JUSTIN’S POV
8:23 a.m., Sunday, the next morning
You awake to Brian sleeping next to you, not turned away like usually happens, so you carefully slink out of bed, piss, and then close yourself in your walk-in closet to take advantage of the three-way mirror, to examine yourself: every bruise, every red stripe, every inch of you that actually hurts now. And the more you look, the more turned on you get, the more you picture yourself across Brian’s lap somehow being made to pay for being so easy to mark. You’re startled when the closet door opens and there’s Brian, nude and leaning on the door jamb, his morning erection in his hand.
“Um, what the fuck are you doing?” he asks you.
“Just looking…at myself…at the bruises,” you say but it comes out tentatively for some reason. Maybe it’s the look on Brian’s face…
“C’mere,” he says, holding his hand out. You give him yours and let him lead you back to your bed. Your heart starts to beat a little faster because you want this morning seduction; you’re dying for it. Brian lies back and pulls you close, his possessive hand on the back of your head, pressing your face into his chest. You want him to fuck the daylights out of you, but his eyes are halfway closed and his hips are rising to meet your face ever so slightly. He steers his cock to your mouth and very, very quietly says, “Please.”
There’s an urgency behind his moan when you taste him, and you get the impression that he’s running some scenario in his head, something that’s turning this into more than just an everyday blow job, and you kind of want to ask what that scenario might be but, then again, not knowing is kind of hot. His fingers tear through your hair, your spit runs over his balls, and then he sort of rolls both of you onto your sides so he can fuck your face and feel you swallow.
“God, the things I want to do to you,” he says wistfully when it’s over, hugging your face between his legs. “You have no idea.”
……
The rest of the morning feels very off kilter. Brian doesn’t want to spend the day in bed; he wants you in the shower and then getting ready to run errands. Only he’s not dressed for the weekend errands he’s describing to you—getting groceries, getting the car detailed, getting a Christmas tree because Gus will be coming in a couple weeks. He’s dressed like he’s going clubbing: tight jeans, a black shirt under a black sweater, a cologne he never wears to work. Something’s up. He ignores your questions and focuses on dressing you, insisting that you don’t wear a turtleneck despite the fact that it’s freezing outside; he even suggests you don’t wear your ‘gross weekend underwear’ either.
“All right, what’s going on, Brian?” you ask.
“And don’t wear those crappy sneakers.”
“Why not?”
“Well, do what you want, but you’re better than those shoes, that’s all I’m saying.”
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? you wonder as you put on some brown suede loafers after he loans you a pair of his brown socks, adding, “Here. These don’t have holes.”
+~+~+~+~+~+
As the errands are run, you start to get this creepy feeling, creepy like maybe you’re really in trouble, like maybe you should’ve locked yourself in the dungeon and refused to leave with him. Each stop you make, Brian gets more and more matter-of-fact; the man you married who loves to shop has disappeared and been replaced with another guy (just as good looking) who wants nothing but to get these stupid tasks finished. At lunch, he doesn’t even let you decide for yourself. He orders for you and lets you have all the wine you want. You find that utterly bizarre because matter-of-fact Brian never has any patience for slightly-tipsy-Justin. By the time you get to the last stop—picking out a Christmas tree—you know something is up. He arranges to have it delivered tomorrow, and then turns and smiles at you, taking your gloved hand in his. “You look hot today,” he says.
“You dressed me; you’re just complimenting yourself.”
“We can share the compliment,” he adds as he opens your car door for you.
“Why don’t you share with me what we’re doing?” you ask.
Brian’s hands are at ten and two on the steering wheel, confident black-leathered fingers wrapped tightly, as he says, “That attitude doesn’t sit well with me.” He puts the car in gear and pulls into traffic and then finishes, “But, you still look very hot.”
“…Thank you.”
“That’s better,” he smiles.
Brian drives down Liberty Avenue looking for a parking space. He finds one in front of Torso and asks you to wait in the car. “I’ll come get you in a minute.” You have to crank your neck backwards to see where he’s going, and you turn right back around and stare out the front window after you watch him walk into the leather store.