Chapter 7: The New Man
The week was a form of suspended animation. Derek went to work, attended meetings, nodded at Jonathan Ridgeway in the hall with a stomach-turning cordiality. He functioned. But every moment felt like a performance over a void, the memory of the dinner with Chloe and Sarah a raw, open nerve. The promise of Jonathan’s future attendance was a constant, low-grade electric hum in his skull.
Saturday evening arrived with a specific instruction: Be ready by seven. Clean. Shaved. The black collar.
Melissa’s apartment was in its usual state of aggressive perfection. The city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows were like a billion indifferent eyes. He knelt on the rug near the sectional sofa, the leather of the collar cool and familiar against his Adam’s apple. The air conditioning was set low, raising goosebumps on his naked skin. He focused on the geometric pattern of the rug, trying to become part of it.
The doorbell rang, a sharp, two-toned chime.
“He’s early,” Melissa called from the bedroom, her voice pleased. “Stay.”
He heard the door open, the sound of the city swelling for a moment before being shut out.
“Hey. You found the place.” Melissa’s tone was warm, flirtatious. A tone Derek had forgotten she possessed.
“With difficulty. Your doorman is intensely loyal.” The man’s voice was a smooth baritone, amused and relaxed.
“He’s a sweetheart. Come in.”
They moved into the living space. Derek kept his eyes down, taking in the man’s shoes first: expensive, polished leather boots, scuffed just enough to suggest confidence rather than carelessness. Dark jeans. A well-fitted shirt under a tailored jacket.
“This is… quite a view,” the man said, his footsteps moving toward the windows.
“It’s why I bought the place. Makes you feel like you’re above everything.” A pause. The clink of a bottle being set on the kitchen island. “Wine? I have a Malbec open.”
“Please.”
Derek listened to the pour, the soft thud of a cork being set down. The domestic sounds were a bizarre counterpoint to his own presence on the floor.
“So,” the man said, his voice drawing closer. “You said you had something to show me. A… unique situation.”
“I do.” Melissa’s bare feet appeared in his line of sight, toes painted a blood-red. She gave the leash a gentle, mocking jerk. “Marcus, this is Derek. My ex-boyfriend. Derek, look at Marcus.”
He forced his head up. Marcus was tall, broad-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that held a spark of intellectual curiosity. He looked like someone who managed hedge funds or owned a boutique distillery. He sipped his wine, his gaze travelling from Derek’s face down his naked body without shock, without pity. It was an appraisal.
“He couldn’t let go,” Melissa continued, her hand coming to rest possessively on Marcus’s arm. “So we reached a new understanding. Now he’s my… pet. My entertainment. Isn’t that right, worm?”
The old nickname, in front of this new, solid man, felt like a brand. “Yes,” Derek whispered.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Melissa.”
Marcus took another sip. “Fascinating. And he’s here voluntarily?”
“Oh, absolutely. He begs for it. Tell him, Derek. Tell Marcus why you’re here.”
The words were ash in his mouth. “I’m… pathetic. I need to be reminded.”
“See?” Melissa said, as if explaining a interesting but simple scientific principle. “He used to fight me on everything. From what movie to watch to where we’d spend holidays. He had this passive-aggressive stubbornness. Now look.” She placed her foot on his shoulder, then slid it up, the sole pressing against his cheek, then covering his mouth and nose. The scent of her lotion, something with coconut, filled his nostrils. She applied pressure, grinding her foot against his face. “He licks my feet for approval. It’s his love language now.”
She removed her foot, leaving a damp imprint. “Kiss them. Each toe. Show Marcus your devotion.”
Derek leaned forward, his lips meeting the smooth skin of her big toe. He moved to the next, and the next, a grotesque pilgrimage. He could feel Marcus watching, not with arousal, but with a detached, clinical interest.
“He was useless in bed,” Melissa confided to Marcus, her voice a stage whisper. “Just a lazy recipient. Never planned a date, always let his friends walk all over him. But this?” She gestured at Derek with her wine glass. “This he’s committed to.”
She sat on the edge of the sectional, patting the space in front of her on the rug. “Here. Bench.”
Derek crawled over and assumed the position, kneeling upright, his back rigid. She sat on him, using his spine and shoulders as a perch. The weight was substantial, compressing him. She leaned back against the couch, sighing contentedly, and sipped her wine. Marcus sat beside her, close, his arm stretching along the sofa back behind her.
“Comfortable?” Marcus asked her, smiling.
“Very. It’s molded to me.”
Marcus reached out and stroked her hair, a tender, intimate gesture that felt more violent to Derek than any command. This was the real world, happening above him. He was the foundation for it.
“He needs a task,” Marcus observed. “Something to focus that anxious energy.”
Melissa laughed. “You’re right. He does.” She lifted her arm, baring her armpit. The skin was faintly damp from the evening’s preparations. “Sniff, worm. Then lick. Show Marcus what a good, attentive bitch you are.”
Derek turned his head, straining against the compression of her body on his. He pressed his nose into the hollow. The scent was complex—deodorant, the faint musk of her skin, the ghost of her perfume. It was profoundly, intimately her. He closed his eyes and extended his tongue, licking a stripe across the damp skin.
Marcus chuckled. “He really doesn’t hesitate.”
“He loves it,” Melissa said, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed laughter. “It’s the only way he knows how to get attention now.”
She then stood up off his back, the relief of pressure immediate and shocking. She turned her back to him, bending over slightly, the fabric of her dress tightening. “Kiss it. And I mean mean it. Tell us what you’re doing while you do it.”
The city lights blurred. Derek shuffled forward on his knees. He pressed his lips against the curve of her ass through the dress. “I’m kissing your ass,” he murmured.
“Louder. Marcus didn’t hear you.”
“I’m kissing your ass, Melissa.” His voice cracked. “I’m a pathetic worm who kisses your ass.”
Marcus’s laugh was a rich, genuine sound. Melissa wiggled her hips, grinding the fabric against his mouth and nose. “Damn right you are. A butt-kissing loser.”
She straightened up and looked at Marcus, a wild, triumphant light in her eyes. “Watch this.”
She stepped onto the couch, then placed a foot on Derek’s back. She shifted her weight, carefully, then brought her other foot up. She stood fully on him, balanced, her arms slightly outstretched. The full, concentrated weight of her drove the air from his lungs and pushed his chest hard into the rug. He groaned, a deep, involuntary sound of strain.
From his vantage point, pressed into the wool, he saw Marcus’s boots step close. Then Melissa’s ankles, her calves tense for balance.
“Steady now,” she said, whether to him or herself he didn’t know.
He saw Marcus’s hands come up, gripping Melissa’s hips to steady her. Then their bodies joined, silhouetted against the window’s glare as Marcus pulled her into a deep, searching kiss. Her hands tangled in his hair. Derek heard the soft wet sounds of their mouths, Melissa’s little sigh of pleasure.
He was the ground. The foundation. The earth upon which their new world was being built. The pressure on his spine was immense, a literal physical crushing that mapped perfectly onto his psychic state.
They broke the kiss, breathing softly. Melissa stepped down, first one foot, then the other, back onto the rug.
“Holy shit,” Marcus breathed, laughing a little. “That was… something else.”
“Told you,” Melissa said, her voice smug and satisfied.
Derek lay still, fighting for breath, the pattern of the rug etched into his cheek.
Melissa’s phone, sitting on the coffee table, lit up with a notification. She picked it up, her smile widening. She showed the screen to Marcus. “Speak of the devil.”
Marcus read it and let out a low whistle. “He doesn’t waste time.”
“He’s a man who knows what he wants,” Melissa said, typing a quick reply before tossing the phone back down. She looked at Derek’s prone form. “You can go to the bathroom now. Then to your crate. We have plans to discuss.”
Derek pushed himself up, his body protesting. As he crawled away, he heard Marcus say, “So, dinner next Friday. With Jonathan. What’s the dress code?”
Melissa’s reply followed him, clear and bright as a knife blade. “For us? Cocktail attire. For him? Just the collar. Jonathan specifically requested it.”
The bathroom door closed, muffling their fading laughter. Derek leaned his forehead against the cool wood, the image of the two of them kissing towering over him now permanently seared into the dark behind his eyes. The dinner with Jonathan was no longer a future threat. It was the next scene, and the stage was already set. He was the prop, and his only line was silence.