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Derren Brown is a strange, strange man. That's David's final opinion after spending a series of bizarre evenings filming for Trick or Treat. He's not sure whether the oddest part was the drawing of the cat or spending thirty minutes juggling fruit, bouncing on a space-hopper, and vainly trying to hula-hoop. Maybe the oddest part wasn't the flamboyantly odd parts, though, because it's not the party games that linger in David's memory. Something's been itching at the back of his mind for weeks, and he's willing to admit it's driving him ever so slightly mad.
It started after the filming of his first episode for the series. Squeezing into a wetsuit and floating for the better part of an hour wasn't quite what he'd expected when he'd had his agent sign him up for this, but he was hardly going to complain about being forced to relax. It was a bit like being pampered at a spa, except at the end he was expected to blindly scribble nonsense for two pages. Even with the full filming crew watching him, floating made him sleepy and boneless, and Derren's soft, whispery voice did nothing to shake him from the lulling daze.
After Derren shook his hand for the camera, the film crew quickly began to break down the lighting and equipment. David still felt soft around the edges, and at Derren's insistence he sat back down at the table. The envelope crinkled temptingly in his pocket, but he'd promised to resist the urge to open it.
"How are you feeling?" Derren asked.
"Very relaxed," David admitted. "You should open a spa. Probably make even more money from that than TV."
Derren chuckled. "The thought has crossed my mind. Would you like to go back in?"
David looked at the warm pool, deeply tempted. He bites loosely at his lip. "Probably shouldn't. It's a long drive back to Cardiff." They won't need him on set until the afternoon, but he was planning on sleeping in his bed for at least a few hours.
Derren looked slightly bashful. "Ah. You're not going to be in any condition to drive tonight. Look, stay here for tonight, no need for a hotel, and I'll make sure you're up on time for an early start."
"That's very generous, thank you," David said, automatically polite. He glanced at the pool again. "If I'm staying the night, a little longer wouldn't hurt."
Which is how David ended up drifting pleasantly in the water again, this time without an audience. The wetsuit muffled the soft sounds of the water, and the warm weightlessness carried him again. He watched the ceiling for a while, arched lines and clear panes of glass for this greenhouse pool. When he floated too close to the side, he gave a little push off the wall and kept drifting.
He didn't think it would be possible to fall asleep floating in the water, but then he opened his eyes and found himself floating against the poolside, Derren crouched over him the way he had been during filming. David blinked sleepily up at him, a strange sensation of hearing something and then forgetting it. Probably a dream.
"I think you'll find the spare bed almost as comfortable," Derren said.
As David climbed out of the pool, he'd staggered against gravity, but Derren took his arm and helped him up. David felt even more loose-limbed than before, and the thought of bed called to him.
"Sorry. Your rug's wet," David said, as he left wet footprints along the rich carpeting.
"It's fine," Derren said, unconcerned. They reached the guest room. He closed the door behind them. "You need help with the wetsuit?"
Somehow the question seemed to answer itself. David nodded, and concentrated on not swaying as he watched Derren's hands unknot his robe, slide down his zipper. David turned as the wetsuit was peeled down, off his arms and then down. He felt a flush of embarrassment as his swim trunks were caught by the thick fabric and tugged halfway off.
"Oops. Sorry," he said, fumbling for the waistband and tugging it up. But Derren didn't comment, merely helped him step out of the suit. David almost immediately trod over to the bed and sat down, fell back, legs dangling over the mattress, stomach stretched flat, arms flopped limply out.
He woke up early the next morning, drooling on the pillow and covers tucked around him. Instead of swim trunks he was wearing a pair of striped pyjama bottoms and his hair smelled like someone else's shampoo. He thought it was funny that he couldn't remember showering, but then there was a quick breakfast and Derren's driver waiting for him, and it was days before he saw Derren for the automatic writing sequence. David thought about asking him about that night, but it seemed too trivial to bother.
That was then. It's been weeks now, weeks since the surreal experience of Derren Brown, but he can't put it out of his mind. There's a dream he keeps having, but when he wakes it's gone. But still there's something, a sensation more than words or images. Lingering at the back of his mind. Like a word he can't remember, a memory just out of reach.
Derren sends him an advance DVD of his episode, and David leaves it on the counter for days before he has time to watch it. Finally he takes out the disc from the Davros box set and slips in Derren's. Sits back on the couch and hits play.
He doesn't really mind watching himself when he's acting. It's like looking into a mirror, checking his expressions and posture. But it's always uncomfortable to watch when he's simply being himself, for interviews or talk shows. He shifts in his seat as he watches himself pretending to go back in time and feels far more ludicrous than he ever does playing the Doctor.
By the time he's watching himself ask a girl to draw a cat, though, the discomfort has faded as he recalls his bemused amazement. He realized after the fact how the trick must have worked, that both he and the girl must have been exposed to that specific image before they were asked to draw whatever came to mind, but even knowing the trick he has to admit it's impressive.
And then there's the pool. He laughs in surprise when Derren's voiceover leers over him in the wetsuit, shakes his head and watches himself floating, limbs spread, toes peeking out of the water. The sight of it takes him back to that night. He remembers floating. Derren's hand reaching out. A sound, muffled words.
He blinks back to himself as the credits roll. He pauses the DVD and rewinds back to the pool. Watches again. Drifts and blinks back. Rewinds, watches again. Again.
His eyes close and he dreams. Fluid images, sounds slurred, dragging through his mind. The slap of a hand and he starts awake.
He goes to bed, the DVD forgotten. He strips naked and rubs against the sheets, his head full of the muffled buzz of words he can't remember, much less understand. He feels wetness against his face but when he touches it it's dry.
The next day everything is fine. Filming is long and grueling, but when he comes home he finds himself picking up a DVD case from the counter. Derren must have sent him the episode. He can't remember if he's watched it yet, so he puts it in and presses play. It's uncomfortable watching himself as himself, but he enjoys the bit about the cat drawings.
He wakes up in the middle of the night, thirsty and aroused. His cock is aching, god. He wraps his hand around it and groans in relief. He's so fucking hard, Jesus. He tightens his fist and strokes roughly and when he comes he tastes chlorine on his tongue.
He's so thirsty. He raises his come-slicked hand and he's thirsty and he smears it against his mouth, licking sloppily at his come. He doesn't know why but it helps, it quenches his thirst, and he sucks all of it off, wipes his cock with his hand and licks it clean until his hand shines with spit. He licks his lips and tugs at the blankets and wakes up in the morning feeling refreshed, relaxed. He barely notices that he must have pushed off his boxers during the night. He's not normally a restless sleeper.
When he comes home from filming that evening, he notices the DVD, and wonders if he's watched it yet.
During the day he feels good. Better than good. His normal end of filming lethargy fades away and he feels invigorated. Everyone comments on how much energy he has, and his enthusiasm spreads through the crew. Every night he comes home exhausted and notices the DVD. Every night he dreams of water and voices. Every night he wakes up so hard, so thirsty, and the next morning forgets.
He has to keep in shape, stay flexible and limber for all the big stunts. He does a lot of bending, a lot of stretches. It's not surprising that he finds himself spread out on the floor, legs spread wide, arms stretched along the carpet as he flattens his chest down. The television is on, but he doesn't notice what's playing.
He's going to have harness work, and that always does his back in. He decides to try some new stretches, new exercises. Maybe they'll help. He ends up propped against the wall, elbows down for balance and legs raised high. His muscles jump and strain. He suddenly realizes that he's hard, so hard and so thirsty. He should let his legs down from the wall, that makes sense, so he does. His front is squeezed as his legs fall back and over, and he thinks it would be good to grab his thighs and pull, and his knees bump against the sides of his head.
He wants to suck. He's supposed to suck, but he can't quite reach. He tries to strain his neck for it but he can't. He rolls his weight back a bit more, rocks slightly and tugs at his legs and he didn't notice until now that he was doing his stretches naked. His cock is full and arching and a drip of precome falls from the tip and wets his face, and a sudden rightness comes over him, a certainty, a knowledge. He opens his mouth and breathes out, and the tip of his cock sinks between his lips.
He can't bend any more, but that's enough. He nurses at his cock, his lips sealed around the head. He's so thirsty. He sucks and sucks and the voice in the back of his mind is sweet and soothing, a soft and whispery murmur that he can almost understand. A little longer and he'll understand, he'll know what he's supposed to do.
When he comes his balance shifts, breaking the seal of his mouth. Come streaks his face, his mouth, as his muscles lose their tension and his bent legs slip down, thump against the wall. He lies there, panting, licking his lips until they're clean, dragging his fingers along his face and gathering the come, swallowing every drop and knowing the rightness of it.
Everyone is impressed at how well he bears up during the wire work that week. When he's asked what trick he's learned, he simply shrugs and says he's trying meditation. He's not lying, that's just what seems the truth. The calmness he feels is certainly as close to meditation as he's ever been. They say pain is all in the mind, don't they?
A DVD arrives in the post. It's the other episode for Derren's show. He hasn't thought about that recently, and when he watches he's amused more than embarrassed as he makes a fool of himself for a few hundred pounds. He hardly needs the money, but Derren wanted him to play and it seems wrong to say no to Derren.
He watches the DVD from start to finish, not touching the remote, not moving. When it ends, he calmly stands. Finds his car keys. It's his day off tomorrow, so he doesn't need to leave a note to say he'll be gone.
He doesn't bring clothes, his mobile. Doesn't bring anything. He drives the speed limit down the M4. He arrives at the mansion and steps out of the car, walks inside. The door is open, waiting for him. He's expected.
He walks through the house, his feet already knowing where to go. He's hard and so, so thirsty. The library door is open. He walks inside and Derren is waiting, dressed in a fine suit and his chin resting on his knuckles. His legs are slightly spread. David can't look away.
"David," Derren greets, a slow smile on his face. "You want to kneel now, don't you."
"Yes," David says, distantly. There's a spot on the rug in front of Derren's chair, and his knees find it and stay. He looks up, eyes glazed and unfocused. "I'm thirsty," he says, tasting chlorine.
"Then you should drink," Derren says, perfectly sensibly.
David licks his lips. Swallows. He reaches forward and opens Derren's trousers, slides down the zipper. Eases out his thick, heavy cock, so hot in his hand. David leans forward and sucks.
Derren's cock feels good against his tongue. His lips stretch around it as he bobs up and down, letting the head hit the back of his throat over and over. Derren's hand plays in his hair, mussing it and stroking it, a gentle pressure urging him to angle his head, to take his cock deeper. David moans with thirst and obeys without thought or resistance, his air cut off as Derren's cock bulges his throat, filling and stretching it, and David swallows hard to keep from gagging. He rises up, breathes and then sinks down again, the crinkle of sharp hairs scratching against his lips.
Derren's hand grips his hair and pulls him back, and then Derren grunts as his cock pulses into David's open mouth, across his cheeks and his nose, wet stripes of come decorating his face. The moment David tastes it, that sense of rightness begins to click everywhere, all through his mind. The muffled voice fades away, as if it no longer needs to be heard. As if the message has found its destination. He laps the come from Derren's cock and his mind is quiet and placid, like floating in a warm pool.
Derren takes his hand and guides him upstairs. Not the guest room but the bedroom, and David's never been here before but it's familiar somehow. He knows this is where he's supposed to be. His place. Yes.
Derren helps him strip, lays him out on the bed, limbs loose and spread. David is still hard, but all he can do is stare into Derren's eyes. Derren said something but the words seem to slide past his consciousness and into somewhere deeper, past hearing into knowing. He's supposed to do his stretches again. The bed is soft, but Derren helps him, bending his legs and pushing, folding him and pressing until his knees are to either side of his head and there's a burn in his legs but it's so easy now, so natural to hold this position.
Derren pushes his legs down, pushes his tailbone to curl a few more inches. David's cock slides past his open lips and down, down. He breathes noisily as he sucks his own cock, as it pushes deep the way Derren's did just minutes ago. His tongue rubs against the shaft as he sucks and sucks, Derren watching him raptly from above.
"Pay attention now," Derren is saying, in that calm, soft way that makes the words slide over David's mind. "Can you hear me, David?"
David mumbles yes around his cock.
"I'm going to ask you a question, a very simple question. I want you to answer with complete honesty. After you answer, I'll let you come."
David gives a noisy suck, moans again for yes. He wants that, wants to come. He's so thirsty again.
"I'd like to keep you, David. Keep you. Would you like that?"
David moans yes. Yes, he wants that. He's supposed to be kept. That's why he's here. Derren said so. It must be right.
"Good. Very good," Derren says, voice warm with approval.
The pressure on David's legs eases, and his cock slips from his mouth. David gapes after it, deprived, wanting. His cock is held inches from his face, so close.
"Please," David gasps, licks his lips. "Please, please." He wants it, needs it so badly. He needs to suck, to swallow. Needs it. "Derren, please."
"Would you like to come?" Derren asks, smooth, whispery.
"Please," David croaks.
"Then come," Derren commands, and without touch, without anything but the command, David comes, cock twitching as come streaks messily across his face, his mouth, his tongue. He comes again and again, too many times to be natural, Derren's command somehow reaching so deep his body obeys beyond reason until finally he's empty, everything squeezed out of him, his face a mess. He licks his lips clean.
Derren carefully unfolds him, letting him down to lie flat on the bed, rightness saturating his mind, his body. Derren speaks again, his words sinking, settling into David's mind.
"You're going to be such a beautiful fuck," Derren says, and David has no doubt that it's true. No doubt at all.
End.