He maneuvers so his ass faces me, his chest flush against the floor. I run my hands over the perfect round, firm muscle, squeezing before landing a sharp smack. He jolts, a gasp escaping his lips.
I do it again, harder this time. His skin reddens, the imprint of my hand clear. “Like that, whore?”
“More.”
I oblige, raining down harder slaps, until his pale skin is as red as the velvet walls. Then I reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a small bottle of lube and a condom. I slick up my fingers, pressing one against his entrance. He tenses for amoment, then relaxes, letting me in. I work him open, adding another finger, then another.
“Such a tight, greedy hole. It’s sucking my fingers in.”
When he’s loose enough, I withdraw and push my jeans to my ankles. I roll on the condom, then press the blunt tip of my cock against his entrance. I look out at the crowd. They’re silent, but their eyes are glued on us.
Just the way I want it.
Gripping his hips, I thrust into him in one harsh motion. He cries out, the entirety of him tensing around me. I lean over, my body pressing against his back, my lips brushing against his ear. “You feel that? You feel every fucking inch of me?”
He nods, his breath hitching. “Yes. Yes.”
“Good.” I smirk and straighten, my hips moving faster, my dick slamming into him.
“Because I want you to remember this. I want you to remember who fucking owned you tonight.”
I fuck him hard, each thrust drawing a gasp from deep within him. Gripping his hair, I pull his head back, allowing the crowd to witness the mixture of pleasure and pain written across his face. “Look at them. Look how they’re watching your slutty ass taking my dick.”
He mewls, his hands grasping the edge of the stage as if trying to hang on for dear life.
The crowd is getting louder, their voices a chorus of moans and whispers. They’re feeding off us, off the energy, off the fucking raw desire that’s filling the room.
I reach around, wrapping my hand around his dick. He’s hard, throbbing, and leaking. “Such a horny little whore, aren’t you? Bet there’s a big puddle under this little prick.”
“Please. Please.”
I stroke his length, hard. “Tell them what a whore you are.”
“I’m a dirty whore. Nothing but a toy. Oh God. More. Fuck me harder.” He moans, his body tensing, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
My hand tightens around him, moving in time with each of my thrusts. “Come for me. Come for me like the greedy little whore you are.”
He cries out, his body convulsing as he comes, his release spilling over my hand. His muscles tighten around me and I groan, my hips moving faster, my dick slamming into him as I chase my own release.
But something shifts, a tension in the air that’s . . . wrong. It’s subtle at first, like a cold breath on the back of my neck. I scan the crowd, and that’s when I see him.
A man in a Venetian metallic mask stands near the back, his eyes locked on mine. There’s something about the way he’s watching—like he knows me, like he sees through the mask I’m wearing.
No one watches me like that.
My rhythm falters and I tear my gaze away, refocusing on the hole I’m fucking. But the pressure in my chest grows. I rut into the twink harder, chasing the high, but the man’s gaze is burning into me, searing my skin.
I can’t shake it, can’t ignore it.
When I look back at him, he nods—a small, almost imperceptible movement. And then I break. The tension snaps, my body shaking as I come hard, a strangled cry escaping me.
My eyes stay locked with the man’s, and when my orgasm starts to fade, he smiles.
What the fuck!
I pull out, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The twink collapses onto the stage, his body trembling. I look down at him, at the handprints on his skin, at the bruises forming on his hips.
He’s a fucking mess—a beautiful, broken mess.
