That evening, Clifford wore a coronet around his head that only he knew of. He alone could sense it.
The coronet’s invisible waves of heat swirled at the top of his head, and those waves matched the pulsations of his nervous body.
The pulses in his veins quickened as he came closer to the cusp of entering a new place.
He sat in the driver’s seat of his sedan across the parking lot from Boudoir Noir.
“If people knew,” he repeated.
During the entire drive there, he had questioned his decision and had debated silently on whether to go into the lingerie shop.
Pulling into the parking lot of the strip mall, the fight halted him.
“Just go in. I’ll love it,” he urged. “No one will know. No one’s tracking me.”
Clifford turned off the car’s engine. He was determined this time—although he remained strapped in by the seat buckle.
He breathed steadily, but, when he looked at the Open sign on the door glowing in the last remaining light of the day, his lungs started to take in awkwardly short heaves.
However, he countered his urges.
“I can’t go in there, no.” He shook his head. “Imagine all the weird stuff. Ugly things. And who am I supposed to talk to? Just walk up to him, and say, ‘Hi, I’m here for …’ I’ll be an idiot. I don’t know anything.”
The car’s engine came to life again. He grabbed the gear shift. Holding it though, the shifter reminded him of why he wanted to be there.
He let it go.
“I have to.”
So he turned off the engine again and unclipped the seatbelt. He had loosed himself. Freed.
Yet, his forehead fell to the steering wheel, hands gripping it tightly.
He again attempted to psych himself up.
“Come on, Clifford. Be a man, not a punk. No one’s going to know you’re in there. No one will even know who you are.”
Steeling himself and garnering any remaining strength, he pushed open the car door and set a foot on the white line painted on the pavement.
The top of his head was hot. It wasn’t because of the evening’s hot and humid weather; yet, that coronet immediately rose to a higher temperature. No doubt his scalp was red under his trimmed, dark hair. His cheeks were warm, and he felt perspiration at his temples.
He wasn’t sure whether to smile casually or head into the shop focused, eyebrows furrowed, determination on his face.
He thought a smile might draw the salesman to him, while a stern face might keep him at bay or at least at the cash register—as he might look to know what he wanted and where to find it. But he couldn’t just walk in dumbly, like he had entered the wrong store.
The walk to Boudoir Noir was torture. His skin shivered cold as he felt every driver and passenger staring, wondering and guessing his kink. He heard cars drive by on the busy street and convinced himself they slowed to figure out if they knew the man walking to the shop. At the same time, he was sure the people in the cars idling at the stoplights eyed him crossing the parking lot.
The door handle into the Boudoir Noir was hot, but then the whoosh of cool blowing air hit his chest and cooled his face. The coronet remained set though—burning and hidden. Hot. Throbbing. Immediately, more parts of him began to throb—uncontrollable parts. His heart and below.
The store had a wide, open show floor. Closest to the door, thin night gowns and tiny bra-and-panty sets hung on racks, like in regular clothing stores. That simplicity allowed him to take in an easier breath. He let his clinched fists open, although his hands were still tense.
Don’t go by them. They might think I wear them, he ordered himself.
Looking beyond the teddies and night clothes, there were the displays of colorful toys—dildos, vibrators—as well as plenty of lotions.
One wall was covered in videos, and, by them, an open area, like the reading section at a library.
There were oddly shaped pillows and seats with handles and restraints. Seeing the restraints, he his struggle rose again.
“I got leave,” he mumbled and gritted his teeth. “Why am I even here?”
He glanced over his shoulder to the exit.
Turning back, he noticed the opposite wall was covered in paddles and half-bodies—plastic mannequins in the shape of women and men—butts and tits and vaginas. Life-size displays of porn stars advertised sex with a molded toy that matched porn star’s pussy or his large cock.
Then he saw the far back wall. It was covered with black-leather-metal-studded body suits and cuffs, more restraints, and masks and whips.
It caught Clifford between intrigue and worry. He feared the polyester webbing of his seatbelt might have been the best restraint.
“Can I help you with something?”
The gentleman’s voice startled him. Clifford stiffened when he heard it.
Clifford forced a smile. “I’m just…” His voice trailed off.
“It’s okay, bro.” He spoke coolly and calmingly.
The man had green eyes and lean lips. It was him.
“Let me know if you need help finding anything. My name’s Craig. I think you might remember.”
“Yes.” Clifford dropped his gaze to the floor.
“In case you’re interested,” Craig said, pausing slightly, “the back room is through that doorway. It’s where the more niche items are. There’s another place for—if you need—uh, want something else. Just ring for service. I will be glad to help.”
Clifford nodded and gave a muted thank-you. He was too parched to speak aloud.
“Do you think you’ll want the key?” Craig asked.
Clifford nodded.
The broad-shouldered man walked to the cash register. He had a subtle sashay that Clifford recognized from his earliest experiences.
Craig brought back the key tagged with “R.F.S. Only”.
Before turning back, Craig urged Clifford. “And take your time. I’ll be ready to help.”
Clifford stepped to the wall of paddles, keeping his back to the salesman. His reddened face was kept hidden.
He shuffled sideways along the wall until he came to the curtained entryway. In a moment, he disappeared through it.
Beyond the curtain, a side room had a television. It was playing an interview with a Latino named Gerardo about his life as the My Little Pony Dancer. Clifford didn’t watch the interview. He was caught in heat and tension.
He noticed a separate door. A thin metal sign was screwed onto the door. It read “R.F.S. Only.”
The key fit.
Clifford entered. He flicked on the lights to a plain room. Clean. Safe. Unlike more underground clubhouses that lacked basic standards.
He sat on a low cushioned bench. He closed his eyes and eased his breathing.
Craig was a good guy. Magnetic and handsome. He and Clifford had met recently at a party downtown. After their night together, they decided to meet here, where Craig worked. It was for a quick thing.
Waiting there might well have been hours, and several times Clifford had to control his mind. He had promptings to run to the car and speed away. But he controlled those impulsions.
It was torture to have fear wrestling with desire. His chest would hurt, and the coronet would sizzle onto his scalp.
He rubbed his palms of his hands together and stared the ceiling.
Then a square pocket door slid to the side. A fully erect cock pushed through. Veiny. Thick. A mushroom head. Clifford remembered it from that one night.
Clifford dropped to his knees. He grabbed its warmth and felt its pulsations.
Fully erect, its head was red. He kissed the tip of it gently. His tongue came out to flick it, teasing and making it totter like a tree. He closed his eyes with the attention he was providing. He gripped both hands around his cock to stroke it quickly for a moment to jolt his body. Bending it down, he circled his tongue around its head and then suctioned it into his mouth. He bobbed back and forth, letting his spit lube him. Strands of the natural lube stretched from his tongue to the glistening dick.
“You know how to suck a dick.” It was Craig’s cool voice from behind the thin wall. He rocked his hips.
He pulled off and licked off the spit from his flushed lips. “I’m proud of my skills.” He shoved this dick in his mouth again. The stiffness pushed deep into him, ballooning his cheek. In a moment, feeling the cock’s shifts and a salty flavoring on his tongue, a flood of cum filled his mouth. He took the cock out of his mouth, breathing heavily.
He sat back proudly. He dabbed more spit from the corner of his mouth and then licked it off his finger.
“Damn, Cliff. You are good,” Craig said in a heave.
In a few minutes, Clifford left the key in that room. He quick-stepped through the curtain and into the front of Boudoir Noir. He noticed the Open sign wasn’t glowing.
Craig had complimented him, but Clifford was unsure about seeing him eye to eye. That may come in time. Right now, he needed to leave. He wanted to leave on his high.
As he locked the seatbelt in his car, Clifford could breathe easier. Indeed, the coronet of heat had been replaced by a crown.
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