11-22-2016, 06:29 PM
Link was definitely in his element at clubs. There were still traces of the spoiled, trust-fund youth he'd once been inside him. Clubs like this had been his old stomping grounds, underage or not. After years, locked within the sterile confines of the Breeding Program, his senses were alight with the sights and sounds of lurid sex. It made him feel alive again.
Being here on a job didn't damper his mood, either, especially when that job involved the challenge that was Bryce Zayn.
Of course, Link found the drunk rock star in the VIP section, sauced already despite the relatively early hour. For a moment, Link hesitated, wondering if he was a total dick for planning to debauch a tipsy guy, but if Samuel's tone implied anything, it was that Bryce had no idea what was coming, and would probably need a little saucing up.
"Hey! This is a private party!" one of the drunkards shouted when Link slid into the booth next to Bryce.
Link casually shot him the bird, knowing very few people in this area were sober enough to fight him off. Now that they were surrounded by the chaos of Bryce's social scene, Link could really give his "owner" a good look over. He was a bigger guy, in shape, good-looking to a fault, classic beauty that so often accompanied fame. Oh, yes, Link could definitely teach Bryce a few things about pleasure. Maybe even destroy those flat abs by planting his baby in him. Maybe that wasn't exactly what Samuel had in mind, but it would definitely change his image.
"I suppose this is your entertainment of choice," he said, close enough to Bryce that he didn't have to shout over the music. "And what the hell are you drinking? You smell like the whole damn bar." He slid a few empty glasses across the table and out of Bryce's reach. "If you're going to be at a place like this, at least bring a bodyguard so they can preserve your chastity," he chuckled.
Back in the elegant seclusion of Samuel's house, Fife was still on the prowl. He didn't touch anything, because it all looked damn expensive, more expensive than even he'd been. He did kick off his flip-flops, though, hating the way the stupid things slapped around when he walked.
So Mr. Owens had fancy taste. An interesting concept. He was rich, as most music moguls were, but Fife had been expecting chrome and leather, maybe sterling silver statues of tigers or something. This place was like a palace. Fife wondered if this was actually Mr. Owens' idea of home, or maybe his wife or husband's. No one had ever mentioned a Mr. or Mrs. Owens, but surely there was one. Handsome, successful men like Samuel weren't supposed to be single.
"Holy shit!" he suddenly balked when he stumbled across one particularly famous painting. "Fuck, that probably costs more than this whole damn place!"
He jumped again when Mr. Owens' voice rang out. He huffed and clutched his chest. "Keep startling me, and I'll keel over. I didn't come with a warranty, just so you know."
Then he spied the wine glasses and arched an eyebrow. Wine? Was this a trick? Alcohol wasn't allowed at the Breeding facility. Was he going to take a sip and then get hauled back to the compound? Fife had always wanted to try wine. Those elegant, dark bottles, the fancy labels, the graceful glasses it was poured into. It looked so decadent and sinful, and he was dying to try it, despite his skepticism.
"Those what?" He was broken out of his trance and glanced down at his clothes. "Oh. Yeah, I dunno. Facility just gives you whatever hand-me-downs they have in stock when you leave. They didn't even give me damn underwear." Although, he'd seen the fancy duds Link had gotten. "Not that I have a style. You wear gray scrubs at the facility, and that's it. But I've seen stuff on TV and in magazines, you know, so I always imagined wearing fancier stuff."
Still, Fife stood in the living room, watching Samuel, not sure what he was supposed to do. Was he allowed to sit without being asked? Was he supposed to crawl on his hands and knees like some of his other owners had demanded? Unsure, he simply stood, hands on his hips, trying to portray a casualness he didn't feel.
"Yeah, actually, I'd love to know things about you." He was also starving, but was too proud to admit that. "First off, did your wife decorate all this? Or your husband? I mean . . . a collection like this, damn. You could charge admission and make another fortune. Half these paintings are originals!"
Being here on a job didn't damper his mood, either, especially when that job involved the challenge that was Bryce Zayn.
Of course, Link found the drunk rock star in the VIP section, sauced already despite the relatively early hour. For a moment, Link hesitated, wondering if he was a total dick for planning to debauch a tipsy guy, but if Samuel's tone implied anything, it was that Bryce had no idea what was coming, and would probably need a little saucing up.
"Hey! This is a private party!" one of the drunkards shouted when Link slid into the booth next to Bryce.
Link casually shot him the bird, knowing very few people in this area were sober enough to fight him off. Now that they were surrounded by the chaos of Bryce's social scene, Link could really give his "owner" a good look over. He was a bigger guy, in shape, good-looking to a fault, classic beauty that so often accompanied fame. Oh, yes, Link could definitely teach Bryce a few things about pleasure. Maybe even destroy those flat abs by planting his baby in him. Maybe that wasn't exactly what Samuel had in mind, but it would definitely change his image.
"I suppose this is your entertainment of choice," he said, close enough to Bryce that he didn't have to shout over the music. "And what the hell are you drinking? You smell like the whole damn bar." He slid a few empty glasses across the table and out of Bryce's reach. "If you're going to be at a place like this, at least bring a bodyguard so they can preserve your chastity," he chuckled.
Back in the elegant seclusion of Samuel's house, Fife was still on the prowl. He didn't touch anything, because it all looked damn expensive, more expensive than even he'd been. He did kick off his flip-flops, though, hating the way the stupid things slapped around when he walked.
So Mr. Owens had fancy taste. An interesting concept. He was rich, as most music moguls were, but Fife had been expecting chrome and leather, maybe sterling silver statues of tigers or something. This place was like a palace. Fife wondered if this was actually Mr. Owens' idea of home, or maybe his wife or husband's. No one had ever mentioned a Mr. or Mrs. Owens, but surely there was one. Handsome, successful men like Samuel weren't supposed to be single.
"Holy shit!" he suddenly balked when he stumbled across one particularly famous painting. "Fuck, that probably costs more than this whole damn place!"
He jumped again when Mr. Owens' voice rang out. He huffed and clutched his chest. "Keep startling me, and I'll keel over. I didn't come with a warranty, just so you know."
Then he spied the wine glasses and arched an eyebrow. Wine? Was this a trick? Alcohol wasn't allowed at the Breeding facility. Was he going to take a sip and then get hauled back to the compound? Fife had always wanted to try wine. Those elegant, dark bottles, the fancy labels, the graceful glasses it was poured into. It looked so decadent and sinful, and he was dying to try it, despite his skepticism.
"Those what?" He was broken out of his trance and glanced down at his clothes. "Oh. Yeah, I dunno. Facility just gives you whatever hand-me-downs they have in stock when you leave. They didn't even give me damn underwear." Although, he'd seen the fancy duds Link had gotten. "Not that I have a style. You wear gray scrubs at the facility, and that's it. But I've seen stuff on TV and in magazines, you know, so I always imagined wearing fancier stuff."
Still, Fife stood in the living room, watching Samuel, not sure what he was supposed to do. Was he allowed to sit without being asked? Was he supposed to crawl on his hands and knees like some of his other owners had demanded? Unsure, he simply stood, hands on his hips, trying to portray a casualness he didn't feel.
"Yeah, actually, I'd love to know things about you." He was also starving, but was too proud to admit that. "First off, did your wife decorate all this? Or your husband? I mean . . . a collection like this, damn. You could charge admission and make another fortune. Half these paintings are originals!"