(no subject)

George has had, not to put too fine a point on it, a fucking shitty day. He'd been at the stables in the morning and some entitled fucker had brought his daughter in for riding lessons, insisting that he knew more about horses than George did, that his brat was a gifted rider, and on and on. It had rankled, even more so when George had found her to be scared of even the most docile mount he'd found her. After they'd gone, Bramble had managed to nip his thigh -- not hard enough to bruise but it had still stung. He'd had a recording job in the afternoon and, after going home to grab his cello, had had to go to the trouble of restringing.

He desperately, desperately needs to get out of his head. Normally, before, he would have trusted Lee to pick up on that and act accordingly but, since everything, Lee's barely even tried to fuck him, let alone suggested anything rougher.

When he gets home, he finds Lee sitting on the couch, reading. Without really speaking, he stalks into the bedroom, rummaging through the bag in their closet until he finds what he's looking for. He walks back into the lounge and setting the collar down on the coffee table. He looks at Lee expectantly.