What You Want
Jonathon checked himself out in the full-length mirrors that spanned the wall opposite him as he handed his coat over to the girl standing behind the counter at the Noctua Club that was running their monthly Tops/Bottoms night. Not all clubs provided this old-fashioned hat-check service as a lot of customers had coats that were designer made and very expensive and they were loath to let them out of their sight. However, it quickly became apparent that the coats were safer here than in the main hall where the heat would oblige the wearer to discard it and leave it draped over any one of the numbers of chairs that were spotted about the place where it was in danger of being crushed or have something spilt on it.
Jonathon took his ticket and pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans and looked once more critically at himself. Although he'd already done so several times before he left home he wanted a last-minute look before he made his way into the hall that stood off to his left.
He was intrigued with his own image, the longer he looked the more distant he felt himself from the image displayed there as though it was an entirely different person. ‘It looks like me but it's not; it's what everybody sees when they look at me’ he thought to himself. A reversal of Jonathon, a distorted image.
Jonathon had surprised more than one person when he had ‘confessed’ his sexual orientation. The most common response had been ‘But you don’t look gay’ which had made Jonathon respond wryly “yes, well, not all gays are limp-wristed and wear eye-shadow you know”, which normally made the recipient of the comment blush with embarrassment and stumble an apology.
Jonathon was 6'1" and solidly built, he came from a family of tall people so his height was considered normal amongst them. An active sports life had built up his body until he was the model of healthy living, not an ounce of excess flesh and quite an intimidating vision to some. He didn’t consider himself handsome but he acknowledged that he wasn’t unattractive either.
The double doors behind him were closed but he could feel the atmosphere sneaking its way out underneath the gap in the doors and beckoning to him. He knew that tonight something momentous was going to happen, he knew it as sure as he knew that his name was Jonathon Bright. He knew that tonight, this hall, this often-disappointing venue, would provide him with a chance to fulfill his dreams, or his fantasies to be more honest. He knew that his ideal mate was going to be here tonight, not necessarily a soul-mate, he would be happy to find a play-mate; anything more would be asking for too much. He needed this, wanted this; had thought about it for so long that he could have sworn at times that it had already happened, but it hadn't . . . until tonight. Tonight Jonathon was determined to shed his mirror image and be himself.
Jonathon tried unsuccessfully to reason with his inner self not to get too hopeful; how many other times had he come here or to similar clubs and had seen his plans go bottom up? He smiled to himself at the choice of words his brain selected. Bottom up! That was what normally happened here or if not here exactly then back at his flat but it was never how he really wanted, it was never as he imagined and hoped the evening would end.
Jonathon would often stand at the bar or off to one side of the floor and scan the faces gathered hoping to catch sight of 'his' play-mate, hoping that something within a face or a posture would call out to him. It wasn't meant to be anyone in particular, it wasn't meant to be a certain type with a certain look but he knew that when he saw him he would recognize him instantly. His only hope was that he would also be recognized in return.
Time and time again Jonathon would settle for something less than he wanted because he also liked sex and if he couldn't have it quite the way he wanted it, then at least he enjoyed himself to a extent and was left sated for the moment.
Not everybody who came to the club would indulge in sex afterwards, some came just to be spanked or to spank someone. It was up to the individual in their opening gambit to clarify exactly what was on offer and what wasn't. Spankings and paddlings were issued occasionally inside the hall, the sex was saved for afterwards when the couple had satisfied their desire for public display and disappeared to whoever's home happened to be nearest, in a hurry to continue in their own personal indulgence. Sometime sex wasn't on the menu and a Top or a Bottom could find themselves playing with more than one partner throughout the night, depending on their needs and limits.
Although having sex this day and age in London wasn't a problem in itself for a gay man, he could find that almost everywhere, but he wanted to experience it after a spanking had been handed out; with the skin across the buttocks taunt and smarting; the heat bleeding it's way out so that every kiss and caress would cause a hiss or a shiver. When even a gentle movement as positions were taken caused a slight wince accompanied by a sheepish smile or a grimace in answer to a knowing smile.
When a promise of a colour top up would be offered in the middle of the night after the first or second breath was recovered. He wanted to see a backside that had been thoroughly punished presented in the mirror so that the 'culprit' could see over his shoulder the results of the evening before the hands turned to caresses intent on bringing maximum pleasure. He wanted to see and feel and touch the scarlet flesh as it burned and throbbed beneath his hands.
Forcing the images inside his head to subside so that he could get on with turning them into the real-life version, he pushed open the doors and stepped inside. There was a good crowd in despite it still being fairly early, more would come later, perhaps from another club if they hadn't found what they were looking for there, and some from here would move on to other places so there was always a turnover of faces throughout the night.
Jonathon quickly perused the crowd to see who was about, nodding here and there to a few acquaintances. The Tops were easy to pick out, generally much larger and more serious looking than the Bottoms, some advertising their status by the clothes and the paraphernalia that they wore, chains, leathers, stern looks, whips hanging from their wrists. Half the time Jonathon wondered whether he had unknowingly walked into a Hell's Angels reunion, such was the liking for the heavy biker fashion. Jonathon wasn't interested in meeting their gazes and turned to look at the rest of the club members, which included the Bottoms.
More than a few of them showed the same inclination in dress, clothes designed to attract attention, a statement of who they were and what they were and more importantly what they wanted. On the whole, all of them slim and shorter in stature than the Tops as if their genetic make-up had slotted them into the role of Bottom and there they would stay until a hormone growth occurred and they were allowed to change, a thought that made Jonathon smile. As if one could change their inclination as easily as changing their clothes.
Some of them were playing Brats so much that it was amusing to see, posing to no one in particular and everybody at once, mischievous glances when a possible partner caught his eye, pouts if one of their fellow Brats got lucky instead of them. Others were Bottoms, some nervous, some serene in their personal choice, some with flushed faces when looked at, some meeting gazes honestly and openly, but all proclaiming their desire in their own particular way.
He spotted a couple of men that he had played with in the past, but his eyes slid past them quickly, he wasn't interested in going over old ground. He had realised at the time that they hadn't been the mate he was looking for but they had thought that he had been theirs and sometimes the need for sex and the heat of the moment had meant that he pushed his personal wants aside, again.
As he turned away from the usual crowd in disappointment, his eyes continued to scan the room of their own accord and that was when it happened.
Jonathon felt his breath catch in his throat as he looked across at the young man who had just entered. He had never seen him before, he would have remembered, but he recognised him at once as his mate.
He was noticeably shorter than Jonathon but not excessively so, he was certainly more slender and gave an image of delicacy but Jonathon could tell that he was well toned. Standing as he was near an assortment of large Tops he appeared to be slight but Jonathon knew that he wasn't; that it was a case of visual trickery.
He was what Jonathon wanted and Jonathon was determined that he was going to get him. His clothes were ambiguous, there was nothing there to suggest what his orientation was; jeans and a shirt in a rich blue colour, nothing screaming for attention or advertising what was on offer. Jonathon was encouraged; he didn't wear his inclinations on his sleeve as most of the people in the club did and although he knew that this had in past proved to be a stumbling block, he preferred it that way.
He didn't want to change people's perceptions of him and have someone attracted just to what was presented on the outside, the superficial coating. He wanted someone who wasn't attracted only by the image he presented. There was more to Jonathon than that. He wasn't necessarily looking for anything long-lasting, or to fall in love, he just wanted to share some time and some good times with someone occasionally without having to put on a front or be and act how they thought he should be.
Jonathon began a circular route to the bar, trying to calculate where the young man would end up so that he could start up a conversation. He also wanted to make sure that he wasn't already taken and if so, he wanted to check out his opponent and confirm his ideas.
He moved behind a group of Bottoms who all looked at him expectantly, smiling shyly, suggestively, brazenly, hopefully, all vying to catch his attention, while they ran expert eyes over his body and large hands in appreciation, but he smiled his regret back and moved on.
He was a master at planning and he soon found himself at the bar, 3 stools down from where the young man had planted himself. He listened quietly as others made themselves known to the man, all of them Tops in leather and tight fitting clothes to show off their muscles, all of them rebuffed.
This was nothing unusual in the club; some people were discerning and would choose between one potential partner and another without there being any evident difference between the two other than what the chooser saw. On the whole there was no offence taken at a refusal, plenty more fish in the sea was the general consensus and everyone had at one time refused offers that had been made to them on other occasions. Plenty of couples came to the club but there was no shortage of singles that were looking for new conquests.
As the crowd thinned out, Jonathon was left sitting at the bar with his gaze firmly set on the man by use of the mirrors behind the bar. Jonathon felt comfortable using the mirrors, they allowed you to see everything if you paid attention correctly. As the younger man turned slightly, his eye caught that of Jonathon’s in the same mirror and they shared an intense look after which miniscule nods were exchanged to the wall and picked up accordingly.
The ritual began.
A small smile; a stronger one of encouragement in return; a sweeping appraisal of what could be seen; a hint of a blush in return; a raise of a questioning eyebrow towards an empty glass on the counter; a slight nod in acceptance; a joint toast towards the mirror as the first stage had been overcome.
Jonathon knew it was going well, he could feel it run through him and he could see it in the excitement that was subtly contained in the face he saw in the mirror.
A nod at the empty stools that stood between them; a shift to one stool nearer on the pretext of reaching for a beer-mat; a quick amused glance and a shake of the head in mock sternness; a deeper blush and 2 more stools rapidly covered; conversation could now start.
His name was Michael or Mike, he didn't mind which but he didn't like Micky. He was 3 years younger than Jonathon, had moved to the area 2 months earlier but hadn't been about much as he was still getting the lie of the land and coping with a new job, he'd been transferred to the company's head office to learn the ropes with a view to staying on after a 6 month trial, if not he could return to his former post in Staffordshire.
Jonathon told him a little about himself, vague details, his recent promotion at work to Manager of his department, his new responsibilities and the talk shifted suddenly to the main topic; the whole point of being there.
"What are you looking for?"
A hesitant gaze held in the mirror. " . . a spanking. Maybe more"
"How much more?"
"I don't know . . . . . . "
"Whatever I think you can take?"
"I think you could take a fairly hard hand spanking without a problem; maybe a slipper or a paddle?"
"Do you think you could take that?"
A small ripple of pleasure. "Yes . . . . I . . ."
The start of a teasing inquisition, everything said with a smile in the eyes that confirmed that the rules of play were being set down.
"And are you going to protest when I take your trousers down and then your underwear so that I can drink in the sight of your bare backside waiting for my attention?
"Are you going to wriggle when I pull you over my lap and hold you there defenseless?"
"Are you going to writhe when I run my hands over your bottom while I make up my mind just where the first spank is going to land and picture the mark that is going to blossom?"
Jonathon watched the reaction to each of these questions in the face reflected before him, the dilation of the pupils, a flush spreading down to the neck, small beads of sweat forming on the brow and upper lip, a barely contained quiver of excitement.
Michael was his mate; he was perfect.
"Are you going to blush when I describe to you in detail how your bottom looks laid across my lap . . . waiting . . . twitching in anticipation?"
"Are you going to yelp when I bring my hand down HARD on your trembling backside?"
"Or will you squirm seductively if I decide to spank you lightly, again . . . and again . . . and again, over and over, until the build up becomes almost unbearable and leaves you on the edge of crying out your safe word?"
"Are you going to fidget uncontrollably and try to get your backside out of harm's way, knowing that no such place exists?"
"Are you going to shiver with pleasure when I trace my fingers over your smarting skin, inspecting and laying claim to what is mine?"
"Are you going to gasp and buck when I start to spank the tops of your thighs?"
"Are you going to shoot your hand back trying to protect your already stinging flesh so that I have to take your hand and hold it out of the way and then spank you harder for not taking what's due?"
Each question was spoken slowly, and spaced out to gauge any sign of hesitancy or rejection, to see if the limit had been reached, the sensuous tone of voice mesmerizing, until nothing existed in the room except two things; the penetrating, complicit look they shared as their eyes locked and the soft words being woven around the two men, enclosing them in their own private space.
"And once your bottom is nicely warmed are you going to struggle when I start with the paddle and go over every single inch of your already flaming arse until it feels as though it is on fire?"
"Are you going to tremble when I take you in my arms afterwards and hold you and then touch you, run my hands and mouth over every single inch of you, tease you with my tongue, kiss your blistered skin, explore your body with all of mine until we are both sweating and breathless?"
"Are you going to groan with desire when I give you another spanking in the morning to reawaken the throb and to make sure that you remember it for a long time?"
"Because you will remember it; every time you get undressed you're going to see your bottom in the mirror . . . you’re going to look at it and touch it and know that I was the cause."
"Every time you sit down . . . every time you bend over to pick something up . . . you're going to feel the scratch of your clothes against very sore skin . . . you're going to feel your skin stretch until you think it's going to break . . . you're going to think that the throb will never go away . . . that you'll live with it for the rest of your days . . . reminding you of what I did to you . . . of what I can do to you."
"But it will go away, it will die down, and once it has, I'm going to do it all over again."
Jonathon was breathless, his throat dry with desire, the spoken words hanging between the two men were like a chain linking them together, each scenario heightening the need in their minds, there was no sign of hesitancy in Michael's eyes, his gaze promising, verifying that he knew exactly what he wanted just as much as Jonathon, whose senses were alive with the possibility of finally getting what he had craved for so long.
Nothing more was needed now except confirmation, by word or by action, proof that they had both found their ideal mate, that they had recognised each other.
Once more the liquid voice washed between them as their fingers touched.
"Is that what you want?"
"Yes . . yes, that's what I want" whispered Jonathon.