The letter demands a response.

 

And the man who wrote it demands both Scott's attendance and his obedience.

 

If Scott is as interested in offering another man his submission as he is in bondage, he's going to have to turn up at the bar by 2 A.M. and let Joe know that. Does Scott have it in him to RSVP?

 

He sure does, and with complete enthusiasm. In full control of every detail, Joe's going to show Scott what it’s like to submit without even a scrap of bondage to help him...

...There was no way anyone in the club could have guessed that Scott wasn’t wearing any underwear, but, as he tried to weave his way through the mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor, he could have sworn a flashing light floated above his head informing everyone that he’d left his boxers at home.

 

When yet another man tried to grab his arse, Scott started to wonder if that light also let every sodding man in the club know that he’d be more than happy for them all to cop a feel and check out his lack of underwear for themselves.

 

Scott pulled away as hands slid around his body and tried to pull him into the dance. He stumbled forward, half deafened by the music blaring from the speakers. By the time he finally made it to the bar on the far side of the room, his head was spinning, his heart racing.

 

Gasping for breath, he pushed his hair back from his face. The moment he looked up, his eyes locked with Joe’s. The other man stood on the opposite side of the bar, a half smile twisting his lips.

 

Calmly breaking eye contact, Joe looked Scott slowly up and down.

 

Forget underwear, Scott might as well have been standing there stark bollock naked. Joe looked straight through the black denim stretched over Scott’s hard-on as if X-ray vision were par for the course in his own very special version of the world.

 

Scott’s mouth went dry, making his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. His palms turned slick with sweat. It was more luck than judgement that he didn’t come in his jeans at the very sight of the other man as he wiped his hands on the denim.

 

 

Whatever stupid little part of Scott’s brain insisted on reminding him of those facts really wasn’t helping him not to come without permission. Scott whimpered. The very idea that he now felt like he needed permission to get off was almost enough to tip him over the edge.

 

A flailing elbow caught him painfully in the ribs. Scott looked over his shoulder, but the drunken dancer apparently hadn’t even noticed the collision. Scott rubbed absentmindedly at his side as he turned back to Joe.

 

The bartender was frowning now. Scott felt an apology rush to his lips. He wasn’t sure what he was sorry for, but the need to make Joe happy was damn near overwhelming.

 

Joe looked away, pointedly turning his attention toward an empty stool at the end of the bar. Every other seat in the place was taken, but that one stood aloof from the crowd, a little reserved marker set squarely in the centre of the padded top...