Relationships launch like ships, with cheers and champagne, with high spirits and excitement. Everything the other person does is fascinating, wonderful. And you want it to stay that way. You don’t want to have that first bitter argument, you don’t want to feel that first stab of disappointment. As with a new car, you don’t want to be the one to put that first scratch on the romance.
Sometimes though, you manage to avoid the scratch only to end up in a car wreck. I was heading for just such a wreck and didn’t know it. In fact, it took another’s heartache and a mission to save him to make me aware of my own peril.
It started on a Wednesday afternoon at the Cockpit Bar, a little before happy hour. Humpday, relaxed though it may be, is the second most popular day for cruising at the Pit. Perhaps it’s because those who patronize the bar don’t mind staying up late Wednesday night and being tardy for work on Thursday. Or perhaps they just need a little tease and spank to get them through the rest of the week.
A Wednesday night fuck expects less and is easier to satisfy. Which is why I’d picked it over bump-and-grind Saturday for the experiment I had in mind. I’m a big, black, role-playing top known as the Fancy Man. Bringing fantasies to life is my specialty. I’m talking private, shameful, S&M dramas that most men wouldn’t confess to their priests. The ones that have them furiously blushing even as they spit them out and beg me to make them real.
I love being privy to such secrets. And I love bringing them to life. Being a vain and arrogant asshole, I also get off on being the object of fear, awe and desire in these fantasies. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s dick has to get sucked.
Two-and-a-half months back, however, I’d seriously fallen for one of these desperate men: a sexy, southern bottom named Charles Beaumont. Charles had some very strange issues and problems, but that’s another story. In a nutshell: I hadn’t given him a collar, but we were in a master-slave relationship, arguably the most serious relationship of my life. Yet every Saturday night, I went to the Cockpit and picked out a new toy. Charles understood and accepted this; it was part and parcel of being with the Fancy Man.
Recently, however, I’d gotten the feeling that something was gnawing at him. I ought to have asked what it was, but I arrogantly assumed it had to do with being left out of my Saturday night adventures. So, I’d decided it was time to take my boy-wonder to work with me, give him a chance to help.
The Cockpit is my bar, the place where everyone knows my name and, hopefully, shivers with fearful pleasure when they hear it. I know its smell, its flavor. Walking through the door that evening, I also knew that something was very wrong.
Only a few of the regulars were there, which wasn’t unusual prior to happy hour. But they were all huddled at one spot of the island bar. Charles, catching sight of me, hurried over. He was wearing jeans and a white tee as always, his muscular shoulders straining against the cotton fabric in a way that always warmed my blood. His pale gray eyes were anxious.
“Sir.” Whatever was bothering him, he didn’t let it interfere with the protocols I’d set up between us. He came to attention, hands clasped behind the small of his back. Charles is broad, but not that tall. At 6’4”, I’m at least a head taller than him. Which I liked. It allowed me to lean in and, grabbing him by his curly, black hair, kiss him rough and hard.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve done this, Charles always catches his breath as if surprised. He may well be. He has this odd idea that he’s unworthy of my kisses.
Our tongues dueled for a moment, and I could almost hear his Adam’s apple bob with desire. I ran a hand down his throat and over his shoulder and felt a quiver. It was very flattering. Nearly three months together and Charlie was still hopelessly in lust with me. Every kiss I gave him promised sex and torment and left him weak in the knees.
And every kiss I got from him had me wanting to rip off his jeans and pin him to the wall.
“What’s up?” I breathed.
“Up?” he was gratifyingly glassy-eyed. “Oh.” He glanced over his shoulder and dropped his voice. “Robbie got dumped.”
“Shit.” Robbie was senior bartender at the Pit and one of my closest friends. He wasn’t into the leather scene at all, in fact, the man is a dyed-in-the-wool romantic of the most peaceable and tasteful kind. The past six weeks he’d been deeply into a new boyfriend and it had seemed serious. Love-letters, phone calls, walks in the park. There’d been candlelit dinners, and, on Sunday mornings, breakfast in bed, including mimosas and a red rose. Even the sex, from what Robbie had breathlessly described, had been romantic and tender. Little wonder that Robbie had been sure, oh-so-sure, that this guy was “the one.”
I’d been more skeptical, but then I know something about Robbie and the kinds of guys he picks. Let’s just say this has happened before.
“He didn’t see it coming at all,” Charles whispered on. “They were going to go to some bed-and-breakfast for his birthday. Then he got the e-mail. Son-of-bitch didn’t even have the courage to break with him in person.”
Robbie’s birthday was some eight days away, toward the end of October. Libra.
Double shit. I’d strangle the asshole.
“We’re trying to cheer him up,” Charles said as I made for the bar. We included the Pit’s other bartender, Jordon, jet-haired and bisexual, and two of our regulars, Terry, an old fuck buddy of mine, and Katie, the Cockpit’s only leatherfemme.
Robbie was behind the bar. He works as a personal trainer when he isn’t at the Pit and from the neck down he’s a powerhouse. Above he’s freckle-faced and red-haired, a true carrot-top. He’s also short, which is why I jokingly refer to him as an over-muscled leprechaun. He looked as if he’d just lost his pot of gold. His blue eyes were bloodshot, the lids all red and puffy from crying.
Katie was holding his hand. It rested limp and huge in her delicate fingers.
“Hey Mason,” he rubbed at his damp lashes with his free hand. “Get ya something?”
“I’ll get it,” Jordon said, snagging down a beer glass.
“You’re just in time,” Terry said with false cheer, “We were talking cartoons. Classic, animated films with singing animals and shit.”
“Cartoons?” I matched his tone, playing along. No, of course Robbie’s fine. He hasn’t just had the stuffing ripped out of him. Let’s all pretend everything’s peachy. “Please!”
“What’s wrong with liking cartoons?” Katie asked, which was a little strange as with her kittenish face and satin brown hair, she might have stepped out of a cartoon herself.
“It’s queer.” I pitched my voice just so to get a laugh. It’s queer was a favorite put-down of Master Nash, the bar’s owner.
A smile twitched at Robbie’s lips. Good enough.
“Come on, Mason,” Terry urged, right on cue. “You were a little kid once. Your mommy must have taken you to one of those films. Or shown you one at home. What was your favorite? Who did you want to be?”
“Snow White,” Jordan sighed as he set a beer before me.
“You liked Snow White?” Charles quipped. “Did you want to be one of the dwarves or the prince?”
“I wanted to be Snow White,” Jordan grinned. “Hauling water and scrubbing floors for that wicked stepmother. Is she a dream dominatrix or what?”
“Hadn’t viewed it in that way,” Charles admitted.
“Mason?” Terry urged.
“I hate to burst your bubble, but while you all were watching girly fairytales, I was watching sci-fi. Star Wars n’ shit. Guy stuff.”
“I’m betting his favorite was Tarzan,” Jordon said.
“You call me King of the Jungle and I will beat your ass like a drum, white man.”
Jordan perked. “Promise?”
“Doesn’t count,” Terry objected. “The characters have to sing.”
“Okay, wiseass, then what’s your favorite?”
Terry had curly brown hair and a boyish face. He was deeply into fraternity hazing fantasies. I mean deeply. New pledge at the brutal frat house was the only game he ever wanted to play. So I wasn’t at all surprised when he said, ruefully, “That one where the girl dresses as a boy and joins the army. I wanted to join up, too.”
“And get fucked in the ass by every cartoon recruit,” I mocked. That got another laugh.
“While they’re singing!” Jordan added, which prompted more laughter.
“Charles?” Robbie asked. He seemed to be getting into it, or at least he was letting us think we were helping him.
My partner blushed, as he has a tendency to do. “Aladdin. I know,” he added quickly, “that it’s got some terrible stereotypes—”
“Aladdin?” I cut him off. Like I said, Charles has issues and if he gets on one of those tracks he’ll speed off like a run-away train. Most times I let him as I enjoy arguing with him, but we were trying to make Robbie feel better. “You wanted to be Aladdin?”
“Um, no, I wanted to be the genie.”
Stupid me. Of course, Charles wanted to be the slave of the lamp, forced to grant wishes and call the owner “Master.” What else was new?
“Katie?” Jordon nodded to her.
She smiled sweetly while stroking the coppery hair on the back of Robbie’s wrist. “Cinderella. I wanted her dress and her carriage and those beautiful glass slippers.”
I snorted. “I can see you talking to your fairy godmother now,” I notched my voice falsetto, “‘Fuck the prince, just let me go shopping!’“
The laughter was louder this time, more genuine. So I took a chance. “What about you, Rob?”
“Ah.” He smirked and rubbed at his eyes again. “Beauty and the Beast. I like that the guy and the girl spend the whole movie getting to know each other. Dining, dancing. Winning each other’s hearts.” He sighed wistfully.
“You’re sure you don’t have a favorite, Mason?” Terry asked. “Lady and the Tramp? Princess and the Frog—”
“Oh, please!” Charles winced. “Don’t even get me started on the racial stereotypes in the Princess and the Frog!”
“...Bambi?”
I flipped him off. Fucker knew I had a soft spot for animal movies.
“‘Fess up, Fancy Man!” Jordon urged.
“Only if we’re counting Pixar buddy films.” I took a draft of beer. “They’re for guys.”
I got booed and raspberried. Customers were drifting in and Robbie and Jordon had to break away to fill orders.
“You holding up?” I managed to ask Rob at one point.
“As best I can,” he said getting down a bottle of gin. “But I think I’m going to be more like Cinderella from now on. All she wanted was that one night at the ball, a chance to be the center of attention and dance with the prince. Happily-ever-after was an unforeseen bonus. I think it’ll be easier on my poor heart if I lower my expectations to that. One happy night and nothing more.”
“Good thinking.”
He had something of a smile on his face, but he wiped at his eyes for the rest of the night.
“The older guy,” Charles said, sipping at his beer. Happy Hour was at an end and you could smell the mood shifting. Electronica was pounding out of Nash’s digital jukebox, bottles and glasses were clanking, and the murmur in the air had turned to a kind of sexual purr. A chill, October wind had driven in the bears and biker gals who usually smoked out in the parking lot. They were huddled about the pool table, smacking around the balls, amping up the hormone level.
Around the island bar hung men and women in leather vests and chaps, demanding drinks. A few were restlessly circling round, uncertain if they wanted to top or bottom. They were searching for that one sexy ass or pair of demanding eyes to knock them into position. Meanwhile, against the walls, unclaimed bottoms waited for the summons of a hungry top. This included a couple of leather dykes who’d placed themselves right under the club flags that bore names like “Crusaders” and “Vikings.” They had on cropped tees to display the colorful, Japanese dragons tattooing their skin. The rest of the bottoms were crew-cut boys in harnesses and jeans, one was wearing only a white jock strap and boots.
I liked the way his wiry pubic hair flared out around that pouch.
The older guy Charles was referring to was off to the side, standing apart from the rest. He looked to be in his forties, rangy in build and long in the face. He had flaxen hair and pale eyes.
“Interesting choice.” I swigged down my third beer of the night. Charles and I were in one of the orange booths that studded the opposite wall. The ones that still had framed pictures of 70’s airline crews above them, a remnant from when the Cockpit had been a regular bar owned by a retired pilot.
“Why that one?” I asked.
Charles, who had once been against that wall, shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like making decisions, slave-types never do. For Charles, however, it went deeper than that. He had some strange notions, ones usually held by Afrocentric types who think that Caucasians can’t be trusted. Which meant he held my dark-skinned judgments as naturally more valid than his white-skinned own. He was worried that he’d picked wrong.
“He’s been in here a few times,” my boy nervously explained, “and he’s always looking our way. So, he might be interested in the two of us. Mostly, though, he just...seems different.”
“You’re right.” Usually there’s some clue about a guy, what he’s into, a colored handkerchief or the way he wears his belt. This guy had on jeans, cowboy boots and shirt and bolo tie. He was leaning back against the wall relaxed. Almost as if he were watching a TV show.
“Go over and see if he wants to join us,” I told Charles.
The boys against the wall, even the dykes, straightened up as Charles approached. When he went to the flaxen-haired fellow, shoulders slumped in disappointment. Why did the Fancy Man want him? A valid question as our choice was the frog among princes, the oldest and plainest of the lot.
His blond brows furrowed as Charles spoke, uncertain. Then a look of pure delight came across his long face. He pushed away from the wall to follow Charles back to our booth.
“Sir.” My boy brought him up to the table. “This is Nigel.”
The man smiled brightly. “A pleasure.” Was that a British accent? “Been hearing all about you.”
He held out a hand. I gamely shook it, and invited him to sit. He slid in and Charles followed. For a moment the music pulsed around us, mingling with the chatter and clink of beer bottles. Most gents, lean and boney and middle aged, would’ve been intimidated trapped as he was between two brawny leathermen. Nigel, far from apprehensive, kept glancing from one to the other of us like a boy in candyland. It was decidedly un-bottom-like.
“So, tell us about yourself,” I ventured.
“Oh, well, I’ve moved here from Brighton...England that is. Got transferred.” His dialect had a hint of Michael Cane to it, making him sound even more jocular. “This is my new home, also my first time in the States. And I am loving it!”
He certainly seemed to be. Whoever said the British were reserved hadn’t met Nigel. The man gushed.
“Welcome to the colonies. So what’s your fantasy, Nigel?”
“Oh, yes, that’s right, that’s right. Um, well.” He chewed on his lower lip, “Well, I don’t expect very much, really. I mean, two lads like yourselves...I know you aren’t interested in banging an old geezer like me. But I’m fine just watching. Anything you’d like to do, if I could just watch.”
Charles and I exchanged startled looks.
“That’s pretty tame,” I said.
“Well, actually...” He glanced down at his laced hands. “I’m vanilla.”
“Pardon?”
“As vanilla as an old poof can be,” he confessed. “Little kissing and stroking, cocksucking. Up one arse or the other and that’s it for me.”
I leaned my chin on my fist. Like most leatherbars the Pit catered to the top/bottom and S&M scene. But it did have patrons with other tastes, including those who just had a fetish for leather or big guys in leather. Which was all well and good, but....
“If you aren’t into anything else, why were you standing against the wall?”
“Because I wanted to meet him,” he said, smiling at Charles.
My partner blinked as if he’d just been targeted.
I leaned back and grinned. “Seems you have a secret admirer, Charlie Boy.”
My slave flushed in that charming way of his, pink spots appearing on his alabaster cheeks.
“I noticed him at the bank a few days ago, followed him here hoping to introduce myself, then learned that I couldn’t have him without your permission. And,” Nigel added, “that I could only get that by standing against the wall. That wasn’t wrong, was it?”
This time I laughed out loud. I could see exactly how the foul up must have happened. A polite foreigner inquires after Charles. The bears out front inform him that he’ll have to get my permission. True, as Charles is my property and no one can use him without my say so. Nigel steps inside and chats with the boys, asking them about speaking to me. They mistake him for a bottom and tell him he’ll have to stand and wait his turn if he wants the Fancy Man.
Thus, Nigel ends up against the wall. Talk about crossed wiring.
“I know you two are into far more interesting scenes than anything my addled imagination can provide,” Nigel went on with resigned humor. “But if I could just watch...just watch once?”
“That would be up to Charles,” I said, still enjoying myself. My poor slave was blushing up to the roots of his hair now. “So what was it attracted you to him?”
“Besides the muscles you mean?” Nigel sighed. “The accent. Texas isn’t it? I love American accents.”
“I’m from Georgia,” Charles corrected him. He was looking a little panicked now.
“Even better!” Nigel enthused. “Jezebel, Gone with the Wind, The Little Foxes....”
I was laughing my ass off. Charles kicked me under the table.
“Doc Holliday was from Georgia,” Nigel added happily.
“Like stories of the American West, do you?” I managed to catch my breath.
“Westerns,” Nigel amended. “The myth, not the truth. The truth is too gritty, too messy. I like my cowboy movies pure and fictional.”
“Well,” I said, with a Texas twang. “Why didn’t you say so, buckaroo?”