He arched his back and the skin stretched tight across his stomach, clearly distinguishing the shape and contour of every abdominal muscle.
His legs were spread wide.
His balls were firm and full, propped between the muscles of his inner thighs.
His cock was long and hard, young and beautiful, a perfectly straight rod spanning all the way from his balls to his navel, pulsing and pounding against his lower abs, drumming its ache-filled desire against his stomach with soft slaps.
It seemed to dance to the music that filled the room—Etta James singing At Last, the sound wafting in and out as the needle drifted over the waves of a warped record.
The young man on the bed focused on the song while his handsome face changed expressions in an act of longing.
His dark hair twisted on the pillow.
His large shoulders dug into the scrunched sheets of the bed, holding his body in the arched position, as though the young man was offering himself up. As though his taut, curved form had just announced: Dinner is served.
Suddenly a bell chimed, followed by a sound that was something between a gleeful laugh and a satisfied groan. Then came the voice, deep and theatrical. It was the voice of the Parlor Master.
"Gentlemen, feast yourselves on this one. And let the bidding begin!"
The young man glanced around him, licking the smile on his lips.
The bed on which he lay was large, with four tall posts draped in veils, tattered and torn. There were antique pieces lined along the dark walls of the room, cool and beautiful and kitsch: a gramophone from which Etta James sang her song; a credenza lined with bottles of alcohol and trays of tumblers and boxes of Cuban cigars; a vintage candlestick telephone on an old hallstand, its earpiece hanging in its cradle; huge travel trunks with the tags of old ocean liners and ghost steamers dangling from their worn handles.
An enormous, ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling. Candelabras of all shapes and sizes were positioned randomly throughout the room, while hundreds of candles burned brightly, dripping wax onto the crimson carpet.
Moving around these candelabras, the young man now saw two, three, four men, casting shadows across the dark walls, stepping slowly and soundlessly around the flickering candles like huntsmen in the woods stalking their prey. They wore tuxedos and masquerade masks over their eyes.
And watching from the foot of the bed was the Parlor Master.