by R. J. Moray
By the time Jack emerged, Channon was standing by the bathroom door. He tried to keep a smooth expression as Jack dropped his towel and allowed Channon to help him into his robe. Jack said nothing about the clothes laid out, simply untied Channon’s leash and wrapped it around his hand. He gave it a firm tug and Channon followed him out, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. Jack tied the leash to one of the barstools at the counter and left Channon there alone.
For a moment, Channon didn’t know what to do, but then he thought, Breakfast. Okay, Jack probably did want breakfast. Again, Jack had left him enough rope to get around. Channon got the eggs, milk, butter, started the coffee and some whole grain toast. He sautéed mushrooms and baby spinach and whisked the eggs as he warmed a plate in the oven. The second Jack came back, Channon poured in the egg mix, pushed down the toaster, and brought Jack his coffee.
Jack had dressed. He’d left off the tie and the pocket square, but the fact that he’d put on the rest suggested he approved of Channon’s choices. Or maybe it was simply that he didn’t object to them.
Channon finished up the eggs and toast and set them out. Then he knelt to kiss Jack’s feet, one after the other.
Jack made a pleased sound. “What is it?”
“Please may I go get your tablet for you?” Channon asked. He would have just done it if not for the leash.
Jack hummed thoughtfully. “I think you don’t get to use pronouns today.”
It took Channon a moment to understand. “Sir?”
“I think,” Jack said, in a darkly ominous tone, “you mean ‘Master’.”
Channon shivered, unsure why that unsettled him so much. “Yes, Master. I’m sorry—I mean…”
“‘This slave is sorry,’” Jack prompted. “‘This slave will try harder.’”
It was strangely difficult to say the words aloud. “Yes, Master. This slave is sorry. This slave will try harder. Please forgive m—uh, it.”
“Better,” Jack said, winding the leash around his fist. “I’ve decided I don’t want my tablet right now. When I untie you, go into my study and open the box on the desk. Put on everything inside and come back to me before I finish my breakfast.”
He didn’t wait for Channon to confirm he understood, he just tugged the leash free and pressed the handle to Channon’s mouth until he opened up for it, holding it between his teeth. Then Jack turned to his plate, dismissing Channon as effectively as if he’d said it aloud.
The box on Jack’s desk was a standard document storage box. Inside, Channon found some leather pants. Except, when he pulled the pants out, he realized they were crotchless. They were, in fact, a pair of leather chaps.
God, did Jack really mean for him to wear these in public? Channon had nothing to put on under them—the only things in the box were the chaps and some socks—but he knew he was on a time limit here, so he struggled into them. They felt so fucking weird, his legs snug and warm but his ass out, his junk just there for anyone to see.
For Jack to see. Goddamnit.
If he’d felt awkward walking into the study, Channon felt about ten times worse walking out again. He crossed the room, knelt at Jack’s feet, and ducked his head, embarrassed.
Jack was still finishing his breakfast, and it wasn’t until he’d drained his cup and pushed his plate away that he turned to look Channon over. “Spit,” he said, holding out his hand. Channon spat the rope into Jack’s palm, embarrassed that it was now wet with his saliva. “On your feet.” Channon obeyed, and then had to suffer the excruciating indignity of Jack running his fingers around the crotch of the chaps to check the fit around Channon’s junk. “Arms up.” He wound the leash around Channon’s chest, securing it in front with a neat knot. “Hold still.”
Jack pulled something out of his pocket, and Channon’s heart skipped a beat. He watched in horror as Jack applied a little lube to it before reaching for Channon’s dick. It was a cage. A cage for his cock and Jack wanted to go out, and Channon couldn’t breathe for sudden, awful panic. What if someone saw? Where were they going?
“That looks nice,” Jack said. He got up— “Stay,” he said, like Channon was a dog—and fetched something black from the entryway table that turned out to be a long, knit top. When Channon pulled it on, the length of it hung low over his crotch, shielding him from view. Jack tugged it into place and told Channon to put on his shoes and overcoat.
Buttoned up, Jack tucked a scarf around Channon’s throat, hiding his collar, and stepped back to look him over. “That’ll do,” he said, turning to get his own coat and scarf. “Come on.”
He opened the door, gesturing for Channon to go first. Channon did, his heart pounding. He couldn’t help thinking that everyone would be able to see, that the only thing hiding his caged cock from the world was a stiff breeze, but the second they stepped into the parking garage he remembered how cold Santa Rita got in winter, and ah! It was like icy fingers grabbing him by the balls.
“All right?” Jack asked, fixing him with an intense look. Channon swallowed, and nodded, dropping his eyes to Jack’s chest out of something he hoped looked like respect. “We’re meeting someone for coffee. If you’re good, I might let you have a treat.”
Yes, Sir, Channon thought. Yes, Master.
❧
“I can’t stay long,” Nate said, dropping onto the padded bench, “I’m having lunch with the menace.”
They had a booth, Jack on one side, Channon tucked in against the wall on the other with Nate bracketing him in. It made Channon feel safer, somehow, like Nate was shielding him from the prying eyes of strangers. At least, it did until he saw Jack’s wicked smirk, and remembered that Jack wasn’t going to make this easy for him.
“You should have brought him,” Jack said. Channon shuddered. This would be so much worse with Ewan there, scowling at him and daring him to defy Jack in ways Channon could never.
“He gets cranky if I try to ‘sneak him out of class’.” Nate grinned, cocking his head at Channon and eyeing him with interest. “You’re buttoned up tight. Feeling the cold?”
Channon was about ninety-nine percent sure that he still didn’t have permission to talk, so he just dropped his gaze to where his hands folded around the edge of the table.
“Channon has something to show you,” Jack said. He sounded like he was enjoying himself. He knew how embarrassing this was and that was exactly what he wanted.
Nate grinned like a madman. “He doesn’t look like he wants to show me.”
“Go on,” Jack prompted. “Be a good boy.”
God, they were both awful. Channon reached under his coat for the hem of the knit covering his crotch. It was such a thin layer of fabric between his caged cock and the rest of the world. For a moment he didn’t think he could do it, but before he could make up his mind, Nate’s hand landed heavily on his wrist.
“Wait,” he said quietly, and then, “Hi!”
The server Channon hadn’t seen coming beamed at Nate far too cheerfully for Channon’s rattled nerves. “Good morning, boys. What can I get for you?”
Channon’s face was blazingly hot, his pulse racing. He hardly heard Jack and Nate put in their orders. Then— “Channon, do you want chocolate sauce or maple syrup on your pancakes?”
Channon blinked heavily, shaking himself out of the blistering horror that had threatened to swallow him. Jack was smiling, holding up the menu like this was an ordinary brunch date.
“Uh…Maple syrup? Please?”
The server flashed him a smile and bustled away.
Nate gave his arm a pat. “Okay. Go on.”
They still expected him to do it? He felt like his lungs were going to rise up in his chest and strangle him, but Jack was watching, and Channon knew he had to. He opened the fold of his coat again, glancing around to make sure no one could see, and pulled back the knit.
Nate let out a short huff of laughter. Channon recoiled at once, dropping the fabric and hunching over himself, but Nate made a soothing sound. “Oh, no, don’t
be shy. I’m just surprised.”
Nate put a hand on Channon’s knee and slid it up the inside of his thigh under the knit, fingering the edge of the chaps. His hand was warm, smoothing that warmth into Channon’s skin as he felt his way up to Channon’s balls, fingers skating over the cage. He wrapped his hand around it, holding it in his palm like something fragile.
“That’s very nice. And where are you two off to, all dressed up?”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know yet. A museum, maybe? Art gallery? What do you think?”
“Well, if you’re punishing him, then sure.” Nate drawled. He drew his hand off Channon’s junk just in time for the server to slide two coffees onto the table. “Thank you,” Nate said, smiling at her.
“Oh, you’re welcome,” she said. “I’ll be back with your pancakes, hon.”
Somehow, Channon managed not to just die. He glanced up to find Jack watching him and looked away again at once.
“What do you think Channon would like best?” Jack asked.
Nate shrugged. “Arcade, maybe. Do they still have arcades? It feels…retro.”
“Ice skating?”
“If you want to freeze his balls off.”
“Hmmm. I could take him in to work, introduce him to some clients.”
Nate snorted. “Or you could just give him a heart attack. Channon doesn’t want to do any of that. Take him home and fuck him on the sofa. That’s what Channon wants.”
When Channon glanced up, Jack was still watching him. “Is that what you want, sweetheart?”
Was he allowed to speak? “If that’s what Master wants.”
“Oh.” Nate leaned back in his seat, and he sounded deeply amused. “So that’s what you’re doing. Does this have anything to do with why you invited me over Friday?”
“I thought you said you couldn’t make Friday.”
“I thought I couldn’t. But this is too good to pass up. Anyway,” he added cryptically. “I talked to the menace, and he said it was okay. So, if you still want me, I’m all yours.”
“Ewan can come too, if he likes,” Jack offered, making it sound casual. “He can join in. Or just watch.”
“He definitely doesn’t want to join in,” Nate said. “He probably doesn’t want to watch, either. Probably, he just wants to hear about it later. He likes gossip.”
Channon didn’t know what they were talking about, but it was sounding increasingly ominous and also…interesting. Potentially, anyway. What could it be that Ewan didn’t want to join in or even watch?
“There you go,” the server said, laying a dish of pancakes and ice cream in front of Channon, along with a jug of maple syrup. Channon heard rather than felt his belly rumble, and he hunched in embarrassment.
“Thank you,” Jack said. He picked up the jug, poured maple syrup over the dish, and handed Channon a fork. “Go on. Good boy.”
Channon blushed and ate his pancakes, trying not to think about whatever Jack was planning for Friday. Nothing good, by the look on Nate’s face. Or maybe something awesome. He’d have to wait to find out.
❧
The second they walked through the door, Jack caught Channon by the collar of his coat and shoved him over the back of the sofa. Channon yelped, struggling on instinct, but then Jack yanked up his coat and smacked him across his bare ass cheeks with the back of his hand, and Channon forced himself to go limp. He was off-balance, unable to get a purchase on the floor with his toes, and Jack didn’t seem to care, just holding him in place for a moment. Channon heard the jangle of Jack’s belt, the pop of a cap, a wet sound, and then a tube of lube bounced onto the couch cushion beside him.
Jack’s hand swept possessively over Channon’s hole, then his cock pressed up against the slick muscle, and Channon gasped as Jack pushed into him with all the confidence of the man who owned him.
It was a shock, but as soon as Jack thrust, Channon felt himself give way because, God, this was the part of the fantasy that he craved, the part where Jack just took him whenever he wanted. Channon’s cock might have been cold and shrunken and tucked up in a merciless cage, but now it bucked with interest. He fisted his hands in the cushions of the sofa and sucked down a breath as Jack pushed in.
Impersonal, rougher than usual—it made Channon feel like a thing. He didn’t know really when that feeling had become something he craved. From anyone else it wouldn’t be the same. But from Jack, from his Master, it sent him into a blissful place where he didn’t have to worry about anything and could just exist. Jack fucked him and Channon felt fulfilled. Useful.
Jack laid a palm in the center of Channon’s back and pinned him there, working himself in with self-interested jerks. He settled there, pressing Channon’s hips to the sofa under his weight, buried deep in Channon’s flesh.
It took Jack’s cheerful, “Hi, Victor. How’s Cancun?” for Channon to realize he had his phone out. He rocked firmly against Channon’s ass, and Channon had to smother himself with his hands to keep from making any noise. That was probably Victor Ruiz on the other end of the phone, and Channon had already noticed the way Victor looked at him. He didn’t need Victor thinking anything more dirty about him.
The conversation took forever, while Jack slid slowly in and out of Channon’s ass. It was frustrating and intensely pleasurable. Channon’s cock swelled, fighting against its prison. It was uncomfortable and also…also it felt so good to be told ‘no’ like that, to have Jack effectively remove any chance of Channon getting off by trapping him like this. It made his neck hot and his thighs ache, and he spread as wide as he could to let Jack in. It was unusual to be still dressed, to have Jack in him while his legs were encased in pliant leather. He arched his back, willing Jack to slam into him but instead there was a sharp smack across his ass.
Stop that, loud and clear. Jack wanted him to lie still, so Channon lay still, his blood running hot and deafening in his ears. He wanted to come. He didn’t want Jack to let him. He wanted Jack to treat him like, like someone who didn’t deserve to come, not at all, and that was when Jack hit his prostate square on, and Channon moaned helplessly into his fingers.
God, what was he thinking? It didn’t matter what he wanted. If he came, he came, but it wouldn’t be because of anything he did. It was out of his control.
Eventually, though, Jack slid out of him. “I’ll have to check,” he said, and he was walking away, buckling his belt like he hadn’t left Channon wet and open and bent over the back of the sofa. He really was walking into his office, checking his fucking calendar, like Channon was nothing, and a wave of angry hurt rose up Channon’s throat.
But wasn’t this what he wanted? Wasn’t this what it was about?
Channon uncovered his mouth and took a deep, shuddering breath. It was. That’s what this was, just a game. He steeled himself for a moment before pushing himself upright. He had to follow Jack, be ready for him. He was still wearing boots and his coat, so he stripped down to his collar and the cage and started tidying the kitchen. Like a good boy. Like a good slave.
By the time Jack got off the phone, Channon had cleaned up the dishes, the cooking things, and knelt down in his chaps in the corner of Jack’s study to wait for whatever Jack wanted next.
Jack ignored him. Channon took a deep breath before getting up to follow Jack upstairs.
He watched Jack undress, followed him to the weight room, was ordered to the kitchen to make a sandwich, watched Jack eat it. He loaded the dishwasher (again!) and ended up back in the playroom, scrubbing the floor he’d scrubbed yesterday, and he thought, Is this it?
Was this the fantasy? Was this what they’d been planning all that time? The sex parts, the discipline—yeah, he loved those. Even the caning, because he knew Jack liked it. But the part Channon liked was when Jack teased and tortured him, when he pressed his fingers into Channon’s welts and made fun of his squirming. The cage locked up Channon’s cock, but it was just there. It wasn’t Channon’s kink, it was Jack’s, and if Jack wasn’t looking, it felt so…poi
ntless.
Cleaning the playroom because Jack said so didn’t feel as good as cleaning the playroom while Jack micromanaged him. At least that was attention. At least when Channon was a footstool he was being used. This? What the fuck was this?
Was this what Jack wanted?
Channon thought about it for about a minute before deciding that it didn’t matter. He’d do his best anyway. Maybe he’d get used to it, maybe he’d realize he liked it. Maybe Jack wouldn’t ask it of him again.
He’d be good. He told himself it would be fine. All he had to do was whatever Jack told him to, and eventually Jack would be proud of him.
Later, when the alarm rang for ‘discipline’, Channon found himself actually relieved. He went willingly against the wall, counting his strokes and thanking Jack for each one. He thanked Jack for the clamps, too, and the humbler Jack fitted to his balls.
Jack grinned. “Eager, sweetheart?” he said, dragging his nails down Channon’s flanks.
“Yes, Master, thank you,” Channon said, and he meant it.
Day Three: Wednesday
Jack waited until Channon had got out of bed to open his eyes, and then he lay there, gazing at the ceiling, wondering if this had all been a bad idea. Channon was perfect, of course, taking everything Jack threw at him with an astonishing grace, and yet.
Jack was bored.
This thing they’d built had been formed from fantasies, and frankly, those fantasies had billowed over the weeks of incapacity Jack had suffered. That they both had suffered, in fact—Channon had been suffering along with him.
It was possible, Jack thought, that they had allowed fantasy to run out of control.
The trouble was that a week of slavery was a long fucking time, and there were only so many things Jack could do with Channon on any given day. Fucking Channon was a pleasure, but Jack was only human. How many times a day could he realistically fuck Channon? How many days in a row could he keep that up?
