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Brains Over Brawn
Chapter 12
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I stood naked on the doorstep and rang the bell.  I heard noisy footfalls clunking their way down a stairway within, and suddenly the door whipped open.  Jason Martin stood there with a cruel sneer.  "So Alex Cheswick's a fag?  Well, get the fuck in here, bitch!" he ordered, grabbing my arm and pulling me inside.  He unceremoniously shoved me and I sprawled into the floor just inside the door, which still gaped open, as I heard the sound of jeans being unfastened.  His body covered mine in a flash, and I felt the iron poker of his cock as it rammed into my ass.

I awoke with a start, my heart racing.  I was drenched in cold sweat and covered in goosebumps.  My cock throbbed in its prison.  I stared up at the ceiling in the pale, eerie light of the pre-dawn morning.  Ryan slept silently beside me in his bed.  I fought myself to control my heartbeat and breathing, then rolled onto my side and took in Ryan's slumbering form.  He was undisturbed.  His blond hair was mussed from the pillow.  Most people, according to the conventional wisdom, look tranquil as they sleep.  Ryan looked melancholy.  I slipped my hand out from under the eiderdown and brushed a lock of his hair from his forehead with the back of my fingers.  I stroked his cheek lightly, feeling the slight stubble, but he stirred and I pulled away.

He had untied me after I came, after I revealed Jason's name to him in a fit of lust.  I had bargained Jason away for an orgasm.  Ryan had walked me over the bathroom, telling me that tomorrow -- today now -- I was going to be calling Jason and asking him to meet me here, at Ryan's house.  Ryan had then put me in the shower and had me wash the smears of cum -- what little hadn't been fed to me -- off my chest and face and out of my hair.  I had pleaded with Ryan, asking to know what he had planned, reminding him how, ever since this journey had begun, he had promised me that no one would know about our relationship.  His face showed no reaction as he countered with his Christmas Eve email to me, and my reply back to him.  He reminded me that he had only said that he, Ryan, would not be telling anyone about us.  I wasn't going to argue the semantics of the point, because the not-so-subtle message was clear.

After he'd turned the water off, and I'd dried us, he took the cock cage from the shower stand where he'd placed it for my shaving and refastened it to the cock ring base.  He had then taken me downstairs, he in his robe, I naked as always.  He offered me supper, unlike the last night I'd spent with him, but I was sated with the cum I'd taken from him and the large Christmas meal my mother had made for my family.  When I declined, he microwaved something, a plate from the freezer, and we'd gone into the formal dining room adjacent to the master chef's kitchen.  He sat at the head of the long, richly varnished wood table, and ate quietly.  I stood behind him to one side as he ate; he made no offer that I sit nor order that I kneel, and I felt awkward without knowing what to do.  So I did nothing.

"Can you wash that?" he had asked, as he'd led me back to the kitchen on finishing, handing to me the dirty plate and silverware.  His attitude had changed since my orgasm.  It was not that he was indecisive, because he acted with the same resolve of purpose, directed no doubt by some plan he'd schemed out at my expense, but he seemed sullen, distracted, and almost weary.  As I'd washed his dishes, he'd padded off down the hall, and the noise of the television told me he had gone to the great room.  Once I'd finished, I'd joined him there, and he'd pointed to the floor in front of the sofa where he lay.  I sat and watched wordlessly as he channel surfed through the endless holiday specials.

As each hour passed, I became more acutely aware of the solitude of his existence.  Alone, on Christmas, except for his sex slave who sat on the carpet.  I'd turned my head several times to look back over my shoulder at him.  All I'd seen was the reflection of the television in his glasses, and then the flash as he changed to yet another channel.  I'd wanted to touch him, to comfort him, to show him I felt sorry for him, but I knew I couldn't.  I couldn't feel sorry for him, it wasn't my place, and I couldn't touch him, either.  Still, something inside me had felt his loneliness and wanted to do something about it.

His parents obviously had a satellite system, because spending a minute on each channel took almost three hours.  I'd gotten there at seven, as ordered, and with the hours of sex, showers, dinner, and television, it was after midnight when he had sighed, clicked off the television, and sat upright.  "You can sleep here on the sofa," he'd offered.  The last time I'd stayed overnight, I'd slept on his lap, his cock still in my ass after I'd impaled myself on him while he sat in his desk chair.  It had obviously not been planned; it had happened because we had each been exhausted.

"May I sleep with you, Sir?" I'd asked.  He'd looked at me suspiciously and then gave in.

"Bring your clothes in off this porch this time," he had ordered.  "You can hang them up in the coat closet.  Then come up."  He'd ascended the stair slowly as I'd obeyed, retrieving my clothes and hanging them.

I looked at the clock now.  It was just seven o'clock.  Twelve hours after I'd arrived.  Gingerly, I slid out from the covers, wincing as the cold air hit my naked skin and my feet hit the floor.  I stood and turned to make sure Ryan was still asleep.  I shivered and stalked across to the bathroom.  I craved clothing not for cover but for warmth, but I was certain I couldn't afford to put any on.  I performed my morning ablutions quietly, and under the comforting rays of the heat lamp I serendipitously noticed over the vanity.  I never shaved with an electric razor, but not wanting to root around in the bathroom cabinets or drawers, I retrieved the wet-dry razor from the shower stand.  If it was good enough for my crotch and ass...

While I shaved, I remembered what had happened on the last morning I'd awoken here.  Ryan had ordered me to make breakfast and I'd fucked it up.  I went back to the bedroom where Ryan still slept and stood in front of his computer.  It was on.  A touch of the mouse caused the monitor to flicker to life.  I knew Ryan had to have either cable or DSL, so I double-clicked the Internet browser on his desktop.  Predictably, the connection was live and I keyed a search engine, looking for recipes and cooking instructions.  I wrote down what I wanted on a pad on his desk, and stealthily descended to the kitchen.

He was still asleep when I returned, arms laden with a tray.  I didn't know what he would want, so I'd made the omelet he'd asked for last time, egg whites with ham, tomato, and Muenster cheese.  I had the toast, no butter, marmalade and grapefruit juice, too.  And silverware.  I'd also made French toast with cinnamon and powdered sugar.  The kitchen was a mess, but I wanted to show off my feat before it got cold.  I was damn proud of my second attempt at food services.

"Ryan," I called out softly, and then paled at my error.  He stirred but didn't wake.  I set the tray on the desk, moved to the bed and shook him slightly.  "Sir?"  He groaned and stretched, and as his mind clicked into gear, he sat bolt upright in a start.

"What?!"  He looked around quickly, ascertaining that he was not in danger, and then tentatively retrieved his glasses from the wide headboard.  "What is it?" he asked.

"I made breakfast," I heralded, beaming.  He looked at me, then over to his desk where I pointed.  He saw the tray, neatly arranged with food.

"Doing this shit isn't going to get you out of what's going to happen today, whore.  Do you think I'm as stupid as you are?"  His voice dripped.

My mood vanished.  I reacted angrily, for the first time in a long time.  "You know, it's going to be fucking impossible for me to ever do anything to make you happy if you keep second guessing everything I do," I lashed out.  "I don't think about what plans you've got worked out for me.  I worry about them, sure, but I know I can't do fuck about them, that this is your show.  You want to use me?  Humiliate me?  Fine.  You can.  Just because I didn't know what I wanted a week ago, and it pissed you off and maybe it hurt your feelings.  You're so socially inept that you can't see that I've changed and that I'm trying to give you more now than you wanted then, and ... and..." My voice trailed off as I saw his face darken, literally and figuratively, as his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed and blood rushed to his cheeks.

He took to his feet and stared me down icily.  I was older than he was.  I was taller than he was.  I was stronger than he was.  I could whip his ass, and we both knew it.  And I cowered.  "And what?" he dared.

I stared at him, eyes wide.  I had no idea what he was going to do.  I knew that if he reacted physically, despite the disproportion between our builds, I'd take it.  But that didn't scare me.  What scared me is what he might do, either with the DVD, the pictures, or even if he ordered me to leave and never return.  Timidly, I looked to the floor.  "And what?" he repeated.

"And you'd rather throw it away to fuck me over, and fuck yourself in the process, than to take it for what it's worth," I finished softly.

Silence.  I memorized the pattern of the hardwood floor as the seconds ticked away.  An eternity passed, and the tension grew with each breath.  And then his voice was calm, cool, and controlled, as if nothing had happened.

"At nine o'clock this morning, as promised, you are calling Jason Martin.  You are going to have him meet you here by ten.  You will beg him, you will plead with him, but you will convince him.  You will tell him that I know, and tell him that if he is not here, you're both screwed.  When he gets here, you will be dressed in the clothes you arrived in last night.  You will say nothing.  You will let him in; you will take him to the great room.  You will then kneel in front of me where I sit on the sofa, unzip my pants, take out my cock, and blow me in front of him.  I will explain to him how I know; namely, that I caught you cheating, and that you told me it was his idea.  I will give him the DVD.  And then I will give him the option of staying while I fuck you, or leaving."

Silence.  My heart stopped.  My body was numb.  I was paralyzed.  My eyes lost focus on the floor as they filled, and my shoulders heaved.  The lump rose in my throat, and at first I thought I was going to throw up.

"Alex?" Ryan asked.  I barely raised my head as I lifted my eyes to him.  "Or you leave now, and it's over.  Your decision.  But, if you're staying, you need to go stand in the corner until you've pulled yourself together."

As he walked over to the desk and picked up a slice of French toast, the dam broke.  I covered my face with my hands as I wept.

Then I made my way to the corner.