Center of Attention

by R. J. Moray

  But he didn’t come down, and Channon had the food plated and waiting when he realized he could hear the hiss of the upstairs shower. Ah. If Jack was showering, then he’d probably want clothes. Channon crept upstairs, trying not to make any noise. He was a slave, he told himself, and slaves didn’t draw attention to themselves or distract their Masters.

  Today, Channon thought Jack would want ‘around the house’ clothes, so he laid out jeans, one of Jack’s favorite t-shirts, and a soft charcoal sweater he thought Jack looked good in. He also laid out boxers, black fitted things that cost a fortune and were silky as sin.

  Just as he finished, Jack came out of the bathroom. He toweled himself off casually, unselfconscious of his nakedness. Of course he was, Channon thought; Jack was a perfect specimen of manhood, in his prime, every inch of him beautiful beyond words. His confidence only made it more obvious. Channon licked his lips, letting himself sneak tiny glimpses of Jack’s muscled body, arousal pooling in his crotch.

  Finished with the towel, Jack dropped it on the bed. “I want my robe after a shower,” he said.

  Channon jerked into motion, fetching the robe from its hook. Jack simply held out one arm, not looking at him, and Channon hastened to slide the robe up over his hand, holding it in place for Jack to shrug into it, and settling it over his chest. Jack tied the belt himself. Then he caught Channon around the waist, pushing him up against the bed. Channon sucked in a gasp, his hands flailing, and then Jack had shoved him back on the covers, pressing himself up between Channon’s thighs. He went still, limp, his pulse racing. If Jack just slid into him now, he’d—

  Jack didn’t. He leaned in to bite Channon’s throat, firm, as if in warning. “Tomorrow, I want you waiting with my robe when I get out of the shower. And today, I want you to lay out a blazer and socks for me and shine a pair of shoes to match.”

  Channon swallowed hard. Jack was pressed up against him, his cock a damp weight on Channon’s thigh. He wasn’t allowed to speak so he said nothing, lowering his eyes in what he hoped read as submission.

  After a moment, Jack pushed himself upright. He left Channon on the bed and headed downstairs. Channon stood up and took a shaky breath. Okay. He had his orders; he knew what he had to do. So do it.

  It took seconds to lay out socks and a navy blazer, and he added a belt because ‘shoes’ meant Jack was going out. Where he was going was anyone’s guess. Channon told himself not to speculate and went downstairs to find Jack some shoes.

  Jack was at the dining table. “Channon,” he said. He sounded stern, not angry, but it still sent a shot of apprehension through Channon’s gut. “Come here.”

  Channon went to him, his heart racing. He started to kneel and then remembered—he didn’t have permission. Recovering his balance was awkward. He forced himself to meet Jack’s eye.

  Jack was watching him, amusement simmering beneath his surface. That was okay. Channon could take that better than coldness. “This,” he said, indicating the omelet, “is adequate. But.”

  He picked up a fragment of egg and held it up. Channon opened his mouth, accepting the fragment on his tongue. His mouth was still minty with toothpaste, so it didn’t taste particularly of anything.

  Jack arched an eyebrow. “It’s cold.”

  Heat flooded Channon’s face. He opened his mouth, remembered, and snapped it shut again. Fuck. Of course it was cold. He’d just left it on the table like that, and it was cold, and Jack was disappointed.

  But Jack didn’t sound disappointed, exactly. “Tomorrow,” he said in a low, quiet tone, “I want you to warm the plate. Now. Go polish my shoes.”

  He turned back to his breakfast, and Channon hurried to the entryway to find Jack’s shoes. They were already clean and polished, and only needed buffing. He stood up to do it, acutely aware that he was not allowed to kneel or sit on the bench, and that Jack was already displeased. When he was done, he set the shoes out for Jack to wear and took himself to the dining area, where Jack was reading a book.

  “Tomorrow,” Jack said, without looking up, “I want my tablet here, next to my plate.”

  Channon said nothing, committing the order to memory.

  Jack stood and went upstairs. Channon picked up the dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher before following. When he went into the bedroom, Jack was brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror. Channon stood in the corner of the bedroom, waiting for him, anxious because he’d messed up already, and there was so much more he could do to mess up, and Jack was going out, and Channon was supposed to…what, exactly? Wait for him? Stand in the corner until he came home?

  Yes, exactly that. That’s what he’d do if Jack left him here by himself, wait right where Jack left him and remember who he belonged to.

  When he walked out of the bathroom, Jack dropped his robe on the floor and began to dress. He ignored Channon entirely as he did it, and Channon watched him surreptitiously, waiting to see if Jack needed anything from him at all.

  When Jack was dressed, he held out a hand. “Scarf,” he said. Channon nearly fell over himself in his eagerness to reach the wardrobe. Confronted with Jack’s collection of scarves, he nearly froze, but he’d seen Jack wear a scarf with that blazer before, and he settled on the silver mohair. He held it out on his palms and Jack took it, looping it around his throat without a word.

  Jack checked his reflection in the mirror. When he was satisfied, he turned to walk out. Channon shadowed him a few steps behind. He followed Jack to the entryway, where Jack sat down and gestured to the shoes Channon had left out for him.

  “Kneel,” he said. Channon knelt and held Jack’s shoes for him to slip into, tying the laces neatly. “Fetch my wallet, phone, and keys.”

  Channon did, offering them to Jack silently.

  Jack eyed him then, rising to his feet and tucking his wallet into a pocket. “On your knees again,” he said, unbuckling his belt.

  When Channon knelt this time his heart was hammering. Jack caught him by the jaw, his fingers pressing firm into the flesh of his cheeks. It forced Channon’s mouth open. The pressure of Jack’s hand was a tight manacle, and Channon gave himself up to it, surrendering himself to the force of Jack’s will.

  Jack took out his cock and ran the head over Channon’s lip; Channon put his tongue up to wet Jack’s flesh, and Jack thrust in. Channon shuddered, a moan working up his throat, muffled by the thickness of cock. Jack held him there, fucking his mouth with measured thrusts. It made Channon’s whole body tingle, his nerves singing with the thrill of it. This was for Jack, not him. He didn’t matter in this moment, the only thing that mattered was Jack’s pleasure, and that was an incredible feeling. It squirmed in his gut, this deep, shameful neediness. He needed Jack to use him like this, and it was shameful because he loved it.

  He felt the swell of Jack’s cock, tasted the warning tang of him, and then Jack’s hips stuttered along with his breath. He flooded Channon’s mouth, groaning softly as he did. Channon swallowed and swallowed, his ears ringing with the bliss of it, from the sound Jack made as he pulled out. Jack wiped his cock on Channon’s cheek, and Channon’s whole body tensed up at the sheer arrogance of it. God, it thrilled down his spine, a hot shudder that said, You are owned by this man. You are nothing more than something he uses when he wants to.

  It ached in him, this terrible fantasy that slid into his chest like a knife blade, alongside the other idea, the truth he knew about himself. Jack loves me. I’m special to him. I’m not just a thing he fucks, I’m his boy.

  Both true, but in this moment one truth was louder than the other.

  Jack had zipped himself back into his pants, and now he stepped past Channon, taking down his overcoat from the hook. He said nothing. Channon could only pant and stare at the floor, deliciously aroused and wanting. His cock was stiff and needy, but no one was going to touch it. I’m just a thing, just a thing he fucks. Channon licked his lips and waited.

  And then he felt the pressure of a hand on his head. “Good boy,�
�� Jack said, unexpectedly warm. Channon breathed in, leaning a little into Jack’s palm and letting his eyes fall shut. There he was, Channon’s Sir. The man who loved him.

  It was only a moment before it was gone again, Jack’s cold demeanor coming over him like a mask.

  “I want this place cleaned up before I get back. You have permission to kneel when you’re done.”

  Channon nodded, the pain of not saying, “Yes, Sir,” out loud almost intolerable.

  He waited until the door closed behind Jack before sinking to the floor, his palms braced against the hardwood.

  Fuck.

  This thing they were doing felt too intense for what was, when he thought about it, practically nothing at all. No pain, no bondage, no name-calling or public humiliation. But it was impersonal in a way Channon both wanted and hated. He didn’t know if he enjoyed it, exactly, but it was familiar to him in a way that felt comfortable, even as it scoured him out.

  He wanted…more. More of what, he wasn’t certain, but an itch had started up under his skin, this need for more, whether it was sensation or something else. He needed more of it, and there was only one way he was going to get it.

  You don’t have permission to kneel, yet, he told himself, and he shoved himself to his feet. Not yet. You have to earn it.

  ❧

  Channon was having a hard time ignoring his empty stomach. Normally, he would have eaten breakfast and a midmorning snack by now, and be thinking wistfully about lunch, but today he just knelt in the entryway and tried not to think about food. Sandwiches. Pulled pork. Halloumi burgers. Falafels, hot and crispy from that place on the boardwalk. Toast with butter and jelly, or cream-cheese and salmon on a bagel…

  His stomach made an unhappy noise, and Channon swallowed the saliva gathering in his mouth. Don’t think about food. Stop thinking about food.

  The door opened and Jack strode in, bringing with him the scent of lunch. God, it smelled so good. It was everything Channon could do to stay where he was and not lurch toward the smell.

  Jack stopped in front of him, tapping a foot impatiently on the floor. Channon unlaced his shoes, held them for Jack to step out of, and put them aside. He followed Jack into the kitchen where Jack set down his takeout, a shopping bag, and a newspaper.

  “Plate this,” Jack said, without looking at Channon. Channon pulled a plate from the cupboard and fished the container out of the bag.

  The second he popped the top of it, the smell of food hit him in the face. Carnitas. God, they smelled amazing. He swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth, licking his lips and pressing them shut to keep from drooling onto the plate. He did his best to arrange the carnitas neatly—artistically might have been out of reach, but he could do neat.

  He took the plate to the dining table and laid a place for it. Behind him, Jack was putting things in the blender. The ‘things’ smelled distressingly of vegetable. It was almost certainly a smoothie of some kind, but Channon refused to think about it.

  When he was done, he knelt beside the table, watching Jack for any sign that Jack wanted him. Jack gave none, simply whizzed his smoothie and poured it into a tall glass, which he carried over.

  “Here’s your lunch,” Jack said.

  The contents of the glass were green. They smelled like grass clippings and had the consistency of pond scum. Channon felt his face fall and looked up to find Jack staring down at him with an intensity that felt almost physical.

  “Take it,” Jack said, his tone warning. Was that a glint of amusement in his eye? Channon couldn’t tell, but he would have just about preferred it if Jack had grinned, or laughed, even. Even if he was making fun, Channon would have accepted that human glimmer. But instead Jack was cold, still, flat as a slab of marble, and Channon reluctantly took the glass.

  The contents tasted how they smelled, green and grassy. Channon tried not to identify any of the ingredients, hoping that might make it easier to swallow, but he could tell there was spinach in it, and chia seeds. Something slimy which was hopefully banana. Coconut water, like always. How he hated coconut water and how Jack loved it.

  He swallowed about half the glass in one go, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Jack tsked. “Messy,” he said. It made Channon cringe, and he tried to drink the rest of the smoothie more neatly.

  Jack reached down to tip his fingers up under the bottom of the glass, tilting it higher so the smoothie ran out over Channon’s chin, and he spluttered, helpless.

  Jack sighed and took the glass away from him. “Very messy,” he said. He took up the napkin and used it to wipe Channon’s face, rough like he was cleaning a naughty child. Channon suffered it without complaint, wishing Jack would let him speak, at least to apologize.

  When he was done, Jack tossed the napkin on the table. He pulled his chair out and sat down, but instead of sliding his chair in again, he snapped his fingers.

  “Over my lap,” he said, and Channon scrambled to obey. Jack settled him in place, belly down on Jack’s thighs, and flicked his fingers across Channon’s buttocks. “That was messy, Channon. I expect better.” There was a second of anticipation and then—whack!—he swatted Channon hard on the ass cheek. It hurt, not a warmup but a warning, before he smacked Channon again on the other side. Channon hissed through his teeth but did not protest, and then Jack delivered one more smack right to the sweet spot, the shock of it rippling from Channon’s hole to the tip of his dick.

  Then, Jack tilted him forward, until he was ass-up in the air, off-balance, his hands bracing him automatically against the floor because his knees couldn’t.

  Something hot and smooth settled on his ass. It took him a second to realize…it was Jack’s plate. Jack had set his plate right there on the cushion of Channon’s rear, and was…eating lunch off it.

  The thought shouldn’t have been so shocking, but Channon was shaken. He was, what, a table? He’d read about that whole ‘eating sashimi off a naked chick’ thing, and when Jack had said they might go to Osaka, Channon had asked if that was something Jack had done or would want to do. Jack had turned up his nose at it—warm bodies, he said, ruined the sashimi, and if it was anyone but Channon, he’d probably want to wrap them in cling wrap first.

  “Would you like to be wrapped in cling wrap?” Jack had asked.

  Channon had said no, but Jack had grinned at him like he didn’t believe it entirely. And now Jack was using him not quite like a plate but was definitely eating lunch off his ass.

  It was unfair, Channon thought. He’d drunk the horrible drink. He could still smell the carnitas, and they were good, and he wasn’t going to get any of them. He’d thought Jack might give him one, if he was good, but he hadn’t been good, had he? He’d let Jack’s breakfast go cold, and he’d made a mess just now, and Jack was displeased with him and—

  “Here,” and Jack’s fingers pressed a warm morsel of pork to Channon’s mouth. “Eat this.”

  Channon lipped it up eagerly, and oh God, it tasted so good. Jack had clearly been to Bonita’s and fuck, one tiny mouthful wasn’t enough, but it was all he was getting, probably, so Channon tried to savor it.

  Jack fed him a few more tidbits. Channon was unbelievably grateful for each one, trying to eat them neatly and sucking Jack’s fingers clean at the end. He still had Jack’s fingers in his mouth when he felt Jack lift the plate away, and fingertips skated down the cleft of his ass to brush his hole.

  Without a word, Jack slid a finger inside. Channon was well slicked for it, and Jack slipped into him with only a little work, one finger now two. He fingered Channon with slow curls of his hand, not prepping him for anything, not trying to work him up by teasing his prostate, just playing with him as if this was an entertainment in itself. Channon whimpered around Jack’s fingers, unbelievably turned on by the idea that Jack was just playing with him. That there was no purpose to it besides an idle moment, like Channon was some kind of human fidget-spinner.

  Jack’s fingers slid out of him; Channon moaned for the loss of
them, and clamped his mouth shut.

  “Down,” Jack said, smacking him lightly on the butt. Channon slithered off his lap, crouching on his knees by Jack’s ankle, dying to lean down and kiss his bare foot. Jack caught Channon’s chin—his fingers were still wet with Channon’s saliva. “Go fetch a plug and lube.”

  Channon ducked his head, rising shakily to his feet. The plugs were in the playroom. There was lube in there too. Channon went in, opened the chest where Jack kept the ‘insertables’, and stared at the contents. Jack hadn’t said which plug. Channon suspected that if he brought down one Jack thought was too small, he might easily be sent back upstairs in disgrace to pick out something bigger.

  He settled on the stainless-steel plug Jack had bought for him to wear to Mistress Celestina’s Disciplinary Academy. It was hard and shiny, big enough to make its point but wearable. Channon grabbed a tube of lube and took them both downstairs to offer to Jack, who was still sitting at the dinner table, doing something on his phone.

  Channon knelt at Jack’s feet. After a minute, Jack put his phone down and held out a hand for the plug and the lube. “Get up. Hands on the table.”

  It felt good to lean over the table, bracing himself on his palms. It felt better to have Jack’s hands on him. Jack braced one on Channon’s hip as the other smoothed lube between his cheeks until he was sticky with it. Channon relaxed into the first cold press of the plug against his hole. He breathed out, long and slow, as Jack pushed the plug into him, and it filled him up. It sat heavy in him, and Channon breathed in again as Jack took back his hands, leaving Channon bent over the table.

  “Clean up. I want a footstool.”

  Channon nodded, pushing himself upright. The plug gave him something to focus on as he tidied the dining table and the kitchen, putting away everything Jack had used to make that horrible green smoothie. He loaded the dishwasher again and wiped down the surfaces, feeling good about it all. He was wearing his collar. There was a plug in him. He had his orders.