The house is quiet when Hollywood returns, and he's a bit surprised but pleased to see that he arrives before Stax does. He isn't sure what Stax might have done if he knew he was gone for most of the day, but he doesn't want to find out either. He drops his bag near the couch and leans his guitar against it, immediately heading towards the fridge. He grabs a can of soda off the top shelf and pushes the door closed with his hip, then pauses. Standing in between the living room and kitchen, he looks around.
Stax hadn't told him to do anything else. He's gone by his house, got clothes, mailed stuff to BYO. So now...what?
Hollywood's slightly irritated that he left the comfort of his own home to come back to Stax's, when Stax isn't even here and he has no idea what to do. What sort of Master leaves their slave alone in their house for more than ten hours? He snorts to himself in indignation, then glances at the clock. Stax should have been home at least a half an hour ago. After taking a drink of soda, he sets the can down and returns to his duffel bag and unzips it. He's not entirely sure what to do with his clothes just yet, so he drops the pack of cigarettes onto the couch and takes out the razor and toothbrush.
Moving to the bathroom, he flips the light switch on. He glares at his reflection, or rather, the collar around his reflection's neck. Snarls at himself a bit, just for fun, then pulls open the medicine cabinet and sets his toothbrush and razor on one of the immaculately clean shelves. Maybe if Stax hadn't had him clean the entire fucking house within two days of being here he'd be able to find something to do. He scowls a bit at the thought, unimpressed with himself for even thinking that cleaning would be a good alternative. Some bitch you've turned out to be.
Stepping back, he closes the door to the cabinet forcefully, feeling a bit better for the action. Two steps towards the door before he hears the tell-tale sound of glass cracking. Turning around just in time to see the mirror on the front of the cabinet door shatter and rain down across the sink and tile like so many crystaline rain drops. After the glass has settled, eerie silence takes over again.
"Fuck."
With an exasperated sigh Hollywood wanders to the kitchen, fishing a paper grocery bag from under the sink, and returns to the bathroom. Carefully he plucks the larger bits of glass out of the sink, dropping them into the bag methodically. Once most of the glass is gone from the sink, he turns on the water and lets the tiny slivers wash down the drain. Then he drops the bag to the floor, smiling only slightly at the sounds of the glass inside breaking on itself.
He begins to kneel down to continue cleaning up the broken pieces, but as he does the worn sole of his shoe catches on a shard, sending it sliding back against the tile. And Hollywood crumbles easily with it to the ground. Glass, bad. No need to roll around in it. Arms, hands, catching. Touching tile. No, touching glass. He regains his balance and sits back against his heels, raising his hands off the glass-littered floor for inspection.
The left one is unmarred, just a few tiny crystals sticking to it. The right is in much worse condition. There's a few small scratches on the heel of his palm and a rather large shard stuck near the top, where his fingers meet the palm of his hand. He winces a bit as he pulls the large peice out, dropping it into the bag with a vengeful crashing noise. He brushes the other peices off into the bag as well before standing up to rinse his hand off.
The water leaves the tap far too hot, and he winces again, pulling back his hand and muttering. "Owie..." Glancing around to make sure no one heard that childish interjection, he turns the cold water on a bit more and runs his injured hand under the water, watching it turn a translucent pink color as it drains. Once it's reasonably rinsed off, he wipes his hand on the hip of his black pants and drops to the floor again, more carefully this time, and cleans up the rest of the glass shards with his left hand.
He sweeps up the debris that is too small for his fingers and folds the bag up, setting it aside for the time being. He stands up and opens the now-naked medicine cabinet door, searching around for a second before discovering the roll of gauze he noted when he was cleaning. In his own house, he wouldn't have been able to find a roll of gauze or damn near anything else. Here in Stax's house, where he'd spent the past two days cleaning, he finds it easily. Wraps the gauze around his hand a couple times to cover the cut and collect the blood creeping from the wound. Secures it with a peice of medical tape. Notes how weird it is that Stax even has these things, then remembers how often Stax gets into bar fights.
Once he's physically bandaged, if not emotionally, he grasps the glass-laden paper bag and starts outside, pausing to grab his pack of cigarettes as well. He takes the bag outside and throws it in the dumpster down the street, noting that it's becoming darker now. And Stax still hasn't come home. He perches bird-like on the step near the front door, watching the kids across the street chasing each other in the fading light as he smokes. Wondering briefly if he should be put on a chain while he's outside as well. It would seem to fit with the collar, and the pit bull at the neighbor's house is pulling the look off rather well. He reasons that the pit bull probably doesn't cook or clean, though, so maybe he's earned the right to sit outside unchained.
He finishes the smoke and puts it out, tossing the butt into the street before returning inside. He ponders for a moment over starting dinner, but decides against it. If Stax wants to be excessively late getting home, he can eat excessively late as well. Hollywood picks up the remote from the coffee table and turns the TV on, starting to sit down. He catches himself right before his knees hit the floor. Smirking at how conditioned that reaction has become, he repositions himself onto the couch and curls up against the arm. He settles on a rerun episode of Jerry Springer, involving carnival side-show freaks, and the repetative blathering of the TV is enough to put him to sleep shortly.
Stax returns to the house sometime around four hours later, waving to Chris as he backs his Jeep off the front yard and into the street precariously. After trying the door to see if it's open, he slides the extra key from on top of the doorframe and unlocks the door. Pushing it open, he peers into the mostly dark house curiously. He almost heads to the garage to make sure Hollywood is back, or rather that his car is, but he spots his slave curled up on the couch.
The TV in front of him is on, and all the rest of the lights in the house are off. Ignoring the blueish tint it leaves on Hollywood's pale skin, Stax walks to the front of the couch. He stares at him for a moment, noting that he had different pants on and therefore had obviously returned home as Stax had suggested. Stax crouches down in front of him and nudges him lightly. Hollywood's only response is to roll over slightly, readjusting himself and stretching in his sleep, revealing his bandaged hand.
"Hey," Stax says, nudging him again.
Hollywood groans quietly in the back of his throat and opens one eyelid, peering at Stax for a moment before remembering where he is. He blinks, reopening both eyes and stretches once more. Stax can't help but notice how his stomach caves in as his back arches, how every rib becomes more defined under the pale skin.
"Sorry," Hollywood murmurs sleepily. "Didn't mean to pass out."
"It's all right," Stax tells him, looking back up at his face instead of letting his eyes roam any further. "What happened to your hand?"
Hollywood looks confused before glancing down at his injured, wrapped hand. Ohfuck. He scowls a little at the accusing appendage, then looks down. "Um...I broke the mirror in the bathroom."
Stax's eyebrows rose a bit. "What?"
Hollywood stops gnawing on the inside of his cheek nervously, sitting up on the couch. "I...didn't mean to. It was an accident."
Grasping Hollywood's hand to inspect the bandaged knuckles, Stax's fingers press against the wound on the inside harshly. "An accident? You fucking punched my mirror and it was an accident?"
Hollywood shakes his head urgently, trying to pull his hand away from Stax's painful grip. "No, I didn't punch it. I just shut the door too hard and it shattered. I promise!"
Lifting Hollywood's hand a bit, Stax looks at him blankly. "Then how'd this happen?"
Hollywood pulls his hand back, wincing a bit as he does. He turns the palm up, unwrapping the gauze from around it. "I cut myself cleaning it up," he explains, showing Stax the injury.
Stax narrows his eyes, hating to be proved wrong. "Way to not destroy anything, bitch."
Hollywood lowers his head again, pulling the rest of the gauze off of his hand and balling it up. "I'm sorry..."
"Whatever," Stax replies dismissively, shrugging his shoulders. "Make yourself something to eat."
He stands up and starts towards the bathroom.
"Do you want anything?," Hollywood asks him, turning around to look at him. Seeing Stax's scowl, he quickly adds. "Master?"
"I ate with Chris, I'm pretty exhausted so I think I'm just going to go to sleep," Stax tells him, then continues into the bathroom.
Hollywood nods, trying to decide whether it was a suggestion or a command. Whichever it was, he rises form the couch and moves into the kitchen, prowling around the cabinets until he finds something to consume. He remains in the kitchen as he eats, listening to the shower go on and then eventually off. Waiting as Stax makes his way out of the bathroom, unsatisfyingly clothed in pajama pants and a t-shirt this time. Watching silently as he heads to his bedroom. Pausing right before he enters, he turns to look at Hollywood again.
"My alarm clock is broken, so you're going to have to wake me up for work," he tells him. "I have to be there at nine."
Hollywood nods as a response, waiting for anything else. Instead the door closes and leaves him alone, just as he's been for the rest of the day.
The sound of the bathroom door slamming behind Stax resonates through the house. Hollywood lifts his head immediately, glancing around for the intrusion. As his mind fuzzily comes back into focus, he glances at the clock above the television - it reads 9:23 AM.
"Fuck," Hollywood mutters as he sits up, pushing the blankets back to the end of the couch.
He scarcely has time to stretch before Stax is out of the bathroom and darting back to his bedroom without a single glance in his direction. Another moment later and he is out of the bedroom again, pulling a shirt over his head as he makes his way to the door. Hollywood stands up, opening his mouth to apologize when Stax finally looks at him.
"I'm late for work," he informs Hollywood, plainly unimpressed by Hollywood's skills as an alarm clock. He waves a hand in some nondescript direction as he pulls the door open. "Find some way to entertain yourself while I'm gone, because clearly you aren't here for my benefit, anyway."
The door slamming shut punctuates his remark and Hollywood sinks back onto the couch. He drops his head into his hands, rubbing his temples.
"Sorry," he mutters sleepily to the empty house.
Hollywood ambles about the house for most of the day, brooding and feeding his anger. After the way he's acted the last few days, he can't see where Stax gets off yelling at him for one little mistake. Okay, maybe more than one. But it's not like he had any way to kow what time to get up. The only alarm clock in the house was in Stax's bedroom, albeit broken. Nowhere near the couch where he'd been sleeping. After much debate, Hollywood decides that Stax must have expected him to have some sort of built-in time sensory that was active during sleep. He also decides that he is unimpressed with Stax's parting words.
Regardless, he takes the sarcastic suggestion as if it were a command. After showering and changing clothes, he makes something to eat and settles on the living room floor with his guitar. He goes through pretty much their entire list of songs effortlessly, staring blankly at the opposite wall as he does.
What the fuck kind of a Master just leaves their slave alone, unsupervised, with hardly anything to do for two fucking days, he wonders to himself. He really can't even see a point in him being here anymore if the only things Stax is going to do are yell at him, or ignore him. Granted he wasn't the best slave in the entire world, but at least he's been trying. And he hasn't had any practice at being someone's bitch. Everything considered, he decides that Stax is really treating him quite unfairly. He glances bitterly at the clock, noting that it's now afternoon. More than half the day completely gone and absolutely nothing accomplished. If he was at home, at least he could have felt a little more comfortable about doing nothing. He wonders to himself if Stax is going to wait until ten tonight to come home, like he did last night.
A familiar twang resounds through the air and Hollywood leans back mechanically to avoid the snapped guitar string. He looks at the neck of the guitar accusingly, not even having realized he was pressing the strings hard enough to break one. With a sigh he sets the instrument against the wall, noticing smeared blood against the body. The wound on his hand had reopened itself from all the playing. And he hadn't noticed that, either.
He wanders lazily to the bathroom and cleans the cut off again, rewrapping it as well. Stares at the place where the mirror used to be for a few moments. Sneering lightly, he decides to make sure he doesn't fuck anything else up today. Wandering back to the living room, he flops onto the couch and turns the TV on. It's right in the middle of the afternoon, perfect time for brainless talk shows and soap operas.
Jennie Jones fails to intrigue him. As does Sally Jesse. Oprah doesn't even last ten minutes before it's changed. Days of Our Lives lasts an even shorter period of time. Hollywood sighs heavily and collapses on his side on the couch. Passions? Nope. He drags the pillow from the other end of the couch where it's perched atop the refolded blankets, stuffing it under his head and trying again. General Hospital? No. Trying to ignore the way the pillow smells like Stax. Trying even harder to ignore that he can recognize Stax's scent. Ricki Lake? Fuck no, not on your life.
Giving up, he throws the remote back onto the table and buries his face against the pillow. Inahles deeply. This is ridiculous, even when he lives by himself he has more human contact than he's had the last couple of days.
It's two more hours before Stax comes home, Hollywood sitting up and replacing the pillow on top of the blankets and turning off the TV as he hears the garage door open. Stax walks through the door as he stands up, not even glancing at him as he storms across the living room and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Hollywood watches this ascent disbelievingly. Stax could at least smack him if he's that pissed off, something.
Hollywood sinks back onto the couch and glares at the closed door for a while. Once or twice the sound of something breaking passes through the wall, but he doesn't question it. He does glare less darkly, but he doesn't question. Don't question Me - the phrase pops back into his head as easily as remembering the chords to a song he plays every night. Slowly, he lets a small grin overtake his face. Of course Stax expected him to be a horrible slave, that was apparent on the first day he was here. Hollywood had been trying, but he hadn't really been trying. And as the old phrase goes, kill them with kindness. If Stax was going to expect that sort of behavior from him and bitch about it regardless, then he would just have to defy his expectations.
Slinking towards Stax's door, Hollywood kneels waits for the sound of something else hitting the wall before knocking. No wonder the fucking alarm clock is broken. There's no response from the other side, so he knocks a bit louder. Stax opens the door surprisingly fast, as if he'd been waiting on the other side for him to knock again. He scowls down at Hollywood expectantly.
"What?," he snaps after Hollywood doesn't immediately speak.
Hollywood looks at the floor now, forcing his own tone to fall into a timid one. "I was wondering if you needed anything, Master."
"I don't need anything from a useless bitch like you," Stax responds, narrowing his eyes curiously at the odd behaviour. He waits for a moment, staring down at Hollywood, who doesn't move. "Are you done?"
Hollywood shakes his head minutely, still not looking up at Stax.
"Well then fucking say whatever you need to say and get away from me," Stax tells him in a callous voice.
With his eyes hinting at a scowl, Hollywood lifts his head to look up at Stax. However, he somehow manages to keep his voice quiet and humble when he speaks.
"I missed you today," he tells him, not waiting for a response he knows he won't get before turning and crawling away from the door.
Predictably, it slams as soon as he does.
Hollywood resumes glaring at the closed door, this time sitting against the side of the couch, directly facing it. His back is pressed against the couch, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around them. Nothing audibly breaks from behind the door, the only sign of change. He ponders starting dinner, but figures that it will only end in catastrophe and Stax didn't tell him to anyway, so he won't. Instead, he just sits and glares petulantly.
His expression doesn't change as the door opens and Stax's legs obstruct his view of the entry way. They come closer but he doesn't look up, only pushing himself off the side of the couch to fall forward onto his knees. Stax stops a few feet in front of him.
After a few silent moments, he extends a hand and lightly taps Hollywood under the chin with two fingers. Hollywood stands up obediently, still keeping his eyes cast to the ground. Stax sighs heavily.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you. I had a shitty day at work, but you didn't deserve that," he says. Hollywood lifts his shoulders and lets them drop casually, as if it didn't matter. Stax waits a second before continuing, carefully wrapping an arm around Hollywood's waist to pull him closer.
"I missed you, too," he admits quietly. Hollywood lets his head drop to Stax's shoulder, actually allowing himself enjoy the closeness.
"You want to go get something to eat?," Stax continues.
Hollywood nods, not entirely lifting his head. "Go get dressed," Stax tells him, retracting his arm and patting his hip lightly to dismiss him. Hollywood scampers off to the bathroom.
"Ever been to a BDSM club?"
Hollywood stumbles slightly on the sidewalk, surprised by the question, and Stax laughs a little at that response. After straightening himself up, regaining his composure, and laughing a bit as well, Hollywood glances over at him.
"I didn't know they existed, Master," he tells him honestly.
"They do. Not entirely common, but," Stax tells him as they turn a corner away from the restraunt they'd just vacated, pointing up the street a ways. "Right up there, actually."
Hollywood glances ahead at the nondescript steel building in front of them. A single light hanging over the inobtrusive doorway. He looks at Stax, curious as to whether or not he's serious. Stax returns the look with his own blank one so Hollywood peers back at the door. As they come closer to the building he can faintly hear a drum beat coming from behind the walls, but not much else. Once they're a few yards from the door Stax stops him by grasping his shoulder lightly, turning him to face him.
"Do you want to go to a BDSM club?"
Tilting his head, Hollywood debates for a second. Without much thought, you only live once and all that shit, half of his mouth turns up in an almost devious smirk and he nods. Stax smirks as well, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and pulling out a chainlink leash. He clips it to Hollywood's collar and, without another word, drags him towards the unmarked door.
Hollywood was prepared for just about anything to be on the other side of the door, but he's rather disappointed by what is. A small room, no larger than ten feet squared, completely empty except for a bench along one wall and another door, lit by an uncovered lightbulb. He starts to walk towards the door but the collar tightens around his neck, reminding him of the leash in Stax's hand. He looks back at him curiously and is surprised to see a girl with bright red and black hair, plainly dressed in a pair of black jeans and an AFI t-shirt, standing near him.
"Evening, sirs. What can I do for you?," she asks with a pleasant smile. Hollywood retreats to Stax's side. Stax digs into his back pocket, procuring his wallet. He takes out a card of some sort and hands it to her.
The girl barely glances at it before handing it back. "Welcome back, Stax. Who's your friend?"
She says the word 'friend' in a way that suggests a whole other world of things. Stax tugs on the leash lightly. "Hollywood. It's nice to see you again, too, Jess."
"Take anything for you?," she questions, and Stax hands her his jacket, indicating for Hollywood to do the same.
Hollywood lets his hooded sweatshirt fall off of his shoulders, catches it at the last second before it drops to the ground and hands it to the girl. She takes it, folding it over her arm along with Stax's coat and retreats to the wall, throwing a "You know what to do," over her shoulder. Then she disappears behind the fake wall that Hollywood had failed to notice. Stax unwraps the end of the leash that's wrapped around his hand a few times, until he's only holding the leather loop at the end. Then he starts towards the door and Hollywood follows behind hesitantly.
Once the door is pushed open, the drum beat he heard outside becomes louder, coupled with a decisively sexual melody of guitar and bass. A large dancefloor spans out to his left, with a curtained stage situated behind it. To his right there's a short balcony, round tables receeded into booths. There's two bars, one to the far side of the dance floor, the other at the end of the balcony. The lights are low, glinting reddishly off the four metal cages placed in each corner of the massive room. And there are people everywhere.
Hollywood gets his reminder to keep walking when Stax tugs on the leash roughly, making him stumble forward a few paces. However, he's looking anywhere but forward as Stax leads him up the short stairs to the balcony. His neck turns practically one hundred eighty degrees when a girl passes on her hands and feet, mostly nude, with what he's fairly sure is a horse harness around her head, biting on a bit. The woman following her with a whip in a short vinyl dress gives him a tiny grin as he looks up at her. He's completely oblivious to the fact that Stax is giving him the same sort of grin. They reach the bar at the end of the balcony before Hollywood actually realizes they've traversed the entire balcony and looks back at Stax.
"That girl was...," Hollywood starts, stopping when he sees the grin Stax is still giving him.
Stax nods a little. "I know. You want something to drink?"
"Oh...um, yes, please," Hollywood says, fighting to focus on the floor instead of letting his eyes wander over the masses of leather and skin.
"All right," Stax tells him. "But don't drink too much, 'cause I have a feeling you'll need to drive home for me."
He orders two bottles of beer from the bartender, who's dressed in a very convincing Playboy bunny costume made of pink vinyl and wears a nametag introducing her as "Chelle", and they start back down the balcony. Hollywood attempts to make his curious gazes a little less obvious until Stax slows down, nudging him with his shoulder lightly.
"You can look. I promise they don't mind," he tells him.
Hollywood nods, almost bashfully, and glances back out to the dance floor. Stax watches him bemusedly until discovering an empty booth, setting the beers down and tugging on the leash. Hollywood looks back at him curiously and Stax nods to the booth, indicating for him to sit down. Hollywood slides onto the black leather seating fluidly, immediately pulling his knees to his chest to perch on the bench. He continues watching the people passing as Stax moves into the booth next to him, much less enthusiasticly viewing them.
More than once people wave at Stax as they pass by, but Hollywood notices how practically everyone who passes look him over first, almost hungrily, before merely glancing at Stax. He can't help but start to glare at them as they do it, holding his kness tighter to his chest in a slightly insecure gesture.
"It's because you have a collar," Stax speaks suddenly, practically yelling to be heard over the music.
Hollywood looks over at him, startled and curious. "What is?"
"That's why they all look at you and not me. You're 'property'," Stax clarifies, making quotes in the air with his fingers. "Lots of Masters and Mistresses will let other people play with their pets from time to time. They're...checking out the merchandise, I guess you'd say."
"Oh. Is that a bad thing?," Hollywood asks.
"Depends," Stax answers. "When they look as long as they're looking at you, it's usually pretty flattering."
"Oh," Hollywood repeats. Another woman passes by and oogles him, and this time instead of glaring he smiles beguilingly at her. Stax laughs.
"Go get me another drink, bitch," he tells Hollywood, grinning, and unclips the leash from his collar.
Hollywood smirks at him and slides out of the booth, mock-bowing as he stands up. "Yes, Master. Anything to please you."
Stax narrows his eyes slightly at the re-emergence of the cockiness, though still grinning. He waits for Hollywood to pass before leaning out of the booth and backhanding his ass lightly. To his amusement, Hollywood jumps a little and looks over his shoulder at him in surprise. Stax only raises his eyebrows a bit and retreats back into the booth.
Hollywood wanders the rest of the way to the bar, unaware of the casual sway of his hips as he does but slowly becomes aware of the way people are staring at his ass. He understands a little more now what girls mean when they say men are staring at them like a peice of meat. Finally reaching the bar, he smiles affably at the bartender and orders another beer. He takes it after she opens it, then realizes he doesn't have any money on him.
"I'm sorry, I need to go get some cash real fast...," he tells her, vaguely pointing behind him towards the booth where Stax is sitting.
She peers down towards the booth nonchalantly. "You're Stax's, aren't you?"
Hollywood hesitates a moment before nodding.
"No charge," she says, smiling. "It's included in the membership fee."
Hollywood raises an eyebrow but thanks her anyway and returns to the booth, setting the bottle on the table before sliding back into the booth.
"So...come here often?," Hollywood asks, smirking a tiny bit.
"Why do you ask?," Stax says, looking over at him, acutely aware of the pick-up line qualities of the phrase but sensing that Hollywood is actually asking and not being sassy.
"Girl at the bar said you have a membership. She knew your name, like the girl that greeted us. People wave to you when they walk by, and they don't do that to everyone else," Hollywood explains, picking up his own beer and taking a drink.
"Smart pet," Stax says, demeaningly patting him on the top of the head. "Not too often anymore, no."
"Why not?"
"You sure are inquisitive tonight," Stax tells him, his tone vaguely admonishing. Hollywood looks down apologetically, so Stax continues. "Don't have anyone to come with anymore."
Hollywood looks slightly confounded for a moment. "Did you -," he starts, cutting himself off when Stax looks over at him warningly. He looks down again and Stax looks away. The question goes unasked, but Hollywood's suspects he knows the answer anyway. He isn't the first person Stax has owned.
As the night grows later, the club steadily fills up with more people. Hollywood does his best to not focus on the suspicion that he's a replacement for someone Stax actually cared for, watching the people moving back and forth in front of the booth, the people writhing on the dance floor. And he thought the people who came to their shows dressed strangely. He's seen more drag queens than he can count, several more 'pony girls' (which Stax had to explain to him), and one boy who was wearing nothing but black rope. He presses another cigarette into the ashtray in front of him, blowing away a few stray ashes from the table until he feels Stax's hand tighten around his hip and draw him close to his body.
Looking up in confusion, Hollywood first looks at Stax then follows Stax's gaze to the opposite side of the table. A fairly short, middle-aged man with thinning black hair gelled back across his scalp and small watery eyes sitting opposite Stax in the booth. He offers Stax a small grin.
"Hey Stax," he greets him. "Been a while since I've seen you around."
"Hey," Stax replies, sounding casual. "Been a while since I've been around."
"That it has, that it has," the man agrees. He glances at Hollywood, gaze lingering over him, finally coming to rest on his face. He gives him a too-wide grin, giving Hollywood the distinct impression that the man is about to go for his throat. "And now you're back, with a new pet."
"Yeah," Stax tells him tersely. This time Hollywood squirms closer to Stax of his own volition.
"What are you calling this one?," Freaky Guy inquires, finally looking away from Hollywood to Stax again.
"Hollywood," Stax replies. If Hollywood isn't imagining the cautioning tone Stax uses, Freaky Guy sure as hell doesn't notice it.
"Hollywood," Freaky Guy repeats. He reaches out to run a hand along the side of Hollywood's face and Hollywood has to fight the urge to snap his teeth at the fingertips. "That's clever. Did you come up with that?"
Stax shrugs a bit. "I guess you could say I did."
Freaky Guy nods thoughtfully, retracting his hand. His beady eyes sweep over Hollywood's form again for a long moment. "Don't suppose you'd let me play with him for a while?"
Hollywood looks up at Stax, panic-stricken. Please don't give me to the bad man, Daddy. I'll be a good boy, I swear.
"Don't think so," Stax replies, and Hollywood lets out a small breath of relief.
"You sure?," Freaky Guy asks, letting his gaze snap back to Stax. "I pay well."
Pay well? Am I slave or a fucking hooker? Hollywood frantically wraps an arm around Stax's back and fists his hand around the material of his shirt, burying his head against Stax's shoulder and not giving a damn how scared he appears to be or if he's insulting the Freaky Guy. Stax smirks to himself and places two fingers under Hollywood's chin, gently lifting his head. Then he presses his lips against Hollywood's. And Freaky Guy doesn't even exist anymore, and Hollywood moans nearly inaudibly, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. But Stax pulls away from him and Hollywood looks up at him wonderingly. Stax has already turned back to Freaky Guy, so Hollywood opts for pushing his face against Stax's shoulder again.
"He's worth more than you have," Stax assures him. "Nice seeing you again, Azriel."
Freaky Guy huffs indignantly, but knows a dismissal when he hears one. He slowly works his way out of the booth and walks away.
"That guy was so fucking slimey," Hollywood murmurs against Stax's shoulder. "How the hell do you know him?"
Stax laughs a little bit, rubbing Hollywood's back reassuringly. "It's a BDSM club, you have to expect a few of the regulars to be perverts."
"Thank you for not selling me to the Swamp Thing," Hollywood says, sitting up a bit.
"I couldn't, anyway. You're not really mine, so...," Stax trails off, shrugging. "Besides, you'd have been fucked. You make a reasonable slave but you're far from knowing how to submit sexually. You'd embarass yourself, and me."
Hollywood gives him a slightly offended look. "I know how to do anything sexually."
"If not, you're about to learn," Stax tells him. Hollywood's halfway through deciding if that's a suggestion or not when Stax nudges his face, forcing him to look out of the booth.
The dancefloor has been cleared, several tables having been set up when Hollywood wasn't looking. The spotlights pointing to the thick red curtain on stage have been switched on. He leans away from Stax a bit more, sitting up interestedly. The music has changed from the pulsing beats of earlier to a slow, sensual jazz as the curtain slowly pulls itself open. There's one man standing center stage, his back to the crowds and completely still, dressed only in what appears to be a leather thong.
The rest of the club is nearly quiet, quiet enough to echo the click-click-click as a woman dressed in thigh-high, stilleto-heeled vinyl boots and a tight vinyl corset and miniskirt makes her way onto the stage. She nods acknowledgingly towards the dancefloor before moving towards the man in the center of the stage. She bends down, dragging chains off of the stage and clamping the cuffs on the ends around his ankles. Then standing back up she reaches up a bit, pulling another set of chains down from where they're suspending on the ceiling and clasping those cuffs around his wrists. She steps back, nodding to someone to the right of the stage. Slowly the chains attached to his wrists raise his arms, the tell-tale methodic clinking of a pulley system accompanying the tightening of the chains.
The boy continues to raise off of the stage until the three foot long chains attatched to his ankles are pulled taut from where they're attached to the floor. The woman in vinyl nods offstage again and steps back, letting her eyes wander over the suspended boy, then glances back to the wings and snaps her fingers.
On that signal, two completely nude girls walk out, one with long brown hair and the other with very short red hair. They both kneel at the woman's feet and she instructs the brunette to stand up. Gathering a length of thin, black rope from a table at the back of the stage, she approaches the girl again and feeds one end of the rope into one of her hands. Walking around her, the woman drags the rope a ways down the girls arm before wrapping it securely around her wrist, securing the rope there. She draws both of the girl's arms behind her, wrapping the rope around both wrists seperately, then together. After that she works so quickly and masterfully, it's hard to tell where the rope is being wrapped.
She steps away from the girl, who now appears to be wearing a bodysuit of the black rope. It's laced around her midsection several times, over her shoulders, crossing her breasts, weaving it's way between her legs and around the top of her thighs. The girl spins slowly turns in a circle, displaying her arms pinned securely behind her back. Her entire body aside from her legs is completely bound. The woman in vinyl pushes her forward on the stage and the girl turns her back to the audience, kneeling down near the edge of the stage to the right of the suspended boy.
Her heels click-click-click across the stage again as she approaches the second girl. She motions to one of the pieces of furniture towards the back, looking something like half of a picnic table on a 20 degree angle, the tops of the parts that would be the table and bench covered in padded black leather. The girl raises from her knees and makes her way to the back of the stage, dutifully pushing the creation forward on the stage. The woman assists her in turning it around, turning the 'bench' part to face the audience, to the left of the suspended boy.
The woman in vinyl crosses to the back of the stage again, retrieving a few more items off of the table. Striding forward confidently, she instructs the second girl to turn her back to the audience. First she pulls her arms behind her back, as she did to the first one, only this time she secures a pair of leather cuffs to them, locking the cuffs together with a small padlock. The she raises a length of thick, black cloth and wraps it around the girl's head, covering her eyes. Once the cloth is tied at the back of her head, the woman directs her to step onto the bench, then kneel. She presses the girl's face down against the table, leaving her ass and the back of her legs plainly visible to the audience. Leaning down once more, the woman clasps the girl's ankles together with similar leather cuffs.
The woman in vinyl has once again returned to her table in the back, this time procuring a long, leather bullwhip. She prances pridefully to the front of the stage, unrolling and displaying the six-foot whip to the audience before turning her back to them. Pulling her arm back, she lets the tassle at the end of the whip hit the ground before throwing her arm forward. The leather makes a long arc in the air, falling forward to crack resoundingly across the suspended boy's back. The chains rattle as he writhes against them, settling down after a moment.
Stepping back, she lets the whip hit his back again, recieving less of a reaction this time. The boy's muscles are tense, his hands curled into fists. Each successive lash gets harder and harder, the breaks between them shorter and shorter. The final crack of the whip against his broken skin echos through the quiet room. Everything is deathly silent until the woman in vinyl turns around to face the audience again, giving a humble bow. Then the crowds break out into applause.
Hollywood can't even breathe. He's leaning forward on the table, watching the stage raptly. He's scarcely aware of anything except the scene going on until he hears Stax's voice in his ear, making him jump a bit.
"Scared?"
Hollywood distractedly shakes his head, not looking back at Stax.
"Enjoying yourself?," he continues.
This time Hollywood nods, still not looking away from the stage. Stax smirks slightly to himself, leaning closer to nip at Hollywood's shoulder with his teeth. Hollywood jumps a little again, gasping in surprise and looking back at Stax finally. Stax grins at him and lightly grasps his opposite shoulder, leading him back against the booth and wrapping an arm around him. Hollywood watches Stax questioningly for a short moment before looking back to the stage.
The woman in vinyl once again ambles to the back of the stage, returning the whip to the table there. She returns with a smooth, wooden paddle. Ignoring the girl who is completely bound with rope, she crosses the stage to the girl who is kneeling over the picnic table of doom (as Hollywood has labelled it in his mind). She pets the girl's back reassuringly, leaning to whisper in her ear. A moment later she steps back. The paddle connects soundly with the back of the girl's thighs, making her tense a little. She doesn't sit up, however. The paddle again connects with her thighs, a bit higher, leaving the flesh it hits reddened. The woman steps closer, placing a hand on the girl's back and bringing the paddle back harshly, smacking against her ass this time. The girl jumps more, held down by the woman's hand on her back. She follows the same pattern as she did with the whip. Each hit is harder. The pause between each is shorter. Until the deafening silence after the last smack. Then the woman turns and bows again, and the audience again erupts.
She strides back to the table, replacing the paddle. As she does, the suspended boy is lowered to the floor. She unclasps both the wrist and ankle cuffs, and he turns to face the audience, bowing before making his way quickly off the stage. She unwinds the rope from around the first girl, a much lengthier process. Red marks are visible where the rope had cut off circulation as the girl turns, bowing as well until one knee touches the floor. She scampers off the stage as the woman in vinyl crosses to help the second girl up, releiving her of the blind fold and cuffs and helping her to her feet. They clasp hands and bow together, then step back on the stage, heading towards the wings as the curtain closes in their wake.
Hollywood sits back against the booth again, eyes wide. He blinks a few times before muttering under his breath. "Holy fuck."
Stax grins slightly to himself, plucking Hollywood's pack of cigarettes off of the table and easing one from the box, offering it to him. Hollywood takes it thoughtlessly and puts it between his lips.
"Thanks," he murmurs around the filter as Stax lights it for him.
Stax nods in response, letting the lighter fall back to the table somewhat loudly, drawing Hollywood out of his trance. He turns his head to look at Stax unblinkingly, clearly shocked.
"So?," Stax asks.
"So," Hollywood repeats. He looks around for a moment, taking a deep breath before looking at him again. "You have some strange hobbies."
Stax grins, brushing the back of his knuckles against the side of his neck. "Saying you weren't impressed?"
Hollywood shakes his head fiercely, grinning a bit as well. "Oh, no, very impressed."
"Good," Stax conceeds. He glances at his watch. "We need to leave."
"Is it late?," Hollywood questions, forgetting the No Questions rule once again.
"Almost two in the morning," Stax tells him, to his surprise.
Stax nudges Hollywood's side, prompting him to exit the booth. Hollywood slides out, standing up and looking around again to make sure the world still exists. Retrieving the leash from his pocket, Stax clips it to Hollywood's collar and starts for the door. Hollywood follows at a languid pace, glancing around the club as people start to move around more. He spots Freaky Guy leering at him from one of the tables near the dance floor and speeds up a bit, catching up with Stax.
They collect their coats from the same girl that greeted them, bidding her a good night as they leave. The streets are dead and silent as they walk, especially in comparison to the noise of the club they'd just left. Neither speaks, Stax holding the leash connected to Hollywood's collar limply at his side as Hollywood walks next to him.
"Is it all right with you to drive?," Stax asks, breaking the silence as they reach his car. "I haven't had much to drink but I'd rather be safe."
Hollywood nods, lifting his chin a bit to let Stax unclip the leash. "It's fine."
The crawl into the car, Stax turning the heat up as soon as Hollywood has the engine on. He glances out the window at the deserted streets as they pass, slowly easing their way out of downtown and into the more residential areas of the city. Neither speaks as they drive, unsure of what to say now that they're faced again with reality. Hollywood eases the car into the garage once they return, handing the keys back to Stax when they get out.
Stax unlocks the door to the house, walking in and clicking on one of the floor lamps in the main room. Hollywood follows after him, glancing around the apartment as if it's foreign before his eyes come to rest on the couch with the blankets piled at one end of it. Stax emerges from the bathroom after a moment and diverts Hollywood's attention from the couch.
Hollywood walks towards him and Stax steps out of the way, thinking that he's headed for the bathroom. But Hollywood stops in front of him, hesitantly placing one of his hands on Stax's hip and looking down at the floor. Stax narrows his eyes in curiousity but mimics the action, wrapping an arm around Hollywood's back and drawing him closer to his chest.
"Thank you for taking me, Master," Hollywood speaks against his shoulder. Stax lifts a hand to his neck, letting his fingers wander underneath the leather there softly.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he replies.
Hollywood lets his head rest against Stax for a moment longer, until Stax steps backwards towards his bedroom. He keeps his gaze on the floor as he releases Stax from his arms. Stax pauses then, nibbling on his own lower lip in thought.
"I'd like you to sleep in my bed tonight, with me," Stax starts, his voice low with an undertone of uncertainty. Hollywood lifts his head, glancing up at Stax and then back at the floor.
"It isn't a command," Stax continues. "You don't have to. It's just a...suggestion."
He turns and heads for his bedroom without waiting for a response. His response comes when Hollywood extinguishes the lamp behind him and follows.
