Gateway

Remarks of silence shift the focus from the abhorrent, and the thoughts about finally getting food knock any ill thoughts Renato has. Still doubtful about the job, a chopstick brushes against his peachy lips as he rushes his steps towards the club. Alphas are meant to be strong, not cum sluts for oldies; it always recorded into his mind, replaying like a broken vinyl. It sounds scummy. Him, a strong… Yeah, no. The touched-up, sloppy makeup and the first interview—knowing a job like this would go down the drain as the reflection of what he had become kept staring back.

He received the first phone call in three months regarding an interview, and the only job he found was being a “parking lot boy”.

He lit himself a cigarette. A jolt—a small burn mark on his fingers and a curse. He stared down at his hand: a puff, a relieved breath. Few cars passed by until a Mercedes stopped by his side. “Hey, bitchy-boy!” A man threw a few dollar bills at Renato. Yes, this is the club’s street. Renato whined, staring at the guy.

“Do you need anything?” he asked the men inside the car, trembling from head to toe in his borrowed Louboutins and recently purchased satin dress. He held his purse tighter against his thigh, and the guys leaned over the door.

“Heading to the club?” The other man threw the driver back into his seat—Renato rolled his eyes, and the guy insisted with suggestive sights.

“None of y’ business, fuck off.” Renato took another puff and turned around to walk away. He took a few steps—the car’s door opened.

Renato’s mind ran circles. His heels clacked along the stone sidewalk, blood pressure abounding heavily. The men’s feet sounded like anger, and the quail of dust they carried on the way to snatch him—… no one turned around to help. They all foresaw the incident, yet they stared at the youngling with pity, or no face to remember. All of them only shadowed the situation with their own interests.

The loud cars passed by hastily; there wasn’t even time to count them. “C’mon, let us have a taste!” Renato heard behind his back. The smell of piss, coming from a nearby alley, emerged quickly. A few men got out of that same alley, as a woman covered her kid’s eyes and its father covered its ears. He huffed, rushing his steps towards the club.

“Pretty please, darling?” The third shattered a glass bottle against a concrete wall.

His feet almost blistered. One of the men touched his shoulder—a purse flung in their direction, a few guttural sounds and a loud smack.

And Renato ran away, barely slipping from the scene without anything worse happening.

At the back door of the club, his hand trembled; he left sweat spots all over the card. “Fuck you, damn it!” he whispered and missed the sliding ramp two times before it ran through. The door opened, and he hastened inside. “Hell…” The back door closed as he was whispering behind the huffs, sliding down on the door.

He quickly climbed the stairs, and by the time he calmed down, he found himself huffing in the halls of the second floor of the strip club, where the offices are. Inside the empty corridors echoed other footsteps, and the chandelier lit up.

“We need to buy some more bars,” a masculine voice tripped through the smell of boiled wine. “And we also need a bit of space for that worker you’re interviewing today…”

“Only if he can suck it up,” the other man muttered, followed by a lighter’s click. And Renato started to wonder… was this job a good idea? They both scoffed, stepping into the chandelier light.

Renato stuck himself into an adequate position—first impressions matter. Their suits were different. The taller man matched the wallpaper. Grey, with leopard spots on it, and his hair was white. The badge he wore stated clearly that he was the owner. The name written on it… “Blanche Aquilla” was a name Renato had to remember, whilst the other man’s name was “Andrew DaTorra” and his suit was black. His badge looked entirely different.

They stirred curiosity within him. Blanche came off as the hotshot of his mind quickly, as he kept stirring stupid questions into his mind.

And Blanche shows him a warm and delicate lift of the lips. “This way, please,” his deep french accent went right past Renato’s ears. He didn’t care about the accent—yet the slightly hoarse tone and the coherence flew straight to his flea heart.

“Apologies…” Renato quickly muttered, passing by the other worker. He slid into the office, still distressed.

Blanche’s hand slid underneath the strap of Renato’s dress—and he knew what the interview was about. The man sat down on the chair in the office, and he slid onto the chair in front of the man, right across the desk.

“Don’t worry about it, I have washed,” he assured the youngling, twirling his hair between his thumb and index. “And there was no one else interviewed today,” he lit off his cigarette against the ashtray.

“Thank you, sir.” Renato stood up.

Blanche unzipped his pants, watching the newly acquired employee fall down onto his knees. The Louboutins he wore made him even more curious—does he cross-dress often, or is this just a “first impression” allure? Even so, he sure made an entrance.

His fingers traced Renato’s jaw, his hair fallen over his face. They both looked like a mess.

Pulling off his underwear, Renato spread Blanche’s legs wider. His bent shaft stuck to his face, and his tongue licked it, slurping across the surface. His thumbs rubbed circles on Blanche’s burning thighs, then quickly shifted down to his soft balls.

Blanche grunted, keeping one of his soft hands on Renato’s shoulder, and the other slid underneath his shirt, massaging his nip. His throat rattled, shoving his cock closer to his face as he rubbed against the man’s balls with his harsh thumbs.

They huffed, and Renato’s back slammed against the hard desk. Their sights connected for the first time that night, and they made one quick move. Blanche’s lips touched Renato’s, slipping a candy into his mouth. Their faces slowly gained distance, a brief flash of pink right into their eyes tarnished every plan Blanche had with Renato.

He felt slightly disappointed, and Renato felt more than scared and disgusted. But Blanche’s hand quickly slipped into Renato’s hair, pulling it gently. “That hurts…”

“Ah-ah-ah,” he shushed him with a quick and tacit sound. “Now that you’re mine, I need to know how many touched you.”

Renato got mad, his fists clenching into Blanche’s shirt. “I could ask the same. But I’m not, because I’m no idiot.”

Blanche scoffs. He leans in—Renato’s heartbeat raised again, and his full and peachy lips part. “Listen to me, bunny teeth… you’d better not mess up,” he whispers, biting his earlobe. “You’ll work as my assistant. You’ll do office work. Understood?”

Renato nods, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. The fresh sperm smell invades the office and their nostrils.

“We have to wash. Pack your shit, and find the bathroom at the bottom of the hall.”