Sidetracked Willa Okati All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2008 Willa Okati
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ISBN: 978-1-59596-611-7
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Editor: Crystal Esau
Cover Artist: Karen Fox
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Sidetracked Willa Okati Devon’s not having the best night of his life. An escort-for-hire, he’s just been humiliated at a ritzy gathering and stiffed by his patron of the evening. On his way home, Devon contemplates his old dreams and wonders if there’s such a thing as a second chance -- and if there really are any Prince Charmings left in the world who’d take an interest in a lonely little Cinderfella. When the subway taking him home switches tracks, Devon’s alarmed, then annoyed. He didn’t even know underground trains could do that! More worrying still, he appears to be the only passenger left, and the subway’s lights are going out one by one. And approaching him from the far end of the car is a man in a white mask and gloves, a man who embodies every sexual fantasy Devon’s ever had. Is this a dream, or has he actually found himself not a Prince Charming, but a Phantom?
Chapter One Ten p.m. had come and gone, and while it was still fashionably early for partiers and it was his job to be out and about, Devon wanted nothing more than to head home, toe off his borrowed shoes, and face plant on his couch to sleep for hours. Instead, he found himself dressed in a stifling tuxedo, a tacky suede mask one size too big and a few thousand dollars’ worth of cufflinks and Italian leather that didn’t belong to him, and a woman he couldn’t tolerate on his arm as he escorted her into the “party to end all parties,” a masquerade ball that glittered with Hollywood stars and their hangers-on. Fun. Or, you know. Not. Devon would so much rather spend his time with a Cowboys game and a cold beer. The woman who’d hired Devon for the night, as she had on multiple occasions before, tugged sharply at his elbow. “Devon,” she whispered furiously, apparently able to sense his dislike of the situation. “Don’t you dare embarrass me. I’d hate to have to deliver a negative report to the Company.” Devon gave his employer of the night his best, falsest, most charming smile. “I’m sorry, miss.” “Don’t call me that!” She looked to and fro, betraying her nerves more than shouting Hi, I’m here with a hooker! would have done. Devon took her hand and sighed. “Apologies, Rosa Sharon. Shall we go inside?” Rosa Sharon sniffed haughtily. Another night on the job. Hurray? Probably not “hurray.”
*** If Rosa Sharon wanted champagne, then Rosa Sharon got champagne. The waiters, however, were masters when it came to carrying around full trays and neatly
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dodging anyone who didn’t have “old money” imprinted on their genes. He thought they had to have X-ray vision, but they could always tell who was born to nibble on caviar and who’d been weaned on Cheez-Its. They definitely went out of their way to avoid Devon. In the end, Devon had had to damn near lie in wait and jump the guy just to wrestle two flutes off his tray. And now he had no idea where she’d gotten to. “Hello,” someone addressed Devon from behind as the clock struck eleven o’clock. “Are you as unimpressed by the festivities as I?” Devon tensed, unsure as to how to interpret the man’s tone. Teasing, convivial, yet… sensual. “Thanks, I’m having a good time,” he lied cautiously, turning around and edging back to put a few feet between himself and the stranger, masked as were all the rest of the revelers at this party. Trying to assess the situation, Devon looked up at the man who’d addressed him. And up. And up a few inches more. Granted, Devon wasn’t the tallest of guys, about five-foot-ten in his bare feet. But the man who’d spoken to him? At a guess, Devon would put him at six-footsix, give or take an inch. Not a skinny guy either, not lanky as men so tall often were. His muscles might have had muscles, sleek and rippling with the power of a prowling panther. The fall of his tuxedo shirt, pure white linen, emphasized rather than disguised the cut of his abdomen. The man’s half-mask was made of plain white leather, but Devon couldn’t get many more details, as his own mask fit so poorly that by now it hung halfway over his eyes and he couldn’t adjust it with his hands full. “You aren’t enjoying yourself?” The stranger shrugged, already turning away. “Enjoyment is a relative term. I am sure the night will improve. Sooner rather than later, if I have my way.” Something about the way he said that sent a cold chill down Devon’s spine. “Really, now,” he said as politely as he could, backing up a little more. “There’s lots to do here.” Like dance, drink, and flirt and… no, that was pretty much it, unless you
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counted gossiping, which in his opinion was played like an Olympic sport in these rarified circles. “Are you here alone?” he asked carefully. The stranger shrugged. “For the moment, but the moment does not last forever, does it? We will meet again. Soon.” He nodded to Devon, dismissing him, and turned to walk away, disappearing into the crowd. Devon hesitated, half-worried, half-intrigued. He looked up to try and track the man. Fate conspired against him, choosing that moment for his overlarge mask to slide down and completely cover his eyes. He swore under his breath, tugging it back up, but by the time he got a halfway clear look again, the man was gone. He shivered, remembering the rich baritone of the man’s voice. Lord have mercy. If he wasn’t on the job and if he had zero sense of self-preservation, that was the kind of guy he’d want to go after. Lucky him that he couldn’t, eh? Devon grimaced under his mask and got back to work.
*** Twelve o’clock, and all was not well. Devon hadn’t been able to locate Rosa Sharon since he’d had his encounter with the masked man, and that didn’t bode well for his paycheck. The thought that she might have been avoiding him boded even worse. Depressed, he took five minutes for a breather and found his way to the balcony adjoining the ballroom in the mansion where the masker’s ball rollicked on. The cold, clear night air washed over him in blessed relief, loosening the tension in his chest until he thought he could breathe freely again if he stayed out there long enough. “May I have this dance?” Hello, Mr. Masked and Mysterious. Devon swallowed the sip of champagne he’d taken seconds before the man had attracted his attention. The bubbles were starting to go up his nose, and the last thing he wanted to do was cough and splutter. Not a great impression to make.
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Of course, sitting like a great lump on a log and gawking like a child at the circus probably hadn’t helped. The masked man sank to a graceful crouch before Devon, reminding him more strongly than ever of the power of a deadly jungle cat. Like all the other revelers, the white half-mask he wore with such sensual grace concealed his identity far too well. Devon’s breath hitched, half excited and half alarmed. He had no idea if he’d met the man outside this glittering masquerade. He could be anyone from an old client to a jealous husband or psychotic chainsaw killer. In which case, his night -- which he’d thought couldn’t get much worse -- had taken a sharp spike downward. As opposed to his cock, which approved one hundred percent of the masked stranger and had no qualms about showing it, blood rushing downward with a speed and urgency that nearly made Devon’s larger head swim. Knowing he wasn’t fooling anyone, Devon still made the effort to cross his legs “casually.” The masked man, whose mouth could be seen under his stark white halfmask -- a sensual, full-lipped mouth made for sucking cock and whispering wicked, decadent secrets and promises -- smiled at him. Not a friendly look. More of a dangerous curl, telling Devon that here was a man who not only knew what he wanted and when he wanted it, but wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. Not that Devon thought he’d tell this guy “no” about anything. It’d been a long, long dry spell for him and if the masked man wanted what Devon thought he wanted? Hallelujah, amen, ring the dinner bell and bring it on. “May I have this dance?” the masked man repeated, taking the champagne flute away from Devon. He sniffed the pale golden liquid inside, grimaced, and drained the last drops. “So like the hosts of this ball,” he mused. “All show and no substance.” “That costs a hundred dollars a bottle.” Or so Devon had heard the wait staff saying. “Only a hundred.”
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The masked man’s dismissive tone prickled at Devon’s nerves. Only a hundred? When he wasn’t working, dressed in a company tuxedo with company-loaned cufflinks and Italian shoes and Rolex watch, Devon made do with paint-stained T-shirts and jeans with holes not artfully snipped by a designer, but worn out by long, hard use. Most of them had splotches of paint decorating the denim too. He ate Kraft Dinner, hot dogs and Ramen noodles, and washed them down with tap water. Only a hundred dollars? Devon’s lips twisted bitterly. If it wouldn’t blow his cover as the escort of Rosa Sharon, queen of the masquerade, he’d let this pompous jerk have a double earful of scorn and distaste, laced with a few pins jammed in his obviously considerable command of instant gratification. However, he’d like to get paid -- Kraft Dinner did still cost money, and rent didn’t pay itself -- and if anyone got wise to the elegantly lovely Rosa Sharon’s needing a hired escort, he’d not only walk out of there without a cent, but he’d probably never work in the town again. The company he worked for was the best. Discreet with a capital D, efficient with a capital E, illegal with a capital Felony, and cut-throat with a capital bang, bang, you’re dead. Maybe not literally, although sometimes Devon had his worries about that. God knew that once they’d coaxed a contract out of him, they’d sunk their claws deep and held the sword over his head every day. The plan had been to work until he sold a few paintings and socked away a nest egg. Yeah. Right. Unless the Company wanted you gone, they didn’t let go. Not like he could tell Tall, Dark, Dominating, and Sexass any of that. The masked man took Devon’s hand, the leather of his perfectly fitted white glove startlingly cool and supple where it touched him. “Come. Dance with me. No one will say anything. No one will even take notice of us. I won’t allow it.” Devon shifted uneasily on the bench. He swung both ways. Thank God for it too. Clients of the Company more often than not expected sex as part of the price they paid for pretty arm candy or elegant escorts. His dry spell, far too long a one for his taste, came mostly at Rosa Sharon’s insistence. She didn’t share, and until she tired of him he
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was exclusively hers. And while he could get her off -- she insisted -- with his tongue and fingers, she disdained men as “messy” and unless he wanted to incur her wrath he didn’t even have the luxury of jerking off while he pleased her. And when it came to getting fucked the way he liked it? Wearing his ankles as earrings with a massive, aggressively toppy man giving him a pounding he’d feel for days? Ha! “I can give you what you need,” the masked man whispered, pulling Devon to his feet whether or not Devon wanted to go. His cock liked that very much indeed, its swelling by now uncomfortable behind the fastening of his tuxedo trousers. “After you give me what I want, that is.” “Natch,” Devon said, his mouth dry. Jesus, the way this masked man pulled him around, as if he weighed nothing. “Do I have to bother asking what you really want? I’m gonna guess it’s not just a dance.” “That depends on whether or not you mind ‘dancing’ as a euphemism for other, more enjoyable activities.” “Which would be?” Devon found himself helpless to stop the masked man as he led him forward, to the very damn center of the balcony. It seemed almost as if the guy had some sort of mind control whammy laid on him. Had to be some sort of hypnotic suggestion, because while he might have had a habit of external obedience drilled into him by the Company, he stayed true to himself on the inside and besides that, his dick didn’t lie. It insisted that dancing with this man, in whatever sense of the word, was exactly what he craved like a dark, dangerous drug. Oh, boy. “Begin.” The masked man placed one hand on Devon’s hip and one at the center of his back just below his shoulder blades, moving him forward into a dance. Saying “no” was definitely no longer an option. Devon let himself be led, his limbs remembering how to dance like a pro even if his brain had gone offline except for red-hot waves of lust clouding his head, leaving him feeling drunk and drugged.
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“There. Better, isn’t it?” the masked man asked. “You may call me Jean-Michel.” “I’m --” Jean-Michel lifted his hand from Devon’s hip and placed two cool, gloved fingers over his lips. “Shh. I know who you are. What you are.” “Ah,” Devon said, going cold inside despite his growing lust for the man. Figured. A gigolo was just easy meat, right? “Stop.” Jean-Michel tapped his lips firmly. “Do not presume to guess what I am thinking.” Devon raised his eyebrows. “Do not think. Do not talk. Dance with me. That is all I want.” Devon had been trained not to ask questions, but be damned if he could stop them right now, when he most needed to. “Which kind of dance?” “Hmm. Do you really wish to waste more time swaying to the tunes yowled out by an insipid string quarter, or would you rather fuck?” “That’s blunt,” Devon said. His pulse hammered in his throat. There was just something about this guy, something scary yet enticing. The smart thing to do would be to knee him in the nuts and hotfoot it back to Rosa Sharon, who would by now be wondering where he’d gotten to and -“Blunt is a particular specialty of mine,” Jean-Michel informed him. “You need not worry about your plasticized socialite employer-of-the-evening.” He turned Devon in the dance, nodding to indicate that he should take a look through the broad glass doors leading to the balcony at the ballroom just within. “Do you see?” Oh. Devon did see. Rosa Sharon twirled past, inarguably gorgeous in her crimson dress cut to the navel in front and the small of her back on the other side, the skirt only just long enough for public decency. She wore a Harlequin’s mask customfitted for her face, sparkling with genuine rubies and sapphires and diamonds. The man who had her in his arms, ridiculously lantern-jawed and handsome as a star of the silver screen, was easily recognizable. Alejandro, Devon’s primary rival at the Company, there as companion to another, less-dazzling woman.
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“That son of a bitch,” he breathed, stunned. The Company discouraged cat fighting, but they discreetly encouraged one-upmanship. Anything to keep the clients interested and be damned to the poor bastards trying to earn their daily wage. Alejandro’s abandonment of his less prestigious client wasn’t a problem in the Company’s eyes. Once he’d been supplanted, Devon would be expected to take the leftovers. All the clients would be happy, or should be if Devon did his job as was expected. As was demanded of him. More than once, Devon had thought he’d love to clobber some sense into folks who thought being a prostitute was easy work. “You seem to have been abandoned,” Jean-Michel murmured. “And so now, you are all mine.” Devon swallowed around the knot of anger choking him. “Great. We take Visa and MasterCard. No traveler’s checks.” Jean-Michel slapped Devon on the ass. Not a light love tap either; he meant it. He gaped at Jean-Michel as the man caught his chin between forefinger and thumb and lifted it sharply. “If I say you are mine, then you are mine. Do not argue this with me.” Damn his overactive mouth tonight. “The Company might say differently unless there’s actual cash on the table. No one -- else -- has the right to tell me what to do. Understand?” Jean-Michel’s lips twisted as if he’d just tasted something nasty. “I think I do not wish to hear any more about this Company. I already know enough. If you are so worried about money --” “I am. I’m ninety-seven dollars short of some decent champagne,” Devon scoffed. “-- then it will be taken care of,” Jean-Michel said over him, ignoring his interjection. He waved one gloved hand with an utter lack of concern. “Your Company will be paid in full measure for your time.” He caught Devon’s chin again and tilted it up. “And you will be rewarded richly, as you will learn to love to obey me. Kiss me.”
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He didn’t give Devon a chance to say no before bending to take what he’d demanded. His lips were hard and firm despite their soft appearance, commanding instead of asking, invading Devon’s mouth with his tongue when Devon gasped. Normally, the urge to knee Jean-Michel -- regardless of whether or not he actually acted on it -- would be almost too strong to overcome. Devon didn’t like being manhandled and despite his job -- or maybe because of it -- he hated being told what to think and how to react. With Jean-Michel, though? His body took over and left his thinking brain far behind, dazed into submission. Jean-Michel laughed softly and triumphantly. He pulled them closer together even as he expertly maneuvered them, still dancing, to a far more shadowed corner of the balcony, where only the moonlight on the white of their masks would give them away. If anyone happened to be looking. Which they might. At the moment, Devon couldn’t be bothered to care if Queen Elizabeth had decided to walk her Corgis past them. Jean-Michel’s taste and the unforgiving firmness of his directions, not to mention the insanely erotic manipulations of the man’s kiss, had him quickly forgetting his name, much less his objections. “Now,” Jean-Michel whispered, words buzzing on Devon’s ear when he bent to speak next to it, “you will do more than kiss me.” “We’re in public.” “No. We are in shadow.” Devon couldn’t exactly argue that. To be honest with himself, he didn’t want to. His blood fizzled and warmed in his veins like champagne fine enough to please JeanMichel, and God, but it’d be good just to go crazy. For a minute. One encounter. Then he’d go back to the real world with a fine memory. Jean-Michel seemed to sense Devon’s unspoken compliance. “Yes,” he said, tracing Devon’s ear with his tongue. “Obey me.” Devon’s perverse sense of frustrated independence chose that moment to assert itself. “Wait a min --”
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“No. Obey me.” Jean-Michel’s intensity increased. “You want to. Do not deny it.” He turned them so Devon faced the wall. “Put your hands on the stone. Yes, it is cold, but we are both hot enough to burn. Good. Keep them there, yes, keep them there.” Devon’s own breath warmed his cheeks. “Yeah. Sure.” “Good,” Jean-Michel purred. “Stand still. Very still. Do not move.” “Why not -- fuck!” Jean-Michel had nimbly undone Devon’s tuxedo trousers and thrust his hand inside, gripping Devon’s cock. “Oh.” “Oh, indeed.” Jean-Michel bit Devon’s neck, leaving a mark that Devon would have protested if his body hadn’t otherwise taken over, leading him forward to thrust through Jean-Michel’s grip and back against the rigid line of Jean-Michel’s cock, straining equally hard in the masked man’s tuxedo. Jean-Michel’s strong arms wound around his waist, pinning him fast and still. He spoke to Devon, a quiet growl in his ear. “Do what I say,” he ordered as he worked Devon’s cock. Not stopping. “No one sees us. No one matters here except you and I.” “God.” Devon fought for it, desperate to come. Jean-Michel was too skilled, too powerful. He couldn’t hold out much longer. He struggled for air. “Or perhaps you would like for someone to look out upon the night and see us,” Jean-Michel rumbled, dragging his thumb over the head of Devon’s cock. “Perhaps that excites you?” “Fuuuuuck,” Devon moaned, orgasm slamming through him, almost coming as a shock. Jean-Michel grunted behind him, grinding his cock to Devon’s ass. Through the haze of white-hot pleasure, Devon sensed Jean-Michel was climaxing too, the jerks and shudders running through him a sure-fire confirmation. He would have been a happy, happy man if he’d been able to collapse to the floor of the balcony and sleep for, oh, a few days. Jean-Michel seemed to sense that. He laughed and kissed the soft spot under Devon’s ear. “This is only a taste,” he said, sliding his hand out of Devon’s trousers and pulling the zipper closed. “Go and clean up.”
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“Uh-uh. Enjoying the afterglow.” Devon tried to cozy back, wanting more of Jean-Michel’s arms around him. Just a little more, before this had to end and he went back to the “real world.” “You have no choice. I must leave.” Jean-Michel slapped Devon’s ass, startling him into a humiliating squawk. “But know this: you belong to me, now, and I will capture you again soon.” “What?” A sudden rush of cool air where Jean-Michel’s warmth had been surprised Devon into twisting around. Not a single soul stood behind him. Devon gaped at the empty space. He couldn’t have imagined that. Could he? “Devon?” Rosa Sharon called, shrill as nails on a chalkboard. He looked up, guilty as hell, to see her standing by the doors. Her lips were pursed in a tight, narrow pucker and her temper blazing ice-cold. Behind her, his rival Alejandro hovered, smirking at Devon. A sinking sensation in Devon’s gut warned him of what Rosa Sharon was going to say before she said it. “Your services are no longer required.” Sometimes being right sucked.
Chapter Two So much for Cinderfella at the ball. “I have never,” Devon mumbled to himself, “felt like more of a jackass in my whole life.” He stepped into a car of the city subway, twenty-four-hour grungy service provided -- thank God. He glanced around himself. Empty car. Bonus, score, and double hurray. Facing another person? Not something he thought he could handle just then. Seeing as he’d come straight from a night of being handled. Rudely. Unencumbered by any shopping bags, radios, or other things people carried around, Devon thumped down into the first hard plastic seat he saw, then winced at the cold and the total lack of comfort it provided. What he’d give for subways that provided loungers and foot rests! After a full throttle night like this one, his muscles were rallying a serious protest. “Fan-fucking-tabulous,” Devon grouched, trying to get comfortable. Fat chance. The subway smelled awful that night, souring his grouchy mood even further. Some kind of fuel, grease on the tracks, chemicals, and the leftover stink of people who thought showers were optional. Normally he could ignore it, but tonight, Devon decided that he hated the subway. Maybe he wouldn’t get stuck riding them anymore when cat-cruel women like Rosa Sharon screwed him over. Maybe he’d get smart and figure out a way to quit the Company. Pack up his dignity and walk away. And maybe pigs would fly.
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Devon slumped in his seat, head hanging low. The trouble with selling yourself was that once you had, you might be able to walk away if you were really, really lucky, but you’d never actually be able to leave it behind. Unhappy, he tried to stretch out some of his soreness, twisting knotted and kinked muscles. He’d ache like fire and fury tomorrow. Well, actually, in about six hours, when he had to report to the Company and find out what they had planned next. Sighing, Devon leaned back against the window, letting the motion of the subway car rock him back and forth as it whirred on through station after station, not bothering to stop when there was no one else to pick up. He almost wanted to ride forever, although he knew he’d have to get off sooner or later. He’d love a chance to go home like a normal guy who’d just gotten effectively canned and just look through the want ads. See who was hiring for what. He could dream, couldn’t he? Besides, whatever the future held, it couldn’t be hairier than what he’d already been through. Could it? He should have known better than to think anything like that. As the words slipped off his mental tongue, the train pulled slowly to a stop at a station in the worst possible part of town and the doors slid open… And stayed open… And stayed open… Open far longer than a normal stop. Something wasn’t right, and to make matters even more worrisome, the general noise of even an empty subway car had dwindled down to nearly nothing. Devon had never realized it before, but silence could be loud when one was waiting, heart in his throat, straining to pick up on any kind of sound that confirmed the subway hadn’t broken down underground at o-dark-thirty in the morning. Any sound would do for a start, actually. Devon would have prayed, if he still believed in anything, to see a plain old wino or bag lady schlep into the subway car
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with him. At least then he’d know. At least then he might not have to try and figure out a way to get home without taxi money. Walking? A bad, bad idea. Traveling in his working gear was just asking to get mugged. The Company’s borrowed “accessories” were as good as a “rob me” sign hung around his neck, complete with instructions on how he should be knocked out cold or gut-shot, then violated. The thought occurred to Devon that someone might have rigged the subway to stop so they could pick off whatever passengers happened to be riding and take their time stripping the bones clean. Great. Nervous, Devon hunched in on himself, coiling his muscles in readiness. He did what he could to keep fit -- the Company liked their studs in pleasing physical shape -and he thought he had enough tensile power to kick someone good and hard while he tried to make an escape. To his huge relief, around a minute later the subway doors whooshed shut without a single soul getting on the car. If someone had embarked, maybe they’d entered one of the cars further up or down the line. Maybe they’d seen him and not wanted to take their chances with a lone stranger on a train at this time of night either. The thought almost made Devon laugh. Mark tonight down as the first time in a long time that someone might actually have been wary of him, huh? Chuckling, he settled back against the seats, relaxed now and able to think about getting home. He spared one last sour thought for Rosa Sharon, who’d damn well known the expensive party she’d dragged him to was all the way across the sprawling metropolis from where he lived, and hadn’t arranged a lift home for him, then let it go. Let it all go. After all, he certainly wouldn’t have to deal with her again, and that deserved some celebration rather than a pity party, didn’t it? His mood improved, lightening his view of the situation. When he thought about it, Devon figured subways could be mesmerizing, in their way. Their motion swayed him back and forth in the manner of a good rocking chair, soothing and relaxing. If he could get past the hard plastic and the smell of commercial cleaning solutions, he thought it might almost put him to sleep.
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Devon yawned hugely, then shook himself. No. No way, man. There could be no falling asleep on the subway. One, he’d miss his stop. Two, someone else could rob him much more easily when he was zonked out. Three… there had to be a three. Things always came in threes, didn’t they? Devon’s cheek sagged against the window. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he fell asleep and began to dream.
Chapter Three Devon dreamed…
Dancing. Dancing again, at the ball he thought he’d left behind him almost an hour ago. The music was soft and slow. Some kind of classical power ballad played by a string quartet, which made no sense whatsoever to his mind, but then again, what did he know about music? The chords were soft and velvety as the thin skin encasing a fine cock, but powerful as the muscles it took to ride a man through a no-holds-barred fuck. The notes flowed through his bloodstream, making him ache and burn to dance all night, to dance until he wore holes through the Company’s shoes. He wanted to meld himself with the sound, savoring every cadence of it, spinning in the rhythm. As if his partner -- a tall, strong man who could break him but held back until the time was right -- had read his mind, he maneuvered Devon into an assisted pirouette position, whirling him about. Devon did laugh out loud then -- and instantly kicked himself for being an idiot, knowing the Company seriously frowned on such displays. “Escorts” were there for display, not to make a spectacle of themselves. If word got back to his bosses, they’d have his neck as well as dock his pitiful percentage of any takes for weeks. “Shh, shh. You need not concern yourself so,” his dance partner murmured. “While you are with me, I alone hold you. You are safe here, where I have hidden us. No one will ever know unless I choose to tell them. And until you are willing, I shall not say a word. My gift to you, Devon. Will you take it?” Strong arms whirled Devon back against his partner, a solid wall of hard chest that felt as unyielding as if it had been carved out of marble. The breath whistled from
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Devon’s lungs as the sheer size and presence of the man registered in his head. He stood still as a mannequin, unable to move or to speak. “Stop that,” his partner chided. “You heard me. I have you; you are mine. All is well, Devon. You need not worry for anything anymore. I shall keep you safe and precious, rebuild you until you stand proud as an independent man once more, and have learned to bow your head to me when we are alone.” “I… what?” Devon’s vision had started to cloud, leaving him with difficulty seeing. The most he could make out of his dance partner was a white half-mask and white gloves. He thought he knew the guy, though he wasn’t sure from where or why. “What?” His partner laughed. “It is Jean-Michel, as well you should know. You must stop deceiving yourself, even in dreams.” “This isn’t a real dream,” Devon said, comprehending his situation more fully now. “Is it?” “What is a dream?” Jean-Michel shrugged before turning them in the dance, quite literally sweeping Devon off his feet. “Whether this moment itself is real or not, I leave that up to you. Only know this: those who have gawked and stared at you and had the presumption to purchase you in the past are, as of tonight, no longer your concern. I have claimed you. That is all you need to know at the present time.” “Oh,” Devon cracked uneasily. “If that’s all, then --” Jean-Michel thumbed his lip. “It will be an enjoyable challenge, teaching you silence,” he mused. “You -- you what?” “We will have long enough together for you to learn this lesson, and many more. I will never let you go, Devon. Perhaps not for all eternity.” “Asking me first might have been a good idea,” Devon’s mouth blabbered on without his permission. Jesus, was he trying to get himself killed? Even if this was just a dream -- and it was just a dream -- it didn’t pay to taunt the big cats.
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Jean-Michel chuckled. One strong, long-fingered hand encased in its white leather glove came down to caress Devon’s cheek, then moved past to twine strands of Devon’s red hair around his fingers. “Why ask when you can take? You belonged to me the moment you agreed to dance with me on the balcony, as we are dancing now.” “I don’t get a say in this?” “You do not want one. Do not lie to yourself, Devon. Do not attempt to lie to me, for I can see the truth quite easily. I know you want me. You wanted me when you first saw me.” “I didn’t. I mean, I couldn’t!” Devon strained to see Jean-Michel’s face, but by now it was almost completely hidden in a fog of thickly wreathed gray shadows. “The Company owns me. Okay? They might rent me out for a night, a week, a month, a year, whatever, but I don’t even belong to me, so I can’t belong to you for this ‘eternity’ you’re talking about. Let me go.” “No. I do not surrender my prizes without a fight,” Jean-Michel said, clearly displeased. “Give me your hand. Feel this.” Devon gasped as Jean-Michel’s hand dove between their closely-pressed bodies to cup his cock, then blushed deeply, his ears burning, as he comprehended the meaning of the dull, desperate ache in his groin. Jean-Michel stroked the urgently straining line of his cock through his tuxedo pants. “You smell my cologne, and it turns you on,” his partner began to chant. “You feel the solidness of my muscles, and you like them. You taste the pheromones in the air, and they go straight to your head. You hear my voice, and it makes you want to kneel and beg. “You see --” Jean-Michel paused with a grin Devon could almost see. “Me. You see me, and you want me. That is all. No more games.” Devon shook his head, struggling to get back and away. “Stop this,” he said, trying to wrestle away. “You’re wrong. I don’t want this. Maybe you want me and I might want a taste of your body, but --”
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“I am never wrong.” Strong arms snapped around Devon’s back and dragged him close to his partner, intimately tight against the rock hardness of Jean-Michel’s cock. Devon hissed, the cold air flowing with a spicy-cologne flavor over his tongue. He thrust against Jean-Michel’s lean hip, needing friction. “See?” Jean-Michel gloated. “Do you see now how you desire me?” “No,” Devon protested, struggling without much effort and to even less effect. “It’s hormones. Pheromones. Whatever. No, wait. It’s none of the above. It’s a crazy-ass dream. My subconscious trying to reconcile the incredible stupidity of humping a stranger on someone else’s dime, doing its best to come up with a happy ending for me.” Jean-Michel laughed. “You are not nearly as good at lying to yourself as you would like to believe.” “We all have our crosses to bear. I’d like to wake up now. Okay?” “Interesting that you should ask permission,” Jean-Michel mused. “Oh, very well,” he said. “Reality is far more entertaining, anyway. Open your eyes and wake up, Devon. East Central Station derailment approaching. Please hold on to your personal belongings. Remain seated or grip one of the railings or poles for support --” “What?” Devon blinked. “Huh?” “Wake up.”
*** Devon jerked upright, staring around himself with wide, panicked eyes. He was breathing fast, sharp inhalations of air, his heart pounding as if he’d just been through the worst of nightmares. Oh, God. He could still hear Jean-Michel’s bass voice, smell his spicy cologne, and feel those big hands roving over his body. Glancing down, he saw, shamed, that he’d almost embarrassed himself in public. His cock was so hard that it ached, and there was a damp patch of pre-come spreading over the already-stained crotch of his expensive, Company-owned tuxedo trousers.
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“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Devon cursed, searching in vain for something to scrub the stain with, glad for something to distract his nerves with. He should have taken care of that right away. Now that it had set in, it’d never come out, and having to buy another tuxedo from the Company’s wardrobe would take a huge bite out of any percentages he might still have to his name. He reached into his pockets, letting go of the railing on his bench, hoping against hope he’d find a napkin or something -The car gave a huge lurch, tossing him halfway across the aisle. “What the hell?” Devon yelled from where he’d landed, crumpled into a heap on the subway floor. He checked himself over fast -- no broken bones, no scrapes or scratches, no oozing blood, but he’d smudged and smeared the rest of his tuxedo all to hell, and there would be no repairing it. Ruined! Surging to his feet, Devon pounded on the intercom marked “for emergencies only” and shouted: “What do you think you’re doing?” at the subway driver. “You owe me a suit, pal! Do you know how much this thing cost? It’s gonna come out of my next paycheck, and -- and --” Devon stopped, staring around himself. Was it just his imagination, or had it gone almost totally dark outside? Even the tunnels had some illumination these days, to keep out vagrants and squatters, but the ones they were going through only had a bare bulb mounted every thirty or so feet. Definitely not just in his mind. And -- oh, shit! -the car lights themselves were beginning to fade and wink out. “This isn’t funny!” he bellowed into the intercom, getting no response. Panicked thoughts quickly began clouding out any remnants of common sense he had left to his name. What if the driver had passed out? What if he’d had a heart attack and died? Oh, no, not good at all! With the last bits of his hold on rationality, Devon tried to reprimand himself for getting hysterical. Thing was, though, even his tiny remaining corner of logical brain had to admit the situation didn’t bode well. Those lights had definitely been
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extinguished for some reason and now the subway car was beginning to jerk back and forth, heaving on the tracks. Devon had an awful feeling, and no good reason to refute it, that no one and nothing was manning the subway anymore. Ending his inglorious career in a fireball crash deep underground was not the kind of blaze of glory he’d have wanted to go out in! Frantic now, Devon hammered on the intercom. “Come on, come on! Someone, anyone. Pick up!” No answer. But then, then… ever so slowly, the subway began coasting to a halt. Devon sucked down a deep, shuddering gasp of relief. Maybe some kind of fail-safe had kicked in. Auto-pilot. Lock-down. Something for the just in cases where a driver did lose control. At least they wouldn’t crash. Probably. Devon felt much better about things for about five seconds, up until the thought occurred to him: the subway might not crash, but it wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon either. Worse still, from what he could tell, he had an awful suspicion they’d detoured into a little-used tunnel. Someone might not find him for days if he wasn’t able to clamber out and find his way up to the surface. Worst-case scenario thinking, sure, but it was possible. Damn it! And here he’d thought the night was bad enough. How could it possibly have gotten so much worse? Things come in threes, he thought with a sudden, sick horror. First his confrontation with Jean-Michel -- he counted the crazy dream, already fading, as a corollary -- and now the train breaking down. Two big upsets. What would be the third? Devon figured he should have known better than to ask when, as if in answer, a face flashed by the outside of the subway car. He yelped and spun around, trying to see who it was. Too late, though; they were already gone. Then, seconds later, they blinked past the other side. Again, Devon wasn’t able to get a good look.
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The car lights winked out entirely. Devon stood alone in the dark, the only glimmer of light coming from a bulb some distance down the track. The bare shine of it turned everything in the car into sharp-edge negatives, black shadows with wicked definition. His heart thudded in his throat, the only sound except his breathing.
And…
And…
Footsteps. The sound of footsteps. Someone walking from car to car, making
their way closer and ever closer to him. Oh, boy. Hooray?
Chapter Four “Someone… ah, yes, someone has been… a very… very… bad… boy.” A beam of light -- a flashlight? -- swung back and forth, tick-tock pendulum style, as a disembodied voice sing-songed the words into the darkness of the subway car. “Who is it? I wonder, who is it?” “Oh, great. A psychotic. Yep, that’s all I needed to top off the night, boy howdy.” Devon scrambled backward in the subway car, falling on his ass once again. He didn’t let the tumble slow him down but rather kept on going, scooting until his back was pressed flat against the solidly vacuum-sealed doors. He turned around to peer at the stubborn gateway. Maybe if he pried at them… but with what, huh? “Idiot!” he spat in self-disgust, slapping one hand open-palmed against the glass, as if that would do any good. “Naughty, naughty, naughty,” the voice chanted, as the swinging light came closer. “It is a good thing I prefer my men wicked, wouldn’t you agree?” Devon swallowed hard. “Who have I caught in my little trap?” A pealing roll of laughter echoed through the car. “Might I have snared the deer I laid the trap especially for?” The light swung upwards, illuminating a face and giving it the spectral special effect so popular during campfire ghost stories. “I think I have.” Devon stared at the man, terrified by what he saw -- or what he didn’t see. The man’s face, half in shadow, looked half-formed. He’d swear it didn’t have any features! Just an expanse of darkness lit by a hungry white smile and two gleaming eyes. Wait. Devon resisted, but only just, the urge to slap a hand over his forehead. The guy was in a mask. Not a ghost, not a monster.
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The relief only lasted until he realized that while this fellow might be human, there were no guarantees that he wasn’t a monster. Worse, “crazy” seemed likely. Who went around stopped subway cars in near-total darkness chanting about traps and deer and naughty boys? Um. Devon tried to flatten himself further against the subway door. “I’m not having a great night,” he muttered, trying to subtly pick at the vacuum seal in the vain hope that it would open. Nope. No such luck. Which left him facing down -- ha, ha -- a masked man with a really big flashlight and a nasty sense of humor. Okay, fine. Flight wasn’t an option, so he’d have to fall back on fight. Devon stared at the guy, quickly assessing the best of his limited choices of attack. None of them sounded good to him. The man’s sheer size aside, the flashlight as big as the one he carried made a hell of a weapon. The flashlight. Devon’s heart rate quickened. If he could somehow get that away from the masked man and use it against him, he might have a fighting chance. As plans went, it was a hell of a lot better than he’d hoped for. He could do this. Even if it didn’t work, he thought he’d rather go down swinging. Hoping to stall the masked man until he had a chance to go for the guy’s flashlight, Devon did what he apparently did best tonight: chatter like a magpie. “What do you want? The bling?” He shook his wrists with their expensive cufflinks at the man. “The shoes?” He waggled his feet. “I don’t have but about ten bucks in small bills in my wallet, not enough to afford a taxi, but if you want the cash, it’s yours.” Closer… just a little closer… he urged the masked man, planning how best to attack. He’d probably hurl himself forward and tackle the guy around his calves, hopefully knocking him down. He might be able to grab the flashlight during the ensuing scuffle. “I have no need for gold or gems. My vaults are already full. Cold metal and heartless jewels; who cares for such when they have found a pearl of far greater price?” The masked man shone the beam of his flashlight directly into Devon’s face. “Have I frightened you?”
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Devon tried to glare while shading his eyes. Not terribly effective. He’d have bet he looked like a complete and total idiot. He made a quick choice to keep on chattering, changing his tone to accusatory. “What do you think? I’m all alone in a big city subway in the middle of the night, and here comes someone acting like a horror film refugee. Yeah, you scared me. So what?” “Such fire as you have. Brightly burning as your handsome hair.” The masked man reached for Devon. “Yes. Yes, I have chosen well.” Yikes. Crazy, definitely crazy. Time to go on the offensive. Only just dodging the man’s intended caress of his hair, Devon slid up to a standing position, his back to the doors, changing his plans on the fly. If the man made a lunge, he might be able to step out of the way and let irresistible force meet immovable object to see what happened. Could be the guy would knock himself out and maybe even break the vacuum seal. Hey, a man could hope. Devon rolled his weight from the ball of one foot to the other, ready for take-off at any possible second whenever he got his chance. He kept his eyes on the man at all times. Slowly, as he adjusted to the bizarre, stark half-light, Mr. Mask came fully into focus. As he did, Devon stared, struck dumb by lust that threatened to make him stupid. Stupid-er. Whoever this was, he must have been at the same masquerade earlier, as he was dressed elegantly in tux and tails and smelled of expensive cologne. He had the air of someone well-accustomed to wealth and privilege. Devon might have hated him if he hadn’t been mouth-wateringly hot at the same time. Long legs, tall guy. Strong arms and a broad chest. Devon had a keen eye, and he could tell how the masked man’s tuxedo had been cut up from normal size specifically to fit him. Definitely a man of means. Of wealth and taste, he cracked to himself. He had his own cufflinks, glittering with the chilly brilliance of genuine gemstones. Thick, dark hair hung over the edges of his white leather half-mask.
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Would a guy who looked like this one, dressed like he was, want to rob an escort? Devon’s rational mind tapped impatiently at the rest of his gibbering psyche. Tailored tuxedo. White half-mask. White leather half-mask. He groaned, slumping forward. “Jean-Michel?” “It took you long enough to recognize me,” Jean-Michel replied, the deep richness of his voice completely familiar in its way now that Devon had made the connection. “I began to wonder if you were such a dilettante as to forget our earlier encounter altogether, and that would have never done. But no.” Jean-Michel reached for Devon. This time, he stood still and let Jean-Michel touch him, shivering with a mix of remembered pleasure and his remaining nervousness. “There. You do remember. I must then conclude that it was fear which addled your mind and sent you into such a feral state of panic. Hmm.” Jean-Michel tilted his head to one side, considering Devon. “You must learn to obey me, but I would not like for you to genuinely fear me. We must work on this.” “Excuse me?” Devon prickled, annoyed by Jean-Michel’s assumptions. Even if he didn’t mind -- at all -- being bossed around -- okay, okay, fine, he was getting off on Jean-Michel’s aggressive toppiness -- he couldn’t just take that without asserting his individual independence. Right? He stood up straight, swinging his arms loosely, ready to throw a punch to prove himself if a punch was needed. From the way Jean-Michel’s glance darted toward Devon’s hands and his lips quirked in a tolerantly amused smile, Devon knew he’d figured out what was going on and that he had precisely a snowball’s chance in hell of landing a hit. Fine. He’d try another gambit. “Want to give me an apology?” he suggested, pitching his voice as low and dangerous as he could make it. Jean-Michel gazed at Devon for a moment that seemed to stretch on for way too long. Suddenly, he broke into a full, brilliant white smile. “No. I do not think so.”
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Devon stared back, thrown by Jean-Michel’s reaction. Anger, he might have expected. A normal guy might have sneered. An actual “I’m sorry” would have startled him, but not brought him screeching to a stop just like the subway itself had. This? This was just -- he couldn’t -- there were no words -“I’m not a toy,” he protested, knowing how weak he sounded. “Not a kid either.” He found the words that fit his irritation. “Don’t patronize me.” “Or what?” Jean-Michel stroked Devon’s cheek with the back of his hand. His eyes darkened with heat and obvious desire. He pushed into Devon’s personal space, all long, muscled arms and legs and bulky torso. The thick, blunt wisps of hair swinging around his face fell over the eyeholes in his leather mask, so his eyes sparkled through each strand. “You truly do have such fire in you,” he mused, pulling Devon mercilessly to him, away from the doors. Devon stumbled momentarily before he found his balance, hands balled into fists on Jean-Michel’s chest. “Yeah, I do. Be careful you don’t get burned. Don’t laugh at me,” he protested, stung, when Jean-Michel did just that. “What do you want?” “What do you think, little firecracker? I have already stated my purpose. I have said I plan to keep you. I am more certain than ever that that is exactly what I shall do. Please, feel free to call me by name when you rant at me. You are adorable when you are angry.” Though he knew a display of temper would be exactly what Jean-Michel wanted, Devon couldn’t hide his indignation. “Is that even your real name?” Jean-Michel shrugged. “Is it the name I was born with? No. I have not gone by that name in… oh, it seems as if it has been forever. Call me Jean-Michel. It will do as well as any other.” An alias. Great. Oh, this so could not bode well. It boded all the badness that could be bad. Still determined to run, Devon braced himself, trying to find his center of balance and a natural fulcrum to swing from. Jean-Michel pushed Devon casually, throwing him off. “I followed you, you realize,” he said almost idly, “from the ridiculous peacock’s party --”
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“Ridiculous? Then why were you there?” Jean-Michel ignored Devon’s outburst. “You thought you could run, but now you understand that you cannot escape me. Yes?” Devon shuddered. “You can run, but you’ll only die tired, right?” he asked bitterly. “I do not intend that you should die at all.” Jean-Michel actually sounded offended. “I forbid you to think such foolish things. I want you alive for always, for all time, to enjoy the pleasure of your company.” “Now why doesn’t that comfort me?” Devon was having a harder and harder time of thinking. Pressed this close to Jean-Michel, the smells of spicy cologne, leather, musk, and man were dizzying him. He’d gotten hard long since, his cock jerking and swelling when Jean-Michel first fitted their bodies together. Jean-Michel had to know as much. His cock pressed insistently to Devon’s hip, letting Devon know he was getting off on this just as much. “I grow tired of arguing when there are far better things to spend the rest of our night enjoying,” Jean-Michel said, rocking his erection against Devon. Devon couldn’t stop himself from groaning and pushing back. “Yes. I see that you and I think the same in this matter. And we must hurry. Almost, it is no longer night. Somewhere out there cocks are crowing.” One big hand dropped to the crotch of Devon’s trousers. “Somewhere in here too.” Tempting. Dear God, was it ever tempting. But did he really want to give it up -okay, okay, give it up again -- for someone who was crazy, treated him like a pet, and, who knew, might be planning to kill him anyway? Jean-Michel had stopped rocking his hips and was watching Devon. The tip of his pink tongue appeared and ran over the glittering white teeth. The lustful fire burning in his eyes almost glowed. If he were even a tiny dash crazier than nature had allowed for him, Devon knew he might have wondered right about then if Jean-Michel was entirely human.
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“You are priceless,” Jean-Michel murmured. “And now, you belong entirely to me. There will be no more stupid society… how do you say it? Airheads? Yes. No more empty-headed creatures are allowed to paw you or purchase you from now on. Do you understand? You are not their meat to sample any longer.” “And you’re any different?” Devon shot back, hands balling into fists. “You’re talking about taking me against my will, Jean-Michel.” “Am I?” Jean-Michel leaned close enough to share breath with Devon. “You --” Devon stammered, trying unsuccessfully to pull back. “How can you say you’re not? You aren’t?” “Oh, I plan on having a piece of you tonight, be very certain of that. But you will come willingly where I plan to lead you. Eagerly, even.” “Stop it.” Devon’s voice shook. Something big was going down here, more than crazy-sounding rhetoric, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for any of this. “Stop it, or I swear I’ll -- I’ll call the driver.” An empty threat if ever there was one, but he made the effort nonetheless. “I’ll tell him what you’re back here doing. My hand to God.” “Go ahead.” Jean-Michel’s warm hand, unseen in the darkness, palmed Devon’s cock through his tuxedo trousers, caressing it. Devon’s cheeks heated when his eager dick jumped to respond to Jean-Michel’s touch. It didn’t give a damn about being bossed around; it just knew it liked it. A lot. “You’re insane.” “Perhaps. Or perhaps you are, or we are both equally mad. Did you ever stop to think about that?” Jean-Michel crossed his arms and leered at Devon. “I can smell you in the air, Devon, and I grow weary of this pointless denial. You fill my senses with the ripe scent of your spunk and sweat. Your body craves this, as does your heart. Put away the concerns of your mind. I will not hurt you, nor will I cause you any sort of pain you do not beg me for. This you already know.” Devon shook his head in mute, pointless denial. Jean-Michel huffed. “Tell me, Devon,” he said, adroitly changing tracks. “As you slept earlier, you had a dream, did you not? A dream about dancing with a man whose
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face you could not see. Do not think you can successfully lie to me. I am right, am I not?” As Devon gaped at him, Jean-Michel laughed. “I sent this dream to you. This is how close we already are, that it is child’s play to infiltrate your fantasies. But know this: I could never go where I was not wanted.” He reeled Devon in tighter and tighter still, until it almost seemed as if he planned to melt their bodies together and form a single man. Stunned, Devon let Jean-Michel do what he wanted, his mind churning with how and why and what? Jean-Michel lowered his face so he could speak into Devon’s ear. “Speak truth to me,” he whispered, combing his fingers through the tail ends of Devon’s hair at the back of his neck. “Admit that you desire me. That is all I want at this immediate moment.” The firm pressure of his cock said differently. “I-I-I --” “I will not hurt you. I promise.” Jean-Michel stroked Devon’s lower lip, encouraging him, the touch by now familiar and almost comforting. “Tell me, Devon.” Devon finally broke. “Fine. Yes. I ‘desire’ you. I want you to fuck me like I’ve never wanted anything before. Happy now?” “Yes. Quite.” The tip of Jean-Michel’s tongue traced a pattern from Devon’s earlobe across his cheek and then, oh, God, then his mouth was on Devon’s and they were kissing. Tenderly. Devon almost fell down a third time. He would have, too, if Jean-Michel hadn’t been ready to hold him up. “Stop thinking. It only leads you to troubled waters,” Jean-Michel murmured against Devon’s lips, and tickled them with his tongue. Startled, Devon opened his mouth to reply, and Jean-Michel’s tongue swept in, hungry and horny. Oh, God!
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Devon all but melted on the spot. He hung in Jean-Michel’s grasp, acutely aware of the warm hands at the small of his back and the top of his spine, holding him way, way too tightly. Hands that pressed and molded Devon’s slender body to Jean-Michel’s larger one, chest to chest, leg to leg, twining together, and cock to cock. Devon groaned, letting his mouth fall open under Jean-Michel’s scorching kiss, giving him a full-access pass inside to do whatever he wanted. And oh, but the man had one seriously skilled tongue. Long and mobile, it seemed able to do absolutely anything he wanted it to. The man could have tied two cherry stems into knots at once. When someone was kissing you like that it was hard… hard… hard to think, yeah, there were the words. Helpful as ever -- or not so much so -- Devon’s body had its own stiff -- ha, ha -opinion about where it stood on the matter. Kiss good, cock erect, spunk cannon ready to fire, ready, aim… No. No! He wasn’t going to do this without a fight. He wasn’t a toy, no matter what he did for a living, and he’d be damned if he’d let Jean-Michel claim him that easily. He struggled back until he managed to separate their mouths. “Stop,” he panted. “Stop kissing me!” Jean-Michel dove in for a second, shorter blaze across Devon’s lips. “Why should I?” he purred. “You like my kissing you.” He grasped for and groped Devon’s ass cheek, yanking him tighter and thrusting forward. He laughed when Devon gasped as their cocks bumped against one another. “You like it when our bodies touch,” Jean-Michel went on, merciless. “You like thinking about what this --” thrust “-- could do to you. You want it. You know you do. Tell me. Say the words, Devon, and I will fly you to the moon in my magic subway car.” “You aren’t just insane, you’re nuts,” Devon said weakly. His cheeks flamed again as he realized he’d twined his arms around Jean-Michel’s back during their kiss, and still hung on. His body didn’t have the sense to let go, even if his brain had moved on to other… other… “Don’t do that!”
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“I think I will do precisely what I want, and only that,” Jean-Michel replied, rocking back and forth, nudging Devon’s cock with his own through their trousers. “You enjoy my doing what comes naturally.” Devon socked Jean-Michel on the back as hard as he could. “Stop making this sound so tempting!” “Stop fighting,” Jean-Michel soothed. “Enough is enough.” He nuzzled his leather-covered cheek against Devon’s. “Ohh. Your scent intoxicates me. And your skin, it looks soft as a woman’s, as that of a peach, ripe and juicy, just waiting to be devoured. Or,” he said with a grin, grinding his hips in circles against Devon’s, “are you a pomegranate? Full of seeds?” Devon shut his eyes and whimpered, ashamed as soon as the sound left his mouth, but to tell the truth, he couldn’t have made a more appropriate noise. How did he get himself into these messes? Honest to Bob, he’d just been on his way home from a really bad night out on the town as a professional escort, then before he knew it the subway had gotten sidetracked, the driver was MIA, and a nutcase with the… the… sexiest lips and voice and hands ever was trying to sweet-talk and sweeterkiss his way into Devon’s pants. He’d say the night couldn’t get any weirder, but he knew words like those were pure invitations to karma, who already hated him, thanks. Devon reviewed his situation. Alone, in the dark, with a bigger, stronger man who -- all right, all right already! -- was hot as the fires of hell and wanted Devon like cake wanted icing. He could either say no and get into a serious fight which would leave him too bruised to make a week’s worth of uninviting escort jobs, or he could just toss caution to the wind, along with his tuxedo trousers, and enjoy what promised to be fantastic sex with someone he wouldn’t have to cook breakfast for. When in insane times, do as the lunatics did -- or, as any sane red-blooded male might say: ready, set, go!
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Loosing a small moan when Jean-Michel demanded another kiss, Devon gave in… and let his seducer take what he claimed as his right. He didn’t regret it. As if sensing he’d won, Jean-Michel murmured chuckles and sharp nothings against Devon’s lips, filthy obscenities made all the better for the shock of pure lust behind them. “I’m going to take your ass,” he murmured. “I will spread you wide open while you are on your knees with your head resting on your hands. Part your cheeks and look as long as I like at your tight pucker, and at your gorgeous cock pulsing for me. Push a finger deep inside. Have you been fucked before, Devon? Has any man ever gone where I’m about to go? Tell me.” Devon sensed the edge of danger in Jean-Michel’s voice. He shook his head quickly. “Not in a long time,” he said, ragged from being kissed too hard, too fast, too much, and too good. “Not in way too damn long.” Jean-Michel growled. “Good,” he said. “None but I ever shall again.” He fastened his mouth so tightly to Devon’s that neither one of them could speak for an infinite stretch of seconds or minutes. Devon couldn’t tell. His head spun and he felt dizzy under Jean-Michel’s intimate attack. When Jean-Michel moved one hand up to the middle of his back, and the other came around, slowly unfastening the buttons of Devon’s shirt one by one by one, Devon let out another whimper. He couldn’t help it. But Jean-Michel -- he was special. He made Devon want to be the captured prey. Wanton, Devon rubbed his cock against Jean-Michel’s, craving more of the sweet friction. “Ah-ah-ah,” Jean-Michel chided. “Not yet. First I want to see this pretty pale chest, bare for me.” His hand, several shades darker than Devon’s creamy complexion, splayed wide between his nipples. “Never fear me as a monster again. Never.” He pinched one nub between two fingers and rolled it, making Devon cry out and arch up. “This feels good to you, does it not? I can make you feel so much better than this. You have never had
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anything so good as what I am going to give you. When you feel my cock sliding home in your sweet little ass, you’ll see past the stars to heaven.” Devon groaned, canting his hips. He had to have more. Needed Jean-Michel, needed hands on his cock, now. The nipple work felt great, but his cock burned for some attention. “Please,” he whispered. “Touch me.” He felt Jean-Michel’s chest shake with mirth. “You see? I told you that you would be begging before long,” the man said, brushing his fingers relentlessly back and forth across Devon’s ribs. “Lustful thing. You are close to perishing for the want of my touch, are you not? You crave this hand wrapped around your cock. Say you do. Say the words as I want to hear them. I am certain you know how.” Devon had no shame anymore. All he knew was lust and need and want and going to pop. He rolled shamelessly into Jean-Michel’s pelvis and groaned the words: “Put your hand around my cock. Squeeze me. Make me want to explode. Touch me. Fuck me with your fingers. Do whatever you want, just please, do it now!” Jean-Michel hummed under his breath, a deeply male sound of satisfaction. “Good answer,” he said, his fingers walking down Devon’s stomach. They paused on the fastening of his stained tuxedo pants. “You are brave enough, are you not? You never know when the subway might start up again. Perhaps it will roar to life while you are lost in the moment, and we will pull up to a station full of people who shall then see you with your cock out in my hand. Are you man enough to face them?” Devon almost screamed with impatience. “I don’t care! Let the damned president come and watch if he wants. You pushed me here, now go ahead and do me. Fuck me!” “Your wish,” Jean-Michel said, lowering his face to the side of Devon’s neck and nibbling at him, “is my command.”
Chapter Five “However, I would far, far rather you do as I say.” Jean-Michel chuckled when Devon hissed in indignation. “Of course you protest now. You have not yet learned how you will so entirely love taking my commands. I wish for you to taste the headiness of submission now.” Devon pushed at him. It had about as much effect as poking a brick wall. He wished he could rub his eyes. “I don’t… I know about D/s and BDSM and every other acronym there is. From giant diapers to bunny suits to whips and chains and call-medaddy, trust me, I’ve seen it all playing ‘escort’.” The ability to make air quotes would have been great right about then too. He was so sick of pretty words hiding nasty truths. What did he have to lose by being honest for once? “I don’t want to obey you,” he said, putting it as plainly as he could. “I don’t want to obey anyone. I sure as hell don’t want to be yet another man or woman’s sex play toy, something to wear on their arm like a frigging Rolex or whatever’s in style this month. I’ve had enough of not being my own man. Can you understand that?” “I see.” Jean-Michel fell silent. He stroked Devon’s throat, gazing absently at something far away. Devon waited, recognizing a hard-thinking man when he saw one and hoping that whatever Jean-Michel had to say, it’d be damn good. “Has any man -- or woman, though I think I already know that answer -- ever satisfied you, Devon?” Out of all the questions he might have been expecting, that wasn’t one of them. “Define satisfied.”
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Jean-Michel growled softly. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Devon. Do not play coy.” He caught a strand of Devon’s hair and wound it around his forefinger, giving it light tugs. Devon immediately transferred the sensation of pulling and the slight sting to his cock, which then reminded him in no uncertain terms that it’d been hard and ready to go for a good while now and wanted to get this show started. You behave yourself, he thought at it, irritable at how it cut right through all his doubts and fears and got down to the simple facts. He wanted Jean-Michel. Jean-Michel wasn’t like the others. Crazy? Sure. Did the mask freak him out? You betcha. Did he already own Devon, the battle over minus the comprehension of surrender? Devon grumbled. Okay, maybe so. It’d happened when he wasn’t thinking, his body making the call for him. It was happy -- at peace, almost -- in Jean-Michel’s arms. It urged him to give up, give in, let himself be consumed. Would it hurt so much to just go with it for one night? “I know what you are thinking,” Jean-Michel murmured. “I can see inside here, remember?” He tapped Devon’s temple. Devon added “extra-special crazy” to his list of Jean-Michel’s attributes, not with a frisson of worry but with an almost fond resignation. “You should know I don’t believe in psychics.” “You will learn to believe in many things,” Jean-Michel promised. He released Devon’s hair and bent to mouth along his jaw, slowly and almost thoughtfully, as if tasting him. Devon resisted the urge to ask how the flavor was. The temptation to let JeanMichel do whatever he wanted as long as he kept making him feel this good grew with each touch of the stronger man’s lips. When the tip of his tongue traced the vein in Devon’s neck, Devon moaned. “You like this. I am certain of it. You do.” Jean-Michel began to stroke Devon’s back, long, soothing sweeps of his hand instilling an almost calm acceptance in him. “I can make life sweet again for you, Devon. Only trust me, and believe me when I swear I
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will never hurt you in any way that you do not want. No pain. I promise. I see now that you are not ready for such, and will not be for some time. I can wait as long as you need, and will not force that upon you. It is only your obedience that I want.” He slid his hand down to cover one cheek of Devon’s ass and kneaded it almost gently. Devon’s libido approved of that, his cock twitching and trying to escape his tuxedo trousers. “I don’t want to be your slave.” “That is not what I ask for,” Jean-Michel reprimanded. “There is a difference. Perhaps a different phrasing? Yes. I ask that you do what I say, Devon, for I know what I am doing. I know you. Perhaps better than you know yourself.” “How could you? Wait, let me guess. You’re reading my thoughts? Maybe you’re planning to cloud my head like you did with that dream?” “So you believe, now, that the dream came from me?” Jean-Michel’s chest shook with amusement. Devon grumbled. “Allow me to finish. Trust in me, Devon. That is the truth of what I ask. Trust that whatever I ask of you, it is what I know you want to give me. What you would give me freely if you were not a slave to fear. If you were mine, you would need fear nothing, ever again. I would care for you. Protect you. Give you everything you desire.” Jean-Michel rocked their groins together, his cock riding firmly in the crease of Devon’s hip. “Beginning with this.” Devon’s head swam. He didn’t want this… he didn’t… oh, hell. He did. And he was so, so tired of pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Fine, then. This might be the last thing he ever did, although he found he did believe in his heart of hearts that Jean-Michel wouldn’t hurt him. He believed JeanMichel, and once he realized that, he found the trust Jean-Michel had asked for slotting into place with a sweet, sweet relief. He sagged in Jean-Michel’s arms, letting the freedom of no longer needing to fight wash over him.
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Jean-Michel made a purring noise, a definite sound of approval. “Good man,” he encouraged. “Now, let me enjoy you. You will love this, that I swear.” “I know I will.” Devon tipped his head back to get a better look at Jean-Michel. Curiosity, rather than contrariness, compelled him to ask at last, “Why do you wear that mask?” Jean-Michel abruptly stopped kissing him. “Pardon me?” “The mask. Why are you hiding your face? I know I don’t know you. I’d have remembered a body like yours. So, why?” Devon reached for the edges of the white leather, trying to pull them up. They didn’t seem to want to budge. “Yowzah. What is this, glued on?” “Please. Do not.” Jean-Michel caught Devon’s hand and pushed it away. The heat in his dark eyes dissipated, leaving sorrow in its wake. “I cannot remove it. I can never take the mask off. This is my curse.” When Devon would have protested, JeanMichel slanted their mouths together. “Shh,” he whispered, their lips bumping as he spoke. “Let me enjoy this, first, and then I will tell you everything that I am allowed to tell.” “And if I say no?” Jean-Michel’s cockiness returned, swift and sure. “But you will not. You do not want to deny me.” Devon rolled his eyes, then gasped and moaned when Jean-Michel slipped his hand inside the tuxedo trousers and ran his forefinger down the demarcation between his ass cheeks. “Okay. Fine. But I’ll hold you to that. Later. Now hold me to you. No more waiting.” “No more waiting,” Jean-Michel agreed. “We begin.” Devon sighed. They began. Jean-Michel pushed one hand between them and groped at Devon’s cock, straining hard against his body. With the other, he lifted Devon’s slack hand to his mouth and nuzzled his lips into the palm, then ever so lightly licked over his lifeline.
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Devon’s cock bucked against him, alert and more than ready. “You love this,” JeanMichel bragged. “You want more, do you not?” Devon nodded. Eagerly. He was done with playing. “I thought so. Good!” Jean-Michel bent Devon backwards, his throat arching. “I am going to own you,” he whispered. “I am going to make you a new man. You thought, at first, I planned to rob you. Yes? Perhaps so. But, Devon, I am no ordinary thief. I will give you a new life to replace your old one. Are you willing?” “Um? Yeah, sure. Good. Don’t stop.” Devon tried to grasp Jean-Michel’s fingers, coaxing him toward the zipper that he really, really wanted undone. “You are asking me to do what I want?” Jean-Michel asked slyly. “Yes.” Jean-Michel laughed triumphantly. He firmly gripped Devon’s eager cock. Devon groaned, feeling his eyes rolling back in his head even as the lids snapped shut. “I want you so,” Jean-Michel breathed. “And now, you are mine.” Devon could smell how much truth Jean-Michel was telling. He’d have to be stripped of all his senses to miss out on the growing aroma of his masked man’s precome, lustful sweat, and musk. Lord have mercy, but the man was composed of pure sex. Devon thought that if he could bottle the fragrance, he’d be a millionaire a dozen times over. He forced his eyes open, looked up, and saw the complete desire glittering in Jean-Michel’s eyes. “Let me suck you?” Jean-Michel stopped, seemingly startled. “Pardon me?” “You heard what I said.” Shock had loosened Jean-Michel’s grip, giving Devon the wiggle room to make good on what he’d offered. With a wicked grin, he slid down Jean-Michel’s long body, hit his knees, and attacked the fastening of Jean-Michel’s own tuxedo pants. When he drew Jean-Michel’s long, thick cock out, the silky heat and weight nearly dizzied him with want. Screw finesse. He had to have that now.
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Devon dove in. Though he hadn’t done this in way, way too long, it was just like riding a bike. The old skills came right back to him. He took as much of Jean-Michel’s cock into his mouth as he could, savoring the flavor and the heaviness before he got down to the serious work. “Oh,” Jean-Michel breathed, sliding his fingers through Devon’s hair. “More.” “Mmph,” Devon replied. He probed the slit with his tongue as he worked JeanMichel’s cock, sliding up and down, faster and faster as his muscles remembered what to do. Never quite hard enough to drive him over the edge, but relentlessly, fascinated by the way Jean-Michel’s cock pulsed and throbbed on his tongue. He could have gone for hours if Jean-Michel hadn’t suddenly growled and tugged hard on his hair. He pulled away in protest, rubbing his sore scalp, then yelped as he found himself rising in the air -- or, to be accurate, was hauled up like a misbehaving kitten by the scruff of his neck -- okay, by way of Jean-Michel’s punishing grip on his arms. It was either stand or dislocate something, so Devon hastened to obey. To his surprise -- almost -- he shuddered with a rush of carnal pleasure that came with trying to please Jean-Michel this way. Maybe he does know me better than I know myself, Devon thought hazily. “Yes, yes, this is the way,” Jean-Michel crooned in approval. “Do you trust me?” Devon nodded, unable to form words. “Good.” Jean-Michel lifted Devon higher still, bracing his shoulders against the cold glass door of the subway car. “Prepare for the ride of your life,” he growled into the smooth skin of Devon’s throat. “I will not let you fall.” And Devon knew Jean-Michel wouldn’t. He let his head rest against the sealed glass door of the subway car briefly before he had to move with Jean-Michel, though Jean-Michel wouldn’t let him do much with his lower body besides winding his legs around the masked man’s waist. He thumped his head on the glass, rolling it back and forth.
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“You are irresistible,” Jean-Michel said throatily. He hitched Devon briefly higher to bite into the skin just above the single trail of hair on Devon’s body, the line of curls that arrowed down to his cock, jutting up obscenely through his tuxedo trousers. “God…” Devon groaned, jerking in ecstasy. “More!” “More, you want? You ask me for this. More you shall have.” Bracing Devon more securely, Jean-Michel reached for the waistband of the tuxedo pants to tear them open. At the first rip, Devon almost shot back out of his enthrallment. “Hey,” he gasped. “Careful of the goods, huh?” Jean-Michel smiled. Not a nice smile. “Your tuxedo is already quite ruined. You no longer need it. Trust me, I will be quite careful of what lies underneath.” “Can’t walk out of here bare-ass naked…” “You will not be walking anywhere unless I say so. And you are happy with this command. I know you are.” “Always gotta be right, don’t you?” Devon surprised himself by laughing. “I do, because I am.” Jean-Michel muffled his words against the slick surface of Devon’s belly. “And I have as many clothes as you’ll need. I love you so much, you innocent boy. You will be my own immortal beloved. No, no, shh, I will explain later. For now, know this: I have been lonely for so long. Too long. And now I shall be lonely no more.” Devon groaned and let Jean-Michel have his way. He arched his back against the wall, pushing forward to undulate against Jean-Michel’s hands, pressing his cock into their equal hardness. Cold to scorching heat; the feeling was unbelievably good. JeanMichel hissed, snake-like, clearly savoring the thought of the feast to come. “I will not let you fall,” Jean-Michel reaffirmed as he began to lower Devon. Devon approved. The wall worked fine for teasing and toying, but not for the real games he wanted to play. With a low laugh, Jean-Michel guided Devon so that Devon slithered down to land at his feet. Devon grinned up at Jean-Michel. “So?” he asked. “You’ve got me. What are you going to do now?”
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Jean-Michel’s eyes gleamed black with desire. “Fuck you.” “Oh.” Devon swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yes. Please. Now would be good.” It looked like Jean-Michel might not mind obeying him every now and then either. The masked man went to his knees and finished what he’d started, getting rid of Devon’s tuxedo pants permanently. Good strong silk tore like wet tissue paper. Freed, Devon’s cock sprang loose and pointed to the ceiling. Just the right angle for JeanMichel to take the length in his mouth. Once he’d started, Jean-Michel wasted no time, sinking the firm ring of his lips onto Devon’s desperate cock. “Now we’re talking,” Devon gasped, thrusting his hips up, wanting more, more, more. Jean-Michel didn’t try talking with his mouth full. He groaned, though, which said it all. His tongue worked busily at the head of Devon’s cock and his sneaky fingers found their way down to Devon’s balls. Devon yelped, nearly turning inside-out with the sudden, punch-to-the-gut need to come. Another one of Jean-Michel’s mind tricks? Who cared? Jean-Michel sucked gently at first, teasing Devon with light touches, all the while crooning over Devon’s uncut need as it built and built, his fuse burning down to touch off a stick of dynamite. Devon thrashed back and forth, frantic, his fisted hands slamming onto the subway floor. Tinny echoes rattled off the walls with each thump. Grinning, Jean-Michel slipped one hand underneath Devon and, using the young man’s own spills of pre-come for lubricant, slicked up his finger and slid it neatly between Devon’s taut ass cheeks up to tease his tightly puckered hole. “You want this, do you?” he said as he released Devon’s cock to goad, pressing his finger past the first ring of muscle. “Tell me, Devon. Tell me how much you like my finger inside you.” Devon moaned, tossing his head to and fro on his neck like a broken daisy stem. Jean-Michel swept up to latch on to his throat, nipping hard. “Tell me,” he ordered,
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between working first his tongue on Devon’s neck and then his finger in Devon’s ass, slipping a second in to join the first. The leather of his gloves sent an extra shock and thrill through Devon. Kinky. He liked it. “I wish to hear how much you love having me in you.” “Wonderful…” Devon managed, his voice growing rough and ruined. “Need more. Please, more.” Jean-Michel laughed savagely. “You are a pushy bottom, oh, yes, just the way I like you best.” He pushed in a third finger and began to scissor all three open. “You are delicious.” Devon was beginning to grow stupid with the need to climax, but his erection still stood high, weeping and desperate for attention. He thrust with his hips. “Get me off now or fuck me. Don’t want to come until you’re in me. Hurry.” “Shh, shh, I have you.” Jean-Michel surely did. With an almost beastly, soothing hum, he shoved his own trousers down with a hand, slicked himself with saliva and Devon’s own pre-come, and, lining the tip of his cock up with Devon’s slightly stretched hole, began to slide in. Devon’s body tried to turn itself inside out, full to bursting with the ecstasy of getting fucked. He let out a groan like the death rattle of a man perishing in bliss and moved, managing to startle Jean-Michel as, in one smooth slick stroke, he impaled himself on Jean-Michel’s cock. Jean-Michel loosed a cry equal to Devon’s, the sound of, oh yeah, the thrill of a lifetime. Desperate need and passionate craving, both rich smells suffused Devon’s senses as he mindlessly writhed beneath Jean-Michel. It seemed to him as if he was being fucked to death. If that was what was happening and this really was going to be the best sex of his life, he thought he might not mind. Jean-Michel thrust deep within him, quickly finding and setting a rhythm that carried them along hard and fast. “Mine,” he snarled, fucking Devon brutally. “Mine. Mine. Mine.” “Yeah,” Devon panted. “God, yeah.”
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“As I am yours.” Jean-Michel slammed home, deeper than anyone had ever gone into Devon. Devon’s mouth flew open on a yell. His body jerked and convulsed, gripping Jean-Michel’s cock with spasm after spasm. Jean-Michel cursed fit to turn the air blue as his own orgasm burst from him damn nearly with the power of a javelin, or so it seemed to Devon as the heat of Jean-Michel’s come flooded his ass, the power of their orgasms spearing through him. “Jean-Michel…” Devon rasped as he arched, high and tight enough to be in danger of breaking something, his cock jerking and releasing a second, surprise rush of hot spunk that splattered creamily between them. Jean-Michel collapsed atop Devon, spent as Devon was. After a moment of nothing but rasps for breath and utter bonelessness, Jean-Michel lifted his head to kiss Devon’s chest. When the wicked man started to lick up Devon’s come, Devon damn near came yet again. “Don’t stop,” he whispered, whimpering when Jean-Michel’s cock slid out of him. “Didn’t say you could move.” “We have time,” Jean-Michel slurred. “I will keep you, Devon. Keep you for always. Say yes. Once more, say yes. Make this permanent.” He rubbed his face over Devon’s heart, the buttery-soft leather tantalizing him. “Give yourself to me, and I will give the secret of myself to you.” “Yes,” Devon whispered, knowing he was lost and for once in his life enjoying it. “I’m yours.”
Chapter Six “This is my home,” Jean-Michel began, so far-away and daydreaming that at first Devon didn’t realize he’d started his explanation. “This is where I live.” He raised his head and frowned. “You live on a subway?” Jean-Michel laughed wearily and pushed at Devon, helping him to turn them both around so they ended with Devon draped over Jean-Michel’s chest. They lay nose to nose, lips to lips, and almost eyelash to mask. At such a close range, Devon could see the painful honesty in Jean-Michel’s eyes and knew beyond any doubt that Jean-Michel was telling him the truth. “You really live on a subway?” Jean-Michel stroked Devon’s hair. “In a manner of speaking. This is not a subway, not truly. It is a construct. It is whatever I wish for it to be.” “And you wished for it to be a beat-up, not-so-fragrant subway car?” Jean-Michel snorted, amused. “Not by preference, I assure you. I chose this form in which to shape my… pocket of reality, if you will… because it would not alarm you.” Devon thought back to the pulse-pounding terror he’d “enjoyed” when JeanMichel started to make his presence known. “Great job there,” he said, tongue firmly in cheek. Jean-Michel poked him. “Sarcasm does not become you.” “Yes, it does.” “We shall work on training that flip tongue out of you,” Jean-Michel warned. “You like my flip tongue.” Jean-Michel cuffed him lightly, a love-tap. “Does this explanation satisfy you completely?” He seemed puzzled. “No questions concerning reality pockets?” “Well, I already know you’re insane --”
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The masked man hushed him momentarily with a kiss, quick and rough. “No. Tell me truly.” “I’m waiting for you to explain.” Devon stroked the edge of Jean-Michel’s mask. “There’s a story,” he began contrarily, slowly, “about this crazy guy who lived under the Paris Opera.” “Ah, so you know the tale.” “Mm-hmm. If I’m guessing right, then I think that means I must be crazy too.” “And this does not bother you?” “Not if I’m being honest with myself.” The sidetracked subway, the way JeanMichel had vanished and then reappeared, the dream… maybe he’d gone as deeply lunatic as Jean-Michel, but he was well-fucked and knew he’d be taken care of. If this was crazy, he didn’t care to go back to the cold real world, thanks, full of Alejandros and Rosa Sharons and that damned Company. If he belonged to Jean-Michel, none of them could touch him. Oh. Devon got it now. Gleeful, he plunged forward to kiss Jean-Michel. JeanMichel chortled and kissed back with all his considerable zest for life and love. “Yes,” Jean-Michel said when Devon broke their kiss to breathe. “This mask is part of me. I cannot remove it, ever. I must find one who could learn to love me despite the leather. Who can see I mean them only good, and not harm. Who will trust me.” “And that breaks some kind of curse?” Devon hazarded. “No. But it makes immortality bearable. And so long as you wish to share it with me, it is yours too. Both of us, together, safe. Walking between whatever reality I choose to assert and venturing wherever we care to go on the globe.” Jean-Michel captured Devon’s hand and kissed the knuckles. “Will you come with me?” “Thought I already had,” Devon pointed out, saucy. “More than once. And I’m planning on at least twice more tonight.” “Oh-ho-ho, wicked, are you not?” “I could learn to be. And I think I’d like it.”
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“As would I.” Jean-Michel settled back, humming under his breath, seemingly content just to watch Devon lying atop him. Devon returned Jean-Michel’s gaze. A question sprung to his lips, though he hesitated to give it voice. Why did you pick me? Jean-Michel’s expression turned silken and predatory at once, a panther on the prowl. “I know what you are thinking,” he said. “I will tell you ‘why you’.” Devon nodded, no longer even able to pretend surprise that Jean-Michel knew what was on his mind. Not now that he’d accepted the truth, brain-boggling as it would be if he let himself panic. Which he wouldn’t. “Good,” Jean-Michel purred, approving. “You learn quickly. But the story: I have been watching you for months, my Devon. Yearning for you from the shadows at party after party.” “Say what, now?” “I have been compelled, by magic, to seek out one who was as desperately abandoned in the world as I.” Jean-Michel shrugged, though he touched Devon tenderly. “I found you, because of your forlorn heart, which called to mine. And tonight, I saw the way you were treated by the scornful woman you escorted, saw her wandering gaze, and knew you were soon to be tossed over for a shallow snake of a man. I knew you were the one, and I could wait no longer. And when I tasted your passion, I was addicted and refused to return to hiding. I knew then that tonight was the night.” “Hmm.” Devon took a moment to digest that. “Took you long enough.” Jean-Michel’s rich merriment rolled through the car. “Wicked boy!” he approved. “Oh, I have so much to show you, a far better life than what you have known, and we only have eternity. Come.” He guided Devon until they stood together, and then offered Devon his arm. Devon took Jean-Michel’s arm, but didn’t stop there, taking the extra step further to grasp his masked man’s hand as a show of faith. “So this is forever?”
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“Forever and a day.” His masked man -- his -- tugged Devon to him. “Come with me. I will teach you how to steer.” “Where are we going?” “Wherever we wish.” Devon grinned broadly. “Lead the way,” he said, excited. “Conductor.” Jean-Michel favored him with a smile, then bent to kiss him, murmuring, “Tell me, Devon, and tell me truly. Have you ever been so happy to be sidetracked?” Devon noticed that he’d taken off his leather gloves, revealing perfectly normal hands underneath. “Nope,” Devon answered immediately, at peace with himself in this strange new existence he couldn’t wait to explore. “Never.”
Willa Okati Willa Okati is made of many things: imagination, passion for manlove, creativity and sheer bloody-minded determination to keep writing, getting out all the stories in her head. The only problem with that clever plan is that as she writes, more story ideas pop up… She’s getting into ménage these days, and finding that it’s really peachy to write female leads -- but these leading ladies have always gotta have their two men (who are into each other as well as her). That makes for extra-special spicy good times! You can reach her at
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