“Trent wants these boys to meet with Justin,” I told Ransom.
“Why?”
“Hell if I know.” I smirked. “Maybe he’s looking to add some decoration to the office.”
Ransom’s gaze strayed to the pretty boy. “Well, that’d do it.”
I peered over at my friend once again, gauging his interest in the two. If Ransom wanted these two for himself, I’d certainly hand them over on a silver platter. I didn’t need the fucking headache.
Unfortunately, Ransom’s appreciation was only skin deep. He wasn’t interested in the pretty boy or the cowboy.
“String ’em up naked,” Ransom said. “Maybe in the lobby so everyone can watch.”
Yep, the man was as sadistic as I was.
But he was right. These two would make nice office decor. I could admit I wouldn’t mind seeing the pretty boy tied up and at my mercy. Perhaps trussed up beneath my desk while I worked. I could use the other for a footstool.
Speaking of other…
The cowboy appeared in the doorway, his green eyes instantly landing on his friend.
“Sit,” I commanded, pointing toward the spot beside the pretty boy. “Better yet, both of you kneel.”
Without a word, the pretty boy inched off the edge of the seat and right onto the floor. His actions didn’t surprise me one bit. He was eager to please. I’d seen it in his eyes when ours met earlier. The cowboy followed suit, moving close.
“I’ve seen you both before,” I said.
Neither of them spoke.
They were good boys.
Exactly how I liked them.
“How old are you, pretty boy?”
The pretty boy’s mouth moved, but the rest of him remained still. “Twenty-eight, Sir.”
“And you, cowboy?”
A small smile curved the cowboy’s lips. “Twenty-seven, Sir.”
“You two like to play?” I asked.
Neither spoke, but I hadn’t addressed one or the other, so it made sense.
“Pretty boy,” I called out. “Answer me.”
The pretty boy nodded his head. “Yes, Sir.”
“Are you collared, pretty boy?” They weren’t wearing collars, but being this was a business trip, it was possible they’d simply left them at home.
“No, Sir.”
“What about you, cowboy?”
“No, Sir.”
“Zeke,” I clarified. “I don’t like Sir. When you speak to me, refer to me as Zeke.”
“No, Zeke,” the cowboy corrected. “I’m not collared.”
“If I insist you strip right here, what would be your answer, cowboy?”
“I would oblige, Zeke,” he said, his voice raspy.
I peered over at Ransom. He offered a shrug as he grabbed a magazine and moved to one of the chairs farther away from me.
He was giving me free rein and who was I to pass up the opportunity?
“Stand,” I insisted. “From here on out, I’m speaking to both of you.”
Both men stood slowly, their eyes remaining glued to the floor.
I took a moment to look them over from head to toe. I definitely liked what I saw. I liked my submissives strong but compliant. And I could tell by the bulges behind their zippers that they were enjoying the fuck out of this.
I decided to call the cowboy’s bluff.
“Strip,” I demanded. “Right now.”
While I hadn’t touched them that day, I had admired the view. Forcing them to kneel while their cocks stood proud and eager had been a rather pleasant way to pass the time.
Regardless of my past, I hadn’t had a submissive draw my attention quite the way they had. Not in a long damn time, anyway. That didn’t mean this was a smart move on my part. I tended to overwhelm people. Anyone who knew me would say I wasn’t normal. Not in any sense of the word.
Of course, I dealt with a myriad of stereotypes from all walks of life. People who didn’t understand my lifestyle and those who confused my desires with something else.
The bottom line was, I was a Sadist.
By definition, a Sadist was a person who received sexual gratification from causing pain and degradation to another. Yes. That was me to a T. I didn’t hide it, either. I only played with those who understood what it meant and who were willing to indulge those desires.
However, people were often trying to tie it to some psychological defect. Some went so far as to say Sadism had something to do with anger, a need to punish or to overcome some trauma from their childhood.
First of all, I wasn’t an angry man. Not by a long shot. I had a great life, good friends, people I depended on, and those I would lay my life down for. I didn’t walk around in a rage, wanting to beat on someone for the hell of it. And despite what my baby sister said, I didn’t listen to angry-man music. It was merely music to me. It suited me.
Secondly, I’d experienced trauma like a lot of other people. Losing my parents had been horrific. I wouldn’t deny it. I’d spent time talking to counselors, grieving, mourning the loss of two incredible people. I had learned to deal and moved on. The pain was still there, but it didn’t haunt me the way it had initially. I wasn’t looking to punish other people for my loss. What fucking good would that do?
