|Fancy Man and the Three Princes by Julian Keys|
When Mason’s best friend Robbie is dumped by his boyfriend a week before his birthday, it’s up the “Fancy Man” to try and repair the bartender’s broken heart with a natal day fantasy. He comes up with the idea of offering Robbie three “princes” each with a special gift—and sexual expertise. Even as these princes woo Robbie “on-stage” however, backstage has its problems. The submissives playing the princes need Mason to master them, and his own slave, Charles, is acting strangely. While Mason has always been master and director during the fantasy, he’s not so certain about his role after the fantasy ends. This time, the reality as much as the fantasy will determine not only Robbie’s future happiness, but that of Charles and Mason. (M/M+)
“Three ladies, gentlemen.” I set down my cards proudly.
“Damn,” Nigel laid out his hand. “Pair of nines.”
“No luck for you tonight, Doc,” I said. We’d played four hands and Nigel had lost every one.
“Read ’em and weep.” Charles displayed his cards. A trio of aces.
“You’re having the devil’s own luck, Mr. Beau,” I murmured.
Charles reached for the quarters. I slapped my hand down on his wrist. He jumped and so did Nigel.
“The devil’s own luck,” I repeated, “playing the devil’s own game. Doc, could you check Mr. Beau’s left boot.”
Blinking, Nigel did as I asked. He came back up with a two and four. I’d seen Charles rather clumsily scratching at his ankle and switching out those cards for the aces. If Nigel had been paying any attention he would have noticed, too. He hadn’t, and now the fantasy was really underway.
I brought up my toy gun and pointed it at Charles. “We take cheating very seriously in this town, Mr. Beau.”
Charles slowly raised his hands, almost clasping them behind his head before he remembered and kept them apart. “No harm intended, sheriff—”
“Stand up! Up!”
The chair fell to the floor as Charles did so.
“Get those boots and socks off. Now!” Off came the boots, a card fluttering out of the right one. I tsked and Charles blushed as if he really had done something wrong.
I removed his hat and shook it. Another card fell out.
“Shameful!” I shook my head. “Off with your shirt.”
The tee was pulled off and I heard Nigel suck in a breath as he got his first unhampered look at Charles’ washboard stomach and bulging biceps. A blue chain tattoo circled the right one.
“Now the trousers,” I commanded, unable to keep back a growl of passion.
Charles hands went to the fly, then I saw a flicker. He seemed to remember he was playing a part. “Now just a minute, sheriff—” he protested.
Bravo! I cocked the gun and put it right into his face. It was a toy gun but he actually paled. My pulse amped up. Fear excites me. “You’re gonna prove to the whole saloon that you don’t have any more hidden cards.”
Charles hastily unbuttoned his jeans, and the tremor in his fingers made my cock stiffen. He wore nothing underneath. That’s the wardrobe rules I’ve created for him. When he’s not at work he has to wear button-down jeans and go commando.
Nigel’s intake of breath wheezed as Charles’ circumcised cock came flopping out. The B-shaped branding scar near his right hipbone blazed stark and pale on his shaved pelvis. His balls swung as he kicked aside the pants. Then he stood there, naked as a Greek statue.