There was a cage at the side of Horse’s working area. It was about seven feet high and four feet wide. Its door was
fixed with a padlock. Horse opened it and beckoned Demian inside. His leash was threaded through the bars of the
cage and secured. He was told to sit. After checking that he was comfortable, Horse locked the door and began his

Demian crouched on the floor of the cage. He kept his head lowered but stole illegal glances at the crowd that
inevitably gathered around Horse’s work area. He felt deliciously exposed. He was aware that he was half-naked and
restrained inside a cage. He was also well aware that the doms in the crowd would be imagining what they could do
with a willing and responsive sub in that situation. Demian felt as though he were being stroked and caressed by the
eyes of the crowd and he let his imagination run wild

Horse worked with a steady flow of clients. He was known for being one of the most talented Dungeon Masters in
Europe and this reputation was well-deserved. He worked with absolute authority, consulting with each guest before
using a range of tools and techniques to bring him or her to the apex of experience. He worked the floggers, crops and
paddles with such skill that he could leave a client satisfied whilst still feeling they could have tolerated one stroke
more. Demian watched intently, imaging what each blow would feel like if it fell on his own, bared flesh.

It was during one of his illicit peeks that Demian first saw him. Horse was working with a beautiful dark-haired woman in
a latex bodysuit. Demian could hear the tantalising “wick, wick, wick” of the crop on her buttocks and thighs as she
writhed and gasped. Horse talked to and reassured her, judging with an expert’s eye the perfect intensity and duration
of the treatment. The woman moaned. Demian looked past her and saw a man he had noticed at the club before. He
was tall and well-built and had spiked brown hair. His face was boyish and yet unequivocally masculine with a strong
jaw and brows. His blue eyes conveyed an air of wicked fun. He was dressed in gladiator’s arrangement of leather
chest harness, leather battle skirt and leather armlets. He had either been playing or dancing as his well-honed muscles
shone with sweat. Demian was put in mind of a dray horse, bridled and ready for work. Yes, he definitely remembered
seeing him before.

The spike-haired man was standing at the side of the crowd, talking to a friend and idly watching Horse work. As he
surveyed the scene, from the rapt faces of the audience to the looming frame of the St Andrew’s cross, his gaze fell
on Demian. From the corner of his eye, Demian watched himself being appraised, the man’s gaze sweeping from the
animal-like mask, to his restraining leash and over his exposed body. Apparently obeying the rules, Demian kept his
head down and allowed the man to quietly enjoy him.

Horse finished with his last client and carefully replaced his tools back into his kit bag. He zipped it shut and walked
over to release his dog.

As Horse led Demian around the club, they must have looked striking. Horse blond, muscular and dressed in black
leading Demian, athletic and pale with black leather and latex criss-crossing his body, anonymised with hood and
gloves. Certainly they were followed by the appreciative and envious eyes of the guests.  Demian felt proud to be
Horse’s possession that evening and excited that he was being paraded for the enjoyment of the crowd.

Horse paused to talk to people he knew or to watch a cabaret act. Demian waited patiently by his side, eyes lowered.
They stopped to stand against the back wall, watching the dance floor heave with sinuous, latex-clad bodies. The
pounding music and coloured lights were sending the dancers into a sensuous daze, churning and writhing in self-
conscious abandon.  Demian half-closed his eyes and absorbed the charged atmosphere.

Then Demian heard someone shout “Hey!”. Instinctively, he turned his head in the direction of the speaker. It was the
man with the spiky hair. He drew in a quick breath and arched his back against the wall. Horse turned and, suddenly
realising his error, Demian quickly ducked his head and stared at the floor.

“Hi!” cried Horse and shook the man’s hand. “I haven’t seen you in here for a while”.

“No, I’ve been away. A motorcycle trip across the States. Fuckin’ amazing! I’ll chew your ear off with it one day.”

“I look forward to it” said Horse.

The man turned to Demian, “I see you brought your dog tonight.”

“Yes”, replied Horse. “I thought he would enjoy the outing.”

“Do you mind if I stroke him?” asked the man.

Horse hesitated and looked at Demian. He was apparently trying to gauge whether or not to allow this. Demian sighed
and wriggled slightly against the wall.
“Sure. Go ahead”.

The dog-lover walked around to Demian, “Good dog!” he murmured, “What a handsome dog!”. He put out his hand and
gently touched Demian’s shoulder. He drew his fingers slowly across his chest, talking all the time, “Good dog! What a
good boy!”. He stroked Demian’s belly. His hand was warm and rough, like the hand of someone used to physical work.
He moved it onto Demian’s flanks and stroked his thigh firmly. Demian was breathing deeply, aware of that he was
getting hard and wondering whether that was against the rules. The man reached around and ran his hand over
Demian’s left buttock, standing close enough so that Demian could feel the heat of his body and smell the sweet musk
of his fresh sweat. Demian whimpered quietly, his head down. The dog-lover grasped his buttock and squeezed.  “Good
dog!” he whispered hoarsely.  He started to move closer to Demian, to press his body against his, to grab his haunches
with strong hands.  Demian was panting.  Then another voice erupted near Demian’s ear.
He jumped and the dog-lover quickly withdrew his hands and stepped back. A couple that they knew from the club
were steering in from the left and aiming for his friend. After affectionate and ebullient greetings, they launched into an
account of their weekend in Paris and how they had made love against the tomb of Oscar Wilde at Père Lachaise.
Demian stayed glued to the wall, panting and alight with desire.

As the conversation continued, the dog-lover apparently sensed that his presence was no longer appropriate.  He
reluctantly said his farewells and left, glancing back at Demian as he disappeared into the crowd. The couple steered
Horse over to a table, talking as they went. Horse beckoned Demian to come to heel. Demian peeled himself from the
wall and sat obediently by Horse’s feet.

As Horse and the couple talked, Demian sat on the floor and continued to peer discretely out of the corner of his eye
at the movement and sights of the club.  He watched the guests file past in their fetish finery, a procession of
fabulous freaks in latex and PVC, masking and exaggerating their shapes until they became caricatures of themselves. 
Smoldering with unfulfilled desire, he fidgeted and sighed as he sat.  Half an hour went by like this, maybe more, and
Demian still couldn’t exorcise his need for the dog-lover. He thought about his warm, rough hands, the sweat on his
chest, his deep, caressing voice. He imagined what it would be like to touch him. To run his fingers across his smooth
body. To breathe in the warm smell of his skin.  To taste the salt of his sweat.  To feel his hard body against him. To
hear him moan.  Demian wallowed in the daydream, submerged in this delicious feast for the senses.
And then he saw him. Ahead, by the second bar, he could see the dog-lover.  He was now without his friend and was
sipping a drink and calmly watching Demian. Demian gasped and sat up. But what could he do?  He couldn’t tell him to
come over. He couldn’t even smile at him.  All he could do was hope.  He was impaled on the impossible moment and so
he just sat and stared, his eyes glued by desire to the man’s face, willing him to approach.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Demian”, said Horse.  He spun around.  “I said that you were not to look at anyone without my say so. I saw you
watching that man. I didn’t tell you that you could. You must be punished”.
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