Under Pressure Read online

  Jack inhaled, drinking in the sight of his boy. Channon was perfect, so fucking perfect it blew his mind sometimes. How had he not been struck silent the moment he’d first met Channon? How had he dared to call Channon to him and interrogate him, to make demands of him? To tell him to go and break up with his girlfriend just to see Jack again.

  And then, to take him home and have him the way he had against the door, and then on the floor. His mouth, virginal and unskilled, and Jack had shoved his way into it, claimed him there. Fingered him on the sofa, made him jerk off, made him come for Jack’s entertainment.

  How had he dared any of that with this perfect creature?

  Jack breathed out. “Beautiful,” he said. “But you’ve been cheeky lately, haven’t you? Answer me,” he added, before Channon could say a word.

  “I…yes, Sir. If you say, Sir.”

  “If I say? So you don’t think so?”

  Channon licked his lips, his cock swelling deliciously. “If you say then it doesn’t matter what I think, because you’re always right, Sir.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Jack snapped. He dropped a hand to Channon’s scalp, curling his fingers into the silky mess of Channon’s hair. “Do you admit that you’ve been getting cheekier, sassier, brattier lately?”

  Channon looked up at him, and then away. “I didn’t know I was bratty, sir. I’m sorry. I should have been more respectful.”

  The regretful tone, the honest remorse. Jack was glad he’d told Channon this was just play, otherwise he felt certain Channon would have beat himself up over this. Might beat himself up over it anyway. Jack would have to check in after.

  But now? He tightened his grip. “Are you going to be respectful for me now?”

  “Yes, Sir. I’ll do my best.”

  “I guess that’s going to have to be good enough.”

  He tightened his grip on Channon’s hair, drawing a whimper from his throat. Then he dragged Channon across the floor, dropping down onto the ottoman and hauling Channon between his knees. “Stay,” he said, shoving Channon’s head against his thighs. Channon stayed there, his breath warm through the fabric of Jack’s trousers, perfectly still, as instructed.

  Good boy.

  Jack reached for the water glass and took a mouthful. He was lazy about it, no need to rush, savoring the clean, fresh taste of it. Then he pulled Channon’s head back.

  “Open,” he said. Channon opened his mouth obediently. Jack tipped the glass up, pouring a thin stream into Channon’s mouth. “Drink it down,” he said, and Channon did as best he could. So Jack poured a little more, a little faster, and faster, until Channon spluttered, spilling water down his chin. It cascaded onto his chest, down his front, pooling messily on the polished floorboards.

  Channon gasped, spluttering, and Jack yanked him back hard against his thigh.

  “You’ve made a mess,” he said coolly, pretending a detachment he didn’t feel in this moment, too excited by Channon’s anxious mouth, his eyes wide with apology.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” Channon sputtered. “I should have tried harder.”

  “You did try,” Jack conceded. He put down the glass, and ran his fingers through the rivulets of water glistening on Channon’s bare, beautiful chest. “What did I promise you about trying, back when we first started this?”

  “That it was okay, so long as I tried,” Channon said, which was not entirely accurate but close enough to the spirit of it all.

  Jack reached down to grip one of Channon’s nipples, twisting it savagely to make his boy squeak. “That’s right,” he said. “So I’m only going to punish you a little.”

  He twisted again and Channon arched up, following the pressure of Jack’s hand. “Thank you, Sir,” he gasped. “I don’t deserve it.”

  “You deserve everything I give you.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I’m yours, Sir.”

  “Mine to correct, is that right?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And do you need correction now?”

  Channon licked his lips, his eyes coming up to meet Jack’s, wide and pleading. “Yes, Sir. I’ve been disrespectful.”

  “Yes, you have,” Jack said.

  It was true, on some level. Mr White would never have tolerated Channon’s cheek, would have beaten it out of him at the slightest provocation. But Jack wasn’t Mr White, and he didn’t hate it when Channon sassed him. Such a tiny bit of sass, just to tease, not abrasive or unwelcome. Jack loved to see it, because it meant Channon felt comfortable with him, wasn’t afraid of him, no matter how Jack had used him and hurt him.

  But this was the game they were playing, and Jack wanted the excuse, so he took it.

  “Up,” he snapped, tugging Channon up and over his knee.

  He settled Channon in his lap, pinning him chest down with one arm twisted up behind his back. It was his favorite position to do this, to have Channon tipped forward off balance, unable to brace himself against the floor in any meaningful way, his ass exposed, dick hardening against Jack’s thigh. Jack gave him a warning swat across the ass and Channon stopped wriggling, just went limp and pliant, exactly where Jack wanted him.

  “I hope you know this is for your own good,” Jack said, unable to keep the smirk off his face. He sounded like cheesy porn, he knew that, but Channon seemed to like that sort of thing and, anyway, it set the scene. He swatted Channon again, again, warming him up with stinging taps, a few harder smacks, building a foundation for something altogether sharper.

  The sounds Channon made—sweet and helpless. He started off with short, aborted intakes of breath, and then soft little gasps that graduated to full blown moans. Channon had said before that he didn’t enjoy pain for its own sake, but Jack could hear it in him, this needy pleading for more, a dissatisfaction with the small hurts Jack had given him.

  “Mmm, that’s a good beginning,” Jack said, and then he smacked Channon hard enough he yelped. “I think that’s where we’ll start.”

  Spanking Channon was a pleasure, not least because he whined and moaned about it but because his ass looked so good red, felt good under Jack’s palm. Jack raked his nails over it, digging white lines into Channon’s sore flesh, enjoying how he writhed.

  “Tell me, Channon, why am I doing this?”

  “Because I need it,” Channon gasped.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m…because you want me to be better, Sir.”

  Ah. That was interesting. He felt sure Channon had been going to say, ‘because I’m bad’ or something like that. To reframe it as Jack requiring more of him was a definite improvement. Jack stroked him gently, tickling his cheeks with his fingertips. “Very good,” he said. “And how are you going to show me that you’ve learned your lesson?”

  “By being respectful, Sir,” Channon said, scrubbing his cheek on his shoulder. “Not talking back. Not joking about, um, things.”

  “That’s right,” Jack said, though he sincerely hoped Channon wouldn’t stop. “Do you think that will help?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you think if you’re more respectful then I won’t have to punish you?”

  Channon was silent. Jack slapped him hard, enjoying the way he jerked away from the sting. “I…no, Sir,” Channon gasped.

  “No? Then I will have to punish you?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Channon cleared his throat, his body gone tense and hunched. “Because you want to.”

  Yes. That was it exactly. Jack pinched him, a sharp twist under one buttock, a sharp kind of reward. “That’s right, Channon. Now. Can you count for me?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Channon said, and then, when Jack cracked him hard across the ass cheek— “One,” he said, a little wobbly. “Thank you, Sir.”

  Such a good boy. Jack gave him ten, listening to his voice shake, and then two more just because.

  “Twelve, Sir, thank you,” Channon gasped, so wet and watery that Jack considered stopping th
ere, but when he’d stroked Channon down from the peak—palming him gently and petting him with soft, tender touches—when he asked Channon if he could take more, Channon whimpered out a, “Yes, Sir, please,” and Jack obliged, his heart singing.

  The sting of Channon’s flesh on his flesh, the sound of Channon’s breath, his cries cracking like ice as he bore the weight of Jack’s need to hurt him. It was such a beautiful thing, his willing submission to Jack’s whims. The way that Channon gave himself up to it, holding nothing back, his voice skirling higher in the ecstasy of his agony.

  Jack felt it in his gut, tight hot desire growing tighter, hotter, forged into a demanding urgency that could not be ignored. He wanted. Channon was his to want, and use, and hurt—and tend, too, because he could never forget that Channon was a gift, something to be treasured. Something precious, to keep safe from harm.

  From Jack, too, who could so easily break him.

  Channon was sobbing, soft, wet noises that drew on something deep in Jack’s chest, filling him with blissful satisfaction. To use someone like this, to make them feel everything Channon felt now, to revel in it, that was what Jack wanted. Someone who ached in the way he needed them to ache. Someone to be strong for, to be hard for, to be sharp and merciless for. Channon, just Channon, always.

  “That’s enough,” Jack said, gathering Channon up in his arms. “Enough, sweetheart, enough, you’ve been so good.”

  “S-sir,” Channon wept, leaning into Jack’s shoulder, crying out when his weight pressed him down on his bruises. “Sir, sir, thank you…”

  “One more thing, just one, and then you’re done,” Jack promised, and Channon gulped down his tears, nodding his agreement to this.

  Jack slid him to the floor, pushed him down on his face, easing his hips up. Channon sighed, sinking onto his chest, arms flat on the floorboards. His ass was so red, his thighs too, and Jack bent to press a kiss to the round of his sore cheek, licking light over his hot, aching skin. Channon moaned, his thighs spreading wide in an invitation, but Jack didn’t want that, not just now. He wanted to use Channon in a way Channon would find insufficient, in a way that made it clear how much he was Jack’s to use, one that gave him very little pleasure of his own. So, Jack spat on the inside curve of Channon’s thigh and pushed his cock up behind Channon’s balls.

  “Legs together, sweetheart. Make it tight for me.”

  Channon groaned, but he did it, was obedient even as Jack made him give up his own pleasure for Jack’s. His skin wasn’t quite slick enough, but he was tight and hot and Jack’s, and Jack fucked his thighs as rough as he liked, squeezing Channon’s welts to hear him gasp.

  It was too good, the sight of his boy wrung out and limp on the floor, the redness of his ass and the sting in Jack’s palm, his thighs thick and tight around Jack’s cock, the sweet sound of his breath, gone ragged as Jack rutted up on him. God, that he could have this, such a wonderful thing, his to play with any time he wanted.

  I could keep you home and do this every day, have you any way I wanted, at my mercy, ready for me, willing, so fucking eager for it.

  It was a regular fantasy now, Channon at his beck and call, willing to satisfy him in any way he wanted, and Jack would ignore Channon’s wants because that was what Channon wanted.

  God! The thrill of it pulsed through his cock in a rush, spilling out hot and sticky on Channon’s thighs.

  I want you like that. Just to use you. Because you want me to.

  He caught his breath, bracing himself as his hips quaked, his body throbbing out slow and heavy. The things he wanted to do to Channon, the things Channon might let him do.

  I don’t know how I ever lived without you.

  It rose in his throat, this lump of emotion he couldn’t swallow, and he had to say it out loud. “Sweetheart, I love you so much,” but that was as far as he got before it swelled up to choke him.

  Channon made a high, needy sound, and Jack unfolded him gently. He caught Channon up against his chest, kissed his cheek, his shoulder, his throat, tilted his head up to claim his mouth.

  “You were perfect,” he said, and Channon made a choked sound, somewhere between a sob and a whimper. “Sweetheart, you were so good. Such a good boy, letting me use you just the way I wanted.”

  Channon babbled something that sounded like assent, like a plea, and Jack kissed him again, licking into him warm and firm, taking his mouth completely.

  He eased Channon up off the floor onto the sofa and curled around him, peppering his cheek with kisses, trailing his fingers over Channon’s belly, avoiding his cock but near to it, always.

  Channon melted against him, his breath evening out, hands clutching at Jack’s shoulder, weak and needy. Jack held onto him, stroking him slowly, letting him float there, wherever he was.

  When he stirred, and his eyes finally focused on Jack’s, Jack asked him, “Do you want to come, sweetheart? You’ve earned it.”

  He keened, his whole body shuddering, and he blinked hard up at Jack with green, glassy eyes. “Sir,” he groaned, “please…”

  “Please make you come?” Jack prompted.

  Channon shuddered again, his mouth wrenching in dismay. “If you make me choose,” he sighed, and Jack understood at once. Channon’s dilemma was that should Jack make him choose, he had to choose ‘no’. Jack bit his lip, enjoying Channon’s distress. Such a gentle distress after all.

  “Do you need me to choose for you?” Jack asked, teasing his navel. He meant to give Channon this one, let him have it. It was, after all, something he’d earned.

  Unexpectedly, Channon shook his head, his expression twisted in misery. “No, Sir. I’m okay. I can wait.”

  “Are you sure, sweetheart?” Jack felt tender toward him now, his heart full of savage joy.

  Channon nodded, leaning into Jack’s shoulder, his breath shuddering in his chest. “If…you’ll let me come eventually, Sir. Right?”

  Ah, how lovely he was, so trusting. “Eventually, sweetheart.”

  “Then I’ll wait.”

  He’d learned the value in waiting, it seemed, and Jack kissed his hair and let himself relax, enjoying the quiet moments after as much as the emotional excess of play.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked at last. “How’s your ass?”

  “Sore,” Channon sighed. Then he snuggled into Jack’s chest. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “You’re welcome. Was that too hard for fun?”

  “Nuh-uh.” Channon huffed, nuzzling Jack’s skin. “I can take more.”

  “Oh, I know. But this was enough for me. And you were so hot, Channon, I really wanted to fuck you.”

  Channon hummed. “You didn’t. I mean, there’s lube in the coffee table.”

  He meant in the drawer under the coffee table. “I know. I did what I wanted with you anyway.”

  This seemed to satisfy him—he burrowed into Jack’s arms like a sleepy puppy, rumbling in his throat.

  “Hey,” Jack said softly. “You’re not bratty, you know. You’re wonderful.”

  Channon lifted his head, his eyes round and owlish. “I know. I mean, except sometimes. A bit.”

  “No, never.” Jack stroked his hair, willing Channon to understand. “I don’t want you to stop teasing me. I like it when you do that. It makes me feel like you’re happy, being mine.”

  “I am,” Channon said, his eyes widening even further. “Sir, did you think I wasn’t?”

  “No. But it’s good to be reassured. And I’ve asked so much of you. I like knowing you feel comfortable enough to tease me. That you’re not afraid of me, or of making me angry.”

  Channon’s smile was soft. He pushed himself up, and bent his neck to kiss Jack on the mouth. “I’m not afraid of you, Sir. You’d never hurt me more than I can take.”

  Something in Jack’s chest unclenched, something he hadn’t realized he’d been holding so tight. “I’m so glad, sweetheart. I want you to be happy.”

  Channon kissed him again, sweet and gentle and everything J
ack wanted. “I am, Sir,” he said, and it sounded like he meant it.

  Chapter Three

  “Bags the window!” Ewan yelled, darting across the room to dump his luggage beside the bed farthest from the door.

  Channon let him, not caring where he slept. It was one night away from Jack. Nothing was really going to make up for the ‘away from Jack’ part.

  “This place is flash,” Ewan said, though he made it sound like an insult. He bounced up onto the bed, flopping on his back. “Eh?”

  “I guess,” Channon said. There were two beds, made up in tasteful gray and white, a kitchenette, a TV, a breakfast nook and a teeny balcony with an outdoor setting on it, and so on. There was abstract art on the walls, tastefully understated. It was a nice hotel room, sure, but it wasn’t exactly ‘flash’. Then again, Channon was probably comparing it to the hotel Jack had booked for them in Paris, and that wasn’t really fair. “I mean, sure.”

  Ewan rolled his eyes. “Oh, aye? Not good enough for you, mister fancy pants?”

  “You like my pants,” Channon said, checking his pockets. “Are you coming? Or did you talk me into coming to this thing just so you can play hooky?”

  “We could play hookers,” Ewan suggested, spreading his legs and waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

  Channon snorted. “Yeah, no. I don’t have permission for that.”

  “Crying shame, that is,” Ewan sighed, but he rolled to his feet and grabbed his satchel off the floor. “Come on, then. Let’s go listen to dreary old fuckers bang on about the future.”

  “This was your idea,” Channon said, as they made their way down to the registration desk. “You begged me to come. You don’t get to act like I bullied you into this.”