The Mentalist: Part IV — The Cleaner
The dress rehearsal goes off without a hitch.
You stand where Laurie tells you to stand. You hand her what Laurie tells you to hand her. You speak when Laurie tells you to speak — three lines, total, all of them simple, all of them met with laughter from the off-duty crew members who've been invited to watch.
The show is exactly what you'd expect from a woman who's been doing this for years.
Volunteers from the sparse audience. Laurie reads them like books — their secrets, their fears, the things they've never told anyone.
A steward who's been stealing from the pantry. A bartender who's in love with the Captain's wife. A young woman from housekeeping who's been faking a British accent since she was hired.
Each revelation lands like a thunderclap. Each volunteer returns to their seat looking shaken, exposed, oddly grateful.
And you stand behind her in your black silk panties and your corset and your cropped tuxedo jacket, and your little guy stays soft, stays resting, stays exactly where she told him to stay, and you feel something that might be pride, or might be something else entirely.
When it's over, Laurie dismisses you with a wave of her hand.
"Go. Eat. Find your friend. Be back by ten tomorrow."
You change back into your uniform in the backstage bathroom. Your hands are steady.
Your cock is soft, quiet, surrendered. You tuck him into your boxers — the plain cotton ones that now feel wrong, shapeless, like putting a rescued animal back into a cage — and you head out into the ship.
The crew bar is on Deck 4, tucked between the laundry room and a storage corridor. It's not much — a few booths, a small bar, a TV mounted on the wall playing a soccer game no one's watching.
The lighting is dim, the drinks are free, and the air smells like cheap beer and cheaper cologne.
You find Bobby in the third booth, and he's not alone.
Two girls. One you don't recognize — compact, with a wide mouth and a laugh that carries across the room.
The other is Meredith. Blonde ponytail. Ship's service uniform. The girl who walked in on you naked and erect backstage, who watched Laurie make your cock dance like a puppet on a string.
She sees you before you see her.
Her expression shifts — a flicker of recognition, then something else. Something private. She leans toward the other girl, cups her hand over her mouth, and whispers.
The other girl — you'll learn her name is Sandra — looks at you. Her eyes drop to your waist. Then lower. She giggles. It's not cruel — it's delighted, the way you'd laugh at a puppy doing something unexpected.
"Hey, dumbass!" Bobby waves you over. "Where the hell have you been? I saved you a seat. This is Sandra. Sandra, this is my idiot friend who abandoned me for a mind reader."
"Hi," Sandra says, still smiling. She glances at Meredith. They share a look that you can't decode.
Meredith shifts to make room for you. Her thigh presses against yours when you sit down. She's warm. She smells like coconut lotion and alcohol underneath — gin, maybe, or vodka.
"So," Meredith says. "How are you enjoying being Madam Lorien's new assistant?"
"It's definitely a job." She takes a sip of her drink. Her eyes are bright.
"She's amazing, by the way. I saw her last season. She made a guy in the audience admit he'd been faking a limp for three years. Just looked at him and knew."
"She's good at what she does," you say.
Sandra leans forward. "Meredith says you put on quite a performance."
Bobby puts his arm around Sandra. "He works for a magician. Big deal. I work on the lido deck. I get free piña coladas and Swedish stewardesses."
"Stewardesses aren't Swedish anymore, babe," Sandra says. "That's, like, a 1970s thing."
"Let me have my fantasy."
The night progresses. Bobby is in his element — loud, confident, his arm around Sandra, his laugh filling the bar. He's good at this. He's always been good at this.
Bobby has never had trouble with girls. Bobby has never stood in a line of pretty women and felt like a fraud. Bobby has never given control of his penis to a mentalist in a burgundy robe.
You drink. Meredith drinks. The booth gets smaller as the night gets later, and Meredith's thigh stays pressed against yours, and her hand finds your knee under the table, and she leans in when she talks, and her breath is warm against your ear.
She's flirting with you. It feels impossible. It feels like something that happens to other people — to Bobby, to men who know what they're doing, to men whose cocks haven't been claimed by a woman who isn't even here.
But Meredith is here. And she's touching your knee. And she's smiling at you like she knows something you don't.
"Your cabin or ours?" Bobby asks, standing up, swaying slightly.
"Yours," Sandra says, pulling him toward the door.
Meredith takes your hand. "Come on."
The cabin is small — two bunks, a porthole, a bathroom the size of a closet. Bobby and Sandra fall onto his bunk immediately, kissing, pulling at clothes, laughing.
Meredith pushes you gently onto your bunk. She sits beside you. Her hand finds your chest, slides down, finds the button of your trousers.
She kisses you. Her lips are soft, her tongue is warm, and for a moment — just a moment — you feel like a normal man in a normal situation with a normal girl who wants normal things.
Her hand slips inside your trousers. Her fingers find your cock through your boxers.
She pulls back. Looks at you. Looks down at your crotch, where her hand is still resting on a cock that is completely, utterly, embarrassingly soft.
"I —" Your face is on fire. "I'm sorry, I —"
"Shh." She's gentle about it. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just — curious. "Is something wrong?"
"No. I don't — I don't know. I —"
And then you do know. You know exactly what's wrong.
Your little guy is under new management. He belongs to Laurie. He won't get hard unless she says so. You gave her control. You said the words. I give you control of my penis.
And he listened. He's listening now — soft, limp, resting in Meredith's hand like a sleeping animal that's been told to stay.
"I can't," you whisper. "Not without —"
Meredith blinks. Then her expression shifts — not confusion, but understanding.
The whisper from backstage. The puppet on a string. Laurie making your cock rise and fall and rise again while two girls watched and laughed.
"Oh," she says. "Oh, wow. She really did a number on you."
From Bobby's bunk, a gasp. You both turn.
Sandra is on her back, her shorts around her ankles, and Bobby is between her legs.
His cock is out — hard, thick, bigger than yours, much bigger than yours — and he's pushing into her pussy with the confidence of a man who's never had to ask permission for anything in his life.
"Ohhh fuck yeah," Bobby groans as he slides in. "Oh baby, you're so wet —"
"Ffffuck — Bobby —" Sandra's hands grip his back. Her legs wrap around his hips. "Nnnngh — yes, right there, right there —"
Bobby thrusts. Deep. Hard. The bunk creaks with each stroke. His ass flexes as he drives into her. Sandra's moans fill the tiny cabin — raw, urgent, the sound of a woman being fucked exactly the way she needs.
Meredith watches. Her hand is still on your cock. Still soft. Still resting.
She looks at you. You look at her.
"He can't get it up," Meredith says, loud enough for Bobby to hear. "Not without his boss's permission."
Bobby turns his head mid-thrust. "What?"
"His boss. The mentalist. She's got some kind of — I don't know — hold on him. She made his dick do tricks backstage. I saw it. She'd whisper and it would go up and down like a — like a yo-yo."
Bobby laughs. The sound is loud, incredulous. "Dude. Are you serious?"
You can't answer. You're watching him fuck Sandra.
His cock is glistening with her wetness, sliding in and out of her pussy, thick and hard and relentless.
Each thrust into her pussy pushes a sound from Sandra's throat — a gasp, a moan, a whimper that rises in pitch and intensity.
"Mmmmnnn — Bobby — Bobby — I'm gonna — oh God —"
She cums. Her whole body arches. Her fingers dig into Bobby's shoulders.
Her mouth opens in a silent scream that becomes a long, shuddering moan — "Aaaahhhhnnn —" — and Bobby keeps fucking her through it, grinning, proud, a man in his element.
When Sandra finally goes limp, Bobby pulls out. His cock is still hard, slick, bobbing in the air. He looks at Meredith.
Meredith looks at you. Her expression is soft. Apologetic. But her eyes are hungry.
You should say no. You should feel jealous, humiliated, enraged. Your friend just fucked a girl in front of you while your cock sat there like a deflated balloon, and now he's offering to fuck the girl who was just touching you, and she's asking your permission.
But you feel none of those things. What you feel is a strange, hollow acceptance. A recognition that this is how it's supposed to be. Bobby fucks. You watch. Your little guy rests. Laurie holds the string.
"Are you sure?" Meredith asks.
She stands. She strips — shorts first, then panties, then her polo. Her body is lean, pale, small-breasted.
She climbs onto Bobby's bunk, and Bobby climbs on top of her, and his cock — that big, hard, functional cock — stretches her pussy as he pushes into her without hesitation.
"Ohhh fuck," Meredith moans. "Oh, God, that's — nnnngh — that's good —"
Bobby fucks her the same way he fucked Sandra — hard, confident, relentless. The bunk shakes. The sounds are wet, primal, the sounds of a man doing what men do.
You watch. Your cock is soft. Your arousal is a furnace, burning through your chest, your stomach, your limbs — everywhere except where it's supposed to be.
Your little guy lies dormant in your boxers, obedient, faithful to the woman who owns him.
But Bobby doesn't last long the second time. His thrusts quicken. His face contorts.
"Fuck — fuck — I'm gonna —"
"Inside," Meredith gasps. "Inside, do it inside — fill my pussy —"
Bobby groans — a long, animal sound — and buries himself deep. His hips jerk.
His ass clenches. He's cumming. You can see it — the pulsing, the way his cock twitches inside her, the way his whole body goes rigid and then slack. He is shooting his load deep into your girl's pussy.
"Aaaahhh — fuck — fuck —"
He collapses on top of her. Breathing hard. Grinning.
"Sorry," he says after a moment. "I couldn't — I couldn't hold it."
Sandra laughs. "Welcome to my world, babe."
Bobby rolls off Meredith. His cock slides out, softening, slick with cum and her wetness. He pulls Sandra into his arms and they curl together on his bunk, naked, sated, unbothered.
"Night, bro," Bobby mumbles. "Better luck next time."
Within minutes, they're asleep.
Meredith is looking at you. Her legs are parted. Bobby's cum is leaking from her pussy — thick, white, sliding down her thigh. She hasn't cum. Her face is flushed, frustrated, hungry.
You move. You don't decide to move. You just do.
She pats your bunk beside her. "Lie down. On your back."
You do. You can smell him on her — sweat, sex, cum.
Meredith swings her leg over you. She's facing your feet — reverse cowgirl, her pussy inches from your face, her hands resting on your stomach.
She pushes your pants and boxers down. Looks at your crotch. Your cock is still soft. Still resting. Still Laurie's.
"Hey, little guy," she says. Her voice is gentle. Soothing. She's talking to your cock the way Laurie did — directly, like it's a separate creature, a pet, a thing with its own feelings.
"It's ok. You don't have to wake up. You just rest." Her fingers brush him. Soft. Feather-light. He doesn't stir.
"Good boy," she murmurs. "Just rest. I don't need you right now."
She lowers herself. Her pussy is right there — swollen, pink, dripping with Bobby's cum.
Her pussy descends onto your mouth.
The taste hits you first — salt, bitter, thick. Bobby's cum. It's warm, viscous, sliding across your tongue as your lips press against her.
You can feel it leaking from her, seeping into your mouth, and you lick — because she told you to, because your tongue is the only part of you that still works, because this is what you're for.
"Mmmmm," Meredith sighs. "That's it. Lick it all up. Get his cum out of me."
Your tongue moves through the folds of her pussy. You find the opening — slick, swollen, hot — and you push inside.
Cum floods your mouth. You swallow. Lick more. Swallow more. The taste is overwhelming — Bobby's cum, her wetness, the combination of them — and your cock stays soft, stays resting, stays faithful to the woman who isn't here.
"Good boy," Meredith whispers. Her hips rock gently against your face. "Good little cleaner."
She reaches down. Her fingers find your cock again. Soft. Limp. She doesn't try to wake him. She just holds him — gently, the way you'd hold a sleeping hamster.
"Your little guy is so well-behaved," she says. "She trained you good."
Your tongue finds her clit. She gasps.
"Ohhh — right there — keep doing that —"
You suck. Gently. Your lips close around that small, swollen bud, and you flick it with your tongue, and Meredith's thighs tighten around your head.
"Mmmmnnn — fuck — yes — just like that — don't stop —"
Her hips grind against your face. Your nose is buried in her. Your mouth is full of her — her taste, her wetness, the last traces of Bobby's cum that you've licked and swallowed and cleaned.
Her fingers stroke your soft cock absently, rhythmically, like she's petting a cat.
"Your little guy is so cute when he sleeps," she murmurs. "Just resting. Being good. Not causing any trouble."
She's getting close. Her thighs are trembling. Her breathing is ragged.
"Nnnngh — keep going — keep — I'm almost —"
You feel it building in her — the tension, the heat, the gathering storm. Your tongue works her clit. Your lips hold on. Her whole body tightens.
"Aaaahhhhhh — oh God — ohhhhh —"
She grinds against your face. Her pussy pulses against your mouth. Her thighs clamp around your head and you can't breathe, can't move, can do nothing but hold on while the orgasm rips through her — wave after wave, her body jerking, her fingers gripping your soft cock like a handle.
When it's over, she collapses forward. Her forehead rests on your stomach. Her breath comes in hot gasps against your skin.
Your face is drenched — her cum, Bobby's cum, your saliva, all of it smeared across your cheeks, your chin, your nose.
She rolls off you. Finds the blanket. Pulls it over both of you.
Her body curls against yours. Her hand rests on your stomach. Her breath slows.
"Good boy," she whispers, half asleep. "Good little guy."
And in the dark, in the warmth of her body and the wetness on your face and the soft, sleeping cock in your boxers, you feel it again — that thing Laurie planted in you this morning. That certainty. That surrender.
This is the fourth in a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.
Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II | The Mentalist Part III
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