Jamie sometimes took Malcolm out to bars, to group events. Gay bars were okay. They were out; the hacks could publish that fact and be damned. Malcolm refused to go to the fetish events, though. Beyond the threat of scandal loomed his profound refusal to belong to any kind of community. Talks about rope bondage safety, demonstrations of puppy play, earnest workshops on alternative power hierarchies: if Jamie wanted to go to these things, he would go on his own. Malcolm liked it intensely private and intensely simple. When the bedroom door closed, he went to his knees and turned his mind off. He surrendered himself. He did what Jamie told him to do. No more, no less. No fucking labels.
Jamie tried talking to him sometimes about what he wanted and what he didn’t. Malcolm would answer questions when Jamie ordered him to answer them. He would answer exactly what was asked and volunteer nothing further. He’d talked more, during his drinking days. He would probably never have reached the point of telling Jamie what he wanted so much if he hadn’t been blazed at the time.
“Tell me what to do,” he’d said. “Fuck please, just take over. Let me stop fuckin’ thinking, I beg you.”
So Jamie took over. Got him to stop thinking. Shortly afterward he’d stopped drinking, because Jamie had begun to refuse to do anything if they weren’t sober, and Malcolm was addicted already to this new way of obliterating himself. Rules, structure, orders given and obeyed.
Pleasing Jamie, that’s what mattered to him. Jamie could feel those blue eyes on him, like a dog watching its master. Malcolm knelt on the carpet, hands clasped at the back of his neck, a heavy black dog collar buckled on. Jamie was dressed. Malcolm was nude. They were both hard. Malcolm might or might not end the night still hard; Jamie hadn’t decided.
Submission. Self-abnegation. A million big words that Malcolm might use when he was forced to talk about it. Jamie had other words, simpler ones. Belonging. Malcolm belonged to him. When he proved it by holding himself perfectly still, unbound, under the riding crop, that was catharsis. When Jamie proved it by demanding that he submit himself, that was catharsis. Fucking big word again. Jamie cared enough to stripe his backside, to smirk at him the next day when Malcolm had to sit down in front of other people. It was his way of showing Malcolm he was loved. Fuck them both if they would ever use the word out loud.
Well, time was a-wasting. Jamie unbuttoned himself and took his prick out of his pants. Stroked himself. Malcolm’s eyes were on his face, still, not his prick. Obedient as ever, even when tempted. His lips were parted already, and he was licking them. He wanted it. Hungry boy.
Jamie rubbed his cock over Malcolm’s face. A sharp intake of breath. He opened his mouth and Jamie allowed him to lick the head. Yeah, good. Malcolm was good at this. He put himself into it. Made it good every time. Well, if he didn’t he would be punished, so he had some incentives there. Malcolm hated being punished for mistakes.
“Whose are you?” Jamie said, and took him by the hair. Drove in deep.
“I’m yours,” Malcolm said, or tried to say, around the cock in his mouth. It was beautiful to watch, beautiful to hear. Tomorrow Malcolm would give him orders and Jamie would obey. Make a career; break a career; threaten a man; smash a fax machine with a cricket bat. Tonight he struggled to relax as Jamie probed for the back of his throat, tonight he sucked cock on his knees. Nothing to do but use his mouth to please his master.
Jamie didn’t want to come this way, though. Not tonight. He wanted something rougher tonight.
“I have a sudden desire to fuck a hot and reddened arse tonight, and again tomorrow morning. Start the day right, nice and relaxed from coming inside you. And then you get to feel me all day. What do you say to that?”
Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment. His face reddened. “Please, sir.”
A flash then, of something in Malcolm’s eyes, a moment of emotion that he hid as quickly as he could.
“Up onto the bed now. Grab the headboard. Don’t move.” Jamie took off his belt.
Not much, never much. Malcolm was paper-white, fragile. Jamie’s bare hand was more than enough most nights. But tonight Jamie felt savage and swung the belt as hard as he dared. He wanted to hear that choked off sound that was Malcolm shoving his fist into his mouth to stifle a scream. Wanted to make him show how much he needed it, how intense his submission was, by returning to position and holding still and waiting for another one.
Three. That was enough. Nice marks across his backside. He’d feel it tomorrow. And of course he was feeling it already: tears on his face, his struggle to not to flinch away as Jamie rubbed at his buttocks, the soft keening noises he was making.
“Good boy,” Jamie said again. “Stay there.”
Clothes off, condom on, slick on his prick. Even more merciful slick on his fingers, worked into Malcolm’s arse, opening him up. Not too much, though: Jamie loved the sound Malcolm made when he pushed inside before he was ready, that whimper, that soft plea to his Master to use him however he wanted. Hot skin, outraged skin, already flushed dark and bruising, under his hands, against his thighs. Malcolm’s moans. Reaching around, taking him in hand, thumb pressing hard against the head the way Malcolm liked it.
So good, this feeling, of having given his boy exactly what he needed, exactly what he craved after a day of hell. Perfect service rendered to this man who was his own master. Never mind that Malcolm was the one wearing the collar, the one with the bruises, the one struggling to hold off until given permission to come.
“You may come after I’ve come,” Jamie whispered.
“Thank you, sir,” Malcolm said, as he was supposed to say. No thought needed even for that answer, just the self control of not coming until Jamie came, which Jamie was very close to now. And then it was there, he was coming, slamming himself deep into Malcolm and holding himself there, and swearing as he shot.
He came to himself a few seconds later, still hard, still with his prick up Malcolm’s arse. He finished Malcolm off with a few rough strokes, drove him over the edge mercilessly. Sweet reward, the sound of Malcolm coming, saying things, begging him, thanking him, collapsing under him.
The rest was bathos. Washing up, rubbing ointment into Malcolm’s stripes, making a cup of herbal tea for them both. Climbing into bed with the tea and a book, t-shirt and a ragged pair of pajama bottoms on, Malcolm obediently still nude, still wearing his collar, with his head on Jamie’s shoulder.
“Good boy,” Jamie said again, and kissed his temple.