Shy hated the eyes that devoured him whole. Hungry eyes and lewd lips that licked and promised and laughed and leered. They didn’t see him, they saw his body… and they wanted him. Some were familiar faces, regulars who spent too much of their lives in this club. Others were simply there for business purposes. They all seemed to be connected, in one way or another. Shylor didn’t care, and he didn’t bother to memorize their names or their occupations. It was their faces he wished to forget. The touch of their hands on his cock. Tonight, his painfully hard cock.
He’d had no relief, unlike Randy.
But he had no choice in the matter. He was forced to endure. So he absented himself, hid as deeply inside as he could go, ignoring them all, as he usually did.
Tonight, though, there was a difference, something that made this occasion almost palatable.
Tonight, visions of Wyatt danced in his head, and they kept him sane.
Shy was not the only male sporting a collar and leash. Nor was he the only one naked. However, that didn’t exactly ameliorate the situation for him. Not that he’d ever say anything. He wouldn’t dream of it.
He’d seen enough of Sweet Majesty to have some understanding of its clientele. There were regulars, some of whom were in committed relationships, while others came to meet up with like-minded individuals in order to scratch an itch. And then there were those, such as Randy, who liked to show off what they owned.
Shy was there as Randy’s personal property, and he knew it. At one time, he’d been proud of what he was. He knew better now, and was simply resigned to the way things were.
Some of the public rooms had no doors. They’d been removed for voyeuristic purposes. Anything and everything was possible. The club’s motto could have easily been anything goes.
Tables were interspersed throughout the house, including the hallways. Guests were free to dine wherever they wished. There were at least two stages, for those inclined to perform. Their presence didn’t prevent impromptu performances from being held in other areas. Shy had noticed peepholes in some of the rooms, perhaps for those who were shyer about watching. Most simply stared at anything they wished to see.
Other Doms walked their subs on leashes of chain and leather, and some of these latter also wore cock rings, like Shy. Shy was not allowed to speak to any of them, and he only spoke to Randy with permission. Randy, of course, was free to converse with whomever he wished, and he did, for many of these men were his business acquaintances. It was not unusual for Randy to finagle contracts here, using Shy’s mouth to seal the deal. Shy couldn’t remember the number of blowjobs he’d given at Randy’s direction, and he didn’t really want to know.
As they passed, Shy noticed an active threesome upon one of the stages. A sub was sandwiched between two Doms, being fucked from either end. At a nearby table, another Dom enjoyed his meal while his sub ate food from a plate set on the floor. This was common practice at Sweet Majesty. Randy never permitted Shy to sit at his level.
In another room, one slave faced the wall, spread-eagled, his hands held in manacles screwed into the wall while his Master worked him over with a whip. Another was bent over a table, his ass high in the air, the flesh striped in crisscross welts from the flogger in his Master’s hand.
Shy never knew what to expect when they came here. Sometimes Randy would simply watch the activities of the others. Other times, he wanted to show off his prowess as a cocksman, and would fuck Shy hard. Shy’s youth was a coup for Randy, one he wore proudly. Shy didn’t exist as a person, and no one knew his name. Here he was simply Randy’s possession.
Perhaps tonight would be a look-but-don’t-touch night. Randy had made no effort to remove his clothes. Shy couldn’t help but notice he was still hard. Sometimes he wished Randy would simply fuck someone else, but that never happened. It no longer mattered to Shy if people watched them fuck. He was used to it. It had long ago ceased to be anything but a perfunctory act, at least on his part.
There were at least three house slaves who circulated about the club, under the direction of Mel, with drink-laden trays. If a patron didn’t like what was being offered, he simply had to ask for something else. One passed by them now, dressed only in a thong and a red collar that read Sweet Majesty.
“Good evening, Master Grant, good to see you,” the young man greeted Randy.
Shy had stopped when Randy did, at a sharp tug on the leash, and partially turned toward him. Randy took a glass of what might have been champagne, his gaze flicking over the well-hung server.
“I can tell you think so,” he riposted, eliciting a practiced smile from the other before he passed along his way. Shy quickly glanced at the floor, his expression revealing nothing.
Randy pulled on the leash and Shy knew, without being told, he was to move again. Up a set of stairs now, to the second floor. Some of these doors were closed, but not soundproof, and snippets of sensuality could be heard as they passed by. Moans and cries of pleasure. “Harder!” “Yes, Sir!” and “Fuck me, please!”
Men passed them going the other way. Some paused to exchange greetings with Randy. Each time Randy tugged on the leash, and Shy halted and waited his next command, like a horse on a bridle.
“This your sub?” one man asked, and Randy quickly replied, “Yes.”
“Nice job.” Envy laced the voice. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” Randy assented smoothly.
Strange hands cupped Shy’s balls and stroked his cock. Not for the first time, probably not the last. But no one was foolish enough to venture to touch Shy’s ass. The one time someone had come close, Randy had roughly knocked his hand away and yelled, “Mine!” in no uncertain terms.
That had also been the last time.
Shy stood without moving or reacting. He was used to this. Nothing fazed him, he felt nothing. This too would pass.
What if he touched you… what if those were Wyatt’s hands groping your balls? Your cock? What then?
Where had that come from? Shy startled, accidentally shifting his weight.
Dear God, please don’t let Randy….
“What?” Randy’s voice held an edge. The fondler had already moved away. Shy stood in frozen horror, wondering what response to make. He wasn’t even sure what the question was.
“Shylor!” Randy barked.
Shy knew what that meant. He raised unwilling eyes to Randy’s face. “What the fuck—” Randy began.
Shy swallowed hard and took a deep breath. But before he could release a single word, another voice intruded, calling Randy’s name, and Randy turned away in obvious annoyance. But only at first.
“Well hello, Ken.”
Shy breathed again.
“Hello yourself, Randy. Didn’t expect to find you here tonight.”
“I could say the same for you, Ken.” Randy’s voice was clearly laced with pride. Shy knew without being told that this was the man he’d beaten to win his new account, the reason for today’s celebration. Shy kept his eyes cast down. It wouldn’t do to seem to be listening, even though he was standing right there. “Glad to see you can bounce back from disappointment so well.”
“Disappointment?” The confusion in Ken’s voice was apparent. Shy instinctively knew that Randy was about to tell the other man the sad bad news, as Randy would say, and was taking great delight in doing so.
“At losing such a prestigious account. But cheer up, there’ll be others. Maybe I’ll be nice and let you have the next one.”
Shy darted a quick glance up, then back to his feet. He’d seen enough. Ken’s face was purpling. Shy watched the expensive shoes of both men as Ken took a step toward Randy, who never moved.
“Let me?” The querulous voice was rising in pitch and volume, drawing the attention of others. Shy almost shifted his weight, uncomfortably, but thought better of it. “Just who do you think you are, Grant? God’s gift to marketing?”
“Well, if the shoe fits,” Randy modestly replied.
Shy braced himself for a punch t
hat never came, knowing that if this Ken managed to knock Randy from his feet, Shy would go down too, connected as they were. A silky voice, instead, inserted itself, and a quick peek ascertained that it belonged to Mel. He held one gloved hand to his lips, as if shushing two rowdy children.
“Gentlemen, there will be no fighting. No exception. Mr. Demaris’s rules will be followed at all times, is that understood?”
“Of course, of course.” Randy’s voice never faltered, never lost its equanimity. His words were echoed a moment later by a more disgruntled Ken.
“Perfectly understood.”
A snap of the fingers and another server appeared, bearing liquid refreshment. Glasses clinked as they were taken in hand.
“Ken, I do apologize for my thoughtless words. Tonight is not a night for quarreling, but for celebration. Is there some way in which we can bury the hatchet between us?”
Did no one else hear the insincerity that laced Randy’s words? Probably not. No one knew him as well as Shy did. Although Shy wasn’t sure how well he knew Randy Grant himself.
“They say that to the victor belongs the spoils, don’t they? Maybe in this case, the victor should share the spoils?”
Shy pondered this question, waiting for Randy’s next scathing remark. It didn’t come.
“What did you have in mind, my dear Ken?”
Startled, Shy glanced up again. Mel and the server had gone, leaving them to face one another down, having given them their only warnings. Shy had seen other men removed for such offenses. Violence was not tolerated at Sweet Majesty. At least not that kind. Only the sort inflicted by designated instruments of… delight.
“You have quite the asset there, Randy old boy….”
Randy’s flinch traveled through the leash. He hated to have anyone refer to his age. He was very sensitive about it, despite the fact there were men here who were easily forty years his senior.
Suddenly Shy understood Ken’s allusion, and his cheeks flamed as he quickly stared at his feet. He desperately fought to control his breathing, his longtime training standing him in good stead.
What was Ken asking for? And would Randy allow it, whatever it was? Not that Shy had any choice in the matter. He’d do what he was told to do, no more, no less.
“I do.” Shy couldn’t decipher Randy’s tone, couldn’t tell his mood from those two words alone.
“Maybe you could… share your good fortune with those of us who are… less fortunate?”
Surely he wasn’t suggesting…. Shy knew without looking that Randy would never go for that. He had a cardinal rule, and it was never to be broken. No one, but no one, other than himself, was to touch Shylor’s ass. Shy had long ago rid himself of the idea that the compulsion was romantic. It was actually very selfish and very self-serving on Randy’s part.
Randy would not go where someone else had been. And Randy was scared to death of AIDS.
But if Randy blatantly rejected Ken’s suggestion, would the already volatile Ken fly off the handle and get them all bounced out of the club? Perhaps for good?
And would that be such a bad thing?
“Pick a room,” Randy said silkily. Randy jerked the leash. Shy knew that meant he should walk behind him, eyes on the ground. He prayed that they were not going into one of the private rooms. If they did, then all would be lost, all bets would be off, and things would get decidedly ugly. Uglier than usual.
Randy flicked the leash again and Shy stopped, taking in his surroundings. To his great relief, it was one of the public rooms, already populated by about six to eight men and four subs. They glanced up as Randy cleared his throat for attention.
“Gentlemen,” he began. “Good evening.”
Greetings were returned, acknowledgments made. A few seemed interested, some curious, but no one ignored the man who oozed charm and schmooze with every breath. Shy noticed Ken, at Randy’s side, seemed equally as captivated as the others and decidedly less hostile.
“I would like,” Randy continued, “to share my good fortune with you this evening. Today I made a very profitable business deal with a very special client.”
Shy glanced at Ken, who remained silent.
“Therefore, I am giving you all a gift.” Curious glances, increased interest now.
Randy indicated Shy with a wave of one well-manicured hand. “Each and every one of you in this room shall receive a blowjob from those pretty lips.”
Oh fuck….
Shy squirmed uncomfortably, unable to prevent the shudders that rippled through his body. Stand still, he admonished himself. He didn’t have permission to move. The last thing he needed was to draw Randy’s ire down on him. He was already receiving enough unwanted attention from the rest of the room.
Randy’s words were greeted with a moment of silence, as if the other occupants of the room were digesting what he’d said, perhaps considering possibilities. The moment was ended when someone whistled, then someone else catcalled, “He’s got some purty lips, hmm-mmmm.” That broke the tension as the other men laughed.
This wasn’t the first time Randy had offered Shy’s services to other members of Sweet Majesty. So why did this time bother him? Was it because the other occasions had been more low-key and private, not this wholesale orgy of lip service he was supposed to pay to virtual strangers?
Shy looked up without thinking, scanning the faces of the men in the room, who all seemed to be staring at him, finally landing on a man somewhere about Randy’s age. The man looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Grant, you’re asking an awful lot from him.” The man took a step toward Shy. Randy tugged at the leash, jerking Shy, who stumbled to his knees and stayed there.
“He’s mine to do with as I please.” Randy’s voice was smooth on the surface, but Shy felt the undertones of his displeasure. He involuntarily flinched.
Ignoring Randy, the man knelt before Shy, searching his eyes with compassion. “Is this what you want?” he softly asked.
Shy’s mouth went dry. Terror flew along every synapse at the thought of what Randy would do should he answer with anything other than yes. Yet he seemed unable to get the simple word past his lips. He felt tension on the leash increase. Knew without looking that Randy was staring at him, waiting, anticipating the only response he wanted to hear. The only response Shy dared to give.
And yet he couldn’t give it.
Why not? What was wrong with him? Did he want to be hurt? Or worse?
He couldn’t say, couldn’t do it. So he did the next best thing and nodded, hoping his performance was an Oscar winner, since everything was riding on it.
The man looked unconvinced.
“You heard him,” Randy said smoothly, despite the fact that Shy hadn’t uttered a single syllable. “Would you like to be first, Blankenship?”
An expression of disgust crossed the man’s face. He placed his fingers beneath Shy’s chin, tilted his face up. “You don’t have to do this,” he pled with him.
Before he had a chance to respond, assuming he had any such intention, Randy yanked Shy’s leash, and he fell from the man’s grasp and onto the floor.
When the man would help him, Randy snarled, “Do. Not. Touch.”
Shy scrambled back onto his knees, his face impassive.
Blankenship murmured, “God help you, son,” and rose to his feet, facing Randy. “I intend to report you, Grant. You give those of us who are honestly living the life a bad name. You have no idea what being a Dom entails. You’re a clueless piece of shit.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.” Randy’s usually cultured voice had an edge to it now.
Shy felt the leash tremble. He glanced up in surprise. Randy was rubbing his arm, probably to keep himself from punching the other man.
“I have every right to be here, same as you. Now just mind your own business.” Randy turned away, toward a younger man with gelled blue hair and an Armani suit. He’d been one who’d seemed excited at Randy’s offer. “Harry, you want to be first? Le
t Shy show you what he can do with those lips.”
“Yeah, sure, Randy.” The young man eagerly stepped forward, already unzipping himself. Shy heard more whistles, mixed with angry murmurs. He could barely breathe, barely focus.
Just do what needs to be done, get it over with.
He sniffled once, forced himself to breathe, and willed his body not to shake. If this was Randy’s wish, what could he do but obey? What choice did he have?
He sensed bodies in motion around him. A few of the men had left, but others were queuing up behind Mr. Blue Hair, laughing and joking about who would come the most, who would last the longest. Shy felt sickened at their words.
“Grant, for the love of all that’s right, stop this.” That was Blankenship again. Even as the young man before him pulled his cock from his pants, Shy was able to observe Randy. He couldn’t help but watch. The leash jerked almost erratically in Randy’s hand as he rubbed at his neck. Shy could fairly see the veins stand out, while Randy’s face was flushed with displeasure.
Shy tried to absent himself, move into a distant corner of his mind where none of this existed. Let his body obey, do what it had to, but he wouldn’t be there. He’d be far away, in another place entirely. And in this faraway place, Shy was not alone—Wyatt was there, standing with him.
Wyatt….
Shy mentally reached for him, felt the warmth of Wyatt’s embrace, as he imagined it to be, even as he felt the blue-haired young man’s cock brush over his lips. “Open wide for chunky,” the other man joked.
Shy jerked back from the man’s touch, his body reacting faster than his brain. What have I done? Panic-stricken, he raised fearful eyes to Randy, unsure what Randy would do. He hated disobedience, and he didn’t tolerate it. With his actions, Shy had as much as told him no. For that, he’d have to pay a price.
Randy turned furious eyes to Shy. He took a step toward him. Shy quivered. Blankenship moved toward Randy, as if to intercede on Shy’s behalf. Shy wanted to warn him not to bother, he’d only make things worse. But then something odd happened. Randy’s eyes widened, his mouth gaped open, and his hands released the leash, clawing at his chest instead.
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