Your name is Dave Strider, and your mouth hurts in a way you very much wish it wouldn't.
This is because of your new plastic retainer: two clear trays the shape of both your top and bottom teeth, a tight fit on already aching teeth. It's distracting and annoying, but the pain isn't nearly enough to dampen your elation at the fact that you are - finally, incredibly, satisfyingly - free of your braces.
It had been fun at first, considering how you had admired the wire arrangements so ardently in your youth, how you had marveled at the colored elastic stretching across the mouths of your peers, your head filled with questions you never had the chance to ask. Once you had had braces of your own for a good month or two, however, their charm was all too easily lost on you, and you were sick to death of the constant pain of too tight bands, the struggle to keep stray bits of every meal from making your mouth a permanent home, the ever-present taste of blood, however faint. You hated the way your lips would catch on a band stretched across your teeth in such a way it made talking a nightmare, the way your cheeks would get hung up on the metal bits here and there, the way the spreader bar across the roof of your mouth made your tongue sting with pain every morning, when you awoke to find you'd been pressing them together too hard in your sleep.
The retainer isn't anywhere nearly as bad, you decide, though, admittedly, you have only been wearing it for about three minutes. Still, you so far prefer it immensely, even if it is tight, even if it does collect unattractive amounts of saliva in its pockets, even if it does make your words lisp and stumble, and even if it does catch on your gums. You accept it all in exchange for finally having the freedom to trace your tongue over the rivulets of the roof of your mouth, at last free from the obstruction your hated spreader bar had been.
It suddenly occurs to you that you could probably give a pretty awesome blow job now, should the need arise. Before you wouldn't have dared to, not with that horrible bar in your mouth, but now you feel like you have so much room, and you can't help but imagine all the things you could fill it with. Food crosses your mind, too, but that had already been a given, a universal constant that you're going to be stuffing your face as much as possible, as soon as possible. A dick just seems like a much more interesting thing to try fitting in your mouth, never mind the fact that you won't be getting a chance like that in the foreseeable future. Not unless Bro suddenly decides he's into puppets and incest, that is. The slim possibilities don't keep you from contemplating the notion, however.
The room you wait in is quiet, when you hush your own thoughts long enough to hear it. There's a painting before you on one of the white walls, a picture full of detail and vivid colors that you wonder at for a while, until the complex patterns of the foliage's shadows distract and frustrate you, and your turn your eyes elsewhere. To the fake tree in the corner, to the dentist-y looking contraption bolted to the wall above you, to the cart beside your reclining chair with your name on the paper in the tray, to the framed clippings hung in the hallway outside the room. You faintly hear an alternative rock station playing over speakers somewhere else in the office, along with the subdued sounds of light conversation, the occasional word ringing out.
You're waiting for your doctor to come. At least, that's what the nurse - or whatever the orthodontic equivalent is - said for you to do seconds before she left, having only given you the new retainer and a very brief explanation of when to wear it and how to clean it. His name is Dr. Egbert, a name you ponder as you stare at an uninteresting ceiling. You used to have a pediatrician named Dr. Phampy, back before a certain brother of yours had gotten the both of you banned from her office. You had thought Phampy was a pretty unusual name, but somehow it doesn't strike you as quite so odd as Egbert. It's a nonsense word, something weird and made-up sounding. At least Strider means something. It's like, a fast walk, or something.
All you know is, Dr. Egbert is awfully nice and has round glasses and eyes blue enough to make his latex gloves seem purple, and when you first met him you could barely keep your eyes off him, he was just so interesting to look at. You think it must be the fault of his round glasses, because, well, who doesn't love round glasses? It takes a special type of man to pull them off, you think.
Perhaps it's the fact that you're a young, growing boy, or maybe you're just bored, but as soon as you've taken a good long look at absolutely everything in the room twice - even glanced in some of the drawers, predictably bored at the contents - you can't help but keep your mind off your blue-eyed doctor... and a few places filthier than an ill-lit office, though the room you're in now suffices plenty for your imagination.
You imagine, just for fun (you're about bored to tears with the waiting; it's been at least ten minutes, now), that Dr. E strides into the room, shutting the door behind him, sitting in his rolling chair at the counter to discuss your progress. In your mind, he smiles at you, the lines around his eyes crinkling pleasantly. He's pleased with your progress; when you first came in, you had the most awful buckteeth, your bicuspids the straightest of the lot. Now, he says, barely a year later, you've improved so much, you're one of the best patients he's ever had, and he really does admire your wonderful teeth. In fact, he admits, he's almost sad to see you're finally ready for a retainer, as now you'll only have to come in to see him once every three months, instead of six weeks.
He surely will miss your visits, he says.
You shrug, but your mouth wants to smile, even though your retainer cuts into your gums a little; you're happy about your newly freed teeth, and he does flatter you so. You're sure he must be just saying that, sure he says that sort of thing to all his patients. You don't say as much out loud, of course, but he smiles as though you had with a shrug of his own.
His smile never falters as he tells you all about your retainer, how you must be very careful not to leave it where animals could get to it, how you must be sure to brush it with liquid hand soap and not toothpaste, how you only have to wear it at night, really, and not to worry if you happen to miss a day or two here and there. It's all stuff you've read in the pamphlet the nurse gave you, stuff you're spoon-feeding your imaginary self to make up for your lack of knowledge about general dentistry.
You nod and ask polite questions about this and that, but you can't seem to keep your mind on what he's actually saying, which is for the best, as he's not really saying what he means to, anyway. His words keep coming out differently than he intends, and his sentences are becoming increasingly jumbled, like yours do when you're tired. There's a moment - just a look, a blink, a glance - and then he's kissing you, a soft, sweet kiss that's more like a bold question mark than anything.
He's been so kind to you, you couldn't possibly turn him down...
Ah, who cares about this boring stuff? You decide to skip the Hollywood nonsense and get right to the good part, which starts when he climbs over you, pressing you down onto the reclining chair, devouring you in a deep kiss. You can't imagine kissing would be too comfortable in your retainer, so you imagine to have taken it off at some point, so there's nothing between his minty breath and your newly braceless teeth, and it's just perfect, screw reality. You imagine him pulling you up with a firm grip on your sides, his warm, sturdy hands sliding up your favorite red sweater to thumb at your nipples, caress your shoulder blades, sliding down, down, down to the edge of your jeans and just resting there, with the first three of his fingertips disappearing into your waistband, the rest of his hand firmly holding your hip just the way you like, hard enough for little bruises to form, you decide, smiling a little at the thought. You just love a firm grip.
You aren't sure how much farther you should take this fantasy, as someone - namely, Dr. Egbert - could walk in at literally any second, but you can't help slipping in a little bit more, just enough to get to the point where he's pushed your sweater up to your shoulder on one side, his tongue fully embracing one of your nipples as you clutch encouragingly at his biceps, your knees hooked over his hips, and you're whining desperately as you rock against him, just a little, your back arched at an almost painful semicircle, mating your hips and bellies, your head the only part of you still touching the chair besides your feet and ass, an ass he is gripping forcefully, almost as though he is trying to lift you single-handedly into his lap, something you are only too quick to -
You hear footsteps down the hall, and draw yourself out of your mind quickly, perhaps a little tighter in your pants than you had been a few minutes ago, but otherwise looking the picture of an average patient at an orthodontic appointment.
The doctor jogs into sight, his blue eyes crinkling at the sight of you, and you grin nervously. He says something about his tardiness, explaining that he tried to get to you as soon as he could and apologizing for the wait. Sometimes your imagination is a little too good, you think, as, leaving the door wide open, he sits in the rolling office chair at the counter and looks over the notes he has on your progress. He would have said about the same thing in your mind, and you bite down with a painful throb on your retainer to remind yourself not to do something stupid, that this is reality, where things have consequences.
"Well, now, congratulations," he says, as you nervously stare at the tropical painting before you, "you're finally free of your braces. Excited?"
"Yes, sir," you say, nodding at the wall. You can't look at him, not when the denim of your pants is clinging to you in a way that makes you really want to touch it, to peel it from your skin, at least; it's very distracting. Also, 'yes, sir'? Goddamn, if you weren't worked up before, you certainly were now. Thank god you wore your tightest jeans today; you don't even want to think about what might happen if you hadn't. Also thank fucking satan that you were going commando, jesus christ why did you think that would be a good idea?
He doesn't seem to be able to read your mind, thankfully, as he seems to think you aren't looking at him merely because he's seated a little behind you. The chair rolls across the floor as he situates himself more directly in your line of sight, saying something rather uninteresting about teeth growth and bone shifting and natural adjustments and late growth spurts. You feel guilty, yes, but not enough to stop the fantasy from running in the background of your other thoughts, like a favorite movie left on as a soundtrack to menial chores. You're listening, but you're also groaning softly, grinding as best you can against the hardness you can feel in the crease of your hip as he leans into you, his free hand sharply tugging your head back by the hair in just the right way to make you beg as he marks up your neck, careful to keep below the high collar of your sweater. You'd worn it to save you from the bitter February chill, your favorite white one with the red stripes on the sleeves, but now you're glad you did, smiling inwardly as the real doctor tells a story about his junior high mullet, relating to you that smiles never go out of style.
Sheesh, it's almost painfully obvious how used to working with kids this guy is.
You're not quite paying as much attention to reality as you should until you hear the snap of latex and look up to see him pulling on gloves, which means he's about to touch you. Oh, jeez. You turn the volume on your fantasy down low as he flips the switch to make your chair recline until you're flat on your back and he's leaning over you, and you can smell his aftershave. You obligingly open your mouth for him, and discreetly pinch your thigh punishingly when, in your head, you're gasping, sucking on the three fingers he's thrust into your mouth to keep you quiet, one of your hands is fisted in his collar, the other gripping his thigh beside your hip, and he's biting your ear and his tongue is at its shell and he's forcing your mouth open with his fingers and you're drooling too much, and he wipes up the mess with the fingers previously in your mouth and sucks them into his own mouth, and you're watching interestedly, your tongue poking rather obscenely from your lips as you try to regain your breath, something that eludes you further when he pulls your hand up to his cheek, presses a kiss to your palm, then coaxes your fingers into his mouth, the warm, wet heat of it enough to make you moan -
"You're going to see some irritation around the gums for the first week or so, but eventually they'll heal and then you'll see a gap in your retainer, right along the gumline, and that's normal." His warm fingers are poking at your mouth rather chastely, or as chastely as fingers in mouths can possibly be, and you risk a glance at his face, only to see the lower half is covered by a paper mask, his eyes intently focused on the status of your teeth. "Right now your brain thinks you're eating something, so you're going to be salivating a little bit more than you normally would, but your brain will get used to it in a few days, so don't worry about that."
In your head you're biting his lips, and your hands are on his chest, which is nice and warm, despite the fact that he's still wearing his shirt. He won't let you take it off; it would invite too many predictable mistakes. Besides, he's much more interested in getting you undressed than you are him. He has you by the wrists and pins your hands down beside your hips, though by now you've got your thighs wrapped around his waist so only your shoulders are actually on the chair, and he pins you and licks your lips and bites gently at your throat, and you're getting too loud again so he fits both your wrists into one palm and with the other hand forces his thumb between your teeth, and when you squirm against his grip he whispers something in your ear that makes you shiver. He's grinding against you almost painfully and then he's pulling your hair again - your hands suddenly freed - and he's tugging at your jeans -
"Do you have any questions, Dave?"
Your thoughts flounder for a moment, trying to think of some question he hadn't already answered. You can't think of a thing, and settle on asking dumbly, "What if something happens?"
"Well, if something happens to your retainer, say, you completely disregard the warnings and decide to boil it or microwave it or something, you'll want to call us as soon as possible to get you back in here, so we can try to repair the damage, or just make you a new one. I should warn you, the first replacement will cost you thirty dollars, and after that each replacement will be a hundred. It's really important that you take good care of your retainer, because you'll have to wear it for the rest of your life if you want to prevent negative growth later on."
The rest of your life? Seriously?
He shows you pictures of the different types of retainers that can be had and explains why he thinks the one you have is best, even letting you in on the fact that he wears one just like it, himself, every night. He explains that the one in the picture that looks more like a mess of wires and plastic than anything is more expensive, and he could make a lot more money selling that kind, but, he says, he had tried one like that himself for about a week and had hated it. He says he doesn't like prescribing things to his patients he wouldn't want for himself, and you're not sure if he's trying to melt your heart with his good guy act or not, but either way it's totally working; you can hardly believe what a golden fucking heart this guy has. It almost makes you regret getting freaky with him in your head, but not nearly enough to make you stop. It's sort of awesome in a really weird way to think about the fact that you're demanding he have his way with you. You think about that and realize someday you're going to make some therapist a lot of money.
He says a few more things, just a few comments about being sure to bring your retainer with you next appointment, don't forget to brush daily, be sure not to eat or drink anything but water while wearing your retainer. You nod automatically, barely listening as, in your head, you're practically in tears. He's biting you gently, lower and lower down on your chest, and the lower he gets the harder he bites and you can hardly keep still, you're so frantic with anticipation, and your nails are gripping his collar bones and your hips are in his hands and your knees are framing his shoulders and he's undoing the button on your pants with his teeth and holy shit it's time to go. You need to leave like right now immediately, or risk getting banned from yet another doctor's office.
Despite how worked up you are, you coolly hop from the chair the second he stops talking. He escorts you back into the lobby where Bro is waiting for you, and you barely nod when Dr. Egbert bids you farewell. Bro is only too glad to get the hell out of there, so you waste no time leaving, Bro complaining the whole way out about what a huge timesuck this appointment has been, barely responding with even a grunt when you bare your teeth to him, showing him their new plastic casing. He shoves you towards his truck gruffly, and as you both climb in, he says, "Yo, that doctor guy of yours is a real piece."
You scrunch one side of your mouth, the rest of your face unmoved. "Dude, gross, he's, like, eighty."
Bro only snorts, making a face at you like yeah, right.
You shrug, pressing your forehead to your window, and wonder how long it'll be before your mouth starts hurting for real. Dr. Egbert said you didn't have to wear your retainer except at night, but you just know if you take it off now there'll be spit and stuff all over, and Bro'll have a fit about his car, piece of crap that it is, and you know from experience that it usually takes a few hours after a new torture is inflicted on your mouth for the real pain to set in.
You're also wondering if you can get away with fantasizing in front of your brother. Sometimes he acts eerily like he can see what's going on in your head better than you can, when others it's like you're speaking some alien language, he's so clueless, so it's a bit of a toss-up, really.
Eyeing him in your peripherals, you cautiously imagine something somewhat more 'safe for work' than before. You picture the doctor's broad hand on your ass, just lightly gripping it through your jeans, your smaller hand on his wrist, holding him there. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your hips flush with his, and -
"Hey, not in the car, genius," Bro says, distractedly aiming a flick at your ear, and you sigh, defeated, resigned to a long, cold, and silent ride home.