Chapter 2- One Last Job

Jake’s POV

“You need the bursar’s stamp first,” the woman at the counter said without looking at me.

“I already paid,” I told her, sliding the receipt back across the desk. “That’s the payment confirmation.”

She finally glances up, unimpressed. “And I need the bursar’s stamp.”

I swallow whatever smart thing wants to leave my mouth and nod. “Where’s that office?”

“Second floor. Room 214.”

Of course it is. I head upstairs, the envelope from last night already lighter in my pocket. Tuition balance cleared. Departmental levy paid. Printing fees sorted. Every dollar was already assigned before it even touched my hands. 

That’s how my life works now. Money doesn’t stay for long, it moves. Hospital bills, medication, school fees, textbooks, food, survival.

Room 214 has a line.

Naturally.

I stand there holding my folder, staring at the pale walls and the faded noticeboard covered in outdated memos. 

A guy in front of me is arguing about late registration penalties. Behind me, someone keeps sighing dramatically every thirty seconds like we’re all personally responsible for his inconvenience.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. 

I glance at the screen.

It is Dwayne, my boss. 

I step away from the line and answer.

“Why are you calling me? I told you I’m done,” I say quietly, already moving toward the stairwell for privacy.

“You always say that,” Dwayne replies, smooth as ever. “And yet….”

“I mean it this time.”

There’s a pause. Paper shuffling on his end. 

“I have got a good job you could retire right after, it will be at a private house, short booking. High profile and clean client.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even ask the amount.”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s a lie.”

I close my eyes briefly. “I’m in school.”

“And you’re broke.”

I don’t respond.

He exhales through his nose like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. “It’s one night. In and out. I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t worth it.”

“I’m not doing this anymore,” I tell him. “I’m focusing on school. I’ve got an internship application pending. If that comes through, I’m out.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

That hits harder than it should.

“It will,” I say.

Another pause ensues right after. 

Then he names the amount. ‘$25,000 and some additional bonuses based on performance.”

I leaned back against the wall.

“Say that again.”

He repeats it.

For a second, I can see the number translated into hospital receipts. Three months of medication. Specialist appointments would also cover my rent, groceries without calculating every item in the store.

“It’s a special client,” he continues. “Private Airbnb, no drama and as usual discretion. He asked specifically for someone new.”

“Why me?”

“You are damn gorgeous for a man, what the fuck you asking me that for.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I drag a hand over my face. “I said I was done.”

“One last time,” he says softly. “You walk away after this. I won’t call you again unless you call me.”

I should have hung up.

Instead I ask, “Time?”

“Eight. I’ll send the address.”

I let out a slow breath. “Fine.”

“Good decision.”

“We’ll see.”

He hangs up.

I stand there for a moment, staring at nothing. One last time. That’s what I said yesterday too.

I return to the line, get the stamp. Get the second stamp. Get the dean’s signature after waiting outside his office for nearly an hour while he laughs loudly with someone inside. 

When it’s finally done, I step outside into the afternoon heat and check my email on my phone. 

Nothing from the publishing firm.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and tell myself tonight is just insurance.

That’s all….

When I arrive at the apartment, it is nothing like I expected. 

The house is not what I expected.

It’s not flashy, it’s quiet money.

A woman at the entrance checks my name.

“Mason?” she asks.

I nod.

I always used a fake name. 

She leads me down a hallway and stops at a door. 

“He’ll be with you shortly.”

She leaves before I can respond.

I step inside.

The room is large, I slowly take in the calm aesthetic of the room, then I notice it. 

Against one wall, restraints are neatly placed. Leather cuffs, a collect, coiled rope. A riding crop resting beside what looks like a padded bench, and a whip. 

Everything organized, polished, ready.

I don’t flinch.

I’ve seen worse.

I step closer, running my fingers lightly over one of the cuffs, it was expensive leather. 

So that’s the kind of night this is.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I step aside immediately, calling Dwayne.

“You didn’t tell me it was a man.”

“And?”

“And I’ve never been with one on the job.”

“You don’t do low pay either.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s not meant to be, you're a professional. Act like it.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“Would you have said yes?”

I don’t answer.

“Exactly,” he says. “He requested discretion and flexibility, you’re both.”

“Flexibility?”

“You’ll survive.”

I glance again at the cuffs and shrug. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“That’s the spirit,” he replies dryly. “Don’t mess this up.”

He hangs up.

I stand there alone for another minute, weighing pride against desperation.

Then the door opens, he walks in calmly, the aura his presence emits almost blinds me, literally. 

He is tall, composed and actually quite handsome. 

Wearing a dark shirt rolled at the sleeves and trousers that look tailored. 

He closes the door behind him without breaking eye contact.

“You’re Mason,” he says.

His voice is calm, and steady. 

“Yes.”

“I’m Nathan.”

He doesn’t offer a handshake.

I could see his eyes studying me, he does not even try to hide it, he did not do it like a customer evaluating goods, more like someone assessing a situation.

“You weren’t informed of the specifics?” he asks.

“I was told it was a private booking.”

“And?”

“And that’s all.”

A bit of amusement crosses his face. 

“I value clarity,” he says. “If you’re uncomfortable, you’re free to leave anytime. 

The word feels almost ironic considering the money attached to this night.

“I’m here,” I reply.

His gaze drops briefly to my hands, then back to my face. “Have you participated in structured dynamics before?”

“Yes.”

“Safe words?”

“Red.”

He nods once. “Good.”

There’s no rush in him, no desperation. He moves to the small bar at the side of the room and pours himself a drink.

“Drink?” he offers.

“No.”

He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving me. The silence stretches but doesn’t feel empty. It feels deliberate.

“You seem tense,” he says.

“It’s kind of my first time with a male client. I've been with a male before, not just in this line of work.”

“Ah.” That’s all he says. 

“Is that a problem?” he asks.

I consider lying.

“No.”

He sets the glass down carefully. “Understand something, I don’t pay for hesitation, I pay for participation.”

“I understand.”

“Do you.”

It’s not a question.

He steps closer.

Not to touch me yet, he just closes the distance.

Up close, he smells wealthy, he wasn't putting on heavy cologne, his was the lingering and subtle type. 

“I don’t require performance,” he continues. “I require obedience within agreed boundaries.”

The way he says obedience makes heat creep up my spine before I can stop it.

“And what exactly are the boundaries,” I ask, forcing steadiness.

“You’ll find out.”

I almost roll my eyes at that, but something in his expression stops me.

He walks past me toward the wall with the restraints and runs his fingers along the leather cuff I touched earlier.

“You’re familiar with restraint.”

“Yes.”

“Pain?”

“Within reason.”

He turns back to face me fully.

“You’ll address me properly tonight,” he says calmly. “You’ll follow instructions. If you’re uncomfortable, you use your word. If you don’t use it, I assume you consent to continue. Is that clear.”

“Yes.”

“Say it properly.”

I hesitate.

His gaze sharpens slightly.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He steps into my space now.

Close enough that I feel the presence of him without contact.

“Good.”

His hand lifts slightly, not touching yet, just hovering near my jaw as if considering.

Then he lowers it.

“Strip.”