Chapter 8: The Hunt
The stillness from the night before dissolved with the morning light. It was replaced by a low, buzzing anxiety, a sense of pending evaluation. Diana was quiet at breakfast, scrolling through her tablet. Marcus drank his coffee, the black leather collar hidden beneath a crewneck sweater, its pressure against his collarbone a secret touchstone.
“I have a showing this afternoon,” she said, not looking up. “But tonight, I’ve arranged another exercise. An off-site evaluation.”
Marcus’s spoon clinked against his bowl. “An evaluation?”
“Of utility. Of adaptability.” She finally met his eyes. “You are a conduit. A valve. The function is established. Now we test its versatility. Its portability.”
She explained it after he returned from work. The instructions were precise, clinical. The hotel. The time. The attire laid out on the bed was not his. On the duvet lay a sleek, black wig of shoulder-length hair, a set of silicon breast forms with adhesive backing, a padded lace bra, a short, tight skirt in charcoal grey, sheer stockings, and a pair of low-heeled pumps. There was makeup: foundation, lipstick, eyeliner.
“The objective is simple,” Diana said, leaning against the doorframe. “Go to the bar. Be approached. Be convincing. Bring him to the suite I’ve booked. The key is on the dresser.”
“Him?” Marcus’s voice was faint.
“A straight man. One who believes you are a woman. Your success is measured by his belief, and by his desire to be alone with you. I will be watching.” She didn’t specify how. He knew better than to ask. “This isn’t about your pleasure. It’s about your performance. It’s about proving that the vessel can be whatever I require it to be.”
The process of becoming someone else was a hollow, mechanical ritual. In the bathroom, he shaved his body smooth, the razor scraping away his salt-and-pepper chest hair, the hair on his legs. The silicon breasts were cold and heavy against his chest, adhering to his skin with a sickening pull. The bra helped shape them, creating a cleavage that felt like a grotesque lie. The stockings hissed as he pulled them up, the skirt barely covering his ass. The wig itched at his temples. The makeup was the worst; trying to mimic the softness of a feminine face, he ended up looking like a pale, startled parody. He avoided his own eyes in the mirror.
The collar remained. A last, secret truth beneath the high-necked blouse he buttoned over the costume.
The hotel bar hummed with a low, sultry jazz, a bass line thumping like a nervous heartbeat. The air was thick with the smell of aged whiskey, citrus peel, and the ozone scent of expensive perfume. Amber light pooled on the polished mahogany, leaving corners in deep shadow. Men in suits, some alone, some in pairs, dotted the room. His heels clicked on the hardwood, a foreign, alarming sound. He felt every eye, knowing it was paranoia, but unable to shake the sensation of monstrous exposure.
He saw his target. Diana had described him. A rugged man in his late forties, in a well-cut but slightly rumpled navy suit, alone at the bar, nursing a whiskey neat. He had the broad-shouldered, tired look of a businessman at the end of his day, not a predator, just a man looking for a pleasant distraction.
Marcus slid onto the stool two seats away, the skirt riding up his thighs. He ordered a martini, his voice pitching higher, the sound tinny and false in his own ears. He fumbled with the cocktail napkin.
The man glanced over. A brief, appreciative look that traveled from the wig down to the exposed strip of stockinged thigh. It was a look Marcus had given women a thousand times. Seeing it directed at this constructed version of himself was surreal, a wave of disorientation that was part nausea, part thrill.
“Tough day?” the man asked, his voice a pleasant baritone.
Marcus turned, forcing a smile. “Isn’t it always?” He took a sip of the martini, the gin burning. He leaned an elbow on the bar, a gesture he’d seen Diana make, letting the blouse gape slightly. The fake cleavage he knew was visible.
“Tell me about it,” the man said, signaling the bartender for another whiskey. “I’m Alex.”
“Margot,” Marcus said, the name Diana had provided feeling like ash on his tongue.
They talked. Or rather, Alex talked, and Marcus listened, nodding, laughing at the right moments, touching Alex’s forearm lightly after a joke. His nerves began to morph into a strange, hyper-alert performance. He was studying, mimicking, feeding back what a man like Alex wanted. A sympathetic ear. A flirtatious smile. A sense of availability.
Alex bought him a second drink. His knee brushed against Marcus’s under the bar. The contact was electric. Marcus didn’t pull away. He let his hand drift from the bar, down to his own thigh, then, after a charged pause, onto Alex’s. He felt the fine wool of the suit, the solid muscle beneath.
Alex’s eyes darkened. He covered Marcus’s hand with his own, his grip warm and firm. “You’re forward.”
“You’re interesting,” Marcus whispered, the lie slithering out easily now.
“This bar is getting loud,” Alex said, his thumb stroking Marcus’s knuckles. “I’ve got a room upstairs. We could get a bottle sent up. Some quiet.”
Marcus’s heart hammered against the false breast. This was the threshold. “I’d like that,” he heard himself say.
They didn’t wait for a bottle. The elevator was empty, mirrored on all sides. Marcus watched their reflection—the tall, broad man and the slender, dark-haired woman clinging to his arm. The deception was terrifyingly complete. Alex pushed him gently against the mirrored wall as the elevator ascended, kissing him. His mouth was warm, tasting of whiskey and mint. His tongue pushed past Marcus’s lips. Marcus kissed back, his mind fracturing. He was here, being kissed as a woman, and he was also floating above, watching Marcus Hollister being bent over an ottoman, collared and used. The two realities bled together, the shame of both amplifying the other.
Alex’s hands groped the silicon breasts through the blouse, squeezing. “God, you’re built,” he muttered against Marcus’s neck. The praise, meant for a fiction, ignited a pathetic spark of validation.
The suite was opulent and dim. Diana’s money. The door clicked shut, and the performative bubble of the bar popped, replaced by the stark, intimate silence of the room. Alex didn’t bother with lights. He turned Marcus and pushed him back against the door, kissing him again, harder now. His hands were everywhere, hiking up the tight skirt, pawing at the stockings, squeezing the ass he believed was a woman’s.
“Fuck, you feel good,” Alex rasped, fumbling with his belt. His cock, thick and urgent, sprang free. He rutted against Marcus’s stockinged thigh, his breathing ragged. “Suck me,” he commanded, his polite barroom demeanor sloughing away to reveal raw, hungry need.
Marcus sank to his knees, the stockings catching on the carpet. The perspective was dizzyingly familiar—the position, the act—yet the context was alien. He took Alex into his mouth. The taste was different from Julian’s, the rhythm less controlled. Alex fucked his face with greedy, shallow thrusts, his hands tangled in the cheap black wig.
“Yeah, just like that, you sexy bitch,” Alex groaned, his head thrown back. “Use that pretty mouth.”
Marcus hollowed his cheeks, his jaw aching, his own arousal a distant, irrelevant flicker beneath the layers of costume and dread. He was a tool accomplishing a task. The doctrine of the collar held even here. He serviced the need presented to him.
But Alex was too impatient. He pulled his wet cock from Marcus’s mouth. “Turn around,” he panted. “Hands on the door. I wanna fuck that tight little ass.”
The words iced Marcus’s blood. He knew. The performance shattered.
“What?” Marcus whispered, his real voice cracking through.
“You heard me. Turn the fuck around. I’m gonna break you in half.” Alex’s hands were rough, spinning him, pushing his torso against the cold wood of the door. He yanked the skirt up around Marcus’s waist, exposing the sheer back of the stockings, the plain male briefs beneath. Alex’s fingers hooked into the waistband and pulled them down.
The cool air hit Marcus’s exposed skin. Alex stilled. The frantic energy vanished, replaced by a frozen, palpable confusion. Then a low, disgusted curse.
“What the fuck?”
Alex stumbled back as if burned. Marcus stayed bent over, his briefs around his thighs, his exposed ass towards the man, the wig skewed, his eyes squeezed shut. The truth was a physical presence in the room, ugly and undeniable.
“You’re a fucking man,” Alex spat, the words thick with revulsion. “A fucking queer in a dress.”
Marcus couldn’t move. He heard the rustle of Alex pulling his pants up, the metallic click of his belt. “You sick fuck. You try to trick me?” The voice was closer now, vibrating with rage.
A hand seized the wig and tore it from Marcus’s head, sending pins scattering. He cried out. Alex grabbed a handful of his real, short hair and yanked him upright, spinning him around. In the dim light from the window, Alex’s face was a mask of betrayed fury.
“You think that’s funny?” Alex snarled, his breath hot and sour. “You think that’s a fucking game?”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus choked out, the tears coming now, hot and shameful, cutting through the makeup. “I didn’t… it wasn’t…”
“Shut up.” Alex backhanded him.
The blow was explosive, a white flash of pain across his cheekbone. Marcus stumbled, falling against a small side table, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. He tasted blood.
“I should fucking kill you,” Alex growled, looming over him. He was no longer a businessman. He was pure, volatile threat. He kicked Marcus in the ribs, not a hard kick, but a sharp, punishing jab. “You’re a disgusting piece of shit.”
Marcus curled on the carpet, shielding his head, sobbing. This was not the controlled humiliation of the warehouse or the ritualized use of Julian. This was real, violent disgust. This was the consequence of the fiction failing. The collar felt like a noose.
“Get up,” Alex demanded, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet. “Get your fucking freak show out of here before I really hurt you.”
He shoved Marcus towards the door. Marcus fumbled with his clothes, pulling up his briefs, smoothing the skirt, his hands trembling violently. He reached for the doorknob.
The door opened from the outside.
Diana stood there, impeccable in a tailored coat, her silver-streaked hair perfect. Her expression was unreadable. She took in the scene: the shattered lamp, Marcus’s bleeding lip and tear-streaked makeup, Alex’s heaving chest.
“The evaluation is over,” she said, her voice cool and absolute. She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.
Alex stared, bewildered. “Who the hell are you?”
“The architect,” Diana said simply. She looked at Marcus. “Go to the bathroom and clean up. Wait for me there.”
It wasn’t a reprieve. It was a redeployment. Marcus scrambled past her, fleeing into the bright, sterile light of the bathroom. He locked the door and collapsed against it, sliding to the floor. He heard the low murmur of voices in the suite, Diana’s calm, even tones, Alex’s rising then abruptly cut-off protests.
He didn’t understand. He clutched his aching ribs, spat blood into the pristine toilet. He stared at his reflection in the mirror—a devastated, middle-aged man in a smeared mask and a crumpled blouse, one silicon breast askew. The leather collar was the only thing that looked real.
The doctrine held, even here. The valve had been tested. It had almost broken. But she was here. She had been watching.
The conduit was damaged, but it was still hers. He waited, listening to the silence from the other room, wondering what new function would now be required.
The silence beyond the bathroom door was total. It was the vacuum after an explosion, dense and loaded. Marcus pressed a damp towel to his split lip, the cotton coming away pink. The adhesive holding the silicon breast had loosened with his sweat; it sat oddly against his ribcage, a cold, dead weight.
The door unlocked. Diana entered without knocking. She leaned against the sink, her eyes traveling over the wreckage of his disguise. She didn’t look angry. She looked analytical, like a surgeon assessing a botched but informative incision.
“He left,” she said. “After a financial discussion regarding his discretion. A surprisingly affordable man, once his outrage was monetized.”
“I failed,” Marcus whispered, the words muffled by the towel.
“You did.” She nodded, accepting it as data. “The performance was unsustainable. The foundation was weak—it relied on his ignorance, not your skill. When the foundation crumbled, the structure provoked rage, not desire.” She turned on the tap, letting the water run cool. “So we pour a new foundation. One based on transaction, not deception. You will get a second chance at getting a man off.”
She handed him a fresh towel. “Clean this mess off your face. All of it. You’re not playing a woman tonight. You’re playing something else. You are a high-class prostitute. A beautiful, expensive young man. That wig was charity shop trash. You will use what you actually are, just… polished.”
From her large leather bag, she produced different items. A slim black suit jacket, tailored and elegant. A crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. A small vial of cologne. “Put these on. Leave the shirt open two buttons. Keep your own trousers. Lose the… appendages.” She gestured at the false breasts with a flick of her fingers. “The collar stays. It will be your secret. His hands won’t go there.”
She explained the new parameters as he changed, shedding the skirt and stockings, scrubbing the makeup from his face. The panic receded, replaced by a focused numbness. A transaction. A performance with clear rules. He could understand that.
“You will find a different target. You will be confident. You will approach. You will negotiate a specific act for a specific price. You will bring him to the suite—the same suite, it’s paid for the night. I have adjusted the camera. I will be watching from the bar.” She held up her phone. “The feed is live. Do not look for me. Your task is to finish the transaction. To completion. Are you clear?”
“Yes,” Marcus said, buttoning the fine shirt. The black suit jacket fit him perfectly. He looked like a younger, sharper version of himself, a man on the prowl. The leather collar was hidden by the jacket’s lapels.
“What is the service?” Diana asked, testing him.
“A blowjob,” he said, the word clinical now.
“And the price?”
“You didn’t set one.”
“Correct. You will. Gauge his worth. Set a value on your mouth. Then prove it’s worth every penny.”
The hotel bar felt different when he re-entered. The amber light was the same, the jazz still played, but he was no longer hiding inside a costume. He was wearing armor. He stood straighter. He ordered a bourbon, neat, and scanned the room with a slow, deliberate gaze. He was no longer waiting to be chosen. He was choosing.
His eyes landed on a man in his fifties, seated in a corner banquette. He had silver hair, a sharp goatee, and was scrolling through his phone with a look of detached boredom. He wore a signet ring. His watch was a Patek Philippe. This was not a weary businessman. This was someone with money and an expectation of quality.
Marcus picked up his glass and walked over. “This seat taken?” he asked, his voice low, even.
The man looked up. His eyes, a pale grey, assessed Marcus instantly—the suit, the bearing, the open shirt. A flicker of interest. “It is now.”
“Robert,” the man said, offering a hand. His grip was firm, dry.
“M,” Marcus replied, using the initial as a brand.
They talked of nothing. The market. The city. The quality of the bourbon. It was a dance of implications. Robert’s gaze kept dropping to Marcus’s mouth. After ten minutes, Robert sighed, a theatrical sound. “I’m tired of talking. What are you doing tonight?”
“Working,” Marcus said, holding his gaze. “If the contract is right.”
Robert’s eyebrow lifted. A smile played on his lips. “Is that so? And what does a contract with you entail?”
“Discretion. Efficiency. A specific skill set.” Marcus leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “For example, I have a suite upstairs. I could give you the best fucking blowjob of your life. No strings. No fuss. Just exceptional service.” He let the vulgarity hang in the air, clean and professional.
Robert didn’t flinch. He took a slow sip of his drink. “And the rate for this… service?”
“Two thousand. Cash. Upfront.”
Robert let out a soft, appreciative laugh. “Confident. I like that.” He didn’t haggle. He reached inside his jacket and extracted a money clip, counting out twenty hundred-dollar bills on the table between them. He slid the stack toward Marcus. “Show me.”
Marcus palmed the money, the crisp bills thick in his hand. He stood. “Follow me.”
The walk to the elevator was silent. The ride up was silent. Robert’s presence was different from Alex’s; it was calm, anticipatory, a consumer about to enjoy a prized acquisition. Marcus led him into the suite. The broken lamp had been removed. The room was tidy, waiting.
“Camera,” Robert said, nodding toward a small, decorative vase on a bookshelf. It was angled toward the bed. “Yours?”
“Security for us both,” Marcus said, the lie seamless. “Ensures the transaction remains as agreed. No more.”
Robert shrugged, unbothered. “Fair. Now earn your fee.”
Marcus didn’t kneel. He guided Robert to sit on the edge of the bed. He stood before him, slowly undoing Robert’s belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a hushed whisper. He unbuttoned the trousers, drew down the zipper. Robert’s cock was already half-hard, thick and uncut. Marcus took it in his hand, feeling its weight, and sank to his knees.
He began slowly, with a teasing, expert detachment he didn’t know he possessed. He licked the shaft from base to tip, then swirled his tongue around the head, tasting the clean, salty pre-come that beaded there. He looked up, meeting Robert’s hungry gaze. “You paid for the best,” Marcus murmured. “So relax. And watch.”
He took Robert deep, swallowing him to the root in one smooth, practiced motion. He hollowed his cheeks, applying relentless suction as he pulled back, then plunged down again. He set a ruthless, rhythmic pace, his head bobbing steadily, one hand working the base, the other cupping Robert’s balls, rolling them gently. The sounds were obscene and wet—the slick glide of his mouth, the soft grunts from the man above.
“Christ,” Robert gasped, his hands fisting in the duvet. “That mouth. Your fucking mouth is a miracle.”
Marcus increased the pressure, varying the rhythm, dragging his teeth lightly along the sensitive underside before sucking hard. He was a machine of pleasure, his own identity subsumed by the mechanics of the act. He thought of the camera, of Diana’s eyes on her phone screen in the bar below. He was proving his utility. He was completing the transaction.
Robert’s hips began to stutter. “I’m gonna… fuck, I’m gonna come. Swallow it. Swallow every drop.”
Marcus didn’t need the instruction. He took the final, frantic thrusts, his throat opening, his nose pressed into the crisp silver hair at the base. Robert shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, as his orgasm hit. Marcus felt the first hot, bitter pulse hit the back of his tongue. He swallowed compulsively, greedily, as Robert emptied himself, each spurt a down-payment on his worth. He kept sucking, milking him dry until Robert shuddered and pushed him gently away.
Marcus stayed on his knees, catching his breath. He looked up. Robert’s face was slack with satiation. He leaned forward, tucking himself away, and tucked another hundred-dollar bill into the breast pocket of Marcus’s jacket. “A tip,” he said, his voice rough. “For exceeding specifications.”
Five minutes later, Robert was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The suite was silent again. Marcus stood, walking to the bookshelf. He looked directly into the hidden lens of the camera, a small, dark eye in the vase. He gave a single, slow nod.
Then he went downstairs.
Diana was at the same corner table in the bar, a glass of white wine before her, her phone face-down on the table. She watched him approach. He sat, sliding the thick stack of cash, plus the tip, across the table to her. She didn’t count it. She placed her hand over it.
“You watched,” he said.
“Every second. The negotiation was competent. The performance was flawless. It was vulgar. It was transactional. It was exactly what I required.” She took a sip of wine. “You adapted. You used what you are, instead of pretending to be what you’re not. The foundation held.”
He waited, the adrenaline beginning to fade, leaving a hollow, clean fatigue.
“The collar,” she said softly. “You’ve worn it since the gift was given. It has served its purpose. It has conditioned you. Now, I think, you have internalized its weight.” She reached into her bag. She brought out a small, velvet pouch. From it, she drew a thin, gleaming band of polished platinum. It was a simple, unbroken circle, sleek and modern. “A ring. A quieter mark. For the world you can now move through.”
She gestured. He bowed his head. With deliberate care, she unbuckled the wide leather collar and slipped it from his neck. The skin beneath felt shockingly cool, exposed. Immediately, she slid the platinum ring over his head. It settled around his throat, cool and light as a whisper, a perpetual, elegant touch.
“There,” she said, her fingers tracing the metal once. “My high-class thing. Come. Let’s go home.”
He followed her out, the ghost of another man’s spend still a faint, secret taste in his mouth, the new metal a seamless pressure against his pulse. The valve had operated perfectly in a foreign system. The conduit was proven. He walked beside her, the money in her purse, his worth quantified and accepted, wondering what market she would place him in next.