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It's a rare day when Bruce wakes up and nothing hurts. This morning he stays still for several breaths, taking stock of his body and mentally seeking out any aches that may be lying in wait for him. Ducard has not gone easy on him this past week, but Bruce isn't injured, isn't bruised, doesn't have to heal from anything. Bruce draws in a breath, and when no aches come to greet him, he nearly groans aloud.
"You're awake. Good." The pallet sinks a little at Bruce's left side. "You can open your eyes if you want. I don't intend to ruin your morning by dragging you out of bed."
"Thank you," Bruce murmurs. He opens his eyes. The light's not too bright yet this morning; it must not be too long after dawn. The room's warm. Comfortable. Ducard's sitting on the edge of Bruce's pallet, bare to the waist, wearing only the thin drawstring pants he sleeps in. Bruce takes his eyes off Ducard's body and looks up at the ceiling.
"Go on," Ducard says; the low tone of his voice makes Bruce's eyes snap back to him. "Stretch out. Fingertips to toes."
Bruce wonders about that tone; he's heard it before, late in the morning, late at night. But he does as he's told, extending his body into a straight line, stretching until his back arches and his fingertips brush against the wall. It feels amazing, even if his muscles are starting to remind him that yes, they've been worked to exhaustion day after day while he's been training. But it isn't pain, precisely; it's his body telling him he's getting stronger. He doesn't mind that sort of pain.
When he looks up again, Ducard's still there. Still watching him. Bruce shifts and raises his eyebrows, which doesn't get a reaction out of Ducard. The man has one of the best poker faces Bruce has ever seen. Bruce licks his lips--his mouth suddenly feels dry--and asks, "What do you have planned for today?"
"This morning, another lesson in controlling the uncontrollable aspects of your body." It would seem like a paradox if Bruce hadn't been through so many exercises training him to do exactly that. "This afternoon depends on how well you achieve the morning's goal."
Bruce nods. He's not trying to mime understanding; he's simply agreeing to Ducard's plans. No--his orders. As Ducard's student, Bruce has learned that obedience is required for any learning to take place; challenging Ducard has been ineffective at best and humiliating or painful at worst.
And so he doesn't argue when Ducard throws back the sheet and looks him over. He fixes his eyes on the ceiling again. He doesn't waste his time wishing Ducard were less observant--if he were, there'd be nothing Bruce could learn from him--but he can guess now what "controlling the uncontrollable" means, and he's trying, breath kept even in spite of the heat he feels from Ducard's body beside his, the intensity of Ducard's gaze. Bruce wears the same sort of thin drawstring pants to sleep that Ducard does, but overnight they've slipped low on Bruce's hipbones, revealing a few extra inches of bare skin.
"I know how closely you watch me," Ducard murmurs. "Attraction is a form of magnetism. It draws people together--sometimes more quickly and more effectively than anyone expected. It pushes people apart when desires are too similar and no one is willing to compromise."
Bruce is losing the fight against his arousal. He's sure Ducard can see it; his cock's hardening, growing thicker and more obvious beneath his pants. Ducard examines him thoroughly, eyes tracking from head to foot, and Bruce can feel the pull from his attraction to Ducard all over his body.
He doesn't like that. Not that it matters if he doesn't like it; there's been plenty here he hasn't liked, and it hasn't made a bit of difference to Ducard. Whether Ducard feels an attraction in return is immaterial; Bruce wouldn't be able to trust it even if he'd been showing it from the first. Everything is a tool. Everything is suspect. He'll never trust Ducard.
Ducard holds his hand above Bruce's heart, a breath away from touching him. Bruce doesn't take that breath; he stays still, under Ducard's hand but refusing to take the initiative. He's sure that would be the wrong move, though he's not sure why. Ducard sweeps his hand down from Bruce's heart to his stomach, and although he never makes contact with Bruce's body, Bruce can feel the heat from his palm all the way down his thigh, his leg, to his ankle, and back up on the other side. Ducard is careful to avoid Bruce's cock, which is just as well; Bruce can't stop it from rising, moving upward as if to beg for Ducard's touch.
"Restraint. Yes, I'm not surprised by that. It isn't in your nature to give in easily to attraction." Ducard's hand glides over Bruce's body, still never touching him. Bruce is nearly trembling from the effort of holding himself still. Ducard turns his hand over, moves the backs of his fingers across Bruce's cheek as if to brush against him, but he still doesn't make contact.
Bruce slows his breathing and focuses on a single point, a spot that's just in front of his eyes. The heat from Ducard's body remains, but Bruce manages to draw himself away from it--not ignoring it but taking his awareness from it, forcing it to the same level as his awareness of the room, its dimensions, the sound of the wind blowing outside. His arousal ebbs somewhat, the urgency fading; his cock begins to soften. When he looks at Ducard again, he feels a small sense of pride in himself. Controlling the uncontrollable.
He doesn't ask if he passed the test, but Ducard can evidently read the question in his expression. He shakes his head. "You've been shaking off attraction and your body's response to it for many years now. That's not the goal."
Bruce frowns. "Then what--"
"Allow yourself to feel." Ducard's fingers spread wide, making caressing motions that might tickle if he actually made contact with Bruce's skin. As it stands, Bruce is drawn up almost against his will, back arching, moaning softly as Ducard drags his hand down, tracing a slow figure eight that goes down one thigh and up the other, crossing to the other side of Bruce's chest at his solar plexus and then circling across his chest before moving back downward. Bruce's cock hardens again, and Bruce swallows hard, the rhythm of his breath lost in his reactions to Ducard's motions.
"Better," Ducard says softly. "Take these off." He doesn't have to explain what he means, and Bruce doesn't question him. He takes his pants off and pushes them aside, and when Ducard slides a hand between his legs--still not touching, never touching--Bruce opens them for him.
Ducard's palm moves up and down over Bruce's cock, a motion that Bruce--despite everything, despite the way he doesn't trust where this is going--desperately wants to feel against his skin. His cock surges up, coming up with every deep breath he takes, but as it does, Ducard lifts his hand higher, keeping his palm consistently out of reach. It's like being jerked off, but not; it's like being guided to the feelings Ducard's trying to inspire. Bruce doesn't take his eyes off Ducard's hand; he could sense it, he thinks, even if his eyes were closed, but he needs to see it, too. If he's going to do what he suspects Ducard wants him to do, he needs to be able to watch.
"It isn't only attraction you avoid," Ducard says. "You deny yourself relief. Release. Why?"
Now you want me to speak, Bruce thinks. "I don't need it." His voice shakes, but only a little.
"Your body disagrees." One fingertip, gently skating over the tip of Bruce's cock, still not making contact; Bruce looks at his cock this time instead of Ducard's hand, and he realizes he's leaking. He shudders, both at the realization and at what Ducard's saying. He's right, of course. Denying his body release just means his body takes it in his sleep. He's avoided masturbating anyway, especially while he's been training with Ducard. There's no privacy; the best he gets is the many nights he spends sleeping on the same floor as Ducard, barely arm's length away from the man.
It doesn't stop Ducard, and Bruce remembers every detail of how Ducard sounds when he's touching himself. Right now he can't think of much else.
"Do you dream, Bruce?" Bruce doesn't answer; Ducard knows he dreams. He's heard the broken gasps when Bruce comes out of a nightmare. He's whispered quiet reminders of breathing exercises and waited for Bruce to go back to sleep. "What do you dream of when your body rebels against your restraint?"
Bruce doesn't answer. Ducard smiles down at him. "Do you enjoy the act of sex?"
"No," Bruce says, and then he does close his eyes; it's too much, more than he wanted to give away. His body's betraying his mind. Unacceptable.
"Open your eyes, Bruce."
Bruce does. Training. He's no longer in the habit of resisting when Ducard gives him an order.
"What is it about sex that frightens you?"
"Damn it," Bruce whispers. Backed into a corner. Not answering will only make things worse. "Opening myself."
"Not here." Ducard's hand moves down, between his legs, and Bruce spreads them wider, damn it, and it's so easy to imagine Ducard's fingers opening his body to make room for his cock. But then his hand's moving back up, resting above Bruce's heart, and Bruce tenses up beneath it. "Here. You're afraid of opening this part of you."
"The last people I loved died."
"Sex and love are separate needs. One can be fulfilled without the other."
"Instinct," Bruce begins, but when Ducard's hand sweeps back down his body, he has to stop speaking again. His voice feels like it's about to crack.
"What about it?"
"Sex without emotion. It's an instinct. It leaves your body in control of your mind."
"Does it?" Ducard makes a circle with the heel of his hand; Bruce can almost feel the pressure against the base of his cock. "Is it your body or your mind that's in control right now?"
Bruce almost laughs. "Neither. You're in control."
Ducard looks up at him, eyebrows raised. "Above your own body. Above your own mind."
"Right now? Yes."
"Can you prove it?" Ducard goes quiet for several minutes, hands tormentingly out of reach, never making contact, teasing Bruce until his skin vibrates and his body shakes. "Prove it to me. Come for me. Now."
There's no question of whether or not he can do it; it's an order, and his body follows Ducard's command. His cock jerks against his belly, leaving white streaks across his skin. Apart from times he's been asleep, he's never come without touching himself before, and the sensation leaves him winded. He feels dizzy and out-of-control--even more than he's felt during all his time with Ducard so far.
"How do you feel?" Ducard murmurs.
Once Bruce catches his breath, once he can make his voice even again, he answers. "I'd rather be sparring."
Ducard laughs. "Yes," he says, coming to his feet; his hands aren't even messy from that. There'll be no need to clean up. "I'm sure you would."
-end-