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Following Orders

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To anyone else, Dussander suspects, it would be unfathomable that a boy like Todd Bowden could do the things he does. His golden hair, his bright blue eyes, his all-American athleticism and good-natured Boy Scout smile all of it points to what schoolteachers (and soccer coaches; Scout leaders; pastors and neighbors and elderly women whose yards need raked) call A Good Kid.

Dussander has enough experience with Hitler Youth not to be fooled. Still, in a way, he’s just as naive as the rest of them, if only because the Youth respected authority, recognized and responded to rank, looked up to their elders in the Party.

Todd, Dussander thinks as he stands frozen and naked in his own kitchen, doesn’t respect anyone at all.

“March,” Todd says. His beautiful blue eyes are glittering. There’s a sharp half-smile curving his lips. With his round, thirteen-year-old cheeks and smooth, unblemished skin, he looks just like a child excited to visit the theatre on Christmas Day.

“Oh, put more bite into it,” says Dussander waspishly. “You sound like a schoolboy asking for a treat.”

It’s ridiculous to be snide with the little brat when he’s like this: nude and trembling in his own house, already demonstrating how eager he is to comply. Following orders is etched into his bones. It’s in his DNA.

So when Todd twists his face into a scowl and barks, “March!” again, this time with the force of a high-ranking officer in his voice, Dussander marches. He can’t help it. He feels his spine stiffen and his arms straighten out in proper military posture, and the next moment he’s goose-stepping around on the kitchen tile.

And he can feel Todd’s eyes on him, too bright, too greedy. Enjoying the salty taste of authority on his tongue. Enjoying Dussander’s subservience.

Enjoying the view.

And despite himself, despite the flush of shame that’s already lingering on his cheeks and the hatred boiling in his stomach, Dussander feels his cock stir in response.

March, Todd says, and Dussander marches.