by R. J. Moray
“I uncovered it,” Jack argued, but Ewan shook his head.
“He’d never have asked that girlfriend he had to slap him and call him a dirty slut.”
“I don’t slap him, and I don’t call him a slut.”
“Naw, you just call him ‘perfect’, and he’ll do anything to get more of that.”
It was true. Jack couldn’t deny it, and they both knew. He had offered Channon the chance to be perfect, and Channon had seized it with both hands. He hadn’t known then what Channon was capable of submitting to for Jack’s good opinion of him. He hadn’t realized what he was playing with.
And now Channon was his, and Jack refused to let go of him unless Channon pushed him away first.
“I know,” Jack said. “Does it help that I’m not sorry?”
Ewan laughed, a surprisingly warm sound. “You’re such a bastard.”
“And you aren’t?”
Ewan shrugged. “Can I have another pancake?”
Jack made him another pancake.
“I don’t know if I made him like it or just opened the door,” Jack said, feeling it needed to be out in the open. “But I promise you, if Channon didn’t want to play these games, then they would stop.” Immediately, if he put his foot down.
“Thing is,” Ewan said thoughtfully, “whether or not he’ll regret it later.”
“I can’t help what he will or won’t regret later. That’s out of my control. I know that I intend for him to regret none of it. I want him to remember it very fondly.”
Ewan made a fussy sound, poking his plate. “And what about me?”
“You make him happy. I like it when Channon’s happy.”
It made Ewan snort. “I guess we can agree on that.”
❧
Channon wasn’t impressed to find all the pancake mix gone.
“Your boyfriend fried it up this morning,” Ewan said.
“You’ve got pancake breath,” Channon accused him, not sure what, exactly, he was accusing Ewan of doing.
“Yeah, because your boyfriend fried it up this morning,” Ewan insisted, leaning on the counter. “And I helped him eat it.”
The thought of Jack and Ewan having mid-night snacks was mind boggling. But, there was nothing wrong with it. “Okay,” he said. “You hungry? I’m scrambling eggs.”
Ewan shook his head but was happy to make tea. “I like your diffuser.”
“Jack got it so we could have loose-leaf and not mess around with teapots or whatever.”
Ewan nodded as if this made perfect sense to him. He watched as Channon scrambled his eggs and piled them up on buttered toast. “None for Daddy?” he asked archly.
Channon let the barb slide past—Ewan didn’t know, and Channon didn’t care anyway. “He got up to eat pancakes in the night, I bet he’s not hungry.”
After breakfast and losing a few rounds of Mortal Kombat, Channon proposed a swim.
“It’s fucking freezing, are you mental?”
“So you’re chicken?” Channon said. Ewan scowled at him and scowled at him again when Channon tossed a pair of shorts at his head. “I thought Scotland was cold.”
“Yeah, but I’m not barmy.”
Channon rolled his eyes. “It’s heated, idiot. Come on.”
Ewan was skeptical right up until he got in. “Oi, this is fucking decadent, this is.”
“It’s pretty cool,” Channon said, and then he kicked off the end of the pool, swimming a lap. When he came back up again, Ewan was treading water, watching him with intense, unreadable eyes. “What? Wanna race?”
“No, you overgrown penguin.” He lifted his chin. “I guess it’s worth it.”
“What is?”
“Putting up with that posh bastard for this pool.”
Channon ducked his head to take in a mouthful of water, which he spat at Ewan. “And I like him.”
Ewan sculled backwards in the water until he bumped into the edge. “Because you have daddy issues.”
“I mean, probably.” It had become evident to Channon that he did, in fact, have daddy issues, and he did, in fact, have some kinks about that. But. “He makes me feel safe. And like it’s okay to be…whatever I am. I don’t have to be anything more, just me. And that’s enough.”
“Plus, you like his dick,” Ewan added.
“I love his dick. I miss his dick.”
Ewan raised his eyebrows. “Aye? Stopped working, did it?”
“No! Just, you know. No sex, until he’s better. Doctor’s orders.”
“Really? Fucking cruel, that is.”
“Yeah.” Channon hesitated, because Ewan was Ewan, and it obviously bothered him a lot. “You know, it would be cool if you didn’t hate Jack.”
Ewan shrugged. “I don’t hate him.”
“You just don’t like him,” Channon clarified.
“I just think—I mean. I thought,” he started again, glaring down at the surface of the water, “that he was…not good for you.”
“Because he’s after my money.”
Ewan scowled. “Ha ha. I thought maybe he seduced you.”
“He did. It was great.”
“I thought maybe he got you to do things you didn’t want to do.”
“Yeah. That was great, too.”
“I thought,” Ewan said loudly, “you didn’t really like it but just did it because you wanted to please him.”
“Sometimes.” Channon splashed him. “Pain stuff. But I like when he’s proud of me, after.”
It felt good to admit it to someone, and especially when that someone was Ewan, who should understand.
Ewan made a face. “I thought you might not like it when he lets other people fuck you.”
Channon nodded. He’d known, all along, that this was the thing. That one thing Ewan thought made Jack, if not a monster, then at the very least a selfish prick. “He always makes sure it’s safe.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“I like it,” Channon said, feeling something loosen at the admission, some fear or shame. “I like that they like it.”
“You like being liked.”
“I do,” Channon agreed. “I like that you like me, too.”
Ewan seemed to absorb this. “And you like that he makes it feel safe,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s all right then. Why’d you never say?”
Channon laughed. “It was none of your business,” he said, and he splashed Ewan in the face.
Chapter Seven
When Channon came in, Jack was at the dining table with a pack of cards, reminding himself why he disliked Solitaire, and he was grateful for the interruption.
“Hey, sweetheart. Dropped Ewan off okay?”
“Yep. We got this for you.”
He slid a cardboard box onto the table, a hefty armful, and opened up the top.
It was full of books. Second hand books with creased spines and dog-eared corners, a few dozen of them. They mostly ran to science fiction, but there were some fantasy series in there. Channon piled them up on the table apparently by author or type, or just because they had dragons on the cover.
“You brought me books,” Jack said, surprised.
“Yeah. No screens. But your mom said you liked Lord of the Rings, and we watch a lot of space stuff on Netflix. Ewan took me to the farmers’ market. We raided a stall for the best stuff.”
“Ewan took you.”
Channon nodded. “It was his idea. Um. It’s okay if you don’t like books, Sir. It wasn’t…I mean they’re not expensive, or anything.”
“No, I do.” It was incredibly thoughtful. Jack reached for a familiar cover, thumbed the brown, age-scented pages. “You got me Dune.”
“Ewan picked it. Have you read it?”
“Dozens of times.”
“Oh. Well, there’s others.”
“I’d read it again.” He’d used to read, before everything got so busy, and now it was something he didn’t have time for.
Except r
ight now it was absolutely something he had time for. Something to fill that time—something he enjoyed—would be a godsend.
“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to wrap a hand around Channon’s arm to make sure he understood it was meant. “Thank you so much for this, sweetheart. Please tell Ewan I’m very grateful for it.”
Not that he thought Ewan would care, except to keep score. Ewan had no need for Jack’s gratitude, after all. But it made Channon smile, and that was worth a lot to Jack, in itself.
“Are you tired?” Jack squeezed him gently. “Did you get enough sleep?”
“I’m good. I wasn’t up in the night to eat pancakes,” he teased.
Jack pinched him lightly in rebuke, but it was, he thought, a warranted tease. “I wondered if you’d like to play.”
Channon frowned and opened his mouth. But then he stopped, seeming to consider it, and nodded. “I trust you.”
Not to overdo it, he meant. Channon’s trust was, however, a precious thing, and Jack felt blessed to have it.
“Then I’ll make sure I give you every reason to keep on trusting me,” he said, running his hand up Channon’s arm to tweak his chin. “Go wash up. Meet me in the playroom.”
“Yes, Sir,” Channon said, smiling.
A gift of books and trust. What a simple, wholesome delight.
One that Jack planned to debauch completely. Well. It was only fair, after all.
❧
The moment the collar snicked shut around Channon’s throat, he felt better, this great relief washing over him. He didn’t have to make any decisions, didn’t have to think, just had to do as he was told.
He didn’t have to worry about Jack, because Jack was taking care of himself. And he didn’t have to worry about himself, because Jack was taking care of him too. Just the way he was supposed to.
“Hands and knees, Channon.”
Channon did it, planting his hands on the floor in front of Jack’s armchair and settling his weight. Jack smoothed a hand through Channon’s hair, and then there was the weight of Jack’s ankle across his shoulders, followed by the other as Jack made himself comfortable.
To be a footstool—that was Channon’s job right now. Just to be, and to be still, and to serve Jack.
He heard the splash of liquid poured into a cup. The scent of tea billowed. Black tea, the one with fruit and spices. No milk. The scrape of a cup against a table, something picked up, handled, a page turned.
Jack’s breathing, slow and even.
Channon sank down into it, into this place where Jack was safe and he was safe, and Channon was bare to his skin, on his hands and knees before the man who was like a god to him. His Sir. Still not completely well again but enough himself to have Channon in his place. No matter what happened—no matter if Jack never fully recovered, no matter how the years might change things, how time might try to take Jack from him—Channon knew Jack would still be his Sir. As long as he wants me.
Because it wasn’t his physical strength, his ability to hold Channon down, or tie him up, or the strike of the cane. It was Jack and being Jack’s. Everything else was extra, but the core of it had always been the feeling of belonging to him, being wanted by him. Used by him, yes, for whatever he wanted.
Jack would take care of him. He would take care of Jack. It was that simple.
The cup settled on the back of his neck, still warm. Channon held as still as he could. This was obedience and submission. There was no shame in being furniture for his Sir, only the duty not to twitch or shudder and spill the cup.
(And if he did, no doubt Jack had some punishment in mind, to take away his guilt.)
He held still. Jack lifted the cup, drank from it, and set it down again. Another turn of a page, as Jack read his book and Channon listened, and loved him.
Eventually there was no more cup. Jack’s feet returned to the floor, and a hand dropped heavy on Channon’s head. “Sit up. Good boy.”
Channon sat back, lifting his eyes to his Sir. Jack was handsome, always, but now, in the dim glow of lamplight, he looked diabolical. He’d stopped shaving, except to shape his beard, and now it was thick and black. Channon liked it, wanted it on him, the scratch of it on his skin. He wanted to nuzzle into it and be safe. But he stayed where he was, because he was a good boy.
“How do you feel?”
“Good, Sir.”
“Obedient?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then I have some instructions for you.” Jack leaned back in his chair, watching Channon intently. “First, tell me. Are your nipples tender?”
Channon didn’t think so. “I don’t know, Sir.”
“Touch them for me.”
Channon did, and the first touch wasn’t much, but when he pinched them, he sucked in a breath—more tender than he’d expected. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Play with them. Pull them and pinch them. That’s right,” he sighed, leaning on one elbow to watch. Channon did as he was told, plucking at his nipples until they throbbed, pink and full. “Now, take these.”
He knew before Jack held them out, and he bit his lip instead of groaning. Clamps. Nipple clamps, a pair of them, clover clamps to pinch him tight. Jack smiled. Channon took the clamps, knowing what was coming but too well behaved to begin without an order.
“Put them on. Pinch your nipple first, draw it out. That’s right. Now fit the clamp to it and—slowly—let it settle.”
Channon did as he was told, feeling the clamp bite into his flesh, the slow tension as it closed. At first it felt tolerable, but the hinge tightened, and he thought, It’s going to cut the fucking thing off, like always.
It didn’t. It never did. But as he breathed through the pain he felt it ratchet up a little higher, always worse than he remembered.
Bearable. Almost unbearable. Like so many things Jack did to him, so many things he craved.
“Good boy,” Jack said, smiling like Channon had given him a gift. “Now the other one.”
It was both more and less awful to fix the second clamp. On the one hand, it hurt just as much, and now he had two points of pain on his chest, digging into him like blunt teeth. On the other, at least he didn’t feel lopsided. He breathed in, and out, and made himself settle on his heels, waiting for another order.
“That’s good, Channon. You look like it hurts.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s…hot. And humiliating.”
“Why humiliating?”
“Because you made me do it to myself, and it’s like proof of what I’ll do for you.”
“That’s good. You’re getting hard.”
Channon squirmed, knowing Jack wasn’t wrong but refusing to look down at himself. “Yes, Sir.”
“Is it the clamps? Do they arouse you? Do you,” and his voice turned devious, “secretly like them?”
“It’s because you’re looking, Sir,” Channon said, not sure if he did secretly like the clamps. They were a torture, but they were also…bearable. “It’s because I’m kneeling for you.”
“Good,” Jack said. “Come here.”
Channon shuffled forward on his knees. He expected Jack to reach out and touch the clamps, to tug on the chain to make Channon squeal, but he didn’t. “Hands out,” he said, and Channon held them cupped like he was scooping up water to drink. Jack squeezed a dollop of lube into Channon’s palms. A lot of lube, Channon thought. More than a lot. “Lie down on your back for me.”
Channon did, the rug soft and warm under his shoulders, and he spread his legs for Jack, his knees pulled up. He felt exposed and open, more exposed and open when Jack told him to lift his hips and wedged a firm pillow under his ass. Propped up, on display. He knew what Jack wanted but he waited to be told.
“Finger yourself. I want to see you spread yourself open for me.”
The angle was always more awkward when he did this to himself, but he was used to it now. His fingers slipped in easily, soaked in lube. One finger made h
im sigh to himself—it was never enough, but it felt good to have something inside him, even if it was his own finger. He thought about Jack’s hands, about the first time Jack had fingered him, and the last time, and how easily he could take Jack’s fingers now, how Jack’s cock slid into him without resistance, how much he wanted that.
“Your dick’s like a rock, sweetheart. What are you thinking about?”
“You, Sir,” Channon said, knowing Jack wouldn’t be satisfied with just that. “You fucking me. What it would be like if you fucked me right now.”
“Mmmm, you’re going to have to wait for that. Tell me something else you’d like.”
“Sir?”
“Tell me a fantasy you’ve had. Something from your journal.”
Channon swallowed, thinking. Something from his journal, but something Jack might not have read already. “I’ve been thinking about the time I called you ‘Master’.”
“Ah.” Jack settled in his chair. “Go on.”
“I’ve been thinking about what it would be like, if I couldn’t make any choices at all,” Channon said, admitting this carefully. “If I was nothing. Just a service for you. Something you could use but didn’t have to, you know, be nice to.”
“How would I use you?”
“Just…just use my mouth. Just walk up and, and fuck my mouth, without saying a word.” Channon shifted, working two fingers inside himself, making room for more. “I’d be on my knees, waiting, and you’d walk over and undo your pants and grab me by the hair and hold me in place to get my mouth fucked.” He shuddered, his hips rocking up. How easy it would be if Jack just took from him like that. “You’d come in my mouth and walk away, and I’d wait right where I was until you needed me again.”
“Needed?”
“Wanted, Sir.”
“Until I wanted to use you again,” Jack corrected, and Channon felt a rush of shameful desire.
“Yes, Sir.”
“What else would I do?”
Channon teased a third finger against his rim. He didn’t know how many Jack wanted him to take but Jack hadn’t told him to stop, so he figured he should keep going. Three was always a significantly greater stretch than two. He had to breathe out slow as he eased in, taking his time. Jack didn’t seem to mind, waiting patiently for a response.