4

-North-

IS ITweird that I'm in his house without him? Yeah. I feel so out of place here.

So what the hell was that about? I'm almost past trying to figure him out, but every time he does something that confuses me, I'm drawn right back in again. He's like the world's most confusing, infuriatingly sexy puzzle.

This place is stupidly big, and it takes me a while of wandering around and opening random doors that lead to more stylishly sterile rooms until I find a bathroom. He's got one of those fancy rainfall showers because of course he does. I strip out of my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and let out a groan as I step in. The hot water runs over my body and melts my stiff muscles. It feels great on my oversensitive dick, too, easing its ache a little. With the temp turned up to scalding, steam billows out and fills the room like a sauna.

On the side is a whole pharmacy of bottles. How many different shampoos does one guy need? The image of Malcolm, this big, hulking, grumpy looking dude, coming in here and pampering himself is kinda funny, and I grin. I pick through them and try a shower gel that's scented with lemongrass and mint. Popping the lid, I take a sniff. Mmm, fresh. Much nicer than the dollar store one-bottle-does-all stuff I have.

I use a healthy dollop and then pick through the bottles again, selecting some things at random and trying them out. I have to admit I'm enjoying the luxury. If this is part of the package, I could get used to it.

As I indulge, I ache to slip my hand around the cock cage and touch myself through the bars, but Mal wouldn't want that, so I keep my hands away, only washing over the area with quick movements. Even that is enough to make me shudder and bite my lip.

After a good long soak, I towel off. He told me to be naked, so I don't bother getting dressed, although it feels weird as hell being naked in someone else's house when they're not there. Like some kind of weird voyeur or something. But, embarrassingly, it's naughty enough to be arousing as hell. It feels like that perfect balance of dangerous and naughty, that's sexy as hell.

I put on the collar, my heart skipping as I fasten it, and go wait in the living room for him to return. But I'm twitchy and restless, and two minutes later I decide to use the opportunity while Mal's away to wander around the house. My time here so far has only been spent in a few rooms. So I wander around, opening doors and snooping. It's all pretty sparse, like a fancy hotel. No personal touches, like photos. It could be fresh out of a catalog.

Upstairs I poke into all of the bedrooms, even though I know they'll be just like the one I slept in. I try to convince myself that it's because I'm interested in all of them, but really, I know what I'm doing. I'm looking for Mal's bedroom. Because I'm a nosy fucker and I want to see what it's like, dammit.

I'm starting to think that his room might actually be one of the empty ones I assumed was spare, and he really is a soulless vampire, but then I open the door directly opposite the one I stayed in last night. Unlike all of the other rooms in the house, this one feels like it's been lived in. Jackpot.

I feel like I've discovered the forgotten tomb of Tutankhamen. There must be answers in here to the puzzle of Malcolm Blackwood, and my fingers itch to rummage through his things. But, even though I want to go charging in, I hesitate on the threshold. This is Mal's bedroom. There's a line that I'm about to cross. He's never actually told me not to go in his room, but, come on, this is Mal. His favorite color is probably top-secret information. This is his private space. But I want, no I need, to know more. It's an uncontrollable urge that I can't ignore any more than I could a hungry tummy.

Holding my breath, I step in. No alarms go off, a hidden trap doesn't fall from the ceiling, the walls don't sprout spikes and start to close in. I look around. It's the only room in the house with any personality other than "rich luxury." The first thing to catch my eye is an orchid on the table in front of the window, the leaves shiny and green, with pale purple flowers sprouting along its stem. I don't know much about orchids, but it looks healthy. Ok, didn't have him down as a plant guy.

There's a pile of books stacked on the floor by the bed, judging by the spines, mostly sci-fi titles. I recognize a few bestsellers in there. I don't know why but I always imagined he'd read physics textbooks for entertainment, or, I don't know, ancient memoirs. Not space operas. Interesting. I check the side table and almost lose my mind at what I find there; a pair of glasses. I stare at them. They're thick-rimmed in that stylish but nerdy kinda of way. Mal wears glasses? I pick them up like they might explode and hold them to my eyes, squinting through them. Holy shit, he's blind as hell. So does he wear contacts most of the time? Or is he just really good at guessing where everything is? They clink gently as I put them back, head spinning. This is revolutionary. I'm starting to think that Mal might be a bit of . . . a nerd. Mind blown.

Behind the glasses is a photo in a frame. The expression on the kid's face is so different I don't recognize it's him at first. But the more I look the more I realize they're the same. The same dark hair, pale skin, and dark brown eyes, and that nose that I didn't notice until right this second was cute. He's smiling shyly, head ducked, in a way I would never imagine Malcolm doing. He looks like he's about twelve maybe? And he's holding something in his hand that looks like a tiny trophy cup, like the ones they give away at kids' races.

Next to him, wearing big round glasses and classic mom jeans, is a woman with the same dark hair, but hers is curly, not poker straight like Mal's. And her eyes are a bright, almost startling blue, instead of brown. She looks tired, but happy, smiling away, and the way she's standing slightly behind him with her arms spread makes it look like she's presenting young Mal to the camera in a proud "look at this kid" kind of way.

I frown. Mal's never said anything about his family, all I know is that his dad is rich as hell. It's hard to tell her age, but is this his mom? Or an older sister maybe?

Something catches the light behind the photo, drawing my attention. A small cheap looking golden cup. It must be the one in the photo. I pick it up and read the inscription on the base:

1ST PLACE

GALA DAY FUN RUN

UNDER 15'S

Ok, none of this is answering any questions, it's just giving me more! What happened to make him so different from the kid in this picture? Who is this lady? And why has he kept a crappy award from a kids' race?

From downstairs the front door bangs and I jump, nearly knocking everything on the side table over. Shit, he's back. Heart racing, I make sure everything's where I found it, and hurry out of the room, easing the door closed behind me.

Mal's in the hallway downstairs, pink-cheeked and out of breath, his hair and clothes sticking to him with sweat. He looks like he's just run a marathon. I hover on the stairs, feeling a bit vulnerable and utterly ridiculous standing here completely naked wearing nothing but a collar and a cock cage. And when I'm feeling weird, I joke.

"Honey, you're home!" I say cheerfully.

He stares up at me, completely deadpan. Not even the hint of a smile. Yeesh.

He clears his throat and pulls his running shoes off. "From now on, when you're in my house I expect you to be wearing the collar at all times, and I expect you to be naked unless I tell you otherwise."

It's impossible to hide the full-body flush that sweeps across me at his commanding tone.

"Ok."

He straightens. "Now come here and get down on your knees."

My knees almost give way. I do as he says, lowering myself at his feet, and he clips the leash onto my collar and makes me crawl behind him into the front room. He takes a seat on a deep comfy chair, positioning me on my knees between his legs, so my face is inches away from his crotch, still wearing his sweaty running gear. I hold myself as still as I can, eager with the anticipation of what he's going to make me do.

He watches me for a moment, then picks up a book from the side table, turns it to the bookmark, and starts to read, completely ignoring me. The spine says Culture and Anarchy, not the sci-fi I now know he reads. That's interesting.

I kneel here. Am I supposed to be doing something? He would have told me if he wanted me to do something. I fidget, uneasy. What if he expects me to know what to do? Am I supposed to be sucking him off? I reach for his fly, but he pushes my hand away.

"Stay still."

Okay? My knees start to ache. I'm just kneeling here staring at the bulge in his pants, completely naked while he reads. Is he even going to do anything to me? By the time he shifts in his seat and puts the book down, I'm struggling to stay on my aching knees, flushed with embarrassment, and almost desperate for his attention. My head snaps up like a dog as he unzips his fly and gets his half-hard dick out, an inch from my nose. The musky smell of his sweat hits my nose and my mouth waters instinctively. He's going to get me to suck off his sweaty dick and it's utterly humiliating.

He taps his dick against my jaw.

"Open up," he says, and when I obediently open my mouth, he slides it between my lips. The tang of sweat fills my mouth and nose, all-enveloping. I grunt and start to suck, but he grabs the back of my neck.

"I didn't tell you to suck me off. Keep still. I just want to keep my cock warm with your mouth."

I stop, shooting him a confused look with my lips stretched around him. So what, he just wants me to kneel here with his dick sitting in my mouth? That's even more humiliating than having to suck him off like this—he isn't even using me for pleasure. My mouth is just some sort of glorified cock snug. I breathe steadily through my nose, each forced breath a lungful of him, and concentrate on keeping still and not running my tongue along the warm length of his shaft. It's surprisingly hard, I ache to be allowed to swallow around him and pleasure him until he blows his load in my mouth. I look up at him pleadingly, but he just picks up his book again and starts reading. Another red-hot flush of humiliation and I squirm as my cock tries to fill. This is going to be torture if I don't clear my mind. I think about all the things I want him to let me do. Top of my list is come. But I can't until he allows it. It's almost comforting to have the choice taken out of my hands.

"Finger yourself."

The command catches me off guard and I look up at him again. He's lowered the book and is watching me with those dark, wolf eyes. My stomach drops, and I reach around and press my fingers to my asshole. I grunt quietly around his half-hard cock as I push one finger inside, closing my eyes for a moment as the sensitive muscle gives. I stare up at him while I ease my fingers in and out of my hole, breathing faster as I keep my lips stretched around his dick. It hardens in my mouth, pushing back until it brushes on the back of my tongue.

He puts the book down completely and watches me, his face completely blank. I can tell he's enjoying it, but his cold hard exterior, the look of indifference for me as I finger myself for him, makes me squirm and press my fingers in harder.

"Turn around," he says. "I want to see you working that tight hole."

I pull off his cock, now solid and glistening with my spit. Supporting my weight on one arm, I turn. With my ass displayed for him, I fuck my fingers into my hole with shameful vigor, whimpering as they drag against my rim. I need more, I'm so fucking turned on. My balls hang low between my legs, aching with the pent-up need to release. It's the second time I've had fingers up my ass today, and it's not even lunchtime.

"That's right. Put another finger in."

I want to look back at him, to see what his face looks like. I add another, stretching myself out and rocking my hips.

"Good boy. Do you want your hole filled?"

The offer has my heart racing as I continue to pump my fingers into myself.

"Yes," I gasp.

"Earn it," he says. "Fuck yourself with your fingers. I want to see you dripping in your cage."

I groan and push in as hard and fast as I can. It's an awkward angle like this on my hands and knees, I can't get them in as far as I need to. I push back with my hips, taking my fingers into my starving hole as much as I can, whimpering, until finally I hit the spot and shudder. My cock is throbbing between my thighs, growing damp, as I work the same spot deep inside me, until finally a bead of fluid drips from the tip of the cage.

"Stop," Mal commands.

I moan and pull my fingers out, feeling painfully empty, and my asshole clenches around nothing, desperate to be filled. I grit my teeth at the helpless arousal rushing through me.

CRACK

His hand comes down on my ass hard, making my whole body jump, and I whimper at the hot burning pain stinging my cheeks.

"Good boy."

Fuck. Is it possible to die from being ridiculously and shamefully turned on? Because if it is, I'm a goner.