Floor 47 1

Booker studied the painting with a critical eye. The colors were a mishmash of streaks and splatters, as if someone had tried to emulate Jackson Pollack. The effect was a bit off-putting.

"Unexpected, yet appealing," a voice observed.

Booker looked over. The man standing there was a few inches taller than him, a solid six feet high. He was young, clean-shaven, with piercing eyes the color of hazel. His body type was hidden beneath layers of embroidered silk, but he carried himself with ease.

"It's a bit striking," Booker relented. "Unusual for this gallery. But I suppose that just means the curator is branching out in taste."

"Or perhaps he always had this taste and is only now introducing it to his patrons." The man looked the painting up and down. "In any case, it is quite an unusual piece, isn't it? Not the piece itself," he amended. "But rather its place here. Given the history of the curator and his open mind, one should accept that he has chosen to have a piece like this among his collection. Don't you think?"

Booker ran through the conversation in his head again. "Uh, yeah. Yes. The gallery belongs to someone. He has the right to have whatever art he wants on display."

"True," the man said. "But even so, one who runs an art gallery must be wary of what he places on display. If his patrons are not satisfied, they may not come back. There are so many different galleries in the world. What does this one offer that the others don't? Does this piece fit that mold, even if it doesn't appear to match?"

"Sir, I think it's a beautiful picture. And if it doesn't fit here, or if no one but the curator likes it, then he should hang it in his home." Booker's head swam from the man's language. He got the sense they were talking about something besides a painting, but he couldn't figure out what. "Then he can appreciate it for its true beauty, and it will be treasured."

"Interesting."

He looked in silence at the painting, wishing he could have that skill. The reds blended with yellows and oranges to look like bronze. Contrasting them were deep blues and purples, dotted across the canvas in splotches like bruises.

"Do you know how much it costs?" the man asked.

Booker leaned in, over the rope and under the spotlight. He squinted at the yellow, handwritten tag on the bottom corner. "Twenty-six thousand euros." He whistled, but it came out mostly air. "Too rich for my blood."

"You're not buying?" the man looked surprised.

"Nope. I'm just sightseeing. I go to a college just down the street. All my money is tied up in education."

"But you are dressed like a wealthy American," the man protested. "Surely, you are not so poor as to not afford this piece?"

"Oh, I'm not dressed fancy," he smiled at the foreigner's confusion. "In this country, there are certain brands that a man wears to communicate great wealth. Like Gucci. Brands that produce clothing people can tell at a glance costs thousands of dollars. I don't wear those brands.

"Then there's the cheap clothing modeled on the expensive stuff, but uses cheap products, cheap manufacturing, and bad taste. H and M is an example. I wear brands that communicate modest wealth. They're nicer than the cheap stuff, and cost a bit of money, but the added investment is that I look more like a supervisor at my job than my supervisor does. I might go hungry for a couple of days to afford them, but the silk tie and fancy button-down have helped me out in job interviews. And I'm not dressed up for anything either. These are my normal clothes."

"Mmm."

Booker realized the man was studying him.

"Omar," the man extended a hand. "Omar Ibn-Mahmood Shahbaz."

"Booker," he accepted the handshake. "Just Booker."

"Pleasure." Omar held his gaze a second longer than necessary. "Are you busy this evening, Booker?"

"Well, not really. Spring semester just ended. I'm trying to decide if I want to pack up and head home or stay in the city and look for a job. That kind of thing."

"Would you be interested in joining me for dinner?" Omar smiled, showing off perfect white teeth. "I'm staying at a hotel downtown, but I'm interested in hearing about America from the perspective of an American."

"Sorry, sir. Money's a bit tight right now." Booker raised one corner of his mouth.

"Sounds like it would be a lot of fun, but I can't."

"Don't worry about the money," Omar assured him. "It'll be on me. Are you free at seven?"

"I'm always available for free food," Booker joked. "Where should I show up?"

"I'll have a car sent for you. May I have your telephone number? In case something comes up?"

"Sure," Booker shrugged. He thought nothing of it. Omar's information came on an expensive business card: black with gold lettering. Lots of people had cards like that. Booker gave it a cursory glance and entered the information in.

"See you tonight," Omar winked.

Chapter 2:

Booker decided to wear what he was already wearing. He didn't bring a jacket because it wasn't a business meeting. But he did put on a nice sweater vest and tucked his shirt in. And he combed his hair. He should have gotten it cut. Barbers in the city were so expensive; he'd rather wait and pay a cheaper one in the suburbs.

The limousine came early. The driver was a middle-aged man in a black suit. Booker got in the back and made himself comfortable. The driver either did not speak English or did not care. Booker stared out the window, enjoying the quiet.

The car pulled up outside a nondescript office building in the downtown area. The lobby was visible through a wall of glass: plain furniture in the style that said, "I'm rich but not flamboyant." A security desk sat in the middle of the room. Seated behind it was a man and a woman, both security officers pretending to be busy on their computers. Outside, a police cruiser was parked on the corner.

"So," Booker stuck his head in through the car's open door. "I just go in?"

The driver nodded and opened his newspaper.

Well, that was that, then. Booker shut the door and turned around. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up to the turning glass door and pushed it open. The security officers looked up at his entrance.

"Name?" the man called.

"Booker," Booker replied, walking over. "I'm supposed to be meeting Omar here." He dropped his driver's license on the counter. The officer checked it against a database and handed it back.

"Elevator three. Press the button for floor forty-six. He's waiting for you upstairs."

"Thank you, sir." Booker nodded his appreciation and walked toward the elevators. He noted that both guards stared at him as he left. Whatever. He knew he looked a little out of place. But why would Omar want to have dinner in an office building? There were plenty of nice restaurants within walking distance.

There were twelve elevators. Booker got in the one with a huge '3' emblazoned on it. It had only a handful of buttons, and none of them were in the proper order of their floors. That bothered him. They should be in order. Which one was he supposed to press again? Oh, right. Forty-six.

While the elevator rose, he considered what he knew about Omar. Absolutely nothing. He'd accepted the dinner invitation of a rich Arab man because of free food. The subject was art. He knew Omar was wealthy just by looking at him. No man wore silk head to toe unless he was wealthy or came from a certain country. How wealthy, Booker didn't care to guess.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Outside was a short hallway that ended at a pair of security officers in front of a red velvet rope before a pair of plated double doors. Deep bass music was thrumming through the floor, as if rap or party music was playing.

The guards checked his ID again before allowing him through. Booker noted no less than six black domes in the ceiling: the tell-tale sign of security cameras. Once cleared, the guards pushed open the doors and waved him through.

He was immediately assaulted by a wall of light and sound. The sudden noise made him stumble and clap his hands over his ears. Before he could flee, the doors closed behind him. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him through an open door to a walled off area.

The floor here was covered in thick carpet. The walls were made of something soundproof because the noise was muffled. There were two more private security officers at the entrance.

"ID?" one demanded. Booker handed it over. The guard checked it, then rechecked it. He checked it once more against his guest list, conferred with his colleague, and handed back Booker's ID with a huff. "You may pass," he said in heavily accented English.

Omar sat at a table in the otherwise deserted dining hall. Five more security officers surrounded him. They insisted on giving Booker a pat down before allowing him to sit.

Once seated, Omar waved them away and slid over a menu.

"Nice place you have here," Booker commented.

"It belongs to my father," Omar shrugged. "When he passes, it will be mine. As will the rest of his estate."

Booker looked out the window. He did a double take. The restaurant was on the second floor of a nightclub. Men and women were dancing on the floor, and there was a stage off to one side with dancers and a live band. The most interesting part was the costumes.

Everyone was naked.

Or close to it. All the dancers on-stage were nude, and most of them--he now realized--were draping themselves around poles. The patrons on the floor wore anything from an expensive three-piece suit to a latex catsuit. Several were even nude and knelt on the floor, wearing only a collar and leash held by their master or mistress.

Those were dressed similarly. Dominants, Masters, and Mistresses alike wore fetish costumes. Male and female waitresses wove among them wearing the tiniest g-strings or jock straps.

"It's a fetish club," Booker said.

"It is a BDSM-themed dance club," Omar said. "A true club has a dungeon integrated into it. This one does not."

"Still, it's nice though." Booker turned his attention to his host, who was smiling at him. "So... why did you ask me to dinner?"

"I like you," Omar stated. As if that was enough. "And I haven't had dinner with a nice young man who appreciates art in quite some time. Tell me, what other kinds of art interest you?"

"Oh, I like a bit of everything," Booker smiled and looked away. Out the windows at the dancers with their jiggling tits. He forced himself to look at Omar again.

"Contemporary art?" Omar prompted.

"I prefer the classics. Van Gogh is prolly my favorite. But I also like alternative art. Modern paintings don't do much for me. But..." he trailed off, lacking a good adjective to describe his tastes. "I like stuff that other people find unusual."

"Are you a prude?"

The directness of the question surprised him. Omar's gaze was steady, intense. He was smiling, but still.

"Not at all," Booker returned the look. "I like to think that most modern art is made by prudes, and that's why it's so boring. The classics? They were made by people who pushed boundaries. Broke barriers. 'Did the taboo,' so to speak."

"I agree," Omar nodded sagely. "It's why I find bondage art to be the most exciting. The pattern of a colorful rope moving over a woman's body, twisting and twining, makes the most interesting contrasts."

"Or a hot man," I joke. Omar doesn't laugh. "Too bad there aren't any bondage art studios in the city," I continue. "They'd make a fortune. But you can't buy a tied-up model the way you can a painting."

"Does that bother you?"

Booker shrugged. "I don't see how. I could never afford to buy one anyway. Upkeep alone would be unrealistic. Unless you're referring to the idea of owning a picture of a thing versus the thing itself? Sure, having a life-size portrait of the model all tied up is different from having the actual model tied up in one's living room."

"I prefer having real art decorate my home," Omar said. "Portraits have their place, but they are not for me."

"Hey, Omar? What do you do for a living?"

"I am a Prince." He said, like saying the sky is blue. "My father is King. When he dies, I will succeed him as ruler of Wadiya."

Therefore, he wasn't rich. He was filthy rich. A real prince. Like something out of a fairytale.

"And why did you invite me to dinner?"

"You said you were looking for a job," Omar interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table. "I may have an opening."

"Okay, but what sort of skill do you require?"

He didn't answer right away. "Concerning skills, I require only a dedication to one's duty and a drive to become the best that one can be. In other words, I require my employees to be hard workers, faithful to their employer, and dedicated to the task at hand."

Well, that told him a lot about nothing. The Prince may as well have rattled off the most basic of requirements that all employers look for in an employee.

"Yeah, I can do that. But what does the job entail? What would I be doing, exactly?"

"Wouldn't you prefer to eat first?" Omar frowned. "Pardon me, but in my country, it is customary to do business after the guests have eaten."

"That's fine," Booker shrugged. Opening the menu, he found it to be full of Arabic cuisine, written in Arabic script. No English. Setting it aside, he asked "What do you recommend?"

In response, Omar leaned back and clapped his hands. A waitress appeared as if from nowhere. She was young, blonde, and clad in a push-up bra and transparent belly dancer skirt over a thong. All of it was glittery gold like a cheap costume.

Omar said something to her in a language Booker didn't recognize. She curtsied, lowering her chin to her chest, and disappearing behind the curtain from which she entered.

"I have ordered you a traditional Omani dish commonly served to peasants. It is quite delicious." Omar informed him. "While we wait, tell me about yourself."

Booker folded his hands and leaned forward. Since when had this dinner turned into a job interview?

"Well, I was born in a small Midwest town. A suburb of Chicago. I'm in my mid-twenties. I'm going to a local college and my dream is to become a chaplain. In my spare time I'm interested in art, reading, and rope. I am involved in my school, and I exercise often."

At the mention of 'rope,' Omar blinked. "What do you mean, you're interested in rope?"

"Well, don't tell my college, but I do some modeling part-time to earn extra money. Bondage modeling. But only ever in a studio. And never pornographic."

"How can you model BDSM without getting pornographic?"

"Oh, you know," Booker evaded clumsily. "I let people tie me up and take pictures. Or I pose with toy or two."

"Do you work exclusively with women? Or have you done men as well?"

"Sir, as long as they pay, and they don't shove something up my rectum, I don't care who they are. One of my clients was a three-hundred-pound Greek man whose favorite thing to wear was a pair of dirty brown briefs. He wanted to tie me up, take pictures, and masturbate to the whole thing. Pretty gross in hindsight, but he paid me a hundred dollars for an hour. This whole thing took place in a dungeon, by the way. It was pretty safe."

"Fascinating." Omar stares at me, as if surprised. "What would you have done if he tried to... how did you say it? Ah, 'shove himself up your rectum?'"

"Start screaming." The waitress returned and dropped off two frosted mugs of what was plainly beer, a plate of bread, and a jar of olive oil. After she left, he continued.

"I was a contractor for the club, catering to specific types of clients. If I put up a fuss, or started screaming my head off, the club's matron came running. Once, she broke the door down.

"Being a contractor means I don't have to sign all their rules and regulations. Which means the club takes a 10% cut of my profits instead of the 40% for their regular workers. On the other hand, if I complain about something inappropriate--being raped, for example--there's nothing in place to prevent me from suing them over misconduct."

"What benefit does the club have?" Omar frowned. "Why would they agree to those terms?"

"Part of it is clients. Some of their clients are depraved. They want something specific. None of the local models are willing to participate." He paused to take a bite of bread drenched in olive oil. "The other thing is travel and sexuality. I'm one of the few models willing to do sex work and travel. Both require money. Plenty of men are willing to pay for a blowjob from anyone who walks by. But there are some who want to fulfill a specific fetish in a specific location."

"Such as?"

"That Greek guy who was morbidly obese? He also sweated a lot. He had a fantasy that consisted of a white guy being tied up on his little sailboat, serving as a figurehead on the bowsprit."

"What is a figurehead?"

"Those carved wooden images that pirates and sailors stuck on the front of their boats. Under the bowsprit. Usually, a mermaid or some such thing. I think Bartholomew Roberts, Black Bart, had a harpy. Not sure, though."

"Anyway," Booker plowed on. "He offered me thirty thousand dollars for a weekend on the Gulf. Forty-eight hours of being tied to the bow of his ship. I told him if he paid for my airfare, hotel, and food, in addition to the rest, I'd let him fuck my ass."

Omar sucked air through his mouth. His face was flushed, and he was motionless.

"Did you?" he whispered.

"Once the payment was received and verified by my bank, I flew out to meet him. I brought my own lube, but I needn't have bothered. He had his own. Anyway, yes. I did let him fuck me. I went out to his little sailboat. I stripped in front of him--without turning around--and then I let him tie me to the bow of his boat. He gave me food and water, of course. But I spent a full day tied up before he let me down.

"That first night, he fucked me with lube and a condom. In the morning, he fucked me again and retied me in place. The second night he wanted to fuck me, but he wanted to do it rough." Booker paused. Omar was breathing heavily, staring with wide eyes. His hands had disappeared inside the folds of his robe.

"Describe it," the prince commanded in a tone that was used to getting its way.

"He wanted to 'conquer me.' His words, not mine. We discussed everything ahead of time. I knew what was coming, what he wanted, and how far it might go. When a man's blood is up and his libido is raging, there's nothing that'll stop him from getting off.

"Anyway, it was midnight when he took me down. Middle of the Gulf. Not a soul or boat in sight for miles. He pinned me to the deck. He'd stripped off his drawers as soon as we left shore the day before. I guess he liked letting it all hang out. But when he pinned me to the deck, he ducked his head down and jammed his tongue up my butt."

Omar inhaled again. Sweat was beading on his forehead. His hand had begun moving under the robe. The waitress had reappeared from behind her curtain, walking up behind him. But on seeing what he was doing she turned around without a word and left. Booker leaned a little closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. Omar leaned in as well, mouth slightly open.

"He grabbed my white butt in his rough, callused, brown hands. Kneading and squeezing my flesh, he tongued my butthole, getting it ready for his third entrance. I knew, this time. This time there would be no lube. Real lube. The only thing to make it easier would be his tongue. I flexed my cheeks under his fingers, wriggling my hips against his invasion.

"When he tired of tasting me, or maybe when he couldn't wait anymore, he rose on his knees. Moving his bulk around took some effort. But eventually, I felt the head of a cock press against my ass. I relaxed my sphincter, and let him shove in.

"He was not gentle. He fucked me roughly. It felt like someone was punching me in the bowels, over and over. I grabbed onto the railing and pushed back, trying desperately to hold on. As his huge, sweaty, hairy belly pressed into me, I pressed my forehead against the deck. The pain, combined with the shame, was a huge turn on. I was hard from being tied up. Hell, I'd been hard all weekend. But me getting off wasn't something we agreed on, so I was never able to cum..." Booker paused.