Dancing on the Edge

by Jack Stevens

Genres: LGBT Gay

Synopsis

Rod Brookes is young, handsome and a highly successful `exotic dancer?. He loves his work and he loves the guys he picks up at work. The only black spot in his perfect life is a mysterious `admirer? who leaves him roses. But no one ever got hurt by a flower, right? Rod makes friends and enemies alike as he dances through his life to the frenetic beat of clubmusic, little realising that, for one of these men, attraction has become something darker and altogether more dangerous. Is it Jed, the jealous `star? of his new dance troupe? Or maybe Sam, his former employer, and would-be pimp? Perhaps muscleman Marty, would-be protector and sexual powerhouse? Or could it be Austin, the college teacher, the almost complete opposite of any man Rod?s ever known, and the one he feels most drawn to? But when an unexpected discovery puts Austin?s motives in a whole new light, and as devotion spirals into frightening obsession, `accidents? begin to look more and more like attempted murder, and Rod?s desperate need to sort out true friends from false becomes a race against time with the life of a loved one in the balance

Release date: March 13, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 192

Sample

Chapter One

The lights dimmed. The speakers on either side of the stage began to pulse to the bass beat of a dance track, making the hot, heavy air in the club literally throb to the rhythm of the music. A spotlight cut through the smoke, hit the stage, and held. One beat. Two beats. As the music finally exploded into its fullness Rod Brookes threw back the curtains and leapt out onto the stage to the whistles, cheers, and approving roar of the gathered men.

‘You feeling all right?’ he yelled to his audience. The response was inarticulate. It didn’t matter. It was loud. ‘Yeah? Well, let me make you feel a whooooole lot better.’ Rod launched into his routine.

It was the gym-buddy set that night. Dressed in soft grey woollen training top and trousers, hood up, white socks and white trainers, Rod wheeled and spun to the frenetic pounding of the music. He bounced and lunged, a living picture of youthful energy and exuberance. The ultraviolet in the spot picked out the startling white of his socks and trainers, the flash of his teeth as he grinned. He loved this. He loved the music. He loved the sight, sound, and smell of the men cheering him on. And the men pressing forward to the stage loved Rod.

With a proud toss of his head, he flung back his hood and shook out the long, blond ponytail. There was a fusillade of appreciative whistles. Rod whirled round and round, the tied hair flying out, and as he did he reached for the zip of his gym top and began to pull it down, slowly. The piercing whistles got even louder. Rod came to a stop facing the men reaching up for him, his hips thrusting out rhythmically at them to the non-stop pounding of the music. He eased the zip down, and down, shrugged the top off, first over one bronzed shoulder, then the other, before yanking it down that last inch and pulling the whole garment off with one well-practised flourish. Underneath was a simple white gym vest, the thin cotton already damp from the sweat of his body, clinging in transparent patches to his skin.

‘Off! Off! Off!’

Rod grinned down at the chanting lads who pushed themselves right up to the front of the stage, arms outstretched, fingers straining for him. He danced closer to them, tantalizingly near to the edge of the stage, his thrusting hips never missing a beat, and then spun away again with a laugh, ponytail whipping from side to side, hands moving down to the elasticated waistband of his training trousers. The roar of approval was like waves crashing against rocks. Rod cupped an ear, pretending not to hear, not to understand.

‘Off! Off! Off!’

Rod pushed the waistband out, then down, just a little, first over one hip, then over the other, offering a hint of tanned skin, a glimpse of firm thigh muscle. The crowd’s approbation was halfway between a cheer and a groan: part celebration, part frustration. Rod grinned more broadly. He had them in the palm of his hand. Not that it was the palms of his hands they were begging to see. He yanked the trousers back up, danced across to the other side of the stage and repeated the tease. The lads at the front were nearly crushed by the pressure of the whipped-up guys behind. Time to move into the final stages – the climax of the act, so to speak. He pulled his trousers right back up and shrugged, as if the simple task had mysteriously become just too much for him.

‘I need help!’ he shouted over the insistent thump of the music. The roar of the crowd became almost a scream.

Rod pretended to scan the crowd. He didn’t need to search. With a well-trained eye he’d spotted what he wanted almost from the start of his routine. They were stage left, a knot of young guys with “party” written all over them, and at their centre a cute lad in a blue shirt and absurd pointed cardboard hat. Rod guessed he was the reason for the lads’ celebrations. He pointed at the boy, pantomimed happy discovery, and ground his way provocatively over. The boy’s mates roared their rowdy delight at this turn-up for the books, hoisted their friend up onto their shoulders, and bodily propelled him, twisting and protesting, not altogether convincingly, onto the stage. He scrambled to his feet, blinking embarrassedly in the light and the sudden focus of attention. Rod moved in.

Without words Rod took the man’s hands, pulled him in close, and placed them both firmly on his waist. Still bumping and grinding, Rod slammed his crotch in time to the music into the front of the lad’s tight jeans. The young man didn’t know where to look, turning from the handsome dancer in front of him to his mates on the dance floor below as if for advice and then back again to Rod. But he kept his hands on Rod’s waist, and Rod could feel them pressing into his flesh, not at all reluctantly.

Keeping his hands over the boy’s, Rod pushed slowly so that both pairs moved down over his hips, and the soft fabric of his jogging bottoms went with them. Once again the crowd erupted into bedlam as his long thighs slid gradually into view. Rod looked into his young accomplice’s face to see his reaction. The boy’s eyes were riveted on the smooth flesh coming into sight under his hands. Rod took his hands away and placed them instead on the boy’s shoulders. Gently he pushed and the lad sank to his knees, till his face was on a level with the generous white cotton pouch brought inch by inch to light by the slowly descending jogging bottoms. A clearly audible hiss of indrawn breath came from nearly 200 aroused and very jealous men. Rod swayed his hips from side to side, dragging his heavy pouch back and forth across the face and lips of the boy kneeling at his feet. The lad leant inwards, eyes closed, hands reaching blindly upwards for the thin strands of fabric that only just held the white pouch in place over Rod’s generous endowment.

Without warning, Rod stepped backwards and completely out of the training trousers. The audience erupted into roars, cheers, and some laughter as the still kneeling boy opened his eyes in bewilderment, like someone waking from a delicious dream having completely forgotten where he was. He clambered quickly to his feet, unaware that he had automatically grasped Rod’s trousers until he saw his mates at the front pointing at what he had in his hand. He raised the garment uncertainly at first, then with growing confidence, waving the jogging bottoms aloft as if he had single-handedly wrestled them from the dancer. His “victory” was greeted by huge cheers from the crowd.

Rod allowed him his moment of triumph before dancing over once more. He plucked the training bottoms from the boy’s fingers and flung them to a spot offstage where they were picked up out of sight by one of the stagehands. Dancing all the while, he spun round and backed into the boy, pulling his arms around him, grinding his arse back into the lad’s crotch. No doubt about it, Rod thought, as he felt the hard ridge at the front of the boy’s jeans banging into his arse cheeks, he’s clearly enjoying the show.

Stretching both arms up towards the ceiling, Rod leant backwards. ‘Pull it off.’ For a second, the boy hesitated, looked panic-stricken, and Rod laughed. ‘The T-shirt.’ Blushing furiously at his misunderstanding, the boy quickly obliged, peeling the damp material up and off Rod’s lithe body and over his head. ‘Yeah!’ Rod bounded away, buck naked now except for the trainers, socks, and cotton posing pouch, his nervous “assistant” once again left holding empty clothing.

Rod danced and whirled around the boy, giving him and the audience ample opportunity to see his gym-trained, suntanned body from every angle. He reached out again for the young man’s hands, grasped them, pulled him in tight and clapped them onto his own buttocks with two meaty slaps. Slowly he rubbed them there, pressing his thinly clad crotch into the boy’s jeans and smiling. He nodded at him. ‘Like it?’ Even this close his voice could hardly be heard over the music and the noise of the crowd.

‘Ye – yeah.’

Rod took his hands away, clasped them behind his head and closed his eyes, the top half of his body leaning back slightly, his hips pushed further into the body of the young man in front of him. The boy rubbed and squeezed the smooth, hard arse as if he couldn’t stop. Rod doubted he could. Looking over his shoulder into the wings, Rod gave the signal to the stagehand who’d been waiting for it. The bottle of baby oil came flying on and he caught it with ease. He leant into the young man’s shoulder, speaking directly into his ear. ‘What’s your name?’ The crowd hooted, unable to hear what was being said but supplying their own words in their imaginations.

‘Simon.’

‘Your party?’

Simon nodded. ‘It’s my birthday.’

‘It certainly is, Simon. Just you keep rubbing away there, OK? That is so good.’

The boy nodded and licked his lips. The audience went wild as Rod unscrewed the top of the baby oil and poured a long stream of the liquid down his chest and stomach. Reaching again for Simon’s hands, he moved them from his arse to his torso. ‘Rub it in for me, birthday boy.’

Dazedly Simon did as he was told, slowly at first, lightly, then with more confidence, his hands gliding over the chest, the nipples, the hard ridges of abdominal muscle down the washboard torso. The room, the crowd, the noise, had all vanished for him. All he could see was Rod’s smooth skin, glistening under the oil; all he could feel was Rod’s warm, firm muscles flexing and sliding under his fingers. ‘Good boy,’ Rod encouraged, pouring more oil over his shoulders and his legs. Flinging the bottle away, he raised his arms to let Simon rub down the sides of his body. ‘Good boy!’

Abruptly he leant back, further and further, arching his back but keeping his feet planted close to Simon’s until his hands were touching the stage behind him, and then he spun so that he was face down to the stage, arse uppermost and pushing into Simon’s face. The boy froze, startled, uncertain what to do next. Rod looked back over his shoulder and grinned. ‘Go for it, Simon!’

With a nervous grin back, Simon set to again, working the oil that now coated his hands so thickly into Rod’s buttocks. The flimsy cotton thong passing between Rod’s arse cheeks grew transparent with the liquid. As Rod ground his hips the cotton worked its way up and up into his crack. Simon’s fingers worked at the twin tanned moons and Rod could feel them lingering at the point where they pressed together, nervous at the thought of pushing into the warmth and darkness within. He shoved his arse out, laughing at the way Simon’s fingers were yanked back as if afraid of being burnt.

As the music headed towards its end Rod leapt to his feet and, before Simon could stop him, grasped one of his hands for the final time and pulled it forwards, clapping it onto the heavy pouch between his legs. For a second, the two men’s eyes met. Rod saw it, the look of shock as Simon felt the substantial chunk of meat he suddenly had beneath his fingers, the recognition that it was responding to his touch, stiffening even as they stood there, the focus of a clubful of men,. Without conscious thought, Simon’s other hand reached up to join its mate. Rod grinned one last time. Perfect. He intercepted the grasping hand, and pulled both of them to the thin strips on his hips that strained to hold the pouch over his swelling manhood. ‘Thank you, Simon,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday.’ And he leant in and kissed the boy on the mouth. Before Simon could react, Rod twisted, spun, the cotton in Simon’s fingers broke, and the boy was left holding an oil-soaked scrap of cloth as the now totally naked Rod disappeared from the stage to a storm of applause.

In the wings, Stan, the Dynamos’ roadie, already held out the dressing gown. Rod slipped into it and pulled it together. ‘Great show, lad.’

Rod stood listening to the thunderous applause. He peeked through one of the spyholes to see the bemused Simon looking from left to right, to the spot where Rod had disappeared, wondering perhaps if he was meant to follow, before his mates called him over to the front of the stage again and pulled him back down. They punched him in the shoulder, knocked off the daft party hat, mussed his hair, and generally treated him like a hero.

Rod grinned. ‘Well, that’s one satisfied customer.’

‘Not as satisfied as he’d like to be,’ suggested Stan.

‘Well, we can’t have everything. Or everyone,’ Rod said, with one last glance through the spy hole. ‘Worse luck!’ He headed for the dressing room.

Joe, the dancer who’d been on just before Rod, was already showered and dressed and heading back into the club. ‘See you out there, or you heading off home?’

Rod thought of Simon. ‘I think I’ll come out for a quickie.’

Joe laughed knowingly. ‘Is that a drink or a guy? Let me guess. The blond with the flat top.’

‘Wrong! The dark-haired kid with the pointy top. Party hat,’ he explained as Joe looked bemused. ‘And you,’ he went on, mentally reviewing the faces and bodies he’d checked out while on the stage, ‘will be trying to work your way into the tight leather trousers of the skinhead by the bar. Yes?’

Joe clicked his tongue. ‘You got it. And I aim to get it. See you in a few minutes.’ They high-fived and Joe strolled off in pursuit of an appreciative skin while Rod headed for the shower.

As that night’s star turn he’d been kept to the last, so the dressing room was empty by the time he got to it. The rest of the Dynamos would already be back out there in the club with Joe, chatting up the guys who’d caught their eyes during their routines, some for the sex, some for the sex and any cash they could screw out of the punters as well. Rod shrugged the dressing gown off and stepped into the shower. He wondered if anyone would be making a play for Simon. He doubted the kid had much in the way of money but he’d had nice eyes and a good smile, and even though he’d been nervous up on the stage with everyone looking at him he’d seemed like a boy who knew what to do with his hands.

Rod turned the temperature gauge up high and set the water jets on full. Steaming hot water splashed over his body, washing away the evening’s sweat and baby oil. Yes, he’d liked young Simon. He reached down between his legs and stroked the lengthy tool that hung there, stirring at the thought of what he and Simon might have been able to get up to if they hadn’t been on a stage. He remembered that look on the lad’s face when he’d felt the dimensions of his cock. He’d like to have seen that expression change if he could see that cock now, and then watch it change again if that cock could work its way into where it really wanted to be. Letting go with one hand, Rod reached up for the bands keeping his ponytail in place and shook out his blond hair. The cascading water plastered it down onto his neck, shoulders, chest, and back so that it clung to him, moulded to his skin.

His pleasant fantasies were interrupted by the sudden crash of the dressing room door and a loud hullabaloo of male voices all shouting at once. Rod caught a brief glimpse of several men pushing and shoving and then the door slammed shut again, the noise cut off. Only now there was someone else in the dressing room with him. ‘Hello, Simon,’ Rod said.

The boy was even more dishevelled than before, shirt opened to halfway down his chest, party hat back on at an absurd angle, and hair in his eyes. He was breathing heavily and pointed feebly at the door he was leaning against. ‘They – they pushed me – in,’ he gasped. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –’ His words were cut short as the door flew inwards again, catapulting him even further into the steamy dressing room.

Stan strode in. ‘Come on, you,’ he said, reaching for Simon in a decidedly no-nonsense way. Behind him, Rod caught a glimpse of Simon’s “friends”, the ones who had manhandled him up onto the stage in the first place, being bundled in an equally forceful way out of the backstage area by the club’s doormen. ‘Go for it, Simon!’ one of them yelled.

‘I didn’t mean –’ Simon began.

‘It’s all right, Stan,’ Rod said from the shower. He nodded towards Simon. ‘He’s with me.’

Stan looked slowly from Simon to Rod. He nodded and gave a grudging smile. ‘OK, if you say so.’ He stepped back out into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

‘Thanks,’ gasped Simon. ‘He looked like he could really …’ His words trailed off. For the first time he looked properly at the man standing in front of him, wreaths of steam billowing around him, and took in the fact Rod was stark bollock naked. He swallowed. Twice.

Rod spread his hands. ‘Hey, you tore my clothes off, remember? Mind if I finish my shower?’

He turned without waiting for an answer, grinning to himself at the thought of the nonplussed young man behind him.

Simon stood in the centre of the dressing room, blushing furiously but unable to tear his eyes away from Rod’s smooth back, hypnotized by the progress of a trail of shampoo suds that was making its way so slowly from his broad shoulders, down the long channel of Rod’s spine to the narrow waist, pooling at the hollow in the small of his back then spilling over and down again, seeping into the tight crack between those perfect buttocks. ‘Not at all,’ he whispered.

Rod took his time over the shower, deliberately not making any attempt to catch his unexpected guest’s eyes, apparently oblivious to him, but making sure that every square inch of his body was soaped and massaged, and that Simon got to see everything. As he gently worked the soap around his balls and cock into a lather he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back and a small sigh escape his lips. Even over the splashing of the water on his chest he was sure he heard Simon swallow again desperately.

When he was finally sure he’d not left an inch uncleansed, and, more to the point, when he was sure he’d taken Simon just as far as he could just showing him what was on offer, Rod turned the water off and stepped off the shower stand. ‘Pass us that towel?’ Simon looked around, spotted the large white cotton towel, picked it up, and held it out for Rod. Rod smiled but didn’t take it. He stood in front of the other man, naked and dripping, and spread his arms out wide. Looking uncertain, Simon stepped in closer and began to towel Rod down. At first he merely dabbed, but as Rod continued to make no move and no protest his courage grew. He pressed harder, towelling more vigorously, pushing the soft cotton across Rod’s bare chest and stomach then down each leg, until he was on his knees again, as he had been back on the stage, facing Rod’s crotch, only this time without the thin covering of cotton between him and Rod’s balls and dick. Carefully he reached up, cradling the precious ball sac in the folds of the towel, gently drying it, and moving upwards. Rod’s cock, swollen already by his thoughts of Simon and his handiwork in the shower, hardened at the touch of the towel, literally in front of Simon’s eyes. Simon stopped what he was doing, watching as the cock grew larger and stronger. Rod rested his hand lightly on the top of the boy’s head, waiting and hoping. With a helpless sigh, Simon leant in and took the swelling dick into his mouth.

Rod gasped in pleasure and encouragement at the feel of Simon’s lips, the tongue pressing against the cockhead, the saliva slicking the sensitive skin. Simon sucked and sucked and Rod closed his eyes and let his head fall back once more as he had in t. . .