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Chapter Two

Sebastian

The night is ramping up and The Red Bastille is a hive of music, pageantry, liquor, and sex. My club offers something a little more refined than most. With burlesque and stripper shows, live music, and private themed rooms, it attracts people from all walks of life. You're as likely to see an elderly couple come in for the burlesque, as you are a new sex-mad couple keen to explore their limits. It creates a uniquely appealing environment—one where everyone feels safe to enjoy themselves.

Twirling my cane, I saunter through the crowd, dipping my hat, and laughing along to the same old jokes. My scene might be a little more punk and metal, truth be told, but I'm a businessman, and I run The Red Bastille for the people and for profit. Though I'd never admit it, I'd much rather visit a club like the one across the road—The Dungeon.

The owner is my rival in a manner of speaking, but it's all a charade. All for fun. Jackson Maguire is a great big beast of a man. Heavily inked, with the body of a fucking gladiator, shoulder-length permanently scruffy beach-blond hair, and the bluest eyes I've ever seen… I enjoy raising his ire. He's damn sexy when he's worked up and all that animalistic growliness comes out to play.

I consider myself an alpha male, but of a different breed than the glorious god that is Jackson. Where he's muscle and brute power, I'm suave and manipulative. Some would define me as a Switch, which is perhaps even more accurate. I always get what I want, even if it means submission. Even to the point where the other party involved thinks it was their idea all along.

The power play is what I enjoy most. The back and forth, the tension, the flexing of wit. I just wish The Dungeon master could see how interested I actually am. What I wouldn't give to be ridden by that beast. To feel him pummel my prostate into oblivion would be the greatest of sins and wickedest of pleasures. I'm not ashamed to like what I do. Man or woman, ultimately it doesn't matter. Humanity was made for loving, and I'll enjoy whomever I want, whenever I want.

Taking a colorful cocktail from a waitress's silver platter as she walks by, I slam it down, replacing the empty glass on the bar. Perhaps I should pay The Dungeon a visit? I wonder, with a sly grin. While I like to make an appearance at my own club, my presence isn't required. I have a hierarchy of management that always has everything under control. From replacing the urinal cakes in the bathrooms, to stocking the bar, to paying the entertainers, to organizing physical security on premises, it's all orchestrated to perfection. I just need to enjoy myself. And that's exactly what I'm going to do.

Sauntering out of The Red Bastille and into the cool night, I breathe in deep and sigh. This is going to be ridiculously entertaining. I can hardly wait! When the street is clear, I cross, blowing kisses and winking to all the ladies still waiting to get into my club as I go. I step up onto the pavement directly outside The Dungeon. There's no line here, no crowd of eager and excited patrons looking forward to a night of drinks and entertainment.

No, very few people indeed even use the front door. It's mostly for show. All the regulars and hard-core party people enter from the alleyway behind The Dungeon. It's more private and has a dirtier and nastier appeal. But you know what? I'm me. I'm fucking fabulous and I have no shame. I'm going to stroll in these front doors and make a scene, because why the fuck not? I can't wait to see the look on Jackson's face. It's going to be priceless.

Cane in hand, I push the doors inward like I own the place. A deep, throbbing base washes over me, as a sensual and erotic wordless vocal melody sends a shiver through me. "Love it. Love the vibe," I say to myself. As I drink in the dark beauty of Jackson's establishment, I smirk. This is definitely me. Flicking my hair from my eyes, I casually take the stairs down to the bar and slide onto a stool.

"What can I get for you, Mr. Crenshaw?" asks one of the bar staff.

"How about something tall, tattooed, and with the bluest eyes you've ever seen?" I answer.

The young woman bites her lip and her eyes sparkle. "Mr. Maguire is in his office," she answers. "Would you like me to see if he'll come down?"

I wink. "No, thank you, doll. I think I'll surprise him," I say rising from the stool.

"Ah, we're supposed to let him know if he has visitors," she calls after me, a little look of panic on her features.

"Don't fret. This one's on me, promise," I say, looking over my shoulder before passing through the club. Limbs, lashes, and moans fill the air as I disappear down the dark hall toward the stairs that will take me to Jackson's office. He's going to freak! Taking the stairs two at a time, I straighten my suit, flick my hair aside, and burst in with my usual level of extravagance. "Damn," I breathe.

The Dungeon's master is sitting at his computer, sans pants, slowly wanking his thick, pierced cock to a particularly alluring picture of me. To say the sight is hot would be an ungracious understatement.

Jackson looks sidelong at me, a deepening smirk on those gorgeous lips of his. "No one else would be so bold as to bust into my private office," he says in his deliciously husky voice.

I close the door behind me and flick the lock.

Jackson raises an inquisitive brow. "You've got some nerve, Sebastian," he says, not missing a stroke.

"Says the big burly bastard jerking one off to a photo of his red-light rival?" I retort with a smirk as I saunter across the office.

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