“Let me take a wild guess and say you haven’t done much voice work before,” says Baldwin in that controlled serial killer voice of his, after they wrap up recording on the final day of Superman.
Anne Heche laughs at the comment on her way past and James hates on her a little more than he did already. Fucking on again off again lipstick lesbian bitch.
Staring down at his sneakers James uses X-Ray vision to see through them to the black-painted kryptonite toe nails inside. Resisting the urge to kick off his shoes and torture Adam with his bare feet, he chooses instead to stuff both hands in his pockets and risk an angled glance up at the brick wall of a man who’s stood smirking at him.
“No,” he says truthfully. “Why?”
“It shows.” Baldwin packs his belongings away then unwraps a stick of Doublemint and folds it into his mouth. With a rapid, almost imperceptible, wink he walks away, leaving James in a state of flux, a flush of embarrassment starting at his fucking hairline and dripping downwards until it reaches those toes.
All the way home James remains in panic mode. He thought he’d got Lex down. It had felt good when he and Adam were working off each other; tension tweaked up high after yesterday’s outrageous closet fuck. No-one had said anything. Why the fuck had no one told him he was crap? Fucking director.
“Bastard!” he yells, looking at an imaginary Adam in the seat next to him and slamming his hands down on the steering wheel. The horn blares out and he ducks down low, annoyed at himself for being the loser everyone thinks he is.
Still in a foul mood he stops off at the grocery store, glad that he’s free of the kids this week. He’d be a crap father to them and he hates that. Loading up the conveyor with junk food, he replays that short conversation with Adam and cringes some more as he adds some extra insults to his list of self-hatred. ‘Bad actor’ fits neatly at the end, backing up everything his teachers at Juilliard said when they threw him out.
Paying with cash he almost forgets to wait for his change, trying to smile in a friendly manner when the girl calls him back with a loud, “James!” as if he’s public property. Still, it beats being called Spike. One of the bags splits as he’s opening the trunk of the car and his current comfort food addiction spreads itself out for all to see over the parking lot. This is not his day, he decides as he picks up cookies and Doritos off the tarmac. Still, at least the beer bottles didn’t smash.
After parking the car James sits a while, reluctant to unlock the door and enter the main body of the house. Home is bleak and miserable without anyone in it, but then it’s not exactly party central in the garage either. Wedging the split bag against his stomach, he lugs his groceries into the kitchen and puts them away in a trance while he relives the day’s work over and over in his head. Had he really sounded that bad? He thinks about Tony Head laughing with him at his accent then coaching him through the rough parts and it makes him melancholic. They were good days. Heydays.
Fuck it all to hell!
Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, James lies on the couch, turning on the DVD and opening his flies. The porno is still in the player from last night. Relaxed after a long hot bath and turned on by thoughts of that brutal wall fuck, he hadn’t made it past the first come shot before unleashing his load and switching off the movie in disgust.
Today’s anger doesn’t stop him from getting hard. In fact it’s always had a positive effect on his libido. He strips out of his shirt and reaches into his pocket for the lube he’d taken to work – just in case. Kicking off pants and socks, he squirts a glob of slick into his palm and, with the sounds of fucking as background stimulation, he begins a nice leisurely pull, just upstrokes to start off with, focusing his thoughts on revenge. Fucked up to the extreme, he jerks off over images of Baldwin being outed in front of the world. Evidence of him getting pounded by a gimp masked dom in one of those private clubs in West Hollywood.
Neck stretched back over the arm of the couch, James pushes upward, his heels digging into the seat as he closes his eyes and fucks his fist with a good tight grip. He can actually see it. Baldwin’s cock restrained by leather straps, his erection swollen to painful proportion, almost purple in colour, as he kneels on all fours and takes the whole of a ten inch black latex dildo inside him.
When the picture alters slightly James comes, his spunk arcing out and landing on his belly in ribbons of shameful disappointment.
~~***~~
There’s nothing more like death to an actor’s ego than a silent phone. James spends his free time sitting and brooding-- even his guitar has decided it hates him--and when he does finally get a phone call, it’s not one that he wants. The request to come in and do some re-recording on Superman, makes his stomach churn and gives credence to Baldwin’s remarks that he’s a shit voice actor. He chews his nails off for the rest of the day in preparation.
After very little sleep and too much angsting, he’s about ready to pop every pill in his medicine cabinet. Instead, he grabs a couple of painkillers for his headache and makes wake-up coffee that is so thick and black it’s almost like Turkish. He sweetens the foul stuff with a ton of sugar for some much needed bounce then swallows it, and the tablets, down in one long gulp of bitterness.
After another long spell of hiding in the garage James decides he’s as ready as he’ll ever be and starts the car, rummaging through his CD collection, trying to find some confidence boosting music. Lighting up a dry tasting cigarette from an emergency pack he’d stashed under the seat, he heads for Burbank, listening intently to Tom Waits who’s telling him in that gravel-smoke voice there are worse losers in the world than him. Feeling slightly better, he shows his ID to security and parks up in the Ranch lot. Things don’t seem so bad now. Maybe God will have smiled down on him and Mr ‘I’m so fucking perfect’ Baldwin won’t have been called back to perform.
“Hey!”
The voice makes James jump a little and he hastily stamps out the illicit Marlboro and looks up through his aviators. The sun may be shining but God certainly isn’t. Adam is still wearing that same fucking smirk and James withers then nods a silent greeting as he pushes past the man mountain and on into the studio.
The director greets him with a genuine smile. She’s a good person through and through and James tries to relax as she sits him down and explains the scenes that need to be reworked. Problem is that the consummate professional actor appears to have gone missing and has been replaced by a quivering mess of unset jello.
By the time he gets into the studio ready to record, the espressos have played havoc with his nerves making him jittery and unable to concentrate. “I need a smoke,” he says as he stutters and fucks up a scene for the third time in ten minutes, running for the exit and scurrying away blindly in the direction of the side return of the long low building.
It’s quiet down the dark cutaway section. The few windows are all blanked out with heavy blinds and James slides down the wall until he’s seated on the dusty concrete ground, hunched up on himself, head buried in his hands.
“Thought you needed a cigarette.”
James glares at his Nikes. “Can you do me just one fucking favour and leave me the hell alone?”
“Nope.”
Bastard! This time James glares at Baldwin’s gargantuan feet and wonders how the man could have got so disproportionately big. Sometimes big is good though. It turns out that big is one of James’s kinks. It allows him to cede responsibility. He’s got too much of that in his life.
“What’s up?” says Baldwin who’s sounding like a warm-blooded human for once. He’s gotta be pretending.
You! Me! Life! “None of your fucking business,” James mutters, hating himself for being so pathetic. It isn’t his style. “Look, I just need some quiet to get an angle on Lex. Okay?”
“Do it like you did before.” Baldwin shrugs noncommittally as if it’s not important.
“Like crap, you mean?” James splutters out a burst of laughter. “Man, you did me a fucking favour.”
“Get up.”
James is expecting one of two things: either an actorish round of back-patting ego pumps or, most likely, a scornful look and a quick getaway. The thing he was not anticipating was to be ordered around in this quietly determined way that has him forgetting how to breathe.
“Get up.”
Baldwin continues to look down on him and James holds his gaze, slowly pushing his way to a standing position, his knees throwing out dull twinges of pain, back grazing against the rough cinder block wall.
“Get in there and read those lines.”
One of those big hands pushes on James’s shoulder so hard he can feel the imprint whilst the other slips unexpectedly behind him. It inches down inside his pants, palming his right buttock, squeezing until it burns, fingernails digging in and causing little jolts of pain. James’s tongue darts out and he wets his lips. Baldwin’s close enough to taste; towering over him in a dense mass of muscle and sex.
“Do it!”
James almost comes in his pants at the harsh command then things heat up to nuclear as the hand that’s been resting on his shoulder slithers downward. Fingers unzip his fly and reach in closing around his cock and he grunts with unequivocal pleasure as the man grips and pulls, talking him around in this smooth deep voice.
“Get back in there. Finish reading that script then wait by my car.”
The words drift in warm damp breaths against James’s ear and then they, and Baldwin, are gone and he’s left with nothing but the reminder of erect nipples pushing through his thin cotton shirt and an aching hard-on that’s arching out of his open fly, begging to be touched.
The thrill of jerking off in this public place is a temptation--when James is turned on there are no limits to what he will do-- but he thinks about Baldwin and breaks out into a quiver of dirty pretty excitement that runs the length of his spine.
The work is finished in no time at all. He doesn’t even think about it now; just says all those dumb villainous words, searching occasionally for a hint of reaction on Baldwin’s face, but there’s not one flicker of emotion to be seen. He is the man of steel.
When it’s done, James feeds the vending machine and gulps down an ice cold Coke, running the chilled can across his over-heated forehead. Then, after taking a piss, he washes up and stares at himself in the mirror. His face is flushed, eyes bright and excited, lips wet and pouting: a bitch in heat ready to get screwed.
Walking out to the parking lot, James waits expectantly by Adam’s SUV which is parked next to his own Honda, dwarfing it aggressively with macho charisma. After ten minutes of hanging around aimlessly, he opens his car door and reaches in for the Marlboros, lighting up then pocketing the pack and his Zippo like they’re a guilty sin. He’s guilty and he needs to sin.
“You don’t want that,” says Baldwin, appearing from nowhere and pinching the cigarette from James’s mouth then taking a quick deep hit--eyes fluttering in that tell-tale sign of a reformed man--before stubbing it out. He opens the passenger door chivalrously. “Get in.”
James complies, sitting in the body hugging leather seat and buckling up. Adam gets in and throws his belongings in the back then fastens his seat belt and starts the motor. “You confuse me,” he says as they head out of the WB Ranch and take the freeway south.
James chokes on his surprise and then laughs. Adam Baldwin, the quintessential what-the-fuck is confused by him. “It’s mutual,” he responds with a half-smile, staring in front of him at the columns of traffic.
Confusion builds to new level when, a few minutes later, they park up on Santa Monica Boulevard outside a store that’s decorated with banana plants, palm trees and the words ‘The Pleasure Chest’ that’re flickering at them in large pink neon letters.
“Wait here,” says Adam, getting out and James wriggles with relief, blinking in time with the faulty ‘C’ on the sign. It would be more than embarrassing to walk into a sex shop with Baldwin; it would be humiliating. Still, the more he thinks about it, the more his cock firms up to the idea.
Not knowing where to look, he chews at his nails and reads through the Cadillac handbook and road maps he finds in the door pocket.
“Don’t be doing that.” Adam takes the books and puts them back then removes James’s fingers from his mouth like a badly behaved child, examining the nails with a disparaging shake of his head.
James snatches his hand back and gets a sharp smack on the thigh in return. He shudders in a breath of shock while Adam loads two gaudy pink bags onto the back seat, looking as if nothing of consequence has just happened. James hasn’t been punished like that since he was a kid. Mulling things over, he’s so lost to his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice they’ve been moving until the car pulls in to the side of the road. Without a word, Adam gets out and enters a nearby drugstore.
This is fucking insane! James wonders if he’s lost his mind. Wonders if there’s been a script in the mail that he never got around to reading. What the fuck is going on and, more to the point, why is he letting it happen? Maybe that serial killer voice belongs to an actual serial killer! Maybe he’s in the car with a cannibalising homophobic murderer! Then Adam’s beside him again and, yeah, maybe James is scared of the guy, but it’s still a fucking turn on.
“Ready?”
James looks sideways. “For what?” he asks, but all he gets as an answer is one of those R.E.M. winks. A hand reaches over and squeezes his thigh and the tension in the car rises to sky scraper levels.
~~***~~
The motel room is seedy but clean. “You been here before?” asks James as he wanders around opening doors and drawers and reading the fire instructions -- fidgeting as usual.
“That’d be my business,” answers the big man as he looks through the carriers, but it’s not said in an unkindly way. “Now go to the bathroom and use this.” He rips open some packaging and hands James an anal douche.
Yeah, he’s seen one before. Never used one though. How can he do this? How can he not?
Gripping the latex bulb with trembling fingers James locks himself in the bathroom, imagining Baldwin frowning at him through the other side of the door. Fastening the bolt is not so much for privacy, more to stop himself from running away in fear. Stripping off, he folds his clothes and places them on the shelving then rinses out the bulb of the douche and fills it with warm water.
Inserting it is difficult but he manages and several goes later he’s feeling pleasantly empty and freakishly turned on. A shower helps to relax him even more and when he emerges, thin hotel towel wrapped around his waist, he’s high from the slow burn of low level arousal.
Baldwin is sitting in a cheap wicker armchair, long legs extended as he drinks beer and watches the TV. “Done?” he asks and James nods quickly. “Good. Now take off that towel and lie on the bed.”
James does as he’s told, watching nervously as the man picks up a set of restraints from his lap.
“Are you okay with this?” says Baldwin as he approaches reading the apprehension in James’s eyes.
Is he okay? At the moment he’s scared, cold sweat beginning to bead, but he wants to continue -- at least for now. He nods again, a little less definitely this time and Baldwin sits next to him on the bed.
“Life’s all about limits,” says the man, fastening the leather cuffs around James’s wrists then hooking a short chain through the sturdy metal bars of the bedhead. “You need to learn yours.”
He pushes James arms upward and clips the chain to the cuffs, pulling hard to test the strength and the give. The smile says it all. “Comfortable?”
The leather is tight but it’s lined with thick fleece which is soft against James’s skin. “Yes,” he answers in a quiet voice.
“Good. Now lift your head for me.”
A mask slides over his face; it’s soft, silky and as light as a feather but the material is dense enough to block out everything. James sinks back onto the pillows, a shiver running through him like ice water.
“D’you need anything before I go shower?”
“A drink would be good.” His voice comes out cracked and broken, his tongue so dry that it feels as if it’s taking up his whole mouth.
There’s a sharp hiss and then an arm slithers beneath his neck raising him up slightly. He drinks from the can which presses cold against his lips and gulps down a mouthful of soda. He can’t tell what flavour it is.
“While I’m in the bathroom think of a safe word you won’t forget… under duress.”
James feels the mattress move then hears a door slam and the sound of water gushing from the spigot. Alone, blindfold and chained to the bed, he feels incredibly vulnerable. He wants Baldwin back by his side and his cock jerks at the thought. Unable to touch himself and relieve the pressure, James concentrates on finding a safe word -- one that he’ll have no trouble remembering yet doesn’t reveal too much. It’s not as easy as it sounds and he hunts around his head for inspiration. The darkness is like a blanket that stops him thinking about everything except sex. There’s this low resonant throb that begins in his balls and travel up his shaft and it’s a new sensation to be this helpless and unable to masturbate. Safe word! James can’t think. Family names are too perverted, even for him. Spike is embarrassingly obvious. He remembers a dirty weekend spent with Boreanaz in Mexico. A very dirty weekend!
The bathroom door must have opened whilst James was busy reminiscing and he jolts back to awareness as a finger runs up his inner thigh, edging its way close to his ass.
“Got that word for me yet?”
“Baja,” says James though gritted teeth, arching up as the nail scratches gently at his perineum.
“Like Mexico, do you?”
“Yep.” He bucks upward hard against that finger.
“Stay still now.” The chatter and the teasing sensation are both removed from the field of play.
It’s an effort to control the movement of his body but somehow James manages it, splaying his legs apart in hope that his empty guts will soon be filled up by cock. He can hear Baldwin padding around the room and imagines that huge proud body taking territorial strides. He wants to see him naked.
The rustling of a bag piques his interest. Sounds like it’s the cheap thin plastic one from the drugstore and James holds his breath in as he hears paper tearing and then an odd ripping noise. Something adheres itself to his chest and then it’s torn away and he releases a loud howl of pain.
“Okay?”
“I think so.”
“Be still and quiet then.”
This should prove impossible when hairs are being ripped out by their roots but that’s not the case. It seems that James has more self control than he ever knew. He abandons himself to the sting of pain and relaxes, breathing with it and enjoying the sensation to the max. Next there’s a strong smell of aloe vera and his chest is wiped down gently with smooth wet strokes.
“Spread your legs wide and lift them for me.”
The waxing of his lower regions is fiercely painful and yet incredibly erotic. He’s almost disappointed when it’s over and he’s being washed down with a soft wipe, the cloth lingering temptingly around his asshole which is relaxed as the rest of him after the earlier douching.
“You can lie back down now.”
James wonders who he’s turning into. He’s a man who fights and hassles and hangs on for grim death. He argues and pushes and asserts his authority over everyone. This isn’t him and yet he’s never felt more powerful or more sexual than he does lying here empty inside and out.
There’s a smell of burning and James sniffs, trying his best to identify it. A scented candle maybe or possibly a joss stick.
“This may hurt a little,” says Baldwin in a voice that’s unusually tight.
These words tip the balance toward the candle theory but then James’s nipples scream at him in cold sweet agony, the pain building and building in each one. A tongue sneaks its way between his lips and he opens up and breathes in a drift of heady smoke.
Holding another mouthful in, he lets the dope slowly works its wicked way through his system then exhales suddenly as Baldwin straddles him, knees squeezing at the sides of his ribcage like he’s a pony to be ridden fast and hard. The joint nudges again at his mouth and he accepts it, letting it hang loose from his lower lip, burning the skin slightly as he draws in.
The pain in his nipples intensifies an increment at a time, left and then right, left and then right, as each clamp is tightened until he breaks out into a prickle of sweat. “Enough,” he gasps as warm ash tumbles down onto his chest. The reefer is removed from between his lips then the chain that links his nipples together is given a swift exploratory tug. “Fuck!” he cries as his cock jerks against hot male skin.
“Quiet.”
James closes his eyes, lashes brushing against the silky material of the mask. He’s not sure if he’s in Heaven or Hell. All he knows is the feel of Baldwin’s body and the swipe of skin against skin as the weight shifts around. His thighs are pried apart and he opens them fully, knees bent a little, cock reaching up and begging for attention.
Icy coldness runs up his leg, skating over his scrotum and glancing off his shaft. It circles the head of his prick then dances away, dipping wet into his navel and teasing each tortured nipple. As it rubs against his lips, he pushes his tongue out, licking at the melting ice. He hears an illicit gasp of excitement from Baldwin and runs his tongue over the cube until he finds fingers and laps the wetness from them.
“Be still now.”
The ice momentarily disappears then returns with a vengeance, making patterns around the rim of James’s asshole. He near enough howls when there’s a probing sensation and he’s filled with a chill that lodges itself against his prostate. His cock becomes iron as he erupts with an almost-gasm of sensory overload.
“Good,” says that voice that’s mellow from weed. No more of the Ed Gein or John Wayne Gacy overtones. It’s wrong to feel a rush of pride from being verbally patted on the head, but James goes ahead and feels it anyway.
Initially being blindfolded had worried him a little, but now, apart from an overwhelming sensation to see whether Baldwin matches up to the mental imagery he’s projecting, James is good with it. Darkness allows him to focus on the sensations rather than how he’s supposed to be reacting to them. Things alter course brutally, however, when there’s a snapping sound and a brutal squeeze and his cock and balls are encased inside a tight band.
“How’s that feel?” says Baldwin.
“Like my dick is going to fall off.” James arches up like an over-strung bow, trying to ease off the agonising pressure in his scrotum.
“You’ll get used to it.” The hard words are accompanied by a gentle stroking and slowly the tightness becomes bearable. His cock is ultra sensitive now and he forces himself to relax, planting his soles on the mattress and breathing deeply as Baldwin keeps working away at him. He’s being primed step by step on the path to explosion.
“Raise your knees.”
James does as he’s told, opening himself up without the usual feelings of humiliation and shame that accompany him giving in to his gayness. He listens to quiet slapping of slow masturbation and his mouth waters.
“Want to see you,” he says through gritted teeth.
There’s no answer.
“Take this fucking mask off me.”
Footsteps approach, heavier than before, then his legs are pinned, his ankles are strapped and chained to the headboard and he’s clamped into a position of absolute vulnerability.
Baja. His tongue forms the word and it quivers temptingly on his lips, but then his arse is penetrated roughly by thick wet fingers and the safe word vanishes away.
He’s suffering from a craving to be fucked raw by Baldwin, but instead a solid object enters him, pressing against his sweet spot and curving around the outside of his body to wind up resting beneath his swollen balls. It takes some getting used to and he breathes as if he’s giving birth, pain shooting through and turning him on like he’s a power switch.
“Quiet.”
“I want to see you.”
James should have learned his lesson earlier. The fierce flat whack on his butt drives the toy further inside, making his prostate sing out and send white hot light zinging through his body. He fights the restraints and receives another serious paddling for his efforts. His dick throbs and he can almost taste the orgasm it’s so close.
James is learning the sounds of the motel room. He hears the creak of that wicker armchair and that torturous wet slip-slapping as Baldwin jacks himself. But that low hum is new and also the moan which accompanies it.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Learn your limits.”
'Baja,' thinks James as the restraints and the plug are removed and he’s lifted and manipulated until he’s kneeling on the bed, hands cuffed behind his back, his head twisted to one side and pressed down into the pillows.
Silky slick drenches him--the kind that heats up like spicy fire--and he chokes back a scream of pleasure when, with a sudden thrust, Baldwin reintroduces him to the delights of that big thick cock. Baja has never been further away than it is right now. The humming is still there and as Baldwin seats himself fully, James can feel a wicked vibration against the stretched skin of his ass. He quivers with anticipation, blackness allowing him freedom to feel.
Clamping down tight with every muscle in his body, he inches forward and then back in a subtle call to fuck. A hand stills him and then lashes of pain make him cry out again and again as the sting builds into tiny shooting tendrils that scorch him and turn him inside out.
Fighting against every male instinct to buck and hump, he breathes meditation style, in one nostril and out through the other, his mind expanding as he grows accustomed to the rush of endorphins. The race to orgasm becomes unimportant.
“Good.”
There’s a tug at his wrists and his arms are released, falling limp beside him like they’re made of wool. Relaxing into compete submission within this dream-sex state, James rolls onto his side, pushed into position by big strong hands. A pillow raises his hips a little and Baldwin spoons up behind, lifting James’s thigh and reinserting that rock hard prick into his ass, the humming of the cock ring making his whole body break out in a rash of tingling.
The sudden burst of light is almost frightening. He half-closes his eyes to ward off the brightness, but then opens them fully and looks down as fingers drift over his body.
Christ! No wonder he’s sensitive. His cock, encased within its binding, is swollen beyond belief. He watches with a weird sense of detachment, as Baldwin wraps a lubed up fist around his dark red shaft and begins a slow fucking-jacking which is so blissful that James stops caring about anything but this.
They alter position and James lays on his back, silent and still, his legs raised over his shoulders, toes gripping the bars of the bedhead. Every molecule in his body vibrates with sex. Snaps are undone and his cock jerks and twitches, blood shimmering and making him pulse. He could come just from thinking about it. He could come from looking up at Baldwin’s controlled handsomeness and solid torso with that animal pelt of hair. Instead he waits, placid and patient, enjoying the thrill that comes from being owned.
Baldwin kneels up, rolling the ring off his shaft and stroking his erection a couple of times, his eyes rolling back a little at the overload of stimulation. James watches, envying whoever it is who gets fucked by the man on a regular basis. They’ve been having sex for hours and this plateau he’s reached is just about the best vacation spot ever.
Still pulling at himself with slow relentless strokes, Baldwin reaches over to an open tin on the nightstand and takes out another joint, lighting it and drawing in a puff of smoke. Bracing himself on one arm he takes a hit and leans in, breathing the smoke into James’s mouth as his cock slides inside smooth and sweet.
It’s different being able to see, equally as good but new -- sex with Baldwin has a habit of being that. Once all the dope has been shared and the reefer is stubbed out on the lid of the tobacco tin, the sex turns serious. James groans as his body is pounded by the full weight of the man. His erection bounces against his stomach, and his balls jiggle and rub as Baldwin slams inside his ass.
One tug at the nipple chain triggers the beginning of the inevitable climb to orgasm. James’s eyes widen and his mouth opens and he sees the mirror image of this happening on Baldwin’s face. Sweat drips down onto James’s lips and he licks it away, lying there open and relaxed as Baldwin grunts from the effort of this marathon workout.
A hand clamps and tightens around his throat and James tenses, thrashing breathless for a moment in panic until he’s smothered by darkness and calm. Eyes wide, he feels a warm rush inside him and gives it up, wrapping himself in a white flag of fucking surrender as he jerks and heaves then explodes like that primed missile and passes out.
~~***~~
“I was thinking about calling 911,”says Baldwin when James sits up and looks around him in a state of après-nap panic.
The man is sitting in that chair drinking Mountain Dew and watching TV. He’s dressed and ready to leave, evidence of their sex packed away next to him in a row of pink bags and James wonders whether he gets a kick out of post-coital detachment. Baldwin’s the only man James has ever had bareback and they hardly even talk.
Getting up from the bed, James grimaces as his aching muscles rebel at the movement. “I think I’ve learned my limits.”
Baldwin studies him with a serious look on his face. “You’re stronger than you think. Don’t let life control you.”
James frowns, but he thinks those words over as he’s douching and showering and has a moment of Zenlightenment -- that’s if ‘fuck ‘em all to hell’ counts as such. Towelling himself dry, he notices the pitch black state of the tiny window and glances at his watch -- 11pm. They’ve been here for hours.
“You ready?” asks Baldwin as James emerges, slicking back wet hair.
“Yeah,” he replies with a smile. “I think I am.”
DONE