My Books

"Good evening. Dylan, isn't it?"

"Yes. Hi." The stools on either side of Dylan were occupied. He controlled a sudden urge to push one of the occupants off their stool so Tomas might sit down.

Instead Tomas leaned down, saying softly to the man on hisright, "Martin, would you mind terribly giving me your seat for a moment?"

"Oh, no sir! Not at all." A bare-chested heavy set man with multiple piercings on his face and tattoos over much of his body stood upabruptly. Dylan almost expected him to bow toward Tomas. What was it about this guy that made everyone, including himself, want to worship him?

Tomas slid gracefully onto the stool next to him as Dylan tried to force himself to a calm he didn't feel. When Tomas spoke, his voice was gentle. "What happened last week, Dylan? A moment you were there, then you were gone."

For a moment Dylan savored Tomas' elegant British accent before he forced himself to acknowledge the words. "I know. I don't know. Uh, that is, I mean, I had to go. I'm sorry." he laughed ruefully, aware he sounded like a total idiot. "I apologize. Peter said you were upset. He said I was very rude to have left like that."

"Peter said that? No, no. Peter was mistaken. I was just surprised, is all. You had seemed, if you don't mind my saying so, rather intrigued. Even," he added as he put his hand over Dylan's, "enthralled."

Dylan held his breath, resisting his urge to put his other hand over Tomas' to keep it there a little longer. He bit back a sigh as Tomasremoved his hand. He was watching Dylan, waiting for a response. "I-I was intrigued. That was quite a display on the rack. I'm a student of history, actually. I recognize that rack as being an excellent replica of the ones used during the Inquisition. Surely it's no coincidence - your clever pseudonym and that torture device?"

"A student of history? Formal or casual?"

"Well, formal. That is, I'm a professor of European history and I'm working on my PHD in medieval studies at NYU."

"Impressive," Tomas smiled and Dylan felt a warmth spread through him at the man's approval. He wanted to ask what Tomas did when he wasn't dominating slave boys at underground clubs, but he didn't quite dare.

Instead he said, "So the rack? Is it yours?"

"No, no. It belongs to the club. Stanley Richards, the owner, he supplied all the equipment you see around us." Tomas waved toward theroom, which housed a number of whipping chairs, several St. Andrew's Crosses,as well as an old-fashioned pillory and a few whipping posts. "But I'll tellyou a secret." He leaned closer and Dylan could smell his scent - a hint ofvanilla blended with cardamom and musk Dylan wanted to taste. "That's how I picked my name for the club. The rack reminded me, as it did you, of the Spanish Inquisition."

"Are you a student of history as well?" Dylan asked.

"You could say that," Tomas said airily.

When he didn't elaborate, Dylan tried, "So what makes you use a pseudonym at all? Is that common practice at these places? I mean, I'm not all that familiar with the club scene, but usually guys just tack the word 'master' or 'slave' to their first name and that's that. If you don't mind my asking, why the big mystery?"

Tomas smiled. "Well, first there's the obvious answer, of course. I have my reasons for keeping my identity secret. But beyond that is something more essential, more basic to the scene. Public scenes are very different from a private D/s relationship. Here so much of what matters is the ambiance, the atmosphere during the few minutes one has to create an experience. It's theater, in a way, though the players and what they feel are real.

"My goal as a Dom is to create a sensuous, edgy environment, one where the sub can submerge himself, lose himself, if you will, in the intensity of the moment. Part of the thrill is submitting to someone who could be anyone. I become their ultimate fantasy because they can assign whatever qualities they wish to the enigmatic stranger in the leather mask."

Dylan was quiet a moment. Had he himself succumbed Tomas'creation? Was his crush on the masked persona, not the man behind it? He knew nothing of the real man, not even his name. On an impulse he asked, "What's your name? Your real name?"

Tomas's smile was sardonic as he slowly shook his head. "Come now, Dylan. That would be telling." Dylan didn't respond. He hadn't really expected the man to share with him what he had told no one else. Tomas went on, "What's in a name, after all? People come to these clubs to find fantasy - to play dark dangerous games they might not have the courage to explore on their own." He turned his gaze fully on Dylan, who couldn't seem to look away.

"Why are you here, Dylan? Why did you come?"

"I uh, a friend gave me his invitation at the last minute."

"So you were just curious? No personal interest in D/s?"

Dylan felt himself coloring as he stammered, "Well, no. That is, yes. I mean, I'm sexually submissive, to the right lover. I don't really go in for these public scenes, if you'll pardon my bluntness."

"And yet here you sit, a second time. What made you come back? Did your friend have another invitation just lying around?" Dylan looked down at the bar, recalling how he'd virtually begged Jordan to get him a second invitation.

Summoning his courage, Dylan looked back at Tomas. "You. I came back because of you."

"Yes. I know you did. In a sense you already belong to me, don't you?" His voice was quiet, his assurance absolute. Dylan found it difficult to breathe. He glanced toward the exit and Tomas, reading his mind, said, "You will not leave. You will not run this time, Dylan. You will stay and explore the reasons you're really here." Dylan nodded slowly as he felt himself slip more firmly under this man's charismatic spell.

Tomas put his hand on Dylan's thigh. A thousand tiny sparksof desire ignited in his groin as Tomas stared pointedly at his crotch, a slow smile spreading over his face. "I was watching you, Dylan, when James was on the rack. You wanted to be there. You needed to be there. You felt each stroke of the lash, each caress to his cock and balls. You've thought of little else since that night, am I right?"

"Please, I..." Dylan said weakly, trying to refute what he knew was true.

"Stop," Tomas commanded. "Don't waste my time or yours with denial. We both know what's in your heart." His hand slid up Dylan's leg to the bulging mound at his center. Dylan felt dizzy as the large hand covered his crotch, squeezing gently.