Alec

by William di Canzio

In silence, Alec obeyed. He turned his back as he slipped off the knickerbockers. His hard-on made him too embarrassed to take off his drawers; he tried shifting it to one side so at least it didn’t stick straight out. When Van saw him out of his clothes, he said, “Well, look at you, now! How fine you’ve grown, a sturdy example of our Dorset architecture.” He felt Alec’s arms and shoulders approvingly; Alec smiled and shied away, but Van drew him back. “Yes, very nice,” Van said, then mussed his hair and turned him to face the mirror. “See what I mean? Look. Don’t tell me you’re modest. It’s only just me and yourself.” Alec saw in the long mirror what he couldn’t see in the bedroom at home: his body had changed, mostly by nature, but also encouraged by Professor Attila’s art. His childish waist had grown firm; his thighs sinuous, chest wider, arms rounded. Unlike Van, who was tawny, Alec was very white, with a hint of blue veins under the skin where his pectorals swelled. Van guided Alec through some exercises. To adjust Alec’s form when he was curling the dumbbells, Van had him face the mirror again and stood close behind. He slid his arm around Alec’s waist and told him to shift his weight back up against him. “So it’s your arms doin’ the work, not your back.” Alec, weak-kneed from the pleasure of Van’s holding him, closed his eyes. He faltered. Van mistook the wobble for loss of balance and said, “It’s all right, you can’t fall, I’ve got hold.” When Alec said nothing, V...