His Boy Next Door #21

Mistakes

by R.J. Moray

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright ©2017 R.J. Moray

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First Electronic Edition

About His Boy Next Door

An older man.

A submissive discovery.

In the wake of Channon's bold admission, Jack makes some changes to their relationship, and Channon loves every second of it. But what happens when Jack doesn't live up to his end of the bargain?

This book is episode 21 in an ongoing series, and contains scenes of an adult nature. Read at your own discretion.

Mistakes

Routine, Jack said, was important. Expectations, boundaries, all of that was necessary for personal development. And so, he said, Channon needed new routines, new expectations, new boundaries.

So.

"I want you clean, naked, and ready for me at seven pm," Jack said. "Tuesdays and Thursdays to begin with. I mean I want you lubed up," he clarified, pinching Channon's chin. "Ready for me to fuck you, okay?"

"Yes, Sir," Channon said, feeling his face burn.

"I want you kneeling for me at seven precisely, in the entry hall. I want you wearing your collar. I want you to have your phone with you, on the table, in case I message you that I've been caught up at the office, or call you to let you know I'm bringing someone home. When I come through the door I want you quiet, hands behind your back, eyes on the floor. If I summon you, you can untie my laces for me and rack my shoes. If not, you wait there until I call for you. Okay?"

"Yes, Sir."

"If I call for you from the next room you can get up and walk to the doorway, and then crawl from there to my feet. If I'm in the same room as you, then you should crawl to me from wherever you are. Okay?"

"Yes, Sir," Channon said, wondering if he should be writing this down.

"You do not speak until spoken to. If you need to go to the bathroom while you're waiting for me you may do so, quickly and quietly, and return to your place. Stay kneeling where you are until I call for you or I release you. Understand?"

"I understand, Sir." He licked his lip, nervous about forgetting anything.

Jack grinned and chucked him under the chin. "I won't be too hard on you if you make some mistakes. Just do your best."

It was the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, and Channon's ass was raw with welts. Jack had already rubbed lotion into him twice, once the night before with Channon still a tearful shaky mess, and once just now, Channon lying on his belly in the tangle of Jack's sheets while Jack talked softly to him.

It was strange, Channon thought, how gentle Jack's hands could be. Channon loved the strength of them, loved when they were hard and firm, when they left marks across his skin. And when they were gentle, smoothing lotion over his bruises, stroking his hair, wiping away his tears, Channon loved them just as much. How they could do both, he didn't understand. That Jack could be kind and sweet and hard and merciless, all at once…it was an impossible combination.

Jack was sweet to him all weekend, taking him for a jog and then brunch in a hipster cafe that made the best omelet Channon had ever had. They showered together, making out under the hot water, and then Jack rubbed lotion into every inch of him, letting Channon cuddle up to him on the sofa with The 100 on low while Jack did something on his laptop.

On Sunday they went to see Jack's tailor and then stopped at the mall. Jack bought him a bunch of graphic tees from the hipster screen-print place—he got one with an astronaut hugging an octopus, one with monsters having a tea-party, one with a dot-print illustration of the Rock kissing an eagle. They wandered down through the courtyard eating froyo, and Jack nudged Channon with his elbow.

"Those girls are eyeing you up." He sounded so amused.

Channon blinked in confusion. "What girls?"

"By the fountain."

There was a group of them at a table surrounded by shopping bags and coats. They looked like high-school girls, cheerleader types, the kind with rich parents and rich girl problems, big city girls too sleek and sophisticated for the boys at Channon's school. He'd never felt like horning after them like the rest of the guys, puffing up to try and impress a bunch of shiny-lipsticked hotties who didn't think he was good enough to lick their shiny heels. In retrospect, maybe that was because, well. They were girls.

This lot were giggling among themselves and glancing over. Channon saw it, and felt his face heat.

"They're not eyeing me up, they're…just laughing."

"They're definitely eyeing you up." Jack grinned wickedly. "Why don't you wave?"

"Um?" Channon felt his confusion must be written all over his face. "Because I'm with you?"

"They don't think we're together," Jack said. "They think I'm your dad."

Channon nearly dropped his froyo. "No."

"Yes. So wave at them."

It was too weird. Channon took a deep breath and turned to look. One of the girls was staring right at him—she flinched and turned away so sharply she nearly fell off her chair. Her friends dissolved into peals of laughter. When she glanced at him again Channon lifted a hand to wave, sheepish and awkward, and her jaw dropped, but then she waved back, looking mortified.

"There you go," Jack drawled. "I told you so."

He spent the rest of the afternoon teasing Channon about it, saying things like, "Okay, so you can see the woman in the green sweater checking you out, right?" or "Pretty sure the girl behind you is staring at your ass right now."

It made Channon feel…strange. On the one hand, Jack seemed to enjoy it. On the other, it was hard to believe.

Still, when Jack pinned him up against a tree in the park and kissed his neck, Jack murmured, "God, it's so good to see them thirst after you like that," in his ear and Channon breathed out, relieved.

"I don't see it," he said, tilting his head to let Jack at his throat. "I don't…really, Sir?"

"Mmm-hmm." Jack bit him and leaned back to kiss him on the mouth. "You taste like salted caramel."

"Is that good?"

"It's delicious."

At home, Channon piled up blankets and pillows to make a nest on the sofa, and Jack lay down with him to watch a movie Channon missed most of because Jack kept nuzzling his neck, hands warm and ticklish, sliding into his undershirt and teasing his nipples. They ended up making out on the couch for an hour, and then Jack sighed, took Channon to bed, and made out with him some more, and finally, finally he dragged Channon down against his crotch and rocked up against him until Channon came all over his belly.

Channon spent Monday in a pleased daze, too cheerful to take it poorly when someone was short with him or sharp or generally Monday-ish. Jack had to work late, so he worked out a bit, ate dinner standing up at the counter, and took a bath. Jack got in at ten, just in time to kiss Channon goodnight and send him to bed.

Tuesday morning, Channon found Spanish omelet and a packed lunch waiting for him, and a note from Jack that said, I'm sorry to abandon you, something came up. I'll see you tonight. Don't forget what we talked about, and it hit Channon like a wrecking ball.

Tonight. They were going to do this new whatever it was tonight

He couldn't wait.

* * *

Channon got home at twenty-past-five, which gave him an hour-forty to get ready. He ate a (healthy) snack, finished some stuff for work, had a shower, and still had thirty minutes to kill.

So he checked his emails. There was one from Ben he still hadn't replied to, basically ragging him for being too busy to talk. Ben was working for his dad, and getting some kind of business qualification that sounded boring but useful.

And there was one from Kim.

Hey hot stuff ❤ ❤ ❤!!

I saw your mom on Friday and she said you're living in Santa Rita with your SEXY SUGAR DADDY! OMG go you, hope he buys you nice things and takes you clubbing and you get covered in glitter or whatever. Tell me everything, leave nothing out.

Meanwhile, I've got finals D: BUT I'll be in SR in Jan, and I thought we could catch up! Let me know if you've got time, I would love to see what your life looks like now!

I miss you! So much to tell you! xoxoxo

Huh. He thought about it and, yeah, he missed Kim too. They'd been friends, even if things hadn't worked out between them.

Because of Jack. But probably they wouldn't have worked out anyway.

Channon closed his eyes, and tried to remember what it had been like kissing Kim. Feeling the shape of her soft against his chest, her breasts pressed up against him, thighs spread around his waist hiking up her skirt, her ass in his hand, knowing the only thing between him and her pussy was his jeans and her panties, and kissing the cherry-sweet softness of her mouth.

It felt…okay, it wasn't nothing. But it wasn't much.

So he thought about Jack, unzipping his pants and beckoning Channon in, holding out the thick length of his cock for Channon to suck and—fuck he was hard, just visualizing it, knowing Jack might hold him still and fuck into his mouth, come all over his chin and make him say, Thank-you, Sir, thank-you.

So it was pretty clear to Channon, at least, where his priorities were.

He glanced at the clock—it was time to get his collar. Jack kept it in his room, in a box, and Channon found it easily. It felt solid in his hands, weighty. Hard to break. A real restraint. This was the first time he'd put it on by himself. Remember, Jack told you to. It was fine, he had his orders.

The heavy buckle clicked shut with a finality that sent a shiver down his spine, and when he turned he stopped dead at the reflection in Jack's mirror.

Pale and smooth-waxed, his cock out for anyone to see, the sub in the mirror looked like a sub, collared and clean and naked for his Sir.

It was a shock. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to mess it up the way Jack always did, and gave up, feeling a little silly. This was how Jack wanted him. That was all that mattered.

The last thing he did was lube himself up, the way Jack had ordered him. It felt strange, but not as strange as it had when he'd done this on his own initiative—he'd been worried then that Jack might be mad at him for assuming things. Now, with Jack's order sitting heavy in his head, it was only strange because he had his fingers in his ass, which always made him feel a bit, well, dirty. Slutty, maybe, getting himself ready to take Jack's cock the second Jack wanted him to.

The thought made him shudder. Okay. He was ready. He wiped up the excess, washed and dried his hands, and went downstairs.

Kneeling on the cushion in the entryway, Channon waited. He tried not to fidget, tried to breathe, tried to focus inward instead of on anything. Like wondering if he should have styled his hair. Or if Jack might be late. Or if Jack might have changed his mind or forgotten or not be in the mood or—

On the dot of seven, the door opened. Channon stiffened, and then tried to relax, fixing his eyes on the floor in front of him, his hands caught loosely together behind his back, breathing quiet and even. He listened, though, and there was the tak-tak of Jack's shoes on the slate of the entryway, the sound of the door closing, the click of the lock. Jack walked into his field of vision, sitting down on the chair opposite, and then held out his fingers, beckoning Channon to him. Channon shuffled forward on his knees, not daring to look up. He knew what Jack wanted, so he untied Jack's laces, held each shoe for Jack to pull his foot out of it, and then put them side by side on the rack, tucking the laces neatly inside the way Jack liked.

By the time he had the shoes racked properly, Jack had already stood up and walked away. Channon hesitated, not sure what to do, but Jack hadn't summoned him so he shuffled back to his cushion and waited there, listening to the sound of the kettle filling, the click of it as it started to heat, and the tap of china against the bench.

Tea. Of course Jack wanted tea. Next time, Channon thought, he'd put out the cup and the tea-ball and a saucer for the ball to sit in after. And a spoon, in case Jack wanted it. He could fill the ball, he knew which was Jack's favorite tea. Maybe he should do that. Yeah, he would.

The slow creep of the heating water, the rough rumble of it, drowned out any sounds Jack might be making in the kitchen. Channon waited, listened, wondered if Jack would want anything of him. Not being acknowledged in any way was new. Channon wasn't sure if he liked it. He felt…he didn't know. A little anxious, maybe. Nothing major. He could take a little ignoring, surely.

The water boiled eventually, and then there was the sound of a cup filling, and then nothing again. The small scuff of a sock-clad foot on hardwood, a faint creak. Then—

"Channon," Jack called, snapping his fingers.

Channon glanced up. Jack had gone into his study, leaving the door open, so Channon stood up and walked quickly across the main room, dropping to his hands and knees when he reached the doorway. Jack was sitting at his desk. Channon wondered if he was supposed to go over there, and decided to risk it—he crawled across the floor up to Jack's feet, bowing his head.

The weight of Jack's hand on his hair was so welcome. It felt warmly approving. Channon breathed out, closing his eyes and enjoying the gentle carding of Jack's fingers through his hair.

"Sit," Jack said, and Channon sat back on his heels, daring a glance up through his lashes. Jack didn't look at him, just reached into a drawer and pulled out a tub of something. "Rub my feet," he said, tossing the tub on the floor.

It was lotion, rich and creamy, and Channon unpeeled Jack's socks and set about rubbing the lotion into Jack's soles. He'd done this before, knew how Jack liked to be touched, knew better than to tickle. The lotion smelled spicy and expensive, and soaked into Jack's skin. Channon took his time, rubbing up along Jack's arches with his thumbs, carefully stroking the bones of Jack's ankles, gentle with his toes.

"Back straight," Jack said, and then, "Shoulders back." He lifted one sweet-scented foot to press against Channon's shoulder until he had Channon where he wanted him. "Knees together."

Keeping posture wasn't hard, it was just that Channon forgot to do it. He tried not to now, aware of his body in a way that he usually wasn't. He was naked, but this? This wasn't about sex. This was about Jack making him wait, naked, making him kneel, naked, for no reason other than because he could.

Channon straightened his spine, pushed his shoulders back, and did his best to please his Sir.

"That's enough," Jack said. He kicked his feet out of Channon's lap, and pointed at the floor, one sharp decisive motion. "Hands and knees. Back straight, like a coffee table. Head down, face the floor. All right-angles."

Channon obeyed, and Jack lifted one foot and then the other, to lay across his back. Like a footstool. Like furniture, and Channon drew in a shaky breath because…because Jack had picked up his cup and his tablet and was ignoring him again. He didn't know what to do except what he'd been told, tried to breathe quietly and evenly, and not jostle Jack as he did whatever he was doing on his tablet.

It couldn't have been long. Jack still had tea. But it felt like forever, the only sound the soft throb of something Jack had turned down low over the computer speakers, something warm and comfortable, and the rush of his own blood in his ears.

Channon tried, again, to focus inward, to find a calm core in him where he could do these things without focusing on the smooth wood grain beneath his fingers, the weight of Jack's feet on his shoulder, the scent of lotion rising up from his hands to wreathe him in Jack, Jack, Jack…

It got very quiet inside his head, peaceful and blank, almost as if he'd stopped completely. Quiet. Still. Yes.

When the phone rang he startled badly; Jack dropped a hand on his head, stroking him once, and then reached for his cell. "Nash. Oh? Yes, of course. No, it's fine."

Channon felt it before he realized it—a warm, smooth weight on his back. Hard but not sharp.

That's his cup, he thought, that's Jack's cup, he's put his cup on me, like I'm just, like—

"I agree with you completely. No, we certainly should."

With the cup on his back Channon felt completely unsteady, as if it would roll off him and smash on the floor at any second. How could he not spill Jack's tea? He mustn't. He had to stay perfectly still, but the harder he tried the more he trembled, the weaker his elbows felt, the more certain it became.

And then Jack lifted his cup, and Channon breathed out.

"Tell him I'll ask Nate to look into it. Yes, absolutely. If it's all legit, then we can bankroll it. Well, they'll have to deal with that themselves."

Channon heard a familiar jingle and zip, and he knew.

"Sure, I can take care of that. Thank-you, I appreciate you keeping me in the loop."

Jack's feet slid to the floor. A hand in Channon's hair yanked him up to his knees, pulling him forward until his face was pressed against Jack's cock. Jack was soft in the open V of his trousers, and Channon thought he knew what Jack wanted, so he opened his mouth, lapping at Jack's cock. The hand in his hair loosened, stroking him gently, and Channon felt emboldened by it. He sucked Jack into his mouth, mouthing at him, sucking on him and licking him until he swelled up, filling Channon's throat. The pressure of Jack's hand kept him in place, so he kept going, didn't stop, the sound of Jack's voice a strange counterpoint to the weight of cock in his mouth.

"It shouldn't be a problem. Yes. No. That's a good point—I'll get Harley to chase up a case study. Ok, sure. Yeah, I'll call him. Thanks, Katherine. Enjoy your evening."

Without warning, the hand in Channon's hair yanked him up and back, sending sharp pricks of pain across his scalp. He was jerked up, off his knees, and had to scramble to get his feet under him, but only for as long as it took Jack to haul him onto the desk, shoving him down on his back on the cool wood.

Jack didn't look at him, was paying more attention to his phone, and set it down on the table.

Channon could hear it ring—Jack had put it on speaker.

And then Jack did look at him, his expression stern and serious. "Be absolutely silent," he said, and then, "I don't care if you come."

It sounded like a threat, and Channon wanted to ask for clarification, but then the phone picked up. "Anthony Williams."

"Hi, Anthony," Jack said with his usual smooth business voice. "It's Jonathan Nash. Sorry to bother you at home, but I've got a proposition for you, and it's a little time sensitive. Do you have time to talk?"

He wrapped a hand around Channon's cock, stroking him absently. His gaze had turned speculative, running down Channon's body impassively, as if Channon was a coffee table or an interesting and expensive piece of tech that Jack was thinking about buying, just furniture, just another thing. He slid a hand over Channon's belly, letting his fingers tickle the places that made Channon twitch and squirm. Channon tried to hold still but the muscles of his belly jumped under Jack's fingers, involuntarily reacting to the heat of his touch. Jack caught his balls in the palm of his hand and squeezed, and Channon had to bite down on his lip to keep from squeaking or something equally forbidden. And Jack's other hand still stroked him, until it made his crotch ache, his hips trying to jerk up off the desk in an effort to put himself in Jack's hand.

Jack took his time about it, still talking to whoever this Anthony was, about some deal Channon couldn't follow. He figured he wasn't supposed to, not when Jack was torturing him, digging his nails into Channon's sack, putting sharp points of pressure on his balls. It hurt, but it was the kind of hurt that made the smooth motion of Jack's hand on his cock all the sweeter, the pressure of his thumb just there, right where Channon liked it, right where he couldn't bear it. And Jack didn't stop, kept switching between sharp, insistent jolts of pain and the smooth, gentle massage of his balls. Jack slipped his fingers up behind, pressing down on Channon's taint, rubbing up firm to make Channon's hips hitch up, toes curling against the warm tension spooling through him, tangling him up in it and tugging him taut.

He could feel it coming, knew he couldn't help it. He would come all over Jack's hand in a second, any second, and Jack wasn't even looking at him, just absent-mindedly jerking him off as if he was bored of it, and Channon felt…he didn't know, but it was too late now. The hot surge of it crested him up over the edge, bursting into a sudden intense flood of pleasure. He clamped a hand over his mouth to hold in his moan, clasping it over his nose and locking his lungs against the sound that threatened to spill out of him with each hot, sticky gout of come. Jack stroked him through it, past the point of pleasure into the unpleasantness of over-sensitivity, and Channon writhed to get away from his merciless hand but Jack just slapped him hard on the thigh, and still didn't even look at him.

His head was ringing. He felt like someone had struck him like a gong, like his orgasm was echoing through him and just shuddering him minutely, aftershocks of it like tiny bursts of light behind his eyelids.

"Sure, that's a concern," Jack said, as Channon's head started to clear. He breathed in shallow huffs, trying to get himself under control. Silent, Jack had said. Was that silent enough?

Jack pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and started mopping Channon up. Channon lay there, waiting for whatever was coming next. Maybe Jack would shove him to the floor and make Channon finish him off with his mouth. Maybe he'd still not look at him. Maybe he'd just keep talking.

"Definitely, but I don't think that will be a problem." Jack's eyes flickered down to Channon's belly, swiped up the last streak of come from his chest, and then, casually, he stuffed the wet fabric into Channon's mouth.

God, the smell and taste of his own come was overpowering. Channon felt his face flush hot. How must he look? Spread out on Jack's desk with a come-soaked rag in his mouth? And Jack just slid a hand under one of his knees and levered him up, until he was spread open and exposed. Channon balled his hands into fists, feeling wide-eyed and helpless to resist.

"There's always unknown variables. That's practically a constant."

That was the head of Jack's cock, pressing into him. Channon was suddenly glad of the time he'd spent opening himself up for Jack, because Jack wasted no time on prep, just fucked into him in one heavy stroke that went deep enough Channon could almost feel it in his throat. He clawed at the desk as Jack thrust into him with hard, punishing strokes that skated over Channon's sensitive sweet-spot and made him buck up involuntarily. His hands scrabbled on the smooth surface of the desk, sliding uselessly over the wood, and Jack gripped him hard, holding him still and fucking him with the single-minded intensity of a man doing this for himself, selfishly taking his pleasure of Channon's body. Channon had to bite down on the wet cloth in his mouth, the bitter pollen taste of himself on his tongue, smothering the whimpers that wanted to come out of him. But. Jack had said. He couldn't. He had to be good.

"Sure," Jack said, and then, "Can you hold for a moment?"

He hit mute and then hammered down once, twice, groaning on the third stroke as he emptied his balls into Channon's body, jerking into him with tiny stutters as if he couldn't help himself. Channon swore he could feel the gush of Jack filling him with come, the slick hot wonder of it, and he felt dazed by it, by the flush of blood under Jack's skin, the sweat on his brow, how tightly his hands gripped bruises into Channon's thighs.

Jack sunk into him and tipped his head back, eyes closed, to catch his breath. His grip on Channon loosened, and his palms rubbed over Channon's hurts, almost soothing, but it seemed automatic, nothing really to do with Channon at all.

Then, Jack reached for his phone.

"Sorry about that. Anyway, I'll see that you get all the data you need to make an informed decision, but I'll need you to get back to me ASAP. We have to move on this before we miss our window."

He stayed there, shoved deep in Channon's ass, until he'd finished his call and hung up, and then he slid out, and wiped his cock on the inside of Channon's thigh.

Somehow that was the dirtiest thing Jack had ever done to him, and Channon couldn't stop himself from moaning through the handkerchief in his mouth. He felt…fuck, he felt so used, so completely and utterly used. Jack had treated him like something that existed solely to be fucked by him, had claimed not to care if Channon came or not, had only cared if Channon embarrassed him on the phone and…

When Jack pulled the handkerchief out of his mouth Channon made an embarrassingly needy sound, and Jack smiled at him.

"Hey, sweetheart." He leaned down to kiss Channon's mouth. "How are you doing?"

Channon didn't know. He couldn't speak, too much backed up in his throat to let any of it come out of him. He had no idea what he'd say, or if Jack would be happy about it or angry or…or uncaring. But Jack was stripping out of his suit and unfastening Channon's collar, and his hands were big and warm and strong and Channon fell into them, his muscles gone weak and useless.

"Sorry," he gasped, feeling the hot prickle of tears behind his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sir."

"It's okay." Jack kissed his hair, and his cheek. "You did so good. You were so quiet, just like I told you to. You suck cock so well now, Channon, and you're gorgeous when you come. You take a cock so easily. You're perfect, baby. Don't worry."

Surely he should have got over hearing that by now, or past believing it, but as always it was enough to calm the wild thunder beneath his ribs, to make him shiver and go limp, sinking against Jack's chest and curling against him. "Sir," he slurred, turning his face against Jack's shoulder. "Sir."

"Let's get you something to eat, okay? I'm starving."

Jack wrapped him up in a bath-sheet and a blanket, and brought warm bowls of lemon Parmesan pasta and hot tea into the living room, and let Channon pick something to watch. He pressed kisses into Channon's hair, stroking him all over with his hands, murmuring encouragement at him the whole time: beautiful; perfect; mine; so good for me; so perfect, Channon; you don't even know.

Channon basked in it, letting the good feelings buoy him up to somewhere like he was floating, letting the bad feelings sink away.

"How did you like that?" Jack asked him later, when he'd come back to earth.

Channon had to think. "It was…weird. I felt…you put a cup on me."

"It wasn't too hot, was it?"

"No, just…what if I'd spilled it? Or broken it?"

"Then I was going to make you stand in the corner," Jack said, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Channon. They were laid out on the sofa wrapped in a blanket, the TV still on in the background, and Channon felt completely and utterly relaxed. "I was sort of banking on it."

"Really?"

Jack looked sort of…regretful? "Yeah. I was going to make you hold my jacket, like a coat-rack."

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm." Jack stroked his fingers down Channon's cheek. "Hang my tie around your neck and everything." He sighed, his mouth curling up in one corner. "But then you had to go and be perfect, again, and I had to come up with something to reward you with."

"Do you want me to fail at things, sometimes?" Channon didn't understand this at all, but he knew that what Jack liked and what he liked couldn't always be the same. "I don't want to disappoint you, Sir, but…I mean, if you wanted."

"No." Jack was shaking his head, very firm on this. "I want you to try your hardest, always. And I'll find ways to discipline you if I'm itching for it. Don't worry." He tapped Channon's chin and Channon turned his mouth up to be kissed. "So. Did you like being a coffee table?"

"I…didn't hate it."

"How about the come-gag?"

Channon felt his face heat and knew he'd gone red. "I…yeah. That was…and you, after you were done and you," he made a vague gesture with one hand. Jack seemed to get it, his grin widening dangerously. "It was dirty."

"You like dirty," Jack said, nuzzling him. "Yeah? Want me to get you dirty, Channon?"

Of course the answer was yes.

* * *

All Thursday, Channon felt hyper-aware of himself. He was going to wear his collar for Jack tonight. Jack was going to do whatever he wanted and Channon was going to be quiet and good for him. And if he screwed up, Jack would punish him for it, and that would make Jack happy, so long as Channon was trying his best.

So he rushed through his chores when he got home, eager to start. He had a bunch of chores, now, including ordering the meals for the next week. He knew which were Jack's favorites, and which lunches Jack had approved for him. Jack liked variation, though, so Channon was careful to pick out a couple of new things now and then, to keep it interesting. Apple and guava juice this week, he decided, and fresh kiwi fruit since it was marked in-season.

Jack's dry-cleaning had been delivered, so Channon hung it up. He'd started organizing Jack's suits by color, grading from black through charcoal and navy, up to the patterns and ending with his lighter summer linens. Channon wasn't sure if Jack liked it that way because he hadn't said, but he figured Jack would let him know if it was wrong.

Then he washed up, exfoliating because, well, Jack liked that, and shaving himself smooth. It was getting harder to get that slick-smooth finish on his jaw, the hair growing in coarser these days. Testosterone, or something. Channon ran his fingers over it, reasonably satisfied. He moisturized, cleaned his ears, under his nails. Then he had to file his nails because he'd bitten one corner ragged, and Jack would tsk at him about it.

And now. He fetched the lube, and knelt down on the rug in his room, bending over in front of the full-length mirror.

It was less strange this time and more exhilarating. Spreading his cheeks and peering back at himself over his shoulder. That guy in the mirror looked…slutty. This hairless, naked sub on his knees, fingering himself for a man who wasn't even here to see it. Channon clenched around his fingers, pushing them in as far as they could go, lubing himself up and slicking his entrance all wet and slippery. Jack might fuck him. If he was lucky Jack would pound him into the floor. God, what if Jack walked in right now and saw him there, on his knees, watching himself fingering his own ass in the mirror. His face was so red, hot with the embarrassment of just the thought of being caught.

His cock throbbed, bobbing at his crotch. He brushed his fingers down the length of it, hissing at the shiver that ran up his spine, the heat stabbing deep in his gut. He shouldn't. He was allowed, though. He didn't know, maybe it was a bad idea, and yet…

He knew what Jack liked, Channon worked up and frustrated and eager. And he was, he really was, but he knew he could play it out a bit, just play, while he waited for Jack to come home.

So. He got up, wiping his fingers absently on his hip, and fetched the plug out of his drawer.

It was a smaller one, just enough to get inside him and make him feel it. Jack had larger in the toy box, but Channon wasn't allowed to play with those. This one was different. This one was his. Jack had given him permission to use it whenever he wanted.

It slipped in easily, the widest part popping past the tight ring of muscle and settling comfortably. He felt immediately better and worse—better because he could imagine Jack's smirk if he caught Channon plugging himself, and worse because…well, because now it was in there, and he was naked in front of the mirror, hard and wanting.

He positioned himself on his back, thighs spread. He could see the handle of the plug peeking out, and he gripped it firmly, tweaking it inside him the way Jack would have. The pressure against his prostate was an immediate rush. And then he stroked his cock, gently, just the lightest touch he could manage. It made him shiver, his whole body quivering, the sight of himself in the mirror making his breath run hot and heavy. Would Jack like this? Would Jack want to see this? Would Jack fill his mouth for him while he did this?

Should he tell him?

He teased himself, pinching his foreskin hard and biting his lip against the pain. Jack tugged on it with his teeth sometimes, and sometimes he bit down hard enough Channon wondered if he'd break through. But Jack never really hurt him. Right?

He did, though. Sometimes Jack hurt him a lot. That fucking cane. Channon hated it, but he loved how Jack held him afterward, how gentle he was with Channon's welts. The way he kissed over Channon's skin, the soft stroke of his tongue.

Okay, he didn't hate the cane, just how much it hurt sometimes. How much he couldn't hold still for it, and take his licks like a, a good boy.

Good boy.

Every time Jack said it Channon felt it like sunshine on a winter's day, like coming out of the dark. Like breathing, finally, when he'd been suffocated for so long. He'd never known it could be like this, like all of this, and all he had to do was be good and everything would be fine.

Better than fine. He'd be Jack's and everything would be wonderful.

He was hard as fuck now, thinking about Jack, and pleasing him, crawling around on his knees at Jack's feet, kissing his ankles, his toes, sucking on them if Jack wanted, licking the shiny leather tops of his shoes. If Jack told him to he'd do anything. If Jack loved him he could be anything Jack wanted.

He groaned, tightening his grip and squeezing hard at the base of his cock. He had to stop, take the plug out. He had to now. He wouldn't disappoint his Sir, not tonight, not ever.

Shaking, he pushed himself to his feet, and made his way to the bathroom.

* * *

When Jack walked in the door he took one look at Channon and chuckled. "Oh. Hard already?"

Channon didn't know if he was supposed to look up, so he just mumbled a, "Sir," and tried to sit up straight as he could.

Jack dropped down on the entryway chair, and held out a foot. "You're flushed. Have you been playing without me?"

The laces weren't tangled, so why was it hard to get them undone? "…a little, Sir. I didn't, um…"

"Didn't?"

"Come, Sir." He racked the shoe and tucked the laces inside.

Jack offered the other. "How did you do it?"

"I…was lubing up," Channon said, feeling hot and caught out. "And I…jerked off a bit. With a plug in my ass." Saying it felt like a sin, the words dirty and dangerous, and Channon felt feverish now, his neck must be so red.

"In the bathroom?"

He felt giddy. The words just spilled out of him like secrets. "On my bedroom rug. In front of the mirror."

"Mmmm." Jack ruffled his hair and Channon closed his eyes, desperate for Jack to tell him it was okay, he wasn't in trouble. It was fine, wasn't it? Jack gave him permission, he was allowed to, Jack wouldn't—"Well, then I know what we're doing tonight."

'What they were doing' turned out to be Channon sitting in Jack's lap while Jack jerked him off. Except, Jack was doing it left-handed, and typing with the other, and Channon wasn't allowed to come.

Jack brought him up to the edge in stages, right up to the precipice and then he'd linger there. Channon was allowed to squirm so he did, twitching and shaking, shuddering with how close Jack took him before he'd relent and ease off.

And then he did it again. And again. And again, and Channon could hear himself moaning pathetically, this constant wordless complaint, as his muscles cramped and his toes curled up in knots, knuckles clenched to white on the edge of the desk. Jack ignored him, just slowed his hand, gliding the skin agonizingly over Channon's knob until Channon choked on his own frustration.

"Too much?" Jack asked, kissing him below the ear.

"Sir, I…I can't," Channon whimpered, and Jack chuckled, tipping him sideways into the crook of his right arm.

"Hmmm," and he worked his fingers as if they were cramping. "I guess I should swap hands then."

And he did, that sadistic fucking bastard, and Channon couldn't do anything except writhe in his lap and pant and moan under his breath as Jack did it again, and again, and again.

It must have been an hour. All Channon knew was that he was dying, his dick would drop off, and he ached for something inside him, for Jack in him, or anything, really. Jack could have pulled a cucumber out of the fridge and stuffed it in him and he would have thanked him for it.

But that wasn't what Jack had in mind. When he'd finally reduced Channon to broken, needy, whining, he unzipped his pants and slid his cock up the slick cleft of Channon's ass.

"You gonna come for me?"

"Yes, Sir, please!"

"Up you get, then." He got Channon to brace his hands on the desk, got him balanced on the tip of his dick and whispered, "Come on, sit down on this and come for me," and Channon slid onto him and fuck it was a lot all at once, Channon's weight slamming the whole of Jack's cock in him and knocking the breath from his lungs in one almighty smack.

It was perfect, and Channon tried to lever himself up to do it again but the shifting of his weight pressed Jack against him in just the right place and his world went to staticky snow as he came. It felt like it went on forever, this white-hot supernova bursting at the core of him and shredding him to bits, and he had to cling to the edge of the desk, riding it out on Jack's cock and sobbing helplessly.

He didn't exactly blank out but it was close, and when he came back to earth Jack was fucking up into him, yanking him down on his dick and groaning as he spilled over.

"Muh," Channon said, and then, "whuh," because he had nothing else.

Holy shit, I think I just came my brains out.

Jack didn't seem to mind, pulling him down and wrapping both arms around him to pant and nuzzle into the back of his neck. "Fuck, Channon, you're so fuckable." He nipped at Channon's ear, rumbling like a contented bear. "You know, I wasn't going to do this but you just looked so fucking cute, waiting for me with your dick hard like you couldn't stand it. Made me want to wreck you."

"Guh," Channon said, blinking up at the ceiling. He was slick with sweat and still impaled on Jack's cock, and he didn't want to move, ever.

"Talk to me," Jack said, smoothing a hand up Channon's chest, slicking him with come. "You okay?"

"Uh-huh." Channon tried to catch his breath, but he felt wrung out and useless, his body thrumming with aftershocks. He swallowed, licked his lips, and breathed out. "Yes, Sir."

"Good." Jack kissed his hair, breathing in close against his scalp. "That's good."

And it was. Jack was busy most of the weekend, but Channon called up Ben and they played Team Fortress 2 for hours, smack-talking and laughing at the stupidest shit. On Sunday he went for a run down to the harbor, following the curve of it as far as he could before he collapsed on a bench, just a sweaty jelly-legged mess.

A guy with tight-coiled dark hair and a nice smile sat down next to him. "Hey, you really wore yourself out."

Channon tilted his head to look up at him, slouched out on the bench like a strip of boiled spaghetti. "Yeah," he panted. "Ran all the way from Gordon Avenue."

He looked impressed, or pretended to look impressed. He was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, the shirt cut into a low v that showed off his neck and some brown smooth-waxed chest. He was, objectively, good-looking, and he held out a hand that was broad and long-fingered. "I'm Trent."

"Channon." Channon shook, aware that he was sweaty, but Trent didn't seem to care.

Trent held on a little longer than necessary, lip caught in his teeth. "You thirsty?"

You're so thirsty, Channon. That was Jack's voice in his head, and it made Channon grin, because—"I dunno. I could go for a smoothie, but," and he shrugged, trying to communicate a 'no' with his eyebrows. If that was even possible.

"But that's all," Trent said, and he nodded. "Cool. I think my pride can handle that." He stood up. "You coming? Or lying down to die?"

Channon went. The smoothie was good, even if it had wheat-grass in it, and he let Trent put his number in Channon's phone 'just in case you change your mind', but mostly to show Jack later. He walked until he got cold, and jogged the rest of the way, and when he finally got back to the condo he felt wrung out and done, and it was amazing.

Of course Jack was amused about Trent, and Channon told him about Kim's email, and Jack said of course Channon could see her in January, and they should take her out for dinner.

At work on Monday the whole office was buzzing with rumors At least four different people asked him if he knew the truth of it, and he supposed he should, but he had been a bit distracted at the time. Anyway, he wasn't going to tell people things. That was Jack's business and none of theirs, so he acted thicker than usual until they left him alone.

Tuesday morning, Jack kissed him goodbye and walked out the door, already on the phone to someone about something important. That was okay. Channon had written out some entries in his fantasy journal and left it on Jack's bedside table, for when he was bored or just interested. Maybe tonight they'd do some of it. Maybe tonight Jack would make him stand in the corner being a coat-rack. Who knew?

He was pleasantly buzzed all day, thinking about Jack, and little things he could do to make Jack's life easier.

"What's got you so happy?" Kenny asked him, and Channon just shrugged, too blissed out to put it into words. Anyway, it's not like he could say, Tonight my boyfriend, who likes to tie me up and spank my ass raw, is maybe, if I'm lucky, gonna tie me up and spank my ass raw. Maybe come on my face. Maybe make me eat him out and then come on my face. Maybe he'll tie me up and leave me in the corner while he jerks off, or just reads the fucking news, naked. I have no idea, but it's going to be fun.

Yeah. He couldn't say any of that.

"Do you know something?"

Channon just glanced at him. "About what?"

"About the expansion." When it was obvious Channon didn't know what that meant, Kenny flung up his hands melodramatically. "The—for God's sake, Chan, weren't you listening at lunch? Dana heard from Tam who heard from Kelly whose brother works up on ninth? That there's some kind of expansion? Or acquisition, I don't know, it's just a rumor"

Channon made a face. "I don't know what an expansion is?" Was that stupid? He was pretty sure that was stupid.

"It means maybe a new company division. Which means new jobs, new openings…it means out of help desk into something better, if it works out. Aren't you," and he hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "I mean, I heard you were…dating Jonathan Nash? Is that true?"

"Yeah?" It sounded too much like a question. "I mean, yeah. I'm dating Jack." Or Jack was dating him, or something.

"So…did he say anything about an expansion?"

Channon shrugged again. "He doesn't talk about business. And, you know. It's work stuff, it's boring."

Kenny did not seem to agree. "Don't you want to get out of this shitty position? Or," and he looked uncomfortable again, "I mean, no offense, but I guess it doesn't matter for you. Like…I'm sure they'd make a position for you, if you asked."

It was surprising how much that stung. Channon couldn't help it, he knew he was frowning, and it took an effort to smooth it off his face. "I don't think so. And I wouldn't. Ask."

Kenny dropped the whole thing, but Channon couldn't stop thinking about it later. Everyone was talking about the expansion, or acquisition, or merger, or whatever it was—something was happening anyway, and Channon felt sure he actually did know something about it. Sure, he'd been busy being a coffee table at the time, but he'd heard enough to know that Jack was in the middle of negotiating something, and the revelation that it might be something big wasn't much of a surprise. Channon didn't really understand what Jack did. He was the CEO. He made the decisions, he approved the budgets, he went to endless meetings and didn't really care for them. Channon felt like Jack was a handsome smile in a suit half the time, promoting the business and shaking hands with people he didn't actually like. But what did he really do?

It didn't matter. Channon finished his work and went home, going through his chores, his homework, adding things to the grocery list for the housekeeping service. It was quiet in the condo, quiet and private and still, and the lights of the city came up sparkling like stars as the sunset deepened to dusk. Channon took a cup of hot chocolate out onto the deck, watching the sky change color and the city light up, and it was cold out there but he liked it, the wind sobbing around the sky-rises like a ghost and his nose turning pleasantly chill. When he went in to wash up he found the cold had brushed red into his cheeks, and he wondered if Jack would like that or tell him not to go out in it alone.

Clean and ready, he padded down to the entryway, his collar sitting heavy around his throat. The act of putting it on himself felt strangely ritualistic. There was a Channon before the collar and a Channon after. Both belonged to Jack, of course, but the one before was uncertain of himself, making all kinds of decisions all day long and wondering if Jack would approve. But with the collar on everything solidified into a wonderful certainty. He didn't have to make decisions. Jack made all the decisions, except for when he offered Channon a clear cut choice, and then it was okay because Jack wasn't going to trick him, there was no wrong answer. One might please Jack more than the other but he'd never offer Channon something that might disappoint him.

So, the Channon who knelt down on his cushion in the entryway and propped his phone on the floor beside him was a different one to the Channon who'd wondered if Jack would prefer chicken or beef or something vegetarian for dinner tomorrow night. This Channon knew what he had to do—just be here, at the right time, and wait patiently for Jack to come home.

He closed his eyes and waited, thinking about Thanksgiving, and what Jack had said when Channon had…had begged Jack to make him his slave.

The word was dangerous, weighty. It made Channon feel giddy and untethered, like he might spin off his axis and away from himself, be lost somewhere helpless and alone. Slave. It conflicted in him, this idea of slavery as a wrong thing, that a person could not, should not ever do such a terrible thing to another human being. That it was a deep and awful crime, something that couldn't be forgiven. That was true. He knew that.

And still. The idea of offering himself to Jack, of giving Jack everything he had and letting Jack do whatever he wanted with him, made something open up inside him like a flower budding in sunlight. It was sick and wonderful and shameful. He shouldn't want this, should he? It couldn't be healthy, to want to give someone something so absolute. The rest of it, it was just sex, just a game they played, right? Just fun, exciting, just what Jack liked and Channon was willing to do for him.

But to be his slave.

Channon quivered, thinking about it. Jack's toy. Jack's plaything. Jack's coffee table, or his coat rack, or the thing Jack fucked when Jack wanted something to fuck. To be Jack's and never have to think for himself again, what a blissful, wonderful idea.

And all the things Jack might do to him then. Strip him naked, show him to whoever He liked. Make him suck Him off in front of people, in front of house guests, in the middle of a work meeting, and he wouldn't be able to complain or argue he'd just have to say, Yes, Sir, or Yes, Master, or nothing at all, He might never let him speak again. He might push him down over his desk and take him, just whenever He wanted, or keep him in His office, tied up and slick and ready for Him, and everyone would see him there and know who he belonged to and why and what He did to him whenever He wanted.

Channon gripped his hands into fists, biting down hard on his lip. It sounded…awful. And incredible.

But it was just a fantasy, right? Jack wouldn't really do those things, would he?

And if he did, would Channon get to say no?

The thought of it was overpowering, driving hot spikes of want down his veins. He felt overcome, hot, helpless and needy. Jack could do anything, anything he wanted. Put Channon in a cage, put him in a muzzle, make him eat off the floor and Channon would just have to take it, and it felt, God, it felt so…he didn't know. Good? Terrifying?

He wanted Jack to come home, to find him and make him do, oh, anything to take these terrifying thoughts out of his head and make them real. But he knew, on a fundamental level, that it wasn't about what Channon wanted or needed or liked the sound of, it was what Jack wanted, what Jack ordered. Channon would kneel down for him because Jack wanted him to, not because it made Channon hot to do whatever Jack wanted. That wasn't why he did it. That was why he'd agreed to it in the first place, sure, but now he did it because…

Because Jack told him to. Anything Jack told him to, he'd do.

He opened his eyes. It was dark, now, the privacy glass fogged over and all the lights turned low. Warm, though, because Jack liked the condo at a specific temperature and so it was comfortable. Channon checked his phone. It was fifteen past seven. Jack was late.

Except he wasn't, really. He'd never said he'd be home at seven, only that Channon should be ready for him at seven exactly.

So. Channon waited.

It could, he thought, be another form of ignoring. Like when Jack made Channon kneel down quietly next to him, not talking or acknowledging him in any way except sometimes to stroke his hair, like a dog.

It did feel a lot like that, like Channon was a well-cared-for pet. The kind of beloved dog that got to lie on the couch and sleep on the bed but was still better behaved than most children. Channon tried to be as good for Jack as he could, and if Jack wanted a pet, then a pet was what Jack got. The collar, the crawling on the floor, the way Jack had called him to heel last week. Channon had been looking things up and while puppy play wasn't something that appealed to him specifically, following orders and being rewarded or punished accordingly was certainly something he liked. Maybe Jack would teach him to sit up and beg—wait. Jack had already taught him that. Holy shit, Jack was already training him.

The revelation left him stunned for a moment, but then he couldn't help grinning over it. Of course he was. Jack always did everything for a reason. Of course he was training Channon to be his perfect pet.

Well, then Channon would be his perfect pet, good and obedient for him. He'd fetch Jack's fucking slippers if Jack wanted, bring him the cane in his mouth, crawling on all fours if Jack told him to.

He checked his phone again. It was nearly half-past. Fine. This was a test. He'd wait and Jack would be pleased with him for being patient. He could wait.

But the time dragged and Channon wondered: was Jack all right? What if he'd been in an accident? What if he was in hospital? And who would tell Channon? Cynthia? Mrs Nash? How long would it take for him to find out something like that? How long was long enough to wait to call someone? Or, no, he'd call Jack first, to make sure he was okay, but if Jack answered…what if this was a test and calling Jack meant he'd failed?

The collar felt heavy and reassuring—he didn't have to decide anything. That was the point of this. He had his instructions. Wait for me, Jack had said, so Channon waited. And waited. And waited, and worried, and once he'd opened the floodgates the worries just spilled out of him. What was he doing? Why was he here? What was going to happen with Jack? Jack had said he loved him but…but what if it wasn't true? What if it was just something he'd said, something during sex, just pillow talk or something? What if Jack was exactly as dangerous as he seemed, and didn't care about Channon at all, wanted him only for what Channon was willing to do for him?

Eight o'clock. Ten past. Twenty past and Channon felt like his every muscle was tensed up tight enough to snap. He'd done something wrong, he just knew it. This was a punishment for something he'd done, only he couldn't think what it could have been. What was the last thing he'd said to Jack?

I made you coffee, and it had come out of his mouth just like that, before he'd realized Jack was on the phone. Jack had grinned and ruffled his hair, and taken the cup into his study, still talking, had come back to kiss Channon goodbye, the phone still up against his ear. He'd kissed Channon on the cheek, patted him absently, and walked out.

And that was it. What had he done wrong?

Channon had forgotten to call him Sir. Was that it? But it had been in the morning, and Jack usually didn't care much about it when they weren't playing. It couldn't be that. Could it?

He couldn't think of anything else, was turning over everything he'd done over the weekend that might have been the trigger when he heard the elevator and the door and he snapped his gaze to the floorboards between his hands just in time.

Jack stopped dead in the doorway. "Channon."

He sounded…Channon didn't know. Shocked? Angry? Channon froze, keeping perfectly still though his heart was thundering. Jack was home, Channon had to be good, whatever Jack wanted Channon would do it and do it right and Jack wouldn't be mad at him and—

The sound of Jack's bag sliding to the floor was followed by the door slamming shut, and then Jack was on his knees, his hands cold on Channon's shoulders. "Channon, I'm so sorry."

Sorry? Channon didn't know what to do so he did nothing, waited for Jack to tell him.

"I got caught up on this—And you've been waiting for me all this time."

He got caught up. He was sorry? Channon worked his throat, trying to swallow, but it didn't make any sense. "Sir?"

"I forgot all about you."

Oh. Of course. That was all. Jack had forgotten him.

It hurt, but only in a dull way. Like a bruise when you pressed your thumb into it, something old and ugly but nothing new. It made more sense than anything else, and Channon felt thick and slow for not guessing it for himself. Of course Jack just forgot about him. Jack wasn't cruel. He wouldn't have punished Channon for something as small as not calling him Sir this morning. And he was fine, he was safe. No frightening accident. Just the same old hurt, of being forgotten.

This, at least, he could deal with. He just hadn't ever expected Jack of all people would do it.

"I'm sorry, Channon."

Channon nodded. At least he sounded like he meant it. And Channon was Jack's, after all. Jack could forget about him if he wanted.

But Jack breathed out hard, his hands tightening on Channon's shoulders, and he sounded so concerned when he said, "Channon…this isn't okay."

So he looked up into Jack's eyes, and tried not to flinch. "I'm fine, Sir", he lied. "It's fine."

And if he pretended hard enough, he could make himself believe that it was.

I'm so sorry! They'll get through this, I promise! Just…trust me, okay?

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The series will continue in His Boy Next Door #22: Forgiveness, available December 2017

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Also by the Author

Published as R.J. Moray

Novellas

Finding Elliott

His Boy Next Door (Channon Beaumont) series

Season One

A New Discovery

Breaking In

Bad Decisions

New Toys

Eating In

Staking Claims

Punishment

Submission

Showing Off

Shared Interests

Fears

Choices

Season Two

Members Only

Learning the Ropes

A Good Host

Anonymous

Possession

Out

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving (part II)

Mistakes

Forgiveness AVAILABLE DECEMBER 2017

Published as Robin Moray

Bonded to the Alpha series

Bonded to the Alpha

Loyal

Claimed

Mated

Mallory Witches series

Something Wicked

About the Author

R.J. Moray writes MM BDSM erotica for readers who like their Doms a little more tender, but just as dominant.

For novel-length MM erotic romance, check out the works of Robin Moray, who is exactly the same author in a slightly more elaborate hat.

You can follow the author on twitter @robinmoray or tumblr at robinmoray.tumblr.com, or email Robin via therobinmoray@gmail.com.

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