Damon was sitting at the back of the club, bottle of beer in hand. He was there without Dove for once, though he wasn't quite sure why. He knew he didn't really want to be there; he knew that he didn't like the place. But there he sat, hidden in the shadows, watching.

He watched scenes acted out on the main stage, and he watched things going on around him, half hidden but so very public as well. He watched people get whipped and flogged and fucked and he heard the screams of pain and the throaty groans of release. He could smell them. He could smell blood and beer and spunk…all overlaid with sweat and nervous energy.

He'd been there for almost two hours, still not sure why. He suspected it was a need to understand Dove, to try to see what this was all about without the distraction of watching Dove himself. He knew he liked to watch Dove, knew he got hard and hungry when Dove was flogging someone. He'd told himself it was because of Dove, that he got off on watching the lean body dance and move, that what he was doing with the whip or the cat or whatever tool of torture he was using was just something added on. He told himself he got hard for Dove, not the pain, not the screams.

It bothered him that even when he was watching Dove hurt someone who'd asked for it, even when he knew by the obvious display of lube and condom that Dove would be fucking the guy, even then…he got hard. He'd stroke off watching it, or if Dove wasn't going to screw the client he'd wait. He'd wait and watch, and as soon as Dove was done he'd make sure he was the first thing Dove saw, ready and willing to be used, ready to be tossed up against the nearest wall and fucked to within an inch of his life.

It was Dove. It was always Dove.

Almost two hours of sitting and watching had proven that, if nothing else. He'd watched and studied and listened and felt nothing other than a hint of revulsion. He finished the beer and lit another cigarette while he debated leaving right then or having one more drink. He glanced toward the bar, checking to see if there was a line up, and saw Dove stride in the far door.

He didn't look around, didn't stop to talk to anyone, just walked right to the whipping master and had a short conversation, his attention utterly focused. The master shook his head and handed Dove a clip board, pointing to a couple of guys sitting at a table. Dove nodded absently and pointed at something on the clip board, then at the rack of whips. The master shook his head again and Dove talked for a couple of moments. Finally the master nodded and Dove walked to a table, right in front and to the side.

Dove was still. Damon watched him, watched as he sat straight in the chair, looking dead ahead. He'd never seen Dove still like this before, even when he was asleep he was moving a little, the nervous energy making him restless. Every other time Damon had been here watching Dove he'd seen the twitches and the slight vibrations, wondered at how Dove's skin seemed to actually move.

Dove sat. He didn't smoke, he didn't drink and he didn't even glance at the men who tried to talk to him. There were a few regulars who seemed to just pass by and say hi, shrugging when they didn't get a response, but there were others as well. The ones who were prowling and thought the pretty boy would be easy fun. The ones who knew who Dove was and wanted nothing more than to get his cock up their asses. The ones who liked to play with fire. Dove looked straight ahead and didn't even glance at them.

Damon waited.

The couple the master had pointed out went to the stage and did their thing. Crop. Blood. Fuck. Damon watched Dove, who sat impassively, his eyes on the stage. When they'd taken the bottom out of the restraints and wiped things down Dove moved. He turned his head ninety degrees to look at the master.

When the master nodded at him Dove stood and walked to the rack, peeling off his T-shirt as he went. The club was muted, voices talking and laughing and someone was coming, but there weren't any screams. Dove picked up something from the floor and stepped into the spot light. There was long gash in his side, dried blood streaked across his chest.

Sometimes at parties there are occasional moments when all conversation lags for a couple of seconds and there is silence. Usually someone laughs, or makes a joke, and on TV someone says something embarrassing or revealing. This time Dove raised his arm and brought it back down fast, a crack echoing in the room. He'd picked up a bull whip.

"My name is Dove. Who wants to play?"

Damon came.