(Note: This is an unplanned sequel to "Broken at the Bathhouse.")
Ping.
My smartphone signalled I had a text message, but I didn't recognize the number. I opened it, and as I read it, my heart sank.
"Hello, little man. 7 pm tonight, my condo."
It was Chris, the President of the Homeowners' Association. He had fucked me at a bathhouse a few weeks ago -- the first time I had ever been fucked. I was experimenting with man-to-man encounters, but on the down-low. Nobody knew about this side of me, and Chris had said he would keep it quiet for a price, paid for with my ass. I thought that was it, but I was wrong.
Chris had a corner suite on the top floor. Of course, he did. Everything he did screamed alpha male. He was everything I wasn't.
At the appointed hour, I hopped on the elevator and rode up to the 14th floor. The doors opened, and Chris stood there in the hallway. He reached in and pressed the hold button.
"Strip, little man," he said.
"Please, Chris, not here," I whispered, not wanting to be heard.
"You know, I wouldn't want to start any rumours at tomorrow's HOA meeting," he said, in a louder than necessary voice.
Fuck. I quickly doffed my shirt, sandals, shorts and underwear and held them in my hands. He still stood in the doorway, holding the button.
"C'mon, let's go, Chris," I pleaded.
He stood still. Then the elevator started making a buzzing noise, and the doors started closing automatically. He moved and I slipped quickly into the hallway, hoping nobody heard the noise.
Slowly, we started walking down the hall towards his suite. He was in no fucking hurry. We finally made it and he opened the door and entered, with me right on his heels.
"Put your shit there," he said, pointing to a small bench in the foyer.
We walked into the living room, where Chris's partner was sitting, wearing only his underwear, on the sofa. I had seen him around. Only a couple of inches taller than me, he was built like a fucking fireplug. He was in his 40s, and had closely cropped hair, no beard, and looked like he shaved his chest hair.
"I told Danny about our encounter at the bathhouse, and you know what?" Chris said. "Danny said, 'I want a piece of that.' And so, here you are little man."
"You said you wouldn't tell anyone," I cried.
"No, I said there was a price to pay, but I never said what that price was," he replied. "Let's put it this way, you're on an instalment plan. And Danny is the only one -- well, one of two, if I am to be honest -- who knows about our little encounter and your little secret life, little man."
My shoulders slumped. Who else knew? I should never have stayed in that sauna. I should have bolted immediately. That one decision was having terrible cascading consequences.
Danny got up, and told me to follow him. We walked down a hall into a room with a couch, desk and chair, and a sling hanging from the ceiling. The curtains were drawn, and a desk lamp and the light from the open door were the room's only illumination.
"Climb up," he ordered.
