Mariah.

The Perfect Drug [M]

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oOo5rcG.gif You make me hard when I'm all soft inside
On February 13th, 1967, Dawson Clarke’s green eyes—brimming with hope and joy—first absorbed the light of day. Now, 33 years later, it was the lack of light which animated his purest form of spirit; the dark of night, ornamented by moonlight, and the shadows falling from above like linen curtains, all giving second life to the Olympia prince. As he passed through adolescence and entered adulthood, the duality of his lightness and darkness became addictive, as did how they worked in harmony. It was the shadows caused by the light which helped him thrillingly hide in plain sight during the day hours, and during the night hours, the street lamps and neon signs illuminated his sharp, seductive features and gave sight to all his sinful ways. Now, on his 33rd birthday, he found himself caught in the late hours between night and day, as the indoor pool party took form just below his mansion bedroom, where he was hidden as he prepared to greet his guests. Just like his dual presence during the day and night, two celebrations were regularly held for Dawson Clarke, especially given how momentous of an occasion he and the fellow Olympians considered his anniversary. Every year, the eve of Valentine’s day, the entire city would hunger for a taste of what took place during Dawson’s massive, private parties. But for this party, only his innermost circle and those they ultimately trusted were allowed secured presence.

Carefully admiring his own reflection to inspect the final touches being made to his grooming, Dawson’s brief recollection of his recent recurring nightmares and hallucinations, as well as his quiet mourning of his mother, is interrupted once his cell phone begins to sound. He glances across his night table to see the ID of his lover, Nathaniel, who he’d lately been ignoring, feeling newly scorned. A poisoned apple was the shade his eyes nearly redden into, as he glares at the contrasting green screen, the emotions throughout his mind warping into a dizzying tornado. He grabs hold of the device before scoffing, and forcefully throws it into his master bedroom fireplace, inciting a burst of sparks upon impact. No,” he verbally refused. There was no way in hell Nate would become the focus of his 33rd birthday, especially not after the latest and worst form of treachery. Cracking his neck and wrapping his tight, chiseled waist with a luxurious white towel, he steps outside to meet his entourage, eager for tonight’s distraction and celebration. Slowly then, the pack make their way deep down into the sea of fellow gay men, and few women, who made up his veil—his homoerotic secret society. The crowd which regularly concealed his darkest mysteries; who allowed him to fully drown in his wild, wicked, unholy acts and tap into his most live self. They were soulless bodies, mostly, swimming around his pitch black waters like eels, having been plagued by pain so much they’d become numb. All they cared for now was the rush—the high—the underworld brought. Their souls belonged to the prince; to Dawson.

As Dawson confidently struts through the crowd, he looks into the pool of his private, custom bath house, which nearly overflows with younger, chiseled, naked men. And posed on platforms framing the edge were hired harpists, as well go-go dancers and adult entertainers, dressed in nothing but tiny silver metallic g-string underwear, with a matching coat of silver body shimmer, setting their skin aglow. But one hypnotic dancer in particular suddenly enraptured the bachelor. He was immensely tall, his body lean and taut as could possibly be rewarded. His ass sat perfectly above his stallion legs, as his undergarments split through the middle of the mouthwatering sculpture. His jawline appeared as though it could cut through any flesh, most of which Dawson wanted to be his own…

Reaching over for this evening’s selection of disorienting candy, the birthday boy slowly places the pill to dissolve on his tongue, whilst he continues to admire the art piece meters away, hoping the stranger would notice amidst the dreamscape.
MONTY
@parzival
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oOo5rcG.gif I come along, but I don't know where you're taking me
Beads of sweat rolled over River’s skin, giving his bare shoulders and chest a glossy hue, one that glistened beneath the flashing lights decorating the ceiling. He was barefoot atop one of the platform’s, his arms raised over his head while he gyrated his hips to the beat of the trip-hop track currently reverberating off the walls. The bass was so loud he could feel it echoing through his body, like surround sound speakers. The chosen attire for the evening’s event left very little to the imagination. A metallic g-string that was skin-tight to his lower half, it evoked a rather lascivious feeling.

River slid one hand slowly down his other arm in a seductive manner. The dancer opened his eyes, breaking his inner vibe with the music to survey the crowd of rich, party-goers. He flashed those he made eye contact an impish grin, Dawson being one of those people. His teeth were as perfect as his muscular build. At the next bass drop, River dropped too. He caught himself with his hands, his arms slowly lowered into a push-up position that easily broke the fall. It was quite the able-bodied show of strength, a little trick that excited the crowds as much as a standing back tuck or a handstand would. Now on all fours, it was a lot easier for him to make use of his hips and lower body, a part of his gig’s where he saw the most flashes of green being pulled out of pockets.

At the end of the song, River slid off the platform. Another dancer weaved their way out from the crowd and took his place on the 'stage'. It was River’s turn to work the floor for the next ten songs or so. This meant conversing, giving massages and lap dances, and perhaps even following someone to a private room . . . with promise of a generous tip, of course. Hands reached out for him while he slowly made his way through the crowd, running over his arms and legs, and some even grabbing at his ass. People would slip crumpled bills into his waistband, and more timid one’s would hold them out for him to take. With no one pulling him aside in that moment, River made his way to the large bar for a drink. Nothing loosened up a dancer’s body like some alcohol or a party favor, considering no one had slipped anything under his tongue yet, a shot or two would be the next best thing.

Flagging down one of the bartender’s, he pulled out a few crumpled bills and tossed them on the counter. “Just a shot! Something strong, thanks.” River raised his voice a few octaves, having to shout over the blaring music. Honestly, his eardrums would probably burst before he was thirty. Fuck it though, it was worth it. River worked in downtown Los Angeles at a long-standing gay club known as Rage and had been for about two years. Dancing was something he always enjoyed doing, whether at parties or in his own room. Making a living off of it was beyond brilliant, and a lot better than what his résumé consisted of before. He was hired out for events like these quite often. This meant that he didn’t always know who the owner of the location was, or what the party was even for. He just showed up.

Perhaps this was why Dawson was nothing more than another face that blended into the crowd. And if either were a fortune teller, maybe they would both wish that it stayed that way.
MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif You make me hard when I'm all soft inside
Dawson just couldn't manage to look away, every muscle movement from the object of his desire he immediately had memorized like a monologue. But he was biding his time before he took center stage, having been here before—in front of a similar backdrop and audience—not long ago, and still reeling over the lover he was freshly scorned by. His deja vu was all consuming the more his senses would heighten, just as the elixir dissolved on his tongue, laced his saliva and seeped into his bloodstream, thereafter running with the strong river current to his cerebrum. His pupils dilate and the air in his lungs develop a saccharine taste. Or perhaps it was the lingering flavor of the sweet strawberries a rare naked woman would gleefully feed him, whilst he otherwise remained caught by the distant dancer's fine form, the flesh of the fruit being all he could imagine the younger male's ripe body very much tasted like. "Fuck," he'd murmur as his eyes stretch wide. He'd never seen a man more beautiful, more enchanting, more sexually attractive. The energy he radiated had the pull of Earth's gravity, Dawson finding his own bare body move closer and closer against his will, despite still wanting to remain far in attempt to hold to his pride. He couldn't approach the stranger—not as of yet. It was his own day; it was he who should be served and approached.

And such was the case as time gradually swept by, many a man vying for the birthday boy's attention and battling to be a slave to the royal. Carved muscles create friction against Dawson's own, and mouths surf atop the shallow coating of sweat on his neck. Organs hidden away by the light of day were willingly exposed amidst the cloud of sin covering over the soirée, the lengths of the organs which would graze the inner surface of Dawson's muscular thigh. It all proved a temporary distraction. That was until, through the crowd, he catches sight of him again, timed as his own cock makes a mold out of the fabric of his white speedo. His shaft was perfused to near eruption, the girthy body part attempting to force itself to tear through its thin barrier while his muddled fantasies of the stranger are all he could manage thoughts of. Finally, Dawson decides to stroll over, but opts to order a drink instead of making the first verbal remark. It was his birthday.
MONTY
@parzival
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Posted (edited)

oOo5rcG.gif I come along, but I don't know where you're taking me
His fingers drummed absently across the bar-top while he waited for his drink. Even when River wasn't dancing, the vibration of the music pulsated through his veins, igniting his limbs with electricity. The impulse to jump on top of the bar and give into the music was a strong one. He was smart enough to refrain. The bartender probably would not be a fan of his bare feet being anywhere near his counters.

River decided to take a seat in one of the stools instead, allowing his fingers to satisfy his cravings as they continued to drum to the beat. The chair was quite cold against his bare ass, but sometimes little victories were worth the sacrifice. River was on his feet from the moment he arrived at the event, and this was the closest thing to a break he'd had in the hours since. The bartender soon returned with his shot. He slid it down the counter to River who stopped it with his hand. "Appreciate it man!" He thanked the fellow worker.

The small glass was then raised to his lips. He threw the fiery liquid back with skill that could rival a frat boy's. Drinking was an activity River was into long before he was even of legal age. The system kids needed something to do to pass the time and block out the lingering sadness. He was ten or eleven when he was first brought back to the boys home in a police cruiser, a few of his buddies in tow. He could still remember the look on his case manager's face the following morning. That did not go over well.

Screwing up was nothing new to River. In fact, he screwed up enough to call it a pastime. Only River would slide off the stool and turn around in the same exact moment the birthday man himself was walking up. Of course, when River found himself face-to-face with the handsome stranger, he had no idea who Dawson was. If he did, he would have responded in a manner that was a lot more polite than this. "Oh shit, sorry." River came to a sudden stop, mere inches from the other's face. "I didn't see you, bro. Did you want a dance or somethin'?" The alcohol was fresh on his breath, potent enough that the other male could likely taste it in the air. A dazzling smile filled his face then, his signature grin of sorts. It was the one he brandished whenever he felt like he was in a situation where he might be in trouble. Pair that with his innocent blue hues, and no one could ever stay peeved with him for long. Well, most of the time.
MONTY
@Mariah.
Edited by parzival
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oOo5rcG.gif You make me hard when I'm all soft inside
"Perhaps a name and proper introduction, to start," Dawson arrogantly probes with a fixed gaze, running his eyes across the scape of the man's body once more, as the blood confined to Dawson's own continues to stir on its way to his shaft. "Unless you thought this was going to be a business transaction or something? In which case you'd be sorely mistaken. This is my bathhouse, after all, and my birthday party. The Dawson Clarke. So I don't intend to have to pay for your time or services. I'd rather do without. Which would be a crying shame considering the fact you're really, really sexy, and quite frankly, I'd do amazing, mind-blowing things to and with you. You deserve to be spoiled; worshipped. On my terms, of course, if I have your consent. May I?" His quick request for permission is immediately—without answer—followed by the friction of his hands over the dancer's abdominal muscles. His fingertips cut across every shallow ravine where the perspiration would gather, Dawson's heightened senses near able to accurately decipher the temperature of the liquid forming. The younger man felt so good, thus far. His skin was soft like cotton and likely tasted like candy. But despite his conjecture, he wouldn't be satisfied unless he knew for sure.

As his loose hands drag across the waistband of the dancer's nearly non-existent underwear, the fabric slightly folds downward before snapping back into place, just as Dawson curled his fingers and pulled away. With every limb on his body overcome with tremors, his mind drifts further and further into the kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and emotions while the ecstasy hit, all his senses mounting their peak. He'd reached his high, having swiftly forgotten those down below: his brother, his mother, his ex. The only entity capable of reaching him was the angel before him, if he'd submit to the wings on his back and drift upward in flight, toward the alluring, magnetic the royal.
MONTY
@parzival
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oOo5rcG.gif I come along, but I don't know where you're taking me
The rather indignant stare he was fixed with faintly surprised River. Throw in the domineering tone that laced the older gentleman’s words, and River became well aware of the power dynamic. There was a difference between the usual customer who would frequent the club and a customer the club felt honored to welcome into its four walls. A dancer could usually tell the shift in client base the moment the customer walked in. But here? Everyone looked the same. Everyone looked like they could be British royalty and flew in on their private jet just for the event. It wasn’t until the pompous man introduced himself that River’s demeanor completely changed. His jaw dropped ever so slightly, this stupefied expression muddled his handsome features. He barely heard the rest of the words that left Dawson’s . . . inviting lips. His mind was still caught on the familiarity of the name, to which he failed to pinpoint. Not yet.

“I—“ His attempt at speaking was cut off abruptly when he felt the other’s rough palms press against his abdomen. River’s chin tilted down, his blue gaze watching in anticipation as Dawson’s fingers trailed lightly over his skin, following the curve of his muscles all the way down to the waistband of his trunks. With the snap of the fabric, he also snapped back to reality. It wasn’t until that moment that River realized he’d been holding his breath. His mind seemingly wandered to a darker, sexier place, much like Dawson’s hand. He had an inclination that that was Dawson’s intent all along.

River wasn’t like the rest of the dancers here. He was not the type to bow down to authority, and he certainly wouldn’t submit to someone just because of weight their name carried. As he raised his head up, his own blue eyes tore over the man’s fit form, the suit that concealed his features left ample room for one’s imagination. It only deepened the sensation that ignited his veins; desire. “It would be an honor to service you on your special night, The Dawson Clarke.” Substituting proper pronouns in favor of mirroring the brazen way Dawson introduced himself seemed like something no one would ever dare to do, which is exactly why River did. This was a man that never heard ‘no’. A guy who was rarely challenged. When it came to sharing an intimate night with someone, there was nothing more boring. And the last word anyone would use to describe a night with River, was boring. This cheeky grin tugged at his lips, the impish manner he was regarding the other with only becoming more apparent. “The name’s River, but you can call me whatever you want, seeing how it’s your birthday and all.”
MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif You make me hard when I'm all soft inside
"That's a little bit extreme, don't you think?" Dawson sniggers at River's apparent sarcasm, despite being aroused by the offer in theory; the thought of such a finely crafted man under his full power. No feelings. No emotions. No threat of treachery to derail the lecherous nature of their relationship. At present, it's all the birthday boy could wish for, having sacrificed his humanity over time as it continued to only ail him and cause a great deal of pain. His voice lowers in volume, a strategic move to rope his prey closer to him so the male could hear him more clearly. Dawson knew his seductive charms, and was more than willing to use it to his advantage given the potential challenge ahead of him. "Extreme as in calling you whatever I want, as though you're my fucking slave. It's a bit archaic, as well. I'd prefer it if you had a mind of your own; one which wanted me as badly as I did you. Unless you'd like to be my slave, that is? Do you enjoy that; having men claim ownership over you and your..." he takes pause distracted the sight of River's body yet again, his blatant fawning over him repeating every few moments, influenced by the drug in his system. "Wow. To claim ownership over your incredibly sexy, sexy body? Does that turn you on? As a matter of fact, what does turn you on, specifically? I'd love to know. As I said, you're the type of boy I'd enjoy exalting. It may be my birthday, but I have many a gift to share with others." 

His heightened sense of smell drags the scent from off the younger man, into his widened nostrils; a salted caramel, the thin coat of sweat adding the brininess to his delicious natural aroma.
MONTY
@parzival
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oOo5rcG.gif I come along, but I don't know where you're taking me
“Ah, but wouldn't it be much more fun for you to find out as the night ages?" River inquired of the other, his voice dropping to a low; seductive tone. There was beauty in mystery, and he sensed that Dawson could use a little uncertainty in his life. There wasn't a place more intoxicating to forfeit control than beneath the sheets.

He reached out with his hand then, his finger finding it's way to Dawson's chest. He slowly trailed his nail down the man's chiseled chest, an impish grin tugged at his soft lips. "Your pupils are pretty dilated, I can see you've been having fun tonight. I would love to be the next party favor you dabble in."

His finger paused above the man's waistband, lingering there momentarily before pulling back abruptly. It was a teasing gesture. River was a master at this game, and he was playing all of his best cards. "I think we both know I'd be the most exhilarating one of them all."
MONTY
@Mariah.
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oOo5rcG.gif You make me hard when I'm all soft inside
Dawson drags his arched fingers through his coiffed, dark chocolate mane, as he releases the heavy weight of his breath with a lucid exhaustion. The tension—the temptation—was besting the pull of gravity, and for a rare instance, he was being out-seduced, unwittingly relinquishing all the control he held...

But he wasn't certain of whether or not he disapproved, or would object.

"See, you're right. I have been having fun. This party," Dawson starts, gesturing with his hands toward the ongoing event. "Is pretty fucking crazy, isn't it? I mean, I love all of it, however I think wanna go somewhere quiet for a bit. Quiet and alone. Follow me?" The grip of his hand strokes down the small hills of the dancer's bicep, then his forearm, until it locks with his soft, sultry palm. He next leads them through the path of envious, intoxicated visitors, who reach forward and feel for the duo's naked torsos, in both worship and ardor. With Dawson, the dancer was even more of an object to desire and covet than before, with everyone taking immediate notice as though a divine glow traced them. Anything 'the prodigal son' touched was deemed infinite in value by those who couldn't even dream up his access, affluence and power. He was a God; the creator.

The audible sounds begin to slow and dissolve away, as the elixir Dawson ingested continues its strict stranglehold. But his high takes pause as he and the dancer arrive at the secret entrance to a hidden corridor. He turns toward his prize and lifts a finger before his glazed bow lips. "Shhh. My secret clubhouse. Don't say a word," he warns with a skittish smirk, before entering the room—the large suite homing its own waterfall-like showers, a steaming jacuzzi, a sauna and a pair of massage beds, with an array of the finest oils. Tiled and furnished like an exotic locale, it was the royal's private sanctuary. "Ah! Now I can hear you much, much better." He turn back to the younger man. "So what was it you were saying about you being the most exhilarating party favor?"
MONTY
@parzival

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      By Mariah.
      .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Why don't you invite me in? 'Actus reus' or 'the guilty act' and 'mens rea' or 'the guilty mind'—the two raw elements of crime and criminal law, Dawson had long studied and practiced these fundamentals, able to deconstruct it to a near molecular level. It was a science, his ability to dissect, decipher and manipulate both categories positioning him as one of the greatest attorneys in the country. But, perhaps most terrifying, it also made him one of the best, most elusive criminals. His belief, however, was neither of the two elements applied to his actions, for he was the judge, jury and executioner. He punished the guilty, which, in turn, rendered his 'mens rea' nonexistent. As for his 'actus reus', there was no guilty act without a guilty mind. The guilty were sat beneath his throne; those who did most of his dirty deeds until he felt it was their time for judgement. A roster of the finest criminals in America, ranging from enforcers and hitmen, to traffickers and dealers of arms or drugs, to blackmailers and thieves. Even inside men were part of his army, those working in hospitals and law enforcement, where his burgeoning political career and massive celebrity status could be leveraged if need be. He was an incredibly dangerous, Machiavellian mind, charming and cunning as a fox. And his power only seemed to grow.

      Likewise, it came time for expansion of his roster, Dawson having lost some of his most faithful accomplices: Sebastian Kane, Nicholas Milano… Bobby Carter, his favorite underling and his ultimate betrayal. But as his Gucci formal footwear batters against the floor—the Olympia royal marching toward the interrogation room of the Olympia Police Department, with an officer holding position to his left—his primary objective was the recruiting of an odd fellow, who he was secretly given intel on by a member of the force. "I'd like to see Ira Brennan," Dawson commands the door guard, the fluorescent lighting strobing as it clings to its final breath. "I'm his lawyer." The pair of machismo men exchange polite nods following the falsity, before the guard steps aside to allow access.

      As Dawson locks sight upon the man of the hour, his green eyes widen and bow shaped lips curl into a tiny smirk, the meaning behind it which he was careful not to decode. Ira was long and lean, with raven hair and narrow eyes, dressed in a dishevelled button up shirt and loose tie, which contrasted Dawson's strategically 'laidback' attire in lieu of his campaigning. There was no telling what this figure had been up to, but there was an undefined trait that was roping the ruler of the criminal underworld in. He turns to the reflective glass and raises an arm, signaling his dismissal of the detectives outside, then takes a seat before his newest prospect. "Hello there..." he purrs, one of his two thick eyebrows lifting slightly whilst he stared inquisitively through his brow bone. MONTY
      @Palpatine