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A Trial

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All of the guys at the squad are at their desks, and all of them are watching Gavin try to handle the too-full mug of coffee. Admittedly, it’s a little weird. But what registers is excitement, raw as a blue steak, because he’s walking toward Jacob, who’s leaning against the wall. It’s casual but also tense in the way only Jacob is: like he’s not holding the building up with one shoulder but he absolutely could.

“Is that for me, Gavin?” he asks.

Kind of a cheesy line, but Gavin really doesn’t think twice about it because he’s got it planned how this is going down. “Sure the fuck is,” he says. Then he’s throwing the coffee right in that ludicrously handsome face.

It melts out half of whatever’s holding Jacob’s hair in place, funnels down his neck, completely jacks up that high-collared coatyeah, the one so ugly you couldn’t pay a male model enough to take it down the runway.

Gavin grins. The whole squad claps and cheers, and for a second he’s on top of the world before the side of his face is crunching into the wall. Oops, that might have been a cheekbone, there. It doesn’t actually hurt, though, and that’s the weirdest thing of all.

Jacob’s still got one hell of a grip with a wet hand, and he’s twisting Gavin’s arm behind his back, pushing the wrist almost to his neck until his shoulder is making sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies.

...And there’s also no pain this time. What—Gavin pauses to think—the fuck? Has he died and gone to hell?

Jacob is busily shredding Gavin’s pants: the waistband rips, a button pops and pings off the wall.

Funny that Gavin notices that little detail. His boxers are next, coming to pieces in an unrealistic way, which only bumps the suspicion that all is not as it seems. The cotton would at least have strained in a really nasty, delicious way against his balls before breaking.

“Naughty,” Jacob says.

Gavin rolls his eyes. “You cheesy motherfu” He stops then because a big hand hard as a two-by-four slams down on his ass. Once, twice, three times.

After sitting silent, the guys at their desks are cheering again. And Gavin can’t give a shit because he’s too busy being puzzled and frustrated that everything is numb. He’s going to try to put up a fight for his God-given right to be taken down a few pegs, when he


—wakes up. He smacks his lips, grabs at the sheet a little bit, opens crusty eyes. Above him is the ceiling fan, doing its thing. It’s even more disappointing than the dream, because he’s just there in his bed: alone, un-spanked, un-humiliated. Oh, but let’s not forget: stiff as roadkill.

Gavin groans and looks over at the holo-display on the bedside table. 0245 hours.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles. He wants to go back to sleep, clear out that clusterfuck of a dream, but it’s not going to happen until he takes care of business. A week and a half since the throwdown in the evidence room and not even so much as a dickslap from Jacob. He’d barely been around the station, like he was purposely slinking at Gavin’s periphery.

That wasn’t exactly the kind of fuck-you taunting he liked. Hence (probably) the subconscious stepping in to get the job done. Sort of.

Gavin shimmies off his pajama pants and takes hold of his cock with the heavy sigh of the truly deprived. With the other hand, he does a little half-hearted groping behind his balls. He wishes he had something big and uncomfortable to shove in his ass—and someone to do the shoving—but, you know...beggars, choosers. Whining, he rolls over, on his knees with bare ass in the air. Guess it’s too much to hope that Jacob will come busting through the wall of his place like the motherfucking Kool-Aid Man and slam his dick in like he’s trying to play ping pong with Gavin’s liver.


So he gives his forefinger a cursory suck and reaches back to cram it in.

It isn’t nearly enough. Maybe if he focuses on the dream. The addition of the entire Homicide squad as audience was an interesting touch. Gavin isn’t going to root around in his brain for reasons why, as long as that one stays in the magical land of pretend. He can’t afford to get fired, for one. And he’d rather eat his gun than let Anderson watch while Jacob makes him his own personal voodoo doll.

However, remove that Santa Claus-looking motherfucker and Gavin finds himself remarkably okay with getting his ass thoroughly tanned in front of an appreciative crowd.

Christ, the android is showing him all manner of dirty niches he’s never thought to poke his fingers into. As Jacob himself had said: best not to question it. Jacob is the Mozart of fucking Gavin’s shit up—the goddamn Miles Davis; he’s not gonna complain when all he had before this point was Bryan fucking Adams.

Oh, wait, no. Actually, he is going to. Precisely because it’ll get a few teeth punched down his throat.

That really gets the gears moving, praise the Lord and pass the nipple clamps. Gavin stops beating off long enough to work another finger into his asshole, then goes back at it full-tilt. He’s got his face in the pillow, imagining Jacob’s shoe on the back of his head, and that’s just enough. He spatters the bed, clenching around his fingers, hips going like a jackhammer.

Once he frees up his head and can breathe again, Gavin drops to the mattress and sucks as much of his come out of the rumpled sheet as he can. As a last act, he pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the pillowcase, plants his cheek on it, and drifts back off into blissful slumber.

As soon as Gavin is in the precinct the next day, Jackson is rattling a pickle jar in his face. It’s packed with coins and a few bills.

“Dollar for the jar?” Jackson asks. He’s capering around like a malevolent elf, giving the few other guys a chuckle.

“I’m not paying for your boner pills,” Gavin says. He’s trying to make a beeline for the coffeemaker.

“You’ll like this one, Reed,” Winterburg calls from behind his console. “Go ahead and put up some cash, you stingy bastard.”

Gavin shoulders past Jackson, who’s still girly-giggling. “I’m not paying for hookers, either.”

“Not what I heard!” That’s Tate.

Half-turning, Gavin calls to him: “Shut it, dickstain. Heard you fucked a bowl of Jell-o ‘cause Jackson’s mom made it.”

“Which one? I got two!” Jackson shoots back. “Trick question, because ain’t my Mom or my Mama going to make anything for you jokers.”

“C’mon, Gavin,” says Winterburg, drawing out the vowels in his name. “We’re taking up a collection for ya.”

At that, Gavin stops and turns, suspicious.

“Well, okay, sort of,” Jackson says. “Me and the guys here, we’re trying to find out who’s been kicking your ass. Got a good pool going.”

A blush is headed rapidly up Gavin’s neck to his cheeks. He spins around again to face the coffee machine so nobody sees. “Oh, fuck off,” he manages.

“Yeah,” Tate pipes up. “When we find out, we’re gonna give him the money!” He cracks up at that, with Jackson and Winterburg joining in.

Gavin is steaming, probably more than the coffee. He’s never been Mr. Popular on the squad, but this little stunt—if it is one—is deflating the exquisite fantasy from last night like a screwdriver in a blow-up doll. He’s going to have to rely on his slutty subconscious to throw out another one if Jacob doesn’t step up to the plate soon. And even though his brain is dependably cock-starved, creativity isn’t his strong suit. After all, he likes it when other people (or things?) call the shots.

The miserable day drags so much that Gavin is practically sprinting across the parking lot to his car, planning to lay down serious rubber on the way to the liquor store. If he’s not going to get fucked or punched tonight, he’s going to get hammered.

With a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Stoli safely cradled next to his chest, Gavin is wiping his hand on his pants so the fingerprint lock on his door doesn’t put up too much of a fight. It’s old and finicky, and management couldn’t give two shits about replacing it. While he’s scrubbing the print panel with the hem of his shirt, he’s thinking about taking Jackson’s stupid jar of cash and splurging on a DNA lock.


Gavin leaps like a scared cat and makes a noise like a twelve-year-old. The bag he’s clutching jostles and the fifth of Jack tumbles in slow-mo over his forearm to smash on the pavement. It feels like someone shot his dog as he looks down at all that wasted dough.

Some of the liquor has splashed onto the polished shoes standing by the walk, and the pant cuffs above them. Gavin’s gaze moves up. Knife-creased trousers, stupid jacket, lips worth killing a man for, flinty-cool eyes in a smug, familiar face.

“You’ll pay for that,” Jacob says.

And suddenly Gavin’s Hell no is turning into a bright, beautiful Fuck yes because he knows that Jacob isn’t talking money. “Hey,” Gavin says, lame as ever.

“Open the door,” is what Jacob comes back with. “Quickly. I’d rather not punish you in front of your neighbors, but I will, if necessary.”

The neighbors! Gavin hadn’t thought of that. Put that one away for later use. He mashes his thumb against the panel and by some miracle the lock gives.

Jacob is talking softly, but there’s no hesitation, just a wicked drone like a mechanical wasp. “Stop immediately when you get inside. Don’t turn around. Put the bottle on the floor. If you do or say anything else, you will regret it.”

Gavin walks into the cool, dim entryway, facing toward his barely-visible kitchen. He crouches to set the Stoli on the floor, carefully, then hesitates.

Jacob closes and locks the door behind them, shutting out the world.

Gavin squinches up his face, debating for a second. Then: “Can I stand up again?”

And, oh, the hand in his hair—merciless, hauling him upright and then some.

Guess the answer is “yes.”

“Ever determined not to listen,” Jacob hisses in his ear. “I’ll give you credit for your perseverance, Gavin, though it’s misplaced.”

The grip tightens. Gavin really tries not to make noise.

“You don’t defy nearly as well as you suffer,” says Jacob. “I do intend to break you of that defiance. It’s ugly. You’re so much prettier when you’ve given in to me.”

Gavin isn’t really sure he wants to be pretty, but if Jacob gets his plastic rocks off on reducing him to a bruised and snotty mess, well, he can call him “Michelle” for all Gavin fucking cares. At the cusp of that though, he’s yanked into motion, almost tripping over his feet. If he loses his footing and goes down, Jacob’s hand is going to stay where it is, along with a good chunk of Gavin’s hair.

Jacob’s keeping up his narration as he drags Gavin along, no more put out at hauling a hundred-and-ninety-pound guy than he would be carrying the bottle of vodka left in the hall behind them. “You think it’s admirable to have ‘spirit,’” he says. “To put up a fight, keep your dignity. It’s not. It complicates things. For you, Gavin, dignity is an illusion. When we’re alone, just you and me, you don’t have to pretend. Isn’t that freeing?”

They’re in the kitchen, where Jacob lets loose of Gavin’s hair. He actually puts the hand on Gavin’s back like some goddamned coach or something, and it’s really awkward until he drives the other fist hard into Gavin’s belly.

Gavin doubles over, choking and gasping. His vision goes purple, then red. Before it clears up, Jacob’s grabbed his hair again—in a slightly different place for maximum eye-watering.

“I realize,” he says, louder now because Gavin is wheezing, “that some of your continued resistance might be my fault. I haven’t made myself clear, and I intend to change that from this point on. You give yourself for me to use, but you don’t quite fully understand. I don’t need you to submit to me whenever I ask, Gavin. You have to submit all the time . When I’m with you and when I’m not. I watch you, Gavin. I observe. You think about yourself and what you want, or what you think you want. In truth, you have no fucking clue. I know what you need and I’m going to give it to you. And all I ask in return is that you let go of this stupid pretense at autonomy, and just surrender. You’ll devote every waking moment to thinking about what will please me. You’ll sleep to prepare yourself for me. You won’t abuse your body, because that is my privilege alone.”

Gavin wants to say something along the lines of, I’m pretty much halfway there. It’s not untrue: Jacob already has a hold on his mind and an iron fucking grip on his dick. Why else would he have spent so much time and—Jesus Christ!—so much lotion reliving every agony served up? That and stopping just short of begging for the next.

However, at the moment he chooses to stay bent over and drooling slightly on the tile just in case the hoagie he had for lunch makes a second appearance. Jacob would definitely like puke on his shoes even less than spilled Jack Daniel’s. And probably wouldn’t be above making Gavin eat it.

At long last, he’s let go again. His scalp throbs and he’s pretty sure he can feel the places that are going to turn purple where each of Jacob’s knuckles hit home. He can’t stand fully upright, but that’s just fine and dandy, because his cock is taking up the slack.

“Take off your clothes,” Jacob orders.

Gavin doesn’t wait to see what’s in store this time. He just kits off as fast as he possibly can and stands—barefoot and awkward and painfully hard—on the cold tile. And nearly as soon as he’s up a brutal backhand sends him crashing, unbalanced and landing square on his tailbone with a jolt of pain that vibrates his teeth.

“Down,” Jacob says from above. “Do you think it might help if I give the order after I’ve made you comply?”

What Gavin figures is that the question is rhetorical and he keeps his yap shut. Wondering whether he’ll have to sit on one of those donut cushions for the next six weeks is taking up enough brain space as it is.

Jacob takes off that ridiculous jacket and sets it on the countertop. If at all possible, he looks better in his form-fitting black shirt than he does naked, which is a feat. His neck is long, pale, and smooth. He pushes the sleeves one after the other to just below his elbows, exposing white forearms.

Gavin at once wants to suck a tiny pool of whiskey out of the hollow between Jacob’s collar bones. But the whiskey has gone bye-bye, just as vanished as the chance that Jacob will let Gavin put his mouth where he wants to. After all, you can’t choke someone with only an expanse of smooth, soft skin.

And speaking of which...Jacob hits a crouch so fast it would make Bruce Lee weep with jealousy and drives his hand forward. It contacts Gavin’s neck and keeps going, neatly cutting off the air flow and also sliding him backward on his bare butt until his head and shoulders slam into one of the cabinets. The door rattles. Something behind it falls with a muffled clang: a pan or a baking dish.

Shut up. Gavin does—very occasionally—bake.

“You’ll stay here, yes?” Jacob asks.

There sure ain’t no talking with a c-clamp around his windpipe, so Gavin hopes androids understand the blink once for yes trope. He half-nods for good measure. The hand comes away, then, and air rushes in, and Jesus burns.

Affecting a musing expression, Jacob taps one fingertip beside his ruthlessly gorgeous mouth. “You like to scream, don’t you?”

Like it, need it...potato, po-tah-toe…

“Hhhh…” says Gavin.

“Can’t worry the neighbors, can we?” Jacob asks, almost cheerfully.

Gavin’s yearning little heart skips at that, because it’s what he’s come to recognize as the “about to get down to business” tone. Which makes him go lightheaded with want and turns his cock into a lightning rod for bodily abuse.

Jacob scans the room, which is still dim, then snags Gavin’s discarded jeans. He pulls the boxers free, then crumples the fabric in a powerful fist and brings it up to his nose for a long sniff. “Disgusting,” he says.

Gavin’s dick jumps and starts leaking.

Then Jacob’s unforgiving fingers are digging into his cheeks, pressing the flesh hard against his teeth and forcing his jaw open. Jacob crams the wadded-up boxers into Gavin’s mouth until the mass reaches the back of his throat.

Gavin can breathe through his nose, which he does, catching the sharp scent of his own sweat from the fabric. He’s drooling, but it’s all seeping into the filthy wad of cotton, which is going to be soaked by the time they’re done.

If all goes well.

Just then, Gavin isn’t sure what to do with his hands, but Jacob orders him to put them behind his back and that settles that.

He stands, looking down, and is just...impossibly tall. He’s got to have at least four inches on Gavin’s six-foot-one (and a half, dammit). Definitely bigger than Connor was. Bigger even than Anderson, the fucking Sasquatch. “Spread your legs,” he says.

Gavin does, planting his feet wide on the tile. His cock is doing all the begging his stopped-up mouth can’t.

With the thinnest of smiles, Jacob steps forward, plants his heel firmly, and rests the toe of his shoe against Gavin’s balls. He’s still got hold of the jeans, which look empty and sad. The toe comes down an inch or so.

It’s all Gavin can do to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head. He’s suddenly devastated when it occurs to him Jacob probably doesn’t have the right inner workings that he can drop trou and piss on his face.

Yeah, absolutely no more thinking about that scenario or he’s going to come.

Then he’s almost sure once again that Jacob has some kind of “Gavin’s going to fuck this up” sixth sense because he lowers the toe another two inches, crushing the shit out of one of Gavin’s nuts and cramming the other painfully to one side.

The scream Gavin tries for comes out as a groan because he’s slapped with a wave of nausea. His eyes well up and spill over. He slams his head back against the cabinet to center himself, making the cookware rattle again. After that, his stomach settles and the pain takes over, pure and wild and hot. Every time he inhales it rattles, and every breath out is a whimper. Whistle-screech-whistle like a fucking dog toy.

“Hm,” Jacob says. He lifts his foot.

Gavin sobs, hiccups, makes himself stop. With stinging eyes, he looks up to see Jacob going through the pockets of his limp jeans. He hits on what he’s looking for with a look of what passes for joy. Those nightmare eyes seem almost back-lit. On a person, that shit would be full-on Dr. Frankenstein, but Jacob looks more like a piano prodigy who just nailed Rachmaninoff to the floor.

So to speak.

It makes Gavin feel like a prop, an object completely bent to a masterful user. It’s the exhilaration of getting to kneecap a fleeing suspect—times ten.

His hard-on has a hard-on.

When Jacob pulls the object out of Gavin’s pants with a flourish, Gavin almost faints. It’s the little butterfly knife he’s carried since high school. He almost, almost wonders how Jacob knows, but then he remembers he’s being watched. Jacob has probably seen him idly playing with it by his console or smoking out back. He’s gotten pretty good at flinging the thing around gangster-style, opening and closing it, spinning it around his fingers.

If Jacob does anything fancy along those lines, Gavin is going to nut for sure.

Thank the fucking Baby Jesus he only flips it open with one quick move. He examines the blade, then says, “I do hope you keep it sharp. Otherwise this could be...messy.”

“Mmnnhhgnmn,” Gavin says. Roughly translated: Cut me with a dinner fork, you beautiful fucker.

Jacob plants a knee between Gavin’s outspread legs, right next to his rapidly swelling balls.

To hell with sitting, walking isn’t going to be fun for a day or so.

“I entertained a few options,” Jacob says, placing the point of the knife gently beside Gavin’s right knee and trailing it slowly down the inside of his thigh. “Reminders, warnings. Something brief but effective.”

The glinting knife-tip reaches the crease at Gavin’s hip and Jacob guides it into the wiry scrub surrounding Gavin’s cock. He frowns. “Shave this fucking mess. It’s disgraceful.”

For Gavin’s part, he thinks he’d had the ol’ bush pretty under control, but apparently not.

Jacob seizes his hair and knocks his skull smartly against the wood. Third time’s the charm. “Did you hear me?”

Gavin nods and makes a noise. The boxers are crumpled and slimy on his tongue.

“In any case,” Jacob continues, “I believe you’ll understand what I’ve chosen soon enough. And you’ll know when I’ve finished. At which point, you may come.”

Mystified, Gavin nods again because that’s what Jacob wants.

“Now,” he says, “hold still.”

He makes the first diagonal cut about halfway up the inside of Gavin’s right thigh.

It stings like bejesus, but Gavin is fairly sure for the moment he can go without screaming or weeping. Coming, he’s not so sure about.

Jacob hums a little as he makes the next cut. Neither one is deep, really, but they’re not scratches: the first is beading up and dribbling blood and the next soon follows suit. And the third. And the fourth.

The sting is starting to spread outside the bounds of the cuts themselves, pushing an ache into what feels like muscle from knee to groin. Gavin feels liquid warmth sliding down to pool under his ass cheek, his tortured balls. He chances a look. Jacob said something about knowing when it was finished…

It’s a W.

Okay… Unsure where he’s going with this, Gavin has to train his gaze back up at the ceiling because the brightness of his blood on Jacob’s white fingers and the white tile is making his nuts throb. In the undesirable, gonna-shoot-my-load way.

With the next three cuts, he’s trying not to squirm. It burns now: immediate and sharp while the blade parts his skin and then duller and deeper between slices.

Jacob is still humming.

It’s not tuneless psycho music; it’s something Gavin’s brain would recognize if he could just get it down from Dopamine Tower. And oh, fuck, does the next one hurt. It’s not short and straight like the others, but drawn-out and ribbony in one long stroke. Gavin whines. There are fresh tears, he’s digging his nails into his palms, and he has to huff snot out of one nostril so he can keep bringing in air. It slides down over his lip.

More blood slides onto the tile.

He looks down. Fuck-a-mighty, there’s a lot of red, but he can make out letters. Go figure Jacob has impeccable handwriting with a pocket knife in living skin.


Yellow fireworks go off behind Gavin’s eyes, and he’s all No-no-no-no and perilously close to covering Jacob’s forearm with spunk. The only thing that saves him, that holds him back, is pinpointing the tune.

It’s Dave Brubeck’s Take Five.

He lets his head fall back and wails, or does whatever one does with a mouthful of cotton steeped in spit and ball sweat.

Another straight cut, a meandering one, straight again.

Gavin’s leg is on fire. When it’s not hitching from the pain, he’s breathing like a racehorse. Four to go, he tells himself.

The final letter cuts dangerously close to the groin—amazing and awful. Gavin’s ready; he’s so ready, as a man who is now one single knife stroke away from both a blinding orgasm and the word WHORE carved into his leg.

Jacob stops, lets him teeter, straining, on the edge for a couple of seconds.

In those fucking endless moments, Gavin both hates him and worships him.

Then he slices, quick and neat.

He pulls his hand back as Gavin’s helpless cock pumps ribbons of white into the pool of red.

When the incredible blankness of his orgasm subsides, Gavin sees that Jacob is standing again. He wipes first the knife blade then his fingers on Gavin’s shirt.

Gavin flinches when he tosses the blade, still open, onto the floor. It skitters and comes to rest cold against Gavin’s naked ass.

“I believe I chose well,” says Jacob. Then he drops the shirt and walks out.

Disoriented, Gavin cranes his neck. He is torn between moving to see if Jacob leaves and staying put in case he doesn’t. His backside is completely numb; that’s going to hurt both the untouched skin and his brutalized balls when circulation returns.

He can’t hear footsteps, but suddenly Jacob is back in the kitchen.

Gavin straightens up. I’ve been good. I’ve been good.

In one hand, Jacob is holding the bottle of Stoli.

Cheers, Gavin thinks. And then it hits his stupid, foggy head and his eyes go wide. He’s never been more tempted to pull his hands from behind his back and plead.

Jacob inclines his head, smiling. The screw-top cap crackles as he turns it.

Gavin hears it click on the tile when it’s dropped.

“Open your eyes, Gavin,” Jacob says.

He obeys, a fresh round of tears popping up.

“Good boy.” Jacob tips the bottle over.

The vodka is cold when it hits Gavin’s knee. It feels like nothing short of napalm as it runs into the cuts. The sodden mass of underwear in his mouth is finally put to the test. Gavin keeps screaming after Jacob sets the bottle on the counter and departs.