...Nestled between two taller buildings on either side, the unassumingly named club glittered with deceiving joviality, beckoning all and sundry within. Promises of debauchery and deviance seeped from the blacked-out windows, enticing, alluring.

The Lounge.

Ellis wished he had reason to pause before opening the heavy wooden doors of the last resort. He wished he needed to smooth down his already bone-straight black hair or adjust his white slave clothing.

Unfortunately for him, he looked impeccable, which was all the more dangerous in a place like this.

With a deep breath, Ellis pulled open the door and stepped inside.

The Lounge was massive. A long, crowded bar took up one wall. On the right side, clearly delineated, was a series of booths and tables, along with settees and wide, cushioned chairs. Though he’d had the blush trained out of him, it struggled to come to the surface as his eyes passed over the myriad slaves and masters in various states of undress and arousal.

He wasn’t supposed to be on that side, anyway.

On the left of the room was a crowded dance floor. Near-naked bodies writhing and moans that could be heard even over the pumping music. All of this made Ellis feel extremely out of place. As far as he could see, there was no one else that was…like him.

Trying his best to look meek and unassuming, Ellis moved into the throng of sweaty and sweet-smelling bodies. Without choosing a partner, he began to dance. Again, the blush tried to force its way out, but Ellis quashed it. This sort of behaviour was typical and even expected of a slave. No one would pay him any real notice.

For a few blissful moments, he was able to lose himself in the music. The beat was constant, predictable, and it made dancing mindless. No one seemed to notice him—but why would they, when they all had lovely and willing slaves of their own?

“Hey!” came a bright voice from behind him.

Ellis turned, hope rising in his chest, but felt that emotion slip away when he realised it was only another slave. “Hey.” Ellis hoped his disappointment didn’t hurt the smaller boy’s feelings.

“You dance really well.”

“Oh.” Ellis laughed a little uncomfortably. He looked around for the slave’s master, but didn’t see anyone. “Thank you.”

“I’m Harte.”

“Ellis.” He didn’t hold out his hand. That might not go over well with Harte’s master, wherever he was.

Harte was small, lithe, and blond. A favourite type among larger masters who considered themselves more impressive by the disparity in size between themselves and those they owned. But Harte had something different, a spark in his dark blue eyes, an energy in his body, even when he was standing still. His fey-like features suggested an innocence that was impossible considering his station.

His collar was heavy black leather, and it didn’t have a lock on it. Harte was owned.

Ellis started to turn away; he wouldn’t be drawing the attention he needed if it looked like he was with an owned slave.

“Want to dance?” Harte asked from behind him. When Ellis turned, Harte was already doing so.

He did dance beautifully. There was no wonder in the fact that Harte was owned. His slim hips rolled, the shape of his body evident beneath his white slave sheath. His arms were over his head, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure. His master must have been very proud. It took a lot of practise and natural skill to look so pleasing.

“Dance with me!” Harte demanded. He grabbed Ellis’s hand and yanked him closer, and Ellis had to go or lose his balance.