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I met Jonson Davis at the Lotus Club on what I would later recognize as the most significant day of my life.
The Lotus Club is what was once euphemistically referred to as a “gentlemen’s club,” although that phrase brings to mind tasseled strippers and cover charges at the door, afternoon drunks and bachelorette parties. The Lotus Club has none of those things. It doesn’t advertise, and it certainly doesn’t cater to bachelorettes—though a fair number of women are members, which is another reason the term is a misnomer.
Memberships are by referral only, and they aren’t cheap. The entrance lobby looks as though it might belong to one of the more expensive law firms, done in tasteful black-and-gray marble. A granite-topped reception desk faces the doors, occupied by Angela, a dark-haired, thin-lipped receptionist with cat’s-eye glasses and a photographic memory. When the occasional lost passerby wanders in from the street, Angela smiles politely and informs them that this building is not open to the public.
I stepped inside on a rainy March day, removing my hat and depositing my umbrella in the stand dedicated for that purpose.
“Mr. Edwards,” Angela said. My name, of course, isn’t Edwards; I was assigned it when I became a member. No one uses real names at the Lotus Club. I was reasonably confident that Angela wasn’t even an Angela.
“Good afternoon, Angela,” I said.
“Your usual?” she asked, opening a large black ledger book and tracing along a column with a perfectly-lacquered fingernail.
“Please.”
The Lotus Club had three levels, two of which were subterranean. The main level, in which I currently stood, was primarily used for public play and demonstrations, containing several large showrooms and smaller theater-style enclosures for this purpose. It was also where the members’ lounge could be found, an intimate space with a fully-stocked bar. I spent little time on this level, although occasionally there was a demonstration or performance that caught my eye.
The second level was intended for more sensual experiences. It held a large number of private bedrooms—I didn’t know the exact number, but somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty—that were furnished to various tastes. Some were fully-mirrored, for example. Some held large, comfortable chairs, in which a partner might straddle one’s lap. Many contained light bondage gear, the sort of soft restraints and padded cuffs you might find at the average sex shop—all of the highest quality, of course, but still fairly mainstream as such things go. But the attraction of the second level was mostly in having a comfortable, pleasant environment in which to have a highly-trained mouth, cunt, or ass please you to your specifications.
This, too, was not where I spent most of my time.
“Room 305 is ready for you, Mr. Edwards.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Angela.” I left my coat and hat with Angela, who spirited them away, and I took the elevator to the third, and lowest, level of the Lotus Club. One who was aware of the sorts of activities that went on in this level might expect to hear noises upon approach—cries, shouts, or perhaps the slap of leather on a round, quivering ass. But the rooms of the third level were thoroughly insulated, and so the only sound was the whisper-soft fall of my wingtips on the plush hallway carpet.
I used my keycard to open room 305. Inside, everything was as I expected. A young man in his early twenties was bound, naked, in the center of a small, spartan room. The only furniture was a table in one corner, which held a variety of implements that were registered in my Lotus Club preferences file. I could, of course, request additional equipment at any time, but these were my favorites and generally served me perfectly well.
The young man had close-cropped blond hair and was slender but fit—exactly to my taste. I inspected the setup with an exacting eye. He was bound in a standing position, with rope securing his ankles, knees, and thighs tightly together. His arms were pulled up above his head, and his thumbs were held securely in thumb cuffs that dangled from a long bar. He had to raise up onto his toes in order to stand. If he lowered himself, relieving the strain on his legs, he would hang from the thumb cuffs most uncomfortably. The bar itself could be raised or lowered via a pulley secured to the ceiling.
I removed my jacket and tie, followed by my cufflinks, so that I could roll my sleeves up to my elbows. I preferred a certain freedom of movement for these engagements.
“Good afternoon…Jason,” I said, reading his name from the card on the table. I lifted a favorite flogger, oiled leather with long, thin straps.
He had gorgeous blue eyes. “Sir,” he said in a soft, sweet voice.
I swung the flogger, lashing the strips against his exposed chest. He flinched, losing his balance, and momentarily hung from the cuffs before raising up onto his toes again.
“I didn’t ask you to speak, Jason,” I said mildly. I lashed him again, then a third time for good measure. Red marks bloomed attractively on his chest. His calves quivered with strain, and his eyes were big and wet.
I’d reserved the room for a full hour, and I intended to use all of it turning his pretty skin red and purple. I hadn’t yet decided if I wanted to fuck him. Maybe if we neared the end and he hadn’t yet safeworded out.
Safewords were the bane of my existence, but it was one thing that the Lotus Club was firm on—and the one thing keeping it from being a truly satisfying experience. I’d had several engaging sessions ruined by a sub abruptly safewording. But I had no desire to be ejected from the club, so I tolerated it as a necessary evil.
“If you can take the next five strokes silently, I will lower the bar by half an inch,” I told Jason. “If you can’t, I will raise it by half an inch. Do you understand?”
He nodded. I replaced the flogger with a whip, long and flexible, with a tail that would wrap around his thighs and ass. I cracked it once in the air just to make him flinch, and then I landed it on his supple, straining thighs, leaving a pretty red line. He clenched his teeth and trembled, but he didn’t make a sound.
Well, that was all right. We had time.
“Two,” I said cheerfully, and I struck him again.
In the end, I didn’t fuck young Jason. Tormenting him with floggers and whips proved stimulating enough that I wanted to continue beating him while I was buried inside his ass. But I feared I would not be able to stop myself if he safeworded—and I was uninterested in fucking him without that added stimulation—so I regretfully passed up the opportunity. I retired to the members’ lounge on the main level to soothe my disappointment with a tumbler of Islay whiskey.
I’d been sitting at the bar for not ten minutes when a man approached. Now, one might think that at a discreet, exclusive place such as the Lotus Club, conversations with strangers would be frowned upon, but such was not the case. The patrons all shared the same social and financial background, and so it proved fertile ground for making connections in the wider world of business and politics. There was a bit of an art to it—an introduction, some subtle back and forth to probe the other’s interests, and if all seemed satisfactory, an exchange of business cards. I’d had several such encounters prove fruitful in the past, and I naturally assumed that that was what this was.
The man was of medium height and build, with a blond Ivy League haircut and an expensive suit. His features were forgettable other than his dark, deep-set eyes, which put me in mind of a circling shark. He gave me a courteous nod, which I returned, and he asked if I could tolerate company for a moment or two.
“I should think so,” I said magnanimously, indicating the high-backed bar stool next to me. He lowered himself into the seat fluidly, crossing one leg over the other. I noted that his suit was a Canali; expensive and well-fitting, but not ostentatious. I tilted my whiskey towards him, raising an eyebrow in offer.
“Most appreciated,” he said, and I gestured to the bartender for a second glass.
“Edwards, isn’t it?” the man asked. “I’ve seen you here before.” He nodded to the barkeep to acknowledge the whiskey that had appeared silently at his elbow.
I racked my memory but could not remember ever having seen his face before. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same,” I said.
He chuckled. “I like to keep a low profile. Mr. Andrews,” he said, extending a hand.
I took his hand and shook it, noting his pleasantly firm and dry grip.
“I can’t help but notice,” he went on, “that you frequently come here for a drink after you’ve spent some time downstairs.”
I eyed him over my whiskey glass. I saw no harm in confirming it, though the directness of his statement seemed overly bold. “True enough,” I allowed.
“Yet for a man who’s just indulged some of his, shall we say, baser needs,” he said, pitching his voice lower, “you seem not entirely satisfied.”
“Do I,” I said. The first tendrils of excitement wound through my spine.
“To one who has an eye for such things,” he said. His dark eyes gleamed. “I myself have found that what is on offer here—while of the highest quality, of course—sometimes fails to fully sate the appetite.”
“Mr. Andrews” was bold indeed. This was no business proposition, unless I missed my mark. I set my glass down on the bar, eyeing him. “Go on,” I said.
He gave me the slow, lazy smile of an angler whose catch is on the hook. “Don’t misunderstand me; the Lotus Club has much to offer,” he said, savoring his whiskey for a moment before swallowing. “But all too frequently, the evening ends abruptly, and not by my own choice. It can be…frustrating.”
He spoke, of course, of safewords. I licked my lips. “I find the same, Mr. Andrews,” I said.
“Jonson, please. Jonson Davis.” I lifted an eyebrow; he’d given me his actual name, a gambit of trust. He eyed me up and down, the way a man might eye a prizefighter before laying money on him. “I assume I can trust your discretion, Mr….?”
He knew my club name; he’d said it himself not ten minutes prior. So he wanted quid pro quo, a demonstration of trust to equal his own. I had no real reason to trust him, other than that he had passed the rigorous entrance requirements of the Lotus Club. But if he was offering what I thought he was offering…the bait was rich, the promise seductive. I wanted it. I withdrew a business card from my jacket pocket and handed it to him.
He glanced at it and smiled. “Thank you,” he said, “Now, if you’d like to discuss this further…” He slid his own card across the bar to me; it showed him to be the proprietor of a local art gallery. There was a handwritten date and time on the back.
Jonson Davis rose gracefully from his chair, brushing invisible lint from his thousand-dollar jacket. “My appreciation for the drink,” he said. He flashed me his shark’s smile, and I could not decide whether I felt more like a fellow predator or more like the prey. In truth, neither seemed unappealing.
“And mine for the opportunity,” I replied. He inclined his head in acknowledgment and turned to go. I watched him thread his way through the bar, moving efficiently and elegantly, blending easily into the crowd.
An extraordinarily fascinating encounter. I very much looked forward to what might await me at 900 Whidbury Ave., on April 4 at 7:00 in the evening. Formal attire requested.
The address of the nominal art gallery was located in what one might call the more boho end of town. (It occurred to me that individuals pursuing a truly bohemian lifestyle were unlikely to be able to afford the sorts of things sold in these shops and galleries, but that was none of my concern.)
As my driver pulled the car alongside the curb, I was surprised to see that the place actually did appear to be an art gallery. Large plate-glass windows took up much of the front facade, affording an excellent view of the spartan, well-lit interior. Paintings—a varied mix of abstract and realist, from what I could see—hung on the pristine white walls at well-spaced intervals, and sculptures were dotted across the brightly-polished hardwood floor. Stylized lettering above the front door read Jade Gallery.
I paused with my hand on the car door, briefly considering the possibility that this was truly just an art gallery and that I’d misunderstood the nature of the invitation. But I thought back to the predatorial gleam in Jonson Davis’s eyes, and I had to know what he was offering. If nothing else, it might prove a pleasant evening out. I am not what one might call an art aficionado, but neither am I a complete philistine. I could tell a Rothko from a de Kooning as well as anyone else.
I opened the car door and got out. “Thank you, Alec,” I told my driver. “No need to wait.”
I entered the gallery, leaving the noise of the street behind as the door swung gently closed behind me. It smelled of cut cedar and, less prominently, of fresh paint. Inside, I noted the presence of a few other patrons. Nearby, studying a Hockney-esque painting on the wall, there was a middle-aged woman in an expensive and fashionable black dress, sporting a blunt-cut hairstyle that put me in mind of Anna Wintour. And on the far end of the gallery were two men who appeared to be a couple, one in a tuxedo similar to my own and the other in a Brioni suit. I wondered if they were here for the same purpose I was.
I saw no gallery employees and no other rooms. There was only the large, open space of the main gallery and a small, unassuming door in the rear corner.
Unsure as to the protocol, I occupied the next few minutes playing the role of an interested patron of the arts, examining a few paintings and frowning appreciatively. It wasn’t a hardship; there were several pieces that I wouldn’t have minded purchasing for my own home. Whatever else Jonson Davis might be, he had an eye for good art.
I checked my watch. The minute hand was just ticking over to the 12 when, exactly on cue, the little door at the back opened. An efficient-looking woman with close-cropped blonde hair and wire-frame glasses emerged. She wore a starkly-cut black jacket and pencil skirt, and her shiny, low-heeled shoes clicked on the wooden floor as she approached.
“Mr. Edwards,” she said. A frisson traveled down my spine; the use of my Lotus Club alias was a very clear indicator as to what the night would hold. “Mr. Davis is waiting for you. If you’ll come with me?”
I followed her through the little door. It opened into a long hallway that terminated in another door at the far end. The smell of coffee permeated the area, and I saw that one of the rooms we passed by was an employee kitchenette, complete with microwave and refrigerator. It all looked exactly the same as you might find in the back of any gallery or retail store.
My host used her keycard to open the maglocked door at the end of the hallway. She gestured for me to proceed through; I did, and the door closed behind me. The faint clicking of her heels receded back down the hallway.
I found myself in a small room decorated in a rococo style similar to the Lotus Club members’ lounge—gilt-engraved dark wooden paneling, plush carpet, and elaborately-framed portraiture. A full bar took up the far wall, and five or six Baroque-style armchairs were placed throughout the room at random intervals, each with its own side table. But what drew my attention was the large spiral staircase in the center of the room, descending through the floor to the level below.
Jonson Davis rose from one of the armchairs, his mouth curling into a smile. He was taller than I remembered him, and his dark blue suit was a notch flashier—bespoke, slim fit, with peaked lapels. At the Lotus Club, he’d blended into the background; here, he was the focal point. “Mr. Edwards,” he said in his smooth tenor. “I am very pleased you could join us this evening.”
“You’ve got quite a nice gallery here,” I said.
His grin grew teeth. “Thank you,” he said. “But you haven’t seen the best installations yet.”
I glanced around the little lounge area, broadcasting my curiosity. He laughed. “This is the anteroom, for guests who desire refreshments. I assume you’d prefer to skip to the main event?”
I burned with curiosity about what waited at the bottom of that staircase. “Please,” I said.
“Of course,” Jonson said. “But first, an unfortunately necessary bit of business. It won’t take a moment.”
I’d been expecting this and was prepared to pay nearly any amount of money. I’d even gone to the trouble of liquidating a small number of assets in preparation for this visit.
“My apologies, Mr. Edwards,” Jonson said, his hooded eyes fixed on me, “but before allowing a new patron to view the special collection, I require certain assurances.”
“Name your price,” I said. It might sound rash, and yet…I had never felt such an instant affinity for another person as I did for Jonson Davis. He and I shared the same vices, the same tastes and debaucheries. We were of similar means and moved in similar circles. The hunger that gnawed at me gnawed at him just the same; I could feel it. And so I very much wanted what he was offering—even sight unseen.
His lips curled into a sharp smile, and a thrill of excitement pierced me. I would not like to be on the wrong side of that grin…but being on the right side was intoxicating.
“Your name,” Jonson said. “Your birth name.”
I lifted an eyebrow. In a way, this was a more exorbitant price tag than the millions of dollars I’d expected to transfer today. My true name was obviously not Mr. Edwards; but neither was it the name on my business cards. I hadn’t used my birth name for a very long time, and since the death of my parents, there was not a single other person on Earth who knew it.
Jonson watched me carefully while I considered his request. That name was a key that could unlock a lot of very old doors. In the right—or the wrong—hands, it could unearth information that would end my career and potentially my continued ability to live as a free man.
But I was certain down to my marrow that what awaited me at the bottom of that staircase was nothing less than the opportunity to sate a terrible hunger that had gnawed at me for most of my life. That is what Jonson Davis offered, and for that, I would have given him anything. I’d give him millions in hard currency if he desired it. He wished instead to be paid in the currency of trust, and so I would readily give him the most valuable such item in my possession.
“The name on my birth certificate,” I said, “is Maddox David Rhys. I’ll have proof wired to the address of your choosing within 24 hours.”
Jonson’s eyes darkened with satisfaction. “Thank you, Mr. Rhys,” he said. “I will handle the documentation personally. I apologize for the request, but before sharing the exhibits in my special collection, I like to make sure I’m among friends.”
Friends. I liked that. “Naturally,” I said. “And you can call me Maddox, if you like.”
“Excellent, Maddox,” Jonson said. My name rolled elegantly from his tongue. No one had called me by that name in decades, and it was pleasant to hear it again. “To the other guests, of course, you will be Mr. Edwards. I trust you have no objection?”
“None,” I said. I licked my lips, and my cock thickened. I met Jonson’s eyes directly, the air between us fraught with electric anticipation. I believe that he was as eager to show me his collection as I was to view it.
“Then follow me, Maddox.”
The staircase descended into a subterranean level some distance below the street. A steel door awaited us at the bottom, maglocked and keycoded.
That unassuming metal door stirred more excitement in me than I’ve felt at the closing of billion-dollar mergers. I had to keep myself from leaning forward like a small child about to be let onto the carousel. Jonson swiped his card and tapped in the code. There were three deep, metallic clicks, and the keypad lit up green. The door swung open. Jonson gestured theatrically inside. “The special collection,” he said, his eyes dancing.
The room I stepped into was a large, brightly-lit space with stark white walls and hardwood floors—identical in design to the main gallery upstairs, except for the lack of windows. No art on the walls here, though; instead, recessed spotlights were trained on the two “installations” in the center of the room.
As my eyes traveled across them, I let out a long, slow breath to steady myself. I knew I’d made the right decision in coming here and in trusting Jonson.
Two polished chrome crosses stood about ten feet apart in the center of the room, each bearing a gagged and naked young man. The boy closest to me was broad and muscular, with a mop of dark curls. The other boy was slim, with a swimmer’s build and close-cropped blond hair. They were both arousing, but I had an instant preference for the blond swimmer, my mind racing through a dozen possibilities for what to do to him.
The door closed behind us with a reverberating boom, and Jonson joined me at my side. “Take your time,” he murmured. “Touch if you like.”
I examined the identical installations with a practiced eye. Each cross consisted of two thick, sturdy metal poles, welded together and sunk directly into the concrete subfloor. Soft restraints held the boys’ arms snugly to the crossbars at wrists, elbows, and biceps. They were mounted high enough so that their feet couldn’t reach the floor; instead, thin, round metal bars were installed as footrests about a foot from the ground. Both boys were balanced on their toes on those metal bars, their calves and thighs straining, legs fully extended.
I was familiar with this style of predicament, having used it frequently myself. By pushing upward with their legs, they could relieve the strain on their upper bodies. But if they relaxed their leg muscles—or, worse, slipped off the footrests—they would hang painfully from their arms and shoulders.
I approached the dark-haired boy closest to me. “Gorgeous,” I said. I rested a hand on his thigh, squeezing a little to test the tension in it. He gave me a pleading look and made an anguished sound from behind the bit gag strapped into his mouth. I gently pushed at the bit with my thumb; drool spilled out of his mouth and he whimpered. I smiled, and then, glancing downward, I noticed the pièce de résistance of the installation.
“Oh, very good,” I breathed. “I see they can have a little rest, if they like.”
“If they prefer,” Jonson said, voice laced with amusement.
Just visible between the boy’s legs, a small saddle was affixed to the vertical pole. A long, thick dildo, shiny with lubrication, jutted upward from it. I dropped into a crouch to get a closer look and smiled to see that even though the boy’s legs were fully extended, a good inch of the dildo was already inside him. I stroked a finger around his stretched, pink rim, feeling it twitch and flex.
Looking more closely, I noticed that the dildo extended down about two inches below the saddle, to where it was seated in a device of some sort.
I shot a querying look at Jonson, who chuckled. “When the seat takes his weight, the motor will activate and enter thrusting mode,” he said.
Ah. When the motor activated, those extra two inches would thrust up into the boy’s ass, and the dildo would start fucking him. And with exhausted legs and an additional two inches of length to cope with, there’s no way he would escape that dildo.
Though…it looked like he couldn’t quite escape it now, either. I ran my fingers up and down his taut, quivering thighs. He moaned and tried to squirm away, pulling himself up by his arms, but he only managed to gain about a quarter-inch of ground on the dildo. His arms trembled with strain, and just a few moments later, he relaxed his arms with a helpless cry and slid back down, taking even more length inside him than he’d originally started with.
“Take a look at the footbars,” Jonson suggested with a smirk. I observed closely and noticed that they glistened similarly to the dildo. I touched the nearest bar with a finger, and it came away slick and shiny. “You lubricated the footbars,” I said.
“Mm-hm,” he said. “Thought it was a nice touch.”
I chuckled and rose from my crouch. “How long have they been here?” I asked, sliding my hand up the boy’s taut abdomen, circling my thumb around a nipple.
“Only about twenty minutes.”
Not too long, then. In my experience, that was just long enough for them to start feeling the strain.
Jonson came up to the other side of the cross to flank the boy. “This is Bryan,” Jonson said, stroking a hand along Bryan’s cheek. Bryan’s big, wide, terrified eyes darted from Jonson to myself, as though he couldn’t decide which of us to be the most worried about. I leaned in and left a soft kiss on his cheek, and Jonson did the same on the other side. God, this was like injecting heroin straight into my veins. I was giddy, euphoric. “Bryan’s father owed me money that he was unfortunately unable to pay back,” Jonson went on.
Bryan was breathing so fast that he was in danger of hyperventilating. Jonson lightly pinched his nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently.
“So Bryan is helping Daddy out,” Jonson said. “Aren’t you, Bryan?” Bryan moaned from behind the gag. A bead of sweat formed at his temple and trickled down the side of his face. His thigh trembled under the light touch of my hand.
Jonson, still toying with Bryan’s nipple, gave me a smug look. “What do you think so far, Mr. Edwards?” he asked.
My cock was hard, and I could not take my eyes away from the gorgeous, straining boy before me. “I think I like your taste in art,” I said. Jonson laughed.
I ran a finger down Bryan’s quivering ribcage, over his hip, and down his cock, which was full and hard, with a nice curve to it. I lifted an eyebrow at Jonson; my experience with terrified boys was that it usually took quite a while to get them erect. Sometimes I couldn’t manage it at all before they safeworded.
Not that safewords would be a problem tonight, I thought with a pleasurable shiver.
“One of the benefits of owning a pharmaceutical company,” Jonson said, his smirk widening. “I have access to certain things that aren’t available for purchase in the United States.”
I tickled the underside of Bryan’s cock, eliciting a shudder that lost him at least half an inch of ground on the dildo. He made an alarmed squeal and scrabbled at his restraints. “Aphrodisiac?” I asked Jonson, ignoring Bryan’s struggling.
“Technically, a melanocortin agonist,” he said. He ran his hand affectionately through Bryan’s hair. “But functionally, yes, an aphrodisiac. Administered just before they were mounted on the installation. It’ll last about three hours.” He checked his watch. “Well, closer to two and a half now.”
I made an appreciative noise. I turned to the other boy, the slimmer and smaller one who had caught my initial attention. He was positioned similarly to his friend, straining on his toes and penetrated by an inch or so of dildo. And just like Bryan, his cock was fully hard, long and thick and bumping up against his stomach. “And who’s this lovely little darling?” I asked, drifting over to him.
Jonson kissed the tip of Bryan’s ear and whispered something to him that I couldn’t quite make out. Bryan paled, and Jonson laughed, tugging at Bryan’s hair a little before joining me at the other installation.
“This is Julian,” Jonson said. Julian had big, brown eyes, and to my delight, he was staring straight at me, having apparently decided that I was the biggest threat. Jonson continued, “A straight-A student in college. Bit of an unfortunate gambling problem.” He trailed his fingers down the flat plane of the boy’s stomach. “But nothing he can’t work off with a little bit of effort. Do you know, he tried to bargain with me when we brought him in. Offered me a blowjob.”
“His mouth is very pretty,” I noted. Full lips in a cupid’s-bow shape. It was impossible to look at it and not think about it wrapped around my cock.
“Yes,” Jonson said. “Very pretty indeed.” He wound his fingers through Julian’s short hair and tightened them. “And if I want it to suck my cock, it will. And if I want it to swallow my come, it will. If I want it to speak, it will speak. If I want it to be silent, it will be silent. Isn’t that right, Julian?”
Julian let out a little sob from behind his gag. Tears welled in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks. I captured one with the tip of my index finger and licked at it. I could not remember the last time my cock had been this hard.
“Julian’s new,” Jonson said. “This is his first time as an installation.”
This stoked my desire, already white-hot, to even greater heights. “Poor darling,” I said. “He must be so afraid.” I leaned in close so that I could trace my tongue along his lips where they stretched around his gag. He whined and tried to move his head away, but Jonson gripped his hair firmly, holding his head in place for me. “Mm,” I said, taking my time. “And is Bryan new?” I asked, between licking and nibbling at Julian’s reddened lips.
Jonson tilted Julian’s head to get access to his ear. “This is Bryan’s sixth week,” he said, suckling at Julian’s earlobe. “Nearly a record.” Another tear slipped down Julian’s cheek, and I licked it away, tasting salt as well as the strawberry-scented soap he’d been washed with. Jonson had undoubtedly had him bathed before this, something I wished I could have been present for.
“Most boys only last a week or two before they manage a win,” Jonson added.
“A win?” I asked with interest, working my way down to nuzzle at Julian’s collarbone. He whimpered, trapped and helpless between our two mouths, thighs quivering with the effort of holding himself up.
Jonson looked down at me, his eyes glittering. “Oh yes,” he said, “I should explain the rules of my little game.”
The rules of Jonson’s game were simple: Whichever boy had the first orgasm stayed with Jonson for another week. The other boy got to go home.
“Fascinating,” I said. Bryan groaned behind us, sounding as though he’d just slipped a bit, but I was preoccupied tracing a finger around Julian’s pert little nipple. “Aren’t you worried they’ll…cause problems for you, upon release?”
Jonson’s mouth curled into a slow smirk. “No,” he said, “I’m really not.”
Upon reflection, it had been a foolish question. Even I had a few police officers and judges in my pocket—stashed away for a rainy day, so to speak. Jonson certainly had more than enough of his own to make life hellish for a boy who tried to interfere with him.
Bryan’s noises caught Jonson’s attention. “Excuse me, won’t you?” he said with a smile, and he returned to Bryan’s side. I suspected that Bryan was a favorite of Jonson’s, just as Julian had quickly become my own favorite. Perhaps there was a reason that Bryan had lost the game six times in a row.
“A few additional rules before the other patrons arrive,” Jonson said, idly tickling up and down Bryan’s rib cage while the boy tried to squirm away. “This has been a little preview just for your benefit, but once the exhibit has officially begun, no hands or mouths will be permitted on the installations until 8:00. At 8:00, hands and mouths may be used. Whoever elicits the winning orgasm gets the use of the boy for the rest of the evening.”
“Here in the gallery?” I asked.
Jonson shrugged lightly. “If you like,” he said. “There is a private room as well, if the winner prefers. Outfitted similarly to the third floor at the club.”
In other words, the private room would have a breeding bench, hooks, restraints, and all the other implements one might want to use on an unwilling partner. I took a few steps back, the better to compare the two straining boys side by side, and I immediately resolved that I would win Julian for the evening. Bryan’s eyes had a certain tired resignation behind them. This was Julian’s first outing, and I wanted to be the one to break him in.
Jonson’s lips curled into a wicked grin on seeing the expression on my face. “Hungry,” he noted.
“Ravenous,” I breathed. “This is quite a marvelous setup you have here.”
I hoped Jonson would feel magnanimous enough to let Bryan go this evening. I very much wanted to have Julian strapped to a breeding bench before the night was out.
Jonson left a soft kiss on each of Bryan’s nipples and then came to join me, observing the two installations. Julian had lost quite a bit of ground in the last few minutes while I’d been playing with him; approximately half of the cock had disappeared into his ass. Sweat trickled down his neck and chest as he trembled with the effort to keep from sliding down any further. Bryan wasn’t doing any better, with only about a quarter of the dildo still visible below his tight, round ass.
“I pride myself on my ability to select guests who can truly appreciate my art,” Jonson was saying. “There is a certain look about them, a certain…dissatisfaction. I’m sure you understand what I mean.”
“Most certainly,” I said, thinking of the gnawing hunger I’d never quite been able to sate at the Lotus Club. “I am appreciative beyond my ability to describe.”
He smiled, his teeth gleaming. “I knew I had made a good choice with you, Maddox.”
Just then, the metal door swung open, revealing Jonson’s terrifyingly efficient assistant on the other side. She wheeled a cart in, and then stood back to allow the rest of the patrons through. They were small in number; the Anna Wintour lookalike from the gallery upstairs was there, along with the tall man in the Brioni suit and his ginger companion in the tuxedo. The last person in was a woman with gray streaks in her tied-back hair and a soft, pleasant face, wearing a well-fitting but drab skirt suit. She easily could have passed for a librarian. I tilted my head, scrutinizing her; actually, she probably was a librarian.
Without needing to be instructed, the patrons formed a rough semi-circle around the two installations. Clearly I was the only one who had never been here before, though no one looked at me askance.
Jonson stepped forward. “Ladies,” he said. “Gentlemen. Welcome. The clock has started, and you may proceed. Remember, no hands, no mouths, until the clock strikes 8.”
Julian’s eyes went wide; perhaps he hadn’t been informed that there would be a larger audience for his torment. Bryan, on the other hand, simply burst into tears, crying and sobbing from behind his gag and frantically struggling against his restraints. That kind of violent motion, though, only succeeded in impaling him further onto the slippery dildo. He tried to pull himself back up, but he was tiring, and only regained about half of what he’d lost.
The guests gathered around the cart the assistant had brought in. I made a low noise in the back of my throat as I saw that Anna W., as I’d started thinking of her, now had a riding crop in her hands. The tall gentleman in the Brioni suit drew out a flogger, and his shorter, red-haired companion wielded a large metal Wartenberg wheel. The librarian chose a simple leather strap.
I raised a questioning eyebrow at Jonson, and he inclined his head toward the crate with a smile. I didn’t need to be told twice, hurrying over to see what was left inside. There was still quite a selection available. A range of floggers were stacked neatly inside, along with a bullwhip—I briefly considered this, but had not had enough practice with one to feel comfortable wielding it in front of an audience. There were feathers and brushes, presumably for the purpose of tickling the victim until he lost control and impaled himself. But then, nestled behind the floggers, gleaming under the bright lights of the gallery, I saw a darling set of clover-style nipple clamps, complete with weights. I pocketed the weights for now and returned to the group, holding the clamps draped over my left wrist like jewelry.
Jonson cast his gaze over our assembled group, nodding in approval at our choices. “Mr. Edwards,” he said, “since you’re our newest member, I’ll allow you to choose who to start with.”
“Julian,” I said immediately. The boy in question whimpered, which got a chuckle from the rest of the party.
“Excellent,” Jonson said. “And Ms. Lee, would you like to begin with Bryan?”
Ms. Lee was the librarian. She smiled sweetly—she would not have looked out of place offering a basket of cookies to a group of schoolchildren—and said, “Certainly, Mr. Davis.” She stepped forward, smiling at Bryan with kind eyes.
I returned to Julian, who glistened with sweat. I watched him for a minute or two; he radiated misery, his toes trembling with the strain of holding himself up. Occasionally he’d slip down a bit, then push himself back up, with the effect that he was slowly fucking himself on that fat dildo. Delightfully, his cock was still hard, long, and thick, even through his fear and exhaustion. Those drugs were truly impressive.
I gave him a charming grin, dangling the clamps from my wrist. “How would you like some pretty jewelry?” I asked him. He didn’t respond, his eyes glazed with concentration. I chuckled and leaned in close to his heaving chest, pursing my lips to blow gently across his left nipple. The thin stream of cool air made it pebble up nicely. Then I carefully attached the clamp, making sure not to touch him with my hands. He twitched, but he held his position. And then I tightened the clamp, half a turn at a time, eliciting more and more frantic whimpers, until at last he screamed and tried to jerk away.
His toes slipped on the greased footbar, and he frantically tried to regain his hold, pulling himself up by his arms to keep from sliding all the way down. I laughed, watching him struggle. He managed to regain his foothold, but every muscle in his body trembled with strain.
“That thing’s awfully big, Julian,” I remarked. “And you haven’t even taken the full length yet. Imagine how that’s going to feel.”
He grunted, hair damp with sweat, squirming on the dildo. I wondered if his feet were ticklish and briefly regretted not having chosen one of the soft brushes.
Behind me, there was a whistling noise followed by the dull thwap of leather hitting human flesh. Bryan howled, and then there was another thwap, and another. I turned to see Ms. Lee the librarian smiling beatifically while striking Bryan’s chest, belly, and thighs brutally and precisely with her leather strap, leaving rectangular red imprints all over his pretty, pale skin. As I watched, his trembling thighs finally gave out, and he sank fully down onto the saddle with a long, anguished groan.
Ms. Lee lowered the strap. She and the other guests stared avidly, some of them taking a step or two closer for a better look. A low hum started from beneath the saddle; Bryan moaned in misery and made a feeble effort to push himself up, but his muscles were too exhausted. A moment later, the dildo thrust upward, slowly and inexorably burying its full length in Bryan’s ass. His face was a picture of anguish, but his cock was thick and full, leaking pre-cum from the tip.
“Well done, Ms. Lee,” Jonson said from his observer’s vantage point behind the rest of us. “Mr. Jackson, would you care for a turn?”
Mr. Jackson was the tuxedoed man with the Wartenberg wheel. He stepped forward, and Bryan moaned behind his gag, eyes unfocused and staring as the dildo fucked up into him.
As enticing as that view was, I had my own priorities. I turned back to Julian, whose face was red and tear-streaked, his thighs shaking. The clover clamp dangled from his left nipple, and I blew gently across the right. “Does that first one hurt, darling?” I asked gently. His wide eyes brimmed with tears, and I laughed, fastening the second one on.
When I tightened it, his panicked, agonized squeals and cries were rich and satisfying as ambrosia. He twisted his chest back and forth like a wounded animal caught in a trap, futilely attempting to dislodge the clamps. “It’s awful, isn’t it?” I asked in my most soothing voice. I had given up on trying to use these particular clamps at the Lotus Club; even the hardiest of boys couldn’t make it longer than a couple of minutes before safewording.
Behind me, Bryan squealed, but I ignored him in favor of my own captured prey. I produced the little weights from my jacket pocket, displaying them in the palm of my hand so that Julian could see. He shook his head frantically. “No?” I asked. I pretended to stop and think. “Tell you what,” I said, “if you say ‘please, no,’ then I won’t do it. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to assume you want it.”
Jonson chuckled behind me. Julian, sweet boy, immediately made a garbled attempt at speech from behind his tight bit gag. It sounded like prreeezhh oooo, preeeeeezh. Nothing you could call an actual word.
“Sorry, darling, I can’t quite make that out,” I said regretfully.
“Preezh, preezh preeeeee, ooooooo. Preeeeezh.”
“Jonson, can you make anything out of that?” I asked.
“Preeeeeeeeezh.”
“Not a word of it, I’m afraid,” Jonson said, coming over to watch.
“Nothing for it, then,” I said. I attached the weight to the right side, causing the clover to pinch even more cruelly at Julian’s nipple. Jonson laughed, which warmed me with satisfaction. I liked the thought of pleasing him. I affixed the remaining weight to the left clamp, and Julian screamed, the cords in his neck standing out in sharp relief.
“There,” I said. “Lovely.” I admired the way they dangled from Julian’s tortured nipples, the way his chest and abdomen heaved, the way his muscles spasmed.
Then I reached out and flicked the weights, both in turn, making them swing merrily from side to side. Julian jerked sharply; his feet slipped, and after a moment of trying desperately to regain his balance, he lost his footing completely, sliding all the way down onto the dildo. The hum of the motor kicked in, shortly followed by his squeal as two additional inches penetrated his well-lubricated hole.
I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of his sweat and fear. When I opened them, Jonson stood next to me.
“Enjoying yourself, Mr. Edwards?” he asked.
“This is exquisite,” I said fervently.
“I allowed you longer with Julian than I normally would have, since it’s your first time with us,” Jonson said. And then, in a lower-pitched voice, “And because I enjoy watching you work.”
The compliment pleased me; the thought of Jonson watching and approving of my work was heady, like a fine champagne.
“Thank you,” I murmured, as we stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Julian crying and squirming. “I trust you won’t be too disappointed if your Bryan goes home after tonight’s challenge?”
Jonson shot me a sidelong look, knowing and sly. “Ah, you noticed, did you? Yes, he’s been a particular favorite. But I don’t keep installations permanently; too much trouble. And trust me, he’s been well-used during his time here.”
That, I believed.
“Besides,” Jonson went on, “I rather look forward to seeing what you do with young Julian…if you’re amenable to having an audience later on.”
I was already intoxicated by the thought of having Julian to myself for the evening, and the idea of Jonson watching…perhaps participating…hit me with dizzying force, so powerful I made an involuntary sound in the back of my throat.
Jonson’s smile widened. “Meets with your approval?”
“God, yes,” I breathed.
“Good,” he said. Julian had watched this entire exchange with widening, terrified eyes, perhaps only now realizing the extent to which he was trapped and at the mercy of both Jonson and myself.
Jonson turned to face the larger group. “The time is 8:00,” he called out. I lifted my eyebrows in surprise, not having realized so much time had passed. “Hands and mouths are in play.”
Julian’s cock was hard and leaking. I’d been wanting to get my hands and mouth on it all night, but first I wanted—needed—to put my mouth all over that pretty, suffering body. I advanced on him, pressing up against him, licking and sucking at his gagged mouth, running my tongue along his stretched-out lips.
This, of course, only whet my appetite and stoked my ravenous hunger. I licked along his jawline, his neck, his collarbones, lapping at the sweat and salt there, tasting the strawberry scent of his soap. I kissed his flat, heaving belly, mouthed at the angles of his hipbones, nipped at his sensitive inner thighs. I traced my tongue along the crown of his cock—just a taste for now. I’d make a full meal of it soon enough.
Finally, I rose back up, pressing my weight against him again. “Would you like those clamps off?” I whispered into his ear, soft as a lover. He nodded tearfully, and I sucked at his earlobe as a reward.
“All right, darling,” I said. I removed the little weight from the clamp and then unscrewed it, releasing his nipple. He squealed, writhing on the thrusting dildo, while I did the other one as well. I pocketed clamps and weights and shot a quick glance over to Bryan’s installation. Anna W. stroked Bryan’s cock with a manicured hand, while each of the gentlemen had his mouth affixed to one of Bryan’s nipples. Bryan’s eyes were tightly closed, his face screwed up in concentration.
Not much time to lose, then. I kissed Julian’s cheek and went to my knees in front of him. His cock was gorgeous, thick and long—uncircumcised, with the foreskin retracted to expose his wet, shiny glans. Pre-cum drooled from the tip. I licked a pearly drop of it away from his slit, then gave his cockhead a nice, wet kiss. Julian shuddered and moaned, and another spurt of pre-cum pulsed onto my tongue.
With no further hesitation, I sucked Julian in, taking his shaft deep into my mouth. I don’t often perform this act these days, but I’m practiced enough, and Julian, so young and naive, had no defenses against my pleasurable assault. I cradled his full, heavy balls in one hand while I applied hot, tight suction to his shaft, fluttering my tongue around his leaking cockhead.
He made lovely, strangled noises from behind his gag, more garbled attempts at no and please. I ignored this in favor of attending to his hard cock, sucking him expertly, until his cries suddenly took on a high-pitched, panicky tenor.
I glanced up to see that Jonson now stood behind Julian, wrapping his arms around him in order to pluck and pinch at his nipples, mouthing and tonguing at his ears and neck. I chuckled around Julian’s cock and swallowed him all the way down, allowing him to experience the sensation of my throat muscles contracting around his cockhead.
It was too much for the poor boy. His cock pulsed, and he spurted helplessly into my mouth while Jonson’s laughter rang in my ears.
When I came up for air a few seconds later, Julian was crying, and Jonson was kissing his cheek and telling him, “Good boy, you were a very good boy.”
“Ungag him?” I asked breathlessly. Jonson acquiesced readily, unbuckling the strap and removing the bit from Julian’s mouth. He barely had time to take a single breath before I was upon him, thrusting my tongue deep into his mouth.
“Kiss him back,” Jonson murmured into Julian’s ear. “Make it good.”
Julian had no choice but to obey, and the sensation of his tongue tentatively, reluctantly licking into my mouth was exquisite beyond my ability to describe. I wondered if this was his first kiss with a man. I fervently hoped so.
Jonson’s fingers wrapped around the back of my neck, stroking lightly and possessively. “The room is prepared,” he said, “if you’d like to take Julian there.”
I pulled away from Julian’s mouth reluctantly, just long enough to pant, “Yes, please, as soon as possible.” I went back to kissing him, and Jonson laughed. He kissed my ear then, whispering, “I’ll join you when we’ve finished with Bryan.” His breath was sweet and hot against my skin, and I shivered.
“You’re not sending him home?” I asked.
Jonson chuckled, deep and low. “It would hardly be gracious of me to allow my guests to leave unsatisfied,” he said. “Bryan will go home after they’ve sated themselves on him.” He turned to look, and my gaze followed. The other guests already had Bryan down from his installation, and were descending on him like locusts.
“A shame I can’t stay and watch,” I breathed.
Jonson grinned as though I’d said something vastly amusing. “Oh, but you can,” he said.
Five minutes later, with Jonson’s help, I had Julian on his knees in front of me, his wrists tied behind his back, and that gorgeous mouth was wrapped around my cock just as I’d wanted since the first moment I’d seen it. He wasn’t very practiced at fellatio, but that was all right; his clumsy efforts only meant that this would last longer. I rested a hand on the back of his head to encourage him whenever he tried to pull away. From where I stood, I had a clear view of Bryan being tormented by the other four guests.
Jonson pressed himself up against my back, his body a long line against mine. He whispered into my ear, “If you’d like to prolong your experience tonight…” and he wound his arms around me, holding up a small vial.
I looked at it, intrigued. “The one you gave to the boys?” I asked.
“The same,” he murmured. “Lasts three hours, and you’ll come as many times as you like.”
I was interested; I was very interested. “Will you partake as well?” I asked.
He chuckled, deep and low. “Oh, yes,” he said. “But not quite yet. First, I want to watch you at work.” He popped the cap open with his thumb and held it beneath my nose. “Breathe deeply,” he said. I did, for the next minute or so, while Julian worked his pretty mouth on my cock.
“There,” Jonson said, tucking the vial away in his pocket again. “Now, how does that feel?” He slid his hands up underneath my jacket, touching and fondling my nipples through my silk shirt. The shock of pleasure was so sharp that I cried out, bucking my hips forward into Julian’s mouth.
“Fuck,” I gasped. “That’s—that’s how they’ve felt all night?”
“Mm-hm,” Jonson said. His tongue traced along the shell of my ear.
“Christ,” I said fervently. I’d been working my way leisurely towards orgasm, but the drug had rocketed me straight to the edge. I grabbed a fistful of Julian’s hair and shoved my cock deep into his hot, wet little mouth. He gagged, and I did it again, setting a fast, strong rhythm, fucking into his throat while he gurgled and choked, struggling to pull his head away.
“You’re perfect, Maddox,” Jonson said, his fingers stroking and teasing at my nipples relentlessly. “I knew you would be.”
Across the room, Bryan was now on all fours, taking Brioni Suit’s cock up his ass, his face buried between Anna W.’s thighs, while Ms. Lee the librarian carefully and methodically attached little wooden clips to his cock and balls. As I watched, Anna W. tensed her thighs and gripped Bryan’s hair, shuddering in orgasm. She took a moment to recover and then conceded her spot to red-haired Mr. Jackson, who fed his long cock into Bryan’s wet, wide-open mouth.
“Fuck,” I said, able to manage nothing more articulate. I grabbed Julian’s head with both hands, fucking his mouth in earnest. The sensation of his throat spasming around my cockhead was exquisite. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Tell me, Maddox,” Jonson said into my ear, his cologne filling my nose, his hair brushing against my skin, “how you would improve this scenario.”
I didn’t even have to think about the answer. “Choke collar around his neck,” I panted, never ceasing the brutal rhythm of my hips. “Each hand clipped to one side of the collar. So when he—fuck—moves his hands, he chokes himself.”
“Mm,” Jonson purred, molding himself to my back, “I have such a collar in the toy chest. We’ll do that next, yes?”
“And elastic cords going from his wrists to clamps on his nipples,” I said. I was so fucking close. Julian’s face was bright red, his drool foaming around my cock.
“So choke himself, or endure the pain on his pretty little nipples,” Jonson said.
“Fuck—fuck, yes,” I groaned. That image, purred into my ear in Jonson’s seductive voice, was too much for me. I came hard, violently, emptying myself in great spurts down Julian’s throat while he gagged and fought me. When it finally ended, I released him and he collapsed in a heap, coughing wetly and taking in great heaving gasps of air. With amazement, I saw that my cock was still hard. That spectacular, shattering orgasm had done nothing more than take the edge off.
“Gorgeous display, Maddox,” Jonson said.
Display. The word seemed significant. I leaned back into Jonson’s embrace, floating on the endorphin high. “Jonson,” I breathed, “am I one of your installations?”
He laughed, high and bright, causing a few of the guests to glance our way momentarily. “Oh, Maddox,” he said, “I knew I’d made a good choice with you. Yes, darling, of course you’re one of my installations. Nothing could be more gorgeous than watching you at work. You’re a master. It’s not a problem, is it?”
The praise warmed me. I thought of being Jonson’s instrument, of tormenting not just Julian but all the boys to come after Julian, of sating my endless, ravenous hunger for Jonson’s pleasure.
“To the contrary,” I said. “I’m at your disposal, Jonson.”
Jonson stroked his hand down my cheek, a possessive display of ownership that I would have allowed from no other human being. “Let’s get young Julian into that collar,” he said. “You can have his ass this time, and I’ll take his mouth.”
I grinned lazily. That seemed like a capital idea. “What do you say, Julian?” I asked. “Another round?”
Julian, shell-shocked, his eyes bloodshot and watery, stared up at me as though I’d spoken gibberish. Well, that was all right. He didn’t need to understand anything. He only needed to suffer, and he did that beautifully.
Bryan wailed in the background as Jonson and I both stared hungrily down at Julian. Jonson showed his teeth, gleaming like knives.
“Maddox,” he said, “we are going to make such beautiful art together.”