Control

“And where does this kink come from?” he asked after draining his glass, the last bubbles of soda still fizzing softly at the bottom.

His voice was deep, unmistakably masculine, yet there was something silky in it too, a softness that smoothed itself around the words.

“I…” I started, but his phone began to ring, some unbearable rap song blaring from the speaker.

He glanced at the screen, then got up from the counter.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder before disappearing—probably into the pantry.

The small room opened to the right of the entrance. He shut the door behind him.

I didn’t have time to answer, but at least I no longer had to bother coming up with something perfect to distract him with. I looked around the house, my hands resting quietly at my sides.

For a house with a yard, it wasn’t particularly large—at least not the part of it I could easily take in from where I sat. The kitchen was ordinary enough, separated from the living room by a serving counter.

At first the interior felt strange, but the longer I studied it, the more perfect it seemed. The walls were painted a plain white; the guy had clearly aimed for a minimalist style when he furnished the place.

A light gray leather couch stood pushed against the wall, and in front of it, on a smaller white rug, sat a glass coffee table. Farther ahead, on top of some pale, modern cabinet-like piece of furniture, there was an enormous television facing away from the kitchen.

On the wall above the couch, the steady rhythm of a gray clock with a circular frame filled the room. I tried to take in everything with as much precision as possible. Closed white wooden doors lined the place, probably leading to smaller rooms and a bathroom.

A faint laugh slipped through the pantry door, and the muffled conversation behind it became easier to make out.

“No, no…” he said after a snicker. “Listen, I’ve got some faggy guy here…”

I raised an eyebrow.

After a short pause, he went on.

“No, I’m not a faggot.”

Another idiotic laugh followed, and then he lowered his voice again.

I let my eyes roam over the kitchen.

At the far end of the serving counter, a metal magazine rack had been fixed to the wall, crammed with car magazines. Next to it stood a brown wooden knife block, packed with blades pointing downward.

I leaned in a little closer and carefully pulled out the medium-sized one. The handle looked ceramic, its weight was average, but the blade caught the light with a sharp gleam. At home, I’d made sure to put on dark jeans with deep pockets. They swallowed it easily, and the length of it didn’t show through the fabric in any obvious way.

The evening could finally begin.

I could still hear muffled sounds from inside, but his hand was already on the handle. I snapped my head up when I heard the door open, only for it to crack just slightly before closing again.

I pulled my phone out of my backpack, unlocked the screen, found the app icon, and opened it. I glanced at the wall clock. It had to be around 6:50 p.m., judging by where the hands were pointing.

Scheduled call.

I selected the option and started scrolling through the available settings.

Country to display.

I ran down the list. Azerbaijan seemed like a good choice—just enough to throw him off for a few seconds when the call came in.

Delay.

I glanced toward the pantry again, straining to listen. Maybe they were talking about drinking my money away later that night.

I chose the ten-minute option, then selected his contact as the number to be called. I muted my phone and slipped it into my other pocket.

I unbuttoned my jeans, lifted my shirt, and saw that the mark on my skin was still there, faintly blurred but visible enough. The pantry door opened. I let the fabric fall back into place.

“Sorry,” he said again. “It was a friend.”

I heard.

“It’s fine,” I replied, getting up from the chair and walking over to him.

He was a good-looking man—tall, pleasantly soft through the upper body, with ocean-blue eyes and brown hair and beard, the kind of look that suggested he cared about his appearance just enough. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and light brown jeans that tapered at the ankles. Even his clothes carried the scent of expensive cologne.

Exactly my type.

I lowered my gaze to the floor so I could study his feet. He was wearing plain black socks, and his feet were broad.

Tempting.

“Those are pretty big,” I said, looking back up at him with a smile.

“You like them?” he asked, stepping closer and planting both feet on top of mine.

For a second, my breath caught. My cock stirred inside my boxer briefs. I reminded myself why I was here, but I still couldn’t hold back the quiet sound that slipped from my throat.

About nine minutes left.

“Very,” I replied, with a shy little laugh worked into it.

“How much did you say again?” he asked after shifting back a little.

“A hundred and fifty.”

Half of it had already been transferred to him before I came over. It was almost funny how easily people handed over their bank details if you sounded convincing enough about wanting to pay them.

He nodded.

“So…” I began, glancing toward the living room.

Eight minutes.

“Whatever works for you,” he said, answering the question I hadn’t asked out loud.

I took his hand.

I felt the reflexive pull in it, the brief urge to take it back, but he must have remembered the drinking money waiting for him later that night, because only one muscle twitched in his face before he smiled.

As far as he could tell, I had no hidden agenda. I was there for a service, plain and simple. So I only pulled him along with me, all the way to the couch.

Seven and a half minutes. Hurry.