Center of Attention

by R. J. Moray

  When he was done, he went to the sofa where Jack sat, the privacy glass dimmed but the lights set bright enough for reading. Jack had that newspaper open in his lap. He was wearing the reading glasses he only ever used to intimidate, and it worked, like it always did. Channon knelt on the floor, and Jack lifted his feet for Channon to come up under them.

  I want a footstool. Channon crawled into place, acutely aware of the plug keeping him open. Jack rested the weight of his feet on Channon’s shoulders and settled in with the paper.

  It was strange to like this. Channon wondered when that had happened; he remembered being weird about it the first time, deeply humiliated by the idea of being nothing more than a place for Jack to put his feet. But now…it felt right to be here, to serve Jack in any way that Jack wanted.

  Jack turned a page. Channon breathed in and out, letting himself focus on the weight of Jack’s feet and the sound of paper rustling. This was good. He felt useful. Jack would be pleased.

  I am his.

  Time blurred into a soft, blissful usefulness, like he was half asleep. Eventually, Jack lifted his feet and stood up. He left the paper on the sofa and walked out. After a minute, Channon sat up on his heels, blinking blearily. He felt dazed, like he’d slept, or like his brain had switched off completely for a while there, powering down.

  Now it was an effort to stand up, but he did it, and then he picked up Jack’s newspaper, folding it in on itself so the page Jack had been reading was on top. He followed Jack out, but Jack was in the bathroom with the door shut, so Channon knelt on the floor to wait. When Jack came out, Channon followed him to his office. Jack didn’t even look at him, but, “Tea,” he said, reaching for his phone.

  Channon made the tea. He brought it to Jack and knelt at Jack’s side to hold it for him as he talked to a client. Channon tried not to listen in, it wasn’t his business. When the cup was empty, he took it to the kitchen and loaded it into the dishwasher and came back to kneel again.

  It was soothing, a gentle nothingness to follow Jack mindlessly as Jack went through the motions of his day. Jack finished his call and made another, and then he stood up, stretching both arms overhead until his spine cracked. Channon followed him upstairs to watch him change into shorts, then to the weight room as Jack went through his work out, admiring the thickness of his muscles, how brown his arms and shoulders, his thick calves and narrow, sharp-boned hips. Channon longed to lick him, taste the sweat off his skin. Worship him the way he deserved to be worshipped.

  He’d gone quiet inside, a dreamy, comfortable nothingness suffusing him. He was just here to pick up after Jack and serve him however he wanted, and that was what he did.

  Right up until Jack tossed his towel aside and grabbed Channon by the hair. “Make me hard,” he ordered, tugging his shorts down to reveal his thickening cock, and then shoving it in Channon’s face.

  The hot, salty musk of Jack’s skin hit Channon in the face like a slap; he inhaled sharply and was hauled up against the damp stretch of Jack’s cock, and all he could do was open his mouth, licking and kissing Jack desperately. The sudden demand shot a thrill down his spine, and every tug of Jack’s hand spiked pain in his scalp and pleasure in his gut. Jack grunted, forcing himself into Channon’s willing mouth. He was salty and hot, musky and heavily masculine. Channon opened for him, sucking on him thirstily. Jack let him. It was a privilege to suck Jack’s cock, a wonderful gift. No one else was allowed to do this, not Nate, not Ewan, only Channon. It was a blessing, one Channon felt in his bones. It was worship, a sacred thing that was only between them, because even if Channon did this for anyone else, it was always, always for Jack, no matter whose dick was actually in his mouth.

  Jack was his Master. Jack was the center of his whole world. Channon did his best to please, tending Jack’s cock with all the tender attention he could summon, willing Jack to understand that every lick, every sucking pop, was for him and him alone. I love you; I love you, you’re everything I want. Please, let me be good for you. Let me serve you. Love me.

  Jack’s fingers wound in Channon’s hair, pulling tight. “Hold still,” Jack commanded, and then he held Channon still as he rocked his hips, burying himself in Channon’s mouth. Channon took each stroke, grateful to be blessed, and when Jack swelled and flooded his mouth with come, Channon moaned out his gratitude as he swallowed.

  Jack pulled out, leaving Channon to sink back on his heels, panting for breath, his lips salted by Jack’s sweat and his throat raw.

  “Good,” Jack said. He stepped out of his shorts, leaving them where they fell, and walked out. Channon took a few seconds to struggle to his feet, feeling used and forgotten, that plug inside him a constant reminder of his place. At Jack’s feet, his cock in my mouth, his hand in my hair, his come on my tongue.

  God, it felt so good he felt his throat close, his breath heavy in his lungs. He made himself follow Jack upstairs, all the way to the bathroom where Jack was already under the shower, his hands behind his head, smirking into the spray.

  He turned to glance at Channon over his shoulder, the whole beautiful length of his body wet, muscles thick with exertion, hair dark under his arms and down his chest, every inch of him wonderful.

  “Bathe me,” Jack said.

  Yes, Sir, Channon thought, and he stepped into the shower.

  ❧

  At six o’clock, the speakers in the living area chimed—Jack had set an alarm that sounded like a gong being struck. Channon knew what it meant. He had been cleaning the playroom on Jack’s orders. Now he put away the cleaning things and washed up, returning to the playroom to kneel on the rug.

  When Jack came in it took everything Channon had not to say, “Sir.” He held still, his eyes coming up to track Jack as he crossed the floor to fetch a cane from the rack.

  “Stand up,” Jack said, so Channon did. “Tell me what you did wrong today.”

  Channon licked his lips, acutely aware of the cane in Jack’s hands. His body flinched in anticipation, skin shrinking away from the hurt of it. He knew the actuality was far worse than the memory, but also that once it was over Jack would, hopefully, do something else with him. Something fun. Something…rough.

  “I let your breakfast go cold. And I was messy with the smoothie.”

  “That’s right,” Jack said. “But. You also neglected to offer me my robe after my shower and didn’t set out my tablet at breakfast. Isn’t that right?”

  It quivered under Channon’s skin. He hadn’t thought either of those counted. But he knew his answer. “Yes, Sir.”

  “So that’s two times four. And six, just because.” Jack sounded impartial, like this was neither good nor bad. “Brace your hands on the wall.”

  Channon did, trying not to tense up. This would hurt. Jack would make sure of it. But after…

  Jack tapped him with the cane. “Count it.”

  Thwack! Channon winced, the impact taking a moment to resolve into a sharp sting. “One, Sir, thank you, Sir.”

  If Jack was pleased Channon had thanked him without being told he gave no sign. And if Channon had thought Jack would go easy on him for it, he was completely wrong.

  Jack laid down cuts in sharp succession, each one harder than the last. Channon felt every one of them like a slice in his flesh, and by the time he gasped out his thanks for the fourteenth, it took everything he had not to try and cover himself with his hands.

  The cane tapped him—it was gentle but even a gentle tap on his welts was enough to make him suck in an anguished breath. God, his ass burned like it was on fire.

  “Good boy,” Jack said, and Channon sagged with relief. That was a reprieve, he felt. He’d weathered Jack’s punishment and now? Now he could have whatever else Jack had in mind.

  He sniffed back his tears but stayed where he was as Jack ran his hands over the welts, pinging one with the flick of a fingernail. Jack was admiring him. He loved it when Jack looked at him like he was worth looking at; he could picture Jack’s expression, pleasure and
hunger and possessive greed. Jack’s fingers traced over his skin, making him burn again. He held still but allowed himself to whimper. Jack liked it when he sounded hurt, if it was the right kind of hurt.

  “Very good,” Jack murmured. Channon heard the click of the rope chest, and then Jack’s hand was on his collar. “Kneel.”

  This part was so familiar now it was comforting. Jack’s hands on his skin, the tug and slide and bite of rope as it wound around him. Jack bound his arms up behind his back, then his thighs to his calves, then his chest to his thighs, folding him up on the floor in slow, languid motions. His hands traced over Channon’s skin, loving and merciless. Channon breathed in, out, listening to the rough patter of Jack’s breath and thrilling under the shuddering vibrations of rope pulled against rope. He fell into a rhythm of give and take until Jack had taken it all, every shred of resistance left in his body. He could do nothing, bound up like this. He had to trust Jack completely.

  Jack cinched him tight. Channon shivered when Jack stroked his skin, but it felt far off, something happening to someone else.

  “Beautiful,” Jack said, and the word soaked into him like sunlight, warming him down to his bones. “There’s my perfect boy.”

  This was Channon’s favorite part, where he got to let go and just give himself up to whatever Jack wanted. He couldn’t get this wrong. All he had to do was surrender to it, and Jack could please himself however he wanted.

  Now Jack stroked his sore ass, fingers trailing over the places the rope bit into him, checking it for tension. Channon let himself wallow in the comfortable constriction of it, sighing when Jack slid a hand between his thighs to squeeze his balls.

  “You were very good today,” Jack said softly, his thumb pressing firm into Channon’s sack, a reminder and a threat. “You deserve a reward.”

  His hand slid up, and Channon gasped at the firm press of the plug inside him as Jack played with it. He was still open for Jack, waiting for him. God, if Jack would fuck him now, tied up on the floor like this. Channon didn’t know if Jack would make him come. He wanted to, and if Jack asked, he’d have a hard time telling Jack he didn’t deserve it because he really, really wanted it. I’m allowed now, aren’t I? Please, Sir, I want to.

  “Time to let this go, sweetheart,” Jack said, and he worked the plug carefully out of Channon’s body, replacing it with his thick fingers. Channon whined, squeezing his eyes shut. Jack fingered him leisurely. Channon tried not to beg out loud, but in his mind he was begging: Please Sir, please fuck me. I tried to be good, you said I was. Please give me your cock, even if you won’t make me come.

  It was almost as if Jack could read his mind. “Do you want to be fucked, Channon?”

  Channon swallowed, but his voice was thick when he found it. “Yes, Sir. Please.”

  “Beg me for it.”

  Channon shuddered, helpless in his cage of rope. “Please fuck me, Sir. Please use me.”

  “Should I use you for my pleasure, sweetheart?” Jack’s voice was gentle, his hand slipping into Channon, three fingers going deep. “Or do you want to come?”

  God, he’d known it would be like this. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Please use me, Sir.”

  “Don’t you want to come?”

  “Yes,” Channon whimpered. “But it’s not about me.”

  “You’ve been good,” Jack said, his fingertips dancing across Channon’s prostate, and Channon couldn’t help clenching down on him. “So good, all day. Don’t you deserve it, sweetheart?”

  Channon took a breath, tried to find his center. “I want to, Sir. You said I could.”

  It made Jack chuckle, and then there was the wet press of a kiss on Channon’s shoulder. “Good boy. That’s absolutely right.”

  His fingers slid free, but then—Oh God, thank you—a blunt cock-head pressed firm against Channon’s wet hole and into him, into him, God, oh God…

  “You already have permission to come,” Jack said. “But if you want, you can ask me for it again.”

  Channon whined in his throat. The thickness of Jack’s cock, the sweet slide of it inside him, so much more forgiving than the unyielding plug—Channon couldn’t think of anything but the rush of gratitude that swept over him as Jack filled him up. “Please,” Channon said, his hips desperately quivering with the urge to shove himself back up onto Jack’s cock, but he was bound in place and couldn’t move. “Please, Sir.”

  “Use your words, Channon.” Jack thrust into him, deep enough it knocked the breath from Channon’s lungs. “You know what to do.”

  God, what did he want? Channon opened his mouth, but only small, weak sounds fell out of it, little hurt huffs on every slick stroke. The hot tingle of an orgasm he wouldn’t be able to stop built in his crotch, shuddering through him in hot bursts that made it hard to think. Jack had said he could, and Channon wanted to. It was going to happen, and he couldn’t stop it, but he wanted permission.

  “May I?” He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sir, may I come? May I have permission?”

  Jack made a pleased noise, nailing him with a thrust that made stars dance behind his eyelids. “Yes, Channon, you may.”

  And then he stopped holding back. God, it felt good to be used, good to know that Jack was doing this for himself, and not for Channon, and it felt so good, and Channon had permission, and he couldn’t stop it now. The orgasm flooded him like a tidal wave, washing over him in a rush and carrying him under as it pulsed through him. He cried out, and again as it shook him all over, taking him to pieces and leaving him sundered.

  He felt Jack slam into him, heard the crack of his breath, felt the clench of Jack’s hands on his hips and the wet flood of him inside. Channon breathed out, glad to his bones to be Jack’s, and to have pleased him and been pleased in return.

  He let himself drift as Jack untied him and wiped him down. Jack wrapped him in a blanket and held him against his chest, kissing his hair and his brow and murmuring sweet things to him. Channon didn’t listen to the words; the tone was enough. He ached. God, his balls were sore, like he’d gone too long before emptying them, or maybe just from the pressure of the plug inside him for so long.

  Whatever it was, he didn’t mind even when Jack stroked his welts and they leaped sharply into focus. He just squirmed a little and pressed his nose against Jack’s shoulder. “Si-ir…”

  “Did you like that?”

  Channon sighed, opening his eyes. “Yes, Sir,” he confessed, because he had.

  Jack’s smile was soft and sated. “Still want to do it again tomorrow?”

  Did he? That was the plan, wasn’t it? Jack had been pleased and Channon hadn’t hated it, after all. Some of it he’d liked a lot.

  He nodded. “Yes, Sir. Please?”

  Jack kissed his brow, dry and soft. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s do that.”

  Day Two: Tuesday

  On Tuesday, Channon slipped out of bed at the first notes of Jack’s alarm. He cleaned up, dried off, and knelt beside the bed with his collar in his hands, waiting for Jack to notice him.

  Jack rolled over, his mouth curved in a soft smile. “Eager, sweetheart?”

  “I brought my collar, Sir,” Channon said, knowing he hadn’t answered the question, but he figured since he wasn’t wearing his collar yet he’d get away with it.

  The twist in Jack’s smile suggested maybe not. “Good boy. Now, tell me what’s going to happen when I put this on you.”

  “I’m your slave,” Channon said, his heart fluttering. “I serve you however you want, no matter what. I don’t have permission to speak, or eat, or use the furniture, or—um.” He squirmed, a little unsure. “Yesterday you gave me permission to kneel. Does that still count, or do I have to earn it back?”

  Jack stroked his hair. “Good question. I think you’ve earned that right. You can kneel for me whenever you have nothing better to do.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Channon said, offering his neck for the collar.

  Jack put his fingers to C
hannon’s throat. “Do you remember what you did yesterday, once the collar was on?”

  Channon nodded. He remembered it very well. “Yes, Sir.”

  “I want that again,” Jack said, and then he buckled the collar, settling it around Channon’s neck.

  He lay back against the pillows, snaking one long, brown leg off the side of the bed and tugging the sheets back to expose his cock, soft against his thigh. He folded his arms behind his head, eyeing Channon across his cheek from under the fall of his dark lashes.

  Channon knew what he wanted. Worship me. So Channon braced a hand on the edge of the bed and bent his head to worship.

  It felt impersonal, in a way Channon wasn’t sure he liked. Jack tolerated it for only a few minutes, pushing him away dismissively. “That’s enough. Get me a fifteen-foot hank of four-mil rope,” Jack said.

  Channon got up to fetch it from the chest in the playroom, kneeling at the side of the bed to offer up the coiled rope in his palms. Jack unwound it without looking at Channon once. He made a loop in the end, secured with a decorative knot, and gestured for Channon to give him his hand.

  “Hold this taut,” he said, and he began to tie knots along the length of it, doubling the lines together. At the other end he coiled the rope into a heavy loop. Then he took the rope from Channon and tucked that end through one of the D-rings on his collar, pulling the rest of the corded rope through it. A leash, Channon thought. It even had a handle. Now Jack tugged, drawing Channon with him to the foot of the bed. He tied the handle of the leash to the post, and stood up to stretch, every inch of his muscular body warm and inviting in a way that made Channon’s mouth water.

  “We’re going out,” Jack said over his shoulder. “Lay out my tweed two-piece.”

  He left Channon there, leashed to the bed frame, going into the bathroom and closing the door. When Channon stood, he found he had just enough rope to get to the wardrobe to find Jack’s suit, a shirt, socks, boxers, belt, cufflinks. He added a tie and a pocket square because…well, he didn’t know where Jack was going. And Jack had said ‘we’. Did that mean Channon was going with him?