“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 his right, “Martin, would you mind terribly giving me your seat for a moment?”

“Oh, no sir! Not at all.” A bare-chested heavyset man with multiple piercings on his face and tattoos over much of his body stood up abruptly. 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 Tomas removed 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 the room, 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 tell you a secret.” He leaned closer and Dylan could smell his scent—a hint of vanilla 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 sparks of 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.

 Finola knew she should run.  Yank Broadsword down and drag him through the dried pine needles.  She didn’t.  Why she didn’t baffled her.  Instead, she allowed Broadsword to lead her to the grass like some sort of prized lamb. 

She planted her feet and didn’t move another inch.  The rope pulled against her waist, the rough fibers scratching her skin.  “Sweetling, why do you tarry?” 

“Don’t call me that.”  Hands on her hips, she continued.  “What do you intend to do with me?” 

Broadsword sauntered back to where she stood.  He took her face in his hands, stroking the corner of her mouth with a thumb.  “You frown.  Have you not been treated well by me?” 

The question played around in her mind like a squirrel jumping from limb to limb.  “I currently have no argument with your treatment of me.  Suspicions, though, as to why you tease me plague my thoughts.” 

Needing some sort of answer, she pinned him with her stare.  “One moment you can’t seem to keep your hands to yourself, the next you look shocked at how we respond to one another.” 

“Ah.  You don’t trust me.”  He paused.  “Were our positions reversed, I would have the same doubts.  Let me assure you that it is in both your and my best interests that you arrive in Hamre in good, no, near perfect condition.  No matter how you flaunt your wares, no matter how much I would enjoy partaking of them, I intend to present you as the grand prize you are.” 

Flaunt her wares!  She squinted.  He might think so, but he didn’t know her motivation.  She’d done so in an ill-conceived attempt to earn her freedom.  “How can you do that when I am abased by you and your underlings?  When I am refused the simple dignity of clothing?” 

“Come now, Sweetling, you expect me to believe you didn’t enjoy your release earlier?”  He kissed her, his tongue delving into her moist mouth, probing with gentle earnest.  The sensation of butterflies tickling her ran across her skin just before he broke the contact. 

“Besides, are we not both in an equal state of undress?  Your dignity needs no clothing here with me.” 

Gods, his kiss sent daggers of fire racing through her.  He dropped his hands to her shoulders and began to gently massage them.  The fire only continued, jumping from one nerve ending to another.  Somehow, her plan of seduction was failing.  She pushed back from him.  “Why?  Why do you do that?” 

His lips grazed her neck as he replied, “I find you quite desirable, despite your hellcat attitude.”  He paused, taking a deep breath.  “Maybe because of it.” 

“But you take me to the King,” she protested.  Hope trickled through her the way cooling water eased a parched throat.  

Emotion choked his voice.  “I am even now in the final preparations for your arrival to Hamre.  You will be clad in the softest leather, your hair adorned with jewels befitting a lady of your rank.”  He placed his mouth near her ear.  “Even if you are an unquenchable tart.” 

Lifting a strand of her hair, he caressed her face with it.  “It is far too sad a thing you should go to Hamre.  I doubt any there will appreciate your talents as well as I.”  

She felt him tongue her outer ear, and then he blew against it ever so slightly.  Shivers ran down her arms.  “When you go to him, remember me.” 

Abruptly, he smashed the romance of the moment as if he’d taken a mace to an enemy.  

“Now, come.  I will finish your ablutions, and dress you.”  He extended his roughened hand to hers. 

As if in a trance, she placed her smaller hand in his, fascinated by how his seemed to swallow hers entirely.  This was how he was, she thought.  He swallowed alive all those around him, in such a way they didn’t know they had been consumed.  He was eating her alive, ingesting her very soul, and she didn’t mind. 

In the distance, the birds sang their night songs.  The sun had nearly finished its descent, putting shadows on nearly everything.  Finola’s world had turned gray.  Where once she was sure she knew what was the right course of action, uncertainly reigned.  She thought she loved Calder but desire for Broadsword continually pushed him from her mind. 

“End of the line.”

Jerry opened his eyes and yawned.  He hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but the cozy, warm interior of the car and the hypnotizing effect of the snow on the road lulled him to slummberland.  “North Platte?”

Robert nodded, a strand of dark brown hair falling into his eyes.  “Every hotel I’ve seen has a ‘no vacancy’ light on.”

They drove on in silence.  Jerry scanned the hotel signs looking for something that promised a vacancy.  He’d talked Robert into heading out into the storm.  “Hey…down the way on the right.”  He couldn’t read the word, but all the ‘no vacancy’ signs had been red.  “It’s green not red…maybe they still have a room.”

Snow crunched beneath the car’s tires.  The temperature must have fallen a good twenty or more degrees since they’d left.  Jerry prayed there would be a room.  Sleeping in a car in freezing temperatures would put a real damper on the weekend’s festivities.

Gradually, the building came into view.  With a nearly full parking lot of snow covered vehicles an older hotel still proclaimed ‘vacancy’ on its signage.  “We just may be in luck, ol’ boy.”

“I hope so.  I’m damn tired.”  Robert pulled into a parking space.

Together, they pulled their bags out of the trunk and trudged toward the main doors, the wind blasting icy particles at them.  Jerry was six times a fool to convince his roommate to travel in such adverse conditions.  What had he been thinking?

He shook his head.  The answer to his rhetorical question come from his third leg– the head with the smallest brain did the thinking for him.  For over two years he’d kept his distance from the Robert the Brainiac…but lately, well, lately there seemed a subtle shift in Robert’s attitude.