Page 32 of Whirlwind

Chapter 1

Micah

Micah fidgeted again with the leather straps across his chest. The V around his neck and the two straps that wrapped around his ribs were already as tight as he could make them, so there wasn’t much fidgeting to do.

He stared at himself once more in the mirror. The straps easily concealed the two surgical scars that ran just below his pectoral muscles. But what they still showed, well…

Probably no one would want to look at him anyway. His legs and belly were soft and pale, ridiculous beside his over-developed shoulder and arm muscles.

He adjusted the packer in his black, shimmering underwear. At least that part looked pretty good, framed by his slim hips and bulging invitingly. He just dreaded the moment when he had to explain that it wasn’t real.

God, maybe this whole thing was a mistake. Maybe he should take out the packer and let everyone know up front what they were getting into. Or maybe he should just put his clothes back on and get the hell out.

But he’d come too far to chicken out now. He’d moved to a big city after grad school in part so that he could frequent clubs like this one. It was one of the few kink clubs that had an explicit policy of accepting trans people.

From the reviews he’d read online, it was clean, safe, and well-monitored. So far, it seemed to be living up to its reputation. If he was going to test out this kinky side of himself, this was the place to do it.

He adjusted one of his chest straps, moving it minutely. He loved the way it felt wrapped around him. He loved even more the idea that someone might have some use for the metal rings holding the straps together.

He just needed to focus on that. Even if he didn’t meet anyone tonight, didn’t do anything… tonight would be for him.

He’d made a pact with himself that he’d at least sit at the bar and get a drink. It was probably the only thing he’d get tonight, but at least he’d prove to himself that he could do it.

Micah blew out one last breath and grabbed the forearm crutch that leaned against the wall. When his body was giving him trouble, he used a wheelchair or two crutches.

Today was a good day, though, and he could have probably walked without any assistance.

But it was comforting to have beside him. If he got a little tipsy, or a little overwhelmed, at least he’d feel confident that he could move without risking a fall.

It was also a useful signal sometimes, letting people know from a distance about his disability and avoiding awkward encounters when they got closer and then changed their minds. It was a crappy feeling, but better to have the signal than the disappointment.

He smirked at the idea that the piece of metal and plastic was both a figurative and a literal crutch.

He watched in the mirror as he took the last few steps towards the door. There was nothing that he could do to hide his uneven gait, his right knee swinging out to the side while his left leg hitched to catch up.

His muscles hurt just a bit today, but he was used to it. At work, where his colleagues respected him for his skills and he had a desk and chair configured to his needs, he hardly thought about his awkward movements.

But here, where everyone would be judging him on his body, it might as well be a death sentence.

He gave himself a mental pep talk. Just go to the bar and order a drink, Micah. You’re just here to look. Though the plastic wristband that he’d asked for when he walked in declared him a sub who was open to playing, he wasn’t going to have any expectations.

All you have to do is walk to the bar and order a drink. They didn’t kick you out yet, and if someone messes with you, they’re supposed to have people to break it up. You’re not here to get laid tonight, just to look around. Go get the damn drink.

He pulled the locker room door open too quickly and almost hit himself with it. Great start. But he was going to do this.

He made his way slowly across the room, eyes fixed on a section of empty bar stools. It felt like the whole room was looking at him, though that couldn’t possibly be true. He could still hear the quiet murmur of conversation, soft gasps and a sharp slap.

Out of the corner of his eye, Micah saw a scantily-clad sub on his knees, tears leaking from his eyes as an older man fucked his mouth. He looked like he was in ecstasy. The Dom certainly wasn’t looking at Micah; his gaze was fixed solely on his sub.

Micah didn’t let himself look any more. Didn’t even let himself imagine. But that was what he wanted. Someone to take control like that, their fingers tight in his hair. Someone who would focus on him that intently.

Micah peeked out from under his shaggy bangs as he moved toward the bar. Around the room, men sat in clusters or couples. Subs knelt on the floor or snuggled into their Doms’ laps.

A cluster of subs giggled and chattered in one corner, while the Doms seemed to be more scattered around the room, lounging in the black leather chairs.

Micah didn’t dare let himself think that one of them might be interested in him. But maybe he could watch a bit and figure out how it was all done.

He had heard that subs weren’t supposed to approach Doms, or sometimes even look at them, but there had to be something they did to express interest, right?