Categories > Celebrities > Marilyn Manson > Something New
“I feel like my mind is simply rotting from this boredom,” the man bemoaned as he walked into the empty parlor room, his fingers moving to massage his temples. With a sigh he flopped onto the black satin couch, his lanky body splayed out across the cushions like a thrown ragdoll. To say that Marilyn Manson was put out by his life’s current lack of activity would be an understatement. He was not accustomed to this type of life at all.
Despite being a trust fund baby without any real responsibilities Manson had always found himself engrossed with something or someone. His most recent project, renovating his new Victorian mansion into a gothic paradise, had finished a few weeks ago. Manson lazily looked over his work; elegant silk wallpaper, cherry wood furniture, and handpicked art. Beautiful, yes, but more like a lovely solitary cell these days. A craving for intimate touches began to mingle with his boredom. At this moment he realized the cure for these feelings – a new someone to engross himself in.
Picking at his chipped scarlet nail polish, the man mulled over the idea of getting another boy toy as most people would call it. Manson had owned several beauties over the years. They were all delicate little things discreetly purchased from a human trafficking ring. Scared or hardened, submissive or a fighter, Manson did not care. One way or another, the boy would eventually comply to his new owner’s demands. A smirk played on Manson’s pouty lips as he recalled heated nights with each respective boy. He loved the feeling of skin on skin, the smell of fear as he pushed the boy to his limit, the euphoria of release. Of course, the purely carnal pleasures of those times only held Manson’s attention for so long. Each boy inevitably lost his owner’s interest and were either returned to the buyer or given away to friends. Yes, it would be a nice to finally replace his old boy toy, to have a lovely thing at his beckon call and take up his time for a while. A new pet was exactly what he needed.
Rising from his reclined position on the sofa, Manson promptly headed toward the old-fashioned telephone in the corner of the room. A call to John was in order if he was to cure his boredom. John was the leader of the crime syndicate and owner of The Warehouse, the huge prison-like structure where the boys and girls were kept until a buyer came along. Manson barely had to wait two seconds after dialing the number before John answered the phone.
A stern voice rang out from the receiver, "Hello?" John never had much time for learning phone etiquette or even reading the caller ID.
“It’s me,” Manson simply said.
"Oh, hey,” the ring leader replied, his tone softening at the recognition of his friend and best customer’s voice. “Let me guess, you need another one? I swear you go through these boys faster than a pimp with a strong backhand."
"You know I am a great lover of human beauty, John. It‘s just that I get tired of the actual human. Anyway, I need another boy.”
John chuckled at his customer’s quip before getting back to business. "Well I will check to see who I have got that might suit your tastes. Are there any specific qualities you want for this one?
Manson thought this over for a moment. A fighter was always fun to break of his combative spirit, but a submissive had its own unique charm. "I think I would like a timid one this time. I rather enjoy a lovely little one who shies away from me. It makes it like a game of cat and mouse."
"Well I'm sure we have a couple of those. I will write up a list of candidates to show you whenever you come around."
“Write quickly then, my friend. I am coming over to The Warehouse tonight. You know I don’t like to wait when my mind has been made.
“Tonight will be fine. I was planning to overlook a delivery and finish some paperwork anyway.”
Manson laughed at the thought of a criminal doing paperwork. “Paperwork, huh? I guess you have to keep diligent records for when you file your taxes with the government.”
“Hey now, I have to keep my fake documents perfect so this little operation looks like I just own a specialty import business. We can’t have any government officials prying into our affairs, now can we?”
“Most certainly not, John. So I will be seeing you at midnight, then?”
“That sounds good to me. Until then, Manson.”
The line went dead instantly after John’s goodbye. No etiquette at all, Manson mused. The goth placed his phone in its cradle with a smile on his face. In less than six hours he would have a new pet. The thought of all the fun to come had his heartbeat quicken. Manson strode out of the parlor and down the long hallway. At the foot of the stairs he was met by the sight of his housekeeper Clarisse effortlessly carrying down a basket teeming with dirty laundry. The elderly lady was as fit as a woman half her age and dedicated to her work.
Manson paused to address the woman before she continued downstairs to the laundry room. "Oh Clarisse, could you be as so kind as to make up the adjoining room off of my bedroom? Someone will be arriving tonight and I wish to be prepared.”
"Of course sir. I will see to it right after this," the woman replied before heading down the hall.
Help like Clarisse was hard to find these days. Manson had gone through countless servants who were unable to handle his lifestyle. The creepy hallways and the sound of boys' screams and moans were usually a difficult adjustment. Thankfully Clarisse was a tough old bird who believed in never prying in her employer's life and diligently sticking to her duties. With that matter settled, Manson continued to his bedroom to get ready for his shopping trip.
~
The crescent moon hung overhead as Manson arrived outside the weathered warehouse, the early October chill hurrying the man along. As he reached the main entrance, Manson could make out the shape of John leaning against the building, patiently waiting. Exchanging greetings, John led him inside the warehouse and through a maze of different locked rooms until they reached the basement door. The leader of the crime ring punched in a number sequence into the keypad, unlocking the steel door. The two men walked down the stairs beyond until they reached the gigantic underground room that housed the captives. To those unfamiliar with room, it would appear to be a well-kept prison block. The only difference was that each cell held a person waiting for another to decide their fate; whether it would be good or evil, the captive had no way of telling.
John gestured towards a row on the left, listing several cell numbers with suitable candidates. "Pick out whoever you like. This one is on the house. It's the least I can do for my best customer."
Manson thanked the man before heading toward the suggested cells, inspecting each boy inside his cage. Some stared at him with fearful eyes while others just glared angrily. None of the boys caught his interest until he stopped at the cell of one of the last candidates. His wavy, dark shoulder-length hair was the only defining characteristic he could make out in the poorly lighting, but something grabbed Manson instantly. Squinting, he studied the pale and sickly skinny boy curled up in the corner. He watched the boy’s chest softly fall and rise, apparently sleeping. The paper plastered outside the cell proved more helpful in helping Manson get a better idea of the boy. He was twenty years old with black hair and green eyes; originally from Finland, the captive had an accent but a perfect handle on English. The boy sounded heavenly. Manson knew without a doubt that he was the one he wanted. Happy with his decision, Manson trotted back to where John was standing.
"I've decided who I want," Manson said, naming the cell number of his soon-to-be new boy toy.
“Ah, I remember that one. He is definitely the timid boy you wanted; he barely ever comes out from his corner,” John remarked. “Perhaps this one will be the first one you keep around, eh Manson? You are getting too old for his game after all.”
The goth scoffed at that suggestion. "I'm only twenty eight, thank you. And your little comment reminded me of something; how is that boy I brought back a few months ago, Henry I believe?"
"He has already been claimed. Your cast-offs are very popular with my other customers I have to say."
"I guess I have the magic touch when it comes to molding the perfect sex slaves and lovers. Will my next project be delivered? I can barely wait to have him all for myself.”
"I can send him home with you tonight. I just have to call a couple of my guys to get the van ready for transport."
“Beautiful. Did I ever tell you how much I like you, John?”
John laughed, throwing an arm around Manson’s neck. “A few times actually.”
~
The van with Manson’s latest purchase parked a safe distance from the goth’s car once they arrived at the mansion. Manson stood outside the opened door of his home to watch the delivery men, the moonlight giving an unearthly glow to pale white face. A burly man climbed out of the van and handed Manson a contract stating that the boy was delivered and the company would not be liable for whatever happened to the boy now. As soon as it was signed two men brought out the boy from the back of the van. He was gagged and hogtied, his emerald eyes full of fear. Manson directed the men to the boy’s new bedroom where the boy was laid on the bed.
"Thank you ever so much," Manson said kindly to the men, handing them each a hefty tip for their service and discretion.
“No problem sir, we are just doing our job,” one man replied before adding with a smirk, “Have fun.”
Manson escorted the men downstairs, closing the front door behind them. With the excitement of a new toy waiting for him upstairs, Manson glided back up the stairs and returned to the boy’s room. Shutting the door, the man walked over to the bed. He stood before the boy, reveling in the sight before him. The scared thing laid limp from his confines, his gag softly vibrating from his haggard breathes. Brushing away the chunks of hair hiding the boy’s face, Manson was taken aback by a pair of dark emerald eyes. They would not meet his own gaze, but they were still beautiful all the same. Not wanting to delay his plans any further, Manson moved to untie the boy. With quick movements the rope binding the boy’s wrists and ankles fell to the bedspread. The boy nary moved a muscle despite his freedom. The goth was somewhat amused by this, finding his pet to be acting like a terrified puppy. With a final undoing of the last knot the gag was removed. The boy’s jaw flexed instinctively for a few moments in attempts to sooth the tired muscles below. It was time to begin.
“Sit up now,” Manson commanded.
The boy shifted to a seated position at the edge of the bed. Manson could not help but admire the boy’s beauty – his milky skin, long ebony hair, and those mesmerizing eyes. "Now then pet, what is your name?" Manson asked softly, cupping the boy's chin with his hand so their eyes could meet.
"V…V...Ville," He stuttered softly. His gaze darted around the room in attempt to avoid looking at his captor, stopping to look at Manson for only a few seconds at a time.
"Such a lovely name. You may call me Master and this name only. Do you understand?" Manson replied.
"Yes Master," Ville whispered. Manson just looked at him affectionately.
"Good boy. I can see we are going to get along well," Manson purred at him seductively, "This will be your room from now on. My bedroom is connected, but by no means are you allowed to come in whenever you please. It's locked anyway. Your food will be delivered by the housekeeper. There is a connecting bathroom and a dresser full of clothes."
Removing his hand from Ville's chin, Manson exited the room and locked the door behind him. The boy was all alone once again.
~
Ville remained where he sat, taking the time to study his new surroundings. The bedroom was nicely kept, but impersonal and rather bare. The walls were a clean cream color and the floor was made of a sleek wood to match the few pieces of a furniture. Besides the bed with navy bedding and an ornately carved headboard, there was a gray loveseat across the room and a small table set in the corner. A wooden dresser also stood adjacent to his bed. Overall the room was sterile and bound only to fuel his torment – the torment of captivity, of fear, and his new master.
The boy could not help but wonder what was going to happen to him. He was someone’s property now; he was no better than a dog. ‘Master’ did not appear to be the deranged captor Ville thought he would be, but how did he know what his true personality and desires were? Ville would be defenseless against his master if he tried to do any real harm. The boy curled up on the bed in a fetal position, uncontrollability sobbing. Never had he been so scared in his life. He did not want to be trapped inside these four walls forever. Slowly his eyes closed and everything turned to black.
~
During the course of a week Ville got into a routine. In the morning the housekeeper would bring in his breakfast. He would then dress in whatever clothes he pulled out first; no one was around to judge his outfits anyway. Prepared for the day, Ville would sit on his bed doing nothing. He desperately wished there was a television in here, a radio, or even a mad libs book - anything to keep him occupied. The only thing he could really do was get lost in fantasies or sleep. Around twelve, or what time he assumed it was, the same elderly woman brought him his lunch. She never spoke to him, but shot him a small smile occasionally. The rest of the day was always spent in pure boredom until this day when Master finally decided to visit him again.
Upon hearing the door unlock Ville rose to his feet, standing at the foot of his bed. Manson approached Ville with a sweet smile, running his hand along the side of his prisoner's face. Ville closed his eyes for a mere second, happy for the human contact. He was desperate for any form of interaction at this point. Manson pulled him in for a chaste kiss on the lips before releasing him.
"How are you doing pet?" Manson asked Ville, watching as the boy's eyes darted around.
"I'm fine Master," Ville replied meekly, staring at his feet.
"Ville," was all Manson had to say for the boy to understand what Master wanted. He wanted for him to actually look up at him.
The boy raised his gaze to meet his master's. Ville had to admit that Master was quite a beautiful man. Not model beautiful, but a singular beautiful he could study all day and never lose interest. "Sorry Master."
Master smiled at him, using his thumb to trace Ville's lips repeatedly while talking. "I must say that you have behaved incredibly well over the past week - no broken furniture, no futile escape ideas, not even self-harm. For that I must reward you. Now follow me."
Master removed his hand from Ville's face and gestured for him to follow. They went through the door which connected Ville's bedroom to his master’s. Ville took in the room around him while Master locked the door behind them. The walls were covered with maroon wall coverings and the same flooring as his. A king size bed covered in black silk sheets took up most of the room. At the head of the bed were arranged several pillows detailed with delicate lace. The room’s dark charm contrasted his room.
His captor stepped around him to lay on the bed, resting his head on the pillows. Ville stood awkward neat the door, unsure of what Master wanted him to do. He fidgeted with the sleeve of his shirt, awaiting a command.
"Come here beauty. Lay with me," Master called to him from the bed. His dark clothes almost blended with the bedding, only bringing more attention to the older man’s light skin and hazel eyes.
Ville walked over to the bed and climbed on, appreciating its softness. He turned onto his side, his back to Master. He soon felt his captor shift himself closer so the man’s stomach was pressed against his back. Master slung one arm gently around his waist, settling in. When his master began to suck softly on one of his earlobes, Ville could not help but relax against him.
"See all you have to do is behave and you can stay with me. I know you would prefer it to your own room," Master whispered into Ville's ear, his lips sweeping against the cartilage. "All of my boys have enjoyed my company, I assure you this. Now sleep precious."
Ville soon fell asleep, comfortable in Master's arms.
Despite being a trust fund baby without any real responsibilities Manson had always found himself engrossed with something or someone. His most recent project, renovating his new Victorian mansion into a gothic paradise, had finished a few weeks ago. Manson lazily looked over his work; elegant silk wallpaper, cherry wood furniture, and handpicked art. Beautiful, yes, but more like a lovely solitary cell these days. A craving for intimate touches began to mingle with his boredom. At this moment he realized the cure for these feelings – a new someone to engross himself in.
Picking at his chipped scarlet nail polish, the man mulled over the idea of getting another boy toy as most people would call it. Manson had owned several beauties over the years. They were all delicate little things discreetly purchased from a human trafficking ring. Scared or hardened, submissive or a fighter, Manson did not care. One way or another, the boy would eventually comply to his new owner’s demands. A smirk played on Manson’s pouty lips as he recalled heated nights with each respective boy. He loved the feeling of skin on skin, the smell of fear as he pushed the boy to his limit, the euphoria of release. Of course, the purely carnal pleasures of those times only held Manson’s attention for so long. Each boy inevitably lost his owner’s interest and were either returned to the buyer or given away to friends. Yes, it would be a nice to finally replace his old boy toy, to have a lovely thing at his beckon call and take up his time for a while. A new pet was exactly what he needed.
Rising from his reclined position on the sofa, Manson promptly headed toward the old-fashioned telephone in the corner of the room. A call to John was in order if he was to cure his boredom. John was the leader of the crime syndicate and owner of The Warehouse, the huge prison-like structure where the boys and girls were kept until a buyer came along. Manson barely had to wait two seconds after dialing the number before John answered the phone.
A stern voice rang out from the receiver, "Hello?" John never had much time for learning phone etiquette or even reading the caller ID.
“It’s me,” Manson simply said.
"Oh, hey,” the ring leader replied, his tone softening at the recognition of his friend and best customer’s voice. “Let me guess, you need another one? I swear you go through these boys faster than a pimp with a strong backhand."
"You know I am a great lover of human beauty, John. It‘s just that I get tired of the actual human. Anyway, I need another boy.”
John chuckled at his customer’s quip before getting back to business. "Well I will check to see who I have got that might suit your tastes. Are there any specific qualities you want for this one?
Manson thought this over for a moment. A fighter was always fun to break of his combative spirit, but a submissive had its own unique charm. "I think I would like a timid one this time. I rather enjoy a lovely little one who shies away from me. It makes it like a game of cat and mouse."
"Well I'm sure we have a couple of those. I will write up a list of candidates to show you whenever you come around."
“Write quickly then, my friend. I am coming over to The Warehouse tonight. You know I don’t like to wait when my mind has been made.
“Tonight will be fine. I was planning to overlook a delivery and finish some paperwork anyway.”
Manson laughed at the thought of a criminal doing paperwork. “Paperwork, huh? I guess you have to keep diligent records for when you file your taxes with the government.”
“Hey now, I have to keep my fake documents perfect so this little operation looks like I just own a specialty import business. We can’t have any government officials prying into our affairs, now can we?”
“Most certainly not, John. So I will be seeing you at midnight, then?”
“That sounds good to me. Until then, Manson.”
The line went dead instantly after John’s goodbye. No etiquette at all, Manson mused. The goth placed his phone in its cradle with a smile on his face. In less than six hours he would have a new pet. The thought of all the fun to come had his heartbeat quicken. Manson strode out of the parlor and down the long hallway. At the foot of the stairs he was met by the sight of his housekeeper Clarisse effortlessly carrying down a basket teeming with dirty laundry. The elderly lady was as fit as a woman half her age and dedicated to her work.
Manson paused to address the woman before she continued downstairs to the laundry room. "Oh Clarisse, could you be as so kind as to make up the adjoining room off of my bedroom? Someone will be arriving tonight and I wish to be prepared.”
"Of course sir. I will see to it right after this," the woman replied before heading down the hall.
Help like Clarisse was hard to find these days. Manson had gone through countless servants who were unable to handle his lifestyle. The creepy hallways and the sound of boys' screams and moans were usually a difficult adjustment. Thankfully Clarisse was a tough old bird who believed in never prying in her employer's life and diligently sticking to her duties. With that matter settled, Manson continued to his bedroom to get ready for his shopping trip.
~
The crescent moon hung overhead as Manson arrived outside the weathered warehouse, the early October chill hurrying the man along. As he reached the main entrance, Manson could make out the shape of John leaning against the building, patiently waiting. Exchanging greetings, John led him inside the warehouse and through a maze of different locked rooms until they reached the basement door. The leader of the crime ring punched in a number sequence into the keypad, unlocking the steel door. The two men walked down the stairs beyond until they reached the gigantic underground room that housed the captives. To those unfamiliar with room, it would appear to be a well-kept prison block. The only difference was that each cell held a person waiting for another to decide their fate; whether it would be good or evil, the captive had no way of telling.
John gestured towards a row on the left, listing several cell numbers with suitable candidates. "Pick out whoever you like. This one is on the house. It's the least I can do for my best customer."
Manson thanked the man before heading toward the suggested cells, inspecting each boy inside his cage. Some stared at him with fearful eyes while others just glared angrily. None of the boys caught his interest until he stopped at the cell of one of the last candidates. His wavy, dark shoulder-length hair was the only defining characteristic he could make out in the poorly lighting, but something grabbed Manson instantly. Squinting, he studied the pale and sickly skinny boy curled up in the corner. He watched the boy’s chest softly fall and rise, apparently sleeping. The paper plastered outside the cell proved more helpful in helping Manson get a better idea of the boy. He was twenty years old with black hair and green eyes; originally from Finland, the captive had an accent but a perfect handle on English. The boy sounded heavenly. Manson knew without a doubt that he was the one he wanted. Happy with his decision, Manson trotted back to where John was standing.
"I've decided who I want," Manson said, naming the cell number of his soon-to-be new boy toy.
“Ah, I remember that one. He is definitely the timid boy you wanted; he barely ever comes out from his corner,” John remarked. “Perhaps this one will be the first one you keep around, eh Manson? You are getting too old for his game after all.”
The goth scoffed at that suggestion. "I'm only twenty eight, thank you. And your little comment reminded me of something; how is that boy I brought back a few months ago, Henry I believe?"
"He has already been claimed. Your cast-offs are very popular with my other customers I have to say."
"I guess I have the magic touch when it comes to molding the perfect sex slaves and lovers. Will my next project be delivered? I can barely wait to have him all for myself.”
"I can send him home with you tonight. I just have to call a couple of my guys to get the van ready for transport."
“Beautiful. Did I ever tell you how much I like you, John?”
John laughed, throwing an arm around Manson’s neck. “A few times actually.”
~
The van with Manson’s latest purchase parked a safe distance from the goth’s car once they arrived at the mansion. Manson stood outside the opened door of his home to watch the delivery men, the moonlight giving an unearthly glow to pale white face. A burly man climbed out of the van and handed Manson a contract stating that the boy was delivered and the company would not be liable for whatever happened to the boy now. As soon as it was signed two men brought out the boy from the back of the van. He was gagged and hogtied, his emerald eyes full of fear. Manson directed the men to the boy’s new bedroom where the boy was laid on the bed.
"Thank you ever so much," Manson said kindly to the men, handing them each a hefty tip for their service and discretion.
“No problem sir, we are just doing our job,” one man replied before adding with a smirk, “Have fun.”
Manson escorted the men downstairs, closing the front door behind them. With the excitement of a new toy waiting for him upstairs, Manson glided back up the stairs and returned to the boy’s room. Shutting the door, the man walked over to the bed. He stood before the boy, reveling in the sight before him. The scared thing laid limp from his confines, his gag softly vibrating from his haggard breathes. Brushing away the chunks of hair hiding the boy’s face, Manson was taken aback by a pair of dark emerald eyes. They would not meet his own gaze, but they were still beautiful all the same. Not wanting to delay his plans any further, Manson moved to untie the boy. With quick movements the rope binding the boy’s wrists and ankles fell to the bedspread. The boy nary moved a muscle despite his freedom. The goth was somewhat amused by this, finding his pet to be acting like a terrified puppy. With a final undoing of the last knot the gag was removed. The boy’s jaw flexed instinctively for a few moments in attempts to sooth the tired muscles below. It was time to begin.
“Sit up now,” Manson commanded.
The boy shifted to a seated position at the edge of the bed. Manson could not help but admire the boy’s beauty – his milky skin, long ebony hair, and those mesmerizing eyes. "Now then pet, what is your name?" Manson asked softly, cupping the boy's chin with his hand so their eyes could meet.
"V…V...Ville," He stuttered softly. His gaze darted around the room in attempt to avoid looking at his captor, stopping to look at Manson for only a few seconds at a time.
"Such a lovely name. You may call me Master and this name only. Do you understand?" Manson replied.
"Yes Master," Ville whispered. Manson just looked at him affectionately.
"Good boy. I can see we are going to get along well," Manson purred at him seductively, "This will be your room from now on. My bedroom is connected, but by no means are you allowed to come in whenever you please. It's locked anyway. Your food will be delivered by the housekeeper. There is a connecting bathroom and a dresser full of clothes."
Removing his hand from Ville's chin, Manson exited the room and locked the door behind him. The boy was all alone once again.
~
Ville remained where he sat, taking the time to study his new surroundings. The bedroom was nicely kept, but impersonal and rather bare. The walls were a clean cream color and the floor was made of a sleek wood to match the few pieces of a furniture. Besides the bed with navy bedding and an ornately carved headboard, there was a gray loveseat across the room and a small table set in the corner. A wooden dresser also stood adjacent to his bed. Overall the room was sterile and bound only to fuel his torment – the torment of captivity, of fear, and his new master.
The boy could not help but wonder what was going to happen to him. He was someone’s property now; he was no better than a dog. ‘Master’ did not appear to be the deranged captor Ville thought he would be, but how did he know what his true personality and desires were? Ville would be defenseless against his master if he tried to do any real harm. The boy curled up on the bed in a fetal position, uncontrollability sobbing. Never had he been so scared in his life. He did not want to be trapped inside these four walls forever. Slowly his eyes closed and everything turned to black.
~
During the course of a week Ville got into a routine. In the morning the housekeeper would bring in his breakfast. He would then dress in whatever clothes he pulled out first; no one was around to judge his outfits anyway. Prepared for the day, Ville would sit on his bed doing nothing. He desperately wished there was a television in here, a radio, or even a mad libs book - anything to keep him occupied. The only thing he could really do was get lost in fantasies or sleep. Around twelve, or what time he assumed it was, the same elderly woman brought him his lunch. She never spoke to him, but shot him a small smile occasionally. The rest of the day was always spent in pure boredom until this day when Master finally decided to visit him again.
Upon hearing the door unlock Ville rose to his feet, standing at the foot of his bed. Manson approached Ville with a sweet smile, running his hand along the side of his prisoner's face. Ville closed his eyes for a mere second, happy for the human contact. He was desperate for any form of interaction at this point. Manson pulled him in for a chaste kiss on the lips before releasing him.
"How are you doing pet?" Manson asked Ville, watching as the boy's eyes darted around.
"I'm fine Master," Ville replied meekly, staring at his feet.
"Ville," was all Manson had to say for the boy to understand what Master wanted. He wanted for him to actually look up at him.
The boy raised his gaze to meet his master's. Ville had to admit that Master was quite a beautiful man. Not model beautiful, but a singular beautiful he could study all day and never lose interest. "Sorry Master."
Master smiled at him, using his thumb to trace Ville's lips repeatedly while talking. "I must say that you have behaved incredibly well over the past week - no broken furniture, no futile escape ideas, not even self-harm. For that I must reward you. Now follow me."
Master removed his hand from Ville's face and gestured for him to follow. They went through the door which connected Ville's bedroom to his master’s. Ville took in the room around him while Master locked the door behind them. The walls were covered with maroon wall coverings and the same flooring as his. A king size bed covered in black silk sheets took up most of the room. At the head of the bed were arranged several pillows detailed with delicate lace. The room’s dark charm contrasted his room.
His captor stepped around him to lay on the bed, resting his head on the pillows. Ville stood awkward neat the door, unsure of what Master wanted him to do. He fidgeted with the sleeve of his shirt, awaiting a command.
"Come here beauty. Lay with me," Master called to him from the bed. His dark clothes almost blended with the bedding, only bringing more attention to the older man’s light skin and hazel eyes.
Ville walked over to the bed and climbed on, appreciating its softness. He turned onto his side, his back to Master. He soon felt his captor shift himself closer so the man’s stomach was pressed against his back. Master slung one arm gently around his waist, settling in. When his master began to suck softly on one of his earlobes, Ville could not help but relax against him.
"See all you have to do is behave and you can stay with me. I know you would prefer it to your own room," Master whispered into Ville's ear, his lips sweeping against the cartilage. "All of my boys have enjoyed my company, I assure you this. Now sleep precious."
Ville soon fell asleep, comfortable in Master's arms.
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