Xander never told anyone that the night he was forced to strip was Gentlemen’s Night….
“One of the other dancers called in sick,” the boss says, handing over a glass of the house special.
Xander wants to ask what the hell Ralph is talking about and add that he can’t possibly mean what Xander thinks he does, but he doesn’t. A glass of the house special is to be drunk immediately. He isn’t sure why.
“Why don’t you take his place for tonight?” Ralph continues, not even waiting for Xander to nod in agreement. “I bet you’ll make a killing in tips—fix up that car of yours. Get Hernando to help you.”
It doesn’t seem right to argue, so Xander makes his way to the locker room, calling to Hernando—leaving off the ‘H’ when he says it, or the other man will get snitty—and asks Hernando to help him get ready to do a set that night. Hernando actually squeals, claps his hands and says, “Boy, I have been waiting to do a makeover on you!”
Xander blinks at him, unsure of this, but doesn’t argue. Hernando is supposed to help him.
The other stripper fusses as he dresses Xander, asks why he’ll be dancing. “Keenan’s sick.”
Hernando mutters something about having a word with Ralph, later. That teenage boys weren’t supposed to stand so still under his painstaking ministrations—even though he told them to. Xander doesn’t get that either, but Hernando is helping him so it’s okay. He remains docile as he’s poked and prodded, moving only when directed to.
“This’ll make the leathers go on better,” Hernando says, holding up a small bottle.
“Okay,” he says, waiting for Hernando to help him some more.
“This may be a leetle uncomfortable,” Hernando says, but Xander just nods and stands placidly as the cream is spread on and then wiped off. “There we are,” Hernando says with a nervous smile. “All smooth.” He strokes down Xander’s smooth belly, hovering just above where there used to be dark hair.
Something inside of him is not comfortable with almost all the hair on his body suddenly being gone, but Hernando is helping him, so it’s okay.
“Keenan is sick?” Hernando asks as he’s finishing the final touches. Xander nods and Hernando starts shaking his head. “Time to cut back, Ralph,” he mutters, even though Ralph isn’t there. “Giving out too much of the special.”
“Hernando! He’s on in five!”
“A’right, a’right,” Hernando snaps back, glaring a little as Ralph enters the dressing room. “You gonna get in trouble,” he says, adding a bit more eyeliner to already coal-dark eyes. “Look at him, he hardly even knows we’re here!”
“Who cares? So long as he doesn’t fall on his face, they’re too drunk to notice. C’mon, get him out there.”
Makeup finished, Xander lets himself be herded towards the stage, too confused and dazed to offer any protests. Hernando’s work has left him feeling naked and vulnerable, except Hernando is saying how good he looks and how hot he is... so he is hot.
He stops short at the curtain, peeking through it only to be blinded by the stage lights. Blinking to try and clear his vision, he feels someone—Ralph, judging from the hoarse, tobacco rough breathing—move next to him.
“Now you just do it like we practiced, okay? Like Hernando here does it. Slow and sultry and sex on stage. Get that? Make them love you. Listen to what they want, Xander. That’s the mark of a good stripper; he knows what the audience wants.”
Xander’s vision returns, but the words are so loud in his brain that he can’t sense anything else. He has to be hot. Has to be slow and sultry. Has to move to the music, like they had in practice, swing his hips and thrust out his cock. Has to be what the audience wants. Has to, because there’s a voice in his head saying so.
“That’s right, Xander. Remember what we talked about when we practiced and you’ll do a good job. Just remember. Now, go.”
Stumbling from the not-so light shove, Xander is suddenly on stage. All he has to do is remember...
The music takes over, like Hernando said it would, and his gait changes. Gone is his uncertainty and his youthful awkwardness. Now he struts, hips rolling as he slinks up the stage to grab hold of the bar and lift himself free of the ground.
The crowd perks up—a new dancer always stirs some interest—and they are intrigued by the dark good looks enhanced by supple black leather. The silk shirt reflects the harsh stage lights, blinding him, but he doesn’t need his eyes to discern the mood of the crowd.
“Make them hot for you,” Hernando had said and it’s all Xander can think as the music begins.
“You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug...”
The vest comes off and he plays with the collar of his button-down, hiding his surprise for a little longer. The silver buckles on his wrists flash in the light, just barely noticeable, and he can feel the audience’s vague curiosity coalesce.
He falls to his knees, thrusting towards the audience. Hernando told him to never let one side feel neglected, so he makes sure to lean back enough so that everyone can see his hips work as he slowly, so slowly, unbuttons his shirt—bottom to top. He has to be different—Hernando said that, too. He can feel the audience staring, knows he has to make this big, bigger than when the pants come off. Hernando said a slave boy is always hotter with... accents.
The silk slides, even though it should cling to his slick skin, to pool around his bare feet. Stretching his neck as far as he can, Xander sways and thrusts, humping the air while he runs his hands around the tight leather. A good slave-boy always shows off his collar, they said. Tight black leather, bright silver buckles, so flush against his throat that the skin is slightly indented, the collar makes him look hot. A slave is always hotter with his collar.
He pushes to his feet, sways back down to his heels, then up again, never pausing the thrusting of his hips. Ralph and Hernando both said that stripping was about sex, about the audience fucking the stripper. Good strippers let the audience fuck them with their eyes.
Down into the audience and hands are touching him. Bills are thrust into the pants he still wears by fingers hot from sweat and drink. They dance around his hips and pecs, rubbing his nipples, the cuffs on his wrists. Most of all, they strain to reach his collar.
Tugging on the free loop, testing the strength of the buckle, fondling the leather and the skin around it, the collar is the main focus, just as Ralph said it would be. He performs his two lap dances with his head thrown back, the clients hands rubbing his throat, their pants wet against his ass.
“Take me... if you want me... take me... Without you... everything falls apart...take me...”
Back on the stage, bending down to grab his ankles and thrust his ass at the audience again. Slowly drawing his hands back up to his waist, head still down, hair almost brushing the floor. Hooking his hands into the leather at his waist and slowly easing it down past his hips, his ass, down his thighs to bunch at his ankles. Kicking out of the pants sends them flying, but someone in the audience catches them with a yell of almost orgasmic fervor. They cheer for a moment, but the noise dies down when they see him again, palms flat on the stage, toes bent to support his weight, hips inches from touching the stage, thrusting. Letting everyone see his back and legs as he contracts and releases muscles honed from slaying and swimming and a summer of work in the kitchen.
Dead silence from the audience.
Hernando didn’t say anything about quiet. This can’t be good. He rolls, presenting the audience with his profile, bringing his front into view. He pulls his body up into an arc, tight as he can be, fingers and toes supporting his weight against the floor, head thrown back and body flung wide, like a bowstring is connecting his hands to his feet underneath his back.
Someone howls, and the noise begins again.
He flings himself back to his feet, all in one motion, sharp snap like a whip, and moves towards the pole, grabbing and sliding around it. Hernando said that now is when the stripper becomes the dominant one and his movements must be sure and powerful. He has to fuck the pole; to dominate it like the customer wants to be dominated—at least until the song ends.
The metal is cold against his g-string, almost making him lose his erection, but not quite—Ralph said good strippers are always hard. Thrusting and fucking against the pole as the beat slows, he loses himself, loses gravity, lives in the slick rhythm. His arms reach up high to showcase his body, his collar and cuffs. He has to give them what they want.
“Without you everything falls apart, without you...”
Acting slow and sated, he crawls towards the front of the stage. Sliding back to his feet, he spreads his arms and draws his legs tight together. Head back, cock out, he’s crucified, offering himself to the audience:
“It’s not as much fun to pick up the pieces.”
The lights go out as he drops into a crumpled heap.
Hernando hurries out and picks him up. “That was fabulous, niño! Feels great, sí? Now, come on, time to come back.”
Xander goes where Hernando pulls him, glancing back uncertainly towards the still-roaring crowd. He feels very odd. “But. . . tips?” he manages. Isn’t this when he is supposed to work the crowd?
“Nah, niño, not for you. We’re gonna go shake our thing while you go sleep this off, yeah? It’s always strongest right about now and I don’t want any of those chupacabras out there telling you to do something. Go back to the room and sleep, Xander. I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”
Hernando gives him a gentle push towards the back room and Xander lets him. He’s swaying a little as he walks, but the room is only a few feet in front of him and—
—something hard slams Xander into the wall, a voice as hot as the sweat on his skin whispering in his ear. “Aren’t you the hot little thing. All sweet and innocent, dressed up like a slave. Gonna be my slave, pet,” the voice rumbles, licking a path up Xander’s neck above the collar, running one finger between the leather and Xander’s skin.
“Watchin’ you rub against that pole like it was inside you, mouth open and hot... gonna make you suck me, boy, get that hot mouth wrapped around my cock...”
Xander feels himself kneeling, reaching into too-tight black jeans, opening them and gently freeing the trapped erection. There are no thoughts about gender, about morality, or decency. Just cock. He’s supposed to suck cock. Breathing in short, sharp gasps, he opens his mouth wide because it has to be hot and open, just like the voice said. So he sucks and he licks and nibbles, tasting skin and pre-come and violence.
“What the—oh, god, that’s it, boy. Suck me down, all the way down... God, you’ve done this before. What a pretty little whore you are. Yeah, that’s it, suck the head, just like that. Fuck, boy, gonna keep you. On your knees for me, day and night. Mouth so wet around me, ass spread wide for me... yeah, oh yeah, there. Harder, pet. Suck me harder. You want my come in you. Want to taste how salty it is, how good... that’s it, pet. Make me come.”
There’s more salt in his mouth, but it tastes good, just like the voice said it did: salt and bitter, but copper and cream, too. It floods his mouth, filling the spaces that the hard cock doesn’t.
“Touch yourself, pet. Turns you on, pleasin’ me. Makes you so hard for me.”
He’s hard, suddenly. Or was he always? Doesn’t matter, because he knows it now—how hard he is. Because he’s sucking and licking and swallowing the bitter fluid every time he pauses for breath. His jaws ache but it just makes him harder. His hand rests on his erection, cool silk turning damp from his own arousal sliding against his palm and he cups himself to rub.
“Yeah, that’s it, baby. Love pleasing me. Love servicing me. On your knees for me, just like that, yeah? Moan for me, pet. Let me hear how much you need it.”
His throat immediately vibrates and even within his own mind the aching need he hears shocks him. He redoubles his efforts, moaning and whimpering and occasionally squeaking when hands grab his head and hold him where the voice wants him to be.
“Take it, boy. Suck me down. Swallow it all, now, don’t miss a drop. All of it, suck hard, suck—ahhhhhh!”
More of everything, salt, cream, bitter, and copper floods him. He swallows frantically, a lump forming in his throat as he endeavors not to lose a single drop. Because the Voice said so.
Bent double over Xander, gasping for unneeded breath, the Voice wheezes out, “I am definitely keeping you.”
And Xander feels something in him click.
“Stand up. Rooms’re upstairs and I want at that arse. You ever been taken by a man, before? Ridden till you scream from it?”
It takes a moment to realize that this question requires an answer. “No, sir.” Ralph had mentioned, right before pushing him on stage, that all men were “Sir,” all women “Miss.”
“Really? You suck like a pro; no one’s ever broken you in?” His shoulder tightly gripped, the voice—no, the Voice guides him down darkened hallways to a smoky stairwell.
“No, sir. I—I’ve never done anything, before.” There’s something wrong about this, something that feels off. Like it isn’t supposed to be this way, like he’s supposed to just collect his pay and go home. Isn’t he?
“You’ve never blown anyone before?” The incredulousness brings him back to stare at the Voice again. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Sharply-boned face. Familiar? He couldn’t tell. “You’ve—boy. You can stop rubbin’ yourself.”
His hand immediately falls to his side.
The Voice is giving him an odd look now, studying him intently.
“Stop and stand on one foot.”
His feet halt and one lifts into the air. The other one wobbles as he struggles for balance.
“Both feet down. Well, now. Isn’t that intriguing.” A slow, wicked smile stretches lips into something that makes Xander quiver inside, where the not-right feelings lurk.
“Follow me.” They move up the stairs again, but now the Voice is talking differently. Lower, smoother, rumbling so individual words are almost lost in the vibrato. “Mine now, boy. You’re mine. Mouth, ass, cock, all of ’em belong to me. Gonna make me happy, boy. Gonna suck me off or let me fuck that ass, gonna wank me off, whenever I want. You know you are, boy. Gonna do anything I tell you, isn’t that right? Gonna be anything I tell you to be. And I tell you to be my slave. My fuck-slave, hot for me when I want my cock warmed. Understand me? Tell me you understand me!”
Xander suddenly finds it hard to breathe. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, then, what we’re gonna do is—”
“What the hell!”
Ralph is standing at the top of the stairs. His face slowly turns red as he looks from Xander to the Voice and back.
“Here, now,” the Voice says, suddenly all cocky and insolent. “Not gonna ruin my fun are you?”
“He’s not an upstairs emp—”
“You use kanga root, don’t you? To get that perfect level?” Ralph made a squeaking noise but the Voice just took a step forward, a strange crunching noise coming from his head. Ralph turned white. “See, mate, you’re just an itty bitty fish ’round these parts. Got much bigger fish just waitin’ to chomp on you.”
“Room at the end of the hall, yeah?” Ralph nods and gestures to the last door on the right. “Good man. You’n me, we’re gonna have ourselves a little chat now. Boy!”
Xander looks up the stairwell, dazed by the yellow light highlighting the Voice in a swirl of black and red, contrasted with too-bright hair and even paler white skin. Familiar, he thinks... but thinking is hard.
“Go wait for me in the room.”
“Yes, sir,” he says immediately, moving down the hall and entering the appropriate room.
He doesn’t like this room, knows it as soon as he walks in. It isn’t very big and it smells a little funny, with a long, low couch in the back and a table that holds a pitcher of water and a stereo. A small fridge hums in one corner, the microwave black and hulk-like on top of it. A wine cooler rests unused next to it. Nothing wrong or scary or bad, but something in him knows that this is a bad room.
The Voice said to stay here and wait.
He can hear raised voices in the hallway but he can’t make out the words. A long, low snarl raises the hairs on the back of his neck, echoing through the entire floor. That’s the Voice, he knows. It only makes him more certain that disobeying the Voice is a bad thing.
He waits, hard and aching underneath his g-string, but not desperate, because the Voice hasn’t said he should be, yet. Sweat chills on his skin in the air-conditioned room. The leather vest, slipped on absently when he thought he was headed back to his changing room, sticks against his skin.
“There you are, pet.” The Voice is back! “You still waitin’ for me, yeah? All hot and ready for me?” The Voice slides his arms around his hips, grinding lightly so that their cocks rub together. “Oh, yeah, nice an’ hot for me. Mm, god, watching you up there. Never thought the Slayer’s lapdog would be giving me a lap dance, now.”
There is something... wrong with that, but Xander is too lost to notice. The Voice hasn’t told him to do anything but become hot and horny and so he is. Everything else is meaningless.
“You gonna dance for me, pet? Bet you dance nice an’ slow for me... you want me to be hot. Say it.”
“I’ll dance nice and slow for you, Sir,” he pants, “I’ll dance so that you’re hot.”
“Not like that, pet. Say it like you mean it. Like you believe it.”
And just like that, he does. His role, his purpose, his reason for being is to make that cold, hard body touching his warm and supple with desire. He has to dance so slowly, to be so sexy that the Voice will come without a single touch. His hips begin swaying with only his heart to count the beat, as he trails a hand down his own naked chest. He is hot. He is slow and sexy.
“Gonna dance for you,” he repeats, voice so thick with lust that he hardly recognizes it—is hardly coherent enough to recognize how startled he is by his own voice. “Slow... sexy... Gonna make you so hot, sir. Gonna make you want me.”
“Oh, yeah,” the Voice whispers. “Writhe for me.”
“Yessss,” Xander hisses, thrusts himself forward so the Voice can see that he’s been good, is still hard. Falling to his knees, he mimics the movements he’ll make when he dances again.
The Voice pants, “Take me out,” and collapses onto the couch with a muffled thump.
“Yes, sir.” He crawls forward, his head dipped just enough that the play of his muscles under taut skin is visible even in the dim light.
“Gently,” the Voice croons, as his pants are opened and carefully pushed past his hips. “Stroke it now. Nice and gentle. Oh, yeah, just like that, pet. Nice and slow.” Head tipped back, the Voice gasps and pants out words of encouragement as his cock is stroked and fondled. Something of Xander wonders at this easy familiarity in stroking off another man, but it is a small, insignificant part. Because the Voice is pleased with him.
When the pale cock, pink instead of dark like his own, almost brushes the chiseled stomach above it, the Voice pushes him back. “Turn on the music, pet,” he orders hoarsely. “Dance for me.”
He isn’t sure what’s in the CD player, but the niggling part of his mind that does not like this room cynically assures him that it will be easy to dance to. A slow, sultry beat set to wordless vocalization rises up to fill his mind.
“Yeah,” the Voice breathes. “Dance for me, now. Just like that. But—mmmm, yeah... slow...”
Xander is dancing. Moving and gyrating and thrusting and he is sex, just like Hernando said to him, after the last practice. That when he stops being afraid and unsure, he’s liquid sex on the stage.
The Voice is gasping, chest heaving as he watches Xander bump and grind and dip. Xander sees one hand creep slowly towards the straining cock, as he continues to dance. Oh, no. He has to do something about that.
He drops to his knees again, crawling closer to the breathy groans of the Voice.
The Voice likes this.
Up onto his knees and then his feet, legs spread to straddle thighs spread wide below him. Thrusting forward, but never quite enough to bring his own hard erection towards the Voice’s mouth. That could never be. Hernando’s rules, and Ralph’s, echo in his mind: The client never gives the stripper pleasure unless the client specifically desires such an event. The stripper is to suck and fuck and rub and lick, but never to force the client to reciprocate.
“You done this before?” The words break him out of the slight trance he’s fallen into. Cool hands rest on his hips, slowly drawing him closer so that the head of his erection occasionally brushes against a black shirt. “You given yourself to someone?”
“No, Sir,” he answers, “not—like—this.”
“Not like this, hm?” The Voice tugs on the silvery bands connecting the g-string, exerting enough force to make it snap. Red marks form on his skin but he does not start in surprise or pain.
Xander can’t help the groan of pure pleasure as a cool hand fondles him gently, completely disregarding the sting as fabric is violently removed by its partner. “No, sir,” he repeats. His naked body lowers just enough that his balls bounce lightly against something hard and wet.
“Never been with a man?” The hands release him, sliding up his belly and chest and stroke over his nipples. “Never stripped?”
“Neither, Sir,” he gasps, voice catching. “Never!” It’s hard to talk. The scent of the Voice, full of sex and lust and power, makes him dizzy with its strength. The Voice’s erection just brushing against his sac and perineum is driving him insane with a pleasure he knows he’s never felt before.
“You telling me the truth, pet?” The Voice had lost some of its intoxicated pleasure and Xander knows he has to bring it back. He is supposed to make his master hot.
Teasing hands return to his hips, clamping down with bruising force. Xander freezes instantly. “Look at me, pet,” the Voice commands. Bright blue eyes bore into his. “You never lie to me. Hear? Never!”
“Never!” He can feel his insides rearranging under the intense glare, the one phrase becoming as fundamental as the other facts in his life: the sky is blue, Twinkies are necessary, and stakes should always be kept in your back pocket. Never lie to the Voice. “Never, Master, never!”
“Master,” the Voice growls, violently arching up. “Yeah, that’s it. Master...” Slim hips begin to buck involuntarily and Xander knows he’s done a good thing. He’s gasping under the vise-like grip on his hips, crazy from the faint touches of wet against his skin. Wet is a good thing, Hernando had told him over and over. Wet means the client is very happy.
Xander freezes again, caught off guard by the barked command. “Master?” he quavers, unsure of what he’s done wrong.
His hips are yanked down to rest fully on Master’s thighs, their groins pressed flush against each other. “I’m gonna fuck you,” his Master whispers. “You gonna scream for me?”
Xander gapes, unable to decide how to answer. He will do whatever Master wants, but the question has not given him any idea of what that is. And Master’s erection is sliding against his own, his hips still moving since Master had not said to stop...
Lips press against his, slick tongue sliding into his mouth to rub against his own. He feels his teeth counted and his tonsils stroked before he is released to breathe.
“Just like that,” Master pants, eyes so dilated there is almost nothing but black. “I’m gonna fuck you just like that. You want that, pet. Want me to take you. Want to see me take you.”
His body throbs with Master’s words, empty because Master isn’t taking him now.
“Gonna fuck you till you scream,” Master continues, tossing him back onto the couch. “Gonna split you open an’ pound you full of me. Gonna ride you till you’re screaming, beggin’ me to let you come. Gonna make it so good for you, pretty. So good.”
“Yes, Master, please, Master,” he begs, already seeing what is described. His thighs are pushed open, Master settling between them on his knees, staring down at him. “Please, Master!”
“Every time you say that...” whispers Master, shivering lightly as a strangely pensive look crosses his face and is quickly shaken away. “S’gonna hurt, pretty. I’ll make it good, yeah, but I can’t stop it from hurting.”
A half-remembered instruction from Hernando, given during one late, drunken night and Xander is trying to scramble towards the table with the boom box, intent on one of the drawers.
Master understands, pushing him back to the couch with a low growl. The drawer reveals an assortment of small tubes and bottles as well as shiny foil-wrapped packages. Master roots through the bottles until he finds one to his preference, tossing the rest back in with the condoms. “Your boss keeps the good stuff,” he comments, uncapping it and squeezing the clear gel onto his fingers. Settling back between Xander’s legs, he gazes down.
“All for me, this is,” Master says, trailing his black-painted nail from Xander’s neck to groin. “Such a pretty boy, you are. Gonna make a beautiful pet. You’re gonna wake up with my cock in your mouth, sucking so sweet till I’m done. Bend over whatever I say, spread that pretty arse for me whenever I want. Mm, can’t wait to break you in, pet. Start playin’ with yourself.”
His hand moves, its string controlled by the pale man between his legs, wrapping around his straining erection and slowly stroking it.
“Oh, yeah, pretty, just like that. You want this so bad, pet. Want me inside you, filling you up. Cause that’s what Masters do, right, pet? Oh, yeah.”
“Yes, Master,” he gasps, lost in the feel of cool gel being rubbed where no one has ever touched him before. “Master...!”
“Easy, pet. Gotta get you nice an’ ready, don’t I? Gonna open you up, pretty. Get you wet and wanting me.”
There is so much gel on and around him that it drips down his buttocks to soak into the cushions. He is bucking into the massaging hand, amazed at how good it feels to be rubbed there.
“Mm, yeah, pet. Want it, hmm? Want me in you.”
“Please, Master, please,” he repeats over and over, head thrown back as he tries to breathe and talk at the same time. His hand on his cock never falters.
“Push down, now. Like—yeah, that’s it. Let me in, pretty. Let me—oh, yeah.”
There is a finger inside him. Something in his head is screaming that this is a bad thing, a very very bad thing and it should never, never happen. That fingers did not belong in those kinds of places, since he was a man and men didn’t—
There are two fingers.
“So loose for me, pet.” Master leans forward to lick around his left nipple, biting it lightly. “Gonna get you nice and loose and wet and ready. Cause we’re gonna do this every day, aren’t we? Again, and again, and again,” Master says, punctuating his repetitions with new movements, crooking and scissoring the fingers in Xander’s body.
More gel is added to the two fingers before they thrust back inside him, with another accompanying them. They begin to move, back and forth to some weird rhythm, spreading slowly to widen previously untouched muscles.
“Pull me in, pretty. Want more than this, yeah? Opening up so sweet, you are. Want somethin’ bigger, now?”
“Yes,” he agrees, remembering the emptiness when Master wasn’t inside him. “Yes, Master.”
“Say it.” The fingers spread as wide as they can before sliding out. “Say it, pretty.”
“It, Master,” Xander repeats obligingly.
Master stops, blinking, and laughs suddenly. “Asked for that, didn’t I? Tell me what you want, pretty. Tell me an’ I’ll give it to you.”
Xander blinks, trying to figure out just what was being—oh. “Master, fuck me, Master.” Master shivers from head to toe at his words, eyes gleaming black above him. “Fill me, Master. Ride me till I scream for you. Fuck me, Master. Fuck me—!”
His words are stopped as Master’s mouth descends on his and he feels sharp hips thrust forward.
Something much bigger than three fingers is slowly being pushed inside him. Master said it would hurt and it did, a little. A stretching, burning feeling that is more uncomfortable than really painful. He feels his body reorganize itself as he is slowly and completely filled.
He gasps into the mouth still over his, kissing back without realizing he does as he tries to suck in fresh air. It hurts, but it doesn’t, but he’s so full and it’s odd and— “Master!” he wails, arching abruptly while sparks flash before his eyes.
“Tell me you want it.”
Moaning, thrashing, as the hips that rest against his pull slowly back and then slowly push forward again. He can’t speak, even knowing that he has to answer Master; his voice sticks in his throat while the sparks come back.
“M-Master,” he forces out. “M-M-M—”
“That’s right, pet. Just let it go, let it feel good. Stop touching yourself.” Xander worries at the slightly strained quality to Master’s voice but obeys. “Now, mmm, yeah, grab the top of the couch. Yeah, just like that. Hold on tight. Don’t let go. Hear me, pretty? Don’t let go.”
“No, Master,” he manages as his legs are drawn over Master’s shoulders and he moans as this shifts the angle inside him. Unsure if Master wants him to move or not, he grips the couch hard and tightens his legs slightly around Master’s neck.
“Yeah, that’s it, pretty. Hold on tight. Feel me in you, now? Feel me fucking you, pretty. Your arse is mine now, whenever I want it. Gonna spread open so nice for me, squeeze me till I fill you up. Yeah, that’s it, pet. Squeeze down hard. Ahhh...oh, yeah, that’s it, pretty. So good, you are...”
Every time Master pushes inside him, something is touched that makes his vision shake and wobble, coursing through his body like lightning. He is whimpering continuously, not knowing if Master wants him to and unable to stop long enough to ask. Master is inside him. Master is fucking him.
“You love this, don’t you, pretty. Love havin’ me inside you. Fillin’ you up, fucking you so nice... tell me, pretty. Tell me how much.”
Master wants him to speak? Xander opens his mouth and a croaking wail of pleasure escapes, causing Master to chuckle.
“Want me to fuck you, pretty?”
“Yes, Master,” he rasps out, throat dry from his constant noises. “Fuck me, Master.”
Master’s belly rubs against Xander’s erection, and Xander’s whimpers have become low screams. “Still hard for me, pet? From now on, you come when I do. You come—shit— now.”
Xander feels a mouth descend on his, swallowing the screams they both made, warm fluid coating him both inside and out.
Master collapses heavily onto Xander, making him gasp for air. Chuckling slightly, Master shifts a little, burrowing his arms to pull Xander against a relaxed, sated body. “Never would’ve though you’d be such a hot one, but… needed a new toy, didn’t I? Think you’re gonna do just fine...”
“Xander! Xander, where are you?”
Xander blinked, realizing that he’d been jacking off. Again. Even though he’d promised himself that he wasn’t ever going to think about strip-clubs or g-strings or peroxide or—
“Xander! Are you coming?”
He glanced down at himself and ruefully began to clean up. No, actually, he wasn’t. Not until he remembered that raspy voice, harsh with lust and smoke, telling him to—
That’s why he never told anyone it was Gentlemen’s Night. Once the memory grips him, it doesn’t stop until it’s over, leaving him limp and spent. It’s all he sees when he jerks off, anymore, and he doesn’t want to know what would happen if he started thinking about it in mixed company. Because once Spike says those words.…