A/N: Okay, so I failed in my mission for only one POV per chapter already. Ooops. But it's because I didn't want to split the prologue into three. Will start trying again next chapter, promise.

As usual would love your thoughts, comment away.

Ellis

I don't know what I'm getting myself into. There's something too, too dangerous about that man. I felt it the first night I met him, when he just appeared at my dressing room door, looking teeth-achingly hot in an obviously expensive bespoke suit, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned just far enough for me to see the beginnings of an impressive pair of pecs, the pants just tight enough to see the thickness of his thighs and...

And then, he's everywhere. He's definitely stalking me. Not in a creepy way, if it's possible to stalk someone in a non-creepy way. But he's always there, when I go to the park, when I go to the store, walking down the street. He talks to me, politely, in that sexy French accent of his, asking me about school, about my job in a music store, though I don't tell him where it is: him turning up there would be too much. Eli, ever-sensible Eli, suggests I should get a restraining order. He says the guy must be unhinged and it could end badly. I don't feel that from him though; somehow I feel safe every time I encounter him, not that my own sense of protection is strong.

Mateo, who is never sensible, says I should take him back to dorms and fuck him, find out if he's worth the hassle. I'm more tempted to follow his advice; the guy is beautiful – pure masculinity in form, piercing dark eyes with a shaven head and a neat close-cropped beard that I want to rub my cheek against - but I manage to rein it in. Until that day in the coffee shop. When I touch his arm I literally feel the electricity, have to pull back to stop myself stroking up his strong bicep. And that's nothing on what I feel when he kisses me. After he's gone I sniff the card he left me with, and it smells like him; earthy and woody and clean. I want to know what cologne he uses so I can buy some and spray my bed with it, sleep in his fragrance.

After going back and forth with myself, and with my friends, for four long, sleepless days, I make my decision. I have to call him. I have to find out whether I'm kidding myself that there could be something there, something deeper than the emotionless contacts I've had over the last three years. I agree that he can take me to dinner, and am surprised by his reaction. He seems excited, which is not an emotion he looks like having often with his severe and protective aura. But maybe it means I'm not on my own with this strange connection I'm feeling.

* * * * *

"We'll have the filet mignon, medium rare..." Huh? Is he ordering for me? This place is fancy, and maybe I don't fit in, though I'm wearing my smartest pants and a nice shirt. It might not be Armani or D&G, which I'm sure his suit is, but I don't look completely out of place. I'm sure I look like someone who's capable of ordering their own dinner.

"Actually, no, François. I can order for myself. May I have the mushroom risotto please, ma'am?" The waitress smiles warmly at me, though I see a scowl cross François' handsome face.

"Do you do that a lot? Order for your dates?" I ask when the wine guy had been and gone, leaving a fancy but nice-tasting wine behind. I sip delicately at the flavorful red after speaking, letting it wash over my tongue; I'm not used to nice wine, and it tastes delicious. I glance up, and François is looking at me intently, almost seeming lost in his thoughts, watching my neck as I swallow the mouthful.

"Uh, well yes, I do. I'm a Dominant, you see," he sputters out when he sees me looking, but then he straightens up, as if pulling himself together, waiting for my response, looking a cross between arrogant and anxious, which is a strange combination.

"You're cute when you're nervous," I say, running my fingertip along the edge of the glass. I'm not normally so- so brazen, but there's something about this guy that makes me feel brave. His jaw drops in surprise, then I'm sure I see a flash of something like amusement too.

"You don't mind?" he asks, and I'm suddenly brought back to myself, and feel a lot less confident.

"I thought- well, I looked you up. From your card. That you gave me. And you had said a few things when we'd met those times..." He nods, understanding, I hope, why I would do some checking up on him. I needed to, after he'd barreled forcefully into my life that way, and it's something that's worried me since I found the website, because it had quite a lot of factual information on what BDSM is, and what the club is, but nothing that really helped my fledgling knowledge. The words, 'a luxuriously appointed dungeon, with enough whips and chains to keep even the most demanding pain slut satisfied', weren't, I truly hope, said with the likes of me in mind. François was named on the website as the Master Dom, whatever that means, though a different person was the Dungeon Master, and I'm afraid I can guess what that might mean, and it makes me shudder.

"Does it mean you like to cause pain?" I try to sound normal, but to my shame my voice goes suddenly tiny, and I avert my eyes as I wait for François to answer.

"No," François places one large hand over my much smaller one, although my fingers are as long as his. "I'm not a sadist. My focus is on pleasure. And I want to look after you, Ellis. I don't know why you have had this effect on me, but you have, and I will do everything in my power to make you feel happy and safe and cared for."

His words have an immediate impact on me. I already knew I felt safe around him, just from the short interactions we've had, but when he says that, it's like I can allow myself to believe that he might be telling the truth. When he asks me to come back to his home after dinner, I don't hesitate. When we arrive though, and I see the grandeur as we enter the luxurious lobby, I wonder whether that was the right thing to do.

He says very little, just guides me up the stairs and into what is clearly his bedroom, an unsurprisingly masculine room. The bed is huge, made of some kind of dark gray grainy wood – oak, maybe – with a tall bedpost at each corner topped with carved wooden finials. The walls are charcoal, with several artistic photographic prints on the far wall, monochromatic and varying sizes framed in black wood, but I can see François in a couple of them, so I wonder if some of the other people might be the friends of his that he mentioned over dinner. At least a couple look smiley, so that's something.

The entire room, including the bedclothes, is gray, with accents of white and brown, like the leather settee at the end of the bed. So, I'm ridiculously pleased to see a bright red shiny alarm clock on the nightstand, one of those old-fashioned ones with two ear-like bells on the top. At least the man presumably doesn't see everything in dull excuses for color.

As I stand, glancing around, nervous as all hell, François comes to stand in front of me.

"Do you want to do this?" he asks gently, more gently than he's spoken all night.

"Do what? I'm not sure what to expect. Are you going to want to tie me up? Or smack my ass with a paddle?" I wince then, realizing that's probably not the way you're meant to speak to a Dominant. The website was pretty clear about respect. "Sir." I add belatedly, but he just chuckles.

"I can see you're going to be a breath of fresh air, Ellis," he purrs, a sound that seems to have a direct connection to my crotch. "Eventually, I'm going to want to do both those things, but how about we just go to bed tonight, no expectations. I haven't done this with someone who isn't a trained submissive, or at least in training, for quite some time, but if you can have a go at not being too disrespectful, I'll have a go at reining in my responses." It's hardly romantic, but what am I doing expecting romance from a one-nighter? The guy is mind-blowingly hot, and I want to experience what he offers, and who knows, maybe he'll blow himself right out of my mind, and I can go back to normal.

I stand, while he strips my clothes, slowly, taking care, seemingly – certainly taking the opportunity to scan his eyes over my body as each item is removed. I'm okay with that. After years of being a scrawny brat, when I hit puberty fully, I finally filled out, and I'm pretty proud of my body, which is toned, fat-free, well-muscled, though not to the same degree as François, obviously. To be honest, physical strength and health is important, or at least helpful, when you practice playing for hours at a time. Sickly boys tend to fall to the wayside with the demands the school puts on them.

François spends time stroking his fingers over my skin, which is electrifying, and I want to touch him, though he's still fully clothed. But am I allowed to demand, or even ask him, that he removes his cock-blocking fabric? Before I can gather the courage, he drops to his knees, taking me into his mouth fully, an action that almost makes me drop too, at the intensity. I'm not tiny, and most people would have to deep-throat to take me all the way in, like he is, but he isn't choking at all, and then I feel muscles constrict hard against me and realize he's taken me into his throat without even the hint of choking, just opened himself right up. Is that what you have to do? Will he expect that from me? And is it normal for a Dominant to do that? Some of the reading I'd done suggested that they maintain physical superiority at all times – how 'topping from the bottom' was a big no-no for submissives. Heck, why am I even worrying? I'm no submissive, it's only right the big guy doesn't treat me like one.

François laps a strong tongue up the side of my cock, curling the muscle around the head, before pulling back.

"Ellis?" he murmurs. "Do you want to stop over-thinking this, and lie down on the bed?" I flush at being caught out, and lie back, while he finally strips, revealing a long, thick, uncut cock and muscles that are powerful, without making him look like a bodybuilder, his shoulders broad, a large tattoo of a globe with an eagle on top on one bulging bicep and, damn, is that an eight-pack? I thought my own six-pack was pretty solid, but this guy's makes it look like he could bench press me without breaking a sweat. I realize I'm over-thinking again, and try to calm my thoughts, accepting his tongue in my mouth as he hovers above me, his strong arms easily holding him up as he devours me. I try to ignore the fact that his tongue absolutely dominates me – for all my thoughts about not being submissive, it feels good to let him lead, and I can feel my leaking cock rubbing against several of those impressive abs, and his own massive erection as I buck my hips.

He breaks off to grab lube and a condom from his nightstand, and before I know it, I can feel one thick finger at my entrance. I try to relax, though it's been weeks since I've taken anything, and even one of his fingers is enough to burn as he enters. I shift, looking for comfort, and he pauses, kissing my jaw and neck as my body learns to accept the intrusion. I can feel his second finger poised to enter, and take deep breaths.

"You ready, beautiful?" he asks, and I nod to give him permission. I can't help the small yelp – two of his fingers feel bigger than anything I've taken before, though I'm sure it's only lack of practice that's telling me that. He scissors his fingers to help my walls relax, rubbing the pads of his fingertips directly over my prostate until I'm quietly begging him to fuck me. He slides another finger in first, and this time there's no pain, because he's got me relaxed and horny enough that I can't possibly spread my legs as wide as I actually want to, pushing against his hand, feeling his curved knuckles against my ass as he thrusts in hard.

"Please, François, please fuck me," I'm not quiet now, begging rather loudly actually, but he doesn't seem to mind, not if the smug look on his face is anything to go by, and before I've registered the change, his fingers are gone and the fat mushroom head of his sheathed cock is pressing there.

I bite my lip, hard enough to draw blood, as he enters me; now certainly thicker than anything I've taken before, voluntarily or involuntarily. I blow air through my pursed lips, a little faster than I should. I want this, but I'm going to have to convince my treacherous body of that fact, as I feel tears pooling in the corner of my eyes.

"Shh, Ellis, just relax. Do you need me to pull out?" I don't want that, shake my head rapidly while I clutch his biceps, slightly shifting, desperately seeking the relief that I know will come if I can bear to get through the pain. I have a vague thought that if I do this with him too often he's going to ruin me for other men, a thought that's consolidated when he moves forward another inch, pressing firmly up against that special point inside me that I've been thankful for so many times before, and I throw my head back into the pillow, letting out a very unsexy yowl that I'm sure isn't the sensual moans he would expect from a submissive.

"I- I'm sorry," I manage to burble out, but he drops to his forearms, either side of my face, licking a pearl of blood off my lower lip before dropping a sweet kiss on my swollen lip.

"What for, Ellis? You are the sweetest sexiest thing I've ever seen, and I want to make you make all sorts of uncontrolled noises." He slides deeper then, and gets his wish, as pain has been fully replaced by pleasure, as I buck up to meet him and he pins my hips so he can grind into me, passing over my prostate, as my head presses back and I explode between our chests.

* * * * *

François

I can't even believe how perfect he is, as I watch him sleeping. I've never had a connection like that with regular sex, with anyone, ever. And I've certainly not felt that satiated after a single scene with any of the subs I've worked with, either; the way he pressed against me, and I could feel his heat and tightness vibrating around me. I've never known someone feel so ideally made for me, who can push right back with so much passion and desire. It should terrify me, but somehow it doesn't.

Merely the fact that he stayed over... I mean, he did pretty much lose consciousness after his massive orgasm, but normally that wouldn't stop me from allowing a reasonable amount of time before calling a cab and shuffling the guy away. But I had no such inclination last night, and this morning, as I watch his lips slightly parted and his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, I know I'm never going to want to shuffle this one anywhere.

"Will you stop staring at me? It's creepy." But there's a chuckle in his voice as he rolls to his side. Ungh, even his morning voice is sexy as fuck, and I'm wondering if I can get some of those gorgeous noises from him again. But he's probably sore. I'm well-endowed, and he did struggle a little to relax around me last night, though he'll get used to it pretty quickly, especially with all the toys I plan on edging him with while I'm training him... I'm getting lost in my own filthy thoughts when I'm brought out of them by his soft lips connecting with mine. I fall into it, pulling him closer until he's straddling me, still naked, still kissing.

"How do you feel?" I ask eventually, panting.

"A little sore. It's been a while," he shrugs. I resign myself to having to give him a couple days rest, when he leans forward to kiss me again and, whilst close, whisper in my ear. "Not too sore though. Will you take me again, please, Sir?" That goes straight to my semi-hard cock, as I'm sure he knew it would, and I turn, tossing him face down onto the bed with ease, as he bounces, giggling.

"I hope you know what you're asking for?" I growl.

"I think I do, Sir," and there it is again. I waste no time in pushing my face between his perfectly tight, high and round butt cheeks, running my tongue over his slightly swollen ridges as he grunts into the pillow, growling out demanding moans for me to tongue fuck my tight little hole, Sir. This could be a bad idea, the poor boy isn't going to be able to walk by the time I'm done with him, but he did ask. I finally break off, though I don't think I'll ever get my fill of the taste of him.

"I hope you know what you've done, boy, calling me Sir like that..."

"Would Master have been better, Sir?" the cheeky fucking minx purrs. I don't respond, just slide a lubed finger inside him, hear him suck a breath in.

"Are you okay? We have no safe words yet, so if you tell me you need to stop, I will. If you don't tell me, you're in trouble."

"'m 'kay," he murmurs, wriggling into my finger, so I push two more in, and he gasps and whimpers – and there's those sexy sounds, that go straight to my crotch, that I was hearing last night.

I work him even more this morning, ignoring his desperate pleas for more until I'm sure he's relaxed enough and ready, pushing my hand between his shoulder blades, his back an impeccable, natural curve, his ass pushed high, presenting himself with legs widely separated, tears of frustration in his eyes until I slide into him, one long move, barely pausing for him to adjust; I know he's ready, as he chants for me to keep going, harder, faster, to make me come with your glorious cock. I like those words, know I'm going to have a great deal of fun with his filthy, sassy mouth, even as he shudders to completion under me, dragging my own release with his powerful clenching muscles.

Oh yes, we're going to have a great deal of fun.

* * * * *