Manacle
Made
x of x
Gold

There was something to be said for the grandiloquent building, emblazoned with a neon sign that read SIN in proud, glowing letters, its pink aureole staining the night and blending with the cheap yellow of the streetlamps.  Passing the bouncers was no easy task, but the reward was stepping through the metal doors (black paint flaking to reveal cold rusted gray) and entering the realm of the most infamous club around.  Inside, vainglory imbrued the air via overly aromatic incense and provocative music of sensuous chords and voices that had never spoken an honest truth.  There were seizure-inducing strobe lights, blue and green and white; they gave glimpses of the otherworldly realm, glimpses that could only be pasted together like a slideshow in the mind to give an idea of just what sort of otherworldly realm one had stepped into.  All else was dark, save for the illuminated bar and stage.  

Here, the most sought after dancers could be found.  Dancers, svelte, sylphlike, supple, with slender, sensuously curved bodies, faces sculpted by and modeled after seraphim.  They were able to bend and twist and turn, winding lithe limbs around heated metal poles and rotating narrow hips enticingly.  The finest performers for the finest customers of the finest club this side of Tartarus.  It was all empty compensation for the pernicious doings that slunk beneath the grandiose surface like a virus.

A heavy sigh, a flicker of a scowl at the overpowering incense, and then a muted ‘thud’ as a chair was occupied.  Armless, with a worn cushion imbedded in the cast-iron to make for a mockery of comfort.  It was right at the edge of the dark, wooden stage, just within the glow of the soft white lights.  There was a pause in the music, and then an applause as a curtain in the back was drawn.  The music pulsed to life again as the club’s star dancer descended onto the platform that was raised at the back of the stage, stepping down on bare feet.  Catcalls and whistles and paper money were tossed shamelessly at the dancer, and he just smiled at it all, stooping with straight knees to collect the money and handing it off to one of the other dancers.  He grinned foxily at the cheering audience in the front as his opalescent eyes swept over the people lining the stage.  Most were seated in the cheap cast-iron chairs, but some had forwent the chairs and were flush with the stage, trying to close as much distance between themselves and the performers as possible.

The star’s gaze settled on the one inactive observer, seated back in his chair and looking particularly uninterested and perhaps a tad shy.  The dancer sauntered over to the person and sank down onto the edge of the stage, ignoring the clubbers that were suddenly swarming him like bees to honey.  He had eyes for only that one inactive observer, who was busy pretending not to notice that he’d snagged the attention of the club’s star dancer.  The dancer casually snatched the various bills being waved at him and set them on the stage, never veering his focus from the person.  

Nervous hazel eyes swept across the dancer, this god among insects.  Pure, perfect, porcelain skin, pliant, pink lips sensuously curved into a practiced smirk.  Almond-shaped eyes, centered with dark dilated pupils from which an icy blue rippled, followed by a rim of navy, offset by soft black lashes.  From the sharp dip beneath the brow, the pretty face curved below the eyes with rounded cheekbones and sloped attractively along the jaw.  Framing the China-doll visage were long grayish tresses that curled around the cheeks and jowls; they were dark at the roots, and then bled into something silvery, interspersed with mousy-brown strands that shimmered blond in the right light, and ended with white tips.  Most of them grew to his shoulder blades and were tied back customarily with a black ribbon, while the shorter locks were left to hug his delicate features.  Atop his head were two triangular ears, the same black-gray-brown-white as his hair.  They twitched every so often, flattened and perked and swiveled accordingly.  Curving around his thigh as he sat on the edge of the stage was a tail, long and feathery and following the same heterogeneous color scheme as his hair and ears.  The tip of it flicked curiously as icy-blue eyes roved over the observer’s face.

“Like what you see?”  The voice was smooth and rich and teasing.  Hazel eyes watched guardedly as the dancer slid off the stage.  Envious glares were shot the observer’s way as the star sidled up beside him and slung a leather-clad leg over his waist.  Slender fingers wound around the back of his neck invitingly as the slight weight of the dancer was settled into his lap.

“Who doesn’t, when they look at you?” was the reply.  The dancer’s tail began to swish back and forth.  His other hand joined its brother around the back of the observer’s neck as he leaned forward and brought his coveted mouth beside the observer’s ear.  “I have no money for you,” the observer warned, a colorful blush tingeing his cheeks.

“I’m Mabon,” the dancer said.  Mabon’s tail continued to wag as he pulled on one of the observer’s dangling earrings with his teeth.  

“Sasha,” the other supplied, his head twitching automatically away from Mabon’s mouth.  “And I have no money.”

“Sasha,” Mabon repeated, letting the name roll off of his talented tongue.  “You’re cute.”  He tried again to play with one of Sasha’s ears, brushing aside the blond hair, only to be denied.

Sasha gently nudged Mabon away.  “I have no money.  Go administer to a paying customer.”

Mabon pouted slightly.  “I don’t want money.  I want you.”  As he shifted his hips a little, the leather of his pants whispered empty promises against Sasha’s faded jeans.  “Don’t you want me?”  His ears drooped a little, his tail laying still, and he started crying, not with tears but with a high-pitched, heart-wrenching whimper that emanated from his throat.

Another dancer draped himself over the edge of the stage on his stomach and reached blindly sideways to expertly plucking money from those around him.  “Mabon,” he hissed, “what are you doing?  Get back up here!”

Bending backwards, Mabon regarded his coworker upside-down, and also gave Sasha a rather tempting view of his flat stomach.  His leather pants inched downwards so that the curve of Mabon’s hipbones was in plain sight and just begging to be nibbled on.  Not to mention, with the arc of Mabon’s body, his hips were thrust forward ever so slightly to make Sasha all the more uncomfortable.  Sasha blushed darkly and averted his eyes, looking at anything but the delicious stripper on his lap.  Seemingly oblivious to Sasha’s inner turmoil, Mabon grinned at his coworker and replied, “Don’t you recognize a lap dance when you see one?”

The other’s blue eyebrow twitched.  “I do, and you are not lap dancing; you are conversing.  You know he’s going to be pissed if you don’t get a few bucks off of Blondie there.”

Sasha wondered if they knew that he could hear everything they were saying, even over the drone of the music and the din of the other clubbers.  If they did, they apparently didn’t care.  Mabon waved the dancer away, said, “I’ve got it covered,” and then straightened his spine, returning his attention to Sasha.  

Sasha shook his head and faced Mabon again.  “If you really want me, come after me in a different setting,” he deadpanned, trying to will away his heated blush and wishing that his voice was as confident as the words made him seem.

“Oh, I wish I could, darling.”  Mabon stroked the side of Sasha’s face, a playful glint sparking his icy eyes.  The blackness of his dilated pupils seemed to draw Sasha’s soul from his body and swallow it in a bottomless abyss.  “But the boss-man makes sure to keep his puppies on a short leash, this one in particular.”

Sasha’s eyes narrowed.  “Aren’t you a lupus-daemon?  Wolf demons are known for their feral natures.  They’re almost untamable…  How can anyone contain one?”

Mabon twirled a lock of Sasha’s blond hair around his finger.  “A demonologist, are you?”

“Don’t you think it wise to know the natures of your fellow demons?” Sasha returned.

Mabon nodded, dark eyebrows inching upwards.  “A wolf’s strength lies in his pack,” he explained.  “No pack, no strength, and before you know it, you’re as domestic as a poodle.”  As an afterthought, he added, “Or dead.”  He wiggled his hips provocatively, a coy grin settling on his lips.  Sasha resisted the urge to groan.

Mabon lowered his mouth to Sasha’s ear again and licked the outer shell.  A shiver ricocheted down the blond’s spine.  Mabon’s fingers parted Sasha’s jacket and curled into the fishnet shirt underneath as he pulled again on one of Sasha’s many earrings with his teeth.  Then his lips slid slyly to the soft spot of skin under Sasha’s ear and crept slowly down his slightly tanned and taut neck.  “Relax,” Mabon purred, releasing Sasha’s top and flattening his hands against the blond’s chest.

“I’d rather not.”  

Mabon smiled at the breathiness of Sasha’s voice, his fluster evident through the rapid fluttering of the pulse in his neck, the warm flush of his sun-kissed skin, and the way his lungs seemed to be struggling to function properly.  As Mabon nibbled on Sasha’s throat, his hands slid over the blond’s shoulders and down his arms, divesting Sasha of his jacket in the process.  

Mabon froze, however, when he felt warm fingers on his ears.  They petted the velvety appendages, and his ears flattened against his head as a high-pitched whine started up in his throat.  "Hhhnnn...."  He turned his face into Sasha’s warm neck as Sasha stroked his ears, which were now twitching and swiveling under the attention.  “You’re sensitive,” Sasha noted.

Mabon tried to stop his voice from degrading him any further with that pitiful whine.  “Y-Yeah,” he replied.  His fingers tightened more around Sasha’s shirt, and—oh, gods, what was this man doing?  Mabon gasped.  Not only was he fondling Mabon’s ears but now he was kissing him… but not just any part of him—his face.  All over.  In the way that Mabon’s mother used to, in the way that his sister used to, in the way that his lover used to.  Soft, warm lips, trailing feather-light kisses down his temple, his cheeks, his lips—never lingering anywhere.  It felt so—tender.  And then Sasha’s lips reached his throat, and he bit down, and Mabon felt so powerless to stop him.  He didn’t want to stop him.  “Sasha…”  Now it was his voice that was breathless.  He felt heat fill his cheeks, and his eyes clenched shut.  It was so embarrassing.  Normally customers wanted all of the attention, and never graced him with any.  It was his job to pay attention to the customers and never seek any in return.  Or maybe “job” wasn’t the right word, for surely, this was no job.  If it was a job he’d be getting paid to show off his body, to dance in front of complete strangers, to let them do with him as they wished.  No, this was no job.  It was an order.  

If he was caught like this, with the customer pleasuring him, he would be in more trouble than he could bear.  Without thinking, he whipped his head and snapped at Sasha’s hand, one of the ones playing with his ears.  He immediately regretted it at the shock that showed on the blond’s attractive face.  Mabon blushed harder and almost scampered off of Sasha’s lap, backing into the stage.  A scowl carved itself into his features and hid his own surprise and shame at his actions.  Sasha didn’t have any money, anyway—he wasn’t worth it.  Mabon had snapped at a clubber, a clubber who didn’t have any money and who was offering Mabon the special services that Mabon should (or rather, shouldn’t) have been offering him.   It didn’t matter that this person was undoubtedly the most gorgeous thing with a pulse that Sasha had seen in the past few weeks, or that when Sasha touched him his skin burned in the most luxurious of ways, or that Sasha’s eyes were so bright and sharp that Mabon could easily become fixated on them for hours—no, none of that mattered.  Mabon’s happiness was never a top priority.  Hell, it didn’t even make the Top Ten Priorities list, or even the Top Fifty—not according to his master’s agenda.  And that agenda was the only one that mattered.

Mabon felt someone grab his arm, a familiar hand with a strong grip, and tug him back up.  He crawled back onto the stage, rather ineloquently, but quickly regained his composure and began catering to the other customers.  The paying ones.  The paying ones that didn’t give a rat’s ass about him.  The paying ones that were less appealing than things Mabon had seen in the back alley behind the club.  Outwardly, he smiled, a coy, seductive smile—while inwardly he was scowling and wishing death upon the owners of all the hands that touched him thereafter that night.  At one point he spared Sasha’s seat a glance, and the blond was gone.  Suddenly the proverbial chains shackling Mabon into this wretched existence seemed so much heavier than they’d ever been.


End(?)