Size Matters

by R. J. Moray

  None of it was important. There was no reason for it to make Channon’s neck feel hot. He was fine. Everything was fine. The only thing that was missing was—

  “There you are, sweetheart,” Jack said, one hand dropping warm and heavy on Channon’s shoulder. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

  Sir. It was like everything else in the world just stopped for a moment, leaving Jack and Channon alone in an oasis together. Channon leaned into his hand, tilting his head up to look Jack in the eye. “Sir,” he said.

  Jack smiled. It was objectively a handsome smile, broad and white and sincere. But subjectively, Channon thought it was the best smile in the world, and it was directed at him.

  “How’s Tig doing?” Jack asked. His thumb rubbed up behind Channon’s ear. Wiping away Ewan’s lipstick print, no doubt.

  “Uh…he’s okay, I think. We, um, got him a flogging.”

  Jack tilted his head, eyeing Tig thoughtfully. “Tig, you okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tig said drowsily.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is someone taking you home, later?”

  Tig opened his eyes very wide, all mock innocence. “Sir, are you offering?”

  It was so fucking cheeky that Channon wanted to roll Tig off his lap and onto the floor. Jack was his. Channon wasn’t sharing.

  But before he could say something he’d only end up regretting, Jack chuckled, his hand tightening on Channon’s shoulder. “Not the way you mean.”

  Channon tried to tamp down his irritation. Tig always flirted with Jack and Jack always said no. Still, the idea of it, of Tig coming home with them and Jack treating Tig with all the care and attention he usually reserved for Channon alone, just no. Jack was his. Just like he was Jack’s. Tig wasn’t invited.

  Channon caught Ewan watching him, a tiny smirk on his face, like he knew what Channon was thinking. And sure, Ewan was different. Jack and Nate sharing Channon and Ewan between them wasn’t the same thing at all. Though, if asked, Channon wouldn’t have been able to explain exactly why that was. It was just true.

  “I’ll make sure he gets home okay,” Ewan said, still smirking, and he let Channon tip Tig into his lap. “I’m done if Nate’s done,” he added, stroking Tig’s hair absently.

  Jack offered Channon his hand. “I’ll let him know. Later, boys.”

  Channon pulled himself to his feet, drinking in the sight of Jack at his handsomest. He’d helped Jack get ready tonight, brushed down his jacket and straightened his tie, but looking at him here, in the context of a play party, Channon felt a rush of attraction for him all over again.

  Jack was tall, broad-shouldered, with neat dark hair brushed back from his brow in soft waves that curled as they grew out. Not that Jack let his hair grow out very far—he kept it short and business-like, but long enough on top for Channon to run his fingers through. In this light he was pale, though in sunlight Channon knew he tanned up olive and golden, making the light hazel of his eyes stand out shockingly light. Tonight he wore a dark suit with a crimson tie, and the rose-gold cuff-links Channon had given him for their anniversary, each of them engraved with, ‘Sir’.

  Because that’s what he was: Channon’s Sir. His Dom, his Master, whatever you wanted to call it—Jack was Channon’s Sir first and foremost, his boyfriend second, and the man who had taught Channon everything he knew about kink and how they fit together. Jack was Channon’s world. Well, except for the bits of it currently cuddling on the sofa behind him.

  When Jack smiled Channon felt like he’d stepped into sunlight. He could do anything when Jack looked at him like that, possessive and proud of him. He really could.

  “There’s someone I want you to meet,” Jack said, tugging Channon’s hand to his mouth to brush his lips over the knuckles.

  Channon shuddered, his skin suddenly too sensitive to bear it. “Yes, Sir,” he said.

  He kept his eyes down as Jack escorted him through the party, only peripherally aware of what was going on around him. Jack’s hand settled warm in the small of his back, and that small pressure formed a point of focus, a pivot around which everything else spun.

  Jack stopped. His hand slid up to Channon’s shoulder and he pressed down with two fingers. Channon slid to the floor, kneeling obediently at Jack’s feet and trusting Jack completely.

  “This is Channon,” Jack said, knotting his fingers in Channon’s hair and tugging his head back.

  Channon let his eyes trail up to meet an intense gaze that was unexpectedly familiar.

  “Hey there, little one,” said Tom, the Dom who’d just given Tig his thrashing. “Nice to see you again.”

  Channon’s whole body seemed to flash hot under that intense regard. Hung like a stallion, Ewan had said, and Channon was now eye-height with the guy’s crotch.

  “You’ve met?” Jack asked.

  “No,” Tom said. “But I saw your boy before, with his friends. Mac and Tig, wasn’t it?”

  Channon swallowed, not sure if the question was for him but fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to answer. Jack made a satisfied sound in his throat. “That sounds about right. Well, Channon, this is Tom. You can call him Mr Lockwood, if you like. Say hello.”

  “Hello, Mr Lockwood,” Channon said, struggling not to let his attention stray down below Tom’s belt. He didn’t want to know if Ewan had been telling the truth. He really didn’t. He just couldn’t help himself, his eyes sliding down all by themselves, and it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t because he was pervy, except..

  Except he was, of course. That’s exactly what he was. But it seemed impolite to stare at a guy’s crotch to try to work out if he was, indeed, hung like a horse.

  “Channon’s a good boy,” Jack was saying, and Channon felt that familiar zing of pleasure to hear it. The hand in his hair loosened its grip, stroking gently instead, pressing fingertips to his scalp and making him shiver. “He can take some discipline, but really all he wants is to be good, and take whatever he’s given. He likes to please.”

  “That’s a good quality for a good boy,” Tom agreed, his mouth curving into a smile. He folded his arms across his bare chest, eyeing Channon with thoughtful interest. Channon held still and tried not to squirm.

  “He also likes being stuffed with cock,” Jack said, almost fond. Channon bit his lip, shuddering with each stroke of Jack’s hand. He knew what was happening here. Fuck, he knew exactly what was happening here. “He takes it so well. I thought he might enjoy a challenge.”

  Tom laughed. It was rich and genuine, hardly mocking. A deep, attractive laugh that transformed his face from stern and forbidding to something softer, more approachable. “Well. If that’s an invitation I won’t pretend I’m not interested. May I?” and he gestured with one hand as if he meant to pet Channon’s hair.

  “By all means.”

  The pressure of Jack’s hand vanished, and Channon held his chin up, held himself steady, as Tom crouched down to look him in the eye.

  “Hi, Channon. Do you like being called Channon?”

  “Yes, Mr Lockwood,” Channon mumbled, his face hot. This close he could smell Tom, his musky, salty sweat. He was older than Jack by more than a handful of years, not enough to be Channon’s grandfather, though. Definitely old enough to be his father. Channon bit his lip, not sure why that made him feel so shaky, why it made his breath come shallow and ragged.

  “You liked watching before, when I showed your friend a good time. Is that right?”

  “Yes, Mr Lockwood.”

  “But you’re not into pain or punishment for its own sake.”

  Channon swallowed, forcing himself to meet Tom’s eyes. They were dark in the shadows of the church, and stern, as if he wouldn’t take any kind of disobedience or dissembling. “No, Mr Lockwood.”

  “You just like it when Daddy tells you to take what he gives you, is that right?”

  That word again. It made Channon feel taut, like he’d been wound too tight, and not exactly in a go
od way. “I like what Sir gives me,” he said, and Jack’s amused chuckle made him feel immediately better.

  Tom seemed amused by this. “And you’re a good boy for him.”

  Channon forced himself to meet Tom’s eye. “I try my best, Mr Lockwood.”

  For a moment, Tom just looked at him. Then he smiled, just a little, under his beard. “Do you want me to come home with you tonight, and help your Sir give you what he thinks you deserve?”

  Channon held his breath. This wasn’t like Jack inviting Nate over, or playing with Nate and Ewan, or even the time when Jack had sent a stranger over to shove his dick in Channon’ mouth because Jack was in Tokyo. This was different. Tom was asking. And Channon didn’t know how to answer him because…because Channon didn’t make decisions like this, not for himself. That was Jack’s job. That was what Jack did for him. Jack was Sir and Channon shouldn’t have to make this kind of decision, not for himself.

  So. “If that’s what Sir wants,” he said, his face hot. Because that was a yes and he knew it, and Jack knew it, and Tom probably knew it too.

  Tom rumbled in his throat, a richly amused sound. He glanced up. “Guess it’s up to you, then.”

  Jack hooked a finger in Channon’s collar, tugging until Channon had risen to his feet. “All right. Let’s see how we go.”

  ❧

  Channon was silent in the car, too silent for anything except brooding. Jack reached across the console to pinch his thigh. “Sweetheart? You okay?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Channon said, too quiet and too submissive. But then, he was wearing his collar. That was what the collar meant.

  “Are you worried about Tom coming home with us?”

  Channon tensed. Then—“Yes, Sir. But not…not about play.”

  “Explain.”

  It took him a moment, but Channon turned, his eyes flickering up to Jack’s face. Jack could feel them roam over his cheek, caught the shift of Channon’s mouth as he worried at his lip. “Ewan said. Um.”

  “Ewan said,” Jack prompted, though privately he was already annoyed with Ewan for saying anything at all.

  “He said…that Mr Lockwood? Has, uh,” and Jack glanced over to see that Channon’s face was flushed with blood, like this was intensely embarrassing for him. Jack squeezed Channon’s thigh and waited for him to go on. “Has-a-huge-cock,” Channon finished all in a rush, ducking his head and turning to the window.

  Jack couldn’t help it; he grinned. “And that worries you? Or turns you on?”

  It drew a wet sound from Channon’s throat. Jack’s grin broadened. “I don’t know, Sir.”

  God, he was adorable. Jack eyed him sidelong, half his attention on the sparse night traffic and the rest wrapped around his boy.

  Still only nineteen, but so grown up. Channon had blossomed in Santa Rita, ever since Jack stole him away from the sterility of his mother’s house and brought him home. He seemed taller now, healthier, built like a young Greek god and beautiful in the way that healthy young men with good cheekbones and black-ink eyelashes were always beautiful. But it was more than that. When he knelt at Jack’s feet, hungry and needy and obedient, and gazed up at Jack with those clear green eyes, his mouth red and wet and wanting, Channon was the most beautiful thing in the world. And now, leaned up against his window looking vulnerable and confused and reluctantly horny, it was the same. His beautiful boy, so shy and so trusting. Willing to let Jack do whatever he wanted with him, and with whoever else Jack saw fit to share him. His boy.

  And now he was worried and aroused and unsure if he should be aroused. Exactly how Jack wanted him.

  “Ewan’s right,” Jack said, watching Channon out of the corner of his eye as he drove. “Tom is very well hung. I thought you might enjoy that.” The challenge of it, sure, but also the fear of it. Jack had never been much of a size queen himself, not interested in being split open by a monster cock, but he’d seen Channon looking, had noticed the way Channon curled in on himself when Jack showed him a particularly large dildo or a video with a twink getting railed by someone packing serious heat in their pants. And the thought of Channon spread open for someone, of watching his face as he took the whole thing in, that certainly appealed to Jack.

  Perhaps there was something wrong with him for wanting that, for taking pleasure in Channon’s distress and his reluctant admission of arousal. Jack had wondered if the desire to share Channon with other people, to see him fucked into submissive bliss by another cock, to take him while he was sticky with another man’s come, if that was a defect in himself. Was he really as fucked up as people would say he was if they knew?

  So he’d wondered. And he’d decided that it didn’t matter. What he liked was fine, so long as everyone involved was fine with it. And Channon seemed more than fine with it. He’d gone grub-like now, coiling up in his seat with his head down and his knees pulled up, thighs pressed together like he was trying to catch his cock in them and rub himself off. Which he wasn’t, of course, because he was a very good boy, but still. He wanted. And Jack wanted him to want it, wanted him to crave it like a drug.

  “Do you want that, Channon?” he asked, as gentle as he could. “I’m going to let Tom fuck you. I’ll tell him to be gentle with you but it’s going to be a lot, you understand. More than you’re used to. Do you like the sound of that? Being stretched open for me on Tom’s dick?”

  Channon whimpered, shoulders hunching, but when his eyes flickered up they were dark, his pupils huge with arousal. “I…if you want it, Sir.”

  Which meant yes, they both knew. Channon didn’t want to make the decision for himself but he wanted it. This was the only way he could say it. Jack smiled in spite of himself, excited for what was about to happen.

  “Good. You can stop any time if you don’t like it, or if it’s too much. Don’t forget.”

  Channon nodded, and scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth like he was salivating. Maybe he was. Channon loved cock. Jack should let him suck Tom’s first, let him really come to terms with what was going inside him.

  Yeah. It was going to be a good night.

  Chapter Two

  At home, Channon was sent to shower, and he did it quickly, coming out of the bathroom in a towel and going straight into the play room. He stopped dead in the doorway, fingers tightening on his towel.

  Jack and Tom were already there. Jack was showing Tom the toy cabinet, the displays of plugs and dildos, clamps and pinwheels and candles. The rope chest was open. And on the bench by the wall there was an unfamiliar canvas mat, unzipped and unrolled to show a selection of crops and canes and whips and floggers, each with its own press-studded loop to hold it in place. Tom’s obviously.

  Both Doms looked up. Channon felt pinned.

  Jack beckoned him over. “Lose the towel, Channon.”

  Channon dropped the towel in the hamper just inside the room and shut the door behind him. It closed with a significant click. Channon knew it was deadbolted on the inside. No-one could get in without a key. Anyone could get out from the inside, though. The thought was only so reassuring right now.

  Channon was naked, and both of them were looking at him like he was a dish in a restaurant, something delectable to be consumed whole. He took a deep breath and let it go, and crossed the room to kneel at Jack’s feet. He tucked his hands behind his back, one cradled in the other, and bent his neck. He only had to wait a moment, and then Jack had re-buckled his collar around his neck. Everything felt better in that moment. It was like the weight of the collar on his throat took the burden of everything else from him. He didn’t have to think. He just had to feel and endure and belong to Jack.

  Jack ran his fingers through Channon’s hair and Channon nuzzled into his palm. He heard Jack chuckle.

  “Channon. We both know I’m your Sir, don’t we?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Channon said, slipping easily into this skin, that of the obedient boy who did whatever Jack wanted. It wasn’t, really, all that different than the skin he wore all the time, but n
ow he was allowed to let anyone who was looking see it for what it was.

  “And we both know Mr Lockwood isn’t your Sir. But you can call him ‘sir’, just for tonight. Do you understand?”

  Channon nodded, looking up to meet Jack’s eye. “Yes, Sir. I understand.”

  Jack didn’t smile, but it caught in the corners of his mouth anyway. “Good boy. You are going to be good for us, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Channon promised.

  Jack petted his hair. “That’s good. Go kneel down in front of the armchair, and be a perfectly still little footstool for me.”

  Channon did. He crawled across the floor to the chair against the wall. It was an old-fashioned armchair, with a winged back and scrolled arm-rests. It was gray and black, with fleur-de-lis patterns in the upholstery, and Channon liked how Jack looked in it, grown-up and serious. Channon was used to kneeling at the foot of it, waiting for Jack to come rest his ankles on Channon’s shoulder or beckon Channon up between his legs. Now Channon knelt in front of it, bracing his hands on the floor, letting his head hang down. He was a good and perfect footstool. He wouldn’t twitch or squirm, even if he itched. He could ignore it. Just be still. Perfectly still.

  “He’s got a nice ass,” he heard Tom say, the rumble of his voice sending a shiver down his spine. “Good shoulders. Look good with some lash marks.”

  Jack hummed in agreement. “They do. He’s very well behaved when he takes his stripes, tries so hard not to whine or beg. But he’s such a good boy I don’t get to punish him much.”

  “He really doesn’t like pain?”

  “He likes a bit, just enough to keep things interesting. But it’s not the pain. It’s how much I like hurting him.”

  “Mmmm. And you do like hurting him.”

  Jack chuckled, low and dark. “I love hurting him. But I like fucking him more. Channon likes being spanked a little and then fucked as hard as he can take. It makes him feel dirty. And that’s something he really does like.”