Bliss Page 7

  “When you went into Quentin’s room, it was afternoon, he was there, lying on the bed. Now, without getting upset—for it can’t hurt you, you can feel that—” he squeezed the shaft of my cock with his ass, as if for reassurance, and again I was distracted by a mind-clouding sexual heat. I grunted and focused, gritting my teeth. “What—what do you see?”

  After some hesitation, the toneless voice came. “Quentin. He has, something—”

  “What is that something?” I interjected, so as to head off another emotional reaction. “Just say what it is. Remember, it’s not scary. You can remember safely. I’m here. Feel me. I’m inside you now. Just say what it is.”

  “It’s—it’s—one of Ted’s face masks.”

  This surprised me, but I kept my voice calm and low. “You mean the masks he uses for his oxygen parties?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is there a tube? Is it hooked up?”

  “Yes.”

  “And—is there a cylinder of gas—somewhere nearby?”

  “Yes. Beside the bed. In its cradle.”

  “And is the face mask strapped on? Is there a strap around his head?”

  There was a silence, then Horst shook his head slowly. “No—”

  “Then what’s holding it in place?”

  “It’s on—partly on the side of his face. Just lying there. No strap.”

  I stared. “Not over his mouth and nose?”

  “Yes. No. Partly, I think.”

  I paused.

  “And what did you do?”

  “I listened.” This was followed by a long pause, during which Horst began to become upset. I ran my hand lightly along the length of his thigh.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not scary. Whatever it is. I am here. You can feel me. Nothing can hurt you.”

  Horst nodded slowly.

  “I don’t know what to do. Quentin—he’s not awake, he won’t wake up. What—? I feel dizzy. What can I do?”

  “It’s okay,” I repeated, and wrapping my arm around him, pressed him back against me. “I’m here. I’m with you.”

  He nodded.

  “What did you do?” I repeated, my voice calm and gentle.

  “I heard the hissing, from the face mask. I put the mask over his face—oxygen—to wake him up—”

  There was more straining, and I had to reassure Horst again, and did so by thrusting forward, which made him moan quietly with pleasure.

  “What happened then?”

  “He didn’t wake up—I felt his pulse. It was slow. I held the oxygen mask in place. The strap was broken. He didn’t wake up. And then—and then—!”

  “It’s okay,” I murmured in Horst’s ear. “I’m here. You can tell me. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing can harm you.” To accompany my words, I took his cock in my hand and stroked it. This seemed to distract him, and he made a pleasurable noise. At the same time, feeling my focus beginning to waver, I thrust forward inside him.

  He moaned quietly, and murmured, “Yes,” several times, and, “Don’t stop, please!”

  With this encouragement I had trouble maintaining my therapeutic intention. The stimulation seemed to distract him, but on the other hand I didn’t want to excite him right out of the hypnotic—and I didn’t want to cum myself. This was—though I could hardly believe it—an important investigation, and probably therapy too.

  Horst, meanwhile, though clearly aroused, had calmed down, and was smiling vaguely, eyes closed.

  “Quentin didn’t wake up,” I suggested.

  He nodded. “I held it down—the mask—hard. For a long time. I listened to the hiss of the gas—to make sure—”

  “But it didn’t work?”

  Horst slowly shook his head.

  “What did you do then?”

  Horst’s face clouded over, he seemed on the verge of weeping.

  “I tried mouth to mouth, it made me dizzy. But—it didn’t work either—”

  He began to sob. “He just laid there, like that. And I couldn’t do anything.”

  I was silent, holding him.

  “And then?” I prompted, but he didn’t seem to hear me. He was deep inside his pain now, crying and murmuring, so that I decided I had pushed him far enough. I brought him out of his hypnotized state—without moving.

  And now we find out, I told myself.

  He woke up gradually, slightly confused. As he became aware of me holding him, he pushed his head back and turned it, to look at me. I lifted my head so that our eyes met. He smiled, and pushed back against me while holding the arm that was wrapped around his chest.

  I felt vastly relieved, though I wasn’t entirely sure he was fully awake yet. I started to pull out, but he reached back and pulled me forward, pressing me against him. He chuckled.

  “It’s—what I wanted,” he murmured. “From that first day.” And with that he pushed back with his ass, harder, and I thrust forward, and we both groaned with pleasure.

  I grasped the shaft of his cock again, and kissed and nipped his neck and shoulder, while thrusting, slowly and deeply. I must have shifted my direction, because suddenly, when I was again buried deep inside him, he shuddered and groaned.

  The prostate! I thought. Bingo!

  After that it was easy. I savored each thrust, and savored too the shuddering groan he gave each time I stimulated his prostate with my cock head. The heat built until I had passed the point of no return. I thrust, harder than ever, and held myself in position as my cock began to pulse forth its seed. At the same time, he groaned louder than before, and his cock began to pulse too, while I stroked the shaft and savored the sensation of his sphincter rhythmically squeezing my own cock.

  And then everything slowed down, and we both lay there, spent, in a state of pure bliss. Horst held loosely onto my arm that lay against his chest, and I remained buried deep inside him. We didn’t move for several minutes.

  Complete relaxation sometimes provides a fertile environment for the problem-solving function of the mind to work, and now, especially relaxed and content, a realization burst upon me with startling clarity. It took several seconds for the import of the realization to become clear, then I almost crowed with pleasure.

  Horst, having sensed something, looked over his shoulder at me questioningly.

  I squeezed him and grinned.

  “What?”

  “I have it,” I told him excitedly. “I have it all.”

  He shifted around so that we faced each other.

  “All what?”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Know what?” Now he had an expression of amused impatience.

  “Everything!” I said.

  He chuckled and then grabbed one of my nipples and squeezed it, so that I yelped.

  “What!” he said, laughing. “Tell!”

  I leaned forward and kissed him. It was very sweet and wonderful, and again distracting. His hand came around to the back of my head and held me to him, so it was a while before we pulled away.

  “Whew!” I said. “That was—” I shook my head.

  He was looking at me, his face the most open it had ever been, and this made him more beautiful too. It was, quite simply, the face of love, all the positive emotions, and I gazed at it happily before raising myself up onto an elbow and looking down at him.

  “I know,” I said, my voice slightly choked, “that you’re innocent.”

  “What?” His face clouded over, but I shook him.

  “No, no!” I said. “I know now. I believed before, but now I know.”

  “Oh.” He looked mollified, then happy. “Really?”

  “Yes!”

  I kissed him again. “But now, what about a shower?”

  He nodded, and we both got up.

  Chapter 6: Oxygen

  The shower was languid and romantic. It might have been more than that, but I had to admit that Horst vertical, naked and next to me was not just enthralling, it was a bit intimidating, and not in the way that got me going. That d
idn’t bother me. I was still getting to know him. Besides, the sense of connection I already felt, the sense of discovery, and of hope for something long-term with this wonderful person—they were plenty to keep my heart and soul happy.

  It was mid-afternoon now, and Horst suggested a late lunch of sorts. He also refused to let me assist.

  “I work better alone,” he assured me. I got another coffee instead, and waited in the living room.

  Whenever I’m idle—or at least most of the time when I am—I start to ruminate. This time I had lots to think about. The tape of Horst’s last hypnotic session wasn’t something I wanted people to hear particularly—since it would be pretty obvious what we were up to.

  On the other hand, I did feel secure about the information the session had provided. Horst had not murdered Quentin. Had not killed him at all, at least not on purpose. But what exactly had happened—by which I mean what had killed Quentin—I still wasn’t sure.

  There was something—

  A moment later I was on my feet. Going to the entrance to the kitchen, I said to Horst that I had an errand to run. Before he could say anything, I was off, out of the apartment and down the stairs. At the moment I had no patience for elevators.

  I burst into the manager’s office on the ground floor, causing the assistant to give a startled cry. I apologized, and asked to see the manager. The assistant picked up the phone and spoke into it.

  The manager, thankfully, agreed to see me right away. A suspicious death in her building was not good public relations, and once I had shown her my credentials, she was eager to help me clear things up. This being settled, I put my request to her. Fortunately, what I wanted was on the computer, and she had the assistant print out a hard-copy. I looked at this and suddenly felt the world shift slightly under my feet. I thanked them both, and went out to the elevators in the lobby. I felt like I was walking on air.

  I entered the condo—I had left the door unlocked—and took my prize discovery, rolled up, into the kitchen. Horst was just setting the table. He turned but before he could speak, I waved the document at him. He opened his mouth and closed it again. I noticed that everything was ready, and feeling that my current excited state could be sustained through the meal, nodded, put the paper on the counter, and sat down at the kitchen table.

  At first, Horst was curious about what I had found, but he didn’t say anything, and I was slightly distracted by the really excellent food. It was a Thai curry chicken dish, with aromatic rice and steamed broccoli.

  “Wow!” I told him after tasting everything. “This is amazing!”

  He looked shyly delighted.

  “Almost as good as the sex,” I added, smirking impishly.

  He turned red but then looked even more pleased.

  “With all these things going for you,” I continued, “I can’t think why someone hasn’t snapped you up.”

  He lowered his head, perhaps in embarrassment, but that meant I couldn’t read his expression and I became worried I might have said something wrong. I reached out and, putting a finger under his chin, gently forced his head up. With relief I saw that his eyes were shining with unshed tears, and he was smiling his shy smile. But now he shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

  My heart melted. I reached out and took hold of his hand. “Well, that’s just my good luck, isn’t it?”

  This, however, appeared to be more than he could take. He lowered his head again, and then, without looking at me, looked and pointed towards the document I had placed on the counter.

  “What’s that?” he said. “You seemed excited.”

  I looked at it and grinned. “Go ahead,” I said. “You look at it.”

  He shook his head. “Coffee, first.” He got up to make the coffee. He motioned me into the living room, which I did, and he brought in the coffee when it was ready, along with fresh brownies.

  “Oh, my God!” I murmured, taking one and biting into it. “Mmm!”

  “As good as sex?” he said quietly, smiling.

  I looked at him and shook my head. “Nothing is as good as sex—with you.”

  He gave a small, pleased noise, and unrolled the document. I watched as he scanned it, waiting for his reaction. It was over a minute before it came. He froze, and his eyes widened. Then he stared at me, his mouth slightly open. He looked especially kissable like that, but I forced myself to stay focused.

  “When did you figure it out?” he said quietly.

  I shrugged. “It was you—your clue: inner sanctum. It didn’t seem right. And there was all that personal stuff that wasn’t anywhere.”

  Horst stared at me, nodded, and then looked at the paper again.

  “But,” he murmured, “I don’t see how—”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Neither do I. But how about we find out?” I picked up the brownie. “But after coffee and cake.”

  He laughed and nodded.

  * * * *

  About twenty minutes later we took the document and a tape measure and went into Quentin’s bedroom.

  On the wall opposite the door into the room there was, left to right, a chest of drawers, a large mirror, a wardrobe—odd, since there was a walk-in closet opposite the window—and then another chest of drawers.

  I unrolled the document. It was a diagram of the condo, showing all the rooms, electrical outlets, plumbing—everything. And for each room dimensions were given for each built-in feature, such as doors and windows.

  I examined the dimensions for Quentin’s bedroom. Horst took the end of the tape measure and went to the left hand end of the wall we were regarding. Murmuring, “four feet, two inches,” I pulled the tape to the right until I had the distance indicated from the left hand corner.

  It was just inside the left hand frame of the wall mirror.

  “Aha,” I murmured.

  Horst let go the tape and joined me in front of the mirror. I squatted down. The mirror’s bottom was a foot from the floor, six inches above the top of the lower molding. I ran my finger along the molding from behind the chest of drawers on the left to as far as I could reach behind the wardrobe. Then I looked up at Horst.

  “There’s no break. It’s continuous.”

  “Huh.”

  I stood up, and examined the mirror. Grasping it on either side—it was about three feet wide and five feet high—attempted to lift it.

  Nothing happened. I tried a bit harder, and felt only a slight give. I gave up and letting go, stepped back.

  “Okay,” I murmured. “Something—”

  Horst had moved forward and was running his hand along the left side of the mirror frame.

  “Anything?”

  He shook his head, paused, and—click! The left hand side of the mirror swung forward, like a bathroom mirror on a medicine cabinet. He pulled it wide, and exposed—

  Nothing.

  It was just wall, unbroken, and unmarked. The pale blue wall was unblemished, though it was just slightly darker within the rectangle where the mirror rested—no doubt due to the slight fading of the exposed wall surface.

  Horst looked at me, and I looked at him. We both laughed.

  After staring at the spot, I stepped forward and began running my fingers over the surface of the wall. At last, I stopped. I had found something. I stepped closer still, and examined the wall where my fingers were. There was an ever so slight irregularity, which ran in a vertical line an inch to the right of were the unfaded wall color began.

  I ran my fingers along this, and gradually discovered a rectangle, smaller than the mirror. Convinced that this rectangle must in some way be movable, I pressed into it, near its left side.

  There was another click, and the rectangle of wall swung open just as the mirror had. I pulled it wide open, and found myself looking through the rectangle at what appeared to be an ordinary room.

  Horst and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. I gestured for Horst to enter first. He hesitated, but then stepped
through. The bottom of the opening was just over a foot above the floor, something like the doors in submarines. I followed.

  It was clearly a study—Quentin’s inner sanctum!

  There were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three sides, a broad window to the north side, a large desk in the center, and to one side an ergonomic chair. This had very soft padding, an adjusted slant like an advanced form of lazy-boy chair, and some buttons on one of the armrests that appeared to adjust warmth and vibration. The curious thing about this chair was that it was set to one side, and had several books and a shirt lying on it, like it was a discarded, perhaps uninteresting, toy.

  Near the bay window was another chair, this one more modest, but quite comfortable, and it faced towards the world outside the window.

  It was the bookshelves that interested me, however. Many of the books I knew were Quentin’s areas of interest: philosophy, science, religion. Horst stood in the center of the room, looking ill at ease.

  “What are we looking for?” he said after some minutes.

  I paused in what I was doing, went up to him, put my arms around him, and kissed him. He immediately got into it, and it was some time before either of us spoke.

  “What was that for?” he said, smiling happily.

  I grinned sheepishly. “To be honest, it’s for using the word we.”

  He blinked, nodded, and kissed me again. After this we stood, arms around each other, foreheads just touching, sharing contentment. Finally, he sighed and we let go of each other.

  “So,” he said. “What are we looking for? Anything in particular?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But maybe something he wrote in—a journal or something.”

  We got to work, starting from opposite ends of the shelving. After several minutes Horst gave a cry of surprised satisfaction.

  I turned and saw he was holding up a large, hardbound volume with leather covers, the sort used by people who kept serious journals, like research scientists. I took the volume from him.

  “There are a bunch of them,” he said, pointing to the shelf.

  I saw the gap where he had pulled this volume from. It was third from last. Opening the front cover, I saw two dates, and examined the first page of notes and the last page, and saw that the dates on the title page were those of the first and last entry made. These were from over two years ago.