Date: Sun, 9 Aug 2020 15:57:15 +0100
From: AP Webb <pjalexander1753@gmail.com>
Subject: D'n'N Part 3 Chapter 7

Part 3 of the story of D'n'M, just like Parts 1 and 2, includes sex between
teenage boys, some of it non-consensual.  As before, it is the characters
themselves and how they react to events that are key to whatever success
the story achieves.

All the characters and events in the story are fictitious.  Any resemblance
to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.

The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the
express permission of the author who can be contacted at:

pjalexander1753@gmail.com

PJ

D'n'M Part 3

From Chapter 6:

Cycling home, it was like Milo's thoughts were in a blender, there was so
much to think about and it was all scrambled together.  It wasn't just
Dods' story about the beating up and the way Tom had sorted it, there was
the shaving and the fantastic cum and becoming a Cum Brother (that was a
total wow!), and hanging out with Dods and how he'd been able to forget,
for a few hours, about Zephan's imminent arrival.  There was so much to
tell D when he phoned him tonight they'd be talking for hours.  But then,
they often did.

**********

Chapter 7:

Dan didn't think he'd be likely to have much to share about his day when he
and Milo spoke on the phone later.  As had been the case every week AR (for
Dan there was BR -- Before Roberts, and AR -- After Roberts), his mum had
dropped him in town in time for his 9.30 appointment with Shania Margelles,
`Independent Counsellor and Adolescent Mental Health Practitioner' as she
announced herself on the engraved plate beside the inner door to her
office.  Thankfully, as far as Dan's self-respect was concerned, the sign
on the street door of the anonymous commercial building simply and
discreetly stated: S. MARGELLES & Associates.  Please ring for admittance.

Attending these sessions wasn't exactly the highlight of Dan's week, but
neither did he dread the very idea of them.  Mrs. Margelles ("Please, call
me Shania") was exactly what you'd expect of a counsellor and mental health
professional, i.e. indistinguishable from the hundreds of people you might
pass in the street every day.  She was neither particularly over or under
weight, of average height, with no eye-catching tattoos or piercings.  She
wore practical, unfussy clothes and understated jewellery.  The one
unpredictable item about her appearance, and the thing that invariably drew
her patients' attention -- as it was intended to do -- was that her hair
colour was never the same from one week to the next.  It wasn't as if she
was startlingly red one time and funereal black the next.  No, the changes
were more subtle than that, but nonetheless unmistakeable, with her natural
pale blonde taking on a gentle tinge of, maybe, pink or mauve or powder
blue.  On one memorable occasion, presumably in recognition of Pride Week,
Dan had been genuinely taken aback to be greeted by Please Call Me (that
was how he always referred to her inside his own head) crowned with a full
rainbow of colours.  Keeping his face straight and coming up with an
appropriate comment had not been easy.

Today there were bright streaks of purple and green, giving her the
appearance of an exotic house plant.

As he knew was expected of him, after all, this was the latest in a long
line of visits, Dan's first words on walking into the office, were a
comment on the hair.  "Good colour choice Mrs. Margelles, Shania," he said.
"They suit you."

"Thank you, Dan.  That's very gallant of you.  I've not tried this
particular combination before and I wasn't sure how it would work out.  I
must admit I did get some quite strange looks on my way here from the car
park."

`I'm not surprised,' thought Dan, but he kept that to himself as he looked
around the now familiar surroundings.  Somewhere between study and sitting
room, Shania Margelles had created her working space to be as unthreatening
as possible.  Yes, there was a desk and chair placed in front of the wide
Venetian-blinded window, facing into the room.  A large oriental rug,
geometrically-patterned in red, orange, brown and black, covered much of
the floor, leaving a border of polished parquet blocks around its edge.  A
3-seater couch and two matching arm chairs, upholstered in a muted plum and
beige herringbone design, occupied the centre of the space, and house
plants of varying sizes vied for space with books, files and contemporary
objects d'art on the shelves which lined two walls.  So everything
comfortable and nothing remarkable or unexpected.  Except the pictures.

Like the counsellor's hair, the pictures on the pale grey walls were
completely unpredictable.  A mixture of land and cityscapes, still-lifes
and colourful abstracts, the artwork in the room seemed incapable of
staying put.  Sometimes it was simply a case of two of them changing places
between appointments, but more often the whole ensemble had been rearranged
or dramatic substitutions made -- a Pollock print changed for a
Mediterranean harbour, or a cathedral close in place of the previous week's
hill-top vista.  Dan wondered if Please Call Me belonged to a picture
library or did she order them, at a discount, by the yard?  Whatever the
thinking behind this pictorial rotation, the effect was that there was
always something to talk about if conversation between counsellor and
client on more significant matters was to dry up.  Like today.

It wasn't yet half-way through the allocated hour but Dan felt he had
nothing more to say about this week's topic -- `Moving Forward'.  At the
end of each session Mrs. Margelles would suggest a possible subject for the
following week's meeting, just in case he, Dan, had nothing else more
relevant or specific he wanted to discuss.  Like the hair and the pictures,
this was another way of ensuring that there was always something to talk
about if the pauses between questions and answers threatened to extend into
lengthy, uncomfortable silences.

"Do you like him?" asked Please Call Me.

"Huh?" was Dan's slightly startled response.

"Pugsley. The little terrier.  In the picture."

"Oh, yeah.  Kinda."

"He's by a local artist.  I spotted him in a craft fair a few months back
and couldn't resist.  He's so cute."

Dan said nothing.  Unfazed, Please Call Me continued.  "Do you have any
pets?  A dog?  Cat?  Stick insects?"

Faced with such a direct question Dan felt he had no choice but to reply.
"No.  Mum and Dad always said me and Tom were wild enough without adding
actual animals to the chaos.  I suppose that was their joke."

On cue, Please Call Me smiled obligingly.

"When he was a young kid Tom always wanted a dog.  Every Christmas and
birthday he'd spend weeks hinting, like pointing out pictures in magazines
and saying how all his friends had spaniels or labradors.  He'd promise to
always be the one to take his puppy for walks and clean up the mess.  He
even said he'd use his pocket money to buy food.  But it never happened,
and then he got seriously into swimming and the idea got forgotten."

"You're good at that, aren't you Dan?" asked Please Call Me in the tone of
a fond but exasperated aunt.

"At what?  What am I good at?" questioned Dan.

"Taking the first opportunity you can to switch the conversation away from
yourself and onto someone else.  Like you just did.  It happens all the
time."  The tone now was less fond and more exasperated, verging, as Shania
Margelles acknowledged inwardly to herself, on the unprofessional.  And why
was that she wondered?  Fundamentally Dan Reed was no different from the
hundreds of other children and young people she had helped over the course
of her career.

Breakdowns, eating and attention deficit disorders, attempted suicides,
depressives, personality disorders, self-harming and just about every other
emotional and psychological condition had, at one time or another over the
past twenty years, sat in this room.  She would never claim to have `cured'
any one of them but she knew that many had directly benefitted from their
time together.  For most, they came, used up their allotted hours and, at a
time chosen by her (or by parental bank balances), went back out into the
world to resume their lives, with varying degrees of preparedness and
success.

And then there were those like Dan who were accepted as clients on the
basis of one (often more) set of presenting causes or conditions but who
she increasingly understood to have one (often more) hidden causes or
conditions.  It wasn't unusual for these underlying causes to be
unacknowledged by the young person, sometimes they were even unknown to
them.  Shania Margelles suspected that this was very much the case with
Dan.  She even had a professional hunch as to what it was that lay,
unacknowledged, under the surface.  Her professional dilemma was to what
extent, if any, she should seek to confirm her hunch and guide Dan towards
an acceptance, or, at the very least, an awareness, of it.

"I don't think that's true, or fair," Dan retaliated.  "I tell you lots
about myself."

"Yes, that's true," agreed Please Call Me.  "You spend a lot of time
telling me about your training regime and how well it's going.  You talk
about how far you've run each week and about any new routes you've found.
But you don't talk about the important stuff."

"Those things are important to me," argued Dan.  "Really important.  And
the martial arts.  They're all totally about me."

"I know, and I genuinely think it's good that you want to keep yourself
healthy and fit and I'm more than happy for you to tell me about them.  But
they're not the reasons why you're here."

Dan was beginning to feel uncomfortable, as if he was, somehow, under
attack from his counsellor.

"I've told you loads about what happened about the ..." he found himself
unable to complete the sentence.

"Abuse."

"Yeah.  That.  The abuse."  Dan forced the word out of his mouth, as if he
had set himself a test that he couldn't afford to fail.

"Again, that's true -- sort of."

"What do you mean, `Sort of'?"  Dan's tone was more aggressive than Shania
Margelles had ever heard before.  She wasn't sure this was an altogether
bad thing.  She allowed a full half minute to pass before she replied, and
she made sure her voice was calm and measured.

"In the weeks you've been coming here, since the abuse you experienced with
Mr. Roberts, you've told me a whole lot about your parents, your brother
Tom and about your friend Milo."

All this was true.  Over the weeks Dan had explained how Tom had driven
through the night to be with him and had then stayed home, rather than go
back to university, to be part of his, Dan's, protective blanket.  He'd
explained how supportive and understanding his parents had been, especially
through all the difficult meetings with Ms. Ohura at the school.  And most
of all, he'd spent hours talking about Milo and what a total rock he'd been
throughout the whole, horrendous ordeal.  He had told Please Call Me on
more occasions than she could count, that, without M, Dan would struggle
even more than he did, on a day-to-day level, to keep his `shit together'.
It was the recurring theme of their sessions and was the basis of the
counsellor's theory regarding Dan's underlying and unacknowledged issue.

"So how come you're saying I don't talk about important stuff?  Those
things are so important I ... I ... "

"You?"

"I don't think I'd ... be here ... without them."  Dan spoke as if every
word was being dragged out of him.  "That's how important they are."

The trained and professional counsellor took a few seconds in order to
think about how to move the conversation on beyond these aspects of Dan's
life onto something more progressive.  "So, I think I understand from what
you're saying now, and in our sessions before today, that there are some
key activities and important people in your life.  Have I got that right?"
Shania Margelles was choosing her words with care.

Dan nodded, his eyes returning to the picture of the small dog hanging on
the wall slightly above and to the left of the counsellor's colourful head.

"What I'm less clear about is whether you are important to you."  She knew
she was taking a risk with this line of argument.  It could bring a rapid
conclusion to the session -- maybe to her time with Dan completely -- or it
could finally clear the way forward to some meaningful progress.  So, yes,
it was risky but she was aware that Dan's parents had chosen her to be
their son's counsellor largely due to the fact that her approach to her
role was not exactly mainstream or conventional.  Her experience over the
years had led her to a belief that providing a reflective sounding board
was not always enough for some young people and that a more challenging and
interventionist style could produce better outcomes.

When it came, she was surprised by Dan's response.

"I don't know."

"You don't know if you're important to yourself?"

"I don't know about myself."

Suddenly Shania Margelles' professional receptors were on full alert.  This
was not the reply she'd been expecting.  "I think it would help if you
could explain a little more what you mean by that."

"I don't seem to make sense to myself," Dan continued with a fluency which
surprised them both.  "My family is great and I've got the best friend
anyone could ever want.  So they must think I'm worth caring about, right?"

"Absolutely right.  Everything you've told me about them makes it clear
they love you very much."

"So why did he choose me?"  This question was so anguished, so pleading
that Shania Margelles was tempted to get up from her chair and envelop Dan
in a warm and reassuring hug.  Luckily for both her professional
objectivity and personal integrity she resisted the temptation, but she did
begin to wonder if, quite unexpectedly, they might be approaching a
break-through.  She knew she had to tread carefully.

"Roberts?"

Dan nodded.

"Why do you think you became one of his victims?"  This had the potential
to be a very dangerous question.  "What was it about you?"

"He must have seen all the bad stuff inside me.  Why else did I ...?"

"Why else did you ...?"  The question hung in the air.

"Enjoy it."  Dan's voice was barely more than a whisper.  This was the
first time, since talking to M and Tom all those months before, that he'd
even hinted to anyone about his response in Mr. Roberts' office that day.
About how he'd got hard and allowed himself to get caught up in the act of
jerking-off and had produced an impressive cum that had painted the floor
of Mr. Roberts' office.

**********

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