Trick-or-Treat

by May Archer

  Trick-or-Treat

  May Archer

  Contents

  Trick-or-Treat

  About the Author

  Also by May

  Alain was pretty sure he’d elevated pacing to an art form. March ten feet to the left, stop at the shadowy mountain that was a stack of moving boxes in brighter light, then pivot. Ten feet back to the base of the stairs, then pivot again. Take a quick peek out the window to confirm that the driveway remained empty... Check. Not a car in sight, although the streets were thronged with trick-or-treaters, and the neighbors across the street were partying under strobe lights to the Monster Mash.

  It seemed he’d managed to find himself a house on one of those streets where homeowners tried to outdo one another for most over-the-top decorations. Lucky him. But the beauty of being the new neighbor on the block was that no one expected him to have all his decorative gourds in a row or to even pass out candy. At least not this year.

  He made a quick check of the time on his phone - Eight forty-five.

  One minute since you last checked, idiot - and pivoted back to resume his march. The pattern of it was comforting, and God knew he needed comfort after what he’d agreed to. His stomach flipped as he slid his phone back in his pocket.

  What you need is sex, Kevin had told him last night at the gym. At the time, Alain had been flat on his back, struggling to bench one hundred and twenty pounds while all six-foot-whatever of Kev’s lean-muscled gorgeousness had hovered just behind him in spotter position, his crotch practically in Alain’s face. So maybe it made sense that the sum total of Alain’s response to this statement had been a sharp grunt that was a cross between confusion and pain. The trainer in Kevin had, as usual, taken this as a sign to push him harder.

  Steve was an asshole, but you broke up months ago. You just need to get out there again, man. Get your confidence back. Don’t you think you’ve waited long enough? Kevin’s parting advice rang in his ears.

  Once Alain had been upright again, he’d completed the sadistic-but-effective workout regimen Kevin had laid out for him - a program he never would have thought himself capable of before Kevin - and he’d tried to explain that Steve had made some fair points in their civilized, post-breakup brunch discussion. Alain was a programmer - code and logic were his strong suits, not words and definitely not emotions. Steve was an artist - passionate and volatile. Steve needed words and attention the way flowers needed sunlight. He needed excitement and variety the way Alain needed routine.

  I’m too passive, Alain had confessed to Kevin as they’d showered and dressed in the locker room. Steve said I need too much direction.

  Kevin had immediately disagreed. Bullshit! Didn’t you tell me once that you were the lead developer in your department? Weren’t you the one who perfected that new distributed algorithm thing two weeks ago? Kevin’s face had flushed like he was embarrassed, maybe about repeating Alain’s geek-lord accomplishment.

  Distributed optimization algorithm, Alain had reminded him. But he’d flushed, too, at the idea that Kevin had remembered the throwaway conversation they’d had a couple weeks back. Steve had never even tried to show an interest in Alain’s work.

  So maybe Alain could blame his flustered condition for the fact that he’d then leaned back against his locker, dressed in only his boxers, and blurted out, No, he meant in bed, Kev. I need... I need too much direction in bed.

  Sadly, the locker room floor had not subsequently formed into a hellmouth and swallowed him whole, though his face had burned hotter than Hell’s Sixth Circle and he’d prayed for instant death.

  It had taken him a full minute of pulling on his jeans and toweling his hair, praying that Kevin wouldn’t give him lame platitudes about how he was a nice guy and there were other fish in the sea, before he’d dredged up the courage to meet Kevin’s gaze. When he did, though, Kevin’s warm brown eyes had been free of judgment, and fixed on him like he was considering something.

  In another time, in another place - that place being gay porn - that would have been the moment when the tinny pop music playing over the gym speakers morphed into something slower and more seductive. Kevin’s eyes would have flared hotter, the towel would have conveniently unknotted itself from around his waist, and he would have directed Alain all over the locker room - and hell, maybe the weight room, too, since this was Alain’s fantasy and he’d imagined the sexy, ginger-haired trainer going down on him while he was spread out on the press bench a time or twelve.

  Sadly, none of that had happened - and for obvious reasons.

  In this non-porn-based reality, Kevin was tall and muscular with abs for days, and he was maybe all of thirty years old. His auburn hair waved back from a face that could only be described as gorgeous - straight nose, strong brows, dark pink lips with an intriguing horizontal dent right below them, and this one perfectly circular freckle right at the hinge of his jaw. Alain had passed many a killer workout by focusing on that freckle, imagining the texture and taste of it. In the three months that Kevin had been his trainer, and subsequently his friend, they’d never discussed his sexual orientation, but Kevin was the type of guy - honest, kind, intelligent, funny, and sexy as fuck - that every man and woman in a ten mile radius would, and did, salivate over.

  Alain, meanwhile, was nearly forty and the dictionary definition of nondescript. Light brown hair, light brown skin, medium height, medium build. He and his gut had reached a cold-war-standoff where he accepted that all the crunches in the world wouldn’t make it go away, but he refused to eat the modified cardboard-and-twigs diet Kevin said would get him results. His last relationship had ended in cheating (Steve’s) and tears (Alain’s), and when Steve had politely asked whether Alain would mind moving out so that his new man could move in, Alain had ended up fleeing the city and buying himself an enormous, echoing suburban monstrosity instead. Rebound dating, but with a mortgage.

  So, in short, if there were a man on the planet less likely to attract the attention of a young, model-perfect fitness nut like Kevin, he couldn’t imagine it. He hadn’t been surprised, then, when Kevin had broken the tense silence of the locker room not with a lascivious smile, but with the words, Have you considered a dating service?

  Mortified, Alain had stammered out that no he definitely hadn’t. That whole scene was so superficial, wasn’t it? Was he supposed to post a picture of his dad-gut and hope some poor sap swiped right?

  But then Kevin had explained that the service- the guy - he had in mind wasn’t like that. I’ve got this friend, he’d said slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to freak Alain out with any sudden movements. Tall guy. Gay. Gym rat like me. He doesn’t do random hookups, doesn’t do bars.

  If this friend of Kevin’s agreed, and Kev was positive he would, it would be a sure thing. No uncomfortable chit-chat, no flirtation, no doubts. And, he’d added, rocking Alain to the core, his need for direction was no problem at all because the dude was anything but vanilla.

  Anything. But. Vanilla.

  Those words had ricocheted around Alain’s brain - fascinating and scary in equal measure. Was that what Alain was? Anything but vanilla? Was that what he wanted? His hesitation had apparently been all the confirmation Kevin had needed.

  Kev had frowned and hesitated with the next bit like he’d worried it might be a deal-breaker for Alain. He’s never really wanted anything long-term that I can remember, which is why he hasn’t dated. What he’ll do is meet up with you and give you a night to remember. Call it a fantasy night.

  A fantasy night. Alain’s heart started beating harder at the mere memory of those words on Kevin’s perfect pink lips.

  W-what’s the fantasy? Alain had stammered. His cock had started thickening in his jeans, and he’d draped his towel over his arm like a shi
eld to protect Kev’s delicate, probably-straight-boy sensibilities, but he’d gotten the distinct impression that Kevin had known anyway.

  Well, that’s for you two to figure out, Kevin had said, tossing him a wink that had nearly made Alain embarrass himself. But he’s a decent guy and you can trust him, I promise. Give me your number, and I’ll pass it on. He’ll get in touch, and you can work out your limits. Kink, bondage, whatever. He doesn’t do anything really heavy.

  Alain had nodded confidently, like he’d understood what that meant, but then he’d shaken his head as his common sense returned from vacation and he’d realized what he was about to agree to.

  Kev, I appreciate it. I do. But I just don’t think...

  That’s your problem, Kevin had told him, laying a thick, callused hand on his bare shoulder, and ignoring the way Alain’s body had shivered at the contact. You think too much, Alain. Tomorrow’s Halloween, remember? The one night of the year when you can do something wild, be someone completely different for a night, with no repercussions.

  And you think he’d want… me? Sight unseen? Alain had demanded.

  Kevin had given him the megawatt grin he occasionally bestowed when Alain conquered some new milestone in his workout. I’ll tell him you’re hot as hell. He’ll be all over it. It would have been an ego boost, if Alain had thought Kevin really believed it.

  Don’t lie to him, Alain had urged, horrified. But Kevin had simply shaken his head like Alain had just confirmed something, and told him to finish getting dressed.

  And before he’d known what was happening, Kevin’s friend Dillon texted him, making plans for their night. Total honesty would be the only requirement, everything else was negotiable. Did Alain like humiliation, pain play, breath play? The questions, asked so baldly and with zero context about what Dillon himself might like, had left Alain with no choice but to reply honestly. Definitely not, I don’t think so, and Probably not, in that order. Was Alain into bondage? He’d been in the middle of replying confidently in the negative to that, too, when he’d realized that, actually... yes, he thought he might be. Sensation play? A quick google search later, images of scenarios involving ice cubes and feathers dancing in his head, he’d replied with a probably. And how did Alain feel about role play - props, costumes, masks? He was surprised to find that, upon reflection, he felt pretty damn intrigued. It occurred to him that he didn’t even know what this Dillon person looked like, but found that really didn’t matter to him at all. He was too focused on what Dillon would do to him… and how much he wanted it.

  I’ll be there at nine, Dillon had texted after Alain had provided his address. And then his final message had arrived, making Alain’s stomach turn itself inside out.

  Lights off, shirt off, shoes off. Be ready.

  Be ready. Right. Yeah. Totally. Alain was ready, alright. Ready to snatch his keys off the hall table and flee into the night, or maybe to throw up. He wiped his damp palms on the legs of his jeans - the only item of clothing he was wearing, which ironically felt more like playing dress-up than if he’d had on a full mask and costume - and grabbed his phone to check the time again.

  Eight-fifty-five. Progress.

  Alain went over a checklist in his mind. Drinks were in the refrigerator. He’d changed his sheets as soon as he’d gotten home from work. Towels in the bathroom were clean, and he’d bought a fresh bottle of lube and some condoms to put in his nightstand drawer. It seemed like the right thing to do. Assuming sex was on the menu probably wasn’t too presumptuous given that Kevin had called Dillon a sure thing, right?

  In fact, Alain sincerely hoped the guy didn’t want to hang out before they moved onto the bedroom, because if he did, he’d be disappointed. Alain wandered to the living room doorway, and stood staring at the nearly-empty room. A single leather club chair and a side table with a lamp were the only furniture in the cavernous space. Even the wires hanging out of the wall above the fireplace where a television was supposed to go seemed pitiful. He had no idea what he was doing in this house.

  He had no idea what he was doing with Dillon. This wasn’t him. What had he been thinking?

  He grabbed his phone again. Was it too late to panic-cancel? To text and say he’d suddenly taken ill and they’d need to reschedule for the day after never?

  Just as he swiped to unlock the screen, his doorbell rang.

  He took a deep breath and felt vicious, fanged butterflies beat against the inside of his stomach, constricting his breathing. Okay. Definitely too late to cancel. You’re committed, so be committed.

  He flipped the lock and pulled the door wide.

  Holy shit, the man was enormous. Way taller than Alain, even taller than Kevin, this guy seemed to take up the entire door frame... or maybe that was partly because of the costume he was wearing. A long, black cape hung from his broad shoulders, covering what appeared to be a tuxedo in the shadowy light. The white shirt stood out against the darkness, pulled taut across a muscled chest, the sleeves rolled up to reveal shadowed, muscled forearms. Dark hair was slicked back from his face, which was covered by a half-mask that distorted his appearance.

  “Happy Halloween,” Dillon said, and holy fuck the man’s voice was deep and growly - and really, really familiar?

  Alain wet his lips nervously. “Phantom of the Opera?” he croaked.

  The half-face split into a wicked, white grin, and a deep voice replied, “Not a fan of musicals?”

  Alain snorted, clapping a hand to his mouth. “Oh. No, I am,” he said softly, his eyes not leaving Dillon’s face. “Just wondering if you’re planning to lure me to your dungeon and keep me captive forever.”

  “Maybe we’ll start with tonight.” Dillon’s voice twice as deep but just as soft. Before Alain had a chance to wonder what he was talking about, Dillon inhaled audibly, and Alain could sense that his gaze had sharpened. “Turn around,” he commanded.

  Wow. Wow, okay. That was... this was... weird. But strangely, not in a bad way. Alain trusted Kevin, and Kevin trusted Dillon, so Alain let himself relax as he turned around and faced the short hallway that led to his kitchen.

  “W-what happens now?” he stammered.

  “Now,” Dillon said, stepping behind him so closely that his hot breath painted the back of Alain’s neck and made him shiver, “it’s time for trick or treat.”

  “I d-don’t have any candy.”

  Dillon’s chuckle was maybe the sexiest sound Alain had ever heard. “That’s okay, handsome. I have different treats in mind tonight. But first...”

  He lifted his hands in front of Alain’s face, a black cotton scarf stretched between them. “I want to tie this around your eyes. Okay?”

  Alain swallowed, though his mouth had gone dry. He’d be effectively blind, and...“What, uh...what for? What’s gonna happen after that?”

  “That’s not what I asked you, Alain.” Dillon’s voice was patient, quiet, firm. “I asked, is it okay for me to tie this blindfold around you?”

  Alain’s stomach fluttered as his internal questions were choked off. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yes.”

  “I’m going to tell you exactly what I want you to do. Your job - your only job - is to do it. If you need to stop for any reason, you say trick or treat, alright? Repeat it.”

  “Trick or treat,” Alain whispered.

  Dillon tied the blindfold around the back of Alain’s head, close but not tight, and the world went black.

  “Wow. It’s funny. I mean, it was already d-dark in here to begin with and I could hardly see you, but this is different somehow.” Alain was rambling nervously - he knew it, but couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out any more than he could sprout wings and fly.

  Warm, rough hands trailed over Alain’s shoulders and down his arms, the sensation a hundred times magnified because he couldn’t see it happen, and a chill raced down Alain’s spine.

  “You’re so nervous,” Dillon chuckled, as his fingers trailed a path back up.

  “Sorry,” Alain breathed.
>
  Dillon chuckled again, his shirt-clad chest pressing heat into Alain’s back. “Don’t be sorry. I fucking love it.”

  “You do?”

  “Mmm.” Fingers dragged down his chest, pinched at his nipples. “Having you so nervous but submitting to me already is hot. And rare. It usually takes longer to earn someone’s trust.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Alain breathed, arching into those fingers. His head fell back onto Dillon’s shoulder. “I trust Kevin.”

  Dillon froze, his fingers pausing in their sensual assault. “What?”

  “I trust Kevin, and Kevin trusts you,” Alain said, blurting out his kindergarten logic. “So I can trust you, because he does.” He swallowed again. “Probably not cool to be talking about another guy when you’re here, huh? S-sorry about that.”

  “Baby, you just earned yourself your first treat,” Dillon said. He reached up and grabbed a handful of Alain’s short hair, tugging his neck to the side, then used his teeth and tongue to work the tender flesh he’d exposed.

  Holy shit.

  Alain actually cried out - a moan that echoed around the hallway, and Dillon wrapped his free hand around Alain’s waist, splaying it flat against his stomach. He nudged Alain forward. “Reach your hands out and lay them flat against the wall,” he rumbled.

  Alain intended to do exactly what he said, but then Dillon’s mouth was back at his throat, his skilled tongue licking at Alain’s earlobe and driving him crazy, and Alain’s hands froze in midair, curling into fists.

  Immediately, Dillon’s mouth moved away.

  “Did you hear what I said?” He smacked one broad palm against Alain’s ass - not a teasing swat but a very real smack that stung even through his jeans.

  “Y-yes,” Alain breathed, reaching his hands out obediently, finding the wall just a few inches away, and leaning in. “Yes, sir.” The word fell from his lips naturally, thoughtlessly, and before he had a chance to question why he’d said it, or whether it was weird that saying it was such a turn-on, Dillon rewarded him with a pleased groan.