Chapter Eighteen
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I’ve been awfully busy for the past several weeks, including a visit from my mother during which I kept her busy enough she didn’t demand to meet Hart. Small miracle, that, because the woman’s a barracuda. Between that and work, I haven’t been paying enough attention to Hart, so tonight I’ve decided to treat him. And to be honest, myself. Elouisa throws the best damn parties.
The valet opens my door and takes the key. As he drives the Tesla off, I take Hart’s hand and lead him up the steps to the house. I haven’t told him a damn thing about this party, aside from that he should wear whatever he feels most comfortable in. I was pleased when I picked him up at Kendra’s and he’d taken me at my word, opening the door in sneakers, jeans, a T-shirt that clings deliciously to his pecs and his biceps, and a trilby. Goddamn, can that man wear a hat. Will seeing him ever cease to give my system a jolt? Like, Hey, this is why you’re alive. This is what you were built for.
That is so completely unhealthy.
Regardless, we’re here and I intend to show him a good time. A very, very good time.
There’s a woman at the door in a retro dress that shows off her substantial curves, her hair carefully arranged into a fifties confection. She’s taking names, and she smiles as I give her mine. “Welcome, Mr. Walter. Have a lovely evening.”
“Thank you, Ashleigh. I intend to.”
I tug Hart over the threshold, and as soon as we enter, I take a deep breath and look around. Elouisa’s outdone herself. The caterers are moving about in fifties and sixties clothing, and her palatial house is done out in Las Vegas Rat Pack glory.
I like that she does these themes. I like even better that she doesn’t impose them on her guests.
A woman in a fifties housewife’s dress—fitted bodice, cap sleeves, full skirt—comes by, bearing a tray heavy with Tom Collinses, and I notice Allie dart a glance my way.
“Drink whatever you like. We’re not playing hard tonight, if at all. I promise not to take advantage of you.”
Disappointment dulls his face for a moment, but he takes a drink off the tray and sips, as do I. Delicious.
“So if this isn’t a play party, what is it?”
“It’s a different kind of play party. You’ll like it.”
“Yes, sir,” he murmurs in between sips.
“Elouisa’s what I’d call a sensualist. Nothing delights her more than pleasure. Of all sorts. She’s dedicated herself to hedonism in a pretty serious way. If there’s a way to enjoy yourself, she’s tried it.”
Elouisa and I have a great deal in common. We’re both connoisseurs of pleasure, though for our own reasons. She was in a joyless, sexless, and frankly, abusive marriage for too long before her husband died and left her with piles of money. She figured she’d paid her dues in terms of misery, and it was time to enjoy. So she does. Food, drink, sex, exposure to and consumption of all kinds of art. She may be the world’s foremost expert on how to enjoy one’s self.
For a while, I’d binged on hedonism, stuffing myself as full as I thought I could get while at the same time stretching myself too thin with drinking, drugs, sex, kink. Anything I could get my hands on that would make me feel something. That might have been the worst year of my life. Living in a more tightly controlled way is so much more satisfying. Sure, I take my pleasure where I can, but I mete it out, not gorging on it like some glutton hell-bent on destroying myself with vice.
There are heaps of food spread out on tables, well-stocked bars. Out by the pool and the biggest hot tub I’ve ever seen, many guests have stripped down and are cavorting naked. It’s a modern-day orgy, and it’s fun to watch. Beside me, Hart seems a bit bewildered by the couples and ménages taking place on lounge chairs, in cabanas, pretty much everywhere.
I nudge him with an elbow and lean in so he’ll be able to hear me over the music. “Don’t worry, they’re using protection.”
When he turns, a quizzical expression imprinted on his face that says clearly as if that’s what I was worried about, I gesture with my chin to a giant bowl of condoms and other sexual favors gracing a low coffee table that people are grabbing by the handful before finding the nearest surface to fuck against.
“That’s crazy,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“You don’t approve?” My Allie can be a bit of a prude. That’s part of what makes him so much fun when I can loosen him up. It’s what made me so thrilled when he started to be brave enough to ask me to try things.
Since his first flogging, he’s asked about more impact toys, things he’s picked during trips to my dungeon. A paddle, a tawse. He’d shied away from the dragon tongues, delrin birches, and carpet beater loops, but had fingered the leather belts in a way that made my breath catch. Possibly made me get hard when I’d asked if he’d like to try one sometime and he said yes.
A prize isn’t any fun if it didn’t take any effort to earn it but I have. And my prize embarrasses beautifully.
I used to be disappointed I couldn’t readily see him blush, but as I’ve gotten to know him better, I’ve realized he blushes with his whole body: awkward smile, angled duck of his head, a slight purse of his lips, tightening of his shoulders. That’s how he blushes for those who can coax it out of him.
“I know you do this every weekend, but you’ve got to give me a chance to get used to it, okay?”
I rest my hand at precisely the point where his ass starts to curve out, enjoying the flex of it as I steer him back into the house. “You think I go out without you?”
Truth is, I spend most of my weekends working because that’s when a lot of my clients are free. I suppose he wouldn’t know that.
“Don’t you?”
“Some,” I hedge, not wanting to say rarely. Almost never these days, come to think of it. It’s more fun going out with Allie. “Don’t you go out without me?”
“Of course.”
I assumed he did, though it’s easier for me, knowing he’s likely not getting what he gets from me from other people. I mean, what do I care if he’s out at clubs, flirting with other guys, maybe bringing them home? Would he suck them off? Or is he still keeping up the pretense he doesn’t enjoy bottoming? That such a virile, masculine man prefers to suck cock and get fucked as opposed to being on the other side? Bring on the eye roll if I haven’t made him believe that’s ridiculous. If he’s at ease enough with himself to get that from someone else, I should be pleased. It means I’ve done my job, and that should make me happy.
We’ll ignore the part of me that’s experiencing jealousy. Maybe a smidgeon of resentfulness. Mostly it’s protectiveness. He’s not ready yet. Because if he were, I wouldn’t be feeling this way.
I wouldn’t.
We wend our way through the house, Allie trying to keep the walking-through-Wonderland look off his face, although he’s not successful. The man’s been around live ammunition and a sickening amount of violence, and I bet he didn’t flinch. Take him on a tour of debauchery? He gets all jumpy. Lucky for him and his puritanical little heart, though, I know one of Elouisa’s favorite hobbies and he’s going to like this one too.
As we make our way through the bacchanalia, I keep an eye out for drugs. I know Elousia indulges in private, but she doesn’t usually permit them at her parties. Sometimes people think rules don’t apply to them, though. If that’s the case, I’ve got to get Allie out of here. If he ever feels as though he’s got the chance to go back into the military, I wouldn’t want him to be prevented from it by an arrest. He wouldn’t touch them, but I’m not going to give some douchebag cop who shows up for a noise complaint any excuse. But I see no evidence of coke nor smell any evidence of weed.
Finally, we get to a room where people are dancing, including a sweat-glistening and happy Elouisa. She’s wearing this impossibly glamorous sixties-style gown, her black hair done up in a beehive, and as always, seeing her brings a smile to my face.
“Rey!” Her exclamation parts the sea of people cavorting around her, and when she reaches me, she kisses both my cheeks. “How’s my favorite sadist?”
I don’t think Elouisa has a sadistic bone in her body, but she’s never seemed put off by my proclivities, understanding my partners are people who find the flipside gratifying. If everyone’s enjoying themselves, I don’t think she gives a shit what anyone does.
“Very well, thanks. You’re looking radiant as usual. Hope you’re feeling the same.”
“Oh, you know me. If I don’t feel that way, I fix it. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Hart, this is our hostess, Elouisa. Elouisa, this is Hart. He’s finding your soiree quite…educational.”
Allie looks far more at home now that we’re in a room that could be a club, except the music is from the sixties, that distinctive Wall of Sound. They smile and shake, a comfortable greeting, but soon Allie’s searching over Elouisa’s shoulder. Does he know someone here?
“Your friend looks as though he wants to get out on the dance floor, Rey. Don’t let me stop you.”
It’s true. I know Allie likes to dance. God help me, my balls ache with the thought. Having him grind up on me, his body hard and lithe at the same time, his movements intimating sex in a deliciously unsubtle way. Fuck me. I hadn’t planned on doing anything with him here because he’s not exactly an exhibitionist. Maybe the Motown classics won’t be so bad. Surely I can control myself during Chubby Checker’s middle school dance classic “The Twist?”
Except when Allie drags me farther into the crowd and starts to move, I realize I’m a total and utter goner. The movie was called Dirty Dancing for a reason. It’s because, despite the bubble-gum pop sound and production values that sound downright juvenile now, this music is sexy as fuck. The way he moves…
“I thought you were more of a house music kind of guy.”
Allie shakes his head as he rolls his hips into me, pressing his ass right up against the erection throbbing in my pants. “I listened to my Jackson Five tapes so much they broke. This is the music I learned to dance to. What my dad liked. My first love.”
The word coming out of his mouth stabs a knife through the easy veil of the evening, but I don’t want to let it show. I want to keep dancing, have him close to me, show him a good time. I want him to think fondly of me when all this is over.
Over.
I should start looking for someone else for Allie. A suitable partner now that he’s more confident and comfortable asking for what he wants and not being ashamed when he gets it. Maybe not a forever-type partner because he’s still so green, but at least someone to show him what else is out there. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll find someone he can bring to those family barbeques he mentions occasionally, who won’t have to fabricate what they do. Who they are.
I don’t mind playing, but I can’t see him wanting to live like that. Besides, it’s not an option. I’ve helped him, and it’s time to let him go. Like flipping a house. It’s what I do, except with people. Buy the ones no one else wants and, with varying amounts of time, money, and effort, turn them into someone’s dream home. Then I move on. I’ve made a good living this way, and I’ve been happy doing it. Deeply satisfied. Some of them have taken longer to rehab and some have been harder to let go of than others, but in the end, I find them good partners.
Helping people is the best and most important thing you can do.
The frenetic pace of the last song has melted into the slower, more sensual beat of Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs, imploring his lover to stay. Allie turns to face me, moving in close and resting a hand on my hip. When I don’t tut or scold him immediately, his eyes meet mine, asking for permission.
This moment, this dance, I don’t need control of, so I raise my chin. He grips me harder, the pads of his fingers digging into my flesh possessively and pulling me in until we’re so close I feel his every inhale, can smell the scent of his exertion. We’re pressed together from chest to hip, the layers of fabric between us providing the sweet frustration of friction. His erection is a not-so-subtle pressure at the juncture of where hip meets thigh, and I’m rubbing against him the same way.
He sets a suggestive rhythm, and I let him. Allow him to circle his pelvis, rocking into me, frustrating me. His sweat between us dampens our clothes, and I slide a hand up to the back of his neck because I want to feel it, the small, wet beads of effort. Because I can’t get enough, I tug at him, bringing his forehead down to meet mine so our breath intermingles and we become a single sultry being.
As Maurice entreats his partner, so too do I. “Stay.”
“Hmm?”
Allie’s forehead wrinkles in confusion against my own, and I resist the urge to tell him I didn’t say anything.
“Stay,” I repeat, stroking the side of his neck with my thumb as my ribcage shrinks a size. That’s by far a more likely explanation than my heart beating hard enough it feels as though it’s trying to escape into Allie’s body through layers of cotton, wool, blood, and bone. When I said it, I knew somewhere deep down I hadn’t meant it lightly. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I foster people; I don’t keep them. So like a fucking coward, I continue. “Tonight. Come home with me.”
“Sure.” He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and I imagine that easy smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. Because obviously he’s coming home with me. Why wouldn’t he when he knows what’s waiting for him is a veritable smorgasbord of carnal delights? I should be relieved he didn’t read any more into it than that. Somehow disappointment leaches out of my core, and suddenly it’s not sex-imbued sweat between us. It feels like sour panic, and I want to forget this cloying uncertainty as soon as possible.
Allie’s mouth has always been a good distraction, so I drag him down to kiss, his perfectly supple lips giving way to mine. For the last thirty torturous seconds of the song, I kiss him, drawing him in with both hands, my fingers and mouth demanding he yield to me, and he does.
I suck at his lower lip, making it swollen and sensitive, the better to bite. Which I do—hard enough to make him gasp—before finding his tongue with mine. Luckily, the next song isn’t so filled with earnest longing, and I can pretend the things I want—Allie naked and on his knees for me, Allie in my bed, Allie craning his neck to beg for a collar—are fueled by lust.
It’s not ideal to be this attached to one of my charges, but it’s happened before. Not exactly like this, though. It’s been one thing or another. Sexual or emotional. Intellectual or the aligning of stars in the kink universe. For someone to get such high marks across the board is unheard of. Only India’s ever come so close, and that was never a real possibility for the obvious reasons. No wonder I’m feeling a bit out of my depth.
One more night then of indulgent debauchery. One more night I’ll allow us this…infatuation. That’s what it is. That’s all it is. And tomorrow…tomorrow I’ll set about finding someone good enough for my Hart.