waste, wild

Belatedly he puts up a hand – to stop him, to push him back, he doesn’t know what – and the weird prickle of Nathan’s shaved scalp against his palm sends a shudder of revulsion down his spine. If Nathan notices, he doesn’t show it. His head is heavy in Caleb’s lap and his mouth is wet and Caleb closes his eyes, he refuses to touch him. He thinks about apertures and sensors and not sloppy blowjobs from a drunk billionaire.

Nathan Bateman – the richest guy in tech today, his boss – is propping himself up with one hand on the arm of the couch, probably the only thing that keeps him from slipping onto the floor entirely, slack. The muscles are standing out in his back, like those Greek statues of boxers.

Caleb tries to breathe, knowing that he is almost certainly on video still, that he is being watched from a half-dozen angles, that somewhere Ava is waiting for him anxiously. There is a place in between Ava’s legs that will give her pleasure and the odds are pretty good that Nathan, father figure or not, has touched it. There is nothing more repulsive Caleb can think of than Nathan’s hands on her – than Nathan on top of her, Nathan’s weight on her body, Nathan crushing her.

Nathan’s head is heavy, and it bumps Caleb’s thigh when he puts out his hand to steady himself. His glasses are lying on the floor, about two feet away, on their backs.

Caleb doesn’t know what he expects. Caleb expects something else.

Nathan raises his head – the pull of his mouth is broken – dark eyes staring unfixedly up at Caleb from beneath. He is breathing a little thickly, like an animal.

“Aren’t you going to say something? Aren’t you going to say stop?”

He’s slurring his words. His lips are wet. Caleb says nothing.

Nathan lowers his head.