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I was right when I told Maison it might take a few tries before we figured this thing out together. Part of the problem is the chaos that erupts within our lives in the weeks following the conversation. Well, maybe problem is the wrong word. The entire process of moving into the new house—the Big House, as we all start referring to it as—is exciting. Ace gets to live his best life between interior decorating and bringing each of the survivors out on a shopping spree.
Much to Ace’s dismay, Casey comes back with bags of athletic wear, supplemented with some jeans and hoodies. The rest of the trips go better in Ace’s fashionable opinion. Carter gets decked out in a cozy yet elevated style, his closet filling with an array of knitted and cashmere sweaters, oversized crewnecks, and colorful cardigans. Matt is a softer palette with faded denims, fuzzy sweaters, flowy blouses, and floral patterns. Lots of fuzzy socks, too. Max is all about vintage and grunge, Ace even willing to go to thrift stores to achieve the perfect aesthetic. Bryce is pretty much all things black, but Ace is allowed to get creative enough that he doesn’t seem to necessarily mind the limitation.
He even shops for Travis and Jake, using Carter and Casey to deliver the clothes in order to avoid any arguments. He decks Travis out in business casual and rugged chic and hits Jake up with a mix of rugged chic and cottage core apparel, sticking mostly to flannels, fisherman sweaters, and a leather jacket that made Casey literally drool.
Maison—much to his own dismay—admitted that he had already received this treatment from Ace before any of us arrived on the scene, showing me all of the clothes he had been avoiding in favor of his hooded sweatshirts and old flannels. Turns out, he’s got quite the collection of casual button-ups, waffle knit Henleys, quarter zips, and shirts that fit him so fucking well. I make him try every single one on before stripping him out of the last, laying him out on the bed, and kissing every fucking inch of him until he’s coming in my mouth with one hand in my hair and a soft, “baby,” on his lips.
Then it’s my turn.
I try not to think of the life I used to want—a life where a dominant would pick out my clothing for me, maybe dress me up like his perfect little pet, maybe leave me naked apart from his collar. Thinking about those things hurts too much. It’s why I’ve actually started taking initiative with Maison during sex. It’s easier to grab him and kiss him and take what I want from his body instead of lying back and hoping he’ll give me scraps of a dominance he doesn’t really feel.
It’s also why I’m embracing the whole “new me” thing Ace is encouraging.
“Do you have any ideas?” Ace asks as we stand in the first of probably many stores.
Ideas are what got me into this mess, I can’t help but think. Ideas are dangerous. Reality is safer. “I’m fine with whatever.”
“The audacity,” Ace mumbles, shaking his head. “Almost all of you said that at first. Do you not understand the importance of fashion? It’s how you present yourself to the world!”
I touch the sleeve of a sweater nearest to me, wondering how he’d take it if I told him I’m not ready to present myself to a world I don’t feel like I belong in. I don’t want to hurt him though. I don’t want to ruin what’s supposed to be a fun trip, either.
I’ve been trying my best to keep my thoughts positive, something Dr. Singh has been encouraging. He hasn’t come out and said that he thinks me and Maison giving up so quickly was a bad idea, but I can tell anyway. I have a feeling he’s trying to get me to admit it in a roundabout way with the direction he’s been taking my therapy sessions, but I’m embracing the safety of denial at the moment. Denial and positive thinking.
I force a smile. “You’re right. Can you help me? I want to find clothes that will make me feel like me again.”
I wish I could say he succeeds. I wish I could say that when I came home later and showed Maison my new style, indulging him in a fashion show of his own, I felt like me again. I wish when he draped me over the bed, licked my ass open for so long he gave my cheeks beard burn, and fucked into me while calling me a good boy, I could say that I felt like me again. I wish that when I made everyone our first meal in the big house that night that I felt like me again. I wish that when we went shopping the next day after realizing the “fashionable” bedding Ace bought us wasn’t at all comfortable, the two of us playfully arguing about color choices and hard versus soft pillows, that I felt like me again.
I wish, I wish, I wish I felt like me again.
Instead, I feel like the version of myself I used to pretend to be in high school. I feel like the jock who hooted and grinned and kept his eyes above everyone’s chest. I feel like the guy who topped because everyone expected it of me.
I feel like I’m pretending.
It’ll take time, I tell myself. It’ll get better. It’ll just take time.
It happens slowly, like I’m unraveling. It’s Maison that’s the problem. Outside of the bedroom, the man is the fucking definition of a dominant.
On a Monday, he barks orders at Ace and Jake when there’s the possibility of a perimeter breach. He draws his gun and calmly instructs Bryce and me to collect the others and go to the basement. It ends up just being a fucking squirrel that tripped the system, which brings more anger as he points his finger and chews Ace out for a system he promised was foolproof. It’s a loving sort of anger, something neither of his friends takes hard. They call him sir and boss, not sarcastically like they sometimes do, but with the full level of respect he’s due in moments like those. Every sir is like a rake across my skin, an ache growing in my heart.
A few hours later, he has me laid out for him, my back arched as he sucks my cock with two fingers against my prostate. I don’t mean to, but my head is fuzzy with pleasure and I cry out, “Sir!”
He goes tense all over, his expression anguished, before whispering, “Please don’t call me that, Nolan.”
I somehow manage not to cry as I apologize and ask him to fuck me. He doesn’t like being asked or begged, so he’s quick about pressing his cock inside of me. I wrap my arms around his back and hold him as close as possible so his face stays tucked in my neck as he fucks me with hard, smooth thrusts. I stare up at the ceiling with as few blinks as possible, willing the tears to stay at bay.
A few manage to spill down my cheeks when he wraps a wet hand around my cock and starts murmuring things like, “You’re so perfect,” and, “My good boy,” and, “Come for me, baby, come on my cock.”
When it’s over, he kisses the tears away and asks, “Too intense?”
I exhale a shaky breath of relief that he assumes that’s what the tears are from before saying, “It was perfect.”
He’s too tired to tell it’s a lie.
It happens again four days later. We go to the pub where Carter works, though it’s his night off. We meet him, Travis, Jake, and Casey there. It’s not my first time interacting with Jake in a small group, since he lived at the safehouse when so few of us were left, but it is the first time with Travis. I feel jittery and nervous, but keep telling Maison I’m fine every time he asks. He holds my hand under the table, rubbing small circles with his thumb along my knuckles to soothe me.
I drink a little too much, trying to keep myself distracted. The only time I talk is with Carter, Casey, or Maison.
Then something clatters over to the left and I turn my head to look. Instead of reaching the commotion, my gaze meets Travis’s and sticks. It’s the same broken record from the night of the party, when he stole my collar and left me floundering in this new world of freedom. It skips and skips in my head, each skip an image or a phrase or a feeling.
