Page 36 of Stabby Little

One Daddy suspends his boy in the center of the room with shibari knots. The boy kisses his Daddy and begs him to spank him with a slotted paddle.

Every club member's jaw falls to the floor when they see me.

Valentin presses his hand to my back. "Follow me to your first private room."

11

GRANT

I wait in darkness.A purple lava lamp glows on a shelf. Baskets of whips, chains, feathers, and paddles of every variety surround me.

A breath escapes me as I prepare for the boy to show. I don't know why I agreed to this. As I told Constantine, the boy could be like the one in pink outside, not my type. He was too muscular, too toned, even though I don't know why that bothered me.

I think he reminded me too much of the boys Linda and I used to play with. Coquettish, seductive, yet whoreish as hell. He was unashamed as he lured the Daddy into the playroom and had his way with him, not that there's anything wrong with that—that Daddy looked eager to make his acquaintance.Veryeager. Yet tonight, it's not what I wanted.

I want something I can't pinpoint.

I want something that's elusive as it is ephemeral.

I want a boy to take the edge off the last four years of pain I've experienced since Linda left me and erase the memory of the sweet boy who vanished before that.

Give it a shot. You don't have to stay with your date all night.

If the playmate Constantine arranged for me isn't my type, I'll head out of the room. As I saw, a veritable cornucopia of guys wait outside for Daddies to play with. Granted, they're all paid entertainers which isn't something I'm fond of.

Still, Constantine has a point. After the stressful few years I've had, I need to unwind. Even if I screw around with a rent boy, there's nothing wrong with that. Linda and I occasionally hired partners. It gave us the stress relief we needed.

Until that bitch left me.

I'm adjusting the intensity of the lava lamp when the knock sounds on the door. Two feet stand outside my private room. They're barely visible under the crack, soft and petite. Something about the dainty feet speaks to me, but I push it down.

Calm the fuck down. This is probably the boy in pink. He won't even turn you on. No use getting excited.

"Come in." My voice is deep.

The door swings open… and I force myself to remember how to breathe.

Who… is this?

An angelic kitten stands in front of me. He wears black leggings, shimmery kitten ears over his curly blond hair, and a long, swishy tail. Whiskers line his creamy cheeks, milky-white and soft. His lanky arms have no hair, and neither does his tummy, which boasts a tiny birthmark near his left hip. Bright blue eyes gaze at me from underneath his white mask, and I can barely swallow the lump in my esophagus.

Though his eyes are barely visible, what I see shines with intensity. The intensity of asurvivor. This boy has witnessed shit—he looks like he's descended to the seventh circle of hell and fought demons to escape.

A pulse throbs behind my temples. An ancient need, long since buried, simmers within me, rising from my loins and spitting fire in my chest. As I take in the boy's red lips, almost purple from the lava lamp's effervescent glow, I fight a Homeric battle within myself not to heave him into my arms and make him mine.

For the second time: who…is this? He's nothing like the boy in pink outside. Hell, he's nothing likeanyboy outside or any boy I've ever seen in this club. His small body holds a fortitude I've only witnessed in combat veterans, a strength that rivals Trojan warriors. He's thin… so skinny—and yet that doesn't matter. Not to me.

I can take him home. Give him meals. Nourish him. Care for him until he returns to health.

But fuck, is he even twenty? A knife of panic slices my windpipe. I've never been with a boy this young in the Little Bunny Club. He barely looks old enough to be here, let alone to entertain men in private rooms. Constantine checked his ID, right?

Should I have left when I had the chance? This could be a setup—a trap. Someone could be filming and preparing to use the footage against me for blackmail. Perhaps I don't know Constantine as well as I thought—am I an idiot to trust him?

The boy shuts the door behind him and walks—no,slinks—toward me. He adjusts his white mask, then touches my hand. "Hi, Daddy."

"How old are you?" I cut to the chase. I refuse to go on if there's any indication he's underage.

"Twenty-one."

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