Normally, while working on Finding Master, everything comes to me in Mase’s voice. Finding Master is told from Mase’s point of view. But early this morning Ty woke me. He wanted to tell the story from his viewpoint. I tried to explain to him that this is Mase’s story, but he wouldn’t listen.
So today I’m going to start telling Ty’s story here on the blog.
I had been out and proud for twenty five years. Eight years spent lurking behind an open closet door because of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell didn’t exactly count. I had been out before I went in the service. I just kept my mouth shut about it when I wore my uniform or went anywhere where being out could damage my military career. In the end, it didn’t matter if I was gay or not. Eight years as a Marine had been enough for me.
As an FBI agent, being gay supposedly didn’t matter. The government was equal opportunity if you had the right skill set and boy, did I. Tracking serial killers was an ugly job and it kept me away from home more than I liked. So after four years as a G-man, I’d had enough of that too.
Going home to the town where I’d been born had been a conscious choice. I hadn’t grown up there. I had no relatives, friends or family there. But it called to me at some gut level I didn’t exactly understand. The fact that their police force needed another homicide detective with my particular brand of skills seemed to clinch it for me that this is where I belonged.
While I’d been out for twenty five years, I’d only been a serious dominant for ten. Of course, I couldn’t go backward and live a vanilla life any longer. I was kinky. I was a dominant. I would never have said it was how I lived, that it was my lifestyle, but it was just how I was and who I was. And before the night I walked into Banning’s I would have said I could no more do the vanilla thing when it came to finding a lover than I could have gone back to the FBI.
Banning’s was a nice club. Nicely appointed in that understated masculine leather and wood type of décor you’d expect in an upscale kink club. It was obviously well run and profitable. Everything was safe, sane and consensual. And it was filled to the rafters with beautiful gay boys and hunky dominants.
When I entered for the first time, a bouncer sized me up, told me the guest rules and let me wander the club. I’d been there maybe an hour when I finally made my way into the bar. Once my eyes adjusted to the slightly dimmer lights I walked to the bar and ordered a drink. With the Scotch in hand I turned to survey the room.
I’m not sure how I managed to stay by the bar and not turn one hundred percent caveman the instant I laid eyes on Mason Weldon III. My mouth went dry. My pulse leapt. My head buzzed. And my cock turned into a steel bar that throbbed with every overexcited beat of my heart. I had never seen a more perfect man.
On his knees, serving drinks, Mason was grace personified. Raven dark hair fell in silky waves that curled just a little at the ends. Thick thighs dusted with dark hair bulged with muscles. He had perfectly sculpted calves and long elegant feet. Broad shoulders rippled with well defined muscles tapered down to a narrow waist and a droolworthy ass.
When he turned, I saw the sculpted perfection of his chest and abs and the little dark pink nubs of his nipples. His cock lay lax against his thigh but even soft, it held the promise of better than average length and girth. His well trimmed pubes revealed two heavy sacs that appeared to be waxed smooth. Saliva collected in my mouth as I watched him move, his generous genitals swaying. I didn’t normally think of a man’s package in terms of how it looked, but Mason’s was beautiful.
Eventually, my gaze roamed up to his face and my heart nearly stopped. Square jawed with a classically handsome profile, the man exuded masculinity. I’d never seen such a raw display of maleness and testosterone in a sub before. Not even my commanding officer, who had been my sub and had taught me about domination, could match Mason when it came to sheer masculinity.
Mason was no twink and that made my cock ache.
I watched him serve drinks for nearly half an hour before he came close enough for me to see the color of his eyes. Long lashed, large and oval, slightly tilted at the outer corners, the irises were a curious sea-crystal shade of turquoise. And they held the expression of a caged man. Someone had hurt Mason deeply and who he was now resided behind a cage of his own making.
Self-defense. Self-preservation. I understood these things better than most people. I’d learned them the hard way as a Marine and an FBI agent. Mason had learned them the hard way too and it had been an extremely harsh learning environment.
If you want the other side of the story, you’ll have to wait for me to finish Finding Master. I’ve only got another 15,000 words to go…