Page 45 of Never Forget

No one’s ever just wanted to fuck Naz the guy. Except Scott.

Scott is the exception to it all. He’s nothing like what people expect. He’s nothing like who I would typically gravitate to.

He sees me for who I am, and he understands what I need. I have a feeling that he’s probably the opposite of how he is with me with other people. But for whatever reason, he chose to be this person, to fulfill this role, for me.

Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe he does all of this just to get in my pants, or maybe he gets off on dominating a rockstar. I really don’t think so, though. He prides himself on the care he gives in all aspects of our relationship, sexual and professional.

I’ll never admit it out loud, but it’s not just the fucking and being used that I like. It’s the moments after, in between, and before. It’s the balance he takes so much care to maintain. Even when we’re in the thick of it, no matter how intense it gets, there is a give and take between degrading me and treating me like an inanimate object and taking care of me.

Today he’s using me just as ruthlessly as he said he would—with zero mercy. Still, he asks me if I’m ready every time and gives me a clear opening to say no, while trying not to be too obvious that he’s checking in.

He tells me when I can or cannot come but makes obvious adjustments to the way he’s fucking me to make sure I get there. And then after, he gives my ass a little pat or kiss, like he’s telling me I did a good job. It’s kind of sweet.

When he’s not fucking me, he’s pretending to ignore me, like I’m truly a piece of furniture meant for humping to death. But he’s also making me meals, passing me glasses of water to make sure I’m hydrated, and hinting that I can take a bathroom break whenever I need to even though he technically expressly told me not to remove the plug and let any of his cum escape.

I’m not sure who Scott Riley is for other people, or what kind of relationships he’s had in the past, but he does this for me, and it’s everything.

I trust him.

Which is why I’ve been bent over this stool for so long I’ve lost track of how long it’s been. Long enough that the pillow he put under my chest has become obsolete, the edges of the chair digging into my rib cage. My legs are sore, and every time I relax my neck and let my head droop, all the blood rushes to my head. I kind of have to pee.

But I keep waiting.

I’ve been waiting for so long that I keep going soft, but every time I hear movement behind me, I chub up again.

I stay this way until the sounds of the construction stop and the rumble of engines and tires over gravel get louder, then dwindle away. It must be the end of the workday.

Scott finally comes to retrieve me, but that’s all he does. It’s not until he is looming over me that he speaks, “Follow me.” He turns and leads me back into the house. After asking me if I need the bathroom, he kicks over a pair of slides for me to wear and opens the door.

All I’m wearing is the leash and collar he put on me last night, a pair of slides, and whatever remnants of cum, saliva, and lube he’s left on me. Still, he opens the front door and gestures for me to go ahead.

“Scott.”

“Yes, pet?”

“I’m naked.”

“I’m aware,” he says, tracing his eyes down my body appreciatively.

I trust him. Enough to believe he wouldn’t actually allow me to walk out of here leashed and naked if there was any chance someone might see me this way. Not just because he knows that’s the last thing I would want, but because he’s a possessive motherfucker for someone so nice.

Slowly, I walk through the door. He follows me out, then takes hold of my leash and leads me, like a dog, across the gravel drive and down to the backyard of the big house. The pressure of the plug moves with every step, making me walk slightly bow-legged.

“What are we doing?”

“I thought we’d have a little picnic. The grass is nicer here.”

He pulls off a backpack I hadn’t noticed before, unrolls a blanket and spreads it out on the grass before telling me to sit. I do as I’m told, if not a little gingerly, choosing to rest on my side while I watch him unpack the meal. There are two large containers of pasta with grilled chicken, peas, carrots, and some kind of white sauce. Plus a few smaller containers with cut fruit and mixed berries.

“That’s a lot of food.”

“You’ve barely eaten all day.”

“Yeah, well…” I shrug, vaguely gesturing to myself as if the reason would be obvious.

It’s really stupid that my cheeks get warm. I’m literally lying outside on a picnic blanket in nothing but a collar and leash after spending the last twenty-four hours getting randomly fucked senseless. This man has officially seen more of my asshole and my insides than I have. Not to mention, everybody poops. It’s fucking biology. I know and trust my body, but it’s been put through the wringer today. There’s enough potentially humiliating stuff that happens when your insides are getting rearranged through your asshole constantly. Things are… Let’s say loose and uncertain back there, and I don’t want to take any chances.

“Eat,” he says, and passes me a large serving of pasta. “Let me worry about your ass. Besides, it belongs to me, doesn’t it?”