It started with the way that Winston would stick his nose into Will’s crotch. He was just doing what dogs instinctively did—taking in Will’s scent, an innocent greeting. It didn’t help matters that Will was two days out from his last shower and in the midst of a libido spike. Two days worth of sweat and traces of vaginal fluid that he hadn’t wiped away when he’d gone to the bathroom would be more than enough to pique Winston’s curiosity about Will’s crotch.
He pushed Winston away at first, a gentle nudge that got his head out from between his legs, but it lingered in his mind for a while. That night he thought about it as he finished his sixth finger of whiskey, a destructive attempt to wash away the idea that started to take form. When he flopped into bed that night, he thankfully dreamt of nothing, but awoke to Winston’s head resting on the side of his bed, his big, brown eyes fixed on Will, silently asking if he was ready to take him outside.
—
Winston didn’t waste a second when Will came home sweaty and tired from fly fishing—he wedged his nose right in between his thighs and breathed in rapidly, interestedly. Will couldn’t feel much of anything with his waders still on, but the second he felt a kind of friction that was decidedly erotic, he pushed Winston back.
To Will’s dismay, he put up a bit of a fight and refused to move until Will scolded him thusly: “Winston, leave it.”
It didn’t feel good to see Winston shy away from him like he’d done something really wrong, like bringing him baby bunnies that Will knew would die before the mother found them again. He was gentle, he was a good dog, he just wanted to show Will that he was part of his pack.
He locked himself in the bathroom to masturbate that night, his fingers plunging in and out of him and filling the room with a desperate squelching sound. Will moaned louder than he normally would to drown out Winston pawing at the door, whining for Will to let him in. As he came, the idea started to manifest visually: Will on his hands and knees, rocking back hard, panting and repeating the phrase “good boy” under his breath. He didn’t need to see any more to know just who was making Will his bitch.
—
Dr. Lecter had been invading his dreams since he started seeing him for therapy.
The topic of Will’s involuntary fantasies had yet to be broached, but he could guess that Dr. Lecter wouldn’t just let him put it out into the air between them without confronting it in some deeper way that Will wasn’t prepared for. He almost admitted to it in their last session, anything to change the subject from Garrett Jacob Hobbs and his daughter Abigail, the swirling guilt making him nauseous. Will was glad he kept his mouth shut, but part of him was considering it again as he sat on his porch, Winston’s head perched in Will’s lap.
He wasn’t sniffing his crotch, and for that he was very thankful, but even without that stimulation, Will still thought about his idea. While Winston wouldn’t know what he was doing, definitely wouldn’t understand it in the way Will did, he still knew deep in his gut that it was wrong to consider doing that with his dog. All Winston did was ask for Will’s love, just not the twisted love that had seeped into Will’s bones like a cancer.
He told himself that it wouldn’t be love, he told himself that he was incapable of that kind of love as he splashed water on his face and raked his wet hands through his hair. It was part of the reason why he stayed out here on his own, rarely invited guests over. He felt most comfortable keeping up a wall that only the dogs were allowed past—they could know him in his most intimate moments and they wouldn’t turn him away, even if they more than had the right. If Winston was suddenly turned into a human tomorrow, Will didn’t think he’d stay, and Will knew he wouldn’t want him to stay.
But something just as deep in his bones as his unsated desires knew that there was one person who would stay if he knew Will entirely, and that was, for no reason he could truly pin down, Dr. Lecter.
—
Will woke up at three am to find Winston buried in between his thighs. He checked the clock to make sure he really was awake, watching it flick to 3:02 like that might tell him if he was still dreaming. The room was pitch black past the foot of the bed, and in the silvery moonlight Will had an unobstructed view of Winston’s snout nuzzled into his crotch, felt the unmistakable warmth of dog tongue lapping at his underwear.
He was drenched, bodily and between his legs. A wet dream he was already losing now that one of his fantasies had seemingly come to life. Or maybe Winston had been at it before Will woke up, and there hadn’t been a wet dream to begin with.
Will sighed, tried to prop himself up on his elbows and failed, only managing to hike one leg up and give Winston more space to lap at him through his boxers. If the other dogs were watching, listening in, Will didn’t notice their observing. He reached down between his legs and struggled to push his underwear off so Winston could put his tongue right on Will, lick him from the inside like he was one of the homemade treat-dispensing toys Winston was so fond of. Could he have convinced him to do this sooner with a spoonful of peanut butter smeared on his labia? Probably. Will just didn’t want to admit to himself how badly he’d wanted this.
He struggled for a while until he freed one leg from his boxers, shoving them to the side and being rewarded with Winston immediately diving his wet nose into Will’s clit. The sensation was odd but it still sent an electric shiver throughout his body. His hand found purchase on top of Winston’s head and he stroked behind his ears, encouraging him with low, loving praise that made his tail wag.
Will came in a haze, and when he was alert again Winston was on the floor, curled up in the eye of the dog hurricane with his face buried underneath his paws. He was wet, and he dragged himself to the bathroom to clean up before he tried to go back to bed.
—
With Will losing time, it felt easier to chalk up the incident with Winston as a waking dream. It was just perfect enough that he assumed he could have only experienced it in his unconscious mind. There would have been slobber, he would have felt raw after being used like that. At the very least, there was evidence that he’d been aroused last night: the wrinkled wad of toilet paper at the bottom of his trash can still had his slick nestled inside it, and a copious amount at that.
“I don’t want to believe it because then it’d be like confirming the worst rumors about myself.”
Will heard the hushed remarks on campus, in the pathology office when Beverley and the others went quiet. Everyone could smell his dogs on him and knew he was reserved—it was a very natural, albeit very derogatory, thought.
Hannibal leaned back in his seat, his unflinching gaze fixed on Will. “And what would come of you confirming those rumors only to yourself?”
Will shrugged, laughed bitterly.
“I don’t think I’d be able to look at myself in the mirror again.” Not like he did that very much to begin with. “It’s like a slippery slope of what I would be capable of doing if I accepted that night as reality. Like a dam breaking, I’d stop feeling shame about societal taboos and completely retreat from humanity unless I started finding solace in murder or cannibalism.”
Will was a bit shocked by the sly grin Hannibal gave him. It was a small, subtle reaction, but it was one that immediately granted him a slight sense of comfort. He was not in hostile territory here.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with exploring the taboo. I often find it’s healing for patients with severe trauma and phobias to experience the depraved firsthand in a safe environment.” He quietly tapped the end of his pen against his clipboard. “Do you think that you might benefit from this type of exploration?”
Will felt like he was up to his chin in water that hadn’t been there a second ago. He shook his head immediately, dismissing Hannibal’s idea of exposure therapy without a second thought.
“I don’t think I feel comfortable engaging in that sort of thing with an audience, thank you.”
He left Hannibal’s office with a yearning tugging in his stomach: he wanted to be watched, Winston on top of him, Hannibal taking notes on Will’s precarious mental state. The brief smile he gave Hannibal before leaving was almost solely attributed to that visual sending blood straight to his clit.
He wondered once the door shut if Hannibal could smell that he was aroused.