Part One: For the Attention Of
Joe Stuart pulled a crumpled envelope out of his jacket pocket and stared at the neat line of block, capital letters written across the front of it. That was definitely his name.
He glanced up at the dilapidated house he’d just driven to. It was set several yards back from the pavement, and those bits of the building that hadn’t been completely consumed by ivy hinted that it had once been a magnificent old place. A fancy sign attached to the rusting, wrought iron gates proudly labelled the house,21 Tudor Avenue. A lopsided addition had been fastened just beneath it.Student accommodation, very reasonable rates.
Taking the letter out of the envelope, Joe ran his eyes over the contents once again, just in case it had changed since the previous night, when he’d found the note shoved into his locker at one of the clubs where he tended bar.
He was certainly at the right address, but the spark of recognition he’d expected to strike him was conspicuously absent. He shrugged and strode up the path anyway. The front door was propped open, so he went straight in.
Joe barely noticed the messy jumble of belongings that littered the hallway. The instructions in the letter were very specific.Room nine. Upstairs, last door on the left.Jogging briskly up the stairs, he headed straight to the designated room. The door marked number nine was closed. He rapped his knuckles firmly against the faded woodwork, idly wondering if he’d recognise the man who lived there.
No one immediately answered his summons. Joe frowned. He had the horrible feeling that someone was winding him up. He looked over his shoulder and down the line of doors that flanked the corridor, trying to work out what the punchlinemight be. Whoever had conned him out of his nice warm bed to investigate the mysterious note, they’d better hope it turned out to be bloody funny.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
No one answered his knock, no one jumped out and shouted “surprise”. Not a single damn thing happened. Joe sighed. That was what he got for letting his curiosity get the better of his common sense.
Shaking his head at himself, he stepped away from the door, wondering if it was worth going home to bed or if he should try to find some other way to amuse himself until he started his next shift at the club.
Halfway along the corridor, Joe paused. For some reason, he found himself retracing his steps and trying the door handle, just on the off chance. It turned easily within his grasp. The door swung open.
Joe stared silently into the room for several seconds. The central ceiling light was on, highlighting every detail of the man lying face down on the double bed opposite the door. The guy was completely naked but for the leather cuffs wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and he was stunning.
Lean lines of pale muscle called to Joe, just begging him to grab a whip and paint pretty lines across the pristine canvas. At the same time, a spark of possessiveness crackled through Joe. Stepping forward, he closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock for good measure. This canvas was his. No other guys were going to be allowed to play on it until he was done.
A combination of floppy blond hair and an awkward angle obscured the bound man’s face. Joe still didn’t have a clue who he was about to screw. He took several steps forward. He was only three paces away from the bed when the lightning bolt of recognition finally hit him.
Scott!
The name circled around and around in Joe’s head as he ran his eyes over Scott’s body. Gradually, more words were added to the exclamation.
Scott.
Scott—naked.
Scott—naked and tied up.
Scott—naked, tied up, and apparently waiting for Joe to screw him.
Joe’s mind came to a stop then. He wasn’t sure how that scenario could get any better. Every element of his favourite fantasy was already there.
Frowning slightly, Joe tore his gaze away from Scott and looked around the room. There had to be a hidden camera somewhere. Things like this didn’t happen in real life. They happened in wet-dreams and solo jack-off sessions. They happened when he failed to hook up with anyone at the club and went home alone, his mind inevitably crammed full of fantasies involving the quiet guy who lurked on the edge of his group of friends.
To hell with it. If someone was filming them, that was fine with Joe. If nothing else, it might prove to be a hellishly good souvenir of the occasion.
Joe placed his fingertips against the inside of Scott’s ankle, just above the leather cuff. Scott jerked. The chains connecting his bondage to the bed-frame rattled. Joe waited, his fingers resting lightly on Scott’s skin. No actual protest arrived. Joe gave Scott a few extra moments, just in case he wanted to speak up and tell him what the hell was going on.
Nothing.
It seemed that Joe had free rein. He smiled to himself as he shrugged off his leather jacket and tossed it onto a chair in the far corner of the room. That was when he saw them.
He’d been wrong to think there was nothing anyone could have added to the scenario to make it even better. Joe strode across to the chest of drawers and stared down at the row of toys some thoughtful person had laid out on top of it.
Joe glanced over his shoulder. Scott’s eyes were still closed. Whatever private fantasy he was playing out, it didn’t seem to include seeing the man who’d be screwing him just yet.
Joe hummed cheerfully to himself as he considered his options. Floggers, and butt-plugs, and whips, oh my! He picked up a thick wooden paddle and tested the weight of it in his hand. It was heavy—far too substantial to be used on a guy who wasn’t used to getting his arse spanked very hard and on a very regular basis.
