The Dollhouse Society: Margo (9 page)

Shane continued to call after him, but Malcolm had slammed out of the penthouse in anger and frustration. He took a cab to a posh hotel on Central Park West run by a friend of his from the Dollhouse Society. Udo, his friend, had a courtesan where Malcolm did not, not yet.

He had thought of asking Shane at one point, early on in their relationship, but something had stopped him. Shane was just as alpha as he was. Were they not lovers, they would have been mortal enemies. As it was, their fights left holes punched in the walls of Malcolm’s bedroom. That’s what had held him back—or, at least, that’s what he had told himself. But now he finally realized the real reason he and Shane didn’t click. Underneath it all, he didn’t really trust Shane, not the way a gentleman and a courtesan (or courtier) needed to trust each other to have a solid relationship. Malcolm wanted a courtier he could trust, one he could take care of, one who didn’t mind exploring their sexual boundaries…someone he didn’t have to watch like a hawk. 

Udo ran a very exclusive, high-end bordello out of his hotel. Malcolm had not had very many occasions to avail himself of Udo’s services, but tonight seemed just right. The sex workers were handpicked by Udo, clean of drug use or STD’s. Udo ran a very tight ship. After Malcolm arrived (he had an open VIP invitation, seeing how they were both members of the Society), he called down for the package deal.

It occurred to him, while he waited for one of Udo’s boys to arrive, that he was only cheating on Shane because Shane had cheated on him, and that was a pretty childish attitude to take, but at the moment, Malcolm just didn’t care. He didn’t believe in committing unnecessary violence, and he didn’t drink—the man who had been his father (he used the term lightly) had been a chronic alcoholic who’d left his pregnant teen mother when he was still
in utero
and had died drunk and penniless in the gutter. But he did like sex. A lot of it. He liked the release, the way orgasm melted away the stress and violence within him, the way it left him in control of himself and his environment. And, after all, it was obvious his and Shane’s relationship was broken.

Udo called to inform Malcolm that he was sending up one of his newest studs—the young man was clean, good and expensive, just the way Malcolm preferred his lays. Malcolm was in the magnificently tiled, Grecian washroom when the boy arrived. He stepped out of the room, tying the knot on his silken dressing gown, and immediately recognized Udo’s new stud, who was standing by the desk and unzipping his leather jacket.

It was Devon Grayson.

For a moment, Malcolm wondered if he was only
hoping
he was seeing Devon Grayson after all these years. But no…it was him, though he had changed, matured. He was taller and more filled out. His hair was still blond (though not canary-colored, more natural and subdued, a rich caramel color) and his eyes still clear and blue like a Caribbean sky. His complexion, once so icy-white and cold, had been professionally tanned to a butternut color. He was bare-chested and oiled to a hairless sheen under the leather jacket. He was, to put it mildly, beautiful and fuckable.

Devon said, “I know you. You’re that bloke. The gov.”

“Hello, Tweety Bird,” Malcolm said. The desire was there inside him, rough and hard. He had only felt such desire once before, his teenage crush, their first time. It had been five years since he’d spoken to this boy. That made Devon…twenty-one.

They stared at each other from across the hotel suite, Devon shyly, Malcolm less so. Then Malcolm, acting on a rare but powerful impulse, crossed the room and took Devon in his arms. He smelled the oils of his leather, the sweetness of his hair and body, the musky, spicy scent that was just him, just Devon, and spun him around so Devon’s belly was pressed against the edge of the desk.

Devon braced himself on the edge, and as he did so, his firm ass jutted up, whether intentionally or not. Malcolm wanted to believe it wasn’t just part of his training, that he was offering himself up to Malcolm.

Devon watched over one shoulder as Malcolm gripped him by the hips and undid his belt and jeans in a frenzy of anticipation. “Let me fuck that sexy ass off you,” Malcolm said, surprised by his own lusty aggression, and dropped to his knees to lick the length of the boy’s bare ass crack.

Devon immediately groaned and thrust back impulsively against him. “Please, yes,” he answered breathlessly. “Fuck me hard and make me come.”

He wanted to be gentle. He didn’t want to hurt this boy. But the need to be inside him was overwhelming. He knew he would come in a matter of seconds, just from that one taste. He bounded to his feet and undid the belt of his robe, and before Devon could say anything more, before he could even react, Malcolm pinned the upper half of his body to the top of the desk and shoved the hard, hugely swollen head of his shaft deep inside him.

Devon’s body fit him like a glove, like it had been made for him. Devon gasped even as Malcolm buried himself to the hilt in the boy’s sweet ass. Devon immediately tightened down around his girth, and before long, Malcolm found himself digging his fingers into the buttery soft flesh of Devon’s hips as he pounded away at him in an animal-like frenzy of pure lust. 

Devon grunted at each impact, the force of it shoving him roughly against the edge of the desk before dragging his hips back so he was ready for another assault. Malcolm’s balls slammed his ass so loudly the sound nearly drowned out the mewling noises that Devon was making. He clawed the surface of the desk with his nicely polished nails, leaving shockingly deep grooves there as Malcolm released his lust, anger and frustration inside his body.

The violence of his need both shocked and worried Malcolm. He had never been this way with Shane, or even Richard, whom he sometimes regretted leaving. He breathed roughly into Devon’s hair as he fucked the boy hard and fast. His fucking finally grew so savage that Devon screeched with pleasure and came hard against the surface of the desk. Malcolm growled, buried his cock deep inside his lover’s ass, and came with a violent shiver that rippled through his body and into Devon’s.

He felt like a shit when it was over and they had managed to collapse onto the bed together. Malcolm prided himself on being a good lover, on putting his lover’s needs above his own. He was never this greedy or self-serving, and he was almost never this violent or demanding in his lovemaking. But something in Devon had wrenched the lust from him, had torn his emotional guts out and laid them bare.

He sexed the boy a second time on the bed, gently this time, going slow and watching Devon’s face for his reactions, for what he liked and didn’t like. Afterward, he lay holding Devon, kissing away the beads of sweat clinging to his hair and the odd tear on his cheek. He kissed Devon hungrily, as if he meant to feed at the boy’s mouth, swallow the air he breathed. He pressed himself against Devon’s rangy but strong body. Finally, he sought words. “I told you to make something of yourself, pet,” he whispered against Devon’s ear.

“I did, gov. I did.” Devon looked on Malcolm curiously, as if he were speaking another language. “Udo’s a great bloke. Doesn’t lay a hand on me, or any of the other boys.”

“Oh Devon,” Malcolm said, sounding angry even to himself. “Is that why you came here to America? Did your family…did they hurt you?”

Devon shifted away from him and sat up. “It’s no concern of yours, is it?” He reached for a clove cigarette in his clothes.

Malcolm bit his lip and watched the boy light up. “You deserve better than this.”

Devon’s shoulders sagged. “This is all there is.”

“Come here.”

Devon did, and together they shared the clove, Malcolm’s first. Malcolm then gathered him in his arms and pulled him gently against the front of his body so Devon was sitting in his lap. Devon guided Malcolm’s already stiffening cock into his hole and started rocking against him. He closed his eyes and grunted as he took as much of Malcolm’s substantial cock as he could.

“You are so fucking beautiful. You could be an actor, a model,” Malcolm said, passing both hands over Devon’s face and hair. “Devon. Or maybe De
von
, like divine.” He kissed Devon tenderly, tasting sweet clove on his breath.

Devon laughed, a hollow, unhappy sound. “I’ll be whatever you want tonight, gov,” he told Malcolm as they kissed.

The following morning, Malcolm was up before the boy was—not surprising, since he had all but worn Devon out. He dressed in the near dark of the hotel suite and left a ten-thousand dollar tip lying on the desk, atop the scratches that Devon had made. He told himself he was going home to try and fix his and Shane’s relationship. He owed his lover that much, at least. A second chance.

But the truth was, he didn’t like what Devon did to him. He didn’t like the loss of control he experienced in Devon’s arms. Devon was like Kryptonite to him.

As he was slipping out the door, Devon turned over in bed and pulled the coverlet around his bare shoulders. He narrowed his sleep-softened eyes. “Until we meet again, gov,” he said and wet back to sleep.

***

When Malcolm Sloan was forty-six years old, his boyfriend of six months, Warren, took him to a runway show down in SoHo for Fashion Week. The show was being held in a huge, renovated warehouse on the East River, and it was rumored only VIPs would be attending. Honestly, it wasn’t Malcolm’s scene. Maybe he was getting old, or maybe he was just overworked from all but running Harper House on his own, but somehow, he’d lost his appetite for these high-profile, flamboyant affairs. More and more often, he thought about settling down, really settling down with a partner, a family. Of course, the Dollhouse Society would keep the flame awake in their relationship, but he didn’t want anything more than that anymore.

Anything Warren dragged him off to was apt to be fun, but shallow. Warren was fun, but shallow, and Warren would be the first to admit to that. He even reveled in it. He dressed like George Hamilton (including the cravats and sailing suits), wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t imported and organic, and tanned to roughly the shade of a plum. Warren was most definitely not
the one
, but their relationship was good enough for now, and Malcolm had finally decided that
good enough for now
was all he could really hope for in this life.

True love didn’t exist outside of fairy tales, made-for-TV movies, and bad 80’s power ballads. Passion was a concept for fools. Malcolm knew he was just one in a very long string of conquests for the lovely, air-headed Warren. But he went with his lover anyway, because he sensed these were the last fleeting days of their relationship. Malcolm felt both sadness and relief at the notion.

Almost as soon as they arrived, Warren ran off to speak to some young, cute rep from Louis Vuitton, leaving Malcolm to mingle with a distasteful assortment of shallow, stony individuals obsessed with their stock portfolios until the lights went down and everyone assumed their seats for the show.

Malcolm sat at his table in the dark, grimaced over the swill-like wine, and watched anorexic young men and women in ridiculous and impractical clothes stomping up and down the runway. He even entertained a fantasy of standing up, putting on his coat, and leaving the show. He thought about walking and walking—where to, he didn’t know. Away from here, he thought. Away from New York. Away from this life. His family was gone and love was just a fancy. 

Then
he
appeared.

Devon Grayson, modeling a Burberry blazer and designer jeans, stomped toward him, blinded by lights and oblivious to his presence. Malcolm felt his heart catch, stop, turn over. Then it started to beat double-time to make up for itself. It took everything he had not to stand up and call out to him.

Devon didn’t see Malcolm in the dark, of course, and Malcolm had a ridiculous notion: he had to find a way of telling Devon he was here, of begging him to stay. He had to stop Devon from stomping out of his life a third time. Reaching for a red rose in the vase on his table, he threw the flower to the stage at Devon’s feet.

Devon stomped to a halt in front of it, glanced over the audience, and shielded his eyes. He immediately recognized Malcolm, though he was five years older and weighed almost forty pounds heavier than when they’d last met. Devon picked up the rose, cupped it in his hand to smell it, and blew Malcolm a kiss. The lights surrounded Devon, caressed him like he was some beautiful earthbound angel, and the audience finally learned to appreciate something beautiful and clapped and cheered. For five minutes they were intrigued by what they thought was a glorious show.

Afterward, Malcolm slipped backstage amidst all the models changing into their street clothes, hunting for Devon, though most of the models did not even give him a backward glance; he looked like any other VIP coming through. Malcolm was, and always had been, the invisible man. But he didn’t care. He was a man on a mission.

“You know, only the queers are allowed back here,” Devon said, leaning against the wall beside him, still holding the rose like some precious gift.

“Yes, well, I’m a queer.”

“Stalker.”

Malcolm started before realizing that Devon was teasing him. He slid his hand over Malcolm’s arm and guided him to one of the private dressing rooms. He checked first to make certain it was empty, then ushered Malcolm inside the cramped, crowded little room full of dressing tables and racks of couture. The room smelled musty and sweet like too much perfume and body oil.