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Chapter One
If Jack Nash were to list the many pleasures of having a handsome, obedient boy at his beck and call, showing him off would be in the top ten. Clothed, naked, bound in rope—Jack loved to put Channon somewhere people could admire him knowing that he belonged entirely to Jack.
Of course, Jack had a voyeuristic streak a mile wide, so this was hardly surprising. That Channon did not, and found being on display deeply embarrassing, only made Jack’s enjoyment of it all the sweeter.
“Arms up,” Jack said, running his hands over Channon’s sides. Channon did as he was told, of course. Jack continued winding rope around his chest and checking the tension as he went. He ran a line in front and came around to smile at Channon. “Comfortable?”
Channon nodded. “Yes, Sir.” His gaze flickered from Jack’s face to his own reflection in the wide glass of their bedroom mirror and back again, as if the sight of himself being tied up was too dangerous to look at for long.
He did look lovely. Normally when they did this, Channon would be naked, but tonight he was dressed to go out in black slacks and a fitted, black button-up. Jack was tying the rope over his clothes so it would be visible. Where they were going tonight, it wouldn’t be out of place at all.
Jack had chosen to bind Channon in a hishi karada—a basic diamond-patterned body harness. For contrast, he’d chosen a length of moss green jute (matching Channon’s eyes) and another in gold (matching Jack’s tie) to create a symmetrical, alternating pattern. Now he tied off the karada in the back and wove the ends in to keep them out of the way.
“Arms down,” he said, picking up Channon’s collar. He tapped Channon’s shoulder with two fingers, and Channon went obediently to his knees.
From the floor, he looked up at Jack with a hopeful, almost innocent smile. He was a handsome young man, all of twenty years old, with strong shoulders and thick-muscled thighs. His dark hair and pale, sun-shy skin put Jack in mind of a young Henry Cavill circa The Count of Monte Cristo.
And Jack loved him very much.
“Good boy,” he said, smoothing a hand over Channon’s hair. He buckled the collar around Channon’s neck. The collar was strong, black leather with brass D-rings and a solid buckle. Jack fastened it and, as always, checked the fit. Channon had been wearing this collar for two years now, and the tongue of the buckle dropped easily into its well-worn hole, but Jack checked anyway. He liked to be thorough. Who knew? Channon might have bulked up.
He was certainly muscular. One of his chores was to keep up the fitness regime Jack had approved for him. This was not solely for aesthetic purposes; it was one of the many ways in which Jack reminded Channon what they had agreed to, who Jack was to him, and to whom Channon belonged.
Because Jack was Channon’s Sir, and Channon was Jack’s boy, and what was between them was special, almost sacred. For Channon, reminders of his position with regard to Jack were a kind of worship, which was exactly how Jack liked it.
Jack smiled, picking up another length of jute. “Are you excited about tonight, sweetheart?”
“Yes, Sir,” Channon said, sitting on his heels and resting his hands, palm up, on his knees. He seemed perfectly comfortable on the floor at Jack’s feet. “Are you?”
“It should be interesting,” Jack said, as he began to knot and cord a leash. “Nate and Ewan are going to be there. What do you think the chances are that Ewan will cause a scene?”
“Sir,” Channon said in a low protest. “That was one time.”
It had been only one time, but what a time. Nate had dragged Ewan off by his hair to discipline him loud enough they could be heard from outside the house. And sure, later Nate had told Jack that Ewan had been given special permission to act up that day for exactly that purpose, but Jack was always conscious that Ewan might do it again.
If he were honest with himself, it was because he wasn’t sure how he would handle it if Channon ever got the same idea. Once upon a time, with a different sub, Jack would simply have shut it down. With Jack, bratty behavior got you cut off. It wasn’t a punishment; it was a hard limit. Jack wasn’t interested in playing with someone who wanted to defy him. That Nate enjoyed it puzzled him, but then again Nate had always been a touch more sadistic than Jack and relished an opportunity to dispense painful correction.
With Channon, things weren’t as simple anymore. Jack loved him far too much to just cut him off. Still, if Channon started to get bratty…
Jack frowned. There were some punishments he knew Channon would hate, but in reality, the worst thing Jack could ever do to him would be to say, I’m disappointed in you. This behavior is unacceptable. That was the relationship they had. Channon was good and Jack took care of him, and in between they did some very kinky things, to their mutual satisfaction.
He reassured himself that Channon would never act out like that. That wasn’t in Channon’s nature. And Ewan? Well, Ewan wasn’t Jack’s problem.
He looped the leash through the D-ring at Channon’s throat and tugged it, wrapping it around his hand until his fist was hard up under Channon’s chin. Channon swayed into the grip, his tongue coming out to wet his lip, eyes bright with anticipation. Jack ran a thumb over that lip and smiled.
“Let’s go, sweetheart.”
?
The Ball and Chain was a ramshackle old theater out on Parliament Street that had been part of the Santa Rita kink scene since the seventies. The owner was a friend of Mr White’s and sometimes hosted kink shows that skirted the boundaries of what was both legal and moral. But tonight there wasn’t anything particularly risqué going on, just some predicament bondage with a side of impact play. The stage had been set up with a suspension frame, a stool, and a table bearing a number of interesting items. Jack tried to guess what might be coming by the tools laid out, and then gave himself up to the mystery of it. He ushered Channon to the front of the stage, one hand in the small of Channon’s back, the end of the leash wrapped around it.
The audience area was mostly made up of rows of theater seating, but at the front there were several wide, vintage couches. Jack had reserved two, and Nate had already taken one, sitting on the inside end with Ewan in his lap.
They were an unexpected couple, Jack thought. Nate was effortlessly handsome, with all that untamed gold hair and lazy stubble. He was dressed in leather tonight, sky-high fuck-me boots and trousers with a lot of intriguing zippers. Somehow, everything he wore looked good on him in a way Jack envied a little. Nate seemed not to care. Was that his secret? Lack of fucks to give?
Ewan, meanwhile, looked like trouble. He had black liner smeared around his eyes, and the collar he wore tonight wasn’t his play collar but a viciously spiked thing more suitable for a punk club than a kink club. He was wearing skinny jeans and a tank top, although ‘wearing’ was perhaps an overstatement in the case of the tank—it hung off him, cut in a way that made it seem about to fall off at any moment to expose his pale, fragile chest. He looked, in short, disheveled and dangerous.
Jack inhaled, exhaled, and reminded himself that he was ‘being nice’ to Ewan.
