I saw him first. He was standing in the shadow of the main campus building. I was walking my bike, having come down Broadway from the store. I had come up the back way today to get tea. Facing away from me, Jon was watching the trickle of summer students as they made their way in and out of the building. Not thirty feet away. He looked menacing. His blond hair was longer, and he had at least a day’s growth of beard. People shifted uneasily around him. The black shit kickers on his feet made him tower, and his broad shoulders were visible under the snug gray t-shirt. I shivered in spite of the warmth of the late morning.

“I still feel like I want to be his.”

“Even if he wanted you, that would be a crutch. It is time for you to take responsibility for your life.”

Why is he here? My therapist says I am doing well. Starting to behave like a normal person. I don’t feel like myself, but he isn’t sure whom I am talking about. He is just sure it is normal for a nineteen year old to be going to parties, getting stoned, wasting their life away. Fuck, I STILL have a headache from that fucking party two nights ago. Oh, shit, Jon is a Narc detective. Can he tell I have been smoking pot? Fuck him, I hope he can. I thought to myself defiantly.

I stood there staring at him long enough; he shifted off of the wall and turned towards me as if sensing it. Yeah, okay, I admit it. I waited for him to do that. The force of his gaze is like a physical touch. Maybe it wouldn’t be if I saw him often. Every instinct I have says turn around and walk away except one. I shiver and fight it tightening my hands on my bike. He walked towards me, his expression inscrutable. In six weeks there will be a trial, maybe he just wants to…

“Hello, Micah.”

Hello, little man.

“Why—what are you doing… here?” I finally manage. I am shivering as if I am cold. Clenching my teeth I try to stop it, but it is shock. How come I am so—

He touches me. His warm hand cups over mine on the bike and his other hand cups my elbow. “You’re shaking.” He says softly. Well, no shit! I didn’t say anything. He sighed and put his arm around me. His heart, the sound of it hammering in his chest was so fucking beautiful. “Let’s walk.” He urged me, his arm around my waist. I didn’t resist. I should have. One year of therapy and Jon had me with a single look.

“No!” Wow, where did that come from? Fear, no. Anger. Yeah.

But, he kept his arm around me and we kept walking, his body tightened and I wasn’t really walking with him so much as being pulled along beside him. The pressure against my back was…exciting? Suddenly, I felt the sensation of my clothing rubbing against my skin, and it felt strange and alien. I tightened my grip on my bike. The metal became slick under my damp palm. His truck came into view a black Suburban. The image of me lying across his lap slammed into me with the force of a freight train and I gasped for air. He didn’t stop.

I have a normal life that is a life without Jon. No net. Just me, in the world, invisible and safe! Okay, it isn’t my life. It is Michael Church’s life. But, there is no place for Jon in that life. I have spent a year getting over him! That should be your first clue, huh? Getting over him. Not getting over my captivity. Not getting over the torture. And who am I kidding? That tattoo says, “Property of Jon Cooper.”

Oh god. He takes my bike and puts it in the back of the SUV, one handed. His other hand like a manacle is curled around my wrist. He is aware, every second, of my fight. But, he is gentle, just insistent.

“I am not getting in that car with you.” Wow, words. I spoke a complete sentence.

He turned slowly, and cars drove by, the drone of traffic and the sounds of the city became white noise, my head spinning. “Let’s talk about that word. No. It is yours to use, Micah. It always was. But, it is a powerful word.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand, my wrist and the tattoo. “I will let you make that choice, use that word. Do you mean it?” The stroke of his thumb, the heat from his big body as he pulled me over to the passenger side, swinging open the door, robbed me of my strength. You know what I wanted to do? Grab him around the waist and bury my face in his chest. Scream his name. Hit him. I hiccupped. He picked me up and put me in the seat, buckling me efficiently in. Then he shut the door firmly and walked around the car. Waiting for traffic to pass so he could climb in.

I still don’t have any idea what he is thinking. Why is he here? A tear splashes on my hand. Why am I crying? That really makes me mad. Why am I sitting here in this car? Get out! He climbs in beside me and slides the keys into the ignition. “Where?” I whisper hoarsely. It doesn’t matter, his answer, but I am very confused.

“Home.” He says that like it is my home. Not, let’s go to my condo. We are going Home.

“I don’t understand why I am freaking out.” I finally gasp, almost a laugh.

“Still saying No?” He is relentless.. He maneuvers deftly amongst the city traffic.

“I’m not sure.” I answer after a long interval. My eyes close, and the warmth of the car seeps into me. It is plain hot, but Jon doesn’t turn on the AC and my shivering stops. . Jon is sitting beside me and I can smell him. That warm earthy scent. Honey and sand. His scent is pouring into me hot and earthy. Even as I try not to look at him, try to block him out. I taste him on my tongue. My ass tightens involuntarily as we take a corner and I am suddenly horny. My cock swells, and all I can think of is when I lay in the back seat of this truck. When his fingers slid that fucking anal plug out of my ass.

He must have noticed my sudden arousal. The savage. “What are you imagining?”

“Nothing.” I mutter angrily. Oh he pisses me off. Why did he let me go before? What is he doing now?

He isn’t so gentle removing me from the car. His nostrils are flaring and he looks angry. He’s never been angry with me before. I don’t have the sense god gave a butterfly. I am a moth, haplessly hurling myself towards the hot glass around a light bulb. Slamming my fragile self into it, over and over. Gimme the light. Ouch.

I don’t recall the first time we walked up these stairs. Just being inside the door and ripping my clothes off. The stairs creak under Jon’s weight and that makes me smile. I creak under his weight too. I laugh. He glares at me.

“Why are you so pissed off at me?” I ask casually as he pulls me inside. The door clicks closed behind me. My eyes adjust to the dimmer light, and automatically I want to strip. Wow. I have my sweatshirt off before he relaxes. He had opened his mouth as if to say something fierce and then when I reached down and grabbed the hem of my shirt his eyes widened. The truth is I still hate wearing clothing. But, I stop at the shirt. Making a point. His eyes narrowed.

“All of it.” He says firmly. But he doesn’t touch me. Okay, this is a test. Is he trying to see if I have recovered? Have my self-will back?

“Yes, Jon.” When I said this, I said it cheekily. But, it didn’t come out that way. It came out huskily and his eyes closed and he stepped forward but didn’t touch me. Kicking off my shoes they thunk on the wood floor, but he stands silently, his fists clenched. “I am not sure if you want me to listen to you, or not, Jon. Am I supposed to prove to you I am recovered?” The zipper on my pants seems obscenely loud.

“What feels right to you, Micah?” His eyes pop open and he watches me. Unmoving. His stillness is unnerving.

Ignoring his question. I mean why not, he ignores mine, “Why are you so mad at me, Jon?” I try again. Somehow, this is important. My pants and underwear fall and I step free. My feet are already bare. So, there I am naked. My skin isn’t so pale anymore, and I am still a little too thin, but I have gained fifteen pounds. My legs are stronger, Seattle is a city of hills and I ride my bike everywhere.

“Shower, then we will talk.” He says softly and turns away.

Shower. Looking down at myself I frown. Am I dirty? Hmm. I do still have that fucking headache. That might be it. He is mad at me for smoking pot. I am positive my eyes are bloodshot. Well fuck him. The hot water seems to wash away some of the ache, and I imagine it washing away time, slipping down the drain and I slide backwards, to when I was closer to Jon. When I was his. I feel the tears on my cheeks like rivers, and no amount of drying stops them. I stand there in the bathroom until it makes me angry and I storm out, my damp feet slapping on the floor.

There is a glass of orange juice on the counter, and he is facing the window. “Drink the juice.” God, I am thirsty. I drain it, rather noisily. Tears still fucking racing down my cheeks. I am not sobbing. Just the tears. Like the valve is on, and my body won’t shut it off.

He moves over to the sofa, it has a wide seat, so when he sits in the middle of it, he sprawls. His legs open at the knees, and his arms outstretched over the back. “Come over here.”

I move. I obey. Still, I am doing this for me. I expect him to get angry over it, honestly. My therapist is. My family is. They avoid it, but nothing changes the fact that I feel like imagining I belong to Jon. So, I steel these moments. He contacted me. When he pushes me away I will have these moments to replay in my mind. I still hesitate when I get close. I want to stand between his legs. But I don’t. I stop a couple of feet away. Right here I can still pretend that I am just comfortable with my nudity, that there is not a bigger message in my actions.

“Do you want to stand over there?” He asks calmly.

“I want to know why you are so angry.” But I move. I move because my body isn’t listening until I am between his knees.

“Kneel.” He answers. Dammit! No, this is not right. He is angry, and I am not going to –

I back away, ready to walk out when his arm comes around my waist and he pushes me down and I fight him. He catches my hands and locks them in one fist by the wrists. Then I am over his knee and the sting of his hand on my ass makes me scream. And sob. The tears are dripping from my face. He slaps me again. Hard. My dick jumps and fills with blood. His hand flies again and I jerk even before he hits me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I knew you’d be mad. I wanted to make you angry. I thought I was thinking these words. But I guess I was yelling them. Slap! “The first time I smoked it, I knew you would be furious and I wanted you to be! I imagined you were mad at me, and I felt like saying Fuck you! Look at me, Jon! Can you see me?” He was just holding me now. His hand was soothing the sting on my ass and I groaned sliding my knees apart and wriggling my ass.

“Not yet, little man.” He said softly. “Not yet.” Slap! God! One more and …Slap! I came. I cum when he kisses me, I cum when he spanks me. I cum just thinking of him. He exhales, and his hand pets me, between my legs teasing the last bit of my orgasm out of my nuts and I am panting, sobbing. His fingers are still gripping my wrists above my head on the couch; he twists, and is out from beneath me. I hear rather than see him stripping. Oh god, oh god.

“Jon…” I plead. Yes, I want him. But I need words. I need to understand. No more guessing.

“Shut up.” He growls. I struggle with my emotion, my needing. It hurts. IT HURTS SO FUCKING MUCH. I lay there, trying to stifle my sobs until my throat aches with the need for it. He walks away. My body begins to stick to the leather, uncomfortably. But, can I move? Yes, I can move. I can leave. My muscles seem to be uncoordinated. I am shaking as I sit up. He has left the room. There is cum all over my stomach and the sofa. It bothers me. My vision is blurred but I manage to stand. Inhaling deeply I walk to the bathroom. My hands shake as I lean on the sink, trying to wash the cum off.

My god, I am so fucking embarrassed. I walked into his house, took off my clothes, begged him to spank me, came and have I learned nothing? Ugh. I return to the couch with the damp towel and I hear the shower turn on in the back bathroom. His bathroom.

I wipe off the couch. In no hurry I dress and picking his keys up off of the table I walk out the door.

Thanks for the brain fuck, Jon. I think to myself. It was nice.

Now, it is true that I do not have a drivers license. And also true that owning a car is probably not a good idea for me. But, I do know how to drive. I was trained at the FBI’s agent training course. I can drive pretty well actually. But, I have zero respect for the law. But, I am not going far. Just back up the hill. It is Friday, and I have a party to go to. Whatever game Jon is playing, I am not going to bet my money on. I want him. I want to be his. But, he isn’t perfect, and I deserve a little more clarity. Flipping open my cell phone I call Jacob.

“Jacob?”

“Micah.” He is weird. How does he know it is me…oh yeah, cell id. Duh.

“Jon is confusing me. I know you all are concerned that I will fuck it up at trial. I won’t.” Yeah, that was clear wasn’t it?

“How is he confusing you, Micah?” Wow, he sounds intently focused on me. How nice.

“That is the problem. I am not sure, but I am confused and I’ve tried asking questions. But…”

“He is answering with actions instead of words, isn’t he Micah?” Ouch. Okay, yeah. But, that isn’t enough.

“Yes. But, I am not an expert at Jon’s actions. I don’t understand. I’d just as soon not suffer through all this bullshit, if you don’t mind.” Click. Okay, I am running like hell.

So, if I am running why did I give the playbook to the enemy? Go figure. I want him. I want him to catch me. But, I also want him to love me. I am not willing to be a fantasy fuck. I am willing to belong to the Jon that loves me. That needs me.