Toy Box: Collars Page 3

  “Are we going to breakfast?”

  “Sure, we can go to breakfast, but we need to make a stop first.”

  “All right.” I take a shower and get dressed, leaving my chain on but tucking it in under my shirt. I tousle my hair the way he likes it and check for stubble. I’m still smooth; don’t need to shave just yet. When I come back out into the living room he looks up. His eyes travel down to my collarbone and he suppresses a smile when he sees that I’ve still got my collar on.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah, you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

  “Just need pick something up, won’t take long.”

  We go on out to the truck and he heads into town. He drives past the diner and pulls into the strip mall where the pet supply store is. My skin prickles a little bit.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Just want to get something that I was thinking about last night.”

  “Okay.” We get out of the truck and start walking toward the entrance. Don’t let her be here. Don’t let her be here. Don’t let her be here.

  Once we’re through the doors I start looking around really fast. I don’t see the girl who helped me yesterday. I think she usually works the registers. I calm down a little.

  “So where are they?” He’s looking at me, waiting for me to lead the way.

  “Over here.” I walk ahead of him a little and take him to the aisle that I was in yesterday. He walks by the collars and stops at the leashes. Looking around quickly, I make sure I didn’t just miss her. She’s nowhere to be seen. He reaches out and runs his hand over the different kinds; I follow along silently. His hand settles on a heavy chain.

  “What about this one?” His eyes stay focused on the leash in front of him.

  “I think it might be too big, I like this one better.” I reach out and take a longer, lighter chain off of the hook. The tag says that it is five feet long, but when you drop its length into your palm it fits easily into your hand; the links are small and light.

  “All right, that one it is.”

  Once we’re back in the truck he starts it without saying anything about the leash. I stay quiet because I’m not sure where this is going and I don’t want to screw it up for either of us. The diner’s parking lot is pretty crowded but we find a spot in the back, right next to a dumpster. He kills the engine and I’m about to open my door when he puts his hand on my wrist to stop me.

  “Wait a minute, okay?”

  “Okay.” He pulls the leash out of the bag and takes off the tags.

  “Come here.” I scoot closer to him and he reaches up, pulling the collar out from underneath my shirt. He takes the loop at the end between his fingers and holds up the leash, pushing down on the clasp to open it up. “This okay?”

  “Yeah.” I breathe, looking down; I can feel myself getting red. I’m not sure what he’s planning, but I want it really badly. He attaches the leash to the collar and it makes a satisfying clicking noise. Balling the length of the leash up in his hand, he drops it down the front of my shirt, the cool metal sliding over my belly, making me shiver a little. He reaches under my shirt from the bottom and pulls the leash through, collecting the chain in his palm again.

  “Here.” He takes my hand, flips it over, and gives me the leash. “Put it in your pocket.” I sit up and slide the entire length of the leash into the front pocket of my jeans. It goes in easily. All of my jeans are loose these days. I lean my forehead against his shoulder for a second, but he shakes my knee gently. “Come on, you must be starving. You hardly ate anything last night. Let’s get you some breakfast.” I follow him out, wishing that we were about to walk into the trailer instead of a busy restaurant. The waitress seats us right away in a booth near the back.

  “This okay?” she asks.

  “This is great, thanks.” He gives her a friendly nod. I sit down and he slides in across from me. When the waitress comes back, he gives her both of our orders; he hardly ever does that. I like what he chose for me. It’s not what I would have chosen; it’s better.

  She walks away and I look up. “Take it out.” He says it really quietly, but I was watching him, so I heard it, expected it actually. Digging into my pocket, I pull out the chain and reach under the table. His hand meets mine halfway, I drop the leash into his palm. Pulling my hand back toward me, I rest it on my stomach because I know that he’s going to pull, and I don’t want my shirt to lift up when he does. He tugs twice, gently. I close my eyes and swallow hard. “Once is for yes, twice is for no, got it?” I nod in agreement, eyes still closed.

  Taking a deep breath, I reach for my water glass and look at him. One tug. I take a sip; the ice cold water feels really good. I look around trying to think of questions, nothing is coming to mind and I’m beginning to get nervous. He slides his foot over to mine and nudges it under the table, I pull back some. Two tugs. Pushing it forward, I stop when I can’t go any farther. One tug. He shifts in his seat a little bit so I lift my leg up slowly and rest my shoe between his thighs on the seat. One hard tug. He sits up straighter, moving forward some in his seat. I follow his lead and scoot up too, stretching my leg as far as it will go, pressing my beat up Converse against his dick, or at least where I think his dick probably is; it’s hard to tell since I can’t see and it’s not like I can feel it through my shoe. One hard tug. I guess my aim isn’t too bad.

  Our food comes and the waitress doesn’t seem to notice anything. Bet you see a lot of weird stuff when you wait tables, although I’m sure she’d be surprised if she knew what we were up to. I start to rock my foot back and forth once she leaves, but he gives two tugs so I stop. He wants to feed me; I let him. One tug if I get to take a bite of something, two if I don’t. I move around the plate, taking small bites, making it last a long time. When the waitress comes back my plate is clean and his has hardly been touched.

  “Your breakfast all right, sir?”

  “Oh yeah, just not too hungry right now. If you could wrap it up I’d sure appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing. Be right back with your check.” She walks away, so I start to rock my foot back and forth again. One tug, I keep it up. When I see the waitress coming back over I slow down but he tugs twice, hard. I thank her, taking both the box and the check because he can’t talk anymore. When he comes, he pulls hard and I actually have to grab the chain so that he won’t choke me. Collecting himself, he pulls out his wallet out and pays the bill. He’s dropped the leash so I gather it up and push it back into my pocket, already missing the tension.

  I can hardly wait to get home.

  Master Preston’s Bright Bottom

  By Lee Benoit

  For R. deC., who held the leash on this one. Mil gracias, papi.

  “Get it up, guys!” Hal hollered from the kitchen. “You’re both flat.”

  Arlie gave Paulo a long-suffering look. “He’s being such a diva about this duet. Nobody’s gonna know what we’re singing about anyway.”

  Paulo knew what Arlie meant. Hal had written some new lyrics to the classic duet from Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers. But Arlie was right: very few people in their audience would have enough French to understand the change; and even if they knew Bizet’s aria, the only real difference would be that there was a kiss at the end rather than a manly embrace. Still, Hal was all nervous about tinkering with a master, and Paulo thought that was kind of cute, so he said, “Humor your man, Arlie. Let’s do this one more time before brunch.”

  They straightened up side by side on the piano bench, and tried again.

  Brunch at Hal's used to be a lackadaisical, haphazard affair: bagels from the supermarket, your basic drip-machine coffee, lounging and chatter, maybe some music if Hal was in a mood to play. Not anymore, Paulo thought as he dipped his spoon into a grapefruit so elaborately cut, it looked like a jaundiced lotus. He sipped his freshly-drawn espresso and waited to see what fancy horror Hal served today.

  “Clafoutis!” Arlie sang as he pushed the swinging kitchen door open with
his tiny little butt. Hal was right behind him with more coffee and the paper.

  “You let him kiss your mother with that mouth?” Paulo teased and ducked the business section of the Sunday paper as it sailed over the table.

  “It's a pancake thingy. With fruit.”

  Paulo tasted the puffy, crusty thing. “It’s almost... delicious,” he pronounced, earning himself a hard swat with the arts section from Hal.

  Arlie laughed and gave Hal a melty look over the top of the Sports section.

  “Um, you guys sure you want me around for brunch every Sunday? I mean, if I wasn’t here you could have naked brunch.”

  Hal smirked. “We have naked breakfast every other day of the week. Brunch with clothes makes for an interesting change.”

  Paulo bopped Hal on the head with the book review section and went back to his puffy pancake, trying to ignore the feeling of loneliness that welled whenever Hal and Arlie kissed over their grapefruit.

  When they pulled apart, Hal said, “You know, Paulo, I think that new tenor’s been checking you out.”

  Paulo stifled a groan.

  Hal and Arlie hadn’t been at the Epiphany performance at the club -- BDSM just wasn’t their thing -- so they hadn’t witnessed Paulo jumping in with both feet, submitting to the notorious Master Rose on stage. When he told them about it later, they hadn’t understood what it was like to fly, how it had moved him that Master Rose took care of him afterward. And they were just plain baffled that he was still carrying a torch.

  “I don’t want to see anybody new, Hal,” he said, as gently as he could manage. He knew his best friend was just trying to help.

  “Don’t push, Hal,” Arlie added. “Paulo will find someone when he’s ready.”

  Hal shook his head at both of them. “I know him, Arlie. He’s pining for someone he can’t have.”

  “Who says he can’t, er, I can’t?” Paulo knew he was being all angsty, another thing Hal didn’t understand about him.

  “And you’re not pining?” Hal put on his big-brother look. “How long has it been, Paulo? Three months? What does that tell you?”

  Paulo covered his hurt with a barrage of circulars and coupons. He could be patient. At least for a little longer.

  ***

  “When I decided to retire,” Preston hissed in Jim’s ear, “I never intended to spend my newly free nights listening to amateur productions of show tunes in a drafty community center.”

  “Snob,” Jim accused as they claimed folding chairs front and center. “Some of these guys are really good. It’s all arias tonight, like I told you. Plus, they’re my friends; I want to support them.”

  “They’re not my friends,” Preston grumbled, rubbing his hands. Jim casually picked up Preston’s hand and started rubbing the aching knuckles -- Jim was a pest, but he was a good sub.

  “Now you’re just being a baby,” said Jim. “What would Tasim say?”

  The mention of his oldest friend chastened Preston enough to decide to be gracious about the evening’s entertainment. But, true to form, Jim wasn’t finished with him yet.

  “Anyway, there’s fabulous sex with me at the end of the tunnel, so behave.”

  “I’m leaving right now and never fucking you again if you make one more bad pun,” Preston warned, but made sure there was no Dom in his voice.

  “Shh!” The lights dimmed, and the concert started.

  Whatever had possessed the local Gay Men’s Chorus to mount an all-opera production, Preston had to admit after the first number that it wasn’t rank hubris. By the third piece he reluctantly admitted to himself that there was talent and passion on display in the bare-bones production.

  When a blond slip of a baritone proved equal to Gounod’s Faust, Preston deigned to glance at Jim, and regretted it immediately. Smug bastard was grinning like a fool.

  “That’s Arlie, the director’s lover,” Jim whispered, ruffling the hair near Preston’s ear and indicating the affable-looking fellow at the piano.

  They watched several more singers take the floor, Jim nudging Preston at the best parts. He’d definitely have to take his annoyance out on his sometime-sub and fuck-buddy later on.

  The last number brought Arlie back, along with a man who hadn’t yet performed. Preston concentrated on breathing evenly. It wouldn’t do for Jim to realize he was affected.

  Jim’s tickling whisper intruded on his efforts. “You remember Paulo, yeah?”

  Preston nodded sharply and sat straighter, the better to see, and the further from Jim’s knowing prods.

  The duet, about best friends who’d fallen for the same person, was one of Tasim’s favorites, so Preston knew it. He knew the minute the lyrics started to deviate from the original, and his French was good enough to hear the two friends swear, not eternal friendship, but eternal love. Arlie as Nadir and Paulo as Zurga moved slowly from opposite ends of the stage to the center, ending in a kiss that brought Preston’s ass off his seat for a fraction of a second. His eyes flicked to Hal, the director, only to see a fond smile directed at both his singers. He resolutely did not look at Jim. The astuteness that made Jim a great sub also gave him endless ammunition to tease.

  “Come on,” Jim said as soon as the applause died down. “I need to say hello before we leave.”

  There was no backstage area, just a line of folding banquet tables set with coffee and wine and what Hal the director cheerfully called ‘nibbles.’ The performers mingled with their audience, which seemed to comprise friends and lovers. Preston was, as ever, an odd man out.

  “You remember Preston, right, Paulo?” Jim was saying.

  Preston turned, and was confronted by the liquid dark eyes (really, there could be no other word for them) that had wept for him on stage in January, and dogged him ever since.

  “You sang well, Paulo. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that aria sung in quite that way before.”

  Was that a blush blurring the freckles across the boy’s nose?

  “That’s Hal. Has to gay up the classics. Thank for coming.”

  “Jim’s idea,” Preston said. “But I was pleasantly surprised,” he hastened to add when Paulo’s bright smile lost a little of its luster.

  “I’ve thought about you a lot, sir,” Paulo said, low enough that the buzz of conversation around them covered it.

  “Have you, boy?” That ‘boy’ was sheer habit -- Preston called everybody ‘boy’ who wasn’t a Dom -- but he saw his mistake. Paulo harbored hopes, it seemed.

  “Yes, sir, and I wondered...”

  Preston cut him off. Being someone’s “lifestyle experiment” did not appeal. Nor did a callow, untrained sub with, no doubt, skewed ideas about a D/s pairing. “I’m sorry, boy. That is, I’m sorry, Paulo. I’m retired, you see.”

  If only there was a way to test the boy without making a real commitment. Not much chance to do that now that he wasn’t on stage anymore.

  “I see, sir.” Paulo said, his eyes on the floor as he started to turn away. He flicked those eyes at Preston one more time. “It was nice to see you again.”

  Preston reached for a plastic cup of wine, suppressing his grimace. When he turned to find Jim and leave, he found his friend right at his elbow.

  “You already regret that exchange, don’t you?”

  Preston set his lips to ‘Dommy scowl’ and led Jim from the hall.

  ***

  “I am the very model of a modern twinky on the prowl...”

  “Would you cut it out? These leather guys hear your Gilbert and Sullivan homage and we’re both out on our asses.”

  Paulo laughed, tickled. “If you want these guys to take us seriously, you should stop using words like ‘homage.’” He pranced up to the door, and opened it for Jim with a flourish.

  Jim scowled and pushed him through first. “And what are you wearing? I thought you wanted to check out the leather scene, maybe find someone to play with. You stand out like a limp dick at a circle jerk.”

  Paulo pouted and plucked at his sh
iny club wear. “Limp dicks don’t stand out, Jim.”

  He hadn’t been entirely honest with his friend and chorus mate. Yeah, he wanted to get a taste of the scene, but mostly he wanted to pick Jim’s brain about a certain Master Rose. He didn’t care about all the daddies eyeing him up as they crossed to the bar -- if he could just find a way to get Preston to see him as something other than a dilettante poser, he’d have accomplished his mission. He gave his silver t-shirt a tug and sashayed outrageously to a bar stool, giving Jim a show as he straddled it.

  “You’re impossible,” Jim grumbled, and ordered two beers.

  “Thank you,” Paulo said primly.