The new client sat on the edge of the chair like someone prepared to spring—not forward, not back, just away. He crossed one ankle over a knee and kept his hands loose, palms up, as if the hour were a gift he was laying in Dr. Hale’s lap. He smiled whenever Hale wrote something down. He smiled whenever Hale did not.
“Let’s start simple,” Hale said. “What brings you here?”
“Curiosity,” the man said. “About you.” He let the smile drift, as though blown from his face by a small private wind. “And the men in the papers, of course.”
“The men in the papers,” Hale repeated, neutral. He had learned, long ago, that repeating the last three words of a sentence worked like a key on certain locks.
“Found three of them,” the man said lightly. “By the river. Nude. You read?” A tilt of the head, benevolent. “It’s always the river. It offers the city an easy memory.” He watched Hale’s pen for a reaction. “They say a current cleanses. It doesn’t. It just moves things along.”
Hale allowed the silence to expand until it had its own gravity. The office was built for such silences. The woven rug, the books in careful disorder, the podcasting mic that never quite made it back into its drawer, the glass bowl of polished stones—objects that absorbed a person’s reflection without returning any of it. He’d chosen a green for the walls that dulled bright moods and steadied anxious ones. His wife said the room smelled like cedar and pencils. His wife had a poet’s nose.
“Curiosity about me is not therapy,” Hale said.
The man grinned.
He wore a shirt too crisp for early autumn and no tie. He had the kind of hands that belonged to a musician or a strangler, Hale thought—competent, disciplined, no wasted motion. That thought came with a glint of self-disgust, and Hale wrote something else instead: composure as performative; anticipates my interventions.
“You said the men,” Hale prompted, “and then you said curiosity about me. Which would you like to start with?”
“The men,” the client said. “Though they do lead back to you.” He leaned back, making himself comfortable in a chair designed to discourage exactly that. “You jog at six-fifteen in the morning. You cut down 73rd to avoid the school buses. You don’t like eye contact with dog walkers. I haven’t decided if that’s shyness or prudence.”
Hale did not look up. He wrote the words we’re not doing this, but did not say them. “You’ve noticed my neighborhood.”
“Noticed,” the man said, savoring the word. “From notice to notion, to knowledge. It’s evolutionary, doctor.” He closed his eyes as if listening to something under the floorboards.
Then his smile sharpened. He leaned forward. “I can’t wait to smell you.” The words came out almost reverent, as though he’d confessed to something holy.
Hale felt his stomach tighten. He pressed the notebook closed with deliberate care, as though sealing the remark inside. His tone did not rise. “That’s not appropriate. What you’re telling me is about you, not me. If you continue, I’ll end the session.”
The man only smiled, pleased to have stirred the surface. “Boundaries,” he murmured.
“Let’s talk about the men,” Hale said, and heard the brittleness in his voice.
“They were beautiful in a way that makes ugliness feel embarrassed,” the man said. “Do you know that kind of face? The kind that seems designed to apologize for the body. One of them had a birthmark where a wedding ring would be if the hand were married. He wasn’t married.”
“All of them?” Hale asked. “Or one?”
“One,” the man said. “Then two. Then all.” He was quiet, meaningfully, and then allowed a breath of pleasure to escape. “I like the way you watch what’s not being said.”
Hale kept the voice gentle. “Are you saying you saw them?”
“Everyone sees them,” the man said. “They’re on the news.” He folded his hands, then unfolded them. “The older one had a dental filling done poorly. You can tell when someone’s mouth is a compromise.”
Hale said nothing.
The client opened his eyes, fixed them on Hale’s shirt collar, and smiled. “You buy the same brand every time, don’t you?”
Hale put the notebook on the side table, a soft decision, and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m here to understand how I can help you, Lyle.”
“Oh, I don’t need help.” Lyle’s tone was apologetic, as if he’d shown up at the wrong appointment. “I need an audience. And maybe just once the taste of being told no.”
“No,” Hale said, evenly. “No to the comments about me. We will keep this about you. If you have information about the men, we can talk about contacting the proper—”
“The proper,” Lyle repeated, and rolled the word in his mouth. “Do you taste cedar? I do.” He inhaled, eyes half-lidded.
Hale stood. Not abruptly, but with decision. “We can pause here,” he said. “I’m going to step out and consult with a colleague.”
“Consult,” Lyle said. He did not stand. He did not move at all. “Before you do, could I ask a clinical question? Purely academic. Do you ever—” he let the question bloom without words, his glance flicking, insolent, down and up, filling in the blanks with a vulgarity that made the air in Hale’s chest turn sharp.
“That’s inappropriate,” Hale said. “And it stops now.”
“Of course,” Lyle said at once, contrite. “Forgive me. Boundaries.” He placed his hands flat on his knees.
Hale pressed the intercom button near the door. “Ruth? Would you—”
The intercom crackled without a reply. Hale remembered the new receptionist was at lunch and the temp had not yet arrived. A small, ordinary oversight.
“Okay,” Hale said, reclaiming his chair. “You said the men lead back to me. Tell me how.”
Lyle’s voice changed, took on an almost confessional warmth. “You’re attractive, you know. More than I expected. The waiting list was months—months of imagining what it would be like to sit this close.”
Hale kept his gaze steady, professional, but he felt the air thicken. “We’ll keep this time focused on you,” he said evenly. “That’s how this works.”
“I know,” Lyle said, tilting his head. “But desire waits better than patience. You’re proof of that.”
He leaned back, almost casual. “Do you know how I paid for today, doctor? With a credit card. A man’s card. He hasn’t been reported missing yet. That’s the beauty of timing. His name bought me this chair, this hour, your attention. You should thank him.”
Hale froze, pen still.
“Do you want to know about him?” Lyle asked, conversational, as though discussing a mutual acquaintance. “He was a boxer. Strong shoulders, thighs like carved wood. But shy. Never showered at the gym—couldn’t bear the thought of men watching him. He’d dress in silence, head down, his sweat still wet on him. The odor…” He closed his eyes, inhaled as if memory itself were air. “Obscene. It clung. If I breathe deep enough now, I can still smell him. He was coming from the gym when I caught him. Sweat is a trail, doctor. It tells everything.”
The air in the room pressed heavier. Hale forced himself to breathe evenly, but the sound came too loud, too brittle.
The next moment was pure motion. Lyle was up, across the rug, and on him before Hale had finished standing. They crashed into the wall, a thunderclap of bodies and wood. The lithograph shuddered and fell sideways.
Hale’s instincts screamed louder than training. He swung his elbow hard into Lyle’s ribs and felt the shock of bone on bone. For a breath it worked—Lyle staggered. But then the grin returned, wolfish, ecstatic.
“You fight,” Lyle said, voice ragged with exertion. “Better than most.”
Hale shoved again, teeth clenched, and managed to slam him back into the bookshelves. Spines toppled, pages burst, but Lyle surged forward, absorbing every blow like a boxer who enjoyed the taste of pain.
They grappled, faces inches apart, breath hot, sweat slicking their grips. Lyle pressed in, chest to chest, pinning Hale against the shelf so hard the wood bit into his back. Their eyes locked.
“Do you feel that?” Lyle hissed. His entire weight bore down, intimate and suffocating. “How close I am? No one has ever given me this much of a fight.” His smile widened as though the violence itself were a form of worship.
Then he lowered his face, slowly, deliberately, until his mouth hovered at the side of Hale’s neck. He inhaled deeply, noisily, as though scent itself were the prize.
Hale tried to knee upward, twist away, but Lyle’s body closed the space, every attempt countered, every gasp drawn tighter. The humiliation of being held so close—trapped not only by force but by proximity—burned sharper than the pain.
“You last,” Lyle murmured, almost reverent. “Longer than anyone. I’ll remember that.”
Then came the decisive shift: a hook of the leg, a brutal twist of leverage. Hale’s skull struck the floor. White light, then black.
Lyle crouched over Hale. He looked down at the unconscious man as though regarding a masterpiece that had taken shape under his hands.
“You fought,” he whispered. “God, you fought. You lasted. You earned something.”
Lyle crouched, breath ragged, his shirt plastered to his back. He raised his arms almost playfully, then glanced at the dark crescents spreading under his sleeves. His grin widened.
“Look,” he said, as if Hale could hear him. “You made my pits sweat.”
He shifted lower, reached down and carefully undid Hale's belt, the leather sliding through the buckle with a soft hiss. He unfastened the button and zipper of Hale's trousers, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. He tugged the trousers down with a slow deliberation. He folded the fabric neatly, pressed it to his face once, and set it aside.
Hale's hips were narrow and sharply defined, the bones prominent under pale skin. A thin trail of dark hair led down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his underwear.
![download - 2025-09-12T224125.700.jpeg]( "download - 2025-09-12T224125.700.jpeg")
Lyle hooked his fingers into the waistband of Hale's underwear, a plain cotton pair, worn from use and washing. He pulled them down slowly, revealing more of Hale's skin, broadening into a neat patch of pubic hair. Lyle noted, with a connoisseur's eye, that Hale trimmed but didn't shave. Hale's penis lay flaccid, nestled in the dark hair, the skin smooth and unblemished. Lyle observed these details with a clinical, almost detached curiosity, as if cataloging evidence.
He brought the underwear to his nose, inhaling deeply. There was a faint smell, the unmistakable musk of Hale's body. Lyle's breath hitched slightly, a small sound of satisfaction and pleasure.
He rubbed the cotton fabric between his fingers, feeling the texture, the slight give of the material. He inhaled again, committing the scent to memory, before carefully folding the underwear and tucking it into his pocket.
He then rolled Hale onto his stomach, the motion careful, almost reverent. He separated Hale's buttocks and leaned in, his breath hot against the exposed skin. He pressed his face between the cheeks, inhaling deeply, the sound of his breath filling the room. He lingered there, his breath coming in slow, steady draws, as if savoring the scent.
After a moment, he straightened, his expression calm and composed. He pulled Hale's trousers back up, adjusting them with the same meticulous care. He kept the underwear, a trophy.
"Killing you now would be easy," Lyle murmured.
He straightened, adjusting his cuffs, calm again. His grin returned—polite, cheerful, as if the whole scene had been a consultation after all.
"Consider yourself chosen," he said, before slipping out. The door clicked shut behind him. The office exhaled its cedar breath. On the rug, Dr. Hale lay motionless, surrounded by scattered books that seemed, absurdly, to be listening.
I can’t imagine being this devoid of talent and creativity lmao
