He was beautiful.
Damon's first thought -- that the kid had obviously seen The Fellowship of the Rings too many times -- was dismissed the first time he saw Dove pick up a crop and send it whistling through the air. This wasn't someone trying to look all pretty and elflike, like whatever the fuck that guy's name had been. This was a guy who happened to have long white blond hair he needed out of his face and the side weaving was the way to go. He found out later that Dove had never seen the movie.
Now he paced around the man in the restraints looking more like a cat than an elf. He'd lost his shirt somewhere and was wearing painted on jeans and combat boots, his hair falling straight down, almost to his waist. He had a black leather band around one bicep and his tattoos stood out against his pale skin in the darkness of the room. There was literally a spot light on him, the rest of the big room shrouded to provide for dramatic effect.
It was dramatic. Dove had waited until the client was bound, this one tied simply with his hands over his head, his feet kept apart with leg irons, and then had stepped into the spotlight to talk to him. Damon knew the words only because he'd once asked what Dove said to the men he abused.
"Hello," he would have said, "My name is Dove and I am going to hurt you. Crop, whip or cat?"
Tonight's toy had chosen the crop and Dove had picked one up and held it out for the man to see, holding it like it was a flower and not the instrument of pain he was going to make it.
"Do you want to bleed?"
Damon hadn't heard the answer, but he'd know it by the time Dove was done.
"Do you want to come for me or for him?" Dove had asked, pointing to a man out of sight, sitting in the dark like Damon and the others.
Again, they hadn't heard, but they all knew the answer because Dove had crossed behind the man and gotten a condom and the pump bottle of lube.
That they did hear. The whipping master had announced it to the room, so everyone would be perfectly aware that no matter what Dove did it was within the rules of the game until they all heard the word.
And then it had started. Dove had once said that it was an art, and Damon had asked how he got so good at the art when he was so young. Dove hadn't answered. Damon had also asked why he didn't work there all the time, rather than just going in when he needed the money; he was the best, they had offered him a post and status many times. Dove hadn't answered that, either. Damon figured he'd find out sooner or later.
Dove danced as he worked. He was light on his feet and he had his own rhythm, the blows landing perfectly as he stepped around and back, weaving around his prey. The lines and marks he raised were perfect, one and then another lined up precisely and then overlapping to form patterns. He looked manic, almost high, even though he wasn't. He never did this high. He didn't need to then.
Dove was glittering. His skin glowed and muscles twitched and he was hard. Damon often wondered what it was about people who could get off from hurting people, even those who begged for it. But then, he got hard watching Dove. Not the hurting, he hated that, hated the screams, the cries, the begging for release, the repeated cries of 'stop stop stop' that really meant 'oh fuck yes'.
But he got hard for Dove.
Dove dropped the crop and stood in front of the toy. He said something and Damon watched the muscles in his back jump and roll, knew Dove was rubbing a hand on his cock, teasing the man.
Then he moved back and without ceremony shoved his jeans down, rolled the rubber on and thrust into the toy's ass.
The man came with a scream, streams of come spurting from his cock, hitting the floor with a splash.
The whipping master released him into the arms of his lover, and they disappeared.
Damon walked toward the back of the room towards the glowing light
that was Dove.