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come to me feathered and frayed

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‘Oh! Jon, is that you?’ asks Martin, surprised, as he rounds the corner between two stacks. He’s on the hunt for a book, and wasn’t expecting to find Jon not only in the library but in the very row where he also needs to be.

Jon, perched on a stepladder as he pores over the shelf, gives a sort of squawk and teeters precariously. ‘My God, Martin, you startled me!’ He presses a hand to his chest. ‘I didn’t hear you at all. I didn’t think there’d be anyone else in here.’

‘Nor did I,’ Martin points out, and Jon gives an awkward little laugh that’s far more gratifying than it should be. His stomach giving a little flip, Martin pulls out his crumpled piece of notepaper and scans the stacks, trying to keep his cool. His heart rate has kicked into high gear, the way it always does whenever Jon’s in the vicinity, and he can only hope his hands haven’t started shaking. ‘Actually, ah, while you’re up there—I think the book I’m looking for should be around there? D’you mind checking for me?’

‘Hm? Oh, sure.’ Jon leans down to peer at the page that Martin holds up for him, and then squints back at the shelf. He flutters his fingers over the long multicoloured row of spines, muttering under his breath, and then seizes on a tome bound in pale-blue leather with a triumphant, ‘Aha! This the one?’

He holds it out for Martin to look at, his expression expectant. Martin nods, taking the book from him and beginning to leaf through it. ‘Yup, that’s it. Good boy,’ he says absently.

He only realizes what he’s said when Jon drops the book he’s holding and it hits the floor with a loud smack. Martin’s head jerks up. ‘Oh, shit, Jon, did I—’ 

It’s Monday morning; he spent a particularly excellent night at the club yesterday, and he’s still, apparently, in Full Dom Mode. There's a reason he doesn’t normally go out on Sundays—it’s to prevent exactly this from happening—but, well, he needed a fix pretty badly, and now look what you’ve done.

‘You called me…a good boy,’ says Jon, uncertainly.

Martin realizes he had been bracing for anger; but Jon doesn’t sound angry. Far from it, in fact: Jon sounds…curious. Hesitant, but intrigued. Martin looks up at him, and it’s dim in here and Jon’s skin is dark anyway, but is he…blushing?

‘Yeah,’ says Martin. He keeps his voice neutral, experimenting. ‘Yeah, ah, I did.’ He clears his throat. ‘Did you…like it?’

Jon doesn’t reply. He is gripping the ladder’s railing very tightly. Martin waits, suddenly afraid that he’s massively misjudged—but then Jon gives a minute, trembling nod.

Martin decides to step one more toe into the water. ‘Did it,’ he asks, low, ‘turn you on?’

Jon makes a high, tiny sound. His dark eyes are huge with shame; he looks like he is about to collapse. ‘Yes,’ he whispers. He fixes Martin with a pleading look then, suddenly intense, almost frightened: ‘Don’t tell,’ he says. ‘Please, don’t tell—anyone.’

‘I won’t,’ Martin promises. This is unbelievable; he’s been so anxious around Jon for so long, so terrified of incurring his disapproval (again), not to mention the enormous, devastating crush he’s harboured ever since he first clapped eyes on him. Now, to have Jon looking at him like that, to have him begging Martin for something—well. If Martin isn’t careful, he might just get addicted.

‘And you won’t say anything either, will you?’ Martin adds, unable to resist. ‘Because you’re such a good boy.’

 Jon’s mouth drops open. As Martin watches, a shudder passes through his slim, fragile frame; Martin worries for a second that he’s actually going to fall off the ladder. But then he steels himself and says, very softly, ‘Yes.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Martin smiles up at him. And then he turns on his heel and heads for the door, clutching the sought-for book to his chest. He can feel his heart pounding maddeningly against it. Behind him, he swears he can hear Jon’s breathing, too shallow and too fast.


Jon seems to avoid him for the rest of the week. Once they have left the insular dark of the library, and dizzy reality has begun to sink in, Martin can’t blame him at all; the more time passes, the more embarrassed he feels. He’s distracted and erratic at work, dropping files and mixing up statements and annoying Sasha more and more each time he has to apologise to her for making another mistake that she'll now have to fix. All he can think, though, is that he’s almost definitely going to get fired anyway, so does any of it really matter?

It comes as no surprise, then, when on Friday afternoon Jon calls Martin in to see him. Tim and Sasha are out on their usual extra-long Friday lunch, which Jon strongly disapproves of but can’t actually forbid, as Tim points out nearly every week, and Martin is glad he’s alone, because when Jon opens his office door and clears his throat and says, ‘Martin?’, he almost falls out his chair.

‘Could you…come in for a moment, please?’ Jon says, studiously avoiding Martin’s gaze. Martin swallows, and nods. He snuck an empty cardboard box out from Artefact Storage’s recycling the other day, and it’s hidden under his desk; he’s almost certain he’ll be filling it as soon as Jon has said what he needs to say. He really, really wanted to keep this job, and maybe that was the problem. As soon as he lets himself enjoy something, he finds a way to sabotage it.

Martin stands up and follows Jon into his office. Jon closes the door behind him with a short, tense movement and then goes to sit down behind his desk, his hands folded in front of him. ‘Thank you, Martin,’ he says stiffly. ‘I’m sorry to disturb your lunch hour, but I did want to have this conversation in, ah, relative privacy.’

‘I understand,’ says Martin. There’s another chair in front of Jon’s desk, but he doesn’t dare sit; he can’t imagine this’ll be a long meeting, anyway. Might as well get it over with.

‘I completely understand why you need to fire me,’ Martin says, at the same time as Jon says, ‘I’ve never, ah, done this before.’

There is a pause. ‘Fired anyone?’ Martin asks. That makes sense, he guesses—Jon kind of got promoted out of the blue, right from Research, if what he’s heard is true, so he doesn’t have much in the way of managerial experience—but he still didn’t expect him to look so nervous about it.

Jon blinks. ‘Fired anyone?’ The penny drops. ‘Oh, God, Martin, I—is that what you thought this was about?’

‘Yes?’ Martin says uncertainly. ‘I, I mean, after what happened on Monday, in the library, you’d be…entirely justified. I acted inappropriately. So inappropriately. I’m really sorry, Jon.’ He swallows. ‘Should I go, ah, get my things, then? I can be gone before Tim and Sasha get back—‘

‘No!’ Jon blurts. ‘No, Martin, I’m not firing you—you’re not fired. I don’t think I even can fire you, actually, it would have to go through Elias—but that’s not the point. You’re not fired,’ he repeats, looking intently at Martin. Colour rises suddenly to his cheeks, and he stammers as he adds, ‘You’re right about—about, ah, Monday, though. That is what I wanted to talk about.’

‘Okay,’ says Martin slowly. He’s reeling a little. Dread has been replaced with relief, stronger than he would have expected—and, increasingly, with a simmering curiosity. If Jon wants to talk about Monday, but not in the context of firing him, then what, exactly…? ‘Go on.’

Jon nods brusquely, apparently steeling himself. He takes a deep breath. ‘I…liked it,’ he says. ‘What you called me.’

Oh. Interest prickles in Martin’s gut. ‘A good boy,’ he says, because he can. ‘You liked it when I called you a good boy.’

Jon swallows. ‘Yes. Yes, I…I did. And I’ve been, ah. Thinking about it.’ He brushes a strand of hair back from his eyes, too forcefully. ‘Wondering if you could…do it again, maybe.’

‘Oh?’ Martin lets his voice deepen, just a little—pulls out the tone that he and his subs only half-jokingly call Dom Voice—and has to fight to keep from grinning at the immediate effect it has on Jon. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I could. But I think you’d have to earn it.’

Jon is nodding almost before he’s finished his sentence, tiny, frantic movements. ‘Yes. Please. I can be good for you. I want—I want to earn it.’

‘Mm,’ says Martin. ‘All right, then. Let’s see how good you can be.’ He looks Jon directly in the eyes, and then casts a significant glance down at his own feet. Jon understands immediately. He scrambles out of his chair and hurries over, dropping to his knees in front of Martin. ‘Very good start,’ Martin murmurs approvingly, and sees a shudder pass through Jon. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’d like you to eat me out. D’you think you can do that?’

Jon says, looking at the ground, ‘It’s been a while—’

‘Ah, ah,’ says Martin. ‘You look at me when you speak to me. Understood?’

A sharp intake of breath. ‘Yes, Martin,’ says Jon, looking up at him with wide, liquid eyes. ‘I—I haven’t done…anything…in a long time. A long time. But I can—try.’ He hesitates. ‘Can you…tell me what to do?’

‘Of course I can.’ Martin's hands move to his fly; he tugs down his jeans and boxers so they pool at his feet. He’s wet already, his cock beginning to fill, and the cool air hitting his cunt sends a sharp thrill through him.

Jon’s lips are parted. Face level with Martin’s crotch, he is staring at him as though enraptured. ‘You can touch,’ says Martin, his tone making it clear that this is less an invitation and more a command.

Jon makes a soft noise. He lifts a hand and strokes Martin’s folds lightly, tentatively, his touch so delicate it makes Martin shiver. ‘Is that all?’ Martin prods him. ‘Come on, Jon, I’m not made of glass. Touch me.’

‘Yes, Martin,’ Jon murmurs. He wears a look of intense concentration as he strokes from Martin’s slit and back up to his cock, with more pressure and perhaps a modicum more confidence this time. ‘Oh,’ he says softly. ‘You’re—you’re so wet.’

‘That’s what you do to me,’ Martin tells him, his voice heavy with praise. ‘D’you even know how long I’ve wanted to get you on your knees? I knew you’d be good for me. I knew you’d be so, so good. And you’re gonna prove it to me, aren’t you, Jon?’

Jon’s fingers are making slick, wet sounds as he explores between Martin’s folds, toying with his cock and occasionally moving to circle his slit, never quite pushing inside. Martin is so wet; it would be so easy; but Martin doesn’t want to push it, so he won’t ask it of him. Not yet.

‘Wanna be good for you,’ Jon says, sounding as though he’s been hypnotised. ‘Martin—please—can I taste you?’

‘You wanna taste my cunt, huh?’ Martin asks. He reaches down to run fingers through Jon’s hair. ‘You wanna taste how wet I am for you? Mm. Go on, then.’ Grabbing a fistful of Jon’s hair at the nape in a firm, decisive grip, he pulls him closer so Jon’s mouth is on him.

He had been certain Jon would be shy about this, too, but instead he makes a soft broken sound and then starts to lick and suck at him with desperate eagerness. He wastes no time in finding Martin’s cock, standing stiffly out from its hood, and taking it between his lips, laving it messily, inexpertly, hungrily with his tongue. ‘You look so sweet with my cock in your mouth,’ Martin tells him, scratching at the nape of Jon’s neck and smiling when he melts against him with a soft, shaking moan. Jon looks up at him, hazy-eyed. ‘Good boy,’ he says. ‘What a good, good boy.’

 Jon breaks off, panting, his lips shining with Martin’s slick. ‘I want to make you come,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Please let me make you come.’

‘Of course,’ Martin says graciously. ‘I’m getting close already. You feel so good. I love your mouth on my cunt.’

‘Thank you,’ Jon whispers. For a moment he looks like he might cry. Then he bends his head back to Martin’s cunt and resumes pleasuring him with that same irresistible naïveté, hardly skilful but delicious in his eagerness to please. Martin closes his eyes and rocks his hips gently against Jon’s face, feeling his nose bumping his swollen cock, humming with satisfaction when Jon’s tongue probes his slit. ‘Fingers inside me, please, Jon,’ he commands quietly.

Jon hurries to obey, pausing for a moment to figure out the logistics of fingering him while continuing to eat his cunt. Martin watches rather than guide him, and smiles fondly down at Jon when he works it out and starts fucking Martin with renewed vigour, evidently pleased with himself.

Martin exhales when Jon’s shy fingers find his G-spot. ‘There,’ he says, ‘there you are. Yes, Jon—ah, like that.’ The pressure inside of him is perfect, and combined with Jon’s wet, eager mouth, he feels himself getting closer and closer to climax. He suddenly remembers where they are, and that Tim and Sasha could get back from lunch at any minute—he has no idea, he realises, how long they’ve been in Jon’s office—and this, instead of dampening his pleasure, heightens it sharply. What would they say if they could see them like this—Martin half-clothed, his head tipped back in pleasure, with their prickly, prudish boss on his knees between his legs? Martin feels a deep, hot thrill of something like triumph. For me. He’s like this, all sweet and soft and pliant and good, just for me.

‘I’m close,’ Martin says, his voice coming breathy. ‘I’m close, Jon. D’you want me to come on your face? D’you want me to make a gorgeous mess of you, my good boy, my sweet boy?’

Jon moans against him, pressing his face closer and closer into Martin’s cunt, his tongue working furiously on Martin’s cock. The pressure on his G-spot is so hard, so good, that Martin can tell he’s going to squirt; and, moments later, when he feels himself tipping over the edge, he grips Jon’s hair tighter still and exhales, ‘Oh, Jon, oh, fuck—’

And a gush of fluid leaves his cunt, dripping onto Jon’s lips, into his parted, waiting mouth. Martin cries out as he spasms against Jon’s face, his orgasm trembling through his entire body, making him weak at the knees. ‘Oh, my God, Jon,’ he says, when he can breathe again. ‘Oh, my God. Come here. Come here.’ And he drops to his knees, and pulls Jon into his arms, and presses his lips to his. Their first kiss, he registers dimly, and Jon’s mouth is wet and tastes of him.

Jon sags against him, breathing hard. He mumbles something into Martin’s shoulder; he can’t hear him, and he pulls back to look at him. ‘What was that?’

‘Was I good?’ Jon asks quietly. ‘Was I good for you?’

‘Oh, Jon.’ Martin pulls him close again, and can’t resist kissing the top of his head. His hair smells rich and dark, like cloves. ‘You were so good. So very, very good.’ He strokes Jon’s back, slow and soothing, and feels him relax against him, boneless. ‘Do you need anything?’ he asks him. ‘I don’t know that we have much time, but—’

Jon shakes his head against Martin’s chest. ‘No. I don’t really need—or want—any of…Yeah. I just want to…I liked making you feel good. I like being—useful like that. Being…good.’

‘I understand,’ Martin says softly. A sizable number of subs he’s had since he got into kink have also had managerial positions or otherwise stressful jobs; they come to the club to get away from all that, to have responsibility taken out of their hands. The more Martin thinks about it, the less surprised he is that Jon would want that too; the less unlikely it feels that they’ve ended up here.

‘Could we…again?’ Jon asks hesitantly. ‘Not, ah, not now, but…sometime? Could I do this for you, or, or do something, and you could…’

‘Praise you?’ Martin suggests, seeing the word hovering on Jon’s tongue, unable to be vocalised. Jon nods, tight, abashed. ‘Of course,’ he tells him. ‘I would love to.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Very much.’ He strokes Jon’s hair. ‘I’ve…wanted you for ages, you know. I wasn’t just saying that.’

Jon exhales. ‘I’ve wanted…’ he begins. He shakes his head. ‘I’ve wanted,’ he says again. ‘I don’t know how to, to ask, or to tell, or even to…define…but it was this. I just want to be good,’ he says, softly.

Martin holds him as close as he can. The office carpet is dull and scratchy on his bare skin; there is mess drying on his thighs and on Jon’s face; surely Tim and Sasha will be back soon, and come looking for him when he’s not at his desk. But for right now, it is him, and Jon, small and pliant and safe in his arms. ‘You are good, Jon. You’ve always been good. And you’ll always be good for me, won’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Jon exhales. His face relaxes into quiet bliss. ‘Yes.’