"Good boy," he praised, releasing me and stepping back. "Now compose yourself. We have guests waiting."
Cold air rushed between us. My cock throbbed painfully, still out and leaking. My hands shook violently as I tucked myself away, zipping up with difficulty over my erection. My shirt had come untucked, my hair mussed, my face flushed.
Ezra watched me struggle, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. When I finished straightening my clothing, he reached out to adjust my tie, fingers brushing against my throat. The tenderness of the gesture threatened to undo me again.
He leaned in, pressing his lips briefly to my forehead. "You did well today. Julian won't approach you again. Tonight, when we're home, you can have your moth back and nurse as long as you need. I know you miss both."
The promise of comfort—of my glowing moth in my arms and his nipple between my lips—sent relief flooding through me. I nodded gratefully, desperate for the familiar ritual. The nursing wasn't about regression or infantilization—it was about connection, about the one place where my body felt wholly my own even as I surrendered it. When I suckled at Ezra's breast, the fractured pieces of myself knit back together, the public and private Micah becoming one integrated being.
We returned to the gallery separately. I spent several agonizing minutes in the restroom, splashing cold water on my face, gripping the porcelain sink until my knuckles turned white. My reflection looked foreign—flushed cheeks, wild eyes. The careful mask I'd worn my entire life had slipped, revealing glimpses of whatever creature lurked beneath.
When I rejoined the exhibition, Ezra was surrounded by admirers. He gave me a quick, approving nod.
I moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations on my selection as Ezra's protégé, discussing the technical aspects of his work without revealing their true nature. Wine sloshed in crystal glasses. Snippets of pretentious art theory floated around me.
"Micah," Ezra's voice startled me from behind. His hand settled on my shoulder, squeezing once in warning. "I believe you two know each other?"
I turned to find Ezra accompanied by an older man in a clerical collar, silver hair neatly combed, posture military-straight despite his obvious age. My stomach dropped and my skin prickled. My heartbeat drowned out the sounds of the gallery.
“Reverand Morris,” I managed, though the words came out automatically. I was no longer in my body. When he shook my hand, I felt nothing. I couldn’t. If I let myself, I’d be back there, at the conversion therapy retreat, back under his thumb as he anointed me with holy water, back on my knees while he attempted to cast the demons out of me.
"Micah Salt," he said with a tight smile. "I haven’t seen you since your grandmother’s funeral."
The mention of my grandmother pulled me back into my body without warning. Every welted stripe from Ezra's belt seemed to throb anew, every bite mark on my skin burned. I fought the urge to cover myself, to hide the evidence of what I'd become—what I'd always been. My maimed finger ached. My mouth flooded with the desperate need to nurse at Ezra's breast.
"I wasn’t aware you followed contemporary art," I managed.
"I don’t usually, but when I received the professor’s invitation, I could hardly decline," he explained, eyes cold and assessing despite his cordial tone.
I flinched and turned to Ezra, a small ache starting in my chest. He’d invited my tormenter? Why?
"I must admit I was surprised when I received your call, Professor," the reverend said.
Ezra’s fingertips brushed briefly against my lower back, steadying me. "I wanted you to see how far your past pupil has come. Micha’s told me so much about how you helped him. I thought you should get to see how that investment paid off. After all, it’s only thanks to you that he’s here today."
I blinked and stared at Ezra. All night, he’d been pointing out potential victims, explaining who would and wouldn’t make a good choice for my first solo project. What if he hadn’t invited the reverend here to hurt me, but to inspire me? The hurt scabbed over. Of course he would do that. Ezra was brilliant. Even more than I could have imagined.
The shadow inside me stirred. I traced the healed amputation site with my thumb, drawing strength from its permanence.
"The Lord's work often requires firm hands," Reverend Morris agreed, placing his bony hand on my shoulder. His fingers dug into the same spot where Ezra's teeth had marked me two nights ago. "It’s good to see you’ve made something of yourself, young man. Your grandmother would be proud."
The touch burned through the fabric of my suit, but I didn’t pull away. Instead I heard myself say, “Thank you, Reverend.”
"Actually, Micah will be undertaking his first major independent project under my guidance soon," Ezra said smoothly. "Perhaps you would consider participating, Reverend? His concept explores themes of spiritual transformation and transcendence through art. Your perspective could prove valuable."
"I'm always happy to guide young artists toward depicting proper theological concepts," Reverend Morris said, nodding approvingly. Deep lines creased his forehead as he smiled thinly."The modern art world so often devolves into blasphemy when approaching religious themes."
"Excellent. Micah will contact you to arrange the details," Ezra concluded.
As Reverend Morris moved away to examine the exhibition, Ezra guided me toward a quieter corner of the gallery. Blood pounded in my temples. My skin felt too tight, as if something inside me strained against its confines.
"Do you understand what I've given you?" he asked quietly, his voice intimate despite the public setting.
"My first independent project," I whispered, mouth dry as ash, heart thundering against my ribs. The shadow inside me stretched, hungry.
"The perfect canvas," Ezra said. "The opportunity to transform the very source of your shame into transcendent art."
The symmetry knocked the air from my lungs.
