Raw Hunger

Dorian comes to the club at least once a week. He likes to watch the dancers, likes to see them free and unbridled under the bright strobing lights. He enjoys more than just watching but because there are rarely any boys who strike his fancy he is content to just slowly sip his drink and observe the young men. Dorian can't remember the last time he brought one of them home though he's certainly not lacking for offers. Four men had approached him that evening alone but none were his type. So he continues to sip and watch and wait.

And then he sees him. Honestly it would be impossible not to see him with the way he's dressed. The boy is wearing a dark crop-top made of some kind of wide, ripped mesh that does nothing to disguise the lovely maleness of his smooth chest. His flat stomach and navel ring winking in the light are certainly appealing but that's not what catches his eye. It's the dusky pink miniskirt, a perfect feminine counterpoint to his obvious masculinity, that leaves him breathless. The boy is slim and fair with messy hair and dark eyes accentuated by kohl. He is beautiful and wild and from his cat-with-the-cream expression, clearly a spoiled brat. In a word, he is perfect. Dorian loves spoiling brats.