If It Flies

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Thought the man who had the entire firm except for Percy convinced he wasn’t even a little bit homosexual. Then again, he didn’t imagine ticking the wrong sexual box would hurt Nick’s career like it would his. After all, it had been all over the news just last week: the City still didn’t deal very well with sexual minorities. Hell, it was still very much a white boy’s sandbox as well as a straight one’s. Because if there was one thing that made heterosexual white guys in their fifties clench up, it was people who were different from them.

  So. Not out. Knowing this firm and its partners, he doubted that he’d join their ranks if they knew he liked cock.

  Especially shoved up his arse.

  With a side of pain and some sharply barked orders, apparently.

  Percy could probably get away with getting outed; he had the divorce settlement to prove that he wasn’t actually completely gay. Spencer had nothing. Just a work schedule that made keeping a personal and emotional life too complicated. There were whole weeks – months – he simply didn’t remember, like they’d been cut out his life by some satanic pact: money for life-force.

  Did Nick feel like that, too? Was the world of prostitution quite as soul-sucking as the field of corporate law?

  Damn, he really hoped for some conversation next time. He couldn’t draw a bead on Nick at all, couldn’t put him in a box, didn’t know anything about him, only that he topped like a demon, and that he was probably a sadist of some description. Nick had clearly enjoyed everything he’d done to Spencer. Seemed to, anyway. That, or he’d given the performance of his life.

  Spencer finished his roast beef sandwich and ordered another coffee. Then he figured he’d better return to his reverse merger. He had to earn the money first that would allow him to feel those things again, that abandon and the pleasure edged with pain. A worthwhile reason to head back into the office and chew his way through a cubic metre of files.

  The afternoon crawled by. So did Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. It was paperwork, phone calls, meetings, headaches, a liquid lunch or two with Percy, and sheer mental overload. This merger would be completed soon, he hoped, though he knew damn well “soon” in the corporate world could be at the other end of a geological age. Especially with public markets as volatile as they were. All it took was one of many parties to suddenly get cold feet.

  He stayed late every night and came in early every morning, spent so many hours face down in the sea of documentation and reports and bullshit that the only way he could tell a dream from reality was whether Nick was sitting in the chair opposite his desk or not.

  In dreams, Nick spurred Spencer on with sharp sighs, leather creaking every time he crossed and recrossed his legs or folded his arms, and, when Spencer really slowed down, black-painted nails drumming emphatically on the wooden armrest. In reality, he was as invisible as the delicious damage he’d done to Spencer’s body, but undeniably there. Goose bumps on the back of Spencer’s neck. A paper sliding off the desk like some little shit had come along and knocked it off. The carpet under Spencer’s knees when he knelt to pick up a pen that had rolled under his desk.

  Nick had never set foot in Spencer’s office, but he haunted it like he’d died here. If Spencer ever spent more than five waking minutes in his house, he’d probably have felt Nick there too. And maybe he did, but he was too tired to care.

  Finally, Friday showed up. Though he felt a little guilty about it – okay, really guilty – he cut out early. He needed a few hours between the workplace beating and the recreational one.

  Around five forty-five, his mobile phone chimed to life. At first, he thought it was Nick calling to cancel – don’t you dare, fucker, I will pay you double if I have to – but it was Percy’s name on the caller ID.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey, you want to meet me at Market Garden tonight?” Percy’s smirk came through loud and clear. “Sample the rest of the merchandise?”

  “Actually, I think I’m just going to stay home tonight.” He glanced at the clock, and begged it to move a little faster. A lot faster. Just be midnight, for fuck’s sake! “It’s been a long week.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Percy said. “Good time to go have a few drinks and let some trained hands take care of all the tension, you know? It did you good, Spence. You know it did.”

  “It did.” Spencer nodded once for no one’s benefit but his own. “But I just don’t have any energy tonight. Why don’t you tell me on Monday if you find one you think is my type? Then maybe I’ll give him a try next weekend.”

  Liar, liar ...

  Percy sighed heavily. “All right. All right. Well, if you reconsider, you know where the place is.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  A quiet chuckle came down the line. “Should I say hello to Nick for you?”

  Spencer’s shoulders tensed, but there was no way he’d let Percy know that his question had been much too close for comfort. “Sure. If he’s there, why not.” There wasn’t anything wrong about my voice just now, was there? “Have a great evening. I’m just going to hit the sack.”

  Percy thankfully left him alone. Man, when had their relationship started to feel like a pain in the arse, like an intrusion into his personal space?

  Ever since you decided to have some personal space, dumbarse.

  Spencer slipped his phone into his pocket, then realised he and Nick hadn’t agreed on a meeting place. Here, at his house? Probably. He remembered Nick saying something about a bag of tricks. That would require space. Privacy. And just how much could they do during, what, seven, eight hours? Realistically, more like two hours and sleep and maybe a repeat. But even one fuck would do him more good than just about anything else had recently.

  Sitting in the kitchen, he ate a salad he’d bought at one of the places around work, and washed it down with a glass of red that took the edge off a bit. Then had a long soak in the tub, grooming himself carefully. Shaved, trimmed, polished, resisted the urge to jerk off to relax. He’d enjoy Nick taking the remaining edges off for him.

  He wrapped himself in a large bathrobe and lay down for a while on the bed. Just to close his eyes and chill after the long hot bath.

  Chapter 6

  The doorbell prodded him out of darkness, and the Oh shit! in his mind jerked him into complete awareness. The DVD player said 12:05. After midnight. Right after midnight.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

  He looked down at his robe. Well, this would have to do. Nick could probably improvise if he’d expected Spencer to be fully dressed.

  On his way to the door, he paused and glanced in the hallway mirror, arranging himself as much as he could in a few seconds. Then he put his hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath, and sent up a silent thank you to whomever might be listening because Nick was finally here.

  He pulled open the door, and the horrid week evaporated.

  Leather jacket. Leather trousers. Laced-up boots that Spencer would probably be untying before too long. And over his shoulder, the nylon strap of a black duffel bag slung across his back.

  Nick’s green eyes seemed darker under the porch light, and he smirked as he gave Spencer a down-up glance.

  “Cutting to the chase, hmm?” That eyebrow quirked, and Spencer laughed just to keep himself breathing.

  “Something like that, yeah.” He stood aside and waved Nick in.

  As Nick moved past him, his gait fast and smooth like almost everything else he did, something in the bag on his back rattled. Metal against ... something. Something solid. Spencer gulped as he closed the door. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what Nick had up his sleeve. If he’d made a simple fuck-massage-fuck into something so earth-shattering, God knew what he could do with a handful of devices and implements.

  “Bedroom?” Nick asked over his shoulder, but it sounded less like a question and more like a confirmation of something he already knew.

  “Yeah. The ... the bedroom.” Spencer followed. “You remember where it is.”

  “I nev
er forget important details.”

  You don’t say.

  Two feet into the bedroom, Nick dropped the bag with a heavy thud and some metallic clanking. Spencer closed the door, and stepped around the bag and the rentboy. His heart was in overdrive now; hard to believe he’d been sound asleep a few minutes ago, because he was seven-Red-Bulls-and-an-espresso awake now. His palms were sweaty, making him wonder when he’d turned into a nervous school kid again.

  Oh. Right. When he’d brought this guy home the first time.

  This guy who was cupping his elbow in one hand and stroking his chin – no stubble; did he ever need to shave? – thoughtfully while he looked Spencer up and down.

  “The robe.” He made a gesture like he was dismissing Spencer. Or his robe? “Off.”

  Obediently, Spencer undid the knot and shrugged out of the robe. He draped it over a bedpost, faced Nick again.

  Nick’s expression and posture hadn’t changed. Ramrod straight crevices formed between his slim eyebrows. The only lines in his face, and even they were perfect and sharp. He still unnerved Spencer, but not as much as he had the first night. What that meant, Spencer had no idea. Was he getting used to the idea of a sadist-for-hire?

  And with all the wheels so obviously turning inside Nick’s head, Spencer wasn’t sure if he should be intrigued or scared out of his bloody mind. Maybe both.

  Spencer blew out a breath.

  “Hmm?” Nick asked.

  “Should I ...?” Spencer indicated the ground. That was where things started, wasn’t it, and he was itching to get started.

  “You like kneeling.” One of those statements. “Done anything to deserve it?”

  Deserve it? What? “I worked my arse off all week?”

  Nick’s lips quirked with genuine amusement. “Lippy. Might have to gag you.”

  Oh. God.

  “Safeword’s ‘Bonaparte,’” Nick said. “Remember?”

  Surprised that Nick did, Spencer nodded. “I do. How does that work if I’m gagged?”

  “When you’re gagged.” Nick’s lips curled into that demonic little grin. “Ever done martial arts? The tap to signal you’re giving up? That works for me.” Nick demonstrated a quick double-tap on the tight leather of his trousers. “Got it?”

  So Nick had done kung fu or something? Spencer really wanted to know more about the man. Where he’d come from, why he did what he did, whether he liked him or whether it was all business all the time.

  Nick cleared his throat. “Got it, Spencer?”

  “Yeah. Got it. I can remember that.”

  Nick nodded and indicated the ground.

  Spencer almost hurried to the spot and knelt.

  Oh, that took care of the awkwardness of standing naked and being studied. And how extremely odd that he preferred it down here. Nick touched Spencer’s hair, trailing the tips of his fingers down his temple and along his jaw, pushed two fingers between his lips. “Show me how much you missed me.”

  Oh hell, what was it about Nick that something so relatively minor could turn him on so fiercely?

  Because nobody else just pushed their fingers into his mouth or told him in no uncertain terms what the rules were. And that they weren’t up for negotiation. Spencer sucked on the two fingers, pretended they were a dick, traced them with his tongue and tried to get between them, but Nick resisted the attempt, so Spencer moved his head, fucking his own mouth with Nick’s fingers.

  “Very good,” Nick whispered. The turn-on was immediate and hit Spencer low in the gut. Nick wouldn’t have to work hard to get him off tonight. That bag of tricks there was serious overkill. All it took really was Nick’s attitude, his approval, and that big dick of his.

  “Hmm, you did miss me.” Nick grinned. “That much, huh?”

  And then some. Spencer just moaned an affirmative around Nick’s fingers. Nick’s other hand was on his hair again, stroking, petting. Calming and exciting at the same time. He squirmed, shifting his weight from one knee to the other. Somewhere in his mind, or in some parallel universe, he was already prostrate in front of Nick, taking him hard and fast until Nick pushed him to the very edges of bearable and climaxed himself, and in the present, in this dimension, that mental image made his head spin and his heart pound.

  “All night,” Nick whispered, still stroking Spencer’s hair. “I can have so much fun with you now, can’t I?”

  The needy sound escaped before Spencer could try to stop it. Once it was out, he didn’t care.

  Nick grinned, and then tugged the fingers Spencer had been sucking on. Spencer instinctively parted his lips to let Nick’s fingers slide out. As Nick withdrew his hand, he said, “Get my bag.”

  And here we go.

  Spencer leaned towards the bag, which was just close enough for him to grab without moving from this comfortable spot at Nick’s feet. He brought the bag back and set it beside him, looked up at Nick.

  “Open it.”

  He unzipped the bag. Holy hell. What was half this stuff? It looked like a mix of sporting equipment, office supplies, kitchen appliances, and torture devices. The nipple clamps, he recognised. Porn was educational once in a while, after all. The long leather-wrapped handle with the thin, knotted tails was pretty self-explanatory, as were the handcuffs. The ball gag was – wait, was that a horse bit?

  Nick squatted in front of Spencer, leather trousers creaking and his knee brushing Spencer’s bare leg. He reached into the bag and riffled through it, pushing aside all manner of things that must have come from the junk door in de Sade’s kitchen. Spencer held his breath. The horse bit was a little much. The cat o’ nine tails, maybe. Fuck those spurs or whatever the hell they were.

  “Ah. Here we are.” Nick pulled something free, and stood.

  Spencer looked up. In one hand, Nick had a black satin blindfold. Okay, fair enough. Not that he wanted to be blind in the same room as that goddamned bag, but okay. In the other hand, a skinny, foot-long stick, like an extra-long swizzle stick. Or an unlit sparkler. Except with a grip.

  His arse clenched. No way.

  He swallowed. “What ... what exactly is that for?”

  Every one of Nick’s teeth showed. His Cheshire Cat look was even more unsettling than those little barely-there grins. Especially when he had ... whatever the fuck that thing was in his hand. “This?”

  “Yeah. That.”

  “Quite simple, really.” Nick slid the blindfold over his own wrist so he wouldn’t drop it. Then he leaned down. He held the stick by the handle and pressed the last two or three inches of the opposite end against Spencer’s stomach. Fairly straightforward. At least it didn’t go anywhere near his arse.

  Nick lifted that free end with his index finger and pulled it back so the stick bowed with tension.

  Oh. Crap.

  He let it go.

  Snap.

  “Fuck!” Spencer grimaced and bit back a shitload more profanity. The intense sting, concentrated into a single tiny spot, took his breath away. “Is that even legal in this country?”

  “Don’t know.” Nick looked at him, all innocence and angel wings with those lifted eyebrows. “I may have neglected to declare them at customs. Got them at a specialist event.”

  Specialist event? Did toppy rentboys with a pile of interrogator tools have their own trade fairs?

  “Not sure what I’d tell customs, anyway.” He looked thoughtfully at the stick in his hand. “Declaring myself in possession of ‘evil sticks’ seems like it would just raise eyebrows and” – he waved his other hand – “I can’t be bothered.”

  Can’t be bothered. Right. “Evil sticks? Seems ... apropos.”

  Nick shrugged. “That’s what the vendor called them.”

  “Mm-hmm. Those can’t be covered by the Geneva Conventions.”

  “Sure hope not.” Nick grinned. He cupped Spencer’s face in one hand, the firm but gentle touch sending a shiver through him. “You’re cute when you’re freaked out. We better get to business.”

  Business. Whic
h involved getting him aroused as all hell and then crashing him down to earth, though he hadn’t felt the impact last time. Only when Nick closed the front door behind himself, that part was bad. Still had several more hours before that was an issue, though.

  “Here.” Nick dangled the blindfold from his outstretched fingers.

  Spencer took it and put it on. Nick vanished from view, but the smell of leather was still there. So was Nick’s hand. Spencer relaxed and was tempted to rub his face against Nick’s thigh. Didn’t, though.

  Nick took his shoulder and pulled, indicating he should get to his feet. When Nick pushed him towards the bed, Spencer stretched out a foot to make sure he wasn’t stepping on anything.

  “Just trust me.”

  Just. Right.

  “Here.” He took Spencer’s hands and placed them on the footboard of the bed. “Hold onto that. ‘Bonaparte’ or the double-tap stops everything.”

  Everything. Spencer nodded, closed his fingers around the edge. He had to bend forwards, but the position itself was comfortable and stable.

  Nick pushed up against him, his leather-clad groin brushing Spencer’s arse. He tapped the inside of Spencer’s right leg. “Open further.”

  Spencer slid one foot over the carpet and couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  Absolutely not, he heard himself telling a boyfriend a few years ago. No blindfolds. No fucking way.

  But now there was a blindfold on his face, and he was obediently making himself vulnerable for a man who gleefully carried around something called an evil stick.

  Nick drew him out of his thoughts by running a hand – warm, soft, light – down the centre of his back. His spine straightened one vertebra at a time, like Nick was switching on electrical charges all the way down from Spencer’s neck to the small of his back. There, the hand stopped. Paused. Lifted away.

  No movement. No sound. No contact.

  Spencer swallowed.

  Crack.

  A hand hit Spencer’s arse so hard his eyes fluttered behind the blindfold.