The second day of classes felt different from the first. The first day was all navigation — finding rooms, reading professors, figuring out which version of himself to bring into which space. The second day was the beginning of routine, which was both more comfortable and more demanding. Routine meant showing up. Routine meant this was actually happening.
He had two classes in the morning, a survey course he'd carried over from his Business Administration track that still counted toward his new requirements, and a mathematics prerequisite that put him in a room with mostly freshmen for the second day running. He didn't mind. He sat near the back, took clean notes on his legal pad, and thought about Charlotte's color coded system and whether he was ever going to adopt it.
He was not ever going to adopt it.
He texted her that during the break between classes.
*your system is very good and I'm never going to use it*
Her reply came back in under a minute.
*I know. That's why you're the backup.*
He got back to the caretaker's cottage at half past three to find Zach sitting on the front step, backpack between his feet, phone in his hand, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that nobody had let him in.
"Hey," Zach said, not looking up.
"Hey," Jake said. "How long have you been here?"
"Twenty minutes maybe." Zach finally looked up. "Nice place."
Jake looked at the caretaker's cottage the way you look at something when someone else is seeing it for the first time. The stone walls, the heavy door, the estate visible through the trees behind it. "Yeah," he said. "It is."
"Duncan home?"
"Not yet." Jake unlocked the door. "Come in."
Zach came in.
He made it approximately four steps into the front room before he stopped.
The pillory stood against the far wall the way it always stood, heavy and wooden and completely present, the kind of thing that didn't recede into the background no matter how familiar the room became. Jake had long since stopped seeing it as anything other than furniture. Zach was seeing it for the first time.
Zach looked at it for a long moment. Then he looked at Jake.
Jake said nothing. He set his bag down and moved toward the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"
Zach looked back at the pillory. His expression was doing several things at once — the pieces assembling, the picture clarifying, the thing he had already mostly suspected resolving into something confirmed and complete.
"Yeah," Zach said finally, following him into the kitchen. "Sure."
He didn't ask. Jake didn't explain. They stood in the kitchen and Jake poured two glasses of water and Zach drank his and looked out the window at the estate and that was the whole conversation.
It was enough. It was everything that needed to be said.
Duncan got home at quarter past five, still in his going out clothes from wherever he'd been, keys in hand, stopping short when he saw Zach at the kitchen table.
"Zachary," Duncan said, the name landing with the particular warmth of someone who has decided they like a person and isn't bothering to hide it.
"Hey Duncan," Zach said.
Duncan looked at Jake. Jake shrugged. Duncan dropped his keys on the counter, shrugged off his jacket, and said "Do you play F1?"
Zach looked up from his phone. "Which one?"
"The new one."
"Yeah," Zach said. "I play."
Duncan was already moving toward the gaming console with the focused energy of a man who has found something worth doing. "Come on then," he said. "Jake's useless at this."
"I never said I was good at it," Jake said.
"You never said you were bad at it either," Duncan said. "Which was misleading."
Jake took his bag to the kitchen table, spread out his notes, and opened his laptop.
What followed was approximately two hours that Jake experienced entirely from the kitchen table through a combination of peripheral vision and audio cues.
The first twenty minutes were Duncan explaining. Not condescendingly — Duncan explained things the way he did everything, with precision and genuine enthusiasm, assuming intelligence in his audience. Zach listened, asked two questions, and said he was ready.
The first race lasted eleven minutes. Zach won by fourteen seconds.
The silence that followed was the particular silence of a man recalibrating.
"Again," Duncan said.
Jake turned a page of his notes and did not look up.
The second race lasted thirteen minutes. Zach won by nine seconds. He was getting slower, which meant he was being careful, which meant he understood the room well enough to know that winning was fine but embarrassing was a different thing.
He was not careful enough.
"Again," Duncan said. The playfulness in his voice was doing a lot of work over something that was no longer entirely playful.
Jake looked at his budget spreadsheet with the focused attention of a man who found personal finance absolutely riveting. The numbers blurred slightly. He looked at them harder.
Zach won the third race by six seconds and had the presence of mind to say "close one" as if he meant it.
Duncan demanded a fourth race with a laugh that was almost entirely convincing.
Jake turned to a new page of notes and began writing things he had already written, slowly and with great care, for something to do with his hands.
Charlotte was waiting at the lab bench when Jake got there Wednesday morning, her color coded notebook already open, two coffees from the campus cafe sitting between them.
Jake sat down. Looked at the coffee. Looked at her.
"I felt bad about Monday," she said, uncapping her pen. "I was weird."
"You were fine," Jake said.
"I said that's so great twice."
"You were fine," Jake said again, and picked up the coffee.
She looked at him for a moment with the direct eye contact of someone from a place where people said what they meant. Then she nodded once, accepting the verdict, and opened her notebook to the day's topic.
They worked well together. Jake had known it on Monday and it was clearer on Wednesday — Charlotte's system was meticulous and Jake's eye caught the things her system missed, the professor's offhand comments that weren't in the slides, the example problems that showed up on tests. They fell into a rhythm without discussing it, the way people do when they're actually compatible at something.
After class they went to the campus cafe. Same table, same black coffees, less space between them than Monday.
"What's his name?" Charlotte asked. "Your boyfriend."
"Duncan," Jake said.
Charlotte nodded, filing it away. "When does he leave?"
"Saturday," Jake said.
"That's soon."
"Yeah," Jake said. "It is."
Charlotte wrapped both hands around her cup the way she did when she was thinking. "My boyfriend shipped out two weeks ago," she said. "Air force. I drove him to the airport, came home, and showed up here Monday." She looked at her coffee. "You just keep going apparently."
Jake looked at her. "What's his name?"
"Garrett," she said.
Jake nodded. They sat with that for a moment, two people with the same specific weight between them, not needing to explain it further.
"It doesn't get easier," Jake said. "I'm told it gets quieter."
Charlotte considered that. "I'll take quieter," she said.
Wednesday night needed no preamble and received none.
The main house was eerily quiet without Ellie's bustling presence. Jake was on his hands and knees on the sun-drenched patio, wrestling with the sliding glass door that had a stubborn habit of sticking. He'd already lubricated the track and was now trying to adjust the rollers, a frustratingly finicky task.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He wiped his greasy hands on his jeans and pulled it out. A text from Duncan.
*It's hump day! Gonna hump you out of this world! 5:15 pm be ready and waiting!*
A slow grin spread across Jake's face. He glanced at the time. 4:47 PM. He had less than half an hour to finish this door, clean up, drive back to the caretaker's cottage, shower, and be naked and waiting. The challenge was on.
He worked with a newfound, frantic energy. The stubborn roller finally clicked into place. With a final, satisfying shove, the door slid smoothly along its track. He slammed it shut a few times to confirm, then packed up his tools with military precision.
He jogged back across the sprawling lawn, his tool bag bumping against his leg. He was inside the caretaker's cottage by 5:05. He stripped off his greasy work clothes as he ran, leaving a trail from the door to the bathroom. He was in and out of the shower in under three minutes, scrubbing the day's grime from his skin with an efficiency that was born of pure necessity.
At 5:13, he was kneeling in the center of the front room rug, his back straight, his hands clasped behind his head. He took a deep, centering breath, letting the frantic energy of his race against the clock settle into the calm, focused stillness of submission. He was ready. He was waiting.
He heard the front door open and close precisely at 5:15. Duncan walked in, Jake could feel his predatory pride finding Jake kneeling there, perfectly on time and flawlessly obedient.
"Good boy," Duncan growled, his voice a low rumble of approval. He crossed the room, his steps slow and deliberate. He stopped directly in front of him, his crotch level with Jake's face.
"Look at me," Duncan commanded.
Jake lifted his head, his eyes immediately finding Duncan's. The predatory hunger in Duncan's gaze made his breath catch.
"Since you were so very prompt," Duncan said, his voice a low purr as he began to unbuckle his belt, "I believe you've earned a reward."
He pulled his belt from its loops, the hiss of leather a sound that made Jake's stomach clench. But Duncan didn't use it to restrain. He dropped it to the floor. He unbuttoned his jeans, his eyes never leaving Jake's, and freed himself, his cock already hard and heavy in his hand.
"Open your mouth," Duncan ordered softly.
Jake obeyed instantly, parting his lips. Duncan stepped forward, feeding himself into Jake's mouth with a slow, controlled thrust. He tangled his hands in Jake's hair, holding him in place as he began to move, setting a deep, steady rhythm. It wasn't about face-fucking; it was about ownership, about claiming Jake's mouth as his own. Jake relaxed his throat, taking him in, his hands still locked behind his head, a perfect, obedient vessel for his Dom's pleasure.
Duncan's hands loosened in his hair. Jake sat back on his heels, catching his breath, the taste of him still present. Duncan was already moving toward the kitchen, straightening his jeans, entirely composed in the way of someone who had just gotten exactly what he wanted.
Jake got up and followed.
“Water, then I’m going to fuck you properly!” Duncan said handing Jake a bottle.
"Properly, huh?" Jake challenged, his voice a low murmur. "What does that entail?"
Duncan's eyes gleamed with mischief. "It entails," he said, his hands sliding down to cup Jake's ass, pulling him even closer, "that I still have to return the favor for that masterpiece of a blowjob you gave me. And," he added, leaning in to nip at Jake's lower lip, "I seem to recall you still haven't earned that coffee from this morning."
Jake groaned, letting his head fall back against the cabinets as Duncan's mouth began to trail a hot path down his neck. He was exhausted, sore, and more turned on than he had ever been in his life. It was going to be a very long night. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
"Protein shakes for dinner, then round two!" Duncan announced, his tone leaving no room for argument.
They drank the thick, cold shakes standing at the counter, the easy silence between them punctuated by the clink of their glasses. As they finished, Jake took Duncan's empty glass. He quickly rinsed both their glasses in the sink, the movements practiced and efficient, and deposited them in the dishwasher.
He turned to face Duncan, his expression clear and open. Without a word, he dropped to his knees, assuming his customary pose on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. He looked up, his eyes bright with anticipation.
"Ready for round two, Sir!"
A slow, predatory smile spread across Duncan's face. He looked down at the man kneeling at his feet, a perfect picture of submission and eagerness.
"Good boy!" Duncan's voice was a low purr of approval. He crooked a finger, a simple, elegant command. "Crawl."
Jake's body responded before his mind fully processed the word. He lowered himself onto his hands and knees, the cool tiles a firm pressure against his palms. He began to crawl, his movements slow and deliberate, leading the way out of the kitchen and back toward the front room where this had all begun. He could feel Duncan's eyes on him, a heavy, possessive gaze that made every nerve ending tingle.
He stopped in the center of the rug, kneeling back up into his waiting pose. Duncan walked past him, not to the pillory this time, but to the ornate cabinet against the wall. He opened the heavy door, the soft click echoing in the quiet room.
Duncan's fingers bypassed the paddles and the canes. He selected a small, black silicone butt plug, sleek and simple, with a flared base. He also grabbed a small bottle of lube. He closed the cabinet and turned back to Jake, his eyes dark with intent.
"Over the arm of the sofa," Duncan commanded, his voice soft but unyielding. "Present yourself."
Jake moved without hesitation, rising from his knees and positioning himself beside the sofa. He bent forward, draping his torso over the plush armrest, his ass tilted up in the air in an offering of complete trust and surrender. He rested his cheek against the cool fabric, his hands gripping the far side of the cushion, his body entirely open and vulnerable.
He heard the soft click of the lube bottle cap, then the slick sound of Duncan coating his fingers. A moment later, a cool, wet finger circled his rim, teasing him before pressing inside. Jake let out a soft sigh, his body relaxing into the touch as Duncan worked him open with patient, deliberate strokes. First one finger, then two, scissoring and stretching until he was loose and pliant, a low hum of pleasure building in his chest.
Then the fingers were gone, leaving him feeling momentarily empty. He felt the smooth, blunt head of the plug press against his entrance. Duncan pushed it in slowly, a relentless, steady pressure that stretched him until the widest part breached him with a sharp, breathtaking sting. His body clenched around the narrow neck, the flared base settling snugly against him, a constant, grounding presence.
Duncan gave the base a gentle pat, the small tap sending a jolt of sensation through Jake's entire body. "There," Duncan murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "A reminder of who you belong to while I take care of you."
He knelt behind Jake, his hands gripping Jake's hips. He leaned forward, his breath warm against the small of Jake's back. Then his mouth was on Jake, his tongue tracing a hot, wet line down his cleft before circling the sensitive skin stretched around the base of the plug. Jake gasped, his fingers digging into the sofa cushions as Duncan began to work him in earnest, licking and sucking, his tongue probing and teasing. The dual sensations — the full, unyielding pressure of the plug and the soft, insistent heat of Duncan's mouth — were overwhelming. Every nerve was on fire, every touch magnified a thousand times. He was completely at Duncan's mercy, a helpless, moaning mess, and he had never felt more alive.
The first lab was longer than the lecture, two hours of actual work rather than theory, and Jake found his footing in it faster than he expected. His hands knew how to follow precise instructions. That was construction, that was Ellie's faucet, that was the patio door roller clicking into place. The lab was just another version of the same thing — methodology, patience, attention to detail. Charlotte's color coded system translated surprisingly well to lab procedure. He didn't tell her that.
After lab they stood outside the science building in the early September air, Charlotte reorganizing her bag with the focused efficiency she brought to everything.
"Good lab," she said.
"Yeah," Jake agreed.
She headed for the commuter lot. Jake followed, their paths running parallel until she peeled off toward an old Hyundai Accent and Jake continued to his truck.
He sat for a moment before starting the engine, the week settling around him. Four days in. New major, new schedule, new lab partner, Duncan leaving in two days.
His phone buzzed.
It was Bobby.
Not a question, not a check in. Just a meme — a photograph of a cat sitting in a cardboard box with the caption *this is my house now, I live here, do not remove me.*
Jake looked at it for a moment. Sent back a meme of a dog in a hard hat standing on a construction site captioned *just another day at the office.*
Bobby replied with a GIF of a golden retriever spinning in circles.
Jake sent back a GIF of a cat knocking a glass off a table with calm deliberate eye contact.
Bobby sent a single word.
*accurate*
Jake started the truck and drove home.
The text from Ellie came at seven forty-three Friday morning while Jake was eating breakfast and Duncan was still upstairs.
*Good morning dear. New car is wonderful but the garage door opener seems confused about it. No rush, whenever you have a moment!*
Jake looked at the message. Looked up the pairing sequence for a Mercedes-AMG GT 63 S and a standard residential garage door opener. Watched a two minute video. Texted back.
*I'll sort it before classes. See you at eight fifteen.*
He was at the main house by eight twelve. Ellie met him at the garage in a silk robe and good humor, a coffee cup in each hand, one of which she extended to Jake without being asked.
"You're a treasure," she said.
"It's a five minute job," Jake said.
It took four minutes. He walked her through the pairing sequence, had her test it twice, and declined a second coffee on the grounds that he had a nine o'clock class.
"Of course," Ellie said, already turning back toward the house. Then she paused, looked back at him with the particular expression she got when she was about to say something that mattered. "Jake."
Jake turned.
"He'll be back before you know it," she said simply. Then she went inside.
Jake stood in the driveway for a moment next to the Mercedes-AMG GT 63 S, his coffee cup in his hand, the garage door closing smoothly on its newly programmed track.
He got in his truck and went to class.
Classes on Friday had the particular quality of classes at the end of a first week — the professors were wrapping up introductions, the students were already calculating the weekend. Jake took his notes, did what was required, and was back in his truck by two fifteen.
He drove back to the caretaker's cottage.
Duncan's Grenadier was in the drive with the rear hatch open. Through the window Jake could see the first suitcase already loaded, the one packed with military precision, clothes folded in a way Jake had watched and still couldn't replicate. The second suitcase was sitting on the path, waiting.
Jake sat in his truck for a moment with the engine off.
Duncan appeared in the doorway, the second suitcase in hand. He saw Jake, set the suitcase down on the path, and leaned against the doorframe with the easy confidence of a man who had decided that this specific moment didn't require any particular gravity.
"You're just in time," Duncan said. "I need someone to argue with me about which sweater goes on top."
Jake got out of the truck.
"The grey," he said.
Duncan considered this with the seriousness it apparently deserved. "The grey," he agreed. He picked up the second suitcase. "Come help me close this."
Jake followed him inside, the caretaker's cottage warm and familiar around them, the sequined bear on the bureau watching from its usual position of impartial dignity. One more night. Duncan leaving in the morning.
Jake helped him close the suitcase.
