Indiscreet Box Set

Chapter 1-2

Besides, a club who can offer vetted Masters as well as vetted subs is going to get more traffic. The program is in their self-interest.”

“We’ll call a meeting then.”

“One more thing, I give the final test to all the Doms until I can find someone else I can trust not to let anyone slide.”

“Your call. That side of the house is yours, always has been.”

“Yeah, my call…It sure didn’t help Antonio.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. The man came with a member and met our former guidelines.”

“Antonio was a sly, money grubbing, cheating bastard. Even so, he didn’t deserve that kind of death. No one does.”

Bear stayed with the program for a year, training Doms and subs; running both it and Drummond Realty until he felt he had found an acceptable replacement.

Bear met Bull Raleigh in a club in Union City where Bear was giving a lecture on screening the membership. Bull hailed from North Carolina. He liked the man but got a strange vibe.

He called Reed. “I think I’ve found my replacement. You will need to run an in-depth check. Ask Jim Boy to reach out and touch some of his snake-eater friends.”

Two days later, Reed reached Bear at the office. “You were right, former Special Forces, very hush, hush. The man was a Captain and highly decorated. He was snagged in “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” Bull Raleigh is an alias for Raleigh Davis. There was a very public fight when he was thrown out of Special Forces. My informant says Bull doesn’t want to play martyr for the cause.”

“f*****g bastards,” Bear cursed. “I am going to ask him to interview for the position. Have Jim Boy and one of the pain sluts available. I believe in his integrity, but he needs to know how to handle the tools.”

Two weeks later Bull took over as Dungeon Master at Indiscreet.

Feeling he left both Indiscreet and the new system in Bull’s capable hands, Bear left the club burned out. He returned only when his belly clutched with need and his loneliness left him on the razor’s edge of sanity. He would do a scene with one of the club’s submissives who had yet to find a Master or was not ready to take up the life on a twenty-four seven basis. He took care of the sub and himself with the minimum of attention that good aftercare allowed, and then he left.

Bear banged his fist on the molding in frustration. It took three and a half years for the image of the beige speckled cinderblock walls in the basement morgue not to haunt his every waking hour. He could not forget the others who would have to look down at the frozen remains of their loved ones in drawer sixty-seven. It would forever remain emblazoned on his eyelids as he slept. Antonio’s many barely-healed scars, coupled with the new ones, made what was once the face of a dark Botticelli angel into a grotesque mask of Carnivàle.

They caught the fucker, a pimp, and New York State tried, convicted, and sentenced him to life without parole. Yet, something in Bear had died with Antonio. He had not loved Antonio. Antonio hurt Bear’s pride by leaving, but Bear’s overzealous conscience did not let it lie with that. Maybe if I had reached out, tried to talk to the boy, assured him of his safety with me until he found his legs and knew what he wanted and where he was going…

Bear’s fists squeezed tight and there was a bit of moisture about his eyes. His whole body was tense.

The interviews were difficult. Every one brought back memories of Antonio’s death. Why do I continue to do this? Bear asked himself.

The selection process is akin to beating my head against a brick wall.

Donald answered his own question, I continue because it will feel so good when I am finally able to stop.

Donald K. Drummond shrugged hard and left the window.

He had a business to run. He turned away from the street scene below; pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache he felt lay in wait. Donald thought about today’s young sub and all of the others who Reed sent to him to interview since he began an active search six months ago, three years after Antonio’s demise. Each boy was lacking in some aspect of physique, temperament, or demeanor. They were good boys; however, they were not his boy, the boy who lived in his dreams. This time, no other boy would do.

He hadn’t listened to his heart the last time, Antonio was an almost. Almost was trying to hammer a square peg into a round hole. You could do it, if you diminished the size of the peg, yet if you needed the peg again, it would not be useful because you had compromised its inherent integrity. Donald had compromised his own and Antonio’s integrity, and that is why, despite Antonio’s duplicity, he still mourned Antonio’s death. Deep down, where no one but he could see, he put a good portion of the blame on himself. After the incident, friends of the incarcerated pimp, a small time hood by the name of Giovanni Benzano, had tried to “reach out and touch” Donald. They learned to their misfortune that Trenton was Donald’s town and he had friends of his own.

Donald thought carefully about his choices.

I cannot be alone forever, that is where madness lies. I need a boy who is prepared to meet my exacting expectations. This boy would be my friend as well as a lover. He would have the fortitude to be mine, owned, body and soul, yet still think independently, able to amaze a room with his wit and intelligence. He would possess a personal demeanor capable of gracing a dinner with his presence as adeptly as he could serve it. Most of all, he would be a balm to my soul, bring passion to my body and love back into my heart.

In other words, I need my own freaking miracle…not likely. Hell, bloody pigs would be piloting F-22s before I ever find what I need.

Donald gave a dry chuckle at his own impossible dream.

He laughed because he knew what he most desired was as unlikely as finding a 1943 Lincoln cooper penny in the Sahara.

Donald wanted love and more than that, trust. The man who was incapable of trusting anything or anyone wanted his boy to trust him.

Donald knew he had a temper. He spoke too loud. Several times during the interview process, he had more than lost his patience with Reed. Just this morning Reed presented him with an entirely unsuitable candidate.

After the boy left, he exploded. “Goddamn it, how long have you known me?” he shouted. “What in hell made you think that kid was even remotely acceptable?”

“Calm down. They can hear you in the kitchens. Everyone already knows you are one tough son of a b***h, is it necessary to constantly prove it?” Reed said wryly.

“That kid was a twink. I raised my voice and he cringed. What would he have done if I really blew my cool? s**t, he would be hiding under the table. I need a boy who respects me, not one who is terrified every time I bark.”

“Maybe you should try not barking so often. It would help your blood pressure to say nothing of making it easier to find you a sub.”

“I want a sub who accepts me as I am, Reed. I am thirty-five years old, and set in my ways. I am not likely to undergo a personality transplant for a sub that does not even wake up my prick. I’ve already told you several times, I do not want any Antonio look-a-likes. If you don’t pay attention to my preferences, every Goddamn interview will end the same way.”

“Every goddamned interview has ended the same way. You bellow, you pound your fist, but that does not get you one whit closer to finding a sub. It only frightens the pool of candidates.”

“Well, look in another pond. I’ve had it with interviewing greedy twinks. I watch their eyes. They have no interest in anything but my money and my status as Master in this club.

Don’t call me about another bloody boy until you find me what I asked for.” With that statement ringing in Reed’s ears, Bear left Reed’s office, slamming the door behind him in a fit of temper.

Bear knew he was opinionated. The right sub could provide the motivation he lacked to change the status quo. He rejected many potential candidates because they provided him with no reason to grow into the kind of Dominant he longed to be.

Those boys would never inspire him to explore the breadth of his character or the depths of his soul. His heart cried out for a boy to make him smolder, to strike a spark and set him afire. None of the boys Reed presented, so far, had found the matchbook, much less lit the match. He looked about for distraction, disturbed at the road his mind had taken this morning and visibly upset he had lost his temper, yet again.

Donald shoved down his desires and closed the gates. It was past time for him to get to work. He loosened his tie. His first priority was to take a piss, followed by washing up and straightening his clothing. He thought he would indulge himself in a glass of good Bordeaux since it was already close to noon.

He stepped over to the credenza on the wall to the left of his desk and pushed a button. The panel beside the credenza opened, revealing a well-stocked bar with a twenty-four bottle wine rack and cooler. Donald looked at the labels Sally applied at the end of each shelf. Yes, Reed was right, although Donald preferred the word exacting to fussy. He decided to taste the 1985. It was a good year for wine, Bordeaux in particular.

Grabbing a tall glass with a wide bowl of cut crystal from the overhead rack, he uncorked the bottle to let it breathe before he poured. The glass would encourage the bouquet of the Bordeaux to the top of the bowl, allowing it to linger on the palate and display the clarity of the wine selection. Placing the open bottle with the glass on his desk, Bear mused he had come a long way from Thunderbird Wine in plastic cups. He stepped through the door into his private washroom.

A full-length mirror hung behind the door. The room was large, the long wall with its glass tile countertop sported two ruby glass bowl sinks and an antique armoire, which stored towels along with a few suits, several shirts, and fresh linen. Along the back wall was a shuttered booth containing two sections. The first section held the facilities, the second, a well-lit dressing room with mirrors and a small platform used when the tailor came to customize something Donald bought off the rack. To the right of the enclosure stood a waterfall shower and tub. The washroom was a work of art, yet today Donald failed to notice.

He unzipped the fly of his custom made navy pinstriped suit and pulled out his uninterested d**k.

Useless. Not once, in any of the interviews, had it leaped to attention.

His d**k did not even make it up to half-mast. Sometimes he wondered if it still worked!

He stood stock still, allowing himself to conjure up a picture of his perfect boy. His boy was slender but well-built and only tall enough to tuck under Donald’s chin. His skin shone pale and fine and shaded to Irish Cream if exposed to the sun. It would take marks well, but to Donald, dominance meant control, not violence. If a sub enjoyed the lash, he would oblige.