Accidents Happen, Daddy

Why me? Seriously, what cosmic deity did I piss off in a past life to deserve this? I felt like I had a giant, invisible target painted on my back, and life was just taking turns throwing shit at it.

The thought of not going to the gala flitted through my mind, but it was impossible. My scholarship was contingent on these kinds of community engagement events. Not showing up would be just as suspicious as showing up and acting like a freak. So I had to go. I had to pretend like my entire world wasn’t collapsing around me.

I spent the day in a state of numb anxiety, trying to study for my art history midterm but just rereading the same paragraph about Baroque chiaroscuro over and over. All I could see was Alistair Sterling’s cold, assessing eyes in my mind’s eye.

My phone buzzed again around noon. I flinched so hard I knocked my textbook off my bed.

Mr. Sterling: Are you ignoring me, Julian? It would be a shame if these photographs were to… circulate. Among the faculty, perhaps. Or the scholarship board.

Ice flooded my veins. That was it. That was the threat. Not veiled, not hinted at. Blatant.  Was he trying to blackmail me?

Me: No! I’m not ignoring you. Please, Mr. Sterling. Don’t do that.

Mr. Sterling: It would be quite difficult to keep something like this to myself. However, I suppose another photograph might make it easier to remain discreet.

My core tightened. He wanted more. Of course, he did. This was a power play, plain and simple. And the sick, twisted part of me, the part that had enjoyed sending those pictures to Leo in the first place, felt a thrill of arousal. I hated myself for it.

I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. But the thought of those pictures getting out… of my parents finding out… of losing my scholarship… it was a fate worse than death.

Me: What do you want?

Mr. Sterling: I’m currently in a meeting with the Dean of Admissions. And the Head of your department. A rather tedious discussion about endowments. Your prompt cooperation would be… appreciated.

Fuck. He was sitting there, with the people who controlled my entire future, and he was texting me about nude photos. The sheer audacity of it made my head spin.

Me: Okay. Give me a minute.

I scrambled off my bed, locking my dorm room door. My hands were shaking so badly it took me three tries to get my jeans off. I grabbed my phone, propping it up against a stack of books. I needed a picture without my face. Just in case. I found one from yesterday’s shoot, a close-up of my torso, my happy trail leading down into my unbuttoned jeans. It was suggestive but not explicit. Safe.

I sent it.

A minute of agonizing silence passed. Then

Mr. Sterling: I see. That’s a start. But I believe I requested a photograph like the one you first sent to me. Not a a regular photograph of you. I want one of you on your knees. Looking directly at the camera. No face. Just your mouth. And I want to see that you’re enjoying the request.

My breath hitched. He wanted me hard. He wanted me to capture my own submission, my own humiliation, and send it to him while he was in a meeting with my bosses.

I sank to the floor, the cool wood a small comfort against my flushed skin. I was disgusted with myself, with him, with the whole situation. But I was also hard. The danger, the humiliation, the raw power he was wielding over me… it was a potent, toxic cocktail.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, unzipped my jeans, and wrapped a hand around myself. It only took a few strokes, a few thoughts of his commanding text, before I was ready. I positioned the camera, knelt, and looked straight into the lens. I let my mouth fall open, my tongue darting out to wet my lips, trying to look as wanton and desperate as he wanted. I snapped the picture and sent it before I could think better of it.

Mr. Sterling: Excellent. That’s much better. I’ll see you tonight, Julian.

That night, I felt like I was walking to my own execution. I’d borrowed a tux from the theater department, the stiff fabric feeling like a straitjacket. Every nerve ending was on fire. Chloe had tried to talk me out of going, but what could I say? ‘Sorry, I accidentally sent nudes to my ex’s dad and now he’s blackmailing me for more, so I can’t make it to the gala’?

The university ballroom was a filled with people wearing glittering gowns and black suits. I grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and downed it in one go, the bubbles doing nothing to calm my frayed nerves.

And then I saw them.

Alistair Sterling stood near the head of the room, a glass of whiskey in hand, holding court. He was even more intimidating in person. His silver-streaked dark hair was perfectly styled, his tailored tuxedo clinging to a frame that was lean and powerful. He exuded an aura of absolute control.

And next to him, looking like a younger, softer version, was Leo. My Leo. He was laughing at something his father said, his blue eyes sparkling under the chandeliers. When he saw me, his face lit up.

“Jules! You came!” He excused himself from his father’s side and crossed the room to me, pulling me into a hug that smelled of expensive cologne. “You look incredible. I was hoping you’d be here.”

My heart ached. “Wouldn’t miss it,” I lied, my eyes flicking over his shoulder to meet Alistair Sterling’s. The older man’s gaze was fixed on me, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod, as if to say, Good boy.

I felt a flush creep up my neck. I was trapped between the boy I wanted and the man who owned me, at least for tonight.