Bunny Ch. 8

If you haven't read part 7, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

Sundays are usually the days when I only get out of Mr. Hale’s bed to bring him food or fetch a toy. I am especially well-behaved now that I leave him to play Ultimate, and though he has said nothing thus far, I know it irks him to lose even an hour of titillation.


When Mr. Hale first started having sex with me, I thought Sundays were the most magical days of the week, the one day when all of his attention was on me, when his happiness was my responsibility, when I was just learning what one man could do to another. After that, Sundays became the days when Mr. Hale tested me as a submissive. As naive as I was I didn’t understand that there was a darker undertone to the “games” we played with silk ties and blindfolds. Then Sundays were the days during which I was to ensure that Mr. Hale was frustration-free by the time he went to bed that night. I took far too long to realize that placing such a responsibility on a head other than Mr. Hale’s own is both unwise and irresponsible, but by that time I also realized that my only marketable skills were those I used to erase Mr. Hale’s weekday frustrations.

For the first time since my sad epiphany, I look forward to Sunday, even though it means working harder to please Mr. Hale, especially after I return. It’s altogether an hour and a half of time on my own, because Mr. Hale doesn’t come to pick me up. I can sit upright, buckle my seatbelt, gaze out the window, turn on the radio, and behave like any normal human being who is riding in a car. Sundays are the days when I need not worry if I will arrive at the park with semen stains on my clothes or hair. If I think about how pathetic my “simple pleasures” are, I’ll arrive in a sour mood. Instead I try to find the radio station for which Brandon berated me for being unfamiliar.

As a rule I do not look forward to the cold weather, but nonetheless I find a fierce kind of joy when the air whistles so hard through my lungs that it pierces, seeing my breathe fog the air when I pause, or feeling the wind whip tears from my eyes.

Camden’s short hair looks as though it is smoking when he pulls his hat off his head toward the end of practice. “Let’s run one more play then call it quits. No practice on Thursday, but we’ll meet on the field at seven for our game.” We break and start again.

Anya, having caught the disc for once, excitedly sends it flying in my general direction. I am forced to sprint after the Frisbee, carefully eyeing its possible trajectory (when Anya throws, said trajectory could change at any moment). A body appears in my peripheral vision a split second before I barrel into it, knocking us both to the ground, tumbling a few feet and losing my breath.

My vision blurs a little, and when it clears I realize that it was Brandon who ran into me, and that he is currently lying on top of me, gasping for air.

“Are you alright?” I ask, not moving.

“Yeah,” he nods. “You?”

I smile. “Uh huh.” I’ve never been better.

He’s so close that when he blinks it is nearly in slow motion, the gentle brush of his black eyelashes against his cheeks. Brandon grins at me and, without moving his body, reaches up with both hands to tug my hat back down over my ears. It is an incredibly intimate gesture, one that might have really stirred my blood dangerously had Anya not hauled Brandon backward by the hood of his sweatshirt.

“Oh my fucking god, Tucker,” she gasps, reaching a hand down to me. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I only had the wind knocked out of me.” Brandon looks sheepish, and I punch him for effect. “This is a non-contact sport, jerk.”

A witty riposte followed, I am sure, but that was when I glanced through the small crowd of concerned bodies to the other end of the field to see Mr. Hale standing there, deceptively casual in jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Anya follows my gaze as she pulls me to my feet.

“Oh my god, Tucker, is that your dad?” she exclaims. “He’s seriously hot.”

“He’s my guardian,” I say quickly, not sure why I use the present tense; I’m no longer a minor. “Not my dad. And I have no idea what he’s doing here.” A note of panic enters my voice at the thought that Mr. Hale saw Brandon stretched out on me just two days after I had said he meant nothing to me.

“So if he’s not your dad, can you date him? Cause I would,” chimes in another girl. “He looks like a model.”

A chill trickles down my spine at that, but I laugh it off. “I had better go,” I tell the group. “He wouldn’t show up if he didn’t have to.” I trot off to a chorus of goodbyes to meet Mr. Hale.

“Hello, Sir!” I say brightly, grinning as though tickled to see him. “Did you get lonely?”

Mr. Hale doesn’t smile. “I won’t be able to see the final game on Thursday. I wondered how you behaved around your peers.”

I shove my cold hands into the pocket of my pants and cock my head. “I would behave better for them, but they don’t treat me like you do.”

“I saw that tumble you took. Are you injured?”

Before I can respond I feel a thump on my back. “Hey, Tucker,” Brandon says cheerfully, “I just wanted to apologize again for bowling you over. I should have watched where I was going.”

My smile is a little bit stiff; my worlds are colliding. “Don’t worry about it,” I respond. “Have you met Mr. Hale?”

Brandon extends his hand and Mr. Hale grasps it, smiling warmly and showing the shallow dimple in his left cheek.

“I’m Arthur. You work in the coffee shop, don’t you?” he says. When he’s like this, he can charm vipers. “Brandon, is it?”

“Our boy here has been talking about my mad disc skills, I see,” Brandon jokes. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I was beginning to think Tuck had made you up!”

Don’t call me Tuck, he hates it when anyone calls me Tuck. I feel like a Stretch Artmstrong toy pulled nearly to its breaking point.

Mr. Hale laughs, a rich sound that colors the crisp night air. “Oh, likewise.”

Brandon turns to me and asks, “You’re coming to the victory party on Thursday, right? Everyone will be at home and in bed by midnight, since you’re such a monk.”

I glance at Mr. Hale, who gives no response, so I nod and say, “Of course. I wouldn’t want to miss the celebration of a fake championship with rousing board games and sodas.”

Brandon gives me a funny look, probably because neither of those things has been mentioned in any talk of the after-party, but says, “Wicked awesome. See you there,” and jogs back to the group.

“Get in the car, Bunny,” Mr. Hale instructs.

He comes in me twice within the next three hours. The first time is as we are pulling into the driveway, without any lubricant, while I bite the sleeve of my jacket to keep from screaming in agony. The second time involves lubrication, but Mr. Hale is even less gentle, and is so rough that I know he’s punishing me for my camaraderie with Brandon.

When Mr. Hale has had enough he shoves me out of the bed. “A friend of mine called while you were at the park, Bunny. He wants to show you to his sub. You’ll stay overnight tomorrow, and will need to wear a plug when you arrive.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And Bunny, one last thing.”

I pause, a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Sir?”

Mr. Hale turns his piercing eyes on me and says, “There is a Starbucks opening two blocks away in January. Since you’re not sitting in the park you can walk there and come home afterwards. It will save me a side trip and a little gasoline.”

I pout. “No more quickies in the limo?”

A smug smile spreads across his face. “It’s just until the weather warms up enough to go back to the park. We’ll make up for it, pussy boy.”

I grin coyly and bend over to kiss him. “I certainly hope so.”

Mr. Hale plunges his tongue into my mouth the same way he does his penis, and I treat it the same way. “Go to bed, Bunny,” he says when he pushed me away, giving me a helpful slap on my buttocks.

I turn out the light as I leave.