Title: Tug o’ War
Word count: 4,537
Chuck shook out a cramp in his hand and stared at the outline he was fleshing out over a few pieces of paper spread in front of him. It looked good. It looked really good. Maybe this story wasn’t going to suck too bad. Shifting forward on the large plush pillow, sunlight through the window warm on bare skin, Chuck crossed out a few points and scribbled a few notes before chewing on the eraser of his pencil and curling more comfortably on his side.
This whole situation right here. It was weird. But it had become routine for Chuck to let himself into Meg’s apartment whatever time he wanted on Friday before dinner time at six to just… relax. It wasn’t actually much different than what he did at home, flopping around and trying to put down words that made sense. Maybe it was the change of scenery that revitalized him. Or the lack of distraction. At Meg’s, all he was allowed to do before dinner was lay on his pillow – or floor – naked to write and read to his heart’s content.
It was really weird. And it worked wonders for his creativity somehow. Her mid-level apartment over looked a park and Chuck could lounge by the windows soaking up the sun watching joggers and dog walkers and pan handlers, picking up his pencil any time creativity struck. He felt like an overgrown house cat. That actually wasn’t too far off the mark because as soon as Meg came home she’d put him in a collar.
It was relaxing.
Meg was…. sort of his girlfriend. Maybe. His domme, definitely. Chuck had met her as ‘Mistress Magdalena’ at a private party. Before her, he had had a few play partners here and there, but he was a painfully shy submissive and not really masochistic enough for the heavier stuff. He was just an average looking middle aged guy who liked to be bossed around. And for some reason, Meg kept tempting him in to seeing her at more parties until they felt comfortable hanging out in other situations and now somehow he had a key to her apartment and Friday’s were a regular thing.
The door lock clicked and Chuck startled out of his day dream, sitting up and peering over the couch. The walls of the apartment were lined with shelves holding animal skulls and taxidermied rodents and leather bound books and all sorts of strange things that gave Chuck the creeps, but it was oddly stimulating to his imagination. The front door swung open and broad shoulders pushed through, Dean’s head ducked as he clutched a bag of groceries to his chest and wrestled with the lock that was always sticking. Ripped jeans, Ac/Dc shirt and plaid, he was at first sight a paragon of masculinity.
“Hey Dean,” Chuck greeted from his pillow.
It was almost five, Meg would be home by six, Dean was running a little early.
“Heya Chuck, how’s it going?”