Gayday! Gayday! - Gay 11 (2 page)

The fact that Hewett was still sitting opposite him watching their every move ceased to matter. Hewett had seen him play often enough on the local bi scene that he would already be well aware that Slade knew what he was doing—with a man or a woman. He had nothing to prove to the other dominant.

Slade watched his hand caress the other man’s skin. Rip was the only one who needed to realise he couldn’t act like a fool while claiming to be under his protection and get away with it.

Rip was still tensed when Slade brought his hand back and let it fall on the other man’s upturned backside. He hadn’t held back, his friend rocked against his lap from the force of the blow. Rip gasped, but no complaint was issued.

Slade’s hand came down again on the other cheek, no gentler than before. Matching red handprints blossomed in the wake of the spanks. Rip stayed silent, but Slade didn’t miss the fact he also pushed his arse out, eager for more. Tightening his hold around the other man’s torso, he brought his hand down again, once on each cheek in quick succession.

Another two quick smacks, and he settled into a familiar rhythm. Not too fast, not too slow, he allowed his submissive just enough time to appreciate each blow without actually giving him time to recover from it completely before another hand-fall demanded his attention.

Ripley Tatry moaned his pleasure as his friend’s hand connected with his arse once more, even harder this time. He tried to take a deep breath and think the situation through calmly and logically. It was damn near impossible to force even one sensible thought into his brain while Slade’s palm kept raining down against his skin. His arse burned from the top curve of muscle and all the way down and along the backs of his legs.

The dominant seemed determined not to leave a single inch of skin unstruck. His hand landed again, fingers curling to catch the inside of Rip’s thigh. Whimpering his approval, he automatically tried to spread his legs to accommodate the dominant’s wishes.

With his jeans bunched up around his knees, holding his calves together, it was impossible. The denim bound him as effectively as any leather he had ever known. He was trapped. He couldn’t even rock with the movements as he was spanked. The arm across the small of his back was as unrelenting as the one that set fire to a million different nerve endings.

Another spank. Another.

Rip bit his lip and held back a string of curses as the thinner muscles along the back of his legs received more of the same rough treatment as his arse. The stinging blows morphed into an ache that consumed the muscles. The heat coursed through his body. A sheen of sweat broke out on his skin. And every single sensation went straight to his stiffening cock.

Within moments of the first blow, his shaft had been harder than any of the smacks Slade laid on him. Now, it rubbed back and forth against the other man’s jeans with every movement.

With every rapid breath he managed to pant out, his cock hardened even further, thriving under the onslaught of sensations. Rip whimpered again, not sure if it was his cock or his arse he wanted to beg for mercy for. Another two rapid hand-falls and as suddenly as the sound of spanking filled the air, silence returned to their secluded little corner of the club.

The submissive forced a full lungful of air into his body and held it for as long as he could. It rushed out all at once, in a joyous moan as he felt Slade’s hand stroke over the spanked skin. Blinking, desperately trying to get his head out of a fantasy world where Slade really was gay, and where his friend truly was his master in every sense of the word, he forced himself to focus back in on reality.

In the real world, Slade was a straight dominant who just happened to have turned him over his knee for a bare arse spanking. In the real world his friend was a straight man who just happened to like stroking spanked arses, even if they belonged to a submissive of the wrong gender.

Rip frowned down at the little patch of floor that filled his vision. He hadn’t realised so much blood had run to his head, that it had addled his brain so badly. Putting his hands against the edge of Slade’s chair, he tried to push himself upright. The arm on his back allowed him half an inch of leeway before it stopped him short. The other hand calmly continued to caress his arse.

“I—”

“Will stay where you are until given permission to do otherwise,” Slade finished for him.

Rip was pretty sure that meant Slade was also a straight man who didn’t particularly mind the fact that another man’s cock was trying to drill a hole in his leg. He wasn’t an expert on that particular part of the population, but as high as he was on endorphins and adrenaline, it still didn’t strike him as entirely typical straight behaviour.

“Drink?” Someone asked, from the opposite side of their little seating area. Rip frowned at the reminder Hewett was still there.

“Just a Coke, thanks, I’m driving.” Slade sounded perfectly at ease with the world. That was just bloody well unfair. Rip was pretty sure the best he could have managed, if called upon to speak, was a garbled mess.

As it turned out, no one seemed to be the least bit interested in anything he might have had to say anyway. His opinion wasn’t sought as Hewett and Slade calmly began talking about old acquaintances. The only thing that hinted that Slade hadn’t forgotten about his existence was the hand that continued to fondle his arse.

The fingers traced random patterns across the sensitised skin. Every little movement pushed another shot of pleasure through his veins, until he squirmed helplessly on the other man’s lap.

He received a tap for his trouble, but Slade didn’t even falter in the middle of his sentence. The conversation continued above him until the drinks were delivered. He heard Slade make a hushed request to whichever submissive served them, but Rip’s brain had turned slow and sleepy as his body thrived under the other man’s caress. He wasn’t quick enough to catch the words.

A minute later, he heard the service sub return, then leave once more. Another tap on his backside finally ordered Rip to rise. When he reached for his belt, Slade caught both his wrists and tugged them behind his back. No restraints were wrapped around his limbs, but they didn’t need to be. The way Slade arranged him, left Rip in no doubt. His friend intended him to keep his hands where they were put until given permission to do otherwise.

Without the slightest warning, Rip found himself picked up and set to sit on a high stool. Spanked skin met unyielding wood. Rip gasped. He lifted his eyes to meet Slade’s gaze. The darker man stared down at him, studying him very carefully. The high stool only put him an inch shorter than his friend.

It made him tall enough that Slade would barely have to dip his head to bring their lips together. Rip tilted his head back a fraction.

“No squirming.”

Rip blinked. He dropped his gaze, no longer tilting his chin back to receive a kiss that would never come.

“You’re to take your punishment properly. Understand?”

Rip nodded. A second later he remembered his manners. “Yes, sir.”

Slade stepped back, leaving him on the stool. There were no supports between the legs for him to rest his feet on. His boots swung in the empty air, his jeans still bunched around his legs. All his weight rested on his arse and the backs of his legs. Rip met the dominant’s eyes once more.

The spanking had been half pain and half pleasure. But it had been all about a kind of pain it was easy to take pleasure from. And it hadn’t been the actual punishment. As Rip stared into his temporary master’s eyes, that much became obvious. The punishment was now, and suddenly it didn’t seem so strange that the other man had paid just as much attention to spanking the backs of his thighs as he had his arse.

Every nerve ending screamed. Rip moved his hands from behind his back, instinctively seeking to lift his sore backside off the hard surface. His fingers had barely parted company before he thought better of it.

He was to take his punishment properly. The words echoed around inside his head, making the most of the sub space created by the spanking. He was to take his punishment properly, then his master would forgive him, and he’d be pleased with him.

Rip lowered his eyes. Slade wasn’t his master in any real sense of the word. Right then, knowing that didn’t change anything. It didn’t mean he hadn’t accidentally offered his submission to the other man. And it didn’t mean Slade hadn’t accepted him either.

“You always did have good taste in men,” Hewett mused.

Rip looked back up. His gaze met Slade’s darker eyes. The other man looked vaguely amused. Slade liked men. The hard on he’d felt pressing against him while the dominant spanked him hadn’t been all down to friction. Slade liked men. Slade wasn’t entirely straight.

His friend turned his attention back to Hewett.

“It’ll be interesting to see how he turns out when you’ve finished training him,” the other dominant went on.

Rip continued to stare at Slade. The thoughts that suddenly raced through his head did little to soothe the throbbing ache in his arse, or to dent his erection. He wasn’t sure what he wanted more, to get off the damned stool or be given permission to stay right where he was and jack himself off.

Lowering his gaze in a half-hearted effort not to gawp at Slade as if his friend had beamed down from another planet—one which apparently worked to a very different definition of gay—Rip helplessly watched a drop of pre-cum trace its way down his shaft.

An eternity passed while Slade and Hewett talked to each other about men who Rip had never heard of and couldn’t care less about. Every so often, he felt eyes wander over his body.

Slade’s gaze roamed over him, taking in every detail like a man who knew he owned every inch of the submissive he inspected. Hewett looked too. Rip stayed very still though it all. His temporary master had put him on display. He was inclined to fuss over another dominant taking advantage of Slade’s permission to look his fill.

Other dominants arrived and walked away after speaking to Slade or Hewett. No one spoke to him, although Rip felt their eyes on him, too.

Keeping his attention solely on Slade and ignoring everyone else, Rip met the dominant’s gaze whenever he offered eye contact. Finally, when Rip was just about ready to scream in frustration, Hewett said his good-byes and left the little seating area along with the last of the other lingering dominants.

Rip managed a brief, “Good bye, sir,” when prompted, but he could no more have pulled his attention away from Slade right then than he could have got down off the stool without permission.

They were alone for several long minutes before Slade finally got out of his nice comfortable chair. He stood directly in front of Rip as if waiting for him to say something.

“You’re gay.”

Slade raised an eyebrow. Apparently Hewett’s exit apparently wasn’t permission to forget that Hewett hadn’t been the only dominant personality present.

“You’re gay, sir,” Rip corrected quickly.

“No.”

“Bi, sir?” Rip suggested.

“Let’s just say there have been a great many times in bi clubs when I haven’t really cared if the submissive who knelt at my feet was male or female.”

Rip swallowed, not entirely sure if that meant Slade was bi, or closeted or if he’d just been so horny on those nights any willing mouth would have done.

“Feeling depressed lately?”

Rip shook his head. He never remembered feeling as optimistic as he did since discovering his friend just might swing in his direction.

“So there really is no excuse for whatever suicidal idiocy brought you to Hewett?” Slade asked in the same forcibly casual tone of voice.

Rip glanced up. Gay, straight or otherwise, his friend was still royally furious with him.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, trying to play at his level?”

“At your level, sir?” Rip checked.

“What?”

“You played in the same clubs as him, sir,” Rip said. “Your level and his level are—”

“Are nothing like the same thing,” Slade snapped. “That sort of sadism isn’t part of any of the games I play.”

“What kind of—?” The look on Slade’s face was enough to convince him this wasn’t a good time to ask exactly what he was into.

The dominant ran his eyes over him again. “You took your punishment well enough,” he allowed.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I am going to lift you down. When I give you permission, you’ll take your hands from behind your back and pull up your jeans. You will not fuss. You will not rub at your arse. You will not make a sound. When I walk out, you’ll follow me. In the car, you’ll sit silently in the passenger seat until we reach your house. When I give you permission you’ll get out of the car and walk into the house. From that point on, whatever you do is your business.”

“Yes, sir.”

Slade lifted him down. The movement set off a new firestorm in the spanked skin. Rip bit his tongue and somehow managed to stay silent.

The dominant stepped back and nodded his permission to move.

The friction from his jeans as Rip forced them back up his legs and fastened them, turned the spanked blaze into an inferno of protests, pain and pleasure. He wanted to reach back and rub at the mistreated skin more than almost anything else in the world. For better or worse, the only thing he wanted more than that, was not to disappoint his temporary master. He didn’t reach back.

When Slade seemed satisfied that his submissive for the night was going to follow his commands, he turned and strode out of the club. Rip walked obediently along behind him, slipping into the space the larger man created in the crowded areas of the club. Every step he took made his jeans chafe against his skin, made it even harder not to reach around and try to sooth the ache, not to reach down and palm his crotch.

In the car park, Slade got behind the wheel without a word. As Rip’s backside met the seat, all the soft upholstery in the world wasn’t enough to keep the whimper back. He forced his lips tightly together, but in the close confines of the car, he knew the other man had to have heard the soft little sound.