Work Text:
“Close the door,” says Gerri.
Roman closes the door behind him. He leans backward against it, trying to look casual and indolent, but the brass knob digs into his hip and he feels awkwardly large. He’s been in Gerri’s apartment before, back when she and her husband threw Hanukkah parties, but he was a kid back then and he remembers the place being much bigger than this. The smell is the same, though—it’s Gerri’s perfume, mostly, mixed with something dusty but clean. Antique wood furniture, maybe, or yellowing law books. The smell of beautiful old things. Roman laughs aloud at the thought.
Gerri narrows her eyes, and for a panicked second Roman wonders if she can read his mind. “Something funny about my foyer?” she asks.
“No, no, love what you’ve done with the place,” says Roman. “Except I was hoping for more bowls of those, you know, the chocolate coins with the gold on the outside. Fuckin’…Jew candy. What’s it called?”
“Gelt,” says Gerri. “I’d offer you some, but in case you’ve forgotten, you ate the entire world’s supply last time you were here. Gold foil and all.”
“I was a growing boy.”
“Greedy little pig.” Gerri’s voice is even, matter-of-fact. “Then as now. Follow me.” She turns on her heel and walks down the hall, her shoes clacking on the black-and-white floor tile.
Roman is instantly hard. And relieved, too—Gerri always knows the right thing to say, the right thing to do. He trots after her like a dog, imagining himself in a collar, on a leash, pulled along by Gerri’s elegant hand.
He’s hoping she’ll lead him to the bedroom, but it’s probably for the best that she takes him to the living room. After all, they’re here to work: Gerri’s called him over to discuss something that came up in the oppo research. Just something that came up, that was all she’d say on the phone. What a tease.
They sit, not too close together, on the gunmetal-gray sofa.
“The suspense is killing me,” says Roman. “Which one of the dead hookers has come to your attention?”
There’s a manila folder on the glass coffee table. Gerri picks it up. “No hookers. Dead or alive.”
“Ah, so, we’re here to discuss the coke orgies.”
“The research uncovered no evidence of your participation in orgies,” says Gerri, flipping through papers. “Or coke, for that matter. Which, incidentally”—she lifts her eyes wryly from the folder—“was a real curveball.”
“Yeah, well, fuckin’…surprise!” Roman stands, bounces up and down on the balls of his feet. Earlier today he jacked off thinking of Gerri punishing him over some filthy secret, but right now, all jokes aside, he has no idea which of his secrets she has in that folder—whether it’s stuff he actually did, or just stuff that…happened and is not a big deal and doesn’t even need to be discussed. It feels shitty not knowing, but he’s not sure he wants to know.
“I’m full of surprises,” he says with a leer. He’s stalling. She must know it.
Gerri’s eyes flicker up and down his body, and then she sets down the folder and stands too. She gestures to the wet bar in the corner of the living room, and Roman flashes back again to that last Hanukkah party, the kids daring each other to sneak in there and steal from it, Roman thinking it was just a game until Kendall actually did it—
“What’s your drink?” says Gerri.
Roman is kind of drunk already, to be honest; he always has to be, at least a little, for…the possibility of this kind of thing. “Surprise me,” he says.
She pours something. He looks out the window. Gerri’s living room has a terrace with a view of Central Park, which must be the only reason she’s slumming it in a prewar Upper West Side two-bedroom. “The park view is pretty bitchin’,” he says honestly. “Me and Shiv tried to run away to Central Park this one time, did you know that? We were gonna camp out overnight in the Ramble.”
Gerri appears at his side, presses a glass into his hand. “How Salingeresque.”
Roman doesn’t even pretend to know what that means. “We were trolling the nanny,” he continues. “She wouldn’t let us play in the Ramble ’cause it was dirty or whatever. Or, I guess”—he realizes it as he says it—“’cause it was the fucking 90s and full of junkies and homos cruising each other and shit. Anyway, we sneaked off and she freaked the fuck out, thought we’d been kidnapped. Dad went fully ballistic.” He laughs, drinks, laughs some more even though the story feels less funny now that he’s telling it. “On me, mostly,” he adds.
He doesn’t know why he just said that. He glances at Gerri, wondering if she’s regarding him with mockery or, worse, pity. But she just studies him neutrally, like he’s paperwork. She’s standing close to him. Close enough to touch. Though he wouldn’t dare.
“Sit,” she says.
Like he’s a dog. He laughs. But he does sit, or really he flops, splashing brown liquor on himself as he stretches himself across the sofa. “Christ,” he says. “Whatever your guy found, it must be real fuckin’ bad.” He draws up his knees, lets his shoes touch the upholstery—
“No,” says Gerri. Bad dog. He freezes.
She takes the glass out of his hand—her fingers are soft, the nails glossy-hard—and sets it with a clink on the glass coffee table. “On the floor,” she says. “On your knees.”
And he’s hard again, achingly hard, as he slides off the sofa and falls knees-first onto the carpet. He lands roughly, too roughly, but it’s okay. They’re still doing this. Whatever Gerri knows about him, it can’t be that bad—not if they’re still doing this.
“Look at me,” says Gerri.
Roman looks up at her and this is what he wanted, this is how he imagined it: Gerri towering over him, the room enormous, his body small. Helpless.
“Look at you,” says Gerri, almost wonderingly. “You act like such a little brat, but deep down you just like to do as you’re told, don’t you?”
Roman nods, desperately.
“You’ll do anything.”
Roman wonders if he’s allowed to touch himself in front of her. They haven’t done that yet, she still hasn’t seen his dick; she might be disgusted, she might laugh at how small it is—fuck. He cups his hand over his erection, palming it through his pants, peering up at Gerri in a way that’s half challenging, half pleading.
“You’re pathetic,” says Gerri. “You soft, spineless little crab boy. Can’t even jerk off without permission from a grown-up.”
That’s permission enough for him. He fumbles gratefully at his belt, his fingers trembling around the buckle. He slides his hand down his pants, wraps it around his dick, looks at Gerri just to make sure.
A quick smile flits across Gerri’s face, just for a second, like she can’t help it. “That’s right,” she says. “Touch it, you nasty boy.”
Something warm and bright flashes through Roman. He closes his eyes; his face is aching and he realizes he’s smiling too, grinning like an idiot without even meaning to. He’s never felt like this before, so alive and awake and at the same time safe—like his body might actually be an okay place to exist in, for now—
He’s jacking himself softly, lightly, wanting to drag this out as long as he can. “You dirty fucking pervert,” says Gerri from somewhere above him. Her voice is breathy now, not so clipped as before. He keeps his eyes shut but feels her bending down to be closer to him, talking low in his ear, her breath warm on his neck. “You love this, don’t you?” she hisses. “You can’t get enough.”
“Yeah.” Roman’s voice breaks, hoarse. “I—I love it, I—oh, god, I fuckin’ love—”
A soft hand with sharp nails clamps the back of his neck, silencing him. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and jacks himself faster. She’s never touched him before, not during—
“From now on”—hot perfume murmur in his ear—“you’ll do only what I tell you.”
Roman nods so hard he gets dizzy. He’s breathing hard now, whining a little, the tip of his dick is leaking wet, he should slow down but it feels so good and he’s close, so close—
Gerri squeezes the back of his neck, like she’s lifting a puppy by the scruff. “You’re a spoiled little bitch,” she whispers. “But you know whose little bitch you are?” Her grip tightens. “Mine.”
Roman’s free hand flails blindly through the air. He won’t admit to himself what he’s searching for until he finds it: Gerri’s soft fingers, her sharp nails, grasping his hand while her other hand still clasps the back of his neck. He squeezes her hand as hard as he can. She squeezes back.
In his ear: “Come for me.”
Roman comes with a high yelp, spurting all over himself, still clutching Gerri’s hand, and she lets him.
When he finally opens his eyes they’re wet, stinging, and his throat is tight. Oh, fuckin’ A, really? Here, now? He lets go of Gerri’s hand and wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. Allergies—it could plausibly be allergies. “This isn’t,” he begins, forcing a laugh, trying to say This isn’t what it looks like, but it is what it looks like and he can’t speak.
From behind him—she’s sitting on the gunmetal sofa again—Gerri says, “Come here.” Her voice is mild, back to normal.
Still kneeling on the carpet, Roman turns to face her. She’s so beautiful, she’s fucking luminous, and he crawls forward to get closer. He presses his wet cheek against her knee, and she shifts to let him rest his whole head in her lap. She places her hand on his head, not quite stroking his hair, just holding him gently in place. Good boy, he thinks vaguely.
Gerri says, “We do have work to do, you know.”
“I know,” says Roman.
“If you’re ready.”
There’s a question underneath those words, Roman knows. He doesn’t answer it. “Getting there,” he says. He closes his eyes, inhales, exhales. “Not going anywhere.”