Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Hedonistic Event
The Party by Carlos Montero
A sliver of daylight crept in where the heavy drapes barely opened - light moving like it knew its place here, shaped by Carlos Montero’s quiet control.
Inside the hall, everything shimmered with excess.
Floors gleamed underfoot, gold threads in the stone mirroring figures in dark suits - midnight, onyx, burgundy - shifting through the space. Above, glass fixtures dangled like starless night skies, their tiny facets throwing warm glimmers onto collarbones, metal buttons, fleeting hints of uncovered arms where fabric slipped free. Light danced where control thinned.
A hum filled the air, soft but clear. It didn’t shout over words, yet shaped how people moved through moments. Like a pulse tucked under skin - quiet, always there, moving things without being seen.
Carlos Montero was right there in the middle of everything.
Stillness clung to him, though the room leaned in close. Towering, seven feet of carved quiet, wide frame pressing just slightly at the seams of tailored cloth. Golden glow kissed his bronzed skin, dark hair combed tight like it had been measured twice. When he raised his drink, the ring flashed - brief, sharp - not loud, but known. Presence didn’t need noise.
He caught their attention slow. Some stepped forward sure, words shaped by hours facing glass. Others smiled shaky, masking it with costly scent and lines said too many times before. A greeting came out, a dip of the head followed. Each stayed brief, just long enough to register, then pulled back like small stars keeping distance from something brighter.
There he was, with Al "Tiny" Bolt looming up right behind.
Once, maybe, the name had drawn laughter. Not now. Just a bit above Carlos in height, yet built so dense he looked less human, more like stone that somehow breathed. Face empty of signs. Eyes dull at first glance - yet watchful in a quiet sort of faithfulness. They moved across the space without hurry, taking in everything. Palms open, fingers relaxed - but tension lived under his skin, ready. Stillness fooled nobody.
Only when others spoke would he answer.
Still, just when it has to.
A shadow moved toward Carlos, slipping past people like it had somewhere urgent to be. He turned his head just a bit, watching the way it carried itself - too smooth to ignore.
Fresh air hit when Leslie Isodore walked in, cutting through the usual haze.
Five feet tall, maybe, yet the room seemed to shrink around him rather than the reverse. Sharpness in his stance drew eyes first - clean lines, unbroken rhythm. Golden hair sat like something sculpted, not grown, each strand held firm. The suit surprised: pale, almost glowing, unlike the usual shadows near him. Around his throat, fabric shimmered just slightly - not loud, but impossible to miss when he turned.
A screen dangled from his fingers, ignored. Most of what mattered stayed locked inside his thoughts.
Certainly, Leslie remarked, sound light yet sharp, slicing past the room's low hum. Right on time, just as expected, he added without pause.
Certainly, Carlos looked around - his face changed slightly, just enough to notice. Not smiling exactly. Yet not cold either. A quiet warmth stayed behind, held in check.
"I trust that means everything is ready."
Leslie's lips curved. "Ready is such an unambitious word."
A quiet motion of his hand pointed to the distant edge of the room. There, beyond flowing sheets of see-through cloth, stood a slightly elevated stage hidden from clear view.
"The first act begins in twelve minutes," he said. "We have a trio of aerial performers descending from the upper rigging. Silks imported from Virelli Textiles, hand-dyed, reinforced. They'll move in synchronized patterns above the crowd, just low enough to make people feel like they could reach them if they tried."
A whisper of motion caught the eye - just then, shapes stirred beyond the tiles overhead.
"After that," Leslie continued, "we transition into the main floor. The dancers will emerge from the side corridors. Minimal costuming, high choreography, very controlled lighting. It's meant to feel... intimate, even in a room like this."
A quiet moment passed before Carlos lifted the glass again, his gaze drifting where Leslie had pointed.
"And the rest?"
A quiet shift crossed Leslie’s face, her grin widening just enough. A spark of playfulness slipped into view, there and gone like a shadow at noon.
"We prepared for your guests private rooms along the east wing. Each one, themed differently. Velvet lounges, mirrored chambers, even a few more... experimental environments for those who prefer something less conventional. Everything was designed for excess, luxury and debauchery."
Just a small tilt forward, then he softened his words.
"And of course, the live performances you requested. Carefully curated. Tasteful, but undeniably indulgent."
Ah, Carlos let his breath go - just a hush, really - and it carried something close to satisfaction.
"You always understand the assignment."
A slight tilt of Leslie's head met the compliment, received like something familiar. He carried it well, as if grace were routine.
"I aim to exceed it."
Out of the corner, a shift started when staff moved around holding trays stacked with clear glasses - amber and golden drinks inside, names on them meant for people who never needed receipts. The air changed as they walked by.
For just a second, Carlos kept his eyes on the room before shifting toward Leslie again.
"You've done well," he said. "Better than well."
Something solid sat in those sentences. Not cash, but a nod - this one meant more than Leslie's paycheck ever could.
"And I take care of those who do well for me."
A small change came over Leslie’s stance. Interest sparked.
Fingers lifted, just a small motion - yet firm, unmistakable. Carlos moved them like that on purpose.
A shape moved out from near the wall. One more person came into view.
Water flowed through his steps, not muscle or bone. Most people here wore confidence like armor - tight shoulders, sharp eyes - but not him. His calm bent the air nearby, quiet yet impossible to ignore. The way he shifted drew attention without asking.
Worn clothes set him apart - plain by design. Not flashy, yet sharp: a close-cut shirt with the top buttons loose, cuffs turned up past strong arms. Hair draped gently across his forehead, like it didn’t care to be perfect. Quiet humor curled around his mouth, eyes calm, taking it all in.
His head dipped low as Carlos came into view. He gave a small bow when he saw him nearby.
"Boss."
A touch landed on Chandler's shoulder, light but claiming. Carlos left it there just long enough to mean something.
"Leslie," he said, "this is Chandler Stone. One of my best."
Her gaze moved fast across Chandler, taking him in at once, pleased by his look and making no effort to pretend otherwise.
"Clearly," he said.
A quiet grin spread across Chandler's face, unhurried - as if he held a secret others hadn’t caught yet.
"I've heard about you," he said to Leslie. "You're the reason nights like this actually work."
A quiet chuckle slipped out of Leslie. "Sweet words open every door."
He moved away a little, leaving room between them.
"Consider this a thank you," he said. "Take the time. Enjoy it. After the night is over, take him with you. I've spoken to the captain of my yacht. He will be expecting you two to take you on a three day holiday so you can get to know each other."
It didn’t require more words. The sense of it showed itself plainly.
For just an instant, Leslie looked at Carlos, a quiet warmth moving from one to the other without words. A real thankfulness showed, not forced, simply there.
"Thanks," he whispered, voice barely above a breath.
Out past the sidewalk, the structure seemed plain, just old brick warmed by time. Inside, sound hammered through corridors, beating against corners like it was trying to escape. Those worn orange blocks gave no hint of the noise within, hiding everything under silence. What stood there looked forgotten, maybe even empty - until you stepped closer.
Scattered across Halo City stood several properties under Carlos’s name. Where the elite indulged in secret luxuries, far removed from public reach due to strict religious rule. Word of his gatherings spread quietly through trusted circles. His parties became myths whispered after midnight.
Midnight crept forward behind locked walls, where Carlos Montero's world still stirred - quiet, relentless, feasting on secrets buried under a city playing blind. It throbbed low and steady, built in silence, thriving just out of sight.
Out there, people stared wide-eyed at the nearly naked dancers. Thick excitement hung around, pulling everyone into its grip - hunger building fast. A grin tugged at Carlos's mouth just before he slipped behind thick fabric folds. Down the corridor strode that towering shape of his, sure-footed steps leading him straight to a tiny door waiting at the far edge.
A strange calm came over him as Carlos reached into the tailored pocket of his jacket, pulling out a row of worn beads. Knees met tile with a hush, the ground almost quivering beneath him. Quiet words slipped through his lips, spoken low in a tongue most would never know. Each bead moved between his fingers while he murmured lines behind shut eyelids.
A hint of scented smoke curled through the air just as he finished the third prayer. His eyelids lifted - swirls danced close, brushing near like quiet hands folding into form. Out of the haze rose a figure, old in appearance, draped in loose cloth and wearing fabric wound about his head.
Out of nowhere, words tumbled in riddles, like secrets piling up between them. Hands pressed tight, not stiff but soft, shaped more by honor than fear. Then - light touch - the ghostlike man laid fingers on the crime lord’s shoulder, calm as morning.
Far beyond the door, laughter still spilled through hallways. With clockwork timing, Leslie’s arrangements unfolded like scenes from a script already memorized. Men drifted into clusters - pairs here, knots of three or four there. Music floated behind them as they slipped away, vanishing down corridors toward dimly lit chambers. Throughout, acts of sex outside marriage unfolded alongside secret watching. Leslie felt sure his efforts had paid off.
A figure of pale skin scanned the space, hunting for Chandler. Through decorated halls he moved, then - there - he spotted him inside the Garden Room before long.
Framed by hedges trimmed into cones, the room felt like spring trapped under glass. Among stone nymphs and ivy-covered arches, eyes landed on a fountain’s mist. There, past the spray, stood a broad-shouldered figure - Chandler - his shadow stretching long. Beside him, small but unmistakable, was the face Leslie hadn’t expected to see.
One day, Richard Pratt led the Proclamation Enforcement Agency - tasked with tracking down those who broke the official rules. This group operated under the courts, hunting offenders without warning. Leslie understood the decrees mostly targeted ordinary people, never touching the rich or influential. Seeing Pratt appear in person felt expected, almost routine.
Leslie saw Chief Pratt sink to his knees on the fake grass. Chandler dropped his slacks and underwear without ceremony. Aware that Leslie was watching, and winked at him from a distance. The prostitute’s oversized cock sprung forward.
The hustler’s long, veiny member seemed intimidating even to an experienced sexual being like Leslie. The violet cock head, covered by an overhanging fleshy foreskin. Looking impossibly stiff and below it, a pair of low-dangling testicles nestled between his thick thighs. Chief Pratt appreciated the manly musk coming from the hired man because his mouth salivated as the cock throbbed an inch away from his clean shaven face.
"Start sucking. I like a sloppy blowjob." Chandler grinned and slapped Pratt's face with his rock-hard prodigious member.
The Chief didn't waste time to open his mouth wide to obey the demand. Quickly becoming apparent to Leslie that the top law enforcement ex-director was a deviant himself - according to his own definition. The man accepted the long dick into the depths of his throat. The cock tasted salty, sweaty and manly which made him moan audibly.
Chandler knew how to orchestrate his performance. To fulfill the submissive desires of the men who hired him, without crossing the fine line. He knew his ample cock was not easy to deep throat. Crude, he grabbed a fistful of silver hair and pulled him onto his stiff cock.
"Yeah, swallow my cock, come on, all the way, you little bitch!" Chandler shouted, aware that Leslie and the others were watching.
Chief Pratt let out an indiscernible sound sentence because of the cock stuffed in his mouth.
Drool poured out of the corners of his mouth. Chandler flashed a wide smile at Leslie again. His relentless thrusting into the straining mouth eventually won.
"Come on, bitch. You’re almost there. Here, I’ll help you!" Chandler held Pratt's head with both hands and shoved his cock deeper with determination.
The Chief gagged and rolled his eyes in a short panic. He seemed determined to obey Chandler. He and his mighty cock won the battle against the narrow throat opening, breaking in all the way down.
"There you go faggot! How's it taste?" Chandler asked lewdly while he pulled his cock out for a few seconds allowing the influential man to breathe.
Roles of power had reversed. The wealthy man, able to mobilize armies on his word, knelt before a hustler, servicing him and his cock, gladly accepting his verbal abuse in front of witnesses. Leslie understood the man’s mental state because he had experienced that deep submissive state many times.
"Tastes like a real man," Chief Pratt replied submissively.
"You bet it does, you little slut. Feed on a real man’s cock." Chandler shoved his cock into Pratt's throat again. Leslie could tell that he enjoyed abusing submissive men.
His throat relaxed. It allowed Chandler to pound with abandon. The sounds of the cascade behind them masking the Chief’s gasps and moans. Spit flowed like the waterfall slathering the cock with drool eventually dripping down his ball sack.
Chandler pulled his cock out of the sloppy wet mouth before turning around. He stepped out of his slacks and placed a foot firmly on the park bench behind him.
"Suck my asshole, bitch. I know you want to, you filthy pig," he ordered.
The Chief’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. Without any hesitation, he shoved his aristocratic face into Chandler's hairy crack, inhaling deeply. Chandler let out a lewd chuckle.
"Fuck yeah, you dirty whore. Lick it!"
The ex-chief found Chandler's ass to smell the musk and sweat. There was no question in Leslie’s mind that the funk of a stud's ass crack was aphrodisiac. Chandler felt the temperature between his ass cheeks burning hot. His virgin, tight red manhole twitched right in front of Pratt's face.
"You like that, Don’t you? Dirty whore!" Chandler asked.
The Chief pressed his nostrils against it and sniffed as if it would be the last time. He grunted. "Fuck yeah. I love your muscle ass!"
Chandler chuckled. "Come on, suck it. Make out with it like you do with your wife."
In any other situation, a comment like that would have triggered the man to throw his influence around to punish anyone who dared. But, in that state, Chandler’s words sounded like celestial music. He licked and sucked the man hole with hopeless devotion. Pushing his tongue against it, he found it tough and tight like rubber. The salty taste blanketed the man’s tongue
He seemed ravenously hungry as he abandoned the impenetrable sphincter opening to drive his meaty lips all over Chandler's muscle buttocks. With reverence, he kissed and worshiped them, as some twisted show of respect for a man far superior than himself.
"Please fuck me. Would you please fuck me?" Chief Pratt begged all of a sudden.
Chandler turned around again and slapped his face with the massive cock as he had before.
"You want me to fuck your faggot cunt?"
Pratt nodded submissively. "Yes, sir, please. Please!"
Chandler grinned, his body covered in a glistening layer of sweat. His muscles glistened under the artificial lights simulating a sunset against the wall.
"Beg, bitch!"
"Please, fuck me. I beg you. Turn me into a whore." The man lowered his face to the ground, chanting meekly.
"Fine, you pathetic fag. Turn around and bend over the bench. Spread those legs." Chandler commanded. "I'll give you what you need, bitch!"
He obeyed immediately while Chandler pulled down his shorts, exposing the man’s round fuzzy ass. The hustler’s preference was different than the chief, but he knew where the money was. He much preferred smooth skin and soft lips like Leslie’s. Still, he had a job to do and he would do it as the professional he was.
Chandler reached for the crystal pump bottles strategically spread throughout the spaces. A touch that showed the attention to detail. It was why Leslie was the premier party planner for the rich and powerful. He pumped a copious amount into his hand and slathered up and down his magnificent uncut cock. Leslie watched without reacting. Chandler mouthed an inaudible thank you for the lubricant to Leslie.
"You got a fucking tight hole, little man!" Chandler said as he slid his index finger in the awaiting man’s hole.
"It's all yours. Take it. It’s for you."
"That’s a good slut."
Chandler shoved his cock head into the Chief’s tight pucker. “Ah. Fuck! You’re so big!” The man shouted in pain. The hustler smacked the back of the man’s head as a signal to pipe down.
"You begged for it, faggot. There’s no bitching about it now. Come on, relax that hole and let me in, bitch!" Chandler shouted in his ear.
The man took a profound breath that helped relax his stinging sphincter. It was no secret to either of them that the rich man often hired Carlos’s boys. Word got around that the Chief liked it to hurt. Chandler shoved more of his rigid cok inside.
"That's it. Loosen up. Come on. Embrace that pain, faggot!" Chandler provoked.
"Yes. Ah, fuck. It hurts so bad," Pratt confessed.
"You asked for it. Now take it, bitch. Take it all the way," Chandler ordered. "I'll make you walk funny for a week, pussy boy."
"Fuck, it's so big!"
"I know. Biggest one in the stable. You’re getting what you paid for, cunt," Chandler whispered in his ear.
"Oh, fuck!" The man moaned and whined.
Slowly, Chandler invaded the man’s resisting rectum. The oversized cock triumphed with one merciless ram.
“Ah!” Chief Pratt screamed. His eyes saw bright stars from the intense pain as it ripped the hole open.
"Hell yeah, bitch! Now you're gonna get what you came here for," Chandler said.
The hustler leaned against the shorter man. His smooth abdominal muscles pressed against the man’s back. Chandler’s hands wrapped around his waist, providing him with leverage to thrust wildly.
Chandler fucked unapologetic. Hard and fast his pelvis clapped against Chief Pratt's butt cheeks as his pendulous testicles slapped against Pratt's own like billiard balls in play. Some of the men around took notice of the herculean way the hustler used the man’s body. They got closer with every minute.
But Chandler didn’t care. He was no stranger to performing while being watched. He banged and pounded louder and louder as more guests gathered to witness. It was a sleazy scene, almost too much for Leslie to continue watching.
"I'll teach your hole a lesson, faggot!" Leslie heard Chandler shout before stepping back.
"Fuck. Yeah. So fucking big." Chief Pratt shouted in response, panting like an animal in heat.
He dug his fingers into the delicate skin of the man’s waist. Harder than ever, his plowing motion accelerated to a frenzy. The crowd cheered at the sight.
"I'll turn that hole into a pussy," Chandler said, playing to the audience.
"Fuck yes. Yes." Pratt let out.
"You want a pussy, faggot?" Chandler smacked his ass. "I'll give you a sloppy pussy." He grinned at the other men, pounding brutally.
Chief Pratt felt his punished hole giving up, relaxing and spreading wider to allow the girth. The crowd could tell that he relished Chandler destroying his most intimate spot.
Someone from the crowd shouted. "Hell yeah. Now your fucking hole is wrecked!"
Chandler didn’t fuck. He owned hole, shouting perverse obscenities the entire time. The Chief’s stiff erection leaked profusely onto the bench below.
The hustler felt the man’s hole lose its ability to twitch and pucker. He knew the relentless anal abuse would soon become too much for the man to endure anymore. The man’s dick flopped uncontrollably in the air as the fuck continued.
Chandler shouted again using the full range of his deep voice. "Fuck yeah. Give up, fag!"
Untouched, the throbbing dick of the Chief erupted in a submissive orgasm. "Oh. Ooh! I’m cumming!" he spasmed, twitching around the prostitute’s skilled cock.
"That's it, bitch! That’s your fucking reward!" Chandler said.
"Thank you. Oh."
Chandler didn’t stop. He enjoyed showing off for a crowd. Unable to protest. Spent from the effort it took to endure the fucking, the older man melted, hanging over the back of the park bench.
The Chief felt slutty and after the after glow settled, slightly embarrassed and still aroused all at once. Chandler knew it all came to a point where he would have to decide to climax or pull out. But he felt too aroused by the eyes focused on his every move.
"I’m gonna breed your fucking pussy, faggot." Chandler announced. "Ready to get pregnant, bitch?"
Chief Pratt gasped loudly. Chandler let out a deep, guttural roar before his magnificent cock exploded jets of thick semen into the man. Quickly, he withdrew while the cock, like the fountains around them continued to spew high into the air. The back of Chief Pratt soon was glazed with hot cum.
Shouts and murmurs followed from the crowd "Fuck! That is amazing!", “Who’s the stud?” Chandler smiled.
A quick dip of the head was Chandler's way of saying thanks to the clapping people. His hands moved fast to tug his shorts back into place. Wiping sweat from his brow, the player stood there with garments tucked beneath one arm, already thinking about leaving.
Floor creaking under his weight, Chief Pratt rose - only for fatigue to pull him back down onto the wooden bench. A strange calm mixed with guilt clouded his thoughts. The air hung still.
"Don't go. Please. I want to see you again," he said.
"Sure thing. That would be nice. Just talk to Carlos." Chandler responded.
Footsteps slowed when Chandler parted the group, heading straight for Leslie. Men slapped his shoulders one after another while he moved forward. Pride carried him, steady like habit had shaped every step.
"What do you think? I hope we can have more fun than that on the yacht," Chandler said.