#extra sugar

 Sebastian actually sticks his tongue out at his Dominant this time, mostly because he can and he knows he can. His Dominant, who does not care, has never cared, that Sebastian’s got no formal training and no sense of proper protocol, laughs more. “You do that again, I’m gonna make you use it on me later. Maybe put that one cage on you, put somethin’ in that pretty cock, sub, filling up all your holes, and not let you get off, just keep you busy getting me off all night.”

 “Yes, please. Um. Better, I think. I need to stop thinking.” He does. He’s been staring at blankness all morning. Chris had come up to his office to ask whether he could pause in the composition of superhero film scores in favor of lunch, and had taken one look at Sebastian’s slumped shoulders and had put a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. Hard. “This one’s so…I don’t know how to…it has to be more than good, it has to be brilliant, it’s the culmination of everything, the last ten years, and my music can’t be the part that lets Marvel down and the script is so incredible and the cast is all so incredible and I have to work in all their themes and make it sound right and I can’t—”

 “Sebastian,” Chris says. “Sub. My Seb, my submissive. Look at me.”

 That’s an order. He does.

 “Why do you think you’d ever let them down?” Chris touches his cheek, cups his face with that big hand. Sebastian leans into the touch. Chris is so kind. So understanding: someone who knows about self-doubt and anxiety and second-guessing. Someone who knows him.

 He realizes he’s been breathing fast. He notices because he’s calming, eased back down by that caress.

 Chris murmurs, “Oh, Seb,” and kisses him, swift and sure. “I know, okay? I know it’s big, this one. I get it. You wouldn’t be, like, human if you weren’t a little nervous. But seriously, Marvel trusts you, right? They keep hiring you to score these films. They want you for this.”

 “I…suppose, yes…”

 “You’ve been good for them before. You will be again.” Unshakeable, and deliberate phrasing: being good for someone. Sebastian’s always wanted that. Chris goes on, thumb gently stroking his cheek, “So it’s a challenge. And you’re good at what you do. You know you are. Say it.”

 “I’m…good at…oh, come on, sir, really?”

 “Say it, sub.”

 “I’m good,” Sebastian mutters, “at what I do.” Unexpectedly, his breath catches after: a shock, a sob, a stab of sweetness. “Chris, I—thank you. Can you, please—thank you.”

 “Please what?” Chris kisses him again, hand sneaking into Sebastian’s hair—shorter again these days, but enough to grab—and cradling the back of his head. “And you don’t have to thank me. Not for that. What’d you need, sub? Asking so nicely and all.”

 “Make me stop thinking,” Sebastian whispers. “Make me be good for you. Make me take—whatever you decide I should get. Being yours. Being good. Please.”

 “Yep.” Chris steps away—not far, only over to some of the drawers at the side of the playspace. “Kinda the plan. You good? Comfortable? Nothing hurting?”

 Sebastian twists wrists just to feel the bonds. The floor’s cool and delighted under his bare toes. His cock bounces when he does, eager and upright. “Everything’s perfect, Chris.”

 “Yeah, you are.” Chris comes back. “How do you feel about these? We’ve never used them.”

 Sebastian blinks. Regards black leather: gloves, sleek and elegant and decadent as debauchery. They catch the warm cozy light of the playspace and drink it up, supple and suggestive. “Where’d we even get those? I don’t remember buying them.”

 “Present from that shop I dropped into when I had to go to San Francisco. I tweeted about them, we liked those cuffs, remember? And they got like five million people showing up right after. And then they sent me these as a thank you and because I’d said I liked the feel of their leather stuff.”

 “You do wield immense social media power,” Sebastian notes lightly. “I do like those cuffs. Good quality. What’re you planning to do with these?”

 “Not sure yet. You like sensation. Leather, velvet…being spanked…you know that’s partly you. Whatever fucking social media power that is. You’re more famous than I am. I’m the trophy husband.”

 “I’m not really.” He’s watching Chris pull on gloves. Black clinging leather, over fair skin. Sensual, enfolding, turning fingers to dark enchantment. Suddenly his heart’s picked up speed again. “Composers aren’t…I’m not the famous sort of Hollywood…unless you mean infamous, in which case, sir, you chose to marry me, and the associated scandal…how do they feel? Can I feel one?”

 Chris grins. “You like this, don’t you? You all tied up, watching, waiting for whatever I’m gonna do to you? You like knowing you can’t do anything about it?”

 Sebastian might groan aloud. A tiny groan. Pure frustration. His cock throbs, rigid and hot with desire. The plug inside him’s not big enough, not quite touching the right spots. He squirms.

 Chris steps closer, and puts out one finger, and runs it down his body: black leather tracing a line from Sebastian’s throat, at the base of his collar, all the way down to the base of his cock.

 “I am,” Sebastian says. He is. The kiss lingers on his lips; he thinks it’s sunk into his bones, lacing him up and down with rainbows. He’s following Chris’s orders. He’s trying to be good. He’s pleasing Chris—his Dominant—and that feels good; he’s pleasing himself too, then, and that’s a bewildering spike of euphoria running through him, a lance of pink sugar and black leather and dizzy heat.

 Chris, wearing only sweatpants and thoroughly in charge, role wrapped around broad shoulders like a cloak, nods.

 And then proceeds to inspect his posture, strolling around him, unhurried and scrutinizing. And nods again in approval, but tugs Sebastian’s wrists a fraction closer together at the small of his back. Sebastian’s cheeks flush. Hot.

 “Good,” Chris judges. “Next command. You’ve never done Serve, right?”

 “Ah…not properly?” He doesn’t mean that to come out as a question. Strange floaty feelings in his head. “I’ve…at a club…she told me to serve her, to get on my knees and hold her drink and also, um, use my tongue to…to get her off…but you mean formally, as a command word, so no? I don’t think so?”

 “We’ll have a talk about your tongue later.” Chris has begun playing with his right nipple. Not gently, either: enough to hurt. Sebastian gasps. His cock throbs. He’s very aware of his collar, encircling his throat. Chris toys with his nipple more. “She might’ve thought you knew. You did it anyway, whatever she asked, didn’t you? Because you wanted to. You wanted to serve her.”

 Sebastian whimpers. Not entirely because of the delicious torment happening at his chest.

 “My sweet little sub.” Chris releases tender flesh. Sebastian’s panting. “Those instincts…you do love being good, don’t you? Tell me.”

 “Yes.” His voice shakes. “Yes, Chris, I—I do. I like being good. For you.”

 “Good boy. You know what Serve means? Formally?”

 “Um…that I do things for you?” He sounds younger. He’s vaguely shocked by this. “That I get you things? Like serving you?”

 “Maybe. If I say so. That can be part of it.” Chris breaks character for a second, leaning in, close and worried. “You doin’ okay?”

 “I think so, yes…is there more to it?”

 “Yep. Color?”

 “Green.” Not a lie. Though he wishes he could figure out what the hell his body’s reactions are doing. Pain, pleasure, endorphins, cock stiffening despite the morning’s two rounds. “I’m okay, Chris.”

 “Tell me if you’re not. So what that means is, if I tell you to Serve, you’re going to stop whatever else you’re doing and get in this position—it’s a good starting pose—and pay attention to whatever orders come next.”

 Sebastian considers this. “What if you don’t say anything else?”

 “Then you wait. Next to me.”

 “But what would I do? Just stand here?”

 Chris raises an eyebrow. Without warning, swats him hard on the ass. Sebastian yelps, wobbles, and shivers, and subsides into silence. He’s feeling odd. His ass stings from Chris’s hand. Chris himself says, answering the question, “Whatever I ask. If I tell you to strip naked and play with yourself, put on a show, you do it. If I tell you to go and bring me something, you do it. If I tell you to stay still, you do that too. You assume that I know best, and I’m giving you the orders, sub.”

 “Ah,” Sebastian says. He’s caught between skepticism—he’s not very good at patience and waiting—and that odd lightheaded shimmery sensation. Not going away. How strange. “Should I try bringing you something?”

 Chris laughs. “Okay. Go get, um, one of my paintbrushes. An older one. They’re in the box in my studio.”

 Sebastian runs.

 He runs back, naked and breathless and for some reason inclined to smile; it’s ludicrous, he’s obeying orders, he’s being too eager, and yet—

 And yet it feels good. He feels good.

 He shoves the paintbrush at Chris, and tries not to bounce up and down on happy feet. Proper posture. Making his Dominant proud. Right.

 Chris raises both eyebrows this time.

 “What else was I supposed to—oh!” He yanks the hand back. Drops promptly and clumsily to both knees. Offers the brush again. “Better?”

 “God, you’re fuckin’ adorable.” Chris accepts the paintbrush, sets it absentmindedly on the bed, rests a hand on Sebastian’s head. Strokes his hair, smoothing it back into place. “Good. My good little sub. Good boy.”