This time it’s worse. Not automatic detention. Not in-school suspension. Not even out-of-school suspension. But a visit to the guidance counselor’s office.
Loki hates those most of all. Sitting in some middle-aged woman’s cluttered, cutesy, flower-scented office, staring at a wall of insipidly trite word art—Dreams Don’t Work Unless You Do, Teach a Child Touch a Heart, and the motherfucker of them all, Live Laugh Love—while sucking loudly on hard candies and listening to the same old “You’re so bright, Loki, if you would just apply yourself” and “We want to help you help yourself” bullshit he’s been listening to since primary school.
But he isn’t going to Mrs Hansen or Mrs Myhre or Ms Vik today. No, they’re sending him to the new counselor, Mr Wodenson, who Loki hears is a big scary bastard with a temper and a possible steroid addiction.
“His arms are fucking busting outta his sleeves, man,” Viddi told him during lunch last week. “He made me run laps around the gym until I puked.”
“He broke up a fight in the science hall yesterday,” Hala chimed in. He was wrist-deep in a bag of Doritos and had a powdery orange crust at the corners of his mouth. “Lifted both guys clear off the floor, one in each hand, like they weighed nothing! I am not making this shit up, dude. I was there. I should know. I fucking started that fight.”
“You wanna hear some even more fucked-up shit?” said Fyrnir, leaning in. “This guy has the principal by the balls. King cock of the whole block. He can get away with anything. No one’s gonna report him. He can slap kids around, call ‘em names, get ‘em expelled, whatever he wants. Everyone’s scared shitless.”
“He’s effective,” Viddi added ominously.
“He’s got roid rage, man. Have you seen his fucking hands? They’re huge! He could pinch your head between his fingers and pop your skull like a zit, squirt your brains out everywh—”
“That’s fucking gross, dude.”
“He was some kinda hitman or something once, you can tell. He’s got a tattoo.”
“He looks like he just broke outta supermax. He probably did.”
“And ate everyone in his path.”
“Fucking ex-con here to rape us all.” Hala shook his head and crunched into another cornchip. “He’s got a taste for boy-pussy now. We’re all fucked.”
“Fish in a barrel.”
“You might wanna keep your ass on the DL for now, Laufer.”
“Yeah, until we figure out some way to get this guy kicked outta school.”
“Or get ourselves kicked outta school.”
“Preferably before he turns our assholes into hula hoops.”
Of course, Viddi and Hala and Fyrnir are all compulsive liars, pot-stirrers—and smokers—and drama kings par excellence, so maybe they’re exaggerating. They have to be.
That’s what Loki keeps telling himself as Principal Heimdall, with a firm hand on his shoulder, leads him down the hall and through a dark, meandering warren of administrative offices. He reaches the door at the end of the labyrinth, opens it and announces: “Mister Wodenson, I have Loki Laufer here to see you.”
“Good,” booms a deep, throaty voice. “Send him in.”
Loki’s stomach sinks to the bottom of his Vans. He swears Principal Heimdall smirks at him as he holds the door open and allows him to walk through. The door snicks closed behind him and Loki freezes like a small animal trapped in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.
The man sitting behind the desk plate bearing his name—WODENSON—smiles pleasantly and laces his fingers together. “Mister Laufer.”
Loki’s skin prickles with heat. A legion of butterflies explodes in his belly. His mouth goes dry. His hands begin to sweat. He can smell the deodorant he put on this morning because it’s slowly being burnt from his body.
Mr Wodenson is gorgeous. Truly, seriously gorgeous. Hollywood good looks. Underwear model beautiful. No airbrushing needed. Mid-length blond hair gathered into a low ponytail. Blue eyes with long, feminine eyelashes. Handsome nose. Square jaw. Just the right amount of beard. Broad shoulders. A deep crimson-red tie around his neck, interrupted by tiny slashes of… yellow lightning bolts? Really? How fucking surreal. His white dress shirt is stretched tight over his broad, muscular chest, the buttons ready to pop off and go flying should he even halfway flex his pecs. His blazer is casually hanging off the back of his chair. His cuffs are rolled up to the elbow, displaying forearms that are thick, veiny, and powerful.
He must lift, Loki thinks. Everything.
And Fyrnir was right, there’s some kind of tattoo on the inside of his left arm, but Loki can’t tell what it is. His hands are broad with surprisingly long, shapely fingers and well-groomed nails. No wedding band. Maybe he’s divorced. A guy this hot has probably gone through three or four wives by now. Either that or he’s gay.
Loki’s heart hiccups in his chest. He clasps his hands awkwardly over his lap, just in case his hopes get up.
“You seem nervous,” says Mr Wodenson. He unfolds his hands and gestures to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat. Relax. Want some water?”
Loki swallows dryly and licks his lips. Suddenly he’s consumed with a desperate thirst—and he’s fucking roasting. Is the heat on in here or is he having a hot flash?
“Sure,” he stammers, and seats himself stiffly.
Mr Wodenson’s chair creaks as he rolls backward and turns to the little mini fridge sitting on the floor. A moment later he’s holding out an ice-cold bottle of Evian. Loki reaches across the desk and gets another powerful whiff of his deodorant, snatches the slippery bottle away, and tucks his arms against his sides. He cracks the bottle open and drains half of it like he’s been lost in the desert for a week.
“Better?” Mr Wodenson asks. His vivid blue eyes watch Loki intently.
Loki doesn’t trust himself to speak just yet, so he nods and tucks the bottle between his thighs. He shivers at the chilly dampness seeping through his jeans.
After a thoughtful pause, Mr Wodenson looks down at the folder open in front of him. On the left side is Loki’s student profile and current class schedule. On the right side is his disciplinary record. A multicolored sandwich of papers—detention slips, tardy slips, lunchroom slips, referral slips, forged doctor’s excuses and absentee notes—is stapled together and clamped to the folder with a 1¾ inch binder clip.
Suddenly Loki is embarrassed. He has no idea why. Whenever his student records are hauled out of the filing cabinet and heaved opened like a tome of dreaded dark magic, it always brings him a deranged sense of satisfaction. The alarmed looks on the counselors’ faces make him feel proud, accomplished. Smugly superior to these nice little people with their petty little rules and boring little lives.
But not now, no. Not as he’s watching deep creases form between Mr Wodenson’s thick blond eyebrows. “Hm,” he grunts. He flips a page and keeps reading.
Loki gulps. Sweats. Squirms in his seat.
The clock on the wall ticks away each slow, maddening second. The fluorescent lights buzz steadily overhead. Down the hall, an office phone bleats. It’s answered after the second trill. Loki can feel a film of perspiration forming at the small of his back and under his arms. His cheeks are blazing, his heart pounding, his right leg starting to bounce like he’s playing the spoons in a fucking folk band. He stares at Mr Wodenson as if the answers to the mysteries of the universe are written somewhere on his body. A raw, raging attraction burns inside him, overpowering his fear and uncertainty.
He’s been infatuated with older men before, but never like this. Never this fast and hard. Coach Rogers from gym. Mr Barnes’s American lit class. Dr Strange from freshman biology. Mr Gast, who teaches 12th grade statistics. And Peter Parker, that brown-nosing little teacher’s pet, has a dad who is pretty damned hot. He picks Peter up from school every afternoon in a flashy red and silver Maserati. What was his name? Tommy? Toby? Whatever. It’s all moot at this point. None of them are Mr Wodenson. They don’t even come close.
At last Mr Wodenson raises his head. “You’ve got quite a record, Loki.”
I’m sure you do too, Loki thinks, and the thought of this ridiculously hot man in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs makes him smile.
Mr Wodenson scowls. “You think this is funny?”
The smirk drops from Loki’s face. “No, sir.” His eyes widen in alarm. He has never called anyone “sir” or “ma’am” before. It just slipped out. What the hell is the matter with him?
Mr Wodenson shifts in his chair. “Good. Because shit like this”—he holds up the folder—“is no laughing matter. It can seriously affect the course of your adult life. Believe me, I know. I’ve been there myself. High school is a place where great things begin, but it’s also the place where great things can end. Like opportunities. Screw up now and it can have serious consequences for you in the future. Do you understand?”
Loki blinks. He’s still hung up on the fact that a teacher just said “shit” in front of him. “Yes,” he says, though he can’t remember the last six sentences that were spoken to him.
Mr Wodenson leans back in his chair and stares hard at Loki. Loki wills himself to stare back, and feels like a worm being sized up by a large, hungry bird. Is he going to be snatched up and gulped down?
The thought makes him fidget in his chair even more.
Mr Wodenson’s expression abruptly softens. He sighs, puts his hands on his desk, and stands. Loki’s heart thuds as the man rises—and rises, and keeps rising, until he’s reached his full height. Six-four, maybe six-five. Well over half a foot taller than Loki and probably twice his weight. He moves around to the front of his desk like a tiger, huge and ferocious and silent. His gray trousers are skin tight and display the outlines of his thighs, his calves, his—
He takes a seat on the edge of his desk, and Loki’s attention, as much as he tries to resist, is immediately drawn to his crotch. His face goes slack.
Either Mr Wodenson stuffed a pair of wool army socks down his pants this morning or he has a cock like a Burmese python. He looks like he’s smuggling a pair of beefsteak tomatoes, too. Holy shit. All that meat, that massive, manly package, is just 26 inches away from Loki. Within arm’s reach. Loki can smell his cologne—or maybe it’s deodorant—nice and light, hints of lemongrass and rosewood. No straight man would wear a fragrance like that. It’s too pleasant, too subtle. Not cocky enough.
The butterflies in Loki’s stomach mutate into bats. Rabid, ravenous bats with a taste for blood.
“I don’t feel like we’re connecting all that well, Loki,” Mr Wodenson rumbles, and Loki snaps his eyes back up to his handsome face. He’s gesturing with his large, beautiful hands, his head bobbing and arms moving gracefully. Loki can practically hear each individual thread of his shirt screaming as it holds on for dear life.
“Establishing a connection is really important to me. It’s how we learn to trust, to respect one another. It’s how I’m able to help you.” He smiles crookedly and gazes at Loki from between fans of long black eyelashes. “Right now you’ve got this wall around you, this protective little bubble, and I understand. It’s a defense. It’s your shield, how you keep yourself from getting hurt. But it also keeps you isolated. It keeps others from getting through to you, and I can’t reach you unless you let me in, Loki.”
Loki almost crumples at the innuendo. Fucking hell, he’s already imagining Mr Wodenson pushing himself off his desk and standing between Loki’s legs, his crotch so close to Loki’s face that he can feel the heat radiating off it like a—
“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?” Mr Wodenson’s friendly voice jars Loki out of his fantasy. “What kind of movies do you like? What’s your favorite food? Do you have any hobbies, follow any sports? I bet you like to read. You look like a book-lover. Very smart and articulate.”
Loki’s mouth falls open. “Ah. Aa.”
Mr Wodenson’s grin widens and his blue eyes crinkle attractively. Loki’s heart liquefies in his chest while other parts of him continue to harden. He struggles to form words and fails.
“I’m sorry,” Mr Wodenson says, “I’m putting you on the spot. This isn’t an interrogation, I swear. I’m just trying to get to know you. The principal has assigned me as your personal guidance counselor for the rest of your time here at Asgard High, so we’ll have plenty of time to learn about each other in the next three years.” Frown. “Or is it four years? You’re a freshman, right?”
Loki knows his age and grade is plastered on every piece of school identification in that folder behind Mr Wodenson’s meaty ass. He’s just streamlining the questions, turning them into simple yes-or-nos instead of long-winded responses. Trying to get him to open up.
He’s good, Loki will give him that. He probably has some sort of advanced psych degree that he deliberately doesn’t hang on his wall. But Loki isn’t offended. On the contrary—
“Junior,” he finally stutters.
“At fifteen? Wow. Are you a summer baby?”
Loki is absolutely certain his birth date is printed on his student profile, but he allows himself to be led—just this once. “Winter, actually. I skipped a year in middle school. Seventh grade.”
Mr Wodenson nods. “That would explain why you’re taking AP and college-level classes. Your grades are excellent.” His thick eyebrows do a little dance. “When you actually show up for class, that is. Your homework record could use some improvement.”
“I hate homework,” says Loki. It’s the truth. If it’s not finished during school hours, it never will be. Academia consumes enough of his life already. He’s not going to allow it to encroach on his personal time more than it already has. There are more important things in the world than rewriting concepts he’s already learned.
“I understand, totally,” Mr Wodenson says with a hearty chuckle. “I used to hate homework myself. I did a lot of sports when I was in high school, and my grades were nowhere near as good as yours. I spent every summer retaking the classes I failed. But you, Loki, you’re quite gifted. Already in the top twenty percent. I think if we worked with your teachers, we could bring your grades up even more. You might even make salutatorian.”
Ah. Now the conversation is starting to sound familiar. However, it still feels like he’s being led in an elaborate dance around the real issue.
He narrows his eyes. “This isn’t about my grades. It isn’t even about the stink bomb in the cafeteria. Is it?”
“No,” says Mr Wodenson quietly. He clasps his hands in his lap, totally obstructing Loki’s view of the deli. “This is about you. I suppose you can think of it as an intervention. Principal Heimdall sees a lot, probably more than you realize. He sees your potential, but he also sees you struggling. And he cares. That’s why he sent you to me. I handle the tough cases, the students who live in abusive households, the bullies, the bigots, the kids with serious issues. But before I can help them, I need to know what’s going on in their lives.
“I want to know what’s going on in your life, Loki. What’s behind all this troublemaking? What is it about misbehaving that you find so appealing? You act out in class on a daily basis. You’re academically dishonest. You’ve been caught taking tests for other students and selling exam answers. You play pranks on faculty, torment underclassmen, encourage mischief and mayhem, damage school property—”
“No one can prove that was me,” Loki blurts. “I hate being at school. I can’t wait to get out. Why would I want to come here on the weekend just to spray paint the fucking walls?”
Mr Wodenson gives him a dubious look. “They found the empty cans in your locker on Monday morning. You could have done it Friday evening.”
“I was taking art that semester! We were spray painting props for the drama department all week. Ask Miss Fisker. They weren’t even the same kind of paint.”
Mr Wodenson tilts his head to one side. “How is your home life? Is everything okay? Any financial stresses or problems between your parents?”
The forward nature of the questions catches Loki off guard. “I… my mom is just fine,” he mutters. He lowers his head and stares at Mr Wodenson’s shoes. They’re huge, like the rest of him, made of shiny black leather. Loki’s heart pounds in his ears.
Why is he suddenly so shaken? It’s just another stupid guidance counselor, no different from the others. Why is he worried what this man thinks? Why is he suddenly so desperate to please him, to meet his approval?
“And your father?” asks Mr Wodenson gently.
Loki rolls his lips together and shrugs. “Haven’t seen him since I was four.”
Mr Wodenson crosses his arms over his waist, rubs his beard. “So it’s just you and your mother.”
“How is your relationship with her? Good? Bad? Non-existent?”
“Are you two close?”
“I guess. I don’t know. She’s just my mom.”
Mr Wodenson stares at Loki like he’s slowly solving a puzzle. “How often do you talk to her? Is she around much?”
Suddenly Loki doesn’t care about Mr Wodenson’s long eyelashes or pretty blue eyes or huge dick anymore. He glowers and hunches his shoulders.
“It’s okay,” Mr Wodenson says kindly. “You’re a minor, but everything you say here is confidential. Nothing leaves this room unless someone is in danger of physical harm. That includes you.”
A comforting sentiment, Loki supposes, but hardly applicable in his case. He’s not being abused or neglected. He’s just… the second occupant of the little stone house on 38 Osvegen. He can’t remember the last time he spoke to his mother for longer than fifteen minutes. Probably when they went to Disney World, when Loki was nine. That was six years ago. Most days Lára is gone before Loki even gets up in the morning. Sometimes she comes home in the afternoon if she isn’t working double shifts at the hospital, but that’s rare, usually when she’s sick or has to study. She still has a few more credits to complete before she gets her nursing degree. Things will be better after that, she promises him. As if it will make any difference by then.
Mr Wodenson’s voice is a soft, warm rumble: “Are you lonely, Loki?”
Loki’s breath hitches and he goes still. He doesn’t think anyone has ever asked him that. He hasn’t even asked himself. But now it hits him in full force. Suddenly he’s standing outside and looking in, watching himself move through his solitary, isolated existence. Only now does he see it, the emptiness, the longing. His fragile, futile hope for something rich and deep and meaningful. Connections. Relationships. Friendships. Real love, like the kind he reads about in books he steals from the library. The kind of love he hears in the songs on the radio while he draws in his sketchbook late at night. The kind of love he sees in the movies he sneaks into without his friends because they only want to watch asinine, juvenile comedies.
God, he’s lonely. So fucking lonely. Since the day he was born, alone. Alone.
All, all alone, Coleridge recites. Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on my soul in agony.
When Loki raises his eyes, they are wet and gleaming. “No.”
It’s a lie. And he sees that Mr Wodenson sees it’s a lie, because the man takes a slow, deep breath and rests his hands on his thighs.
“What about friends? Do you have any here at school?”
Loki shrugs, sniffs, and blinks. “I hang out with a few guys. They’re assholes, though. Dumbass assholes. But better to be on their side than not, you know?”
“Yeah. I know how bullying works.”
Loki scoffs. “I don’t believe you’ve ever been bullied in your life, Mister Wodenson.”
“I have. And I’ve done my fair share of bullying. That’s why I’m in this line of work now. I want to save kids from going through the same crap I put others through, keep them from ending up in prison or on drugs or in the obituaries. I want to see them succeed and grow and thrive. I want this for you, too, Loki. I want to see you happy.”
Loki swallows tightly and fiddles with the water bottle between his legs.
“Tell me a little bit about your home life. What responsibilities do you have? What do you do around the house?”
Loki starts picking the label off the bottle. His painted, chipped fingernails scritch against the plastic. “Not much. Laundry. Dishes. I take care of myself, mostly. Lár—Mom lets me do pretty much whatever I want.”
“I see. What about ground rules? Curfews and things like that.”
“Don’t have any.” He smiles nervously down at his lap. “I think she feels guilty about not being around. You know? Maybe that’s why she’s so lax with me. She’s always buying me stuff… bringing things home. Making up for not being there, I suppose.”
Mr Wodenson raises his eyebrows. “You’re very perceptive.”
“It’s what happens when you raise yourself.” Loki lifts his head. “Do you have any kids, Mister Wodenson?”
The man smiles. “No. No kids.”
“That’s a shame. You look like you’d be a great dad.”
The smile slowly straightens into a thin, wary line. “So… you spend a lot of time at home by yourself?”
“Sometimes. I stay over at Viddi Larsen’s maybe two or three nights a week. It all depends on how I feel.”
“Would you say that you’re happy with your life?”
“Not really, no.”
There’s no sense in lying about it. He’s already in way deeper than he ever intended. Damn this man and his Hollywood good looks. Damn Principal Heimdall and his all-seeing gaze. Damn this whole fucking school and everyone in it, the preps, the jocks, the geeks, the nobodies, the dimwitted losers he calls his friends and the stupid club they all belong to, the Children of Dysfunctional Families Club. Loki suddenly wants to run away and never look back. Get away from it all, the loneliness, the numbness, the sheer lack of meaning. It’s something he’s thought about doing since he was thirteen, and every year the urge gets stronger. There’s nothing left for him here anyway. No reason he should stay.
Mr Wodenson’s mouth bends into a sympathetic curve. “Is there anything that would make you happy?”
“I”—Loki recoils a little—“I don’t know. You mean in general, or…?”
“Just right now.” Mr Wodenson points emphatically to the floor. “What would make you happy right now? It could be anything. A million dollars. Your own tropical island. A superpower. Fame, fortune, fried chicken, whatever. What would it take?”
Loki swallows and lets his eyes map every feature of Mr Wodenson’s handsome face.
Fuck it. Might as well keep telling the truth. Nothing he says leaves this room, right?
Mr Wodenson goes still. His face remains neutral, but Loki can see the light shifting in his eyes. Like blue reflections dancing in an aquarium at night, interrupted by the gliding shadows of silent, watchful sharks.
“I haven’t been hugged since… I can’t even remember.” That’s a lie. His mother hugged him back in June. But it isn’t her embrace that Loki craves right now. He wants to feel Mr Wodenson’s powerful arms around him, those muscles forming a protective barrier to hold him tight, keep him safe. He wants that beard scratching against the skin of his neck, that warm breath in his ear. But most of all he wants that cock, that huge, thick beast of a prick, jabbing into his thigh because Mr Wodenson desires him. It would be so nice to be wanted for once. To be touched, cherished, adored. Coddled and caressed. Spoiled with the attention he only gets from spray painting obscenities onto school property, and even then it’s not the attention he really wants.
He wants a man. A big, warm, gorgeous man with broad shoulders and large, gentle hands. A man who will call him sweet names and hug him and hold him, take care of him, kiss the top of his head and ruffle his hair. A man who will reward him for being a good boy this semester by sucking his dick and fingerfucking him so hard that it bruises his taint.
Having a father would be nice. But Loki wants a daddy.
A change comes over him at that moment, thunderclouds moving across a sunny field and turning the grass dark. Suddenly he is serene, certain of what he wants. His shyness evaporates. Hunger replaces his anxiety. His cock stirs in his jeans and his pulse quickens.
It’s a delicate situation he’s in. First he’s got to play the part, make Mr Wodenson believe he’s just a sad little boy in need of a father figure. Which he is, no doubt. But if there’s one thing Loki has mastered, it’s the art of manipulation. And he’s about to show just how good he is.
He slides to the edge of his chair and looks up at Mr Wodenson. He does his best to open his eyes wide and invoke feelings of vulnerability and shyness, even biting his lower lip and tucking a tuft of his hair behind his ear. Mr Wodenson watches every movement with fixed, unblinking eyes.
“I, I know it sounds kind of weird. I don’t even really know why I… n-never mind.” He slides back into his seat and turns his head, feigns embarrassment. “This was a stupid idea. Forget I said it.” He rests his elbow on the arm of the chair and rubs his forehead like he’s in crisis. “God, I’m such an idiot.”
“No, Loki, you’re not an idiot. I understand.”
Loki stares up at him hopefully. The tears he’s summoned—an easy task for someone who suffers constantly—roll down his cheeks. “You do?”
Mr Wodenson leans back and rips a tissue from the box of Kleenex on his desk. He hands it to Loki. “Yes. Young men growing up without a father or a stable home, it can do some damage. So can growing up with the wrong kind of father. I understand better than you know.”
The relief that brightens Loki’s face is only half faked. “So you don’t think I’m strange for wanting a hug?”
“No. It’s a very normal thing. I’m relieved to hear it, actually.” He smiles. If Mr Wodenson were a Hollywood hunk—which he is, just an undiscovered one—then this is when the cameras would start flashing like strobe lights. He opens his arms, palms turned up, and sits on the edge of his desk like a king upon his throne. “Whenever you’re ready.”
For a moment Loki loses his composure. His heart leaps into his mouth and he rises from his chair like he’s a marionette on a string. The water bottle lands on the carpeted floor with a crackle, and he bridges the gap between himself and Mr Wodenson with a single step. Standing between Mr Wodenson’s big thighs, he locks his arms around the man’s chest—fuck, he can feel the rock-hard plain of his abdomen, the firm bulge of his pecs—and then those mighty arms wrap around Loki like he’s a doll, completely enclosing him. His scent fills Loki’s nostrils. Loki closes his eyes and inhales deeply, basks in the moment, just enjoying it on a purely wholesome level. So big. So warm. So full of comfort and trust. Dependability. Steadiness. Strength. Everything a man should be. Everything Loki has ever wanted in a father.
But it’s too late for that. What Loki needed he never received, not when it mattered most. Perhaps if he had met Mr Wodenson when he was in kindergarten, it might have made a difference. He wouldn’t be riddled with salacious desires and sexually-charged fantasies of Mr Wodenson clearing his desk with a swipe of his arm and laying Loki across it, kissing him passionately, ripping Loki’s clothes off and grinding against him, filling Loki’s ears with filthy, delicious growls of “baby” and “angel” and “son”.
Loki shivers and squeezes Mr Wodenson tighter.
Oh, to be called son. To hear a deep, masculine voice say “good work, son” and “that’s my boy”. It makes Loki weak in the knees.
A whine escapes his lips, a sound too erotic to be interpreted as anything else, and that’s when he feels Mr Wodenson tense up.
It’s now or never.
About the time Loki is loosening his arms, he feels a large hand on the back of his head. It forms a fist, trapping Loki’s hair, and pulls him off in a way that is only minutely painful.
Mr Wodenson’s blue eyes are blazing with barely contained fury. He was beautiful before, but he’s ridiculously sexy now. Two strands of blond hair fall over his forehead. His eyebrows are drawn together in a fearsome scowl, a deep crease forming at the bridge of his nose. His mouth is open, he’s panting quietly. And Loki, consumed with fear and desire, wants him more than anything. If he could move his head, he would kiss him right now. But he has other, more reachable goals.
His hand arrives at its destination, brushing against the front of Mr Wodenson’s trousers. Hot cloth, a soft, heavy bulge. Mr Wodenson’s eyes widen and his teeth click together as he contains his groan. His hand, the one not pulling Loki’s hair, reaches down and grasps Loki’s wrist—all the way around and then some, holy fuck this man is gigantic—and jerks it to him. Suddenly Loki has a handful of balls and rapidly hardening cock, all of it so big that he has trouble grasping it.
He lets out a helpless grunt and carefully cups the man’s genitals, gives them a light, tentative squeeze. Mr Wodenson’s eyes roll back and his lashes flutter. He shakes his head dizzily.
“You want some of this, Mister Laufer?” he snarls softly, nudging his hips forward and pressing himself into Loki’s small hand. “Is that it? You want a daddy to fix your fuck-ups? Set you straight?”
Loki winces as Mr Wodenson pulls his hair a little harder. The pain in his scalp is just as thrilling as the arousal between his legs. He never thought he’d be into shit like this. You learn something new every day.
“I. I’m not straight,” he confesses in a breathy rush, “but I do need a Daddy, yes. Please. Please help me, Mister Wodenson. I need a da—ah!”
Mr Wodenson growls and pulls even harder, causing Loki’s head to tilt back and expose his throat. Loki whimpers and grins, delirious with lust. Everything feels so good, even the pain. It’s something, at least.
“You’re fifteen,” Mr Wodenson utters. “A fucking baby.”
“I could be your baby,” Loki gasps, blinking up at the ceiling. “I need structure and discipline. You know I do. What are your rules? Tell me. Tell me and I’ll do whatever you want, Mister Wodenson. I’ll get on my knees and suck your cock right now. Please. You can kiss me. Play with me. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I—”
Mr Wodenson’s hands suddenly let go and find new positions, his right clamped on the back of Loki’s neck, his left gripping the waistband of Loki’s jeans. He jerks Loki forward another few inches. Loki can finally look him in the eye again. He feels the hard prod of knuckles against the soft layer of fat of his belly. His erection rubs against the inside of Mr Wodenson’s thigh.
“I’m forty-two years old,” says Mr Wodenson, his eyes darting across Loki’s face. “I have three degrees and a black belt in jiu-jitsu. I worked hard to get to where I am today, and I’m not about to let a precocious punk like you get me fired. I don’t have a problem with losing my job. I’ve lost jobs before, but I am not ”—he squeezes Loki’s nape—“going back to prison. Do you understand me?”
Loki heart goes cold as ice.
So Viddi and Hala and Fyrnir were right. This man is a former convict. Dangerous. Probably a murderer. He could kill Loki and make it look like an accident. A suicide. For some reason, that excites Loki even more.
God, growing up without a father really fucked him up, didn’t it?
“I, I don’t want you to go to prison,” Loki wheedles. His face is desperate and honest. “I don’t want you to lose your job. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay. I want… I want you.”
He fondles Mr Wondenson’s package again. Rubs his thumb against what he thinks is the head of his dick. They meet each other’s eyes, and Loki feels him throb.
“Please, Mister Wodenson. There’s so much you could teach me. So much I could learn from a man like you. And I want to learn. Please, I want to be taught. Not this crap they’re teaching here, I already know that. I want to know what you know.”
The hand on the back of his neck tightens. Mr Wodenson leans forward until they’re almost nose to nose. “I’m not a teacher. I’m a guidance counselor.”
“So guide me. Counsel me.” Loki massages the cock in his hand and licks his lips. “Tell me where I need to go.”
A five-second pause follows. Then Mr Wodenson releases Loki and points across the room. “The door. Now.”
Loki’s goes still. He pulls back and steps away, his face a wounded mask of confusion and longing. Mr Wodenson’s steely gaze doesn’t waver. Loki lingers for another moment or two, hoping for a change. When none comes, he turns and walks to the door. Grasping the handle, he flicks the lock. It snaps into its slot with a metallic clack.
He turns back to Mr Wodenson, who is red-faced and perched on the edge of his desk with the largest erection Loki has ever seen threatening to bust through the front of his trousers.
“Is that okay?” he asks in the frailest, most delicate voice he can summon.
Mr Wodenson swallows. The knot in his throat bobs up and down. He is strangely serene, his mouth pulled into a small, straight line. “Yeah, that’s okay.” He lifts his arm and beckons. “Come here, honey.”
Loki almost loses it at the endearment. He takes a deep breath, tries to keep cool, and trips on his first step across the room. He floats the rest of the way over and lands softly in Mr Wodenson’s arms. The man hugs him close, fits Loki’s body snugly between his legs, and begins to stroke his hair like the fur of a beloved pet.
“I’m sorry if I scared you earlier,” he mutters, and Loki feels that deep, earthy voice resonate in the marrow of his bones. “I’m here to help you, not intimidate you. It was the wrong way to start things off and I apologize. Sometimes my temper gets the better of me. I’m still trying to work on it.”
A whimper builds in Loki’s throat. He leans into Mr Wodenson’s touch like a cat in estrus, starving for more of this gentle contact. “That’s okay. I probably deserved it. In fact…” He pulls back just enough that he can look at Mr Wodenson’s dark, hooded eyes. “I kind of liked it. Tough love, that’s what they call it, right? Like getting spanked.” He boldly reaches up and plays with the knot in Mr Wodenson’s tie. “But I’ve never been spanked before.”
Mr Wodenson smiles. Then he slides his hand down Loki’s back and clutches his ass cheek. His nails scrape loudly on the denim as he digs in. Loki sucks in a breath and grasps Mr Wodenson’s shoulders. The throbbing between his legs intensifies.
“Is that what you need, Mister Laufer? A little bit of corporal punishment to help set you on the right path?”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
Mr Wodenson blinks, then huffs out a laugh. “Did you mean to say that, or was it a slip?”
Loki grins, feeding off of his amusement. Just another form of approval. “I mean everything I say, Mister Wodenson.”
The man hums, pleased. It sounds like the purr of a huge beast. Oh, he's ten times as gorgeous now than he was earlier. He brings Loki closer to him and their faces touch, noses pressing into each other’s cheeks, brows rubbing, strands of hair and breath mingling moist and heavy. As close to kissing as one can get without actually doing it.
“Alright,” he says finally, quietly. “Go and clear off the couch. We’ll have our first therapy session there.” He gives Loki’s bottom a pat and releases him.
Loki’s senses reel. “Yes, sir.”
He slides out of Mr Wodenson’s embrace and moves to the little loveseat in the corner. It’s wedged between two tall, putty-colored filing cabinets, the upholstery outdated and threadbare. Probably supported more angsty teenage asses than all the single parents in the country combined. It’s currently occupied by a few plastic milk crates crammed with folders and binders and cups of markers and colored construction paper. Loki dutifully removes them one by one and sets them on the floor, even sweeps the cushions clear of lint and bits of paper. Preparing the scene. Doing it for Daddy.
His eyes threaten to roll back as a wave of arousal surges through him. His cock presses uncomfortably against his zipper.
“Alright, that’s good enough.”
Loki gives the couch one last brush and turns. Mr Wodenson is on his feet now—fuck, he’s so tall, so big, too big for this tiny room—and his tie has vanished. Loki sees it lying on the desk behind him. His collar is unbuttoned, his powerful forearms rippling with muscle, and he’s taking off his belt. Buckles click and leather claps, and Loki is both terrified and titillated by the foreboding music. The belt glides through trouser loops with a soft viiip and is freed. Mr Wodenson folds it in half and gently slaps it against his left palm.
He looks like he could beat a man to death. He probably has, at some point in his life. His erection protrudes obscenely in the front of his trousers.
“Now take your clothes off. All of them. And face me when you do. I want to see how pretty you are.”
Loki shudders. “Yes, Daddy.”
Mr Wodenson’s nostrils flare, and Loki swears he can hear the stitches in the man’s pants popping. The beast wants out, and it wants him.
One day, Loki thinks as he throws off his jacket and begins to unbutton his jeans, one day I’m going to ride that. Even if it splits me open and I die, I’m going to ride that.
He strips down to his socks and stands before Mr Wodenson’s evaluating gaze. He’s never been naked in front of anyone. Not since he was a little kid and his mother used to give him baths. But here he is now, in school of all places, his soft, pale parts that seldom see sunlight on full display to the 42-year-old man who is going to be his new dad. The man who will someday slam his gorgeous cock up Loki’s ass and fuck the living hell out of him.
Gooseflesh pops out on Loki’s arms and his nipples tighten into hard pink nubs. His dick stands parallel to the floor and his balls shrink between his legs either because of the air conditioning or his own readiness.
“I said all your clothes.”
Oh, shit. His socks. He forgot his fucking socks.
Terror slices through Loki. The terror of disapproval, of doing something wrong. Of Daddy not being pleased. When did he suddenly become so sensitive, so delicate? He bolts down, rips off his socks, and straightens up again. Feathery cascades of hair fall across his forehead and frame his face in soft black waves.
Concern comes back to Mr Wodenson’s face for a moment. The look of a concerned father. “It’s okay, Loki. Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.” He pauses, then glances down at the belt in his hand. “Not in a way that won’t be helpful to you. Just trust me, sweetheart. I only want the best for you.”
Loki’s heart throbs in his chest and in his temples. “I trust you, Mister Wodenson.”
Mr Wodenson blinks his long eyelashes, smiles, and saunters over. He stands close enough that Loki can feel his body heat radiating from him like the summer sun. So tall. Loki is eye-level with his shoulder. Mr Wodenson begins rubbing the belt up and down Loki’s eager cock. It catches in the loop a few times; he lifts it, then it slides free and bounces back to its original position. Moisture begins to gleam at the tip, and Loki’s knees start trembling.
“Trust is important,” Mr Wodenson murmurs. “More important than anything, really. If I don’t have your trust, it makes it hard for me to help you. And I really want to help you, Loki. You’re very special. I knew that from the moment I first read your file. A special young man, so smart and gifted. And very beautiful. You’re probably the handsomest boy I’ve ever seen. Such a pretty little thing.”
He grasps Loki by the chin and tilts his head up, rubbing his thumb over the smooth jaw that has yet to sprout its first coarse hair.
Loki closes his eyes and releases a stuttering breath. Praise. Compliments. Complete, undivided attention. He soaks it up like a dehydrated plant. It feels wonderful. It feels real, not like the dull, empty, ten-words-or-fewer congratulations he gets for acing a test or completing an assignment on time. This is addictive. He wants more. He wants to do things to earn more praise—but only if the praise comes from this man. No one else will do.
Mr Wodenson plays with him for a few minutes, cupping and caressing Loki’s face while manipulating him with the belt. He drags the edge across Loki’s nipples, which elicits a shaky gasp, and pulls on his tender pink sac a couple of times. Loki begins to leak profusely. Three drops of precome land on the cheap berber carpet and leave dark spots.
Mr Wodenson gives Loki’s bottom lip one last brush with his thumb and then pulls away, moves past him. He takes a seat on the sofa, sinking down and spreading his legs wide, and slaps his thigh two times in quick succession. “Right here, honey.”
Loki balks, his inexperience suddenly catching up with him. How is he supposed to do this? What if he’s too big to be held? What if he can’t find a comfortable position? What if this isn’t going to work? Thankfully, Mr Wodenson sees his apprehension and comes to his rescue.
“Just lay yourself across my lap. Belly down. Careful not to pin your jewels.” He extends a hand. “Here, I’ll help you.”
With a nervous smile, Loki moves forward. Mr Wodenson takes him gently by the hand and guides him into position. Loki stretches across the man’s huge, warm lap—his thighs are hard as rocks, packed with muscle—and eventually ends up with his head down at a 45-degree angle, legs folded and feet pointing to the ceiling, all of his weight pivoting on Mr Wodenson’s left leg. He can feel the blood rushing to his head. His naked ass is in the air, cock and balls dangling in the void between the man’s legs, cool air all around him, nothing to touch or rub against.
Suddenly this is frightening. Here he is, sprawled across the legs of a man who is old enough to be his father, is physically capable of killing him in less than a minute, and has very likely gone to prison for doing exactly that. And Loki is trusting this man, this stranger, to spank him and fill a daddy-shaped void in his life.
He really hopes he isn’t making a huge mistake.
But then he feels Mr Wodenson’s hands on him—warm and gentle and strong, one in the middle of his back, steadying him, and the other grasping one of his cheeks—and all of Loki’s apprehensions are thrown out. His pelvic muscles clench of their own accord and his erection wags up and down like a happy flag. He wraps his arms around Mr Wodenson’s leg, whimpers, shivers, and ultimately surrenders to whatever fate awaits him.
“You have a beautiful bottom,” Mr Wodenson rumbles, kneading one small, meaty buttock. “So soft, like a little peach.” He squeezes hard and then releases, moves to the other side, grasping and massaging. He pulls the smooth white flesh to one side and reveals the dusky pink asterisk of Loki’s hole. “Pretty here, too.”
Loki’s eyes pop open wide when Mr Wodenson’s finger rubs against him there, drawing a circle around the hot velvet crinkles of skin. He presses into the center, daring to penetrate. Loki reflexively clenches up and goes stiff. The finger withdraws immediately.
“Not ready for that yet, I see. That’s alright. Someday, maybe.”
Suddenly the voices of Viddi and Hala and Fyrnir come flying back to Loki in a flurry of yellow and orange hazard symbols:
He’s got a taste for boy-pussy now. We’re all fucked.
Fish in a barrel.
Fucking ex-con here to rape us all.
Assholes into hula hoops.
We’re all fu—
Without warning, Mr Wodenson smacks Loki’s ass with his palm. Loki jolts in his lap and gasps loudly, his genitals swinging in the air like crocodile bait.
“Right now you just need some discipline. A little attitude adjustment to help you learn some respect.”
Another smack. Loki’s eyes sting. A crazed grin splits his face. His flesh jiggles from the impact, his cock throbs excitedly, his balls tingle and tighten.
“If you’re quiet and take it like a big boy”—smack—“then I’ll think about rewarding you. But only if you’re good.” Smack. “I like to end disciplinary action on a positive note, if possible.” Smack. “It’s a good way to frame things. Like arguments and punishments.” Smack. “How are you doing down there, honey?” Smack. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Loki squeaks. His ass is so hot it must be glowing. Mr Wodenson’s firm hand delivers another slap. The aftershocks ripple through fat and muscle. A string of clear fluid begins the long, slow descent from the end of Loki’s penis to the carpet below.
“Good. I like that we’re on the same page. Now we can start moving forward together.”
There’s a three-second intermission before the next blow falls. This time, it’s with the belt: a sharp, fleshy THWACK as the leather strap lays a hot pink line across Loki’s ass.
He almost cries out. He swallows it at the last second and all that escapes is a muffled “Uhmph!”
Mr Wodenson rubs a soothing hand over the fresh mark. “You have to be quiet, baby. I can’t work if you don’t keep your mouth shut.”
A tear rolls down Loki’s cheek, one that isn’t faked. “I’m suh, sorry, Daddy. I’ll be quiet.”
Mr Wodenson smiles and caresses the small of Loki’s back. “That’s my boy.”
Loki’s cock springs forward at the coveted title, sending another spatter to the floor. He closes his eyes and digs his fingers into Mr Wodenson’s leg. “Hit me again. Please,” he whispers. “I need it.”
Mr Wodenson delivers.
His face is a rigid mask as he administers each careful, measured stroke.
Loki winces, squirms, drips like a hot candle. Mr Wodenson raises the belt again.
His ass stings and burns, a hot, prickly, blistering pain like needles and fire, but it’s doing something to him. Something is going on in his brain. This shouldn’t be revving him up. Things that hurt this badly shouldn’t be turning him on. But it is.
He clamps his eyes shut and grits his teeth. Tears squeeze their way out from between his eyelashes and plip to the floor. A monologue begins in his mind, a narrative of filth and depravity that works him up even more than he already is:
Daddy’s lap. Mister Wodenson. Big man. Strong father. Wants his son to be better. Got to be a good son. Good little boy for Mister Wodenson. Need his love, approval. Be good, do good. Need his cock. Need his come, what made me, what formed me—
Have to be good from now on. A good boy for Daddy so one day he’ll fuck me with his great big cock, he’ll hold me in his arms and ram it thrust it shove it in, split my pussy wide open and fuck it hard, hammer it pound it, fill me, fill the emptiness, make it go away—
Loki writhes. He’s wound up so tight inside, so aroused. He feels like he’s about to come, but he’s never climaxed untouched before. Is it even possible? His dick is so swollen it hurts. His balls ache with need.
He bites his lip and begins to rock in Mr Wodenson’s lap. He can feel the man’s erection rubbing against his side with every motion. Loki desperately wants to reach back and grab it, and then reach under Mr Wodenson’s leg and grab himself, jerk off while he’s being spanked, but that would probably make Mr Wodenson mad, he’d be furious, and then he might turn Loki over in his lap, lay him out like a virgin sacrifice, a buffet to be devoured, and spank his belly or his prick or his thighs, slap his face, pinch his nipples, call him a dirty, disobedient little brat and—
“Oh, Da—” Loki claps his hand over his own mouth and seizes up, his whole body going rigid as one of the strongest orgasms he’s ever had roars through him like napalm. He rides the wave of flames, burning fast and ferocious, squirting a long white stream of semen onto the carpet.
Mr Wodenson stays his hand and gazes down at the juddering teenager in his lap. There’s no mistaking his movements.
“Did you come, baby?”
Loki’s head bobs. “Yes. Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright. It’s good to let things out. Helps you think a little clearer.” He puts the belt aside and pulls Loki upright, balances him on his knee, mindful to sit him on his thighs instead of his sore bottom. Loki’s face is a sweaty pink mess, green eyes dark and streaming, lips swollen red from being bitten.
Mr Wodenson reaches out and wipes the tears from Loki’s hot cheeks, smooths some of the hair off his damp forehead. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says in a hushed voice, and presses a fatherly kiss to Loki’s brow. “It’s alright, honey, dry your tears. You did so good. Such a good boy. I’m so proud of you.”
Loki wipes his runny nose on his wrist and tries to catch his breath.
“We covered a lot of ground today,” Mr Wodenson murmurs, still stroking Loki’s hair. “Made lots of progress. You really stepped up and showed how committed you are. You put your trust in me, surrendered completely. That was very brave of you. You should be proud.” Another kiss, this time to Loki’s temple. “And since you put your trust in me, I think it’s time for me to put my trust in you.” He lowers his hand and starts unbuttoning his trousers.
Loki stops breathing and stares as Mr Wodenson unzips his fly and reaches inside. From between the folds of his stylish black briefs, a long red cock springs out. It’s as beautiful as the man who owns it. Broad, blunt head like a mushroom. Meaty, flared edges. Shaft like a battering ram, sprouting from a bed of dark blond curls, with a pair of enormous, hairy balls just below. It’s the largest organ Loki has ever seen in person. Probably the largest he’ll ever see in his life.
He lifts his eager eyes. “Can I touch it?”
Mr Wodenson’s smile widens. “Not with your hand.”
Loki goes stock still for a moment. Then, without any inhibition, he slowly slides off Mr Wodenson’s knee and crouches between his muscular thighs. He stares, transfixed, at the thick column of flesh standing before him. It’s not the first time he’s done something like this, but it will be the first time he’s done it to an adult, and to someone this big.
He looks up at Mr Wodenson, asking permission. The man nods.
Loki wets his lips, leans forward, and opens wide. He wraps his mouth around the silky-smooth bulb of Mr Wodenson’s penis. A musky, fleshy scent, the smell of the man’s most intimate parts, fills Loki’s nostrils. He breathes deeply through his nose and closes his eyes. He loves it. It’s the smell of Daddy.
He spends a little while just licking and tasting the tip, running his tongue along the frenulum and around the crown, pulling his spit-slick lips over the wrinkles and ridges of his foreskin, suckling at the slit until he gets a mild taste of precome. He loves that, too. He wonders what the real thing tastes like.
Above him, Mr Wodenson is flushed and sweating. “Fuck, baby,” he grunts, “you do this sort of thing often?”
“Huh-uh,” Loki mumbles, and pulls his mouth off with a wet pop. “But I learn fast. And I watch a lot of porn.”
“Hnnn.” Thunder rumbles in Mr Wodenson’s throat. “That can’t be healthy for an impressionable young man like you.”
“Probably not.” Loki goes back down, swallowing half the length before slowly drawing it out.
Mr Wodenson groans and reaches out to touch Loki’s head. He sifts his fingers through his shiny black hair. “Ngh. No more porn, alright, baby? It’s not good for you. Besides, that’s—ah—my responsibility.”
“To stimulate me?”
“To teach you about sex.”
Loki ducks down and drags his tongue up the seam of Mr Wodenson’s scrotum. “But you said you’re not a teacher.”
“All parents are teachers, baby.”
“You’re not a parent.”
“I am now.”
Loki lifts his face. Mr Wodenson stares at him breathlessly, then reaches down past his cock and strokes Loki’s cheek, traces his lips with his thumb.
“I’ve got a smart, beautiful young man to take care of. A young man who needs guidance and discipline and love to keep from self-destructing. And if I can save him from that, if he’ll let me be that father figure, that protective presence he needs, I’ll do it for as long as it takes. What do you think, sweetheart?”
Loki’s glossy lips curve into a smile. Tears shimmer in his wet green eyes. “That sounds nice, Daddy.”
Mr Wodenson laughs breathily. “Good. That’s good. Glad to hear it.” He leans forward slightly, brows raised, and peers between Loki’s legs. “Looks like you’re getting hard again, honey.”
Loki glances down. His glistening foreskin still covers most of his head, but it’s slowly retracting as his excitement grows. “Hm, I guess I am.”
Mr Wodenson sits back. “That’s enough trust establishment for now, I think. Time for hug therapy. Come sit in my lap again, Mister Laufer, if you will. Let’s end this meeting on a positive note.”
With a wide grin, Loki shoots up and climbs into the man’s lap. He straddles his thighs, sliding close and laying his arms on Mr Wodenson’s broad shoulders. Their cocks brush against each other, skin hot and damp and clingy. The slim, untried little novice pressed against the older, larger expert.
Mr Wodenson makes another rumbling purr and wraps his arms around Loki’s narrow waist. He spreads his hands, drags them down the smooth, freckled skin of Loki’s back, then back up again. From thumb to thumb, he spans the entire width of Loki’s petite frame. Loki melts under the caresses, his eyelids fluttering.
“This feels so good,” he mews. “So good, Daddy. I haven’t been touched in so long…”
Mr Wodenson nuzzles his cheek. “I’m gonna touch you as much as you want, sweetheart. As much as you need. You’re my boy. I’m gonna take good care of my boy.”
Loki smiles. He doesn’t even register the tears rolling down his cheeks one after the other. He leans forward and buries his face into the side of Mr Wodenson’s neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne. He rocks his hips forward, rubbing himself against that colossal dick. Spread open on his lap like this, Loki’s exposed hole winks and clenches needfully. He wouldn’t mind have a finger inside him now. He feels too empty; he longs to be filled.
He rubs his lips against Mr Wodenson’s ear as he plays with his thick blond ponytail. “I want you inside me,” he whispers, and nudges his hips forward. “I want to sit on your cock.”
“You’re not ready for that yet, honey.”
“Someday, yes. But Daddy’s too big for you right now. He’s going to need a lot of room, and you’ve still got some growing up to do.”
Mr Wodenson wraps his hand around both of their cocks and pins them together. His fist drags up and down, mixing their precome together and slicking his palm. He pumps, gliding wetly, his grip firm and rhythm steady.
A helpless moan escapes Loki’s lips, the sound much louder than the squelch and squick of Mr Wodenson’s hand. Mr Wodenson tilts his head and catches Loki’s mouth with his own, effectively silencing him. He sucks Loki’s tender lips, thrusting his tongue between them. Loki wraps his arms around his head and returns the kiss sloppily, enthusiastically, high little whimpers ratcheting in his throat. Mr Wodenson’s beard scratches his face, but not badly. It’s softer than he expected it would be. Still, it rubs a raw red patch around his mouth.
“Mm… mmm!” Loki grimaces, his eyebrows angling up in the center of his forehead. His cock twitches, spits once, and then starts pouring.
Mr Wodenson holds him securely, breathing hard through his nose, and suddenly he’s coming too. Seed spatters onto Loki’s chest, hot and thick, painting drippy white lines between his rosy nipples.
The hand goes still. Cocks throb and dribble out the last of their loads, and Loki pulls away. A silvery line of saliva connects his mouth to Mr Wodenson’s for a few seconds before it breaks. Man and boy stare at each other, panting, their faces red and hot, mouths curling up at the corners.
“That was amazing, Loki. I’m so proud of you, son.”
Loki grins and glows, all teeth and bright, shining green eyes.
Mr Wodenson pulls him into a tight embrace. “Such a good boy. My baby. My sweet little Loki.” He plants a kiss on his ear.
Loki hugs him back, legs and arms tight around him. One last tear rolls down the side of his nose. When he speaks, his voice is a tender whisper:
“Thank you, Mr Wodenson.”
Approximately ten minutes later, the door to the boys’ restroom in Hall C thumps open.
Fyrnir and Hala are menacing a meek little freshman in the corner while Viddi leans beside the open window, blowing cigarette smoke through the inch-wide crack and offering commentary. They all stop what they’re doing and snap their heads toward the door.
Loki shambles in, looking like the personification of a mental breakdown. His face is still flushed with color, his eyes red-rimmed and wet, his hair disheveled, damp at the temples. New sweat stains darken the fabric of his t-shirt. He moves like he’s either drunk or recovering from a serious blow to the head.
“Oh my God, Laufer,” Fyrnir exclaims, and the freshman seizes his opportunity; he bolts out the door like a frightened rabbit before it even closes.
Viddi coughs raggedly and fans the smoke away while Hala steps back, giving Loki a wide berth.
“Holy shit, dude, what the hell happened to you?”
“They sent you to that motherfucker, didn’t they? Mister Woe-to-sons.”
“The ass reamer.”
“Vlad the Impala!”
“Oh, fuck, no way. Is that where you were?”
Loki plucks the cigarette out of Viddi’s hand, takes a long drag off of it, and passes it back. He sighs out a lungful of smoke before drifting over to the urinals against the far wall. “Yes. I saw Mister Wodenson.” He unzips his fly, pulls himself out, and directs a powerful stream of piss into the basin. He sighs in relief.
Fyrnir, Hala and Viddi all share the same wide-eyed look of horror with one another.
“Mother of fuck.”
“Oh, God, dude. Are you okay? Did he molest you?”
“Fuck that, did he beat the shit out of you? You look like you’ve been crying.”
Loki huffs out a laugh and turns his face toward the ceiling. “I’m fine,” he croaks, and sniffs congestedly. “We talked. He’s a pretty nice guy, actually. More like a therapist.”
The three teens stare at their friend, who is obviously drugged and/or out of his fucking mind.
“His name is Thor. Thor Wodenson. He’s forty-two and he has three degrees and a black belt in jiu-jitsu.” He shakes off, zips up, flushes. “He has a temper and he’s been to prison, but I don’t know what for. He’s smart. A lot smarter than most teachers. He knows how to talk to people.”
He ignores his companions’ gaping, goggle-eyed faces as he goes to the sink and nonchalantly washes his hands. “We talked about some really personal things. It got emotional. He was very understanding.” He splashes water on his face and runs his fingers through his hair, slicking it back. “He’s going to be my personal guidance counselor from now on. I go back to see him next Thursday.”
“I bet that’s when he’s gonna rape you.”
“Christ, Hala, what is it with you and this rape fixation? Shut up about it already. God.”
“Rape is a very real threat, Fyrnir! Our assholes are at stake here!”
“Dude, did you have to phrase it like that? Fucking stake in the asshole, that sounds real nice.”
“You’re all wrong.”
The trio goes quiet as Loki rips a few brown paper towels from the dispenser and studies his reflection in the mirror.
“He’s a little intimidating at first, and you definitely don’t want to piss him off”—he pats his face dry—“but once you get to know him, he’s really just a big teddy bear.”
Hala’s forehead suddenly takes on more wrinkles than a soggy Shar Pei. “F-fucking seriously ?”
“Dude, Laufer. He got to you.” Viddi shakes his head slowly back and forth. “He got you, man. You’re toast. You’re his minion now. He’s gonna use you to get to the rest of us. He’s like a fucking xenomorph. This is some real John Carpenter Thing shit going on right—”
Fyrnir reaches over and casually smacks the back of Viddi’s head. “We can’t be talking about the same guy,” he says with a tired grin. “The guy we’re talking about is like six-foot-six and—”
“Blond hair, blue eyes, beard, huge hands, really strong, tattoo on the left arm. Yes, Fyrnir. This is the same guy.”
“Then how in the fuck are you still alive?”
Loki shrugs. “I just… didn’t fight him.”
Fyrnir, Hala and Viddi stare in stunned silence.
Loki snorts, rolls his eyes, and tosses the wad of paper towels into the trash can. “You can believe me or not. It’s your choice. I’m just telling the truth.”
“Haa ha, good one, Laufer. Since when do you tell the truth?”
“Yeah, come on. Your middle name is Bullshit.”
Loki shrugs and holds his hands up in a gesture of complete ignorance. “Whatever you say.” He turns and saunters toward the door.
Viddi flicks his cigarette into a urinal. “Hey, wait! Where are you going?”
Loki pauses with one hand on the door and quirks his brow as if it’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard. “To class. I’ve got an AP lit quiz today. If I don’t show up late, I might be able to take a thirty-minute nap afterwards.” He flashes a bright smile and gives them a cheery wave. “Later, shitheads.”
And out he walks.
Viddi, Hala and Fyrnir are still frozen to the spot when the door swings shut on them.
A few paces down the hall, Loki halts and takes a breath, releases it slowly. He feels good. Lighter. Like he’s just unloaded a lot of unnecessary baggage. The bell above his head suddenly rings, signaling the end of the period. Classroom doors open and students begin spilling out into the hallway, talking loudly en route to their lockers. Loki observes them distantly, thinking about his appointment with Mr Wodenson next week.
“We’ll cover some new ground,” he promised as he cleaned his come off Loki’s chest with a little packet of hand wipes, then handed him another bottle of water. “Try to keep out of trouble until then, alright, baby?”
Baby. Honey. Sweetheart. Good boy.
Loki smiles to himself.
It’s not so bad, being good. He can do it. He will do it. For Mr Wodenson. For Thor, his Daddy, the man who’s going to make him a man someday.
Still grinning furtively, Loki slips into the busy hallway and joins the stream of student bodies.