Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 13. EPISODE 12: KITSCH

EPISODE 12: KITSCH

Slivers of light permeated through the slits in my orbs, and as they fluttered and opened, they opened groggily.

My eyes bulged as my head turned and began roaming.

The combination of my morning stupor and my sedentary posture, as I pulled myself to sit upright, wasn’t sufficient to quell the shock from where I sat.

I held my eyes open to fully awaken myself and saw that I was back at my flat—an empty flat, so to speak.

Once I regained consciousness, I felt the strain of my back from the flat posture of sleeping on the tattered cardboard pieces where the sofa had used to be and was now missing.

Urgently patting my back for any welts or long stretches of lash marks, the memories surged as I remembered that I had been tortured.

But there was nothing my fingers could touch that would signify that I had indeed been in the hands of my captors.

That they had never existed and that everything I’d experienced was real.

There weren’t any scars, marks, bruising, or bleeding.

Any pain I’d felt seemed like a phantom pain by now, like a simulation of a memory I had dreamed of somewhere.

This experience was unreal.

How were they able to inflict so much pain without any of the physical markers visible to the naked eye?

Had everything been all in my head?

Did I make things up?

I quickly remembered my son as I rushed to climb into bed and see if Brady was sleeping.

But the bed was gone, and my son was nowhere to be found.

Everything in the room had been stripped bare.

There was no fridge.

No dining table.

No couch.

No telly.

The cabinets were empty, and I had no way of finding out where my family was.

Even the mesh curtain that separated the kitchen from the bathroom and toilet had been stripped from the curtain rod.

The only thing remaining in the flat we’d been staying at for two years was a cracked lampshade Brady had kicked in his sleep and a fully squeezed bottle of toothpaste left on the shower floor.

Apart from the ones mentioned, there was a Nokia 1100 beside the cardboard bed.

I was frantic, and so I opened the front door, and there was a black minivan.

It zoomed off the street the moment I stepped outside. Where the fuck is my family? Where the hell is everyone?

Then the mobile phone rang…

I darted to the phone on the ground and answered as I screamed, "WHERE ARE THEY!" with the fear inside me replaced by anger, all I wanted to do was rip the faces off those who did this.

An unflurried female voice answered, "Calm down, big boy. You’ve passed the first test." It had a steely quality, an accent brimming with an innocuous tone dappled by the cool wispy inflection of a diplomat, sounding as though she’d step on my face and I’d enjoy it.

"What are you talking about?"

"Welcome to the Agency Greg, where we serve clients at their pleasure with our very best. The second part of the test requires you to go to a certain address. You’ll be performing your duties and responsibilities as a male escort. Any payment will proceed to the agency until your debt has been fully paid. You’d also need to get an envelope addressed to Roberta Stallock, Baroness Hale of Richmond, President of the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom. At no point should you read that letter. Understand? Otherwise, it’ll lead to immediate failure."

"What the hell is this?" I shouted, gritting my teeth at how ridiculous this sounded. "I don’t owe anyone anything. Is this a joke? And what’s with this letter?"

"You’ll get what you want if you do as I say, Greg. There’s a mirror in the kitchen." I didn’t even notice there was a standing mirror near the toilet. "Fix your hair, brush your teeth, and tidy up. You’ll be picked up by your service along with your guards to be dropped off at the specified destination. ETA is 15 minutes."

"What if I don’t do this?"

"Do you want to see your family Greg?"

My hand gripped the phone and said, "Yes."

"Don’t worry. They’re in very good hands. Follow the instructions and everything will be alright. Goodbye."

"Hello? Hello...hello!"

I threw the phone into a wall, and it smashed into broken pieces.

What did I sign up for?

I never asked for a situation this complicated where my family would be involved in my mission to earn more money.

I felt my chest heaving as the moisture was about to rupture in my eyes.

Unflappable as I was, my composure was faltering, and so was my sanity.

I breathed deeply and urged myself to do as I was told to get them back.

I went to the mirror and tidied myself.

Surprised to be wearing a polo shirt and some trousers, the trousers still had a price tag.

£9,950 for these embroidered flower field pleated trousers was criminal.

These gaudy trousers looked like vomit, literally.

All I needed was a clown nose and make-up to complete the getup for a gig at Trafalgar Square traumatising children.

There was a note on the counter, 'brush your teeth,' with an arrow sign pointing to the toothbrush and toothpaste.

As I slowly cleaned my mouth of its morning stink, I withheld my thoughts to think briefly of Brady and dad.

I have to finish whatever job this entails to get them back.

While waiting outside, I checked my watch. 10:48 AM.

I was so focused on the time that I’d forgotten to notice that I was wearing a Rolex watch.

And seeing as I was looking down to check the time, I also saw my shoes with the Damier Ebène canvas print, a signature style of Louis Vuitton.

Every item in my body was highly branded to the specifications of the agency, and none of the items I’m wearing were worn of my own volition.

Being forced to wear a specific outfit to cater to a certain appearance and lifestyle was the same as pretending to be something I’m not.

And right now, I have to be an actor.

I had to pretend—for the sake of my family and my own.

A black BMW i5 slowly eased in front of me.

The windows in the driver’s seat were pulled down.

I peeked inside the car, and there were four men in suits, with the driver motioning behind me and saying, "That’s your service."

I bobbed my head in the car behind me, and it was a black Range Rover Klassen armoured car, also known as the presidential state car, pulling in behind the BMW.

It was something drawn out from the pages of Knight Rider or Green Hornet’s ‘Black Beauty’ that made me gasp for a moment with how excited I was riding this thing.

From what I’ve read online, ‘this SUV is fully certified to VR8 standards, and it has ballistic and blast armoured doors with multi-laminated bulletproof glass that are designed to withstand the most dangerous and targeted threats, such as penetration by 7.62 mm high-velocity armour piercing incendiary bullets, lateral protection against up to 33 lbs of trinitrotoluene (TNT) blasts, and defense against DM51 grenade explosions from both beneath the floor and above.’

I approached the car, and the driver opened the door to the rear seat.

He was waiting for me to get inside when I hesitated and asked him, "You don’t suppose we’ll be walking straight to Al-Qaeda, right? I personally don’t intend on having my brain blown out by IEDs and shrapnel."

"No sir. We’re heading to Notting Hill."

"Please don’t call me sir. Call me Greg," I said, surprised that the destination was right here in London. "Alright then. I guess off we go."

As my fingers grazed the interior furnishings of an £800k SUV ridden by wealthy sultans, prime ministers, and presidents alike, the bespoke leather seats and overall sense inside the car smelled of gasoline and acetone.

Pressing the buttons beside me, I knocked on the wall and said, "How do I open this thing?" There was no answer. I’m assuming private conversations held in the back seat are truly private. I scoured around the console panel and found the thing that lowers the partition wall and asked him, "Is this car brand new? It smells brand new."

The driver peered up via the rear-view mirror. "This car was recently commissioned an hour ago, sir, I mean Greg. It’s very brand new."

Why would they lend me a car that’s newly minted straight out of a car dealer?

They could’ve handed me a metro card, and I would’ve taken the bus.

But seeing my getup, I’d be getting stares or getting my watch dipped by thieves.

I do look ridiculous in this outfit; I wonder if they’d notice if these pants were to go missing.

I better check Louis Vuitton’s return policy—that £9k’s looking very spicy right now if shit comes to worst.

Pulling myself forward to look at the front seat’s toys and gadgets through the partition wall, I noticed a brown paper bag with a note on the passenger’s seat.

I was looking at it, and the driver noticed. "Ah yes. This thing right here is for you," he said, slipping it through the partition chute.

I read the note: iPhone for clients, Samsung for personal use.

I opened the paper bag, and inside was the latest model of an iPhone and another box with Samsung’s flagship phone, with extra packages of its corresponding case covers and accessories.

I opened the boxes and took out the phones, played with the settings, and wondered if there was a tracking devise installed on these two mobiles.

I may have been a small-time city copper, but I’ve seen enough shit in the ten years I've worked for the force to know that I needed to keep one eye closed and the other one open.

After 30 minutes of travelling from Goldhawk Road to Holland Park Ave., we arrived at Palace Court, a quiet residential road with red brick buildings lined with lush trees.

Seconds from here were Kensington Palace Gardens, affectionately called ‘Billionaire’s Row’ by the social wanking elites.

I’d never really been distinct when it came to residential addresses, but you could smell the upturned noses and the winding farts as soon as I stepped out of the car.

The guards had spread themselves around the area.

One shuffled behind a lamp post, one stood at the gated entrance, one leaned on the Subaru parked in front, and one walked behind me.

I knocked on the black arched door of this massive three-story, red-bricked house, and a voice of a woman answered.

"Coming." The domestic staff opened the door, and upon seeing my outfit, she snickered, then pursed her lips. The bodyguard behind me who stood guard in the entranceway chortled as well. "Baron Hensley is on the second floor," said the helper.

Baron Hensley?

Who is this guy?

Glancing around the first-floor sitting room, it was heavily inspired by musical themes, an ode to the styles of classic, baroque, more impressionistic, and modern music.

It was dotted with framed vintage concert posters and musical concert pages from yesteryear, with framed black and white photos on a wood-engraved side table like the one from old hotels in the 50s, pleated lampshades, a well-thumbed glossary of first edition vinyl records, an antique wood bureau dresser, and a gold cocktail trolley stocked with complementary pre-mixed cocktails.

I turned to the kitchen, and the walls had glossy teal tiles, soft-buttery leather booths, an assortment of multi-coloured velvet sofas, and tasselled bolster cushions.

So I asked myself, how gay can this guy be?

I was envious of his home’s interior, filled with early 50s, 60s, and 70s kitsch.

But it’s fairly extravagant and a bit tawdry, especially with the green and red flowery wallpapers.

Although the room has a slight comfort when you feel like listening to the old crooners while sipping brandy on a cold winter’s eve with the fireplace in the corner and a warm duvet on your lap,

The helper said, "Sir, it’s this way," as she gestured to the stairs after seeing me staring in the distance and daydreaming.

Perhaps hunger had pawed my hallucinations and I was just starving.

Heading upstairs through the spiral staircase, I heard a little girl call my name.

She must have heard the footsteps.

"Gregory!" called the little girl. "Gregory Peck. Gregory Harrison. Greg Kinnear. Come inside. Let’s play."

I turned left and opened the door.

The large bedroom had the same feel as the sitting room downstairs, with the exception of a bed in the centre, and a large man dressed in a knee-length pink tulle flower dress with pigtails and puffy ruddy cheeks sitting in the middle of the fuchsia bed.

"Take off your trousers and let’s play." His voice was several octaves higher than the usual voice of an adult male. "Come on, Gregory! Play with me."

It would be very inaccurate of me to say that I’m not insensitive and a neophyte to the nature of the odd and the weirdly taboo.

I’ve had my experiences beforehand fisting a random hook-up where he’d begged me to shove my fist up his bum—which had never happened again after that horrifying experience in fear of rupturing someone’s spleen or innards.

And when I peed on a man I had dated for several weeks, hoping we’d have a fun night watching Netflix and eating takeaways, only to be told, "It would be extremely nice if you could sit on my face and think of it as a common urinal," I did sit on his face and pee on his mouth, but never called him again after that.

Maybe I was judgmental for a moment, thinking deviant behaviours, so long as they don’t harm anyone, wouldn’t be up my alley.

Maybe there was a part of me who liked taking a bit of a risk or who enjoyed the weird and the contradictory.

When you think about it, each of us engages in sexual role-playing.

When you perceive a beautiful man or woman to be attractive based just on appearance, you are objectifying them based on how they look.

I objectify myself whenever I wear attractive clothing, arrange my hair, and spritz myself with perfume. It may be more subtle than what Baron Hensley was doing, but the dynamic is the same.

Is it immoral to use anything or someone as a sexual object?

Each of us has a unique set of genetic predispositions.

So the question is: What's wrong if someone needs a spanking or a giddyyap to increase arousal?

Baron Hensley may be a grown adult well into his early 50s wearing a dress and sounding like a schoolgirl, and this right here would be on the far end of the spectrum.

But this could be my chance to say time-out; my hold-on-a-second-there buddy; stop the recurring nightmares that will haunt me; this could be my Vietnam.

So I had a decision to make: either I run away, never see my family again, and hope for the best in trying to find them, or I suck it up and treat this day like any other day—a day to do my job, to be this little girl’s daddy just the way he or she sees me.

"Little girl, I’m not Gregory. Your papá’s name is Greg. You ought to remember that silly child."

His or her eyes perked up, as though he were awash with a new light of sexual deviancy, and he said, "Papá! I’ve been waiting so long for you. You’ve finally come."

I sat behind the grown man in the bed and pulled him close to me.

"So little girl, what do you have in mind?"

He crawled on top of me and leaned his head on my chest, his pudgy fingers fingering the hairs on my arm and his cheap wig scratching the base of my neck.

The man was husky, a heavyset man erring on the side of being deemed outlandish, an addlepated man in a dress.

Not minding the 250 lbs on top of me, he said, "I’ve been a very bad little girl. You see, I did something that would make you mad, papá."

"Would you mind telling me what you did wrong, petite fille?"

I said, still remembering the French word for "little girl" from that French cartoon I had watched with Brady.

His eyes brightened with another pang of degeneracy as he slowly unbuttoned and unzipped my pants.

He looked up and licked his lips.

"I’ll show you what I did papá. I’m sure you’re not going to like it."

"Oh really, mademoiselle, show your papá what you did wrong, and we’ll see if it’s worth any spanking." When he heard the word spanking, I was sure he had creamed his pants with the way he was ogling me.

Once he pulled down my underwear, he was greeted by my soft cock. "Oh my god, it’s beautiful," he said, salivating and releasing a sigh followed by a hard swallow. "This gift you have for me, papá is truly wonderful. I wonder if I could fit it in my mouth."

He began working his way through while I had trouble getting hard.

Five minutes into getting an OK blowjob, I was slowly losing my credibility as this sexy Don Juan, for my cock was still soft.

I had to think of something fast.

If only I could prop my phone right into my face and google something like doctors-doing-check-up-gay-porn or Viking gay porn, then this would be a tremendously easy job.

Slowly concentrating, my mind delved into the realm of my imaginings as I closed my eyes, thinking of something that would make me horny and hopefully, get me a raging boner.

I thought of Ryan at first, but all I saw was darkness.

There was nothing.

He wasn’t a part of my fantasies, for he lived in the realms of our real-time encounters.

The usual instance of Ryan getting me hard was when he’d look at me lewdly as he gave me a blowjob, which was the catalyst for me to stay hard throughout our entire sexual sessions.

Yet, I required something deeper, something stronger.

A connection with someone that produces a skin-tingling sensation in my groin, like a hot cauldron bubbling when it’s sitting out for too long, or the burning sensation of tempered chocolate once it catches your skin, or that scorching burning lust you get from someone when you’ve bathed in his smell, a man’s warm smell of a satisfied desire.

I needed that.

And I needed it now.

Then his face came into the deep realms of make-believe, my fantasy that only I could see.

He was kissing me, his lips burning like coals being stoked as he grabbed my hair, and our mouths were lashing, darting, and needling our fleshy spikes with one another.

We were carousing in bed, fighting to get each other’s clothes off, until his mouth settled on my neck.

His tongue and the hard bristles of his beard tantalised the soft area underneath my ears, and once he began licking it all the way to my scruff, I gasped and whispered, "I want you inside me."

My eyes opened.

That wasn’t supposed to play out in my fantasies.

I was supposed to fuck Nathan, but not the other way around.

I’m a top and have always been a top.

Scratching the tip of my head, I wondered why I was hoodwinked by my fantasies.

I tilted my head, looking down, and monsieur little girl was stuffing himself with my man cream, licking the tip of my cock and wiping the large goop of cum on his chin onto his slimy mouth.

For a man who had recently been kidnapped and tortured, I did well considering what I had gone through.

He tried deep-throating my shaft but could only get it halfway through his mouth.

"See papá, I’ve been a naughty, naughty little girl. I can’t get it all the way. I need to be punished."

I pulled his arm and said, "Pull down your knickers."

He obediently took off his lacy G-string underpants and showed me a dimpled mass of pure fat laying on my legs like a roasted pig on a spike.

His arse didn’t hold any shape at all, but it was bouncy.

I slapped it once. "You’re not going to cry, are you?" I said, to assess if he was into that shit, like fake crying or a slightly stronger form of spanking.

"No papá, don’t. Please don’t hit me harder."

And so I hit him harder.

It took me around thirty minutes of spanking his arse till it was fully red.

I made sure that the arse slapping wasn’t so hard that he’d need reconstructive surgery and that I’d humiliated him enough to tickle whatever floated his boat.

He was wanking himself off while I was spanking him.

Thank goodness he didn’t cum on my trousers; he came on his hand as he cleaned himself up.

And like all men who had released the enervating splotch of fertility and intercourse, my body shrivelled up along with my consciousness, which drifted to sleep.

I was at the mercy of the mouth of this behemoth—another blowjob, and I’d surely pass out to the deepest of slumbers.