Chapter Text
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Byerly Vorrutyer stood, affecting his most casual air, as the bouncer inspected his letter of recommendation. He had known for some time that no Vorrutyers were allowed at Vorsades without the explicit recommendation from another Vor family in good standing, but hadn't bothered figuring out how to get around it until now. It was not in the least surprising that some cousin or uncle of his had so acted badly to get them all banned; it was actually more challenging to guess who had done it, given the history of deranged Vorrutyers. Surely the recent drama with Richars and Dono had reinforced the opinions of the proprietors on the matter, no matter how thoroughly justice had been served on that whole situation.
However, now deciding it was time to grace this establishment with his presence, the minor obstacle of his name being mud was not impenetrable. He was not the sort of man who settled for just picking up his fellow partygoers, officers, ministers twice his age, or other Vorish dilettantes. That was work, mostly. Not only was it pitifully easy, but he spent all his working hours pretending to be interested in their opinions; the masked sex club seemed a little less likely to head in that direction.
So. This was a fixable problem. All he’d had to do was bring Ivan a very, very nice bottle of wine, and listen to his concerns about work and his latest girlfriend. Then, he politely did not point out what a violation of his privacy it was that Ivan asked him why his stunner certification refresh was several months overdue, promised insincerely that he would get his stunner certification refreshed, and then very sweetly asked him to write that letter.
Ivan had stared at him. "If this is for work….."
"It's not for work." This was technically correct. Technically, because the whole reason he was doing this at all was because ImpSec had somewhat passive-aggressively suggested he should meet someone that wasn’t for work, because that might be good for him.
"My mother will end you if you tarnish her name," Ivan had said, already writing.
“I am appropriately frightened of Lady Alys, thank you."
"Why don't you ask your cousin the Count?"
By had stared. "Ivan, I know you have a brain in there and you can fool other people, but you can't fool me. If you had banned Vorrutyers from your property for their madness--"
"Which I am considering."
"--would the word of the new Count Vorruyter who recently got a Betan sex change operation so he could usurp the countship from his cousin who was now imprisoned for attempting to emasculate him convince you otherwise?"
Ivan had rolled his eyes and handed him the flimsy.
That very flimsy was the one the bouncer held in his hand, looking between By and the flimsy, staring at him as if he could see into By’s head for his intentions. Maybe he could, in which case he would see that his intentions were, as always, perfectly noble. Then, with a grunt, the bouncer took a step back and let Byerly pass through the door. Feeling satisfied, By put his mask on, tying the ribbons behind his head, and went inside. Silver and blue was easy and beautiful and he knew he was not going to be offending anyone. He kept it simple. He had worn a more subdued outfit today, wanting to make it less automatically obvious who he was.
In the foyer the rules were very neatly listed and he made a great show of studying them. It was all obvious stuff that he, too, would have had for a masked sex club: Everyone wears a mask. Taking off your mask got you kicked out; taking off anyone else's mask put you on the shitlist. No weapons. Vor and prole were equal. No colors were house colors, with the exception of the banned House Vorbarra colors, to avoid any possible disrespect to the Emperor. The administrators decided, if you touched anyone in a way they don't like, how you were punished.
Not surprisingly the main room was rather dimly lit and soft music was playing. Almost everyone had attempted to dress nicely: suits for the men, dresses or skirts for the women. Both had occasionally decided on lace, leather straps, or lingerie instead. It was somewhat disconcerting that no one was wearing a military uniform, although it was obvious to By who didn’t know what to wear without one.
There was a much wider range of masks than there were of outfits. Byerly wondered what the overlap was between the size of the mask and the tendency to boast in public. Most people wore half-masks like his, some glittering with gems or inlays. There was a full mask that covered the mouth here and there as well: perhaps those people would have actually kept their behavior to themselves. On the other side of the spectrum there were a few who would have worn nothing if the rules allowed it: a woman over there was wearing a shred of cloth that By would have not in any way called a mask, for example. Was she someone who had been desperate to tell him, some time or another, just what he had been missing here?
Like any social event there were some people talking who obviously knew each other, and some people talking who obviously didn't. He did an ImpSec-trained loop around the main room, staking out exits and entrances. There were tables and chairs around the outside, couches, booths, the like. There was a bar, and there was a sign on the bar being very clear about drinking limits. The center of the large room included one woman, artfully hanging from the ceiling by some elaborately tied ropes, wearing a silver full-face mask with long matching silver ribbons hanging off of it. There was also a man in a half mask and probably-added-later gag, his hands and neck in an old-fashioned looking pillory. He was still wearing a dress shirt, though it was hanging loose, presumably having once been tucked into the trousers that were now hung around his ankles. There was a small crowd around him, one holding a paddle, another holding a whippy little crop that made By tingle with faint pleasure. They were talking, and occasionally smacking the bare ass, not paying attention to the man's gagged grunts. By flagged that in his mind, although he could be honest with himself that if someone was going to smack him around he would have liked to be the center of attention to them. There were some hallways splaying off, and some stairs, presumably to some private rooms.
He'd hoped that someone would have been immediately interested in him and saved him the effort, but no luck. It was sort of strange to think of choosing someone to sleep with based on what they looked like. Maybe he really did need to find someone to fuck that had nothing to do with work. Maybe he should have worked just a little bit less.
Once his eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting he could actually see what he was dealing with. Some of the attendees were recognizable immediately, mask or no mask - he would have recognized the comically tall, thin Mikael Abrave anywhere, which meant he was attached as the primary hanger-on to Hunter Vorinnis, and certainly the woman on the other side was Vorinnis’ mistress. Not to mention that he could, without any effort at all, separate everyone into four categories: Vor, Vor attempting not to be Vor, proles attempting to be Vor, and proles being proles.
He did another pass, slower this time, cataloging his interest, lifting his head to actively look at people. Some of them turned away from him quickly; he knew when he wasn't wanted. Other people stared back at him, studying. He whittled them down in his mind: he didn't want a couple; he didn't want the old Vor lord who stared with interest (skin mottled, exposed at the end of his three-quarter sleeves); he didn't want the mostly naked woman.
Was this what Ivan thought when his mother paraded women in front of him? Well, maybe. Not that he would have opposed Ivan taking that crop to his ass, although Ivan didn't exactly resonate with toppy confidence. He could have if he wanted to, By was pretty sure, and didn't because he didn't want to get himself entangled in High Vor bullshit. And you know what? By found it hard to blame him for that.
After an unsatisfying second loop he resolved to at least have a single drink and then pick whoever seemed like the best possible option. He was hoping someone would chat him up, but no one approached him while he nursed a whiskey. He thought: wow, when you're not slutting it up for ImpSec, is there much of anything to be interested in you at all?
The group around the bare ass on display had gotten more into beating it up, which at least was interesting. He was sure they would let him share, if he asked nicely. The woman had been gotten down from the ropes and they were tying a man now. He was wearing an elaborate chastity device. Not By’s kink: he liked to be able to come and go as and when he pleased.
Sitting on one of the couches along the wall in the back was a man in a silver mask watching the proceedings of flogging the man in the pillory with great interest. Someone had been talking to him, in By's second lap, although the conversation had looked quite one-sided. The man was alone now, and didn't seem to mind. By didn't mind a voyeur. The man screamed Vor, High Vor, even from this distance, his posture glowing with birthright ownership. His legs were slightly spread, one arm lazily along the back of the couch. His other hand was resting gently on a dark flogger in his lap. He was fully covered, the sleeves of his buttoned jacket long enough to cover his wrists, flowing into the white leather gloves that covered his hands.
How interesting. The flogger combined with the interest in which he studied the pilloried man suggested top. Byerly closed out his tab - probably a good idea not to leave one open, just yet - and walked across the room as directly as the center displays allowed him.
The man - obviously a man, now that he was standing closer, pending any exciting new genital reveals (thanks, cousin, for putting that in his mind forever) - looked up at him. By wasn’t sure his senses had ever screamed so much High Vor at him, other than the interview Ivan had snagged with His Imperial Majesty when Dono had first returned. This close he could pick out the absolutely exquisite cut of his suit, which seemed to wrap perfectly at his collar bones, down his arms, and across his thighs. He looked like he had been carved from marble wearing it. It had to be intentional that the jacket sleeves were too long; no tailor with this aptitude would make that blunder. The mask itself was either made out of some sort of super-light alloy or some beautiful textured embroidery. He sat on the couch like it was a throne, and he stared up at By like By was a peasant.
By wanted him immediately, and also found it impossibly easy to eliminate perhaps two-thirds of all the people he’d ever met from matching this man’s identity. They were either too poor for the suit or had garbage taste or did not give By a twinging sense of military-attache: an important ambassador, maybe, or in some other area in diplomatic relationships.
The man didn't speak. His mask had no mouth, not that that would have precluded him from talking through it.
"Good evening," Byerly said, "Is this seat taken?"
The man lifted the hand off his flogger and gestured to the seat in welcome. By sat down on the other side of him instead, under the arm that was stretched along the back of the couch.
When he sat down next to the man, he noticed that the man's mask was clasped to his face not with a ribbon or even a paddled buckle. There was a true locking mechanism involved: two straps on this side, and one on the other. One looped over the top of his skull, and one at his jaw, all meeting together in an upside-down Y shape in the back of his head. This mystery man really, really, really did not want anyone to be accidentally or on purpose taking his mask off. Whatever threats the club made were not enough for him to take comfort in, then. After all, all those punishments would come after the mask was removed.
"Are you enjoying the show?" By asked, turning his attention back to it. They had taken the gag out of the man's mouth and were smacking him hard enough to make By's stomach heat. The man made lovely noises.
Out of the corner of his eye the mask nodded.
By felt a faint tinge of annoyance. He would have expected a real answer if the person had any interest in him, but he already felt committed, and he did not want to start over at a new establishment, and it might have been more rude now than before to interrupt the community spanking the man in the center. He quashed the irritation and began again.
“It certainly is quite a sight, I must say.”
The man turned to face him, and By tried to meet his eyes, and then realized that the mask's eyeholes were covered with some silvered material, and there were no eyes to meet. The mask tilted at him, perhaps thoughtfully, and then the man unravelled his arms from the couch and reached into his pocket for a square device. The pocket, By thought, with envy so intense it distracted him from his annoyance, was so perfectly cut to the man's thigh he hadn't even noticed it in the first place.
The man typed in his device, and for a second By was going to rudely comment on it, but the man held it out to him, letters glowing dimly on the screen.
You must be new here.
For a moment By was baffled, but then it clicked. In retrospect, it wasn’t that surprising that a man who hid his eyes in his mask, had a mechanism to keep his mask bolted to his head, and wore gloves, also wouldn't talk. A very security conscious Vor indeed -- he knew that one could be identified by their voice alone, and By had, on a few occasions only needed that to be someone’s downfall.
"You don't talk," he said, understanding. The irritation was replaced by a familiar curiosity.
The man shook his head and put his device back in his pocket.
Hmm. What to do about this? There was a primary problem, which was that he was obviously never going to get the man’s tailor out of him. Second of all, how would someone tell him to beg if he didn't talk? Although, he considered it was not a completely insurmountable situation: obviously he didn’t need someone who was hitting him to also talk to him.
More interestingly, who on Barrayar could be so paranoid of being discovered that they wouldn't even talk? It had to be one of the more conservative Vor sons, he supposed, perhaps a future count.
The man clearly watched him think for a few moments, reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver case. It flicked open, as expertisely machined as his clothes, and he handed By a little card, white printed with black text.
If I think you're trying to figure out who I am, I leave.
By handed the card back. He supposed that this must have been a terrible problem, for the man to have cards printed out of it.
"I'll stop," he said, on habit. But just look at him, By thought, his muddling curiosity and the background noise of the flogging and moaning mixing in his mind. He realized that this did actually spare him a bunch of awkwardness about small talk. He resettled his shoulders, and then gave the man a noticeable once-over. He was fit, or his suit was so cut to make him fit, and if he was too old he didn’t show it.
Why not?
He went for it. “I am new here,” he began, affecting a little apology, “But I must confess you have rather gathered my attention. I suppose if you are unable to answer yes or no questions I could certainly leave, but, do you hit people with that, and would you hit me?”
He tilted his head towards the flogger in the man’s lap.
The mask looked up and down him, now, and By tried his best to look as hittable as possible. Then the man gave a rather firm nod, picked up his flogger and stood up. He pointed with one of his gloved fingers towards one of the hallways. By followed him, studying his military haircut, the way the three mask straps came together. Was that some kind of wire gleaming in the straps, that even if you were, somehow, stupid enough to try to cut them, they wouldn't cut? Excessive.
Maybe he was simply accustomed to scandals, his entire family line having been built on them, but how big a deal could it have really been? What was the worst possible count to be discovered hitting someone with a flogger? Maybe it was a progressive count, By considered, almost laughing: perhaps it would have been considered too power-hungry and Vorish to enjoy smacking someone around, or watching someone else get smacked around. The progressives were insanely obsessed with fairness, which By thought was hysterical; since when was anything in life ever fair?
At the end of the hallway was a room, small, with no door. It was only slightly more brightly lit than the main room. There was a tall cross in the back, and a four-poster bed with black sheets on it, and a spanking bench. The man stood in the entrance and tilted his head again, inside.
Letting him pick, By presumed. It was a little less interesting when the guy wouldn't tell him what to do, but that was what he’d gotten himself into. Well, he was here now, at least, and didn't have to do it again. He stood in front of the cross, to see if his silent dom was going to object. He didn't. What he did was walk directly up to By and put one gloved hand on his dress shirt and give it a tug, the other hand still holding the flogger.
For the first time By felt a little foolish, having picked a man that didn’t speak, but at this point it was a sunk cost. He unbuttoned his jacket, and then his shirt, folded them neatly, and put it on the bench. The mask watched him undress fully, and when he was naked, he turned and dutifully put his left hand in the restraint and locked it with his still-available right. There were handholds, which By thought was a nice touch.
The man was immediately locking his other hand into the restraint. Gloved fingers drew down his bare back. The room was a little chilly, now that he was completely naked. The man's glove was soft, animal leather, not synth. He let his head fall between his shoulders, trying to just let himself think about nothing, relaxing his muscles.
The man warmed him up slowly, practically caressing him. He waited for it to get worse, contemplating that maybe the reason for the mask was that he was a shit top who didn’t really hit hard. That would have been more disappointing than anyone else.
"You can hit me harder," he said, because, well, it wasn't like they were able to have a real conversation about it, after all. The man obliged him, which was good. There were a lot of ways to be not good at flogging, and some ways were easier to correct when you were tied to a cross than others. The whipping ends of the flogger catching By’s ribs screamed inexperience, but he didn't mind. It didn't seem likely, after all, that you were going to be all that experience if you never talked to anyone.
"Even harder," he encouraged, a little more breathless. It was good, then, yeah, his skin coming alive under the impact, his hands spastically clenching and unclenching in the handholds. The room had a low ceiling and the sound of leather against skin was a good cadence. His mystery dom was in shape, he thought with satisfaction; he hardly paused to stop hitting By. By could hear him breathing heavily under the mask.
"I’ll say when it’s too hard,” By said, trying to raise his voice despite his own heavy breathing.
There was a growl behind him. Oh, he thought, smiling with radiant delight. He had a feeling about this man, about his type. His mind hummed with burning delight. WIth effort he turned over his shoulder and took in the sight.
“Harder,” he purred, meeting the hidden eyes of the mask, “Unless that’s truly all the power you can manage.”
The next blow staggered him, the cuffs around his wrists catching him from hitting the ground. The room spun for a second; his breath caught in his throat; explosive spots burst across his vision; his skin burned.
"Ah, yes," he gasped, getting his feet back under him. His mind rapidly changed: it was all worth it. It was all worth it, that this guy didn't talk or take his mask off, if he hit that hard. "Yes, exactly, yes.”
The man hit him again, with an audible noise of effort, and By's wail trailed off into a moan. What he lacked in skill he made up in enthusiasm, By thought, letting his head hang and body loll as the man beat him. He heard the grunts of effort and let go until his whole body was burning with heat and shocky electricity. He couldn't even feel anything other than how he was one wonderful ball of static. He was a genius and this was a great idea.
At some point the man stopped hitting him so hard, which, By thought, was terrible. His whole body was singing, flooded hot with endorphins, and it didn't even hurt that he was just hanging there, shoulders and wrists burning with all the same glowing warmth.
Gloved hands ran up and down his abused back. He offered an agreeing nod, attempting to encourage the touch and a moan coming out instead. This at least gave the man the right idea. He pressed his front to By's back; he was still mostly dressed, and By felt the bulge in his trousers. He was panting, the escaped ends of each breath light on By’s skin. Those hands wrapped around his body and stroked his chest, teasing his nipples, pinching. He groaned his approval, and the man pinched harder, and By thought how good those fingers would look around clothespins but he couldn't make his mouth make so many different sounds right now.
He noticed he was thirsty. If he swallowed a little bit he might be able to use his words again. He could have asked for water. Instead he made sure his feet were under him and pushed his hips back into the man's body, feeling out the line of his cock in his trousers. "Are you going to waste that?" he asked, hoarse.
The man growled on the other side of the mask. By was extremely sure he must have been hot. He closed his eyes and rolled his tingling body back again. The man's teeth would be bared, By hoped. Eyes dark with hunger. Sweat beading under his mask, dripping down his chin. By gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back that he had decided on the half-mask only.
"There's slick in my pants pocket," he offered, even though there was not a small part of him enticed by the idea by being taken hard and dry and fast by his mystery top.
He could turn his head to see the man rifling through his trousers and coming up with it. He licked his lips and met the silvered eyes of the mask, looking at him through his long lashes. The man disappeared from his field of view and By heard a wonderful groan that the man made while he touched himself. Then he took a step closer and wrapped a gloved hand around By's naked body, slipping two fingers inside of him. The exhale punched out of his chest. "Like that," he offered, resettling his feet and rolling his hips back. The texture of the slick glove was interesting, by no means unpleasant. His mystery man was pressing deep inside, and By could hear his heavy breathing.
His top was encouraged by the moans, By could tell, so he gave them freely. It was nice to just be open about how good it felt. It was also nice to not be working. Really nice, actually, he noticed, somewhat suddenly, that he did not have to be thinking about who this person was and what he needed from them and what he would say. He could just hang here while a person who refused to have a conversation with him was, By was certain, going to fuck his brains out. And if he wanted to do it while wearing a mask and gloves, well, Byerly was a Vorrutyer, the last family in all of the Imperium to judge.
"Show me how strong you are," he dared, again. His masked friend leaned close and growled under the mask. Byerly felt a niggling concern that he was going to have a new fucked up kink for masked men and that was going to have to be future Byerly's problem. Current Byerly was focused on the cock that was being rubbed against him. He nodded, chewed his lips, and relaxed every muscle he could get to relax.
That seemed to be a sufficient amount of goading. He was inside By in an instant, leaving By gasping, bringing dormant sensations back to life. One of the man's hands was wrapped around his body, the slick glove trying for purchase on By's bare stomach. The clean glove was dug into his hip. The man was breathing heavy under the mask; with their faces close together like this, By could hear him gasping for effort. Oh, and there was something even better now, a new and explosive burst of pain: the man's belt buckle was biting into the meat of his ass with every thrust.
He was glad he was tied up, because then he didn't have to think about standing up or arranging his body. He could just take it, let gloved hands and fabric control him exactly how they wanted, while he was exquisitely and indiscriminately used.
The man came hot inside him with a loud, barely mask-muffled groan, and By clenched hard around him, listening to the way he gasped and loving the fabric that shuddered against his back. He was a genius, By thought to himself, not even bothering to hide the stupid smile that hung on his face. The mask pressed into his back, between his shoulder blades. Gloved hands caressed him, trembling slightly.
"Fuck," he offered, hoarse.
This received a chuckle as a response. He got his feet under him. Then the man's gloves came up and undid one of his buckled hands. One hand free he could face the room proper, and more importantly the man. He was sitting on the chair in the room, his cock still hanging out of his open trousers, his filthy gloved hand hanging at his sides. He had at some point taken his jacket off, at least, and sweat had darkened his shirt at the neckline, across his stomach, and at his underarms. By was, again, very grateful to be naked. Even just his half-mask was sticky and uncomfortable. It must have been unpleasant to have it locked on your face.
It was almost unbelievable to think that he had - not quite forgotten, exactly, but the thought of his own cock become so much less in comparison to how hard and how well this amazing man had abused him. Without even talking! And they wouldn't have to talk now either, By realized. This presented an interesting new question: if he ever got Ivan to fuck him, would he make him wear a mask? Maybe just a gag. It was a handsome face, after all. He set his little Ivan fantasy to the side and drew himself back to more pressing and present matters. It was a little awkward to reach back to the mess that was slowly dripping out of his ass with one hand still locked, but he had conquered greater obstacles, and the man sat up, his mask-attention clearly focused on By as he stroked himself, slick with his come and lube and sweat. By stared back at him, at the silvered eyes, at the elaborate threaded decorations. There was nothing in the room but the mask’s nearly-visible glow of radiating power. He had used By in exactly the way he wanted, not even undressed, his mask still completely locked to his face, dirty gloves still on. How could one not jack off at such a sight? Byerly throbbed with hunger, with lust, with burning curiosity, with that impossible-to-unknow sense of discovering something you weren't currently into but now you were into it. He came with a low groan, shuddering, his remaining tied arm holding him up more than his legs.
The man came over and undid his other wrist. By's hand flopped down over his shoulder, and he absorbed By's weight, helping him to the bed. He flopped over onto his side, just breathing, floating in tingling delight all over. The bed dipped as the man sat next to him.
“Absolutely excellent,” By mumbled, rolling his eyes up to look at the suit next to him.
The man nodded.
"Should I expect to see you again? And, though I find it embarrassing to be this direct, would you like to see me again?"
Another nod. The man lifted a hand, paused for a moment, and then stroked By's shoulder. By could not bring himself to be surprised that a man in a locked mask and glove did not have the first idea of how to cuddle, exactly. He laughed to himself, and the mask tilted in question.
"Nothing at all," he said, and then with a grunt hefted himself to his feet to collect his clothes. "Have a good night."
The mask watched him on the way out.