It's night time. Time for me to come down from my penthouse and play a more interesting game than usual.
I live on the 35th floor of Warbucks Towers, in the exclusive penthouse suite designed by a renowned architect for my family. I have exclusive elevator access to three floors, though I only live on one. And every inch of it is marble. Plush fabrics and silk wallpaper line the artisan structures of the building, and everywhere is aglow with light. It's almost clinical in its precision, its cleanliness. Some nights I come home from the usual dreary rounds of clubs to find that my maid has decorated the whole hallway with vanilla-scented candles, and she's run a bath for me as I occasionally request her to, with my favourite pure vanilla oils and some white rose petals strewn on the water. The tub is marble, of course: but the jaccuzi is tiled in Italian hand-painted tiles, and gilt trim. I do not bathe tonight, but instead use the high-pressure rain room to shower in, before throwing on a silk shirt from Armani, a crisp linen suit and a pair of loafers from my second walk-in closet. Hair and perhaps a little guyliner as makeup takes moments, but it's worth it. Maria, my maid, brings me a tray of sashmi and some sake for me to start the evening with, the delicate morsels tantalizingly placed in some artistic fashion on their thick slate serving dish. The rich flavours burst on my tongue wickedly, but this sensuality alone is not and can never be enough. I have my own clubs, I visit yet more, and travel to even further pleasures. I am a hedonist with a maniac streak - the one who always wants more, wants it now, and wants it so badly nothing stops him. I desire pleasure like most desire oxygen. Tonight is supposed to be Zeus, followed by Casbah, and then a stop at Casa Neroni for a pretentious little meal with some even more pretentious little friends. Stockbrokers. Bankers. Wannabe models, and other trust fund kids. But I have tired of even this, and instead of going to the clubs with my assorted hangers-on, I decide I want some of my own fun, and some excitement. I'm currently single, but status has never stopped me. I grab my Parnari wallet, and once I've thrown on a cashmere scarf, I'm ready to go.
One long taxi-journey later (after having ditched the chauffer for this little jaunt) I arrive at the Blue Rooms, out on the very edge of Oakland. It's just on the fringe of the trendiest districts, and is one of those places where 'regeneration' is synonymous with 'fashionable slumland'. I don't care: This is where I want to be, because tonight is Animal Night at the Blue Rooms, and here, everyone can be a millionaire in disguise.
The music is thumping loudly enough to drown out conversation, and over the scream of the DJ, as I enter the club, I can hear the roar of the crowd. Animal Night has begun, and the first animal up on the central dance stage at the back of the club is some kind of horse. Or at least, that's what his rubber mask is. The Blue Rooms cater to all kinds of fetishes, but rubber is not often one of them, and his outfit of mask, latex hotpants and hooved boots is getting the crowd into a frenzy. As he grinds along the pole at the end of the stage, showing off his not-inconsiderable bulge, I see a rough hand reach out and stuff a few dollars into the top of his boot. The reaction is immediate: Horse turns away from the pole and begins to writhe down to the stage floor, rubbing his crotch against the boards, seemingly in an ecstacy of lust. More dollars are pushed his way, and he becomes not a horse, but a pony: He invites a young, blonde twink standing shyly next to the stage, up with him. The atmosphere is tense and electric as he begins to offer himself to this young, blonde thing, barely clothed as he is. The blonde shyly strokes his abs, gently caressing all the way down to his belly, and past his navel. Old men drool into their drinks. The caressing starts in earnest, up there on the stage: The Horse bucks lithely towards the blonde, who rests his hand on the darker, sweatier man. Then, with a shrill cry of laughter, he tweaks his nipple, and Horse and he canter around the stage like a mare and a stallion. Grabbing a mask thrown from the wings, and a large swathe of multicoloured fabric, this little blonde twink reveals himself to be yet another dancer. Bright peacock feathers suddenly fill the air: Horse begins to move around him and behind him as the crowd hears a ripping noise, a tearing of the thin tee that was once worn by the boy who now stands naked save a few peacock feathers and a gigantic smile. The feathers ruffle as the crowd advances on the stage again, and the scene is obscured as cash is waved in the air, and the shrill cry of a peacock I can hear is once more the cry of lusty laughter.
The music stops dead. The lights suddenly dim, and the hubbub of the dancefloor stops as the smoke machine begins to jet red and yellow smoke. Deep, pounding beats come from every speaker, like some monstrous heartbeat. A single spotlight points down to the stage like a star. And then it turns red.
"Ladies and Gentlemen: The Dragon!"
I feel him before I see him, before I notice his costume of red and black leather, thigh-high goth boots with tripled silver buckles, tight leather hotpants and a studded silver bracer on each arm. His long, dark hair falls softly over his shoulder, and his belt already holds a few notes, jammed in at opportune angles. He pauses, and then, in time with the music, lunges to the floor and arches his back like a whore. We each imagine being under him simultaneously, so accurately erotic his pantomime of penetration, and we all seem to groan with pleasure as one. There are squabbles at the front over who should get his kisses, and more money and blows are traded before the bouncer wades in and pulls them from the dancefloor for good.
I slide into the vacant space, and feel something drip on me. I look up to see his face, and his outstretched palm, sweat running off him as though he were a furnace, and his fngers gently flick his perspiration onto my face as though it were dew onto the dry ground. I unconciously lick my lips, and push a roll of twenties into his buckles. The hand looms closer, and suddenly a finger is stroked across my lips and I am encouraged to suckle, long and slowly and sensuously, as he gently and demonstratively strokes the front of his leathers like an expert gigolo. I can no longer hold myself back. I blurt it out, this outpouring of desire.
"Come home with me. For ten k."
I suckle his finger coyly and he looks down, dark eyes meeting mine, the music suddenly loud as drums beat around us. I slide another roll of twenties into your boot, and withdraw: In turn, he catches my hand and draws it down his damp body, letting me feel and fondle the massive bulge. I stroke the length in those leather shorts, and it's rock-hard, and seemingly endless: just how big is this Dragon?
Then he laughs, and stomps onwards, buckles shining as he massacres the audience with each slow gyration, each lazily-executed and perfect martial art move that shows off every rippling muscle. I move silently to a booth, sticky with spilt beer, and wait as I watch him on stage. Some try to woo with small bills: He looks at them as tenderly as you did me. I grow slightly annoyed: for the first time in my life, my money cannot buy me what I want. And what I want is a dragon in my bed tonight.
A quick phone call to the club owner confirms for me his oh-so-important details: STD free, and single, and more interestingly, bisexual. I mentally count the number of dildoes I have to hand in the apartment, and smile as I watch the stage. Sipping a margerita from the single bar down at the other end of the club, I see other patrons drift away as the night grows longer. He turns and dance on stage for a small gaggle of college guys, some of whom are tipsy, and others who are evidently drunk. Drunk, and ready to play with my own new toy. I look at him in a form of silent commune, begging him to look at me, and to look deep into my eyes. You, I voice silently, you are perfect and you are mine. It is your blistering gaze, however, that captures my heart for good. I wonder if you notice my attentions. One floppy-fringed teen strokes your boot as he pushes his dollar in, fondling the leather as though it were your skin. I read your lips, as you gently touch his cheek, retrieving the dollar.
'Want to kiss it'?
He nods mutely, and looks up at you with a smile so wide it looks seriously like you've found his little fetish. Obligingly, you offer a toecap, and he gently kisses the steel, and then the leather. You stroke his hair as he kisses your boot buckles, resting his warm lips against the cool steel and leather, scenting you as he runs a hand up and down your leg. I hear a throaty roar of a laugh, and I smile myself: It seems this Dragon likes to indulge his conquests. With his last dollar, the teen worships your boot slowly and lovingly, and then lets you retreat from the stage a final time.
It's barely midnight. Time for my moves.
The keys to backstage are not often passed out to the patrons of the Blue Rooms, but a little deposit each trip means that I get my pick of whom I wish to visit. I knock sharply on his door (one with a scarlet dragon on the nameplate, instead of a name) and enter without a word.
He's there, resting in a canvas chair, and slowly raises his eyes to me. Along my legs, my hips, and my chest, undressing me mentally. He slowly meets my eyes. They are the colour of dark, molten chocolate, and so very searching that it's me who looks away first.
"The offer still stands. Ten k, for one night. More if you want to do...other things."
I wait, relishing the silence. The last time I made this offer, it was five k and his eyes opened wide in shock at the idea of 'other things'. But then again, he had been a farmer's son from Kansas, and had hands like spades, and his blonde bristles tickled against my nipples when he suckled. Back where he came from, 'Other things' was either heavy petting or that most forbidden of taboos, the kind of sex that was lusted after but nearly never had. I remember his screams of pleasure as he had his prostate stroked, and his whimpering moans of orgasm as his equally bullish friend (still wearing his Dallas Cowboys jersey) began to ram home into him. I pride myself on my innovations, true: however, my blonde Kansas farmboy had already had significant leanings that way. I merely pushed him in a direction where he hadn't the nerve to go by himself. Three sweaty, messy orgasms later (for everyone), the lure of the farm and of home was long gone. Three weeks later, the farmboy eloped with an equally large bear from San Fran, and sent me a postcard, which was touching.
But this Dragon was different. Lazily sprawled in his chair, he picked up his glass of water and sipped gently at it, as though musing deeply on my offer.
"All right, then, eleven. One k extra for everything else tonight. It's worth your while, if you ask me."
That got a reaction. He laughed.
"Am I worth as little as that?"
Inside I was fuming.
"Fifteen."
"I expected better of you, boy."
"Twenty", I hissed, with gritted teeth. "Twenty is my final offer."
He stretched, and looked back at me. "Only twenty?"
"Perhaps you'd prefer a Lambourghini," I snapped, icily. This was not going as planned. Rent boys were supposed to be cheap, weren't they? Perhaps the Blue Rooms were beginning to take a cut for themselves.
But when I looked into his eyes, they themselves were less warm.
"I wouldn't take it."
I finally lost my temper. "Then tell me what you fucking want! Coke? Beer? A truck? Stock in Microsoft?" My voice raised to a shout, but even as it did, he suddenly sprang up as though he were a coiled spring, and placed his arms around me. I struggled momentarily, but then realised the hold was turning into a very strongly relaxing embrace. As soon as I felt it for what it was, all my body's reflexes told me to stop the struggle, and I could not fight the urge to press up against him and relax further. Silently, without words, he began to gently nuzzle and rub his lips and cheek against my neck. Kissing the very nape of my neck, and letting me feel the sharp edge of his teeth against my skin, he began to disarm any anger that I'd felt all day. I didn't know how he did it: within mere moments, he had turned me from a spoilt, tantruming tyrant to a soft, mewling kitten in his arms. As soon as I rested against him, a deep rumble started up, like that of a big cat. He was purring like a tiger, the sound both at once tender and arousing. His arms were warm and very tight, and the more relaxed I felt, the warmer and stronger they seemed to be.
His voice was gentle in my ear, but very clear and deep, the smokiness of the tigerish growl still there.
"I'll entertain you for one night in any way you wish. But I ask for one thing in payment."
I don't know how I must have babbled. But I know that I would have paid anything, even my limo and my stables and my penthouse and personal gym, for what he was giving me. But he stroked my cheek and I fell silent once more.
"I want a kiss. Just a simple, honest kiss. Show me how much you want me."
He needed no more urging. I stroked his face, turning in his arms, and licked his lips before kissing him over and over, relishing his wild taste, trickles of his salty sweat giving an erotic tang to every nibble, and it must have lasted for hourse by itself before I gently tried to fondle his tongue with mine. The reaction was as immediate as mine had been: He hissed back, crushing his mouth to mine, licking and slowly kissing, stroking my long hair as he did so.
I rang for my chauffeur, and within half an hour, I was leading my new conquest up the marble steps of Warbucks Towers.