Behind the Scene by Emory Vargas

It takes four months for Robert to work up the courage to approach Ethan in the parking lot outside the Compound, and on the day he does, he blames it on the wind. The winter chill is biting and damp, heavy with the threat of snow, and Ethan is like a bending willow dressed in a fleece hoodie.
    Robert wants to wrap around him, to make him warm. "Hi," he says.
    Ethan glances up briefly from digging around in his messenger bag, presumably for his car keys. His pale cheeks and the tip of his nose are already flush from the cold. "Oh. Hi" he says, halting. "Can I help you?"
    "Yeah, I mean, I'm Robert. From inside?" Robert gestures toward the unmarked entrance, just another plain grey door along the side of a huge warehouse.
    "I know. I've seen you," Ethan says, still looking in his bag. It's hard to tell if he's genuinely searching or if he's lowering his eyes, so Robert walks around the car, his boots crunching noisily in the gritty old snow on the pavement.
    At the sound, Ethan looks up again and Robert ducks to meet his eye pointedly and says, "I was wondering if I could see you. Outside."
    "I don't date," Ethan says. He's careful. Apologetic.
    "We could skip dating," Robert says.
    Ethan smiles and it changes his entire face; the curve at his lips chases away the wariness in his eyes and the nervous twitch at his chin. "Okay," he says, "but I need to eat something first or I'm gonna get a wicked headache."
    Robert's been at this long enough to know that Ethan won't want to be in the vulnerable position of hosting a stranger in his home, especially after scening for nearly six hours. "Don't laugh at me," he says. "I have stew simmering in the slow cooker. You could follow me home in your car?"
    "Do you have aloe?"
    Looking at Ethan in his over-sized hoodie, one would never know that his back and ass are covered in welts and rope burns. But Robert saw each blow, and he remembers each mark as if it's a bruise on his own skin, hot and angry. His cock stirs and he clears his throat and says, "I've got some in the fridge."
    "Mm," Ethan hums. "Perfect."

    • • •

    On the drive to his apartment, Robert glances at his rear view mirror to watch Ethan's headlights behind him. The sun sets in the distance, making the bare trees alongside the highway flash like a film reel, backlit by the fiery pink sky. He wonders if Ethan is really safe to drive, but trusts that his Mistress wouldn't have cleared him to leave unassisted unless all his motor skills were back in order.
    He considers what he knows about Ethan, and it's basically nothing. They appear to be the same age. Ethan is fit, but not overly muscular. He's tall and keeps his black hair shaggy in an artful, deliberate way. It curls when he sweats and he sweats when he's being fucked. He's been scening with the same Mistress for a year or so, but they aren't exclusive. His body sings under a cane, he can take a fist, and he's the most beautiful man Robert's ever laid eyes on.
    Every time Robert checks in at the front desk at the Compound and changes in the locker room, he hopes he'll be brought in on a scene with Ethan--but he's only ever been permitted to watch. Today, Robert's Master edged him while they watched Ethan's flogging together. His Master pushed him to the brink again and again until Robert had tears running down his face.
    It was a good day.

    • • •

    Ethan carries his leather messenger bag inside, holding it against his belly like a child holding a stuffed animal. Even after the drive, his hair is still damp, and he's shivering a little.
    "Oh cool," he says, "a fireplace."
    Robert turns on the lights, one by one, a quick routine that leaves his small kitchen and living room illuminated. "I can light it, just give me a sec. It's gas."
    While Robert gets the fire started, Ethan sits down on the couch, still holding his bag and looking around the room. "I like your art."
    "They're all prints. The walls were bare for a long time and my sister came by one