by Lisa Henry
And before Rory could ask her what she meant, she charged past him and fled the office.
Despite his reservations, Rory couldn’t get out of dinner with Lowell. And Tate was eager to go. Rory realized, guiltily, that Tate only really left the house to walk as far as the grocery store and back. He didn’t socialize or have friends. He’d seen less of Beulah than Rory had. And okay, maybe he hadn’t come here as a tourist or a legal immigrant, but that didn’t mean it was right to confine him to the house alone. Tate was beaming as they walked down the road together, heading for Lowell’s house.
“It’s nice here,” he said. “So green. Sometimes, when you’re at work, I just stand in the yard so I can feel the grass under my feet. Never had that on the outside. Never.”
Rory smiled at him. “It’s perfect.”
“Perfect,” Tate echoed.
At Lowell’s house, Aaron pressed a glass of wine into Rory’s hand the moment the door was open. “Mr. Lowell is in the study. He said you should go in. Tate can help me set the table for dinner.”
Rory looked to Tate, almost for permission, and Tate smiled back. “Go ahead,” he said. “Aaron and I can keep each other company.”
He headed off to find Lowell. The study door was open, and Lowell was seated at his desk reading a newspaper. He looked up and smiled when Rory appeared, and folded the newspaper up. “Damn opinion polls. I don’t know why they even run them. Politics isn’t about popularity, it’s about the ability to govern.”
“A bad result?” Rory asked, sitting down. He sipped his wine.
“Not at all,” Lowell said. “It just irritates me when the focus is on me personally, rather than what I’m trying to achieve here. The cult of personality is a dangerous one. History has taught us that.”
Lowell was a rare man indeed. A popular politician who didn’t care about popularity. Didn’t get pumped up on his own ego.
“There’s no place for this sort of populist nonsense in government,” Lowell said. “Or in the home, either. It’s all about a common goal, Rory, and a common good. Political leaders too often forget who is really in charge.”
“And who’s that?”
“The people,” Lowell said. “I’m a leader, but I also have a million employers. If I lead, I also serve. In many respects, I’m not so different than Aaron.” He picked up the bottle of wine from his desk and topped up Rory’s glass. “You know, in ancient times, it was seen as something admirable to serve the public. Then, somehow, it got all mixed up with money, and the rot set in. But I like to think of myself as a bit of a rezzy myself. I owe Beulah a debt as well. A debt of gratitude. And I try to repay it a little every day.”
“That’s an admirable philosophy,” he said. “Most politicians don’t share it.”
“Maybe not on the outside,” Lowell smiled. “But things are different here. We know how lucky we are. We know that it’s an honor and a privilege to serve. Outside, people have lost any sense of community.”
That was certainly true. Rory drank.
“Which brings me to Tate,” Lowell said.
“Tate?”
“Tate wants to serve, as well,” Lowell said. “He’s been on the other side, and so have you. You both know what it’s like out there. And Tate is working hard to show that he’s grateful, to show that he’s better than his past. He needs you to acknowledge that. He needs you to set goals for him, and boundaries. Do you do that?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned. “I mean, he does chores around the house. And I thank him for it.”
Lowell’s smile grew. “How do you thank him for it?”
“I tell him,” Rory said. “How else am I supposed to thank him?”
Lowell laughed. “He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your housewife either. He’s a rezzy. And you’re his master.”
“Sponsor,” Rory said, remembering the unadulterated pleasure on Tate’s face when Rory had called himself his master. “I’m his sponsor.”
“Semantics.” Lowell waved his hand. “Look, I’m not going to get into a discussion about criminality with you, but I think you’d agree that, in most cases, it’s a lack of boundaries that leads to lawbreaking in the first place. You need to give him boundaries so that he feels safe. So that he won’t be tempted to stray. And you need to discipline him when he oversteps those boundaries.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Rory said. His wineglass was full again. “I don’t know what you mean, in practical terms.”
“Practically?” Lowell leaned back in his chair. “Well, take Aaron, for example. If the house isn’t spotless when I get home from work, I give him five swats with my belt. And if it is spotless, well . . .” He chuckled. “If it is spotless, I bend him over the couch and fuck him until he screams.”
Rory’s jaw dropped.
“He loves it, too, the little slut,” Lowell said, his voice warm with affection. “You need a similar system with Tate. Punishments and rewards. You’re the one in charge, Rory. You’re the master.”
Sponsor, Rory thought, but something about the word master made his breath catch.
Lowell’s smile faded. “The system works, but only if you’re prepared to commit to it, just like Tate has. He needs a master, and that’s your job. Teach him the value of discipline. Teach him to work hard for a reward. Teach him to be a better man than the one who broke your nose the first time you met. Don’t waste your seven years. That violent criminal from the station? Don’t put him back on the streets.”
Rory’s head swam, as much as from Lowell’s words as the wine. “But this can’t be . . . can’t be legal.” Then he remembered he was sitting across the desk from a justice. “Well, moral then.”
“What’s more moral than teaching a man how to serve others?” Lowell asked. “To serve you first, and then his community?”
“I really don’t . . .”
Lowell snorted. “Because you don’t see, Rory. It’s right in front of your eyes, but you don’t see. You don’t see how much Tate needs it and how much it validates him.” He poured more wine into Rory’s glass. “Drink up, and then I’ll show you.”
“Show me what?” he asked anxiously.
“I’ll show you how to train a rezzy,” Lowell said, his eyes gleaming.
“Happy,” Aaron murmured to himself, his hands on his knees.
Tate knelt beside him on the floor, clothes discarded, thighs spread. “Happy,” he agreed.
Aaron turned his head toward him, smiling, as though he was delighted to have found confirmation there. “Yes!”
Tate looked at the pink line on Aaron’s inner thigh and remembered the doctor who had given him the knife. Aaron had passed the test, as well. He wondered if Aaron was proud of that. He should have been very proud. Tate wondered if the doctor had made Aaron jerk himself off with his own blood.
Tate moaned at the memory.
Strange that it had ever disturbed or upset him before, when now it just filled him with overpowering pleasure. Obeying. Being so good. He wanted to be that more, do that more. He wanted Rory to take him there.
And soon, he would. Aaron had said if they waited here, just like this, then Mr. Lowell would help Rory learn what he needed to do. And help them both be the men that they needed to be.
Rory had drunk too much. He knew that the second he tried to stand up. Then, following Lowell back out into the living room, he even stumbled a little. He thought about making an excuse to leave, thought about admitting that he wasn’t ready to learn whatever lesson Lowell wanted to teach him, thought about just coming out and saying that the whole rezzy thing left him with a bad taste in his mouth. He liked Tate—wasn’t that enough? He didn’t want to master him. Didn’t want to master anyone, and he was damn sure that Tate didn’t want to be mastered.
And then he saw him.
“Oh shit,” he whispered. Tate was kneeling on the floor, naked, his hands resting on his spread thighs. His cock was hard. And he stared at Rory with such blatant longing that Rory didn’
t know what he believed anymore.
Lowell slung an arm around Rory’s shoulders. “There,” he said. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Rory’s hands clenched into fists, then released again. Tate and Aaron knelt in front of him, both of them in matching poses, both with matching erections and matching adoring smiles.
Yes, they were beautiful. Both of them, so beautiful. Rory’s head felt fuzzy just looking at them. But there was a difference, wasn’t there, between wanting and taking? There had to be a difference. Except right now, fuddled with wine, he couldn’t spot it. All he could see was his own want reflected in Tate’s dark eyes.
“Tell him what you want,” Lowell said, his voice low.
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” He couldn’t break his gaze. Couldn’t help seeing the disappointment flash across Tate’s face.
Lowell sighed and released him. “You do know.” He crossed to the couch and sat down, legs spread wide. A playful smile lit up his face. “Hello, Aaron.”
Aaron arched toward him. “Hello, sir.”
Lowell patted his thigh. “Why don’t you come over here and show Rory what a good boy you are?”
Aaron scrambled eagerly across the floor. He pushed into the space between Lowell’s legs and pressed his face into the man’s crotch. He moaned, and his body shuddered.
“Shit,” Rory murmured. His boss. His boss and his friend. Rory didn’t care how open people in Beulah were; that was not the sort of thing he wanted to see. Except . . . except he couldn’t look away.
Lowell chuckled and curled his fingers in Aaron’s hair. He tugged his head up gently. “Now, have I ever done anything to you that you didn’t want?”
“No, sir!” Aaron’s voice rose, as though offended at the very suggestion. Then, staring up at Lowell, he began to rock on his knees. “Sir. Please, sir. Please. Please.”
“Not yet,” Lowell chided. “Rory and I haven’t eaten yet. Go and get us something, then maybe you and Tate can play while we eat.”
Play? Rory’s mouth was dry. He sat down on the couch opposite Lowell’s. Exactly how much had he had to drink? A moment later, there was a fresh glass pressed into his hand, and a plate of store-bought snacks beside him.
“See how eager Aaron is?” Lowell said, smiling as Aaron delivered him his food. “That’s what rules and boundaries and instructions do.” Aaron had settled to his knees again, but he was bouncing impatiently, like he couldn’t wait to hop to his feet. Lowell laughed generously. “Oh, all right. Go and teach Tate a few new tricks.”
Tricks, now? Were they people or pets? Rory’s head swam. He set down the wine, pushed aside the food, sank deeper into the back of the couch. And in front of him, on the floor, Aaron and Tate faced each other, still on their knees, but now they were kneeling upright, chests pressed together, kissing deeply, their cocks rubbing between their taut bellies.
Rory wanted them to stop. Couldn’t stand watching them, watching Tate moan and twist. And the sounds were different from the ones he made for Rory, maybe because now he knew this was a performance. Or maybe because Aaron was better at pleasuring him than Rory was; he certainly was a great deal louder now on Lowell’s floor than he’d ever been in their bed. A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t untangle it. It was made up of lust and shame and jealousy all at once. He didn’t want to watch Tate and Aaron perform like trained animals. He wanted to touch. He wanted to keep Tate for himself. He wanted sex to be special and sweet and secret, not this obscene show.
But he didn’t speak up. His tongue felt fat and confused. Aaron had ducked his head, now, and was softly suckling one of Tate’s perfect brown nipples as he cupped and kneaded the other with his hand. Tate was moaning, his eyes glassy, staring straight at Rory but somehow not seeing him.
“What should we make them do?” Lowell asked, eyes twinkling as he popped a cube of cheese in his mouth. “Suck each other? Wrestle? We could have Tate fuck Aaron on the floor. Or . . . use my belt on him.”
“No,” Rory said, the word forcing its way through his disoriented mouth. “No belts. I don’t want it to hurt.”
“Aha!” Lowell grinned. “So you do have a preference. Well, go on.”
Tate looked to him, swollen lips parted, chin tilted upward as Aaron kissed and nipped at his throat. Go on, then, his drunken gaze echoed.
Rory was way past understanding what was happening here. Way past ignoring his lust. He crooked a finger at Tate. “Come here.”
“That’s it,” Lowell said as Tate disentangled himself from Aaron and crawled across the floor. “You need to be able to master a rezzy, Rory. You need to be able to tell him, without any guilt, exactly what you want. And he needs to be able to serve you. We want more outsiders in Beulah, but only if they can prove themselves good citizens. You need to fit in, Rory. So does he. This is the way we do things here. Isn’t it so much better?”
Was it? Rory couldn’t think.
“On the outside, he’d be in a stinking prison and you’d be forgotten by a system that doesn’t advocate for the rights of victims. But here, you can both benefit. You can both be happy.” Lowell caught Rory’s startled gaze. “You are owed this.”
Tate had made his way between Rory’s legs. Had undone Rory’s fly. Behind him, Aaron had followed him over and was busy lowering himself so that he could get his mouth and tongue between Tate’s legs and into the cleft of his ass.
“I want to give you this, Master, please,” Tate mumbled, and his voice was broken, as if he was truly begging, begging on the verge of tears. He kissed Rory’s cock through the fabric of his briefs. “Please be my master. Please let me serve you.”
“Yes,” Rory said, his eyes falling closed.
Couldn’t look. Couldn’t watch as Aaron—Aaron! The same kid who’d bounded into the office every day with an eager smile and a tray of coffees—lapped at Tate’s ass. While their boss watched. This was some weird twilight world where all the rules had been thrown out the window. Rory kept his eyes closed as Tate’s hot mouth closed around the head of his cock.
“F-fuck,” Rory gritted out, biting his lip, fingers scrabbling across the fabric of the sofa for a grip. Tate was getting good at this. So much better than he’d been at first. So much more precise. The point of his tongue jabbed into the tiny slit at the end of Rory’s cock, and Rory almost arched off the couch.
“You should keep him plugged,” Lowell suggested. “Like I do with Aaron. Keeps them focused. Keeps their head in the game. There’s nothing this boy won’t do for me when he’s had a plug teasing him all day, is there, Aaron?”
Rory opened his eyes as Aaron lifted his head to answer. “No, sir. Nothing.”
“Back to me, now,” Lowell said. “You can sniff around Tate’s ass like a pup later.”
Wrong. Shit. So wrong to hear Lowell talk to Aaron like that, when the other day it had all been about how they were lovebirds. It was wrong even if Aaron liked it. Maybe because he liked it. It didn’t seem like love to Rory. Rory threaded his fingers through Tate’s curls and watched as Aaron unzipped Lowell’s fly, freed his erect dick, and straddled him. Lowell’s fingers dug into Aaron’s hips as Aaron lowered himself down. He whimpered as Lowell’s cock pushed into him, inch by inch. Rory forced his gaze away with difficulty.
He pulled Tate’s head back. “Is that what you want? Do you want that too?”
“Yes,” Tate said without even looking. Like it didn’t even matter what he was agreeing to. “Yes, please.”
Rory pulled Tate onto his lap. Helped him settled his knees on either side of him. Guided his cock into that tight, hot hole, wet with Aaron’s spit.
“When they’re plugged you can use them whenever you like. They’re always ready for you, nice and wet and stretched and desperate to come.” Lowell grunted. Aaron had finished his slow descent, impaling himself on Lowell’s dick. Lowell spanked one ass cheek. “All right, boy, look lively for our guest. In fact, why don’t you turn around so he can watch your pretty dick bounce?”
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br /> “Mmm.” Aaron scrabbled awkwardly to rearrange himself. His face was red with the effort of taking Lowell. The flush extended down his chest. His thigh muscles flexed. The head of his cock bobbed up and down. Lowell’s hands cupped his chest, pinched and twisted his nipples until he cried out.
Rory couldn’t take his eyes off him. Even with Tate nuzzling at his throat, rocking back and forth on his cock, it was Aaron Rory stared at. So athletic, so small and slim and fucking himself hard on his master’s length. The expression on his face reminded Rory of pictures of saints and martyrs: pain and rapture at the same time. Whatever it was, it didn’t look very much like love. Maybe love looked different in Beulah than it did on the outside.
He noticed a scar on Aaron’s upper thigh, nearly hidden in the crease of his groin. Tate had a scar there too. Odd.
Rory traced it with his fingers, drawing out a shudder in Tate. Tate arched his back, gasped, and rocked harder on Rory’s cock. His hands held tight on Rory’s shoulders, his cock slapping his abdomen as he moved. Hard and fast, so hard it must have hurt.
But Tate liked it to hurt. That was what he’d said.
“Slut,” Lowell said to Aaron. Rory couldn’t tell if it was affectionate or not. It didn’t seem affectionate, but Aaron moaned high and needy like it was. “Little tease.”
Aaron’s eyes flashed wide for an instant. “I’m sorry, Master,” he cried, his words jostled by the movement of his body. “I’m so sorry for ever teasing you.”
Lowell laughed and raked his fingers along Aaron’s chest, leaving red marks behind. “Come on, lazy boy. Faster.”
“Master,” Tate whispered in Rory’s ear. “Please, Master.”
Rory pulled his gaze away from Aaron and Lowell. Kissed Tate instead. Tasting him and teasing him and making him moan. All the affection Lowell denied Aaron with his mean words and rough touches.
Lowell said he loved Aaron.
Maybe . . . maybe Rory felt the same way about Tate.
His hands slipped to Tate’s waist, gentling him, slowing his pace. “That’s it,” he coaxed as Tate followed his guidance, his hips rolling smooth and gentle as waves in a tide pool. Could he be Tate’s master and his lover? His master and his boyfriend? His master and his friend?