by Myles, Eden
* * *
When Malcolm Sloan was forty-six years old, his boyfriend of six months, Warren, took him to a runway show down in SoHo for Fashion Week. The show was being held in a huge, renovated warehouse on the East River, and it was rumored only VIPs would be attending. Honestly, it wasn’t Malcolm’s scene. Maybe he was getting old, or maybe he was just overworked from all but running Harper House on his own, but somehow, he’d lost his appetite for these high-profile, flamboyant affairs. More and more often, he thought about settling down, really settling down with a partner, a family. Of course, the Dollhouse Society would keep the flame awake in their relationship, but he didn’t want anything more than that anymore.
Anything Warren dragged him off to was apt to be fun, but shallow. Warren was fun, but shallow, and Warren was the first to admit to that. He even reveled in it. He dressed like George Hamilton (cravats and sailing suits), wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t imported and organic, and tanned to roughly the shade of a plum. Warren was most definitely not the one, but their relationship was good enough for now, and Malcolm had finally decided that good enough for now was all he could really hope for in this life.
True love didn’t exist outside of fairy tales, made-for-TV movies, and bad 80’s power ballads. Passion was a concept for fools. Malcolm knew he was just one in a very long string of conquests for the lovely, air-headed Warren. But he went with his lover anyway, because he sensed these were the last fleeting days of their relationship. Malcolm felt both sadness and relief at the notion.
Almost as soon as they arrived, Warren ran off to speak to some young, cute rep from Louis Vuitton, leaving Malcolm to mingle with a distasteful assortment of shallow, stony individuals obsessed with their stock portfolios until the lights went down and everyone assumed their seats for the show.
Malcolm sat at his table in the dark, grimaced over the swill-like wine, and watched anorexic young men and women in ridiculous and impractical clothes stomping up and down the runway. He even entertained a fantasy of standing up, putting on his coat, and leaving the show. He thought about walking and walking—where to, he didn’t know. Away from here, he thought. Away from New York. Away from this life. His family was gone and love was just a fancy.
Then he appeared.
Devon Grayson, modeling a Burberry blazer and designer jeans, stomped toward him, blinded by lights and oblivious to his presence. Malcolm felt his heart catch, stop, turn over. Then it started to beat double-time to make up for itself. It took everything he had not to stand up and call out to him.
Devon didn’t see Malcolm in the dark, of course, and Malcolm had a ridiculous notion: he had to find a way of telling Devon he was here, of begging him to stay. He had to stop Devon from stomping out of his life a third time. Reaching for a red rose in the vase on his table, he threw the flower to the stage at Devon’s feet.
Devon stomped to a halt in front of it, glanced over the audience, and shielded his eyes. He immediately recognized Malcolm, though he was five years older and weighed almost forty pounds heavier than when they’d last met. Devon picked up the rose, cupped it in his hand to smell it, and blew Malcolm a kiss. The lights surrounded Devon, caressed him like he was some golden, earthbound angel, and the audience finally learned to appreciate something beautiful and clapped and cheered. For five minutes they were intrigued by what they thought was a glorious show.
Afterward, Malcolm slipped backstage amidst all the models changing into their street clothes, hunting for Devon, though most of the models did not even give him a backward glance; he looked like any other VIP coming through. Malcolm was, and always had been, the invisible man. But he didn’t care. He was a man on a mission.
“You know, only the queers are allowed back here,” Devon said, leaning against the wall beside him, still holding the rose like some precious gift.
“Yes, well, I’m a queer.”
“Stalker.”
Malcolm started before realizing that Devon was teasing him. He slid his hand over Malcolm’s arm and guided him to one of the private dressing rooms. He checked first to make certain it was empty, then ushered Malcolm inside the cramped, crowded little room full of dressing tables and racks of couture. The room smelled musty and sweet like too much perfume and body oil.
Malcolm didn’t care. The moment they were inside, he slid his big hand around the back of Devon’s head and dragged him forward so their mouths could cling in a soul-searing kiss. Neither of them spoke, and neither of them needed to. Everything inside Malcolm surged at the taste of Devon’s mouth, that sweet clove taste. His desire. His love. And under that, a subdued ferocity he could only identify as jealousy. He was jealous of every man Devon had ever kissed, every man who had ever fucked him, either in the name of love or money. He wanted to erase those encounters, the years and the pain. He wanted to be Devon’s first. Devon’s only.
Like their first time, he could just barely control himself. He pushed Devon back against a dressing table, held him down, and fumbled with both their trousers. There were strange buckles and ties on Devon’s jeans, and Malcolm ripped mercilessly at the fabric.
“Easy, gov. Those are couture,” Devon complained. “They cost a thousand dollars.”
“I don’t care,” Malcolm growled. He reached through a placket in Devon’s thousand-dollar couture jeans and took Devon’s fat, eager cock in his hands. Devon swore violently and threw his head back against the dressing table mirror when Malcolm closed his powerful fingers around the girth of him and began to stroke, to tug, to work him. He moaned when Malcolm traced the shell of his ear with his tongue before gently but fiercely biting the lobe.
“Jesus, you are so fucking beautiful,” Malcolm told him breathlessly. “You’re all I want. You can’t be real.”
Devon guffawed. “You don’t even know me, gov.”
“I know you,” Malcolm told him as he fumbled Devon’s buttons open. “I’ve always known you.”
They grappled each other’s cocks and stroked until they were both moaning and writhing. They groaned, kissed, licked and bit. Malcolm snagged one of Devon’s hard little nipples in his teeth past his half open silk shirt and sucked and bit until Devon writhed uncontrollably and started thrashing beneath him.
Malcolm pushed him back on the dressing table. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart,” he said, and Devon obliged him. Panting, Devon urged his head down, relishing the warmth of his lover’s lips, his skin, his breath touching him so intimately. It was like some feverish madness, a dream that neither of them could control. It was something beyond control.
It made perfect sense to Malcolm. Devon was unbelievably, unfairly gorgeous. Devon was what he’d been waiting for his entire life.
It made less sense to Devon. Malcolm Sloan was hardly a looker, not even his type. He was invisible in a sea of business tycoons—quiet, unassuming, frighteningly mundane. But he smelled like leather, musk and cologne, and he had a gorgeous, learned mouth, a sure, steady touch, and the moment Devon felt the man take his cock in his mouth to suck, adding just a hint of teeth, he knew he was Malcolm’s, that he belonged to him. Malcolm was right; he had always known him. He arched upward into his lover’s wicked mouth, groaning out his satisfaction. Malcolm swallowed him down and sucked, slowly, seductively, but with tremendous force.
“Bloody too slow,” Devon complained gleefully, gripping Malcolm’s hair. “Hurry up, gov.”
“Not gov,” Malcolm said, coming up for breath. His voice was a low, faint growl. “I’m a gentleman. Call me Malcolm. Or call me sir.”
“Yes, sir,” Devon said, spilling pre-cum over his twitching cock. Malcolm bent his head and licked it all away. He used his tongue to trace Devon’s cock from base to tip, boldly licked at the soft velvet of Devon’s testes. He breathed in Devon’s scent, nudged his legs further apart. Devon clutched his head and leaned back on the table to offer him better access. “Now bloody hurry up!” He sounded so much more confident than in their last encounter.
“I hurt you
last time,” Malcolm said, tenderly licking the insides of Devon’s thighs until they gleamed with his saliva. Devon’s cock twitched and brushed his cheek, fat and hard. He lapped at his lover’s hole, blew gently upon it until Devon trembled. “I was too rough. I intend to take my time with you, pet.”
“I like it rough,” Devon said, thrusting upward in an effort to entice Malcolm, and then added, like an afterthought, “sometimes.”
Malcolm glanced up, raising his eyebrows at that. He’d had few lovers who wanted to explore their sexual boundaries with him. Fewer still ever made his short list for a courtier. He lowered his head and sucked at Devon’s balls, lathering his saliva all over them, then traced the narrow bridge of his perineum with his tongue before circling his eager opening once more. Devon thrust compulsively against him. Malcolm stopped to slide one of Devon’s legs over his shoulder, then returned to licking and teasing his asshole until he was just wet enough. He sank two fingers inside and Devon arched his back and muttered a breathless “Fuck,” before coming with a lunge into Malcolm’s hand.
Malcolm licked the come from his fingers, then returned to licking and teasing Devon until he begged Malcolm to fuck him. It was only then that he stood up, pinned Devon to the dressing table, and eased his cock inside his slick, quivering hole. He caught Devon’s beautiful face in his hands as he took him. He wanted to see his expression as he submitted.
It was beyond sublime. Devon watched him out of dreamy, half-closed eyes as Malcolm moved inside him, little thrusts at first as he waited for Devon to acclimate himself to his size, and then long, even thrusts as they came together in a natural erotic rhythm. Devon arched his back and matched Malcolm thrust for thrust, giving himself over to his lover, muttering little nonsensical words in his ear in his crackling, halting Cockney dialect.
“Tell me,” Malcolm said, as they moved together as one, and Malcolm realized they were taking up the thread of their conversation from five years earlier. “Tell me why you came here to America.”
“My father…” Devon managed between grunts of pleasure. “My father beat me. Why wouldn’t I come here?”
“You were a pickpocket and a whore, but you became a model,” Malcolm said, not without pride.
“You told me to. You told me to go to the shelter. I did. You told me to make something of myself. I did.”
Malcolm rocked him gently. “Do you always do what I tell you to do, Tweety Bird?”
Devon’s eyes widened at the realization, then they fell back to blissful slits as Malcolm increased his rhythm. “Yes…but only you, sir.”
Malcolm kissed him for that, kissed him sweetly and completely as they came together. He clutched Devon’s ass with both hands, held him against the shelter of his body. He realized he loved Devon. He wanted to protect Devon, take care of him. He had probably loved him from the first moment he’d lain eyes on him over a decade earlier, and perhaps something sentient in the universe had known that, had conspired to put Devon in his pathway again and again.
With one final, harsh, thrust, Malcolm came and Devon cried out, his fingers digging into the back of Malcolm’s neck as Malcolm collapsed upon him. “Then you must listen to me,” Malcolm told him, holding him down solidly against the table and tracing his cheek with one finger. “You must come with me. Be with me. Because I refuse to ever let you go again, my pet. From this day on, you’re mine.”
* * *
Several weeks passed before the Society approved Malcolm’s request to take Devon as his courtier. It was not that the Society was deliberately being homophobic. In fact, it tried desperately to emanate its founder, Jeremiah Hampton’s, libertine philosophy in that it harm none, do as thou wilt. It was only that the Society feared that Malcolm’s introduction of a courtier, the first in over a hundred years, might turn the other gentleman and their courtesans away.
In an effort to appease everyone, Malcolm agreed to bring Devon to his first Society meeting under a trial period. The rest of the Society would then decide if Devon could stay or not.
Naturally, they were both nervous that first night, though it turned out they had no reason to be. Almost from the moment they arrived, the other courtesans attached themselves to Devon. He was tall and beautiful, and they loved his accent and his biting, cynical wit. When it came time for the gentleman and their companions to pair up, the girls didn’t want to let him go—they were getting excellent fashion and grooming advice from Devon—and Malcolm had to all but pry his courtier loose from their iron grip.
“Are you enjoying the girls’ company?” Malcolm asked.
“They’re bloody amazing,” Devon said, leaning against Malcolm as they walked to the center of the Great Hall. “And these pictures are too.” He glanced around with awe at the erotic photography scattered around the hall. “They said you took some of them?”
“I dabble,” Malcolm admitted.
“Could you show me?” Devon said, sounding shy, which he almost never did anymore. “No one’s ever shown me how to do anything. I’ve always had to figure it out myself.”
Malcolm squeezed his arm in response.
They had reached the center of the room. A white, cane-backed chair sat there. Devon looked at it curiously.
“Do you know what’s expected of you tonight?” Malcolm asked.
“The girls told me.”
“Do you trust me, pet?”
Devon looked at his gentleman solemnly. “I trust you.”
Malcolm sat down in the chair. He held onto Devon’s hands, looked up at his courtier, and said, “Come sit in my lap, pet.”
Devon straddled his gentleman’s lap even as Malcolm captured his face and drew him close for a long, exploratory kiss. Devon set his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders and opened his mouth to that kiss. Malcolm’s tongue stealthily slid in and around his mouth, tickling him into a smile. He licked the roof of Devon’s mouth until he moaned and started writhing against the solid, muscular wall of Malcolm’s chest. Devon decided there was something vastly underrated and incredibly intimate about kissing. And with Malcolm there was an added feeling of warmth and security. With Malcolm, he felt safe, protected, for the first time in his life.
Malcolm kissed his jaw to his ear, his tongue wetting the shell even as the other members of the Society gathered around them, hemming them in together, watching them perform. Perhaps it bothered Malcolm. It didn’t bother Devon too much. Before he’d modeled, he’d sold himself to strangers, sometimes more than one at a time. And before that, he’d danced in the downtown leather clubs and in Times Square peepshows. Onlookers had bought or else stolen away every bit of his shame, his dignity, and his self-worth.
But then he reconsidered his situation. He liked the girls, the courtesans, the Society. He didn’t mind them watching. They were his friends now, his family. He minded even less that his job tonight was to bring Malcolm pleasure, to let Malcolm pleasure him for their entertainment.
He untangled himself and slid to his knees before Malcolm’s chair. He boldly undid Malcolm’s trousers with learned, dexterous fingers. He was fucking incredible, the biggest Devon had ever seen outside of professional porn. And hard. Like velvet over steel—which, in some ways, was just like Malcolm himself.
He licked the sweet length of Malcolm’s cock, all nine and a half inches of him, then guided the swollen, meaty head into his mouth. There was no human way to deep throat him, but Devon did his best, taking most of him before he began to choke.
Malcolm grunted and tangled his fingers in Devon’s hair and guided him up and down his shaft. Then he bucked once, sharply, and Devon neatly swallowed him down. When he started to choke, Malcolm eased himself out of Devon’s mouth and let him lick and nibble the head until his saliva had frothed up. Devon dug his tongue into the little slit until Malcolm’s cock wept for him. Then Devon lovingly licked up the pearly drops of his gentleman’s pre-cum.
“Oh pet,” Malcolm said, and they were the sweetest words Devon had ever heard. He looked up into Malcolm’s
soft but stormy grey eyes, his plain but strangely endearing face. Malcolm used both hands to seize him by the face and guide him up until he was straddling his gentleman’s lap once more, Malcolm’s incredible erection sandwiched between them. “You are so fucking perfect. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve waited for.”
“Such nonsense, gov,” Devon complained drolly, then closed his eyes in bliss when Malcolm jerked his chin up and fiercely attacked his throat with his lips and teeth. He sucked Devon’s Adam’s apple deep inside his mouth, drew circles over his skin with his tongue until Devon mewled in pleasure. “Christ, please fuck me already…you’re such a fucking tease.”
“Such a dirty mouth. I may have to punish you one day.”
Devon looked at him, wondering if he was being serious or not. Then it dawned on him that Malcolm was exploring his limits, trying to discover what he was comfortable with. “Yeah, gov, you may want to do that one day,” Devon answered as his hands moved slickly over Malcolm’s cock, which was stabbing him in the belly like a sword. “Just not with a belt,” he answered in an intimate little whisper meant only for Malcolm’s ears. “My dad hit me with a belt.”
“I’ll remember that, sweetheart,” he said, and started working Devon’s shirt open under his tuxedo jacket. Between the two of them, they got the rest of Devon’s suit off him so he was sitting naked in Malcolm’s lap. Malcolm licked and kissed the pulse in Devon’s throat. He took each of Devon’s nipples in his mouth and sucked hard until Devon hissed between his teeth and his fingernails all but pierced Malcolm’s back in anticipation.
“Jesus H. Christ. Bloody hurry up.”
“You know you’re terribly impatient,” Malcolm complained against his lips. “I may have to punish you for that, as well, my pet.”
“Punish me, fuck me, I don’t care, but hurry up.”
Malcolm laughed and Devon rested his ear against the wall of Malcolm’s chest to listen to the soft, comforting sound. He hadn’t heard much laughter in his short life.
Finally, after much anticipation and whispering among the Society, Malcolm withdrew a small vial of oil from his tuxedo pocket and worked it open. It smelled minty, and when Malcolm applied a little to Devon’s well-gnawed nipples they immediately began to burn coolly and Devon groaned at the promising little pain. “What is that?”