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He does not really remember how he got here. Into a labyrinth of identical gray corridors, with flashing lights under the ceiling, rusty ornate bars on the windows, in some places bent because of especially violent patients. All that is visible from the outside is kilometers of Icelandic forests, streaked with a narrow driveway, and then nothing, emptiness, complete non-existence to the very edge of the universe. So it seems to Klemens. The psychiatric hospital where the family had unimaginably sent him long ago became the center of the world. He tried to escape from here. Afterwards, the patients watched from the windows how, after a couple of days, they were tearing up icy soil in a tiny cemetery, preparing a fresh grave for the fugitive.
But Klemens can be said to be lucky. The pearl and goldmine of this place, so it's never punished so that there are traces, otherwise the goods will have to be discounted. Klemens is naughty, Klemens never follows the rules and is impudent, steps with sharp heels to the feet of those clients who call him too dirty words. It's a shame to hear the truth.
Klemens came to the hospital with an acute form of satyriasis. His mother advised this abode for those suffering in a tiny church in his hometown, and Klemens hoped that he would be treated here by tying his hands with flimsy ropes and morning prayers, which would hurt his knees on the ice floor. It was almost like that.
The director, Mr. Haraldsson, told Klemens' mother in colorful details about the treatment program, about the therapy that would heal her wandering and sinful boy. Three months after that day, Mr. Haraldsson wrote to Klemens's mother that her son was able to escape while walking and disappeared into the woods. Klemens at that moment fastened his bright red patent leather boots, sitting on a narrow armchair in the dressing room.
The hospital, lost in the wilderness of Iceland, was also the largest and most closed brothel, which was used only by the elite. Klemens has no doubt that the Prime Minister obscenely observes his speeches, hiding behind lenses and a mask with spikes.
In the neon light of the cellars, Klemens wriggles for hours at the pylon, spreads his legs, feels as if someone else’s sticky hands are touching his hips. Leather thongs are rubbed, the neck hurts because strangers once again pull too sharply at the bright green leash. Men who are suitable for his age as fathers, tightly cling to leather belts, tear Klemens, trying to share, but no one dares to take it until the permission of Dr. Haraldsson is heard from the speaker, interrupting the chaotic techno music. He is the local God, an invisible creature, every night giving the best of his sons to be torn to pieces. Klemens feels the dumb presence of Haraldsson, while he lies uncomfortably on a cocktail party and the devil knows what else a leather sofa is. Matthías stands at a distance, hiding in the dark, watching the show. Klemens surrenders skillfully, wriggles no worse than a pole, reaches out to everyone, if only he would be touched, scratched, and fucked until he was quenched by the hunger that had accumulated over the day. He knows at the level of instincts how to provoke that strong hands squeeze the neck, pull by the scarlet hair, insert it to the very throat. Klemens is an intelligent, intelligent boy, and he does not want this to end.
When morning comes, he lies completely on an uncomfortable bed, sobbing and trembling with his whole body, not even trying to wash other people's saliva and sperm. His muscles hurt, there was too much violence, but again it was unpleasantly aching below, and Klemens wanted to howl from dissatisfaction, which he could never cope alone. Every night, he struggles to fall asleep, spreads tears across his face, moves his hips senselessly, pushing into the void, until the orderlies bind him and inject a dose of sleeping pills. Klemens is sick, he stains the starched sheets, but does not feel miserable. He just needs a couple of just as excited partners to survive until the morning - is there really so much?
Usually after this Klemens wakes up in his room, squints at the light of day, tries to understand if the nightly events were a dream, but the answer is always no.
Today, everything is different.
His hands are still chained to the armrests, Klemens barely feels them and tries to rotate his wrists until his hands begin to burn from the blood rushing there. He is dressed in a short medical robe, faded from washing. A collar with metal spikes squeezes the neck. But even more unusual - in an unfamiliar office he is not alone. At the table, bending over the papers, Dr. Haraldsson himself sits. They never crossed in person, except for the day when Klemens arrived here.
Matthías is not wearing a typical bathrobe, but a burgundy extravagant costume, similar to one of those in which clients come at night. He notices that Klemens woke up when he examined his eyes with a transparent rack with various medical instruments.
"Good morning, Klemens.” There will be no long introductions: you know that you are an exceptional patient, but lately I have noticed too obvious passivity behind you, - with confident actions Matthías takes unknown ampoules and syringes from the shelves. Klemens doesn't like it that much, but he's definitely interested. He has already learned that in this place pain is always followed by pleasure and vice versa. "I would not want to lose you due to misunderstandings with your body, right?"
Klemens has nothing to say. His gaze, his sore brain is perceived only by the fact that Matthías has a very dominant appearance, perfect posture and probably strong arms. Moreover, it is he who controls everything that happens here. Klemens is delighted, delighted to painful excitement.
"I'm going to inject you a new invention of our doctors and see how it will affect your features. Do not mind?" To Klemens it is obvious that the question is rhetorical, that there is not even an illusion of choice. In recent months, this alignment has become familiar.
The needle through which the drug enters the vein is not felt, unlike Dr. Haraldsson's gaze. He leans very close, shows no interest, and Klemens wants to cry because he is so limited in his actions.
With every minute it only gets harder. I want to kick, I want to embed on this person holding an impossible smug expression. The doctor does not take his eyes off, stands a couple of steps from Klemens, bending like a mink in the claws of a bird of prey. Klemens is not sure whether time or his consciousness is slowing down, but reality is blurring, disappearing in details, everything switches to the level of sensations, as if Klemens was blind, and now he is losing his mind, suffocating from so many emotions and sensations. Even Matthías' footsteps are given somewhere at the level of his hips, and his slurred whisper makes his hot forehead cover with drops of sweat.
Of all the words spoken by Haraldsson, Klemens distinguishes only one.
Porn boy.
With each instant, the air becomes more viscous, shimmers in the throat of the breathing Klemens so softly and warmly, enveloping everything inside. Chained to a chair, Klemens himself does not notice how his wrists are almost wiped out by the constant attempts to get out, to pull up this ugly robe and get his own. Everyone wants him. Why doesn't Matthías take advantage of the situation?
Klemens breaks all the rules, begs, asks, asks, asks, fidgets in the seat, not even getting a particle of the necessary sensations. Moans fill the stuffy office space until Matthís does absolutely nothing. He only watches the reaction, periodically moving to the table to take a couple of notes.
This is the first time this has happened. Klemens is always the most coveted toy, a golden boy traveling around his hands and fingers in narrow hips. If Klemens could now think, then he would certainly call Matthías a sadist and an asshole.
It gets worse when Dr. Haraldsson puts his fingers to his neck, trying to measure the pulse, and Klemens's body responds to this as one erogenous zone, longing to be stopped touching never, never, never. The border is very close, Klemens needs everything at once - or at least something, he is not sure. Everything pulsates, strains, asks for relief, as if the body had become a bomb, whose timer counts the last seconds to a deafening explosion.
But Matthías is moving away. Closes the notebook and heads for the door.
Klemens can't believe, he raises his head with difficulty. Licks lips that are dry and bloodied from bites.
"I think this tool should be used in the future, Klemens. It’s not safe to let you go until the drug’s action is over, but the orderlies will definitely drop by after a couple of hours to make sure that you are back to normal."
Klemens chokes with tears and spits in the direction of Matthías, dirtying his own chin with saliva.
"You are disgusting."
Dr. Haraldsson turns off the light, goes out into the corridor and locks the door.