Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  “Yeah, I’m going to go freshen up and check out the desserts, upstairs.” Jess stands carefully in her heels, hands her glass to a serving Docile, and hurries off.

  A slap turns my and everyone else’s heads. “You like that?” Onyx leans into Dutch’s hand for another and Dutch indulges him. “Go help Bishop relax.”

  Is he what Alex wants? An eager on-med? I want to hate Onyx for giving in and becoming this and liking it. And Alex for liking him. But Onyx isn’t a real person anymore. Whoever he was before disappeared along with his name.

  “Elisha.” Alex tugs on my leash.

  “Yes?”

  Alex nods at Dutch. “Return the favor.” It doesn’t matter that I’ve refused Dociline. To these trillionaires, we’re all the same. I might as well be Onyx.

  Any hesitation will only hurt me later, so I crawl over between Dutch’s legs. He’s already unbuckling his belt. I sneak a glance at Alex, who leans back, arms folded behind his head while the other Docile swallows his entire length. I still can’t deep throat, as Alex calls it.

  “I’ve never been sucked by an angel, before.” Dutch smiles down at me. “Come on, wild thing.”

  Wild thing. Wilder. I almost forgot my surname.

  Dutch grabs the back of my head and guides my open mouth around his cock. “Oh yeah. Fuck.”

  I close my eyes, pretend he’s Alex. That we’re in bed and the sounds around me—conversation, slurps, and moans—are a soundtrack, like city sounds.

  Hell sounds.

  When he’s close, Dutch wrenches my head back. “Here it comes—ohh yeah, wear it.”

  I’m staring down his cock like the barrel of a gun when revulsion overcomes me. He’s going to come on my face. Even Alex doesn’t do that. I squeeze my eyes and mouth shut and jerk back against Dutch’s grip before he comes. Warmth splatters against my chest. When I dare look, most of it’s on the floor.

  Everyone stares—Mariah cringing, Dutch like I’ve spat on him, Alex blank. His green eyes gloss over with indifference, jaw clenches. I can only look at the mess on the polished hardwood; my whole body flushes with heat; a buzz settles into my ears; gray clouds my vision.

  What have I done?

  “You said your off-med was perfectly trained, Alex,” Mariah murmurs from somewhere behind me.

  “I thought he was.” Alex’s voice and footsteps near me. “He’ll be punished for this. Severely.”

  I can’t move—can barely breathe. I’ve ruined everything. He’ll have me kneel on the rice for hours, write a novel’s worth of words, spend the night alone in that cubby. Already my knees hurt and my legs cramp up. What if he revokes my family’s stipend?

  “Really, Alex.” I feel Mariah’s soft hand stroke my hair and it takes all my strength not to recoil from that as well. “There’s no reason we can’t settle this now. Dutch?”

  I still can’t look at them. Only the floor—at the mess—while I count my heartbeats.

  “Yeah.” Dutch clears his throat. “No reason Elisha can’t finish the job.” I hear his clothes and body shift as he leans forward. When he speaks, his voice is close. “Clean it up, Docile.”

  I don’t look to Alex for confirmation; I can feel his eyes on me, the heat of his anger. I deserve this. Slowly, I move onto my hands and knees, then bend down so that my face is inches from the thin white lines.

  I can do this. These people don’t matter. I don’t have to live with them. I have to live with Alex. He matters. My family matters.

  Eyes closed, I draw my tongue across the hardwood. I swallow my revulsion along with the come. The chemical taste of floor polish burns my mouth. When I finish, I remain on all fours, eyes fixed on the floor, praying I’ve redeemed myself.

  “That was almost hotter than seeing him wear it.” Dutch snickers and I hear the couch shift as he relaxes back, satisfied. “You should have Elisha clean all your floors with his tongue, Bishop.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion,” Alex says, “but I’ll deal with him in my own way.”

  “Here you go, sweetie.” Mariah tilts my head back. “Wash down Dutch’s nasty spunk, then go play in the pit with the other Dociles while the adults talk.” She presses a glass to my lips and I drink whatever it is—bitter, orangey, and dry. But she’s right; it does taste better.

  She removes the chain from my neck—though I don’t feel like I’ve earned the freedom—and nudges me toward the cushioned pit between the couches. Around me, Dociles touch and kiss and suck each other. But they’re all on-meds. I’m not, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  Dutch’s Docile, Onyx, smiles and runs a hand through my hair. I try to see through the Dociline. There’s a person in there, somewhere, and I’m as bad as the trillionaires if I have sex with him.

  Onyx captures my lips before I can consider doing the same. There’s no hesitation when he presses his body against mine, and he doesn’t feel like a robot when he pulls me onto the cushions.

  He kisses down my jawline. I tilt my head back, exposing my throat. I glimpse Alex, upside down, watching. Dutch points and whispers, a twisted smile on his lips, Opal in his lap.

  I can’t care anymore. It’s too hard, and my world is too plush. Too warm. Too smooth. Vibrating with pleasure.

  “Look at him!”

  “He likes it.”

  Our cocks slide against each other until Onyx takes them in hand. He moans and whimpers against me. Soon enough, similar sounds spill from my lips. My fingernails dig into the smooth skin of his ass, pulling him against me. My kiss falters; his lip catches between my teeth.

  Alex’s inverted figure blurs. The room tilts around me. Their laughter echoes. I welcome the refuge of whatever chemical is working itself through my blood.

  Onyx dives into my neck, sucking and nibbling on the sensitive flesh. He rubs the heads of our cocks between nimble fingers, sending me over the edge. I feel the sound in my throat but can’t distinguish my moans from the others.

  When I blink, the room smears. My lips move. Darkness comes.

  15

  ALEX

  “What did you give my Docile, Mariah?” I’m sure there was more than alcohol in that cocktail, but there’s no nice way to ask. Just because I’m socially obliged to share Elisha at events like this doesn’t mean I’m not still his Patron. I’m still responsible for his health. I still care.

  “I didn’t give him anything I wouldn’t take myself,” she says.

  “You didn’t need to give him anything.”

  Mariah lowers her voice. “He was having a panic attack, Alex, and you were making a scene. I’m trying to help you.”

  I close my eyes while I take a deep breath. “You’re right, thanks.”

  Elisha wasn’t prepared for this—neither of us was. For the pressure. I feel it crushing my chest into rubble. Mariah and Dutch live for the social circuit. I can shake hands and bullshit with the best of them—I am a Bishop—but no one can know I’d rather have spent tonight at home with Elisha than letting every Docile within a mile of Baltimore City put their mouth on my dick.

  Elisha’s motions grow sluggish while Onyx kisses softly down his neck. They look like lovers and, for a fleeting moment, jealousy passes through me.

  “Alex,” Elisha mumbles, eyes half-closed.

  “It’s okay,” I say with my best smile. “Just relax.” I doubt he can even hear me.

  Elisha’s eyelashes flutter as he tries to stay awake. “Please, Alex…”

  “Let him rest.” Mariah pulls me toward the stairs. “Shall we move along?” The others follow at her suggestion. She is, after all, the hostess, and we don’t dare insult her. “I’ve scheduled acrobats on the third level of heaven.”

  “I shouldn’t leave him there.” I gesture to Elisha sprawled out in the cushioned pit, Onyx curled up beside him.

  “I’ll have a Docile move him into a crate for safekeeping.” Mariah snaps her fingers and a man scoops him up.

  “Thank you.” I sigh with relief when Elisha stirs in
the Docile’s arms. He mumbles and whispers incoherently. Has he always been so small, or does he only look it now?

  “He’s not going anywhere, man.” Dutch lowers his voice. “I know you have a soft spot for your lab rats, but you don’t want the paparazzi to caption your picture with ‘Alexander Bishop leaves social event of the year to cuddle with his Docile,’ do you?”

  It would be foolish of me to ignore public relations advice from Dutch. Everyone thinks he’s some rich asshole—hell, he often fools me. They’d never guess he spent his childhood in Bishop Laboratories, that we met while he was an on-med and continued to be friends after he detoxed. Dad let him stay and work around the lab after his contract was up, and before long we were heading off to university together. Dutch built himself from scratch—learned how to present as a person of class rather than a debtor. That’s why I always listen to him.

  I throw an arm around his shoulder and smile wide. “Who said anything about leaving?” I can have fun. For one night, I can stop worrying about Elisha.

  * * *

  By 3:00 a.m., guests are sneaking into unclaimed rooms with one another, finally leaving their Dociles to rest. I glimpse the microchip app on my phone; Elisha’s vitals are still normal, but I’m anxious to check on him in person.

  Dutch doesn’t look back as he disappears into the elevator with William Barth’s daughter, Linda, heiress to the construction throne. Her father would shit himself if he knew she was even here. Thinks hard work puts him above the social circuit.

  I make sure no one’s watching me, then approach a nearby Docile. They don’t need supervision, here. They wash up in focused silenced—never speaking unless spoken to—and situate themselves in bunk beds that recess into the walls like slabs at the morgue. They even lock themselves in.

  “Excuse me.”

  She perks up. “How may I help you, sir?”

  “Show me where the Docile crates are.”

  “Of course, sir. Right this way.”

  I hesitate before following her up a back stairwell. Though it’s probably the fastest route she knows, a guest would never use this entrance. As long as I go forward with confidence, no one will question me. And if they do? I’m simply picking up my Docile. Like a checked coat. I fidget with the numbered ticket in my pocket. Elisha isn’t a coat. He should’ve been with me.

  “I’m looking for a specific Docile,” I say, when we arrive. “His name’s Elisha.”

  All our studies show that on-meds are as observant as off-meds, though any memories made while on Dociline fade when it leaves their bodies.

  “He’s in that crate.” She points to a waist-high bunk. Gold gladiator sandals press against the platinum bars.

  I bend down and unlatch the crate door. “You can go,” I say to the helpful Docile, and she joins the others readying for bed.

  “Elisha.” I massage his calves, hoping that will wake him. I couldn’t fit inside if I tried. The bunks are only wide enough to accommodate one person, so the Dociles don’t try and share. They won’t fuck each other unless directed, but the precaution doesn’t hurt.

  Elisha stirs under my touch. “Wake up. It’s time to go home.”

  “Home.” He bangs his head on the ceiling when he tries to sit up. “Ow.” He rubs the spot and lies back down, crushing his already-mangled wings.

  “Come on.” I don’t have time for this. Not that any other guest would wander in here, but they could. I’m still not sure how we’re going to leave unnoticed. This is why most of Mariah’s guests spend the night. There are few spaces where people of class can interact without the paparazzi following us.

  I grip under Elisha’s knees and drag him out. He can’t weigh more than a hundred and fifty pounds, but his limp weight fights me.

  With a few taps of my fingers, I dial my building. “Tom, it’s Alex Bishop.” I hoist Elisha into my arms.

  “How are you, sir?” His voice is crisp in my ear.

  “Okay, but I need a car to pick me up from Mariah’s house. Fast as you can.”

  “Right away, Dr. Bishop.”

  “Tom?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Send it around the back. Have them call as soon as they arrive.”

  “Should be five minutes, sir.”

  “Thank you. End call.”

  Elisha tries to roll over in my arms. Instead, his feathers smack me in the face. He slides from my grip just as I find a cushion. A thread of diamonds unravels from his underwear. I pull the broken wings off his shoulders and abandon them.

  “I want to go home,” he says, looking at me through slitted eyes.

  “We are. Can you stand up?”

  With my help, he manages his own two feet, but quickly leans all his weight against me. I’m practically carrying him—down the back stairs and out through Mariah’s kitchen, where Dociles clean up after the chefs. My phone rings just as we make it outside. I don’t bother answering. The driver helps me maneuver Elisha into the back seat.

  When we arrive at my building, Tom joins us, extracting Elisha from the car like the jaws of life.

  “Am I home?” he mutters, clinging to me.

  “Just up the elevator and then we’ll get you into bed.”

  I refuse further help from Tom and the driver, propping Elisha against the elevator wall as we ride up, alone.

  “No.” He slumps in the corner, head lolling back against the wall. He hasn’t refused anything since Dociline. Not even while we were fighting.

  “Elisha,” I warn him. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  The doors open and Elisha stumbles into my living room.

  “This isn’t home.” He catches himself on the side of the couch. “You said I was going home.”

  Oh. Just fucking great. Whatever Mariah gave him comes with a side of nostalgia. Dociline would have prevented this whole episode, including my friends’ curiosity and Elisha’s reaction to Dutch and whatever Mariah gave him afterwards and—everything.

  “We are home,” I say.

  He pokes my chest. “This is your home.”

  I restrain his hands with one of mine. He’s going to hurt himself. “That’s enough,” I say.

  “This is not my home.” Elisha’s speech slurs as he attempts to gesture at the grand piano. “Look at this place.”

  I’m not having this conversation. “Do you want to go to bed? Come on, let’s get into bed.”

  But he fights me, trying his hardest to pry my hands off of him. He’d run for it, if he could stand up. “Let me go.”

  “Elisha. Stop.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m going to be sick.”

  That’s where he’s trying to go: the bathroom. I release Elisha in time for him to throw up on my two-hundred-thousand-dollar love seat.

  I sigh and put an arm around him. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.” This time, we make it.

  I wet a washcloth and press it to his forehead while he hugs the toilet bowl. Hundreds of dollars’ worth of liquor mingle in the water.

  “That’s it.” I rub my hand over his back. “Get it all out.”

  After an hour, he raises his head from the toilet. Tears shine in his reddened eyes. I strip what’s left of his costume and help him into the bath. He’ll need to see a doctor. Just in case.

  “I’m sorry I puked on your couch,” he says, once he’s clean and wrapped in a towel.

  “Don’t worry; you can clean it up tomorrow.”

  He bows his head.

  “I’m—” I scratch the back of my neck and pretend to study the ceiling. What was I thinking? “That was a terrible joke.” The only reason I continue to ramble is because he probably won’t remember tonight. “You don’t have to clean it up. It’s a piece of furniture. If the cleaner can’t handle it, I’ll buy a new one.”

  Elisha squeezes my hand, incapable of more words. I don’t have the heart to move him when he collapses onto my bed. I should. I don’t want him to pick up the habit of sleeping with me. That would be scandalous: a Doc
ile sleeping in his Patron’s bed.

  This isn’t his fault, though. I want to blame Mariah, but it’s probably mine. What if Dad and the Board are right? How am I supposed to develop the next Dociline formula—which will affect millions of lives—when I can’t even manage one Docile?

  I sit the trash can beside Elisha on the floor. My bed feels so small with him in it—beside me, not under me or between my legs. I can’t remember the last time I slept next to someone. Where do I put my feet? My arms? Elisha probably doesn’t even know where he is. My hand drifts to his hair, still damp from the shower. He curls against me. I raise my arms, suddenly afraid to touch him.

  No one’s here. No one’s watching. I put an arm around his back and hold him. He falls asleep long before I do.

  * * *

  The next morning, I wake up Elisha to discipline him. I have to do it first thing—as close to the offense as possible, so he’ll feel direct consequences. He insulted Bishop Laboratories’ Chief Financial Officer. One of Mariah’s guests. My friend.

  I can’t coddle him. Not when my future is on the line.

  “Wake up.” When I nudge him, he doesn’t move. “Elisha.” I roll him over.

  He blinks up at me and presses his fingers against his forehead. “Mmmm.”

  I suppose that’s an audible response. “Let’s go. You have—”

  He grabs the bucket I left beside the bed and retches.

  “—lines,” I mutter. I sigh and rub a hand over his back, slick with a thin layer of sweat. Maybe now’s not the time. What’s the point if he’s too sick to pay attention, anyway?

  Instead, I call a doctor. She tells me he’s dehydrated, so I wait downstairs, mostly tapping my stylus against the SmartTable, while she gives Elisha intravenous fluids.

  “He’ll be fine,” she says while she packs up. “Just let him rest.”

  “Thank you.” I see her out.

  For the rest of the day, I work from home, summoning city sounds to keep me company amidst the sickly silence. When I open my email, the first thing I see is a flagged forward from Dutch: the ODR’s accepted our proposal for renovation. We won the contract. We won. Bishop Labs has worked alongside the ODR almost since its inception. This contract is the culmination of a hundred-year partnership. The better our ODR functions, the more integral it will become in Maryland, and the more eagerly other states will follow. I’d like to see Dociline in other countries, during my tenure. I could be the Bishop who rid the world of debt.