by Joey W. Hill
“He called her his Madonna, while the rest of us called her Maddie.”
Ange’s hand tightened on his. “How did you meet them?”
Robert let the sadness dissipate, freeing his hand to stroke Ange’s hair back. “Charlie was my high school history teacher. Hell of an educator. He demanded a lot out of his students. That’s the kind of Dom he is, too, but of course I didn’t know that about him until later. I stayed in touch with him, the way a student stays connected to a favorite teacher. But then, when I was at a New York trade show, I went to a drag performance at a popular club. He was in the front row. He and Maddie were already involved, and he’d joined her for a weekend gig. Later that night, they had plans to hit the same club I was planning to visit. Our friendship went from teacher and student to fellow Doms at that point.”
“So Maddie was a sub.”
“She sure was, not that anyone would ever have guessed it. She was as strong-willed as they came. She had to be. The submission, the need for a strict Master, gave her a sanctuary she’d never had before.”
“Sanctuary.” Ange’s eyes were thoughtful as they met Robert’s. “Yeah. It’s like that.”
“When done right, it is. For both Master and sub.” Robert squeezed Ange’s shoulder, grinned. “But he had to earn it. Charlie told me she was a real brat at first. On their third date, for a fancy restaurant, she wore a schoolgirl uniform to tease him. Come on. I want you to meet him.”
As they exited the car, Ange retrieved the basket from the back, but Robert took it from him. He tossed Ange a wink. “You’ll need both hands free. The residents here are a good group, but impulse control is an afterthought for them. They’ll grab your ass and won’t even have the decency to claim dementia made them do it.”
Ange chuckled. “I have faith you’ll defend my virtue, Master.”
“The National Guard couldn’t defend the Pope’s virtue from this group.”
On the spacious front stoop, they heard Ella Fitzgerald’s version of “O Come All Ye Faithful” filtering from behind the door. Robert didn’t bother to ring the bell, instead opening the portal, which chimed to alert those within of his entrance. “Hello, the house,” he called out, wiping his feet on the mat. The pattern showed a handful of reindeer toasting one another with wine glasses as they sat on a tied up and thoroughly annoyed Santa. “I have cake.”
He saw Ange staring. The foyer was impressive, with a shiny black and white checkerboard tile floor, curving staircase and chandelier. However, what had caught Ange’s eye was what captured every guest’s attention. A nine-foot tall oil portrait of Mad Donna herself, mounted on the wall over the curved staircase.
She wore the silk lounging wear Robert had mentioned, while reclined on a divan. Her striking red hair poured over the rolled arm upholstered in blue silk brocade. Her black stilettos were tied onto her feet with blue rope looped around the soles and her ankles, bound to the leg of the divan. Her wrists, wrapped in the same rope, were clasped under her chin as she gazed at the viewer.
Maddie had often done performances playing up a Domme angle to tease her audience, but in private she’d been wholly Charlie’s sub. Charlie’s Mastery allowed her to let go in that vital way a powerful personality with a rocky past often needed.
Mad Donna’s eyes had been her sucker punch. They were full of everything—a submissive’s devotion, a Dominant’s power, a woman’s mystery and something indescribable. It kept a person looking, trying to understand what it was, and why it felt like a call straight to the soul.
Humanity. That was what Robert had decided it was. Everything complicated, blessed, profane, lost and found about the human race was in those astonishing blue eyes.
Much like what he’d seen in Ange’s eyes, so many times.
“Robert.” The crisp-voiced crow of delight came from his left, so he moved to that archway, which led into a spacious and comfortable sitting room. As Ella’s melodious voice flowed into “Silent Night,” Robert saw a gaunt man on the couch. Dressed warmly in sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms, he was draped over a body pillow with a dove gray cotton case over it. An IV was attached to one thin arm.
The greeting hadn’t come from him. It belonged to the man crossing the room toward them with energetic strides. He’d emerged from the deeper recesses of the house. Despite being in his sixties, Charlie wore snug jeans and a T-shirt that displayed well-developed biceps and broad shoulders. His reddish-blond hair was cropped military short and he had a bristling moustache with hints of gray.
“Charlie, Merry Christmas.” Setting the basket on the glass coffee table, Robert clasped the extended hand. Charlie pulled him into a warm hug which Robert returned with equal strength. He drew back to meet Charlie’s gaze, already moving with great interest toward Ange. “We can’t stay long, I’m sorry to say. We just wanted to drop by some holiday cheer.”
“We’ll forgive it, as long as you’re coming to the New Year’s Party.” Charlie’s bright dark eyes came back to Robert. “And bringing this beautiful thing with you. Robert, you dog. Where have you been keeping him? Oh, don’t tell me.” That piercing regard flicked back to Ange, lingered on the collar the flannel shirt didn’t completely hide. “This is your assistant, the one whose fine ass you’ve wanted to call yours since the moment he came into your store.”
Ange flushed, even as his attention immediately went to Robert for confirmation. Robert gave him a “don’t let it go to your head or I’ll kick your ass” Master’s look that had Ange tucking a smile away into pressed lips.
“This is Ange Fournier.” Robert introduced him formally. Then he took it further. Charlie was a good friend, and understood. “And yes, he’s mine. Officially, now.”
Charlie squeezed his arm as the man on the couch stirred, his next words showing he hadn’t been asleep at all.
“About time. Thought I’d have to hear about you finally making a move on the kid once I was up there doing the Electric Slide with the angels.”
Charlie chuckled and looked toward Ange. “We were taking bets on it, you see,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.
“Do not spoil him,” Robert said severely. “He needs to be able to sit down before New Year’s, if only for when you play musical chairs.”
Robert moved around the coffee table to help the man on the couch push up to a sitting position. He was concerned to find Amos thinner and more fragile than last time he’d seen him, and that hadn’t been too long ago. As Robert sat down on the couch, sliding an arm around him and accepting the kiss on the lips with easy amiability, he gripped his hand. “How goes it, Amos?”
No surprise, Amos didn’t care a thing about being coddled. “I’m holding out for that New Year’s party,” he rasped calmly. “Then I can be done with this mortal coil, Robert. But I won’t leave until I can lead the dance one more time.”
“Amos was a DJ at the height of the disco era,” Charlie told Ange, transferring the basket from the coffee table to a cushioned runner on top of a baby grand piano. “He’d get the tunes going, then jump down to the floor and lead the line dancing. He was also a couples dance competitor.”
When Amos reached out toward him, Ange moved forward and dropped to a knee by the man. Amos put his hand on Ange’s face, stroked his hair. “So young,” he observed. “Do you dance, pretty thing?”
Ange’s lips curved as Robert chuckled. “A little.”
“Not this ridiculous hip grinding they do now. Real dancing, like we did to dissssccooo.” Amos drew the word out with a sibilant reverence.
“I do a mean Hustle,” Ange said, without a blink, and Robert loved him more, if that was possible.
“Then you’ll come back at New Year’s and prove it,” Amos said stoutly. “And dance with me.”
Ange looked at Robert, waited for his nod, then came back to Amos. “I promise,” he said. “As long as you promise not to stand me up.”
“Only one Thing in the universe can keep me from it, and that’s with the capital T,” Amos said
solemnly. “But God enjoys dancing, too. I expect I’ll still be here.”
A sound like an approaching flock of manic cackling birds filtered into the room, drowning out Ella’s crooning melody. Charlie’s expression shifted to fond exasperation. “Oh, God help us, Robert. They know you’re here.”
A blink later, the room was filled with a handful of exuberant residents, festively dressed in reds and greens, with accents of gold and silver. Jingle bells chimed, dangling from ears or on bracelets and necklaces. Everything from dresses to jeans and T-shirts were represented in the fashion mix.
With the exception of Charlie and Amos, the current inhabitants were all drag queens—hence the name playfully detailed on the back of the van. It was also there because a few members of the group still did performances, using the van for gigs.
Robert had been here on routine days, when the residents were pursuing normal tasks and interests, like reading, paying bills, gardening, doing home repairs. Bradford looked like he’d been engaged in that last one, in clay-dusted jeans, work shoes and a green Duluth Trading shirt. An angry beaver wearing a Santa hat was printed on the pocket. Despite the masculine garb, Bradford wore lipstick in a cheerful glossy red. Probably in anticipation of holiday drop-in visitors like Robert.
Guests activated the residents’ performance genes, which ran blood-and-bone deep. In a group, in this scenario, their mannerisms were uniformly feminine and flamboyant. They’d spent their lives on stage—even when they weren’t formally performing. There was no “practicing their feminine wiles.” Every one of them had mastered the art and could exercise them effortlessly and effectively.
Seeing Ange only heightened the response. Tenfold.
Robert was inundated with Christmas wishes, but almost immediately after, they swarmed upon his sub like bees. Robert tolerated it until Theopolis tried a crotch grab, and then Robert stepped in, swatting him away and putting Ange behind him.
“Show a little self-restraint,” he scolded.
Theopolis wore full geisha face makeup, a contrast with his jeans and close-fitting thermal shirt. Since it was dusted with the same clay, it suggested he’d been helping Bradford. He shot Robert an unrepentant look from under thickly mascara’ed lashes and held out his wrists.
“I’d much rather you do it, darling.”
That set off a wave of raucous, full-throated laughter, but a meaningful glare from Robert, reinforced by a few admonitions from Charlie, set the boundaries. Everyone settled into slightly more decorous behavior. They shifted their attention to the basket, crowed over it, and then the cake was broken out. A couple residents dashed into the kitchen and returned with a tea tray, plates and forks.
Robert pushed Ange down onto a love seat with him and kept him close to his hip, his hand high on Ange’s thigh. He ignored Charlie’s amused look.
Whenever he came to visit, the queens flirted outrageously with him. Trying to dampen their enthusiasm with someone young and beautiful like Ange was a challenge that would drive God to despair.
And probably resigned laughter.
So Robert tolerated Trixie Bell perching on the arm of the couch so he could play with Ange’s hair and pet him. The black queen was outfitted in a crimson tunic top with sparkling green trim, draped over casual black slacks. His ginger wig had shining thick curls that fell to his elbows and tumbled against Ange’s arm and shoulder.
Robert had shifted his hand to Ange’s lower back, a way to gauge any tensions. He found he didn’t need to worry. Despite Ange’s occasional social awkwardness and shy nature, in this situation he rose to the occasion. Ange unfailingly offered his sweet smile, charmed them all with the constant blush on his fair cheeks, and laughed at even the most blatantly sexual teases. He knew he was in the deep end of the pool, but his glances toward Robert said he could tread water as long as Robert had his back.
Robert did. Plus, despite his warnings, he was confident the residents themselves wouldn’t take it too far. The queens were well practiced in being sexually aggressive on stage when the environment called for it, but they were also generous in heart and possessed shrewd instincts and intuition about their audience.
His mother had accompanied him to this haven several times, when he hadn’t felt comfortable leaving her at the townhouse on her own. She’d found a second home here, because Charlie and the others had encouraged Robert to drop her off on days when she wasn’t doing as well. It had allowed him to keep the store operating on at least a limited schedule. They’d even given her a stage name purely for fun—Yasmine, since she liked the Aladdin Disney character. They’d dressed her up in a Hollywood-worthy costume for her last Halloween.
As such, Robert guessed he should have anticipated Charlie’s toast when the tea was poured.
“To your mother,” Charlie said, raising his cup. “She’d be so glad to see you with someone.”
“Amen to that,” Theopolis added. Dallas, a slim queen delicate as a fairy and in her nineties, who dressed and looked a lot like Jessica Tandy, turned a serious eye to Robert. She leaned toward him from her chair.
“Yasmine loved you so much. That’s all she wanted for you. Your happiness, and for your heart to be held in the right hands. Are they the right hands? Is he treating you right?” She—because she preferred the feminine pronoun, just like Maddie, whether on stage or off—tilted her head toward Ange.
Well, hell. Maybe it was because she reminded him of his mother, the wizened frailty of her body and lined face. Or how she gazed at him with such familiar maternal concern. That, coupled with the emotional surfeit of Christmas itself, its peculiar way of underscoring loss, rose up, making Robert’s chest tight. Words couldn’t get past his closed throat.
Ange shifted so his thigh pressed closer to Robert’s, his shoulder brushing him as he slipped his arm under Robert’s. His palm pressed to Robert’s lower back, his thumb hooking under the belt of Robert’s black slacks. For their visit to the Queens home, he’d matched those with a white dress shirt and casual sports jacket. The queens appreciated a man who took extra time to look good for them.
When Robert turned his face toward Ange, their noses almost brushed.
“Okay?” Ange asked softly, just like that. As if none of them were here. He wasn’t being unfriendly. Just…focused. It choked Robert up even more.
He could say he wasn’t used to having someone have his back intimately like that, but that wouldn’t be true. He just hadn’t acknowledged how many ways Ange had watched after him these past few months. But his sub had stated it straight out, less than a day ago.
I’d vow to do what I could to inspire you to smile, to ease your sadness, every day.
This place’s significance to his mother in her last days made it impossible not to open the door to how much her absence had affected him. He was a grown man, fully in charge of his life, enough so he’d been able to reverse the roles and serve as his own parents’ caregiver. However, there wasn’t a day he didn’t miss the maternal qualities his mother had possessed in full measure, and how she’d reinforced their steadying touch upon him with her physical presence.
“I’m okay,” Robert confirmed, clearing his throat. He needed to get back on top of this. The alpha and Master in him pretty much demanded it.
Ange’s look held a partial apology, an acknowledgement that this was putting Robert on the spot, but the other part said he wasn’t sorry for championing him. He slid his hand from Robert’s back to rest on his thigh, a reminder of their connection. That he was there, at his side.
“This baby’s a keeper,” Amos said abruptly, before Robert could say anything else. Dallas nodded firmly in agreement, her eyes warm.
“Definitely bring him back for New Year’s,” she said. She directed her next comment to Ange. “We have karaoke and candy bingo early in the evening. If the singing doesn’t make you poke your eardrums out with a pencil, it’s good fun.”
That produced an outraged wave of protest and a burst of song from several skilled throats.
Amos screwed up his face in mock pain, holding his hands over his ears as they deliberately hit high notes with a shrill tag.
But as they took a pause to eat more cake, he shook a finger at Robert, his dark eyes glinting. “You hold onto him. He has the nicest butt I’ve seen since yours. I’m at ass-level most of the time these days. Gives me an optimal view.”
“Good God,” Robert said, rolling his eyes. Ange nodded.
“You do have a great butt, Master.”
“People of a certain age have no decorum,” Robert informed him reprovingly. “You don’t have that excuse.”
“Oh honey, that’s because at our age, the grave’s too close.” Herman, stage name Hermione, shot him and Ange a wink. His natural hair, curled under at his shoulders in a sleek bob, was dyed green to go with the glittering red eye shadow and matching lips. A sparkling snowman was face-painted on his cheek. “Exercise diplomacy or beat around the bush, and you might drop dead before you make your point.”
“Fucking hell, the bitches are starting to talk about death. We need something that isn’t Christmas music,” Bradford announced. He was up and headed to the music player. Over the cacophony of suggestions, he chose “Doncha” by the Pussycat Dolls and Busta Rhymes. When it blared from the sound system, it was met with various groans and squeals of delight. Then Bradford was back to pull Ange up off the couch. Theopolis gave him an encouraging swat on the ass and then shook his palm, shooting Robert a teasing look. “Buttocks of steel, that one, you lucky dog. Amos is right.”
Robert sighed, exchanging a mock look of commiseration with a grinning Charlie. Then he settled back to watch the show, his ankle on his knee, his arm stretched over the back of the sofa.
He watched carefully, but things were okay. Ange had tossed him a reassuring look. This was obviously a radically different scenario than whatever made Ange uptight about dancing in front of others.