadows. Ghosts were moving around, sending kaleidoscopic beams in every direction. It gave him an eerie sense of detachment, of privacy even, although he was the literal center of the spotlights. There was music - very loud music. It filled every molecule around him with a pulsing beat. A voice gave instructions from beyond the wall of light - 'push your hip out, baby,' 'lower the shoulder strap,' 'look over here... pout your lips, toss your hair and look angry, honey... wow yes... look wild.' Looking wild was easy. So was looking angry or seductive. It felt strangely right to be painted and perfumed like this, dressed and pampered. It turned him into someone else - something else, even - wearing a mask of make up to hide behind. He didn't have to care, did he? It was all make-believe. Was there anybody else who cared? Of course not - it was all theatre, a game, a conspiracy. He wasn't supposed to be himself, was he? He was meant to be an actor, a puppet sending his helpless body out into a world of illusions - while he himself stayed behind, safely hidden. Winter went and early spring had come to Norton's Academy of Excellence. Following the laws of peer pressure and sheer repetition Lucian gradually lost most of his gut-wrenching reflexes while attending Beauty and Grace classes or plying his legs into intricate ballet positions. There were the pills of course, and the injections that might slowly alter him, but he didn't feel or see any obvious physical changes - either with him or with the other Bobs. He was fitter than ever. He'd grown an inch, Kurtz told him, and he loved the easy, supple way his muscles responded. But, although he hardly realized it, the most important change was the way he regarded the world, the people around him, himself - and especially his body. He'd hated it ever since his puberty started: how thin he was, how pale and childish with his white curly hair and soft-skinned face. His small frame and small penis, his voice that never broke, his wide blue eyes, even his unblemished skin - it all seemed to conspire against him. And if he didn't see it himself, he had a father and school bullies to remind him. If you hate your body, you stop looking into mirrors, and most of all: you avoid touching it. At the Academy mirrors were impossible to avoid, so his reflections were everywhere, every hour of the day - in his room while dressing, at Beauty class to frame the close ups of his face, at ballet to reflect his stances, and at Grace classes to register his movements. There also was a strict regimen that encouraged touching. Two times a day he was obliged to rub lotion on each square inch of his skin, forcing him to get acquainted with every niche and crack and curve of his body, even the most intimate - his pulsing little penis, his sphincter and his sensitive nipples. All his clothes were soft and slippery, loose enough to move and caress him, tight enough to squeeze his thighs and chest and crotch - and to show him off. Pavlovian association soon did its work, reversing causes and effects, which doubled the efficiency of the program. Smelling the lotion became enough to tumble a switch in his mind, just like the sweet fragrances in Beauty class did, and the heady mixture of girly scents and sweat in Ballet class and Gym. Time went on in its usual eroding, massaging way. Returning after another evening run, sweaty and soaked from the drizzling rain, Lucian found a folder on his desk. Its clear plastic contained a set of contact sheets from the photo shoot he'd had three days ago. Pulling out the upper one, memories of the limbo-like experience overwhelmed him. Why had he let them? He didn't remember. He'd refused at first, hadn't he? And then they lied to him, of course. Parker told him it was just for registration, like for a passport. Mandatory, really. When he entered the studio, he stepped into a world that had bewitched him ever since he was a child, sitting wide-eyed amidst his mother's female friends, hearing their stories, watching the pictures they shared. It also was the world of the school play, where he'd become Romeo. It felt like the moment, not long ago, when Mamselle had painted his face and turned him into this decadent, world-wise woman. And like the Christmas Eve charade. Now here in this studio he saw the lights and the glamour of those same worlds, feeling the same thrill and attention. It had been like stepping into a fragrant cloud, surrounded by warmth and sweetness. The make up girls showered him with compliments, as did the photographer and his assistant. After shooting a series of straight portraits, they called him a natural. They said the camera loved him and they compared him to the models he'd always admired, the famous cover girls from his mother's reading table. He didn't believe a word they said, of course. But he let them go on - wallowing in an attention he'd never felt. He allowed a girl to strip him and dress him in a satin thong, thigh high stockings and a top that was nothing but loose, gauzy drapery. He should have stopped them then, but somehow he got lost in a maelstrom of activities, being nudged and pampered until he found himself at the steaming center of spotlights and attention. The pounding music thrilled him, and he was whisked away on a stream of compliments. Everything after that was a blur. But now here were the pictures, clear and sharp. The first ones showed an angel - an otherworldly, wraith-like stranger with smoky eyes that teased and mocked whomever dared to look back. There was no shyness in those eyes, no holding back in the half-naked stances. The creature wore sheer lingerie, mostly white lace and satin that seemed to be embroidered on its flesh. In other shots flimsy items hung open to show off a pink nipple or suggest shadowy shapes in the creature's crotch. 'It,' he thought. It was an it; not a 'me' or a 'she' or even a 'him.' It. He ran through the rest of the contacts, not able to recall that he'd acted out what they showed. The entire memory of the photo shoot was shrouded in mist, creating a distance he'd already felt while posing. It was the same distance he conjured up at Christmas or in Beauty or Grace Class - or on Kurtz's damn examination table. Distance had become his answer to anything happening to him - the rape, the school's response when he reported it, his mother, his running off, and the men in the truck; his whole damn life. Distance was his defense. Whatever happened didn't happen to him, did it? Life was a stage - who said that? Whoever it was, he must have felt like him. Lucian sighed, throwing the contact sheets on the bed. Turning around he stared into the big vanity mirror over his desk. His curls stuck to his brow with sweat and rain, his face was pink from cold air and exertion. If this was the true Lucian he saw, who then was the ghost in those pictures? Whose face was it he saw in Mamselle's mirrors? Whose body bent so graciously under Ms. Fontaine's critical eyes? "Hi Lucian." Why was she standing there? Why had she followed him in, and why did it irritate him that she held the pictures and studied them the way she did? Why was Drew here at all, after all these weeks? After what happened at Parker's office? He heard her gasp as she watched the pictures. "That's not me," he said. "Give." The remark made her blink. She looked again. "But," she muttered, looking up and down as if to compare. "Of course it is you. Who else..." "It's not me," he interrupted her, taking the sheets from her hands. He pushed them back into the folder and threw them into the metal dustbin by his desk. Drew looked at the bin and back to him. Her big gray eyes were moist, as was her hair and face - her top had dark stains. She must have been running too, following him. Reaching out she touched his shoulder. His first urge was to jerk it away from her. But he didn't. "It's all right," she said. "That is you, and you are glorious, Lucian; you should be proud." "Proud," he repeated, tasting the word. Then he shook his head. "You don't get it," he said. "How can I be proud? It's not me. I'm not that." Looking down she saw one forgotten sheet that must have fallen from the bed. It showed a series of shots with Lucian completely naked, his body pale under a cloud of white-blond curls. He looked straight into the camera, holding a small bouquet of red roses in front of his crotch, right at the juncture of his long white legs. She picked up the sheet, but he snatched it from her hand and tore it up - once, twice. "Oh, Lucian," she murmured, touching her mouth in shock. "What's wrong with you?" As if bitten by her words, his eyes flew towards hers. "With me?" he cried out. She took a step back, raising her hands against the violence. He slumped down on the bed. "Go away," he said. "Go suck some cock. Make fun of someone else." Drew didn't leave. Instead she sat down next to him. This time he did turn away from her touch. "All Barbs will be jealous when they see those in the hall," she said. "God, they'll be green with envy." The hall? Lucian turned towards her. The big hall had this ongoing exposition of three or four pictures - big shiny blowups, mostly fashion photo's, magazine covers and portraits; sometimes nudes. He'd never consciously compared the pictures to any of the students. "Come," she said. "Let's go look. Maybe you're there already." Her hand was on his shoulder again. "You don't get it, do you?" he asked. Her eyes danced with confusion. "Get what, honey?" she asked. He shook his head, irritated. "Don't call me honey," he said. Then he rose from the bed, letting her hand slide off his shoulder onto the blanket. He looked down on her, seeing tears on her face. Sinking to his haunches, he took her hands in his. "Drew," he said. "Maybe being their puppet is all right with you. Maybe you even like it. The way you agreed to suck that guy I hit. I can't do that. And I can't be this, this thing in these pictures. It scares me. It's a doll, a brainwashed creature - not me. Maybe they drugged me to get me to act like that, wear that, and look like that. It's not me, understand? I hate it!" Her hands inside his trembled. Her eyes turned dark. "You wait, Lucian," she said with a veiled voice. "You wait until the money stops."