This should have been fine. Case took his clothes off in public all the time. Shirtless at the skatepark, at parties, throughout the summer when the heat was unrelenting and he wanted his body to breathe. Boys were allowed to strip and be half-naked in public; shame-free about low muscle tone and patchy body hair and exposed nipples. Case looked up to the plaster ceiling, into the dim, yellow light; if he lied to himself, he could believe he was staring into the sun as it hung in the sky on a lazy, August afternoon.

Maybe if you do this, the voice said hopefully, Sir will let you go home?

Maybe. The thought allowed him to blink back the burning threat of tears. He wasn't going to cry. Wasn't going to give Sir the satisfaction of seeing him crack. This was fine. Case exhaled. Steady, even. Composed. He nodded, yes, I can do this.

Sir nodded back, the corner of his mouth twitching with satisfaction. He swept his tongue over his cracked bottom lip. Wet tongue was replaced with sharp incisor, nibbling and toying. "Take off your clothes."

Case lifted the hem of his hoodie, pulling the sweatshirt over his head. The shirt underneath carried along with the static, raising and exposing his bare torso. Belly-button and ribcage flashing peek-a-boo. He quickly pushed the shirt back down. No, not yet. Not until he was ready.

Sir remained mute. Watching. Apparently unbothered by the delay.

Case paused, not sure what to take off next. He tugged at his shirt, because that was how he normally got undressed, but suddenly felt sick at the idea of his top half being completely naked. Maybe because, for the first time, he knew he was about to be objectified. This wasn't like undressing in the gym locker room, surrounded by other guys. It definitely wasn't like getting undressed in front of Hannah, the giddy-nervous-hormonal prelude to sex. This felt wrong. Dirty. The wrong kind of dirty. Tainted . . .

He moved his hands down to his pants.

Blood pounded inside his skull. Fluid whooshed in his ears.

He hooked his thumb into his waistband.

Tight—his chest was too tight. Crushing his heart, his lungs.

One swift motion and his sweatpants were pooled around his ankles. Pants off, underwear on. Okay . . . okay, this is happening.

Goosebumps crawled over his exposed skin. Every hair on his body—the coarse leg hair, the peach fuzz across his torso—stood on end, needle straight against the stagnant basement air.

He held up the sweatpants, smoothing them with a gentle shake. Vertigo played with his senses, making him feel dizzy-drunk. Sir's gaze penetrated under his skin, magnetizing, silently calling for him to look up, come closer.

Don't do it, he told himself, fighting the urge by folding his pants. Don't give him the satisfaction.

Keeping his head down, he dropped the rolled-into-a-lumpy-bundle sweatpants onto the discarded hoodie. Two down, two to go. He inhaled, long and deep through his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing. His head now felt like a helium balloon attached to his shoulders, listlessly bobbing in the air.

He's not going to touch you, reaffirmed the voice. He's not going to touch you, not unless you ask for it.

Okay, he thought back, finding comfort and strength in the darkness. Okay. Here it goes.

Case lifted his shirt over his head. His fluffy hair bloomed with static. His expressionless face bloomed with embarrassment. Fabric left his body, and for a short moment, it felt like his soul left, too. He held up the thin material—still warm with his body heat—like a white-cotton shield.

A low, purring hum rumbled in the base of Sir's throat.

Case's head snapped up at the sound. No—don't! his thoughts raced, but were too slow to beat the automatic, unconscious reaction.

Their eyes locked.

From across the basement, Sir's intense, storm-black gaze caught Case in a snare. Catching him like the gorgon Medusa, petrifying him into stone.

"Put it down," said Sir, his deep tone a murmur yielding dark power.

Case obeyed, letting the shirt fall onto his bare feet into a crumpled heap, unable to think or act against the command. And there he stood, on display, his barely eighteen-year-old body almost completely exposed. Pale skin, the kind that burned instead of tanned in the summer sun. Undefined, unimpressive muscles built from skateboarding and eating junk. Hairless, except for the mousy snail trail leading down into the hem of his underwear.

Sir's legs were still spread open. The denim around his crotch now taut and bulging.

Case snapped from his trance. He mentally recoiled, freefalling back to reality. Face scorching, no longer with shame but humiliation. The taste, the salty-bitter-vile taste of semen crept up the back of his throat. He hadn't seen Sir's penis—even when it was millimeters from his face—but he knew its size, its length, girth, and hardness, all from the way it had been forced into his mouth.

Case bit his lip to keep it from quivering.

He's not going to touch you, said the voice, offering a sense of calm with its detached reason. He's not going to come near you. He's not going to touch you. Not unless you ask him.

He's not going to touch me. Trembling, Case slid his thumbs into his underwear.

Anxiety pulsed in his head. His vision turned blurry, bright and distant. This was it—the last shred of dignity. A tuft of pubic hair peeked out from the lowering waistband. Against all his willpower, Case let out a short-and-sharp sob.

"So, you're a Beatles fan."

What? Case paused—fingers still pressed against his hips, eyes burning with the threat of tears—overridden with confusion.

"That song you played," Sir prompted. "Why, I think that one's older than I am."

What is he talking about? Case thought. Until, Oh—wait, that's right. The song he'd posted on YouTube. The moody, grungey acoustic song he'd played in the early fallout of his breakup. "It's a cover," he said, choked now with emotion; then realized how dumb he sounded. He sniffed, clearing his throat. Whatever painkillers Sir had given him, they must've been strong. "I mean, it's a cover of a cover . . ." Okay, now he sounded fucking stupid.

"A cover of a cover," Sir repeated to himself, amused. "How avant-garde . . ." He chuckled. "You can leave those on," he added, composed and casual.

Case looked down at his underwear, at the wiry strands of mousy pubic hair poking out into the open, then back to Sir. He tilted his head, an unspoken ask for confirmation.

Sir nodded, taking a drag from his cigarette. "It's alright. Just stand there," he replied, voice husky and full of smoke. "What music do you like?"

What the fuck? "Uhh . . ." He crossed his arms over his body, rubbing the goosebumps on his forearms. "I don't know," he finally replied, almost offended by the question.

"You don't know? What was the last album you bought?"

Case scoffed, unable to restrain himself—but Sir remained passive, seeming to not take insult. He thought for a moment, his thumb unconsciously rubbing circles on his arm. "No one buys albums anymore. You stream them."

"Oh-ho, is that so?" Sir said, his tone lilted with amusement. "Well, aren't I ageing myself."

Case scoffed again, though not with spite—with humor. Oh, god, he hated to admit it, but Sir's enjoyment lightened the atmosphere. The tension eased from Case's muscles, letting him relax into the conversation. A reply made its way to the tip of his tongue (Don't worry, vinyl is making a comeback) but he bit down, restraining himself. No, he wasn't going to fall into this trap.

"Then what was the last album you streamed?"

Case rattled his brain, scrolling through his memory to the last album (hell, the last song) he listened to. His catalog was all skater-punk and slacker garage rock. But during their roadtrip, Jay had blasted the Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse soundtrack through his car speakers, heavy bass and subwoofers blaring trap and hip-hop. Case gave the hint of a smile, remembering all three of them rapping along to 'Start a Riot' as they drove into the summer sunset to meet a drug dealer in the middle of the woods.

Finally, recollection. The last album he'd downloaded, a pre-release bootleg played on repeat in the background when he was alone in his bedroom, rebuilding himself after heartbreak. He mirthlessly chuckled to himself, thinking of its title. "Violent Soho," he answered, lips twisting as if the next words tasted bitter. "'Everything Is A-OK.'"

Sir smiled. "Yes," he said, quiet. "Yes, it is." And something about that answer, the way Sir had become soft and earnest, was reassuring for Case. Reassuring enough for him to return a small, wet-eyed smile.

For a long moment, they were at ease together. Sharing a heavy, significant silence.

This is okay, the voice stated, relentless and needling, always ready to fill the void. You're standing in your underwear in front of a man who kidnapped you. Everything is A-O-Fucking-Kay.

Whatever spell was hanging over Case and Sir was broken by a shrill beeeep-beeeep. Case jolted, his pulse spiking with adrenaline. His skin prickled as the beeeep kept going—beeeep-beeeep—reminding him of the detonation before a bomb.

Sir's body language slumped. He sighed, an upward flick of the eyes as he reached into his pocket. The beeeeping grew louder and sharper as he pulled out a small, black device. An old-school phone or Gameboy, something Case couldn't recognize.

A blackberry? That's an old person thing.

The beeeeping stopped, and Sir examined the device, his brow pinched. He groaned, heavy and prolonged with disappointment. "Get dressed, Casey."

"Really?"

"Yes, really." Sir rose to his feet, grumbling lightly as his joints straightened. He picked up the first aid kit then placed his hand on the rail, turning to leave. "If you get drowsy or have trouble standing up later, don't worry. That's a normal reaction to Oxycodone."

Wait—"Oxy?" Case repeated. That's what Sir gave him? An opioid? "You gave me Oxy?" Did that mean the comfortable ease he'd shared with Sir was simply that, or was it all the onset of sedation?

"You must be hungry," Sir said. "Would you like me to make you some soup?"

Brain fog crept in, and Case couldn't tell if it was from the stress and confusion or the heavy drug he'd been given. He knew he should have been angrier. But, yeah, maybe he was hungry. Sure, Case hated soup, even when he was sick. But he'd lost count how many times he'd forced down chicken, broccoli and rice—bland, dry and un-satiating. Soup was a welcome change. Case nodded, dazed yet grateful.

"You take it easy for the night," Sir said; an off-hand comment made fluttery with a chuckle—a joke that Case wasn't privy to. He ascended the stairs with a metal-on-metal rattle. The familiar screech of metal door hinges and the click-thud of the handle latch bolt. And then . . .

Silence. Old, tortuous friend, Silence.

And just like that, Sir was gone. Case stared into the empty space, thrown by his sudden absence. Confused and . . . and a sensation he couldn't quite place.

It's okay, he told himself, still reeling. Still unconvinced he'd come out of the encounter unscathed. I'm okay.

For a while, Case remained standing in the middle of the basement. Clothes still at his feet. He should have gotten redressed, but his energy had officially sapped away, leaving him tired and empty. He flopped onto the mattress, curling into a ball while he waited for the mechanical rumble of the dumbwaiter to announce his meal.

The voice curled around his mind, like a dragon curling around its treasure. He's not so bad after all, is he?

No . . . I guess not, Case replied. His body may have been exhausted, but his mind was kicking into gear. Gaining fervor. Replaying and dissecting Sir's interactions—the concern, the compassion. The throwaway comment that could have been friendly, could have been flirtatious. Sir can be gentle. Sir can be kind.

What if this is one of those things that seems scary because you've built it up in your head? the voice suggested with a cooing, soothing timbre; as if it were his mother, stroking his hair after he'd woken from a nightmare. A horror movie or boogieman that isn't scary because it isn't real.

Maybe.

What if it's not actually that big of a deal? It's just intercourse—and you're not a virgin.

Case's throat tightened.

You've already given him a blowjob. That was just oral sex and you're okay now, aren't you? It didn't fundamentally change or ruin you.

I guess.

It's just intercourse You've done that dozens of times. How about dying?

The metal click-clack-click-clack of the dumbwaiter came and went, yet Case still couldn't bring himself to move. He was stuck, already slipping into a lucid dream state, wondering if Sir was capable of being so gentle . . . then maybe sex with him would be gentle, too?