YNGVE shoves two leathery gloved fingers down the back of his throat until his eyes water like a burst pipe and his expression screams for release. Unfeeling digits probe past the fellow’s tongue, molars, tonsils, to scratch the soft palate with rough deerhide. They ransack moist and spongy interior lining, feeling out the spasmodic rhythm of his pharyngal muscles contracting. He does it with the speed and grace of a bullet exiting a revolver.

Truth to be told, there was no real reason for him to be doing this. Not the- well, he wouldn’t call it torture. He thinks his current victim, a lost fellow of lesser nobility, makes for an exquisite toy.

As one does with toys, he engages in play. Strictly platonic play. If he truly wanted to feel sexual gratification, he’d do something else, somewhere else. Not here, in the middle of pale, freezing winter.

By the time this train of thought had departed, Yngve has already gotten bored by the fellow’s chokes. His tears, now dried by frigid wind, paint his eyes and cheeks an angry and inflamed berry-red. If he tasted his tears they would flood him with memories of arctic brine. He counts to one, two, three, and retracts his hand with the same viciousness as the insertion. His other hand tightly grips the fellow’s face and jaw, keeping his purplish-blue lips slightly parted.

The fellow takes in a shuddering, intense, orgasmic, cathartic breath. His posture is comically straight- back upright, shoulders not drooped, arms by his side, fists not clenched. Yngve wonders if he was already practiced in the ways of playing. In the sadistic, sodomitic kind of play. Not that he has anything against it, not the sodomy, the violence or the sex. It’s the fellow- nobody wants to draw on a painted canvas. He’d rather do it on a blank one.

Cold licks at his reddened cheeks and Yngve whets cracked lips to little effect as the moisture dies on his tongue. A bitter cold snap has rendered the surrounding forestry catatonic and inert. All who enter heed caution: even time tends to lose its way in here. Too late he realizes the sun must be setting soon. Golden pinpricks of final daylight stab at the ground, setting the opaque snow-covered ground alight.

“Feh-“, a noncommittal sound at his apparent temporal blunder. “Would you look at the time.”

The fellow does not reply.

Finally- he lets go of his jaw and his body drops like a marionette with its wires cut.

“Oh don’t be like that-“, noncommittally he wipes at his sullied fingers with an already bloodied serviette, then tucks it away. So much for cleanliness. “You can still walk. Get up and go. It’s getting dark soon, you know.”

Still no reply from the fellow. Weakly, he feels at his violated throat. Yngve doesn’t understand what the grand problem is supposed to be. Call it torture or not, the fellow must have understood why he did it.

Lips plush and made ripe by the cold. A strong jaw coupled with deceptively full cheeks made for a youthful visage, full of vigor. But most astounding of all were his teeth. An ivory smile, pillar straight. Not a single tooth out of line. Impressive, even for noble standards. As such, he’d be a fool not to savor them. The fellow must’ve understood. During midmorning he found him stumbling in the deep snow, beyond the beaten path (or where it was supposed to be anyway). Asked for directions he did, in that wonderful androgyne lilt of his, punctuated by that nervous, polite and tepid grin. His teeth seemed to gleam in the dull light of morning. Yngve had said yes, of course, come this way.

It was his intention to let him go, but not before he took a stab at his mouth- metaphorically, literally. Would be a great shame to let such a pristine specimen escape him unexamined, he rationalizes. Not that he has much to rationalize. He was perfectly in tune with all his wants and wishes, after all. All the tumult of grand emotions were as foreign to him as far eastern deserts. Yngve made his home in the tundral realms of academia and objectivity.

Despite his aloof posturing, the fellow’s reaction- or lack thereof, still sparked flickers of a deep annoyance reaching into his very soul.

“You know, young man, you do hurt me so. I usually do not extend my grace to wayward travelers like this, let alone this time of year.” With one knee to the ground, he lowers himself to be at eye level with the trembling man, his gaze still downcast.

“It’s only fair I get a share of the profits as well, which I already have. I will assist you no longer.”

Oblivious to the movement happening, the fellow lets out a pained groan and gasp as Yngve’s hand grips at his crop of hair from the back and tugs it so his glare bore into his own bloodshot eyes. Behind the fog of glass, he saw only black.

“You’re a healthy young man with a sparkling smile to boot. A maiden of your pedigree ought to take notice of it in time, I’m sure of it. I’d suggest you go and make that happen, before I change my mind.”

All mild-mannered mirth or polite goodwill had disappeared from his face in that instant and as if lightning had struck, the fellow tore himself from his grasp and made a run for the city outskirts beyond the forest.

Yngve watched the man run for a little, and mimed the movement of a ‘hats off’ as goodbye before he set off on his own way home.