Jack has been acting up lately, breaking the rules they agreed on at the beginning of their non-traditional relationship left and right with Neal being twenty years his senior. The last straw is when he leaves dirty dishes in the sink the same day he leaves clothes thrown carelessly on the floor-- he knows Neal hates that. He grew up in unsanitary conditions in a cluttered, claustrophobic home. He didn't have the privilege of growing up in a tidy, loving house like Jack's, hence his neurotic cleaning frenzies and bitterness at anything out of place. His past left an irremovable stain on his personality in the shape of a laughable quirk, but Jack knew its origin, knew how messes crawled beneath Neal's skin and itched like a million invisible bug bites.
"Jack."
He looks up from his computer. His hair is longer than he's used to and tugged into a loose bun. Neal doesn't mind, and loves when it's down; it means there's more to pull, after all, eliciting the most delicious of sounds from his whore of a boyfriend.
"I'm busy."
Neal closes his laptop with a rough downward slap. "Not anymore," he snaps. "Bedroom. Rope. Now."
~~~
Jack's been waiting for this, practically begging for it for days, although it is admittedly a bad time. He's still in college unlike Neal, and has a three-page essay due at midnight. But he knew that there was the chance Neal would act tonight, he even wanted it, college academia and their due dates be damned.
He'll plead extenuating circumstances, maybe. If it's anything like last time's punishment, he won't be able to sit, so he can always claim a sudden onslaught of illness, skipping class on Monday to make his case more realistic.
Jack silently goes to the utensil drawer, opening it with a clink of metal. He pulls out the rusty key to the chest and heads to the upstairs bedroom, stairs moaning with each step of his socked feet. He gets on his knees, shimmying beneath the darkness of the bed, past the risers and spare cleaning supplies their closet is too full to hold to grab it by its handles and slide himself out with the chest. He inserts the key and opens it with a click, digging to the bottom to pull out the soft, light blue ropes (Neal loves seeing him in blue everything, never admitting it but always buying him blue clothes. His eye color is without a doubt the culprit, a pop of color compared to Neal's intense, charcoal pools that are capable of staring right through him, making his belly shiver and blood rush to his face with just a look. It's a skill Jack's eyes have not yet mastered, so he's glad the sky-blue brightness of his irises can make up for it.)
He hears the stairs creak as his lover follows.
Neal returns with a glass of water and a handful of towels. "Strip," he orders.
Jack gulps. Follows the directions without being told twice. Neal enjoys remaining as clothed as possible during their games, and the power dynamic is more intoxicating than any cocktail, no matter the strength, or any drug, regardless of chemical makeup.
"You could've just asked to be punished, you know," he says, once Jack's clothes are folded neatly on the bed. (He won't push his buttons any more than he has to.)
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Neal lays the towels out on the bed, then hands Jack the glass. "Drink this," he demands.
Jack assumes Neal is going for overstimulation, and his pulse races excitedly. Neal must be worried the sheer amount of sweat and cum lost will dehydrate him. He gulps it down without question, then sits down on the towels, his bare ass against the soft blue fluff.
