Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  I remove my blazer and scarf, laying them over the back of the chair, roll up my sleeves, then do as I’m told.

  Alex fastens the ring of my cuff to the table leg and says, “I promised you lines, today. I want you to write ‘I will control my attitude’ one hundred times to impress that yesterday’s tantrum was unacceptable and will not happen again. Then, another hundred times, you will write ‘I will not lie to Alex’ as punishment for your slanderous remarks about Dociline, last night.”

  I clench my teeth to keep from arguing. All I’ll earn are more lines. He doesn’t care about the truth, anyway. So I say, “Okay,” and begin.

  Alex touches the walls on either side of me and they fog up, acting like blinders on a horse. When he leaves, I am left overlooking Bishop Laboratories. Even though I know they aren’t really aware, I feel the deadened eyes of every Docile on me. The weight of their previous lives. The judgment of the off-meds. Dociline pumps like blood through the veins of this place. This “Silo,” where Alex stores people rather than grains.

  It’s hard to ignore the cuff while I write. The first few sentences rekindle my anger from last night. I was justified. Alex will never be in my position. He’s probably never skipped a meal, much less felt hunger or desperation. He doesn’t feel the burden of keeping his family out of prison. Of choosing between a doctor’s appointment and another year’s worth of debt to sell off.

  I will control my attitude. If these sentences are supposed to help me reflect or some bullshit, they’re not working. Halfway through, I stop seeing words and start seeing letters. They lose meaning as I focus on my handwriting.

  I will not lie to Alex. I will not tell him about my mother’s biannual visits home, and how I watched her change. Won’t tell Alex how his drug bent her slowly over a decade. How her voice lost its edge, then personality, then humanity, until she spoke like the automated service that calls to tell you your bills are past due, before your father flings a cell phone he can’t afford to replace into the reservoir.

  I’m almost finished when I hear the glass door open, again. Alex walks over—I don’t look up, but I can hear him breathing, feel the heat of the authority he wears, especially here.

  “How many left?” He’s removed his coat to reveal a casual knit sweater pushed up over the rolled sleeves of his pastel yellow shirt. When he leans over to check my progress, my eyes linger on the line of his forearm and curve of his fingers.

  I blink, refocusing on my work. “Seven.”

  “Good. When you finish, I want you to start a new page and write three things that relax you.” Alex leaves, this time through a door on the opposite side.

  Three things that relax me. After I finish my lines, I number the next blank page. How honest does he want me to be? I look at the honeycomb of cells in the Silo, full of Dociles who probably haven’t been home in years. Who haven’t been outside. Whose only window is the sky-blue disc a mile up. I write:

  1.  Being alone.

  2.  The outdoors.

  I bite the top of my pen. Being alone outside sounds like heaven, right now. No schedule but the sun’s, no one to please, no city sounds. Just my back against the cool grass and—

  3.  Stars.

  I glance up at the glass ceiling. Do they even have stars, here?

  I gasp when I realize Alex is leaning against the doorjamb, watching me finish.

  “What?” I look at my notebook, then back at him. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “No,” Alex says. “Nothing, I just…”

  He smiles, and I smile back.

  I don’t know why. It’s a reaction, like when someone vomits and it makes you vomit, too. I have smile-vomit, and I wish it would stop, because I’m supposed to be angry with Alex and his stupid ego.

  He walks over without hesitation and unfastens my cuff from the workstation. My smile falters; the pen falls from my hand. Before I can stand, Alex pulls me to my feet and holds me close.

  Don’t look at him, I think. Stare forward. At the strong curve of his neck and line of his jaw, and lips—they press against mine and I tighten my grip on Alex’s sleeve. My hips grind up against his. I can’t stop them—can’t stop myself from holding on to Alex as his strong mouth captures mine.

  He pulls away, leaving me wanting more.

  I shouldn’t want this. I don’t. Especially not here, in the heart of Bishop Laboratories.

  His mouth moves to my ear, leaving a trail of hot breath on my cheek. “Come with me.” I’ve never had one, but it feels like the kind of thing you say to a lover—the words are heavy with want. And I want him back.

  I let him pull me through the unknown door, past its fogged walls, beyond my blinders, and into the smallest room yet. Here, all the walls are fogged and the lights that line them dimmed. In the corner stands a modest bed fitted with white sheets. Navy-blue letters monogram the pillowcases and comforter: “ABIII.”

  “You have a bedroom in your office?” I ask.

  Alex shrugs while he unbuttons my shirt and slides it off my shoulders. “I used to work a lot of late nights, before I signed you.”

  “And, what”—I struggle for words while he works my khakis off—“what about n-now?”

  Suddenly, I am naked and cold. Alex threads his fingers through mine, our legs tangle, and we topple onto the bed. He leads, of course, and I don’t stop him, the soft cotton of his pants sliding across my bare legs, warm ribbing of his sweater on my chest. Sure hand kneading my ass.

  He bites my lip, his mouth so close to mine. Not asking, only taking. But I miss the pain when it subsides, a dull throb in its place. Alex buries his nose and tongue in the ticklish nook of my neck, making me squirm and twist both toward and away from the wet heat.

  Cool air blankets me when Alex slides south, leaving me half-hard and alone. I wait—afraid he’ll stop if I so much as breathe, and I’ll turn back into one of his decorations. With a twist, Alex rolls me onto my stomach. Suddenly, I’m nervous, my throat already thick, head light. Am I ready for him to fuck me, again?

  His hands slide up the backs of my thighs.

  Does it matter?

  Fingers dig into the mounds of my ass, spreading me wide.

  I’m not sure, I—

  “Oh god,” I moan when Alex swipes his tongue across my exposed entrance; cool breath sends chills up my spine. His tongue swirls around my hole, again, and I surrender any control I might’ve had.

  Moans pour from my lips as Alex probes me with his tongue. I anchor myself with handfuls of sheets as if I might rise off the bed. I want to come, for Alex to finish me. But instead of taking my cock, he pushes a slick finger inside me, brushing it against that nameless spot that feels like bliss. I call out his name, breaking the silence. Wondering too late if this room is soundproof or whether the Dociles who line the Silo can hear my shameless cries of submission.

  Alex adds a second finger and strokes deep in me, touching every nerve ending. “I like hearing my name on your lips,” he says.

  I writhe against his knuckle, while he twists and strokes inside me, then kisses the curve of my ass. I want to feel his lips on my cock, but it’s trapped between my stomach and the sheets. I raise onto my knees, begging for his hand. Instead, fingers pinch and roll my left nipple. Somehow, the pain adds to the pleasure inside me.

  “Do you like that?” Alex asks, holding my body against his. His sweater against the sweat of my back, cock hard against me through layers of clothes.

  I release the breath I’ve been holding. “Yes.”

  “Then tell me. Let me hear you.”

  “Please, Alex.” If he wants to hear his name, I’ll give it to him. I’d shout it from the top floor of the Silo, let it echo off the cells. “—feels so good.” I can play my part; I can—

  “Are you going to be a good boy, from now on?” His words stop me cold, cause my body to tense, but Alex eases his fingers slowly into my ass again, drawing deep moans from my throat.

  “Yes!” I cry.


  The pad of his thumb slowly strokes the head of my cock. Sharp breaths force their way out of my lungs. I’m so close. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’ll…” I can’t say that.

  Alex coos in my ear. “Elisha?” He bites the lobe, sucking it between his teeth.

  I arch against him, strain for his touch. I need it. I need him. But I can’t say this. Can’t say I’ll be a good boy, can’t become his obedient little fucktoy. That’s what I am, though. I’m playing into his rules right now.

  “Elisha.”

  His fingers wiggle inside me. Body hugs mine. Tongue flicks my swollen ear. Voice—“Say you’ll be my good boy.”

  I want to. It would be so much easier, if I could just relax. Just give in. Just come. Just say it. Just—

  I mouth the words, testing their feel. Blood rises in my cheeks; they’re almost as hot as the need between my thighs. Alex smiles against the back of my neck. Smiles while he kisses and sucks and nips, leaving little marks behind. His marks. I’m already his. Why put myself through this any longer?

  “I’ll be your good boy,” I say. “I’ll behave—be your good boy, Alex, I’ll be, please let me…”

  He lingers on the spot inside me. The thumb that drags slowly across my cock might as well drag my entire world.

  “… come.”

  Alex clings to me as my body spasms. Colors swirl behind my eyelids. My body clenches around his fingers. Warm come hits my chest. I collapse onto the bed and bury my face in pillowcases monogrammed with his initials, waiting for my breath and heart to slow.

  I came.

  I said it.

  “You’re beautiful.” Alex nudges me onto my side. He lies facing me, clothes and hair only slightly askew. “Did you know that?”

  What do I say now? I don’t feel beautiful. I feel raw and exposed. “No,” I whisper because he’s so close and “yes” would be a lie.

  Alex kisses my nose—my nose—then disappears for a minute, but I’m too tired to see where he’s gone. He’d tell me not to show my curiosity, anyway. When he returns, I sit up—a defensive position. Alex climbs onto the bed, his breath smelling of spearmint and lemon. Come still stains the sheets and my chest. I shiver when he traces a hand over my thigh, up my torso, slides a finger through a stripe of come. He moves it toward my mouth.

  I wet my lips and wrap them around the offering. Alex caresses my hair with his other hand as he slides his finger slowly in and then out of my mouth. I swallow, my throat sticky with my own seed. I did exactly what he wanted without a word between us. Not because I thought I had to, but because I wanted to.

  For the rest of the day, I’m overly aware of how close we stand and how he touches me. He kisses my head when we take the elevator back to the top of the Silo, rests his hand on my waist as we walk home, holds my hips while I cook us dinner.

  Tonight, Alex doesn’t lock my cuff to the bed frame.

  12

  ELISHA

  Alex is still in bed when I return, hungry and breathless, from my scheduled 6:00 a.m. workout. My personal trainer, Rita, has far too much energy. I head straight for the shower, even though my legs are so sore they barely hold me upright. Hot water soothes them.

  The glass door slides open behind me. A gust of cool air disturbs the steam. Alex wets his hair under one of the other nine shower heads, then lathers up.

  He catches me watching him. “How was your workout?”

  “Fine,” I manage to say. “Hard.” I wonder if my body will ever look like Alex’s, warm skin stretched over tight muscle.

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  I finish before he does and dress before he can watch me do so. Breakfast is scrambled eggs, turkey bacon—a meat I did not know existed—and coffee with a fake sweetener. Rita says I need foods that are high in protein and low in sugar. Alex nibbles his between checking his email, watching the news, and getting dressed.

  “This morning, the California Legislature approved the use of Dociline in association with their own Debt Solution Office, which has struggled for years to siphon off the trillions in debt—”

  “—today, as the European Parliament discusses the implications of Dociline in their respective countries. We asked citizens in Ireland what they thought of the drug and the response was overwhelmingly ‘too American.’”

  Alex taps his fingers to one another in different patterns, changing channels on the living room wall to bring up his messages. As he walks back upstairs for shoes, the images follow on the wall beside him into the bedroom. I put the empty plate in the sanitizer when he finishes, eyeing its insides with skepticism.

  “I’ll see you after work.” Alex tilts my chin up and kisses me. He pulls only an inch back. “Have fun in school.”

  He smiles as he leaves. I blink rapidly as if he’s an apparition I can unsee. But when I lick my lips, I still taste him and the sweetness of the gesture. It’s nice. I wish it weren’t.

  * * *

  I happily forget about Alex when the humanities tutor arrives. Sharon isn’t like any teacher I ever had in school. She has degrees from universities in three different states and can actually read the ancient language carved onto all the city buildings.

  “Latin,” she explains, at the end of our lessons. “The dominant language of the Roman Empire. Do you know what other Roman tradition exists within our modern government?”

  “No.” I ready my pen. She offered me a tablet, but I’m not fast enough with them yet.

  “Nexum, the system by which citizens can pay off their debts with personal servitude.” She smiles.

  I hate the Roman Empire.

  After she leaves, I fix myself a chicken sandwich. I wander into the living room, chewing the dense, Rita-prescribed protein bread, wondering how I’m going to fill my lunch hour. Alex explained how to watch television, but now that I’m alone, I can’t remember.

  The elevator dings. I look between it and the clock. The cooking tutor isn’t supposed to arrive until 1:00 p.m. It’s barely past noon.

  A short white guy with glasses and a chef’s coat steps off the elevator. I set my sandwich back on its plate, then scramble to my feet, hoping he won’t judge me harshly for not having cooked lunch.

  “My name’s Roger.” He glances at the clock on the wall, then back at me. “Didn’t mean to surprise you, but I wanted to get here early—I’ll still need to teach you how to cook, since the Third will inevitably check your progress.”

  His words come so fast, I can’t process them. “I’m sorry, who’s the Third, Alex?”

  “Yes. All the Bishops who’ve had their hands in Dociline are named the same thing—as if it weren’t already clear how much they love themselves. So, we call them the First, the Second, and the Third, for clarity. That, and none of us particularly like the taste of their names in our mouths.”

  I take a step back. This man is not my cooking tutor. “Who’s ‘us’?”

  “Empower Maryland.” He says it as if I should know, already. “Eugenia said she slipped you my business card, while you were running. I wanted to check on you. Make sure—”

  “Business card?” I don’t remember her slipping anything—I pat my pockets instinctively, despite it being a different pair of pants.

  “We can’t transfer e-information—too easily traceable,” Roger says, though I barely hear his words for the ringing in my ears. “None of these trillionaires expect paper, anymore.”

  “I don’t have it,” I say to myself as realization sets in. Somewhere, in my laundry, there is an Empower Maryland card. I’m sure I’m not supposed to be talking to them. Alex won’t be happy if he—my stomach lurches—when he … I close my eyes and lean against the nearest wall as panic sets in.

  “Are you okay?” Roger puts his hand on my shoulder. “The card doesn’t really matter, anymore. I can—”

  “It does matter.” I’m still wobbly when I face him. “If Alex finds that, I’m the one who’ll be punished, not you.”

  Roger opens his m
outh and glances upward in thought, but fails to respond. I push past him on my way up to Alex’s room, slide open his closet door, and knock over the hamper. I rifle through the mountain of dirty laundry for the gym shorts I wore that day, but grab only fistfuls of briefs and button-down shirts.

  They’re not here. The card’s not here.

  There aren’t laundry machines in the house and Alex hasn’t asked me to wash any clothes. He must send it out. I wipe oil from my forehead, right the hamper, and toss the clothes back in. Maybe the laundry service will throw out the card. Or it’ll get ruined in the wash. Either way, it’s out of my hands.

  “Elisha,” I hear behind me.

  I don’t turn around; I’m still trying not to pass out. “Leave me alone.”

  I hear the soft creak of Roger’s weight on Alex’s bed and wonder whether he’ll notice the dent. “I thought you might like to know,” he says, “we’ve sent a team to help your community. They’re building a schoolhouse and training a few folks to be teachers, so the kids don’t have to walk miles to school. They’re bringing unbranded winter clothing and helping build fireplaces for those who need the extra heat. An attorney from our legal clinic is also donating her time to assist folks with divorce or marriage petitions where financially advantageous, drafting or updating of wills, and fending off any particularly obnoxious debt collectors. No strings attached.”

  I should be grateful, but all I can manage is a flat, “Okay.”

  “I’m serious. We wouldn’t do it if we didn’t believe that all people should be free from debt slavery and the tyranny of the rich.” Roger stares at me.

  I know what he’s implying. “Not all people can afford to stand by their principles.”

  “And that’s why we’re offering to help you.”

  “As long as I risk everything.”

  “Elisha, you’ve presented us with an opportunity we’d be hard pressed to duplicate. You live with the man developing the next Dociline formula, and you’re off-med.”

  “You mean I’m not a drone.”