I hold my hand up to stop him from advancing.
“I said PUP. Scene end, Bruno. It’s over.” I stuff my cock into my trousers and zip them up; straightening the fabric, my fingers twitching as the hurricane starts to fester within me. The monster inside of me hungers for more. For things I can not give it, not tonight. Not here.
I need my oasis. I need my bed, and perhaps a good sleep.
“Was it something I did? Said? Did I not—”
“This isn’t working,” I say, my voice bitter to my own ears.
He doesn’t move, even though I’ve clearly ended the scene. This isn’t like him, though I suppose there is that disappointment, that expectation because he did not bring me my release, that he has failed. Despite his nature, Bruno, like most people, thrives on praise, not failure.
And I know, somewhere deep down, he sees this as afailure.Perhaps that is what happens when you sink all your praise and approval into satisfying men and women for a living.
Part of me wants to break away, while the other knows I need to make sure he is okay. Even if things did not transpire the way I prefer, I am nothing if not professional. And this… while the room may be different and the duties different, this is still a professional relationship. It’s transactional and requires a certain level of understanding. A certain level of care.
I might pay Bruno to serve me from time to time, but that does not negate my duties as a dominant because it is professional. If anything, it means I need to make myself and my role more clear. I need to keep him within the structure of our arrangement and make sure he is mentally alright as well as physically.
“It is not you, Bruno,” I tell him carefully.
He looks up at me with sad brown eyes.
“It’s not you, it’s me? Really, Mr. Pierce?”
I don’t laugh. I hold his gaze steadily and he doesn’t look away.
“Do not take it personally. We all have bad days.”
Bruno nods. “Right. Of course.”
I reach out and grasp his chin, forcing him to look at me as he tries to look away.
“Thank you for your time.”
The disappointment in his eyes is evident, and I hate it. I hate to know I’ve disappointed him. I hate to disappoint most people, and it seems I do more of that than I wish. So I pull my wallet out to take out a few crisp hundred dollar bills. I’d already paid when I booked my time, on top of the rush fee, a measly fee of one thousand dollars for a full two hours. Still, the need to placate him for his time and soothe his anxieties is tantamount. I offer him three hundred dollars, holding it between us.
His dark gaze flits to my fingers, where I hold the folded up bills.
“Are you sure there is nothing else I can do?” he asks, leaning a little too close for comfort. I look at the cash, then at him.
“No. Take it.” I step back, thrusting my hand out to him. “For your troubles.”
Bruno purses his thin lips, giving me a heavy sigh of defeat. He takes the cash, his fingers grazing mine. I watch as he counts it.
“Good Boy,” I tell him, if only because I don’t need him thinking I’mupsetwith him. He nods as I slide my wallet back in my pocket and make my way towards the door. The hallway is empty; the doors all closed. The only thing that can be heard is the faint sound of classical music pumping through the speakers. I groan, having heardMoonlight Sonatatoo much in my life to properly enjoy it anymore, not to mention I’m quite irritated. My mind is a mess, and I need release. I need to work this out of my system. This melancholy, this fixation, which I already feel taking hold of my consciousness. I thought for certain a visit here tonight would cure me. Help me work out my stress and my overbearing thoughts, but I was wrong.
All it did was make me irritated, and I could barely focus on anything. And I didn’t even come.
I make my way out, the staff thanking me for my time, and I dismiss them with a wave.
The drive back to my house isn’t long—at this time of night, the roads are mostly empty, not to mention the neighborhood that Paramour exists within is rather upscale and not far from my own. Though that was not purposeful, it has been rather useful. I glance at the Chromebook, left on the seat. I pick it up. A faint smirk forms on my lips as I realize my little pet will not have any way to complete his work as he’d possibly intended. I look at it in question.
I could drop it off. It is late, though, and I do need to get home. He’s probably sleeping, unaware of his error. I think about that—about Oliver in his bed, blissfully unaware.
I could just give it to him tomorrow.
Perhaps with a carrying case or a backpack so he doesn’t lose it or leave it again. I’d hate to have to fire him over something like that considering all the pertinent information stored on here. I know he likely didn’t leave it on purpose, though. I don’t usually give the benefit of the doubt, but something tells me that Oliver is different.
That he was perhapsnervousbecause of my driving him home.
