Page 68 of At Her Pleasure
Was the mystery part of the appeal? Maybe. But it was a lot of different things.
He looked good, in the kind of outfit he always wore, the slacks and dress shirt in that fabric that clung to his muscles, enhanced by his braced stance, arms crossed over his chest. Her skeleton cross rested in the open neck, a dull gleam. So far, she’d never seen him without it. A message that affected her far more deeply than it should.
No matter how strange the event planner role had seemed to her, he was good at this. But she’d noted his skillset rested in his network of resources and recognizing and guiding the talents of people around him, people who had the enthusiasm and interest to bring the brainstormed vision to life.
She wasn’t even sure if he liked events with big crowds.
Nothing about the man made sense. Yet as she looked at him, what was on her mind weren’t unanswered questions. It was his scent, his hair against her fingers, his body under her hands, the thrust of his cock inside her. How he moved against the clamp of her legs and arms, the feel of his breath on her neck, the way he shuddered when she bit him, struck him. Gave him pain.
The look in his eyes, wanting more, more, more. Not begging. Demanding, needing, like he needed water, food, salvation, a baptism in pain to escape whatever was going on below that calm surface.
He was scanning the audience. The lights started to come down, getting ready for the kickoff, but before they went black, he found her. Their eyes met, and then the darkness swallowed her.
She couldn’t have planned that one better.
Spiral took center stage, his voice dropping to a loud whisper through the mic. “It’s getting close to go-time, esteemed Mistresses. Alphonse is showering, but he knows he only has fifteen minutes to get clean and dressed before he has to head this way, to be here with us tonight. To meet his Mistress and be everything she desires. But we’re just voyeurs, so be quiet now, like little birds on the wire, so he doesn’t know we’re watching…”
Laughter rippled through the room. As the stair lights engaged, Cyn moved to join the others. Ros nudged her drink to her, her preferred Dr Pepper. The club tended to keep member favorites in stock, but she wondered if Mick had set some of those aside for her as well.
The curtain rose, accompanied by a collective inhale of delight. A portable shower had been set up, screened by a curtain with a clear top half and an opaque gray bottom. Water from the shower head visibly streaked the transparent part. Sink, vanity and mirror were arranged around the shower, as if they were looking into Alphonse’s bathroom. A standing wardrobe, presumably holding Alphonse’s clothes for the night, stood a few feet away.
At the moment, he wore nothing at all.
He was already wet, his dark hair slicked down. It was long enough to reach his shoulders. A dragon tattoo was on his back, the spread wings over his shoulder blades, the tail following his spine. The curtain obscured where it stopped, but Cyn was guessing it would be curled over one buttock.
It was a female dragon, with lashes and feminine mouth and shape. Her talons looked as if they were dug into his skin. He was soaping himself. Thoroughly. After their initial expressions of delight at the tableau, Mistresses called out complaints about the curtain’s concealment, though their tones of mirth said they were enjoying the titillation.
As if responding to the feedback, a female pit bull trotted ponderously onto the stage. Looking neither left nor right, she grabbed the edge of the curtain and brought it down with one easy tug. To the accompaniment of thunderous cheers and foot stomping, she carried it away like a fluttering banner and disappeared into the opposite wing.
The dragon’s tail was curled over his buttock, with a barbed tip that, like the talons, looked like it was pricking the skin, several drops of blood inked over the taut curve.
Alphonse, acting as if he’d heard none of the commentary, turned around. Not enough to reveal his cock, but hinting at it behind the length of a carefully posed muscular thigh. The Mistresses groaned and hooted.
“Rotgut, you little minx. Bring that back.”
He sighed when the dog didn’t reappear and shrugged. He turned away again and finished his shower with lots of flexing—ass, shoulders, and thighs. Plus more taunting half-turns that had the women straining their eyes to catch a glimpse of what he was concealing.
Alphonse shut off the water, leaned out and snagged a towel off a standing wooden rack. “Thank fuck she didn’t get the towel,” he grumbled. Before he used it, he shook his head like Rotgut might have done, then stepped out of the shower and turned toward the audience, finally revealing his cock. The very satisfying length and girth, plus the one-word tattoo above the base, caused another round of cheers.
Hers.
The twinkle in his eyes and curve of his lips gave the right nod of acknowledgement to the crowd, but he stayed in character. He slowly wrapped the towel around his waist, seemingly oblivious to the boos as he positioned himself in front of the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. He smoothed his hands over his ass, well defined by the grip of the towel. The muscles along his back shifted, his shoulders twitching as he used a razor to touch up his clean jaw.
Laughter burst out as Rotgut reappeared and moved into stalk mode, her front legs down as she crept up behind the seemingly oblivious Alphonse. When she delicately took the hem of the towel in her teeth, the audience erupted with yells of encouragement.
“Tear it off, Rotgut. You go, girl!”
Cyn laughed as Alphonse pivoted with a protest. He and Rotgut proceeded to have a tug-of-war that Rotgut, despite her excellent training, seemed to enjoy thoroughly. When she won, she dashed joyously off stage, the towel in her mouth.
“Damn dog.” Alphonse sighed, putting his hands on his hips, a very nice effect. With another shrug, he turned toward the wardrobe.
Then he started getting dressed.
Alphonse took his time with the reverse strip tease, pulling on black boxer briefs and cupping himself through them to adjust, turning to make sure the fit was good on his ass. After that came slacks, a zipping and fastening, another substantial adjustment where he cupped balls and cock, checked out his backside. When he donned a cotton tank, he did it facing the audience before turning his back to shrug into the dress shirt, another equally appealing view.
The tie was next. He wrapped it around his wrists, holding it up to the mirror to see how it looked, then put his mouth to it. It was easy to imagine the brief but lingering kiss as an homage to the absent Mistress he hoped would be binding him later.
The one whose ink was over his cock.