The changing room was small, far too small for two people. Lance pressed against the back wall, his thumbs hooked in the back pockets of his jeans. He grinned, a deliberate smile that filled his face. And while his heart vaulted around inside his chest, he pegged Chris with his eyes. Daring him to challenge his courage. Chris was no slouch, however, and he answered the look with his own, a fiery gaze that sent with it promises of a night to come. Of experiences Lance would have no way of dismissing  once they began. “You ready?” Lance lowered his chin along with his stare, and turned on the blush he knew would exude false coyness -- let Chris feel he had an upper hand in matters. “I’m ready,” he rumbled, lowering his voice to cavernous proportions. Knowing just how to play the game. Proud that he pulled Chris this far. “Don’t get cocky,” Chris grinned, grabbing the edge of Lance’s shirt and yanking it up. Lance frowned, unused to being caught. “No pouting,” Chris warned, leaning in close. “Or I’ll throw you to Justin.” His fingers smoothed out across Lance’s stomach, lingering against the silky skin to send a clear message. No fucking around. No games. Lance tucked his smirk away with wide eyes, and concentrated on the heat flowing out of Chris. The energy and aura that tingled along his flesh. He was frantic with want -- with little voices that urged him to leap prematurely. But the man from the counter returned with a bag. He hung it on a hook and patted Chris on the back. “If you need me, I’m out there.” Chris nodded, but kept his hands steady. “Thanks man. We’re cool.” Lance waited for the curtain to fall before he rolled his head back, drowning in perilous foreplay. The cool Formica of the wall bled through to his scalp, and he savored the sensation as Chris’ hands weaved their way around his waist. Tickling. Grazing along his flesh in a methodical pattern. Tapping the intimate sexual being that Lance had let emerge. “Ready?” Chris whispered, dragging the shirt up higher. Lance felt the whip of an invisible breeze splash at his chest, and his nipples hardened as Chris’ thumbs brushed against them. Accidentally or purposefully, Lance couldn’t be sure. But it sent his eyes fluttering shut, allowing his other senses spring to life. As the shirt covered his head, Chris tangled him up in it. Blocking his sight. Bending to nip at his chest. “You gotta say you’re ready, Lance. Because I can’t have this on my mind. You understand right?” And Lance wasn’t sure he could even hear correctly as the thin material smothered him delicately. Not that it mattered much. Chris was speaking in some tongue he cared not to hear. So he nodded, because nodding would keep the delicious feeling coming. Which is what his body needed. “Okay then,” Chris said, dragging his lips over Lance’s collar bone. “No questions.” “None,” Lance hissed as the shirt fell off his body. It did nothing to settle the ache that gathered between his legs, nor did it stop his hips from their automatic thrusts. It intensified his sanity, and his hands reached out blindly to touch. To grab. To act out in a form of rebellion. He seized a fistful of brown hair and yanked, dragging it to him. Demanding a kiss. One blink in time where his lips actually touched Chris’. Where his tongue could dance a little along pink lips. Before they turned. Before the night creature appeared and his chance was not cemented. But Chris gripped his wrists and pulled them down, an impish grin falling over his face. “Ah ah!” he scolded, swinging Lance’s hands down roughly. “Not yet.” He leaned in and bit Lance’s chin harshly. “Not yet little boy.” There was a playful scowl on Lance’s face, and he backed off -- waiting. Chris reached into the bag and shoved Lance down to the tiny stool. “Sit.” Lance obeyed, stretching his legs out to alleviate the discomfort of his erection which was pressing lewdly against his jeans. He itched to unzip the zipper and pull it out -- if only to release the pressure for a bit. But it was admittedly a high, to have all the vigor and pent up energy simmering so close. It charged him, and when Chris knelt down before him with a black stick in his hand, Lance jerked. To be adorned. His breath was ragged as Chris brushed his eyes shut. It was cool against his skin, and creamy. He gripped Chris’ shoulders for strength to sit still -- not to squirm in twisted delight as his eye was worked on. His tongue flitted out to lap at his dry lips, and his eyes twitched. His mind opening his body to a blank canvas to be worked on. For Chris to draw -- for his own purpose. Fingers brushed against his lips, dragging color across them, smearing over the rosy shade of pink that normally fashioned his mouth. Lance blinked open, his thumbs rubbing hotly against Chris’ neck. Simple touches becoming an overly erotic sensation. He forced himself to swallow as Chris decorated him, to stay as still as he could while warmth devoured his body. Chris stood up and dug inside the bag once more, and Lance allowed his hands to drop to the thighs so close to him. His fingers pressing against the soft denim, stroking persistently through the fabric. “Chris,” he garbled, inching his thumbs up higher, intrigued by the shiny zipper that tugged over the noticeable bulge between Chris’ legs. “Don‘t touch,” Chris said playfully, backing away. He tossed his shirt over his head and turned, grabbing the new black tee shirt and tugging it on. Lance wasn’t giving up however, and he was on his feet in a split second, giving in to his primal instincts -- shoving Chris face first against the mirror. He pressed his body firmly against Chris, wrapping his fingers around sturdy wrists, lifting them up in one fluid motion. Forcing them into the cool glass. He wasn’t thinking straight at all as his mouth rummaged around Chris’ neck, searching for a tender spot -- a spot that would send Chris to his knees. He was impatient as his other hand ran over the tight black tee shirt, as the scent of lipstick curled up his nostrils. It was then he caught a glimpse of the eyeliner that spread coyly around his jade eye. The dark etchings creating a supernatural glow. He blinked, losing his grip. Chris’ hands dropped and wrapped behind  Lance, drawing him in with an easy smile. “Hot, Lance. You look so fucking hot.” Lance gasped as Chris’ hands wrapped behind him, settling just below his ass,  pressing firmly while keeping his eyes locked in the reflection. The black lipstick blazed against his tanned skin, and he longed to touch it. It was a web Lance was stuck in, some sticky world where invisible pins prickled his skin, and he was truly otherworldly. Where Chris held a sexuality that consumed his mind. He couldn’t move, the tables turned once more. The struggle for dominance thick in the air. But Chris released him and pushed against Lance, slipping out from his position against the mirror. He slid his jeans off and exchanged them for the leather pants  in the bag. He shed his boxers unabashedly showing off his erection, pausing to stroke at it for effect before stepping into the leather. “You okay?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in mischievous amusement. Lance turned slowly, his mind a blur of activity. Fire raged around him as he nodded dumbly, and Chris laughed, snapping his pants shut. “Here are you leather pants, Lance,” Chris said tossing them. “And a nice leather jacket awaits.” “What about a shirt?” Lance asked, peeling his jeans off. Chris shoved him to the side and began to apply eyeliner to his own eyes. Chris stopped, mid-stroke and tilted his head. He disappeared and returned with a black button down. “Here. Keep it unbuttoned. Show some chest once in a fucking while.” Lance grinned as blush crawled over his cheeks. He slid his arms into the cotton shirt and sighed shakily. He was uncivilized in his thoughts -- in the actions he wanted to take. He wanted to break out, dig into things he’d never done. And let Chris lead him into it. Chris smiled as he applied a layer of deep plum shading to his lips. Combined with the dramatic eyes, it created the exotic look Lance sought in his fantasies. He was struggling against his hard on instantly. “Fuck,” he muttered, unable to look away. Chris nodded, pushing Lance back. “Let’s go.” He dug for his sunglasses and covered his eyes, sweeping out of the tiny dressing room with Lance on his heels. **************** In the cab, Lance wanted to be close. He ached to pull Chris on his lap and rub his body through the leather. Let his tongue roam around for a while. But Chris kept him at a distance -- gracing him only with decadent glances from over the rims of his shades. Lance rubbed his hands against his leather encased thighs and sighed. It was a short ride to the club, and Lance trailed Chris from the cab, feeling very tall. Strong. Powerful. There was no cover charge when he was with Chris he discovered. And friendly hands patted Chris as he strolled through the hallway, welcoming him. Adoring him. It was intriguing to take second place and watch Chris mingle -- watch the way he swayed and moved. Like he owned the night. Chris didn’t pause to look at Lance, to twist his head and even see if he was behind him. He only moved further into the dimness of the club, straight to the circular bar in the center of the room. So Lance followed with anxious eyes, drinking in the loud music, and the dancers who seemed to be fucking right in front of him. When Chris shoved a glass of blood red liquid into his hands, he gulped without question -- without looking or caring. Only concerned with the tightness in his throat -- watching in awe as sweat soaked leather rubbed against flesh. As the pungent scent of sex filled the air. He shifted from foot to foot, drowning the flames that licked up his body. Familiar hands began to creep under the black shirt, over his stomach -- warm fingers dipping into his belly button. Remaining there with a hint of seductive pressure. Letting Lance know that Chris was there. Thinking about him -- about his body. Lips on his neck. Persistent press against his ass. Breath that curled into him like a snake, slithering through him. Lance let out a groan, feeling the effects of the odd drink. Woozy and high. In a fucking mood. So he spun around, sick of playing. Tired of soft touches that never lead to Chris’ mouth, or body. He wanted. He planned to take. NEXT MENU