The way his fingers gripped the neck of that upright bass wasn't musical; it was a slow-motion strangulation of my remaining common sense.
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[Transcript: Voice Memo 01-A]
[Date: October 12th]
[Time: 01:14 AM]
[Location: The Iron Lung, Northampton, MA]
[Background: Distant, muffled brass; the clatter of a busboy’s tray; heavy, rhythmic thumping of a bass drum through a floorboard.]
(Leo’s voice: Low, slightly gravelly, the sound of a man who has had three neat whiskies and is currently having a religious experience he didn't ask for.)
"I shouldn't be recording this. I should be grading the sophomore workshop stories—god knows they need the help—but I am currently pinned to a velvet banquette that smells like fifty years of spilled gin and desperation. I came here for a drink, a solo endeavor to exorcise a bad lecture on Chekhov, and instead, I’ve found... a catastrophe. A beautiful, rhythmic catastrophe.
On stage, there’s a man. I think his name is Malachi. The bartender called him 'Mal.' He’s behind the drum kit, but he isn’t playing it; he’s colonizing it. He’s got these shoulders—wide, slab-like, the kind of shoulders that suggest he’s spent his life hauling timber rather than keeping time. He’s wearing a white undershirt that’s translucent with sweat, clinging to the dip of his spine. Every time he hits the crash cymbal, the muscles in his back move like a bag of snakes. It’s violent. It’s the most theatrical thing I’ve ever seen in a basement with ten-foot ceilings.
And then there’s her. Saffron. She’s leaning against the piano like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She’s not singing right now; she’s just watching Malachi. She has this look on her face—part hunger, part exhaustion, like she’s a saint waiting for her martyrdom. She’s wearing a slip dress the color of a bruised plum, and when she breathes, the silk catches on the points of her nipples. She knows I’m watching. She looked right at me during the bridge of the last set, and she didn't look away. She didn't even blink. She just arched her back, exposing that long, pale throat, and mouthed something to the drummer.
They are a closed circuit. They are an ecosystem of two, and I am the interloper standing at the glass. But the way they look at each other... it’s not just love, or whatever pedestrian word we use in my 200-level 'Introduction to the Novel' class. It’s an invitation to a crime. They are performing for each other, and they are using me as the witness. I can feel the bass line vibrating in the soles of my shoes, but it’s the way Malachi watches her hips move while he plays that’s actually making my hands shake. I’m thirty-two years old. I have a tenure track position. I should not be this affected by a man’s forearm veins. And yet, here I am, recording this because if I don’t testify to the heat in this room, I might actually spontaneously combust."
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 01-B]
[Date: October 13th]
[Time: 03:00 AM]
[Location: A parked Volvo, 15 miles outside of Amherst]
[Background: The steady click-click of a turn signal; the hum of the heater on high; the sound of a window being rolled down.]
(Saffron’s voice: Breathless, melodic, with a sharp edge of theatricality.)
"Mal is driving. He’s silent, but his hand is on my thigh, right at the hem of this plum dress, and his thumb is doing that thing—that rhythmic, punishing pressure against my inner leg. He’s still vibrating from the set. I can feel the percussion in his skin.
We saw him tonight. The Professor. That’s what we’re calling him. He’s got that look—the corduroy jacket, the slightly messy hair, the glasses that keep sliding down a nose that was definitely broken once in his youth. He looked like he wanted to analyze us and then let us ruin his life. I could see him from the mic. Every time I hit a low note, his throat jumped. He’s a voyeur. He thinks he’s hidden in the shadows of the booth, but he’s the brightest thing in the room because of how much he’s wanting.
I whispered to Mal during the solo. I told him, 'The man in the third booth wants to see you break something.' And Mal? He didn't even look over. He just hit the snare so hard it sounded like a gunshot and stared at my mouth. He told me later, while we were packing up the gear, that he could smell the Professor’s arousal from the stage. Said it smelled like expensive paper and fear.
We’re going back next Tuesday. We’re going to make him come to us. Mal wants to see if those refined hands of his know how to do anything other than hold a pen. I want to see if he tastes as dry as he looks, or if there’s something liquid and dark underneath all that academic restraint. Mal’s thumb just moved higher. He’s pushing into the lace of my underwear now, right in the middle of a New England highway, and all I can think about is the way the Professor’s eyes didn't leave us once. Not once. He’s going to be so easy to break."
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 02-A]
[Date: October 26th]
[Time: 11:55 PM]
[Location: The Green Room (Storage Closet) of The Iron Lung]
[Background: The sound of a heavy door clicking shut; the muffled, distorted sound of a jukebox playing 'Blue Train' in the main bar; the rustle of heavy canvas bags.]
(Leo’s voice: Whispering, frantic, his breathing heavy and erratic.)
"I am in the storage room. It’s barely a room. It’s a closet filled with extra drum heads, cases of cheap lager, and the smell of Malachi’s sweat. I’m not alone. God, I am so far from alone.
They cornered me after the set. I was paying my tab, trying to be a dignified member of the faculty, and Saffron just... she appeared. She didn't say a word. She just hooked her finger into my belt loop and led me back here. And Malachi was already here. He was sitting on a stack of amplifier crates, his legs spread wide, his hands resting on his knees. He looked like a king in a kingdom of cardboard and dust.
He told me to stand still. He said, 'Professor, you’ve been studying us for three weeks. Why don’t you get a closer look?'
And now... Saffron is behind me. I can feel the heat of her chest against my back. She’s unbuttoning my shirt, her fingers moving with this terrifying, practiced efficiency. She’s whispering things about the way my heart is hammering against my ribs, calling it a 'clumsy meter.' She’s mocking me, and I’m letting her. I’m more than letting her.
Malachi hasn't moved. He’s just watching. His eyes are like flint. He’s reaching out now—he’s grabbing my belt. He’s pulling me toward him, dragging my shoes across the concrete floor until my knees are bracketed by his. He’s so big. Close up, he’s a mountain of a man. His hand is rough—calloused from the sticks—and he’s just resting it on my fly. He’s not even moving it yet. He’s just letting me feel the weight of it. The sheer, terrifying physical presence of him.
Saffron has my shirt open now. The air in here is cold, but where her hands are, it’s searing. She’s biting my shoulder blade, right through my undershirt, and I can hear Malachi’s breath hitch. He likes it. He likes her marking me.
'Do you want to watch?' Malachi asks me. His voice is a low rumble that I can feel in my own gut. 'Or do you want to be the instrument?'
I can’t answer. My vocabulary has deserted me. All the words, all the syntax, all the clever little observations I’ve spent my life honing—they’re gone. There is only the feeling of Saffron’s tongue on the nape of my neck and the heavy, insistent pressure of Malachi’s palm against my crotch. He’s starting to undo the metal button of my slacks. The sound of the zipper is the loudest thing in the world. It’s a clean, metallic rasp that marks the end of my life as a spectator.
He’s reaching inside. His hand is cold, and then it’s not. He’s thick-fingered and blunt, and he’s not being gentle. He’s gripping me, pulling me out into the dim light of a single 40-watt bulb, and I hear Saffron make this low, purring sound against my ear.
'Look at him, Leo,' she whispers. She used my name. How does she know my name? 'Look at him and do not turn away.'
So I’m looking. I’m looking at the way Malachi’s eyes darken as he wraps his hand around me, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin just below the head of my penis. He’s squeezing, testing the tension, and the pain-pleasure of it is so sharp I think I might drop the phone. I’m still recording. Why am I still recording? Because if I don’t have proof of this, I’ll think I’m just another middle-aged man dreaming of a life he’s too timid to lead.
Malachi pulls me closer. He’s standing up now, towering over me, and he’s guiding my hand toward his own zipper. 'Play your part,' he says. And God help me, I’m reaching out. I’m touching the denim, feeling the heat radiating from him, the massive, hard length of him straining against the fabric. I’ve never felt anything so alive. Saffron’s hands are down my pants now, her nails skimming the curve of my ass, and I’m caught between them like a lyric between two crashing chords. I'm—"
[Recording cuts off abruptly. There is a sound of a phone hitting the floor and a sharp, indrawn breath.]
[End Part 1]
[Transcript: Voice Memo 02-B]
[Date: October 27th]
[Time: 12:05 AM]
[Location: The Green Room (Storage Closet) of The Iron Lung]
[Background: A dull thud, followed by the sound of the phone being kicked across concrete; Malachi’s heavy, rhythmic breathing; Saffron’s low, melodic laugh.]
(Saffron’s voice: Closer to the mic, her breath hitting the receiver in rhythmic puffs. She sounds triumphant, like she’s just finished the final aria of a tragedy.)
"I picked it up. The Professor—Leo—dropped his little recording device. It’s still running. He’s forgotten it exists, which is the first honest thing he’s done all night.
He’s currently on his knees. Not because we forced him, but because his legs simply stopped working when Malachi took him out of his trousers. Mal has him by the hair now, that thick, academic mop of hair, tilting his head back so he has to look up. It’s a study in contrasts: Mal’s knuckles are bruised and scarred, the skin across his back like knotted rope, and Leo... Leo looks like he’s made of fine china. He’s pale, his skin almost luminous in this shitty light, and he’s shaking so hard I can hear his teeth chatter.
Malachi didn't say a word. He just unbuttoned his own fly, slow as a funeral procession, and let himself fall out. He’s huge. He’s the kind of man who was built to fill space, and seeing him against the Professor’s narrow face is... it’s theater. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever staged.
Leo’s eyes are wide behind those glasses. One of the lenses is smudged with dust from the floor. He looks terrified, but he isn’t moving away. He’s leaning in. Malachi’s hand is still in his hair, guiding him, and when Leo finally opens his mouth—this small, literate mouth that probably spends all day talking about subtext and syntax—he does it with this desperate, sobbing intake of air.
I’m behind him, my knees on the concrete, my hands reaching around to find his chest. I’m rubbing my palms over his nipples, feeling them go hard and nubby under my touch, while Malachi slides into him. Not all at once. Mal is a drummer; he knows how to hold a beat. He’s giving him just the tip, letting Leo taste the salt and the heat of him, before he pulls back. Teasing him. Making him beg without using words.
Leo’s hands are on Mal’s thighs, his fingers digging into the denim, his nails probably leaving marks. He’s making these sounds—not moans, exactly, but these high, thin whines in the back of his throat. He’s never had this much reality in his mouth before. He’s never had something this heavy, this uncompromising, demanding his total attention.
Malachi looks down at him and says, 'Work for it, Professor. Show me you’ve got more than just a vocabulary.'
And Leo? He swallows him. He takes him in with this sudden, frantic hunger, his cheeks hollowing out as he tries to accommodate the sheer mass of Mal. I can see the muscles in Mal’s legs lock. I can see the way his pulse is jumping in his neck. I’m reaching down now, my hand finding Leo’s own cock, which is dripping, slicking my fingers as I pump him in time with his own frantic breathing.
We have him. He’s our witness, and now he’s our instrument. I wonder what he’ll tell his students tomorrow. I wonder if he’ll be able to look them in the eye without thinking about the way Malachi’s salt tastes on the back of his tongue."
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 03-A]
[Date: October 29th]
[Time: 09:15 AM]
[Location: Faculty Office, University of Massachusetts, Amherst]
[Background: The frantic clicking of a mechanical keyboard; the hiss of a radiator; the distant chime of the campus clock tower.]
(Leo’s voice: Hollow, strained, the voice of a man who hasn't slept in forty-eight hours and is currently hallucinating from a cocktail of adrenaline and shame.)
"I am sitting in my office. I have a pile of 'Creative Non-Fiction' essays in front of me, and I cannot read a single word. The ink looks like ants crawling across the page. All I can see—all I can think about—is the color of the bruise on my inner thigh where Malachi’s knee pressed into me.
I’m a cliché. I’m the repressed academic who walked into a jazz bar and let two beautiful, feral people dismantle his soul. I should be horrified. I should be calling the dean, or a therapist, or the police. Instead, I’m sitting here, staring at my own hands, wondering if they’ll ever feel clean again—and more importantly, wondering if I want them to.
Malachi’s skin. It was so... textured. Not like the people I usually know. He felt like something that had been forged, not born. And Saffron... she’s the one who haunts me the most. She didn't even touch herself. She just watched us. She directed us. She used her hands on me like she was tuning a cello, her nails scraping just enough to keep me on the edge of a scream.
When he finally came—god, the sound he made. It wasn't human. It was a roar. He emptied himself into my mouth, and for a second, I thought I was going to drown. It was hot, thick, and utterly overwhelming. I swallowed. I didn't even think about it. I just wanted all of him. I wanted to incorporate him into my own biology so I wouldn't have to be this version of myself anymore.
And then they just... left.
Malachi tucked himself away, zipped his jeans, and walked out into the alley to smoke. Saffron wiped a smudge of my own arousal off my chin with her thumb, kissed my forehead like I was a child, and followed him. They didn't give me a number. They didn't ask for mine. They just left me on the floor of a storage closet surrounded by empty kegs of Narragansett.
I’ve been recording these memos as a way to distance myself. To turn it into 'narrative.' But there is no narrative here. There is only the physical fact of them. I can still taste him. Every time I swallow, I’m back in that closet. I’m supposed to give a lecture on 'The Architecture of the Short Story' in twenty minutes, and I don't know how I’m going to stand up behind a lectern without my knees giving out.
I want to go back. It’s Tuesday. They’ll be there tonight. I told myself I wouldn't go. I told myself I’d stay home, drink a glass of mediocre Pinot, and read the new Franzen. But I’m already looking at my keys. I’m already thinking about what I’ll wear—something they can tear. Something that doesn't scream 'Professor.'
I am a goddamn mess. And I’ve never felt more alive."
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 03-B]
[Date: October 29th]
[Time: 11:45 PM]
[Location: Behind the 1998 Ford Econoline Van, parked in the alley behind The Iron Lung]
[Background: The low, rhythmic rumble of Malachi’s van idling; the sound of rain hitting a tin roof; the clink of a glass bottle breaking.]
(Saffron’s voice: Low, smoky, practically a purr.)
"He’s here. Of course he’s here.
He was sitting in the same booth, wearing a black turtleneck like he’s trying to disappear into the shadows. He looks thinner. Haunted. He didn't even look at the stage tonight; he just stared at his drink, his hand trembling every time Mal hit the crash.
We didn't wait for him to come to the bar this time. Mal finished the set, threw his sticks at the floor, and walked straight to the booth. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed the Professor by the collar of that turtleneck and hauled him toward the back exit.
We’re in the van now. The heat is on, but it’s still cold enough that our breath is visible in the dim light of the dome lamp. Leo is sitting on a pile of old moving blankets, looking at us like we’re about to execute him. Malachi is stripping. He’s not being theatrical about it; he’s just efficient. He wants the Professor, and he wants him now.
'Take it off,' Mal says.
Leo starts fumbling with his belt. He’s so clumsy. It’s charming, in a pathetic sort of way. I’m sitting on the edge of the wheel well, lighting a cigarette, watching the way his eyes dart between us. He’s waiting for the cue. He’s waiting for the script.
'No,' I tell him. I blow a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. 'Malachi does it. You just stay still.'
Malachi moves in. He’s so much larger than Leo that he practically swallows him. He’s ripping that turtleneck up over Leo’s head, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on Leo’s ribs. He’s counting them with his thumbs, pressing in hard enough to leave red marks on that pale, soft skin.
He’s got Leo’s pants down to his ankles in seconds. The Professor is exposed, shivering, his cock already hard and twitching against his stomach. Malachi doesn't even look at it. He just flips him over.
Leo makes a sound—a sharp, startled 'oh'—as he’s pressed face-down into the blankets. They smell like motor oil and Mal’s sweat. It’s a brutal smell. Mal is behind him now, his knees on either side of Leo’s hips, and he’s reaching for a jar of drum-bearing grease he keeps in the tool kit. It’s thick, clear, and smells like industry.
I’m moving closer now. I want to see this. I want to see the moment the Professor’s polished world finally cracks. I’m leaning over them, my hair brushing against the small of Leo’s back. I can see the goosebumps on his skin. I can see the way his fingers are clutching the edges of the blankets, his knuckles white.
Malachi is greasing himself. The sound is wet, rhythmic—the only percussion in the van. He’s not being gentle. He’s not interested in the 'slow burn' Leo probably writes about in his workshops. He’s interested in the physics of it.
'Look at me, Leo,' I whisper, reaching down to grab his chin and force his face toward mine. His eyes are blown wide, glazed with a mixture of terror and agonizing want. 'Don't close your eyes. Watch what happens to you.'
Malachi enters him.
The sound Leo makes... it’s the most beautiful note I’ve heard all year. It’s a ragged, desperate scream that gets muffled against my palm as I cover his mouth. He arches his back, his spine curving like a bow, as Malachi pushes inside him. It’s a struggle. Leo’s body is trying to reject the intrusion, but Mal is relentless. He’s a force of nature. He’s driving into him, his hands gripping Leo’s hip bones so hard I know there will be black-and-blue handprints there by morning.
I’m watching the way Leo’s face changes. The intellectual mask is gone. There is no Professor here. There is only a man being split open by something he can’t control. I’m sliding my hand down between them, finding Leo’s cock, which is bucking against the blankets with every thrust Malachi makes. I’m gripping him, my rings cold against his heat, and I’m stroking him with a violence that matches the rhythm behind him.
'Tell me,' I hiss into his ear, my teeth grazing the lobe. 'Tell me what you’re thinking about right now. Give me the words, Professor.'
But he can’t. He’s beyond words. He’s just a series of wet, guttural sounds, his body thrashing under Malachi’s weight. The van is rocking on its suspension. The windows are fogging up, blurring the brick walls of the alleyway into a grey, indistinct smear.
Malachi is groaning now, a low, tectonic sound. He’s picking up the pace, his chest slapping against Leo’s back with a wet, meaty thud. He’s hitting something deep inside Leo, something that makes the Professor’s toes curl and his eyes roll back in his head.
I’m pumping him faster, my hand slick with his pre-come and the grease that’s leaking out of him. He’s so close. I can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his whole body is vibrating like a tuning fork.
'Now,' Malachi grunts.
And Leo breaks. He comes with a violence that surprises me, his semen spraying across the blankets, hitting the metal side of the van. He’s sobbing now, great, racking heaves of his chest, as Malachi continues to drive into him, finishing his own business with three final, punishing thrusts.
Malachi collapses on top of him, his sweat dripping onto Leo’s skin. The silence that follows is deafening. Only the sound of the rain and the idling engine.
Leo is still sobbing, but it’s a quiet, exhausted sound. He looks like a shipwreck. Malachi reaches out, his hand huge and heavy, and strokes the back of Leo’s head. It’s a surprisingly tender gesture, and it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve seen all night.
Because we’re not done. I can see it in Mal’s eyes. He’s found something in the Professor that he doesn't want to let go of. And I... I’m just getting started.
I reach into my bag and pull out the Polaroid camera.
'Smile, Leo,' I say. 'We need a record of the curriculum.'"
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 04-A]
[Date: November 2nd]
[Time: 04:30 PM]
[Location: Leo’s Apartment, Northampton, MA]
[Background: The sound of a record needle skipping at the end of a track; the pouring of a heavy liquid; the rustle of a photograph being handled.]
(Leo’s voice: Quiet, almost monotone, but with an underlying current of frantic energy.)
"I’m looking at the photo.
It’s overexposed. The colors are sickly and yellowed. But it’s me. It’s undeniably me. My face is pressed into a dirty moving blanket, my mouth is open in a silent wail, and Malachi’s tattooed arm is visible, wrapped around my waist, pulling me into him.
I look... unrecognizable. I look like a martyr. I look like a slut.
They sent it to me in a manila envelope. No return address. No note. Just the photo. I found it in my departmental mailbox, wedged between a request for a syllabus change and a flyer for the faculty holiday party.
I should be terrified of the blackmail. If anyone saw this... my career is over. My life as I know it is over. I’d be the 'Disgraced Professor,' a footnote in the university’s history of scandals.
But as I sit here, drinking a glass of scotch that I can’t even taste, all I can think about is the fact that Saffron was the one who took it. She saw me like that. She captured the exact moment I stopped being a man of letters and became a man of flesh.
The phone rang ten minutes ago. I didn't answer. I knew it was them. I could feel the vibration in the air before the first ring.
I’m recording this because I need to admit something to the void. I’m not afraid of the photo. I’m afraid of what I’m going to do to get them to take another one.
I’ve been writing. Not stories. Not essays. I’ve been writing their names over and over again in the margins of my notebooks. Malachi. Saffron. Malachi. Saffron. It’s a liturgy. It’s a prayer to a god that wants to skin me alive.
There’s a knock at the door.
I haven't ordered food. I’m not expecting guests.
My heart is doing that thing again—that clumsy meter, that irregular thumping that Saffron mocked. I’m going to the door. I’m going to open it, and I know who will be standing there. And God help me, I’m going to let them in. I’m going to let them take everything that’s left."
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 04-B]
[Date: November 3rd]
[Time: 02:12 AM]
[Location: Leo’s Living Room]
[Background: The sound of furniture being dragged across hardwood; the sharp, rhythmic slap of skin on skin; a low, distorted moan that sounds like it’s being dragged out of a chest.]
(Saffron’s voice: Breathless, jagged.)
"We’re in his sanctuary now.
It’s exactly how I imagined it. Books everywhere. Leather chairs that smell like old pipes. A rug that probably cost more than Mal’s van. It’s a temple to the mind, and we’re currently desecrating it.
Malachi has him on the dining room table. He’s swept all the papers—the grading, the research, the life’s work—onto the floor. They’re scattered like autumn leaves. Leo is sprawled across the mahogany, his legs hooked over Malachi’s shoulders.
He’s not crying this time. He’s fighting. Or he’s trying to. He’s pushing against Mal’s chest, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. Malachi is pinning his wrists over his head, his fingers locking around Leo’s thin bones, and he’s just... taking him. No grease this time. Just the friction and the heat and the sound of the table groaning under the weight of it.
I’m standing at the head of the table. I’m looking down at Leo. I’ve got my hands in his hair, pulling his head back so he has to look at the ceiling, at the ornate molding he probably spent hours admiring.
'Is this what you wanted, Leo?' I ask him. I’m leaning down, my lips grazing his forehead. 'Is this the ending to the story you were writing?'
He looks at me, and for the first time, there’s no fear. There’s only a terrifying, vacant hunger.
'There is no ending,' he gasps. His voice is wrecked. 'Just... don't stop. Malachi. Please. Don't stop.'
Malachi hits him. Not hard, but enough to make Leo’s head snap to the side. A sharp, stinging slap across the cheek. It leaves a perfect, red brand.
'Don't talk,' Malachi growls. 'Just feel.'
Malachi pulls out, but only for a second. He flips Leo over, dragging him to the edge of the table so his feet are dangling. He’s going in again, but this time he’s reaching for me. He grabs my hand, pulls me toward them.
He wants me to touch him while he’s inside the Professor. He wants us all connected. He wants to turn this room, this sanctuary of intellect, into a hive of nerves and heat.
I’m sliding my hand down Malachi’s back, feeling the sweat, and then I’m reaching under, finding where they meet. The slick, tight boundary between the two of them. It’s scorching. It’s a furnace.
Leo is making this sound—it’s like he’s trying to find a word that doesn't exist. He’s stuttering, his body jerking with every one of Malachi’s movements. He’s close. He’s so close he’s vibrating.
'Look at him, Mal,' I say. I’m laughing now, a sharp, hysterical sound. 'Look at our Professor.'
Malachi doesn't look. He just closes his eyes and drives harder, his teeth bared, his muscles straining until they look like they’re going to burst through his skin. He’s not a man anymore; he’s just a rhythm. A punishing, unrelenting beat.
And then the front door—the one Leo didn't lock—swings open.
There’s a silhouette in the hallway. A light turns on.
It’s a woman. She’s holding a spare key. She’s wearing a sensible coat and carrying a stack of books.
She stops. She looks at the table. She looks at the naked, tattooed giant buried inside her colleague. She looks at me, standing there with my hands in Leo’s hair.
The silence is worse than the noise.
Leo’s eyes snap open. He sees her. He sees the end of his world.
And Malachi? Malachi doesn't stop. He just looks over his shoulder at her, his face slick with sweat, and says—"
[Recording ends abruptly.]
[End Part 2]
[Transcript: Voice Memo 04-C]
[Date: November 3rd]
[Time: 02:15 AM]
[Location: Leo’s Living Room]
[Background: The heavy, wet sound of Malachi’s thrusts; the rhythmic creak of the mahogany table; a woman’s sharp, horrified intake of breath; the clatter of a heavy ring binder hitting the floor.]
(Saffron’s voice: Cold, diamond-sharp, projecting to the back of the room as if she’s on center stage at the Calvin Theatre.)
"Malachi doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even break the meter. He just shifts his weight, the muscles in his thighs bunching like a series of tectonic plates, and he looks Eleanor—I assume it’s Eleanor, the Department Head he mentioned over gin once—right in the eye.
'You’re late,' Malachi says. His voice is a low, guttural vibration that I can feel in the soles of my feet. 'The lecture is already in progress.'
Eleanor is frozen. She’s staring at Leo’s ass, which is hiked up, pale and shimmering with sweat, while Malachi’s dark, heavy cock disappears into him and pulls out, slick with a cocktail of lube and the Professor’s own internal heat. The sound of it is obscene—a wet, suctioning pop that echoes off the high ceilings.
Leo... oh, my beautiful, broken Leo. He doesn't try to cover himself. He doesn't reach for the discarded papers to hide his shame. He turns his head on the table, his cheek pressed against a red-inked essay on *The Great Gatsby*, and he looks at her. He looks at his superior, the woman who holds his tenure in her hands, and he lets out a long, shuddering moan that sounds like a surrender.
'Look at him, Eleanor,' I say. I’m stepping toward her, my plum silk dress open to the waist, my nipples hard and dark in the dim light. I can see her eyes tracking the movement. She’s terrified, yes, but she’s also *looking*. She can’t help it. No one can. 'Don't turn away. This is the only truth he’s told in this building in ten years.'
Malachi reaches back, his hand finding the back of Leo’s neck, and he slams him down harder against the wood. 'He’s mine tonight,' Mal says. 'And yours. And the floor’s. He belongs to the room.'
He starts to move with a renewed, violent urgency. He’s not just fucking him now; he’s performing an exorcism. He’s driving his entire length into Leo, over and over, until the Professor starts to scream—not a quiet, academic sound, but a raw, animalistic howl that fills the apartment. Leo’s hands are scratching at the mahogany, his nails leaving furrows in the finish.
Eleanor turns and runs. The sound of the door slamming is like a gunshot, the final period at the end of a long, convoluted sentence.
And then, there’s only us.
Malachi doesn't slow down. He’s nearing the end of the set. He grabs Leo by the waist, lifting his hips off the table so he can get deeper, his balls slapping against Leo’s perineum with a meaty, rhythmic thud. I’m right there, my hands on Leo’s chest, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. I’m sliding my fingers down, finding his cock—it’s purple, engorged, leaking onto the table. I wrap my hand around it, squeezing the base until he gasps, and I start to pump him in time with Malachi’s thrusts.
'Come for us, Leo,' I whisper. 'Burn the bridge. Blow the whole thing up.'
Leo’s body goes rigid. He’s a live wire. He’s a crescendo that won't resolve. And then, with a sharp, broken sob, he erupts. It’s everywhere—on my hands, on the table, hitting the pages of his research. And Malachi is right behind him, his own release coming with a low, distorted growl as he fills Leo, his body jerking with the force of it.
The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. It smells like sex and spilled ink and the end of a career.
Malachi pulls out, the sound wet and final. He doesn't help Leo up. He just stands there, breathing hard, his chest glistening. He looks like a god who just finished destroying a city.
Leo is still face-down on the table. He’s shaking.
I lean down and kiss the red mark on his cheek. 'Class is dismissed, Professor.'"
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 05-A]
[Date: November 10th]
[Time: 11:30 PM]
[Location: A Motel 6 on the edge of the Pioneer Valley]
[Background: The low hum of a vending machine; the smell of stale cigarettes and industrial cleaner; the sound of Malachi sharpening a knife.]
(Leo’s voice: Raspy, but steady. There is a strange, chilling calm in his tone.)
"I’ve been on 'administrative leave' for six days.
Eleanor didn't go to the police. She’s too dignified for that. She just went to the Dean and told him I was 'unwell.' A mental break. Stress. The crushing weight of the syllabus. They’ve suggested I take the rest of the semester to 're-center.'
I didn't argue. I didn't even pack a suit.
I’m in a room that costs forty-nine dollars a night. It’s perfect. It has no history. No subtext. It’s just beige walls and a bed that’s seen a thousand desperate acts.
They’re in the bathroom together. I can hear the shower running. I can hear Saffron laughing—that high, melodic sound that makes my skin crawl in the best possible way. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands. They’re still stained with ink. Or maybe it’s just the memory of it.
I’m not a professor anymore. I’m an adjunct to their lives. I’m the third chair in an orchestra that only plays at midnight.
The door opens. Malachi comes out first. He’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. His skin is damp, the steam from the bathroom clinging to his hair. He looks at me—not with pity, but with a quiet, territorial satisfaction. He’s the one who broke the seal. He’s the one who walked into my sanctuary and tore down the curtains.
'You still recording?' he asks.
I nod.
He walks over, his footsteps heavy on the thin carpet. He stands between my legs, his knees brushing mine. He reaches down and takes the phone from my hand. He doesn't turn it off. He just sets it on the nightstand, the mic pointed toward the bed.
'Good,' he says. 'I want you to hear this later. I want you to remember what it sounds like when you stop thinking.'
He pushes me back onto the mattress. It’s lumpy and smells of bleach. He’s on top of me in an instant, his weight pinning me down. He’s so much bigger than I am, so much more *solid*. He smells like soap and the woodsmoke from the van’s heater.
He’s kissing me now. It’s not a soft kiss. It’s an occupation. He’s using his tongue to map out my mouth, his teeth grazing my lip until I taste copper. My hands find his back, my fingers tracing the scars and the muscle, feeling the raw, unadulterated power of him.
Saffron comes out of the bathroom. She’s naked, her skin glowing like amber in the harsh fluorescent light of the room. She’s carrying a bottle of cheap wine and a pack of cigarettes. She doesn't say a word. She just climbs onto the bed, crawling over us like a cat.
She straddles my chest, her weight light but insistent. She’s looking down at me, her hair falling around her face like a curtain.
'You’re the empty page, Leo,' she says. 'And we’re going to write whatever we want on you.'
She leans down and captures my mouth while Malachi’s hands are busy with my belt. I’m caught between them. I’m the bridge. I’m the medium. And for the first time in thirty-two years, I don't have a single thing to say about it."
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 05-B]
[Date: November 11th]
[Time: 01:45 AM]
[Location: Room 214, Motel 6]
[Background: The rhythmic, heavy thumping of the headboard against the wall; Saffron’s voice, rising and falling in a wordless song; the sharp, metallic snap of a lighter.]
(Malachi’s voice: Deep, rhythmic, breathless.)
"He’s finally quiet.
I’ve got the Professor—Leo—folded in half. He’s on his back, his knees pressed up against his chest, and I’m buried so deep inside him I can feel his pulse against my own skin. He’s tight, even now. He’s always trying to hold something back, some little piece of his dignity, but I’m going to grind it out of him.
I’m looking at Saffron. She’s sitting on his chest, her back to me, her head thrown back as she rides the rhythm I’m setting. She’s got her hands on his thighs, spreading him wider, exposing every inch of his ruin to the light.
'Do you feel that, Leo?' I grunt. I’m picking up the pace, my hips slamming against his ass with a violence that makes the bed frame scream. 'Do you feel the structure? The architecture?'
He’s not answering. He’s just making these high, thin sounds, his eyes rolled back so only the whites are showing. He’s gone. He’s drifted off into that place where the words don't reach.
I’m reaching around Saffron, my hand finding Leo’s throat. I’m not squeezing hard, just enough to let him know who’s in control. I’m watching the way his pulse jumps under my thumb. He’s so fragile. So easily broken. And yet, he keeps coming back for more.
Saffron is leaning forward now, her breasts pressing against Leo’s face, her nipples grazing his lips. She’s whispering things to him—filthy, theatrical things about what we’re going to do to him when we get to the next town. About how many people are going to watch him become nothing.
I’m getting close. I can feel the heat building in my gut, the pressure at the base of my spine. I’m not holding back. I’m driving into him with everything I have, my chest slick with his sweat and mine.
'Look at me,' I command.
He tries. His eyes flutter, trying to focus on my face. He looks terrified. He looks worshipful.
'You’re not the Professor anymore,' I tell him. I hit him then—a sharp, stinging slap across the thigh that leaves a white mark before it turns red. 'You’re just a hole. You’re just a place for me to put my noise.'
He lets out a broken, sobbing sound, and that’s it. That’s the trigger. I’m coming, a hot, thick deluge that fills him up, my whole body shaking with the effort of it. Saffron is coming too, her body arching, her nails digging into my forearms as she screams into the empty room.
We collapse together. A heap of limbs and damp skin.
The Professor is still shaking. He’s crying, I think. But he’s not turning away. He’s staring at the ceiling, his mouth open, breathing in the air we’ve poisoned.
He’s ours. He’s the third note in the chord. And the song is just getting started."
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 06-A]
[Date: December 15th]
[Time: 04:00 AM]
[Location: A highway somewhere in Vermont]
[Background: The steady roar of the van’s engine; the hiss of snow against the windshield; the muffled sound of a radio playing low, dissonant jazz.]
(Saffron’s voice: Tired, but glowing. There is a sense of completion in her voice.)
"Leo is asleep in the back.
He’s curled up on the moving blankets, his head resting on a drum case. He’s wearing Malachi’s old flannel shirt, and he looks... younger. The lines around his eyes have smoothed out. The 'Professor' has been erased, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left but the raw material.
We’ve been on the road for a month. We play the dives, the basements, the places where the light doesn't reach. And every night, after the set, we take him back to whatever room we’ve found and we remind him why he left.
He doesn't record himself much anymore. He doesn't need to 'analyze' the experience. He’s living it. He’s the one who carries the gear now. He’s the one who wipes the sweat off Malachi’s back between sets. He’s the one who watches me from the wings, his eyes dark with a hunger that he no longer tries to hide.
Malachi is driving. He’s silent, his hands steady on the wheel. He’s happy. He’s found his witness.
We’re heading north. Toward the cold. Toward the silence.
I look back at Leo. He’s stirring. He reaches out in his sleep, his hand searching for something to hold onto. He finds the edge of Mal’s kick drum and grips it tight.
He’s not lost. He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be."
[End Transcript]
***
[Transcript: Voice Memo 06-B]
[Date: December 24th]
[Time: 11:59 PM]
[Location: An abandoned cabin, somewhere near the Canadian border]
[Background: The crackle of a wood fire; the wind howling through the eaves; the sound of heavy breathing.]
(Leo’s voice: Low, intimate, barely a whisper.)
"This is the last one.
I’m burning my notebooks tomorrow. The syllabus, the research, the half-finished novel about a man who lived a life of quiet desperation—it’s all going into the stove.
I’m sitting on the floor in front of the fire. Malachi is behind me. He’s got his legs spread, and I’m leaning back against his chest. His hands are on my shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tension out of my muscles. He’s so warm. He’s a furnace in this freezing wilderness.
Saffron is across from us. She’s watching the flames. She’s holding the Polaroid—the one she took in the storage closet. She looks at it, and then she looks at me.
'Do you miss it?' she asks. 'The university? The books? The respect?'
I look at the fire. I think about the way the light used to fall in my office at UMass. The smell of the library. The polite, measured conversations in the faculty lounge.
'No,' I say. And it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.
I miss nothing. I have been reduced to my constituent parts, and I have never felt more complete.
Malachi reaches down. He slides his hand under the waistband of my trousers. He’s not being gentle. He’s not asking. He’s just taking what belongs to him. He grips my cock, his palm rough and hot, and I close my eyes, leaning my head back against his shoulder.
'Look at me, Leo,' Saffron says.
I open my eyes. She’s standing up. She’s dropping her robe. She’s beautiful. She’s a catastrophe.
'Look at us,' she says. 'And do not turn away.'
I’m looking. I’m watching as she walks toward us. I’m feeling Malachi’s fingers tighten around me, his other hand moving to the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss that tastes of smoke and salt.
The fire is dying down, but the heat in this room is unbearable. It’s a physical weight. It’s a structural necessity.
I’m letting the phone fall. I don't need to record this. I don't need to testify to the heat.
I am the heat.
I am the instrument.
I am finally, mercifully, silent."
[The recording continues for several minutes. There is the sound of fabric tearing, the heavy, rhythmic thud of bodies meeting wood, and a series of long, uninhibited cries that are eventually swallowed by the sound of the wind.]
[End of Recording]
[End of Story]
