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cit_mickey (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} cit_mickey) wrote,@ 2005-11-30 08:14:00 |
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Backstory -- A Chance Encounter [Mickey/Bach]
[Note: Second of Mickey's backstory posts. Follows Mickey's Grandfather Dies. Oliver Bachman is an OC, so don't bother IMDBing him. :) Contains con-non-con.]
April, 2002
Oliver Bachman follows the tail lights of his friend Barry's Honda into the parking lot of an innocuous looking building in Brooklyn and slides into a spot without too much hunting. The place seems popular enough, but not overly crowded, which makes a sort of sense for a sex club that has to keep a fairly low profile to stay in business.
Bach's still not quite sure how this happened. After all, if he wants to scene, he goes to Citadel. He can't imagine anyplace else is better and this drab little concrete building stuck between a convenience store and the darkened facade of an insurance office certainly doesn't seem to be up to the Cit's standards, unless there's a whole lot of mahogany and marble hiding inside, which he doubts. Not that he's a snob about the decor of a place, but just the fact that he and the rest of this stag party are going to be walking in, handing over their money and getting right into a scene if they want tells him that this place is no Citadel.
Ahh, right, the stag party. He sighs and slides out of his car, locking the door with the clicker on his keychain.
Barry was his best buddy in high school, the only guy he'd known then who was cool about his being gay. They hadn't talked a lot in the last few years, mostly e-mails every now and then, but when Barry's friend Tom decided to throw him a stag party the night before his wedding, Bach's name had been on the list Barry'd given Tom.
Tom claimed to have invited twenty guys, but only six had shown up if you included Barry and Tom. Which, Bach figures, probably means the other fourteen guys know Tom a lot better than Bach does, based on his short exposure to the idiot so far.
I mean, seriously, he thinks as he strides across the lot to where the group's assembling, titty bars are one thing, almost expected for a bachelor party. But how many people figure it's a good idea to take your almost-married buddy to a sex club the night before he pledges to love, honor and cherish? A club where, apparently, if you're not actually fucking someone you've wasted the rather steep entry fee.
No, not entry fee. Membership. That's how the Holding Tank stays in business, he remembers from the drunken-blathering explanation Tom had given them when they'd met at his apartment. None of the employees actually have sex with members -- all fucking is strictly voluntary between members, who pay membership "dues" when they come in. Legal, sort of.
"Hey, Box!" calls Tom. "Thought we'd lost ya!" He gives Bach a smirk as he walks up and says, "You'll be glad to know they get some pretty cute boys at this place too! Shel told me you're not into chicks, but that's cool, you can still have fun here."
Bach raises an eyebrow at Tom but doesn't answer him. He ignores Sheldon, who'd cadged a ride from the party organizer. Sheldon, who'd not been one of the cool guys at school and who'd no doubt been only too happy to tell Tom all about what a fag-boy Bach was.
Barry sends him an apologetic glance and Bach returns a sideways smile and a shrug. Yeah, there are assholes. What are you gonna do?
Tom, who'd collected $120 from each of the other four attendees -- a hundred each to get in, plus twenty for their share of Barry's fee -- led the way through the door into a shabby reception office. Tom was a longtime member but everyone else was handed a form to read and sign.
Blah, blah, blah... will produce proof that he/she is over twenty-one... blah, blah, blah... swears and affirms that he/she is free of sexually transmitted diseases -- right, like that's gonna guarantee anything -- blah, blah, blah... agrees that all activities are entered into voluntarily... blah, blah, blah... house safeword is "Halt" and will be abided by immediately... blah, blah, blah... all playrooms may be monitored -- and that's the first vaguely smart thing he's seen so far -- blah, blah, blah... agrees to hold the Holding Tank, its employees, management and owners blameless and free of responsibility, and that they shall not be liable for any damages in case of... blah, blah, blah.....
This is total bullshit and Bach's smarter half is telling him to toss this back on the desk and leave right now. But Barry's his oldest friend, the one guy who stood by him in school. There's no rule saying he has to actually fuck anyone. He can go in with the group, have a few drinks, talk to Barry until he gets occupied -- assuming he even does; he's not looking too terribly enthused about this whole deal himself -- and then take off. So, muttering to himself, he scrawls his signature at the bottom and slides the form back at the woman behind the desk. She takes it and hands him a coded elastic wristband.
He's apparently the only one who actually read the thing all the way through, because the others are clustered around the far door waiting for him. A burly guy with a ponytail tells them that tops go left and bottoms go right, before ushering them through the heavy steel door leading into the club proper. Or at least, into a bare hallway leading -- what else? -- left and right.
The group heads left, although Bach notices that Tom was watching him with another smirk as though expecting him to go the other way. Right, 'cause all gay men bottom.
Tom leads the way down the lefthand branch of the hall, which eventually leads to a set of double doors and then into the (real) club proper. This larger room is actually fairly comfortable looking, with decent carpet and some tables and chairs scattered around, and a few booths with upholstered seats. There are about a dozen men and a couple of women hanging around, most with drinks in their hands, and the focus of attention is the far end of the room and the huge plate-glass window set into the wall.
Seeing the prices on the drinks at the bar -- twelve bucks for a Bud?! -- Bach decides to hold off and wanders over toward the window. Seating over on this end of the lounge is theater-style, three rows of staggered chairs all facing the window. On the other side is a bare, concrete room with bare-bulb lighting, no furniture and a drain in the middle of the floor. There's a door in the near end of the righthand wall, one in the connecting wall next to the window, and another one in the back wall.
There are also about eight people in the room, sitting, standing or pacing, most looking frightened or at least nervous. Six of the people in the next room are women and two are men; all of them are at least reasonably attractive, which actually surprises Bach. The reality of most sex clubs is that the regulars are people who have a hard time finding regular partners of their own, but the pickings here aren't bad. He sits in a chair off to one side to watch and figure out how this works. Of course, the fact that he has to figure it out from observation doesn't improve his opinion of the place any.
A few minutes later, a chunky guy sitting a few chairs down from Bach finishes his drink, stands up and heads over to the door next to the window, which is guarded by another one of the bouncer-types. The guy just opens the door for him and waves him through, closing it behind him.
Bach watches Chunks swagger up to a dark haired woman about ten years younger than he is. He grabs her by the arm and hauls her to her feet, smacks her across the face and snarls something Bach can't hear through the glass, then drags her to the door at the rear of the room, where another bouncer lets them out. And that's it.
Bach blinks a few times. That's... it's.... And then he gets it. This is a place for people who like to play fantasy-rape. No wonder the subs are all at least decent looking; they put themselves on display and have no say in who chooses them. It'd be embarassing, to say the least, to be left sitting in that concrete room all night, with everyone watching you be passed over again and again.
And this is really ironic, because while part of Bach is swearing inside at what a fucked-up set-up this is, another part of him is absolutely struggling not to get a hard-on because this is his absolute favorite kink. Shit.
He's about to take off and get a beer, twelve bucks or no, when the door in the side wall opens and another guy comes literally flying through it. He hits the concrete rolling and thuds up against the opposite wall, looking dazed, then shakes it off and gets his back to the wall. He's pressed up against it, looking all around as though he expects to be jumped on any second. His young-looking face is a mask of fear and he pushes one hand nervously through his short, sandy-blond hair, his shoulders hunched and his other arm curled protectively around his middle.
He's cute. And he looks terrified.
A shoulder jostles Bach and Tom's smarmy voice pollutes his ears. "Hey, Box! See anything you like? Noticed you couldn't wait to check out the meat!"
Bach gets up and walks away, 'cause so help him if he has to say a word to Tom he's gonna deck him.
Half an hour later he's sitting in a booth with Barry, nursing a twelve-dollar beer.
"I swear," Barry says, "I had no idea what Tom was planning. He's not a bad guy, really. He just gets kind of over-enthused, you know?"
Bach just rolls his eyes and takes another sip. He's not about to bad-mouth a guy who's apparently a pretty good friend of Barry's, but he's not about to agree with him, either.
"He's been trying to get us to come to this place for like a year, going on about how great it is and what a blast the sex is, but I'm just not into this stuff, you know? Even before Ellen and I got engaged I just wasn't, and now? Christ, if she finds out where we went tonight she'll kill me! If I'd known what his 'great surprise' was gonna be I'd have headed him off. I was thinking a titty bar or something, you know? But this?? Ellen'll kill me!"
They have a fair view of the plate-glass window. Three more women have been shoved into the concrete holding tank -- shoved, not tossed -- and three women and one of the men have been roughed up to one degree or another and taken out. Bach's sort of surprised that the one guy wasn't the blond kid; the other two guys who'd been there before weren't bad looking, but the blond kid would do okay even at Citadel, where the average attractiveness level was several points higher than it was here. But the one guy who'd gone in and chosen a man had apparently wanted someone burlier -- he probably enjoyed taking down a bigger guy. Bach could get into that, but imagining someone young and pretty and scared cowering on his bed....
Stop that, he snapped at himself. You are not going to get a hard-on here, sitting with Barry. You're just not, so deal with it.
"You don't have to hang out with me, you know?"
Bach starts, his attention drawn back to Barry. "What?"
"I, you know, remember." Barry looks down into his own beer, his cheeks blushing bright red. "When you told me? That you're into kinky stuff? If you wanna...." He makes a vague, waving gesture with one hand toward the window. "You know, pick someone and go have fun, that's cool."
Bach feels his own face heating. Yeah, he remembers that conversation now. They'd been nineteen and home from college for the summer, still good friends and pretty drunk. Bach had just recently figured out how much fun forcing someone who loved being forced was, among other things, and he'd been babbling on to his best-and-still-only-straight-friend Barry about how cool kink was. That'd been... fuck, ten years ago, and Barry still remembers?
"It's all right," he says, fidgetting with his glass. "I have my own friends, you know? People I see when I feel like playing."
Barry nods quickly. "That's fine, sorry, I mean, it figures you would, right?" He drains his beer and starts making condensation rings on the table with the empty.
Bach sighs. This is gonna be a long evening.
Not quite two hours later, Tom, Shel and one of the other guys have all been through the concrete room -- the "holding tank" after which the club was named -- once. The fourth guy'd come up to Barry with a few muttered excuses and taken off over an hour ago and Bach was considering doing the same. The place is actually pretty boring if you're not fucking. The drinks are nowhere near good enough to justify the price. There's cheesy lounge-type music coming in through a few speakers but no one's dancing. There's nothing else to do -- not a pool table or dart board or even a TV. Since everyone in the lounge is a top, and a pretty predatory one at that (well, except Barry) there isn't even anything going on to watch.
Bach thinks of the Citadel bar with longing.
Just to prove that the evening could indeed get worse, an obviously drunk Tom plops down in the booth next to Barry and slings an arm across his shoulder.
"Hey, man, you're not havin' any fun! Can't have that -- you're the one who's going into the slammer tomorrow! You gotta have some fun 'cause this is your last chance! Right, Box?"
Bach sighs and ignores him. Barry hunches down over his third beer and says, "I can't, Tom. It wouldn't be right, you know? I mean, I'm not even into this stuff, I told you."
"Aww, come on! It's fun! They like it, they really do or they wouldn't be here! There's a blonde with huge tits who's in there right now, she loves to be knocked around, I've fucked her before an' she's great!" Tom shook Barry's shoulder in a way he probably thought was coaxing but Barry just knocked his hand away.
"Leave it, okay? I'm not kidding!"
"Come on! Ya gotta try new things if you're gonna have fun! Hey, how about if we share? There's a pretty little boy been sittin' there for a while, we can do him together! It's not gay if you're the one doin' the fucking, right? Women got asses too an' everybody's ass is the same, an' hey, no one sucks cock like a fag! Ain't that right, Box?!"
Bach and Barry are just looking at each other. Barry's looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and in fact he starts shoving at Tom, trying to get out. "I'm really sorry," he says to Bach. He finally succeeds in dislodging Tom and stands up, stepping over him as though he were a particularly disgusting stain in the carpet. "I'm taking off. I'm sorry I got you into this, seriously, man. We'll get together some other time, I'll send you an e-mail and we'll have lunch or something. I'll see you tomorrow, right?"
"Sure," says Bach. He stands up as well, thinking that leaving is a really good idea, the best Barry's had in years. "I'll be there. I'm looking forward to meeting Ellen."
"Not a word, man! Promise me!" Barry looks like he's struggling with an agonized conscience.
"Not a word. Unless she hears from someone else," he adds, not looking at Tom, who's pulling himself to his feet next to them, "in which case give me a call and I'll tell her you just sat with me and drank beer all night."
"You're the best, man. Thanks." Barry reaches out and squeezes his arm, then makes his escape.
Bach's about to follow him when Tom snarls after his supposed friend, then turns awkwardly back toward the window. "Fine," he mutters. "Fuck 'im. I'll go by myself." He glances up at Bach with a nasty smirk and says, "Nothing better'n a pretty fag-boy who loves to get kicked around, huh, Box?" He winks and heads off for the door to the holding cell, managing to trip over the pattern in the carpet before he's taken two steps.
Shit. Bach looks up and searches the figures in the concrete room, hoping.... But no, the blond kid's still there. He shoots Tom a look of frustration and hatred. There's no way he's going to let that asswipe get his hands on that kid. There's forcing and there's forcing and even if Tom had seemed the sort to usually play SSC, he's drunk and he's pissed off and he's looking to really hurt someone.
And it's not like it'll be a hardship anyway, he thinks as he glides past Tom's stumbling body and crosses the room to the door. He's had the kid's face in the back of his mind all night, trying not to think about him, trying not to remember that the kid's obviously into the same things he is, trying to convince himself he's not at all interested in playing here. And he's not, but he's interested in the kid. That's different, right?
He steps up to the bouncer on the door. The guy lets him through and shuts it behind him.
Seven pairs of eyes lock onto him. The blond kid's retreated to a corner and is sitting there in a huddle, trying to make himself as small as possible. He's visibly trembling under Bach's gaze and Bach starts wondering if he really does want to be here. Who knows with these little hole-in-the-wall clubs? He could pass for a high school kid -- he might be a runaway and what better place than this to stash someone who'd been sucked into a prostitution ring? Any protests he made would be assumed to be part of the game.
It's unlikely but it's enough to firm Bach's decision. He strides over and tugs the kid to his feet.
"No, please!" Huge blue eyes are begging silently while the kid babbles pleas out loud and Bach's torn between lust and concern. Concern's winning and he has a half-formed plan to take the kid to a room just to get a chance for a private talk, to see if he really needs help, until a tug slams the slender body up against him and he feels a steel-hard cock under the faded jeans.
He relaxes and lets loose a predatory smile. "Shut up and come on," he snaps. He crosses the boy's wrists and grabs them in one hand, then hauls him toward the back door. As he passes through, the bouncer there mutters, "Number eight," and points down the hall to the right.
The room is simple, downright squalid compared to the luxurious rooms at Citadel, even the least expensive, but it has a king-size bed with a cheap quilt that looks fresh. There's a nightstand with a large, plastic toy basket and a bowl full of condoms and lube packets.
Bach shoves the blond kid at the bed. He hits it and rolls over and off the other side and ends up cowering in the corner with nowhere to go.
"Please, don't. Please, don't touch me, leave me alone!" The kid wraps both arms around his waist and sinks down the wall until he's huddled on the floor, his eyes shining with tears.
Bach tosses his jacket onto the only chair in the room and stalks over behind the bed. He pulls the kid to his feet, hands gripping his upper arms, and slams him back down onto the mattress. He pulls the boy's polo shirt over his head, roughly but without tearing it, and tosses it to the floor. Then he pins him down with one hand while fishing through the toy basket. He pulls out a steel collar on a length of chain and snaps it around the kid's throat. Its lack of a lock makes him feel a little better; it has a simple thumb-catch and there's a snap-lock on the other end of the chain. He loops the free end around the center spindle of the heavily-scratched brass headboard and snaps it to one of its own links, making a loop. The kid pours out a stream of pleading words and tugs on the chain, but makes no move to release himself.
Not in quite such a hurry now, Bach fishes through the basket again. He doesn't trust most of the toys -- the plugs, dildos, vibrators, gags -- but finds a pair of handcuffs with thumb-catches like the collar. It doesn't matter as much whether they're perfectly sanitary.
"I'm getting really sick of listening to you whine," he snarls, then backhands the kid hard enough to leave a red mark on his cheek. He cuffs his wrists behind him, shoves him onto his back and yanks him down just far enough that the collar's tugging. The kid's shoes hit the floor, then his socks, then his jeans and briefs.
Bach straddles the boy's knees and takes a good look. Oh, yeah. This is just what he's been imagining and then some.
Blue eyes are dripping fearful tears and the kid's whole body is trembling. His mouth is barely open, his breath coming in quick, panicky little pants. But the kid's cock is calling him a liar -- or one of the best actors Bach's ever fucked -- 'cause it's fully erect and oozing come onto the boy's belly. He's slender but solid, with a hairless chest and perfect pink nipples that are drawing Bach's tongue like crinkled magnets.
"Oh, man...." He reaches out and flicks one tight bud.
The boy sucks in a sharp gasp, then moans out a, "Noooo!"
Bach grins and lowers himself down over the pale, naked body. His lips go right to one nipple, with a sharp bite and then a long suck, while his fingers pinch and twist the other. The kid bucks under him, his eyes squeezed closed, his head shaking violently while his hips thrust up into Bach's belly.
He fumbles a packet of lube out of the bowl and tears it open, slicking up one hand and shoving two fingers into the kid's ass. The result is a predictable, "No! OhpleaseGodnodon't!" around panting and desperate moans.
By the time he's got the boy prepped it feels like Bach's cock is about to pop the zipper on his trousers. He yanks it down, rolls on a condom and lubes himself up with what's left on his hand, then positions himself at the kid's entrance and shoves in. The two of them cry out in chorus and Bach's thrusts are met by the frantic hips rising to meet him.
The kid's arms are still fastened behind him and it puts a lovely arch into his torso. Those nipples are at the peak of the arch, as though offering -- begging -- for attention, and Bach fastens his lips onto one with a moan. The kid wails and comes, spurting between them, warm and sticky. His ass clenching around Bach's prick yanks him over the edge and half a dozen frantic strokes later he's coming so hard he nearly blacks out.
When he finally pushes up onto his elbows, the mess gluing his shirt to the kid's belly is getting uncomfortable, but he ignores it for the moment and runs his unlubed hand through the boy's sandy hair. He reaches up and kisses him gently, his tongue teasing between the soft lips. When he pulls back, the boy's staring up at him in shock.
"You're incredible, you know that?" He smiles down at him, still petting his hair. "You should be an actor, seriously, 'cause, man, the way you get into role is awesome." Another light kiss and then he rolls off the still-silent boy, stretching. His shirt's sweaty and stained with semen; he'll remember to take it off next time.
He looks around and asks, "Do they have any towels here? Kleenix? Anything?"
The kid tosses his head toward the nightstand and murmurs, "Cupboard."
Bach opens the handleless door at the front of the nightstand and finds a stack of threadbare towels. He grabs two with a snort. They probably hope people won't find them, he thinks with a smirk. Save on laundry that way.
There's no water in the room so he cleans the mess off the kid's belly and ass as well as he can, asking, "What's your name, anyway?"
The kid blinks at him, still looking confused, but finally he whispers, "Mickey."
"Nice to meet you, Mickey. I'm Bach. Here, let me help you with those." He tosses the dirty towels into a corner and unsnaps the collar from around Mickey's throat, then turns him gently up onto his side and gets the handcuffs off. He rubs the kid's shoulders, then pulls him into a stiff cuddle -- stiff on Mickey's side; he doesn't seem sure what to do.
"Want to rest for a few? Or do they kick us out as soon as we're done?" he asks, rubbing Mickey's back, trying to get him to relax. Shit, the kid's tenser now than he was when they were fucking.
"Umm, I don't know," Mickey whispers. "Umm, I mean, usually you'd just... leave and I'd leave and that's... the end. I guess."
Bach rolls his eyes and tightens his grip. Aftercare, what's that? "You want to go get something to eat? Or a drink at least? You were in that room for a long time and I didn't see a water fountain or anything -- you must be pretty dehydrated."
"No, I... I mean, that's all right." Mickey sounds like he's working himself back into a panic and he's struggling to sit up. Bach lets him, then just watches as the kid scrambles back into his clothes.
He pauses at the door, then turns and sends Bach a shy glance. "Umm, bye."
Bach says, "See ya, Mickey," to the closing door, and then he's alone in the cheap little room. And he knows he's going to be back.
[Note: Second of Mickey's backstory posts. Follows Mickey's Grandfather Dies. Oliver Bachman is an OC, so don't bother IMDBing him. :) Contains con-non-con.]
April, 2002
Oliver Bachman follows the tail lights of his friend Barry's Honda into the parking lot of an innocuous looking building in Brooklyn and slides into a spot without too much hunting. The place seems popular enough, but not overly crowded, which makes a sort of sense for a sex club that has to keep a fairly low profile to stay in business.
Bach's still not quite sure how this happened. After all, if he wants to scene, he goes to Citadel. He can't imagine anyplace else is better and this drab little concrete building stuck between a convenience store and the darkened facade of an insurance office certainly doesn't seem to be up to the Cit's standards, unless there's a whole lot of mahogany and marble hiding inside, which he doubts. Not that he's a snob about the decor of a place, but just the fact that he and the rest of this stag party are going to be walking in, handing over their money and getting right into a scene if they want tells him that this place is no Citadel.
Ahh, right, the stag party. He sighs and slides out of his car, locking the door with the clicker on his keychain.
Barry was his best buddy in high school, the only guy he'd known then who was cool about his being gay. They hadn't talked a lot in the last few years, mostly e-mails every now and then, but when Barry's friend Tom decided to throw him a stag party the night before his wedding, Bach's name had been on the list Barry'd given Tom.
Tom claimed to have invited twenty guys, but only six had shown up if you included Barry and Tom. Which, Bach figures, probably means the other fourteen guys know Tom a lot better than Bach does, based on his short exposure to the idiot so far.
I mean, seriously, he thinks as he strides across the lot to where the group's assembling, titty bars are one thing, almost expected for a bachelor party. But how many people figure it's a good idea to take your almost-married buddy to a sex club the night before he pledges to love, honor and cherish? A club where, apparently, if you're not actually fucking someone you've wasted the rather steep entry fee.
No, not entry fee. Membership. That's how the Holding Tank stays in business, he remembers from the drunken-blathering explanation Tom had given them when they'd met at his apartment. None of the employees actually have sex with members -- all fucking is strictly voluntary between members, who pay membership "dues" when they come in. Legal, sort of.
"Hey, Box!" calls Tom. "Thought we'd lost ya!" He gives Bach a smirk as he walks up and says, "You'll be glad to know they get some pretty cute boys at this place too! Shel told me you're not into chicks, but that's cool, you can still have fun here."
Bach raises an eyebrow at Tom but doesn't answer him. He ignores Sheldon, who'd cadged a ride from the party organizer. Sheldon, who'd not been one of the cool guys at school and who'd no doubt been only too happy to tell Tom all about what a fag-boy Bach was.
Barry sends him an apologetic glance and Bach returns a sideways smile and a shrug. Yeah, there are assholes. What are you gonna do?
Tom, who'd collected $120 from each of the other four attendees -- a hundred each to get in, plus twenty for their share of Barry's fee -- led the way through the door into a shabby reception office. Tom was a longtime member but everyone else was handed a form to read and sign.
Blah, blah, blah... will produce proof that he/she is over twenty-one... blah, blah, blah... swears and affirms that he/she is free of sexually transmitted diseases -- right, like that's gonna guarantee anything -- blah, blah, blah... agrees that all activities are entered into voluntarily... blah, blah, blah... house safeword is "Halt" and will be abided by immediately... blah, blah, blah... all playrooms may be monitored -- and that's the first vaguely smart thing he's seen so far -- blah, blah, blah... agrees to hold the Holding Tank, its employees, management and owners blameless and free of responsibility, and that they shall not be liable for any damages in case of... blah, blah, blah.....
This is total bullshit and Bach's smarter half is telling him to toss this back on the desk and leave right now. But Barry's his oldest friend, the one guy who stood by him in school. There's no rule saying he has to actually fuck anyone. He can go in with the group, have a few drinks, talk to Barry until he gets occupied -- assuming he even does; he's not looking too terribly enthused about this whole deal himself -- and then take off. So, muttering to himself, he scrawls his signature at the bottom and slides the form back at the woman behind the desk. She takes it and hands him a coded elastic wristband.
He's apparently the only one who actually read the thing all the way through, because the others are clustered around the far door waiting for him. A burly guy with a ponytail tells them that tops go left and bottoms go right, before ushering them through the heavy steel door leading into the club proper. Or at least, into a bare hallway leading -- what else? -- left and right.
The group heads left, although Bach notices that Tom was watching him with another smirk as though expecting him to go the other way. Right, 'cause all gay men bottom.
Tom leads the way down the lefthand branch of the hall, which eventually leads to a set of double doors and then into the (real) club proper. This larger room is actually fairly comfortable looking, with decent carpet and some tables and chairs scattered around, and a few booths with upholstered seats. There are about a dozen men and a couple of women hanging around, most with drinks in their hands, and the focus of attention is the far end of the room and the huge plate-glass window set into the wall.
Seeing the prices on the drinks at the bar -- twelve bucks for a Bud?! -- Bach decides to hold off and wanders over toward the window. Seating over on this end of the lounge is theater-style, three rows of staggered chairs all facing the window. On the other side is a bare, concrete room with bare-bulb lighting, no furniture and a drain in the middle of the floor. There's a door in the near end of the righthand wall, one in the connecting wall next to the window, and another one in the back wall.
There are also about eight people in the room, sitting, standing or pacing, most looking frightened or at least nervous. Six of the people in the next room are women and two are men; all of them are at least reasonably attractive, which actually surprises Bach. The reality of most sex clubs is that the regulars are people who have a hard time finding regular partners of their own, but the pickings here aren't bad. He sits in a chair off to one side to watch and figure out how this works. Of course, the fact that he has to figure it out from observation doesn't improve his opinion of the place any.
A few minutes later, a chunky guy sitting a few chairs down from Bach finishes his drink, stands up and heads over to the door next to the window, which is guarded by another one of the bouncer-types. The guy just opens the door for him and waves him through, closing it behind him.
Bach watches Chunks swagger up to a dark haired woman about ten years younger than he is. He grabs her by the arm and hauls her to her feet, smacks her across the face and snarls something Bach can't hear through the glass, then drags her to the door at the rear of the room, where another bouncer lets them out. And that's it.
Bach blinks a few times. That's... it's.... And then he gets it. This is a place for people who like to play fantasy-rape. No wonder the subs are all at least decent looking; they put themselves on display and have no say in who chooses them. It'd be embarassing, to say the least, to be left sitting in that concrete room all night, with everyone watching you be passed over again and again.
And this is really ironic, because while part of Bach is swearing inside at what a fucked-up set-up this is, another part of him is absolutely struggling not to get a hard-on because this is his absolute favorite kink. Shit.
He's about to take off and get a beer, twelve bucks or no, when the door in the side wall opens and another guy comes literally flying through it. He hits the concrete rolling and thuds up against the opposite wall, looking dazed, then shakes it off and gets his back to the wall. He's pressed up against it, looking all around as though he expects to be jumped on any second. His young-looking face is a mask of fear and he pushes one hand nervously through his short, sandy-blond hair, his shoulders hunched and his other arm curled protectively around his middle.
He's cute. And he looks terrified.
A shoulder jostles Bach and Tom's smarmy voice pollutes his ears. "Hey, Box! See anything you like? Noticed you couldn't wait to check out the meat!"
Bach gets up and walks away, 'cause so help him if he has to say a word to Tom he's gonna deck him.
Half an hour later he's sitting in a booth with Barry, nursing a twelve-dollar beer.
"I swear," Barry says, "I had no idea what Tom was planning. He's not a bad guy, really. He just gets kind of over-enthused, you know?"
Bach just rolls his eyes and takes another sip. He's not about to bad-mouth a guy who's apparently a pretty good friend of Barry's, but he's not about to agree with him, either.
"He's been trying to get us to come to this place for like a year, going on about how great it is and what a blast the sex is, but I'm just not into this stuff, you know? Even before Ellen and I got engaged I just wasn't, and now? Christ, if she finds out where we went tonight she'll kill me! If I'd known what his 'great surprise' was gonna be I'd have headed him off. I was thinking a titty bar or something, you know? But this?? Ellen'll kill me!"
They have a fair view of the plate-glass window. Three more women have been shoved into the concrete holding tank -- shoved, not tossed -- and three women and one of the men have been roughed up to one degree or another and taken out. Bach's sort of surprised that the one guy wasn't the blond kid; the other two guys who'd been there before weren't bad looking, but the blond kid would do okay even at Citadel, where the average attractiveness level was several points higher than it was here. But the one guy who'd gone in and chosen a man had apparently wanted someone burlier -- he probably enjoyed taking down a bigger guy. Bach could get into that, but imagining someone young and pretty and scared cowering on his bed....
Stop that, he snapped at himself. You are not going to get a hard-on here, sitting with Barry. You're just not, so deal with it.
"You don't have to hang out with me, you know?"
Bach starts, his attention drawn back to Barry. "What?"
"I, you know, remember." Barry looks down into his own beer, his cheeks blushing bright red. "When you told me? That you're into kinky stuff? If you wanna...." He makes a vague, waving gesture with one hand toward the window. "You know, pick someone and go have fun, that's cool."
Bach feels his own face heating. Yeah, he remembers that conversation now. They'd been nineteen and home from college for the summer, still good friends and pretty drunk. Bach had just recently figured out how much fun forcing someone who loved being forced was, among other things, and he'd been babbling on to his best-and-still-only-straight-friend Barry about how cool kink was. That'd been... fuck, ten years ago, and Barry still remembers?
"It's all right," he says, fidgetting with his glass. "I have my own friends, you know? People I see when I feel like playing."
Barry nods quickly. "That's fine, sorry, I mean, it figures you would, right?" He drains his beer and starts making condensation rings on the table with the empty.
Bach sighs. This is gonna be a long evening.
Not quite two hours later, Tom, Shel and one of the other guys have all been through the concrete room -- the "holding tank" after which the club was named -- once. The fourth guy'd come up to Barry with a few muttered excuses and taken off over an hour ago and Bach was considering doing the same. The place is actually pretty boring if you're not fucking. The drinks are nowhere near good enough to justify the price. There's cheesy lounge-type music coming in through a few speakers but no one's dancing. There's nothing else to do -- not a pool table or dart board or even a TV. Since everyone in the lounge is a top, and a pretty predatory one at that (well, except Barry) there isn't even anything going on to watch.
Bach thinks of the Citadel bar with longing.
Just to prove that the evening could indeed get worse, an obviously drunk Tom plops down in the booth next to Barry and slings an arm across his shoulder.
"Hey, man, you're not havin' any fun! Can't have that -- you're the one who's going into the slammer tomorrow! You gotta have some fun 'cause this is your last chance! Right, Box?"
Bach sighs and ignores him. Barry hunches down over his third beer and says, "I can't, Tom. It wouldn't be right, you know? I mean, I'm not even into this stuff, I told you."
"Aww, come on! It's fun! They like it, they really do or they wouldn't be here! There's a blonde with huge tits who's in there right now, she loves to be knocked around, I've fucked her before an' she's great!" Tom shook Barry's shoulder in a way he probably thought was coaxing but Barry just knocked his hand away.
"Leave it, okay? I'm not kidding!"
"Come on! Ya gotta try new things if you're gonna have fun! Hey, how about if we share? There's a pretty little boy been sittin' there for a while, we can do him together! It's not gay if you're the one doin' the fucking, right? Women got asses too an' everybody's ass is the same, an' hey, no one sucks cock like a fag! Ain't that right, Box?!"
Bach and Barry are just looking at each other. Barry's looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and in fact he starts shoving at Tom, trying to get out. "I'm really sorry," he says to Bach. He finally succeeds in dislodging Tom and stands up, stepping over him as though he were a particularly disgusting stain in the carpet. "I'm taking off. I'm sorry I got you into this, seriously, man. We'll get together some other time, I'll send you an e-mail and we'll have lunch or something. I'll see you tomorrow, right?"
"Sure," says Bach. He stands up as well, thinking that leaving is a really good idea, the best Barry's had in years. "I'll be there. I'm looking forward to meeting Ellen."
"Not a word, man! Promise me!" Barry looks like he's struggling with an agonized conscience.
"Not a word. Unless she hears from someone else," he adds, not looking at Tom, who's pulling himself to his feet next to them, "in which case give me a call and I'll tell her you just sat with me and drank beer all night."
"You're the best, man. Thanks." Barry reaches out and squeezes his arm, then makes his escape.
Bach's about to follow him when Tom snarls after his supposed friend, then turns awkwardly back toward the window. "Fine," he mutters. "Fuck 'im. I'll go by myself." He glances up at Bach with a nasty smirk and says, "Nothing better'n a pretty fag-boy who loves to get kicked around, huh, Box?" He winks and heads off for the door to the holding cell, managing to trip over the pattern in the carpet before he's taken two steps.
Shit. Bach looks up and searches the figures in the concrete room, hoping.... But no, the blond kid's still there. He shoots Tom a look of frustration and hatred. There's no way he's going to let that asswipe get his hands on that kid. There's forcing and there's forcing and even if Tom had seemed the sort to usually play SSC, he's drunk and he's pissed off and he's looking to really hurt someone.
And it's not like it'll be a hardship anyway, he thinks as he glides past Tom's stumbling body and crosses the room to the door. He's had the kid's face in the back of his mind all night, trying not to think about him, trying not to remember that the kid's obviously into the same things he is, trying to convince himself he's not at all interested in playing here. And he's not, but he's interested in the kid. That's different, right?
He steps up to the bouncer on the door. The guy lets him through and shuts it behind him.
Seven pairs of eyes lock onto him. The blond kid's retreated to a corner and is sitting there in a huddle, trying to make himself as small as possible. He's visibly trembling under Bach's gaze and Bach starts wondering if he really does want to be here. Who knows with these little hole-in-the-wall clubs? He could pass for a high school kid -- he might be a runaway and what better place than this to stash someone who'd been sucked into a prostitution ring? Any protests he made would be assumed to be part of the game.
It's unlikely but it's enough to firm Bach's decision. He strides over and tugs the kid to his feet.
"No, please!" Huge blue eyes are begging silently while the kid babbles pleas out loud and Bach's torn between lust and concern. Concern's winning and he has a half-formed plan to take the kid to a room just to get a chance for a private talk, to see if he really needs help, until a tug slams the slender body up against him and he feels a steel-hard cock under the faded jeans.
He relaxes and lets loose a predatory smile. "Shut up and come on," he snaps. He crosses the boy's wrists and grabs them in one hand, then hauls him toward the back door. As he passes through, the bouncer there mutters, "Number eight," and points down the hall to the right.
The room is simple, downright squalid compared to the luxurious rooms at Citadel, even the least expensive, but it has a king-size bed with a cheap quilt that looks fresh. There's a nightstand with a large, plastic toy basket and a bowl full of condoms and lube packets.
Bach shoves the blond kid at the bed. He hits it and rolls over and off the other side and ends up cowering in the corner with nowhere to go.
"Please, don't. Please, don't touch me, leave me alone!" The kid wraps both arms around his waist and sinks down the wall until he's huddled on the floor, his eyes shining with tears.
Bach tosses his jacket onto the only chair in the room and stalks over behind the bed. He pulls the kid to his feet, hands gripping his upper arms, and slams him back down onto the mattress. He pulls the boy's polo shirt over his head, roughly but without tearing it, and tosses it to the floor. Then he pins him down with one hand while fishing through the toy basket. He pulls out a steel collar on a length of chain and snaps it around the kid's throat. Its lack of a lock makes him feel a little better; it has a simple thumb-catch and there's a snap-lock on the other end of the chain. He loops the free end around the center spindle of the heavily-scratched brass headboard and snaps it to one of its own links, making a loop. The kid pours out a stream of pleading words and tugs on the chain, but makes no move to release himself.
Not in quite such a hurry now, Bach fishes through the basket again. He doesn't trust most of the toys -- the plugs, dildos, vibrators, gags -- but finds a pair of handcuffs with thumb-catches like the collar. It doesn't matter as much whether they're perfectly sanitary.
"I'm getting really sick of listening to you whine," he snarls, then backhands the kid hard enough to leave a red mark on his cheek. He cuffs his wrists behind him, shoves him onto his back and yanks him down just far enough that the collar's tugging. The kid's shoes hit the floor, then his socks, then his jeans and briefs.
Bach straddles the boy's knees and takes a good look. Oh, yeah. This is just what he's been imagining and then some.
Blue eyes are dripping fearful tears and the kid's whole body is trembling. His mouth is barely open, his breath coming in quick, panicky little pants. But the kid's cock is calling him a liar -- or one of the best actors Bach's ever fucked -- 'cause it's fully erect and oozing come onto the boy's belly. He's slender but solid, with a hairless chest and perfect pink nipples that are drawing Bach's tongue like crinkled magnets.
"Oh, man...." He reaches out and flicks one tight bud.
The boy sucks in a sharp gasp, then moans out a, "Noooo!"
Bach grins and lowers himself down over the pale, naked body. His lips go right to one nipple, with a sharp bite and then a long suck, while his fingers pinch and twist the other. The kid bucks under him, his eyes squeezed closed, his head shaking violently while his hips thrust up into Bach's belly.
He fumbles a packet of lube out of the bowl and tears it open, slicking up one hand and shoving two fingers into the kid's ass. The result is a predictable, "No! OhpleaseGodnodon't!" around panting and desperate moans.
By the time he's got the boy prepped it feels like Bach's cock is about to pop the zipper on his trousers. He yanks it down, rolls on a condom and lubes himself up with what's left on his hand, then positions himself at the kid's entrance and shoves in. The two of them cry out in chorus and Bach's thrusts are met by the frantic hips rising to meet him.
The kid's arms are still fastened behind him and it puts a lovely arch into his torso. Those nipples are at the peak of the arch, as though offering -- begging -- for attention, and Bach fastens his lips onto one with a moan. The kid wails and comes, spurting between them, warm and sticky. His ass clenching around Bach's prick yanks him over the edge and half a dozen frantic strokes later he's coming so hard he nearly blacks out.
When he finally pushes up onto his elbows, the mess gluing his shirt to the kid's belly is getting uncomfortable, but he ignores it for the moment and runs his unlubed hand through the boy's sandy hair. He reaches up and kisses him gently, his tongue teasing between the soft lips. When he pulls back, the boy's staring up at him in shock.
"You're incredible, you know that?" He smiles down at him, still petting his hair. "You should be an actor, seriously, 'cause, man, the way you get into role is awesome." Another light kiss and then he rolls off the still-silent boy, stretching. His shirt's sweaty and stained with semen; he'll remember to take it off next time.
He looks around and asks, "Do they have any towels here? Kleenix? Anything?"
The kid tosses his head toward the nightstand and murmurs, "Cupboard."
Bach opens the handleless door at the front of the nightstand and finds a stack of threadbare towels. He grabs two with a snort. They probably hope people won't find them, he thinks with a smirk. Save on laundry that way.
There's no water in the room so he cleans the mess off the kid's belly and ass as well as he can, asking, "What's your name, anyway?"
The kid blinks at him, still looking confused, but finally he whispers, "Mickey."
"Nice to meet you, Mickey. I'm Bach. Here, let me help you with those." He tosses the dirty towels into a corner and unsnaps the collar from around Mickey's throat, then turns him gently up onto his side and gets the handcuffs off. He rubs the kid's shoulders, then pulls him into a stiff cuddle -- stiff on Mickey's side; he doesn't seem sure what to do.
"Want to rest for a few? Or do they kick us out as soon as we're done?" he asks, rubbing Mickey's back, trying to get him to relax. Shit, the kid's tenser now than he was when they were fucking.
"Umm, I don't know," Mickey whispers. "Umm, I mean, usually you'd just... leave and I'd leave and that's... the end. I guess."
Bach rolls his eyes and tightens his grip. Aftercare, what's that? "You want to go get something to eat? Or a drink at least? You were in that room for a long time and I didn't see a water fountain or anything -- you must be pretty dehydrated."
"No, I... I mean, that's all right." Mickey sounds like he's working himself back into a panic and he's struggling to sit up. Bach lets him, then just watches as the kid scrambles back into his clothes.
He pauses at the door, then turns and sends Bach a shy glance. "Umm, bye."
Bach says, "See ya, Mickey," to the closing door, and then he's alone in the cheap little room. And he knows he's going to be back.
