"I don't get you. What do you find so erotic about it?" They laid with him behind them, trapped in his lap. One of his gloved hands idly played with their chest, the other held open a novel in front of them. "Where do you even find filth like this? You're very well known, it's hard to believe nobody notices. What would people think if they knew someone who acted so sweet and innocent got off to something this depraved?" His voice sounded genuinely curious. Like he was truly trying to understand the appeal, but found it unsavory at the same time. "You're the one who went snooping," they mumbled. The words felt weak. The shame and fear of being found out was getting scrambled by his mundane reaction. They were hoping he'd be angry, they were hoping he'd get mad. It was terrifying that he wasn't. This was the kind of thing that would land them in a cell or a hospital. "You didn't hide it very well. What would you have done if someone else had found out?" They were silent. His fingers traced circles around their chest. It was strange to feel him actively touching them at all. They were normally the one dragging him along through their sexual encounters. "I don't get you," he repeated. "You're so gentle and soft-hearted. You can't stand violence, you hate conflict, you don't even like killing bugs. But you read this kind of thing and it gets you off?" His voice was still calm and inquisitive. They couldn't tell what was worse, him being disgusted and angry, or him being so casual and uncaring. They tried to think of something, anything, to say to break the silence. "Is this why you're uncomfortable around kids? Because you get off to child abuse?" They flinched, and his fingers tightened around their breast. "It's not-" "Not real?" he asked. "I don't want to hurt kids." He was silent for a moment. Then his hand began to wander, sliding down their belly, towards their groin. "Is this how you imagine me? Do you want me to be a little boy?" His hand brushed their groin and their whole body shuddered. "Look what it says here," he murmured into their ear. His hand moved, and his nail gently traced the text on the page. "'A soft, childish body, barely beginning to develop.' 'Barely pubescent'...that's how you imagine me when we're having sex? That's what makes you hot and bothered?" He kept going. "'The child's body is too delicate for any adult to resist. They'll both be helpless against lust.' Is that what you want? For me to be a scared child, powerless under you, while you defile me?" They wanted to scream. Their breath was coming fast, their heart was racing, their head was spinning. Every word made them want to curl up and die. He wasn't mad. He wasn't disgusted. He was just confused. Confused about their desires, confused about what they wanted from him. And they were completely paralyzed, unable to stop him from voicing their sick, perverted fantasies. "I'm ten years older than you, you know. You're the child here. But the things you fantasize about, it's not me taking advantage of you. You're always the one taking care of me. The one teaching me things. Is that what you want? Do you want a younger me to cling to you? To come to you, desperate for help, and have you corrupt me?" He was touching them now, stroking them through their pants. The words were still coming. They couldn't tell him to stop. "I can hardly picture myself as a child anymore. I wouldn't lie down and take it, you know. I would have fought back. I would have killed you." He was pulling at the waistband of their pants now. "Or maybe," he flipped the page, "That's more like what you want. 'The teacher cowered in terror, their student's body looming over them. The child's expression was twisted, filled with lust and newfound power, the little schoolyard bully had found a new victim with something more valuable to steal than lunch money.'" He was inside their pants now, his gloved fingers wrapped around their cock, squeezing gently. "Is that it? You want me to be a brat? A spoiled, mean-spirited kid who bullies you into fucking them?" He was stroking them. Slow and gentle. Almost teasing. "Or," he flipped the page again, "Would we both be kids? 'Young children, their bodies already betraying them, play and experiment with each other.' Do you want that?" He stopped, and they let out a soft whine, their hips shifting, pressing into his hand, desperate for friction. He pulled his hand away, and brought it to their face. "Your body reacted the same way to everything I read. You're not picky. You'd take any scenario, as long as there's a helpless child involved. So I don't understand. Why would you pursue a man so many years your senior?" "S-sweetie," their breathing was ragged, "Please, just-" "Are you attracted to men or boys? Isn't there a difference? Am I cover for your disgusting fantasy? Does the fact that I'm a man make it easier for you to pretend you're not attracted to children? Because you are, aren't you?" "Darling, please," they whimpered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't-don't hate me. I don't- I don't want to hurt anyone." "You're crying," he noted. "I'm scared. Please, I don't want to be locked up, or killed, or-" "You don't want to be caught. You know I don't care if you're attracted to kids. I've worked with worse. But they're normally just powerful men. And they like pictures, not," he gestured with the book, "This. You're not really a threat to anyone. I wouldn't do anything if you were." He flipped the page again. "I'm not mad. I'm just trying to understand." They were silent. They were trying to calm their breathing, trying to slow their racing heart. The tears wouldn't stop. "I am cover for you then, aren't I? A man clearly older than you that you can point to and say 'he's a man. I'm attracted to men, not boys'." They couldn't speak. Their whole body was shaking, the sobs wracking them, making their whole body shudder. "It makes more sense than you actually liking me," he said, sounding almost amused. "N-no," they forced out, "Sweetheart, I love you." "Why?" The question surprised them. It was blunt. There was no anger, no hurt, just a genuine question. "C-can we please not talk about this now?" He looked down at them. He let his hand fall. "You're not going to answer the question?" "Please, not now." "I told you I'm not mad," he said, almost sounding confused. "I know. But-" "I just want to understand." "And I'll explain, I promise. Just not right now. I'm- I'm scared. And- and I'm embarrassed. And I'm ashamed. And- and-" they took a shaky breath. "Why were you going through my things?" "I don't like it when you keep things from me." "What? How many times have I asked you what you're up to and you've refused to tell me?" "That's different. My work is important. You can look into it if you want, but that would be dangerous for you. You're not keeping your secrets protected. You're lucky nobody else has seen this." "Nobody else has touched my stuff!" "Mm. I am exceptional at this," he murmured. His calmness was still making their head spin. He was holding them so casually, as if nothing was wrong, as if they weren't sobbing and terrified. "Do you want pictures? I can get them for you, if that's what you want." "Fang! I-- no, no I don't want pictures!" "If nobody else is looking, you probably wouldn't be caught. And if anyone did find them, I could easily make it look like you were framed. You wouldn't get in trouble." "Fang!" "You never like my gifts," he pouted, "I can get you some very high quality ones." "Fang, I don't want child pornography." "Why not? Wouldn't it be better than this? These books are poorly written," he flipped through the pages. "Fang! This isn't- I don't-" they stuttered, trying to figure out what to say. "Look," he said, holding up the book, "The prose is awful, 'His hand brushed their groin and their whole body shuddered', how tacky is that? The plot is ridiculous. And you own twelve of these?" "There's only five," they protested. He ignored them. "'The child's body was still immature, not yet ready for sex, but the young girl begged the older woman to teach her. The woman's fingers slid inside, stretching the young girl out. Her mouth found the little nub and she licked and sucked until the child screamed and squirmed and came'. That's what it says, 'the little nub'," he chuckled, "Who writes these?" "Please stop." "Oh, are you turned on by it?" His free hand slipped back between their legs, feeling for any indication of arousal. It was clearer now that he'd been touching them more out of scientific curiosity than any desire to turn them on. "I-I know they're not all well written, they're collections, there's different writers-- I-- Why is that what you care about? You're not even into sex, what do you know about-- Why are we arguing about this?! Why aren't you angry?" "Why would I be?" "Because I'm a disgusting pervert?" He shrugged. "You were already a whore." "Wh-- Sweetie!" "I just don't get why. You're always talking about intimacy and connection and-- what'd you call it? Tantra? Isn't it all about making a connection with your partner? About being vulnerable and honest? I don't see how these," he waved the book, "Are intimate and honest." "I… They are, sort of," they sighed, "It's... it's like a safe place to explore bad feelings. Or something. I don't want to talk about this right now. Why does it matter?" "Have you been imagining me as a child?" They tensed, "No. Not- not really. Only sometimes." "Do you want me to act like one?" "No, no! I don't want to force you into acting--" "I asked if you wanted me to, Sher." They looked away, embarrassed. "Sometimes." He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was a little quieter. "… Are you even actually into this?" "What?" He pressed his fingers up against them again, and they let out a squeak. "My, my, did I figure it out?" A grin spread across his face and he nuzzled into their neck, "You're a tricky one, aren't you?" "Wh-what are you--?" "Of course. You're not all that into kids, are you? Your body's been reacting because I've been embarrassing you. It's the humiliation, isn't it? That's what gets you going." "H-honey," they choked up. "You get off to this filth, but it's not because you're a pedophile. It's because it's the most shameful thing you can think of, and you get off to the humiliation of it all, don't you? Do you get turned on by the idea of being a bad person?" They couldn't say anything, their mind was a mess. His tone had completely changed. The playful, almost mocking lilt of his voice was sending shivers through them. His gloved fingers stroked at them again. They felt like prey. If he enjoyed touching them, it was always for a reaction. Not because he wanted to make them feel good nearly as much as he wanted to prove he could. They'd been a plaything to him this whole time, a puzzle he could figure out and dissect. They were worried he had. It wasn't as if they didn't enjoy the stories, or as if they were waiting for him to find them. But they weren't sure they'd fantasized about a world in which what they wanted was okay. He was right about their fantasies being directed towards him, too. Worse, now that he was touching them just to feel, using them like a toy - not a sex toy, but a puzzle box, a noisemaker, something with buttons to press just to see what they do - they were aware of how childish his glee was, and just how heart-meltingly adorable and attractive they found it. And under it all was a tint of shame that thrilled them. It wasn't that they wanted to be a bad person. It's that deep down they already believed they were, and having someone acknowledge it and still stay on that shitty fold-out couch with them was cathartic. They could only nod, not trusting their voice. He kissed their ear, then the side of their neck. "How many people have you been with?" he murmured, his breath tickling them, his voice dripping. "And they didn't have a single clue what made you happy, did they?" "M-mrph," they stuttered. "So gentle, so kind, and you were hiding such a naughty secret," he whispered, "Did you think that if you tried to make it meaningful you'd stop wanting the things you couldn't have? If sex were some beautiful, spiritual connection, maybe it would fulfill you. Maybe it would distract you from the fact that you want to take advantage of innocent children." "N-ngh, I-" "Did you try it on me? Did you think that if you were a good enough lover, you wouldn't need the fantasies?" "Th-that's not, I'm not, I'm-" "Do you imagine I'm a little boy?" "Yes," they blurted out, their voice breaking. "Tell me." They were sobbing. Their body was on fire, but the tears were running down their cheeks and they were powerless to stop him. "You-you're-so-young," they choked out, "and- and- and I can't stop thinking about-about-" "How old am I?" "T-ten." "Is that when it happened to you?" They froze. Their body was cold. They felt a little dizzy. "W-what?" "Oh, nothing, nothing," he tossed the book aside and wrapped his arm around their waist, "Tell me what you think about." They didn't have the strength to resist. "I-I see you walking in the rain," they said, their voice hoarse. "Oh, no," he whispered, "I'm not wearing a coat, am I?" "Mhm," they sniffled. "I'm cold, and wet, and shivering, aren't I? Tell me what you'd do." "I'd- I'd," they sobbed, "I'd invite you in, and offer you hot cocoa. And-and-" "And I'm so hungry, aren't I?" he breathed, "I don't have a home. I'm out in the rain, because I don't have anywhere to go." "I'd feed you," they whimpered. "Oh, how thoughtful," he chuckled. "I'm sorry," they blubbered, "I'm sorry. I'm- I'm disgusting. I'm a freak. I'm sorry." "Hush," he murmured, his mouth brushing against their neck, "Keep going." "You-you're shivering, and-and I offer you a towel and-and-" "What, I'd strip in front of you?" he laughed. "You're just a kid," they sobbed, "A-a-and, and I, and I want you to be warm and safe. I-I can't stop looking though, a-and you look hurt. Like someone beat you. I-I'm worried, and I, and I," they trailed off, shaking. "Mm," he nipped at their ear, "Then what?" "I-I offer you a bath. B-because you're covered in mud, and it's cold, b-but I'd tell you there wasn't much water, s-so we'd have to share. I'm so worried about you. Y-you're not even upset, and you're a child, y-you should be crying." "This isn't much like what's in that book of yours," he noted, nibbling and licking at their neck, "You're not trying to seduce me." "Y-you're a kid," they hiccupped. "Is this what you're ashamed of? That you want to help a little boy? That doesn't seem so bad," he murmured, his hands wandering over their body, "What happens in the bath?" "Y-you're hurt," they whispered, "You're covered in bruises and burns and scars. A-and I ask and you don't answer. You're so calm, you're so small, and, and--" their voice cracked. "You help me get washed up, don't you? Such a gentle, caring adult, cleaning the little boy, helping him wash his hair," he sounded almost giddy. "Y-you have pretty hair," they sniffled. "You touch me, don't you?" "Y-y-you're laying against my chest. Y-your back is against me, a-and," their voice caught, and they were silent for a moment, trying to stop the tears, "Y-your little hands are on my thighs, a-and--" "You're naked too," he breathed. "Mhm." "It's a small bathtub." "Mhm." "You can't resist the temptation, can you?" "N-no," they cried, their heart aching. "You wrap your arms around me," he purred, his hands mimicking his words, "You pull me close." "Y-yes." "You run your hands along my little body, and I'm so skinny, aren't I?" "Mhm," they choked. "You can feel every rib. And those nasty bruises and scrapes," he cooed, "And the scars. All over my arms, and legs, and back, and stomach, and chest." "Y-yeah," they whimpered, their body shuddering. "Your hand is between my legs," he said, his own slipping between their thighs. "N-ngh," they whined, trying not to squirm. "Am I even old enough to know what those parts are called? I don't know why you're touching me there." "You're a kid," they forced out, their body tense. "I don't understand, but I'm not scared," he murmured, "You're a nice adult. You must know what you're doing. You're touching me very gently. My body feels weird. There's a funny tingling feeling where your fingers are. I don't know what's going on. But it's warm. And safe." "S-sorry, sorry," they sniffled. He licked at their ear. "Are you apologizing to me, or to the little boy?" "E-either, both," they stuttered. "You're a bad, bad grownup," he chuckled, "But I trust you. Because you're being so nice to me. Why would a nice person do something bad to a helpless little boy? The little boy thinks you're so wonderful, letting him in and taking care of him. And he likes the bath. He's never had a bath like this before." "S-stop," they pleaded, their whole body shivering. "You're still touching him," he teased, his fingers rubbing between their legs, "You can't stop, can you? If I ask what you're doing, what will you tell me?" They stuttered and choked. "What are you doing, dà jiě?" "I-I'm, nngh, I'm--" "Dà jiě?" "Sh-sh-shit, fuck, please, fuck," they groaned. "Such a filthy mouth," he whispered, "You shouldn't speak like that in front of a child. You don't want to teach him something bad, do you? What are you doing, dà jiě?" "Y-you, I-I'm, I'm playing with your-" "Playing?" "I-it's a game. Just a game. You'll like it. I'm not-- I'm not--" "Dà jiě," he gasped, "That feels funny. It's all warm and tingly." "It's just a game, sweetie," they sobbed, their whole body trembling. "Your hands are so soft," he murmured, his breath tickling their neck, "They feel good. I don't know why you're doing this, but I like it." "Sweetie," they sobbed, "Sweetie, honey, I'm so sorry." "Why are you sorry?" he whispered, "It's just a game, and I'm having fun. Why would I be scared? Dà jiě is so gentle. Dà jiě wouldn't hurt a helpless little boy. And this feels nice. The water is so warm. You're so warm. And everything else has been so cold. It's cold outside. Cold and wet. But dà jiě is so, so warm. You're hugging me so tight. Your breasts are squished against my back. It's all warm and soft. So, so, soft." "Stop," they moaned. "You're the one touching me, dà jiě," he reminded, "You're the one who wanted to play. You're the one who pulled me onto your lap. You're the one who's kissing my neck. You're the one whose hand is between my legs." "S-stop," they choked, their face hot and wet. "Is that where it ends, Sher?" His voice switched from his teasing storytelling whisper back to his curious lilt and his hands dropped away from them, "You've gotten really worked up from just that. Don't you towel me off, take me to bed, whatever it is people do?" "N-nn," they groaned, their body shivering and hot. "You've gone very red," he said, tilting their face towards him. "S-shut up," they whimpered. They grasped the wrist of the hand that had fallen between their legs. They were still shaking. He looked down. They pushed his hand back into position. He raised his eyebrows. "You told me to stop, Sher. If you would make up your mind, I'd find this a lot less difficult." "Fuck you," they hissed. He laughed. "Fuck you!" they repeated, their voice high, "F-fucking-- fucking--!" He was snickering, and leaned forward to kiss their neck again. "S-sh-stop it, stop, stop, I-I-" "I've never seen you this mad," he said, his voice dripping with glee. "I-I can't--" they whined, their grip on his wrist loosening. "Do you want me to stop, Sher?" "N-no, please," they sobbed. "Then tell me," he purred, kissing their cheek, "Tell me what happens next. How's this game played?" They sniffled pitifully. "You're such a cute little boy," they mumbled, their voice quiet. "I am," he agreed. "Y-you're so little," they stuttered. "Go on," he said, his fingers moving very gently against them. "You're-you're so little, a-and I, I, I," they whined, their hands clutching the couch cushions, "I-I can't-help-myself, you-you're-such-a-little-boy, and-and-and, you're-just-a-helpless-little-kid, a-and-" "And you're a grownup," he cooed, "Aren't you supposed to take care of me?" "Y-y-yeah," they whimpered, nodding their head. "Then I'll let you," he purred. "Y-you," they gulped, their eyes squeezing shut, "You-you, I-I-can't-stop-thinking-about-how-you-don't-even-know-what-those-parts-are-for, a-and-I'm-such-a-bad-person, and-and-I-know-this-is-wrong-and-I-want-it-anyway, and-and-you're-just-a-kid-and-I-love-you-and-I-hate-myself-because-I-want-to-touch-you-like-this, a-and-" "Like this?" he said, his hand moving. "Nnn, yes," they gasped, "And-and, I-I'm-a-pervert-and-I'm-dirty, and-and-I-want-to-do-things-with-you-that-no-child-should-ever-have-to-do, and-and-" "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he breathed, his fingers moving faster, "You took me in off the street. You gave me a hot bath. You fed me. And you're touching me. Playing with me. You're so nice. You're the nicest, most perfect, kindest adult in my world." "Honey, baby," they whined. "You want to take care of me," he said, his other arm holding them close, his voice pleased and teasing, "Don't you? Don't you want to protect me? Don't you want to love me? And spoil me? Don't you want to teach me about those nice feelings I'm having?" "Mhm," their whole body was quaking. "What happens, then? You're in the bathtub with a vulnerable little boy, teaching him about a very adult game," he giggled, "What happens?" "I-I-I," they gulped, their back arching, "I t-touch you and kiss your neck and back a-and you squirm, b-because it tickles, and-and I slip a finger i-inside of you and play with your little pink nipples and I grind up against you a-and-" "Oh, wow, you're really going all the way, aren't you?" he chuckled. "Shut up," they hissed, their hips bucking against his hand. "Go on." "I-it's so easy, your body's s-so small and you let me move you around a-and," they choked, "A-and, I-I keep touching you a-and," they squealed, "I-I can't stop, I'm, I'm, I'm--" "Are you gonna cum for the little boy?" "A-ahh, yes," they gasped. "Do it," he urged. "S-say, say it again, please," they begged. "What, that you're a bad person? A pervert? A horrible grownup? I bet the little boy doesn't even realize how badly he's being used." "I-I," their chest tightened, "I-I love you," they forced out. His eyes widened just a bit. "Well," he muttered, his voice unsure. He kissed their ear. "I guess if we're pretending." "N-ngh," they grunted. "I love you, dà jiě," he said quietly. "S-sweetie," they squeaked. "Come on," he urged, his hand moving quickly. They grabbed at his arms, their nails digging into him, their whole body shaking and straining. Their voice was strained, high, and desperate, and his name escaped their lips, over and over, until they came undone with a cry. Their body went limp and their heart hammered in their chest. He was looking at them with his curious, blank expression. "You enjoyed that," he observed. "F-fuck off," they mumbled, covering their eyes. "You should change your antidepressants," he groped to bring attention to his hands, one of which lied below their navel, "You've only been able to finish with this odd external stimulation since you started. It takes much more effort than normal." "Fuck off," they repeated. "They're clearly not helping if you're still resorting to trash like this," he picked up the book again and held it in front of them by the corner, like he didn't want to touch it. "Fuck off." He shrugged and tossed the book aside. They stared up at the ceiling, their vision hazy, their whole body aching. He rested his chin on their shoulder and waited patiently. "Sher." "Mm." "What happens next?" They sniffled and wiped their eyes. "I don't want to stop holding you. I kiss you and tell you that you're a very good boy, and don't worry, sweetie, the game is over, you did very well." "That sounds very nice," he said, his head nuzzling their neck, "And then?" "Then I dry you off and take you to bed," they murmured, "You're still bruised, and cold, and skinny, and scared. So I wrap us up in the blankets, and I hold you close, and you're safe and warm and loved." He was quiet for a long time. "And then what?" "What do you mean?" "When morning comes." They were silent. "I don't know. I don't think that far. I guess when morning comes, we go back to our normal lives. When morning comes, the little boy has to go back to living on the streets, and I have to go back to being lonely. I go back to being an empty, broken shell, and you go back to being a little boy who doesn't get enough food. I still offer you treats when you walk past." "You don't get to keep the little boy?" He sounded strange. Childish, again, and not on purpose. Upset, almost. They idly played with one of his hands, running their fingers over the material of the glove. "He shouldn't stay with me. I'm a bad adult. If I really loved him, I wouldn't take advantage of him." "Do you love me?" he asked, his voice quiet and curious. "Yes," they said, without hesitation. "Why?" They paused. "Why does anyone love anything?" They sounded tired.