Page 9
Story: The Menagerie
“WHAT’S UP with you?” Addison asks when Rowan punches in on Friday morning. “You’ve been brooding for days , and now you come in with a big smile on your face.”
“I haven’t been brooding,” he snaps back, forcing away the smile he didn’t know he’d been sporting and opening his locker to unload his backpack. He’d been not-so-patiently waiting for Mal to text him all week, is all.
“You’ve spoken, like, half the words this whole week that you normally speak in a day.”
Rowan gives her a flat stare. “Just got some stuff going on.”
“Uh-huh. What’s his name?”
“Why do you assume it’s a guy thing?”
Addison laughs, carrying a box of supplies to the back of the ambulance and starting to restock things they’re running low on. She speaks frankly, in a way they’ve gotten comfortable with over the course of their two-year partnership. “Rowan. You’re like a golden retriever normally, so when something’s buggin’ you, it’s painfully obvious. And you told me yesterday everything was fine with your family. Ergo, guy thing.”
Rowan grabs his duffel and loads it in back next to the box of supplies, Addison swiftly restocking gauze and antiseptics while watching him in her periphery.
“You suck sometimes,” he mumbles.
“Mm- hmm . So, name?”
He hesitates. Because telling Addison about Mal feels a lot like making it a Thing, which it isn’t supposed to be. It’s not a Thing. Well, it’s a thing , lowercase t , but not a capital T Thing. There’s a difference. And he really needs to develop a goddamn poker face before he turns thirty.
“It’s no one,” he tells her, settling on a half-truth. “Just a booty call for tomorrow.”
She pauses her restocking. “Oh, I thought you were done with Grindr. Wanted something more serious.”
Fuck. He did tell her that, didn’t he? And he did want that for a while. Thought that maybe he could make up for all the anonymous sex of his teens and early twenties with an actual relationship. But it’s hard to meet people when your entire social circle consists of your siblings, whose own social circles are barely more diverse. So he’d resigned himself to just… nothing. Well, except the occasional Grindr hookup, because he’s not that okay with being single .
Until the Menagerie, that is.
Until Mal.
He’s not stupid. Definitely not na?ve. He knows that his impending Dom/sub relationship with Mal isn’t going to turn into anything more. And hell, he might not even want it to be more. All he has to go on is a fuck and a meal. A couple of texts. Nothing really. So technically, saying it’s a booty call isn’t a lie.
“Changed my mind.”
Addison gives him a skeptical look but doesn’t comment further.
They finish prepping the ambulance for the day ahead, Rowan making sure to keep the conversation firmly away from his weekend plans. By the time they get their first call and roll out of the station, siren blaring, Rowan’s run out of things to say.
It’s probably unhealthy how much he’s looking forward to seeing Mal again.
ON SATURDAY morning, Rowan wakes up a full hour before his alarm. Sue him, but he’s a little excited.
He wastes no time preparing a shake for breakfast—frozen fruits, handfuls of fresh spinach, protein powder, milk, and almonds all blended into a sweet drink that he chugs in between dressing in his running clothes.
When he leaves the house, he’s only intending to run a mile, maybe two, to get his blood flowing. But he gets lost in his thoughts, rows of apartments and houses passing by in a blur, giving way to small shops as his legs carry him on his longer route, and before he knows it, he’s hit five miles as his apartment building comes back into view.
It feels good.
Despite the heat and the sweat dripping from his temples when he’s back inside his apartment, he doesn’t bother to do more than splash some cool water on his face and run a wet cloth over his neck and shoulders. He’s planning on taking a much longer shower before he leaves tonight.
By lunchtime he’s already half hard in his sweats, but he forces himself to ignore it, not wanting to have trouble getting it up again tonight. It likely wouldn’t be an issue, but he’s not chancing it. Especially not for his and Mal’s first time alone.
Damn.
He’s gonna get to fuck him again in a few short hours.
The anticipation of it makes him feel like an eager teenager again. Idly, he wonders if he’s ever looked forward to seeing anyone as much as this. Not likely. Even in his past relationships, few and far between as they were, he remembers feeling like it was a chore to see his partner rather than a gift. Something to look forward to. Hopefully, it’s a good sign that that doesn’t seem to be the case with Mal, even if they’re only going to be fucking.
When he deems it late enough and he’s tired of pacing his living room and twiddling his thumbs, he showers thoroughly, styles his hair, and dresses similarly to last time, dark jeans but this time with a dark gray button-up shirt, leaving the top two buttons undone. He likes showing off the small patch of skin there with the soft curls of his chest hair peeking out through the lapels of the shirt and the low neck of the white tank top he’s wearing underneath. It makes him feel hot. Desirable. Like a goddamn adult man and not the barely legal waxed teen he’d been when he last frequented clubs like this.
The time passes by in a blur, and before he knows it, it’s seven twenty and he’s out the door.
It’s a bit earlier than necessary for him to get there and be ready to go by eight, but since Mal hasn’t texted him again and since he started the gangbang right at 8:00 p.m., Rowan wants to make sure he won’t be late.
The drive over feels like it takes hours, as he hits every red light possible. There was only one light he might have been able to make, had the person in front of him not slammed on their brakes the second it turned yellow. He mentally curses them out, then forces himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and take a few deep breaths. The last thing he needs tonight is to lose control. It would make for a terrible scene for both of them, and Mal might not give him another chance if he blows it.
The rest of the drive passes without incident, and when Rowan finally pushes through the familiar double doors and approaches the front desk to check in, Camilla is once again stationed behind it. Tonight she’s in what looks like a black jumpsuit that’s unzipped nearly down to her navel, showing off her cleavage. Her eye makeup is strikingly gold and sparkling, accenting her wavy icy blond hair.
Her face lights up when she sees him. “Heeeeyyy!” she calls, voice lilting.
“Hi, Camilla.”
She wastes zero time in interrogating Rowan.
“Sooo, looks like you and Malcolm hit it off last time.” There’s a knowing smile playing on her face that makes Rowan’s cheeks flush.
“Yeah, kinda.” He rubs at the back of his neck.
“Are you gonna be his new Dom, then?”
“Unless it turns out I suck at it, yeah.”
Her smile widens to a full-on Cheshire cat grin, eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline in excitement.
But to his surprise, she doesn’t say You’ll be great, or something optimistic along those lines. Instead she says, “If you do, he’ll let you know.”
Somehow that makes him feel better. Because the truth is, he could very well suck at it, or not be what Mal wants at all. Camilla clearly knows that, and she also apparently knows that Mal would be honest with Rowan about it if that were the case. And something about that blunt truth is significantly more comforting than any reassurance she could have given him.
She types something quickly on her laptop. “You’re all set. Malcolm reserved the Gold Room for you two tonight. Fourth floor, as I’m sure you could’ve guessed. He isn’t here yet, but he can show you to it when he gets here.”
“Thanks,” he says, fighting to keep his own smile at a normal level and not match her excitement.
“Nooo problem!”
He heads toward the elevator and can’t help but feel like he was being tested. Sized up, maybe. Idly, he wonders how close she and Mal are, and if he told her anything about their time together last week, or if she intuited it from seeing them walk out together.
On the fourth floor, the lighthearted teasing continues from Jeremiah at the bar.
“Back for more, stud?”
At this rate Rowan’s pretty sure his blush is going to be permanently imprinted on his skin. He might have to change his hair color so it doesn’t clash. Something dark, maybe.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Jeremiah laughs, the movement causing the thin golden chains dangling from his ears to catch in the light in a way that reminds Rowan of Camilla’s glittering eyeshadow. Now that Rowan takes him in properly, it almost looks like they coordinated outfits, Jeremiah wearing black slacks and a black button-up with the top three buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of sculpted abs. Once again, Rowan wonders if he would have hooked up with him had he not gotten into the gangbang.
“I meant what I said last time—that Malcolm’s a one-and-done type guy,” Jeremiah says.
Recognition trickles through Rowan slowly at first, then all at once like a deluge. That must mean….
“You actually hooked up with him?”
“Looong time ago, but yes.”
That gets Rowan’s brain whirring. How long ago? Who initiated? Who topped, if anyone? Was it kinky or vanilla? Why did it only happen once?
The litany of questions must be written all over Rowan’s face, because it elicits another chuckle from Jeremiah.
“Don’t think too hard about it. We were tipsy and bitchin’ about how we hadn’t had any good dick recently.”
Yeah, Rowan’s definitely gonna think hard about that. Despite all the burning, invasive questions flitting through his mind, the main one he wants an answer to is, “Was it good?”
A flash of brilliantly white teeth accompanies Jeremiah’s answer. “Very.”
He’s gonna think about that really hard.
“Blue Ribbon, right?” Jeremiah asks after a beat.
It’s really a wonder how everyone here seems so nonchalant about wreaking havoc on Rowan’s imagination. But he really should have expected as much from a sex club.
He blinks, willing away images of strong thighs wrapped around a taut waist, and feels himself nodding, too distracted to feel embarrassed by his drink choice. “Yeah, thanks.”
Jeremiah nods, retrieves a bottle from a fridge under the counter and uncaps it in one smooth motion. He places a cocktail napkin and glass on the bar top, then expertly tilts the glass and pours the beer so the foam reaches the rim without spilling over. It reminds Rowan of his own bartending stint, however brief, the memory less than fond. He shoves the thoughts away, not wanting to taint his night with memories of his past.
Rowan nurses his drink rather than downing it like he’s tempted to and risk losing his faculties. He swivels on his stool and takes in the club properly for the first time tonight.
Blue- and white-tinted lights stream down onto the dance floor and illuminate a crowd of writhing bodies dancing to the low, bassy music. A few couples make out in corners only marginally darker than the rest of the club. Small groups of people crowd around both the high-top tables and low-top booths, glasses clinking with sporadic toasts between bouts of laughter and snippets of conversation.
His eyes drift back to the dance floor and lock on to a guy in a tight tank top, biceps bulging and body rolling in a way that makes Rowan have to spread his thighs a little bit wider. He watches him dance, making his way toward Rowan one beat at a time.
He’s so focused on the guy’s bedroom eyes and the cut of his jaw that he barely notices the wave of people around him splitting and rejoining as someone moves through the crowd. He sees a hand snake around the man’s shoulders, causing him to turn in place. And then there’s Mal, easily a foot shorter than the other man, pulling him down by the neck and saying something in his ear.
Rowan jolts upright, willing the music lower—unsuccessfully of course—so he can hear what Mal could possibly be saying to him. A few seconds later, the man runs his hand down Mal’s arm and squeezes his bicep once before melting back into the crowd.
And then Mal’s making his way toward Rowan, and the lights are shining on him, casting pretty shadows across his cheekbones and making his eyes glisten, and God, he looks fucking ethereal , and Rowan’s wondering how he ever looked twice at the other guy.
“Yo.”
Rowan ignores the pulse of excitement that courses through him, the weeklong build of anticipation of seeing Mal again finally releasing as a tingling he feels all the way out his limbs.
“Who was that?” he blurts out, rather than offering a normal greeting.
Mal turns as if he’d already completely forgotten about the guy he’d spoken to.
“Him? Dunno, Jason… Jackson? No fuckin’ clue.”
“Oh. So you don’t know him?”
Golden eyes rake down Rowan’s body like he’s being scanned. It makes the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand upright.
“Fucked him a few months ago. Kind of an airhead, but he’s got a big dick.”
“Bigger than mine?”
Mal scoffs, but there’s an amused smirk on his face. “Got a complex?”
“Just scoping out the competition.”
“ Tch .”
Mal plops down on the stool next to Rowan, nodding to Jeremiah when the bartender makes eye contact with him. Mal’s dressed similarly to last time, dark jeans and fitted maroon top with a white denim vest, the sleeves fringed like they’ve been cut off. Rowan likes it. But now that he knows Mal’s an honest-to-God accountant , he’s having a hard time imagining him in slacks and a button-up. Though Mal had said he works mostly from home, so maybe he has no need for fancier clothes.
Frankly, Rowan would much rather imagine him naked…
… or he could wait, like, an hour and see it for himself again in person.
Yeah, that sounds much better. Saliva pools in his mouth at the thought, dredged up from the carnal part of Rowan’s brain that hasn’t been able to catch a break since he walked through the doors a week ago. He hones in on the glass as Mal takes a sip of his beer, watching the amber liquid disappear into his mouth.
He can’t believe a few hours ago he thought he’d have a problem getting hard again.
“How was your week?” Rowan asks after watching Mal take two more sips of beer.
Mal places the glass down but keeps his hand wrapped around the base of it, one finger tapping the side like he’s trying to decide what to say. Which is weird because it shouldn’t be a question that really requires any thinking.
After a moment longer, he finally says, “Fine.”
“That’s good.” He waits for Mal to ask him about his own, but after another long sip, he realizes he probably isn’t going to. “Mine was good.”
“That’s good,” Mal mimics the enthusiasm in Rowan’s voice, though it’s definitely put on.
Rowan can’t get a read on the guy, and it frustrates the hell out of him. For someone willing to share extremely intimate details about himself, he seems unable or unwilling to talk about anything mundane. Maybe he hates small talk, but fuck , if they’re gonna do this, they need to at least be able to talk like normal humans. Rowan’s about to say something when Mal takes another deep drink of his beer and he’s struck with a different thought.
“You’re not gonna get buzzed off that, are you?” he asks, gesturing to Mal’s half-empty glass. He’s thinking about how Mal hadn’t eaten last time; if he’s drinking on an empty stomach, he could easily get buzzed enough to lose his faculties and make it so they can’t do a scene tonight.
“Nah. Been drinkin’ practically since I was in fuckin’ diapers. And I never do scenes drunk. Shit’s dangerous, even if you know what you’re doin’.”
Rowan knows as much both from his recent research and from his wilder younger years, and he’s immensely glad to hear Mal agree with it.
He continues, further putting Rowan’s concerns to rest. “Was gonna have you look at the gear they’ve got so you know what’s available for the future. That’s gonna take a bit.”
Rowan finds himself nodding as Mal speaks. “Sounds good.”
They drink in silence for a few minutes, save for the music overhead, but Rowan can’t help sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Picturing him naked. Sweating. Spread open. Begging for cock. Rowan’s, mainly. Jason-Jackson’s and Jeremiah’s too.
He’s not as subtle as he thinks, and Mal catches him. “The fuck are you starin’ at, Red?”
Rowan feels his cheeks heat up, glad for the partial darkness and the blue lighting. He’s embarrassed to tell him what he’s really thinking, so he settles on a half-truth.
“Sorry, just… Jeremiah, ah, told me you two slept together.”
The bartender’s ears must have been burning, because a moment later he appears, asking if they need anything else.
“You tellin’ people my shit, old man?” Mal says, though it’s lighthearted.
Jeremiah rolls his eyes. “Puh- lease . Like you give a fuck about anyone knowing how much of a slut you are.”
Mal snorts in the back of his throat but doesn’t deny it as he downs the last few sips of his beer.
“Old man?” Rowan asks when Jeremiah leaves to help someone else. “He can’t be more than, like, thirty-five. How old are you?”
“He’s thirty-nine. I’m twenty-eight.”
“Oh. Cool. I’m twenty-seven.”
Mal’s eyes rove over Rowan’s face. “Got a bit of a baby face, man.”
“Uh… thanks?”
“It’s the eyes.” Mal doesn’t say what he means by that, or if it’s a good or bad thing, but as soon as Rowan takes the last sip of his own beer, Mal turns to him fully and says, “You good?”
When Rowan meets his eyes this time, they’re lidded, hungry , and Mal looks like he wants to eat him alive. And Rowan’s all too eager to let him.
“Yeah.”
Mal throws some cash on the bar, Rowan leaving his own tip next to it before he follows Mal past the dance floor and nearly all the way down the long hallway of closed doors to a room labeled The Gold Room.
The room itself is much smaller than the Black Room, though similarly furnished. The walls are black, but with gold pinstripes evenly spaced between, making the room all but shimmer from the overhead lights. There’s a supply table with a sink and mini fridge in one corner, an adjustable play bench in another corner, cases of toys lining the walls, and a queen-size platform bed topped with the same thick black pad in lieu of actual bedding. Rowan wonders if any of the rooms have real beds and thinks that he’d really like to fuck Mal on a proper bed at least once.
Mal closes and locks the door, something Rowan hadn’t noticed him do for the gangbang, then opens the toy case closest to the wall.
“C’mere.”
Rowan joins him and stares at the wide variety of toys. This cabinet seems to be filled with dildos and vibrators, and they look like the expensive sort, not the cheap stuff you’d buy from the seedy sex shops Rowan had frequented in his younger days. There are a range of sizes, from small and thin to nearly the size and length of Rowan’s forearm, which makes him wince. Mal pulls out a clear glass dildo that looks like a smooth stack of beads with a slight curve to it.
“This one’s my favorite,” he says, handing it to Rowan.
“Kinda small for a size queen.”
“Fuuuck off.” Mal laughs. “’S a good warm-up. Feels like beads.”
Rowan puts it back. “Any others you like?”
“Eh, used most of ’em except the fuckin’ massive ones. They’re all pretty good, but like I said, the real thing’s better.” He glances at Rowan’s crotch, tongue darting out over his lower lip.
Rowan huffs out a laugh through his nose, if only to keep himself from pushing Mal to his knees to let him have a taste of the real thing right now.
“Do you like vibrators?” Rowan asks.
“Vibes are good. Not big on the feeling inside unless it’s right on my prostate, but everywhere else outside is pretty sensitive.”
“Good to know.”
Rowan’s mentally cataloging everything Mal says. It shouldn’t surprise him that he seems so in tune with his body and knows exactly what he likes and what he doesn’t like, but it does. It’s a pleasant change from what he’s used to, anyway. In the past, Rowan’s had partners who barely knew how they liked to be touched, or had a hard time communicating it, so Rowan couldn’t get them off as well as he would have liked. And sure, given enough time he can figure anyone out, but that’s not exactly feasible for a one-night stand.
He’s lucky, really, that he was able to pick up on Mal’s tastes so quickly last time. It led him here, after all.
Glancing at the cabinet again and eyeing the litany of cock rings in all shapes and sizes, some with and some without ball rings, he asks, “How about cock rings?”
“Eh, they can be good for edging. Usually they annoy the fuck outta me.”
“Got it.” But a thought strikes him. “Did you like it when I cut you off from coming last week?”
“Yeah. Shit was hot. I’m big into edging and orgasm denial in general, so it was a good surprise.”
Somehow Rowan’s brain manages to make him feel both relieved and turned on at the same time.
Mal points to a set of fleshlights and masturbators. “You ever use those?”
“Fleshlights? Once, but it’s kinda shit compared to an actual hole.”
Mal snorts. “Got that right. Can be fun if you’re gettin’ fucked at the same time, though.”
And fuck if that thought doesn’t go straight to Rowan’s dick. He’s definitely going to have to remember that for the future.
Mal points out a large, long set of silicone anal beads, each bead nearly two inches in diameter. “These are my favorite. Got my own set at home immediately after I used ’em for the first time.”
It’s almost funny how willing Mal is to talk about sex—how eager he is to talk about it—when he wouldn’t even have a casual, polite conversation a few minutes ago.
“You wanna use ’em tonight?”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9 (Reading here)
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
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- Page 33
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- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37