Archive of Our Own ^beta

The mask was a second skin, black leather and intricate silver filigree that covered everything from the bridge of Felix’s nose to his cheekbones. It was Miroh’s signature, a promise of anonymity in the glittering dark. He adjusted one of the straps behind his head, the movement automatic, his eyes already scanning his reflection in the harsh backstage fluorescents. Tonight’s theme was “Celestial Bodies,” and his costume was a constellation of shimmering black mesh and strategically placed silver stars that clung to his torso. He looked like a piece of the night sky had broken off and decided to dance.

“You’re on in five, Sol.”

He didn’t flinch at the name. Sol. His stage name. Bright, hot, center of a solar system. A far cry from Felix, who was currently worrying if he’d be able to pay his phone bill. He gave a sharp nod to the stage manager, a burly man named Seok who had seen everything and was impressed by nothing. “Got it.”

The thrum of the bass from the main floor vibrated through the soles of his boots. It was a familiar pulse, a heartbeat he’d learned to sync his own with. He took a final breath, the air tasting of sweat, cheap glitter, and anticipation. This wasn’t just a job; it was a performance, a transaction of fantasy for cash. He was good at it. He knew how to make them look, how to make them want, and most importantly, how to make them open their wallets without ever letting them touch the real him. The mask helped with that. They weren’t buying Felix. They were buying Sol.

☀️

Across the city, in a penthouse that felt more like a museum display than a home, Chan stared at his own reflection. The suit was impeccable, charcoal grey, tailored to perfection. He looked successful. He looked in control. He looked like a man who had everything.

The silence in the apartment was cold and heavy. It had been weeks since Eun-ji had spoken to him in anything more than clipped necessities. The fight hadn’t even been dramatic, but rather a slow, glacial freeze that started with a missed anniversary dinner and solidified into permafrost. He couldn’t even remember the last time she’d touched him. A hand on his shoulder, maybe, months ago? The memory was foggy.

His phone buzzed on the marble countertop. A work email. Another problem to solve. He was a fixer, a solver, the man who made things happen. But he couldn’t fix the emptiness in his own home. The pressure behind his eyes was a constant companion now, a tight band of stress that no amount of scotch or late nights at the office could loosen.

He needed out. Just for a few hours. Not to think, not to solve, just to… not be here. Not be him.

A colleague, younger, wilder, had mentioned a place once. Whispered about it, really. “Miroh,” he’d said with a knowing grin. “They wear masks. You can be anyone. No questions asked.”

Chan had scoffed at the time. But now, the idea of anonymity was a siren call. To not be Bang Chan, husband, CEO, disappointment. To just be a shape in the dark.

He bypassed the usual driver, calling a discreet car service instead. He didn’t change out of the suit. He just grabbed a simple black half-mask from a forgotten Mardi Gras gift bag in the hall closet—plain, covering only his eyes and the top of his cheeks. It felt flimsy, ridiculous. But as the car glided through the neon-washed streets, the mask in his pocket became a strange kind of talisman.

☀️

Miroh was not what he expected. It was all subdued opulence, dark velvet, low lighting that made the gold leaf on the walls glow softly. The masks were everywhere—elegant, grotesque, beautiful. A woman in a feathered harlequin mask laughed, the sound bright and sharp. A man in a sleek silver visor sipped something amber from a crystal glass. The air was thick with perfume, expensive alcohol, and a low, pervasive hum of contained energy. The main stage was a sunken platform in the center of the room, currently empty, surrounded by plush circular booths.

He found a spot at the long, black quartz bar, away from the central crowd. The bartender, wearing a minimalist white mask that covered only one eye, nodded. “What’ll it be?”

“Old Fashioned. Strong.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears.

As the drink was made, he let his gaze wander. He wasn’t here for the spectacle, he told himself. Just the noise, the crowd, the simple fact of not being alone in that silent tomb of an apartment. But his eyes kept drifting back to the stage.

The lights dimmed further, plunging the room into near-darkness. A single, piercing blue spotlight hit the center of the stage. The music shifted, the thumping bass giving way to something slower, more atmospheric, with a deep, resonant synth line that seemed to vibrate in Chan’s chest.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Sol moved like the music was a liquid he was swimming through. The costume caught the light, the silver stars sparking like real celestial fire against the dark mesh. But it was the control that Chan noticed first. Every roll of a shoulder, every arch of the back, every slow, deliberate extension of a leg was precise, powerful.

The mask Sol wore was different from the others—more severe, more beautiful. It turned his face into an elegant, androgynous mask, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the surprising fullness of his lips. Chan found he couldn’t look away. There was a story in that body, in the way it moved with such surety and yet held a subtle tension, a watchfulness. The dancer’s eyes, visible through the mask’s openings, scanned the crowd, but they weren’t hungry or pleading. They were… assessing. Cool. Professional.

As the routine progressed, the outer mesh layer was discarded with a fluid twist, leaving only the silver stars against skin that glowed pale in the blue light. The crowd cheered, money was tucked into waistbands, but Sol’s expression behind the mask never changed. A small, polite smile for the patrons, but the eyes remained detached. He was working.

Chan felt a weird twist in his gut. It wasn’t arousal, not exactly. It was a deep, resonant ache of recognition. He saw the professionalism, the separation of self from performance. He did that every day in boardrooms. He wore his suit like a costume, smiled the right smiles, said the right things, all while the real him was locked away, untouched. He was watching someone else do a far more literal version of his own life.

The song built to its climax. Sol’s movements became more intense, a final display of athleticism and artistry that ended with him posed on the floor, one arm stretched to the heavens, the other curled protectively, his chest rising and falling steadily. The spotlight held for a three-count, then snapped off.

The room erupted. Chan realized he’d been holding his breath. He finished his drink, the ice clinking loudly in the sudden quiet of his own little bubble at the bar.

The performer was gone, vanished back into the shadows from whence he came. The stage was empty, the blue light now a soft purple as ambient music resumed. The transaction was complete. The fantasy was over.

Chan should leave. He’d had his drink, seen the show, escaped the silence. Mission accomplished.

He didn’t move.

He signaled the bartender for another drink. As he waited, a discreet laminated card was placed on the bar next to his fresh glass. It was black with silver font. Private Consultations Available. Inquire with Host.

He stared at it. A “private consultation.” He knew what that meant. The idea should have repelled him. But the image of those cool, assessing eyes wouldn’t leave his mind. The control. The separation. It felt… safe. A fantasy with clear boundaries, negotiated upfront. No emotional minefields, no silent treatments, just a straightforward exchange.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he picked up the card and caught the bartender’s attention. “How does this work?”

The bartender’s one visible eye crinkled. “See the host at the velvet rope by the east corridor. They’ll explain the tiers. You pick a performer from the available list. Time and terms are agreed upon. All… consultations are held in designated suites upstairs. Discreet.”

Chan nodded, his throat tight. He left a large bill on the bar, tucked the card into his inner suit pocket, and made his way through the crowd. The host was a young person in a stunning gold fox mask. Their demeanor was polite, efficient.

“Looking for a particular experience, sir?” they asked, their voice mellifluous.

“The dancer. The last one.”

A slight incline of the head. “Sol is available. Consultation tiers start at thirty minutes for basic companionship and conversation in a private lounge. Longer durations or specific… performance requests are negotiated directly with the performer after the initial meeting. All fees are paid to the house upfront. Sol’s initial thirty-minute rate is one thousand.”

Chan didn’t blink. He processed the information like a business deal. Which it was. “Thirty minutes. Conversation.”

“Very good. Suite Seven. Sol will be informed. You may wait there. The suite is a neutral space.” They handed him a simple keycard. “Elevator is behind me. Seventh floor.”

The elevator was mirrored and silent. His reflection looked back at him, the anonymous man in the black mask, the expensive suit. A stranger. For the first time in months, the band of pressure around his skull eased, just a little.

Suite Seven was not what he’d expected. It was a small, tastefully appointed lounge: a deep sage green sofa, two low armchairs, a bar cart with expensive bottles, soft jazz playing from hidden speakers. The lighting was warm, low. A large window looked out over the city’s skyline. It felt like a high-end hotel room, impersonal and clean.

He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure whether to sit or remain standing. He opted for standing by the window, his back to the door, looking at the glittering grid of the city below. This was stupid. What was he doing here? What did he even want to say?

The door opened with a soft click.

He turned.

Sol stood in the doorway, changed out of the performance costume. He now wore simple, elegant black trousers and a loose, silky black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. The dramatic stage mask was gone, replaced by a simpler, smaller version—black and covering just the eyes and upper cheeks, similar to Chan’s own but of finer quality. He looked younger like this, and more real. The professional coolness was still there in his posture, but it was softer.

“Good evening,” Sol said. His voice was lower than Chan expected, a warm, clear tenor with a faint, unplaceable accent. He stepped inside and closed the door. “You requested a consultation.”

Chan found his voice. It came out quieter than he intended. “I did.”

Sol gestured gracefully to the sofa. “Please, sit. Would you like a drink? The house provides anything you might wish for.”

“No. Thank you.” Chan moved to one of the armchairs instead, needing the structure of it. Sol took the opposite chair, sitting with a relaxed but attentive posture. He crossed one leg over the other, waiting.

The silence stretched. It wasn’t the cold, hostile silence of his apartment. This was a professional pause, an opening.

“You dance beautifully,” Chan finally said, the words feeling inadequate.

A small, polite smile touched Sol’s lips. “Thank you. It’s my craft.” His eyes, a startling light brown visible through the mask, watched Chan with that same assessment he’d seen on stage. “Was that the extent of your consultation? A compliment?”

“No.” Chan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. He looked at his hands, then up at Sol. “I don’t really know why I’m here.”

That seemed to shift something. The perfectly polished performer facade softened a degree. The watchfulness remained, but the smile became a little less practiced. “That’s… an honest start. Most clients come in with very specific fantasies.”

“I’m not most clients,” Chan said, and it wasn’t said with arrogance, just a tired fact.

“I can see that,” Sol replied softly. He tilted his head. “The suit. The way you carry yourself. You’re used to being in charge. But you’re not comfortable here. Your shoulders are up around your ears.”

Chan unconsciously let his shoulders drop. He hadn’t realized they were tense. “It’s… been a long time since I’ve done something just for myself. Without an agenda.”

Sol nodded slowly. “And what is it you do, when you’re not doing things for yourself?”

“I fix problems. I manage… everything.” The words were spilling out now, drawn forth by the anonymity, the mask, the non-judgmental space. “People, projects, crises. I make sure the machine keeps running.”

“And who fixes your problems?” Sol asked. It wasn’t prying. It was a simple, logical question.

Chan let out a short, humorless laugh. “No one. That’s the job.”

“It sounds lonely.”

The directness of it was like a pinprick. Chan looked away, out the window again. “It is.”

Another quiet moment passed. The soft saxophone from the speakers filled the space between them.

“I’m not a therapist,” Sol said, his tone pragmatic. “But this time is for whatever you need it to be. Conversation. Quiet. A distraction. You paid for a space where you don’t have to be the man who fixes everything. So… don’t.”

Chan looked back at him. “What do you do? When you’re not Sol?”

The performer’s mask hid most of his reaction, but Chan saw his eyes widen slightly, then narrow. That question crossed a line. It was about the person, not the persona. Sol was silent for a long moment, weighing his response. The professional wall threatened to slam back down.

“I…” he began, then stopped. He uncrossed his legs, leaning forward slightly, mirroring Chan’s posture. “I worry about my phone bill. I have a cat who sheds on everything black. I like terrible reality TV. I’m a person.” He said the last part like it was a secret, or a challenge. “But here, I’m Sol. It’s… cleaner that way.”

Cleaner. That was the word. Chan understood that completely. “It’s a performance,” he said.

“Everything is,” Sol replied, and there was a world of weariness in those two words. “You perform the capable leader. I perform the dancer. The masks just make it literal.” He gestured between their faces.

Chan felt a connection snap into place. This wasn’t what he’d come for, but it was what he’d found. A reflection. Someone who understood the exhausting art of compartmentalization.

“My name is Chan,” he said, the alias falling away without thought. He instantly regretted it. The rule was anonymity.

Sol didn’t seem surprised. He just studied him for another long moment. “You’re not supposed to tell me that.”

“I know.”

“Why did you?”

Chan met his gaze, holding it. “Because you felt real. And I’m so tired of things that aren’t.”

Sol’s breath left him in a slow, quiet sigh. The professional distance in his eyes fractured, just a little, replaced by something more complicated—curiosity, caution, a hint of sympathy. He glanced at the discreet clock on the wall. Their thirty minutes were half gone.

“Chan,” he said, trying the name. It sounded different in his voice. “This consultation is for conversation. We’re conversing. You’re getting what you paid for.”

“Am I?” Chan asked, the ghost of a real smile touching his own lips for the first time in weeks.

“You tell me.”

“I think…” Chan started, then hesitated. The idea was forming, dangerous and compelling. The initial agreement was ending, but he didn’t want this—this strange, quiet understanding—to end. He wanted to step further into the anonymity, to explore the fantasy not of a dancer, but of a connection that existed outside his real world’s rules. “I think the thirty minutes won’t be enough.”

Sol’s posture straightened, the professional back in place, but his eyes remained engaged. “The initial tier is concluding. Extended time requires renegotiation. A new agreement.”

“I want to negotiate,” Chan said, his voice firm now, the CEO surfacing to broker a deal for the lonely man underneath. “For... more.”

Sol’s light brown eyes held Chan’s for a long, silent moment. The air in the suite seemed to thicken, the low jazz feeling suddenly inadequate, too gentle for the shift happening between them. Chan’s admission hung there—a want, a negotiation.

“For more,” Sol repeated, his tone neutral. He didn’t move from his chair, but his posture shifted, the relaxed companion giving way to something more… managerial. He was back in work mode, but a different tier of work. “Define ‘more,’ Chan. This is a business. Clarity prevents misunderstandings.”

Chan’s pulse was a steady, heavy beat in his throat. He’d walked into this place seeking anonymity, a shadow. Now he was offering a part of himself, a craving he hadn’t even fully acknowledged until the words left his mouth. “I don’t just want to talk.”

Sol gave a single, slow nod. “I gathered that. The consultation tiers are clear. Conversation. Companionship. Then there are the performance extensions. Physical interactions. They are negotiated separately, with strict boundaries. My boundaries.”

“I understand.” Chan’s voice was low. “I want to… touch.” The word felt crude, too simple for the complex ache inside him. “I want to feel something that isn’t transactional in the way my entire life is. Something with rules, but… sensation.”

A faint, almost imperceptible flicker in Sol’s eyes. Curiosity, maybe. Or calculation. “You want to be touched, or you want to do the touching?”

Chan didn’t hesitate. “I want to touch you. But…” He swallowed, the CEO in him laying out terms. “I don’t want to be in charge. Not here. I’m always in charge. I’m tired of it.”

That landed. Sol’s lips, the only truly visible part of his face below the mask, parted slightly. He leaned back in his chair, studying Chan like a puzzle he was deciding whether to solve. “You’re asking for a scene. A dynamic. Where I direct. Where you… follow.”

“Yes.” The relief at being understood was profound.

“And if I say the masks stay on?” Sol’s question was sharp, a test.

“They stay on,” Chan agreed immediately. The mask was his freedom now. It was Felix’s shield. It was the entire point.

Sol stood up. The movement was fluid, graceful. He walked to the bar cart, poured a glass of water for himself, and took a slow sip. He was thinking, weighing. Chan stayed in his chair, watching him, the pressure in his chest tightening. This was the moment. He could be rejected. The fantasy would end, and he’d go back to the silent penthouse, knowing he’d tried and failed.

Sol set the glass down. He turned, his gaze sweeping over Chan, appraising him not as a client, but as a participant. “Safeword. We establish it now. It’s non-negotiable. You say it, everything stops. No questions, no judgment. I say it, everything stops. Same deal.”

“Okay.” Chan’s mind raced. Something simple. “Red.”

“Good. Amber for pause, check-in. Green for go.” Sol’s voice was all business now, a crisp, clear guide. “My rules. You follow my instructions. You speak only to answer questions, use your safeword, or beg if I tell you to. Understood?”

A thrill, hot and sharp, shot down Chan’s spine. Beg. The word ignited something in him, something buried under layers of responsibility. “Understood.”

“The initial thirty minutes are nearly up. A one-hour performance extension, with the dynamic you’ve requested, is two thousand. Paid to the house before we proceed. Do you agree?”

“I agree.” Chan was already reaching for his wallet. Money was the easiest part of this.

“I’ll call it in.” Sol moved to a discreet phone on the wall, spoke a few low words, hung up. “They’ll charge the card you have on file from the initial consultation. The clock starts when we begin.” He walked back to the center of the room, his movements taking on a new authority. “Stand up.”

Chan rose, his body thrumming with a nervous energy he hadn’t felt in years.

Sol pointed to a spot on the fur carpet directly in front of him, about three feet away. “Here. Knees on the floor.”

Chan’s breath caught. Kneel. The command was direct, devoid of warmth. It was exactly what he’d asked for, and the reality of it was a shock to his system. He was Bang Chan. He didn’t kneel. But he wasn’t Bang Chan here. He was a man in a mask, in a room, with a beautiful stranger who held all the power. He moved to the spot, the expensive wool of his trousers whispering as he lowered himself. The carpet was soft under his knees. The position made him feel smaller, exposed. He was looking up at Sol now, the dancer standing tall above him.

“Hands behind your back,” Sol instructed, his voice cool. Chan complied, lacing his fingers together at the small of his back. The posture opened his chest, made him feel even more vulnerable.

Sol observed him for a long moment, a faint, approving tilt to his head. “Good.” He turned and walked to a high-backed armchair in the corner of the suite, one Chan hadn’t even noticed. Sol sat, regally, one leg crossed over the other. He looked like a king holding court.

“Look at me,” Sol said.

Chan lifted his gaze. From this angle, Sol was a study in controlled elegance. The silky black shirt was still open at the throat, revealing a pale column of skin. The black trousers hugged his lean thighs.

“You said you wanted to touch,” Sol said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “But you’re not ready for that. You’re still the man in the suit, even on your knees. I can see it in your shoulders. You need to be… softened.” A slow smile touched his lips. It wasn’t kind. It was knowing. “You’re going to watch. And you’re going to learn what you’re really asking for.”

Chan didn’t know what that meant, but a deep, anticipatory heat was pooling in his gut.

Sol reached down. His hands went to the buckles of his own footwear—not the boots from the stage, but a pair of sleek, elevated platform shoes he’d worn into the suite. They added a few inches of height, giving him an even more commanding presence. He undid the buckles with deliberate, quiet clicks. He slipped the first shoe off, then the second, placing them neatly side-by-side on the floor beside the chair.

He was barefoot.

His feet were pale, like the rest of him, and elegant. High arches, long toes. Well cared for. He flexed them once, then let them rest flat on the carpet. He looked at Chan, his gaze heavy with intent.

“Come here. On your knees. Closer.” Sol’s voice dropped, taking on a husky, intimate quality that made the hair on Chan’s arms stand up.

Chan shuffled forward on his knees, the movement awkward, until he was close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Sol’s body. He was at his feet.

“You look at my feet like they’re a foreign object,” Sol murmured. “They’re just feet. But they’re my feet. And you want to touch me. This is where you start.”

Chan’s mind was a whirlwind. He hadn’t… this wasn’t what he’d pictured. But the humiliation of it, the sheer, unexpected submission of being placed here, was igniting a fire in him. It was degrading. It was perfect.

“Lean in,” Sol commanded. “Closer. I want you to smell the leather, the sweat. I want you to know the scent of my skin after a performance.”

A shudder ran through Chan. He obeyed, lowering his head until his masked face was inches from Sol’s bare foot. The scent was there—clean skin, a hint of salt, the faint, expensive aroma of the shoe leather. It was intimate. Profoundly intimate. His cock, already half-hard in his tailored trousers, throbbed insistently.

“Good,” Sol purred. “Now. Your hands are going to stay behind your back. You’re not going to use them. Not yet. You’re going to use your mouth.”

Oh god. Chan’s eyes flew up to meet Sol’s. The dancer’s gaze was steady, challenging.

“Show me you understand your place. Show me you want this.”

Chan’s heart hammered against his ribs. Every instinct, every shred of his public persona, screamed against this. But that persona was locked away in a penthouse. Here, he was just need. Raw, desperate need. He bent his head further, his lips hovering just above the pale, delicate arch of Sol’s foot. He could see the fine blue veins beneath the skin. He closed his eyes behind his mask and pressed his lips to the warm, smooth flesh.

The kiss was chaste, a soft press. But the context made it electric. A low, pleased hum came from above him.

“Again. More. Show me devotion, Chan. You came here for a connection. This is a connection.”

Chan did it again, this time letting his lips linger, moving them slightly against the arch. The taste was clean, slightly salty. The sensation of the soft skin under his mouth was overwhelming. He felt a dizzying rush of submission, of relief. He didn’t have to think. He just had to obey.

“Good boy,” Sol whispered, and the praise shot straight to Chan’s groin, making him ache.

Chan shifted, moving to kiss the other foot with the same reverent attention. He was falling into a rhythm, a trance. The world narrowed to this patch of carpet, this man, this act of worship.

Sol let out a long, slow breath. “You’re doing so well. You’re so eager for it, aren’t you? For someone to tell you what to do. To use you.” He uncrossed his legs, planting both feet firmly on the floor, bracketing Chan’s kneeling form. “Now. Look at me.”

Chan lifted his head, his lips slightly parted, his breathing ragged.

Sol’s eyes were dark with something that looked like hunger. “You want to touch me with your hands, Chan. I can see it. You’re straining against your own orders. But you’ll wait.”

Before Chan could process the words, Sol lifted his right foot. He didn’t place it gently. He pressed the sole firmly against the front of Chan’s tailored trousers, right over the hard, obvious bulge of his erection.

Oh fuck. The pressure was immediate, indirect, and utterly maddening. A choked sound escaped Chan’s throat.

“Is that good?” Sol asked, his voice a low, teasing lilt. He moved his foot, applying a slow, grinding pressure through the layers of wool and cotton. The friction was rough, delicious. “You’re so hard already. Just from kneeling. From kissing my feet. You’re dirty, Chan. You have a dirty, hungry little mind locked in that fancy suit.”

The words, the accusation, sent another jolt of pleasure through him. Dirty. He was. He felt filthy, exposed, and more alive than he had in years.

“Do you like that?” Sol increased the pressure, rubbing his foot in a slow, circular motion. The platform of his shoe had been smooth, but his bare sole had a slight texture, a warmth that was intensely personal. “Do you like my foot on your cock? Knowing I danced on that stage with this same foot, and now it’s all you can think about?”

“Yes,” Chan gasped, the word torn from him. His hips twitched, pushing up into the pressure involuntarily.

Sol chuckled, a dark, rich sound. “I can feel you. Throbbing. Begging for more. But we’re just getting started.” He kept the pressure steady, the rhythm of his foot becoming a slow, deliberate torment.

He continued like that for what felt like an eternity, just that steady, grinding pressure through Chan’s trousers. It was a tease, a promise. It wasn’t enough to get him off, not even close, but it was enough to wind the tension in his body to a near-breaking point. Pre-cum dampened his boxers, a sticky, embarrassing reality.

Then, Sol’s foot stilled. “Take off your jacket. Slowly. Let me see what I’m working with.”

Hands still trembling, Chan reached behind his back, unclasping his fingers. He shrugged out of the charcoal suit jacket, letting it fall in a heap on the carpet beside him. He was left in his crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves still buttoned at the wrists, the tie still perfectly knotted.

“Better,” Sol said. “Now the tie. Take it off. But don’t rush. Make it a show for me.”

Chan’s fingers fumbled with the silk knot. He pulled it loose, sliding the length of fabric from his collar. He held it, unsure.

“Drop it,” Sol commanded.

The tie slithered from his fingers onto the jacket.

“Good. Now. The shirt. Unbutton it. From the top down. Let me see your chest.”

Each command was a layer being stripped away, not just of clothing, but of the persona. Chan’s fingers worked the small buttons, popping them open one by one. The air in the room was cool against his skin as he parted the fabric, revealing his chest. He was fit, solid from years of disciplined workouts, but the vulnerability of being half-undressed while kneeling was immense.

Sol’s gaze raked over him, appreciative, possessive. “Very nice. Now… lie back. On the floor. Arms at your sides.”

Chan hesitated, the position feeling even more exposed than kneeling.

“Now,” Sol said, the word leaving no room for debate.

Chan eased himself down, lying flat on his back on the plush carpet. The ceiling was a dark, textured expanse. He felt utterly open, his clothed lower half and bare chest a study in contradiction.

Sol didn’t rise from the chair. Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Comfortable?”

Chan nodded, words failing him.

“We’re going to continue your lesson.” Sol lifted his foot again. This time, he didn’t aim for Chan’s groin. He lowered his bare foot to Chan’s bare chest. The sole of his foot was warm, slightly damp. He placed it right over Chan’s sternum, applying a gentle, firm pressure.

Chan’s breath hitched. The pressure wasn’t painful, but it was undeniable. He was pinned, symbolically and physically, by this man’s foot.

Sol began to move his foot, sliding it slowly down Chan’s torso. The sensation was surreal—the smooth slide of skin on skin, the faint abrasion of Sol’s heel. He traced over Chan’s abdominal muscles, leaving a faint, warm trail. He was mapping Chan’s body with his foot, a possessive, degrading exploration.

“You have a beautiful body, Chan,” Sol said, his voice a hypnotic murmur. “Strong. Made for giving orders. And yet here it is, laid out for me to walk on.” He dragged his toes through the light dusting of hair on Chan’s stomach, making him shiver.

The foot journeyed lower, skating along the waistband of Chan’s trousers. It paused there, applying a teasing pressure just above the buckle. Chan’s hips bucked off the floor, a desperate, silent plea.

Sol laughed softly. “So impatient. You want my foot back on your cock, don’t you? You want me to rub you off like this, with you lying there like a good, dirty boy?”

“Please,” Chan rasped, the word breaking free.

“Please what?” Sol’s foot remained still, a tormenting presence.

“Please… touch me.”

“Where?”

“My… my cock.”

Sol’s foot moved, but not to grant the request. He pressed his sole firmly against Chan’s hip bone, holding him down. “Not yet. You haven’t earned it. You’ve just started to learn your place.” He shifted his foot again, this time sliding it down the inside of Chan’s thigh, a shockingly intimate path. The sensitive skin there trembled under the touch. Sol’s foot was strong, the muscles from dancing making his control precise.

He repeated the motion on the other thigh, then brought both feet to rest on Chan’s clothed thighs, applying a steady, warm pressure. “Unbuckle your trousers, Chan. Do it slowly.”

Chan’s hands flew to his belt, his fingers clumsy. He got the buckle open, the rasp of leather loud in the quiet room. He undid the button, then the zipper, the sound obscenely slow. He didn’t push the trousers down, just opened them, revealing the tented front of his black boxer briefs, the fabric dark with moisture at the tip.

Sol’s gaze was fixed on the sight. A low, appreciative sound came from his throat. “Look at you. Soaked for me. And I haven’t even properly touched you yet.” He lifted his right foot from Chan’s thigh and placed it, once again, directly over Chan’s aching erection.

This time, there were only two thin layers of fabric between them—Chan’s boxers and his open trousers. The sensation was exponentially more intense. The heat of Sol’s foot seeped through immediately. The pressure was more direct, more real.

“Oh god,” Chan groaned, his head tipping back, his hands fisting at his sides.

“Is that good?” Sol asked, beginning to move his foot in earnest. It was no longer a tease. It was a rhythm, a steady, grinding slide up and down the length of Chan’s cock through the damp fabric. The friction was incredible, rough and smooth all at once. The arch of Sol’s foot fitted perfectly over the shaft, his toes curling to apply pressure to the head with every downward stroke.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes,” Chan babbled, his hips beginning to move in time with the foot, chasing the sensation.

“You’re so desperate,” Sol taunted, his own breathing starting to quicken. He increased the pace, the movement of his foot becoming more forceful, more demanding. “Rutting up against my foot like an animal. Do you know how pathetic you look? How good you look?”

The mix of praise and degradation was a potent cocktail. Chan was lost in it, his world reduced to the slick, hot friction on his cock and the low, commanding voice above him. He could feel his orgasm building, a tight, urgent coil in his lower belly.

“You’re going to cum like this,” Sol stated, his voice thick with its own arousal. “You’re going to cum in your expensive trousers from my foot rubbing you through your underwear. And you’re going to thank me for it.”

The explicit permission, the sheer filth of the image, pushed Chan to the edge. His body tightened, muscles locking. “Sol, I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Cum,” Sol ordered, his foot moving faster, the pressure perfect. “Cum for me. Show me what a dirty, obedient man you are.”

With a ragged cry that was half-sob, half-moan, Chan came. The orgasm ripped through him, intense and shocking. Pleasure pulsed through him in thick waves, his cock jerking against Sol’s foot as he spilled into his boxers, the wet heat spreading instantly, soaking through the fabric. His hips stuttered against the sole, milking the last of the sensation as he shuddered violently on the floor.

Sol didn’t stop moving his foot until the very last tremor subsided, applying a gentle, almost soothing pressure as Chan rode out the aftershocks. Finally, he lifted his foot, placing it back on the carpet beside the chair. He was breathing a little harder, a flush visible on the skin of his neck above his shirt collar.

Chan lay boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling. The comedown was swift, a wave of exhaustion and dizzying clarity. He’d just had one of the most powerful orgasms of his life from a footjob while being verbally degraded. And he felt… peaceful. Empty in the best way.

For a long minute, the only sounds were their breathing and the soft jazz.

Then, Sol spoke, his voice back to that calm, professional tenor, but with a new, satisfied undercurrent. “Color, Chan?”

It took Chan a moment to find his voice. “Green,” he whispered. Then, stronger, “Very green.”

A soft chuckle. “Good.” He uncrossed his legs and stood up. He walked over to where Chan lay, looking down at him—a beautiful, composed figure gazing at a ruined, half-dressed man.

Chan lay on the opulent fur carpet, the world slowly coming back into focus. The white fur—Arctic fox, maybe, impossibly soft and thick—cushioned his bare back, a luxurious contrast to the hard floor beneath. The room’s grandeur seeped into his awareness: the fireplace to his left where real logs crackled, casting dancing orange light over gilded moldings and dark drapes. The ceiling was a mirrored expanse, and in it, he could see the reflection of his own spent form and the elegant figure of Sol standing over him.

His cock, sensitive and softening inside his damp, ruined boxers, gave a faint, involuntary twitch. The smell of sex, salt, and expensive fur filled his nostrils. He felt stripped. Not just of his jacket, tie, and shirt, but of something heavier. The constant, low-grade tension that lived in his shoulders was gone. In its place was a hollow, clean ache and a profound sense of stillness.

Sol looked down at him, a faint sheen of sweat now visible at his temples, glinting in the firelight. His light brown eyes were assessing, satisfied. “Stand up,” he said, his voice not unkind, but still holding that edge of command. “We’re not finished.”

A jolt went through Chan. Not finished. The idea should have been daunting. He’d just come harder than he could remember ever doing before. But the embers of that submission were still glowing. He wanted… more. More of this feeling. More of Sol’s control. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then to his feet, his movements slightly unsteady. He stood before Sol, trousers still unbuckled and open, shirt hanging off his shoulders, chest bare. He felt like a disheveled offering.

Sol’s gaze traveled over him, lingering on the dark, wet patch staining the front of Chan’s black boxer briefs. A smirk touched his lips, visible below the silver filigree of his mask. “Messy.” He stepped closer, into Chan’s space. The scent of him—clean sweat, faint cologne, leather—was intoxicating. “You enjoyed that.”

It wasn’t a question. Chan nodded anyway. “Yes.”

“Good.” Sol reached out, but not to touch Chan. His fingers went to the remaining buttons on his own silky black shirt. He began to undo them, one by one, his movements economical. “Your turn to watch. Your turn to learn what comes next.”

Chan’s breath caught. He watched, transfixed, as Sol revealed himself. The shirt parted, showing a pale, lean torso, defined but not bulky, the muscles of a dancer—long, sinewy, powerful. His skin was flawless, a canvas of milky white that seemed to drink in the fire’s glow. There were no tattoos, no marks, just that clean, inviting landscape. Sol shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall silently to the fur carpet beside Chan’s discarded jacket.

He stood there, in just his black trousers and his mask. His chest was beautiful, his waist narrow, his hips sharp. Chan’s mouth went dry. The anonymity of the mask made the exposure of his body feel more intense, more illicit.

“You’re staring,” Sol murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice. He turned, presenting his back to Chan—the elegant line of his spine, the subtle shift of shoulder blades. Then he looked over his shoulder, his gaze locking with Chan’s in the mirrored ceiling. “Do you like what you see?”

“Yes,” Chan breathed, the word barely audible.

“I know.” Sol turned back to face him. His hands went to the button of his own trousers. “You paid for a connection. For sensation. You’ve had a taste of one kind of power exchange. Now you’ll have another.” He popped the button, the sound crisp in the quiet room. The zipper came down with a slow, hushed rasp.

Chan couldn’t move. He was rooted, his heart beginning to pound a new, frantic rhythm. Sol was undressing. For him. Here. Now. On the fur carpet in front of the fire.

The black trousers slid down Sol’s hips, over his thighs, revealing black briefs that hugged the curve of his ass. He stepped out of them, kicking the trousers aside. Now he stood in only the thong and his mask. His legs were long, perfectly shaped, dusted with fine, pale hair. He was a statue come to life.

Then, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his thong. He didn’t tease. He pushed them down in one smooth motion, stepping out of them and leaving them on the fur.

Felix stood completely naked before Chan.

The firelight painted his body in gold and shadow. He was breathtaking. The lean muscle, the graceful lines. And between his thighs… Chan’s brain stuttered, trying to reconcile the image. He’d known, intellectually, from the club’s discreet codes and his own worldliness, that Sol could be trans. But knowing and seeing were different.

Felix had a cunt. Neat, pretty, a soft thatch of dark blonde hair that seemed almost auburn in the firelight. His labia were closed, delicate. The sight was utterly, powerfully erotic. It was a vulnerability offered as strength, a gift wrapped in absolute control.

Chan’s cock, which had begun to soften, gave a definite, interested throb against the wet fabric of his boxers. A fresh wave of heat washed over him.

“This is me,” Felix said, his voice low and steady. There was no shame in it, no hesitation. It was a statement of fact. “This is what you get when you pay for Sol. Does it change what you want?”

Chan’s eyes flew up to meet Felix’s. The mask hid his expression, but his eyes were clear, challenging. “No,” Chan said, and he meant it with every fiber of his being. The sight didn’t diminish his desire; it ignited it. It made Felix real in a way he hadn’t been before. This wasn’t just a fantasy figure. This was a person, with a body that was uniquely, captivatingly his own. “It doesn’t change anything.”

A slow, genuine smile spread on Felix’s lips. “Good.” He took a step forward, closing the small distance between them. He was now close enough for Chan to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “Lie back down. On the fur.”

The command was soft, but absolute. Chan lowered himself, his body obeying before his mind fully processed the instruction. He lay back, the impossibly soft fur cradling him. He looked up at Felix, who stood over him like a deity.

“You’re still too dressed for what I have in mind,” Felix said. He knelt, not beside Chan, but straddling his thighs, his knees sinking into the fur on either side of Chan’s legs. The position brought his naked body achingly close. Chan could feel the heat of Felix’s inner thighs against his own clothed ones. “Take these off.” He gestured to Chan’s open trousers and damp boxers.

Hands trembling, Chan lifted his hips and pushed the trousers and boxer briefs down in one awkward motion. He had to kick them off his ankles, leaving himself completely naked. The cool air of the room kissed his skin, but the heat from Felix above him was overwhelming.

Felix’s gaze dropped to Chan’s cock, which was already filling again, rising against his stomach. “Eager for round two, I see.” He sounded pleased. He shifted forward, moving up Chan’s body until he was kneeling over Chan’s hips. His pussy was now just inches above Chan’s erection. The scent of him, something floral, waffed down, and Chan inhaled deeply, his head spinning.

“You wanted to touch me,” Felix whispered, leaning forward, bracing his hands on Chan’s bare chest. His weight was slight, but the contact was electric. “Now you’re going to feel me. All of me.” He reached down between them, his fingers slender and sure. Chan watched, mesmerized, as Felix’s hand found his own cock, giving it a few slow, firm strokes. The touch wasn’t for Chan’s pleasure; it was preparation. Felix spread the pre-cum beading at the tip, coating the length.

Then, Felix’s hand left Chan’s cock and moved to his own body. Chan saw his fingers dip between his own folds, a quick, efficient movement. He was wet. The firelight caught the slick shine on his fingertips.

Felix positioned himself. He lifted his hips slightly, one hand guiding Chan’s cock, the other steadying himself on Chan’s chest. The head of Chan’s erection nudged against wet, hot flesh.

Oh, Christ.

Chan’s whole body went rigid with anticipation. He was pinned, not by force, but by the sheer, breathtaking reality of what was happening. Sol, beautiful, naked, masked Sol, was about to take him inside. Here, on the floor, in this opulent room. No bed, no ceremony. Just raw, direct connection.

Felix looked down, his eyes meeting Chan’s. “You don’t move,” he instructed, his voice a husky thread. “You don’t thrust. You lie there and you take what I give you. Understood?”

“Understood,” Chan gasped.

With a slow, controlled descent, Felix sank down.

The sensation was unreal. Tight, wet, incredible heat enveloped the head of Chan’s cock, then slowly, inexorably, more. Felix took him in inch by deliberate inch, his body opening, accepting him. Chan could feel every ridge, every soft, inner contour. It was tighter than he’d imagined, a silken vise. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound torn from his chest. His hands, which had been at his sides, flew up to grip Felix’s thighs, needing to hold on to something solid.

Felix’s thighs were firm under his palms, muscles taut with the effort of control. He paused when Chan was fully seated inside him, his body flush against Chan’s hips. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped Felix’s lips. He was so deep. Chan could feel the subtle, internal clench around him, a pulse of pure sensation.

For a moment, they were utterly still. Connected. Chan could feel Felix’s heartbeat, or maybe it was his own, a wild drumming where their bodies joined. Felix’s head dropped forward, a curtain of dark blonde hair falling around his masked face. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against Chan’s.

“Fuck,” Felix whispered, the word full of awe. “You feel… deep.”

The praise went straight to Chan’s groin. He was so hard now it was almost painful. The urge to buck his hips, to drive up into that delicious heat, was a physical scream in his nerves. But he remembered the command. You don’t move. He held himself still, his fingers digging into Felix’s thighs.

Then, Felix began to move.

He started slow, a gentle rocking of his hips, lifting himself just an inch before sinking back down. The friction was exquisite, a slow, dragging slide that made Chan see stars behind his eyelids. Every nerve ending was focused on that point of connection, the wet, hot clasp of Felix’s body around him.

“Look at me,” Felix ordered, his voice strained.

Chan forced his eyes open. Felix was looking down at him, his light brown eyes dark with pleasure, his lips parted. The mask made his expression enigmatic, but the raw need in his eyes was unmistakable. He was enjoying this. He was feeling this. The realization sent another bolt of lust through Chan.

Felix picked up the pace. His movements became more confident, a steady, rising rhythm. He rode Chan with a dancer’s grace, his hips rolling in a smooth, undulating wave. Each downstroke sheathed Chan completely, a deep, full sensation. Each upstroke almost pulled him out, leaving just the head inside before plunging down again. The wet sounds of their joining mixed with the crackle of the fire, an obscene, beautiful symphony.

Chan’s control was fraying. His hips twitched, wanting to meet those strokes. A warning growl came from Felix. “I said… don’t… move.” Each word was punctuated by a hard, downward grind. He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next descent, Chan’s cock brushed against something inside him that made Felix cry out—a sharp, surprised sound that was pure pleasure.

Chan felt it too, a spark of intense sensation deep within Felix’s body. “There?” he rasped.

“Yes,” Felix hissed. “Right there.” He adjusted his movements, seeking that spot with every stroke now. His rhythm became more urgent, less controlled. The pleasure was breaking through his professional composure. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps. Sweat beaded on his collarbone, tracing a path down his chest.

Chan’s hands slid from Felix’s thighs up to his hips, holding him, not to guide, but to feel the power of his movements. He could feel the muscles in Felix’s abdomen working, the flex and release. He was beautiful in motion, a living sculpture of desire.

“You can… you can touch me,” Felix gasped out, his rhythm starting to stutter. “My chest. Touch me.”

Permission granted, Chan’s hands flew upward. He palmed Felix’s chest, his thumbs brushing over small, tight nipples. They were hard peaks under his touch. Felix moaned, the sound long and low, and his internal muscles clenched around Chan’s cock like a fist.

The sensation was overwhelming. Chan’s back arched off the fur carpet. “Sol… I can’t… I’m going to—”

“Not yet,” Felix commanded, though his own voice was shaking. “You wait. You wait for me.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of Chan’s head, changing the angle again. This brought their faces close, their masked breaths mingling. It also drove Chan’s cock even deeper, hitting that perfect spot with relentless accuracy.

Felix’s movements became frantic, a desperate, chasing rhythm. He was riding Chan hard now, his ass slapping against Chan’s thighs with every thrust. The fur beneath them was rumpled, warm from their bodies. The firelight danced over Felix’s sweat-slicked back, over the tense curve of his spine.

“Look at you,” Felix panted, his eyes blazing down at Chan. “Taking me so well. Letting me use you. You’re nothing but a warm, hard thing for me to ride. A tool for my pleasure.” The degradation was back, but now it was fused with a raw, shared need. It wasn’t just humiliation; it was a truth. In this moment, Chan was a tool, and the realization was the most liberating thing he’d ever felt.

“Yes,” Chan groaned. “Use me. Please.”

Felix’s pace became punishing. He was chasing his own climax, his body tightening, his movements losing their polished grace. His cries were soft, broken things. “Oh, god… Chan… I’m close…”

“Cum,” Chan urged, his own control hanging by a thread. “Cum on me. Please.”

That did it. With a sharp, choked sob, Felix came. His body went rigid, a violent tremor wracking through him. His inner muscles spasmed around Chan’s cock, a rapid, fluttering series of contractions that milked him exquisitely. Felix’s head dropped, his forehead resting against Chan’s shoulder, his whole body shuddering through the waves of his orgasm.

The feeling of Felix cumming around him, the visual of his beautiful body breaking apart in pleasure, was too much. Chan’s own orgasm roared up from his toes, unstoppable. He exploded inside Felix with a whine, his hips finally breaking free of his control and bucking up off the floor, driving deep as he pulsed again and again. The pleasure was seismic, deeper and fuller than the first time, magnified by the clenching heat surrounding him. He saw white behind his eyes, his world narrowing to the point of blinding, all-consuming release.

For long moments, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the pop of the fire. Felix collapsed forward, his weight settling fully on Chan’s chest, their bodies still joined. Chan could feel Felix’s heart hammering against his own. Sweat glued their skin together. The fur was damp beneath them.

Slowly, the world seeped back in. The feel of the plush carpet. The scent of sex and smoke. The weight of the beautiful man on top of him.

Felix was the first to move. With a soft, spent sigh, he pushed himself up, his arms trembling. He lifted off Chan, the separation a slow, wet slide that made them both gasp. He rolled to the side, lying next to Chan on the fur, both of them staring up at the mirrored ceiling.

In the reflection, Chan saw a tangle of limbs, two masked figures lying naked on a carpet of white fur, lit by firelight. He looked ruined, blissful. Sol looked… peaceful. His chest rose and fell steadily.

Minutes passed in silence. The jazz had stopped at some point, leaving only the fire’s whisper.

Finally, Felix spoke, his voice hoarse. “Color?”

Chan didn’t need to think. “Green.” He turned his head to look at Felix’s profile. “Are you…?”

“Green,” Felix said, a small smile touching his lips. He didn’t look at Chan. He kept gazing at their reflection. “That was…”

“Yeah,” Chan finished. He knew what Felix meant. It was beyond words. It was a transaction that had felt, for a few stolen minutes, like something else entirely.

Felix sat up, moving with a tired grace. He reached for his black trousers, pulling them on without underwear, then stood and fetched his shirt. He dressed quietly, his back to Chan. The intimacy of the act was somehow more profound than the sex had been. Chan watched him, this stranger who knew his body now, who had seen a part of his soul.

Once dressed, Felix turned. He looked at Chan, who was still lying naked on the fur. His professional mask was back in place, but it seemed thinner now, more translucent. “Your hour is up,” he said softly.

Chan nodded. The spell was breaking. The real world—his penthouse, his cold wife, his responsibilities—loomed outside the door of Suite Seven. He pushed himself to a sitting position, then gathered his own clothes. He dressed slowly, each piece of clothing feeling like a layer of armor being clumsily reassembled. The damp boxers were uncomfortable, but he didn’t care.

When he was fully dressed, suit jacket in hand, tie stuffed in a pocket, he stood facing Felix. They were two masked men in a luxurious room, the evidence of what they’d done lingering in the air, in the rumpled fur.

“Thank you,” Chan said, the words utterly inadequate.

Felix gave a slow nod. “The house will email a receipt.” A pause. “Will you… come back?”

The question surprised them both, Chan could see it in the slight widening of Felix’s eyes behind his mask. It broke protocol. It was personal.

Chan looked at him—at the sharp jawline, the full lips, the captivating eyes that had held his through the most intense pleasure of his life. “Yes,” he said, and he knew it was true. “I’ll come back.”

A genuine, unguarded smile spread across Felix’s face. It was beautiful. “Good.” He walked to the door, opened it. The muted sounds of the club—bass, distant chatter—filtered in. “Goodnight, Chan.”

“Goodnight, Sol.”