Chapter 30 Rocky Horror Handcuffs #2
“I’m no prostitute!” he had declared. Crossed his arms. Scowled. End of discussion. This from the same guy who had bottomed for two different guys at the Habana Inn. Left the first one to find a bigger dick.
Matt had not told Paul about his own Habana experiences—plural, three times—on the receiving end of Vince’s cock, twice topping.
Had Paul known the size of Vince’s cock, he would have wanted in on the action.
Had Matt known the size of that thing—before he blithely agreed to flip-fucking, he would have…
Oh, who was he kidding? He would have gone through with it anyway!
“Don’t be so dramatic, dahling,” William had said to Paul. “Housewives do it all the time for major appliances or European vacations. No one considers them sex workers.”
“Housewives don’t have pricelists,” Matt had countered.
William had just finished explaining to them that as freshmen they could “accommodate” a single guest with the limited services of hand jobs (giving or receiving, $100; mutual, $200) or blowjobs (same setup, double the rates).
Those rates were the minimum. GM members usually negotiated more, considering they had all their teeth, weren’t strung out, and were disease-free.
They got to keep half their earnings, all of their tips.
Upper-classmen were able to turn more tricks, offer more services.
William had shrugged. “The only thing you two have to do is work the party and be window dressing. Serve a few drinks. Get your asses pinched. Period. If you want to earn some money, fine. If not, that’s fine too. That just equates to more money for the rest of us.”
As if William needed money. His daddy was an executive for an oil company.
Paul had remained unconvinced even though he was the most cash strapped of them all, barely able to pay his tuition with work-study, Pell Grants, and student loans. His dad wasn’t loaded. Just the opposite.
But it wasn’t a case of Rich dad (for William), Poor dad (for Paul).
It was Rich dad, Shitty dad. Paul’s dad had called him last week to inform him he might as well stay on campus for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.
What kind of dad uninvited his own kid for the holidays?
A Shitty one, that’s who. One who couldn’t stand the fact that his namesake, Paul Olson II, was a queer with Asperger’s syndrome.
It seemed everyone was thinking ahead to Thanksgiving.
Debbie had invited Matt to spend the holiday at her house.
He hadn’t yet accepted but was leaning towards doing so.
His own family hadn’t returned any of his phone calls, hadn’t driven the thirty miles to see him or watch any of his games.
And, if he did accept Debbie’s offer, would it be rude to ask if Paul could also join them?
As regarded the whole fundraising-by-fucking concept, Matt had not shared Paul’s high principles.
The minimum for blowing a guy was $200. Matt would get to keep $100.
Fifteen minutes sucking even a nasty cock seemed better than the 24 hours it would take to earn the same money by flipping burgers.
He’d flipped enough burgers the previous two summers to understand that on a certain level you were getting fucked either way.
Plus, he needed money. Bella Bottoms would be back at the Habana for New Year’s Eve. He planned to take Adam there. They would eat at Gusher’s, see Bella’s show, spend a magical night in one of the rooms. A hundred bucks should cover all of that.
Matt watched as one of the guests, a guy who looked to be in his early forties, sidled up to Paul. The guy was balding, thick around the middle. Not in the top tier appearance-wise.
Balding guy put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, leaned in, whispered in his ear.
Paul shook his head. Pushed his glasses up his nose.
William swooped in. His feather boa fluttered behind him. Asked Paul to retrieve another bottle of wine from the kitchen. Redirected balding guy’s attention to Todd. That much Matt heard clearly.
The rest was an indistinguishable purr, like when funeral directors work their way past condolences and platitudes and get down to the business end of things: that caskets aren’t free, that the dead don’t bury themselves, that “mama needs a new pair of shoes.”
Matt imagined William’s sales pitch: Todd was more experienced sucking cock. Or maybe William upsold balding guy on fucking, which freshman Paul wasn’t allowed to do, but sophomore Todd was. The old “Would you like fries with that?” suggestive selling.
Soon enough, balding guy headed upstairs with Todd, who winked at Matt as he passed.
“Ever been face fucked?” Garland asked. Just jumped to the point. No wading into the topic.
Matt’s throat went dry. He felt certain he’d just been propositioned.
“I’ve blown a few guys,” Matt said. “I’ve never been face fucked.” The truth was less impressive: he’d blown exactly one guy—Evan. It had not gone smoothly.
The grandfather clock ticked away.
Garland reached into his jacket, retrieved a small roll of cash. “Two hundred, right? Face fucking is like a blowjob, except you don’t have to do any of the work. Maybe I should be the one getting paid.” Snickered at his little joke.
Matt froze, uncertain how to respond.
William popped his head around the parlor entry.
“Garland! I wondered where you had disappeared to! And here you are all alone with one of our freshmen! You naughty boy!”
William oozed into the room. Black corset. Feather boa. The whole “Sweet Transvestite” thing. He seemed flustered. Gave Matt a worried look.
“I need to borrow Matthew for a minute,” William said. He took Matt by the hand and coaxed him out of the club chair. Motioned for Josh to join them and take Matt’s place.
“Here’s Josh! You remember him, don’t you, Garland?” William guided Josh into the chair Matt had just vacated. Substituted one guy in gold boxer briefs for another. Ushered Matt out before Garland could object.
Closed the pocket doors to give Josh and Garland some privacy.
William and Matt were in the entry hall.
William apologized profusely. “I’ve been so focused on Paul, I forgot to keep an eye on you. Luckily, I intervened before it was too late.”
“Too late?” Matt asked.
“You saw the handcuffs?” William whispered.
Matt nodded.
“That’s his kink. Restraints. Rough. Borderline abusive. Probably not a good fit considering your…history. We generally only let our senior members entertain Garland.”
Matt appreciated that William had been watching out for him. Thanked him for doing so. But wasn’t willing to just walk away from those hundred bucks. More than a hundred now, considering Garland’s kink. How hard could it be anyway? The handcuffs and stuff?
Matt had an idea. The reckless kind that worked out brilliantly about 65% of the time, went disastrously wrong the other 35%.
“Just checking,” Matt said. “Is Garland the only lawyer here tonight?”
“Isn’t one enough, dahling?”
Matt nodded. One would do. “I’m going back in there,” he said. “I’ll tell Josh you need him.”
William sighed in resignation.
Back in the parlor, Matt resumed his seat in the club chair facing Garland.
Garland wore an amused smile. “I’m guessing that switcheroo had something to do with my handcuffs? Keeping you away from them since you’re a freshman? Sending in the more experienced Josh?”
Matt shrugged. “Have you ever done a name change for someone?”
Garland’s black eyes twinkled. “And here you are, back in the ‘big boy’ chair and Josh gone. William can’t be too happy about that. I assume he’s eavesdropping just outside the door, ready to rescue you again, if necessary.”
Matt crossed his arms, trying to disguise his nervousness. He’d marched back in there full of confidence that he could manage Garland. Already the power dynamic was ebbing away from him and towards Garland.
“Name change?” Matt repeated. “If you want to cuff me and face fuck me, the price includes a free name change.”
Garland polished off the remainder of his Manhattan. The handcuffs on his wrist jangled. He set the glass down on the side table by his chair. “Name change. Got it. No problem. Anything else?”
“Four hundred dollars.” Matt tried to sound confident.
He’d never asked for that much money in his life.
He didn’t know whether to be more worried about a “Yes” or a “No” from Garland.
A “No” meant no deal. No money to pay for the New Year’s Eve date with Adam.
A “Yes” implied that he wasn’t fully understanding what it was he was agreeing to do.
Garland leaned forward, licked his lips. “For that kind of money, I expect to play rough. Slapping and shit.”
And there it was, wrapped up in pretty words and topped with a bow: “slapping and shit.” Matt could not claim he hadn’t been warned. A cold frisson of fear coursed through his veins. He shivered.
He leaned forward as well, locked eyes with Garland.
“Okay, but let’s get two things straight.
First, I’m not consenting to be raped. Secondly, this ‘slapping and shit’ better not leave bruises or handprints.
Keep this in mind while you’re doing your ‘slapping and shit,’ that at some point I’ll be out of those cuffs and I’ll remember whether you went too far.
If you do—go too far, I promise you your Porsche will pay the price.
Slashed tires. Shredded convertible top.
‘Shithead’ carved so deep in the paint, it won’t sand out. ”
Garland grinned wolfishly. He stood and removed his handcuff bracelet. “Deal,” he said. “Get up and put your hands behind your back. I’m cuffing you here. You’ll follow me up the stairs with everyone watching.”
Matt stood while Garland cuffed him. Grimaced as the single strand cheek plate ratchetted into the double strand, clamping his wrists.
Garland checked the fit, asked if it was too tight.
Matt shook his head.