The digital clock on the dashboard read 9:23 PM when Duncan killed the engine. Sixteen minutes early. He got out of the SUV, the cool night air a welcome change from the stale, recycled air of the car. He walked into the caretaker's cottage as if he owned it—which, in every way that mattered, he did.
He expected to find Jake waiting, perhaps a little nervous but ready. Instead, he was met with silence. He moved through the downstairs, his footsteps echoing lightly, then took the stairs two at a time.
He found Jake in the bedroom, standing in front of the open closet in nothing but his jeans. The room was a disaster zone of discarded potential outfits—a button-down thrown over the desk chair, a hoodie on the floor, another t-shirt lying in a heap on the bed. Jake was holding up a faded black band tee, staring at it with an expression of pure, frustrated agony.
"For Christ's sake, Jake, we're going to a club, not a funeral," Duncan said, his voice a mix of amusement and exasperation.
Jake jumped, dropping the shirt. "Sir! I didn't hear you come in. I just... I don't have anything to wear to go dancing."
Duncan sighed, walking past him to the dresser. He pulled open the top drawer and rummaged past the neatly folded stacks of his own clothes until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a sheer, multi-colored tank top, the fabric shimmering with an iridescent sheen.
"Here," he said, holding it out. "Wear this under one of your flannels. Jeans, with your black runners, and Bob's your uncle!”
Duncan's command broke Jake's paralysis. He took the sheer tank, the fabric feeling slippery and alien in his hands. He looked from it to Duncan, who was already moving, stripping off his own clothes with efficient, purposeful movements.
While Jake wrestled with the unfamiliar top, Duncan quick-changed into his own club outfit he'd been envisioning for the last hour of his drive. He pulled on a black sheer short-sleeve shirt, then the black leather jeans, the material clinging like a second skin. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull on the black Chelsea boots, the sound of the zipper a sharp, final click. He finished by shrugging on a black leather bomber, the whole transformation taking less than three minutes.
Jake finally had the outfit on—the sheer tank under a dark flannel, his jeans, and his black runners. He felt ridiculous, a farm boy playing dress-up in his boyfriend's shadow.
They were in the SUV by 9:38 PM. Jake watched the clock on the dashboard tick over to 9:39 PM as Duncan brought the vehicle to life with a press of a button. The powerful engine hummed to life, a low thrum that vibrated through the seats. Duncan pulled out of the driveway without another word, leaving the silent caretaker’s cottage behind them.
Twenty minutes later they rolled up to a warehouse that had been converted into the most exclusive and happening dance club in the city. The bass from inside was a physical presence, a deep, thumping heartbeat that vibrated through the SUV's floor. A line of hopefuls snaked around the block, but Duncan pulled right to the front.
A valet in a crisp green vest greeted them at the curb, opening the driver's side door with a deferential nod. "Good evening, Mr. Smythe."
Duncan alighted from the SUV, his movements fluid and confident. "Evening, Mark," he said, his voice smooth. "Be good to my baby like always!" He slipped the valet a generous tip in the guise of a handshake, the bills folded neatly into his palm.
"Of course, Mr. Smythe. Enjoy your night!" Mark said, his smile widening as he slid into the driver's seat.
Duncan turned, his eyes finding Jake, who was just now standing on the sidewalk, looking overwhelmed by the flashing lights and thumping music. "Come on, SubTank. Let's go lose ourselves."
“Yes sir!” Jake says with a forced by sincere smile.
They bypassed the line entirely, the two bouncers at the front door parting for them like the Red Sea. Both men dwarfed Jake's already impressive bulk, their suits straining at the seams. They nodded respectfully as Duncan passed.
"Mr. Smythe," one of them announced, his voice a low rumble. "Some of your party is already up in the loft."
Duncan didn't break stride, merely nodding in acknowledgment. He pushed Jake in front his hand firmly on the small of Jake's back, guiding him through the chaos. They found a secluded staircase and ascended to the loft, a quieter, more exclusive space overlooking the main floor.
They were greeted by Jayson, who was holding court on a plush velvet sofa. He was surrounded by scantily clad but expensively appointed women, who by the light of day were mere girls, all of them vying for his attention.
Jayson’s face lit up when he saw them. He detached himself from his admirers, rushing to pull Jake into a tight, perfumed hug.
"Jake, you look amazing!" he exclaimed over the music.
Jake, feeling utterly out of his element, returned the hug with genuine relief. "I need a drink!" he practically shouted.
"Oh, sweetie," Jayson said with a dramatic wave of his arm, encompassing the entire club. "This is a dry club. Mocktails and water for everyone!”
Just as Jake was processing the absurdity of a dry nightclub, a high-pitched squeal cut through the music. One of the girls detached herself from the group, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and delight.
"Cousin Duncan!" she squealed, her gaze flicking from Duncan to Jake and back again. "This is an inspired choice!"
Duncan turned, a polished, charming smile instantly replacing his more serious expression. "Celia, meet Jake," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "My man in a storm, the center of the new world I've discovered!" He leaned in, giving her a brief, chaste kiss on the cheek, the gesture practiced and utterly devoid of any real intimacy.
Celia’s eyes sparkled as she looked Jake up and down, her assessment open and unabashed. "Well, the new world is very, very handsome," she purred, extending a perfectly manicured hand. "It's a pleasure.”
Jake took her hand, feeling clumsy and large. "Are you really cousins?" he asked Celia, confused by Duncan's elaborate description and the easy, familial way they interacted.
"First cousins on each of our mother's side," Celia answered breezily, not missing a beat. She squeezed his hand, her touch light and persuasive. "Can you get a break from being the great wall and come dance with me?"
Jake felt a flicker of panic. He wasn't a dancer. He wasn't a club person. His eyes immediately sought out Duncan, a silent plea for help or an escape.
Duncan just smiled, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. "He needs slight encouragement," Duncan said, his voice carrying easily over the music, "but once he's wound up properly, he can last for days!”
"Fabulous!" Celia declared, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "I need to be seen rubbing up against those muscles, to show Simon the Shmuck what a real man looks like." She didn't wait for an answer, simply taking Jake's hand and leading him back towards the stairs and into the heart of the chaos.
Jake soon found himself swallowed by a sea of people on the packed dance floor. Jayson, Celia, and four other hangers-on from the loft formed a protective, chaotic bubble around him. The music's relentless throb captured his feet first, a heavy, hypnotic beat that seemed to bypass his brain and speak directly to his muscles. Soon, the rest of his body fell into a foreign rhythm. Jake wasn't sure of the moves, but he wasn't uncomfortable with them. The sheer force of the crowd, the flashing lights, and the pounding bass made it easy to just let go, to become another body moving in the dark.
Time seemed to dissolve. Jake got lost in the music, the repetitive beat a mantra that washed away every thought. He wasn't thinking about Duncan's father, or the confusing world of BDSM, or the fact that he was a construction worker dancing in a room full of trust-fund kids. He was just moving.
After a while, the chaotic bubble around him thinned, the others drifting off into the crowd. He realized he was dancing alone, the pulsing lights washing over him. He looked up instinctively, and his gaze found the loft. Duncan was there, leaning against the railing, an audience of one looking down from above.
Duncan watched from the railing, a mocktail in his hand he hadn't touched. He watched his boyfriend let go, and a feeling he couldn't name bloomed in his chest—a potent, overwhelming mix of pride, love, and joy. He saw the powerful, graceful bulk of Jake's body moving on beat, looking more relaxed and free than Duncan had seen him in recent memory.
After a few more minutes, Duncan set his glass down and made his way down to the dance floor. He moved through the crowd with an easy confidence, the parting before him. He came up behind Jake, who was lost in the music, and slid his arms around Jake's waist, pulling him back against his chest.
Jake spun around in Duncan's arms, the motion fluid and instinctual. His eyes met Duncan's, his body covered in a fine mist of sweat that made his skin gleam under the strobing lights. An unwavering, joyful smile transformed his face, erasing all the uncertainty and anxiety from the past weeks. He leaned in, closing the small distance between them, and fed Duncan his tongue in a deep, possessive kiss. It was a raw, unguarded moment of pure connection that could rival the best Hollywood screen kisses, fueled not by a script but by the release of a man finally, truly letting go.
Duncan met him with equal intensity, his hands tightening on Jake's waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The thumping bass of the club faded into a dull, distant roar, replaced by the frantic beat of their own hearts. In that moment, there was no dominant or submissive, no rich boy or construction worker. There was just Jake and Duncan, two men lost in a kiss that felt like it could swallow the world whole.
An hour later, Jake found himself splayed on the plush sofa in the loft, a comfortable pillow for Duncan to lean into. His head was buzzing, his body pleasantly exhausted from the dancing. He had shed the flannel, and now wore only the sheer multi-colored tank, the fabric clinging to his glistening, sweat-slicked torso. Duncan, Jayson, and another man named Preston were deep in a conversation about art galleries or something equally foreign.
Preston, it turned out, was having a hard time tearing his eyes away from Jake. His gaze kept flicking from Duncan's face down to Jake's body, quite visible and on proud display through the sheer fabric.
"Figures Duncan would find you first," Preston said to Jake conspiratorially, leaning over the coffee table. "But I can't be jealous. You two look made for each other."
"You're no slouch, my friend," Jayson said, throwing his skinny arm around Preston's shoulders. He was a six-foot-tall clone of a fashion model, all sharp angles, dramatic pouts, and a perfectly proportioned body that looked like it had been designed in a studio. "Duncan just has a thing for real men."
"I can be real," Preston said with a practiced supermodel pout, his eyes still fixed on Jake. "I read an article on how."
"I know, baby," Jayson cooed, squeezing Preston's shoulder. He winked at Jake over the top of his friend's head. "And I can't wait until later to find out!" He turned his attention back to Duncan. "Duncan, we're going back to yours?"
"Soon, Jayson," Duncan laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through Jake's entire body. "You know patience is a virtue!"
"Have you ever known me to be virtuous?" Jayson shot back with a wicked grin.
A half an hour later, the SUV had been reclaimed from Mark, the valet. The city lights blurred into streaks of color as Duncan piloted them through the quiet streets, back towards the caretaker's cottage. The energy from the club had subsided into a comfortable, post-adrenaline hum, and Jake was leaning his head against the cool glass of the window, ready for the night to be over.
"Jayson and Preston are coming over?" Jake asked, his voice quiet, wishing with every fiber of his being that the answer would be no.
"Yes," Duncan said, his eyes still on the road. He reached over, his hand finding Jake's thigh and giving it a firm, possessive squeeze. "It seems that Jayson feels ready to put Preston through his paces, and needs our guidance and toys."
He glanced over at Jake, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It'll be fun, you'll see!”
Jake's stomach tightened, the casual invitation feeling like a test he hadn't studied for. He kept his gaze on the passing streetlights, his voice barely a whisper. "Will I be displayed as an example, SIR?"
Duncan’s hand tightened on his thigh for a moment, a silent signal. "Relax," he said, his tone shifting. "Tonight you're my boyfriend, and we are going to watch and direct our experience-whore of a friend through his endgame of using Preston."
Duncan looked over and smiled, a genuine, easy expression that softened the sharp lines of his face. "Preston is more than ready, and loves to perform for an audience. I don't see this taking too long, but it should be entertaining.”
An hour later, the atmosphere in the cottage had shifted completely. The low lighting of the front room was now charged with a thick, electric tension. Jake found himself in the familiar position of being Duncan's pillow again, his back against the arm of the sofa as Duncan leaned into him, watching the scene unfold with an air of detached amusement.
Preston was stripped bare, his lean, model-perfect body locked into the heavy wooden pillory. His head and hands were secured, forcing him into a bent, vulnerable position. A nearly naked Jayson, wearing nothing but a pair of tight black briefs, moved around him like a cat, teasing all the nerve endings of Preston's most reserved bits, which were fully aroused and on display to the room. Every touch was deliberate, every flick of the wrist designed to build pressure without offering release.
"I'm so fucking close," Preston whined, his voice a strained, desperate whimper as he pulled uselessly at the stocks' confinement. His body trembled, a sheen of sweat coating his skin as he teetered on the very edge of his control.
"Jayson dearheart, you've played with your prey long enough," Duncan calls out from his recline, his voice lazy and authoritative. "Finish what you've started so I can get my man to bed!"
Jayson looked over from his ministrations, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He gave a theatrical bow. "As you wish, Mr. Smythe."
He turned back to Preston, whose whimpers had turned into desperate, pleading gasps. Jayson’s hand, which had been teasing and light, suddenly gripped him with firm, unyielding pressure. He worked him with a practiced, efficient rhythm, bringing a slick hand up to Preston’s mouth for him to wet.
It only took a few, brutal strokes. Preston cried out, a sharp, broken sound that was half pain and half pure, unadulterated relief as his body finally shuddered and convulsed, spilling over Jayson's hand in a forceful rush.
Jayson gave him one last, slow pump before releasing him. He wiped his hand on a nearby towel, then patted Preston’s trembling flank. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice soft and full of praise. "You were as magnificent as I knew you would be!”
