Doctor's Orders
The interning therapist was his and he had made sure everyone knew it.
It was unlikely that Alfred's fellow inmates would attempt to get into the pants of a prison employee, seducing staff always proved to be fruitless and dangerous, but Alfred wasn't taking any risks on this one and he was staking his claim on Dr. Kirkland.
Pretty as a picture Dr. Kirkland.
When the warden had announced a trainee therapist would be taking over sessions with some of the more docile inmates, Alfred's interest was piqued. And boy was he glad he had been sly enough to fall under the docile category because the moment Dr. Kirkland stepped through the door for their first session, Alfred's blood ran hot.
The man was fresh from university and, from Alfred's observations, in his early twenties.
Younger than Alfred.
He was naïve, however, unlike Alfred who had spent the past six months chipping away at a two year imprisonment sentence and the year before that on the run from the police. Where Alfred spent his teen years developing a ravenous computer virus, Kirkland had probably been bent over his thick psychology text books, envisioning how rewarding and selfless a prison therapist profession would be.
Initially, Alfred had thought Kirkland would be shredded to pieces – even by the supposedly docile inmates. With his slender build, fair-skinned, jewel-eyed appearance and tinkling English accent, he was nothing short of a fae-like creature from the pages of mythical storybook. Not a character that was traditionally well received by an audience of felons.
Then he had spoken, measured and imperious with an expression of a nineteenth century headmaster and Alfred knew this one wouldn't be so easy to crack.
Oh, but he was going to try.
Kirkland was as succulent as a spring peach and Alfred was going to sink his teeth into the fruit and take a deep bite.
"Do you find our sessions tedious?" Dr. Kirkland queried.
He was sat behind his desk with his hands perched restlessly in his lap, much like a well-bred schoolboy reciting the academic commandments, but his tone was the tone of the teacher. He was still nervous in Alfred's presence yet believed he possessed control, sitting as Alfred's superior in his large leather seat and his Montblanc fountain pen.
Alfred chuckled and threw his contraband tennis ball into the air, catching it nonchalantly.
"Why'd you ask that, doc?"
"Your body language suggests that you are distracted." Arthur's eyes flicked pointedly between the tennis ball and Alfred's feet, propped up on the edge of the desk. "Which indicates that you find our sessions boring and you are therefore not engaging with me."
Alfred's lips curved crookedly. "Oh, I'm engaging with you, Dr. Kirkland. Engaging with you is the highlight of my week."
He was engaging with the doctor over and over again. On his desk, up against the door, on the floor, on his chair.
He looked at Arthur, long and hard, allowing his eyes to turn dark and molten with his hunger until the Englishman darted his eyes away, his cheeks rouged.
"Tell me how you feel in yourself, Alfred." The question wedged itself into the space between them, smothering the crackle of electricity.
Like any upstanding doctor, professionalism was Arthur's safe haven, the place he retreated into. Alfred knew he understood though. He knew Arthur had deduced Alfred's intentions and he knew Arthur's strayed back to Alfred more than necessary.
Alfred had fostered a reputation of obliviousness, an intentional manoeuvre on his part. He had learnt long ago that if others considered him incapable, ignorant, he would drop under the radar – he'd be underestimated. Alfred was far from oblivious, however, and he was definitely aware when a person was attracted to him, regardless of their desperate clutches at detachment.
He'd let Arthur pretend, grapple for his control, while Alfred would imagine him naked and writhing and let his eyes glimmer with exactly what was going on his head.
"You'll never succeed, amigo," Antonio commented around a spoonful of questionable prison-standard pudding. "He's English. They are masters of sexual repression."
Gilbert snorted. "They're inventors of sexual repression. You won't crack Dr. Kirkland, Al. And I don't get why you want to, the guy's a pretentious dick. Can you believe he said I overcompensate for my insecurities? What the hell, man? I'm not insecure." Gilbert tore into a piece of bread, his expression sour. "Even if you do manage to seduce him, your dick will take one look at that asshole and shrivel up into your body."
Alfred laughed and slapped Gilbert on the back. "Dude, that's the last thing my dick will do."
It was before Alfred's fifth session with Dr. Kirkland that he decided it was time to take that bite. He'd played enough games with the therapist, seen enough rosy blushes to feel relatively confident Arthur would crumble under Alfred 's fingertips. There was a chance Arthur wouldn't respond in Alfred's favour but he was too overwrought with sexual frustration to continue dangling bait in front of the doctor.
When their session began, the air in the room was charged and Arthur's body visibly prickled as he fidgeted in his seat.
Just how Alfred wanted him.
"Do you find yourself frustrated, Alfred?" Arthur said carefully, dotting his pen on his notepad.
Alfred took his time letting his eyes rove over Arthur, so the man could taste it almost. He dragged his gaze across Arthur's torso, along his neck and across his closed lips until he reached his eyes.
"Yes," Alfred responded, the word gravelly and heavy with heat. Arthur's throat bobbed with a dry swallow and Alfred smiled, slow and predatory. "Very frustrated."
"Because you are trapped inside here? Disconnected from the rest of the world?"
"No, that's not why I'm frustrated."
"Perhaps you feel you don't deserve the time you have been sentenced?"
"No, I deserved what I got."
Arthur's eyes widened marginally, startled by Alfred's confession.
"Well, then, is –"
"I'm frustrated because I look at your lips when you talk and when I look at your lips I imagine them stretched around my –"
"Alfred!"
Arthur shot to his feet, smacking his palms on the desk and sending his fountain pen skittering over the edge, splattering dark ink over across the wood.
Alfred's smile grew positively sinful.
Gotcha.
He was breathing erratically, his stare following Alfred's movements. Alfred walked around Arthur's desk and gripped the smaller man by his hips, pulling his body flush against Alfred's like the wolf pinning the rabbit underneath its paw.
Arthur's pulse vibrated into Alfred's veins, rapid and anticipating, and the doctor's body seized in Alfred's hold. Inhaling Arthur's scent, Alfred let out a low sound of approval spill over his lips and Arthur shuddered. His face had slackened with desire, emptied of all doctor sterility, and Alfred found him sublime.
"Where's the key for the door?" Alfred breathed against Arthur's lips. Lips that had parted and had been wetted by a teasing tongue, eager to respond to Alfred.
"Wha –"
The sharpness of Arthur's voice had evaporated, leaving it to flow like warm, velvety liquid.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"You know exactly what I'm going to do," Alfred replied. "And I think it would better if I did it behind a locked door, doctor."
Prompt: Meeting in Prison