Simon stumbled out of the Bentley, his legs still feeling like jelly and the heavy, slick sensation of Marcus’s seed cooling inside him. He took the lift up to his flat in a daze, the opulence of Claridge’s still clinging to his skin like a expensive perfume. Once inside, he headed straight for the bedroom, yanking open the wardrobe to find the one designer item he’d ever treated himself to—a small, monogrammed Louis Vuitton rucksack he’d snagged at a sample sale years ago. It had sat in the dark, gathering dust, a relic of an ambition he’d almost forgotten he had.
He tossed it onto the unmade bed and began to move with a frantic, focused energy. He didn’t need much—Marcus had made that clear—but he grabbed a handful of his tightest athletic jockstraps, the elastic waistbands frayed from rugby training but still functional enough to provide the "access" Marcus clearly craved. He stuffed them into the bag along with several pairs of black trainer socks and his washbag, making sure to include his heavy-duty suncream and a bottle of cooling aftershave.
He paused at the mirror, seeing the faint, darkening bruises on his hips where Marcus’s fingers had dug in during that final, brutal bout. He felt a sharp, unexpected thrill at the sight. He grabbed his passport from the bedside drawer, checking the expiry date with a shaking hand, and shoved it into the rucksack’s front pocket alongside a battered pair of aviator sunglasses and his favourite worn-in baseball cap.
As he zipped the bag shut, the weight of the moment hit him. He looked around his cramped, damp-spotted room—the stack of unpaid bills, the cheap polyester duvet, the smell of stale protein shakes. In less than an hour, he would be back in the Bentley, heading toward a private jet and a life where fifty thousand pounds was just a starting figure. He slung the Vuitton rucksack over his broad, aching shoulder, the leather strap biting into the muscle he’d worked so hard to build, and walked out of the flat without looking back.
The driver was waiting exactly where he’d left him, the engine of the Mulsanne purring like a contented beast. "Back to Mayfair, sir?" the driver asked, catching Simon’s eye in the rearview mirror.
"Yeah," Simon replied, leaning back into the heated leather seat and letting out a long, slow breath. "Back to Claridge’s. I’ve got a flight to catch."
The Bentley pulled up to the curb of Claridge’s with silent precision, and Simon stepped out, his Louis Vuitton rucksack slung over one broad shoulder. He felt the eyes of the doormen on him, no longer seeing a struggling athlete in a cheap tracksuit, but a man belonging to the world of the elite. When he entered the Royal Suite, Marcus was already dressed in a lightweight linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway to reveal his tanned, silver-haired chest. He gestured with a flick of his wrist toward a large, pristine Louis Vuitton suitcase resting on the luggage rack.
"My assistant has been busy," Marcus said, his gaze raking over Simon’s muscular frame with a possessive heat. "He’s packed everything you'll need. I noted your shoe size from the suit fitting, so you’ll find new Hugo Boss trainers, leather sandals, and flip-flops in there as well. You’ll need the latter for the pool."
Simon walked over, running a hand over the expensive canvas of the new case. The sheer speed and efficiency of Marcus’s wealth was dizzying.
"There are several swimsuits in there as well," Marcus continued, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across his face. "Though I suspect you’ll be mostly nude in and around the pool. I like my boys easy access, Simon. I don't want to be fumbling with drawstrings when I decide I want to use you."
Simon felt a familiar stir of arousal in his gut, the dull ache in his hole from their previous session a constant, thrumming reminder of who he now belonged to. He looked at Marcus, a flush creeping up his neck. "I actually grabbed a few of my gym jockstraps when I was at the flat. Thought they might come in handy."
Marcus’s eyes darkened, and he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to firmly grip the back of Simon’s neck, pulling him into his personal space. The scent of expensive cologne and raw masculinity was intoxicating.
"Good boy," Marcus whispered, his thumb stroking the corded muscle of Simon’s throat. "Perfect for easy access. I want you in one of those under your trousers for the flight. I might decide to have the flight attendant give us some privacy over the Alps, and I don't want to waste a second getting to that tight little ass of yours."
Simon nodded, his breath hitching as he felt Marcus’s other hand slide down to squeeze his firm glute through his jeans. "I'll go change now," he managed to say, his voice thick with anticipation.
"Do that," Marcus commanded, giving his backside a sharp, stinging slap that made Simon gasp. "The car is waiting to take us to the airfield. From now on, Simon, you don't worry about the bill. You just worry about staying ready for me."
Simon retreated into the opulent, marble-clad dressing room of the Royal Suite, the air still heavy with the scent of their recent, carnal exertions and the expensive musk of Marcus’s cologne. He stood for a moment before the floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror, observing the faint, darkening thumbprints on his tanned hips—a map of Marcus’s possession that made his pulse thrum with a newfound, submissive heat. With practiced, athletic movements, he reached into his own rucksack and pulled out a fresh, stark white jockstrap, the elastic waistband snapping sharply against his skin as he stepped into it. The garment was tight, hoisting his heavy, flaccid length upward and cupping his muscular buttocks in a way that offered absolutely no modesty, exactly as Marcus had commanded. Over this, he layered the crisp, bespoke white shirt provided by the Savile Row tailor, the high-thread-count cotton feeling like cool water against his over-sensitised chest. He meticulously fastened the buttons, his thick fingers moving with a slight tremor of adrenaline, before stepping back into the charcoal trousers of the suit. The fabric was so expertly cut that it clung to the powerful swell of his quadriceps and the hard curve of his glutes like a second skin, the lack of traditional underwear beneath the suit trousers ensuring that the outline of the jockstrap’s straps was barely visible, yet the sensation of the rough wool against his bare skin was an erotic, constant reminder of his status. He slid into the waistcoat and finally the jacket, the structured shoulders emphasizing his V-tapered physique, making him look less like a struggling athlete and more like a high-end lethal weapon tailored specifically for a millionaire’s pleasure.
Once he had adjusted his silk tie and checked that his heavy jawline was clean-shaven, Simon stepped back into the main lounge, where Marcus was waiting with an expression of predatory approval. Simon reached down to grip the handle of the brand-new, monogrammed Louis Vuitton suitcase, its weight substantial and promising, while his own smaller rucksack was slung over one broad, suited shoulder. Marcus offered a curt, satisfied nod, his eyes lingering on the way the slim-fit trousers tautened over Simon's lap as he moved, before gesturing toward the door. They descended through the hushed, velvet-lined corridors of Claridge’s, Simon walking a half-step behind Marcus, feeling the weight of the stares from the hotel staff—stares that no longer felt judgmental but envious of the raw power and wealth radiating from the man leading him. At the kerbside, the black Bentley Mulsanne was idling silently, its polished chrome glinting under the London afternoon sun; the chauffeur held the door open with a gloved hand, and Simon slid into the cool, leather-scented interior, the bespoke suit feeling incredibly restrictive yet intoxicatingly masculine as he settled into the deep, reclining seats next to his benefactor.
The journey out of the congested streets of London and toward the private airfield at Farnborough was a blur of shifting light and high-stakes tension. As the city gave way to the rolling greenery of the Home Counties, Marcus reached across the middle console, his hand coming to rest heavily and possessively on Simon’s thigh, his fingers digging into the expensive wool to feel the hard, tensed muscle beneath. Simon didn't pull away; instead, he shifted his legs slightly wider, offering Marcus better access in the privacy of the tinted cabin. They barely spoke, the silence filled only by the low hum of the engine and the crackle of the premium leather, yet the air was thick with the unspoken promise of what would occur once they were airborne. By the time the Bentley swept through the secure gates of the private terminal at Farnborough, past the rows of sleek Gulfstreams and Global Express jets, Simon felt a profound sense of detachment from his former life. He watched through the window as the car pulled up alongside a gleaming, white private jet with its stairs already lowered, the ground crew standing at attention. He realized, as he gripped the handle of his luggage and prepared to follow Marcus up the steps into the sky, that the twenty-one-year-old straight jock who had been drowning in debt only forty-eight hours ago had been entirely consumed by this new, gilded reality, and as he felt the snap of his jockstrap against his skin with every step, he knew he was ready to be whatever Marcus required him to be for the duration of their flight to the continent.
