Madison Mills

Chapter Two: Despondent

The first time after the accident that Nick became conscious, he wasn’t really conscious. He was drifting in the malaise of a drugged stupor. He was awake enough to know he wasn’t in the sports car anymore—that he was in a hospital bed. A figure, hiding behind a newspaper—a rather large figure—was sitting in a chair near the bed. Nick was aware of the pain and of being immobile and having limited vision. He wasn’t aware of anything for long, though, before the drugs kicked in again. He was only beginning to gather his wits on where he was and why when he drifted off.

The next time he woke, it was nighttime, although there were muted lights here and there in the room. The vinyl-upholstered chair with tubular-steel arms that had been pulled up beside the bed was empty. A newspaper was scattered on the floor beside the chair. Nick was trying to connect that with memories of an earlier time, when he realized that a hand was gently holding his jaw, with his face turned toward the empty chair.

“Stay with us, young Mr. Daniels,” a soothing voice was saying. “You’ll be fine. We’ll fix that up.” The fingers guided Nick’s face back to being turned toward the other side of the bed. A man in a white coat was there, turning Nick’s head from side to side in a gentle motion. He seemed to be examining Nick’s face. The man was tall and thin, his hair was black and wavy, his skin an olive color. Nick got the impression of a handsome face but almost too perfect, a bit too young for the rest of what Nick could see. But what did he know? He was still on drugs. His impression also was that the man was something foreign—South Asia perhaps. Indian? Whatever, there was a sensual, exotic air about him. As a sometimes male prostitute, Nick was always quick to assess the sensuality of a man he came into contact with. This one was sexy.

Nick was largely immobile. Flicking his gaze around, he saw that his right arm and leg were in casts. And something was covering the right side of his face. He could only see out of the left eye. A feeling of dread crept over him. He was a male model. He had been damaged. There was something wrong with his face. He might as well die. With a groan, he closed his eye and drifted off into unconsciousness again.

The next time when he woke, it was day again. He heard the creaking of vinyl material and turned his head to see that a large man was sitting in the chair by his bed, looking over him, talking to someone else on the other side of the bed. Nick moved his head toward that side of the bed and saw that the dark-skinned man in the white coat was there. Looking back at the man in the chair, Nick realized that the man in the chair was familiar, that Nick had known him sometime in the past.

“I think he’s awake,” the man said. The voice was familiar too. Harvey Williams. It was the sponsor of the Barnes museum men’s fashion advertising gig—the man who had fucked him at the InterContinental Hotel. In New York. Times Square. New Year’s Eve. Just last night? Or earlier? How long ago was that? And what about Steven—Steven Saylor.

He must have said the name aloud because Williams reached over and laid a hand on his arm and said, “Not now. We’ll talk about that later. For now, just work on your recovery. My business card was in your shirt pocket when they cut you out of the car. They called me, and I came.”

Nick drifted off into drugged unconsciousness again.

A week later the drugs had been backed off enough that Nick was lucid when Doctor Kumar Singh visited him. He’d also been told about the car crash and that Steven Saylor had died on the scene.

“How long before I get these casts off?” Nick asked the doctor.

“I don’t know,” Doctor Singh answered. “You’ll have to ask Doctor Gillespie that. He should be in on his rounds today. He’s taking care of your bones. I’m going to fix up your face.”

The right side of Nick’s head was still heavily bandaged. The bandages had come off for checking and replacing a couple of times, but Nick hadn’t asked to see the damage. He didn’t ask now, either. Singh could tell that the mention of them upset the young man.

“You know we can go a long way to repairing the damage there,” he said. “I’m a plastic surgeon. I was called in to attend to you. We’ll take our time, but we’ll get there.”

“What’s getting there for a male model?” Nick asked, his voice bitter. “I can’t work ever again. I might as well be dead.”

“Surely not,” Singh said. “You were a handsome young man. I’ve seen photographs of your work. You’ll be a handsome young man again. Perhaps a bit different. But I’ll take you to my clinic from here, after the rest of your body has healed. We’ll set this right. Look at me. Look at my face. I was in an accident too, back in Mumbai. Wouldn’t you say that I was repaired well?”

So, that was it, Nick thought. He’d thought there was something about the man’s face that didn’t match the rest of his body—even though both were quite presentable. A sense of plastic about the face and a youthfulness that didn’t quite go with the rest of him. Yes, he was handsome, but he wasn’t real. This wasn’t helping.

“But the expense,” he said. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Singh said. “Much of the expense is being covered. A man was here, in attendance on you those first couple of days when they were assessing your needs and prospects.”

“Yes. I think I have met him. From New York. A client of the advertising firm I was working with.”

“Right. That was Harvey Williams. He’s a wealthy man. He has a men’s fashion house. Your car accident was the morning of January 1st. Mr. Williams has said you and your boss had been in New York, meeting with him on business.”

“Something like that,” Nick said. He was, indeed, giving Nick the business in a hotel room, the young man thought. Somehow from the way the doctor had said it, Nick had the inkling that Singh had a better understanding of the night of the crash than just “business” in the city.

And the Indian doctor confirmed that. “I know what business you were engaged with Williams in New York. I know what business you are in. Harvey and I are friends. We share . . . interests.” And it was a look of interest he was giving Nick. “So, you were on the job,” he continued. “Much of your care is covered. I have a private plastic surgery clinic not far from here, in Bucks County, an old mill town on Neshaminy Creek, a bit southeast of Doylestown. Madison Mills. Most of what we can do there will be covered.”

“Most?”

“Mr. Williams brought me in on your case. As I said, we are personal friends—and we share personal friends from time to time. Everything will be covered except for something of a personal fee for me.”

Personal friends? He obviously was saying that Williams had told him he had laid me, Nick thought. And not only that, he’d stressed having similar interests to Williams and that they shared. Williams had told him he’d doubled me with Steven Saylor. Williams and the plastic surgeon had doubled young men together before.

It explained how familiar the Indian-origin doctor had been in how he had touched Nick. Nick had thought that maybe it had just been an Indian trait—to touch a patient with an edge of intimacy—and with hands with sensuous fingers. And surely Singh had seen whatever he’d wanted to see of Nick while the young man had been captive in this hospital bed. There was no personal privacy for a patient from doctors in a hospital. This was actually the most hopeful sign Nick had had since the accident. The doctor was signaling that he wanted to exchange treatment for sex. That meant that someone still found Nick sexually desirable.

“Ah, well, if I’m not working, I can’t afford—”

“Since it’s been established that you were working when you had your auto accident, you remain on a worker’s compensation salary. That should last until you are fixed up. Let’s not assume that you won’t be able to be a male model again. But, even if not that, you are a fine young man. There will be opportunities. You have a very fine body—very fine indeed. And it’s not money I want.”

“Not money? Then what can I—?” And then the Indian doctor’s intent was confirmed. He saw it in Singh’s eyes. Yes, Williams had openly talked to the doctor about what Nick had done for him.

“I told you that Harvey Williams and I are personal friends and that we share some interests. He told me what the nature of your business meeting in New York was and how you’ve been employed other than the modeling. He told me the escort agency you work for and the services they render. I have needs. I would hope that you would find me attractive—attractive enough to trade my skills for, well, you know.”

Yes, indeed, Nick knew. “Now? Do you want to climb on top of me here and fuck me now?” Nick asked.

“Certainly not,” Singh replied, somewhat indignantly. But then he added, “Yes, I do want to climb on top of you right here and fuck you, but there’s little expectation of privacy in this hospital. That can wait until we get to the privacy of my Madison Mills clinic. But I assure you that I’m a leading physician in what I do. You can ask Harvey Williams. I am the best you can get. If you want me to help you I will expect value for my services.”

“Yes, of course you will,” Nick said, with a sigh, “but you won’t be getting premium goods.” He supposed he should be grateful. What man would want him the way he quite evidently looked like now? Nick was in the business because he had needs too; he was highly sexed and needed his part of what men paid him for.

“Don’t underestimate your desirability,” Singh said. “It’s not your face I am interested in. You have a beautiful body, both inside and out. I know exactly what you have to offer a man. And your responses, even under sedation, are highly arousing. Harvey told me you did, and he was right.”

“Do you mean—?”

“Have I fucked you already? Yes, twice, if you wish to speak baldly about this. You were deeply drugged and it was in the quiet of the night—even hospitals go to sleep for a brief time at night—but I assure you that you responded fully—that you took it deep and participated in the coupling. You are a beautiful young man, and will once more be convinced of that yourself, if you will put yourself in my care. I am looking forward to enjoying you fully conscious . . . that is if you want me to reconstruct your face. Do you? I’m am probably your best opportunity to be as handsome again as you once were.”

It was only now that Nick realized that the doctor, standing by his bed between the bed and the door to the corridor had moved a hand under the covers and had it positioned on Nick’s thigh, high up.

“If you agree, spread your legs for me a bit. Give me full access,” Singh murmured. “I wish to give and take the pleasure with you that the circumstances allow.”

With a sigh, Nick lay back in the bed and opened his legs. The doctor had both hands under the sheet now. One went to Nick’s cock and the index finger of the other pressed into Nick’s channel. Nick started going hard immediately. He was highly sexed, he was a professional rent-boy, and he hadn’t had it for a couple of weeks now—at least not when he was conscious.

“There, that’s a good boy,” Doctor Singh murmured. “Open to me. Just like that. We are going to be quite a gift to each other. Harvey says you can do marvelous things with the muscles of your channel walls. Can you make love to my finger like that, please? Ah, yes. Yes, feel free to ejaculate as you wish. I’ll hold this gauze to your penis head while I stroke you to take your release. If we had more privacy, I would be happy to take it in my throat. Perhaps you could turn a bit so that you can use a hand to give me release as well.”

And that was how Nick had his first conscious sex following his car accident. Singh stayed with him, the doctor’s finger expertly stroking Nick’s prostate, until Nick had received release. The doctor had moved to where Nick could move a hand into the folds of his white medical jacket, unzip him, and stroke him to a release too. As cocks went, the doctor had a very nice one.

* * * *

It was dark in the Madison Mills clinic. Nick demanded that it be dark in the room when Kumar Singh fucked him. It was Singh’s clinic, though. He could have arranged privacy to fuck Nick in full daylight, if they had wanted. Nick was still reticent for Singh to see his damaged face while they were coupling, though. It had been four months since the car accident and the casts and facial bandages were off. Singh had said he’d worked miracles with Nick’s face and there now was just one flesh-colored bandage running from the bridge of the young man’s nose down to the right side of his jaw. But Nick was still saying he’d never heal—that he wouldn’t look at his new face and he knew that no one else would either. His career as a male model was over, he kept saying.

But Doctor Singh kept saying that it would be an emotional healing Nick should work on because his face would look just fine—even in terms of a career as a model.

It was good then that the rest of Nick’s body had healed and he could still do his other job—being fucked by men for money and advantage. In this case it was for a new face he was determined he’d never look at. He could let men fuck him now—he wanted men to fuck him now. He ached for what Singh was now giving him—but only in the dark, where they couldn’t see what he knew was a grotesque face.

The Indian doctor was close to his first ejaculation. Nick knew the man liked to have—and to give—two climaxes in a single session. They wanted to believe they were virile studs when fucking Nick.

Nick was on his back on the hospital bed, his pelvis raised by some marvelous adjustment that could be made to the bed’s frame. Singh was kneeling between Nick’s thighs, leaning over Nick’s torso, looking intently into Nick’s face, something Nick had no idea how the doctor could stomach doing, with his hands gripping Nick’s throat. He was pounding Nick’s passage hard in long, insistent, pistoning slides of an upcurved cock that was impressively long if not particularly thick. Nick’s legs were bent, his feet flat on the surface of the bed. His fists clutched at the doctor’s bony shoulder blades, digging in and flexing to the rhythm of the man’s thrusts. He was well into the fuck, using the leverage of his feet—his right leg tender but functional—to counterpunch the doctor’s thrusts, taking him deep. Singh had already stroked Nick’s cock to the young man’s first ejaculation.

Nick gurgled and gasped, urging through a restricted windpipe for Singh to hurry to a climax, which the doctor was doing without encouragement. They pounded against each other frantically toward and then past Singh’s climax. When it came, the Indian lowered his light, lithe body on Nick’s and came in for a deep kiss, possessing Nick’s mouth with his and making Nick especially grateful they were fucking in the dark. He returned the kiss hungrily. He could not have done that in the light.

Coming out of the lip lock, Singh kissed down Nick’s body, whispering, “Your body is so nice,” which Nick was prepared to believe, while the young man shuddered and moved his hips in arousal. By the time the doctor’s mouth reached Nick’s cock, the shaft was hard as a rock again and Singh took it into his mouth and, holding Nick’s midsection in a close, imprisoning embrace, sucked hard on the cock, as Nick bucked against him, clutched at the Indian’s head with his fingers running through the man’s black, silky hair, and crying out, “Yes, yes, Take it!” gave the Indian a second shot of cum.

Exhausted, Nick let Singh turn him onto his belly, the bump in the bed raising his hips and providing deep access to his channel. Singh mounted him from the rear, thrust deep inside him, and stroked to his second coming.

Afterward, lying stretched out on top of him, the doctor whispered into Nick’s ear, “You have been in isolation too long. It is time you were out and about again. There’s a party at George, down on the square, tomorrow night. I want you to go with me.” George was a B&B owned by a middle-aged gay couple. One, the main proprietors of the inn, was, indeed, named George. But the name of the inn had come from George Washington, who had reputedly ridden through the town at one time and looked in the direction of the building the inn was now located in and blinked for an instant, which prompted the inn to put out the well-known, “Washington Slept Here” sign. The other, a bit younger, keeper of the inn was a midlevel novelist named Erick. Singh had said that most of the regulars in the small village were either gay or of an artistic or literary bent—or both—and that the inn was the center of their social life.

“That’s why I have my clinic here,” said Singh. “I like to surround myself with like-minded young men.”

“I couldn’t possibly go out,” Nick murmured. “You know that I don’t—”

“You have a new, presentable face now,” Singh countered, “whether or not you’ll look at it or admit it. Those at the party will have no idea what you looked like before, only that you are stunningly handsome now. This will be a transitional opportunity. It’s a masked party—not costumed, but masked. I will provide you one that covers that side of your face. But you don’t really need a mask now. There’s but a small scar now and that soon will be hardly noticeable. What’s there now will draw men in, not repel them.”

Hardly noticeable? Nick thought. I’ll know it’s there. I’ll know when I look in the mirror that it won’t be me I’m looking at anymore. Not all scars are on the surface, he thought. And if the face is like the one Singh has, it will no longer be suitable. His is too perfect. Too plastic. He’ll never gradually age; one day his face will just fall and then he’ll be grotesque.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“I do. Doctor’s orders,” Singh said. “By the way, Harvey Williams will be coming down from New York two weeks from Saturday to see how you are doing. The reconstruction should be done then and the bandage should be off.”

“Harvey Williams? Why is he doing that?” Nick hardly knew Williams. The man had fucked him on New Year’s morning before that auto accident. And Steven Saylor had said the man had looked through Nick’s portfolio and was interested in him. He’d been there when Nick was first in the hospital and had come to the hospital because Nick happened to have his business card in his shirt pocket. But why this sustained interest in a young man whose face was ruined?

“You’ll have to ask him when he gets here. He has been very attentive on your recovery.”

“He has?”

“Yes. He brought me into your rehabilitation. He’s paying for all of this. Didn’t you know that?”

No, Nick didn’t know that. “I thought I was paying for it with sex,” he said.

“As good as the sex has been, that doesn’t cover the quality of treatment you’ve received,” Singh answered.

After the doctor left him, Nick rose from the hospital bed, still in the dark, and padded over to the desk by the window. He turned on the soft-focus desk lamp that only illuminated the center of the desk. There was a mirror in a frame on the desk, no doubt put there by Doctor Singh, Nick surmised, to catch him unawares and make him look at himself. Nick saw it in time to turn it face down on the desk before catching a glimpse of himself.

He opened the drawer of the desk and pulled out the laptop computer. Booting it up, he went to the novel he had started to write two months earlier. He knew how to write; he had majored in creative writing at NYU. Before now, he didn’t have anything he wanted to write about. Now, however, he had so much he wanted to put into a novel—so much that he couldn’t tell anyone in his life disfigured face to face.