Size Matters Page 5

  “Looks like you’ve got things under control,” Tom said, briskly professional now it was nominally over.

  “I can handle Channon.” Jack eyed him, assessing his mood. “You going to join us for some cartoons and hot chocolate? There’s marshmallows.”

  Tom shook his head. “I’d better get going. Thanks for the invite.”

  It was a pity, but Jack understood. Channon was his. For Tom, who didn’t keep a submissive of his own anymore, it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t possibly be.

  So Jack saw him out, and tucked Channon into a blanket on the sofa, held close against his chest. Channon turned his face into Jack’s throat, nuzzling him sleepily, and Jack kissed his hair because he could.

  Perfect boy. Even when he broke a rule he did it perfectly, so contrite and willing to suffer to be forgiven. Jack couldn’t ask for more, and he never would. He had everything he wanted, right here.

  Chapter Four

  It was the humiliation of it that hurt the most. Channon felt like he’d embarrassed himself and Jack in front of company, and the thought of it made him cringe inside.

  No, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was what Jack must think of him now.

  Coming without permission was one thing. It was something else entirely to come on someone else’s cock. And why? Because it had been too much to take, and Channon couldn’t handle it.

  He shuddered, hunched down at his desk and willing none of his workmates to ask if he was okay. Why did this have to happen to him? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about it? What was so special about it anyway? It didn’t mean anything, it was just an accident, it was just—

  Just that he’d always had a thing for Jack’s cock. Just the size of it, the way it opened him up, the way he felt skewered on it, pinned under Jack’s weight, open for him and only him in a way he wasn’t for anyone else. He’s always thought of Jack as big, almost too big for him, but was that just how it had been in the beginning? When Channon was a virgin and Jack’s cock had seemed like the biggest thing in the world?

  Now he’d had bigger and he felt…God, he’d messed up everything.

  What if Jack thought he had a fetish now? What if Jack thought he wasn’t enough for him anymore? What if…what if Jack thought he was thinking about Mr Lockwood’s cock or, or anything like that?

  The thought of it paralyzed him. He found himself plodding through the week in a daze, taking forever to resolve his tickets. He tried to focus but every time he did the thought of Jack’s disappointment in him intruded. It gave him a headache. He felt dull and listless, like all the energy had been sapped out of him.

  Tuesday was the indie game dev meetup. He desperately didn’t want to go, but worse than that he didn’t want Ewan asking him why he didn’t want to go, so he went anyway.

  This proved to be a mistake.

  “So,” Ewan said, dropping a fruity cocktail and a fruity mocktail on the table he’d grabbed away from everyone else. “I heard you went home with Tom-the-schlong on Saturday.”

  “He came home with us,” Channon clarified, knowing his ears were turning red and unable to anything about it.

  Ewan grinned in an awful way. “So? Did you?”

  ‘Did I what?’ was definitely not going to stop Ewan from saying it out loud, so Channon hissed at him, “Yeah, I did, stop asking me about it!”

  That didn’t work either. Ewan just looked impressed. “The whole thing?”

  Channon pretended to be examining his mocktail. “It’s not that big.”

  “Uh…yeah it fucking is,” Ewan argued, leaning his chin in one hand to frown at Channon like this was a reasonable conversation to be having in a cafe bar. “It’s a monster.”

  “Fine.” Channon glared at him, willing him to catch a clue or on fire, whichever was easiest. “I took the whole thing. It was huge. Are you done?”

  “Is that why you’ve been sitting funny this week?”

  Ugh, he was awful. “No, that was…um. There was other stuff.”

  Ewan gave him a patient look, like he could wait all night.

  “I don’t ask you about what you and Nate do,” Channon protested.

  Immediately he regretted it. “On Saturday? Cock and ball torture. You wouldn’t like it,” Ewan added, almost kindly. “It was fucking awful.”

  “But you like it,” Channon clarified.

  Ewan nodded smugly, sucking up a mouthful of pink cocktail through a bendy-straw. “Love it. So, you took Tom’s monster cock, and there was other stuff?”

  There was nothing else for it. Channon confessed. He did it as clinically as he could: Yes, he’d sucked Tom’s cock. Yes, Tom had fucked him. Yes, he’d liked it. Too much. He’d messed up and been flogged for it. And then…‘painted’ was the euphemism Ewan suggested. They’d painted him. With come.

  He stared into his drink, willing Ewan to leave it alone.

  Ewan did not leave it alone. “Why are you so miserable about it if you liked it so much?”

  “Because! I didn’t mean to. And…” he couldn’t say it. How could he say it? “And I don’t want Jack to be mad about it.”

  “He’s already been mad about it.” Ewan wrinkled his nose. “That’s not it.”

  It wasn’t it. Channon didn’t know how he could explain.

  If Jack thought Channon preferred Mr Lockwood he’d be hurt. Channon didn’t want that. And he didn’t know how to explain he didn’t feel that way when everything had happened the way it had. He felt guilty. That guilt had to mean something, didn’t it?

  “Listen, Jack’s not…” Ewan trailed off, frowning sharply. “I mean, you know what I think of him.”

  Channon glared at him. “Yeah. You don’t trust him.”

  “Whatever. I guess I do trust him to be Jack about it, and I’m dead certain that if you go tell him whatever it is you’re freaking out about it won’t be near as bad as you’re making it.” Ewan offered Channon one of his cherries. “Just talk to him about it?”

  Channon accepted the cherry. “Like you’d do, if it was you.”

  Ewan wrinkled his nose. “Fuck no. But you’re the good one. You have to do the right thing.”

  The trouble was, he was right.

  ❧

  Channon let it fester for the rest of the week. He almost convinced himself that it wasn’t a big deal, that nothing was wrong, that he was in fact fine. He ate dinner with Jack, watched a YouTube series on the heat death of the universe with Jack, spent an evening kneeling at Jack’s feet while Jack researched something that may or may not have been work related, lay still for Jack as Jack massaged arnica into his bruises. He listened to Jack talk about his day, dressed Jack for work, undressed Jack after work, helped Jack pick out suit fabrics from a sample book Jack’s tailor had sent. He lay awake in the morning watching Jack sleep, watching the rise and fall of his chest and feeling something tighten inside him with every breath.

  He loved Jack. He loved Jack intensely. He never wanted anything to change and he never wanted Jack to think he wasn’t enough. He was more than enough. How could Channon ask for more than this?

  And yet. This was something Jack couldn’t give him. Just this one thing, and Channon hated that he knew now that there was something Jack couldn’t do. If only he’d never known about it in the first place. If only he could have gone on, blissfully ignorant.

  He didn’t even want it. It wasn’t like he was craving it, like he lay awake dreaming of Mr fucking Lockwood. Not even just his cock; he really didn’t want that, but now he knew and he knew Jack had seen his response to it.

  Was Jack upset? Channon couldn’t tell. He wanted nothing in the world so much as for Jack to be happy with him and them and their life together. He never wanted Jack to feel like there was something he couldn’t give Channon that Channon actually wanted.

  Because he knew how that felt. It had been months since France, since Jack had taken him to a sex club and that French guy had suggested Jack might like to fuck his wife. Months for Channon to think about why he
hated the idea of it, why the thought of Jack with anyone else was bad but the thought of a woman made Channon’s gut ache with this terrible, awful pain. Why he was terrified that, eventually, it would be a woman who took Jack’s attention away from him.

  A woman could give Jack something Channon couldn’t, after all. It just wasn’t physically possible.

  And now there was something Jack couldn’t give him, and it hurt to think that Jack might view it in the same way because, sure, it was true, but Channon didn’t need that. He didn’t want that. He could go without it ever again if it meant Jack would never know the kind of hurt Channon felt when he thought about Jack, and the future, and what Jack might want for his life one day.

  But Jack had seen it already, and Channon could not lie to him. Eventually it would come out. It was inevitable.

  He tried not to think about it but it kept coming back when he wasn’t vigilant enough, and he woke the following Saturday in a panic that sent him out of bed and to the kitchen to pace, dreading the moment Jack came downstairs because Jack would know something was wrong at once.

  He busied himself making Jack’s breakfast. Egg-white omelet and chia-seed toast, unsweetened coffee, an orange in segments, a small dish of coconut yogurt and granola, fresh berries in a bowl. He was just finishing the eggs when he heard the thud of Jack’s feet on the stairs, and steeled himself against letting anything slip.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said, rounding the corner into the kitchen. “Is that for me?”

  He was mussed and gorgeous, his dark hair sticking up in tufts. His voice was husky with sleep and his eyes lazily half-lidded. Shirtless and barefoot, in just a pair of thin sweats, he radiated heat, and now he pulled Channon against him, kissing Channon’s neck and squeezing him close.

  “Mmmm, you smell like coffee.”

  Channon wriggled out of his grip and presented him with the cup. “Colombian light roast, Sir.”

  “Thanks.” Jack took the cup to the table, eyeing the breakfast spread with some interest. “This doesn’t look like enough for two people, Channon.”

  It wasn’t. Channon hung his head. “I’m good, Sir.” He didn’t deserve breakfast. He felt too rotten to eat, anyway.

  Jack and sat down. “Pity. I’d have liked to feed you this morning. But if you’ve already eaten…”

  Channon didn’t confirm or deny it. All he said was, “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  But Jack was already digging into his omelet, and he looked pleased with it. He summoned Channon down to the floor by his feet and petted Channon’s hair. It made Channon feel worse. He needed to say something. He needed to tell Jack. It pressed on him like a stack of boulders, a crushing weight that could only destroy him in the end. But was it worse not to tell?

  What if Jack really thought he preferred Mr Lockwood? The idea of it was awful. Jack wouldn’t. Would he?

  “I thought we could go to Framerate today,” Jack said. “I got an invite from Anthony from Glowstick Games. Would you like that?”

  Channon swallowed the lump in his throat. “If you want to, Sir.” Framerate was a local apps and mobile gaming convention. Channon had considered going, but Ewan had turned up his nose at it so he hadn’t had anyone to go with. If Jack wanted to, though.

  “It’s been a while since I went to a con,” Jack said. “Should be fun. Plus, we’ve got VIP passes, so we don’t have to wait in any queues,” he added because of course.

  Channon nodded. “Okay, Sir. Um. What do you want me to wear?”

  “Whatever you like. It’s just a convention. Unless you’ve got a cosplay up your sleeve,” Jack teased, petting his hair. “I’m trying to imagine what you’d cosplay.”

  Channon didn’t know. He’d never really wanted to dress up as anyone from a video game. Unless it meant space armor. And even then, it wasn’t his thing. “Whatever you wanted, Sir.”

  This seemed to please him, and then he told Channon to put the dishes in the washer and get ready to go.

  Channon did as he was told, and tried not to think about the worm of worry in his gut. He could ignore it. He had to.

  ❧

  The convention passed in a blur. Jack took him to meet some people whose names he couldn’t remember, but he had their business cards. Some of them looked at his match-three game, and some of them looked at the water puzzle he’d been working on with Ewan for laughs. Jack introduced him and did most of the talking, but Channon tried his best to be polite and friendly and enthusiastic when he was feeling anything but. It was a mask he’d learned to put on when he needed it, just a face for these strangers, something to hide behind. He’d used to hide behind stupidity, a sort of thick jock act that deflected questions, but these days that didn’t work. Jack refused to let him be stupid, even if he was partly pretending. Jack wanted him to be smart, and Channon found that while he wasn’t exactly what he thought of as smart, he could do bright and friendly easy enough.

  He thought he’d got away with it right up until Marco came to pick them up in the car, and he caught Jack watching him thoughtfully across the back seat.

  Crap. Channon tried to deflect. “Thanks for taking me to the convention,” Channon said. “It was great.”

  “It was business,” Jack said, still taking Channon apart with his eyes. “Don’t forget to email each of those people to thank them on Monday.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Channon said.

  The silence stretched out between them. Channon felt it reach into his chest and squeeze. It was like a cage, trapping him in a space too small for his body. He hated it.

  And then the warm pressure of Jack’s palm settled heavy on the back of his hand. He glanced up, startled.

  Jack smiled. “Hey, sweetheart.” He sounded so affectionate it stuck in Channon’s throat. “We’re almost home.”

  It promised so much. Channon let go of a breath. It would be okay. Jack would take care of everything and it would be fine.

  As soon as they got in, Channon knelt down to take Jack’s shoes. Jack allowed it, resting a hand on Channon’s head while he was down there, holding him in place.

  “Is there something you want to tell me, sweetheart?” he asked. He said it low, and it had the shape of a question but Channon knew what it really was.

  “Yes, Sir,” Channon said, anxiety knotting up at the base of his skull.

  Jack’s hand was gentle on his hair, carding his fingers slowly through. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Channon breathed out, and tried to let the tension go with it. “It’s about…last weekend.”

  “I thought it might be.” Jack sounded sad, but the motion of his hand didn’t change, still soothing. “Were we too harsh on you?”

  “No.” Channon’s head came up in a snap. That wasn’t it at all. “I mean…no, Sir. It wasn’t…not too much, Sir. Not enough, maybe.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  This was the hard bit. “Because…I messed up.”

  “Last time you messed up like that you got corner time and a light spanking,” Jack said, his tone teasing. “We gave you a lot more than that.”

  “Last time it wasn’t in front of anyone,” Channon protested. “I messed up in front of company, and I…I don’t want you to think you can’t trust me, Sir. I want you to trust me.” Trust him to be good, to be well behaved, to be a perfect host, to do whatever Jack needed him to do. Channon needed Jack to believe in him, not to doubt him. He needed to be reliable. He needed—

  “Channon, I trust you to be exactly what you are.” Jack caught Channon’s jaw in his hands, forcing him to meet Jack’s eye. “I trust you to do your best. You don’t need to get it right every time, I just need you to try. And I need to know that if I ask you if you can take more and you say yes that you aren’t saying it because you think that’s what I want to hear. I do not want to hurt you worse than you can handle. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course, Sir. That’s not…I mean, I know that. I just…” Channon bit his lip, unsure how he was
supposed to say this. “It’s not about that. It’s because I…because I couldn’t control it and it just happened. I didn’t mean to like it so much, and I’m sorry, it just…I don’t…”

  Jack shushed him, his eyes gone wide and dark. “Hey, hey, sweetheart. Calm down.” He gave Channon a little shake. “Just breathe in. And out.” Channon did, his mind racing with all the things he couldn’t say out loud. “Now. You’re sorry. Because you couldn’t control it. When you came, right?”

  Channon nodded, miserable but unable to deny it.

  “Because you liked it so much.”

  Channon nodded again, hating this intensely.

  “What did you like? Was it Tom?”

  Was it? No, not Tom, just…“No, not really. Just…”

  Jack’s mouth shifted into the shadow of a smile. “Just his big fat cock, right?” He said it low and dirty and Channon couldn’t help the rush of blood to his face. He nodded, just a little, and Jack made a pleased sound in his throat. “Yeah, you loved that, didn’t you? Did you feel full, sweetheart? Was it hitting you just right, rubbing you the right way?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Channon admitted, hot and fluttery just thinking about it.

  But Jack didn’t seem angry or hurt by it. Instead he licked his lips, his eyes fixed on Channon. “Yeah? You liked being fucked by a big cock? Something too big to handle?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Channon whispered.

  “I liked seeing it. I liked seeing you stretched open for him, taking all of that cock like a good boy.” He chuckled. “And then you came on it, like a bad boy, and you looked so sorry. It was beautiful.”

  Channon couldn’t take it. “But Sir, I shouldn’t! I shouldn’t like it like that.”

  Jack blinked. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s wasn’t your cock,” Channon said, the words blurting out of him in a rush before he could hold them back. Immediately he regretted it, couldn’t bear to think of Jack’s face, of looking him in the eye to see his hurt expression.

  But Jack just said, “What’s wrong with that?” and he sounded confused, not angry, and Channon just stared at him.