Turning the Tables

by Claire Thompson

  Get this M/M BDSM Novella for FREE!

  Chapter 1

  Fuck.

  He knew this day would come, but that didn’t make it any easier. It had been four months, and though Hank hated to admit it, Reese’s absence was like a missing limb. There Reese sat in a private booth, as handsome and familiar as ever, leaning toward that loser he’d abandoned Hank for. Luca. What the hell kind of name was that, anyway? Their heads were touching as they no doubt whispered stupid nothings in each other’s ears. Nauseating.

  Hank looked abruptly away, trying to ignore the sudden pain in his chest. “Give me another Ketel One and tonic, light on the lime,” Hank told the bartender at Heat, a Denver gay bar he and Reese used to occasionally go to when they weren’t in the mood for BDSM play.

  A good-looking guy slid onto the stool beside him and gave Hank the once-over. Dressed like a biker in leather and chain, he was tall and muscular, both arms covered in tattoos, his hair shaved close to his head. A moment ago, Hank would have considered taking him to one of the make-out rooms, but he’d suddenly lost interest in a quickie with a stranger.

  He glanced again toward the couple in the booth, who seemed oblivious of everyone around them. How could Reese have just walked away from a lifetime together? They’d met senior year in high school, back when Reese was still in foster care. Hank had picked him up out of the gutter and brought him into the Seeley fold. He’d included Reese on family vacations, lavished him with material goods and, most importantly, claimed his virginity and taught him to embrace his submissive side.

  If it weren’t for Hank, Reese would have ended up a high school dropout at best, and more probably in jail. Even though he hadn’t always been easy to manage, Hank had kept him in line. And Reese had enjoyed their amusing games as much as Hank had.

  At least until this last time, when Reese had forgotten to play by the rules.

  It had started out as their usual bet. Hank would choose the mark and dictate the terms, and Reese would execute the seduction. But this time, instead of following the script, Reese had let emotions get in the way. Now Reese claimed he was in love. What a sap. Hank had taught Reese all about lust, obligation, power and control, but love? Love made you vulnerable. Love was for losers.

  Hank threw back the rest of his drink and dropped some cash on the bar.

  “Hey, where you going? The night is young,” the guy beside him said with a seductive smile.

  “Not tonight.”

  It was nearly midnight but still he couldn’t get the image of Reese with another man out of his head. Hopefully, some rough, mindless sex with a willing rent boy would distract him enough so he could sleep. Grabbing his phone, he hit the speed dial.

  “Gentleman’s Elite, how may I help you?”

  “Hank Seeley. Account number 10896. Send me a blond. Now.”

  He liked this new escort service. Though it was pricey, they had plenty of pretty boys who knew how to please and did what they were told. Money might not buy happiness, but it sure bought just about everything else.

  When the doorbell rang, Hank almost called for Julio to get it. Then he remembered. Julio had quit, too. He really needed to get another houseboy. The most recent boy he’d hired hadn’t worked out at all. Though he’d been nice eye candy, he had no idea how to properly decant a bottle of wine or give a decent foot rub. When Hank had needed a little oral relief, the guy had freaked out, pretending he hadn’t understood that aspect of the job. Hank had had no choice but to let him go.

  Getting to his feet, Hank made his way to the front door. A slender guy with blond hair to his shoulders and big brown eyes stood in the chilly October night. Hank let him in, already planning what he’d do to him.

  “Hi, I’m Stevie,” the twink said in a soft, girlish voice. He ducked his head coquettishly. No doubt the shy bit was an act, but it was one Hank liked. He’d specified in his profile that he preferred the shy virginal types who trembled when he brought out the whip, but didn’t hesitate to strip and offer their ass for the lash.

  “Hi there,” Hank replied. “Let me take your jacket.”

  Stevie handed Hank his jacket, which he hung on the antique coatrack he and Reese had found on their last trip to Paris. Stevie wore tight black jeans and a red T-shirt with the word Queerboy painted on it in white lettering. A tattoo of a snake coiled around his left biceps.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” Hank said, looking him over. “You new?”

  “Yes, Sir. I just started with Gentleman’s Elite. I hope I can make you happy, Sir.”

  “Me, too,” Hank said with a snort.

  Stevie stared around the front hall, which had inlaid marble floors and a crystal chandelier hanging from a cathedral ceiling. “Wow, Mr. Seeley. This is some place you got.”

  Hank shrugged, not interested in Stevie’s awe or compliments. “Thanks,” he said brusquely. “Let’s go upstairs to the playroom. I’m in a sadistic mood.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Stevie said, if not quite eagerly, at least willingly.

  As they walked up the wide, curving front staircase, Hank remarked, “I assume you know from my profile that I’m a Dom and I like it rough. The more you can take, the better the tip. Got it?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir,” Stevie said quickly. “I’m a total pain slut.”

  “Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

  He led Stevie past the Master bedroom to the playroom at the end of the hall. Along with workout equipment, he kept a bed there, as well as a portable bondage suspension frame and a spanking bench. Hank stored his BDSM toys in an Art Deco wardrobe that contained shelves on one side and a bar on the other with hooks for hanging his various whips and floggers.

  He let Stevie take it all in for a moment and then he snapped, “Get naked, boy. I’m going to use you good.”

  Stevie immediately shucked his clothing, revealing his smooth, pale body. There was another tattoo on his hip, this one of a red rose. He was shaved, his cock long and thick in contrast to his slender form. He would do just fine, thank you.

  Hank opened his jeans and pulled his already rising cock out of his underwear. He pointed to the carpet at his feet. “Get me hard.”

  Obediently, Stevie dropped to his knees. He cupped Hank’s balls with cool fingers as he took Hank’s shaft into his hot little mouth. The guy knew what he was doing and it didn’t take long to get Hank fully erect. He had planned a whole session, starting out with a good, hard paddling to get the boy’s ass hot before he used him, but now he suddenly felt too tired. He’d just fuck him and kick him out.

  “Get on your hands and knees right there on the carpet and show me that ass,” he said gruffly, forcing the image of Reese with that little twerp from his mind. Hank stepped out of his jeans and underwear, not bothering to remove his shirt.

  Stevie did as he was told, twisting back to watch Hank slide a condom over his shaft and squirt lube onto his fingers. He knelt behind Stevie and pressed a lubricated finger into the boy’s tight ass. Stevie offered a few semi-convincing moans of pleasure as he pushed back against him.

  “Eager slut, aren’t you?” Hank chuckled, the aphrodisiac rush of power fueling his blood. “Go on. Fuck yourself on my hand, whore.”

  Stevie wriggled until Hank’s finger was in past the second knuckle. When Hank tired of the game, he withdrew his finger and shifted himself until the head of his cock was nestled between the boy’s cheeks.

  As he eased himself inside, Stevie gasped, “You’re so big and hard, Sir.”

  Hank didn’t give the boy a chance to adjust. Let him earn his fee. Let him suffer. Hank took hold of the boy’s hips and thrust inside him, desperate for release, for oblivion.

  “Ease up,” Stevie cried, no longer sounding quite so girlish. �
�It’s too much, man.”

  Lust blended with fury at Stevie’s audacity. Hank let go of one hip so he could grab a handful of Stevie’s hair, which he used to yank back his head. “Thought you were a total pain slut, boy. You want your tip, you gotta earn it.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Stevie gasped. He was the same as everyone else in the world—he could be bought and sold if the price was right.

  The image of that loser, Luca, staring with those big cow eyes at Reese, rudely intruded into Hank’s brain. He rammed Stevie hard. As Stevie cried out, Hank reached around his narrow body, closed his hand around his swinging balls, and squeezed.

  “Ah,” Stevie cried. “That hurts, Sir.”

  Hank squeezed harder. “Good. Just focus on the money, boy.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Stevie gasped.

  Hank rutted a while longer, still gripping the delicate plums of Stevie’s testicles in his hand. Eventually bored with the torture, Hank let go and reached for Stevie’s throat. He wrapped his fingers around Stevie’s long, graceful neck, gripping hard just below the jaw.

  “Oh,” Stevie moaned. “I love to be choked, Sir.”

  Hank didn’t care what Stevie loved, but he got off on the control. He held Stevie fast by the throat as he slammed his cock into his ass. He was in the groove now. He was in the zone…

  Finally, his mind emptied into white, hot blankness as he was at last able to lose himself in the pure physicality of the moment. He was nothing but a cock, and this boy nothing but a hole to be ravaged, plundered and controlled.

  Hank moved like a piston inside him, his hand still around Stevie’s throat. After a while, Stevie started to struggle, trying to twist away, but Hank was by far the stronger of the two. It was only when Stevie bucked against him that Hank came to his senses and released the boy’s throat, though he remained buried to the hilt inside him.

  Stevie drew in a huge, rasping breath. Twisting back, his eyes wild, he demanded, “What the fuck’re you doin’, man? You almost choked me out! I didn’t sign up for this. Let me up.”

  Power ripped through Hank’s blood like pure cocaine. “I’ll let you up when I’m done with you,” he snarled. “You want your tip, you keep your mouth shut and do your job.” He punctuated his command with an especially savage thrust and Stevie grunted in pain.

  Hank’s balls tightened and he could feel the semen rising. The rush of his absolute control over the twink blended with the rage that seethed just below the surface. “Take it, Reese,” he grunted as he finally climaxed. “I own you. You’re mine.”

  After a moment, he let go of Stevie and pulled out. Stevie sagged down to the carpet, his pale body covered in a sheen of sweat, his face hidden in a tangle of hair. For a brief moment, the constant stranglehold of anger that had claimed Hank since Reese’s defection eased its clutch. He felt almost happy. Getting to his feet, he disposed of the used condom and pulled on his jeans.

  Stevie hadn’t moved.

  Hank prodded him with his bare foot. “Hey. Get up.”

  The guy rolled slowly over onto his back. He was frowning, his pale eyebrows drawn down to form a V over narrowed eyes. “You hurt me,” he whined. “And my name isn’t Reese.”

  What?

  Hank shrugged. “You took it like a man, Stevie. I’ll be calling for you by name next time.” He dropped three hundred-dollar bills onto Stevie’s stomach. Though he continued to frown, Stevie closed his fists around the bills.

  With the boy sent away and several fingers of Remy Martin 1738 Cognac coursing its way through his veins, Hank fell into his bed at last, refusing to let regret and loss worm their way back into his consciousness. Reese had left him. Big fucking deal. He’d find someone new. Plenty more fish in the sea.

  He closed his eyes, drifting at last into a hard-won sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Hank had distracted himself at The Underground, a hardcore BDSM club, both Saturday and Sunday nights. That Monday evening he didn’t feel like going anywhere. Instead, he pushed the speed dial for the escort club.

  “Gentleman’s Elite. How may I help you?”

  “Hank Seeley. Account number 10896. I want Stevie. Eight o’clock sharp at my place.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Hank drummed his fingers on his knee while he waited.

  The voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry, but Stevie’s not available.”

  “Not acceptable.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, not acceptable. Make him available. I’ll pay double the usual fee.”

  “Um, hold on please.”

  After another annoyingly long pause, the guy was back. “Stevie isn’t available. I’m terribly sorry. How about Diamond or Troy? They’re both happy to come visit you, sir.”

  Hank frowned. He wanted Stevie, damn it. He’d loved that spark of fear in Stevie’s eyes. He’d enjoyed the sudden change in his demeanor when he’d gotten his sizable tip. So what the fuck was going on? Not available, my ass, he thought peevishly.

  Diamond was a hot little number too, Hank reminded himself. But Diamond was a seasoned whore who didn’t care what Hank did to him. And he was too butch. He didn’t remember seeing Troy in the catalog. He must be new.

  “Tell me about Troy,” Hank said.

  “He’s five foot, seven inches tall with blond hair and blue eyes. He fits all the criteria on your checklist. I can text the link to his stats to your phone if you’d like, and you can call back if you’d like to confirm an appointment.”

  “Okay, you do that.” Hank hung up and waited a few seconds until the text arrived. He clicked on the link and opened the boy’s profile. Troy was good looking, slight and slender as he liked them, with large, innocent eyes and a small rosebud mouth. He was saved from looking too feminine by a prominent chin and several days’ stubble on his youthful cheeks.

  “Why not?” Hank said with a shrug. He’d give him a try. Maybe he’d have both Troy and Stevie in a threesome some time. He could make them do stuff to each other while he directed the scene.

  It was nearly an hour before Hank finally got the text on his cell that a visitor had entered the gate. He glanced at the screen. The name read Avery Thompson. He was confused for a moment, until he realized that Troy must not be the twink’s real name. Whatever. He didn’t care what he was called as long as he delivered the goods.

  A moment later, the doorbell rang. Hank’s cock twitched with anticipation as he got to his feet.

  “About time,” he muttered, moving quickly through the house. But when he pulled open the door, he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.

  The guy was easily six-four and maybe two hundred fifty pounds, too much of it in his gut. There was solid muscle beneath it though. He wore a black muscle T-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders and barely contained his bulging biceps. His arms were covered in a down of golden-red fuzz. He had ginger red hair, cut short, and sported a mustache and goatee, trimmed close.

  What the hell? No way this guy was Troy. Hank stared up at the big man in confusion. He had very green eyes that seemed to bore right into Hank, as if he were privy to all his secrets. His nose looked like it had been broken at least once and his skin was the sunburned, ruddy color of someone who’d spent much of their lives outdoors.

  The man extended his large hand. “I’m Avery.” His voice was a deep, masculine rumble. “From Elite.”

  Hank finally found his voice. “Where’s Troy? You’re not what I asked for. Jesus, how old are you, anyway? Forty?”

  The man lifted his eyebrows and had the gall to laugh, a throaty, open sound. Hank saw nothing funny in the question. “Getting there,” the guy said, still smiling. “Thirty-eight.”

  Hank waited for some kind of excuse or explanation, but Avery said nothing more.

  “I ordered Troy. You’re not Troy,” Hank said, increasingly annoyed.

  “No,” Avery agreed placidly. “I probably weigh twice what he does,” he added with a grin. “So you’re getting a ba
rgain.”

  Hank glared at the big man. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Apparently not,” Avery replied, still smiling. “Comedy was never my strong suit.”

  “You’re nothing like my usual boy,” Hank snapped.

  Avery shrugged as if they were equals. “Again, my apologies. Apparently, Troy had some issues with your, uh, style.”

  “What?” Hank sputtered. “I’ve never even met the guy.”

  “I’m sorry. I really couldn’t say. The guys talk to each other so…” Avery trailed off.

  That fucking Stevie. He was happy enough when he got his three-hundred-dollar tip, the ungrateful little bastard.

  “I never listen to the gossip,” Avery continued. “I was happy to accept the gig. But if I’m not what you’re looking for, perhaps there’s someone else available who might be willing to come.”

  Willing to come? What the fuck? Wasn’t Hank the goddamn customer here?

  Apparently unaware of Hank’s rising distress, Avery added, “Unless you’d like me to stay?”

  Hank opened his mouth to snarl thanks but no thanks, but something in those compelling green eyes kept him mute and still. He didn’t understand his own hesitation. He never went for the bears, and this guy was entirely too cocky and self-assured. Yet, for some strange reason, Hank didn’t want him to leave. Without consciously making the decision, he stepped back and gestured for Avery to enter.

  “What the hell. You’re here now. You give good head, Avery?”

  Avery entered the hall, allowing Hank to close the door behind him. “So I’m told. How about you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you give good head?” Avery repeated calmly, a small smile playing over his generous mouth.

  Who the fuck was this guy? “I’ll ask the questions,” Hank snapped. “You’re on my dime, don’t forget. This isn’t a social call.”

  “Okay,” Avery replied, entirely unruffled. “Would it be an accurate guess that you don’t get many social calls?”