Page 5 of The Cartographer

The color rises in Matthew’s cheeks, and his long eyelashes flutter. “Yes.”

“How do you feel about that?” Just because Peter’s asked doesn’t mean he’s going to receive, but I know the gist of Matthew’s answer before he opens his mouth.

“I feel…” His lips part, and he looks past me, no doubt picturing his lover. When his eyes go oh-so-slightly wider and his mouth softens into an easy smile, I know with certainty. Matthew’s not to be mine anymore. “I feel good. Peter is…”

“Peter’s a good man, a better Dominant, and he adores you. I’d think you’d be quite pleased as long as you think you can stand the monogamy.”

Matthew laughs, a windy melody that always makes me feel as if I’m lying on a beach in the sun. “He said maybe not forever, but for now. When it’s new. When we’re established, perhaps he’d be willing to share.”

That dreamy look on Matthew’s face says it all. He’s enjoyed that kind of objectification in the past. We’ve played out a scenario more than once in which I hand him over to someone else for their use because he’s my chattel and I can do with him as I please. It’s always been for play. With a collar around his neck and that kind of promise made? I’d be surprised if he wasn’t hard from thinking about it.

“Do I get to keep any of you, or will I be placing a very peculiar wanted ad tomorrow?”

He laughs—as I meant him to, because the idea of me hiring someone off the street is preposterous—and shakes his head. “I’d love to keep working for you if you’ll have me.”

“I’d have to hire at least three people in your place, so you’re a bargain.” My teasing masks a sense of panic that’s more unsettling than nearly anything I’ve ever experienced. Though Matthew moons over me, to me he’s irreplaceable. “I’m assuming sex is off-limits.”

Matthew ducks a quick nod. Yes, I can’t imagine Peter would want to share that ass.

“What about the kink?”

That’s going to be trickier. Working for me is service, and for Matthew, service is kink. Not that everything I ask him to do is sexual, but there’s a deep and abiding sense of pleasure he gets from performing tasks. I could pay him minimum wage and he’d still be perfectly content to come to work every day. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have to pay him at all, just provide room and board, and he’d be happy to stay. I keep him busy, I respect his abilities, I trust him with information no one else has access to. Altogether, that keeps him a very happy boy.

“Service is fine. I don’t think Peter completely gets it. I hope even if he did, he’d still be okay with it.”

To be honest, I don’t completely grok the pleasure to be found in service either, but I fake it pretty convincingly. I’d expect the pleasure Matthew finds in service is similar to the pleasure I find in him serving me.

“Pain?”

Matthew squirms in his seat, the shift of his narrow hips making me wonder if he’s not making some newly laid welts or a fresh boot print come alive. They’re not ones of my making.

“Not okay, then. I’d imagine bondage is also off the table.” He nods tightly.

Though there’s an effectively endless list of kinks, those are Matthew’s biggest. We’ve wandered into humiliation, exhibitionism, and countless other games, but those are easy to put aside. I won’t miss them, and I doubt he will. My jaw tightens before I ask him this last because I’m honestly not sure what I’ll do if he says no.

“Will you still be able to perform your…inspections?”

His hurried, breathless “yes” relieves some of the tension, although the disorienting feeling of weightlessness remains. With so much routine and someone so lovingly dedicated, I’ve been able to forget exactly how precarious my position is and he’s reminded me. I stuff the resulting anger down because it’s not his fault. It’s no one’s fault.

Matthew drops from his desk chair to his knees, bows his head before me, and some of my equilibrium is restored.

“I’ll do it now if it pleases you, sir. It’s late. You should go to bed.”

Though the most important parts of Matthew remain—his dedication and his loyalty, not to mention the talent we share of absolute discretion—I will miss beating him, hurting him, tying him, fucking him.

“Please, Matthew. Thank you.”

He stands and heads upstairs, and I follow.

*

As he removesmy suit coat, I can’t help but ask, “What did you tell Peter about this?”

“I said I act as your valet.”

I issue a small, gruff noise of approval. To most people, I’m sure it would look that way, and that’s a thing Peter will understand, won’t object to, as it falls quite neatly under service.

Matthew’s placed my coat on a chair and comes around to unbutton my shirt. I stand completely still, enjoying his deft fingers working the buttons, and take a deep breath, inhaling the spicy scent of his hair as he attends to his task with singular concentration. Cinnamon. That’s what the top of his head smells like.

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