Part 3 of the story of D'n'M, just like Parts 1 and 2, includes sex between teenage boys, some of it non-consensual. As before, it is the characters themselves and how they react to events that are key to whatever success the story achieves.
All the characters and events in the story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.
The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author who can be contacted at:
pjalexander1753@gmail.com
PJ
D'n'M Part 3
From Chapter 6:
Cycling home, it was like Milo's thoughts were in a blender, there was so much to think about and it was all scrambled together. It wasn't just Dods' story about the beating up and the way Tom had sorted it, there was the shaving and the fantastic cum and becoming a Cum Brother (that was a total wow!), and hanging out with Dods and how he'd been able to forget, for a few hours, about Zephan's imminent arrival. There was so much to tell D when he phoned him tonight they'd be talking for hours. But then, they often did.
Chapter 7:
Dan didn't think he'd be likely to have much to share about his day when he and Milo spoke on the phone later. As had been the case every week AR (for Dan there was BR -- Before Roberts, and AR -- After Roberts), his mum had dropped him in town in time for his 9.30 appointment with Shania Margelles, `Independent Counsellor and Adolescent Mental Health Practitioner' as she announced herself on the engraved plate beside the inner door to her office. Thankfully, as far as Dan's self-respect was concerned, the sign on the street door of the anonymous commercial building simply and discreetly stated: S. MARGELLES & Associates. Please ring for admittance.
Attending these sessions wasn't exactly the highlight of Dan's week, but neither did he dread the very idea of them. Mrs. Margelles ("Please, call me Shania") was exactly what you'd expect of a counsellor and mental health professional, i.e. indistinguishable from the hundreds of people you might pass in the street every day. She was neither particularly over or under weight, of average height, with no eye-catching tattoos or piercings. She wore practical, unfussy clothes and understated jewellery. The one unpredictable item about her appearance, and the thing that invariably drew her patients' attention -- as it was intended to do -- was that her hair colour was never the same from one week to the next. It wasn't as if she was startlingly red one time and funereal black the next. No, the changes were more subtle than that, but nonetheless unmistakeable, with her natural pale blonde taking on a gentle tinge of, maybe, pink or mauve or powder blue. On one memorable occasion, presumably in recognition of Pride Week, Dan had been genuinely taken aback to be greeted by Please Call Me (that was how he always referred to her inside his own head) crowned with a full rainbow of colours. Keeping his face straight and coming up with an appropriate comment had not been easy.
Today there were bright streaks of purple and green, giving her the appearance of an exotic house plant.
As he knew was expected of him, after all, this was the latest in a long line of visits, Dan's first words on walking into the office, were a comment on the hair. "Good colour choice Mrs. Margelles, Shania," he said. "They suit you."
"Thank you, Dan. That's very gallant of you. I've not tried this particular combination before and I wasn't sure how it would work out. I must admit I did get some quite strange looks on my way here from the car park."
`I'm not surprised,' thought Dan, but he kept that to himself as he looked around the now familiar surroundings. Somewhere between study and sitting room, Shania Margelles had created her working space to be as unthreatening as possible. Yes, there was a desk and chair placed in front of the wide Venetian-blinded window, facing into the room. A large oriental rug, geometrically-patterned in red, orange, brown and black, covered much of the floor, leaving a border of polished parquet blocks around its edge. A 3-seater couch and two matching arm chairs, upholstered in a muted plum and beige herringbone design, occupied the centre of the space, and house plants of varying sizes vied for space with books, files and contemporary objects d'art on the shelves which lined two walls. So everything comfortable and nothing remarkable or unexpected. Except the pictures.
Like the counsellor's hair, the pictures on the pale grey walls were completely unpredictable. A mixture of land and cityscapes, still-lifes and colourful abstracts, the artwork in the room seemed incapable of staying put. Sometimes it was simply a case of two of them changing places between appointments, but more often the whole ensemble had been rearranged or dramatic substitutions made -- a Pollock print changed for a Mediterranean harbour, or a cathedral close in place of the previous week's hill-top vista. Dan wondered if Please Call Me belonged to a picture library or did she order them, at a discount, by the yard? Whatever the thinking behind this pictorial rotation, the effect was that there was always something to talk about if conversation between counsellor and client on more significant matters was to dry up. Like today.
It wasn't yet half-way through the allocated hour but Dan felt he had nothing more to say about this week's topic -- `Moving Forward'. At the end of each session Mrs. Margelles would suggest a possible subject for the following week's meeting, just in case he, Dan, had nothing else more relevant or specific he wanted to discuss. Like the hair and the pictures, this was another way of ensuring that there was always something to talk about if the pauses between questions and answers threatened to extend into lengthy, uncomfortable silences.
"Do you like him?" asked Please Call Me.
"Huh?" was Dan's slightly startled response.
"Pugsley. The little terrier. In the picture."
"Oh, yeah. Kinda."
"He's by a local artist. I spotted him in a craft fair a few months back and couldn't resist. He's so cute."
Dan said nothing. Unfazed, Please Call Me continued. "Do you have any pets? A dog? Cat? Stick insects?"
Faced with such a direct question Dan felt he had no choice but to reply. "No. Mum and Dad always said me and Tom were wild enough without adding actual animals to the chaos. I suppose that was their joke."
On cue, Please Call Me smiled obligingly.
"When he was a young kid Tom always wanted a dog. Every Christmas and birthday he'd spend weeks hinting, like pointing out pictures in magazines and saying how all his friends had spaniels or labradors. He'd promise to always be the one to take his puppy for walks and clean up the mess. He even said he'd use his pocket money to buy food. But it never happened, and then he got seriously into swimming and the idea got forgotten."
"You're good at that, aren't you Dan?" asked Please Call Me in the tone of a fond but exasperated aunt.
"At what? What am I good at?" questioned Dan.
"Taking the first opportunity you can to switch the conversation away from yourself and onto someone else. Like you just did. It happens all the time." The tone now was less fond and more exasperated, verging, as Shania Margelles acknowledged inwardly to herself, on the unprofessional. And why was that she wondered? Fundamentally Dan Reed was no different from the hundreds of other children and young people she had helped over the course of her career.
Breakdowns, eating and attention deficit disorders, attempted suicides, depressives, personality disorders, self-harming and just about every other emotional and psychological condition had, at one time or another over the past twenty years, sat in this room. She would never claim to have `cured' any one of them but she knew that many had directly benefitted from their time together. For most, they came, used up their allotted hours and, at a time chosen by her (or by parental bank balances), went back out into the world to resume their lives, with varying degrees of preparedness and success.
And then there were those like Dan who were accepted as clients on the basis of one (often more) set of presenting causes or conditions but who she increasingly understood to have one (often more) hidden causes or conditions. It wasn't unusual for these underlying causes to be unacknowledged by the young person, sometimes they were even unknown to them. Shania Margelles suspected that this was very much the case with Dan. She even had a professional hunch as to what it was that lay, unacknowledged, under the surface. Her professional dilemma was to what extent, if any, she should seek to confirm her hunch and guide Dan towards an acceptance, or, at the very least, an awareness, of it.
"I don't think that's true, or fair," Dan retaliated. "I tell you lots about myself."
"Yes, that's true," agreed Please Call Me. "You spend a lot of time telling me about your training regime and how well it's going. You talk about how far you've run each week and about any new routes you've found. But you don't talk about the important stuff."
"Those things are important to me," argued Dan. "Really important. And the martial arts. They're all totally about me."
"I know, and I genuinely think it's good that you want to keep yourself healthy and fit and I'm more than happy for you to tell me about them. But they're not the reasons why you're here."
Dan was beginning to feel uncomfortable, as if he was, somehow, under attack from his counsellor.
"I've told you loads about what happened about the ..." he found himself unable to complete the sentence.
"Abuse."
"Yeah. That. The abuse." Dan forced the word out of his mouth, as if he had set himself a test that he couldn't afford to fail.
"Again, that's true -- sort of."
"What do you mean, `Sort of'?" Dan's tone was more aggressive than Shania Margelles had ever heard before. She wasn't sure this was an altogether bad thing. She allowed a full half minute to pass before she replied, and she made sure her voice was calm and measured.
"In the weeks you've been coming here, since the abuse you experienced with Mr. Roberts, you've told me a whole lot about your parents, your brother Tom and about your friend Milo."
All this was true. Over the weeks Dan had explained how Tom had driven through the night to be with him and had then stayed home, rather than go back to university, to be part of his, Dan's, protective blanket. He'd explained how supportive and understanding his parents had been, especially through all the difficult meetings with Ms. Ohura at the school. And most of all, he'd spent hours talking about Milo and what a total rock he'd been throughout the whole, horrendous ordeal. He had told Please Call Me on more occasions than she could count, that, without M, Dan would struggle even more than he did, on a day-to-day level, to keep his `shit together'. It was the recurring theme of their sessions and was the basis of the counsellor's theory regarding Dan's underlying and unacknowledged issue.
"So how come you're saying I don't talk about important stuff? Those things are so important I ... I ... "
"You?"
"I don't think I'd ... be here ... without them." Dan spoke as if every word was being dragged out of him. "That's how important they are."
The trained and professional counsellor took a few seconds in order to think about how to move the conversation on beyond these aspects of Dan's life onto something more progressive. "So, I think I understand from what you're saying now, and in our sessions before today, that there are some key activities and important people in your life. Have I got that right?" Shania Margelles was choosing her words with care.
Dan nodded, his eyes returning to the picture of the small dog hanging on the wall slightly above and to the left of the counsellor's colourful head.
"What I'm less clear about is whether you are important to you." She knew she was taking a risk with this line of argument. It could bring a rapid conclusion to the session -- maybe to her time with Dan completely -- or it could finally clear the way forward to some meaningful progress. So, yes, it was risky but she was aware that Dan's parents had chosen her to be their son's counsellor largely due to the fact that her approach to her role was not exactly mainstream or conventional. Her experience over the years had led her to a belief that providing a reflective sounding board was not always enough for some young people and that a more challenging and interventionist style could produce better outcomes.
When it came, she was surprised by Dan's response.
"I don't know."
"You don't know if you're important to yourself?"
"I don't know about myself."
Suddenly Shania Margelles' professional receptors were on full alert. This was not the reply she'd been expecting. "I think it would help if you could explain a little more what you mean by that."
"I don't seem to make sense to myself," Dan continued with a fluency which surprised them both. "My family is great and I've got the best friend anyone could ever want. So they must think I'm worth caring about, right?"
"Absolutely right. Everything you've told me about them makes it clear they love you very much."
"So why did he choose me?" This question was so anguished, so pleading that Shania Margelles was tempted to get up from her chair and envelop Dan in a warm and reassuring hug. Luckily for both her professional objectivity and personal integrity she resisted the temptation, but she did begin to wonder if, quite unexpectedly, they might be approaching a break-through. She knew she had to tread carefully.
"Roberts?"
Dan nodded.
"Why do you think you became one of his victims?" This had the potential to be a very dangerous question. "What was it about you?"
"He must have seen all the bad stuff inside me. Why else did I ...?"
"Why else did you ...?" The question hung in the air.
"Enjoy it." Dan's voice was barely more than a whisper. This was the first time, since talking to M and Tom all those months before, that he'd even hinted to anyone about his response in Mr. Roberts' office that day. About how he'd got hard and allowed himself to get caught up in the act of jerking-off and had produced an impressive cum that had painted the floor of Mr. Roberts' office.
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