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“D’arcy!” she says sharply to him, sliding between him and me. She bites her lip and avoids my gaze. “Yes. I did it. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t think it would be a big deal toget my head shavedwithout my permission?” I yell, sitting upright. My father’s face is flushed with anger, but I keep going. “After we’ve argued about this dozens of times and you know how I feel about you trying to tell me how to cut my hair like I’m still five? Are you insane?”
My mother’s face is pale, and her eyes big with sorrow.
“You’ve upset your mother!” my father barks at me. “Apologize. Now.”
I rip the IV from my arm, and my mother cries out in dismay. I swing my legs to the edge of the bed. Fury lends me strength.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say to them. “You can try to kick my ass first if you want, Father. Then get the fuck out.”
As woozy as I am, he probably could kick my ass. That’s fine. I’ve always had an insanely high pain tolerance.
A nurse rushes into the room. The leads on my chest are connected to the monitors being watched by a tech, and my blood pressure must be spiking.
“We love you, Bastien. Always,” my mother says, tears in her eyes, and she and my father head for the door, unwilling to cause any more of a scene.
My father has his hand on the small of her back, the way he does whenever she’s upset. They pause in the doorway, and I wait for the cutting words of dissatisfaction sure to come even in my current state. My father glances back at me, and he has murder in his eyes. I actually catch a brief chill for a moment. For a civilized man, sometimes my father can look like the very devil. Surprisingly, he says nothing, leaving me more on edge.
I wait until they’re gone before I let the nurse put the IV back in my arm, and I lie back down to fall asleep.
I drift back in time to that golden summer when I was fifteen. To my last good day.
CHAPTER3
Bastien
Camille was unofficially my girlfriend.It had to be unofficial because her parents were very strict Catholics who dished out shame for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Her father was a professor of religious studies. Her mother was a prim housewife who would have been perfectly at home in a 1950s ad for kitchen appliances. They approved of me, though, because they were social climbing snobs who were awed by my parents’ wealth, and because I’d dropped hints that I wanted to ask for Camille’s hand in marriage as soon as I graduated from college. Since they thought my intentions were honorable, they let us spend time together—but they were almost always at a safe distance, watching us.
I never tried to get Camille’s clothes off, but they didn’t know what I did with her mind was much more perverse than if I’d just fucked her.
Camille had very specific orders to follow if she wanted to be with me. Little things like having to wear her underwear inside out and drawing my name in permanent marker right above her pubic hair.
I had a special hand gesture that I would do on rare occasions when we were alone, and she had to sink to her knees and kiss me through my jeans.
There were bigger things too. When she came to my house, she had to go directly into the bathroom and touch herself between her legs. She had to say my name and stroke herself until she came. The first time I told her to do that, she spluttered with fury and said she would never. I told her if she didn’t, she would be dead to me.
My life, my rules.
She refused at first, my stubborn little sweetheart, and I didn’t speak to her for a month. It was as hard on me as it was on her, but of course, I hid it. Camille wore her heart on her sleeve. She cried when she saw me flirting with other girls in front of her. She clumsily tried to get revenge by flirting with other boys, but all I had to do was look at the boys, and they’d turn and run for their lives. After a couple of weeks, she begged me to take her back. She pleaded for me not to make her touch herself down there. She said it was a sin, and she’d go to hell for it.
I stayed strong.
And finally, she broke down.
It was the most glorious triumph of my life, and she was in tears when she came out of the bathroom, flushed with humiliation. I made her tell me all about how it felt to have her first orgasm with my name on her lips.
And every weekend when she came to visit me, she did it—with a mixture of shame and eagerness that ensured I spent a lot of time in the shower with my cock in my hand, thinking of her.
Her parents wouldn’t let me kiss her on the lips, of course, but they allowed me to kiss her hand. They didn’t know that I could smell her scent on her fingers. The look in her eyes while she watched me savor her, the way she drew in her breath, panting for me, made me so hard that I ached.
I didn’t just bully her into submission. I also loved to make her smile.
I would save up my allowance and buy her presents all the time – a necklace with a heart, hair bands, bracelets. Whatever she desired. She had to keep most of it at school in her locker because her parents would have taken it away from her.
I learned what she liked to eat and cooked it for her myself, even though we had a chef. I brought it to school for her, so she’d have something to eat besides those stupid salads. I held open every door for her, I pulled the seat out for her in class, and I demanded that everyone treat her with reverence.
Her parents were nasty, miserable people, always chewing away at her self-esteem as if it would nourish their own shriveled souls. They hid behind religion, fooling anyone with half a brain that they were good, God-fearing people. They were fucking terrible. I did everything I could to let her know how smart and beautiful she was, and how wrong they were. It was my ownfuck youto undermine their every word.
