“Elias. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.”
He releases an audible breath. “Okay. Good boy.”
I breathe. I relax. I feel a comfortable weight settle over me like a blanket. He lets me lie there for a while, then he orders, “Now clean yourself up and eat some dinner.”
SIXTEEN
Andre
After three days, I can see the problem with this situation. In some ways, Elias is thriving. He’s eating more regularly. He’s jogging every morning at the nearby park, though I did have to correct him the first day when he went out at six a.m., which is way too dangerous. Thank god I was already up and working out in the penthouse gym. I racked my weights immediately and followed. I made abundantly clear to him that he wasn’t to do that again, not in the dark. He knows very well what could happen.
Looking back, I think that’s why he did it. But that’s not how the game works. I can’t repeat that first chase because I can’t be in that primal headspace when I also have to be in the office with him. Besides, it would be too predictable.
But it highlights the problem. My control is too remote.
Yes, Elias obeys. He wears the collar at night. He comes with my instruction. But he’s still lonely. He’s suffering from lack of touch.
And not just that. Elias needs intensity. He’s adrift without it, disconnected from life. He needs pain and fear, and the only version of me that he’s afraid of right now is the one he works for—and that version can’t actually hurt him. At least, not in the way he needs.
I am hurting him though. I’m frustrated. I’m weirdly, confusingly jealous of myself, and I’m taking it out on him.
Yesterday, Elias had the collar double wrapped around his wrist under his starched cuff. It was well hidden, but I’d seenhim put it on, so I knew it was there and made an excuse to touch his wrist while he was pulling a book from the bookcase.
He yanked away from me, which really pissed me off, so I trapped him against the shelves. I pretended to be concerned, asked him if he was okay. His breathing shallowed. His eyes darted back and forth. He started sweating.
When he got home last night, I asked him over the phone, through the voice modulator, what was wrong. I could tell he was upset. Iknewhe was upset—and he fucking lied to me.
He said it was a hard day at work, that he’d made a mistake and felt stupid. And I couldn’t fucking call him out on it.
Worse, he got insecure. He struggled to come. I’d shamed him, and I’m very fucking upset with myself about it. I don’t want to shame him.
Scare him? Yes. Degrade him? Sure, when it’s part of the pleasure. Push his boundaries? Absolutely. But shame him and make him feel small and awful? Fuckingno.
The problem with playing two roles simultaneously is that I’m always denying satisfaction to one part of myself while giving it to another. So it’s win-win but also lose-lose. It’s fucking up my head.
But I have an idea.
Rather, I had it at three a.m., and it’s well underway by the time Elias is riding the elevator with me up to my penthouse in the evening. I have that stupid fucking party to attend, and he’s going to help me dress for it.
It’s been a long day for him, though, between the anal plug and the way I’ve casually touched him at every opportunity. He’s so damn hard right now. I am too, but I’m better at hiding it. His eyes are half glazed.
I did, however, give him a pair of compression briefs with the new plug. He’s getting quite a collection of boxes and purple silk.
When the elevator doors open onto the penthouse foyer, Elias takes a fortifying breath. It’s a perfect excuse for me to put my hand on his lower back.
“Come on,” I tell him, guiding him into the huge living room. The kitchen opens to the left. I head that way.
Elias stalls halfway there. In this role, I have to let him.
I grab the Macallan and two crystal glasses then turn to the island. I glance up at Elias in his slightly rumpled suit. I can never tell whether he likes this version of me or not. I can never decide whether I want him to. After all,Idon’t like this version of me. But I do like that it gives me access to him.
“I need something before this goddamn thing,” I explain as Elias watches me pour whiskey into one of the glasses. “You want any?”
The other glass is waiting. Suggesting.
“I don’t really drink whiskey,” Elias hedges.
