6

-Malcolm-

NORTH'S HEADswivels as the shop assistant leads us into a plush changing room, with comfortable padded chairs, a side table of refreshments, and mirror-lined walls. I take a seat, legs crossed, and he stands in the middle, looking unsure of himself. I'm not surprised. He's probably never set foot anywhere this expensive before, and the decor is hardly subtle.

The shop assistant hooks up the clothes I've picked out and leaves us to it, not even throwing us a questioning look. Well-paid staff know not to ask questions.

North inspects the gold lining around the mirror closest to him. "Well, this is a nice place. Is this where you buy all your socks and jocks?"

I huff a breath of amusement out of my nose. "Take your clothes off," I say.

He looks over at me and I can't tell if he's hesitant or amused. I don't like it when he isn't easy to read. I want to know what he's thinking at all times.

"Are you going to join in?" he asks.

"You're the one with no decent clothes."

He snorts and strips off, until he's fully naked under the bright lights, his image reflected on all sides and all angles. His cock hangs between his legs, already half-hard. I'm allowing him some time free of the cage because he did so well in his training.

He stands with his shoulders back and head tilted slightly, going for cocky, but I can see the awkward tension he's holding in the line of his lips. He has no reason to be self-conscious; his body is perfect. The bright lights pick out a smattering of freckles across his shoulders that I've never noticed before, and I want to press my finger to each one.

He tries on the clothes I've picked out for him one at a time; a selection of long-sleeved tops, button-up shirts, plain black and white T-shirts. Everything is basic, nothing so out of his comfort zone that he'd feel off wearing them, but they're all well-made—the cuts are astoundingly good on him. Seeing him in them fills me with a strange warm feeling that makes my cheeks prickle.

"I like that one," I say, as he slips on a pair of dark slim-fitting pants. "Turn around."

"They feel weird," he says as he fastens the fly.

"That's because you don't own anything that actually fits you properly. It looks good. Now show me the back."

He purses his lips but does a slow rotation. The fabric of the pants hugs his hips and cuts in around his butt, showing it off. These clothes suit him so much more than the baggy tops and mismatched pants he usually wears. They make him look older, more like the man he is, and accentuate his shoulders and slim waist. And, even better, he looks like he's mine.

He turns back to face me, looking for my approval.

"Try the sweater."

He wrinkles his face. "Really?"

I raise an eyebrow at his question and he rolls his eyes, slips it on over his head, and looks in the mirror. It suits him, but it's too different from his usual style. His face crinkles.

"I feel stupid," he says, then shrugs it off. "It'd look good on you though."

He tosses it to me, and I catch it instinctively, caught off guard.

"Give it a go."

For a moment I'm flustered. Did something just happen? I feel complimented and it makes me feel weird. I've had compliments before, obviously, but this is so . . . casual. Familiar. I stand up, sweater gripped in my hand.

"I'll try it on, if you put it on me."

He snorts, wrinkling his perfect nose. "You can't get yourself dressed?"

"I want you to do it."

"Fine."

He takes the sweater back, shakes it out, and holds it up. I thread my arms in and he pulls it over my head. I don't know why I asked him to do this, it makes me feel like a child being dressed clumsily by their parent. Not sexy.

I check out my reflection. My hair is a mess from the sweater, and I look ridiculous. The item isn't something I'd usually go for, too grandaddy for my tastes, and I only added it to the pile of clothes for North to try for the sake of variety. But he's right, it does look surprisingly good on me. Shame about the rest of me.

In the reflection, North stands next to me with his thumbs up, bright and vibrant as the sun in comparison.

"I told you, you look like a hot hipster. Now you just need a pair of round sunglasses."

"Ha, yeah."

I tug it off without thinking, and my top underneath rides up with it around my shoulders, exposing my back.

"How did you get that?"

I freeze. His words are like ice up my spine. "What?"

In the reflection he's staring at my back, his eyes fixed on the scar that runs across my shoulders. In a hurry I tear the sweater off, spin, and yank my top down, covering myself again, and his eyes come up to my face.

"That scar on your back."

My mind's racing and frozen all at once, and I can't think of a response that'll stop him from asking more questions. The seconds drag by.

"It doesn't matter," I manage to say eventually. My hands bundle the sweater up and throw it to one side.

North frowns, but he keeps on pressing. "It must have been something bad."

"I said it doesn't matter."

"Look, if it's something—"

I slap my hand over his mouth. "Stop. Talking," I hiss.

I need a moment to think, my head is buzzing and I need it to stop. I need to distract him because his eyes are confused and curious and concerned in a way that I cannot deal with. He doesn't try to pull away from my hand.

"Get on your knees," I say, almost by instinct.

His eyes widen above my hand and his skin heats.

"On your knees, Nolan!"

He does as I say, slowly lowering himself down. It's like he can't help but obey me. I follow him, keeping my hand in place. The sight of him calms me down a little, and the buzzing reduces. One slow breath. Two. Then I take my hand off his mouth.

"Don't say a word."

I take my belt off and wrap it around his neck, fastening it loosely into a makeshift collar with plenty of give. Choking him isn't my aim right now, but I can think of another way to keep his mouth busy.

I sit back down, holding the end of the makeshift lead.

"Crawl to me," I say.

He's fallen back into the subspace almost instantly, and he crawls over on his hands and knees, staring up at me. Once he's in place between my legs, a pull on the belt directs him toward my crotch. No other prompting is needed; he nuzzles in, nosing at my cock through the fabric of my pants.

Wasting no time, I unbuckle them and push them down my hips, revealing the bulge in my underwear.

"Take my cock out."

He shifts to bring his hands up.

"With your mouth."

His throat bobs as he swallows. He takes the waistband of my underwear in his teeth and tugs down. It's awkward, and he struggles with it for some time. As he's working it down I reach over and lift one of the silk ties from the rack next to me. He's too preoccupied to notice. With a grunt, he finally frees my full cock, and I let him get an eyeful for a few seconds before I snap the tie over his eyes. He jumps, caught off guard, and I tighten the tie around the back of his head into a makeshift blindfold. He makes a small noise that sounds both surprised and very turned on, and I wonder if anyone's ever blindfolded him during sex before.

I take another tie, pull his unresisting arms up over his head, and tie his wrists together to the back of the belt around his neck.

Now blind and unable to use his hands, I guide his head down to my dick with the belt, and his lips close around the tip, warm and wet.

As his head bobs, taking me inside, I slide my hand into the collar of his top, popping the buttons loose one at a time until his shirt hangs open. I find his nipple and start to rub it, and as he picks up speed, I pinch and flick, enjoying the way his moans vibrate around my cock.

For a guy who's apparently inexperienced with giving blow jobs, he's a fucking natural. Don't get me wrong, his technique is average, but he makes up for it with sheer blushing enthusiasm. He sucks my cock like it's the last meal he'll ever have, his brow creased with the desire he can't deny. His cheeks and ears are tipped with a delicious pink glow, embarrassed by his own need.

With his hands behind his back, he can't touch himself, and his hips start to thrust weakly in small, aborted movements. He isn't going to get any satisfaction like that. I lift my foot and grind it between his legs, feeling the solid length of his cock. He grunts and ruts against it.

"Good boy," I say, and he moans again.

The way he looks and the noises he makes are enough to push me to the edge in no time, and before long I twist my fingers into his hair, hips jerking into him. As I come, I twist his nipple hard, he moans around my dick, sending vibrating pleasure through me, and I spill into his mouth. He swallows around me, taking it all in, but despite his best efforts, some dribbles out of his lips and drips onto the leg of my trousers. I release his head and let him pull off, licking his swollen lips, then slide the makeshift blindfold off and point to the cum.

"Clean it up," I say.

His throat bobs, and then he licks it up, lapping it in one flat lick like a cat, looking up at me through his lashes. Fuck.

When I move my foot, the front of his pants are damp with precum. Shame, they looked so good on him. But I can always pick up another pair on the way out. I'll have to tip the assistant extra for ruining these ones.

As I tuck myself away, he watches from his place between my knees; flushed, hair messed, eyes heavy, full lips parted, shirt open, chest heaving, and nipples pink and erect. He looks completely fucked out of his mind.

And he's forgotten all about anything he wanted to ask me.

***

"Oh man, I'm hungry," North says.

We're halfway back to the car, and North has stopped to wave at people at least a dozen times, throwing out "hey bro"-s and "how's it hanging"-s like it's Mardi Gras. Who the hell has enough energy for that many friends?

"You only had breakfast a few hours ago," I say.

"Really? Geez, it feels like longer. And all I had for breakfast was that sloppy gunk you gave me."

I look at him, and he pulls a contrite face.

"Which was absolutely delicious and nutritious," he adds.

I hmm. I have a schedule for the day all planned out, but I can probably squeeze lunch in now if we don't take too long. And with all that bouncy golden retriever energy he has, he probably burns through calories like kerosene.

"OK, fine. Let's get some lunch."

He beams.

At the food court, I hand North a golden credit card. "Here."

He takes it, frowning.

"What's this for?"

"It's a card. You use it to buy things."

"Ha. But I can buy my own food," he says.

"I'm sure you can."

He rolls his eyes and walks off to inspect the food kiosks. Of course, he has to look at each one before he can make a choice. I grab a super-food salad, with balanced protein, fiber, and carbs, and take a seat at one of the round tables clustered in the middle, and he shows up a moment later with a loaded tray. He sets it down and I eye the contents.

"What's that?" I say.

"It's called food. You put it in your mouth and eat it," he says, echoing my words back at me.

Ha. I narrow my eyes at the loaded chili cheese fries, large shake, and onion rings. The food is so greasy the cardboard cartons they're in are practically see through.

"I told you I expect you to improve your diet while you're mine." He flushes at being called mine. I like that. "I'm going to have to punish you if you eat that."

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." For a moment he looks like he's considering his options, then slowly and deliberately, looking into my eyes, he takes a spoon and scoops a heaped load of chili, dripping with cheese sauce, into his mouth, drawing it out between his lips slowly like an overly sexual yogurt commercial.

"Oops."

I pull my lips down. "You're going to pay for that when we get back."

He winks at me. "Ok, daddy."

Suddenly it's very hard to keep a straight face. My mouth tightens with the need to curve upward. He's being disobedient. He's goading me. I should be annoyed. Especially that the idea of punishment doesn't deter him. But I'm not—instead, laughter prickles my throat. North has a way of working his way under my skin, and his attitude is infectious. Being around him makes me feel almost light-hearted at times. But that's often the case with charismatic people, it doesn't mean anything. It isn't a problem.

He doesn't notice my fraction of a smile though, as he twirls the spoon in his hand, distracted.

"So . . . why are you buying me clothes and lunch?" North asks. "How does this all fit in with your rigorous training regime?"

I purse my lips. "Because I like nice things. And since you're one of my things, I want you to look nice. Otherwise, people might think I'm hanging around with a hobo."

He rolls his eyes. "You're such an asshole."

"Did I ever give you any indication that I wasn't?"

It's fine if he thinks I'm an asshole. Keep things cold.

He shifts slightly. The remote to the plug is in my pocket. The power I have over him is intoxicating. His pleasure belongs to me. Which is probably why he wants to get a rise out of me. It's his defense mechanism. It must be strange for him to be dominated like this when he's so idolized in all other aspects of his life.

He looks away, fingers still fiddling. He wants to say something and he's building up the courage, so I just wait.

Finally, he speaks. "So, what are we exactly?" He gestures between us, chest to chest. "What is this?"

That's not what I'm expecting. I thought he understood the agreement between us. Has he been going along with it without fully understanding?

"You're not satisfied with our arrangement?"

"No, well, I mean, yeah the . . . sex," he looks around and mouths the word like an old woman. "The whole Dom/sub thing we've got going on, yeah. Great. Amazing. Ten out of ten, would recommend." He gives a nervous laugh. "But, I mean what are we personally? like, are we going out? Am I your boyfriend?" He flicks the straw again and drops his eyes. "Because, like, I'm cool with that if we are."

My reaction is visceral. I'm speechless for a moment, frozen in place, and then my ears start to buzz like he's poked the wasp nest inside my brain. An alarm sounds in my head, screaming at me to back away. There's danger ahead.

Where did this come from? He was just saying what an asshole I am, and now he's asking if we're boyfriends? Have I not made myself abundantly clear?

"No," I say. "No, I'm not your boyfriend." Just the word makes the panic rise up my chest and makes me want to throw up. "We are not going out. I'm not going to hold your hand and stroke your head while you make daisy chains. We are not going to go on moonlit walks along the beach or go horseback riding. I don't want to meet your parents, or go to your cousin's bar mitzvah, or come to your dad's fucking trailer park BBQ. I just want to fuck you. And I want you to do what I say. And if you have a problem with that, we can stop right now. This is sex, pure and simple. We're not boyfriends. We're not even friends."

It's only when I've finished that I realize I'm gripping the edge of the table, hard. My voice has risen to a shout, and he's leaning away, startled. People are glancing over at me. I clear my throat and sit back, running a hand through my hair, trying to steady my now-racing breath, unsure when it sped up so much.

Where did that come from? Why does North make me lose control so quickly? I'm like a hormonal teenager again around him, mood swings at the flip of a switch.

North's cheeks are red. He probably thinks I'm a psycho. The thought of him ending it again is almost as sickening as the word boyfriend.

Should I apologize? Would that look weak? But what if he leaves again?

Before I can figure out my next move, his face creases. Hurt and anger. He glares past my shoulder, not looking me in the face.

"All right. Jesus. I get it. There's no need to tear my fucking head off. It was only a question. If you fucking hate me so much why are we even here."

Have I fucked it up again? I should have known it was going too well. I clear my throat again, choosing the correct words. "North, I–"

"North?" someone calls, cutting me off.

We both look up.