The Dollhouse Society: Margo

by Eden Myles

  It occurred to him, while he waited for one of Udo’s boys to arrive, that he was only cheating on Shane because Shane had cheated on him, and that was a pretty childish attitude to take, but at the moment, Malcolm just didn’t care. He didn’t believe in committing unnecessary violence, and he didn’t drink—the man who had been his father (he used the term lightly) had been a chronic alcoholic who’d left his pregnant teen mother when he was still in utero and had died drunk and penniless in the gutter. But he did like sex. A lot of it. He liked the release, the way orgasm melted away the stress and violence within him, the way it left him in control of himself and his environment. And, after all, it was obvious his and Shane’s relationship was broken.

  Udo called to inform Malcolm that he was sending up one of his newest studs—the young man was clean, good and expensive, just the way Malcolm preferred his lays. Malcolm was in the magnificently tiled, Grecian washroom when the boy arrived. He stepped out of the room, tying the knot on his silken dressing gown, and immediately recognized Udo’s new stud, who was standing by the desk and unzipping his leather jacket.

  It was Devon Grayson.

  For a moment, Malcolm wondered if he was only hoping he was seeing Devon Grayson after all these years. But no…it was him, though he had changed, matured. He was taller and more filled out. His hair was still blond (though not canary-colored, more natural and subdued, a rich caramel color) and his eyes still clear and blue like a Caribbean sky. His complexion, once so icy-white and cold, had been professionally tanned to a butternut color. He was bare-chested and oiled to a hairless sheen under the leather jacket. He was, to put it mildly, beautiful and fuckable.

  Devon said, “I know you. You’re that bloke. The gov.”

  “Hello, Tweety Bird,” Malcolm said. The desire was there inside him, rough and hard. He had only felt such desire once before, his teenage crush, their first time. It had been five years since he’d spoken to this boy. That made Devon…twenty-one.

  They stared at each other from across the hotel suite, Devon shyly, Malcolm less so. Then Malcolm, acting on a rare but powerful impulse, crossed the room and took Devon in his arms. He smelled the oils of his leather, the sweetness of his hair and body, the musky, spicy scent that was just him, just Devon, and spun him around so Devon’s belly was pressed against the edge of the desk.

  Devon braced himself on the edge, and as he did so, his firm ass jutted up, whether intentionally or not. Malcolm wanted to believe it wasn’t just part of his training, that he was offering himself up to Malcolm.

  Devon watched over one shoulder as Malcolm gripped him by the hips and undid his belt and jeans in a frenzy of anticipation. “Let me fuck that sexy ass off you,” Malcolm said, surprised by his own lusty aggression, and dropped to his knees to lick the length of the boy’s bare ass crack.

  Devon immediately groaned and thrust back impulsively against him. “Please, yes,” he answered breathlessly. “Fuck me hard and make me come.”

  He wanted to be gentle. He didn’t want to hurt this boy. But the need to be inside him was overwhelming. He knew he would come in a matter of seconds, just from that one taste. He bounded to his feet and undid the belt of his robe, and before Devon could say anything more, before he could even react, Malcolm pinned the upper half of his body to the top of the desk and shoved the hard, hugely swollen head of his shaft deep inside him.

  Devon’s body fit him like a glove, like it had been made for him. Devon gasped even as Malcolm buried himself to the hilt in the boy’s sweet ass. Devon immediately tightened down around his girth, and before long, Malcolm found himself digging his fingers into the buttery soft flesh of Devon’s hips as he pounded away at him in an animal-like frenzy of pure lust.

  Devon grunted at each impact, the force of it shoving him roughly against the edge of the desk before dragging his hips back so he was ready for another assault. Malcolm’s balls slammed his ass so loudly the sound nearly drowned out the mewling noises that Devon was making. He clawed the surface of the desk with his nicely polished nails, leaving shockingly deep grooves there as Malcolm released his lust, anger and frustration inside his body.

  The violence of his need both shocked and worried Malcolm. He had never been this way with Shane, or even Richard, whom he sometimes regretted leaving. He breathed roughly into Devon’s hair as he fucked the boy hard and fast. His fucking finally grew so savage that Devon screeched with pleasure and came hard against the surface of the desk. Malcolm growled, buried his cock deep inside his lover’s ass, and came with a violent shiver that rippled through his body and into Devon’s.

  He felt like a shit when it was over and they had managed to collapse onto the bed together. Malcolm prided himself on being a good lover, on putting his lover’s needs above his own. He was never this greedy or self-serving, and he was almost never this violent or demanding in his lovemaking. But something in Devon had wrenched the lust from him, had torn his emotional guts out and laid them bare.

  He sexed the boy a second time on the bed, gently this time, going slow and watching Devon’s face for his reactions, for what he liked and didn’t like. Afterward, he lay holding Devon, kissing away the beads of sweat clinging to his hair and the odd tear on his cheek. He kissed Devon hungrily, as if he meant to feed at the boy’s mouth, swallow the air he breathed. He pressed himself against Devon’s rangy but strong body. Finally, he sought words. “I told you to make something of yourself, pet,” he whispered against Devon’s ear.

  “I did, gov. I did.” Devon looked on Malcolm curiously, as if he were speaking another language. “Udo’s a great bloke. Doesn’t lay a hand on me, or any of the other boys.”

  “Oh Devon,” Malcolm said, sounding angry even to himself. “Is that why you came here to America? Did your family…did they hurt you?”

  Devon shifted away from him and sat up. “It’s no concern of yours, is it?” He reached for a clove cigarette in his clothes.

  Malcolm bit his lip and watched the boy light up. “You deserve better than this.”

  Devon’s shoulders sagged. “This is all there is.”

  “Come here.”

  Devon did, and together they shared the clove, Malcolm’s first. Malcolm then gathered him in his arms and pulled him gently against the front of his body so Devon was sitting in his lap. Devon guided Malcolm’s already stiffening cock into his hole and started rocking against him. He closed his eyes and grunted as he took as much of Malcolm’s substantial cock as he could.

  “You are so fucking beautiful. You could be an actor, a model,” Malcolm said, passing both hands over Devon’s face and hair. “Devon. Or maybe Devon, like divine.” He kissed Devon tenderly, tasting sweet clove on his breath.

  Devon laughed, a hollow, unhappy sound. “I’ll be whatever you want tonight, gov,” he told Malcolm as they kissed.

  The following morning, Malcolm was up before the boy was—not surprising, since he had all but worn Devon out. He dressed in the near dark of the hotel suite and left a ten-thousand dollar tip lying on the desk, atop the scratches that Devon had made. He told himself he was going home to try and fix his and Shane’s relationship. He owed his lover that much, at least. A second chance.

  But the truth was, he didn’t like what Devon did to him. He didn’t like the loss of control he experienced in Devon’s arms. Devon was like Kryptonite to him.

  As he was slipping out the door, Devon turned over in bed and pulled the coverlet around his bare shoulders. He narrowed his sleep-softened eyes. “Until we meet again, gov,” he said and wet back to sleep.

  ***

  When Malcolm Sloan was forty-six years old, his boyfriend of six months, Warren, took him to a runway show down in SoHo for Fashion Week. The show was being held in a huge, renovated warehouse on the East River, and it was rumored only VIPs would be attending. Honestly, it wasn’t Malcolm’s scene. Maybe he was getting old, or maybe he was just overworked from all but running Harper House on his own, but somehow, he’d lost his appetite for these high
-profile, flamboyant affairs. More and more often, he thought about settling down, really settling down with a partner, a family. Of course, the Dollhouse Society would keep the flame awake in their relationship, but he didn’t want anything more than that anymore.

  Anything Warren dragged him off to was apt to be fun, but shallow. Warren was fun, but shallow, and Warren would be the first to admit to that. He even reveled in it. He dressed like George Hamilton (including the cravats and sailing suits), wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t imported and organic, and tanned to roughly the shade of a plum. Warren was most definitely not the one, but their relationship was good enough for now, and Malcolm had finally decided that good enough for now was all he could really hope for in this life.

  True love didn’t exist outside of fairy tales, made-for-TV movies, and bad 80’s power ballads. Passion was a concept for fools. Malcolm knew he was just one in a very long string of conquests for the lovely, air-headed Warren. But he went with his lover anyway, because he sensed these were the last fleeting days of their relationship. Malcolm felt both sadness and relief at the notion.

  Almost as soon as they arrived, Warren ran off to speak to some young, cute rep from Louis Vuitton, leaving Malcolm to mingle with a distasteful assortment of shallow, stony individuals obsessed with their stock portfolios until the lights went down and everyone assumed their seats for the show.

  Malcolm sat at his table in the dark, grimaced over the swill-like wine, and watched anorexic young men and women in ridiculous and impractical clothes stomping up and down the runway. He even entertained a fantasy of standing up, putting on his coat, and leaving the show. He thought about walking and walking—where to, he didn’t know. Away from here, he thought. Away from New York. Away from this life. His family was gone and love was just a fancy.

  Then he appeared.

  Devon Grayson, modeling a Burberry blazer and designer jeans, stomped toward him, blinded by lights and oblivious to his presence. Malcolm felt his heart catch, stop, turn over. Then it started to beat double-time to make up for itself. It took everything he had not to stand up and call out to him.

  Devon didn’t see Malcolm in the dark, of course, and Malcolm had a ridiculous notion: he had to find a way of telling Devon he was here, of begging him to stay. He had to stop Devon from stomping out of his life a third time. Reaching for a red rose in the vase on his table, he threw the flower to the stage at Devon’s feet.

  Devon stomped to a halt in front of it, glanced over the audience, and shielded his eyes. He immediately recognized Malcolm, though he was five years older and weighed almost forty pounds heavier than when they’d last met. Devon picked up the rose, cupped it in his hand to smell it, and blew Malcolm a kiss. The lights surrounded Devon, caressed him like he was some beautiful earthbound angel, and the audience finally learned to appreciate something beautiful and clapped and cheered. For five minutes they were intrigued by what they thought was a glorious show.

  Afterward, Malcolm slipped backstage amidst all the models changing into their street clothes, hunting for Devon, though most of the models did not even give him a backward glance; he looked like any other VIP coming through. Malcolm was, and always had been, the invisible man. But he didn’t care. He was a man on a mission.

  “You know, only the queers are allowed back here,” Devon said, leaning against the wall beside him, still holding the rose like some precious gift.

  “Yes, well, I’m a queer.”

  “Stalker.”

  Malcolm started before realizing that Devon was teasing him. He slid his hand over Malcolm’s arm and guided him to one of the private dressing rooms. He checked first to make certain it was empty, then ushered Malcolm inside the cramped, crowded little room full of dressing tables and racks of couture. The room smelled musty and sweet like too much perfume and body oil.

  Malcolm didn’t care. The moment they were inside, he slid his big hand around the back of Devon’s head and dragged him forward so their mouths could cling in a soul-searing kiss. Neither of them spoke, and neither of them needed to. Everything inside Malcolm surged at the taste of Devon’s mouth, that sweet clove taste. His desire. His love. And under that, a subdued ferocity he could only identify as jealousy. He was jealous of every man Devon had ever kissed, every man who had ever fucked him, either in the name of love or money. He wanted to erase those encounters, the years and the pain. He wanted to be Devon’s first. Devon’s only.

  Like their first time, he could just barely control himself. He pushed Devon back against a dressing table, held him down, and fumbled with both their trousers. There were strange buckles and ties on Devon’s jeans, and Malcolm ripped mercilessly at the fabric.

  “Easy, gov. Those are couture,” Devon complained. “They cost a thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t care,” Malcolm growled. He reached through a placket in Devon’s thousand-dollar couture jeans and took Devon’s fat, eager cock in his hands. Devon swore violently and threw his head back against the dressing table mirror when Malcolm closed his powerful fingers around the girth of him and began to stroke, to tug, to work him. He moaned when Malcolm traced the shell of his ear with his tongue before gently but fiercely biting the lobe.

  “Jesus, you are so fucking beautiful,” Malcolm told him breathlessly. “You’re all I want. You can’t be real.”

  Devon guffawed. “You don’t even know me, gov.”

  “I know you,” Malcolm told him as he fumbled Devon’s buttons open. “I’ve always known you.”

  They grappled each other’s cocks and stroked until they were both moaning and writhing. They groaned, kissed, licked and bit. Malcolm snagged one of Devon’s hard little nipples in his teeth past his half open silk shirt and sucked and bit until Devon writhed uncontrollably and started thrashing beneath him.

  Malcolm pushed him back on the dressing table. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart,” he said, and Devon obliged him. Panting, Devon urged his head down, relishing the warmth of his lover’s lips, his skin, his breath touching him so intimately. It was like some feverish madness, a dream that neither of them could control. It was something beyond control.

  It made perfect sense to Malcolm. Devon was unbelievably, unfairly gorgeous. Devon was what he’d been waiting for his entire life.

  It made less sense to Devon. Malcolm Sloan was hardly a looker, not even his type. He was invisible in a sea of business tycoons—quiet, unassuming, frighteningly mundane. But he smelled like leather, musk and cologne, and he had a gorgeous, learned mouth, a sure, steady touch, and the moment Devon felt the man take his cock in his mouth to suck, adding just a hint of teeth, he knew he was Malcolm’s, that he belonged to him. Malcolm was right; he had always known him. He arched upward into his lover’s wicked mouth, groaning out his satisfaction. Malcolm swallowed him down and sucked, slowly, seductively, but with tremendous force.

  “Bloody too slow,” Devon complained gleefully, gripping Malcolm’s hair. “Hurry up, gov.”

  “Not gov,” Malcolm said, coming up for breath. His voice was a low, faint growl. “I’m a gentleman. Call me Malcolm. Or call me sir.”

  “Yes, sir,” Devon said, spilling pre-cum over his twitching cock. Malcolm bent his head and licked it all away. He used his tongue to trace Devon’s cock from base to tip, boldly licked at the soft velvet of Devon’s testes. He breathed in Devon’s scent, nudged his legs further apart. Devon clutched his head and leaned back on the table to offer him better access. “Now bloody hurry up!” He sounded so much more confident than in their last encounter.

  “I hurt you last time,” Malcolm said, tenderly licking the insides of Devon’s thighs until they gleamed with his saliva. Devon’s cock twitched and brushed his cheek, fat and hard. He lapped at his lover’s hole, blew gently upon it until Devon trembled. “I was too rough. I intend to take my time with you, pet.”

  “I like it rough,” Devon said, thrusting upward in an effort to entice Malcolm, and then added, like an afterthought, “sometimes.”


  Malcolm glanced up, raising his eyebrows at that. He’d had few lovers who wanted to explore their sexual boundaries with him. Fewer still ever made his short list for a courtier. He lowered his head and sucked at Devon’s balls, lathering his saliva all over them, then traced the narrow bridge of his perineum with his tongue before circling his eager opening once more. Devon thrust compulsively against him. Malcolm stopped to slide one of Devon’s legs over his shoulder, then returned to licking and teasing his asshole until he was just wet enough. He sank two fingers inside and Devon arched his back and muttered a breathless “Fuck,” before coming with a lunge into Malcolm’s hand.

  Malcolm licked the come from his fingers, then returned to licking and teasing Devon until he begged Malcolm to fuck him. It was only then that he stood up, pinned Devon to the dressing table, and eased his cock inside his slick, quivering hole. He caught Devon’s beautiful face in his hands as he took him. He wanted to see his expression as he submitted.

  It was beyond sublime. Devon watched him out of dreamy, half-closed eyes as Malcolm moved inside him, little thrusts at first as he waited for Devon to acclimate himself to his size, and then long, even thrusts as they came together in a natural erotic rhythm. Devon arched his back and matched Malcolm thrust for thrust, giving himself over to his lover, muttering little nonsensical words in his ear in his crackling, halting Cockney dialect.

  “Tell me,” Malcolm said, as they moved together as one, and Malcolm realized they were taking up the thread of their conversation from five years earlier. “Tell me why you came here to America.”

  “My father…” Devon managed between grunts of pleasure. “My father beat me. Why wouldn’t I come here?”

  “You were a pickpocket and a whore, but you became a model,” Malcolm said, not without pride.

  “You told me to. You told me to go to the shelter. I did. You told me to make something of myself. I did.”