If It Fornicates

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “That fucking place doesn’t deserve you,” Nick ground out.

  Spencer smiled at him, warm and sweet. “Seems too late to leave now. I could potentially be partner in a year or two.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Sighing, Spencer shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe when the job market thaws, I’ll go work for another firm. A place that’s a bit more ... colourful.” He gave a snort of humourless laughter. “Can’t believe my office still doesn’t have a GLBTQ group. Though I haven’t made the effort to start one, either, so maybe that’s my fault.”

  Great. High-stress job, habitual backstabbing in a place that didn’t value him and didn’t make him feel safe. And Nick had moaned about Market Garden on occasion. “It’s not your fault, Spencer. It’s their fucking job to make sure you feel comfortable and acknowledged. It’s maybe not common knowledge, but there’s plenty of evidence that non-discrimination policies and positive attitudes in the workplace towards minorities boost overall productivity.”

  Spencer arched a questioning eyebrow. “You sound quite knowledgeable.”

  “Well, I’ve studied motivation and burnout,” Nick muttered. “Academically.”

  “You ever get burned out in your job?”

  Nick whistled. “Oh, once in a while, yes.” Though it’s not burnout lately, is it, Nick? You know better than anyone it’s not. He shook the thought away and took a sip from his coffee. “But a physically demanding job like that isn’t quite as hard on the psyche as a soul-sucking job in a miserable environment, is it?”

  Spencer pursed his lips. “You know, before I knew you, I’d have thought it was ironic, hearing that from ... someone in your line of work. But now ...”

  Nick might have taken offence from anyone else. After hearing time and again how he was selling himself, devaluing himself, damaging his own soul, and all of that bullshit, his knee-jerk reaction was to lash out at whoever offered that kind of self-righteous pity. Except it wasn’t self-righteous pity coming from Spencer. Just a matter-of-fact observation coupled with the acknowledgement that perhaps he’d misjudged sex workers, Nick included.

  Nick hooked his finger in the handle of his coffee mug and idly turned the cup in circles on its saucer. “You ever think about changing careers?”

  “What else would I do?” Spencer asked with a slight shrug. “I’ve known since I was a kid I wanted to go into law.”

  “And was this what you saw when you were a kid?” Nick tilted his head. “Being a corporate lawyer for a firm that either walks on eggshells so they don’t get sued or walks all over you because they can?”

  Spencer winced.

  So did Nick. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re right.” Spencer sighed. “And no, this wasn’t what I had in mind back then. Nothing like it at all.”

  “Is it something you want to do for another ten, twenty, thirty years?”

  Spencer looked downright exhausted by the thought.

  “I didn’t think so.” Nick sipped his coffee. “So why not do something else? Something completely different?”

  “Such as?”

  “Massage therapy comes to mind.”

  Spencer’s eyebrows jumped.

  Nick laughed. “Did you think I was kidding last night? You have a natural talent for it. Might as well use it, and I guarantee people will appreciate that more than what you’re doing now.”

  Spencer shifted his gaze to the table, but his eyes were unfocused. He tapped his thumb on the edge of his saucer.

  Nick leaned forward, folding his arms behind his own coffee cup. “I’m serious, Spencer. You might not make as much money. Most likely not. I don’t know what massage therapists make these days. But you’re good at it. And you seem to enjoy it.”

  “When it’s you, yes.” Spencer’s eyes flicked up and met Nick’s. “I’m not sure I want to do that for other people.”

  “It would beat the hell out of what you’re doing for them now. Hell, join up with a chiropractor or something. Wellness stuff. You’re ... such a sweet, gentle guy, Spencer. A people person. You make me feel better when I’m in the same room with you ...” He nearly faltered, because wow, that somehow pierced him right through the heart, and he saw in Spencer’s face what it meant to him to hear it. “And I can’t imagine I’m the only one. And your hours would be flexible, too. No working weekends, no struggle to take time off.” He put a hand over Spencer’s wrist. “And you won’t have that place or those people sucking the life out of you.”

  “I was telling myself it would get better once I make partner.” Spencer sighed. “But more and more, I’m not sure it will. I’m not even sure I care about making partner. You just end up getting more involved in the politics, representing the firm ...”

  “Pushing your career won’t solve the problem, Spencer.”

  “I know.” Spencer shook his head. “I’ll think about it. It would be nice to downshift and get out at some point, while I’m still, you know, young enough to do something with my life.”

  “I think that sounds eminently sane.” Nick finished his coffee, and cast a restless glance at Glenn and his family. “Much saner than hiding who and what you are and making do with some half-arsed compromise that kills you a little inside every day.”

  “Point taken.” Spencer glanced in the same direction, then looked at Nick with his eyebrows up. “Any objections to getting out of here?”

  “None.”

  They both stood, chairs scraping loudly on the wooden floor, and Nick resisted the urge to glance at the client again. Then they left the café, walking a lot faster on the way out than they had on the way in.

  Once they were away from the café, Nick released his breath, rolling his shoulder to ward off some of the stiffness trying to creep back in.

  “So you, um ...” Spencer glanced at Nick. “You know him too, then?”

  “I do.” Nick didn’t elaborate. Spencer didn’t push. Maybe one day, after Spencer had cut ties with that firm and didn’t see the arsehole strutting around all the time, Nick would tell him a story or two. He wondered if Spencer would be surprised to hear that his happily married senior partner or whatever the fuck he was called was just the kind of client who drove Nick out of his mind, and not in a good way. Glenn had been exhausting. Waltzed into a whorehouse, asked for the most dominating Dom on the payroll, and then tried to turn the tables every chance he got. He wasn’t a submissive. He was a douchebag alpha male who’d made it his goal in life to make sure everyone knew they were below him. The second night he was with Nick, he’d picked up the cat-o’-nine-tails and informed Nick he’d be swinging it this time. Fucker was lucky Nick hadn’t shoved that thing up his arse. Sideways.

  In fact, he’d only serviced the guy twice. If the man showed up at Market Garden these days, Nick found a way to be busy, and when the guy had once had the balls to walk up and tell Nick he wanted him for a night, Nick had had no qualms about telling him off. He could only imagine how Glenn felt seeing the whore who wouldn’t give him the time of day walking around in public on Spencer’s arm. Or shaking his wife’s hand.

  Poor Linda. The woman must have her hands full with him. Or maybe she was as receptive as Nick, which was why Glenn had ended up at the Garden in the first place.

  “Nick?”

  Nick shook himself and looked at Spencer. “Sorry. What?”

  Spencer chuckled. “You all right? You kind of spaced out.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Just, um, thinking.”

  “You run into ... um, clients like that? Very often, I mean?”

  “It’s a big city,” Nick said with a shrug. “But I cater to people with big bank accounts, and people with big bank accounts tend to hang out –” He gestured around the art exhibit. “– in places like this.”

  “Fair point.” Spencer exhaled. “I guess it’s bound to happen, then. Just wasn’t expecting to bump into him of all people.”

  “Of all the people you might’ve run into,” Nick asked, gesturing over his s
houlder towards the cafe, “are there worse ones than him?”

  A low bark of laughter burst out of Spencer. “Oh. God. Yes, there are worse ones. He might announce to everyone in the office that I’m gay, but one of the other partners? We’d still be in there listening to all the reasons we shouldn’t be out together like this.”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” Nick said.

  Spencer smiled. “True. Forgot who I was with for a minute there.” They exchanged glances, and both laughed. Then Spencer slid his hands into his pockets. “We still have time to check out the Klein and Moriyama exhibit. You game?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 7

  If the massage thing didn’t work out, Spencer could always try catering – those lamb kebab thingies on the almond couscous with cucumber yoghurt salad were bloody amazing. Light, too. Nick found himself polishing off a full plate and not getting drowsy. “And you cook,” he added to the long list of Spencer’s qualities.

  “When I have the energy left. Did a dinner club thing as a student. You know, two friends and me, and we kept meeting to eat and study.”

  “I’m not sure I want a bunch of psych students in my flat,” Nick said. “Someone might catch a glimpse of some of my ‘toys’ and ...”

  Spencer chuckled. “That could be a bit awkward, I suppose.”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Well, that group was where I learned to cook. Also, I had a bit of a crush on one of the other guys.” Spencer smiled sheepishly. “Guess I tried to impress. It did leave me with a working knowledge of cooking simple dishes. Nothing too elaborate, so don’t expect Heston Blumenthal-style food any time soon.”

  “Not even if I ordered you to?”

  Spencer cast his gaze down. “I might have to find a way to cheat.”

  Sub, but creative on his end, too. Nick grinned. Maybe he could get Spencer to break a rule. Eventually. Not yet – he just loved Spencer’s obedience and that unspoiled, full-hearted way he threw himself into his role. But eventually. Just one of many spices available to keep things interesting.

  Spencer went quiet. Well, the conversation had come to a lull, anyway, but he was distant. Preoccupied.

  Hopefully not with that arsehole we ran into today.

  “Something on your mind?” he asked.

  Spencer shifted in his chair. Resting an elbow on the table, he ran a fingertip along the smooth edge of his jaw. “Just thinking.”

  Nick took a drink to wet his mouth and also mask his need to swallow nervously. “About?”

  Looking Nick straight in the eye, Spencer said, “I’m not the only one stressing myself into the ground over my job.”

  “No, you’re not.” Nick lowered his gaze. “Are you going to tell me I should change fields too?”

  “Not necessarily.” Spencer watched him for a moment. “But like I said last night, I really think you should think about changing ... something.”

  Nick arched an eyebrow.

  “Nick, my job is stressful no matter what. Maybe that means I need to change it, maybe it doesn’t, but aside from people now knowing I’m gay, our relationship is separate from my job.” Spencer inclined his head. “You’ve said yourself that our relationship has a direct impact on your ability to do yours.”

  “Okay, yes, it does.”

  “Which means that the more you’re stressed about one, the more it’s going to affect the other.”

  Nick shifted uncomfortably. “So what are you suggesting?”

  The lawyer and submissive were at odds for a moment, Spencer’s posture stiffening even as his eyebrows pulled up slightly.

  Nick spoke first. “If our relationship threatened your job, or the other way around, which would you leave?”

  “I’d leave the one that’s making me the most miserable,” Spencer said. “Question is, in your case, which is it?”

  Nick tapped the handle on his coffee mug. It was a valid question. Fact was, both the job and the relationship were sources of stress, and they compounded each other.

  “You’re stressing like this because of me, and because of your job,” Spencer said. “Something has to give, Nick.”

  Nick eyed him. “Is that an ultimatum?”

  Spencer opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. “I ...”

  “Just say it,” Nick said through his teeth. “If you want me to choose between you and my job, then let’s not beat around the bush. Just say it.”

  “It’s not that,” Spencer said. “It’s ...” He drummed his fingers on the table beside his coffee cup. “All right, let me ask you this.” Spencer leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “As my Dom, you’d never have me do something that made me uncomfortable, right?”

  “Of course not.” Nick shook his head. “Never.”

  “Right. And if you do, I can safeword, and we call it off, correct?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Spencer moistened his lips. “Well, being the reason you’re losing sleep and coming apart at the seams is one of those things I won’t let you ask me to do.”

  Nick’s spine straightened and he pulled in a breath. “Spencer, you’re not –”

  “I’m not telling you to make a decision this instant,” Spencer said softly. “And I’m not telling you to choose between me and your job. Well, I mean, maybe I am. And maybe this does qualify as an ultimatum.” He put a hand over Nick’s arm and squeezed gently. “I just don’t want you falling apart because of me.”

  I’ll be falling apart because of you no matter what, Spencer.

  Nick put his hand over Spencer’s on his arm. “Give me some time. This is all still so new. I just need to learn to balance my two lives.”

  “If you think you can manage that,” Spencer said with a nod, “then I can live with it too. All I want is for you to be happy.”

  “That’s all I want for you too.”

  “And I’m not going anywhere today. I just don’t want this to fester into something that makes us resent each other.”

  Nick nodded. “Understood.”

  The silence that fell was unusually awkward for them.

  Spencer cleared his throat. “So, for now, are we still ...”

  “I don’t see any reason things should change,” Nick said, his own nerves settling as Spencer relaxed. “We’ll figure things out, but in the meantime, I don’t want to change what we’re doing.” He grinned. “You don’t want me to stop beating the hell out of you?”

  Spencer shivered. “Absolutely not.”

  “Good. I didn’t plan on it.”

  Spencer returned the grin. “Speaking of which, we talked the other night about ... about, what was it you called it? Chastity play?”

  Nick barely kept himself from a relieved exhalation. “We did, yes.”

  “What exactly would that entail?”

  “Anything I want it to.” Nick set his glass down beside his empty plate. “I could make you wear a device. All kinds of them out there. Or I can just tell you that you won’t touch yourself or get an erection all day.”

  Spencer gulped. “Which type do you prefer?”

  “That all depends.” Resting his elbows on the table, Nick steepled his fingers above the plate. “Depends on how sadistic I’m feeling, and also how obedient my submissive is.”

  Some subs twitched and fidgeted over comments like that. Spencer was the type who visibly settled. Calmed, even. His shoulders came down, and some tension Nick hadn’t noticed before melted away from his brow.

  “What do you think, Spencer? Do I need to put a device on you? Or is my command enough?”

  “Your command is enough,” Spencer said quickly. “You don’t ... you don’t need to put anything on me.”

  Nick smiled. So willing. So obedient. “I don’t need to, but I could if I wanted to.”

  Spencer nodded. “Of course.”

  “You do know what the ‘T’ in CBT stands for, don’t you?”

  Spencer swallowed. “Torture.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Nick w
atched him for a moment. “The fun part.”

  Spencer shivered.

  Nick took another drink to cool himself down. “I have plenty of devices we could play with. One or two might not fit you –” He grinned again, and so did Spencer. “– but I have a few that will. Would you like to try?”

  Spencer watched him quietly. Then he said, “If that’s what you want me to do.”

  Fuck, but this man was born to submit.

  “Hmm. I left my bag at my flat.” Nick lowered his hand to the table and drummed his fingers. “Maybe we should go get it.”

  Spencer’s eyebrows jumped. “We?”

  Nick nodded. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But ... I’ve never been to your flat.”

  “I know.” He stopped tapping his fingers. “Why don’t we go over there, then?”

  Spencer nodded. “Let me –” He paused. Then, gesturing at the table, asked, “May I clean all of this up first?”

  Nick smiled. “Of course.”

  * * * * *

  Compared to Spencer’s house, Nick’s one-room studio in Angel was tiny. It sat atop a shop that sold furnishings – drapes and curtains and cushions that cost a fortune – but the location suited him because it was quiet in the mornings, when he had to sleep in.

  He opened the door and stepped inside, let Spencer take in what he wanted. The hardwood floor, the bed in the far corner, a low futon with a sturdy headrest. The bookshelf lining one wall, and the huge desk pushed right up to the window, wooden blinds regulating the light coming in from the street. The desk was full of papers, laptop sitting on top of some psychology textbooks he was working on. Kitchenette taking up another corner. One door to a bathroom. Sparse, uncluttered; tiny, really, the whole thing smaller than Spencer’s living room.

  Two large canvas prints that Nick loved filled up some of the white walls. One was a close-up shot of metal chains, filling every square inch of the canvas, adding dark and grey and silvery accents to the flat that was mostly wood surfaces and white. The other was more explicit – a bent, muscular back, barely visible in the gloom, an arty shot of strength and obedience, and in a certain light, Nick could easily imagine bruises or bloody gashes on the surface.