Designed Intent

Chapter 24

"Please, make me come!" Gleason squirmed in earnest now and Bobby knew he was crossing over into mean.

"How should I fuck you?"

"Just do it. In me. Make me come!"

Bobby slid out from under her, took her arms and turned her onto her back. She opened wide and grabbed for him. Bobby knew they both would come the instant he slid into her; so he knelt between her legs, took himself and guided his cock up and down her slit, not entering, just sliding up and down. Gleason arched and pushed, but Bobby was in control.

"No, no, wait for it," he whispered deeply, "I want you to want it. How's this? Feel good?" He wanted to slam into her in the worst way; but, even more so, he wanted her to wait.

She opened her eyes and glared at him, realizing what he was doing – teasing her. "Do it now. Do it."

Bobby smiled at her and poked the head of his dick inside, just the head. He hissed a breath, and pushed in a bit more. Oh god, hot! "You're so hot inside, so hot." He closed his eyes and pushed again, sliding in half. She clenched around him.

"Please fuck me. Push hard, Bobby, push hard," she begged.

Bobby placed a leg over each of his shoulders and held her thighs. Gleason pushed against him and he was up her totally. They both groaned at once. "Fuck me!" she whispered, "Do it. Hard."

Bobby pulled out, slid back in, and felt himself begin to release. He withheld, however, and slid out and then in and then out and then in, faster, harder. Gleason bucked up and came nearly silently, twitching and writhing. Bobby came with a feral grunt and jerked inside and out. Gleason came again, pushing against him, her finger rubbing her clit.

Slowly, they calmed; Gleason lay gasping, more so than usual. He slid her legs from his shoulders and lay beside her, up on his elbow. "Honey, are you alright? Gleason?"

Eyes shut tight; she dragged huge, deep gulps of air into her lungs. "Baby? Honey?" He smoothed hair from her face with the palm of his right hand. She opened her eyes and looked at him, her breathing slowing. "Are you ok?"

She nodded but said nothing. She just stared at him and he did not like the look he saw in her eyes. "Gleason?" He didn't know what to think. "Honey?" She rolled onto her left side and reached for the covers. "Gleason, what?" He tried to roll her back but she resisted.

Suddenly, Bobby saw red and he exploded, "Goddamn it, Gleason, don't fuck with me! What's wrong?"

She turned and nearly screamed, "I am not your toy! I asked you how many times to do it and you would not. It had to be when you were ready! You were teasing me. I wanted to come; I wanted you to make me come. But you wouldn't."

Hearing it aloud made it real for him. She knew what he was doing before he did. Bobby realized that he was not just teasing her; he was punishing her. He was not giving her what she wanted because she would not give him what he wanted. He used sex as a weapon; he had used their precious intimacy against her.

Gleason threw back the covers and stormed into the bathroom, slamming shut the door. She turned on the shower, and got in, relishing in the warm spray. She knew she was partly angry because she was not completely satisfied. She had wanted to come some more. If he won't do it, then I will, she said to herself. Her hand moved to herself and her middle finger began to rub. Oh, god, yeah.

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Malcolm bolted up, off the bed, stepped into his trousers, and dashed to his son's room. The child was sitting up, screaming and crying, his arms reaching for something, someone. Malcolm snapped on the light and strode to the bed, whipped back the covers and lifted his son, caressing him, rocking him, shushing him.

"Laddie, Laddie, shush. Shush Gussie. I'm here, Daddy's here. Shush, Love, shush."

Maeve came around the corner, tying her robe around her, and went to her son in his father's arms. The boy had stopped screaming but continued to cry and sob. His face was red and he was soaking wet. She put the back of her hand on his forehead; he was warm, but not fevered.

"He's wet his pajamas," he said to his wife.

Maeve went to his dresser and took another pair. "Here, stand him on the bed and let's get him out of those wet clothes." Malcolm nodded and turned to set the boy on the bed.

"Here, Gussie, stand up Son. Let's change your jammies. Stand up." Malcolm tried to put the boy on the bed, but the child clung to his father's neck and wailed. He wrapped his legs around Malcolm's waist. "Gussie, Love, let Daddy change your pajamas. Stand up, Angus. Stand up, like a big boy. Come on."

The child shook his head and clung tighter. Malcolm looked at his wife not knowing what to do. "Gussie, Dearheart, let Mummy hold you. Come; let Mummy hold her Sweet Boy." Maeve put her hand on the child's back and rubbed lightly. Angus turned his head from his father's neck and looked at his mother. His sobbing slowed. Maeve continued to stroke his back while Malcolm held him. "That's my Sweet Boy. Come; let Mummy hold you while Daddy changes your bed, ok? Here come to Mummy."

She put out her arms and Angus reached for her. She took him and Malcolm handed him over. "Oh, my sweet, sweet boy; oh, Gussie, Mummy loves you. Mummy loves you," she cooed into his hair. The little boy's crying had stopped and he hitched sobs.

"Malcolm, bring those pajamas into the bathroom, would you?" she said. He nodded and picked up the fresh clothes. Maeve crossed the hall to the bathroom and stood the child on the toilet lid, where his father had dried him. She pulled off his shirt and said, "Turn on the hot water and get a clean wash cloth for me, eh?"

Malcolm obeyed. "Where are his sheets? I'll change his bed."

"In the linen closet, second shelf."

Malcolm found the sheets, stripped the bed, including the leak-proof bed pad, and remade the bed with fresh sheets, pad and blanket. He finished as Maeve returned with the boy, all clean and dry. "Hey, Laddie, better?" The child lay against his mother's shoulder, his head resting on her, his thumb in his mouth. He didn't respond.

She laid the child in the bed, pulled up the covers and sat beside him. She smoothed back his hair, bent and kissed his cheek. Malcolm knelt beside the bed and took his son's hand. It was so small, frail. He bent and kissed the tiny hand. Angus wrapped his hand around his Dad's middle finger and held tight. The thumb of his other hand sat securely in his mouth. He looked from his mother to his father and back again. His parents looked at him and watched as their son's eyelids began to fall and he drifted to sleep.

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Bobby laid thinking about what he had done and he hated himself. What is happening to us, he thought fearfully. This afternoon with his mother had been odd, certainly; but their time together afterward, getting ice cream, at the park, had been sad, but so loving. Bobby realized that each wonderful time seemed to be paid for by horrible fighting.

The shower stopped and he waited for Gleason to return to the bedroom; she seemed to be taking a long time. He pulled on the jeans he had dropped on the floor and went to see if she was all right. "Honey? Gleason?" he said at the bathroom door. "Gleason are you all right?" She didn't answer, so he opened the door and went in.

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Malcolm and Maeve returned to the bedroom. "It was a bad dream, that's all," she said, slipping off her robe and reaching for her nightdress.

"Don't wear it," Malcolm said softly, looking at her steadily, their eyes locked.

They had made love earlier, desperate and hurried; actually, they had had sex, not made love. Malcolm kissed her softly.

"Malcolm, wait, stop." She laid her left hand against his cheek, "What are we doing?"

"What?"

"We shouldn't do this." Maeve tried to move away, but Malcolm held her and pulled her close.

"Maeve, I want to make love to you."

Maeve stared at him and then got into the bed pulling up the sheet. Malcolm stepped from his trousers, dropping them on the floor and got in beside her. They lay side by side, neither moving, neither speaking. Neither knew what was next.

Malcolm sighed heavily and said, "Does he have these nightmares often?"

"No, not at all. He's a good sleeper."

"He's sucking his thumb again. And the dry pad under his sheet -- is he wetting the bed again?"

Maeve paused and said, "Aye. He's become a wee boy again, Malcolm." She waited to see if Malcolm had noticed anything else.

They lay beside each other, both looking at the ceiling. Malcolm slid his arm under Maeve's head and she moved closer. "Maevie, Angus said not a word whilst in the bath. He nodded, shook his head, he did as I asked. He laughed and squealed. He can hear, why doesn't he talk? What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know."

"When did he last speak?"

Maeve sighed and said, "He hasn't spoken in a while." She hesitated and then said, "Malcolm, he stopped talking a few days after you left." Maeve shifted to look at him, wanting to see what effect this truth would have.

Malcolm looked at her and felt his heart rush, "Are you saying I caused this?"

"Mal, all I'm saying is he stopped talking after you didn't come home for several days. Right after you left, he would ask where you were, when you were coming back, were you angry with him."

"What did you tell him?" he asked softly.

"I told him the truth. I assured him you were not angry with him, that you loved him as ever. I also told him I did not know where you were or when you would be coming back." They lay together, thinking of what to say next.

Maeve continued, "Gussie seemed to accept this and eventually he stopped asking about you. Then he stopped asking for anything. He began to point if he wanted or needed something. He would nod in response when I would speak to him."

"Does he talk at all?"

"Aye, I've heard him singing in his room and out in the garden. And, he talks to his animals, he reads to them; but he stops as soon as he sees me."

"What about school? Does he talk at school?"

"I spoke with his teacher about this and she said he no longer talks at school. She said he whispers to one little girl who then tells what he wants. The teacher called it 'selective mutism.' It's a psychological condition triggered by anxiety or trauma such as abuse."

"Abuse? Jesus, Maeve, we have never abused him, not in any way."

"The teacher asked if I knew what the problem was, what might be causing him stress."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her the truth – that Gus's father had left us."

This stopped Malcolm cold. A psychological condition? Because he left? Gussie is just a little boy. What have I done to my boy?

"Why haven't you said anything about this?"

Maeve hesitated again, and then answered, "Because you've not been around and, and I didn't think you would care."

A weight dropped onto Malcolm's chest. He loved his wife and his son. He had been foolish to leave them, selfish. He was sorry.

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Gleason sat on the closed toilet seat, a towel around her body and another around her head. She rocked, staring at nothing. "Glea--, are you all right?"

She stopped rocking and looked up at him. "I can't do this anymore, Bobby. I can't fight with you anymore. I cannot take the emotional swings. I'm not strong enough to fight with you, love you, do my job . . . all of it. I can't do this anymore."

Bobby squatted down in front of her. "What are you saying?" he whispered.

She looked at him. Oh god, she loved him; but she was not strong enough to love him anymore. "Bobby, I need a break. We need a break. What we have is becoming toxic. I cannot continue to live like this."

No, no, no, no. No, she is not saying this, he thought. "Are you leaving me?" he breathed.

She closed her eyes and looked away. "I'm going to stay in Evanston for several weeks. We'll still talk, but I'm not coming home for a while." She looked at him and saw his rising panic, saw him struggle for control.

His hands moved toward her, but seemed fearful of touching her, "Gleason . . . let's . . . Honey, let's, let's talk with Dr. Stephens." He stood and she rose with him, he couldn't look at her directly, he could barely breathe. "P-please, don't do this. Jesus, Gleason, don't leave me," his voice was airy and weak. She saw him begin to shake.

Gleason knew his fear of abandonment. The phone conversation from the closet they had had when she had left him and gone to Evanston that first time rushed back from her memory. He had been a wreck thinking she had left him for good. She loved him and always would, but what they had right now didn't feel like love, not any more.

"Bobby, it's just a break. We'll talk as we have, we'll –,"

"I, I'm sorry. I'll change. I'll do whatever you want. Don't leave me. Don't leave me." He face bore the same dark look of pain he gets when life is at its most confused and painful. "Let's not do anything until we talk with Dr. Stephens. You need to come back and see Dr. Creighton. Gleason, don't, don't leave me. Don't leave me." His desperation was pathetic.

Gleason looked at him for a moment, stepped past him and returned to the bedroom.

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