Chapter 5: Velvet Vows
A full week passed after that night on the couch, a week of light-drenched texts and shared memes. Benji sent a blurry picture of his secret stash of chili oil behind the club’s bar. Omar replied with a shot of a new, comically large mortar and pestle he’d bought at a market, with the caption, “For when I really need to grind some issues out.”
The comfort of it was dizzying. It felt like floating on a warm, calm sea after years of choppy, uncertain waves. Benji’s bartending shifts blurred into the background, his mind perpetually half in Omar’s kitchen, half replaying the feel of his lips, the sheer focus of his mouth.
Then, late on a Thursday, the notification chimed.
Omar:
Okay. I’m ready.
Benji stared at the message on his cracked phone screen. His heart did a slow, deliberate somersault. He knew exactly what Omar meant.
Benji:
Ready for?
Three dots appeared, danced, disappeared, then danced again. Benji could picture Omar chewing his lip, typing and deleting, the nervous energy palpable even through the screen.
Omar:
For the main course. All the way. I want to.
Benji sat on the edge of his own unmade bed, the sounds of his roommate’s video game filtering through the wall. This wasn’t a whispered confession in the dark. This was text on a screen, a deliberate, sober choice. It made it feel bigger, more real. He took a breath, trying to settle the sudden thrill that shot through him. He needed to be practical. He needed to be careful.
Benji:
Okay. But we gotta prep you properly. Can’t just dive into the deep end, Teta’s grandson.
Omar:
I feel prepped. I’ve done… research.
Benji snorted.
Benji:
Porn doesn’t count as research, genius. Trust me on this. My professional bartender opinion is we need a tactical acquisition mission.
Omar:
What does that even mean?
Benji:
It means we’re going shopping. Tomorrow.
Omar:
Shopping. For…?
Benji:
Butt plugs. And poppers.
There was a long, long pause. The three dots blinked like a frantic heartbeat.
Omar:
I know what the first one is. The second one… is that the stuff in the little bottles? The ‘video head cleaner’?
Benji:
That’s the one. They’re… a helpful accessory. Loosens things up. Makes it all feel incredible.
Another pause. Then:
Omar:
Okay.Okay. If we’re getting accessories… let’s get… other things too. To make the whole night magical.
Benji’s eyebrows shot up. He typed slowly, a grin spreading across his face.
Benji:
What kind of ‘other things’, habibi?
Omar:
Like… you know. Kinky underwear. Something stupid and beautiful. Something we can’t get at H&M.
Benji:
Now you’re speaking my language. Tomorrow.3 PM. I’ll send you the address. It’s discreet.
The shop, Velvet Loop, was tucked between a vegan tattoo parlor and a vintage record store in a part of the city Benji rarely visited. It had a heavy black door with a single, buzzing intercom button. A small, frosted window revealed nothing but a deep crimson glow from within. Benji pressed the buzzer, hearing the faint thump of a bassline from inside. A click, and the door unlocked with a heavy thunk.
They stepped into another world.
The air was thick, warm, and smelled of sandalwood incense, clean leather, and something else—a faint, coppery tang. The walls were a dark, plush velvet, absorbing sound. Low, ambient electronica hummed from a vintage record player behind the glass counter. The lighting was exclusively crimson and gold, casting long, dramatic shadows over displays that seemed more like art installations than product shelves. Silicone dildos in shades of opalescent pearl and slate gray rested on black velvet stands. Intricate leather harnesses, tooled with floral patterns, hung from chrome hooks. Glass cases held rows of gleaming metal plugs and polished stone eggs.
It was elegant. It was intimidating.It was beautiful.
Omar froze just inside the door, his eyes wide, drinking it all in. He looked endearingly out of place in his simple grey hoodie and jeans, like a library student who’d wandered into a den of stylish sin. Benji felt a protective surge of affection.
“Whoa,” Omar breathed.
“Told you it was classy,” Benji said, keeping his voice low to match the reverent hush of the place. An androgynous clerk with magenta hair and severe eyeliner glanced up from behind the counter, gave them a small, knowing nod, and went back to polishing a glass vase filled with intricate glass rods.
“It smells like a temple,” Omar whispered.
“A temple of getting your back blown out, maybe,” Benji murmured back, earning a sharp, stifled laugh from Omar.
They began to wander, keeping a careful, nonchalant foot apart. Benji’s fingers brushed a coil of plum-colored velvet rope as they passed. Omar drifted, seemingly hypnotized, toward a display of realistically sculpted dildos. He stopped before a particularly impressive one, cast in a shimmering dark bronze.
“That’s… um. Anatomically thorough,” Omar said, his voice tight.
Benji came up beside him, leaning close to his ear. “Think of it as avant-garde sculpture. Very… lifelike.” He let his gaze drop pointedly to the curve of Omar’s ass in his jeans. “You’d look better in leather, though.”
Omar swallowed audibly, tearing his eyes from the display. “The underwear. Where would that be?”
They found the lingerie section at the back. It wasn’t the cheap lace and polyester Benji was used to seeing. This was all high-end: French latex shorts in liquid black, jockstraps made of woven silk in emerald green, mesh bodysuits with strategic cut-outs. Omar’s fingers hovered over a pair of briefs in a shimmery, iridescent cobalt blue. They were barely-there, with a keyhole opening at the front.
“These,” Omar said, his voice firming with decision. “They look like a galaxy.”
Benji’s mouth went a little dry. He could already picture them, barely containing Omar, that slick blue fabric a stark contrast against his tan skin. “Perfect. Grab them in your size.” He spotted a hanger nearby—a simple black leather harness, minimalistic, just two thin straps that would frame everything perfectly. He plucked it off the rack. “And this. For me. To match the theme.”
Omar’s eyes flicked from the briefs to the harness in Benji’s hands. A dark blush crept up his neck. He didn’t argue, just nodded, clutching the blue fabric to his chest like a talisman.
They moved to the toy wall, a vast, intimidating array of shapes and sizes. Benji scanned the rows of plugs, looking for the right starter set. He found it: a trio of medical-grade silicone plugs on a tasteful cardboard display. Small, medium, large. A graduated, manageable progression.
“These,” he said, taking the box. “We’ll start with the small. You can practice with it.”
Omar stared at the plugs, his earlier bravado seeming to waver. “They look… clinical.”
“They’re safe. That’s the point.” Benji softened his tone. “It’s not about pain, okay? It’s about opening you up slowly. Making it so when the time comes, all you feel is the good part.”
Omar met his eyes, searching for reassurance. He found it. He gave a single, sharp nod.
Lastly, the poppers. They were in a locked, refrigerated case behind the counter. Benji approached, and the magenta-haired clerk drifted over.
“A bottle of Jungle Juice, please,” Benji said, trying to sound like he did this every day.
The clerk unlocked the case with a small key, retrieved a tiny amber glass bottle with a black screw-top, and placed it on the counter with a soft click. It looked innocuous, like a vial of essential oil.
They laid their haul on the counter: the iridescent briefs, the leather harness, the plug set, the poppers. The clerk rang them up without a flicker of expression, placing each item in a sleek, black paper bag with string handles. The total was staggering. Benji winced inwardly but swiped his card without hesitation. This was an investment.
Outside, the grey afternoon light felt harsh and unwelcome after the velvet womb of the shop. Omar clutched his bag, looking suddenly young and overwhelmed.
“Hey,” Benji said, bumping his shoulder gently. “You did good. This is just… groceries. For a very specific recipe.”
Omar managed a weak smile. “A recipe with a lot of steps.”
“The best ones always do.” Benji glanced around. The street was quiet. An idea, hot and sudden, seized him. He looked back at the black door of Velvet Loop. The clerk had said they had private viewing rooms in the back for… testing certain products.
“Come on,” Benji said, his voice dropping.“What? We just left.”
“We’re going back in. I have an idea.” He took Omar’s hand, feeling the slight resistance, and pulled him gently toward the door. He buzzed again. The same click. They re-entered the fragrant, crimson gloom.
The clerk looked up, a hint of curiosity in their eyes this time.
“Do you have a back room available?” Benji asked, trying to project a confidence he only half-felt.
A slow, professional smile touched the clerk’s lips. “For a fitting?Of course. Third door on the left. It’s unoccupied. Take your time.”
They walked past the counter, down a narrow, even darker hallway lined with more closed doors. Benji found the third door, opened it, and guided Omar inside.
It was a small, windowless room, just big enough for a single, plush velvet-upholstered bench and a full-length mirror framed in ornate, dark wood. The lighting was even lower here, a single, focused spot that made the velvet glow. The air was still, thick with the shop’s signature scent. Benji closed the door behind them. The lock engaged with a heavy, final sound.
They were sealed in. Totally, utterly alone.
Omar stood frozen in the middle of the small space, the black bags rustling in his tight grip. “Benji, what—”
Benji didn’t let him finish. He took the bags from Omar’s hands and placed them on the bench. Then he crowded him, backing him up gently until his shoulders touched the cool wall beside the mirror. The velvet texture was rough against Benji’s knuckles as he caged Omar in.
“We bought the plugs,” Benji whispered, his mouth inches from Omar’s ear. He could feel the frantic pulse in Omar’s throat beneath his lips. “Seems a shame not to try one out.”
Omar’s breath hitched.“Here? Now?”
“Where better?” Benji’s hands went to Omar’s belt, undoing the buckle with practiced ease. He popped the button of his jeans, slid the zipper down. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Omar’s jeans and boxers together and pushed them down just enough, exposing the perfect, pale curve of his ass.
Omar shivered, but he didn’t protest. He braced his hands against the wall, his head bowed. “We don’t have… lube.”
“Always prepared.” Benji fished a small, foil packet of lube from his own jacket pocket—a habit from his club days. He tore it open with his teeth, the sound sharp. He squeezed the cool, clear gel onto his fingers.
He smoothed it over Omar’s entrance, a slow, circular massage. Omar whimpered, pushing back faintly against the pressure. Benji worked one finger in, just past the first knuckle, feeling the tight, hot resistance. He waited, letting the muscle relax around him, before sliding in deeper. Omar’s head fell back against Benji’s shoulder, a low moan escaping him.
“See?” Benji murmured, curling his finger, finding the spot that made Omar jolt. “Just prepping. Getting you used to the feeling.”
He added a second finger, scissoring gently, stretching him. Omar was panting now, his hips pushing back more insistently, fucking himself on Benji’s hand. The sight in the mirror was breathtaking: Omar, half-undressed, beautifully wrecked, his own desperate reflection staring back at him as Benji worked him open from behind.
Benji withdrew his fingers, ignoring Omar’s sound of protest. He grabbed the black bag, rummaged for the box of plugs, and tore it open. He discarded the small and the large, taking out the medium. It was a modest size, a tapered silicone sphere with a flared base. He coated it generously with the remaining lube.
“Ready for your first lesson?” Benji’s voice was rough with want.
Omar, beyond words, nodded frantically against the wall.
Benji pressed the slick, cool tip against him. “Push out,” he instructed softly. “Like you’re taking a shit. It’ll help.”
Omar obeyed, a strained groan leaving his lips, and the plug’s tip popped past the tight ring of muscle. Benji pressed it steadily, slowly, watching in the mirror as the silicone sphere disappeared into Omar’s body, leaving only the flared, jewel-like base nestled between his cheeks. Omar gasped, full-bodied, his legs trembling.
“Fuck,” Omar breathed, his eyes wide in the mirror, full of shock and a dazed pleasure. “It’s… it’s in. I can feel it. It’s full.”
Benji left the plug in, resting his hands on Omar’s hips, holding him steady. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of Omar’s ear. “And this plug’s gonna stretch you so pretty for me, habibi,” he whispered, the words a dark, delicious promise. “Keep it in for a few hours tonight. Get your body used to it. Get hungry for it.”
He started to rock Omar back against him, letting the plug shift inside him with the movement, while the hard length of Benji’s own erection pressed against him through his jeans. Omar bit his lip, a tear of overwhelmed sensation leaking from the corner of his eye, his hips jerking in small, aborted thrusts against Benji’s thigh.
He was beautiful. Untouched and completely claimed, all at once. And for the first time, Benji thought not just about the night to come, but about the day after, and the one after that. This wasn’t an endgame. It was a doorway, and Omar was stepping through, holding his hand.
“Okay,” Omar panted, his voice shattered but sure, echoing in the velvet-lined quiet. “Okay. I’m ready. I’m really ready now.”
Benji held him there for another moment, feeling the tremors running through Omar’s body. He slowly, gently pulled Omar’s jeans back up over the plug, zipping and buckling them with a soft shush of fabric. The intimacy of the gesture, this simple act of care after such raw vulnerability, felt more profound than anything that had come before.
Omar turned around, his back against the wall. His eyes were glassy, his lips swollen from where he’d bitten them. He looked shattered and remade.
“You good?” Benji asked, brushing a curl from his forehead.
Omar nodded, a slow, dazed movement. He swallowed hard. “Yeah. I just… I need a minute. And I really want to smoke now.”
A laugh bubbled out of Benji, relief and affection mixing into one warm sound. “Of course you do.” He gathered their black bags, the materials whispering promises. “My place is closer. We can finish this there. Properly.”
They stepped out of the back room, the main shop feeling impossibly bright and public. Omar moved with a new, careful stiffness. The clerk gave them a bland, professional nod that somehow felt like a standing ovation. The heavy door thudded shut behind them, sealing the velvet world away.
The cool city air was a shock. Omar inhaled deeply, as if coming up for air. He took Benji’s hand, his grip firm and sure. They didn’t speak on the walk to Benji’s apartment. The silence was thick, but comfortable. It was the quiet of shared secrets, of a boundary crossed.
Inside Benji’s messy studio, the normalcy of his unmade bed and scattered laundry was a strange comfort. Omar went straight to the window, pushing it open to let in the sounds of the street below. He pulled his small wooden box from his jacket pocket, his movements ritualistic and calm.
Benji watched him roll the joint on the windowsill, his stained fingers precise. He lit it, the familiar sweet scent cutting through the apartment’s stale air. Omar took the first long pull, holding it before passing it to Benji. They smoked in silence, shoulder to shoulder, watching the late afternoon light fade.
“Does it… feel weird?” Benji finally asked, his voice quiet.
Omar considered, taking the joint back. “Yes. But not a bad weird. It’s a… presence.” He exhaled a slow, thoughtful stream of smoke. “A reminder.”
“Of?”
“Of you,” Omar said, simply. He turned his head, his eyes clear and direct now. “And of what I asked for. What I’m choosing.”
The blunt honesty of it hit Benji square in the chest. He took the joint, his fingers brushing Omar’s. “You can change your mind. Any second. Even in the middle of it. You know that, right?”
Omar’s smile was small but unwavering. “I know.” He took the joint for one last hit before putting it out. “I won’t.”
The decisiveness in his voice left no room for argument. Benji took the black bags and emptied their contents onto his bed. The cobalt briefs shimmered against his grey sheets. The leather harness lay coiled, dark and serious. The plug set and the little amber bottle sat beside them like surgical instruments.
“Okay,” Benji said, his bartender’s efficiency taking over. He picked up the small bottle of poppers, unscrewing the black cap. A sharp, chemical scent, like overripe bananas and nail polish remover, filled the space between them. “This is the video head cleaner. You don’t drink it. You just… inhale. It’s a rush. It opens everything up—your lungs, your head, your…” He gestured vaguely downward. “It only lasts a minute. But it helps. A lot.”
Omar nodded, watching intently. “Show me.”
Benji brought the open bottle to his own nose, tilted his head back, and took a short, sharp sniff. The hit was immediate: a crushing warmth flooded his sinuses, rushed down his spine, and exploded in a heady dizziness behind his eyes. His muscles went loose, his vision tinged at the edges with a sparkling static. He exhaled with a rough gasp, the world snapping back into sharper, more vivid focus a moment later.
“Whoa,” he breathed, shaking his head to clear the last of the buzz. “See? Fast in, fast out.”
He handed the open bottle to Omar. Omar stared at it, then at Benji’s face, which was still flushed from the hit. He mimicked Benji’s posture, brought the bottle to his right nostril, and inhaled.
His reaction was more violent. His whole body stiffened, his eyes flying wide. He jerked back, coughing once, a hand flying to his chest. “Holy shit,” he rasped. “It’s like… the world just dropped out from under me for a second.” A slow, dizzy smile spread across his face. “Okay. Yeah. I get it.”
“Good.” Benji recapped the bottle, setting it aside. He picked up the leather harness, the cool straps smooth in his hands. “Now this. For me. To hold everything in place.” He stepped into it, pulling the straps up his thighs, adjusting the waist, clipping the O-ring at the front. It was a simple, functional thing, but wearing it felt like donning armor. It shifted his posture, made him feel focused, deliberate.
Omar watched, his lips slightly parted. He’d gone very still.
Benji then held up the iridescent briefs. “And these. For you. To make you feel like a galaxy.”
Omar took them. His hands were steady as he undressed, pushing his jeans and boxers down, stepping out of them. The plug was clearly visible now, the dark silicone base nestled between his cheeks. He didn’t try to hide it. He stepped into the briefs, pulling the shimmering fabric up his legs. They were even more breathtaking than Benji had imagined. The sheer blue material hugged every curve, the keyhole front leaving just enough to the imagination.
“Look,” Benji said softly, guiding Omar by the shoulders to stand before his cloudy, full-length mirror.
Omar looked. He saw his own reflection: a young man wrapped in a slice of midnight sky, with a secret stretching him open from within. He saw Benji behind him, a study in black leather and intent. The contrast was stark, erotic, and strangely honest.
Omar reached back, his fingers brushing over the plug’s base through the thin fabric. A shudder ran through him. “It feels bigger now,” he murmured, his voice thick.
“That’s the point,” Benji said, his hands settling on Omar’s hips. He met Omar’s gaze in the mirror. “You still want the main course?”
Omar held his look, his dark eyes reflecting no fear, only a deep, resolute hunger. He leaned back against Benji’s chest, the leather cool against his bare shoulders.
“Yes,” he said, the word final. “I’m starving.”