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The white Cadillac slowed to a stop in front of the tidy suburban home. It wasn’t a mansion by any means, but the columns lent it a stately air and the landscaping was as formal and fastidious as its owner.
It was not the first time Saul Goodman had met Gus Fring. It was, however, the first time he had ever been invited over for dinner.
Saul sat in the car for an extra moment, collecting his thoughts. Gus hadn’t told him the exact reason for the meeting, but Saul could guess. He had put the meth magnate in contact with Walter White, hoping to benefit from what would no doubt be an extremely lucrative partnership. However, Gus was a very cautious man, and Saul knew he had some serious reservations about doing business with an unknown quantity like Walter, especially given Pinkman’s shaky relationship with sobriety. If this deal was going to go through, Saul was going to need to pull out all the stops in persuading Gus. Fring was a true professional, but Saul knew he could be deadly when crossed. He checked his hair one more time in the rearview mirror. Showtime.
Saul rang the doorbell, and a few moments later Gus answered.
“Ah, welcome Mr. Goodman. Thank-you for coming.” He looked sharp but understated in a simple charcoal sweater.
Saul held out a bottle of wine. “Thanks for inviting me.” He stepped inside and took in his surroundings. Every inch of the house oozed class and good taste, even if it wasn’t quite Saul’s style. “Nice place you have here.” He followed Gus into the kitchen where an assortment of saucepans and skillets were bubbling away on the stove. It smelled delicious.
Gus set two glasses on the counter and poured a velvety red wine. “This is Lapostolle Clos Apalta, from Chile.” He held out a glass. “Salud.”
Saul accepted it, returned the toast, and took a sip. He wasn’t much of a wine guy, but he could tell this was a nice one.
They continued to exchange general pleasantries as Gus finished up the cooking. He was preparing a Chilean meal; there was a bright red stew, a dish of shellfish, a salad of stuffed tomatoes. Saul wasn’t going to be the first one to bring up business, especially since Gus still hadn’t even alluded to the reason behind the dinner. Saul was accustomed to being the smoothest guy in the room, but Gus’s air of control was perfect, almost preternatural, and if there was some kind of game going on here, Saul wasn’t sure that he could win.
Gus was a generous host, and he had selected a different fine wine to pair with each course. As they sat down to dinner, Saul considered whether or not to begin probing for why Gus had invited him.
He decided to take the simplest tack to start. Keep it open-ended. “So. How’s business?”
“Things have been running smoothly.”
Gus appreciated frank communication, so it was time to just cut to the chase. “My guy, he has a great product. It’s the Dom Perignon of meth, so to speak. I’m not sure what Mike’s already told you but--”
“Please.” Gus held out a hand, mildly. “You do not have to convince me. I will meet with Mr. White personally, and I will make my decision. I trust, though, that I will not be disappointed by your judgement.”
“I understand you have some,” Saul waffled his hand back and forth, “concerns. About his partner.”
“I will meet with them,” Gus repeated, “and then make my decision. You see, I like to think I see things in people.”
Saul had not spent much time with Gus, but he always came away from their meetings feeling completely unnerved by the intense way Gus’s gaze bore into him.
Gus may have been looking at Saul Goodman, but he was staring straight into Jimmy McGill.
Saul kept his tone light. “Oh? What sort of things?”
“Many things. The slightest glance, and subtlest inflection, can tell me much about a man’s soul, about what drives him.”
Back in his Slippin’ Jimmy days, Saul had learned how useful it could be, not only to be able to read body language, but to communicate the right messages. Maybe Gus could give him some fresh pointers. “Well then, Dr. Freud, what do you see in me?”
Gus replied cooly, “You are a bisexual.”
Saul nearly choked on his food. “Well this escalated quickly.”
“I do not mean to make you uncomfortable. I am not so different from yourself.”
“Oh. Well. Here we are, just a couple of birds of a feather.” Saul Goodman did not get flustered. Saul Goodman did not get tongue-tied. Absolutely not. The heat creeping into his cheeks was just from the wine. Gustavo Fring of all people could not possibly be hitting on him.
“Is the stew to your liking?”
Oh thank god he changed the subject. Saul clung to it like a lifeline. “It’s delicious! It’s a bit spicy, not that I mind at all. I like food with a little kick to it, and I took an antacid before I came. These tomatoes in particular are,” He kissed his fingertips like an Italian, “superb.”
Gus smiled. “I am glad you like it. I know that you are a man with a taste for the finer things in life.”
Had Saul ever wondered, idly, what it would be like to be fucked by Gus? Sure, once or twice. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, by any means. But the possibility was so remote, unthinkable even. Yet here he was, with Gus practically propositioning him. He chuckled. “Well, you only live once. I guess in our business, that’s an especially, uh, poignant thought. So if you can have the finer things, then I’m all for that, and more power to you. Carpe diem, right?”
“Precisely. I see that we are on the same page.” Gus looked pleased.
“But why me? You can’t resist the ol’ Goodman charm? I mean, you’re a guy who has options, lots of options, no doubt. I’m not saying no, by the way, I’m just surprised.”
“As I said, I can see things in people. And I see something in you. You are an open-minded man.”
There was a hint of something in Gus’s tone that warned Saul that this very, very strange evening might be taking a turn for the even stranger. The glint in Gus’s eye was nothing short of sinister. “Well, I’m all ears. Shoot.”
Gus leaned in, very subtly. "I am a man of, shall we say, particular tastes."
Oh Jesus. He hated it when he was right. “Yeah? Heh heh. What kind of tastes?” Saul gestured around at the table. “You wanna eat my liver with fava beans and a nice chianti? Well I recommend you skip the chianti, my liver can stand on its own in that department.”
Gus replied with a genial smile. “Please, do not be alarmed. It is nothing that will cause you any harm.”
“Well quit keeping me in suspense here.”
"It would please me greatly,” Gus paused for a brief second, “to watch you engaging in El Pastel Sentado."
Despite what his business cards indicated, Saul’s Spanish comprehension was not quite up to snuff. "What? What is el pastel--what's that?"
"Perhaps you know it as La Tarta Chapotea, or Crema de Platano de Culo."
"You're not really speaking English here."
Gus steepled his fingers, and while his mouth told Saul not to worry, his eyes suggested that the best course of action would be to jump out the window and run for his life.
"I suppose it must have a different name north of the border. What I wish is for you to sit in a pie and wiggle around. You may or may not choose to weep; I leave that to your discretion."
“Uh…Well.” Saul pursed his lips and tried to look anywhere but at the man staring at him with such uncomfortable intensity. “So that’s the dessert course.”
“If this is something you are unwilling to do, I will not force you. But your indulgence of my wishes would give me profound satisfaction.” Gus rose from the table in a manner that, while not necessarily intimidating, clearly told Saul that he was being asked to make a decision.
“You mean right now?”
“I have made all the preparations.”
Saul Goodman, esq. was no stranger to the kinkier side of life. He’d done some freaky shit, heaven knows he had proclivities of his own, but he’d never even heard of this pie-sitting thing. Beware the quiet ones. Still, it sounded harmless, even if that mention of crying gave him pause.
Fuck it. Nothing ventured nothing gained, and he wasn’t about to disappoint his host at the eleventh hour. Certainly not this host, of all people. Saul placed his cloth napkin back on the table and stood up. “Lead the way.”
Saul followed Gus into the bedroom. The room was dominated by the four-poster king size bed, whose mattress was currently protected by plastic sheeting. In the center was a pie, all ready to go, with a second on the end table.
“Holy shit. You really were prepared. So, uh, how do we do this?”
Gus didn’t reply immediately. With his characteristically calm and deliberate movements, he rolled a chair away from the secretary desk in the corner and placed it in the center of the room. Then he sat down, facing the bed. “It is very simple. You will sit in the pie, and I will watch.”
“Right. Okay, you’re the boss. So I just sit and wiggle a bit? Okay.” Saul could literally not remember having ever felt this awkward before in his life. Well, maybe that time he had to explain to his mother what he had done to land him in jail. No, that was a distant second.
Saul took off his jacket and slipped out of his shoes. When he started unbuckling his belt, though, Gus quickly stopped him. “That is not necessary.”
“What? You want me to keep my pants on?”
“Yes. Your being fully clothed heightens the excitement.”
Saul shrugged. “Guess there’s no accounting for-- wait a minute! That’s a blueberry pie! That’s never going to come out of these pants!” Of all the days to wear his light colored suit.
Gus’s expression hardened, and Saul backed down.
“Look, fine, it’s okay, but you’re paying for the dry cleaning when this is done,” he jabbed his pointer finger at Gus for emphasis, trying to recoup a bit of dignity. He did his belt back up and climbed onto the bed. In the meantime, Gus had taken his stiffening cock out of his pants and was beginning to stroke himself, although his face maintained its usual impassivity.
Saul crouched over the pie. “So I don’t get it. What’s the kick? I’m not going to be able to do this right if I don’t grasp the, uh, underlying concept.”
“Don’t worry, my expectations are reasonable. Your best effort will suffice. But please understand,” Gus added with particular emphasis, “continuous talking is not necessary.”
“Right. Okay.” Saul mimed zipping up his lips. Then, slowly, he lowered himself into the pie. At least he was wearing a red shirt; if anything got on that, it at least stood a chance.
There was a feeling of fundamental wrongness about sitting in a pie. It was like...wearing your clothes in the shower or making out with a sibling. A slight amount of moisture from the blueberry filling was seeping through Saul’s pants, but overall it was not particularly interesting, from a sensory perspective. As he came to rest all his weight in the dish, Saul further discovered that ‘wiggling around’ presented a technical challenge. He ended up merely sitting there, his legs spread, trying to shift from side to side as the remains of the pie made a squelching sound beneath him.
Gus, though, was apparently satisfied with Saul’s efforts. He was stroking himself at a steady pace, and Saul found that his own cock began to twitch at the sight of how deftly Gus moved his fingers. He would be amazing in bed, no doubt about it. Gus’s steady gaze, though, was seriously unnerving. Between the plastic sheeting all over and Gus’s physical distance, the setup felt totally devoid of intimacy.
Saul tossed his purple tie over his shoulder. “So… I take it we’re still good? Were you going to get in on the action, or is pie sitting more of a spectator sport?”
When Gus spoke, his voice had dropped an octave. “I thought I was clear that talking is not required.”
Saul held out his hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry, right, no talking. I’ll shut my, uh, piehole. So to speak.” He went back to focusing on the pie, shifting his strategy to one of spreading it around the sheeting as much as possible. Maybe that was...a thing. Who knows. To his surprise, though, Saul was getting hard in his pants. He loved being dominated, and Gus’s cold demeanor, distant instructions, and intense gaze were really doing it for him. This was the most confusing boner he had ever had.
Saul was a showman at heart, and he did his best to squirm around in the mess of blueberry and broken crust. Gus had mentioned crying, but Saul’s acting skills weren’t quite at the point where he could turn on the waterworks on command. He attempted a distressed whimper. Performing this vaguely humiliating task for a man as terrifying as Gus Fring meant that, not only were his noises not entirely feigned, he was beginning to moan a bit, too.
Suddenly, Gus held up a hand. “That one’s completed. You can move on to the other pie.”
Saul shimmied over to the nightstand and took a look at the next pastry. Banana cream. While blueberry had been a more melancholy selection, banana cream called for him to sex it up a bit. Saul suppressed a nervous chuckle. Here he was, a respected lawyer (well, maybe not respected, per se), covered in pie for the titillation of a powerful drug lord. At least life wasn’t boring.
Before it got destroyed, Saul stuck his finger in the banana cream and tasted it. He slid his finger out of his mouth in a manner intended to be sensuous.
“This is actually a really good pie. Really good. Where did you buy these?”
“I made them.”
“Oh wow, so this is some serious artisanal pie sitting. I suppose that’s to be expected: only the very best for a man of your taste. Marie Callender has nothing on you.”
Gus rose suddenly from his chair, took a step forward, and grabbed the front of Saul’s shirt with surprising force. His voice was an ominous whisper, though gravelly with arousal. “I have been patient with you, but if you speak again, I will force your face down into that pie and hold you there as you struggle and become faint for lack of oxygen. Is that clear?”
Saul’s heart leapt into his throat, and he catapulted Gustavo Fring to the top of his list of most terrifying people he’d ever met. And he’d met plenty of sick, vindictive bastards. But, oh god, was his dick ever straining against his pants. If only Gus would forget about this pie thing and just fuck him already.
He nodded quickly and hoped his neediness wasn’t too evident in his voice. “Yeah. It’s clear.”
“Good. Now then,” the genial smile was back on Gus’s face as he released Saul and sat back down, “please continue.”
There was soon a mess of banana cream all over Saul’s pants, a fair amount on his shirt, and some even found its way into his hair. He supposed pie was one of those things that gets everywhere, like sand or blood or glitter.
Saul figured he must be doing something right, because Gus had quickened the pace of his hand on his cock, and beads of precum were appearing at the head.
“Oh yes,” he sighed, “that’s excellent,” as Saul slid back and forth in the mess and exaggerated a desperate whimper.
Abruptly, Gus stood up and advanced toward the bed. Saul instinctively jumped backward, but Gus caught the back of his head, tightening his fingers in the hair of the terrified lawyer.
“What--what did I--”
Gus interrupted him by pressing their mouths together in a deep kiss. Unable to move away, Saul couldn’t hold back a moan as his mouth was invaded by the tycoon’s insistent tongue. Gus was very good; it had been a long time since someone had kissed him quite like this, hot and passionate and forceful.
Gus jerked his cock a few more times and finished all over the front of Saul’s shirt before releasing his grip on his hair. Stepping back, he stared down at Saul with an air of profound satisfaction. The lawyer was completely disheveled, covered in pie and cum, his shirt and tie askew, his face flushed, and his untouched cock bulging with need in his pants.
“Yes, that is perfect. I greatly enjoy the idea of you driving home like that.”
Saul gestured down to his crotch. “So I can’t--”
“No. Stay desperate for me, at least until you arrive home.” Gus disappeared into the ensuite bathroom for a moment before returning with a wet hand towel. “Here, you may use this to clean yourself up. Also, I will provide you with something to protect the seat of your car.”
Saul accepted the towel with shaking hands and wiped off the worst of the mess before sliding off the bed. “So that’s that?”
“Yes, that will be all. Thank-you, Mr. Goodman. I cannot express how deeply I appreciated your efforts.”
“Well, uh, I live to serve.” Saul gave a dry laugh as he put his shoes back on and picked up his jacket. With shaky legs, he followed Gus back to the entryway.
“Thank-you for accepting my invitation and providing me with a most pleasant evening.” Gus extended his hand, and Saul shook it.
“Yeah. No problem. And thanks for dinner, it was really something special. Your pies too. You should make that banana cream one again. Y’know, for its intended purpose. And I’ll, uh, speak to my client about arranging a meeting whenever you wish.”
Saul tried to maintain a dignified pace walking back to his car, injecting his stride with a hint of swagger even though his legs were still made of jelly.
He climbed into his Cadillac and pulled away from the house, but he only got as far as a couple of blocks before promptly pulling over and disobeying Gus’s instructions.