Chapter 9 – Pookie #3
I stand in place, turning in a circle, searching for him. But it's unfamiliar face after unfamiliar face. Strangers dancing. Strangers fighting through the crowd. Hundreds of shirtless men and scantily clad women. Tits in my face. Someone steps on my toes, apologizes, and continues on their way.
An ice-cold drink spills on my shoulder.
My chest tightens as the swarm tightens around me.
I can't find Braxton right now. I just have to get the fuck out of this fucking traffic jam.
I throw the weight of my body behind my shoulder and charge through the crowd, not stopping for anything.
I become the guy stepping on people's feet and knocking their drinks out of their hands.
By the time I find the outer wall, I'm fully spent and gasping for air. Relief comes fast, though, washing over me like a bucket of water. Relief turns to cold as the chills return. And then the familiar sensation of euphoria as I lean against the wall and just watch the chaos all around me.
Beautiful fucking chaos.
I roll my head against the wall and spot a well-endowed man getting his cock sucked by a twink in a leopard thong. The man winks slyly at me and grabs the twink by the back of his head, guiding him over his cock.
To my other side, there's the bathroom, and I figure I might as well take a quick piss before trying to battle my way back through the crowd to find Braxton.
I round the corner to find that it's completely pitch black inside.
I stick to the inner wall, running my hands along the surface as I search for the light switch.
"Fuck," I moan, the music outside fading more and more the further I descend into the bathroom that never ends.
And then I run into a warm body, hot and sweaty.
I prepare to ask this man I can't see where the light is, but he seals my lips closed with his own.
He pushes me back against the wall, pinning me to it with a knee forced between my crotch.
"This... isn't... a bathroom?" I question with a raspy huff.
"Dark room," he whispers back, lapping his tongue over the side of my neck.
I've heard of dark rooms before, but I thought they were a myth.
The idea is that you go into a dark room to suck, get sucked, fuck, and get fucked—all anonymously.
No lights, no cameras, no evidence. Under any normal circumstances, I would absolutely run.
Unfortunately, I'm still carrying a heavy boner and a case of blue balls, and the ecstasy is shedding my inhibitions like clothing.
Outside, the Dave Audé remix of 'Neon Moon' begins to play. I only know the song because they're always playing it at Mr. Pinks.
The man in front of me pushes my shorts and underwear down my thighs and takes my leaking cock into his hand. His hand is smooth, a stark contrast to the ragged nature of his breaths. He nibbles on the lobe of my ear as he strokes me slowly, pulling moaning gasps from my throat one pump at a time.
A sudden flash lights up the dark room.
The man in front of me is younger than I would have guessed, probably about my age. Slender but with dark stubble.
There's a man on a bench on the opposite wall, his ass buried to the hilt on an older man's cock. He cocks his head over his shoulder as the camera flashes again. "Get that fucking camera out of here," he screams.
Just before the world goes dark again, I spot something—someone—that rips through the euphoria and sends me into a scrambling panic.
I pull my shorts back up and shuffle past the guy giving me a handjob.
As I round the corner of the darkroom, heading back into the crowd, I check over my shoulder to make sure I'm not being followed.
Fucking Cameron.
Why the fuck is he here?
He exits the dark room, dressed in a fitted suit.
He's so out of place here, but that doesn't exactly matter.
Not when he's chasing me through the crowd lining the far wall.
I head back in the direction I first got separated from Braxton, but deep down I know there's no way in hell I'm going to find him.
It's even denser, even hotter than before.
The pink and blue strobe lights illuminate the faces in the crowd like fireworks, the haunting melody of 'Neon Moon' tearing holes through the fabric of the sex- and drug-fueled celebration of freedom.
And nobody is any wiser that I'm running for my life, running from my abuser.
I check over my shoulder again and he's... gone. I look to the right, to the left. There's no sign he was ever there. I consider the idea that it's just the drugs playing tricks on me. He'd never be caught dead somewhere like this. Right? A man of his status, of his tastes, of his reputation.
I turn around and bump into him.
Let out a scream.
But it's not him.
It's the other him.
My best friend.
"There you are," Braxton screams in my ear. "I got you a present."
"Yeah?" I question, breathless. "What's that?"
He steps to the side and gestures behind him where a pretty blonde woman and a shirtless hunk stand. "They're coming home with us."