Chapter 3 - Train, Shower, Bump & Go-Go #2
It was now time for him to play a role, wear a mask, and for the Callum who trained CEOs to disappear.
He took his club gear out of the holdall.
This consisted of his leather harness, codpiece leather shorts, white socks and Doc Martens.
He started putting on the leather harness, a somewhat complicated contraption with straps and buckles.
He’d left it pretty much set up so he could just lower it over his shoulders.
The metal O-ring sat right in the centre of his sternum, suddenly cold against his flushed skin.
The challenge was the linked cock ring at the bottom of the longest strap.
It hung all the way down his chest and abdomen, the idea being that you put your junk through it for maximum bulge.
He laughed quietly to himself, the sound echoing in the vast bathroom, thinking about Julian’s bulge.
Maybe with this on he could compete? This wasn’t a good thought; he was already getting hard again.
He struggled to get it on, still semi-engorged from jacking off moments earlier.
Think of nuns, think of nuns, not Julian Newman.
He managed, after a little uncomfortable manoeuvring, to squeeze himself into the cold metal ring.
Leather shorts on next. These were also a feat of engineering, with a built-in codpiece that could flip off at the release of four press studs, and a zipper in the rear.
The shorts went on easily and he was quite impressed by the bulge he was displaying tonight.
This would drive the gays wild, and tips would be good.
He hadn’t bought any other sweatshirt or joggers, and his were so sweaty that he didn’t want to put either back on.
He decided to chance it and stuffed both into his holdall along with his other clothes.
He just wore his oversized trench coat to cover the outfit for the subway ride.
He started to fasten the buttons from the bottom up but didn’t go all the way to the top, aware that he was already so late.
He used his card in the elevator to go back downstairs, his heart still thrumming from the shower and the prospect of a bit of dancing. His mind was elsewhere as the doors opened into the sleek, darkened lobby, so much so that he almost collided with a figure walking toward the exit.
Julian.
***
The CEO had changed back into a suit and a crisp white shirt, no tie, his collar open. He stopped dead, his eyes widening as he took in Callum’s appearance and the heavy bag on his shoulder.
“I thought you’d be long gone by now,” Julian said, his voice echoing in the empty lobby.
“Just finished up,” Callum said, trying to pull the edges of his coat together, but the movement only caused the trench coat to flare wide open.
The lobby’s security lights caught the shiny black leather and silver studs of the harness against the contrast of Callum’s flushed skin.
Julian’s gaze dropped instantly. He froze, his eyes tracing the line of the leather strap as it crossed Callum’s pectorals, disappearing under the coat.
He looked at the metal ring, then down at the leather shorts that clung to Callum’s thighs.
The silence was thick enough to choke on. Julian swallowed hard, his professional poise finally, utterly shattered. He didn’t look shocked; he looked fascinated, mesmerised.
“That’s…” Julian started, his voice cracking. He stepped closer, his hand twitching at his side as if he wanted to reach out and tug on one of those leather straps. “That’s your second job?”
Callum felt a bold, reckless heat rise in his chest. He didn’t immediately pull the coat shut. Instead, he stood a little taller, his go-go persona bleeding into this reality. “I told you, Julian, not everyone has a corner office. Some of us have to dance for our tips.”
Julian’s eyes snapped back to Callum’s, dark and dilated. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, peering down at something he knew would destroy him but still wanting to jump anyway.
“Where?” Julian whispered, voice raspy. “Where is this?”
“The Vault,” Callum said over his shoulder as he headed towards the revolving glass doors, a challenge in his smirk. “But it’s a long way from Broadway, Julian. I don’t think you’d fit in.”
Julian watched through the glass, looking like he’d seen either a ghost or salvation.
***
The revolving door slowed to a stop behind Callum, leaving Julian standing in the silent, amber-lit lobby. He remained there for a long minute; the image of that leather harness burned into his retinas.
He felt like he was on fire.
He finally turned and headed for the private elevator that led to the secure underground garage. When the doors opened, his head of security, Markus, was already standing by an armoured Mercedes G-Wagon, its engine idling with a low, expensive hum.
“Everything alright, sir?” Markus asked, eyes neutral but observant. He’d worked for Julian for six years; he knew the CEO’s moods like a weather pattern.
“Fine, Markus, just a late night,” he said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.. He climbed into the back seat, the door closing with a heavy, airtight thud that shut out the world.
As the SUV pulled out into the Manhattan streets, Julian leaned his head back against the cool leather headrest and closed his eyes.
The only image he could see was Callum in that leather harness.
He saw those inviting dark brown eyes that seemed to look right through his corporate armour.
He saw the neat, rugged trim of his beard and the way his broad muscular shoulders, not just gym-built for show, filled out his hoodie.
Every day since their first session, Julian had been haunted by the memory of Callum’s hand on his shoulder. It had been a simple professional correction, but the heat of it had felt like a brand, leaving a permanent mark.
Then tonight, Callum’s hand again in the small of his back when he was doing the squats, supporting him, reassuring him, showing him what was possible.
It was quite humbling that this young guy could have such an effect on him.
He’d never needed help, and it didn’t seem possible that he’d only met this guy twice but already couldn’t forget him.
Julian had spent his entire adult life building a fortress around himself, projecting the image of the Titan, the stoic, untouchable leader who didn’t have time for the messiness of emotion.
In boardrooms, manly leadership meant being a statue, devoid of any visible emotion.
It meant never wavering, never doubting, and certainly not needing love.
Lower Manhattan sped past as they drove towards his penthouse. Beside them, the river was as dark and restless as his thoughts in that moment.
Callum thinks I have it all, he thought bitterly to himself.
He looks at my office and thinks I’m the one with the power, but the truth was, Callum was the free one.
Callum could walk into a club in a leather harness and dance freely under neon lights.
Callum could be exactly who he was, whilst Julian was a prisoner of his own success.
He was the most eligible bachelor in the city, a title that felt like a death sentence.
It meant every public move was scrutinised, every date was the result of a PR calculation.
Callum had reminded him of something he wanted beyond what he already owned, and it scared him.
The SUV pulled into the private, high-security garage of his financial district residence. Heavy steel gates hissed shut behind him, sealing Julian into the silence he both paid for and loathed in equal measure.
“See you at seven, Markus,” he said, his voice flat as he exited the vehicle. He didn’t wait for a reply. He entered his private elevator, the ascent to the penthouse feeling like a climb into a self-imposed world of loneliness and isolation.
He crossed the lobby, white lilies a blur, and was met with the soft warm glow of the kitchen lights. Martha, his longtime housekeeper, the only person who had seen him at his most vulnerable, was just finishing a final wipe of the marble island.
“You’re late tonight, Mr. Newman,” she said, her voice carrying a gentle, motherly reprimand. She didn’t look up, her movements practised and calm. “I left sea bass in the warmer, but it’ll be dry if you don’t eat it soon.”
Julian stopped. The sight of domesticity felt jarringly out of sync with the dark storm brewing inside him. He felt like he was vibrating with the memory of Callum’s leather-clad chest, his skin still prickling from the gaze of a man who actually saw him.
“Thank you, Martha,” Julian said, forcing his voice into a steadier register. “I’m not hungry. You can go for the night. Get some rest.”
Martha paused, sensing the tension radiating off him. She’d worked for him long enough to know when he was carrying the weight of a billion-dollar merger, but this looked different. He looked… haunted. “Are you ok, sir? Maybe I could make you some tea?”
“No, I’m fine,” he insisted, a bit too quickly. “Go, please. It’s late.”
Martha nodded, untying her apron. “Very well. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Goodnight, Mr. Newman.” She gathered her things and headed for the door.
As it clicked shut, the penthouse plummeted into a silence so profound that it felt heavy.
Julian didn’t go to the kitchen. He walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Brooklyn Bridge a skeleton of black metal and stone outside the glass. He stood there in the dark, his reflection ghost-like against the life of the city.