“Let’s get to the point, Mr. Fisk. You want to fuck me in return for not harming my friends.”
“Do not be crass, boy. This is about more than just sex. I’m suggesting a long-term arrangement.”
All hopes of getting this over with fled.
“I’m not gay.” Matt said stupidly, as if sexuality even had a place in this conversation.
“And yet it won’t be your first homosexual experience. Like I said earlier, I’ve done my research. I am aware of the … unsavoury rumours around Father Guilfoyle when he was removed from St Agnes.”
It was as if someone has poured ice-cold water over Matt. He slumped, open-mouthed, incapable of speech and even moving. He had never told anyone about that – not even the nuns or so called therapists that had been called in.
“I do not mean to upset you, Matthew. What happened then was beyond your control and not your fault. I can only imagine the Father’s perverse delight in finding you; a beautiful child desperate for affection, blind and orphaned and totally at his mercy. And after the damage was exposed it was all hidden away and he was spirited someplace, until it was ‘safe’ to let him out again. Well, I can promise you he has not escaped justice. Not from me.”
Matt’s head tilted up sharply. “Wha … what have you done?”
“I’ve protected my assets.”
He was almost relieved when they were interrupted by a prisoner bringing their food until Matt realised he may have heard and understood the implication of what was being discussed. He blushed, his cheeks flaming as a plate was placed before him and Fisk gave him a thoughtful rundown on where each portion was placed and Matt was encouraged to take his first bite. It could have been good but it tasted like ashes in his mouth. Fisk made pleased sounds though and poured wine for him. The meal at least meant their conversation was kept to a minimum. Throughout it all Matt was shaking, his body feebly attempting to fight off the shock he was experiencing.
Eating was a perfunctory exercise; he did it only to appease the monster facing him. When he placed the napkin on the table Fisk took the opportunity to grasp his hand. Matt let him, hating himself.
“How about dessert? I was thinking we could enjoy a Zuppa Inglese?”
“Isn’t that a child’s dessert?”
Instead of insulting Fisk he seemed to have delighted him. He laughed softly with great warmth; “Yes. Yes, it is, Matthew.”
He passed on dessert but Fisk insisted he share with him, feeding him spoonful after spoonful from his own. It was cloyingly sweet and Matt forced himself to swallow. All he could think about was the mess of this evening; unsettling half formed thoughts about Foggy, Fisk and Guilfoyle swirled until his head spun. He was barely paying attention as he was led from the small table to the bed (not cot) that dominated the cell. He was cold. He couldn’t seem to get warm and his head felt fuzzy. All he wanted was to get out of this place and go home and sleep.
Fingers were tracing his face and he flinched until he remembered the deal. He stilled. Fisk’s fingers were large, overbearingly warm and clammy. It was sickening to Matt. His head was cradled in two large palms and Fisk traced the outline of his mouth with his thumb. The touch and smell was unbearable. Without realising his emotions Matt was suddenly aware of a tear sliding down his cheek.
“Beautiful,” Fisk opined approvingly.
For one brief moment he was back at St Agnes and Guilfoyle was holding him, whispering in the ever present dark of how much Matt meant to him, of how special and beautiful he was, of how this was their secret to share against a cold unfeeling world which could not be trusted and which took and took everything from little orphaned boys. He remembered the whisper of clothes being removed, of fingers and lips touching him, of being made to take the grown man’s erection in his hands, mouth and …
He sobbed.
Fisk gathered him in his arms and held him, cradling him as he cried. By the time he managed to put himself together he was laid out on the bed, Fisk draped over him, grazing lips over his face reverently. Matt took several deep breathes, deeply ashamed; he had to calm himself. This was nothing, Matt told himself over and over. This was nothing.
When Fisk’s lips closed over his, he let him, opening his mouth when the kisses grew more forceful and letting the larger man lie on top of him.
Re: [MINI FILL] - Fisk/Matt, start of obsession PART 6
“Do not be crass, boy. This is about more than just sex. I’m suggesting a long-term arrangement.”
All hopes of getting this over with fled.
“I’m not gay.” Matt said stupidly, as if sexuality even had a place in this conversation.
“And yet it won’t be your first homosexual experience. Like I said earlier, I’ve done my research. I am aware of the … unsavoury rumours around Father Guilfoyle when he was removed from St Agnes.”
It was as if someone has poured ice-cold water over Matt. He slumped, open-mouthed, incapable of speech and even moving. He had never told anyone about that – not even the nuns or so called therapists that had been called in.
“I do not mean to upset you, Matthew. What happened then was beyond your control and not your fault. I can only imagine the Father’s perverse delight in finding you; a beautiful child desperate for affection, blind and orphaned and totally at his mercy. And after the damage was exposed it was all hidden away and he was spirited someplace, until it was ‘safe’ to let him out again. Well, I can promise you he has not escaped justice. Not from me.”
Matt’s head tilted up sharply. “Wha … what have you done?”
“I’ve protected my assets.”
He was almost relieved when they were interrupted by a prisoner bringing their food until Matt realised he may have heard and understood the implication of what was being discussed. He blushed, his cheeks flaming as a plate was placed before him and Fisk gave him a thoughtful rundown on where each portion was placed and Matt was encouraged to take his first bite. It could have been good but it tasted like ashes in his mouth. Fisk made pleased sounds though and poured wine for him. The meal at least meant their conversation was kept to a minimum. Throughout it all Matt was shaking, his body feebly attempting to fight off the shock he was experiencing.
Eating was a perfunctory exercise; he did it only to appease the monster facing him. When he placed the napkin on the table Fisk took the opportunity to grasp his hand. Matt let him, hating himself.
“How about dessert? I was thinking we could enjoy a Zuppa Inglese?”
“Isn’t that a child’s dessert?”
Instead of insulting Fisk he seemed to have delighted him. He laughed softly with great warmth; “Yes. Yes, it is, Matthew.”
He passed on dessert but Fisk insisted he share with him, feeding him spoonful after spoonful from his own. It was cloyingly sweet and Matt forced himself to swallow. All he could think about was the mess of this evening; unsettling half formed thoughts about Foggy, Fisk and Guilfoyle swirled until his head spun. He was barely paying attention as he was led from the small table to the bed (not cot) that dominated the cell. He was cold. He couldn’t seem to get warm and his head felt fuzzy. All he wanted was to get out of this place and go home and sleep.
Fingers were tracing his face and he flinched until he remembered the deal. He stilled. Fisk’s fingers were large, overbearingly warm and clammy. It was sickening to Matt. His head was cradled in two large palms and Fisk traced the outline of his mouth with his thumb. The touch and smell was unbearable. Without realising his emotions Matt was suddenly aware of a tear sliding down his cheek.
“Beautiful,” Fisk opined approvingly.
For one brief moment he was back at St Agnes and Guilfoyle was holding him, whispering in the ever present dark of how much Matt meant to him, of how special and beautiful he was, of how this was their secret to share against a cold unfeeling world which could not be trusted and which took and took everything from little orphaned boys. He remembered the whisper of clothes being removed, of fingers and lips touching him, of being made to take the grown man’s erection in his hands, mouth and …
He sobbed.
Fisk gathered him in his arms and held him, cradling him as he cried. By the time he managed to put himself together he was laid out on the bed, Fisk draped over him, grazing lips over his face reverently. Matt took several deep breathes, deeply ashamed; he had to calm himself. This was nothing, Matt told himself over and over. This was nothing.
When Fisk’s lips closed over his, he let him, opening his mouth when the kisses grew more forceful and letting the larger man lie on top of him.