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Head Games	By : Idolhands Category: A through F > Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Views: 4720 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Head Games
By: IDOL HANDS
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, Slash, Shota, Chan
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl, Tim Burton, Christopher Lee, Blair Dunlop, and Johnny Depp - my apologies & gratitude for the imagination that they spark in me.
Summary: Sex & morality in the same tale, two subjects, like the characters, that are often diametrically opposed. Why does touch continue to be an effort? Why was that hug so awkward? When did the madness begin? How will things ultimately resolve themselves? Why does Idol Hands get such bizarre plot bunnies? I dunno, but thank badness for adult-fanfiction.org. It's not PWP or overly angsty, I gave the story thought.

"Touch me, it’s so easy to leave me."

Touch is such a dangerous thing; it can lead to attachment & misunderstandings.
I want to touch him; though not entirely in ways that I should. In ways that lack purity…though not love.
Despite everything, I love him - so much so that I locked him away even from myself. And that’s why it was for his own good because it was also for my own good.
I also fear him.
He’s so curious, so sensual, precocious even. Where did he get that from? Certainly not from MY side of the family.
This leads me back to my dangerous thoughts.
I couldn’t look at him and not think of his long departed mother. It was an arranged marriage, but she was good to me. I grew to care for her in time despite my resistance, making it all the more difficult when that company I’d come to count on suddenly disappeared. She got me used to that feeling of a soft touch…left me longing for it. But, upon her grave, I vowed there would never be any other woman in my life.
Of course, if I gave into this temptation then…I still wouldn’t be breaching that.
No, I can’t. Even though I’m not entirely sure the boy would mind, not certain at all that he would consider it abuse.
I refer to him as ‘the boy’ inside of my head because there are times when it’s difficult to believe that he is truly half me, mine. But he is and he always will be. Even after all this time he still acts so much like a child, still clings to me…
Willy is the one thing in the world that I truly own, that will hopefully outlive me, extending my own life through his. With no family of his own, with that heir in tow, I sense that he’s had no other intimate experiences. Would it be so wrong then to impart some knowledge of desire before I go?
Desire, a despicable emotion that cares little for the effect that it may have upon the object it has been forced upon; an…urge that exists to trump the very nature of discipline and order.
Still, I remember.
I remember a time before I trapped him inside of that tangle of wire and metal. A stormy night he stayed with me, his young, shuddering form snuggling into my large, strong warmth for protection. I felt like a great gorilla protecting the smallest member of his tribe. I still coddled him at that age, trying to make up for the maternal parent that he lacked, the guilt chasing me around like her ghost.
At the time, he was enjoying the comfort as much as I was enjoying comforting him…
No, perhaps I was enjoying it more. I hadn’t meant to, but it was why he had to ask:
“What’s that?”
He’d just grabbed, yelping, and gripping me as he did with each passing clap from the heavens. The last one landed one of his small hands in a sensitive area. My robe had come undone during the previous jostles and the thin cotton pajamas underneath didn’t hide much.
I told him. I am a doctor after all. No need to be ashamed.
The child and the hand wanted to know more, they easily reached into the opening; nimble, delicate fingers on such hungry, responsive skin, their diminutive touch giving the erotic illusion of being larger than usual.
“But why is it like that?”
Again…I told him. This was as fine a time as any for explanations, for knowledge about his own anatomy. I should have told him to stop too…but I didn’t.
“Oh, so this feels good?”
His voice sounded innocent, but clearly intrigued and…eager to please.
I had also taught him never to lie, therefore I couldn’t bring myself to. I told him the truth with a slight groan. This was going much too far.
The thunder & lightening struck again, like mighty Jupiter himself throwing a glowing arrow. However, this time the boy did not scream or shudder. He was too entranced with his…new toy. My bedroom lit up in stark, sliced brilliances of black shadow and piercing light, my reclined form nearly twice the size of the one curled near my torso.
As is natural to such stimulation, an appreciative clear trickle had appeared.
I heard a charming high-pitched giggle, followed by:
“Dewdrops.”
I wondered if I should explain the lubrication purpose of what was occurring, but that would have involved explaining women as well and my mind wasn’t quite on that subject.
I should mention that as well as being gregarious and curious to a fault, the boy also had another odd, governing habit…putting things into…his mouth. Babies and toddlers do this; we all initially experience the world orally before our eyes, nose, touch, and brain fully develop. Children of his age should have long outgrown this. I’d blamed the lingering phase on the complete lack of breast-feeding he’d received.
The second my eyes had closed from the overwhelming sensations of pleasure was all the opportunity he needed to investigate further with that favorite bodily sense.
There was a warm, quick lick, followed by another and another and another. Assumedly trying to keep up with the excretions. When the fluid ceased, only for a second, he immediately placed his mouth over the end and sucked like it was a straw.
What a marvelously flexible and talented tongue! I suppose he’d had many years to develop it!
The small hands were also still busy with their own explorations. I lost all control or consciousness to stop him. It had been a long time since I’d experienced such pleasures…a very long time indeed.
Memories of his mother mixed and blurred with the new sensations that I was feeling. He had begun mimicking the earlier gestures of his hands while adding an array of improvisations. I was thinking of them both, though I couldn’t recall the modest woman ever being as insistently exploring as the tight mouth enveloping me now.
I flinched only once, “No teeth. Try…uhn, not to use your teeth.”
I actually corrected him!? Clearly my mind was gone.
He obeyed though, obeyed well. Throats have no teeth.
A sound of anguish coupled with a thunderous clap of lightening as I finished. My hand prevented the child from removing his head, but several eager swallows followed the first nervous one. In the end, I had to pull him off of my sensitive member. How could he know that it wasn’t pleasant for much after that reaction?
The boy seemed very pleased with himself though, cuddling back onto my chest, my night garments now in such disarray that I could feel the rough hairs of my chest brushing against his peachy soft cheek. I wrapped an arm around his slim back.
The young voice, traced with a hint of my own British accent, whispered, “I made you feel good Papa, didn’t I? It always feels good when I finish too, but nothing ever comes out.”
My eyes flew open.
I heard his lips smack once as he licked them off.
He’d tricked me! …he wasn’t completely innocent of this particular biological function! This wouldn’t be the first time the boy was inclined toward deception. Unprepared to go into my sin, I’d deal with his first.
“Willy, you shouldn’t be doing that, it’s wrong to play with yourself.” There I was lecturing at the same time that I was gasping for air from the most intense orgasm I’d ever had.
The boy cuddled closer, unfazed, whispering again, “Why not? It feels so nice.”
My breathing and thoughts were becoming more steady. The willowy body pressed against my own girth and I could tell he was probably in need of committing the act again shortly. I stammered, “Be-because we can’t just do things simply because they feel good…we have to do the right thing or we’ll be punished.”
“Punished by who?” The boy said with a suspicious movement of his hips.
“By God.” I said, now I was the one shuddering from uttering a name that struck me like thunder.
“Why would God punish us for feeling good? That’s stupid. And mean.” The tone of innocence had been replaced by a sharp streak of annoyance. “I don’t want to worship a God like that.”
“Who are you to question God?!” I sat upright, upsetting the child’s intimate embrace. I also re-cinched up my garments.
Something was very, very wrong with this child. Sometimes I suspected that on a deep level; that there was a reason why his mother didn’t live through the birth, that something evil was inside of him…along with my seed now, the same seed that had given him life. Oh, HOW had I let this happen? And…and…yet I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
Desire, temptation, pleasure, sex…all works of The Devil.
My strict, stoic parents came to mind, their gloomy portraits looming over my front entrance. They had been right all along, right to punish me and treat me with such callousness. Life was a struggle, it wasn’t about indulgence and you must always stay guarded against enticement to the contrary.
The boy’s eyes had continued to glitter at me in his perpetual state of wonder as I racked my brains around this problem, this awful secret that I’d have to make sure, for his sake as well as my own, no one ever found out about. It was time to take control, to break him down, teach him obedience.
“The storm is over now. You can go back to your own room.” My voice wasn’t entirely unlike the rumbling of the low, receding thunder outside.
His was more like the pleading of a kitten. “But I want to stay here, with you. You make me feel safe.”
There was the temptation again. I closed my eyes and drove it away. “You’re a big boy now..clearly. You’re too old for such things. I have to stop indulging you. It’s time I started to toughen you up.”
Yes, I could fix this. I could fix him. I had to.
He was disappointed and baffled, then something else as I clasped my robe even tighter around myself.
“Fine! I don’t need you.” The boy pulled away offended, grabbing his pillow as he hopped out of the king-sized bed. Standing in the doorway, he made one last smart remark before stomping away. “I’ve still got myself to play with!”
“Willy, God will punish you!” I shouted, but didn’t dare give in to the urge to follow after him.

I had strange dreams that night, but one of them involved the inspiration for the complex headgear that I set forth to develop the very next day. It was a thing of strange beauty; a perfect way to prevent temptation, restrain his offensive words, and certain to isolate him at school. I couldn’t bring myself to beat him as my father had done to me, but the dental device's application and frequent need of recalibration would do just as well to teach him the meaning, the understanding, of pain.
For life was full of that, not pleasure.
I felt no guilt at this joy. No shame as I dabbed at his bleeding gums.
The device also gave me further success and fame in my career as a dentist. Clearly God approved.
Yes, discipline, restraint, bondage, pain - those were healthy things. I could only hope and pray that my contribution to such was enough to appease the creator I’d so surely offended. I continued to deprive myself, and therefore, my offspring every day thereafter. My last offering was to remove every trace of color from the home. There wasn’t much but from now on I’d do whatever it would take not to…stimulate my challenging son any further.
I got rid of all of his more fanciful clothes, cute things purchased on his begging insistence, as we’d pass shop windows. They were replaced them with appropriate, woolen miniatures of my own wardrobe: itchy, starchy hand-me-downs from when I was a boy. I also got ride of the colorful jacquard robe from that night. It had been a gift from my wife. There was a purple vase that had been one that I’d given to her. It was one of the most difficult things to discard, Willy used to stare at it for hours on end. He’d love to watch, as the sun would pass through it; sitting by the windowsill, arms crossed, staring at the world through the colored glass.
Then he began to watch the thunderstorms that used to terrorize him.
I watch him, as he doesn’t flinch, only widens his eyes wider and wider as the random flashes streak across the sky, revealing his mutated shadow across our wooden floors. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t make a peep…I almost feel bad for what I’ve done to him, but who am I to argue against God’s will?
I never touch him anymore. I think he blames himself.
Why didn’t I consider it God’s will when he wanted to become a chocolatier? Why was it God’s will to take the one thing in this world that I had and take it away from me? I had scores of time to think it over.
Scrapbooks were the only things that kept me company in the dark hours.
Who was right and who was wrong? What is right and what is wrong?

The reciever of my white phone is pressed tightly against my ear today. Its touch is cool against my skin - the opposite of that warm, velvety embrace from a few days ago.
I’m listening to him go on and on about things he’s invented, places he’s visited, marvel’s he’s accomplished. He wants so badly to impress me that I can’t get a word in edgewise. I don’t mind. It’s so good to hear his voice again, it often still sounds so childlike…as if no time has gone by at all. I close my eyes and dab at the tears, they flow like blood from tender flesh pierced by unforgiving metal.
The trace of an accent is gone now along with a great deal of class. Ah, well. I am done looking for our differences. I am done trying to force him into being a clone of myself. He has done so much more without me and my desperate attempts to rein him in.
Eventually he pauses, awkwardly he asks if he can visit me again without the boy named Charlie; a boy that reminds me a bit of Willy when he was that age, but somehow different. It was the child who spoke to me first, not my son. It was the child’s company that made my candymaker brave enough to finally come back to me. How will those two affect each other? Will they ever end up like us? I hope not. I hope we can repair the damage, drill out the rot, and put in shiny new fillings.
I think of his mouth.
His teeth are the most perfectly aligned and smooth I’ve ever seen. He must have kept up with the adjustments even after I left him, obeying that command while deliberately violating the one about candy. It must have taken terrific amounts of restraint and pain to create those results. It’s a sign, a symbol. He loves me too.
He doesn’t have the headgear anymore. No, of course not. He looks like his mother more than ever now, the contrast of beauty seems even more prevalent on masculine features.
He even wears his hair like she used to…
But that won’t happen again. Surely he’s forgotten after all this time, among all those sugary fantasies. He never did tell anyone…although he had a funny look in those purple, vase-colored eyes (I assume they’re contacts) when he said that salty candies were his favorite after chocolate; explaining that salt and sugar went surprisingly well together.
I remember my son’s blunt words from so long ago.
“Why would God punish us for feeling good? That’s stupid. And mean.”
Where does science end and religion take over? Where does religion end and science takes over? Either way, neither can explain the whims of the human heart.
Perhaps it was I who was The Devil all along?
I stroke the short hairs of my silvering goatee and answer him after the long pause.
“Of course you can. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Author’s Notes:
“Touch me, it’s so easy to leave me”, is a lyric in the song “Memories” from the play Cats.
“The Boy” – it was intended as a form of detachment, but there are several places that one may hear this phrase; the most ironic being from Homer Simpson in the long-running cartoon T.V. series, “The Simpsons”. The coincidence is not deliberate, nor is the Boy George reference (fans of the pop star legend often call him “The Boy”), but I don’t mind if you like it either.
The bulk of this potential one-shot hit me all at once in the wee hours of the morning last week. I penned it out at great speed with a nearby felt maker, then typed up as much as I could before I thought I had to go to work. My job called and said they didn't need me, I was mildly annoyed but thought I could at least complete my tale, then my computer decided to die while it had paused in sleep mode. Talk about concern for bad omens. At any rate, I wasn't sure I would post it at all, slightly alarmed at my own inspiration this time around. I looked it over a few more times and got it to a point where I think I like it and it has an appeal deeper than just slash.
There are times when I am writing and thinking up things that I very much identify with Dr. Wonka concerns for faith in this story; I think that’s partly from where this odd pairing was inspired. Also, ya gotta admit, Christopher Lee has a certain menacing appeal that parallels Willy Wonka’s. The candyman learned it from somewhere. *smirk*
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Head Games