Size Matters

  Contents

  About

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Also by Robin Moray

  About the Author

  SIZE MATTERS

  His Boy Next Door 31

  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 ©2018 Robin 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 31 : Size Matters

  Channon Beaumont has so much to be grateful for. An amazing Dom (who is also an amazing boyfriend), kinky friends, and people who care for him. What more could he possibly want?

  Nothing, he thinks. But when Jack invites a stranger home with them, Channon discovers something about himself he never knew.

  New kinks and new desires can't come between him and the man he worships. That's simply not allowed.

  As for Jack, his obsession with Channon drives him toward a resolution only he can make happen. All he has to do is recognize it, and take it for himself.

  This book is episode 31 in an ongoing serial, and contains acts of an adult and sexual nature. Read at your own risk.

  Chapter One

  Fall in Santa Rita started dry and warm—now, only a few weeks in, it gave no sign of the wet mess it would become in winter. Channon hadn’t bothered with a coat tonight, jeans and a sleeveless shirt enough to stave off the weather. Anyway, they were mostly inside, some of the party spilling out into the garden under the black, starless sky.

  The party was a sort of fundraiser and was being held in a renovated church. The churchyard (thankfully not an actual graveyard) had been decorated with long, wine-colored sashes and stars sprayed with gold glitter. There was a buffet table stacked with vegan, gluten-free, dairy-free, and halal options, and submissives in modest black circulated with trays of finger-food. Channon and Ewan were ‘off-leash’, as Nate had put it, and Ewan had draped himself over Channon’s shoulder like a purse, scowling at anyone who dared to look too closely at either of them.

  Ewan was spiky tonight, one sharp talon stabbed through an earlobe and his cuffs ringed with savage points. He’d painted his eyes in black and his mouth in blood red, and he’d left a conspicuous lipstick print on Channon’s neck, high up behind his ear.

  It was such a ‘fuck off, this is mine’ thing to do, and it made Channon grin because it was such a lie. Channon wasn’t Ewan’s, not even a little. He knew exactly who he belonged to, after all.

  “This is boring,” Ewan muttered, his breath hot and damp against Channon’s ear. “Let’s do something.”

  Channon grinned. “Pretty sure Nate won’t like it if we ‘do something’.”

  “Who cares what he thinks?” Ewan’s voice took on the edge of a whine, and he tugged at Channon’s elbow.

  Always such a brat. Channon tucked him up under his armpit. “You do. You care a lot.”

  “Get away with it!” Ewan squirmed about, but Channon kept him pinned until he stopped struggling. “Fuck! I don’t mean ‘let me suck your dick’, I just mean I wanna do something.”

  On that, at least, Channon could agree. The party was a play party, but the play that was going on was so strictly defined, so sterile, that it was barely interesting.

  There were a number of stations set up indoors where you could go and get yourself spanked or caned or tied up—for a nominal donation. Earlier, Nate had handed Ewan a bunch of colored tickets and told him to knock himself out, but Ewan had stuffed them all in his pocket and showed no signs of giving a fuck about any of the services on offer.

  And Channon didn’t want any of it either. The only way he was getting tied up tonight was if the one person in the world he answered to gave him an order.

  Just thinking about it sent a warm shiver down his spine. He swallowed, sharply aware of the weight of the collar around his throat. It was a constantly comforting reminder of the hand that put it there, and of the orders he’d been given tonight. “Be a good boy, Channon, and have some fun.”

  Fun, Channon had decided, meant keeping Ewan entertained enough that he didn’t make a nuisance of himself. So now he dragged Ewan inside to look over the various canings and spankings and getting-tied-to-a-chair-ings that were going on.

  This was where they found Tig, watching a woman in a bunny suit get her hair tied to her ankles.

  Tig was Ewan’s housemate and, as far as Channon could tell, Ewan’s only other friend in the scene, but they never scened together. They were, Ewan said, ‘sexually and fetishistically incompatible’. Tig said it was because Ewan was selfish. Channon thought that actually neither one of them could stand not being the center of attention.

  “God,” Ewan growled, kicking Tig in the side of his boot. “You look like a bucket of piss on a rainy day.”

  Tig shot him a narrow look. “Thanks,” he said crisply. “Thank-you so much for that, I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome.” Ewan leaned over to tweak Tig’s collar. Not his collar, collar, but the collar of his shirt where it sat unbuttoned over his clavicle.

  Tig didn’t have the other kind of collar. He joked about it a lot, but Channon got the feeling that he was actually pretty sore over his desperate singleness. It wasn’t something that looked like it was going to change any time soon, either. That struck Channon as unfair but Ewan had explained it as just a matter of math.

  The scene, the way Channon understood it, wasn’t exactly evenly distributed. There was a distinct shortage of tops and Dominants, an excess of bottoms and submissives, and this meant that the Doms got to be choosy. Supply and demand. Just maths, but so unfair.

  Statistically, Ewan had said, Tig wasn’t going to find his dream Dom. More likely, he was going to sub for a string of imperfect assholes, each a slow process of discovering just how much they weren’t right for him. He was going to have to compromise, to settle for someone less than ideal, maybe end up sharing with someone else, a secondary sub for a Dom who focused on their primary.

  It sounded lonely. Channon hated it. Tig was all right. Pretty in a scruffy sort of way. Nice. Eager. Not Channon’s type, but he had to be someone’s. Right?

  He looked so glum right now that Channon felt compelled to distract him. “Mac wants to ‘do something’,” Channon said, using Ewan’s scene-name because they were in public. “I figure whatever ‘something’ is he’s gonna get spanked for it.”

  “Or flogged,” Ewan said with relish.

  “Either way, not much of a punishment.”

  Ewan grinned, his gaze sliding sideways to catch Channon’s. “Not much. Come on,” and Ewan gave Tig a hip-and-shoulder, pushing him in the direction of the next station. “Let’s at least see what they’ve got on tonight.”

  “Window shopping,” Tig sighed, but he put a good face on his unhappiness all the same.

  There were so
me halfway interesting displays, though nothing Channon found particularly tempting. Some nice shibari, two matching subs tied up into neat little parcels on a stage. Channon fought a smile at the sight of it. They looked like happy little hams, strung up like that, and he knew from personal experience how it felt to give up all that control to someone, to let them bind you into a knot and do whatever they liked with you.

  The rigger was offering a little light bondage for anyone who wanted to be tied to a chair. Tig shook his head, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Ewan didn’t care for rope. Channon knew he could get that at home, if he was very good and asked nicely, so he leaned on Ewan’s shoulder until Ewan got the hint.

  Someone was being plastic-wrapped in the corner. Channon wasn’t into it, though he supposed it was much the same as being tied up. Rope was different, though, a whole performance to it that made Channon feel like something special. A gift to be wrapped and unwrapped. Precious. Pretty, even. And sure, skin-tight vinyl and rubber and plastic were appealing in a way, but he just…didn’t like it.

  Tig looked interested, though, right up until Ewan urged him to have a go of it—then he shook his head. “Nah. I’m good.”

  Ewan shot Channon a look behind Tig’s back. Channon mouthed, ‘What?’ at him, but the expression Ewan made was uninterpretable so Channon ignored him.

  Puppy play didn’t seem to interest Tig either, nor did the naughty-schoolboy paddling on offer. Someone had several subs in cages and was humiliating them one after the other, just some name calling and boot-licking, and Channon sighed because none of it was really appealing. He knew what he wanted. What he wanted was currently drinking sweet iced-tea in the churchyard, and apparently engrossed in a conversation with Nate and Mistress Diana about funding. Boring. That was why Channon had been sent away, after all. This was supposed to be fun.

  Tig didn’t seem to be enjoying it much. Channon bit back on a sigh and dragged Tig down to the last stage in the far corner, determined to pretend he was having a good time.

  The last stage was taken up by an older man in leathers. He had a St Andrew’s Cross set up, and a professional-looking array of whips. He was leaning back against the table, idly swinging a nasty looking knotted flogger against his calf, where it pattered against the leather of his boot.

  When he caught sight of the three of them, the Dom with the flogger inclined his head. He had a lush beard, neatly trimmed and almost all silver, and the hair on his chest was salt-and-pepper, thick all the way down his taut belly. Leather boots, leather trousers with intimidating zips, a heavy belt with a brass buckle—he was the quintessential leatherman, naked from the waist up, unless you counted the leather cuffs around his upper arms and wrists.Between the cuffs his arms were thick-muscled and soft with hair. So yeah, he was older, but he looked strong, fit, and when he stood up to prop his fists on his hips Channon faltered in the face of his palpable masculinity.

  Ewan, predictably, didn’t. He raked his gaze over the Dom and sniffed. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” The Dom narrowed his eyes. Clearly they knew one another. “I hear you’re staying out of trouble these days.”

  “Not especially,” Ewan snapped.

  The Dom smiled in the depths of his beard. “Cute friends you’ve got. I don’t suppose one of you boys would like to come up here and let me tear you to shreds,” he drawled, eyeing each of them in turn.

  Channon shivered as those intense eyes flickered over him. This guy? With his leather pants and riding boots, the swirl of dark hair around his navel, and the veins in his biceps? This was more Channon’s speed. There was something dangerous and tempting about him, like he really did know how to tear each of them apart, in such a way they might survive to be put back together again.

  But Ewan snorted. “Naw. But my friend,” and he eyed Tig sidelong, “I reckon he’d be game.”

  For some reason, Tig had gone a shameful shade of red. “Mac!” he hissed. “Don’t!”

  Ewan narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were gagging for it? You like flogging.”

  Tig rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and breathed out a heavy sigh. “Yeah…but it’s for charity,” he said in a meaningful way, and Channon suddenly got it. Tig was broke, of course. He’d paid Tig’s entry himself, so Tig wouldn’t sit home sulking by himself tonight, imagining Ewan and Channon having fun without him.

  And of course he didn’t like it when Channon paid for him, so he was sulky. It all made a lot of sense, now he thought about it.

  But before Channon could offer to shout him a flogging—not something he’d ever thought he’d offer anyone—Ewan made a disgusted noise in his throat. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” He pulled a handful of crumpled tickets out of his pocket and shoved them into Tig’s hand. “Go on! Quit being a sad sack and get your arse up there!”

  Tig looked like he might be going to argue for all of a second, but then he bit his lip and looked up at the Dom on the stage. “Is it…okay? Sir?”

  The Dom grinned. It was sharp and shark-like, and Channon didn’t know if he liked it or it terrified him. Maybe both. “I think we can sort something out.”

  As Tig climbed up onto the low dais, Ewan leaned back against Channon’s shoulder. “About fucking time,” he muttered. “See if Tom can’t beat the misery out of him.”

  “Is he good?” Channon asked, wrapping an arm around Ewan’s waist and leaning on him.

  Ewan nodded, sinking into him. “He’s really fucking good.”

  “Then why,” Channon started, but he stopped himself. It wasn’t any of his business.

  Except he couldn’t fool Ewan. “We didn’t, uh, fit,” Ewan said, more diplomatic than Channon was used to, though there was something in his tone that made Channon wonder. How, exactly was Tom a bad fit for Ewan? Would he be a bad fit for Tig too?

  He seemed good at what he did, not that Channon was an expert on flogging. He made it look impressive, though, stripping Tig to the waist and gentling him with one broad hand on his spine. He spoke low and private in Tig’s ear, asking questions until he gave a decisive nod, and guided Tig up to the cross.

  Tig looked small on it, vulnerable with his shirt off and his bare skin exposed. Channon felt a zing of anticipation in his gut, a twist of anxiety because…well, on the one hand he’d just sent his friend up onto a stage to be whipped by some guy he’d never met before. Someone Ewan of all people recommended. Ewan, with his reckless disregard for his own welfare.

  But on the other? Channon knew Tig was excited about it. God, he was excited about it. A whipping, and probably not a heavy one, not informal like this, casually on display for charity.

  He was right about that much, at least. Tom took his time warming Tig up with a soft looking flogger, then spent an educational fifteen minutes tagging him with a singletail, leaving neat red welts stippling his shoulders. Tig made a lot of wet, whimpering sounds, and Channon thought, I bet he’s noisy when he comes, before feeling guilty.

  It was a decent flogging, if not one to the point of exhaustion. Tom brought Tig down gently, petting and soothing him as the cuffs came off. He gave Tig a little water and handed him down from the dais.

  “So,” Tom said, stretching in a way that made the muscles on his torso ripple under the hair. “Which one of you wants to go next?”

  Tig looked dopily pleased, but not in danger of bursting into tears or anything, so Channon tucked him under one arm and nudged Ewan with an elbow. “You up?”

  “I can get that at home.” Ewan kissed his fingertips and flicked them toward the stage. “Later.”

  Tom just shook his head. There was an amused twist to his smile as he turned away, beckoning to a plump girl in a nurse outfit.

  “You good?” Channon asked, ducking his head into Tig’s neck.

  “Mmmm-hmmm.” Tig burrowed into him. “You smell nice.”

  Channon grinned. “Thanks.”

  “I wish you liked me more,” Tig sighed. “I’d be so good with you.”

  And here the
y were again. Channon squeezed him and tried not to feel frustrated.

  He knew Tig was lonely but he wasn’t interested in Tig, certainly wasn’t interested in playing with Tig. And he absolutely wasn’t interested in sharing with Tig the one thing Tig really wanted from him.

  They took Tig to a chill out corner and dumped him on the sofa. Ewan brought Tig a juice box and Channon let him sprawl all over his lap. He rubbed Tig’s back, stroking light between the welts. Tig moaned and didn’t bother trying to sit up.

  “Feeling better?” Ewan asked, his sharp face wrenched into a rotten smirk.

  “That was good,” Tig sighed. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “He was nice.”

  Ewan snorted, leaning back and propping his boots on the table. “He’s a mean old bastard when he wants to be. Likes his boys well behaved.”

  “So that’s why you didn’t fit,” Channon said, grinning. Ewan was certainly not well behaved, by any stretch of the imagination.

  “No.” Ewan scowled. “That’s not fucking it.”

  “Sounds like a good reason to me.”

  Ewan glanced over his shoulder like he was planning a bank heist. “It wasn’t that. He wasn’t gonna fit.”

  “Because you’re a brat.”

  “Because he’s hung like a fucking stallion,” Ewan hissed. He dropped his boots to the floor, leaning forward to stage whisper. “No fucking way that thing was gonna fit, I swear to God.”

  “People shove champagne bottles up their asses,” Tig mumbled sleepily from Channon’s lap. “You can take eight inches of bratwurst.”

  Ewan huffed out a single breath of laughter, leaning back again and returning his boots to the table. “Yeah. Eight. Whatever. It was too much to just pound in, and I like pounding.”

  “That’s the stupidest reason not to hook up with someone I ever heard!”

  While they bickered, Channon said nothing. There was nothing to say. So some guy had a huge cock, so what? He didn’t care. And he certainly didn’t care that his friends were talking about it, debating the merits of being choked with a huge dick, and whether huge dicks meant huge balls and if huge balls meant a bigger load.