Masculinity’s Last Breath Chapter 2

Masculinity’s Last Breath Chapter 2: Caged in Lace

The Velvet Glove’s public lounge hums with a low, sultry energy, the air thick with the scent of whiskey, leather, and something darker—anticipation. Eugene stands frozen in the center of the room, his spine rigid beneath the weight of the frilly French maid’s outfit Ms. Amelia forced upon him. The black lace skirt rides obscenely high on his thighs, the hem fluttering with every shallow breath he takes. His thick-framed glasses, now slightly askew, fog with each exhale, the lenses smudged from nervous adjustments. Beneath the layers of ruffled apron and sheer stockings, the gaff presses flat against him, a constant, chafing reminder of his erasure. His penis—traitorous, stubborn—twitches weakly against the restraint, as if testing its limits, and he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin throat.

The room is a den of predators. Alphas—men and women alike—lounge in plush booths and at polished mahogany tables, their gazes sharp as knives.

They sip drinks with slow deliberation, eyes tracking Eugene’s every twitch, every faltering step. A few chuckle behind raised hands, their laughter a dark, velvety purr. The Alpha, a monolith of muscle and menace, leans against the bar, his broad shoulders nearly blocking the backlight. His predatory smile never wavers as he watches Eugene squirm, the promise of what’s to come written in the slow drag of his tongue over his lower lip.

Eugene’s hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching like trapped insects. He should move. He has to move. But his feet feel rooted to the floor, the weight of every stare pressing him deeper into the plush carpet. His scarred cheek twitches, the old mark pulling taut as his jaw clenches. Breathe. Just breathe. The command echoes in his skull, but his lungs feel too small, his ribs a cage of their own.

A sharp, two-fingered whistle cuts through the murmur.

Eugene flinches, his gaze snapping to the source—a curvy Alpha woman draped in a crimson ‘50s dress, the fabric hugging her DD breasts like a second skin. Her lips, painted the same deep red as her nails, curl into a smirk as she crooks a finger at him. “Well, darling,” she purrs, her voice thick with amusement, “are you just going to stand there all night, or are you going to earn that pretty little outfit?”

Heat floods Eugene’s face, his cheeks burning beneath the thin layer of foundation Ms. Amelia insisted he wear. He swallows again, the sound audible in the sudden hush of the room. His legs feel like lead as he forces himself forward, the skirt swishing around his thighs with every step. The closer he gets, the more her perfume envelops him—something rich and floral, like gardenias left to rot in the sun. His pulse hammers in his throat, his glasses slipping further down his nose.

“Bend over, sweet thing,” she commands, her voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Let’s see what you’re working with.”