Author's Note: This is the first chapter to a story I have been working on. I've got about fifteen thousand words going, with about five and a half chapters done. The goal is to publish, but wanted to post the first chapter up to prove I'm not dead.
All Characters are Eighteen Years of Age or older.
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I liked what I saw when I looked in the mirror.
My body looked good, the sheen of oils making it glisten in the light of the dressing room. Muscles bulging in all the right places, a few flexes of my arms. Just the right amount of body hair, a soft dusting of fine gold that would be nearly indistinguishable in the light of the stage. My hair looked just fine, the dark blonde head of hair cropped short, with just a little bit of a mess of it. I'd do me, I thought to myself.
First, I should say that it's nothing narcissistic about thinking that. I don't doubt that for some, looking at yourself naked in the mirror, flexing and posing, would constitute as narcissistic, but not to me. It's important to look good and be comfortable with yourself. So often I will stand in front of the mirror, looking over every inch of myself for any sign of imperfection. In my line of work, I'm sure a lot of people are the same way. Looking for imperfections when there could be no imperfections, where the customers paid for nothing short of perfection made flesh and blood.
I work out. A lot. It's necessity in what I do. Lifting. Running. Swimming. Whatever I can do to keep my body in shape and muscles toned. These customers weren't coming for the flabby or overweight, nor for the men of an older vintage. They were paying for the sight that would grace and embrace their fantasies for nights to come.
They were paying to come see me naked. On stage. Doing my thing.
A knock upon my dressing room door filled the otherwise silent atmosphere. "You're up next, Jordy." Mac said through the door. In the distance, if I listened hard, I could just faintly hear the applause of the audience in the main room. Almost time.
I've been doing this sort of thing for going on three years, about three times a week, and it still made me nervous deep down inside. Sure, I might look calm. A face of stone. I've had fellow stage performers comment and compliment me on how calm I've seemed just before a performance. If they only knew... My hand still shakes a little before a performance, and it's not uncommon to feel that sickening tug in my guts.
"You can do this." I tell myself, closing my eyes to take some deep, calming breaths. "Almost done with this. Almost ready to put it all behind you."
I try to focus on the show. Something I've done a million times before. It's a little comforting, knowing the routine in mind, knowing what I'm doing, and about to do. Little room for screw ups.
A deep chug of the water bottle on the dressing room table. I reach for the plain black masquerade mask that sits nearby, slipping it on over my head. It didn't offer a whole lot in the way of anonymity, covering just around the eyes and bridge of my nose, but something was better than nothing.
One last look in the mirror. My hands hook into the waistband of my black briefs, shoving them down to the floor, before taking a few spurts of lubricant to my hardened member. It's showtime, folks.
I stepped out of my dressing room, taking the left down the hall towards the stage. My heart is racing, thumping hard in my chest. I should be used to it. I can't remember how many performances I've done (a scary thought), can't count how many times I've made the same familiar march to the curtains of the stage, but each time feels like the first time in it's own way.
Soon I'm standing up behind the curtains of the stage. Eyes closed, breathing deeply. I roll my neck and shoulders, loosening myself up. This is where I change, where I transform. The normal Jordan Williams is left behind, replaced by my masked, onstage persona. Right there, between the curtains, is where I find that last semblance of peace before the show, where I'm neither myself, or the performer. Where I'm nothing and everything.
So when I felt a hand upon my arm, I couldn't help but to feel annoyed with the last bit of peace being shattered.
"Change of plans, Boss." the squat Mac said. "Bachelorette party. Viv's orders."
Of course. "Fuck." I muttered. "What the fuck am I supposed to do? I thought we were doing a Wet and Wild show tonight."
"I tried to tell her you'd be upset, but she wouldn't have it any other way."
My boss is a pain in the fucking ass. "Alright." I said, trying to take a calming breath. "Alright. All of the paperwork is signed?"
"You know it." Mac said. "Signed and fully aware."
That's good, I thought to myself. "What do we have ready to use?"
"Got a stockade ready to go. St. Andrews should be ready in a few. Got the boys cleaning that and the Bench down." Mac said. "Just say the word, and you'll get it brought out."
It wasn't much to work with. None of it was. But it was better than nothing. "Alright." I said. "Stockade. I can work with that."
"...And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, last, but certainly not least... The man you've all been waiting for..." The voice of the announcer said in the main room. "The God of Desire himself, Adonis!"
The curtain before him parted, the stage of dark wood illuminated by the lights above. I held my head high, taking confident steps as I emerged through the curtains out onto the stage. The applause went unacknowledged. More than a few wolf-whistles came, a scream or two from a few of the regulars. I made my way to the middle of the stage, my hands planted upon my hips, muscles bulging and glistening from the oil in the lights above. My cock, the thick, heavy organ which brought a great many to the small little theater, gleaming in the glory of the lights shining down upon him.
I let them applause and voice their approval. It'd be unprofessional to encourage it. They weren't there to see some narcissistic man bask in their adulation. Instead, I stood there in silence, waiting with my hands upon my hips like a parental figure, waiting for the silence my aura demanded.
I didn't have to wait long, as soon the hushed silence fell upon the dark figures beyond the heated lights of the stage above. It was then that I spoke, my voice darker, heavier and more authoritative. "I've been made aware that we have a special occasion taking place here this evening." I said, my voice carrying over the silent audience in the modest room.
A slight outburst of excitement, of surprise and amusement came from a table not far from the stage. My eyes eyes turned towards it, the powerful and intimidating presence looming. "Come up to the stage. You don't want me to have to come and get you."
The lights made it difficult to see much beyond a few feet of the stage. I don't know how many times I've complained about it. But I could hear the sounds of movement, a fury of urging and the hint of an embarrassed voice. Soon the dark haired woman came into the light, climbing the short steps to come on stage, next to the man she and her friends had come to see.
She was nervous, a tad timid as she came up onto the stage, taking my steadying hand offered to her before being led front and center for the entirety of the room to see. "Stay." I commanded, my voice just loud enough to carry to the audience. Hands clasped in front of her, with a wide, beaming smile, cheeks full and red, it was easy to see a part of her wanted to let out a nervous laugh. She was trembling slightly, a nervous ball of anxiety beneath the smile of embarrassed anticipation. A lot of the women who were brought onto the stage were like that initially.
Slowly and methodically I began to circle around her. Round and round, my lips were silent, eyes looking over every visible inch of her as if I was inspecting a piece of meat. "What's your name, precious?" I asked.
"B-Blair!" She answered. Her voice was hesitant, but there could be no mistaking the eagerness that lay in her voice. The excitement that generally came with those who bought tickets and signed the small stack of paperwork.
I came to a stop behind her, my body close to hers. The thick rod of flesh that brought a great many to the show, the near eleven inches of masculinity, pressed against the curve of her back, a light tease as my hand reached up to brush her long dark hair to the side. I leaned forward, with the appearance of testing a delicious scent upon her neck, of taking in the delicious sight of her soft, pale flesh up close.
"If things get too intense, you remember the safe words mentioned at the start of the shows tonight, yes?" I whispered softly, gently, for her ears only.