Stefan didn’t move when Daz unhooked the chain from the mantelpiece. He stayed still, peaceably awaiting his orders, when the collar was removed from his neck.
But he finally looked up, puzzled, when his jeans and a pair of boxers were dropped onto the carpet in front of him.
“Sir?”
“Put them on,” Daz said. “We’re going out.”
“Oh. To Jack’s, Sir?”
“No. Out.”
Stefan fumbled into the clothes, uncertain. He preferred it when he was accessible, and his master could simply drag him across the floor, open his legs, and enter him, without the nuisance of fabric in the way. Like an object. Always ready. Always available. So the heavy weight of the denim felt alien, and the rub of cotton over his c**k strange and oddly unpleasant. When he was given socks and told to put on his shoes, his feet
