Chapter Text
« C’est votre première fois chez nous ? Je vais vous demander de signer le NDA et de déposer votre cellulaire. »
Pierre had been greeted by a warm smile and a charming Québécois accent. The entrance to the club was classy and discreet, much better than the two places he had visited on past evenings. He was only staying in Montreal for three weeks: too short to waste time with tacky dungeons and fetish nonsense, long enough to be willing to settle somewhere nice and maybe find a suitable partner. His standards were so ridiculously high, the odds were not exactly great, but he could at least try. This place, Wolfbird, had been recommended by his friend John, back in San Francisco. John had described it as up class, good service but kind of boring if you don’t pay the price. Wolfbird was definitely more expensive than the two other BDSM clubs Pierre had tested yesterday and the day before, but he appreciated the smooth atmosphere of the lobby, the modest smile of the pretty woman who was tugging his phone in a small locker with the number 23 on it, and the mystery behind the bird carved on the door at the entrance.
« Passez une bonne soirée, Monsieur Tourné. »
« Merci. »
When he got in the main room, he understood right away what John had meant by « boring ». No display of Saint-Andrew crosses, no crackles of whiplash, no leather attires, no moaning half-naked crowd playing in full sight. It was just a dim-lighted room with ambient music, a few booths and a bar. The upper society of Montreal, with just a hint of queerness in the outfits and make-ups, a high-class version of wealthy kink, was chatting in hushed tones, some of them kissing or daring a chaste embrace, none actually performing anything that wouldn’t be completely fine in a regular nightclub. The real stuff was probably happening behind closed doors.
Pierre ordered a gin and settled at a small table in the middle of the room, a viewpoint from which he could observe the dynamics of the club and understand the stakes. The night was still young and the place wasn’t overcrowded. The attendance was typically what he’d have expected in such a place: men and women of all ages but most of them in their forties, displaying fancy jewelry, tailored suits and ridiculously expensive watches. However, he noticed a couple standing out, both very young, chatting near the counter in a foreign language he couldn’t quite figure out — neither English nor French. The girl was in full dominatrix mode, with high-heels black vinyl boots raising up her middle thighs, a very short matching vinyl skirt and a glittering top that displayed openly most of the smooth dark skin of her clivage under a leather collar. Her generous auburn curly hair framed a beautiful face with witty eyes, animated by a genuine smile. The smile was aimed towards the boy sitting next to her, in dark jeans and a dress shirt that may have been fancy once but was now worn out at the collar and probably at the cuffs, which Pierre couldn’t tell because the sleeves were rolled-up at his elbows, displaying beautifully sculpted forearms. The boy was young, probably twenty or so, maybe too young to hang in a place like this. But he had broad shoulders, solid thighs, strong hands, the body of an athlete or at least, someone who spent several hours a day at the gym. Even from the distance, Pierre could notice the sharp, hazel eyes he was lazily spreading throughout the room as if he was assessing the crowd, searching for something. Or maybe for someone. When the hazel eyes turned towards him, Pierre realized he was staring. He avoided them and looked away. For the time being.
Sipping his gin, he started to make sense of the ballet that was playing in front of him. Clients were approached by men and women that were obviously not clients but not waiters or waitresses either. Sometimes they chatted for a little while, sometimes they didn’t even bother, stood up and went for the back of the room where a corridor opened behind a thick velvet curtain. Backrooms. Probably where the actual action took place.
« Are you maybe looking for company tonight, sir ? »
The girl in the thigh-high boots was standing in front of him, looking down on him with a flirtatious smile. She definitely spoke English with a foreign accent, not French, slavic maybe. From up close, her outfit looked just as worn out as her friend’s, almost like theater garments, that glimmer and shine with the right lighting but reveal the bad repair sewing and the tired fabric when watched at arm’s length. She was making up for it by looking stunningly beautiful with the curled hair and the generous smile.
Pierre returned the smile.
« Maybe. But as beautiful as you are, Ma’am, I’m afraid your services are not exactly the ones I’m looking for. »
« We do have plenty of options here at Wolfbird. Seen anything you liked so far? »
Pierre didn’t ponder more. He tilted his head in approval and allowed himself to watch again in the direction of the bar, where the hazel eyes boy was still sitting on his stool, an elbow propped on the counter behind him, his left leg extended in front of him.
« Is your friend up there also offering company tonight? »
The woman smiled again and nodded.
« Sure. Oh well, maybe. Are you looking for a topping or a bottoming partner? »
« I’m looking for a sub. Would he? »
« I guess. I mean, he can be picky sometimes. But with a man as handsome as you, it’s definitely worth a try. Shall I ask him for you? »
« That would be very kind of you, thank you. »
Pierre was not an old man. He was in his forties, like most of the crowd here tonight, he worked out and he looked good, he knew it. Maybe the boy was too young for him. But maybe Pierre just didn’t care and could afford it. He looked exactly like the kind of partner Pierre enjoyed playing with. Young, strong, beautiful, angry. Probably stubborn as hell.
The girl went back to the bar, slipped a few words in the boy’s ear, and there he was standing and walking slowly towards Pierre with a slight limp on the left that he worked really hard to hide, a glass of water in his right hand. He pulled the chair in front of him and made a show of sitting slowly, never breaking eye contact, as if he was being so cautious on purpose and not because his left knee was obviously killing him.
« Hi. »
« Hi yourself. I’m Pierre. It’s a pleasure. »
Pierre extended a hand and the young man shook it wearily, watching him with a gaze that managed to be both sharp and lazy.
« Ilya. »
Even with the few syllables he had uttered, Pierre could tell his English was raw and uncertain, heavily accented. Ilya. Definitely a slavic name, probably Russian.
« Nice to meet you, Ilya. Did your friend tell you what I’m looking for? »
« Is two hundred an hour. »
Pierre chuckled softly. Straight to the point. And not cheap, indeed. If this was anything near going to work, he needed to brace himself for ending his Montreal stay completely broke, because an hour or two would not nearly be enough with this one. He could feel it.
« And what am I buying, exactly? »
« What you want. Anything for you. »
The plush lips were saying something and the hazel eyes something else completely. They were filled with hatred and disgust under those pretty light brown hair that curled at the edge. Hatred for the man who was buying him. Disgust for himself, probably. Pierre wasn’t put off. Young athlete, foreign land, bad injury, didn’t end here by choice or because it was fun or an exciting, rebel thing to do. He was fighting for his life here, probably. For survival. Pierre could understand that. He could buy that.
He turned his almost-empty glass on the table in small circles with his fingertips and lifted one eyebrow at the young, handsome man.
« Anything? Really? »
The boy frowned and then shrugged. His seduction routine was catastrophic, he really needed to work on it.
« Well, not really. We sign contract. You say what you want, I say if is ok for me. Then you can have it. But you pay first. »
He had lost the eye contact somewhere along the way of these few choppy sentences. English seemed really hard for him right now. He was stumbling on words and struggling with grammar and in his guts not wanting to say any of this at all. His pride was hurt badly. It would be even worse if Pierre started to show concern or pity. So he decided not to, and to praise instead.
« I’d like that. You are very attractive, Ilya. I’m feeling really lucky. »
Ilya shot him a quizzical look, almost as if he couldn’t believe he had actually landed such a raw negotiation, free of the slightest attempt at seduction. He drained his glass of water in one gulp and stood, probably a little too fast because the pain shot through his knee and tore his face in a furtive grimace, swiftly contained as he invited: « Come. »
Pierre didn’t move an inch, still turning his glass slowly, eyebrows shot up, staring at the young man with a smirk. The boy froze for a second, puzzled, then seemed to realize how rude he’d just been and corrected himself, forcing the fake politeness between his gritted teeth:
« If you will please follow me, Sir. »
« Sure. »
Behind the thick velvet curtain, the actual private part of the club was revealed. Or at least, suggested, in the form of a series of identical doors, thick dark wood ornamented with brass fixtures and numbered plaques. The boy stopped in front of the door bearing number seven and fumbled inside his pocket for the key. He was nervous, his hands slightly trembling, a subtle veil of sweat glistening on the back of his neck between the base of the hair and the worn collar of the shirt.
He finally got the door open, inviting Pierre in a cosy, windowless room furnished with a leather couch, a matching armchair, a chest of drawers topped with a blanket and a basket full of disposable supplies — lube packs, condoms, water bottles, soft tissues. The walls were decorated with abstract oil paintings chosen with taste.
Pierre settled himself on the couch while Ilya retrieved a tablet from the top drawer, very similar to the one that the lady in the entrance lobby had used to provide the NDA for signature. He sat on the armchair opposite Pierre, unlocked the tablet and started an application with a pre-filled form.
« Contract », he supplied bluntly.
« I can see that », Pierre answered with undisguised amusement.
« So. What is it you want? »
At some point, someone was going to have to start making this at least a bit exciting. And if the boy wasn’t up to the task, Pierre was more than ready to indulge. He plunged forward, elbows on his knees, locked eyes with Ilya’s and articulated slowly with his hoarsest voice:
« I want you to surrender to my will. I want to watch you suffer, and cry, and beg. And maybe I want to fuck you, too. »
Ilya’s mouth hung open for a few seconds. The hazel eyes were no longer filled with hatred and disgust, the lazy nonchalance replaced by something different altogether, something puzzled and curious and interested. And scared.
He finally pulled himself together, straightened his back and pursed his lips.
« Sir. »
« Yes? »
« Hum. Maybe you have not done this before. Contract is… more specific. »
Pierre laid back in the couch and relaxed, smiling.
« I know, I was just kidding. Walk me through it. »
Ilya pointed at the tablet, now avoiding his stare.
« Well, you ask for specific things you want. Like, you can demand if I will suck your cock, and if I say yes we put in contract. »
Pierre let his smile grow wider.
« Wow, this one just rolled off your tongue. Will you suck my cock, Ilya ? »
Eye contact again. Decided. No hesitation. « Yes. »
« Good. »
The young man ticked a box on the form. « And ? »
« I want to use restraints. Ties. Handcuffs or ropes. I will not ask you to kneel and I won’t touch your knee. »
Ilya shot him an angry look.
« I can kneel. »
« No you can’t. »
He didn’t argue more.
« Restraints is ok. »
« I want to give you pain. »
« Pain, like how? »
« Impacts. Spanking, whips, that kind of stuff. Hopefully you have some gear stashed in here? »
« We have. Impacts, yes. » He ticked the box.
« Sex. We covered the oral on your part. Can I reciprocate? With hands and mouth? »
« Sure. Yes. »
« And can I use your ass too? »
This time, the boy hesitated. Nervous fidgeting on the side of his hair, rubbing his palm on his left temple. The answer was forced.
« Yes. But will cost extra. »
Pierre shook his head slowly.
« I’m not interested in paying extra for an ass you’re not giving willingly. Humiliation games? »
Ilya made a face but he accepted without hesitation this time.
« Yes. I don’t mind being called names. And I can play puppy for you if you want. »
« Puppy? »
Pierre was just an inch from cackling, but he forced himself into remaining serious, because consent was no joking matter. Ilya shrugged.
« What? Dogs are great. »
« Well, not really what I had in mind, but nevermind. We’ll figure it out. One last thing. »
The boy waited, slightly weary, watching Pierre’s lips for the next piece of exigence they would spit out and he’d have to lean into.
« I want to own your orgasms. You won’t come until I say so. »
« During session? » Ilya clarified.
« Of course. I’m aware I don’t own you outside of sessions. »
The young man shrugged again.
« Yes. Is work, so… »
Bragging a little, like he wasn’t planning on taking any kind of sexual pleasure in whatever was going to happen. Pierre smiled at the assumption.
« We’ll see about that. »
« Is all? »
« I think so, yes, probably. »
The young man nodded and swiped to next page on the app.
« Fine. Now, safewords. If I say "ice", you stop and we talk. If I say "blade", you stop and you’re out of here. Means contract is broken. No refunds. »
« Fair enough. »
The boy handed the tablet for Pierre to sign the contract and then used another function on the app to call for payment. Two hundred Canadian dollars. Not that much considering what he’d just agreed to.
« Make it two hours. If that’s ok. »
Ilya shot him a scrutinizing look.
« You sure? Maybe you’ll get bored. Or tired. Or I will call safeword on you. Again, no refunds. »
Was he actually joking now? Pierre could only find it even more enticing.
« Yes. I’m sure. »
He changed the amount and Pierre paid. Game on.