Excerpt from Dancing on the Edge

Alistair let the pounding beat of the music soak into his body. The deep thrum of the bass reverberated through his feet, up his spine and into his brain. He moved instinctively, twisting his hips and swaying, lost to the euphoria of the dance. The Underground's dance floor wasn't big, as if it had been deliberately designed to bring overheated bodies closer together. Alistair liked to be in the centre of the press of writhing flesh because there he could be anonymous. Nobody would notice that he was dancing alone. Occasionally someone would slide a sweaty arm around his waist or press a hard cock against his arse-he could just slip free and disappear into the crowd. No offence given and none taken.

It wasn't often that he had the freedom to really let go, but it was his night off and he was determined to enjoy himself. It was so stifling that for a moment he wished he were still wearing the short leather kilt that formed The Underground's skimpy staff uniform. The black PVC trousers he had on were ludicrously hot. Perspiration ran down his bare back and chest and his hair was soaked. It was time for a long, cool drink and he really needed to towel off.

Alistair made his way gradually to the edge of the dance floor. It took a while-the music was intoxicating and hard to withdraw from. He hovered on the periphery for a while, still dancing but aware now of what was going on in the wider room. The stage was empty apart from two men who were manhandling a large wooden cross into its centre, cursing and swearing at the weight of the thing. Alistair knew that some eager sub would be chained to it later, enjoying the kiss of the whip.

Many of the tables that circled the dance floor were occupied. Alistair knew all of the regulars by name and recognised quite a few of the less frequent visitors. A team of waiters, unashamedly employed for their looks and desire to please, attended the tables. On six nights out of seven he was one of them and enjoyed being part of the team. They were well paid and, though subservience was required, they had no other obligation to the clientele. The members were well aware of the rules and kept their hands to themselves, but it was perfectly proper to ask a server if he would be available to play when he got off his shift. Most of the boys Alistair knew were more than willing. For an unattached sub, The Underground was safe. It also attracted dominant men who were committed enough to the lifestyle to pay the exorbitant fees. For those that wanted them, there were plenty of opportunities to test compatibility or just to find someone happy to deliver a sound spanking with no strings.

Alistair had taken advantage of his position many times. He was slim, blond and pretty-all attributes that appealed to a large proportion of the members. He never had a problem finding a Dom for an evening of fun and games that they would both enjoy. It helped that he adored having his arse paddled until it glowed and if he was tied up while it happened, so much the better. He scanned the room catching several interested glances, but Alistair was only looking for one man. The man who was always present, whomever Alistair played with. The only man he had ever allowed to fuck him. It was dark and crowded-spotlights blinded him as he peered up at the gallery, his stomach knotted with anxiety. Where was he?

Bodies between Alistair and the bar moved apart and there he was-Carey Hoffman-and he was looking directly at Alistair, a slight smile curving his lips. Alistair relaxed as soon as he locked gazes with the darkly handsome man. Carey was his anchor in a bewildering world and there was no way Alistair would have walked across the club alone unless he knew Carey was watching. He began to move, careful not to brush against anyone or make eye contact. He didn't like rejecting people, but he wasn't wearing a collar and that made him fair game. He made it three paces before a huge, leather-clad guy loomed over him with a leer.

"Well, pretty boy, what are you doing here all alone?"

Alistair looked up and took in the extensive tattoos that covered his new friend's heavily muscled arms, then the thick neck and shaved head.

"I… I'm not…"

Alistair flinched as the stranger took his arm, gripping his biceps tightly. "Don't be scared, little one, we can have a good time together." He tugged Alistair towards the tables.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I'm not available tonight," Alistair finally managed to get out.

"Or any night," Carey said as he appeared next to him and stroked his hair. "This one's taken, Frank." The big guy looked disappointed, but he smiled, revealing a dimple that was completely incongruous.

"S'all right, Carey. Haven't been in for a while-didn't realise." Frank released Alistair's arm and stepped back.

"Not a problem. In fact I think Toby over there might suit you." Carey gestured towards a server with dark hair and a cheeky grin.

Frank grinned right back. "Pretty. Is he interested, Carey?"

Carey crooked a finger at Toby and the slight waiter came scuttling over with undignified speed.

"Oh, I think you might say that."

Toby bounced on the spot, his dark brown eyes glinting. He looked like a puppy that had just been given the best treat ever. He disappeared with a squeak as Frank wrapped a beefy, decorated arm around his shoulders.

Excerpt from A Double-Edged Sword

The Underground’s stage was cleverly lit to highlight the chair set at its centre. Almost throne-like, the bespoke piece of furniture was made from polished oak and upholstered with padded green leather. The back had a cushioned middle panel and intricately carved side pieces, so it looked impressively regal without sacrificing comfort. The arms were wide and flat, lightly padded as well. At first glance it could have been an antique piece from a stately home, but closer inspection showed how it earned its place on the stage of a BDSM club. At the top of the backrest, a curved leather neck support and headrest stood proud from the wood. The seat was significantly wider at the front than the rear and subtly concealed within the leather was a circular section that could be removed. Brass eyelets were set at regular intervals down each of the chair legs, the sides of the seat and in the vertical wooden panels of the back. It was a chair made for display, for restraint and for some very kinky play.

Dave Becket leant back in his seat and watched disinterestedly as a blindfolded, naked man was led out onto the stage and positioned in the chair so that his arse, cock and balls were accessible. The Dom with him proceeded to fasten narrow leather straps around his sub’s limbs until he was secured in position, legs spread wide.

“The show doesn’t inspire you, Dave?”

Becket turned to his companion and shook his head. “Public displays don’t do much for me, I’m afraid. Any sub of mine will be kept for my pleasure, not the titillation of others.”

Carey Hoffman nodded his agreement. “I would never put Alistair up there, certainly. We seem to be in the minority, however.” He gestured at the crowded tables that surrounded the stage. “The shows are very good for business.”

Becket grunted and cast a glance around the room. The Underground was a popular venue. Membership was expensive and the serving staff attentive and pretty. For anyone seriously into the scene, it was the place to be. Becket attended when he could, though the demands of his job meant that his visits were sporadic at best. He enjoyed the atmosphere and Carey had become a good friend. There were advantages to being close to the club’s owner, including the prime position of the table the two of them currently occupied.

“Will Alistair be joining you tonight, Carey?” Becket grinned as a soppy smile fixed itself onto Carey’s handsome face.

“Yes, he will.” Carey glanced at his watch. “In fact, he should be here any minute. He had to go over to a gallery in the West End and check on the hanging of some of his work but he should be back by now. He’s probably upstairs changing.”

“He’s doing incredibly well with his photography, isn’t he?”

Carey nodded, his expression full of pride. “Since he won the Forbes prize, he’s been in great demand.”

“I read about that,” Becket said. “The youngest ever winner, I understand?”

“That’s right. It was an amazing achievement even though he tries to play it down. Alistair is very shy about his success.”

“That’s because you keep him so well grounded, my friend.” Becket took a sip from his glass of iced water and prodded at the slice of lime floating in the top. “What’s your secret? The two of you always seems so…content.”

Carey’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “It’s no secret and no mystery really. We’re compatible. We give each other what we need.”

Becket frowned. “But how did you know? I mean, was it love at first sight or did you grow together?”

Carey gave a short chuckle. “Fuck, Dave, your reputation would be shot if it ever got out that you were asking questions about feelings.”

“And what about you?” Becket retorted. “You’re supposed to be a big bad Dom but one mention of Alistair and you go all smooshy.”

Carey choked on his drink. “Smooshy? There’s a word I never thought I’d hear coming out of your mouth, Agent Becket. What’s this really about, as if I couldn’t guess?”

Becket’s face heated. He shouldn’t have started this conversation. Better to focus on the sub getting his arse whipped up on the stage. He was saved by Alistair’s arrival, the pretty blond immediately commanding all of Carey’s attention.

“Good evening, Sir. Good evening, Mr Becket.” Alistair leaned over to kiss his master then sank gracefully to his knees in front of Carey, head demurely bowed.

“I’m glad you’re here, Alistair, I missed you.” Carey ruffled Alistair’s hair gently. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Becket smiled as a delicate blush crept across Alistair’s cheeks. Carey wasn’t exaggerating—Alistair did look gorgeous. He wore skin-tight leather trousers in a shade of deep burgundy and nothing else, apart from the slim collar encircling his throat. He was slender and toned but not overly defined. Becket approved—he wasn’t into men who spent more time in the gym than they did in the real world. Cut abs were great to look at but Alistair’s sleek muscles were just as pretty.

Alistair looked up at his Master. “Is it all right if I get myself a drink, Sir?”

Carey immediately nodded. “Of course. Dave, would you like anything while Alistair is at the bar?”

“Another glass of mineral water would be welcome, thanks.”

“And I’ll have the same please, sweetheart.”

Alistair practically glowed at the simple endearment. Becket sneaked a sideways glance at Carey whose gaze was firmly fixed on Alistair’s neat, leather-clad arse as he picked his way through the tables to the bar.

“You’re a lucky bastard, Carey.” Becket wasn’t jealous. He could admire Alistair as a beautiful young man and a well-trained submissive, but Alistair wasn’t his type. Becket liked an edgier look than the boy-next-door wholesomeness that Alistair effortlessly exuded.

“I know it.” Carey’s focus didn’t leave Alistair until he returned with their drinks. “Thank you, love. Sit here please.” Carey gestured to a spot on the floor between his legs.

Alistair wriggled into position and leant back against Carey’s chair with a contented sigh. “It’s good to be off my feet, Sir.”

“Relax and have your drink, love. Dave and I need to pick up the conversation we were having before you arrived. Don’t think I’ve forgotten, Becket.”

Becket groaned. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut.”