The taxi slowed as they entered the downtown district. Neon signs glowed against the night, buzzing softly.
Somewhere a couple argued on the sidewalk. Street vendors were packing up their carts.
San-Marino sat squeezed between a tiny yakitori stand and a tattoo shop, its sign half-lit, windows tinted to keep prying eyes out.
The place never looked impressive from the outside
The car stopped and Henry paid before Lance could even reach for his wallet.
"I could've—"
"You'll get the next one," Henry said, already stepping out.
Lance sighed but followed him. The bass from inside vibrated faintly under his feet, muted but steady.
Henry glanced back at him, expression softening for half a second.
"You sure you're up for this?"
Lance slid his hands into his jacket pockets. "Yeah. I need it."
Henry pushed open the door.
Warm light spilled out, along with the low hum of conversations and clinking glasses.
"Then let's drink," he said, his voice dipping into something almost too gentle.
"Tonight, you just relax. I'll take care of everything."
They sat at the counter area, the dim lights of San-Marino reflecting off the rows of bottles behind the bar.
Henry didn't bother asking Lance what he wanted; he leaned forward, tapped the counter twice, and told the bartender,
"Same as usual. And keep it coming."
The bartender nodded knowingly and reached for the stronger stuff, the kind that tasted clean going down but hit like a truck afterward.
Lance didn't say anything. His body was tired, his mind even more so, and honestly the thought of numbing out for a bit didn't sound terrible.
The first shot burned lightly.
The second one hit harder.
By the third, Lance's shoulders were already slumping, his fingers loose around the glass.
Henry stayed completely sober, barely sipping his own drink. Instead, he just watched Lance, his eyes dark, too focused to be casual.
This was exactly what he wanted.
Lance's cheeks were flushed, his words slower, his head tipping forward slightly with each exhale. Anyone could tell he was reaching his limit, and Henry knew that was good. Perfect, even.
Then Henry's phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and swore quietly.
"Fuck… I have to take this," he muttered, irritatedly.
He slid off the stool and stepped outside, the door shutting behind him.
The moment he left, Lance blinked around in confusion, swaying a little.
He needed the bathroom or at least he thought he did.
The hallway looked blurry, the signs made no sense, and everything felt further away than it should have been..
But he stumbled forward anyway.
He pushed open a door without thinking… and accidentally walked straight into one of the private rooms.
There was only one person inside.
Lance's vision blurred, but even through that haze he saw it clearly, the guy was handsome.
Devastatingly so.
Sharp suit, loosened tie, wristwatch he recognized as expensive even in his drunken fog.
Rich.
He was definitely rich.
And all Lance's shame, morals, and sense of self-preservation had melted clean out of him.
He walked straight toward the man.
And without hesitation, without asking, without thinking—he climbed into his lap.
Arms wrapped around the man's neck, breath warm against his jaw.
"Mister… you look rich," Lance slurred, eyes heavy. "How about I sell myself to you and you pay my debt? I can be your slave or your doll… I'm obedient… I'll do whatever you like."
The man didn't flinch.
His hand slid up to Lance's waist, holding him there like he belonged.
"Mhm…" he hummed, voice deep and smooth. "You want to be my slave, little one? Tell me… how old are you? Little boys shouldn't be making offers like this."
"I'm all grown up, mister," Lance murmured, leaning in. "I'm twenty-four. I'm no boy."
The man pinched his waist lightly.
Making Lance let out a small moan he didn't mean to.
The stranger's lips curved.
"How much is your debt? And are you still a virgin?"
Lance shook his head. "No. Not even close."
His voice slurred a little as he went on,
"My debt is three hundred and fifty thousand dollars… funny, right? It's not even my debt…"
"Then whose is it?"
"My father's."
The man was quiet for a moment.
Then he smiled.
"Alright. A pretty thing like you shouldn't be carrying that kind of burden." His hand tightened on Lance's waist. "If you agree to be my sex slave for three months, I'll pay the entire debt."
Lance froze. He could be this man's sex slave for three months and his debt was gone, just like that?
Was this man… sent from heaven?
Or a hallucination because he was drunk as fuck.
"How do I know you're not scamming me?" Lance muttered, suspicious through the drunken fog.
The man chuckled then reached for his phone with one hand, the other still firm around Lance's waist.
"Do you want me to wire the money now?"
"…"
Lance was a bit taken aback, was this actually happening or was it all a dream?
Still whatever it was, he would risk it.
He gave the man his account details and after a few minutes the notification arrived.
Lance blinked at the number.
$400,000.
Holy!
He didn't think there would ever be a day when he'd see 400k in his Venmo.
But what was even more shocking, was the name attached to the transaction.
Ansel Lowell.
"…."
The ANSEL LOWELL?!!!
He immediately sobered up not fully, but enough to realize he was currently perched on the lap of the great Ansel Lowell.
And this same man wanted him to be his sex slave?
He must be dreaming.
But then again, his debt was 350k so why did Ansel send 400?
His voice shook slightly.
"Sir… what's the extra fifty thousand for?"
Ansel's smile sharpened.
"It's for you. Get some nice clothes before you come see me on Friday."
Lance swallowed hard, are they going to have sex? He hadn't been fucked in months, his throat felt dry when he thought about it.
"Ah…" Ansel said, lifting a folder with his free hand. "There's still the matter of the contract. I've held up my end. Now you'll hold up yours."