Page 1 of Sweet Thing

PROLOGUE

ALADDIN SANE

Simeon Duchamp stared out of his bedroom window at the Phoenix Clinic, a private rehabilitation clinic overlooking Lake Zurich and the snow-capped Swiss Alps, where he was receiving treatment for alcohol, drug, and internet addictions. Sim was addicted to sex too, but he would rather die than admit to that and spend his life trying to abstain from cock!

It was a glorious spring morning; the sky was a sharp arctic blue and cloudless. Thickets of trees on the perimeter of the vast wooded lakeside grounds swayed in the gentle breeze. A group of six patients were completing their early morning yoga class on the main lawn, bending and bowing with their final leonine stretches. Simeon watched the group do their sun salutations, downward dogs and child poses, secretly wishing he were with them, and that he could stay cocooned and pampered at the clinic forever.

Simeon’s world shattered when he fell in love with his best friend and fellow model, Pieter Bayer. Pieter never returned that level of affection and had in fact fallen for someone else. The intervention by his father, Patrice and subsequent treatment at the Phoenix Clinic saved Simeon’s life.

On discovering Pieter was in a relationship with painter Emily Raven, Simeon could not cope with what he saw as rejection. In spite and jealousy, while under the influence of a mixture of substances, Sim decided it would be a fitting revenge to leak false information about Pieter to a fashion gossip website. The information was shared, retweeted, and commented on by millions of followers.

The fall-out from that sorry exercise was nearly disastrous for Pieter’s career—Clients falsely believed he was walking away from his contractual obligations, and he was deemed unreliable and unprofessional.

However, after Simeon was exposed as the source of fake information, his career began to falter. Clients refused to work with him, friends dropped him like he was on fire, and the Twitter backlash became intolerable. Simeon disappeared, and when his father’s investigators eventually found him at a hotel in Geneva, he was trying to kill himself with a cocktail of vodka and pills.

After three months as a patient at the Phoenix Clinic, Simeon’s hedonistic, outrageous model façade dissolved along with the drugs and alcohol that were purged from his system. Beneath his camp, party boy mask there was a quieter, more introspective, sensitive young man—a man who felt everything too keenly, loved too deeply, and could not cope with the pain of loss and rejection.

Sober for the first time since his late teens, Simeon was as fragile as a fledgling, and bewildered by the colors, scents, and sounds of the big wide world. Who was Simeon Duchamp without his mask, without the crutches of alcohol and drugs giving him the confidence to get through each day?

A gentle knock on the bedroom door startled Simeon from his introspection. He looked away from the window toward the door to see his favorite young male nurse Karl, poke his head inside.

“Your last session with Dr. Schroeder is in twenty minutes”, he informed. ”One for the road?” Karl’s brows waggled provocatively. Simeon’s lips slid into a salacious smile.

“Lock the door.” he directed, swiftly moving to the bed. Karl stepped into the room and, as instructed, he locked the door. Simeon began by removing his t-shirt and then unbuttoning and sliding out of his jeans. Karl kicked his soft soled white Croc clogs off, and the lightweight nurse’s uniform of white trousers and tunic shirt were discarded in seconds. Simeon stood, his eyes appraising the slender, boyish form of the twenty-eight-year-old nurse. Karl had offered a pleasing aside from the trauma of therapy. He was Simeon’s type—blonde, blue-eyed, eager to please, and deliciously well-hung. Karl approached and pulled Simeon into a deep, messy kiss.

At six foot, Simeon was taller than Karl’s five-foot-six, but what Karl lacked in height, he certainly made up for with his cock. Simeon longed to devour all ten inches one last time before leaving the clinic. He ran his fingers through short-cropped blonde hair, his hard-on brushing urgently against Karl’s. He then dragged the naked nurse to lie prone on the hospital bed. Karl chuckled throatily. Simeon clambered onto the bed, and his long, willowy legs straddled his conquest, so they were in the sixty-nine position, the head of his own erection directed at Karl’s willing mouth.

Sim took the man’s thickened, stout, uncut cock in hand and stroked, retracting the sheath of gossamer foreskin over the engorged head, and marveling that Mother Nature had seen fit to bestow a monster cock on such a slight man. He smiled to himself and then directed the plump glans between his wet, parted lips. As much as Simeon would have loved to make a meal out of it, there was no time to play. Simeon hummed with satisfaction, taking Karl down his throat, the cock filling him to near gagging point. Sim drew off, relaxed his throat muscles, and went back for more, working the cock between his lips like a porn star. His self-esteem may have hit rock bottom, but with a dick in his mouth, there was at least one thing Simeon was sure he was still good at!

Karl offered preparatory licks and kisses to Simeon’s shaft before opening his warm, pliant mouth and swallowing him down. The two young men writhed and rocked on the hospital bed, hands caressing desperately.

Simeon was enjoying the suction Karl’s mouth offered; his eyes rolled back in his head with the pleasure of being sucked, and sucking in syncopation. Simeon paused and used some of the saliva dribbling from his mouth to moisten his fingers. Slowly, Sim eased a wet finger into Karl’s asshole and hooked the finger upward seeking his prostate. The young man beneath him bucked and moaned, thrusting up into Simeon’s mouth, nearly gagging on Sim’s cock.

When he had regained his faculties, Karl mirrored Sim’s action, giving Simeon the same intimate attention with his probing fingers.

They both pressed into each other's holes, and their hips matched in an undulating rhythm. Fingers massaged deep inside, drawing fevered moans of pleasure from both men. Simeon almost forgot he was still officially a patient in a Rehab Clinic until minutes later, when he and Karl spilled in warm bitter pulses down each other’s throats.

After a moment to catch their breaths, and final sensual kisses of thanks, both men dressed hurriedly.

“I cannot be absent for too long. I told the head nurse I was going for a bathroom break”, Karl admitted. He made to leave the room, pausing only to blow a kiss to the effete young man with long, dark hair sitting on the disheveled bed, licking the last of Karl’s spill from his lips.

Ten minutes later Karl returned. “Dr. Schroeder is ready for you now, Mr. Duchamp, and your car has arrived”, he announced formally.

“Thank you, Karl; I’ll be out in a minute,” Simeon replied his soft camp French timbre sounding a little breathless as he rushed around packing the last of his belongings. Karl nodded.

“And thank you for all of your… assistance during my stay Karl”, he added

“I wish you all the best with your continued recovery, Mr. Duchamp.” Karl quirked a knowing smile and blew a kiss before closing the door.

Simeon threw his gaze around the bedroom that looked more like a suite in a five-star hotel than a hospital room. He glanced at his cases and then checked to see if he had forgotten anything. He took a deep cleansing breath and strode to pick up the postcard from the nightstand. The postcard had been the only item of mail Simeon received during his stay at the Phoenix Clinic.

Simeon had awoken sometime in his first hellish days at the clinic, terrified, disorientated, and restrained by cuffs at the wrists and ankles. He’d panicked, but then saw something out of the corner of his eye. He’d moved his head to see a postcard propped on his nightstand. Simeon had focused on it and breathed until the panic passed. That sliver of card had meant the world to Sim as he endured the weeks of withdrawal and craving. The postcard was a photograph of David Bowie. The same image graced a large poster on Simeon’s bedroom wall in his Berlin apartment. When he was eventually through the worst, and release from the restraints he picked the postcard up and studied it for a long time. Then he flipped it over. The back of the postcard had a simple message. I wish you a swift recovery-Pieter x

After everything Simeon had done to destroy their friendship, Pieter was the only friend who’d made an effort to contact him during his Rehab. Having reminders of his two greatest obsessions, Bowie and Pieter, was a thread to Simeon’s identity that he clung onto when he thought he would lose his mind. The fact that Pieter knew he would need Bowie close by and that he took the time to send the card made it an intensely touching, personal gift.

Simeon slid the postcard securely into the left inner breast pocket of his jacket and held his hand over his heart for a moment. He strode into the spa bathroom and gazed at himself in the mirror. The reflection was of a young man with pale, androgynous features, high cheekbones leading to deep hollows, a sharp clean-shaven jawline, and full nearly feminine lips. The reflection that met Simeon’s hazel-eyed gaze was a far better sight than the one he saw three months ago. That man was close to emaciation, drank to blackout, and downed a rainbow of amphetamines with crazy street names: Bennies, Sparkles, Super jellies, Lightning, and Truckies, as if they were candy. He was desperately sexually reckless, having unprotected sex with any man who was willing and able.

That man had been a mess, an embarrassment, a liability and he needed to disappear.