His Boy Next Door: #8

Submission

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 ©2015 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.

Eighteen-year-old Channon Beaumont is a virgin in every sense of the word, and as vanilla as angel cake. But the moment he lays eyes on the dominant older man next-door, he knows he'll do anything he's ordered just for the chance to be with a man like that.

When he rented the house for the summer, billionaire entrepreneur Jonathan Nash never expected to find such a sweetly obedient youth in his backyard. Channon takes naturally to submission, so Jack decides to train his boy into the perfect submissive, willing to endure anything Jack demands of him and enjoying every second of it.

Channon finds himself sucked deep into a world of dominance and submission, pain and pleasure, and willing service to the only man he's ever wanted to call Sir. And Jack? Just might accidentally fall in love.

Episode #8

Channon doesn't want to disappoint Jack, ever, but he's haunted by the punishment Jack gave him, and can't stop thinking about how it felt to submit so completely. When he goes to Jack for more, will it be more than he can handle? Or will Jack give him exactly what he needs?

This book is episode 8 in an ongoing series, and contains acts of a sexual and kinky nature. Read at your own risk.

Submission

Examining his new marks in the mirror, Channon decided that the first spanking hadn't really counted. Just a bit of fun, really, practically a warm-up. The second, though, morning after prom? That one had been for real, left him sore and marked up like nobody's business.

The marks were stingy and red, like friction rub, all across his butt and halfway down his thighs. They still hurt to touch, a warm achy reminder every time he sat down or leaned against a wall. Or wiped his hands on his jeans, which he supposed he probably shouldn't do in the first place.

Every time he did he remembered. The anticipation. The sound of it. The sting. Knowing it wasn't going to stop until Jack was done.

But Jack had asked him if he did want to stop and Channon...no, he hadn't. Not then. Not until he could be sure Jack had forgiven him. He still blushed thinking about why he'd been paddled. It had all happened so quickly, everything shoving him over the edge before he could protest. He'd felt awful after, like he'd failed Jack, like Jack might not want him anymore.

Except Jack hadn't been angry. If anything he'd seemed pleased to have the opportunity to punish Channon at all. Because Channon tried so hard not to let him down, and Jack...

Channon had got the impression that Jack wanted to punish him, would happily put Channon over his knee every day and swat some obedience into him. But Channon didn't want to be punished. He wanted, more than anything, to please Jack and make Jack proud of him.

Jack seemed pleased enough. Offering to take Channon with him. Offering him a job. His belly clenched at the thought of it—he wanted but it was so serious. A future he'd been trying not to think about, nebulous and frightening. But surely Jack wouldn't offer all that if he wasn't happy with Channon. Right?

And he'd given Channon permission to jerk off, even given him permission to come, as much as he liked this week. Also permission to call whenever he liked, for whatever he liked.

Half past three on a Tuesday, though, meant Jack was at work, so instead of calling him, Channon sent him a text—been thinking about what u said.

Immediately, Jack replied. Good. Sadly, I'm in a meeting. Take care of it for me.

There, that was like double permission. No, that was an order. Channon tugged his boxers down again, eyeing his marks over his shoulder and pressing his fingers against them to make them throb. God, he was half-hard already. If Jack were here...

Well, if Jack were here, in Channon's bedroom in the afternoon, he'd expect Channon to make a show of it. Jack liked to watch. More than that—Channon thought some of what Jack liked was Channon on display, embarrassed by it. Shameful things, only they weren't shameful, not with Jack.

So. Channon slid his boxers down, and stepped out of them. He opened the drawer beside the bed and took out the tube Jack had given him. Then he pulled a pillow down from the bed, laid it on the floor and knelt on it, setting the tube on the rug. If Jack were here, Jack would card his fingers through Channon's hair. Maybe tug on it. Maybe pull his head back. Maybe run firm fingers down his neck to stroke across his shoulders. Channon closed his eyes, pretending he could hear Jack's breath, smell the spicy woody scent of his cologne. What would he say now?

Bend over the bed, Channon.

The covers were cool and smooth beneath his chest. With his eyes closed he could almost imagine himself in Jack's house. Except Jack's beds were higher off the ground—he could never have bent over one on his knees like this. Still.

Look up, Channon.

He twisted to look over his shoulder. He could see himself in the mirror, all his marks visible. He couldn't see everything, though. He spread his legs wider, until he could see his balls between his thighs, his cock pressed up against the edge of the mattress. Himself, exposed and vulnerable between the halves of his ass.

This was what Jack saw. God, he looked so dirty.

Touch yourself.

Channon hesitated, and then he bit his lip. Jack would never let him hesitate, not anymore, not now that he knew better. He reached back, ran a finger experimentally across his asshole. And then he did it again, this time craning his neck to watch. If Jack were watching, would he like it? Would he approve?

He'd probably tell Channon he needed lube. The thought was oddly comforting and ridiculous at once, and Channon grinned to himself, pausing to pop the cap on the tube and squeeze some onto his fingers.

It felt better immediately, easy to press a fingertip inside, easy to push past the first knuckle and slip in the whole length of a finger.

But if it were Jack? You can take another, he'd say, Channon just knew it, so he drew the one out and made it two, wincing against the burn of it. Don't rush, Channon. Take your time.

God, how he wished. The angle was all wrong, he was no good at this, if it were Jack's hand, if Jack pressed up behind him now, if Jack would touch him...

But Jack wouldn't. He knew it. Jack would make some low, deep noise of amusement and say something that would make Channon's pulse race. Look, Channon. Look at yourself. Look at what you're doing for me.

Channon looked. The sight of it, to see his own fingers slick and buried in him to the knuckles, came over him like a fever. His cock throbbed against the covers—he couldn't help grinding against them, rubbing himself off, groaning through his teeth. He could imagine Jack's amusement. Look at you Channon, fingering yourself because I'm not there. You're hungry for it, aren't you? Don't you wish it was me? Don't you wish those were my fingers?

Channon groaned, working his fingers in and out of himself. It felt...it felt good but not good enough, not enough because it wasn't Jack and that's what he wanted, Jack, here with him, in him, taking him exactly the way Jack wanted. He dropped his forehead back down on the mattress, worked his other hand between himself and the now too-warm sheets, curling fingers round his cock and tugging frantically. Even that felt wrong, his own hand too small, skin too thin, palm not broad enough, friction not enough, not the way he wanted.

Come on, Channon. I want to see you come.

But it wasn't about what Channon wanted. It was Jack. It was always about Jack, and if Jack wanted him to then Channon had to. The knowledge sparked something in his gut, kicked off a chain reaction that seared down his nerves, racing through him like wildfire. Suddenly everything was too much, the heat of it choking him, tipping him over the edge and spilling out of him in hot thick throbs, guttural sounds clustering in his throat. He slumped against the bed, fingers sliding slick down his thigh, and tried to catch his breath.

He felt gutted, heavy and limp, but it wasn't quite right. The wonderful lethargy that came over him like a blanket when he was with Jack was missing. He felt...if he was honest he felt unfinished, incomplete. Unsatisfied and twitchy in his skin, and he wished so hard that Jack had really been here to tell him to do.

If Jack was here he would probably tell Channon to get up and wash his hands.

So Channon did, and when he got back he found the light on his phone was blinking.

It was a message from Jack: Are you done?

yes Sir.

A moment later—How was it?

Channon considered this carefully, and eventually he sent back, not as good as with u

I'm not surprised, Jack replied, but I suppose I am flattered. I hope you washed your hands afterwards.

Channon grinned. yes Sir I thought ud want me 2

Good boy, Jack texted, which gave Channon back some of the good feeling and made it almost worth it.

* * *

Somehow, despite the lift on Jack's ban on masturbation, Channon found himself in a state of constant arousal for the rest of the week. It was bad enough that he was half hard all the time, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Jack. In class, over dinner with his mother, stacking the dishwasher—it didn't matter what he was supposed to be doing. Anything could set him off. A glimpse of a pinstriped suit in the distance, the dark hair on the back of his math teacher's hands, his fucking jeans, for God's sake, uncomfortably tight against him. One moment he just be aching in his shorts, and the next he'd be hard as a fucking rod, desperate to touch himself and completely unable to.

When he did, it was somehow worse. It didn't feel right, he wasn't getting what he wanted.

And you know why that is, you just know.

With Jack too busy to see him, Channon spent his time fantasizing Jack's hands on him, Jack's mouth (if he should ever be that lucky again) Jack's tongue teasing into him. What would it be like if Jack would let him do that? Push his tongue in, lick him over like a Popsicle. He found the sex journal Jack given him and tried writing things down but they were never very good. He didn't have the imagination for it, he thought. The images came to him but the words were impossible. It was dull. He was dull. Jack would never want to read it.

He worried Jack would be disappointed in him. But what did he expect? Channon wasn't creative. Channon wasn't much good at anything. How could Jack ask him to do something so beyond him?

But Jack wouldn't. He never did. Jack never asked Channon to do something he couldn't do. Jack was never unfair like that.

So, obviously, Jack thought he could do it, and that meant Channon had to.

There was one thing. Channon kept thinking around it in spirals, circling, drawn slowly and inexorably inward. He didn't know how he felt about it, didn't know how he was supposed to feel. A punishment, Jack had said, but Channon, when he was honest with himself, couldn't think of it that way. The punishment really had been Jack's disapproval. That had been punishment enough, and Channon had accepted what happened after that as only fair.

Being sent to the corner like a naughty boy had been terrible, and Channon had stood there with his hands on the wall feeling thoroughly miserable. The whole time Jack had been in the shower Channon had worried, going over and over his mistake. He'd been too sleepy, he hadn't been paying attention, he hadn't really thought he was awake, half convinced it was a dream. And then there was the shock when he realized he was awake and had broken one of Jack's rules. He'd been hideously ashamed, and it figured that whatever Jack wanted to do to him would be fair, that he would tolerate it and not complain.

But then all Jack wanted was breakfast. The apron had been a surprise, but Channon had found he didn't mind it. He felt Jack looking at him the whole time, had known Jack was staring at his ass, had felt like he was on display for the older man's amusement. Which he supposed he was.

There had been something so satisfying in cooking for Jack, presenting him with a plate of pancakes and coffee. More so, something satisfying in kneeling at his feet, even when Jack fed him from his fingers and made Channon's suck the syrup from them. It had been weirdly...objectifying, Channon supposed the word was. Like Channon was a pet and Jack was fond of him, giving him treats when he was good. He'd liked it, and had to admit when Jack asked him that it didn't really feel like a punishment.

But then they had gone upstairs, and what happened after that...

Channon lay now in bed, thinking about it, fingers teasing lazily over his belly through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. The window was open, the breeze coming through it cool and welcome and sweet-scented. Outside he could hear the clicking of crickets, distant traffic, a dog barking halfheartedly two doors down. Inside the house there was nothing, just silence. It felt private here in the dark, with the covers folded back to let the air play over his skin.

When Jack had paddled him, Channon had thought he couldn't take it. It had been too much, too fast, it hurt, and this time Channon had no excuse because he'd known it would hurt, they had done it before then, after all. He'd quickly regretted not choosing the glove, every sharp slap of the paddle etching itself in his flesh. But then...he couldn't explain it. It had felt so very...very something. Bent over on the bed with his hips in the air, presenting himself for Jack to do whatever he wanted, knees spread wide, thighs open and sore.

His cock twitched just thinking about it, half-hard and swelling insistently in his shorts. Channon bit his lip, pressing his fingers into his belly. He had felt so exposed, on display for Jack, like an object again, a plaything. He'd wanted...he hadn't known what he wanted but he had wanted it fiercely. Jack's hand firm in the small of his back, just above the rise of his ass, holding him firmly in place, putting him exactly where he wanted. And Channon had wished—he slid his fingers down to tease at the edge of his boxers—he'd wished so hard that Jack would just...

He could hear his breath now, heavy in the silence, could feel the weight of his cock straining against his boxers He slid his hand down under the elastic, palmed himself, but nothing more.

What had he wanted? For Jack to put down the paddle? Climb up on the bed? Trail a slick finger down the crack of his ass, smoothing over his hole and pressing firmly inside? Yes, yes that's what he'd wanted, for Jack to fuck him with his fingers until he was soft and slick and ready.

Channon wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself slowly. He felt warm, low down in his gut, this low banked fire that had been smoldering all week now rising up inside him. He coaxed it out slowly, teasing it with his fingers until the smolder rose into a burn.

And then, he thought, once Jack had fingered him open he'd wanted Jack to pick up the paddle again, warm his ass again, until he couldn't take it anymore and he begged Jack to stop. Would Jack have stopped? Yes, if Channon had said it—please, sir, stop.

Suddenly, Channon realized he didn't want that. He didn't want Jack to stop, not because he begged. The realization took him by surprise, cock throbbing heavy and hard in his hand, and he gasped, his breath thick in his throat. What he wanted was to beg, and for Jack to hum low down and rough, and hold him still until he was done.

The thought of that made him giddy, his breath shallow in his chest.

He wanted Jack to finish what he started, use Channon however he liked, while Channon begged him for mercy. And then, when Jack was ready, Channon wanted him to brace his hands on Channon's hips and hold him still, press his cock against Channon's hole and fuck right into him, just hammer him into the mattress.

The image burned into his brain, and his hips jerked up against his fist, fucking the tight circle of his fingers. He wanted...fuck, he needed...if Jack would just, just take him like that, right in the middle of it while his ass still burned from the paddle, holy shit—

The overwhelming rush overtook him like an avalanche, thrumming under his skin and shattering him to pieces. He came so hard his climax left him blinded, ruined, sticky gouts of come spattering his belly, his chest, the pillow beside his head.

Panting, he stared up at the dark ceiling, not seeing a thing. Fuck. That was. Wow.

Because he knew now what he wanted. And he definitely didn't want it to be a punishment.

* * *

"Hi, Channon."

Jack sounded warm, welcoming, and the sound of his voice put Channon instantly at ease. It was lunchtime, a school-day, and Channon had taken his sandwich and soda out the bleachers, hoping for a moment of Jack's time, but not really having anything to say.

"Sir," he said, leaning back on the bench behind him. It was warm out, suggesting a hot summer, but for now the sun felt good, healthy. He remembered how warm it had been the day he'd met Jack, that first day, and he wondered if summer would always feel like Jack, always end up reminding him of this. Fine, he decided. He wanted to remember this, always.

"How are you?"

"Good, sir. Um, thank-you. For asking. How are you?" Channon asked, feeling a bit silly about the small talk.

Jack chuckled, apparently amused. "So polite today, Channon. I'm well. How's school?"

"It's okay?" Channon never knew how to explain about school. At this time of year it was mostly boring and mostly over. Channon's teachers didn't expect much of him—his parents had never expected much of him, for that matter. The only person who seemed to care how Channon did in school was Jack, and Jack knew he wasn't going to college so Channon didn't know why.

"Have you seen your friends today?" Jack asked, actually sounding as if he was interested in the answer.

"Uh, I had math with Ben."

"And Kim?" Jack sounded like he was smiling.

"We're not in any classes together," Channon admitted.

"What about your other friends?"

Channon made a face. "I don't really have other friends."

"Really? I'd have thought a handsome, athletic young man like you would have tons of friends," he said smoothly.

"Not, like, close," Channon admitted sheepishly. There was the team, of course. Channon had never really felt like he fitted in, not with them, not really with anyone. It wasn't like he was ignored or anything, and no-one picked on him. He'd always been too big, too inoffensive, and good enough at sports to avoid that sort of thing. People talked to him, of course, but they were just acquaintances, not really friends.

"Does that bother you?"

Channon shook his head, even though Jack couldn't see it. "No, sir."

"Well, that's good." Jack paused, and then—"So what are you doing right now?"

"Sitting on the bleachers," Channon said, wondering if this was going somewhere. "And you, sir?"

"I am in a temporary office with a view of a very boring brick wall, waiting for an email back from the dev team hopefully to tell me all my problems have been solved." He sounded amused. "I'm not holding out too much hope for that, however."

Channon didn't have anything to say to this. He didn't really know what Jack did, to be honest. It seemed like Jack owned a lot of companies, but he also seemed to program things, or at least he did things with software Channon didn't understand. Channon was sure it was all very important, probably too complicated for him to make head or tail of, but he was curious all the same.

"You've gone quiet, Channon," Jack prompted.

Channon sat up straight. "I guess...I don't really know what you do. Sir," he added for good measure.

"Oh? Well, I can tell you about it sometime, if you're interested." There was a sound in the background of a door opening, and Jack's tone changed instantly, now briskly efficient. "We'll have to leave it there for now," he said. "But I've enjoyed our chat. Don't hesitate to call me again."

"Okay, sir."

"Goodbye, Channon."

Channon felt his face curve into a smile. "Bye, sir."

* * *

The thing with Jack was...the thing with Jack was that Channon just wanted him, however he could get him. It didn't really matter how, and if Jack had wanted to do this like, well, like normal people, then Channon probably would've loved that too. But it was clear by now how Jack wanted him, and Channon was more than okay with that. Actually, he was kind of worried how much he liked it.

The memory of Jack's hands on him—holding him down, stroking him, comforting him while he shook and sobbed—and the even smoothness of his voice, at odds with the hard slap of the paddle, seemed fixed in Channon's head. He couldn't get rid of it, couldn't stop thinking about, wishing he could do that again, that Jack would do that to him.

The trouble was that it had been a punishment. If Channon wanted it again, then wouldn't he have to do something wrong? Misbehave in some way, make Jack disappointed again. And Channon didn't want that, that sounded terrible. He didn't want to stand in the corner, and he didn't want to hear Jack sound so cold, so stern and distant, disapproving.

So the problem was, really, how he was going to get what he did want.

If he misbehaved and made Jack angry with him, Jack might call the whole thing off. The thought of that made his gut clench, cold and hard. No, he definitely wasn't going to do that.

But how to get to do it again, without losing Jack's approval?

Channon thought about it all day and late into the night, idly stroking himself under the covers. He didn't even feel like coming. He was too wrung out for that, too wired. His stupidly needy cock still bobbed up under his hand, eager for attention, but he just petted at himself, not going anywhere.

First of all, he needed Jack to know what he wanted. The thought of saying it straight to Jack's face was terrifying. How could he start? Sir, will you please spank me? I haven't been bad, but I think I need it anyway. Please, sir, I'll do anything...

No. For one thing, Jack probably wouldn't do it. For another, it felt wrong somehow. Channon had been reading—all kinds of forums and things like that. Well, one kind of forum in particular, but a lot of them. People like Jack didn't always like it when people like Channon asked for things. Not, like, bargaining for them. On the other hand, Jack was pretty lenient with things they hadn't talked about yet. He hadn't told Channon not to ask things. Maybe he'd let it go, the first time.

But still, approaching him like that was something Channon didn't think he could do.

He could, though, write it down in his journal.

Suddenly wide awake, Channon sat up, flicked on the lamp, and yanked open the drawer next to his bed, rummaging under the decoy stack of French notes to find his journal and a pen. He unlocked the book, opened it up on his knees, and stared at the page, feeling hot and shivery, like he had a fever. Go on, Channon, he told himself, though the voice sounded more like Jack's than his own. You can do it.

Fine.

It was supposed to be a punishment, he wrote carefully. I don't know if it worked. It hurt, but I liked it too much. He hesitated, wondering if he should be specific. Yes, he should definitely be specific. So much, when he spanked me.

The words looked strange on the page, pornographic and dangerous. This was why there was a lock on the book, Channon knew that. And this was exactly the kind of thing Jack probably wanted to see. He caught his lip between his teeth, and tried hard to be honest.

I can't believe how much I liked it. I shouldn't, probably. I got so hard I thought I'd die. God, I want him to do it again. I couldn't stop thinking about him fucking me.

Channon's breath came short and shallow now, his breath thundering in his ears, or maybe that was the rush of his pulse. He felt flushed, heat blooming in his face, down his neck, hot on his chest. He felt it all the way to his crotch, where his cock throbbed against the sheets, now hard as anything. He shifted, and the slide of his aching dick against smooth cotton made his breath hitch. Fuck. Fuck.

I want him to fuck me again, he wrote, breath coming in short sharp huffs. He rubbed a hand absently across his chest and, oh, his nipples. They were like tiny bullets, and sensitive as anything. He caught one between his thumb and forefinger, squeezed it hard, and had to bite down on a reckless moan. I don't want to be bad but I want him to do it to me, spank me and fuck me while I'm still sore.

He closed his eyes, holding the journal still and trying not to jerk his hips up and rut against the cover. He felt crazy, this really was crazy, wasn't it? To be this turned on by the idea of something like this?

But he couldn't deny that he was. And he'd left out something important, something vital.

He bit his lip, and wrote, Not a punishment.

There. There, now he could...he could show Jack and Jack would know what to do with it. Maybe he'd let Channon have it. Maybe he completely wouldn't. Maybe he'd tease Channon endlessly, make him beg, make him work for it. But the sheer relief of having written it down, letting it out somewhere even if it made the whole thing real, was staggering. He felt giddy, exhausted, and still so wired, so hard. God, the images in his head. Jack. Everything.

It was all too much. He yanked the sheet back, dropping the pen somewhere in the covers, and fisted a hand around his cock, jerking frantically. No more idle stroking, now he was like a firecracker ready to pop, and it only took a few ragged strokes before he burst, splashing hot come all over his belly, teeth clenched in his lip to keep in his moans.

He made himself breathe, dazed and hopeless. This was going to be the death of him, he felt sure.

When he'd calmed down and cleaned himself up a little, Channon read over what he'd written. It seemed incomplete, not enough. Something was missing but he didn't know what. But then—

He found the pen. Sir, I can't stop thinking about it, he wrote, careful, hand steady.

There. Now whatever happened next was up to Jack. The way it should be.

* * *

The journal felt too big in his hand, heavier than it should, bulkier than it should. Channon hesitated for half a minute outside the back door of Jack's house, palm flat on the glass, trying to muster some courage.

It was going to be fine. He'd show Jack and Jack wouldn't laugh at him or make fun of him. He might tease a bit, but Channon knew Jack would never mock him, not for real. He trusted Jack. Maybe that was stupid, but it was true.

When he took his hand back from the glass he saw he'd left a large smudgy hand-print behind. Awkwardly, he bunched up some of his t-shirt to wipe it away, not wanting to be a nuisance. Then he took a breath, and slid open the door.

"Sir?" he called out.

"In the study, Channon!"

Channon took off his shoes and went in, past the kitchen to the stairs. He went up, almost going straight to the study before he checked himself. This is the last time you come upstairs and don't immediately go to your room and undress, unless I order you otherwise, Jack had said, and Channon blushed to think of what he'd almost done.

And here he was, wanting to be good.

He went to the spare room—his room—and put down the journal on the bed. He stripped quickly, folding his clothes and putting them in the drawer set aside for him. His drawer. Jack had made space for him in his house. Sometimes he thought about that and it stunned him.

The act of stripping off his clothes made him more confident, somehow. At least it seemed normal, part of the way things were, the way they should be. The way he wanted to keep them.

The red circular cushion Jack always gave him to kneel on was sitting on the end of the bed, bright against the dark covers. Channon stared at it for a moment. Then he picked it up, the journal too, and went to find Jack in his study.

Jack was just as well put together as usual, his jeans perfectly fitted, khaki t-shirt pulling attractively across his shoulders, dark hair just so. He didn't look up at once, and Channon didn't mind that, just came over, placed the cushion at Jack's feet and knelt on it as neatly as he could. He set the journal down on the carpet and waited.

Jack's fingers settled in Channon's hair, stroking him gently. It felt so good that Channon leaned up against Jack's knee, resting there peacefully. Jack stroked his scalp and Channon sighed under it, content just to rest.

Jack's feet were bare. He had long lovely brown toes dusted with hair. Channon wondered if Jack would like it if Channon rubbed his feet, smoothing massage oil or lotion into his skin. He wondered if Jack was ticklish. He decided probably not, but if Jack was then Channon would have to be careful not to tickle him. He imagined smoothing lotion up over Jack's ankles, over his calves, his thick powerful thighs. Or, if it was oil, oiling him from toes to shoulders, running his fingers over every inch of heavy muscle as it glistened.

He'd like that. He hoped Jack would like that. He wanted to do so much for Jack, so many things he couldn't even imagine. But Jack would know, and when he put them into words Channon would try his best to do them perfectly.

The hand in Channon's hair tightened up, gripping him firmly. "The sun's still up," Jack said mildly. "You don't seem upset about the open blinds, though."

Channon closed his eyes. "The window's tinted, sir. I checked. No-one can see in." A relief really, given Jack's penchant for exhibitionism. All the same, Channon felt exposed before the great glass wall. Knowing didn't change that.

"I thought you didn't mind if anyone saw."

Jack didn't sound angry, or annoyed, just amused. Channon sighed, content. "If you want, sir, for whoever you want."

Jack shifted in his chair. Channon didn't look up, didn't respond, just stayed where he was under the weight of Jack's palm, Jack's thigh warm beneath his cheek.

Then—"I didn't tell you to bring your journal."

He didn't sound annoyed about it, just entertained and curious if anything, but Channon couldn't help the shudder that ran through him. This was it. This was the moment where he'd find out what Jack thought. The anticipation was powerful, and Channon found he couldn't look up, so he kept his eyes fixed on Jack's ankle.

"I wanted to show you. Is that okay, sir?"

"Absolutely." The hand disappeared from Channon's hair, and Channon glanced up to see Jack extend it, palm up, fingers beckoning. "Give it to me."

The directness of the order gave Channon back some courage, so he did immediately as Jack said, cradling the book in his palms and offering it up. Jack took it and propped it open on the desk, his hand returning to Channon's hair to stroke it gently. Channon took it for reassurance, and it was reassuring, helping him breathe and get his heart under control. All the same it was nerve-racking, Jack reading the journal while Channon knelt there on the floor not knowing what to expect. Jack flipped through the pages slowly. Channon knew there wasn't much in there, and the only really interesting entry was the last one. He closed his eyes again, leaning his cheek against Jack's thigh and breathing as evenly as he could. It was quiet, still, sunlight warm on him through the glass. Time stretched out into an age and he wondered if Jack was upset with him, angry with him, if he would just ignore the book, pretend none of this had ever happened. But—

"You know," Jack said softly, "I shouldn't let you manipulate me. I don't want you to fall into bad habits." Channon shivered, not sure where this was going, but Jack's fingers were gentle in his hair so he tried to stay still and calm. "But I am pleased with you, for writing in your journal, and for being brave enough to show me. So I'll indulge you, this time. And," he added, voice gone low and warm, "I really do want to fuck you, exactly like that."

The words shot through him like lightning, followed by a wash of relief that let him breathe again. He turned his face against Jack's thigh, nuzzling into him, so grateful he couldn't help his groan. "Sir. Thank you."

He felt giddy with relief, overwhelmed by it, energized by the knowledge that Jack was going to give him exactly what he wanted, that Jack wanted it too—Jack must, it wasn't as though he would do it just because Channon did.

"Give me your hand, Channon," Jack said

He held out his hand, palm up, and Channon took it, leaning on Jack's strength as Jack pulled them both to their feet. He left the journal behind, herding Channon to the spare room, to Channon's room and Channon felt his breath shorten again because they were going to do this, right now.

Jack pushed him towards the drawers where the toys were kept. "Hands on the chest," he said. Channon did so. "Brace yourself," Jack added, and Channon sunk down, palms flat on the wood, forearms braced. "Feet a little wider."

The exposed feeling was back, Channon only too well aware of how he must look bent over the chest of drawers with his ass in the air, thighs wide and inviting. He knew too that the marks he'd had were almost gone, barely noticeable at all, and he wondered if that was better or worse for Jack, if Jack wanted to see the results of his handiwork and add to them, or if Channon was now a blank canvas for him to do whatever he wanted.

Channon couldn't be sure if it was the feeling of exposure, the sense of display, or simply anticipation for what was to come that was so arousing, intoxicatingly so, his cock already thickening against his thigh. Almost as if he could read Channon's thoughts, Jack had a hand between Channon's thighs, stroking over his balls, fingers teasing his foreskin back. Channon bit his lip, held still, let Jack have his way in everything because he was Jack's, and Jack could do as he liked.

Jack opened a drawer he hadn't opened before and Channon couldn't help staring at the array of things inside. He wasn't entirely sure what all of them were, but he was convinced that they were all intended to inflict some kind of sensation on him. Some looked painful. Some were downright terrifying. And others...others sparked a kind of interest in his gut that he couldn't deny made him shiver.

"I let you choose last time," Jack said. "What would you choose this time, if I let you again?"

For a moment Channon's mind was completely blank. He didn't know what half those things were, if they were better or worse than the paddle, and he had no idea how to choose. There was something in Jack's tone that suggested that this was another test. So, maybe Channon was considering the wrong question.

He licked his lip, thinking. What did Jack really want? Channon figured that what Jack wanted was his obedience, and to be in control, and in that case..."Whatever you wanted, sir. You know best."

"I do." Channon could hear the smile in Jack's voice and knew he'd chosen correctly. "I'll always do what's best for you. I promise." And he pressed a kiss to the bare skin of Channon's shoulder.

"Thank-you, sir," Channon said, trying not to vibrate out of his skin.

Jack chose the paddle again, in the end, hefting it in his palm. "I think this will do for now," he said, sounding husky. He closed the drawer quietly, set the paddle down on top of the drawers, and moved away, coming back with the familiar pump bottle of lube, which he set beside the paddle. Channon heard the rustle of cloth that meant Jack was taking off his t-shirt, heard the clink of his belt as his jeans went too, and he didn't look back but he imagined Jack standing behind him, maybe naked now, maybe hard, maybe soft but heavy as he looked Channon over, and the idea made Channon want to, oh, show off for him, but he didn't, he stayed still, waited patiently as Jack kicked his jeans away.

"Now," he said, smoothing a hand over Channon's ass, and with that his tone shifted to something firmer. "I want you to tell me what you'll say if you need to stop, so I know you remember."

"Red," Channon said promptly.

"Or?"

"Please, sir, stop," Channon answered, though...he still wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"And if you need to slow down? Back off a little?" He was still stroking Channon's back, fingers warm on his skin.

Channon hesitated, but then—"Yellow, sir."

"Good. Then let's begin."

This time Channon was almost prepared for it, trying to stay relaxed but braced still for the impact of the paddle on his flesh. It didn't quite take him by surprise. It still stung, light compared to what he knew was coming, but sharp enough to make him draw breath in a sharp gasp. Jack followed up quickly, not giving Channon time to get used to it. He focused mainly on the cheeks of Channon's ass, laying a few strokes down his thighs but returning over and over to the plump meaty cushion of it. It didn't take long before Channon was breathing hard, well aware this was just a warm-up but thinking, I can take this, I can take anything he gives me, I'll make him proud.

The next sharp whack knocked the breath out of him and Channon became acutely aware that this position, bent over as he was, hurt good deal more than it had when he'd been stretched out on the bed. Then Jack tapped him right in the center, and the shock of it spread out, rippling through everything sensitive down there and making it all feel so much more. His cock was completely hard now, bobbing helplessly at his crotch with every strike, and he wondered how he looked, if Jack liked this, if Jack was holding back.

God, he hoped not, as the pattern of strikes grew sharper, harder, came faster and landed more heavily over already abused flesh. Channon could hear himself making small weak noises in his throat, but he couldn't help it and, anyway, he thought Jack might like that, might prefer to hear the effect he was having. So Channon let them out, let them spill over his tongue, wet and breathy and helpless, until it became impossible to imagine he could ever get them to stay in.

He didn't know why Jack stopped, all he knew was that the strikes eased off, followed by the clatter of the paddle on top of the drawers, and then fingers smoothing over the marks on his ass and thighs, and Jack saying, "Channon? All right?"

Channon nodded. "Yes, sir," he managed, his throat thick.

"Good," Jack said. He ran his fingers down behind Channon's balls, stroking over them tenderly. "You look so good like this, Channon. I could eat you."

Channon shuddered. "Sir," he said, not sure how to respond or if he even should.

One of Jack's thumbs ran up to tease over Channon's hole, and Channon jerked, taken by surprise. He was punished with a sharp slap to his fresh marks, sharp enough to make him startle.

"Hold still," Jack said firmly, and then, as if he wanted nothing more than to make sure Channon couldn't, he blew across the marks, his breath teasing Channon's entrance, his taint, his balls. Channon screwed his face up tight, desperately trying to keep still. Jack must have been satisfied with that, because there was no follow-up slap of punishment. There was instead the familiar sound of the pump bottle, and then the slick pressure of fingers between his ass cheeks.

Jack was gentle with him, caressing him, running his hand down to massage Channon's balls and then back up to tease around his rim. Channon just tried to keep still, though it was hard when Jack's fingers slipped inside, first one and then the other, exploring him and opening him up like a gift. Channon let his brow rest on his arm, and there, that was three fingers he was pretty sure, and it burned but not so much compared to the burn of his cheeks and his thighs. And, anyway, when Jack curled his fingers it shot sparks of warmth up Channon's spine, and he didn't have it in him to care.

The burn faded, and then it was just Jack's fingers, slowly massaging him, and Channon wanted more than that. Instinctively he pressed back, and it wasn't until he heard Jack's low dark chuckle that he realized what he'd done.

"I told you to hold still," Jack said, somewhere between amusement and something dangerous. "Are you being disobedient, Channon?"

"No, sir," Channon said breathlessly, and the fingers inside pressed threateningly on him, making him gasp in protest.

"Are you lying to me, Channon?" Jack demanded, now with an edge to his voice, and Channon scrambled mentally to get out of the trap he'd made for himself.

He couldn't think. And there was no point in trying to be clever. "No, sir. I'm sorry, sir, I can't help it."

"You just want me to fuck you, is that it?" The fingers slid out of him and thrust back in hard and fast. Channon made a guttural noise, and tried not shove himself back onto them. "Just want me to fuck you a bit, Channon? Like this?" He did it again, fucking Channon with his fingers and twisting them as he went until Channon was panting, unable to speak, too dizzy for words. And then, suddenly, he stopped, drawing his fingers out until the tips of them barely breached Channon's flesh. "Well?" He demanded, and Channon had to force himself to focus and remember the question.

"I, I," he stammered stupidly. "Yes, sir. Yes, yes, please, sir," but Jack just made a low noise in his throat, running his fingers teasingly around Channon's rim.

"You're going to have to wait," Jack said, and his tone was not exactly sarcastic, but there was something in it that suggested Channon might be waiting a long time. Then he took his fingers back completely and stepped away. "And keep very still."

Channon nodded. "Yes, sir." He held still, trying to be obedient, to be whatever Jack wanted.

In the interests of obedience, Channon didn't lift his head, but he did hear Jack pick up the paddle again, and he felt the smooth flat of it brush over one sore buttock and then the other. So. They were going again. In retrospect Channon felt he should have expected it, but he'd been so caught up in the moment that he'd really thought Jack might just—

The paddle came down, and Channon had nothing left in him to think about anything but that.

It made him feel so...immediate. It was as though nothing outside of this moment mattered, only the strike leather on his flesh, the sweep and snap it, the wood of the dresser beneath his hands, the sound of his breath hitching and swelling and sobbing in his ears. The soft murmur of Jack's praise—now, "Good boy," and, "You're taking it so well," and, "A little more,"— layering over him like a blanket, and though his face was wet, his flesh on fire, even though he burned and drowned by turns he didn't want it to stop, didn't want to be so frail as to break under this. He would, though, he knew it, he couldn't take much more, he was so hard, so hot, he couldn't bear it, and he didn't want to say anything, didn't want to beg Jack to stop, because Jack would stop and it would be over.

And then somehow it was, and there were hands on him, stroking him, gripping him above his bruises, pressing more bruises into his hips, the pressure of something large and slick against him and—God—it was Jack, pushing into him, slow and inexorable, and he cried out. "Sir!"

Jack made a low sound, and Channon felt himself come open, speared on Jack's cock as Jack spread him wide. He cried out, no words this time, just a pure sound straight from his throat, and Jack growled, rocking into him with this heavy persistence that Channon had wanted, still wanted, wanted now like oxygen. Jack fucked into him in short, steady thrusts, and Channon wanted it so much he could barely breathe. He felt so awfully open, so taken, and Jack, Jack, Jack, hot and thick and inside him again, exactly where Channon needed him. It hurt. It felt so good. Channon let himself go limp and loose against the dresser, hands clenching and unclenching uselessly as Jack fucked him, the thick weight of him carrying Channon up to a place he didn't understand but wanted, and all the while he could hear Jack's deep, thundering breath like a storm gathering overhead.

God, he wanted this. He needed this. Right now he was useful, wanted, and just this thing that Jack fucked, that gave Jack pleasure, and that thought lit every nerve he had, until he felt incandescent with it.

"Channon," Jack said, his voice tight, his grip on Channon's hips tight, buried deep in the tightness of Channon's self, and Channon gasped, high and helpless.

"Please, sir!"

Jack groaned, sinking into him until the heat of him ran down Channon's spine, a hot insistent burn that felt like it could consume him whole, and he would be so, so happy.

"God, you feel so good," Jack told him, pulling out only to shove back in, and now his tempo sped, fast heavy thrusts that hit Channon deep down, each of them pushing him closer and closer to something that seemed, now, almost attainable.

Jack caught one arm beneath Channon's chest, pulling him up until his back was flush against Jack's own, pulling Channon up on his toes and still, still fucking into him. His other hand wrapped around Channon's cock, stroking him insistently, and Channon heard himself make a sound he'd never even heard before, something high and desperate, and then, "Sir! Sir, fuck, I can't, I'm going to—"

"Come on, Channon, come on, fuck, do it, that's an order—" And Channon couldn't disobey, so he broke, into a thousand million pieces, all of them pouring over Jack's fingers and leaving Channon wrecked on his shore.

Jack made a deep noise, holding Channon hard against him as he buried himself thick and hot in Channon's body, and then he shook, sinking his teeth into the meat of Channon's shoulder and just holding on.

The throb of it was endless. Until it ended. And then Jack breathed out, loosening his grip, and Channon sank boneless onto his chest, head lolling on Jack's shoulder, wrung out and empty. Ruined. Nothing but a shell, now, in Jack's arms.

It took him a while to come down, and even when he did he wasn't sure he really had. Jack eased him down, slid out of him, pulled Channon around to hug him up against his chest, and Channon let him because he couldn't fight it even if he wanted to. His limbs had gone to molten honey, everything in him limp and liquid, and he couldn't stop shaking. Jack kissed his face, kissed his mouth, coaxed him up onto the bed, held him there while Channon shook and shook, and he couldn't stop, just quivered, and couldn't even hold on when Jack pulled him up to bury his face in Channon's shoulder.

"It's all right," Jack was saying, hands stroking smooth and gentle down his spine. "You're all right. I've got you."

"Sir," Channon gasped, unable to say anything more complicated than that. He wound his hands up around Jack's neck, clinging to him and too wrecked to do anything else. "Sir, sir."

"I'm here." Jack kissed his neck, his cheek, high up beneath his eyes where the skin was wet, and Channon couldn't tell him how much he appreciated it, not now, not when he was like this. It felt so good, like Jack really cared for him, like Channon was worth caring about. "All right, Channon?"

"Uh-huh." It was the best Channon could do, but Jack seemed okay with that, and then he had Channon bundled up in the coverlet, was pulling him up to the head of the bed and laying them both down, Jack curled protectively around him and not letting go.

Channon didn't want him to ever let go, but he felt...he should do something. Shouldn't he?

"No," Jack said, pressing his mouth to Channon's brow. "You've done everything you need to. Just lie still for me. All right?"

Channon nodded, or at least he tried to. "Yes, sir," he said, or tried to. He wasn't sure what came out, actually, and Jack was kissing him again, just gentle presses of his mouth against whatever part of Channon he could reach, and Channon wallowed in it, luxuriating in the feel of Jack's arms, Jack's firm chest, Jack's strong hands, Jack's mouth.

It took forever, but things melted away, ebbing like the tide, until he found himself nestled in Jack's arms, and Jack still pressing slow kisses into his hair.

Suddenly, he felt ridiculous. "Sir," he said, pulling away, but Jack wouldn't let him, just held him close and sighed against his hairline. Channon didn't know how to feel. Everything was so..."Sir," he said again, hearing the sharp pitch up of it and hating himself for how weak it sounded. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Jack eased him onto his back, leaning over him to look Channon in the eye, and there was nothing bad there in his face, nothing that said Channon was a disappointment, nothing that might reject him.

"I...I don't know." I'm a mess, he thought, and Jack shouldn't be so kind to him when he was, himself, so awful.

"There's nothing, Channon, for you to apologize to me about. You were wonderful. You're still wonderful. God, how I...I'm so proud of you."

It never failed. Channon felt warm, welcome, cared for, and glad that Jack thought...because if Jack was proud of him then nothing, nothing else mattered.

"You were very good, and I'm so pleased with you. What could you possibly be sorry for?"

"I don't know," Channon wailed, and he bit down on the rest of it, because he did feel good, didn't he? He just—"I don't deserve this." Once he'd said it he knew it was true. "I don't, sir, I...don't know what I ever did to make you think I might."

Jack just looked at him for a long moment, and then his expression softened. "Channon," he said, and then, with that sweet soft expression, he stroked Channon's hair so tenderly. "Channon. You did everything. And nothing. This is who you are. Do you understand?" Channon couldn't say anything, and maybe that was why Jack bent down to kiss him, his mouth soft but his day-old-stubble rough and real on Channon's skin. "This is who I am. This is us. Will you let me give this to you? And take this from you, too?"

Channon nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Jack kissed him properly then, tongue running over Channon's lip, not pushing in but just tasting him, gentle, as though Channon was something precious and not to be ruined. Channon opened up for it, so grateful for everything, and Jack kissed him so deep it made his head swim.

"I'm keeping you," Jack said, way down low where he always said such incredible, impossible things, and Channon always believed him. "For me. Mine. I'm never letting you go without a fight. Do you understand?"

And for once Channon heard something else in it, something that said Jack might need him as much as Channon needed him, and the swell of his chest threatened to overwhelm him.

"Yeah," he said, touching Jack's face with his fingers, and Jack's eyes closed, just for a moment, before fluttering open again, gorgeously hazel. "I think .. yes, sir."

"Do you want to be mine?" And there it was again, that same question, and Channon knew his answer, felt it down to his bones.

"Fuck, yes. Sir."

Jack smiled. He kissed Channon's cheek then, before sitting up on the edge of the bed and running a possessive hand down Channon's chest to nestle against his belly. "Let me take care of you."

Channon nodded, full of an emotion he didn't want to name, not now. "Okay, sir."

Jack's smile broadened until it crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Good," he said, "That's good," and Channon couldn't possibly disagree with that.

Continued in His Boy Next Door: #9 Showing Off

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Also by the Author

Published as R.J. Moray

His Boy Next Door (Channon Beaumont) series

Season One

Volume One (1-3)

A New Discovery

Breaking In

Bad Decisions

Volume Two (4-6)

New Toys

Eating In

Staking Claims

Volume Three (7-9)

Punishment

Submission

Showing Off

Volume Four (10-12)

Shared Interests

Fears

Choices

Season Two

Members Only

Published as Robin Moray

Bonded to the Alpha series

Bonded to the Alpha

Loyal

Claimed

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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