His Boy Next Door #20

Thanksgiving (part II)

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.

Jack's plan is to make up for all the Thanksgivings Channon has missed, but part of him knows this is a test. Of what, he isn't sure. Then Channon's wild offer gives him reason to rethink the boundaries of their relationship, and when Channon makes it clear how willing he is to serve, Jack can't say no.

This book is episode 20 in an ongoing series, and contains scenes of an adult nature. Read at your own discretion.

Thanksgiving (part II)

For Jack, coming home was always something of a trial. On the one hand, he got on with his sisters, his parents, the neighbors he'd known since he was in middle school. On the other, he was still Jonathan Nash, and the town knew it. He had this habit of sinking money into things just to make people leave him alone, which only made them ask for more. They treated him like a mythical figure, someone who came dispensing boons like a fairy godfather—one of the local shock jocks had even called him that on air. It had been meant as an insult. Jack's lawyers had suggested suing the station but Jack had got it printed on a t-shirt instead and worn it to a church fete. There'd been a photo of it in the local paper. Good times.

So everyone in Coleridge recognized him on sight, and no-one was shy about approaching him to drop pointed hints about things they wanted from him.

Normally this wouldn't have bothered him much, but this time, with Channon glancing wild-eyed about him as they left the airport, Jack felt it as an encroachment.

Still, at least the first one was old Mrs Murray, from the Rotarians club. "Jon!" she said as soon as she saw him. "How are you? You look very handsome. Is that coat cashmere?"

It was, but Jack knew better than to try and respond before she was ready to let him. Mrs Murray was functionally deaf, in as much as she never bothered to listen until she wanted to. He let her natter on until she got to, "and we hoped you'd make a contribution."

"I'd be delighted," he told her, handing her a card with Cynthia's number on it. "My assistant can set it up for you."

She glanced down at the card, and then up at Channon, who'd been engrossed in a display of souvenirs—Coleridge Crabs memorabilia and crab shaped egg-rings, and so on. She squinted at him, obviously confused. "Is that him? Your assistant?"

"No," Jack said, beckoning Channon over. He came trotting up at once, wearing his best polite smile. Jack couldn't help grinning. He'd taught Channon that smile. "Mrs Murray, this is Channon. My boyfriend," he added, wincing internally over the term but knowing how Channon liked it. "Mrs Murray is a highly respected member of the community."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Channon said, holding out his hand. Mrs Murray seemed vaguely surprised, but then she took it, holding on rather longer than necessary.

"Goodness!" She said, blinking at him from behind her glasses. "A boyfriend! Do young people still do that?"

Jack had to suppress a smirk. "I don't know. Do we?"

Channon looked confused, and a little trapped by the pressure of her hands—she had both of them wrapped around his fingers now, and he wasn't getting free easily. Jack extricated him with a bit of polite nonsense conversation, and drew him away as quickly as he could.

"Generally," he murmured in Channon's ear, "it's best not to shake hands with little old ladies."

"Oh! Did I do that wrong?" Channon bit his lip, glancing back over his shoulder.

"No, you were delightful," Jack told him, because he was, always, and he needed to know that. It made Channon blush, and Jack loved it when Channon blushed. It stained his cheeks so red, spilling hot down his neck and over his ears. Jack wanted very badly to kiss him, so he kissed him, quickly, on the cheek, just to see him smile.

Of course that was how Chris found them. "Jackie!" Jack found himself suddenly enveloped from behind. "Hey!"

Jack saw Channon's eyes go wide, and wondered if this was undignified. He supposed it was, but inevitable. So. He untangled himself enough to twist around and tug his older brother into a hug. "It's good to see you."

"Yeah, yeah, miss you too, buddy." Chris held him at arm's length for a moment, grinning wildly. There was more grey in his hair this year, a startling smatter of it. Getting into silver fox territory, Jack thought, and welcoming the idea because if Chris could pull it off then maybe he could too. "Huh. Mom's going to tell you to shave your sloppy face."

Jack shrugged. "Mom can tell me, but that doesn't mean I'm going to actually do it." He was sharply aware of Channon watching all this, eyes flickering nervously between them. "Chris. I told you about Channon, didn't I?"

Of course he had. Chris turned to give Channon a very obvious once-over. Then he stuck out his hand. "Christopher Nash."

"Uh, Channon Beaumont," Channon said, making eye-contact and holding it, the way Jack had taught him. It was a good shake, firm and short, to the point. Jack felt bizarrely pleased. "Pleased to meet you."

"No, no, it's an honor to meet you," Chris said, a little obnoxious. At least it was Jack he was mocking, not Channon. "We never get to meet Jack's boyfriends. You're a V.I.P."

Jack let out a breath, knowing it was going to be like this all day. "Shouldn't we get going? We've got a game to catch."

"Of course." Chris swept a terrible bow. "Right this way."

In the car, Chris kept up a running commentary on the neighborhood and extended family all the way to their parents' house—Tamara was getting married and Zelda was going out of her mind, meanwhile Frank and Helen were having another kid, as if they didn't have enough problems already. Luke finally sold his place and had bought a farm, good luck to him. Brayden was starting middle school, which was tough because of the whole skipping-a-grade thing, and Theresa had got into some video game to the point where she'd build some kind of calculator in it and couldn't wait to show her Uncle Jack.

"In Minecraft?" Channon asked from the backseat.

"That's the one. You know about Minecraft?"

"Um, yeah. I…never built a calculator in it."

Jack twisted around to look at him. "What did you build?" He'd never pictured Channon as a Minecrafter.

Channon shrugged. "Nothing much. Mostly just aquariums."

"Aquariums?"

"To keep squid in," Channon said, turning pink. "But…in the sky."

"Sounds like you'd need a lot of glass for that," Jack said solemnly.

Channon looked relieved. "Yeah."

"So, you're both nerds, then?" Chris asked cheerfully.

Jack knew he didn't mean anything by it but the word stung a little. Old memories. "Channon was a jock, actually," he said, pretending he wasn't being defensive.

"Yeah? Football? What school did you go to?"

"Kingston High, and yeah, I played first string."

"What position?"

"Running back?"

"Cool, you'll get on with Aaron."

It sounded casual enough, but it made Jack uneasy. Sure, Aaron and Channon might easily get along, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this was Chris' way of seating Channon firmly at the children's table.

But Channon didn't seem to notice, and Jack wasn't about to make a big deal out of it. Not now, when they were pulling into the driveway of a house that still felt like home. Or, no, it didn't quite. He'd outgrown it years ago. But it could still welcome him, in ways few places ever really had.

He got out of the car, and opened Channon's door. "You ready?"

Channon set his jaw. His determined look was adorable. "Yeah," he said, taking Jack's hand and squeezing it. "For anything."

* * *

His mom, of course, welcomed Channon like a little lost baby bird. "Oh, you dear thing," she cooed, enveloping him in a hug. "You look cold! Here, come into the den. Try my special hot chocolate."

'Special' Jack knew was code for 'full of chili', so he warned Channon about it while taking his coat. Channon gave him a grateful look, and managed not to be shocked by the 'hot' hot chocolate.

His dad, meanwhile, just gave Channon a speculative look and murmured a hello before retreating to the kitchen. That wasn't ideal. Not a lot Jack could do about it right now, but still, something to keep in mind.

"So, Mom's in love," Chris said in an undertone, watching her shepherd Channon onto a sofa to be peppered with questions. "It's cute."

"It is," Jack said wondering where this was going. "Why do I get the feeling that you disapprove?"

"Maybe because he's almost as young as my daughter," Chris said smoothly, not missing a beat.

Jack had thought this might happen. "Sasha's about a year older, actually."

His brother winced. "That does not make me any happier."

"I'm not going to tell you age is just a number, because we both know that's bullshit," Jack said quietly. "I am going to tell you that if you make Channon feel uncomfortable then I won't be bringing him to Christmas. Which means I won't be coming to Christmas. Are we clear?"

Chris nodded, still watching the sofa interrogation. "Fair. I just…don't get it. You could have anyone."

"Not true, and even if so, I've chosen him." Jack said it firmly, not leaving any room for doubt. "I'd like you to respect that."

"This isn't a midlife crisis, is it?" Chris made a face. "You haven't bought a sports car, have you?"

"I was thinking about buying a helicopter…"

"Very funny. You know, Mom's put you both in your old room."

Jack turned to stare at him, just for a moment. Then— "She's going soft in her old age."

"I think she thought he'd be, you know, older." Chris held up his hands defensively. "I'm not, I'm done. Good luck to you. Just…you know."

The trouble was, Jack did know.

Still. He wasn't going to let anyone ruin Thanksgiving for Channon, not after what Channon had told him about his family.

Sometimes it took everything Jack had not to track down Channon's father and fucking ruin him. Between him and Nadia they'd given Channon enough self-doubt and insecurity to sink a trawler. Jack hated seeing it, hated realizing yet again that Channon had no idea how horrible they'd been to him, had no idea that it wasn't normal, that it wasn't his fault, that he was good enough all by himself and his parents had been neglectful and selfish. Jack hated not being able to say it to him, Your father is a piece of shit who walked out on you and does not deserve your respect. Your mom let you think everything he ever said to you was true. They're both mediocre parents and you deserve so much better.

Because. He couldn't say that. He had no right. Channon would be hurt, and not in a fun way.

So. If he was honest with himself, Jack knew what he was trying to do—give Channon the family experience he'd never had. Amongst other things.

Channon looked up, caught Jack watching him, and smiled tentatively. He looked relaxed, happy, and had a little chocolate in the corner of his mouth. Jack wanted to kiss it off him, lick the taste of it from his tongue, shove him down and rut up against him until he was red-faced and gasping. He wanted to do it on that fucking floral sofa, while everyone was out, make out with him there with the lights off and the curtains drawn. He wanted to get Channon so worked up he couldn't take it, until he came in his pants, whimpering into Jack's mouth. He wanted to jerk off with Channon's hand under his, jeans open, boxers shoved down, quick and dirty, listening for the rumble of a car in the drive. He wanted—

"Huh."

Jack blinked, glancing sidelong at his brother. Chris had a contemplative look on his face, like he thought he knew something. "What?"

"Nothing." He gestured with one hand. "Please, continue."

Jack rolled his eyes, and went to get a hot chocolate of his own.

* * *

Jack had never really cared for football. Hockey, sure, but football was too slow, too dull, and he couldn't help thinking the whole thing took too long.

But Channon had used to play, and Aaron was his nephew, and it felt un-American to admit to a disdain for a national pastime. Still, he couldn't help going over his plans for next week in his head as the first half wound out.

"Looks like your guy's enjoying himself," Chris said quietly. Channon was watching the game while chewing thoughtfully on a pizza wheel. Jack caught himself grinning.

"Like the majority of men, Channon has a fine appreciation for sports and snacks," Jack said.

Chris snorted, turning his eye back to the game. "So he really is a jock, not a nerd."

"It's possible to be neither and both."

"I'm just curious. What do you see in him that isn't his ass?"

Jack felt it prickle across his scalp. "What do you see in Gloria that isn't her ass?" he snapped, and immediately regretted it. He liked Gloria. She deserved better than that.

"Oh, come on." Chris clapped—something had happened on the field. "You know I only married her for the Buffy DVDs."

"You don't know anything about Channon," Jack said quietly. "You don't get to judge me when you have literally no idea what we may or may not have in common."

"Yeah, but you see, I know you. You don't open up. You're like a clam." Chris gave him a sidelong look. "Take it from a guy who fucked up his first marriage. You have to be vulnerable."

"I can be vulnerable."

"Really? Because, hey, look, there's Jessica," and he nodded down at a knot of women standing at the foot of the bleachers. "Speaking of failed relationships."

"Jessica and I didn't break up because I couldn't be vulnerable." Jack did his best to ignore her, though all that red hair was hard to miss. "We broke up because I stopped pretending I wasn't gay."

"You weren't gay the whole time you were with her."

"Yes," Jack said firmly, "I was. That's what I was all along, Chris. I didn't just 'turn gay' one day."

"You sure? I always wondered if it was Nate who got you into it."

"It's not a hobby," Jack said, ignoring the rest.

Chris blew out a breath. "I know. I mean…I don't know. I always thought you two would end up married or something. You know, I like Nate. He's a decent guy. And I hear he's loaded," Chris added, cutting Jack a sly grin. "You could do a lot worse."

"Nate and I were never going to work out," Jack said. It was true.

"Because you'd never admit he was your boyfriend," Chris insisted.

"He never was."

Chris looked skeptical. "Right." His expression smoothed out into mock innocence. "What does Channon think?"

Remembering the last time he'd seen Channon and Nate together, Jack smirked. Probably inappropriately. "He calls him 'Mr Scott'. I think Nate's fond of him."

"You know I'd almost prefer it if he was a gold-digger," Chris said. "If he was just using you for some glamorous lifestyle. But Mom said you made him get a job."

"I offered him a job. It's not the same thing."

"I'm just worried you're gonna break that kid's heart," Chris said, sounding sincere about it. "Don't be that asshole, little brother."

Jack turned to look at him square in the eye. "I have no intention," he said, willing Chris to understand. "Channon's well-being is my first priority." I'll take care of him, no matter what.

"And if his well-being means not being with you?" Chris asked.

"Then so be it," Jack told him.

* * *

Of course, Jessica found him after the game. He was minding Brayden outside the mens when she pounced.

She made it sound so casual. "Jack! Oh my God, how are you?"

Jack offered her the polite smile he used for business acquaintances he didn't want to piss off just yet. "Good. You?"

"Great! Just visiting the parentals, you know."

She tucked her hair behind one ear, smiling sweetly. She was older now, but still so Jessica. Like Gillian Anderson, she'd matured into a refined version of herself, all the angles of her face sharpened over time. He tried to remember how it had felt to love her and found nothing. Only dust. Maybe he never really had.

She bent down now to look Brayden in the eye, red hair spilling over her shoulder in a cascade. "Now, this isn't your little man, is he?"

"My nephew," Jack said. "Brayden, this is Jessica Harris. You don't need to shake her hand but it's polite to say hello."

"Hello Ms Harris," Brayden said, hands stubbornly stuck in his pockets. Probably because of the 'little man' comment.

"Actually, it's Mrs Lind, now," she said, and turned to gesture toward a dark-haired man standing next to a stroller, holding the hand of a little girl in a pristine white dress. How long that dress would last, Jack had no idea. His nieces and nephews seemed to generate goop constantly. White struck him as a reckless choice. "That's my mister, and my girls." She cocked her head. "Did you ever get married?"

"No," Jack said, which was the moment Channon emerged from the mens. He spotted Jack at once and came to meet him. "This is Channon, my partner. Channon, Jessica Lind." We dated through senior year and the start of college, until she broke up with me at a party and I ended up sucking Nate off behind the pool shed. God, that felt so long ago.

Channon smiled brightly and offered his hand. "Pleased to meet you," he said.

"You don't need to shake her hand," Brayden said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Channon looked confused for all of a second, but by then Jessica had caught his fingers and given them a tiny shake. "Partner? As in business partner?"

"No," Jack told her. She looked startled, almost hurt. But of all people Jessica ought to know his preferences. She'd tried so hard to convince him otherwise, after all. You're not gay, she'd said, you're just confused, and, What does that mean, Jack? What do I mean to you if that's true?

Apparently nothing.

"I won't keep you from your family," Jack said. "We should get Brayden back to his mom."

"Of course." She bit her lip, and Jack thought, Just let it go. "It's been lovely seeing you."

"Take care, Jessica."

Gently but firmly, Jack steered Brayden and Channon back toward where his sister-in-law was gloating over Aaron's success to another mom. He didn't look back, but he felt Channon twist, glancing over his shoulder to track Jessica with his eyes.

"Who was she?"

"Somebody that I used to know," Jack said, and Channon blinked at him. It took Jack a moment to remember that Channon knew that song, Channon liked that song, and to realize that he may have given away more than he'd intended.

But Channon seemed nonplussed. It helped that Brayden had attached himself to Channon's other hand, insisting that they 'swing' him. Channon did. Jack watched him laugh and thought, It doesn't matter. None of it matters, now. I've got you.

The feeling settled into him, growing heavy and warm behind his ribcage. Channon was his, and would remain his for as long as he could hold onto him. Eventually, sure, Channon would grow out of this—it hurt unexpectedly to think that. Channon would leave, inevitably. Jack couldn't be his everything, not forever. Chris and Nate were right about that much.

But for now…for as long as Channon wanted, Jack would keep him.

And keep him safe. Which meant that he needed to talk to his dad.

The tradition surrounding Thanksgiving was as strict as any Nash tradition: Robert Nash cooked and everyone else stayed the hell out of the kitchen.

It had started, the way his mom told it, the year that Christopher had been born. Grandma and Grandpa Nash had come to stay, and Robert had seen the way Grandma alternated between trying to take over Thanksgiving and expecting Jack's mom to do everything. So, Robert had firmly shut both of them out of the kitchen and proceeded to burn the turkey.

Not the kind of man to take defeat lying down, he'd attacked the process of Thanksgiving dinner with the same single-minded focus with which he approached everything, always seeking out ways to hone his craft, until he had Thanksgiving down to a fine art.

Over the years this had led to a complete ban on any kind of help or interference. Which was why, when Jack went into the kitchen, his dad frowned at him. "There's cider in the basement fridge," he said, his gaze sliding away to the tray of stuffed onions he was laying out.

Jack leaned up against the sink, well out of the way. "I can feel you disapproving of me. You know I hate that."

"Then don't do things for me to disapprove of."

It was blunt, and so very him. Jack took a deep breath and let it go, not wanting to have this conversation at all but knowing it had to be done. "I know you wanted me to give you grandkids, but we all know how unlikely that is."

"I don't see why." Robert fussed with a bowl of something Jack couldn't identify. He didn't meet Jack's eye. "You've got time. Your people can adopt, now, isn't that right?"

"My people," Jack repeated slowly.

Robert huffed out a laugh. "Sorry. That wasn't good of me."

"Could be worse," Jack said. Then— "So it's not the fact that I am in fact 'my people' that you have a problem with."

"He's too young." Blunt, again. "He's practically a child, Jonathan."

"He's an adult." It came out sharper than he'd intended. "You and Mom still treat me like I'm a child, half the time."

"You're the baby, of course we do."

"Even when I paid off the house," Jack said, hating it the moment it came out of his mouth.

His dad grunted. "I wanted you to buy a house of your own, not sink money into this old place."

"I don't need a house. Listen, it's not about that—"

"I know you're a big man in your field, and I know you're surrounded by people who worship you, day in and day out," Robert said, stopping to look him in the eye. "But I'm your father, Jonathan. I can't help thinking I know best. And I don't think you're thinking straight."

Jack pursed his lips, not taking the easy set-up. That's because I'm not straight. "What do you think I'm doing then?"

"I think you're infatuated because he's young and he's…pretty," Robert said, obviously uncomfortable with the word, "and he looks at you like you hung the moon."

"Well, maybe I do like that. What's wrong with it?"

"I don't want you to marry him and then give up half of everything you've worked for the moment he grows up into someone you don't like."

"Oh, because that's what happened with Mom?" Jack snapped, angry enough now to be sarcastic.

Robert frowned. "Well, that's what happened to Christopher. You always did take after your brother more than was good for you."

"Channon isn't Margot. And I haven't got him pregnant," Jack argues, feeling this conversation slipping through his fingers. "He's just…Dad. I'm happy. Do you know how long it's been since I was really, truly happy?"

Robert shook his head, wordless.

"Me neither, because I can't remember. And it doesn't matter to me if all Channon wants is whatever I can give him. I want to. I want to help him. I want to give him everything he's never had a chance to experience. You have no idea what he's been through," and even as he said it Jack knew his dad would never understand, would see only a comfortably middle class house and comfortably middle class parents, and new clothes and food on the table. But it had been so sterile, so heartless and empty, and ever since he'd got free of his past Channon had bloomed into this bright, funny, charming young man. Someone he'd been meant to be. Someone he could be, with Jack's help. Someone Jack wanted him to be.

He couldn't explain it, and his dad would misunderstand him if he tried. But. He had to.

"Do you know what Thanksgiving looks like for Channon?" Jack spread his hands, taking in the flurry of preparation, the bounty of it all spread out every countertop. "A lecture from his mom about imperialist genocide, and fucking mac n cheese. And, the last two years he played first-string for the turkey bowl, but his dad never even showed up. This? All of this? For Channon it's like something out of a holiday special. So can you please just play along?"

His dad stared at him. And then, with a devastating finality, he shook his head. "Mac n cheese. From a box?"

"I have no idea, but yeah, why not?"

"That," Robert said flatly, "is a crime." He jerked his head at the fridge. "Check in the dairy compartment for me. There should be half a block of parmesan in there."

Jack breathed out, frustrated beyond words. "Fine. Yes. Parmesan."

"And some bacon?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"For the mac n cheese," Robert said, as if Jack was being deliberately obtuse. "Get the square baking dish with the poppies on it, will you? And start boiling a pan of water, I'm busy."

Oh. Well.

"Thank-you," he said, but his dad just waved it off.

"Hurry up with that pan, water's not going to boil itself."

This was as good as it was going to get. Pretty good, Jack thought, and hurried up with the pan.

* * *

It was gratifying to see Channon stuff his face with turkey and mashed potatoes and pie, as well as the rather ludicrous mac n cheese. Jack's dad seemed to thaw to him the more food Channon put away—he kept getting Jack's mom to put more on Channon's plate until Channon protested plaintively that he'd burst.

And then Channon offered to help with the washing up, which seemed to be the cherry on top of that particular sundae.

Channon seemed happy. Scratch that, Channon seemed blissful.

Jack hadn't anticipated how much he'd like seeing that, here with the people who loved him best.

So, after the one millionth Nash family viewing of Labyrinth (and the embarrassing memory of the first time he'd realized his interest had been in David Bowie, not Jennifer Connelly) it was something of a shock to go upstairs only for Channon to say, "Maybe I'd rather live in a fake world that wanted me than a real one that didn't."

I do want you. Don't you know?

He had a hand on Channon's arm before he realized he'd moved. "Channon. You're not unwanted."

Channon nodded, looking up at him. "I know," he said, and Jack… "Sir, I know."

Do you? But what he said was, "Prove it."

Channon's eyes flickered to the door, and then he'd sunk down on the carpet at Jack's feet, sliding from Jack's grip to kneel there with his hands behind his back, spine arched perfectly.

It made Jack's mouth go dry. And then Channon lifted his gaze to Jack's, and wet his lip, and said, "Sir. Please. Tell me how. I'll do anything."

And he would. Jack could see it in every line of him, in the quiver of his limbs. Channon would do anything Jack ordered him to.

So Jack ordered him to wash up, to sit on the bed and wait while Jack did the same, to be quiet, to suck Jack's cock for him, and Channon did it, sucking him hungrily, stripping down to his skin and presenting himself for no better reason than because Jack demanded it.

Channon went where Jack put him, kneeling over Jack's chest with his ass up, head down between Jack's thighs, and Jack could feel Channon's cock swell against his chest. Channon loved this, loved giving himself up for Jack's consumption, and Jack loved to consume him. It was perfect, symbiotic. He could give Channon this and lose nothing of himself.

Between the smooth halves of his ass Channon was waxed clean, and Jack savored the soft vulnerability of his skin. Touching him here was a pleasure in itself because Channon was still so sensitive.

He was quiet now, relaxed, and perhaps…distracted?

Jack crooked a finger, ran his knuckle down to brush the tight pucker of his hole, watching the muscle flutter. "You're thinking. What are you thinking about?"

"You, Sir."

Predictable, but Jack liked it anyway. "Flattering. What are you thinking about me?"

"That I'd do anything you wanted, Sir. And, and that I'd let you make all the decisions for me, always. Because I belong to you."

It was an unexpected marvel, and it took Jack's breath away. Of course Channon felt like this. Channon was perfect, his perfect boy, just waiting to be molded into Jack's perfect toy.

Sometimes it felt like Channon couldn't possibly be real, just a fantasy made of Jack's wants and desires, too perfect to exist. Jack wanted to eat him alive.

And he wanted to own him. He took a deep breath, calming, controlled. Then— "You have no idea how much that means to me. Are you saying you want to give me more control over you? You've already given me a lot, Channon." He stroked Channon as he said it, massaging him gently, reveling in the softness of his skin.

Channon said, "I want to give you all of it, Sir."

Jack closed his eyes, lightheaded. "Do you want to be my slave?"

"Yes, Sir. Please."

Jack bit his lip. "Say it."

"I want to be your slave, Sir. Master," Channon whispered, and Jack resisted the urge to grab him by the hair and force him down, just slam his cock into Channon's mouth and fuck his face and cover him in come.

Master. It shouldn't mean anything. It was just a word, and Jack didn't usually care for it, but in Channon's mouth it was…too much. Too much for now. So. "No." He cleared his throat. "Not master. Not now. We'll talk about this more later," he promised, "But I am very pleased with your suggestion."

The thought of it, of having Channon as his own, completely and utterly his, lingered in him. He indulged himself in Channon's ass—it was a good ass, and Jack wanted in it at any opportunity. Now he took his time playing in it, licking Channon up and tongue-fucking him, and Channon wriggled and whined and did his best to be quiet and good. Jack made him beg and Channon begged, and Jack let him have a mouthful of cock to keep him quiet and kept on torturing him with his tongue.

Channon was so good at it now, sucking and swallowing like a good boy, pliant and willing when Jack needed him to be. Channon deserved this, had earned it, so Jack gave him what he wanted, an orgasm and praise enough to wrap him up, hugging him down into sleep.

There was a chance Channon wasn't serious. It was possible that he liked saying things like this more than doing them, wanted the fantasy of it more than the reality.

So. It was Jack's responsibility to find out the truth.

* * *

Breakfast was loud and messy. Jack got distracted making French toast, and when he looked up Channon was missing.

Gloria caught him looking and grinned, bunting him with her hip. "The boys are playing basketball," she said, evidently pleased about this, and now that he listened Jack heard the familiar bounce of rubber on concrete. "He's very polite, your Channon," she went on, topping up his coffee though he hadn't asked. "Are we gonna see more of him?"

"I hope so." It was true. If Jack had his way, Channon would get all the family holidays he could stomach. It might not make up for anything, but then again it just might.

"Should I get him something for Christmas?" Gloria asked. "What would he like?"

"He likes terrible music and worse video games," Jack said dryly, wondering what, exactly, Channon would like for Christmas.

Gloria chuckled. "I see. I'll get Aaron to pick something out, then, since they have so much in common."

Then there was bacon and eggs, French toast and waffles, and buckets of coffee. Jack tried to ignore how many calories he'd had in the last twenty-four hours. (He'd work it off. It was Thanksgiving, anyway, it was allowed.) Then there was a lot of hugging and Jack's mom drove them to the airport. They could have got a cab. Jack knew she was doing this because she wanted to.

She hugged Channon very hard at the terminal, and kissed his face.

Channon looked embarrassed. "Thank-you for having me, Mrs Nash," he said, and she tutted, wiping her lipstick off his cheek with a tissue.

"Don't be silly," she told him, "it's Maria."

Channon's eyes went wide. "I don't know if I can do that, ma'am," he protested, but Jack's mom just chuckled and patted his shoulder.

"You," she said, turning to Jack, "come kiss your mother." She gripped his face hard when she was done with him. "Be good," she said, very sternly.

Jack couldn't help smirking. "Of course."

And the look on Channon's face was priceless.

He was quiet on the flight, shyly tucking his hand into Jack's own and staring out the window at the clouds. Jack wondered what was on his mind, but there was no time to talk about it. Jack had a meeting at eleven. Channon had a leave day, so Jack kissed him goodbye in the car and headed up to his meeting, and put Channon firmly out of his mind for the time being.

At five, however, his phone pinged with a message.

what time r u coming home Sir?

Jack smiled. Channon had to be actively fighting his autocorrect by now. He found it endearing, though really it should have annoyed him.

I should be there by seven. Did you have something in mind?

It only took a few moments for him to get a reply.

can I pls make dinner 4 u Sir?

Ah. There was clearly something going on.

Are you asking to cook for me?

yes Sir if u want me 2

It was terribly sweet. Jack knew Channon wasn't confident in his cooking skills. He must have really wanted to do it.

So. Yes. Do that for me.

do u want me to wear my collar Sir

There it was. This was play. And while he was pleased to see Channon taking initiative, he needed to maintain control of him or things between them would unbalance.

No. Leave it out for me and we'll see if I think you deserve it. And then, because he wasn't a complete monster, he added, I expect you to be naked when I get home.

yes Sir thankyou

Jack breathed out, rubbing a hand over his face and unable to hide his grin. How was he going to get anything done now?

Discipline, he decided, turning to his computer and forcing himself to focus.

He managed an hour and a half before packing it in, but it wasn't until he was actually in the car that he allowed himself to anticipate what was going to happen.

Channon wanted to cook for him. Channon wanted to wear his collar. Channon would be naked, submissive, pliable.

Channon wanted to be his slave.

The thought was dizzying. Sweet, obedient Channon, permanently collared.

Jack thought of all the wicked things he could do to Channon—keep him naked, always; fuck him without notice; wake him with a cock in his mouth, with the toe of a boot, with a sharp crop across the ass—and took a deep breath. He couldn't deny the appeal of it. But then, Channon didn't really know what he was offering.

Well. Best to find out what Channon thought he was offering.

When he opened the apartment door, the scent of caramelized onions billowed up to greet him. He resisted the urge to call out, simply slipped off his shoes and socks and dropped his bag on the entryway table, and padded inside.

The main lights were off. There was a little ambient light, however, from the pin-lights in the open kitchen area, the lights of the city through the living-room windows, and from the table laid in the dining nook, where Channon had lit several candles. The table had been laid with silverware, napery, and even some flowers floating in a glass bowl of water. White peonies. When had Jack told him he liked peonies?

The table was set for one, and beside the setting Jack caught sight of the square box that housed Channon's collar. And, of course, Channon.

He was kneeling on the floor, naked, his slave cushion beneath him. He had his head bowed, and the slope of his pale shoulders was beautifully submissive, his spine neatly curved. His hair was inky against his skin, sleek and beautiful.

Jack had to swallow, the sight of Channon there leaving his mouth dry. "Channon."

"Sir," Channon said, not lifting his head. Jack could see his eyes were open, that he was blinking down at his hands on the floor, that his weight was shifted forward onto his knees in readiness for whatever Jack wanted.

Jack wanted him. "Come here and kiss me hello."

Channon didn't stand up. Instead, he pushed himself forward, crawling across the hardwood. And then he kissed Jack's feet, once on each, and rested his cheek against Jack's ankle. "Welcome home, Sir."

Jack breathed in, and out, and the urge to do something, to throw Channon across the floor and have him, was so intense that for a moment it was all he could see.

But. Discipline, he reminded himself.

"Sit up," he said, and Channon did, sitting back on his heels, though he didn't raise his eyes to Jack's, kept them demurely downcast. Jack caught a fistful of his hair and tugged, and Channon came with it, rising up on his feet until he could, theoretically, have looked Jack in the eye. But Jack tugged his head back, exposing the pale column of his throat, and buried his face in it. Channon smelled clean and spicy, not Channon's cologne but Jack's body wash, and that…the audacity of it. He should be displeased. Surely this was a line crossed. "Did you use my body wash?"

"I…got some for me," Channon said, his eyes widening as Jack's grip tightened in his hair. "I thought you'd be pleased, Sir."

And he was, in a way. But in another he felt cheated of the opportunity to be the one to scent Channon himself. "I'll let it go this time." He held Channon's hair tight, sliding a hand down Channon's spine to slip his fingers into the cleft of that perfect, round ass, and was surprised to find Channon already slick. Not just slick but soft and yielding. It would be easy to press a finger inside, and Jack did, ignoring Channon's whimper to thrust two right into him all the way to the knuckles. "Have you been playing with yourself?" he asked, and the vision of it, of Channon fucking himself with something while he waited for Jack to come home was mind-blowing.

"I…I wanted to be ready for you, Sir," Channon gasped as Jack roughly shoved his fingers in again.

How intoxicating. Jack backed Channon up against the kitchen counter, sliding his fingers free and jerking Channon around to face it. He braced his forearm across Channon's shoulders to hold him down, fumbling at his belt with the other, suddenly hard as a fucking rock. Channon yelped, but he canted his hips up, spreading his thighs instinctively. "Sir!"

Jack had his cock in hand, the head of it pressed up against the sweet slickness of Channon's asshole, his hot welcoming flesh, and he felt drugged with this, the fire in his gut flaring bright. A little pressure and he popped right in, and the tight warmth of Channon's flesh was like stepping out of the shadows and into sunlight.

"Sir," Channon moaned. "Please…"

"You want it?"

"Yes."

"But?"

"…don't wanna burn your dinner…"

Jack sighed. But of course.

He leaned his weight into Channon, sliding into him in one firm glide, until he was flush up against the plump halves of Channon's ass. Channon made a guttural sound, jerking under him, but Jack just ground down in him once, and then slid out to tuck himself away, buttoning his trousers and fastening his belt. He smacked Channon hard enough to leave a handprint.

"Go on. Don't burn my dinner."

And he walked out to wash his hands, leaving Channon bent over the counter.

In the bathroom, Jack took a moment to breathe, to wash up, and slick his hair down neatly. The man in the mirror looked together, Jack thought, looked in control. He looked strong enough to allow Channon this show of service, this thing that Channon might think he was doing for Jack but was, in reality, doing for himself. But he had to take it back, somehow, otherwise…it could go so wrong, in the long run.

He had to show Channon that this was for him, that Channon was his, that if Channon wanted to be his then he had to do exactly what Jack said and nothing more.

So. He straightened his tie and walked back out into the main area.

It struck him again that the lights were off, but the room was lit by the glow of lights from the wall-high glass of the living space. Channon had left the smart glass clear. Always, he'd fogged it over before, always afraid of being seen. And Jack liked his privacy, so he didn't mind that for playtime. But now…

Sure, only someone in a helicopter could see in over the wall of the deck, and sure, even if they did the darkness in the apartment would make it difficult to make anything out, but still. Exhibitionism was something Jack liked, something Channon didn't as much. This was for him.

When he made his way to the table he found Channon had returned to his place on his cushion, head down, hands on the floor. There was a garden salad in a wooden bowl Jack had forgotten he owned, and a steaming quiche on a trivet—no, not a quiche. That was a leek and mushroom tart. That was—

"Where did you get this?" Jack asked, because he could smell the caramelized leek and bacon, and the chèvre, and…

"Your dad gave me the recipe, Sir," Channon said.

Jack's dad didn't give people his recipes. And this was Jack's favorite, something his dad had made him for special occasions, like birthdays or graduation or…he shook his head, overwhelmed by memories that felt too private to share, but too real to ignore. And Channon was on the floor, waiting for his approval. Channon, who maybe, maybe, Jack could share everything with, one day.

Jack ran his fingers through Channon's hair. "Smells good." He pulled out the chair and sat down, laying the cloth napkin across his lap. Channon had pre-cut a slice of tart and he took it now, took some salad. The tart was….not quite perfect, but pretty good. It was slightly overdone, if he was being critical, a little too brown. And the leek might have blackened a little in the cooking. Could have used a touch more salt.

But it was much, much better than he would have expected Channon capable of, and he felt a rush of affectionate pride for him. "Channon, this is delicious."

Channon shuddered, but he didn't move.

"Well done," Jack said, and he petted Channon's hair a little.

"Thank-you, Sir."

He sounded content, and Jack was content to eat his dinner silently. He propped his phone up to read the news as he did, sipping the sparkling water Channon had set out for him. It was quiet. The salad was good, everything crisp and ripe and dressed with lemon and basil. He picked up a chunk of ripe tomato and a piece of fresh basil, and fed it to Channon, and then fed him a piece of tart, some lettuce. Channon ate all of it neatly, licking Jack's fingers clean when Jack pressed them against his lips. Like a well-behaved dog.

He cut another slice of tart, served himself some more salad and made sure that Channon ate enough for a light dinner. Then he pushed his chair back, beckoning Channon up with his fingers.

"I'm pleased. You've done so well." He ran his fingers through Channon's hair. "But you know I didn't tell you to do any of this for me."

"No, Sir."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I wanted to." Channon frowned, leaning his cheek against Jack's knee. "I thought…maybe you'd like it if I…did things for you sometimes."

"It's sweet, and thoughtful. And it shows initiative. But it's dangerous if you take too much initiative. You might start thinking you're the one in charge, and then I'll have to punish you."

"I know, Sir." Channon swallowed, and ducked his head. "I thought…you like punishing me, Sir. So, if you wanted, I…I put something out for you."

Oh. Now, this was definitely something Jack needed to put a stop to. "You don't get to come up with your punishments unless I tell you to," Jack said sternly. "And you aren't supposed to go through the toy chest without permission."

Channon shivered. "I'm sorry, Sir. I won't do it again."

Had Jack never said? Or had Channon simply forgotten? Either way, the remorse on his face was clear. He'd never do this again, Jack knew it.

"It's okay," he said, soothing Channon with his hands. "What did I tell you way back when we started, about training?"

Channon shuddered, pressing his cheek firmly against Jack's thigh. "That you don't punish for things you haven't trained for, Sir," he said, clear and crisp enough that Jack felt satisfied that he understood it to be true.

"No. I don't. So, it would be unreasonable of me to me angry with you, for something I haven't made explicit, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, Sir," Channon mumbled.

Jack stroked his hair, and then teased his fingers under Channon's chin to tilt his head back. "Am I unreasonable, Channon?"

"No, Sir," Channon said, coming up on his knees as Jack lifted him. "No, never. You're…you're the perfect Dom."

"Perfect for you, maybe," Jack said, unable to keep himself from grinning. "There's plenty of people who wouldn't like the things I want to do to you."

Channon frowned a little, his gaze cutting away. "I mean…if you say so, Sir."

"There's nothing wrong with it. Everyone likes what they like, and no-one's right, or better than anyone else for not liking something or liking a different thing. I need you to understand that, okay?"

He was firm about it, and Channon nodded, his expression clearing. "Yes, Sir," he said, "I understand."

"Now. Let's go see what you've decided you think you need." Jack pushed Channon back down until his hands planted on the floor, and then stood up. He took two steps before glancing back to see Channon still kneeling there on his cushion. "Come on," Jack said, and he whistled, snapping his fingers the way he might call a dog, and Channon picked up on it at once, crawling after him on all fours. Jack could see Channon's cock hanging under him, thick with arousal, and he grinned. Maybe Channon liked a bit of puppy play. Good to know.

He turned back to the living area, where the lights of skyscrapers in the middle distance winked in at them like glittering towers of stars. And in the dim shadows Jack found laid out on the table a paddle, a flogger, and the cane.

They hadn't used the flogger before, but Jack had showed it to Channon, explained to him how this one would hurt, more than he expected. Channon had made a face over it, not keen on the idea. Jack had put it aside for a 'one day maybe but not yet'. The paddle, too, they hadn't used. It was studded on one side, bored through with holes, and Jack had explained how that could hurt more than a regular, undrilled paddle. Channon had squired at the idea of it.

And the cane? Channon hated the cane.

The thing was, Channon tolerated pain, Jack thought, but he didn't like it for itself. He liked how it made him feel to suffer for Jack, to allow Jack to use him however he wanted. He liked that Jack was pleased with him, that Jack was satisfied, that Jack had decided he was worthy of a reward in the form of an orgasm or, simply, just the privilege of tonguing Jack's ass for him. The idea of a reward made Channon hot, made him twitch with eagerness. For Channon, pleasing Jack was an end in itself.

When my Master is happy, I am happy, Jack thought.

He understood that, as much as he tried to forget it.

Now, he beckoned Channon up to him. "Why did you choose these?"

Channon bit his lip. "If you were…if I deserved to be punished, I thought…it should hurt."

"If I didn't like dinner, you mean?"

"If I burnt it, or if you didn't want it, or if I'd…if you thought it was, um, too much initiative."

Well. Jack stroked Channon's hair, thinking. "You did ask to make me dinner, you had permission for that. And I'm very pleased with how well you set the table, and cooked for me. That tart is my favorite. You may cook it for me whenever you like, and you won't need permission for it." He might not always eat it straight away, but he knew how good it was cold. "So there's nothing to punish you for in that. What else?"

"I…for getting ready for you?"

"Getting ready how?"

The way he squirmed was delightful. "Um. Lubing up my ass, Sir."

"You know, I'm not actually unhappy about that." The thought of Channon lubed up and waiting for him, and how easily he'd slid into Channon's body, just bottomed out in him in one slick motion…Channon whimpered and Jack realized the grip he had on Channon's hair had turned cruel. He loosened it a little but kept his fingers knotted in Channon's hair. "I liked that a lot. I still like it. And it's not as if I've told you not to play with yourself, Channon. You're just not allowed to come. So. Why should I punish you?"

"Because…because," and now Channon was stretching for something, willing to please but uncertain of the right answer. "Because I…because you want to Sir," he tried, and it was so sweet of him. "Just because you want to."

"But if it's just because I want to, Channon, is it really a punishment?"

"No, Sir," Channon said, breathing out. "It's discipline."

"So, what do you think is going to happen here? A punishment? Or discipline?"

"Discipline, Sir," Channon said, sounding relieved.

"Good. You can kiss me again, and say thank-you."

The curve of his spine was graceful, so smooth, the fluid way he bent his head to kiss Jack's feet, one and then the other. "Thank-you, Sir," he said, sounding sincere.

"Stand up," Jack ordered, moving away to pick up the cane. "Back to the window."

Channon did as he was told, positioning himself with his feet spread to shoulder-width, the way he'd been taught, hands together behind his back, one cupped in the other, chin up, shoulders square. Jack ran a hand down his back, over the gentle swell of muscle, feeling every sweet divot, every rise. All of this, for him. He'd take care of it, he swore, take all the care in the world of this perfect creature who needed Jack to give him structure and purpose and pain, and love him all the while.

"Bend over and grab your ankles."

It wasn't an easy position. It pulled the skin tight across the thighs and buttocks, and would make everything sting all the harder, but it looked so very charming, so vulnerable, something deliciously school-boyish about it.

Jack imagined Channon with his trousers around his knees, shirt-tails pulled up to expose himself, the embarrassed flush of his cheeks as he begged for clemency from a taskmaster who refused to give it to him.

Another time.

He could see Channon's balls between his thighs, pink and exposed, see the glisten of his slick asshole peeking between the sweet halves of his ass, and he wanted so powerfully to show Channon exactly how much he already belonged to Jack and no-one else.

"You know why I'm doing this, Channon." He lifted the cane to tap it against the round swell of Channon's rear. "You know why you need this."

"Yes, Sir."

Channon's flesh goose-pimpled, shivering deliciously, and Jack tapped him again. "Make all the noise you want."

He played the tip of the cane over Channon's cheeks, warming him up with precise flicks of the wrist. Channon sighed into it, and he sounded so satisfied Jack had to give him a harder tap, just to hear his breath hitch.

It didn't take long for him to be red all up his thighs and creeping over the swell of his buttocks, a hot blush that had his breath coming fast and hard. Jack felt hot under his collar, the anticipation sending a magnificent thrill up his spine. He was going to hurt Channon. If he did it right, Channon would love it.

So. He brought the cane down hard, listening for Channon's sharp gasp.

"I won't make you count, this time. Just try to breathe."

Channon took the next hard stroke almost silently, but the third forced a whimper out of him. Jack laid down neat cuts interspersed with gentler taps, laddering up the backs of Channon's thighs, paying special attention to spacing the welts evenly. Channon's breath was labored and heavy, little hurt sounds breaking free of his throat with every cut. He flinched from the fifth, and on the sixth he made a sound like a sob. Jack felt it echo in him, like Channon had moaned it into his cock, now hard in his trousers.

After the sixth, Jack let him breathe, resting him a little. He let Channon rub his cheeks, for all the good it would do, and then ordered him back into place.

The seventh hard cut made Channon cry out. The ninth was when he started sobbing. Jack ran his fingers down Channon's back, scratching him gently to see him shiver. He didn't stop, just kept Channon warm between hard strokes, soothing him all the while with his fingers.

At twelve, he said, "That's good." Channon's face was wet, his hands shaking on his ankles. His balls had drawn up tight against him, and Jack wondered if it was possible to cane Channon into coming, if he could be rewired to enjoy it that much. But then, no, he didn't want to do that, not if it wasn't a part of him already.

Channon was enough, just the way he was.

He stroked Channon's welts to hear him cry out. Channon flinched away and then, with a groan, pressed back against Jack's hand. Jack smacked him lightly, heard him choke back a sob. "Good boy. Are you ready? You can have six more, if you're good."

Channon swallowed, and gasped, and nodded. "Please," he choked, "yes, Sir."

Three more and Jack wondered if Channon would break. He was crying in earnest now, great wracking sobs that shuddered his body. It was too much. Jack wanted him at the peak but not non-verbal, so the last three were gentler, bringing him down a little, and when he was done Jack dropped the cane and surged forward to take Channon in his arms.

Channon went loose as soon as Jack had him unfurled up against his chest, still sobbing, and Jack sunk his teeth into Channon's shoulder, tasting his sweat. "Good boy," he murmured, "you deserve a reward."

It was easy to manhandle Channon onto the sofa, and push him down amongst the cushions. Jack pressed down until he had his knees up against the edge of it, Channon curled up on his knees, presenting himself with his thighs spread. And he was still slick, still ready for Jack to shove right into him so Jack did, only stopping to unbuckle his belt and unzip and shove his boxers down. He pressed up to Channon and down, sliding home in him as easily as plugging a socket. Channon wailed, Jack gripped him right on his welts, and then…

He never tired of this, could never be sick of riding Channon, pistoning into him with rough, heavy thrusts. Channon came open for him so easily, scrabbling at the sofa, gasping and crying out, each sound ripped from him higher than the next. Some of them sounded like 'sir' and 'please' but never 'no' or 'stop', and each of them shot another spark into the fire in Jack's gut, the urgent need to come building in him like meltwater.

But. "Scream for me," he demanded, "I want to hear you beg for my come."

"Sir!" Channon drew a ragged breath, his voice gone high-pitched and thready. "Please! Give it…give it to me please, I w-want, I…ah!" He went higher. "Ah!"

His cries echoed off the walls, and Jack shuddered, head gone back, listening to the break of Channon's voice as he skirted the edge. It was so close, within reach, and he reached for it. The burst of heat in him was staggering, his hips jerking of themselves as he spent himself, ripples of hot pleasure coursing through him and filling his bones with lead. The white-hot supernova of it burnt into his brain, leaving only an afterimage, and in that, Channon gasping and writhing under him.

Poor Channon, still unsatisfied. He probably thought Jack was going to leave him frustrated. So Jack bore down, seating himself deep, balls slapping against Channon's taint. He reached under to find Channon's swollen cock, and worked him with swift flicks of his wrist. "Come," he ordered, and Channon jerked, an unholy noise clawing out of his throat. But then he was shuddering, moaning, every sound out of him nonsense and wet with tears.

Jack stroked him through it, and then stroked his hands up Channon's thighs, up his sides. "Good boy," he said, kissing his shoulder. "There's my good boy. Such a good boy for me, always. I'm so proud of you, sweetheart. You're perfect."

Channon whined, and Jack pulled out gently to turn him over and let Channon wrap his arms around his neck. "S-sir," Channon sobbed, pressing his wet cheek to Jack's throat. "Sir, sir…"

"I'm here. You're okay. You're wonderful. I love you so much."

And then Channon was crying in earnest, clinging to him desperately. "Sir! I do, I do…I love you."

There it was. Jack couldn't take it back. He didn't want to. And Channon…if he meant it, then Jack couldn't be happier, could barely stand how good it felt to hear.

He pulled Channon close against his chest, pressing kisses all over his tear-streaked face. "Good. Don't ever stop."

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The series will continue in His Boy Next Door #21: Mistakes, 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 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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