Page 16 of Sweet Thing

chapter 7

THE MIRROR

As per his strict routine, Simeon rose with his alarm at eight a.m. He lay on his belly in bed; his head propped on a pillow and his cropped dark elfin hair sticking up at spiky angles. He lay dozing for a while, the memory of that smoky German voice ebbing and flowing in his mind, So ein frecher Junge. A shiver ran down Sim’s spine. He still didn’t understand what had happened the night before with Bastian Roth, so in an attempt to find clarity, he began to tell Bowie all about it.

“Like, why the fuck did he take the Polaroid of Peety and me, David?“ Simeon whined. “Do you think he’s like, a serial killer who takes something from each of his victims? Why can’t I just keep it in my pants?“

Bowie never replied. He just stared non-judgementally from the poster opposite Simeon’s bed, Sim’s very own therapist. Simeon had met David Bowie in the flesh once at a Fashion show in NYC years ago. He‘d come backstage to say hi to the designer Alfred Wiez, and Simeon had boldly taken the opportunity to introduce himself as his idol was leaving. The fact that he’d shaken the hand of his all-time love had been the biggest coup of his life—that was until he purchased the nude portrait of his best friend from under the nose of Bastian Roth.

Simeon sucked in a breath and winced as he rolled onto his side on the bed, and reached for his phone. His poor ass still throbbed and burned. He checked the message from his new agent, Dieter Konig, reminding him of two go-sees that day, one for Ricochet menswear at one p.m and a second for Marcel Dubois at five–thirty p.m.

Ricochet was an edgy youth brand, and Sim would be a perfect fit; Marcel Dubois was a high-end tailored suits and men’s accessories brand. It would be great to get that job to prove his versatility again—And Simeon did have to prove himself at every turn.

Simeon’s path back into the elitist and unforgiving fashion industry had not been an easy one. He‘d been the target of a lot of bad blood and an alarming Twitter backlash. Luckily, he no longer had any social media accounts or the desire to set up new ones, so didn’t have to deal with the stress of social media or trying to please thousands of people he‘d never and would never meet.

Simeon had managed to rekindle his relationships with his agents in Paris, NewYork, Milan, and London. He‘d never told Veronik that he’d had trouble finding a new agent in Berlin. Elementia was the third agency he‘d approached. All of the agencies Simeon visited loved his lookbook, but his notorious party-boy antics, substance abuse, and the malicious internet prank against one of Germany’s top wunderkind models made Simeon a liability, and they were unwilling to even take a chance on him. It didn’t matter how pretty he was, the storm he‘d caused with the betrayal of Pieter pissed-off the wrong people, and the fashion industry had a long memory. If Elementia had rejected Sim, he would have had to crawl back and beg Veronik for a second chance.

Simeon took a shower and, when he stepped out, he inspected at his ass cheeks in the full-length bathroom mirror. He was furious at what he saw. “Fuck” he exclaimed, outraged, as he stared at his damaged skin. The cheeks were mottled red, purple, blue, and green. A whole rainbow of colors. He could even see the bruised outlined of a handprint; the finger marks clearly visible amongst the bruising and several purpled bite marks. There were also dark bruises from grip marks, like bracelets around his wrists.

BDSM wasn’t on Simeon’s sexual radar, or so he’d thought. Simeon loved giving and receiving blowjobs, was a very agile top, and only bottomed for his longtime, trusted fuck buddies. He liked playing with toys, but Simeon never let anyone restrain him, and certainly, no one spanked him—until Bastian Roth. Simeon’s skin was a blank canvas for designers to hang their art upon; if he got bashed up, apart from the pain, it meant more Photoshop and no one was ever happy with that outcome.

Simeon wouldn’t have believed that any man could have restrained him, and spanked him until he jizzed if he hadn’t experienced it, then seen and felt the evidence on his rump. He was still confused about how such a hot, promising initial hookup had flipped on its head so quickly. Why would Bastian not undress? What did he have to hide? Did he have some kind of horrible disfigurement? Why had he shown no physical sign of arousal, even though he was clearly gaining pleasure from their initial kissing, and then from administering the spanking?

Simeon wanted that photo of him and Peety back. He deduced that Bastian had stolen it because he was going to use it as bait to force Sim to meet him again. That was what Simeon would have done. He didn’t have Bastian’s phone number, and the man didn’t have his, much to Sim’s relief. He didn’t want to see Bastian again, didn’t want to look into those steely blue eyes and know that Bastian had dominated him. That would not do, he was nobody’s bitch!

With such a bruised ass, Bastian had succeeded in ruining Sim’s sex life for at least the next week. There was no way in hell he would let anyone lay a finger on him. As he strutted back into the bedroom. Simeon’s phone danced on the bed. He still hadn’t gotten around to changing the hated chirpy salsa ring tone.

“Hey, are we running, little brother?” Marcus inquired, his London accent rough with a sleepy rasp. Simeon sighed; he would love to go for a run, but his ass was agony. Would Marcus believe me if I actually told the truth?

“If I tell you something will you promise to keep it secret and not to laugh?” Simeon asked seriously.

“Simeon, I’m your sponsor. You know that everything we discuss is confidential. If you have a problem, you can talk to me.” Marcus relayed compassionately.

“I’d love to go for a run, but I can’t… my butt hurts.” Marcus let out a rich, deep laugh.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh,” Simeon whined

“Do you think you’re getting out of it that easily? What next—The dog ate my homework?’’ Marcus guffawed.

“’I’m serious, things got out of hand last night. I met a guy and brought him home…” The silence on the other end of the phone was suddenly icy.

“Did he hurt you, Simeon?” Marcus’s voice deepened in concern.

“Yes… no… I don’t know.” Simeon sighed in confusion. What did happen? Was it truly a sexual assault if he lay there and submitted to the pain and pleasure? Did he consent if he enjoyed it and came so very hard?

“Stay there. I’m coming over.” Marcus hung up. Simeon crawled onto the bed and curled into a ball. He had no idea what to think, and he needed something to halt the swirling feelings of confusion in his head. He wished he hadn’t thrown out the vodka and then chided himself for the thought. Sim considered giving his Dr. a call but then shelved the idea. Marcus was coming over anyway, that gave him a little relief. Marcus would definitely help him sort out the tangles in his head.

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