TW: Drugs i.e. weed/edibles, casual platonic BDSM with Kennedy LOL

Micah always loved Benny's view of the city, but Alistair's certainly rivaled it. The snow fell in soft, luscious blankets on the window ledge outside Alistair's bedroom windows where Micah could see them just lying on the bed, zoning out on edibles.

Micah wasn't much of a pothead, nor did he smoke unless at an authentic hookah lounge. They left his eyes itchy, but he didn't need his eyes when he was alone at Alistair's apartment. Just lying there.

Classes continued the week following, but Micah started to skip a few. James sent him PDFs of his notes, and finals were coming up. He simply preferred reading as opposed to listening to his professors drone on and on and... on...

He spent most of his time in Alistair's room on the leather chair near the windows. The bed made him nervous after Alistair's reaction and the bad memories associated with the Period Sex Incident. In the living area, he knew Benny had mentioned a Google security system but didn't know where the cameras were. He didn't want to be Alistair's personal gerbil keeping him entertained.

That Monday night, though, Micah had an event to attend that brought him to Kennedy's flat for an outfit change. Benny was already there.

"Bella! Where the hell've you been, loca?!" Benny cried, and air-kissed either of Micah's cheeks.

"Out," Micah said. His head felt like a balloon after riding off his high all day. And, sure enough, Kennedy was tugging at his bottom lids to see his eyes for herself. He let her inspect.

"Hm... I can tell, but they might not. You can't come to these things high. They're strict about that," Kennedy warned, shaking a finger at him.

"Whatever," Micah said, slouching back with his arms crossed. "Just give me the clothes and let's get outta here."

"Why are you high?" Benny asked, confused. "I thought you don't like how it makes your eyes feel."

"I don't. Clothes," he said, snapping his fingers at Kennedy.

"Don't you snap your fingers at me, mister. Here."

Dolled up and ready to party, the three of them proceeded to the venue where Kennedy dropped them off like a mother with her sons at the swimming pool for lessons. She kissed their cheeks, hugged Benny, and left them in the capable (gloved) hands of their BDSM etiquette teacher.

The lesson was rather simple, in Micah's opinion. Before the tour, they were given ground rule instructions on room limits, playspaces, and introductions to the few staff that were in attendance since it was an off-day. The club was primarily active during the industry weekend standard: Thursday-Sunday.

Micah suspected Kennedy had informed the instructor that this was all in preparation for them to attend the New Years' party. "Oh, I'm so glad you two were able to score tickets. They sell out fast."

Benny smiled. "Kennedy's good about that sort of thing."

"There is one piece of homework I'd like to leave you two with at the end of the session," they said. "We have a few events coming up. I'll give you the list when you leave and have the recommended ones highlighted. Attend one just to observe—no participation. The staff will give you a badge then, and you'll need it to get into the New Years party. Does that sound feasible?"

Micah nodded as Benny gave an enthusiastic, "Absolutely!"

The second half of the lesson involved a show-and-tell of tools available at the club. Micah stared at the glowing wall of torture and then at Benny, who looked like he was both in heaven and hell staring starry-eyed as the instructor lightly ran the razored wheel of a wartenberg along his palm and up his wrist. Benny trembled with delight.

"Cool," Benny breathed when the tool was passed off to the instructor's assistant. He shivered close to Micah, holding his arm as they were introduced to the next device.

They left the club with options and, bogged down with information, collected themselves at a bar just down the street. Micah pulled out the packet of information and laid it flat on their table.

"I think I might do the tolerance workshop on Thursday," Benny said. It wasn't the sort of event he needed to observe at, but was recommended if he planned to not observe at the New Year's party.

Micah did, in fact, plan to purely observe at the New Year's party.

"Why, you wanna get caned when the ball drops?" Micah snorted.

"N-No! Though I wouldn't mind a lil spank or two," he said with a full-body wiggle. "And I think I'll like the stinging-type instruments. You know what I mean?"

"Not in the slightest. I hated those."

"What! What about the—" Benny gestured with a closed fist to his palm. Thudding instruments.

"I don't like those either."

"How am I vanilla when you hate this stuff and I love it!"

Insulted, Micah scoffed. "Whatever. Just because I don't like being hit doesn't mean I wouldn't mind slapping a few people silly."

"Yeah, my brother for instance."

Micah rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the pamphlet. Just as he was about to recommend observing the Seven Deadly Sins dance event, or maybe the Full Suspension show, Benny opened his mouth.

"Have you seen him lately?"

"No, I completely hate him now," Micah admitted. He folded his hands on the table and discovered Benny was staring at him like a kicked puppy. "Don't look at me like that."

"Is it because of me?"

"No, I'm just not interested." He scratched at his hair. "Actually, I was gonna ask if you could give me a heads up if he ever comes by so I can avoid him."

"Sure." And then, with a whine and a fake-possibly-real-sob, Benny said, "Man, this sucks! I thought you two would seriously make it—!"

Micah laughed. "Yeah, right."

"Okay," Benny pouted. He returned his attention to the pamphlet, read a moment, and gasped. He pointed to Full Suspension. "Let's go to that!"

"Knew it," Micah said. He added the date to his phone and sent the request to Kennedy, who reacted to his message with a thumbs up.

Benny grabbed him by the arm. "And you gotta come to the tolerance workshop with me on Thursday, alright? And Kennedy should come, too."

Micah squinted at him, but Benny was giving him big doe eyes and the promise of a good time, so Micah relented. "Fine. I'll let her know."

"Yay!"

Thursday arrived and, upon his arrival at Kennedy's place, they were both met with a call from Benny. "I'm so sorry! I overbooked! I can't go!"

"Oh, fuck off," Micah swore, livid. He didn't even want to figure out his own pain tolerance and yet there he was, in attendance without Benny and a girl who knew her limits already.

"It's useful information to have," Kennedy insisted, and though Micah didn't really believe that, he went along with it anyway.

The workshop was attended by not just them, but three couples and a few stragglers. One look at themselves in the mirrors down the entry hall left Micah with the distinct impression that everyone thought he and Kennedy were also a couple. It would take a genius and probably someone Micah and Kennedy had already screwed to determine that they were not, in fact, a couple trying to spice up their love life.

When it was time for them all to pair up with experienced staff, Micah said in an aside to Kennedy, "I'm not getting spanked by a stranger."

She hissed at him. "They won't spank you if you don't want to. You can start on your arms if it's more comfortable, or your back. Chest."

Most everyone was paired up now and the instructor from Monday was tipping their head curiously in Micah's direction. He turned to her again, this time dangerous. "Kennedy..."

The instructor approached. "Is everything all right?"

"He's not very comfortable doing this with people he doesn't know," Kennedy explained. She pointed to herself, facing him, "Would you want to test it out with me instead?"

Is that even allowed? he wondered, but one encouraging look from the instructor made him rethink that.

"Kennedy's a reputable member here and your first exercise should be with someone you trust. If you'd prefer a familiar partner, that's okay," the instructor said.

A slow second later, Micah uttered a simple, "Oh," followed by a glance at Kennedy. "If that's okay."

"Sure! Would you feel more or less comfortable if I had someone I knew from staff be there just to supervise?"

"Less comfortable."

"Just you two, then," the instructor said. This was allowed, and so Micah was led by Kennedy's hand to a cozy private room pre-equipped with the tools for the tolerance workshop.

The curtains were closed and, for a moment, Micah was left to his thoughts while Kennedy went to speak with the instructor. They'd been given a script—rating pain from 1-10 to familiarize the participants with the scale—but the trust exercises beforehand were less clear. Kennedy came back with an eager smile on her face.

"Are you really okay with this? Really, really," she asked.

He shrugged.

"You know the stoplights."

"Green, I guess."

"You're such a buzzkill," she droned, rolled her eyes, and crossed the room. She swiped a bundle of fabric off the table and let it fall off into a long, black trail. "We're gonna do the blindfold map."

"The what."

Micah's eyes were covered by the blindfold, as the game suggested. Kennedy guided him by the hands to a cushion on the floor. He sat on it and, with Kennedy on the other side of a transparent plexiglass board: a simple street map of the neighborhood they were presently in (not that Micah knew, since he couldn't see).

He wriggled his nose against the fabric, inching it higher on the bridge of his nose. He sniffed. "Alright, I'm ready."

"Okay, I'm gonna move your hand to the start point," she said, and did so with her hand on his wrist. Her grip was gentle, her thumb to his pulse, and it left a moment later. "I'm gonna give you instructions and you just have to follow them with your hand."

"Kinda figured with the whole 'map' thing."

She giggled. "Smartass. Move forward. Wait, I mean up. Fuck."

"Off to a great start."

"STOP!" she screamed, and they were already bursting into laughter as she cried, "LEFT! LEFT! I MEAN RIGHT, MY LEFT."

"I need you to be my Google Maps from now on."

His fingers passed over gaps in the plexiglass. He fingered them intentionally sensually, as some of them were big enough for two fingers. Kennedy bit his fingers at one point in retaliation, to which Micah said, "Worst glory hole ever."

After nearly fifteen minutes, Kennedy's instructions guided Micah to something that was not plexiglass. It was warm and felt like skin so he pinched it.

"Honk."

"Is that your fucking nose?"

Kennedy giggled, only to shriek when Micah shoved the entire plexiglass board at her. He tore his blindfold off. "Okay, trust exercise over. I trust that you're shit at directions."

"I got you to the destination, didn't I?!"

The tool selection was limited, so they started with a simple crop. Kennedy rubbed the skin on the back and underside of Micah's wrist, saying, "The skin underneath is more sensitive, but that's kind of closer to how it'd feel on the back of your thighs and ass. Should we try it there?"

"Sure, I guess."

"You—! Stop saying, 'I guess', that isn't helpful!" she said, mocking his voice in a low baritone.

"Fuck you! Yes, underside of my arm is fine, thank you. I'd absolutely love to get slapped there."

"I..." Kennedy shook her head to shake the intrusive thoughts free. She let out a calming breath and said, "Hooo boy, let's get it."

Micah's pain tolerance was only made possible by abusing his body at the gym and being clumsy around equipment, apparently. He bruised easy, though, which meant that the following morning, he woke up in Alistair's bed red, blue, and purple all the way up his arms and down the backs of his thighs.

"Fuck..." he groaned, turned over in the sheets, and smothered a scream there. He'd be feeling Kennedy's tolerance lessons all through work that weekend, for sure.

Micah's last weekend at Alistair's place was spent working, working, and more work. He cleaned diligently on Monday but thanks to his habit of eating out when Benny wasn't around to cook, the only dishes he had were utensils. And then, with only two more days left to his isolation vacation, he skipped classes again to veg out on gummies and catch up on lecture readings, James' notes, and a book he found on Alistair's shelf.

Everything was fine. Everything was perfect.

Until he reached the end of Alistair's book.

He'd picked the book because it was well-worn, and since the rest of Alistair's books were crisp and artistic, Micah believed this to be Alistair's favorite. The spine was crinkled, the edges soft, and the corners weathered from constant page-turning. He loved this book more than the others and because of this, Micah felt insane for ignoring it.

Maybe it explains him better, he'd wondered, high, and now knew better than that because lying his back, the final pages pinched between his thumb and forefinger, something slipped out of the last two pages.

And landed squarely on his face.

"Oh, fuck," he swore, sputtered, and plucked the paper off the sheets.

Thick white paper with a sleek finish. He turned it over and his breath caught in his throat. He snapped the book shut and rose to one hand so he could hold the image closer to the light.

It was a polaroid taken in broad daylight, the sun in Alistair's winking eye, the other shielded by a hand. He had the smile of a 2010s Hollister model stepping out of a pool, his free hand on the ladder. Whoever had taken the picture knew what they were doing, because from this angle, Alistair's cock was an emphasized bulge between his legs hugged precariously by the skimpiest pink spandex...

"Oh my God," Micah said as the photo breathed life back into him. He couldn't believe that for two entire weeks he wanted to rip Alistair's head off and now the memory of him laughing at the spit on Micah's face was coming back to him. It was the same exact smile.

And fast on this memory's heels was the sensation of fucking him. God, he wanted to see the back of that little spandex number so badly. He wondered if it lived to this day.

Maybe he has more photos? There had to be, seeing as the front of the polaroid, beneath the photo, was marked at the corner with the number "1" in slim ink. Micah's brain thrashed in every direction.

He wondered if the spandex was in Alistair's closet.

Someone had to have taken the photo. Who were they to Alistair? Did he wear little numbers like that at every pool? If so, he was a hazard to society, a crime, and he needed to be caught, detained, and tied to Micah's bed for safekeeping and—

Micah shook his head, flicked the photo across the room, and collapsed back on the pillows with his hands to his face. He couldn't think like that, not when he was supposed to strangle Alistair for hurting Benny like that, for stealing his mirrors, and—

Micah's eyes peeked through his fingers at the mirrors he could have taken any one of these days. Instead, he stared back at himself and loved what he saw. He always thought he looked good, but he looked even better in Alistair's bed with the chains above his head.

He rolled off the bed, fast, and went for the walk-in closet.

He hadn't explored this area of Alistair's flat yet. It was too intrusive and yet Micah was there and on the hunt. He started with the drawers and cabinets, which landed him in dangerous territory almost immediately.

The very first drawer he pulled out contained neatly stacked rows of rolled-up boxers, thongs, briefs in silks, satins, cotton, and lace.

He extracted a lace piece from the row and nearly fainted. The front was loose so as to cup Alistair's cock and balls and the back tapered sharply into a fine, scalloped string.

Micah was on his knees, salivating. He clutched at his heart, the lace thong fisted in his other hand. I can't live like this, he thought, I need to see him in this.

He balled up the pantie and stuffed it in his shorts without a second thought. He shut the drawer and moved on. Socks. And he nearly went on but thought, Isn't it a stereotype people hide valuables in their sock drawer?

He reopened the drawer to rifle through. Like the underwear, Alistair's socks were all paired and tied together in neat rows. And, as Micah gingerly tugged at the back line, a piece of paper caught.

This one filled him with dread, as it was a polaroid, too. On the front bottom corner, the number "2". A paper trail. It couldn't be a coincidence.

Why keep one in a book and one here if you aren't trying to make me go and look crazy? he thought, staring wide-eyed at the exact photo he'd been vying for.

It was a birds-eye view of that same pool. Alistair was reaching for the ladder, squinting up at the camera with a smile. On his stomach, his ass was laid bare for Micah and the cameraman to see.

He was wearing a thong, but not just any thong—the back straps were divided in a shapely 'V' around the underside of his cheeks. They disappeared ever so slightly from angle to look like the barest threads. And then, his waist—cinched by the top strap of the triangle. Hot pink.

This time, Micah truly did collapse. God, I hate him. He did this on purpose. Why does he have to look so edible?! Did he leave these here for me? He left these here for me.

There has to be more.

The last drawer sent Micah into spontaneous heart failure. Lingerie.

Micah's head swam, his body made of lead. He ducked to the side, lured by the high that forced his eyes back to the photos even as he dragged a sexy, feathery white skirt and thong. His last edible hit him like a truck in that moment and left him paralyzed by a primal need, for the lacy skirt came equipped with garters and stockings.

Lying on the ground of Alistair's closet, he tried desperately to ignore his hard-on. Alistair's disgust for bodily fluids convinced Micah that he might as well go to prison now if he planned on coming all over Alistair's neatly organized lingerie drawer.

It took nearly thirty minutes for Micah to roll onto his side and drag himself to his feet. He took the lingerie and polaroids with him, dazed, to the bed where he collapsed face-first and laughed at his own clumsiness.

Oh my God, he realized, I took two gummies, didn't I?

By sheer feat of will, Micah arrived at Alistair's bathroom where he buried his face in the sliver of heaven that was the skirt-thong-garter combo. It was silky smooth on his cheeks and smelled fresh and flowery, like Alistair had spritzed the drawer with perfume for Micah.

He groaned, hips digging into the vanity. He clutched at the edge of the sink for stability, polaroids abandoned on the counter. He needed... Fuck, he needed moisturizer. Or lube. He wondered if Alistair kept tabs on his lube like a parent keeps tabs on the liquid levels in the liquor cabinet.

He'd stick with moisturizer.

On his knees once again, more desperate than before, Micah opened the cabinet beneath the sink. Cleaning supplies. He shut it. He checked each drawer—toilet paper, towels, shaving supplies.

Moisturizer.

He picked up the bottle, only to be met by the flip of something falling off it.

At his knees, on the tiles, was a sleek, white rectangle. There was black ink on it.

The bottle slid precariously down Micah's palm. He scrambled to catch it, hug it to his chest, and stared at the polaroid Alistair had hidden under the moisturizer.

With his hand at a distance, he pinched the polaroid and, slowly, turned it over.

Over a backdrop of palm trees, ferns, a stark white fence, and white concrete, there was once a lounge chair. Just a plastic lounge chair, draped with a tasseled blue towel. Nothing special.

And then there was Alistair, tanning. The knee closest to Micah was raised up, just enough for Micah to glimpse how the pink bands cupped where the seam of Alistair's asscheek sat.

But more importantly, how the hot pink cup over his cock sagged just enough to give Micah a taste of the delicate present underneath. With a monumental effort, minutes later, Micah's eyes traveled up the length of Alistair's arms as he was lathering sunscreen on. His expression was focused, calm.

He's so tan... Micah thought, a bit jealous.

It dawned on him that Alistair had black hair in these photos.

Micah reached for the first polaroid, frowning. He checked the inner thigh he'd marked up during their first time.

Holy shit, he realized, these are from Australia.

He flipped the last polaroid over, holding it close. On it, in scratchy, triangular handwriting was a note.

Have fun -Alistair

Micah covered his mouth, knees pulled up. He bit into his palm as he flipped the photo over. With his thumb no longer over the corner, he saw the number.

#4.

His breath escaped him in a groan. He dropped his head onto the heels of his palms, his three polaroids in his hair. "You've got to be kidding me."