Being Eric Bryce

A/N: I'm not certain where this came from, but I'm following my muse. Please read n' review if you want to read more!

***

She stared at him, silently analyzing and probing the next facet of her questioning before continuing. This patient more than any others was an enigma to her. Mid-thirties, incredibly well-built, but with almost effeminate features...something almost addictive in his air and personality. But he was a client. What he had been through was enough to turn even her stomach, but he seemed curiously flippant and detached from it all, as if he were speaking about someone else's life. Truth be told, he could have been—she wasn't about to double-check references for a therapy session—but it would be beyond her as to why he would want to pay her $500 an hour to make up a lie. He was almost...sociopathic with his descriptions and behavior. But, she was intrigued—as intrigued as his title would allow. Kathryn Phelena Leonard wanted to understand his inner workings, and she'd be damned if this man would mess up her track record of “incredible breakthroughs.” After all, would Dateline still want to do a special with a widely-respected psychiatrist with a broken record?

“So you blame him, then?”

Eric stared at his nails as he answered. He was bored with this routine.

“It's not a matter of blame. It's a matter of fact. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be here.”

“You take no responsibility then?”

“For everything after I was out of the house, yes. Before then, no. Why would I?”

Eric adjusted his legs, the fine fabric of the Zegna suit fluttering against his Prada shoes, the briefest trace of annoyance flittering over his fine features. They had been here, covered this ground before, but the woman kept coming back to it as if speaking about the same things would produce a new result. But he knew what she was after. She wanted to keep her “unbroken” record, to see him reduced to tears as he spilled his guts about his inner demons and hurt...as she recorded this breakthrough for her next book or primetime special. His bright turquoise eyes glittered darkly for a moment, and he allowed a small smile to grace his normally serene features.

“I know what you want. I'm an expert, too, remember? Why don't you just ask me?”

Dr. Leonard lifted a single brow, but otherwise let no emotion cross her face. She was sharp...rather plain, but sharp and Eric adjusted himself again to make his hard-on a little less apparent, though she wouldn't care. She was as frosty as a witch's tit in Alaska—a bit of a...challenge.

“Fine then, Eric. Why don't you tell me how it began.”

Eric smiled.

“Anything you say, good Doctor...”

***

It all began when I skipped school. I was twelve and just beginning to get the hints of puberty around me. I wasn't a bad kid. Not really. I was pretty darned good, come to think of it, but I had a little rebellious streak that was making itself known as I got older. Nothing big, really. Smoke a little outside of school grounds. Smuggle in knives and dirty magazines. And skip school—occassionally. I really wasn't the type to go farther than that, since the real tough guys at school scared the crap out of me. No, I did just enough to get sent to the principal's office every once in awhile and get a lecture at home.

I did just enough to get caught.

What was interesting was that I don't even think that me skipping school that day is what set things off, but it did provide ample opportunity. I didn't realize that my grades were being sent home each week since my last report card on my father's behest. I didn't realize that he had had parent conferences with all of my teachers to find out what exactly I was doing in their class. And I had no idea that he would have called the principal's office that day to find out if I had, in fact, made it to school.

All that I learned much later.

But anyway, so there I was a pretty decent kid kind of being bad, and very definitely caught red-handed when my father walked into the house briefcase in hand. I didn't even hear him, at first. In fact, I didn't know anyone was there until he was literally right behind me, his normally tenor voice deep and laced with barely disguised disgust.

“So here you are.”

Funny which words you remember in your life. I'll never forget those words or the weight behind them—I was tried, sentenced, and executed with those four words which had nothing to do with love and everything to do with, what I was to learn, was “punishment.” So I did what every other scared witless pre-teen does. I babbled.

“Uh...sir. I mean yessir—or—No Sir! I mean, I was at school and...”

“And you what? Thought that you would come back and make yourself a leftover hamburger a full hour before lunch? Do you KNOW what will happen to you if you lie to me right now?”

His tone was sharp, crisp, dead-on. Cold dread pooled in the pit of my stomach as I realized that this person wasn't my father, or at least no father I knew. This was definitely a different being altogether whose light brown eyes darkened in anger and disapproval, his fingers tapping a steady tattoo of annoyance on his folded arms. I nearly wet myself standing there, one leg still propping the refrigerator door open, a tube of ketchup in one hand and a plate of cold half-eaten hamburger in the other.

Tears etched themselves silently down my face as I swallowed the half-eaten morsel in my mouth and wordlessly begged for forgiveness. My voice seemed so small, so far away when I spoke that I'm not certain what I said, though I'm very certain of his reaction, since I was standing precariously one minute and flat on the kitchen floor the next.

“You're SORRY! I feed you, I clothe you, I only ask you to go to school and instead you decide to piss your life away and you're SORRY?!! WHAT WOULD YOUR MOTHER THINK ABOUT THIS?!”

I winced and rubbed my bruised cheek more from shock than pain. He had hit me hard, but it surprised me because he never hit me at all. But truly, the pain that he dealt me was emotional—I would know what my mother would have said. She would have lit into me something awful, and I would have deserved it. But thanks to a drunk driver and slick roads, I also knew that I would never again have her to correct me again.

It was too much trying to voice this pain, though. I just kind of stared at him dumbly, wanting so badly to say something smart, but petrified of what else he would throw at me, so I said nothing. But all of my anger, all of my pain, all of my hate was all in my eyes—the same eyes that have damned me throughout my life.

Ironic to think of it now.

The next thing I know my father had hauled me up by my shirt, dangling and snapping me above his rage-contorted face.

“You want to be tough?! You want to be bad? You want to hate me—your father?! I'll show you what your grandfather did with us when me and my brother decided that we were too big for our britches.”

He hit me again, hard enough this time to leave a red palm print against my face and split my lip. I screamed—in shock, in pain, in fear, who knows? A searing punch to the gut stopped all of that, though, and I found myself worshipping the high shine on my father's sleek-toed boots.

He didn't kick me, though I think he wanted to. Instead, I felt it as he grabbed me by the hair and flung me across the kitchen island at just the right angle to make my balls feel as if they had taken a permanent vacation into my body. The screams that I had intended to yell to the high heavens completely disappeared in the wake of body-crunching waves of pain that extended from my groin outwards. I felt as if I were being peeled alived, boiled, and then peeled again.

I was so wrapped in the pain from my bruised balls that I couldn't tell what was going on behind me until the cold linoleum caused the skin on my already abused genitals to shrink a bit. Bower—that was his name, my father—Bower had yanked down my pants, and I figured that I was going to get the spanking of my life.

And I did.

“DON'T YOU EVER—EVER—LIE TO ME AGAIN! DON'T YOU EVER SKIP SCHOOL! DON'T YOU—”

Each word was punctuated with a hard—no, brutal slap on the ass. This is was not the quaint pussy-footing type of spankings, but hard body smacks with all of my father's displeased weight behind it that hurt like a motherfucker. Instictively I tried to cover my ass with my hands, and then I moved my entire body left to right to get away from my father's assault.

I would have been better throwing water on a grease fire.

“BOY! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!”

One fist came up and cuffed me on the back of the head hard enough for me to see stars and I remembered crying silently as I went limp and allowed my father to continue the beating. Breathing, crying—shit just being—hurt at that moment, but I knew that the more I struggled, the harder my punishment would be, so I tried to take it like a man.

Boy, how right that would turn out to be.

I'm not sure when the spanking turned from a spanking to something more. I'm also not sure whether he planned it or not either, but eventually Bower's hands began to stay longer on my irritated ass with each hit. At first I thought he was trying to rub in my pain—literally, but it wasn't that. Or at least, not just that.

“You look a lot like her, you know.”

That's when things took a turn for the weird, 'cause yeah, I knew. I had gotten it from everybody since I was a boy. My sandy-blonde hair was short and curled around my head, but only seemed to give my heart-shaped face an elfish look that was probably not helped by my large, perfectly round eyes. I didn't have a blemish—none of the bruises and bumps that other boys had growing up. No, my skin was perfectly cream-colored and smooth, delicate almost. Indeed, I had had my fair share of mistakes for being a girl, but I got it so often that by age twelve it didn't even faze me now. I knew that one day puberty would get off its royal ass and sock me in the jaw, and hopefully make me into the chisled lumberjack-looking man who spawned me. At any rate, I never cared about my striking resemblance to my mother, or the features that were still soft and effeminant on me until then.

Right then.

His hands traced lower, scooting open my thighs, and I complied out of sheer fear and...curiosity. Something was awakening in me—the way that he was touching me was not the way that a father should touch his son, but struck me as perhaps the way he would have touched my mother, which was both frightening and exhilerating at once. He seemed to be testing, exploring, gauging for a reaction, which given the cuffing that I had gotten earlier, he wasn't about to get from me. At least, not willingly.

“I bet you love dick the way she did, too...”

I shuddered at that—I knew that what he was saying should never pass between a father and a son. And any doubts as to where things were going disappeared as he began to pinch my cheeks hard, twisting my supple flesh to his advantage. My balls were painful and throbbing, though no longer due to bruising them. I was becoming aroused despite myself...despite him...

“The way your grandfather did...”

The sound of a zipper opening was enough to break me into a cold sweat. There was a moment where I heard fabric rustling, my father's even breathing, the chime of the grandfather clock inside. It would have been a peaceful scene if I weren't laid out on the kitchen table like a sacrificial virgin.

“Dad...don't...”

Something hard nudged my bare thigh, and I craned my head to see exactly what was going on even as I asked him not to do what I feared he was. My father's left hand was kneading my pliant flesh, and I cried out as his smooth thumb came in contact with the now thoroughly sensitized rosette between my cheeks. It felt...strange. Forbidden, somewhat dirty, but definitely strange.

But what interested me far more was the hard organ that he had in his hand.

At five feet, eleven inches, my father could have folded two or three of me into his single muscular frame. He had started life in the construction industry to work his way through college, and didn't have an ounce of fat on him even with his 41 years. And each and every inch of advantage showed in the nine and a half inch tool he was stroking behind me.

I froze and then panicked, tried to claw away from him and scoot across the island. But I was twelve—all arms and legs and no strength whatsoever. It took one more blow to the back of the head to virtually incapacitate me—the room swam uncomfortaby for at least a good couple of minutes.

“You, from this day forward, are mine. Mine to tease, mine to fuck. I expect you in the same position every day when I get home from work—on your hands and knees in my room awaiting instructions. You avoid me, I'll punish you. Attack me, I'll beat you. Swear at me, I'll slap you back into place. You're not man enough to stand up to me yet, and until the day that you do, you'll take it on your hands and knees.”

I cried, I think. Or maybe not. Whimpering. And hiccuping. I remember a lot of that. I swore that I would not cry so that my father could not see my shame and revel in it, so that he would not lick the tears off of my face the way that he was doing. Funny how your body betrays you in the end. Soaking wet I was all of 100 pounds at that age, and I could feel my father position his thick 219 lb frame over mine as he got ready. The anticipation alone was killing me—I wanted what was going to happen, and yet I didn't want it. I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't force it to happen. I was completely and utterly at his mercy.

And he knew it.

“This can be pleasurable, or it can be what it will be tonight.”

“And what's...what's that?” I croaked barely above a whisper.

“Why, my boy. This is your punishment.”

With that he moved—so quickly and so suddenly that the whoosh of air around me was the only giveaway that anything had happened at all. One thrust tore me clear open, and to this day I don't think I've ever screamed more loudly. I felt the world spin as he pulled out and hit home again, not giving me time to adjust to the intrusion. I coughed, I spat, I cried, I begged, but nothing would stop the burning itching pain in my ass that was just getting worse with the friction of my father's balls slapping against it every second.

“Sweet...”

I could feel every moan, every jerk, every twitch of his body and I felt sick to my stomach. I was in pain—unimaginable agony, and my own father was getting off packing me in the ass.

“...tight...”

I could feel it as he grabbed my cheeks and spread them apart even further, forcing my hole to accept more of his throbbing flesh.

“...ass...”

He rode me like that for what seemed like hours—thrusting hard and fast, and then slowing to catch his breath and humping slowly and gently. I screamed out more when his hot tongue found my ear and began to play in its crevices—I had never known that they could be sensitive. His cum leaked out and pooled around my balls—I was soaked in his sweat, in his seed, in my blood. But eventually, he gave in and hit my sweet spot. I remember yelping so loudly that he growled and bit my neck hard to force me back down onto the sweat-covered table. Then he climbed onto the island, caged in my arms with his chest and back, and proceeded to fuck me like an animal.

“DADDY!”

I hadn't called him Daddy in years, and it would be the last time that I would as he raised my head to his shoulder and held it there for me to hear.

“My name is SIR. Remember that.”

I remember one last, searing thrust that cleared everything—everything—from my mind and then there was nothing. No kisses, no hugs, no nothing. Just smooth, unblemished panes of darkness punctuated by the sound of my father suckling on my neck and leaving a mark that I still carry around with me this day.

That's it, or at least, that was the beginning. I hope you got off, 'cause I do each time I remember it.

***

“And do you believe that that is what made you what you are today?”

“No. I think it made me who I am, not what I am. At least, to an extent.”

“And is that why you're here today?”

“No, I'm here to fuck you today. Not surprised, are you?”

Surprise did register on the doctor's face, though she hid it well. Eric uncrossed his legs just slowly enough for her to get a good glimpse of the tight hardness that strained against his pant leg, and the doctor took the bate, albeit fleetingly. He very slowly and generously then recrossed his legs away from her

“Your attempts at seduction won't work on me, Eric.”

“And your attempts at psychotherapy won't work on me, Kathryn.”

Eric smirked as he thought back to how she had visibly stiffened by his use of her first name, and he wanted to laugh. He wasn't paid to be nice or friendly, and their little game could go on for him to just be able to see her reactions to the things that he said, but he was on a schedule and time was money, after all.

“Why do you feel the need to challenge when help is given to you?”

“Is what I'm doing challenging?”

“Your behavior is—”

“Time's up, Doctor.”

Eric smiled lightly, letting it glide across his features teasingly as Kathryn checked her watch to find out that he was indeed right—he was always right—and then dropped the smile just as it had come—quickly enough to chill the blood rather than warm the heart.

“We'll continue this—“

“—next session. Yes...” Eric's eyes glinted for a moment, his head cocking at an odd angle analyzing the petite woman before him. “I think that will be just what the doctor ordered...”

Kathryn frowned visibly this time. There was nothing more she hated than being mocked, and somehow, someway...

Eric knew it.

“Very well, we will continue this next session.”

He was getting up, before she dismissed him...

“I think we've made some important progress today Eric...”

Dusting off the designer wool coat that looked like it could have bought her house and stretching it across broad, but lithe shoulders...

“...but I think that we still have more things to discuss. Until our next session, please think about—”

...turning away from her as if she didn't matter, as if she wasn't a fully accredited and very accomplished doctor, goddamnit!

“Don't worry Doctor. I won't.”

Dr. Leopard blinked slowly, unable to pinpoint the exact emotion that a mere hour in the room with this last patient had forced through her.

My work here is done...for now... “I'll be seeing you, Kathryn.”

A wolfish half-smile snaked up Eric's pristine face, baring smooth, perfect teeth. But rather than comforting, his smile was predatory and dark, jolting Kathryn's body with ice-cold arousal as he moved, her last image of him gliding through the doorway with his trenchcoat wrapped securely around him like the tucked wings of darkened night.