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The pillow.
Guillermo fumbles. Never a good sign, that. One word in and he’s already hesitating. The pillow. He’s holding it, with his hands, of course, but holding it like it’s about to spontaneously combust. A careful few inches away from his chest. It’s firm and plush and white and pristine, fresh out of the plastic seal. Smells like chemicals.
It’s not the same pillow. The pillow is on the sidewalk. Nandor had said he wouldn’t go back for it and he hadn’t. Guillermo hadn’t either, of course. So – this isn’t the pillow. It’s a pillow.
And Nandor says these things, and so does Laszlo, and Nadja, of course, God, do they ever, and he’s used to it, it goes in through one ear, out through another, even if it used to make him feel awkward, embarrassment, it’s been long enough. He’s used to it, because it’s constant, they’re always saying these things, but it’s different when it’s –
He closes his eyes. The pillow.
He’d thrown out the previous one, of course. He’s not some bashful maiden, but there’s some things he can’t deal with. Resting his head on a stranger’s masturbation aid is one of those things.
The pillow.
Nandor asks him to do things, and he does them. He doesn’t complain, even when it goes unnoticed, which it always does. He doesn’t ask for anything. He waits years between requests, because when he asks for things Nandor gets upset with him. He’s holding on. He wants things. He can be patient, even if his patience is wearing thin.
The pillow –
Getting off is the least of his concerns. He barely has time to sleep. And sex –
He doesn't have time for it, or anything adjacent to it. He doesn’t.
He sets the pillow down on the bed. Everyone is asleep. He has a few hours to himself. It’s right there.
Nandor asked him to do it, didn’t he? In a way, at least. In the approval was an implied command. Him bringing up a specific thing he expected of Gullermo. Thoughtful, really, in whatever limited capacity Nandor can be thoughtful, but a command.
His heart in his throat. Nandor wants him to do it.
Guillermo doesn’t touch himself. He doesn’t wedge the pillow between his legs. He sets the pillow down, and then he kneels over it, and then he shuffles forward until it’s between his thighs, and then he –
It’s a weird thing, the adjustment. He’d thought it would just sort of happen. That he’d sit on it, and it’d be in a position that would just make sense. He frowns, and shifts, body leaning forward until he’s got his elbows on the mattress. Distantly he wishes he had another pillow to hold in his arms.
Is that comfortable, is what he hears in his head. Nandor, with his aloof, barely caring voice. Only asking because it looks weird to him.
“Yes, Master,” he says out loud. Breathy-placid. Grits his teeth. Comfortable, to some extent. Effective, no. He adjusts. Between his legs the pillow moves with him. Bad angle, better angle. Is this what he’d meant?
And almost without him even thinking about it, suddenly Nandor is there, in his head, telling him go on. Does that feel good? and Guillermo says yes, Master, obedient and pleasant, even before it does. Seeing is believing. Hearing is believing. Does it feel good is the question, and yes is the expected answer. He moves his legs, flexes his thighs around the pillow, and this time, oh, this time, this time there’s something. A spark of friction of his cock against the firmness of the pillow.
“Master,” he breathes out. In his head Nandor doesn’t tell him to do anything. In his head Nandor stands and watches, and Guillermo, with his shaking arms and confused legs, rolls his hips, presses down.
He doesn’t want. Usually, at least. He does want, now, abruptly, so much so that it’s almost a headspin shock – hands in his hair. On his back, sliding down, back up again, longing for one to still, guide his hips, hold him in his place so all he can do is whine and want. Want, want, want. Slick and open, cock throbbing hot and sharp. His face smushed into the mattress.
It’s not the pillow, but the meaning translates across pillows. Nandor wanted this, he tells himself. His Master wanted this, wanted the soaked fabric and the heavy breathing. He wanted it like this. He wanted it here. This is Nandor’s want, and he’s doing it for him.
“Is this good,” he mumbles. The mattress swallows it. Yes, says Nandor in his head, it will do. And even that half-hearted approval that exists only in his head is enough to have him shuddering. Would he put his hand on his head? Would he push his face into the mattress? Would he move his hips for him, like he’s nothing but a doll for him to move as he pleases? A plaything to do what he wants to? Would he like his shaking legs? The feverish heat?
The pillow could be something else. In his head Nandor is there. The pillow could be anything, but he wants it to be the god damn pillow. He does. He wants it to be Nandor's pillow. This is the least he can do for Nandor, right? He could’ve told him his other plans fell through anyway. That he would’ve had to come crawling back to him anyway. He didn’t. He allowed for Nandor to grovel and beg, because he wanted him to. Shouldn’t he feel bad for it? Shouldn’t he want Nandor to get what he deserves?
It’s as electric as it’s damp. Conductive, he supposes. An electric current through him, ending at the wretched pillow, the spot where his slick has seeped through his underwear. An imagined hand on the back of his neck to slow him down, and his body subconsciously following it. His hips working in little circles in the absence of permission to put his body into it. Does he not deserve this? The reward of his body hunched over the shape of the pillow, folded in half? One hand reaching underneath to push it up towards himself?
The first moan almost goes undetected. Something guilty and small. Is he supposed to be so sensitive? He clenches his thighs, tight as he can. The invisible hand moves to his head, which leaves the rest of his body free. The brush of his nipples against the mattress, his lips to the mattress, the barrier of his soaked underwear functionally disintegrated. Some part of him wishes he had something inside of him.
Would Nandor want for him to moan? Would he be embarrassed? Would he want for it to be clinical? Too late for that, Guillermo thinks. He feels feverish. There should be a stopping point. Would Nandor take pity on him? Would he snake a hand between him and the pillow? Would he give him something to grind against? Something more solid? Would he like the shape of his hard cock against his skin? The slick heat? Would he hold the knuckle of his index finger against his wet-hot opening, hungry for him to put something inside, his thumb against the base of his cock?
“Master,” Guillermo says, pleading and pathetic. His hips stutter, still, resume their desperate cadence. A hand, then. Between his legs, between the pillow and his body.
Do you really need this?
“No,” says Guillermo. No hand there, then. In his hair. He pulls at his own hair and whimpers. The Nandor in his head says come on, and Guillermo repeats it to himself. Come on. Come on.
Slick-smooth. The pillow’s ruined before he’s had a chance to sleep with it once. He can feel he’s wet to his upper thighs. So close, blood-sharp, blood-heavy, blood-electric. Knife-sharp, knife-dull. Am I good? he asks the Nandor that’s watching. Yes, says Nandor, though he’s not too invested. Just a blasé admission of approval. It’s enough, though – something dark and sparking and flickering in the dark. Something to shake his door-curtain. He comes in a stutter, abrupt like the static shock of a pulse, body seizing where he’s hunched over his pillow once, twice, three times. Slick–shameful. Slick–tired, ears ringing, bed shaking just like his hips, in sync with something for once.
Was it good? asks Nandor, but he’s already fading into something too distant to make sense. It doesn’t feel real anymore.
It was for you, Master, Guillermo says to him, desperate to keep him.
It always is, says Nandor. And then he’s gone, like he always is.