Tethered Master Trent (MxM...xM?) | Random Updates

5.Dom and Sub

5th of August, 2001

"That's what you deserve for getting shitfaced," I mumble to myself as I frantically rub my throbbing forehead.

The ceiling comes into focus after some furious blinking. Hunky models greet my eyes and I smirk. Taping those posters to the ceiling has been the best idea I've ever had.

But I don't picture myself with those smiling hot guys. I imagine that I'm one of them - muscular, strong and confident. So good-looking that he won't be able to resist me.

My morning wood could use a quick one. Ah! If only my head wasn't pounding. But maybe that will pass once I get a few good strokes going.

I sneak a hand under the sheets and grip my erection.

A knock on my door makes me jump to sitting and my fingers awkwardly run through the messy locks on top of my head.

"Yes?" I answer with a quiver.

"Breakfast," Erik announces plainly before I hear his steps thud down the stairs.

Fuck! He's home!

Quick shower, brush, deodorant, gel in my disorderly hair. There. I look presentable.

All the while I'm actually excited to see and be seen by Erik. I put on some clean clothes, pants and shirt, as if this formal shit is what I usually wear. I scoff. But Erik likes these sort of things and I want... What do I want?

The question continues to ring in my hangover riddled head as I flee down the stairs and into the kitchen.

He's not here. My heart sinks.

Only a plate and some orange juice on the table await me.

I take a seat and force some kiwi and pineapple pieces in my mouth. They taste like shit since I've just brushed my teeth.

So this is breakfast alone. Again. I've hoped he'd at least remember-

"Happy birthday, Trent," Erik says in an even tone as he comes in with a newspaper in hand. His dark cold eyes occupied with the front page article.

Yet I smile and my heart skips back to life. He remembers. Even if today isn't technically my birthday. It was yesterday but Erik's been away on business.

"When did you get back?" I ask, cutting a piece of French toast.

"This morning at four." His gaze lifts from the article as he adds, "When did you?"

"I, er, don't really remember. I-" My thumb points at my lips signaling drinking and then I close my eyes and stick out my tongue.

"Drank poison and died," he observes perking a brow. Though the words are playful, his tone is humorless.

I never know what he's feeling or thinking. So I smile nervously in response and bury my gaze in the half-eaten French toast.

A chair whines against the floor and Erik sits at the table in front of me ruffling his newspaper, probably looking for the financial section.

The French toast is tasty enough and most of the toothpaste effects subside enough for me to enjoy the kiwi and pineapple.

"Did you have fun with your friends?" Erik's hand slides across the table toward me and the glint of his silver ring catches my eye.

"Yes."

"Good. Eighteen is a birthday to remember." His fingers drum on the white surface.

Come to think of it every piece of furniture in our home is white except for the stuff cluttered in my room since Erik's allowed me to pick my own furniture four years ago when I first moved in.