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Longspot turns another page in his book, stretching out his legs a little as he does, enough so he can press his heels back into the firmness of his new footstool. He reaches to the side for his tumbler of scotch and brings it to his lips, savoring the scent and taste as much as he savors the sight of his seventh son, crouched with his back perfectly straight, obediently poised and staring vacantly out at nothing at all.
Kensington Cosgrove Mordecestershire is a freak, but he certainly always delivers on his promises.
“That school was filling your head with nonsense. Violence, even!” Longspot tuts, kneading the heel of his foot against Maxwell’s back. “You serve a much greater purpose here at home. Don’t you agree?”
The boy swallows, Mordecestershire’s compound racing through his veins, keeping him well-behaved. Like those silly kid gloves he used to wear, he’s all worn-down and butter-soft now. “Yes, Father,” he recites.
“Hm,” Longspot muses, swilling his drink. “Having you call me father makes me feel a bit of a dirty old man, and not in the fun way.”
“I’m sorry,” Maxwell says.
“It’s just that— well, I’m glad you are finally being the good obedient son I always hoped you could be, but you’re also… you’re also not really a person now, are you?”
Maxwell seems to think about that with whatever is left of his mind. “I’m whatever you want me to be,” he answers dutifully.
“Yes, well, then I think that you ought to call me Daddy.”
He watches the boy’s mouth drop open, like he’s desperate to taste the word in his mouth. “Yes, Daddy,” Maxwell says, like the good boy he is.
It’s invigorating.
A knock on the study door. Mordecestershire’s voice on the other side. “Might I come in?”
“Be my guest,” Longspot calls out.
After all, Mordecestershire deserves to reap the rewards of his genius, much as Longspot might want to keep the boy all to himself.
Daddy and his Doctor friend want Maxwell to touch. So he does, because it feels good to do what he’s told.
His hand cups his cock through his pants and he fucks into it, grateful for the friction. He hasn’t been allowed to unbutton his fly or put his hand down his britches, but that’s okay.
What’s important is that he’s being a good boy for Daddy and the Doctor.
“Doesn’t that feel good, Maxwell?” the Doctor says. Sometimes he smiles like he knows a joke he’s not sharing with Maxwell, but that’s okay. As long as he does what he’s told, he knows that everything is fine.
“Yes,” Maxwell says, rutting into his hand, getting more excited.
“Yes?”
“Yes, Sir!” Maxwell says quickly, flushing with embarrassment at his slip-up. He’s supposed to be better than that. He’s supposed to be a good boy for Daddy and the Doctor.
The shame washes through him and instead of making him wilt, it amps up his arousal even more.
“What a sweet lad you are for us,” the Doctor says, swirling a cocktail glass of absinthe.
“Yes, he’s remarkable,” Daddy agrees, watching from the leather armchair beside the Doctor. They’re both very comfortable with their drinks and their chairs, and Maxwell stands before them, unimpressive and pitiful, palming his erection through his pants like a randy teenager.
But he’s doing what he’s told, and that means he’s good.
“They say there’s a point at which science becomes indistinguishable from magic,” Daddy says to the Doctor. “My good man, I believe you’ve done it. It’s as if a spell were cast.”
“Simply a matter of pheromones and retroneuralcognitive reassembly,” the Doctor says. He uses a lot of big words like that because he’s so smart.
Maxwell doesn’t know so many big words. He used to go to a fancy school with a fancy name, but then the Doctor showed him that no diploma was more important than staying home and serving Daddy.
Maxwell is much happier now.
“Maxwell,” Daddy says, “you’re not to disrobe at any point until after you’ve ejaculated.”
The need to obey momentarily clashes against an innate desire for spiffiness and presentability. “But— my trousers—”
“Are you talking back to me?”
“No, Daddy,” he promises, humping into his hand. “I can be good. I’ll do it.”
“Good boy.”
It’s like liquid sunshine pouring through him, brightness like they hardly ever see in Gastonet. If anything has ever made Maxwell feel as good as being called a good boy by his father, he doesn’t remember it.
“Go ahead and finish in your trousers,” Daddy says, leaning back to watch. “Put on a nice show for me and my friend.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Maxwell pants, gripping himself through the fabric.
He’s going to do it. He’s going to come in his pants, leave a wet patch on the front of his crotch. It’s so abhorrent to him, but Daddy said to do it so he knows that it’s the right thing to do.
He rubs himself harder, feeling the eyes on him, feeling the weight of doing what he’s told like a comfortable blanket. He doesn’t need to think or argue. He just needs to keep fondling himself until he makes a mess. Following orders is so much easier than making his own decisions. He feels grateful and calm as he brings himself to completion.
Breath goes in and out ragged through his mouth, but he keeps his shoulders straight and fights the urge to hide himself, either his face or his crotch. He will display himself appropriately, because it’s what was asked of him. He’s been told to put on a nice show, and so he will. It’s the least he can do for the Doctor, a meager thanks for the gift that Daddy’s friend has given him. Everything was so much harder before the Doctor gave him his special medicine. He has clarity now. He has purpose. He shoves his clothed cock into his hand and bites back a whimper.
“You can make noise,” Daddy says. “I want to hear you, Maxwell.”
So he obeys, and he whines out loud as he gets closer and closer to coming. He moans like a whore. He does what he’s told, and it feels better than pointless disobedience ever felt. How many years did he waste balking at his father’s expectations when he could have been submitting instead? It feels so wonderful to submit. He cries out as he gets closer, closer—
And then he’s coming, feeling the dampness spread through his underwear and his trousers, and he feels filthy and euphoric.
He knows he’s done well.
“You see how pliant he is?” Mordecestershire gushes, raking his nails down Maxwell’s back.
“Mm,” Longspot agrees, somewhat distracted as his seventh son sucks him off. It is perversely satisfying, watching him gag and drool, watching any ounce of fight or belligerence washed away.
“Bespoke cocktail of drugs just for him,” Mordecestershire goes on. “But imagine if we could mass-produce it, market it. Turn every rowdy at Revington into an obedient little doll.”
He bucks harder into Maxwell’s mouth, briefly fantasizing about having the whole estate staffed by docile little servantboys eager to please him. Boys Maxwell’s age have always been too rambunctious, too full of mirth and big ideas. Not rational and reasonable like Longspot’s eldest.
(No, that boy never needed any of Kensington’s deranged science to be brought to heel. It’s shameful, what’s become of the youth.)
But even a houseful of polite young men couldn't surpass the high Longspot gets from looking into Maxwell’s glazed expression and seeing the complete lack of fight behind his eyes. It’s like Kensington found a way to wipe it all out.
There is nothing in Maxwell’s glassy eyes but deference and obedience.
The sight is nearly enough to make Longspot spill over right there, and he tightens a hand around the base of his cock to stop himself from ending the fun too early.
Sucking Daddy’s cock is good because he doesn't have to worry about saying something wrong. He can’t talk, so all he can do is be good and make Daddy feel good. No threat of his words doing any damage.
He always used to do that, before the Doctor fixed him. He was always saying things that made Daddy mad. Why would he do that?
It doesn't matter now.
He can take Daddy’s cock so far down his throat. It feels good to do something right.
While he sucks, the Doctor enters him from behind. That used to make him feel scared, but then the Doctor told him he didn't have to worry and the bad feeling went away.
It feels so good to be all filled up, and even when it hurts, he knows that he’s in pain because that’s what Daddy wants, which makes it okay.
He thinks he’s always liked pain. When he was at that fancy school, he liked getting tossed around by larger men, pinned down, restrained. But he used to hit them back, and that was terribly foolish of him. Why would he ever hit back?
It’s a good thing Daddy’s friend showed him how silly he was being. Maxwell is not a fighter. Maxwell is a warm obedient hole. Maxwell is whatever Daddy wants him to be.
Right now, he is two holes. How talented he is!
“Fascinating,” the Doctor says, thrusting into him. “It’s like he was made for this.” He scratches his nails along Maxwell’s hips, working up a sweat now so every inch of his body is moist. “You know, if you allowed me to toy with him more, I’m sure I could even improve upon his capabilities. Remove that gag reflex, for example, maybe make this sweet little sphincter of his self-lubricating. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“I think I like him like this,” Daddy says, and Maxwell flushes at the praise. “The less I have to change about him, the better, truly. So it doesn’t feel like changing him, it feels like revealing him. Like he was always my sweet pet underneath, and you’ve just helped me bring it out in him.”
“Mm,” the Doctor says, drawing out a little just so he can fill Maxwell up again, hard and fast, pressing into him so Maxwell feels good-good-full. “I still think he could do with more hair on the inside. I could give him a little mustache right over his spleen, to match the one on his face.”
Daddy strokes a finger over his mustache then, and Maxwell gazes up at him adoringly, mouth stretched obscenely around his cock. He knows Daddy will make the right call, just like he always does. There is trust there, not earned but wedged into place, as natural as if it had been there the whole time. Maxwell cannot remember a time when his father misled him, so he knows such a time must have never existed at all.
He lets his mind go fuzzy and quiet as the drool drips past his lower lip.