by H L Day
Dmitry clinked his glass against mine before taking a long swallow, his gaze shrewder than it had been back in the office. "They're partying. You think they are not allowed?"
They didn't look like they were partying. They looked like they were working. And although I wouldn't go as far as saying they looked miserable, there was a certain deadness to their eyes as if they didn't really want to be there. "No. I just—"
Dmitry's lips curved into a smile, but there was a glint in his eye that I didn't like the look of. Maybe it was the dim lighting, but he no longer had the demeanor of a kind uncle. I glanced toward the door we'd come through to find that Igor and Mikhail had stationed themselves on either side of it. It was clear that there was no leaving without Dmitry's say-so. The question was when would that be, and why had he been so adamant about me attending in the first place? Because there was no dressing it up any longer. He may have extended it as an invitation, but I'd never had any choice in the matter, simply the illusion of it.
I took a gulp of the whiskey, the need to calm my nerves winning out over the voice in my head that suggested it would be far more sensible to stay sober so that I could keep my wits about me. I scanned the room again, averting my gaze from where a man with white hair and a huge bald spot had his hand down the shorts of a dancer who looked at least forty years younger than he was. I felt sick. Was Valentin even there? Or had that been a ruse simply to get me to come without a struggle?
Given what was going on at the party, it was probably better that he wasn't. I couldn't stop myself from asking the question though. "Where's Valentin? I thought you said he would be here?"
Dmitry moved closer, his arm pressing against mine. I forced myself to remain still, despite the natural inclination to put space between us. He spoke directly into my ear, someone having turned the music up. "That is a very good question. Where is my Valentin?" He lifted his arm to point. "Ah, there he is. He has been taking some... private time."
I followed the direction of his finger to where a door at the back of the room had opened. Valentin was indeed stepping out of it, but it wasn't to him that my eyes were drawn first. It was the man with his arm around Valentin, his face nuzzled into his neck. He was younger than the majority of the party guests, but I would have still put him at mid-forties, and in my opinion, he was still too old to have his hand curled possessively around Valentin's bare biceps as if he owned him.
There were no shorts for Valentin. He was dressed as he usually was: full-length ballet tights and nothing on his top half. As I continued to watch, he bent to whisper something in the other man's ear and then pushed him gently away. The man blew him a kiss and then walked toward the bar. I'd been so caught up in watching the scene unfold that I'd forgotten about Dmitry until his voice sounded in my ear, the silken tones bearing a menace that hadn't been present before. "Valentin is very popular. I am sure that you of all people understand why."
It was clear that this—whatever this was—was what I'd been brought to see. I refused to give Dmitry the satisfaction of responding to what he'd just said. Whatever reaction he was hoping for, I wasn't going to give it to him. Not willingly anyway.
Valentin lifted his head, and our eyes met across the room. A multitude of emotions flickered across his face in quick succession. Surprise. Fear. And then finally resignation. His eyes moved to where I knew Dmitry was, still leaning over my left shoulder, his breath hot against my cheek. I dreaded to think what expression his face held. Then Valentin schooled his face, his usual blank expression falling back into place as easily and quickly as if he'd flicked a switch. He turned away, almost as if he'd never seen me in the first place. Dmitry came closer, our faces almost touching. "Hmmm... how strange. He doesn't appear very pleased to see you after all."
My nails dug into my hands with the effort to stay still and to stay silent as Dmitry twisted the knife. He'd known Valentin would ignore me. Even so, I was still tracking him. I needed to know what he'd do next. Just because he'd been in a private room with someone didn't mean that I should be jumping to conclusions. I watched as he crossed the room, noting the effect he had on people as he passed, admiring glances sticking to him like glue. Then a man stepped into his path, his hand reaching out to cup Valentin's bare shoulder, his fingers stroking the skin. I was filled with an immediate and irrational seething rage, the urge to rush over there and pull the man's hand from his shoulder, finger by finger, burning me up inside. They talked. Valentin nodded, and then they were retracing the path that Valentin had just taken, back into the room. The door closing behind them.
Bile rose in my throat. There was no denying it now. Even if I wanted to. He might not be dressed in tiny shorts or draped over the lap of one of the men whose age was only surpassed by their bank balance, but his role was the same. I was upset, without having any right to be. He'd made no promises, offered no assurances. On the contrary, he'd done nothing but push me away, but the emotion still wouldn't go away. Reality hit. There was no hiding it anymore. Max Farley, the man who never did relationships, had hoped for something more with an exotic half-Russian dancer who couldn't care less. Except... there'd been genuine emotion on his face when he'd first seen me. I didn't know what to believe any more.
Fingers curled around the glass of whiskey I'd barely touched, plucking it from my grasp and placing it back on the bar. "I think it is time you went home, my friend. You seem... tired. Perhaps it was... inconsiderate of me to offer a party invitation. You look like you could use an early night." The words might have seemed genuine if it wasn't for the slight smirk playing on the man's lips. He knew exactly what I was feeling, and the message was clear. I'd gotten too close to Valentin for his liking, and he wanted to make sure I knew that Valentin belonged to everyone, yet no one at the same time. That what we'd shared in the dressing room had meant nothing. He didn't seem to know about the hotel room, and I hoped it stayed that way.
I nodded, forcing a smile. If we were still going to play this game of politeness and ignore the undercurrents, then I could play too. "I think you're right. Thank you for your kind invitation, but I think I've seen enough to know that this is not my sort of party." Given that I wasn't over forty, and I didn't get off on groping boys who were young enough to be my son.
I gave one last glance to the door where I'd last seen Valentin. It remained firmly shut. What would I see if I opened it? Valentin against the wall, just like in the dressing room, back arched while the man fucked him, or the man on a chair while Valentin rode him, like in the hotel. It didn't bear thinking about, and it made hot fingers of jealousy creep their way down my spine.
I walked toward the exit, pretending a great deal more casualness than I was feeling and noting the hesitation in the body language of the two bodyguards as I approached. Now I'd seen what was going on, it was easy to see why they wouldn't want just anybody wandering in there off the street. The question was whether they were going to stop me from leaving, whether Dmitry was playing games, or if he truly intended to allow me to leave. I held my breath as Mikhail looked over to where I'd left Dmitry. There was a pause of what could only have been seconds but felt like much longer. Then he stepped aside. I hurried through the door.
The bored cashier was still there. She raised an eyebrow at my hasty exit. "Party not to your liking?"
I gave her no more than a fleeting glance, eager to get out of there. "Something like that." I took the stairs to ground level, two at a time, only slowing when I was back out on the street and at least a good fifty meters away. I took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, then I headed for the nearest bar.
Chapter Six
Valentin
I'd been enduring Dmitry's parties for years. They were never going to be fun. But at least in the last few years, I'd found the means to ensure that they were no more than tiresome. That certainly wouldn't have been the way I'd have described them back when they'd first started. As a naive teenager, I would have done almost anything to avoid them. Apart from giving up dancing
, and unfortunately that would have been the price I'd have had to pay. Sometimes I even met the occasional decent man there, like Claude, the suave Frenchman, who'd had very different reasons for attending than most of the other clientele, and could prove to be my salvation one day if everything went to plan.
I normally spent the first hour avoiding having to spend time with anyone, choosing to sit at the bar instead and master the art of looking unapproachable. Although, I'm sure the majority would agree that I'd already mastered it. But Jeremy had been particularly insistent tonight, and I'd wanted to get my time with him over and done with. Perhaps, for one night, I'd switch things around, and get the necessary evils out of the way and then spend the rest of the night at the bar. Or perhaps I could even convince Dmitry to let me leave early. I turned my attention back to Jeremy as fingers inched their way slowly up my thigh. I put up with it. Even when they brushed the material-covered mound of my cock.
"Take it out! Please. I want to see."
I regarded the red-faced man in front of me with barely concealed irritation. He had one hand wrapped around his cock, furiously fisting it, as his eyes—and other hand—roved all over my body.
I gave him a disapproving look. "That's not the deal, Jeremy. You know that." I deliberately shifted my chair back, causing the hand that had been on my crotch to have no choice but to retract. It was either that or remain suspended in midair. "I let you touch, but I've always made it clear that I'm not taking my clothes off for you. What will it be? If that's not enough for you anymore, then..." I let the veiled threat hang there, knowing it would be enough.
He scooted his chair forward, his hand moving even faster on his cock. "Sorry. Sorry. It's enough. I get carried away." His hand dropped back on my thigh, the fat, sweaty fingers crawling upward again like some sort of out-of-control spider. "I'm so close. Talk dirty to me."
I fixed my gaze on the wall over his shoulder. I would, but only because it would make him come faster. Once he had, I could get rid of him. "Stroke that big, fat cock. Yeah, like that. Just like that. You're so good at that. I want to see your cum so bad. I bet it's going to be a huge load."
Jeremy began to pant, his hips thrusting up to fuck his hand while his fingers continued to grope at my flaccid cock. Sweat poured off him, soaking the neck of the shirt that he still wore. "Speak Russian to me."
I lowered my voice, putting a husky tone into it. "Budet i na nashey ulitse prazdnik." It meant nothing. Directly translated, it meant the sun will shine on our street too, the Russian version of the English proverb, every dog has his day. Jeremy groaned, his body trembling as he reached the brink of orgasm, his hand leaving my crotch to pinch my nipple. "More. Please."
I leaned forward, running my tongue along my lips in a provocative fashion. "Bez truda, ne vitashish i ribku iz pruda." No pain. No gain. It amused me no end to spout meaningless rubbish and have them think that I was talking dirty in Russian. He gasped, and I moved away as cum splattered his shirt. I examined my fingernails as he cleaned himself up and sorted out his clothing.
Once he was relatively decent, I stood up, forcing a bright smile. "Ready? You don't want to miss too much of the party." I already had one hand on the door when he came up behind me, nuzzling into my neck, his tongue darting out to taste the skin, as the door swung open. I kept my shudder at bay, my gaze automatically searching the room for men I didn't recognize. Men who wouldn't be quite so easy to manipulate as the regulars I had wrapped around my little finger.
My gaze drifted over to the bar, meeting a familiar pair of eyes belonging to the last person I'd ever have expected to see there: Max. He stared right back at me, his expression making it all too clear how he felt about the scene unfolding in front of him. Shock held me immobile, Jeremy taking it as encouragement to get even closer, his groin rubbing against my thigh like some randy dog. What is Max doing here? Had he come looking for me? But then, how had he known where to find me? Then I registered the man right behind him with a smug smile on his face. Dmitry had brought him there. My blood ran cold. If Dmitry knew about Max, then he was in danger. I'd put him in danger. And if I showed that he meant anything to me at all, that I had any sort of attachment to him, then I'd be making things ten times worse.
I turned my head away, the imprint of Max's hurt expression ricocheting around my head as I peeled Jeremy away from my body and assured him that of course I would have time for him at the next party. I always had time for him as long as he stuck to the rules. He blew a kiss in my direction and strutted away, peacocking the fact that he'd been allowed to spend time with Valentin Bychkov. I'd managed to convince Dmitry that my attention was far more valuable if I remained exclusive to a small and select bunch of men. It meant that those men got to boast, while others who weren't on the list could only cast jealous looks in their direction.
Little did Dmitry know that those men who made it to my list had been picked because they were easy to manipulate. They were easy to string along, always hoping that they'd get more than the tiny crumbs I offered them: a touch here and a stroke there. Just enough for them to have enough hope that one day I might allow them more. And the real beauty of the plan was that none of them ever dared to complain. To do that would be to admit that the previous time they'd spent with Valentin Bychkov wasn't what they'd made it out to be. So far it had a hundred percent success rate. I dreaded the day though that two of them might compare notes and realize that they weren't the only one that I held at arm’s length. On that day, I'd have an awful lot of explaining to do to Dmitry. But so far it hadn't happened.
Every now and again, I dropped someone from the list and added someone new, to give it a bit more authenticity. Dmitry was happy. The men were happy—mostly. And as for me... well, I wasn't happy exactly, but I survived without having to share my body with anyone who wasn't of my choosing. That thought immediately brought Max to mind, the last man I'd chosen to let close. Twice. I wanted to turn my head and see if he was still there. If so, was he watching me? Was there hatred burning out of his eyes? I didn't turn. I kept my gaze averted from the last place I'd seen him. It was better for him if I treated his presence as completely inconsequential.
A man blocked my way. I froze until I realized it was another of the men currently on my list. He hadn't attended the last few parties, either in London, Russia, or in France where the majority happened. Most of the men were rich enough that paying for the exclusive party and travel to wherever they happened to be wasn't a problem so it tended to be the same men, no matter what the country. The fact I hadn't seen this one for a good few months was therefore unusual. I'd hoped that for the sake of his wife he might have given them up. I forced a cheery note into my voice. "John! How lovely to see you! It's been a long time." John wasn't his real name. I expected that there wasn't a man in this room who wasn't going by an assumed name.
He tried for a smile, but it was overshadowed by the quiet desperation in his eyes. "Can I spend some time with you?"
In other circumstances, I might have felt sorry for some of these men. Most of them were trapped in a loveless marriage, spending each and every day pretending for whatever reason that they weren't gay and didn't lust after men young enough to be their sons or grandsons. I tilted my head to the side, pretending to give the question a great deal of consideration before finally nodding.
Then I led him back to the room I'd just left, grateful that my status had made it easy to demand privacy, unlike the other poor wretches scattered around the club who had no choice but to endure being groped in public, either because they needed the money, or because they'd been told in no uncertain terms that it was a part of their dance contract. I'd long since come to the conclusion that there wasn't anything I could do to help them. They had to have known, on some level, the path they'd chosen when they threw their lot in with Dmitry Gruzdev. Or perhaps it simply made me feel better to believe that. Then there were the women who got dragged into these parties with the opposite problem to the dancers. They were left wondering
why they'd been brought there at all when they were virtually ignored. Occasionally one of the men might throw them a few crumbs of attention. But on the whole, they spent their time standing around and chatting, or danced while no one watched. Their sole purpose was for Dmitry to be able to claim, when asked, that they were the service offered, rather than the young men. In the end, they were paid for doing very little so I guessed that they wouldn't complain too loudly once they recovered from their egos having been dented.
"Will you suck my cock?"
I shifted my attention back to John, pasting a look of regret on my face. "You know I can't, John. I've told you before. I can't live with the guilt. I've met your wife. How could I face her? How could I talk to her with the same lips that had been wrapped around your cock?"
He undid his trousers, pulling out a long, thin cock that was already hard. I didn't fool myself that that was all about me. No doubt, John had spent the time while he was waiting to intercept me, playing with one of the other boys. "But you'll give me a hand job?"
I lowered myself onto the chair. "Of course. But there's no rush. Sit down. Let's catch up before we get to that." The longer I spent with John, the more convincing it was to everyone on the outside, including Dmitry, that more than a hand job had taken place behind closed doors.
I thought about Max again, wondering if he was still out there or whether Dmitry had let him leave. At least I didn't have to worry about him coming anywhere near me again. There was no doubt in my mind that he'd give me a wide berth, exactly as Dmitry intended. The man was clever. He had more than one way of achieving a goal. I should know; I'd been on the receiving end more times than I could count. His techniques for breaking any attachments I might form, no matter how tenuous they might be, were never the most obvious. Why use threats when the truth could suffice? Or at least what Dmitry thought of as the truth.