Good Behavior: An MM Forbidden Romance (Wild Heart Ranch Book 2)
Good Behavior: Chapter 9

Jesus fuck. That was the hottest, sexiest…fucking good boy. That man is going to be the death of me, I swear. It’s a good thing the RV park is only a couple of miles down from the ranch, or I’d end up wrapped around a tree.

I drop the keys twice before finally letting myself into my trailer. My fingers are equally uncooperative with the vest, and I lose a button to my nervous fumbling. Finally free of it, I yank my shirt over my head and toe off my shoes, nearly busting ass as I strip off my fancy argyle socks. I finally wrestle off my jeans, tossing everything into the built-in hamper before crawling naked and hard onto my perfect bed.

Pumping some lotion into my fist, I stroke myself, firing up the memory of the last time I saw Dr. Barlowe in lockup.

I’m a month into solitary, and even though it has mostly sucked, Dr. Barlowe was right. Our little sessions are legit keeping me out of serious trouble, and I’ve made strides toward putting together a life I’m proud of. I’d been white-knuckling my sobriety, but he insisted I join the prison’s AA group.

It’s not my favorite thing, but hearing other guys talk about the same issues with anger and self-control makes me feel less alone.

And while it’s all helpful, the thing I look forward to the most is our little unspoken dynamic. I’m always handcuffed to the table when he walks in, my posture perfect, my demeanor pliant.

Sometimes I’m good for the entire session, and he finds a reason to call me a good boy. Sometimes I’m defiant and need to be strapped to the chair until he’s satisfied I’ve learned my lesson. My heart races every time he takes off his belt like maybe this will be the time he crosses the line. But he never does.

Still, it’s beyond obvious this turns me on, especially when he leans over to belt me in. I can’t exactly hide my erection in prison-issue, but he never reacts and never touches me beyond tightening the belt and correcting my posture. His actions and demeanor are always efficient and professional.

It’s low-key pervy, and I love it.

While I enjoy this kinky shit, I have to admit he’s a damn good therapist. This morning we’re talking about how I feel like a dumbass for getting busted, like maybe prison is the only thing I have to look forward to. His take, however, is different. When I tell him how my arrest went down, he grins.

“You making fun of me?”

He draws his chin back, almost as if physically struck by my words. “I would never make fun of you, Ignacio. I respect you far too much for that.”

Those simple words—I respect you—make me hard. I whimper, rolling my eyes as my cock brushes the overhang.

Wordlessly, he stands and pushes my chair in, essentially trapping my cock between my stomach and the hard wood. He has to know what he’s doing, but I dare not move a centimeter. Worse—or better, depending on your perspective—he continues to heap praise on me until it’s time for the guards to take me back to my cell.

“You are incredibly smart, Ignacio. When you knew you were about to be arrested, even though the arresting officer noted you were drunk and belligerent, you did everything possible to give yourself the least amount of time. You ditched the weapons and didn’t self-incriminate,” he notes in his efficient, sterile style.

Bastard’s edging me, and he knows it.

Before he calls in the guard, Dr. Barlowe rises and makes his way around the table, his shoes practically under the chair as he faces me. I keep my eyes on my hands, trying not to think about the fact his cock is mere inches from my face or that I can smell his earthy personal scent.

“You take excellent care of your clothing and hygiene, Ignacio.”

“Thank you, Dr. Barlowe,” I whisper, staring forward as I subtly roll my hips.

“Tell me, Ignacio. Are you circumcised?”

I nearly swallow my tongue as I shake my head, not daring to look him in the eye.

“Good,” he says, breathing heavily. “Good. Are you keeping up with your intimate hygiene?”

“Yes, Dr. Barlowe.”

Fuck, did he move in closer?

I turn my head, careful not to make a big deal of it, and inhale deeply. His hand lands on my head, and he pulls me in closer, then steps back so quickly I can’t tell if that happened or if I imagined it.

“Excellent. Make sure to pay extra attention to the details, Ignacio. Maybe tonight you can spend a little more time ensuring your cleanliness.”

He has to know that being in solitary means I shower alone, and I’m pretty sure he’s telling—ordering—me to soap up and jack off.

“Of course, Dr. Barlowe. I’ll do it a few times to make sure I get the job done.”

“Good boy.” He grips the back of my neck, stroking the side with his thumb as he presses the button for the guard.

After waiting anxiously to be escorted to the showers, I take my time, just like the good doctor ordered. Pulling back the loose foreskin, I drip soapy water over my glistening, exposed glans, then draw the skin up and over, enjoying the slippery sound as I push my cock through the bubbly lubricant again and again, teasing myself until I can’t hold back.

I come with Dr. Barlowe’s velvety, insistent voice in my head. True to my word, I clean myself again in the same way before exiting the shower, shaken and spent.

I thrust into my tight fist, the memory of his scent pushing me over the edge. Cum spurts from my cock, coating my abdomen in thick stripes. I continue stroking myself, milking the last of the good stuff until it’s dripping down over my fist and my tiny room smells like sex.

Every time I shower, I think of his directive to clean my cock, as though he wants it kept clean for his consumption. I used to imagine him paying off a guard to look the other way while we fucked, but he’s never even come close to touching me like that.

The one thing I haven’t done since our first encounter is call him Daddy. I don’t want him to give me that cold look ever again. Besides, I like being called a good boy too much to fuck with…whatever this thing is. I love his authoritative tone. He always listened in therapy, but after, he gave me a command or two to follow, almost like he was trying to keep me out of my head.

I was raised my entire life to prioritize loyalty to family above all else. One of his early demands was to prioritize me. Whenever I’d talked about being loyal and worried about what my family would think of me once I was on the outside, he’d remind me that I’m worthy of the life I want, regardless of their opinions.

Weird thing is, I believe him.

After following his instructions to clean myself, I couldn’t wait to tell him how thorough I’d been. Also, he found a job opening at a family-run fencing company in Johnson City, and per his request, I’d completed my résumé. I thought it was a waste of time since I wouldn’t be out for another year, but he insisted, saying I needed to start getting my name out there now.

Even if I don’t need it right now, I’m proud of how I explained my jail time. I’d hand-written the résumé and requested to go to the library to type it and send it to Dr. Barlowe. Before I could do any of that, though, I get a surprise visit from my state-appointed attorney.

“Barney? What are you doing here?” I ask as the guard walks me into the visitor’s room.

A lot of people end up with shitty attorneys, but I got lucky. He’s a good egg, even if he is a little twitchy.

“You’re getting out this afternoon,” he says, grinning wildly.

Wait, what?

“How? Why? What did you do?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t do anything. You’re being released due to overcrowding and good behavior. Dr. Barlowe apparently gave a strong recommendation, and the warden signed off on it.”

“Really? Why didn’t he tell me?” I ask, still confused.

“Yes, really. And I don’t think he was allowed.”

Huh. No wonder he insisted I polish up my résumé and apply for jobs. Sneaky bastard.

“Holy shit. What do I do now?”

He walks me through the procedures and waits for me as I make my final walkthrough. I ask a guard I trust to give my commissary balance to someone who needs it, and I further entrust him to pass on some of the items that mean more on the inside. This all feels fucking surreal, but I can’t stop to take it in.

“Barney, I’ve got to type up this résumé. Can you help me get to a library or something?”

Hell, where am I going to sleep tonight?

“I can do one better,” he says, walking me to his car.

Barney takes me to his office, where he sets me at a computer to type up the résumé and email it out while he orders pizza.

Before I type up the résumé, I email Dr. Barlowe.

Dr. Barlowe,

I got out today, and I hear you’re the person responsible. So…thank you. I won’t ever forget our sessions. I’m just sad I couldn’t thank you properly for everything you taught me. I don’t have a phone yet, but I have this email account. If there’s anything I can do for you out here in the real world, just let me know. I’ll do anything you want me to.

Ignacio

I type up my résumé and send it to the email provided. I refresh the inbox about a million times before the pizza arrives, but I don’t get a response from Bram. He’s probably already gone for the day, so I grab a slice and focus on the things I should be doing, namely, getting a job and getting out of town.

I take a bite of hot pizza and…fuck, it’s the best pizza I’ve ever tasted. A reminder that I can build a life full of simple, amazing experiences.

After we’ve devoured the entire thing—to be fair, Barney only had two slices—I get an email from Jason Jennings asking if I can come in for an interview tomorrow morning. Not wanting to ask Barney for anything else, I take a chance and give my mother a call.

Dr. Barlowe wanted me to have a post-jail plan that put some distance between those who wouldn’t support my new goals and me.

He’s right, of course. As much as I never want to return to jail, I’ve only started believing I can create a better life for myself. I’m not strong enough to resist my family if they want to guilt me into helping with the family “business.”

“It’s just a few packages, primo.”

Spoiler alert: It’s never just a few packages.

Which means I’ve got to make this quick. Honestly, I’m surprised by how proud she sounds, and when she insists on lending me her car, I tear up.

“I can’t take your car, Mamá.”

“I don’t drive it anymore. Take it. Go where you need to go. Sell it if you need the cash.”

I check my email one last time before we leave Barney’s, but Bram still hasn’t replied.

Barney takes me to my mother’s house, and she’s already packed my things. Barney helps me put them in the car. I hug her with everything I have until she pats my shoulder.

“You have to leave, Nacho. Your cousins will be home soon, and you don’t want them to know you’re out.”

I wipe away a few tears, and she pushes two hundred dollars into my hands.

“Make something of yourself,” she says in her soft Spanish. “Make me proud.”

“I will, Mamá. I promise.”

Feeling like I’ve barely missed being dragged back into this life, I give Barney a back-pounding hug and get into my mother’s old ’88 Cutlass Supreme.

Needing to put some distance between me and my old life, I make the two-and-a-half-hour drive to the Texas Hill Country and spend the night in the car.

The next day I walk into the Jennings’ Ranch Supply store, owned by Jason Jennings, who also owns the fencing business, and walk out with a job. Sleeping in my car sucks donkey balls, but Jason cuts paychecks every week, and soon enough, I’m able to move into a junked-out teardrop trailer in a tiny RV park several miles back from the highway.

A few more weeks in, Jason gives me a work truck to use. When he gives me my first promotion and raise at the ninety-day mark, I sell the Cutlass, fix up the tiny trailer, and sell it too. I use that cash to buy an old junked-out Airstream at auction.

It needs a shit ton of work, but I find that the work, the occasional hookup, and my Saturday AA meetings do a pretty good job of keeping me out of trouble.

My only regret? Dr. Barlowe never replies to my email. I may have pushed it too far with the I’ll do anything line, and I hope he doesn’t hate me or think I’m ridiculous for wishing I could see him one last time, to genuinely thank him and maybe tell him that striving to be his good boy this last month has changed my perspective on pretty much everything.

I blink back to the present.

Huh. Guess I got my wish after all.

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