Chapter 8

Michael drove home with the window cracked, allowing the cool night air to hit him in the face. His pulse hammered, and his heart still beat hard from the workout, but that wasn't what unsettled him. 

It was the leotard. Not just how humiliating it was for him to wear it, but how natural Victor and Ava made it seem. Then there was the tug on his pubic hair and Victor's words:

I don't want to see this tomorrow. 

His words weren't mocking or uncertain—he had issued a command, implicit but clear. He hadn't asked if Michael would shave his pubes. Victor left no doubt—he expected Michael to be bare before the next session.

What really pulled at his senses was that he didn't protest to any of it. Not once. He wore the ridiculous outfit, endured the tape measuring, and obeyed every instruction. All without a single objection. If asked hypothetically, he would have said that he'd laugh it off or beat the guy's ass, but in reality, all Victor needed to do was gesture, and Michael complied.

Ava seeing the whole thing, added an additional layer of emasculation for Michael. She watched the entire session. She didn't laugh or even smirk. She just watched with folded arms as if what she was witnessing was expected. If she had mocked him, he could have been mad at her, but her steady stare gave him no excuse. It only made him more aware that he hadn't resisted.

Michael tightened his grip on the steering wheel and refocused his attention on the drive home. The cool air steady on his forehead was not enough to tamp the rising heat from his chest.

Pulling into the driveway, Michael saw the familiar glow of the kitchen lights and Kate moving around inside. He wasn't ready to face her, but he couldn't sit and wait for her to go to bed either. He took a deep breath and let it out. He did it again. Then he pried open the door and pulled himself out of the vehicle.

"Hey, honey," Kate greeted him as he entered the kitchen. "How was it?"

This was the exact question Michael had dreaded. He felt his cheeks flush and held his head down, hoping Kate wouldn't notice his embarrassment.

"It was fine," he muttered as he attempted to streamline past her and up the stairs.

But it did not work. She pulled on his shoulder and spun him to her. And when he would only look down, she dipped her head low enough to make eye contact and held his gaze until she straightened. Michael's eyes immediately welled as his humiliation mounted, then he looked away. 

"Oh my god. What happened?" Kate said.

Michael tried to swallow, but his throat had dried. He didn't say anything; he just shook his head as if trying to dislodge the memory from his psyche.

"You're shaking," she pressed.

Michael felt his emotions rise from deep within him. Equal parts humiliation and exhilaration as he stared blankly into Kate's eyes. He wanted to push past her, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. Kate pulled him into an embrace and held him there.

The memory of the spandex fabric of the leotard gripping his groin, the sharp sting of Victor's tug, and Ava's unwavering gaze all came rushing back as Kate held him close. He tried to will it not to happen, but to his horror, he felt a twinge and the stretching of fabric as his penis hardened in his shorts.

Her deep concern turned to disbelief as she felt his stiff penis press against her thigh. She pushed him to arm's length and gave him a stern look, flicked her eyes down at the protrusion in his shorts, and then back up.

"What's going on?"

In a panic, Michael snatched himself from her grip, turned, and bolted up the stairs in one fluid motion.

Kate dropped her arms to her side and stared into the blank space where Michael had stood a moment before. Confusion knotted in her stomach, but beneath that, another emotion was sharper—a suspicion she wanted to dismiss, but could not shake. Her mind went to Echelon, to the ivory envelope she had delivered, to Victor.

Upstairs, Michael stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. He stripped quickly, turned on the hot water of the shower, and caught his reflection in the mirror.

Naked and sweaty, his watery eyes went to the redness on his shoulders from the straps of the leotard. He watched as he traced his fingers along the deep lines running from his groin over his hip that the leg holes had left. He looked at the reflection of his small erection and tried to push out the thoughts that made him hard. With an ounce of relief, Michael let his shoulders drop as he noticed himself softening before the shower steam overtook the mirror. 

He turned and stepped into the stall. He let the hot beads of water roll down his back. He lathered the washcloth with soap and scrubbed a bit too hard as if he were trying to wash away the shame.

Before he could stop them, Victor's words rushed back: I don't want to see this tomorrow. His penis stirred at the memory. Then he pictured Kate, recalling the way she had taken charge of him during that blowjob. Her voice was sharp, manipulative, and her control was absolute. His erection stiffened fully, and he fought the urge to touch it.

Despite trying to will it away, Michael entered the bedroom still painfully hard. He just wanted to go to bed and end his day, but Kate was already there, waiting for him.

He slipped under the covers and turned on his side. Kate scooted up against him, draped her arm over, and started rubbing his chest in small circles. When he didn't respond, she whispered, "What's going on with you?" 

He gave her nothing.

She hesitated, weighing whether to push or to soothe. She crooked her head to see him. He looked fragile. His breathing was sporadic, and she sensed he was wound tight—too tight to admit what he needed or wanted. Curious, she slid her hand down and found his cock was still stiff.

She enclosed her fingers around him and began to stroke him slowly. For an instant, she considered whether she should be doing this. After all, he had been crying and unable to articulate what happened, but his body told her everything his words would not. She had to be careful, though. She did not want to shame him; she wanted only to steady him.

Her strokes were slow and deliberate, in a rhythm meant to quiet him. "It's alright," she whispered. "You don't have to explain. Whatever stirred this in you is yours." 

She continued, "It's good—it's natural." Then she said, so softly in his ear that it was barely loud enough for even him to hear, "I understand."

Michael swallowed hard. His eyes teared up again, and he wanted to protest, to say it wasn't good. It wasn't natural. That he didn't understand it himself, but her touch made it impossible.

Kate wanted to know what this did to him. She had her suspicions, but she didn't want to push him. 

She kissed the side of his neck and went on, "Your body is just telling you something, and that's nothing to be ashamed of—nothing at all." She continued her stroke. Steady and rhythmic. 

A thrill rippled through Kate. Michael's vulnerability awakened something deep inside her; an excitement she hadn't anticipated but couldn't ignore.

Michael's breathing steadied and slowed. His fists unclenched, and he closed his eyes. His body quieted as he drifted off to sleep.

Kate felt his body slacken. She continued to stroke him until he softened in her grip. He had not come. He had surrendered, maybe to her, or maybe just to sleep.

She let her hand fall away, and she stared at the back of his head in wonder.

Something happened tonight. Something big. Something he was not ready to admit to her or possibly even himself.