Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/537651.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Big_Time_Rush_RPF
  Relationship:
      Logan_Henderson/Carlos_Peña_Jr., with_mentions_of_past_James/Logan
  Character:
      Carlos_Peña_Jr., Logan_Henderson, Mama_Pena
  Additional Tags:
      Oral_Sex, Hand_Jobs, gratuitous_use_of_the_word_"baby", Carlos_is_having
      a_gay_crisis, and_Logan's_the_pervy_neighbor, also:_Carlos_is_so
      inexperienced_it's_almost_adorable
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-15 Words: 4691
****** the tutor ******
by poetictragedy
Summary
     Logan tutors Carlos is more than just English.
     (Ages: Logan's twenty-three, Carlos is thirteen.)
Notes
     This fic was written for a friend and I beg you all not to come after
     me with pitchforks.
     It's all fiction... even though it's about real people?
When Logan moved into the house next to the Pena family, he didn't know that he
would develop a serious crush on their thirteen year old son. And, okay, it's
not even his fault, not really. It's just that the kid likes to lounge around
the pool in nothing but a pair of skintight purple swim trunks. So, sue Logan
for looking over the fence and admiring the view whenever Carlos comes out when
he's doing things around the yard. It doesn't make him a pervert or whatever,
because he's never acted on his impulses... just thought about the many things
he could show the teen. That's all.
But things, as they always do, change completely.
One day, Logan goes out for a jog around the neighborhood and he passes the
Pena house on his way back home. He slows down to a walk and glances toward the
porch, grinning when he sees Carlos standing there wearing a tight tank top and
a pair of black gym shorts. Logan lifts his hand, waves, and starts to jog
again when he hears someone call his name (only, they say "Mr. Henderson"),
prompting him to stop and look for the source.
"I'm sorry to bother you," Mrs. Pena is saying as she comes over, peeling her
gardening gloves off and flashing him a warm smile. "I just wanted to ask you a
quick question, if that's alright with you?"
Logan smiles, dimples set deep into his cheeks, and he nods. "Sure thing."
"You seem like a smart guy," she starts off, chuckling quietly, "and that's why
I wanted to see if you were available for tutoring or if you would be
interested in doing it? We would pay you, of course."
"Who needs tutoring?" 
Mrs. Pena looks over her shoulder at Carlos and sighs. "My youngest, Carlos.
He's a bright boy believe me," she explains, turning back to look at Logan,
"but I think he gets distracted or he just genuinely doesn't get it. Either
way, he needs help."
"He's, what, thirteen? In the seventh grade?" Mrs. Pena nods her head and gives
him a small, hopeful smile. "I should be able to tutor him, yeah," Logan says
as he bobs his head into a casual nod, smiling brightly. "When do I start?"
"Well, that's the thing -- we'll need you to start immediately. Today, if you
can fit it into your schedule. If not, tomorrow - or any day this week - is
perfect."
As his neighbor talks, Logan nods and keeps looking at Carlos. "I can start
today, if you give me about thirty minutes to take a shower and put fresh, non-
sweaty clothing on," he says, pulling his gaze back to Mrs. Pena.
"You are a life saver, thank you." 
"Aw, it's not a problem, Mrs. Pena."
She smiles at him and shakes her head slowly. "Call me Mary, please."
"Alright," Logan chuckles, licking across his lips slowly. "It's not a
problem, Mary."
"Do you want me to send Carlos over in thirty minutes, then?" Mary asks,
wringing her gloves between her hands as she looks at Logan, eyes narrowed
slightly to keep the sun out of them.
Logan purses his lips in thought and nods slowly. "Yeah, that sounds good. I
should be dressed and ready for him by then," he mutters, glancing over Mary's
shoulder to look at Carlos - who's leaning back against the door, watching them
- one last time.
"Alright." With a smile, Mary turns and then stops, glancing over her shoulder.
"I can't thank you enough for agreeing to do this, Mr. Henderson."
"Please," Logan says, waving a hand dismissively, "call me Logan."
Mary smiles brighter and nods, giving Logan a small wave before she goes up to
the house, shooing Carlos inside. She's saying something in rapid Spanish and
Logan shakes his head, watching as she and the teenager disappear through the
door. He starts jogging again and goes inside, quickly tearing his clothes off
as he makes his way to the bathroom, body thrumming excitedly when he thinks
about having Carlos in his house, alone, for an undetermined amount of time.
The water is hot when Logan steps into the shower and he makes an obscenely
loud noise when the stream hits his shoulders. He works his fingers against his
tired muscles and keeps moaning, feeling drops of water slide down his body.
With his eyes shut and his fingers working against his skin, Logan lets his
mind wander and, for a number of time that Logan will never admit to, he thinks
of Carlos.
Logan works through a dozen different scenarios in the duration of his shower
and his cock is hard by the time he gets out. He wraps a towel around his waist
and puts a hand against the front, squeezing himself through the fabric. A loud
moan escapes and Logan slides his eyes shut for a moment before blinking them
open, moving out of the bathroom a few seconds later.
When Logan gets into his room, he takes the towel off and immediately starts to
dry his skin off, running the fabric over the head of his cock. He hisses
quietly and bites down on his lip until it's stinging, dropping the damp fabric
onto the floor near his feet. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Logan
wraps a hand around the base of his cock and starts to stroke it slowly,
imagining Carlos on his knees in front of him, tongue tentatively swiping
across the head.
He comes a few minutes later, grunting Carlos' name loudly.
And Logan knows that he should feel ashamed of himself, but he's not that much
older than Carlos... if you count a ten year age gap as 'not that much.' He
can't help but have a crush on the boy and he knows that he'll never do
anything about it unless Carlos starts it. If the boy wants it and he shows
Logan, of course he's going to do something about it -- who wouldn't?
Ten minutes later, Logan emerges from the bedroom wearing a tight black t-shirt
and a pair of gym shorts, both of them maybe being a little too tight to be
wearing when your thirteen year old neighbor is coming over to learn... but
Logan's not thinking about that. Not right now, anyway. He's more focused on
wearing things that are comfortable and, well, tight clothes just so happen to
be his creature comfort.
While he waits for Carlos to come over, Logan decides to straighten things up a
little and he cleans around the house. It's not dirty, just a little
disorganized with magazines and newspapers sprawled across the coffee table (he
cleans those up first because some of the magazines aren't appropriate for
thirteen year old) and things generally askew in the living room.
The doorbell rings just as Logan is putting the last cushion in place and he
jogs over to the door, opening it with a big smile. Mary and Carlos are
standing on his porch, Carlos with a book bag on his shoulder and his lips
formed into a thin, hard line. He looks angry and Logan's brows knit together
before he flicks his gaze to the kid's mom, face smoothing out.
"I hope we're not early," Mary says sweetly, giving Logan a big smile.
"No, no, of course not." Chuckling, Logan makes a sweeping motion toward the
living room and steps back, pulling the door open so Carlos and Mary can step
inside. "You guys are actually right on time," he says, shutting the door
behind them.
Mary turns around and nods. "I have to go run a few errands and it should take
me about two hours, if that's okay?"
"Two hours is perfect." And he's not thinking about all the things he can do to
Carlos in that amount of time, nope. "Don't worry, everything will be fine."
"Okay, well," Mary says, sighing as she turns back to Carlos. "Be good and
listen to Logan, Litos." She gives Carlos a short hug and walks back to the
door; Logan follows her and opens it for her. "He has my cell number, if you
need me."
Nodding, Logan smiles and leans against the door. "You should probably take
mine, you know, in case you're going to be later than you think," he offers,
and she nods her head, agreeing with him. 
After excusing himself for a moment and going into the kitchen, Logan comes
back holding a piece of paper with his cell and home numbers scrawled across
it. He hands it to Carlos' mom and assures her that they'll be fine, waving to
her as she makes her way to the driveway. As Mary gets into the car and backs
out, Logan keeps the door open and watches until she's out of sight; when she
is, he shuts the door and claps his hands, rubbing them together.
"So," he says, moving past Carlos, "wanna go to the kitchen and work there? The
table is big and there's food, so that's an upside."
"Okay." Carlos shrugs and follows Logan into the kitchen, laying his bag on top
of the table when they get there. He unzips it and starts pulling books out,
piling them on the tabletop. Logan, meanwhile, goes to grab a beer from the
fridge and pulls out a can of soda for Carlos, shutting the door with his foot.
"My mom thinks I'm dumb but I'm not. I just don't like this stuff," Carlos
mumbles.
Logan sets his beer on the table and frowns. "You don't like," he pauses to
peer at the books "English or Science?" Carlos shakes his head and Logan can't
help but chuckle at him, shaking his own as he sits down. "Well, I happen to be
an English major and Science was my second best subject."
"You went to college for this?"
"Yeah, why -- is that a problem?" Logan twists the top off his beer and looks
up at Carlos with a raised brow and just the slightest of grins. When the kid
shakes his head again and drops into a chair, Logan pulls the English book
toward him and opens the cover, looking through the pages quickly. "Basic
stuff," he hums, bobbing his head as he keeps flipping from page to page.
Carlos makes a noncommittal noise and then mumbles, "I know all of this. I
don't see why I need a tutor."
"If you know it, why don't you show it?" Logan nearly chuckles at the rhyme as
he looks up at Carlos, letting the book fall shut.
"Because school sucks."
Shaking his head, Logan sighs and leans back. "School is great. The people suck
and some of the teachers suck, but learning is great, believe me."
"You're just saying that because my mom's paying you to do this," Carlos
grumbles as he leans forward to grab the soda, popping the top. "School sucks,
end of discussion."
"Well," Logan says as he grabs his beer, "then I guess I'm being paid to watch
you and look pretty, right? So, you sit in here and do your homework and I'll
go see if there's a game on. I think the Texans are playing today." Carlos
looks at him and Logan smiles brightly, tipping the neck of his beer toward the
kid before taking a long sip.
Huffing, Carlos sets his soda down and leans onto his elbows. "I've done most
of it and I don't need a babysitter."
"Clearly you need something." With that, Logan stands and makes his way to the
living room, drinking his beer until he gets to the couch. He sits down with a
sigh and grabs the remote, flicking the TV on as he kicks his feet onto the
coffee table, making a triumphant sound when he realizes he was right about the
Texans.
For a while, Logan watches his game and he gets up every so often to get
another beer from the fridge and to see how far Carlos is with his homework. On
the third time he gets up to check on the kid, Logan finds him sitting at the
table with a picture in his hand; he snaps his head up when Logan clears his
throat and turns pink.
"What are you looking at?"
Carlos bites his lip and holds the picture out. "It was on the fridge," he
explains when Logan takes the photo from him, brows knitting together. It's a
picture of Logan and his ex, James, standing on the beach with a few of their
friends. You can tell that Logan and James are together from the way they're
holding onto one another.
"Who is he?" Carlos asks and Logan looks up, confused. "The guy in the
picture."
"There are a few guys in the picture," Logan points out, grinning. When Carlos
rolls his eyes and mumbles something about the guy Logan's holding onto, he
swallows hard and nods his head slowly. "He's an ex-boyfriend of mine."
Nodding, Carlos purses his lips and stares at Logan for a moment. "You're gay?"
"What business of it is yours if I am or not?"
"It's just a question," Carlos says, in defense, tapping his pencil against the
book sitting in front of him. "And it explains why I never see women come over
here. I mean, other than a few of them but you never look at them like you
should."
Logan quirks a brow and then rolls his eyes. "Like I should, huh?"
"I'm just saying, everyone at my house thinks you're straight and I'm just glad
that I won a bet against my brother for once." Wow, this kid - and his
brother?! - were betting on his sexuality... Logan doesn't know whether to
laugh or be offended.
"Well, yeah," Logan answers, taking the picture back to the fridge. "I'm gay."
There's silence and Carlos just looks at Logan, still tapping his eraser
against the book, making a constant thumping noise that's starting to annoy the
hell out of Logan. He's just about to grab a beer and go back to the living
room without another word when the kid starts talking again.
"When did you know you were gay?" The question is unexpected and Logan nearly
drops the bottle of beer in his hand. He tightens his grip on it, shuts the
door, and goes over to sit next to Carlos at the table.
Logan thinks about the question as he twists the top of his beer. "I'm not
quite sure what age I was," he starts, tossing the cap onto the table.
"Probably your age, in all honesty. Why do you ask?"
"I'm just wondering," Carlos says, and he grows silent for a moment before
turning to look at Logan, chewing on his lip. "I think I might be gay."
If Logan were drinking his beer he would have spewed it all across the table
when he heard that. Fortunately for the both of them he wasn't and he just
stares at Carlos, opening and closing his mouth as he looks for something to
say without making him sound like a creepy old guy. Which, come on, twenty-
three doesn't make him old, even in the eyes of a teenager.
"What, ah, makes you think that?" It's the only thing Logan can think of and he
sets his beer on the table, wrapping both hands around the base.
"I dunno, I'm just not interested in the girls at school and I sometimes look
at the other boys in the locker room -- "
"Perfectly normal," Logan interjects, mouthing 'sorry' when Carlos glares at
him.
" -- and I get, I dunno, turned on from what I see. Does that mean I'm gay?"
Oh how Logan wants to laugh and tell Carlos that it's just his hormones, but
there's a part of him that keeps him from doing it. A part that wants him to
push the boundaries as far as he can go and see if Carlos really does like
boys. It's better to find out with someone that's secure with their sexuality
than someone who's just as confused as you are, right?
Logan looks down at his beer and chews on his lip. "I don't know if it means
you're gay or not, dude, because it could just be your hormones. Like, you
could get turned on just from hugging your brother too tight," he says, and
laughs when Carlos says 'ew gross' in a squeaky voice. 
"So, how do I know if I'm gay?" The question is as innocent as they come but it
doesn't sound that way to Logan. All he hears is the sound of his own hormones
telling him that Carlos is confused and needs someone to help him. Someone like
Logan.
"Do you want me to help you figure that out?" Logan turns to look at the teen
again, dragging his tongue along his lower lip slowly. "Before you say yes, I
do have to tell you that you can't say a word to anyone, not about what we do."
Carlos swallows and nods slowly. "Could you help me?"
God, Logan is so fucked and he's got a one way ticket to hell.
"Alright, but you've got to promise you won't say a word. Do you?" Carlos nods
his head again and bites his lower lip, pulling it into his mouth. He sucks on
it and gets it wet with spit, causing it to shine under the light and, fuck,
Logan's thinking about what those lips could do wrapped around his cock. "Come
on, then," he says and stands, draining his beer before setting the empty
bottle on the table.
Logan walks out of the kitchen without another word and glances over his
shoulder to make sure that Carlos is following. He leads the teen down the hall
and into his bedroom, flicking the light on quickly. Once Carlos is inside,
Logan shuts the door behind him and moves his hands to the teenager's hips,
pulling him closer until their bodies are pressed tightly together.
"What a-a-are you doing?" Carlos stutters and Logan shushes him quietly,
rubbing his thumbs along his hips slowly. There's no defined hipbones yet and
Carlos has still got most of his baby fat but Logan doesn't mind; he thinks the
teen's body is perfect the way it is.
"You said you wanted my help," Logan whispers, working his thumbs underneath
the fabric of Carlos' tank top, hooking them into the waistband of his shorts.
"And this is really the only way I can think of helping you."
The look on Carlos' face makes Logan want to stop, but he doesn't. Instead, he
lifts a hand and cups the teen's face, brushing his thumb along Carlos' cheek
slowly, soothingly. He makes a small shushing noise as he leans down, just
barely pressing his lips against Carlos', feeling hot breath against his
mouth. 
Logan stays like that for a second until Carlos' body goes from rigid to
seemingly boneless in his hold. He chuckles quietly and pulls back, moving his
hand back down to Carlos' hip, wrapping his fingers around it before pulling
him closer. A shudder passes through the teen's body and Logan can feel it; he
closes his eyes and breathes softly through his nose, humming in approval.
"You're thirteen," Logan says, voice low and words soft, "which means that
you've started having wet dreams. Probably for a while now, am I right?"
Carlos squeaks and nods slowly. "Yes," he answers, moving his hands to Logan's
chest, fingers gripping the soft fabric of his t-shirt.
"Do you masturbate?"
"S-sometimes."
"Do you like to masturbate?" God, Logan sounds like a fucking creeper right now
but the hitch in Carlos' breath when he asks that question makes his cock throb
against the front of his shorts. "Does it feel good, you stroking your cock?"
Blushing, Carlos nods again and closes his eyes. "Yeah, feels good."
"You know what feels even better?" Carlos shakes his head and Logan smiles
because, of course he wouldn't know. "When it's someone else's hand on your
dick, working up and down until you come. You want that, baby?" And where
did that come from?!
There's another hitch in Carlos' breathe before he says, "Yeah, please."
"Take your clothes off and get onto the bed." Logan's voice is still soft and
he lifts his hand again, letting his fingertips skirt along the edge of Carlos'
jaw. "Can you do that for me, baby?"
"Yeah," Carlos breathes, tilting his head toward Logan's fingers and he
smiles. 
After dropping his hands, Logan steps back and watches Carlos peel his tank top
off with all the skill of an amateur porn star. It's awkward and completely
non-sexy but Logan thinks that it is anyway, because he's never seen a thirteen
year old that looks like Carlos.
When the tank top is off and thrown to the floor, Logan takes a moment to look
at the boy standing in front of him, growling softly. He nods for Carlos to
keep going and swallows thickly, his mouth going suddenly dry when the teen
pushes his shorts and boxers down, kicking them to the side along with his
shoes. 
For only being thirteen years old, Carlos has a nice body and an ever nicer
cock, far bigger and nicer than Logan had imagined. He licks his lips and nods
toward the bed, biting his lip when Carlos scrambles onto the mattress, ass in
full view before he lays on his back. 
"God, you're perfect." The words come out in a whisper as Logan pulls his shirt
off, eyes glued on Carlos' body as he pushes his shorts off. He shimmies out of
his boxers next and kicks them to the side, chuckling when Carlos' eyes go wide
at the sight of his cock. "You see what you did to me?"
Carlos nods his head, still staring at Logan's cock. "That's because of me?"
It's so cute and innocent that Logan really wants to stop and give himself a
lecture for ruining this young boy's innocence but he can't. Not when Carlos is
spread out on his mattress and looking at him like that.
"Baby, this is what happens whenever I think about you," Logan whispers as he
crawls onto the bed, hovering over top of Carlos. "When I see you in the pool
and you're shirtless and wet? God, you have no idea how hard I get. Sometimes I
have to come inside and forget what I'm doing, just so I can jerk off to
relieve myself."
"Fuck," Carlos moans and he blushes, chewing on his lower lip. "Sorry."
Logan laughs and leans down to kiss Carlos' chest. "You don't have to apologize
for that, you know," he whispers, lips brushing against Carlos' smooth skin.
"And you can cuss or say any word you want in here, okay? I want you to."
The next thing that comes out of Carlos' mouth is Logan's name and he moves a
hand to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. He tugs and Logan
bites down on his chest, teeth dangerously close to his nipple, before moving a
hand up the teen's thigh, inching it toward his cock.
When Logan drags his fingertips along the underside of Carlos' cock, he arches
off the bed and pushes Logan's head down, whimpering and moaning his name,
throwing curse words in between them. He writhes on the bed when Logan kisses a
trail down his stomach, just barely flicking his tongue against the head of his
cock, jumping right into the good stuff.
"How's that feel?" Logan asks as he looks up at Carlos, grinning. "You've gotta
talk to me, baby, or else I won't know if you're liking this or not," he
mutters, wrapping a hand around the base of Carlos' cock before stroking
upwards, thumbing just underneath the head.
Carlos moans and grips Logan's hair tightly. "Fuck, feels -- feels amazing," he
pants out, thrusting his hips forward and into Logan's hand, whining a little
when he chuckles.
Taking a deep breath, Logan opens his mouth and lets the entire length of
Carlos' cock slide inside. He deepthroats with no problems and swallows around
the shaft, dropping a hand down to tease Carlos' balls lightly. When the kid
starts moaning and writhing even more, Logan pulls off and slides up his body,
slotting their lips together. 
Their kiss is messy and Carlos is just as inexperienced as Logan thought he was
but he doesn't stop kissing the teen, just encourages him to keep going. He
thrusts his hips against Logan's hand and whines against the kiss, the noise
vibrating Logan's lips and causing him to moan right back. The hand on Carlos'
cock quickens and he comes undone underneath Logan, writhing and contorting his
body and gasping into the kiss before letting his head fall back.
"I'm going -- Logan, please." Carlos' voice is a wreck and Logan keeps stroking
him, wanting to feel him come and watch him completely fall apart. He moves
down and kisses the kid's nipples, brushing his teeth along the hardened skin
as he thumbs across the head of his cock. When Carlos' hands go between his
shoulders and his nails dig into Logan's skin, he knows he's getting close.
It only takes another handful of strokes before Carlos is coming, moaning and
panting Logan's name, throwing a few 'oh god' and 'oh fuck's in there. Logan
smiles and pulls his hand away when Carlos' orgasm subsides, pulling away to
look down at the mess he made. 
Grinning, Logan brings the hand he used on Carlos to his mouth and licks the
come off his skin, moaning at the taste. He cleans most of it up and moves to
straddle the teenager's torso, holding his fingers out to Carlos, biting his
lip when they disappear between his lips.
Okay, so maybe Carlos has seen a few porn movies.
"Fuck," Logan hisses, feeling Carlos' teeth scrape along his fingers. "I want
you to fucking make me come, baby. You want that, huh? Wanna stroke my cock
now?"
Carlos pulls Logan's fingers out of his mouth and nods slowly, moving a hand
down to the older man's cock, wrapping it around the base. His hand doesn't go
all the way around the width of Logan's cock and he tells Carlos to use both
hands, that it's okay to do that. When Carlos listens and wraps the other hand
around his shaft, Logan moans and starts thrusting his hips slowly.
When Carlos starts stroking, he does it slowly and he stops every few seconds,
like he doesn't think what he's doing is right. Logan tells him to keep going
and moans his name, tells him not to stop, and even begs him to start using his
mouth. He lets out a choked off noise when he feels the tip of Carlos' tongue
move around the head of his cock and nearly comes rightfuckingthen.
"Fuck, keep doing that," Logan gasps, gripping Carlos' hair tightly. "Don't
stop, baby, you're doing so good. Gonna make me come any minute." The words
just fall from Logan's mouth and he lets them, completely unashamed of the
things that he's saying. All he cares about is the way Carlos' hands feel
around his cock and the tongue that's pressing against the head. 
It takes a few more strokes and swipes of Carlos' tongue to push Logan over the
edge. When he does come, Logan tries to angle his cock down so that he doesn't
hit Carlos' face but a few ropes of come land on his cheek and chin. Logan
pants and gasps the teenager's name, falling onto the bed beside him when
Carlos lets go of his cock. 
They lay in silence for a while before Logan asks, "Did that help you?"
"Mhmmm.." Carlos drags the word out and yawns, mumbling something about needing
a shower and Logan laughs, pointing to the bathroom door. He watches Carlos
walk across the room and bites his lip, his mind already going through a list
of things he plans to do to that ass the next time he tutors Carlos.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
an said, making a note in his ledger.
“What have you got by way of riding leathers?” Zoë asked him.
“Oh yes, you’ll need that if there is ever a hunt again,” I agreed. “How I miss
our old sorties to Chastillon.”
“I’ve never been on a hunt,” Christopher said. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
I waved my hand, dismissing his concerns. “Neither do I, but it does not mean
you will not be called to play the part.” I turned my attention back to the
shop owner. “What colors do you have?”
Christopher was ushered out in the company of the shop’s tailor, and Zoë and I
availed ourselves of the wine and sweetmeats the staff brought out.
“You need to learn to keep your own counsel,” Zoë reprimanded, pouring out the
wine.
I shrugged. “What was I to do, let him go on thinking things that were untrue?
Lord Greenwood is the Prince’s uncle by marriage. If the boy were to espouse
the wrong opinion, he’d be tossed aside like a soiled handkerchief.”
“There are times and places, and well you know it. You barely know this
Christopher, or who he may ally himself with, or for that matter how the war
will play out. The last thing you need is to find yourself on the wrong side of
a succession crisis.”
“Me? I’m a pet, and my opinion is less than worthless to them. The only things
they want to hear from my mouth are flattery and gagging noises when the time
is right.”
She gave me a disgusted look; even I would allow I had pushed the metaphor too
far. “That’s just it, my dearest friend, do you see? If you keep on like you
are going, the last thing they hear from your mouth will be a gagging
noise—when they hang you for a traitor!”
I cast my eyes down; she was right and we both knew it. I had allowed my
frustrations with the current political climate to get the better of me. I
reached for her hand and squeezed it to communicate my gratitude, resolving to
keep my opinions to myself.
“Ah yes, the riding leathers,” Zoë said, dropping her hand and turning toward
Christopher as he re-entered the room.
“I don’t know about this,” he said uncertainly. They had outfitted him in a
doublet of green leather that was even more form-fitting than the velvet had
been, decorated with strips of fox fur. The sleeves were also lined with fox
fur, as was the collar. It was very fashionable, and I told him so.
“Don’t you think the boots are excessive?” Christopher said. They were undyed
calfskin and reached up over his knee to mid-thigh. The leather was so fine the
flexing of his thigh muscles could be discerned through it. His calves were
slender but shapely, and I found myself distracted for a moment.
“I wouldn’t say so,” Zoë said.
“I’m awfully hot.”
I waited a beat before responding, “You won’t be in winter,” and rising to
evaluate the fit. The doublet was a bit snug, even to my eye, and I instructed
the shop owner to let it out half an inch.
“Only half an inch? I can barely breathe as it is!”
“He is likely to fill out some still, Zachary,” Zoë pointed out.
I rolled my eyes and gave in. “Very well. Now, let us discuss sleeping attire.”
----
It was late by the time we returned to the pets’ quarters; Zoë had been called
to her mistress’s side earlier, so it was just Christopher and I when we left
the shop. Dinner had already come and gone, so I sent a servant to fetch bread
and meats from the kitchen—as well as whatever fresh vegetables he could find.
When it was brought, I directed the servants to Christopher’s room.
When I entered, he was seated upon the bed. About him had been strewn a small
number of personal belongings, clothes mostly, of a good quality and simple
design, a few small books and parchments; a small trunk lay open on the floor.
On the bed beside him, a small lacquered box sat, unopened and ignored. In his
hands he held a scrap of vellum that he stared at, almost not noticing when I
entered the room.
“If you can believe it, I was able to find you some raw radishes,” I said,
motioning for the servants to set the tray on the small table in the corner.
They did so quickly and left.
“Oh?” Christopher asked. He looked in my direction, uttered a half-hearted,
“Thank you, Zachary,” and went back to staring at the parchment.
“What have you there?” I asked with forced cheer. His distress was apparent in
every way—his manner, his posture, on his face.
“This? It is a sketch I made. Of my sister.”
Curious, I moved to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. He held the scrap
out to me willingly. Whether it was a good likeness I could not say, but it was
a very lifelike drawing of a young woman with mischievous eyes and a pleasant
smile. Her hair was bound up in the manner of married women in the provinces.
It was very well done, and demonstrated a hidden talent.
“She's very pretty,” I said because it was true. She was just like her brother.
He smiled gratefully. “She is expecting her first child in two months' time. I
will miss it.”
“You may be glad of that. I am given to understand it is very unpleasant.”
He laughed, which was my intended outcome. Seeing him saddened distressed me,
in a way I could not comprehend. “It is very good work.”
“I drew her from memory on the trip inland. It could be boring during the long
nights.”
“Have you had instruction? You have more than a little talent.”
His cheeks pinked charmingly. “No. They say I inherited the talent from my
grandmother, who was a painter. But I want to be a writer. I was being trained
as a scribe at the university. Before—” He sighed.
“Before the change in your father's fortune?”
“Yes. I was glad to return home, to help out.” He straightened his spine and
his voice got a little stronger. “I am glad to know that the price of my
contract is helping my family so much.”
“Yes. Well.” I rested a hand on his knee. His was unfortunately not the first
story of such themes I had heard. “It is all right to be nervous. This all must
be strange to you.”
“Just think—one week ago I was helping my mother tend her gardens, and now I am
living in a palace!”
If he could put it so simply, I was not going to remind him of his true
purpose. “And look, they have managed to deliver your belongings,” I observed.
“Some little reminders of home to provide comfort. What is that?” I indicated
the lacquer box.
“I do not know. It was waiting for me along with my trunk.”
“Perhaps it is a gift from Lord Greenwood.”
“I can't think why. I have done nothing to deserve one.”
“Is that not the nature of gifts? To please and to show appreciation?”
Christopher turned the box over in his hands. Its top had been painted to
illustrate a knight slaying a great dragon. It was all very overdone and suited
to pleasing an imaginative young man. Christopher ran his fingertips over it
for a moment, admiring, before opening it. Inside, it was lined in fine silk,
and held a small satin pouch. When he lifted it, it had some heft, so I guessed
it was jewelry.
“Oh my!” he breathed when he drew the object from its wrappings. It was a long
gold chain, its links finely wrought. Accompanying it was a small golden charm:
a small padlock. Christopher found it amusing. “But there is no clasp for the
chain?” he remarked.
“That is because it is meant to be threaded around your neck thus.” I held my
hand out for it and demonstrated, attaching the lock onto one end and threading
the other end through the loop of it creating, forming a loose circle I draped
around his neck. The lock rested just in the hollow of his throat, the long end
of the chain extended below his pectorals. I noted the lock had been engraved
with a “B” and a “G,” the Lord Greenwood's initials I surmised. There was no
key or keyhole, but the symbolism was clear.
“This must have cost a lot of money,” Christopher said.
“Probably.”
“He is very kind to give me such an expensive gift!”
“Do not worry, I expect you will be able to demonstrate your gratitude to him
soon.”
“Ah. Right. Of course,” he said in a quiet voice and looked away. “Shall we
dine?”
As we ate, I asked him to tell me about his home and family, as it seemed to
comfort him. I learned his father was a kind and a fair man, whose regard for
the safety of his men had been the cause of his own ruination. In stormy seas
he had had a choice of saving lives or saving his cargo and had opted for the
former, resulting in the loss of his ship and his livelihood. I learned
Christopher's older sister Katherine had a keen wit, and would keep her younger
brother entertained for hours with stories about history and philosophy. And I
learned he preferred to be called 'Chris' by his friends.
“You may call me Chris,” he said. “Even if people don't make friends here, it'd
be nice to pretend anyway.”
My eyes softened. “That was more a cautionary statement than anything,” I
explained. “There are those who would pretend to cultivate your friendship, but
their motives are not friendly. They would use your confidences against you for
personal gain or to use you for sport. No motive is too base. They are not to
be trusted.”
“You mean Anton.”
“And others like him. There was once a pet. His name was Nicaise. He was
beautiful—almost as beautiful as you, but he cultivated the wrong friendships
and paid the ultimate price for it.”
“Was his contract ended?”
“It was. Permanently. He is dead.”
“Oh.”
“So it is not without a full measure caution that I counsel you to be wary and
keep your wits about you. You are fortunate you have me as a tutor and Zoë to
help as well. We have been at this a long time and we will help you to
acclimate.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that you are looking out for me and I will endeavor to
honor your tutelage.”
Just stay alive, I thought to myself and poured us each more wine.
----
I left an hour later. It was clear to me Chris discomfited sleeping in his new
rooms and I plied him with another goblet of wine until he became sleepy and
drifted off. I had only just changed for bed when a servant appeared at my
doorway.
“Lord Nimoy has requested you wait upon him,” he said.
I suppressed a sigh and looked down at the plain sleeping attire I had on.
“Well, this will never do.”
I changed into a pair of sleeping pants of a lightweight sindon, sheer black,
with a matching robe embroidered with trailing ivy sewn with the finest silk
thread. I did not bother to paint my face as there would be no time. When my
master called for me, he preferred me to come immediately.
I pushed my feet into a pair of velvet slippers and returned to the door where
the servant had remained. It was not seemly for a pet to roam the halls of the
palace unchaperoned. “Let us not keep him waiting,” I said, and followed the
man out of the pet quarters.
Lord Nimoy, my master, was a high-ranking member of the High Council and, since
most of them were gone due to the war, had virtually been running the Veretian
government himself in their absence. It was a duty he did not take lightly.
Since my Lord's holdings were the far off island of Belle Aire, they were not
threatened by the war. His concerns could therefore remain firmly where they
belonged: with the smooth running of the bureaucracy.
His rooms were located in a far flung tower of the palace, up a long flight of
stairs that taxed even my youthful energy. I often wondered how his old joints
could withstand the punishment, nevertheless he liked it here. I suspected he
preferred the privacy it afforded; no one could climb up here without being
heard, and who would want to spy on an old man?
I sent the servant to fetch water and wine and knocked before entering.
“Ah my boy,” Lord Nimoy said upon seeing me. As usual, he sat at the heavy
table in his study, back straight as he worked. The table was strewn with
parchments and scrolls. His fingers were stained with ink, and there was a
smudge of it on the tip of his nose as well, where he had held the parchment
too close to read it. “It is pleasing to see you.”
I smiled and went to him, taking up a cloth and rubbing the ink from his face.
I sat upon his lap and kissed the nose, now reddened from my efforts. “I too am
pleased to see you,” I replied. “It is late, why don't you give these things to
me?” I began to gather up the scrolls. “You should get some rest.”
He batted at my hands to get me to stop, so I rose and danced around to the
other side of the table, out of reach. I continued with what I was doing.
“You know I don’t want you doing that,” he said. “Let the servants.”
“And you know I do not mind,” I reminded him. It pleased me to do things for
him.
Presently the servant returned and set the wine down on the sideboard. I went
to pour Lord Nimoy a goblet. “Here this will relax you,” I said
“I would prefer warm milk,” he said.
“Shall I call the servant back?”
“No, no. Just water then please, Zachary.”
I poured a goblet of water and kept the wine for myself. “How go the affairs of
state?” I asked, seating myself opposite him, my foot resting on the edge of
the chair.
He glanced at my tackle and shook his head. I lowered my leg and sat more
modestly, my hands cradling the goblet so as to obscure the view.
“Why do you dress like that? You know I do not require you to.”
“One must keep up appearances,” I replied. “What will they say if they learn
you only keep me around to actually warm your bed and nothing more?”
He rolled his eyes. “They will see I am an old man whose blood has thinned.
Besides, they have more present concerns, such as pretending to prepare their
forces for war whilst delaying long enough to hope the conflict ends before
they must commit to one side or the other.”
“There are still eyes everywhere,” I said, and he knew I was right. Lord Nimoy
had been my master for more than three years, and we were both veterans of such
intrigues in our own rights.
“Tell me of your day,” he said, changing the subject. He took a sip of water
from the goblet, watching me over its rim.
“I have been given an assignment. Lord Greenwood has acquired a new pet and
Radel sent him to me for tutelage.”
“Has he?”
I gave him a sideways glance. Of course he already knew. “A lad from the
Western shore, broad of shoulder and fair of face, with eyes like the sea. If
the court were full he would be a very big distraction.”
“He is untrained then?”
“Lord Greenwood discovered him slinging the day's catch on the docks at Ste
Monique, if you can believe it.”
“I have heard more remarkable things i my life,” Lord Nimoy said, though I
could tell the story amused him.
“He is a pretty thing, sweet and loyal and naive and those sharks are going to
make a meal of him,” I said, referring to my fellow pets.
“He has you to protect and to instruct.”
“Aye, but am I the best one for it?”
“You are the only one for it,” he said. “Just think what value insight into
Lord Greenwood's thoughts may have.”
I cocked my head and looked at him and knew immediately it was he who had
arranged for Christopher to be brought to me. “What do you need me to do?” I
asked at length.
He shrugged. “Be kind. Teach him well the pleasure arts. One as sweet and
innocent can only instill trust in others. We may one day soon use that to our
advantage.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Chris can be full of surprises.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter: there is sex between two teenagers
I rose early the next morning, saw to the arrangements for my Lord’s breakfast,
and arrived to the pets’ quarters before any of them. As had been my own
experience the night before, many of them had been called-for by their masters
and had not yet returned.
I called for a servant and went to the baths. I preferred to visit them early
in the morning, when they were unoccupied. The quiet suited me, the lapping of
the hot spring’s waters against the edge of the pool was soothing. The servants
were efficient when allowed to do their jobs, and I stood knee-deep in the pool
and thought through a plan for the day.
Christopher was going to be an interesting assignment. It was not unprecedented
that a pet should take a novice under his or her wing. While I had known from
an early age what I had been destined for and been trained accordingly, my own
experience as a pet was becoming less typical in recent years. It had become
fashionable among the aristocracy to cull youths from within their own duchies,
a further extension of their egos to display the beauty of their homelands. A
natural byproduct of this had therefore become the tendency of towns and
villages to put as many of their prettiest and most talented young people in
the gentry’s path as possible. As a result, a cottage industry of fairs and
festivals had grown up, honoring local saints and war heroes of dubious
provenance.
My own mother, being knowledgeable about such things, had dealt through a
broker, one Mr. Weller, who had secured a much higher price for my contract
than would have been paid on the open market. I lived at the home of my first
master, Lord Cumberbatch, for the first six months, until he was called to
court to serve as special advisor to the Regent’s Privy Council. When I arrived
at court, just turned 15 and thinking I had been well-trained, I found the
intrigues and machinations to be daunting. If Zoë had not taken notice and
schooled me on the finer nuances of court life, who knows what might have
befallen me. I had difficulties enough keeping up with the whims of Lord
Cumberbatch, who could be mercurial at the best of times, pernicious at worst.
So it was with a desire to repay the kindness I’d been shown that I happily
took on the assignment of assisting young Christopher. That he somehow factored
into Lord Nimoy’s plans ought to have occurred to me earlier. At any rate, it
mattered not to me; the lack of diversion in the palace of late, combined with
the emotional stresses placed upon a people at war, had imbued in me a tendency
toward indolence that could not be entirely healthy. My assignment also gave me
a feeling of being useful, one I liked well.
As one servant dried me and another approached with baskets filled with
cosmetics, I knew what the next stage of Christopher’s instruction would be. I
ordered it brought to my rooms, as well as breakfast for two, donned my robe,
and left for the pet quarters.
----
“It is satisfying to see you are no layabout,” I commented as soon as I entered
Christopher’s rooms.
He looked up from the floor, where he had been lying prone, hands flat and
pushing against the floor repeatedly. This made the muscles in his back and
shoulders bunch and flex ostentatiously, and his skin shone with a thin sheen
of perspiration. He smiled at me, blue eyes merry, and unconcerned by his
nakedness as he hastily got to his feet.
“My mother taught me the importance of staying fit. It aids the digestion.”
“Among other things,” I said, grateful for the loose-fitting robe I wore.
I handed him a cloth and he dabbed at his face and throat. I noticed he still
wore Lord Greenwood’s golden chain; the lock on it stuck to the damp skin, so
that it hung unevenly. “I have ordered us breakfast,” I said, even as two
servants arrived with a tray. I beckoned them to set it up in Christopher’s
rooms.
Christopher’s smile widened and he reached for a nearby robe; I noticed it was
one of those we’d picked out the day before, a fine silk, nearly sheer, and
soft to the touch. “That’s great, I’m starving.”
He strode over to the table and chose a bunch of grapes, eating them even
before sitting down; he then helped himself to a bowl of warm muesli and a
large goblet of milk. Once seated, I chose a soft-boiled duck’s egg, a
favorite, which I dipped toast points into.
“Christopher—“
“Chris,” he interrupted. I raised my eyebrows, surprised at the interruption.
“I want you to call me Chris,” he reminded me. “Only my grandmother calls me
Christopher, Zach.”
“Zach?”
“I may call you that, yes? It’s so much less formal than ‘Zachary.’ More
friendly.”
I would have taken him to task for his impertinence, but his smile was too
distracting. “Yes. Well. I thought we would continue your training today by
teaching you how to apply face paint. I know you are aware of its importance,
but I am afraid you have not learned the finer nuances.”
He frowned. “I don’t understand all the brushes and things.”
“It is easy to misapply the cosmetics with too heavy a hand,” I commiserated.
“The servants will bring them in a little while, and I can show you some tips
of the trade.” He looked unconvinced. “Trust me, it is not so difficult when
you are shown how.”
He appeared to be coming around, though he had no other opportunity to respond,
as at that moment a servant appeared. He bore the balance of the clothing we
had purchased the day before, those that had required alterations. I assisted
Christopher with stowing them properly in his cabinets and wardrobes.
“That is a lot of clothes. When will I wear them all?” he mused.
“How long is the term of your contract?”
“An excellent point. I imagine I will have plenty of time. But, oh—“ he paused,
his fingertips petting at the fox fur trim on the new riding leathers.
“I see Lord Greenwood’s coin is still very much welcome in Arles,” I said,
impressed that the leathers were already delivered.
“Was there a time when it wasn’t?”
“No,” I said, hastening to correct my mistake. In truth, there had been some a
falling out between Lord Greenwood and the Queen, his sister, shortly after the
King’s death. Speculation about it was still a matter of closed-door gossip,
but it was nothing anyone spoke of openly. I did not want Christopher to
unwittingly get himself in trouble by saying something untoward. “It is just
that he has been away for so long.”
Chris nodded.
“Did you want to go for a ride? The day is likely to be a hot one, but if we
hurry, we may still enjoy the coolness of the morning.”
“I would like that very much.”
“And I am very happy to provide tutelage should you require it. I am not much
for sport riding, but I am told I hold an attractive seat.” Christopher glanced
at my backside and I raised my eyebrows. “Saucy.”
“Yes.”
“I will make the arrangements and meet you in the stables in an hour, then.”
He beamed at me happily as I left, and I tried not to make comparisons to the
sun.
----
I was a few minutes late arriving to the stables, but nevertheless I expected
to precede Christopher—correction: Chris—in my arrival. Veretian court fashion
being what it was, not to mention the stiffness of new leathers, he was
probably still in his room, trying to work out the laces on his boots.
As I walked down the path between two of the stables, I noted a minor commotion
in a nearby paddock typically used for training. When I got closer, I could see
why: Chris, clad in little more than his undershirt and a pair of cotton
breeches, was riding around the paddock’s perimeter atop a horse—bareback!
I recognized the horse, a bay and white piebald stallion. He was notoriously
ill-tempered and had thrown more than his fair share of riders, including
Prince Laurent himself. He did not seem to mind Chris. Indeed, the horse seemed
very much to respond to its rider as if they had known each other for years.
Clearly others shared in my amazement. I went to stand beside Roberto, the
chief groom, where he stood nearby with his stable boys. “Is that really
Firebrand? What does he think he’s playing at?” I asked, all concern.
The paddock was a large one, one typically used to train riders for jumping. We
watched in amazement as Chris took the horse through its paces, making a full
circuit of the perimeter at a canter before doubling back to run the jumping
course. Despite the lack of proper gear, horse and rider moved as one, the
beast reacting to whatever minute direction Chris gave him, whether a pressing
of his knees, the leaning of his body, or the firm yet gentle tug on his mane.
The performance was breathtaking, on all counts, as a confident rider put a
beautiful, powerful steed through its paces.
Roberto spat into the dust and grinned. “’e said ‘e could manage ‘im ‘n who am
I to say otherwise?” he said. “So I let ‘im. I figgered ‘e'd fall on is arse
soon enough. I tell you I ain't seen nothin’ like it.”
He and the others gave an impressed whistle as Chris steered his mount toward
another jump, the tallest. I myself had seen the horse shy at anything taller
than its knees and I may have covered my eyes at one point. But when I did not
hear the scream of a horse nor the sound of flesh impacting with hard earth, I
looked up to see Chris riding toward us, a grin as wide as the sea on his face.
He brought the horse to a skidding stop with the slightest yank of its mane,
then dismounted before the beast had halted. He landed on light feet without
stumbling, then leaned into the horse, who snorted air out of his nostrils but
quietened as soon as Chris murmured into his ear. Firebrand shook his head and
whickered softly, as one might when a lover has used a favorite endearment.
“’orse charmer,” Roberto proclaimed, to much solemn agreement among the other
grooms and spitting in the dust. Chris handed Firebrand off to one of them and
came to stand with me, the fence between us.
“I see you've warmed up,” I said.
“A bit,” he said with a wink.
“So you know how to ride then?”
The twinkle in his eyes could rival the pole star's. “You could say so. My
mother's mother is Vaskian. It was very important to her that my mother's
children be taught. Even I, a lowly boy child.”
The horsemanship of the Vaskian tribes, and their warrior women, was legendary
even here. “Can you also ride in a saddle,” I asked, “or do you merely use it
to vault over the back of the animal?
He laughed.
“You like to surprise people,” I noted, only chiding him a little.
His cheeks colored charmingly and his chest heaved as he caught his breath. His
undershirt—made of the finest muslin Lord Greenwood’s coin could procure—had
soaked through with his sweat. It had become translucent in places, showing his
skin where it clung, his nipples dusky beneath their cotton shroud. I dragged
my eyes up to his face.
“People make assumptions about me when they meet me. Boy from the provinces,
what can he know other than the times of the tides or when to rotate the crops?
It doesn't bother me, I mean it's only natural.”
I was appropriately chagrined. “But it doesn't necessarily follow that you
wouldn’t enjoy helping them adjust their assumptions.”
“Just so,” he said, spreading his hands.
I was intrigued. “Then I suppose I have nothing to teach you.” I noted his new
leathers hung on a nearby peg. “Except perhaps for how to dress properly for
this kind of exercise.”
He made a face, objecting. “There is nothing proper about those clothes. How
will I move in them?”
“I think you will find them supple and responsive. Now, allow one of the grooms
to assist you and I will see to a picnic lunch.”
----
Our ride was bracing and invigorating, though I could not coax Chris into
donning the fur-trimmed doublet on so warm a day. When we returned, we visited
the baths again, and by later afternoon, he was ready to begin instruction on
the application of face paint.
“Earlier today, I had nothing to teach you,” I said, indicating the array of
powders, creams, and demulcents laid out on the table before us. We had taken
seats in one of the common areas in the pets’ quarters, in order to take
advantage of the lighting. “Now I think I do.”
Chris regarded the collection with a mixture of fascination and dread.
“You will need to know how to apply them properly. It is expected that you will
be presentable at court functions. Not that there have been that many of late,”
I added ruefully
“I suppose there's not much call for it with the fighting in the south.”
“No, not much.” I picked up a pot and removed its cover. Inside was a balm made
with bark of white willow and scented with rose oil. It had a very pleasing
aroma. “This is meant to soothe and soften the skin,” I explained. I gestured
at his face. “It will also alleviate the—spottiness—that is the bane of many a
young man's life.”
He raised a hand to his cheek, where an angry red bump was forcing its way to
the surface. “Really?” He looked almost hopeful
I handed him the pot. “Use it twice each day, applied to clean skin. This means
you must wash your face regularly.”
“I will,” he promised. He sniffed at the pot's contents and made an
appreciative noise, then scooped a measure onto his fingertip.
“Apply sparingly,” I advised. “A little goes a long way.”
He nodded and applied the moisturizing agent whilst looking into a mirror I
held up for him. When he was done, I took up a brush and began searching
through some of the other cosmetics, choosing several small pots containing
cosmetic cakes.
“These powders are tinted to correspond to a variety of skin tones.” I took one
of his hands and turned it so that the palm faced up. “We need to find one that
matches your own coloring. You see this one?” I smudged a small amount along
his wrist, where it shimmered slightly. “It is not quite right. You have more
of a pinkish cast to your natural skin tone.”
“Do I?” he asked. His head was bent forward, watching what I was doing with
careful attention. I could feel the warmth of him.
I chose another pot. “This one may work,” I said, and applied a test amount.
“Yes, this is better.” I took a brush made from sable hairs and ran it through
the powder, tapping off the excess. I held it up, indicating I would apply it
on his face. He leaned in to afford me easier access. His lips were parted, and
I could feel his breath on the inside of my wrist.
“Yes. Well,” I said, sitting back and surveying my handiwork on the left side
of his face. “Not a bad match, though you are more tan than you will be after a
few weeks spent inside palace walls. Perhaps we will play with another shade
tomorrow.”
He took the mirror and held it in front of his face, staring at himself with a
frown. “I don't see any difference.”
“I accept the compliment!” I said proudly. When he appeared confused, I
explained, “The cosmetic has evened out your coloring and masked any redness.
It is very subtle. Now you will apply it to the other side of your face.”
He looked unconvinced but nevertheless took up the brush obediently and ran it
through the powder. It was a bit too much but I did not want to discourage him
by being over critical. He applied it over his cheeks and down the bridge of
his nose, blending it down over his jaw as I had demonstrated, then looked to
me for reaction
“Not bad,” I pronounced. “Now apply to your forehead.”
He nodded and complied. “Who taught you this?” he asked idly as he worked.
“My mother. She meant me to be a pet from an early age, as she herself had been
as a young woman.”
“Is it the way in your family?”
I shrugged. “It is not a bad fate for the peculiar second son of a deceased
craftsman.”
“I am sorry to hear about your father.”
“He died when I was very young. I barely remember him.”
“And I don't think you're peculiar.”
“Nor do I,” I said, toying with a small pot of kohl cake and adding a few drops
of water to it. “But I think it means I was too intelligent to thrive while
being apprenticed to my uncle, the wood carver. My mother wished for my
intellect to flourish, and she determined being a pet was the better option.”
“Was it?”
I thought a moment, giving my answer careful consideration. “I have had two
masters thus far, and traveled the whole of the country. I have also had the
opportunity to explore the vast library here in the palace, which has afforded
many diversions.”
“Pets are allowed in the library?” Chris's face had the manner of a child at
the solstice festival.
“Ordinarily not, but I have always been respectful of the books, so the
librarian allows me to visit on off hours.” The fact I could 'suck his brains
out through his prick' probably also had something to do with it, but I did not
think mentioning it was relevant.
“Do you think he’d allow me to visit as well? It has been so long since I’ve
been able to study a great manuscript.”
“I am sure it can be arranged.”
I chose a small, coarse brush and ran it through the kohl, coating it
thoroughly. “Now come here,” I said, beckoning him to move closer as I held up
the brush. “This will darken your eyelashes, though it must be carefully
applied or it will smudge. Lower your gaze.”
He did as bidden and I applied the cosmetic to both eyes. “Look up at me now,”
I commanded. When he turned that azure gaze upon me I nearly dropped the brush
in my lap. The dark cosmetic served to enhance his eyes so dramatically, it
lent an almost otherworldly cast to his eyes.
“How does it look?”
“Like the crystal ocean waters at Ios,” I whispered, so captivated I nearly
forgot to breathe.
His eyebrows drew together. “Really?”
I blinked, the spell broken. “Or so I'm told,” I said and cleared my throat.
I sat back and reached for one final pot. “Use this on your lips,” I said. He
took it and opened it. Inside was a clear emollient, scented with chamomile.
“What is it for?”
“To aid in soothing wind-burned lips. I have noted your tendency to lick them
quite often. It is not a habit conducive to the maintenance of soft, inviting
lips.” I gestured vaguely at my own mouth.
“No, I suppose not.” He applied a spare amount, the product lending his plush
lips an inviting sheen. “How does it look? Did I use too much?”
His mouth reminded me of nothing more than an overripe plum and everything in
me longed to take a bite. Overcome, I leaned forward, raised a hand to touch.
“What have we here, a lesson?” said a wholly unwelcome voice.
I looked up with barely concealed contempt. “Hello, Anton. I thought I detected
an unpleasantness on the wind, but I attributed it to the changing of the dregs
down in the brewery.”
He gave me a sour look and turned his attention to Chris. “The paint is a vast
improvement upon your face,” he said with mock kindness. “I think perhaps
doubling the amount would be even better.”
“We don't all of us have the easy facility with paint you have, Anton,” I
replied sweetly. “Did your mother the whore teach you? Or is it an in-bred
talent, given your ancestry?”
The look he gave me could have curdled milk. “You know you are wasting your
time with shopping trips and cosmetics lessons. The test of a good pet will be
in his master's bed and nowhere else. Stop coddling the lad and teach him how
to suck a cock if you really want to do him a favor.”
Chris flinched in shock as Anton smirked triumphantly, the expression twisting
his pretty mouth unattractively.
“Do you not have another place to be?” I asked, for the moment at a loss for a
cutting rejoinder. Chris’s reddened face betrayed his own thoughts, and I felt
a pang of sympathy. I had deliberately avoided the topic of sexual congress in
Chris’s presence, hoping to ease him into that aspect of his training in a way
that would not cause undue distress.
“As it happens, I do not,” Anton said, the self-satisfied expression on his
face intensifying.
I rose, pulling myself up to my full height and towering over him by a full
head. “Then find one,” I said in a low voice.
Anton made a squeaking sound and fled the space. I took a moment to recompose
myself and sat down.
“On many occasions, you will find it necessary to apply more face paint, for a
more dramatic effect. I can show you how, shall I?”
Without awaiting his response, I picked up the kohl pot again, and a small,
blunt-ended piece of ivory. Propping the mirror up, I deftly drew a thick line
at the edges of my eyes, then found a small pot of silver dust-infused powder,
applying a light coating on my eyelids, cheek bones, and forehead. Finally, I
found a small ampule of lipstain and applied a small amount to my mouth. I
moved quickly and efficiently, having done this so many times in my life I had
lost count. When I was done, I turned my face to Chris, who had been staring at
me the entire time.
“There, you see?”
“I should know how to provide pleasure to a man,” came the distracted reply.
“There is plenty of time to learn that,” I said, the lie no doubt making itself
obvious in my averted eyes.
“Is it not the primary function of a pet to do so?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must learn it in all haste, otherwise what else am I here for?”
I had no answer, not one I felt comfortable giving him. It was the way of the
Veretian people, and had been for as long as anyone could remember. Pets were
an accepted aspect of high society, and to become one was often an entree to a
better life for youths such as Chris and myself, a way to elevate oneself above
one’s social caste.
He would not have entered into his contract with Lord Greenwood without being
fully cognizant of what he would be required to do. He was already of an age
when it was legal for him to have signed the contract for himself.
Yet something within me balked at the idea of this naïf submitting himself to
it.
It was an impulse I swiftly quashed, for it was fruitless. For Chris to refuse
to honor the terms of his contract would consign him to a far worse fate than
the one he left, and likely render his family completely destitute. They would
be required to refund his contract price in addition to a heavy punitive fee
for having squandered the Lord’s time and kindness.
“What else indeed?” I concluded. “We will begin after the evening meal.”
----
“I am all nerves,” Chris said. “I cannot account for it.”
“Is not now the ideal time to work that out?” I asked reasonably. “Before you
submit to your master?”
We were alone together in my rooms, a cool evening breeze blowing on us through
the screened windows. Dinner was uneventful, though I ensured Chris consume two
goblets of wine in order to quell his nerves. It didn’t seem to have worked
much.
“Where shall we begin?” he asked nervously.
I thought a moment. “I have found it beneficial in the past to learn by
example. If one has no knowledge or experience, how is he ever to learn
anything?”
“That is a reasonable approach.”
“We will begin by disrobing. It is often the case that your master may want you
to be ready when he calls for you. In those cases, the best option for you is
to wear the least complicated clothing you can. This is why the loungewear we
purchased for you is devoid of all but the most basic fastenings.”
Chris nodded his understanding and glanced at his own attire. He wore a sheer
midnight blue robe trimmed in palest blue over similarly colored harem pants
and brocade slippers. I was similarly clad, in robes of black with silver
embroidery.
“These clothes offer little complication, and that is a good thing. It is not
prudent for your master to be denied quick access to your, shall we say,
charms.”
“Charms?”
I pressed on. “That said, it is not unheard of, particularly early on in your
acquaintance, for your master to prefer to pretend at some game of seduction.
It is difficult to predict whether he will want you to be the seduced or the
seducer, so pay careful attention as I demonstrate.”
He nodded his understanding and I gestured toward the chaise. He sat with his
hands resting on his thighs. I sat beside him, close, but not enough to touch,
though I could feel the warmth coming from him, and the nervous energy.
I placed a hand upon his thigh, clasping the firm flesh companionably, felt him
relax. I next took his hand, holding it gently and turning it over in mine.
“You have a long lifeline,” I told him, tracing a fingertip over his palm.
“Have I? How do you know?”
“My grandmother was Akielon and taught me the basics of palm reading. This one
is your love line. It tells me you have a strong heart, and a loyal one.” I
bent my head over it and traced the line with the tip of my tongue.
He swallowed. “It does?”
I nodded and pressed my lips to the warm skin at his pulse point, pushing the
sleeve of his robe up his arm. I rested my other hand on the inside of his
thigh, pulling at him. I was relieved as he took my cue, turning toward me. It
was pleasing to think he was not so nervous that he should pull away.
I straightened and looked up; he returned my gaze evenly, the only trepidation
I detected edged with excitement. I ran a finger along the clear line of his
jaw and he shivered. “I would like to kiss you now,” I said. “May I?”
He closed his eyes as his breathing quickened and his lips parted to form an
“O.” I used the hand at his jaw to turn his head just so, and took the plump
lower lip I had been thinking of all afternoon between my own. I suckled for a
moment then pulled away, and his eyes opened. He looked astonished. “Have you
never been kissed?”
“It was never as nice as that.”
“There are many ways to kiss,” I replied as I slid my hand behind his neck and
pulled him closer. This kiss had a bit more force behind it, and as I pulled
back slightly, I licked at his mouth lightly with the tip of my tongue.
He was very responsive to this tactic, and pressed his body closer to mine. His
hand pressed into my waist, tentative. “Oh,” he breathed, as I pulled away
again. His eyes were wide now, as a sort of understanding passed behind them.
“I have only ever kissed other boys at school. Fumbling assignations behind
book shelves. This way is much nicer.”
“The mouth plays an important part in lovemaking,” I said. “It can be used to
kiss,” I kissed him again to demonstrate, paying still more attention to that
lovely lower lip; it was now swollen and reddened, like a ripe cherry. “It can
be used to soothe.” I sang to him then, a brief nursery song any child of Vere
would recognize. He smiled in response, understanding my meaning.
I pitched my voice low and reached for him, palm to his face as my thumb traced
the pillowy richness of his lower lip. “And the mouth can be used to drive
someone mad with desire.” I turned his head to the side and kissed him on the
side of the neck. I could feel the quickening of his pulse beneath my lips and
I smiled, then made my way downwards, parting the robe as I came to the hollow
of his throat, worshiping each part of his body as I uncovered it.
When I reached his chest, I eased the robe all the way open, and slid my hand
about his waist for purchase as I paid his nipples the attention I had longed
to ever since that morning in the stable yard. His body surged against mine as
his desire became inflamed, the evidence of it tenting the soft fabric of the
pants he wore.
“Lay back,” I instructed and he immediately complied. “I am going to use my
mouth on you.”
“Where?”
“Where else?” I answered as I unlaced the pants and pulled them down his legs
and off. He was fully hard, and though I had seen him naked the day before,
much larger than I remembered. I bent forward and hovered over him with parted
lips. As my hand grasped him at the root, I could feel Chris tense beneath me,
his abdomen rigid with tension. “Do you not wish—“
“Oh, I wish, I wish very much,” he replied. He looked as if he had won some
prize.
“Very well. I hope you will pay close attention,” I advised as I bent my head.
“This is for your instruction, you understand.”
He made a kind of mewling sound I took for an affirmative and set to it.
While it had been some time since I last performed the act, the mechanics of it
were not forgotten. It was simple enough: I grasped his phallus firmly and
wrapped my lips around the velvety head, fully engorged now and leaking
pearlescent fluid. It was viscous on my tongue, the flavor unique to Chris
though redolent of the others who preceded him. I pulled off, savoring it,
glancing up at my partner. His face was flushed, as were his throat and chest,
and his mouth remained open in that single, questioning, “O.” He breathed
shallowly, body tensed as if afraid to move. But his eyes were bright, as if
with fever, and he watched closely. I nodded approvingly and lowered my head
again.
“As you see, the copious production of saliva is an advantage in these cases,”
I said a moment later, and it was true. The savor of him in my mouth had
yielded such a result, and so I used it to provide instruction. “Note how it
provides lubrication for my hand. You will no doubt have made a note of it
previously, whilst having a go at yourself at home?”
His eyes flicked away. “Uh-huh.”
“And it is so with a partner. Does not my hand stroking you feel better with
lubrication than without?”
He swallowed and nodded.
“As I said earlier, the mouth plays an important part in lovemaking. You can
use it to tease,” I ran the rigid tip of my tongue just beneath the head of his
prick, on the underside, and he groaned. “Or you may find it
advantageous—depending on your goal—to apply an increased suction, like so.” I
demonstrated. “It all depends on whether you would like to prolong your
partner’s pleasure or hasten it.”
“Wh-why—?”
“For a variety of reasons, depending on the situation in which you find
yourself.” I could tell he did not understand. It was a trait in him, this
natural guilelessness, that I already mourned. He would have to work out for
himself what behavior was warranted in certain situations, and I regretted that
I could not lay out all possible scenarios for him myself.
“I still don’t—“
“For now it is better to learn the how, and let the whys come later,” I said
shortly, and bent to my task again. The weight of him in my mouth and the sweet
sounds he made as I began to move were enough for me to forgive myself my
snappishness.
Soon I had given myself over to the task enough that my throat muscles could
relax and I was able to accommodate the whole length of him. I drew back slowly
and did it again, moving my hand down between his legs to cup his testicles.
Despite the surfeit of it, the hair on them was soft and dark golden, their
scent pleasingly musky. I buried my nose there willingly as I forgot for a
moment the need to breathe, and let my throat muscles caress him.
“Zach! Sweet gods, Zach!” he said as I felt his well-formed cods begin to pull
closer to his body. I drew back a bit but did not release him. “Zach!”
A moment later, I felt the hot rush of his release at the back of my tongue,
and I increased the suction of my mouth. His hips bucked up, but I managed to
move with him, maintaining my hold, as I had once seen a calf do despite its
mother’s restiveness and kicking feet. A moment later, he was done, and I
pulled away, only grimacing a little at the bitter remainders on my tongue.
“I—you—“ he began, his voice rough and his chest heaving.
“It is probably best for you not to attempt speech yet,” I said gently as I
laid myself beside him and pulled him against me. He was meek and pliant in my
arms, like a sleepy kitten, his head a warm and welcome weight upon my chest. I
traced lazy circles on his upper arm as he eventually settled.
“What about you?” he said after a time.
“Yes? What about me?”
He moved his hips so that he was half covering me, the press of his naked belly
against my own erection causing it to jump enthusiastically. He pushed my
silken pants down, freeing my cock, and rolled atop me, grinding his hips
against me. I could not help the moan that escaped my lips. “Is this what you
meant by fumbling assignations behind book shelves?” I asked, mildly shocked.
“We called it dueling,” he said. He was hovering over me with his hands on
either side of me, in a position not dissimilar to the one I found him in that
morning. “Like with swords? Only… you know.”
“How imaginative.”
He looked down at me with mischief in his eyes. The grin he offered was not
wholly innocent, and with a quirk to his mouth his hips surged against me again
and again. I opened my legs wider to accommodate him. The drag of our penises
against one another was exquisite and I craved more friction. I urged him
closer with my hands on his buttocks.
His movements brought his face closer to mine, and his lips. We kissed, and he
frowned when he pulled away a moment later. “Is that what I taste like?”
“It is what we all taste like, more or less.”
He looked thoughtful, and then he kissed me again. “I shall have to get used to
it.”
I nearly cried out as he ground against me with renewed force; how he was able
to achieve another erection so soon was astounding, though I was not entirely
of the right mind to appreciate it.
He spat into his hand and worked it between us, taking both our pricks in hand.
“I see you are already applying what I have taught you,” I breathlessly noted
as the saliva eased the drag of skin-on-skin.
“I’m a quick study,” he said, and then he was kissing me again.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Zach takes Chris to explore the palace some more, including the
     barber and the Crown Prince’s library. Then, a dinner invitation from
     Lord Greenwood himself.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter: sex between two teenagers; mention of past
     child sexual abuse; adult/teen smoochies in a master/pet context
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The sound of birdsong woke me the following morning.
It was early, the sky outside the windows only just kissed by the coming sun,
the grey, pearlescent light slowly chasing the shadows out of my room. Far away
I discerned the first furtive sounds of the palace coming awake; servants
building fires, the kitchens beginning to send out trays to those who, like my
master, were early risers. There was a breeze this morning, some hint of the
coming autumn, perhaps, blowing cool and pleasant air upon my exposed body.
Chris lay beside me, curled up and asleep, his hair about his face and lips
parted as if he would speak. His hands were clasped together beneath his chin,
which was tilted up on the pillow beside mine. His beauty at rest was almost
heart-stopping; I could not resist the urge to reposition a lock of golden hair
from his brow, revealing his long lashes. They fluttered suddenly, and then he
was awake. Bright blue eyes regarded mine for a moment, and then a smile, just
as bright, greeted me.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning.”
He reached for me with an arm about my waist and a leg draped over mine. “It is
very early,” he observed, pushing his face against my shoulder.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never slept with another in my bed, not since I was a child seeking
solace after a nightmare from my parents. I think I like it.”
“That is fortunate; your master will likely prefer it often.”
He raised his head to kiss me, ardently. Before I could complain of sour
morning breath, his lips moved to my jaw and throat.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Practicing what you taught me last night,” he said, pushing the bedclothes off
and slipping a warm hand down to grasp my morning-hardened member. My flesh
leapt at his touch, and he bent his head down, eager mouth straining to engulf
me.
“Watch the teeth, or I will have you flogged,” I warned, my cracking voice
making the threat unconvincing.
Merry eyes looked up at me, and he returned to his task, attempting to put into
practice that which I had shown him the night before. Concentration on the
mechanics of it was evident in his every motion, which didn’t make him very
good—not yet. But as it had been some time since anyone had paid me such
attention—Lord Nimoy was more interested in watching me solve puzzles or read
to him than sexual congress—I found my body soon quickening to his touch.
“There are some men who would be flattered by that,” I said to Chris when he
choked, attempting to swallow the length of me as I had done with him before.
There were tears in his eyes and his face was reddening. “But please do not…” I
paused as he complied, increasing suction on the sensitive head of my prick,
“do not huh-hurt your… oh!”
I flung an arm up to cover my eyes as I felt my body succumb too soon, emptying
all I had into the warmth of his inviting mouth.
I lay there a moment, trembling from the effects and the force of my reaction,
when the gagging and coughing of my bed partner beside me forced my attention
upon him once more. “You may spit it out, I will not be insulted,” I offered.
“There you are, use the bedding, the servants will be in soon enough.”
“I am sorry,” he said, embarrassment turning his face, throat, and ears
crimson. “I did not expect to react that way. You made it seem as easy as
anything last night.”
“It is an acquired… talent. We will work on you being more circumspect in your
reaction later. Come.” I held my arms out and we settled back together against
the pillows. “That was an unexpected surprise at so early an hour, and I thank
you.” I curled my arm and stroked the soft hair at the crown of his head. “I am
reminded we should pay a visit to the barber today.”
“It’s not so bad!” Chris said, tugging at his overgrown locks self-consciously.
“Is it?”
“The hair on your head? No, but there is still the matter of… the other areas
of your body.”
“Must I?”
“Must you? Must you endeavor to walk upright, or obey the laws of king and
country? Just as those things are good and natural, so too must you see to your
proper grooming. We are not barbarians, after all. We are not Vaskian.”
“Some of us are. Partly.”
“Yes, and I’ve seen which parts.”
“Fine, I’ll do it, but you must come with me.”
“I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”
----
“Chris? Chris, wake up, lad! Oh, it will never do, he’s fainted dead away.” I
looked at Andre, the best of the palace barbers, the man who saw to Prince
Laurent himself in better times, and raised my eyebrows, showing my
frustration.
“This ain’t the first time this’s ‘appened, and it won’t be the last,” Andre
pointed out. He folded his massive, muscular arms across his chest and
shrugged.
“I have just never seen anything like it!”
“Makes it easier on me, if ‘e ain’t movin’ none.”
I waved a hand and bade him get on it. He, being a professional, made short
work of it, trimming the thicket of growth about Chris’s privates back in no
time at all. When he was done, Andre cleared away the area and applied a clean-
smelling astringent.
By this point, Chris had begun to stir. I propped him up on the bench he had
been lying on and secured him with an arm around his shoulders.
“What... wha’ happen?” he murmured.
“You fainted.”
“I did?” He groaned and raised a hand to cover his eyes as memory returned. “I
did. But when I saw such a large blade so close to my… ohhhh…” His head lolled
back against my shoulder once more.
I held him fast and shook him. “Come now, it’s over, and you survived it! Get a
hold on yourself.” I offered him a goblet of water.
“Oh, this will be quite the tale among the other pets, won’t it?” he said after
draining it.
“They won’t hear it from my lips.”
He sighed with relief. “Thank you.”
“And look,” I said, indicating his privates; Andre had trimmed the dark golden
hair back very close to Chris’s body, as close as one might trim one’s beard.
“You are now nearly presentable.”
“And I look bigger, too,” he said after a time. “That’s not so bad!”
“There you have it. Now, do you have your strength back? I have a surprise for
you.”
He sat up and I could see that his color was beginning to look more like
normal. “I am quite recovered. What is the surprise?”
“Get your pants on and I’ll take you there.”
----
The Crown Prince’s Library at Arles was, in my opinion, one of the jewels in
the Veretian crown. Established nearly two centuries ago by the man who would
become King Philippe II, it included books and scrolls from the four corners of
the known world. Pre-eminent philosophical treatises, histories, epic poems,
scientific papers, and—most important to our Crown Prince—publications on
military theory and history—could be found on its shelves. Its purpose was to
instruct and mold the finest rulers from the princes of Vere’s monarchs. They,
in turn, were expected to add to its greatness when they came to rule, whether
it was to expand the collection itself or to take steps towards its
preservation. Prince Laurent’s father commissioned a reading room to be built,
and it was to this place that I brought Chris.
“Awake, good Master Cho! The Prince! The Prince has returned!” I shouted upon
entry. Master Cho, the librarian, was bent over a long wooden table at the far
end of the room, his nose in a manuscript and scribbling something on a bit of
nearby parchment.
My outburst had the desired effect: he jumped with surprise and shouted,
“What?! Where?! Now?!” while scrabbling to grab up parchment and quills and put
his shoes on at the same time. When he saw my smirking face, he gave me a dark
look, but came over anyway, muttering to himself.
As ever, he was dressed shabbily, as if the intricacies of Veretian clothing
were something beneath him. The cuffs of his sleeves and one side of his
unlaced doublet were stained with inks of varying shades, his shirt hung out of
his pants, similarly ink-stained and wrinkled. On his face he wore a
contraption of his own design, a long, thin piece of metal he had taken many
months of work to get the blacksmith to craft for him. It had been bent around
two pieces of glass attached to two more pieces of metal, which he hooked
around his ears to affix the strange appliance to his face. He called them
“spectacles,” and he claimed they helped him to read the smaller print of
certain manuscripts more clearly. In my opinion, they made him resemble an old
barn owl, and a cranky one at that.
“That was not funny, Zachary, not funny at all. Sneaking up on people—why, you
might have given me a heart attack!” Master Cho removed his spectacles and fit
them carefully into a pouch he wore on a string around his neck.
“Oh come now,” I said with a wide smile, picking up a quill from a nearby
inkpot, “you are not that old to be worrying about heart palpitations! I
imagine you are very likely going mad with boredom down here all alone, with no
one to listen to you go on and on about indexing and cataloguing the
collection.” I signed my name on a nearby scrap of parchment, adding a few
extra flourishes to the “Q.”
“Give me that!” Cho said, snatching the quill away. “Prince Laurent appreciates
my work—I was able to improve his research by as much as a third. He told me
that himself before he… well, before he left.”
“No doubt.”
Cho eyed Chris suspiciously. “And who’s this? Not another of your useless
compagnons, Zachary? You know I can’t have anyone down here smearing jam on the
books and maps.”
“Master Cho, when have I ever abused your trust in me and brought anyone down
here who did not offer the utmost respect to you and your work?” I asked,
scandalized. I had neglected to visit for some weeks, and Master Cho was
clearly making me suffer for it.
Cho narrowed his eyes and gave Chris the once-over. “There’s a first time for
everything.”
“Well, it won’t be now. Christopher here is newly arrived at court, lately
having spent two years at the great University at Bourçlet in the west.” Cho’s
eyes widened in spite of his very evident desire to remain in a poor mood. “He,
like you, is a young man of letters, whose greatest joy, before entering Lord
Greenwood’s employ as his pet, was to be found in the written word.”
“Was it?” Cho asked.
Chris, taking his cue, nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes! My primary areas of
study were the classical Akielon playwrights—Alexandros of Ios, mostly.”
“You don’t say? We have an original translation of ‘The Swordsmith Cycle’ here
in the collection. It’s quite rare.”
“Really? I usually just worked with the original ancient Akielon. Professor
Abrams always insisted—“
“Did you say Professor Abrams?” Master Cho said, eyes widening in surprise.
“Yes, he was my teacher. Do you know him?”
“I know of him, of course. His treatises on Alexandros are legend. And you say
you worked with the originals?”
“The professor always insisted. He said working with translations was like a
copy of a copy—mistakes were bound to happen. He never trusted them.”
“A wise man,” Cho said, nodding. “I say, do you suppose I could ask you to have
a look at a scroll I have from Akielos? It is a treatise on their methods of
close sword fighting, and the Prince was most keen on understanding its
contents. And while both he and I can speak the Akielon language, neither of us
can read it.”
“I would be happy to,” Chris said agreeably.
“Do not go away!” Cho said excitedly and ran off into the stacks of the
library.
“Well, you’ve managed to impress Master Cho—that’s no mean feat.” Chris smiled
bemusedly back at me. “You speak Akielon?” I asked him, impressed.
“I can only read it.”
“I do neither—perhaps you can teach me?”
“I’d like that.”
Cho soon returned and the two of them spent the better part of the morning
hunched over the scroll, leaving me to my own devices. I occupied myself with
the large atlas that sat on one of the reading tables, taking in the details of
geographies of countries I’d never heard of before and wondering what the
people were like there. It was a favorite pastime, imagining what it was like
to travel beyond the borders of Vere, what people one might encounter, or
animals, or art and architecture. Part of me thought it would be nice to be a
merchant, to have the luxury of my freedom to wander the four corners of the
world.
The morning turned quickly to afternoon, and eventually Cho sent to the
kitchens for lunch. The food had only just arrived when word was brought via a
servant that a long-awaited delivery of manuscripts from Patras had arrived.
The crate was waiting on the docks, and would need Cho’s personal attention
(read: bribery) if it was ever going to get through the customs minister.
“Oh, I must go and see that they have not been damaged, and then I must catalog
them properly. The Prince—bless him, but the Prince will insist that his plan
for the acquisition of important manuscripts not suffer and—I cannot believe
they are delayed by the customs! This would not have happened if Prince Laurent
was still here, oh!“
“Go, Master Cho, go!” I urged him. “You will have no peace until you see to it.
We will remain here and enjoy our lunch, and Christopher will complete what he
can of the translation for you.”
“You are too kind. I thank you!” With a single, distracted wave he rushed from
the library, leaving Chris and I alone again. We served ourselves and settled
on benches in a small alcove beside the main entrance. I knew Master Cho would
approve the choice of location, as none of the books or scrolls would be
endangered by spills or greasy fingers.
“He is an odd duck, Master Cho,” Chris observed at length.
“He is alone too long with his books, I think he forgets how to comport himself
with people.”
“It is very much the way with scholars,” Chris agreed. “They are happier with
their books.”
“It surprises me that you would pursue a life of study, though,” I said. “You
are far more sociable than someone like Cho.”
“You’re not the first one to ask, believe me,” Chris said. When he was
thoughtful, I noticed, he tended to use his hands a great deal as he spoke. “I
think it is the thrill of the pursuit of learning that excites me so, the
research that leads to a reference that leads to a discovery. It is very much
like going on a quest, I think, only the field of adventure is a library, and
the sword or staff is a pen.”
“You make it sound almost exciting.”
“It is.” He took up a bunch of grapes and chewed thoughtfully. “This has been
one of the most wonderful mornings of my life since I left the university—thank
you.” His eyes shone with gratitude.
“It cost me nothing,” I said, “and now I think you have made a friend for
life.”
“Master Cho is most agreeable. Once one gets to be on his good side.”
I laughed. “You have found your way there in record time—and without the need
for sexual favors, so cheers to you.” I raised my wine goblet and he raised
his.
“That reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask,” Chris said, his manner
suddenly solemn.
I was unsure if I wanted to know what might have taken his sunny mood away so
suddenly; I indicated that he should continue.
“You have mentioned it on more than one occasion, the practice of trading
sexual favors for certain… considerations. Is that… is that what’s to be
expected of me?”
I shrugged. “It is a form of currency we pets have ready access to, though I am
afraid I may have left you with an erroneous impression. As pets, we are not at
liberty to offer of ourselves to anyone other than our masters, not without
permission.”
“But I thought you just said you’d dallied with Master Cho in the past?”
“That is correct, but I rely on two things for my safety: one, that Master Cho
will be as discreet as I in such matters, and two, that my own master does not
care what I do with my spare time, as long as it does not bring embarrassment
to him. But that is my situation. It is not the way for other pets, and each
one’s arrangement with his or her master is unique and personal. To disobey—or
worse, to bring shame to one’s master—is the quickest way to ignominy and
disgrace. You don’t want to have your contract nullified, not for anything.”
If anything, Chris looked even more discomfited by my explanation. “But you and
I… we have… done things.”
“But that is sanctioned, you see? I have been asked to give you basic
instruction in the pleasure arts, and as your tutor, I must… use practical
examples, mustn’t I?” He still appeared confused. “Once your training is done,
we will no longer be allowed. In fact, relations among pets—outside the ring—is
strictly forbidden.”
He cast his eyes down, staring at his hands in his lap.
“It does not mean we cannot be friends,” I pointed out. “In fact, I hope that
may happen anyway.”
Large, blue eyes as clear as a cloudless sky looked into mine, hope chasing
upset away as quickly as it had descended. “I would like that.”
“I would as well,” I said, swallowing away the thickness that had crept into my
voice for some unknown reason.
We were interrupted by the appearance of a servant, a man I recognized as one
of Lord Nimoy’s personal attendants. “What is it?” I asked.
“Lord Nimoy bade me find you both, to let you know he is dining with Lord
Greenwood tonight, and that you are both required to attend them.”
My eyes widened. “So soon?” I said without thinking.
“So soon? What…what is so soon?” Chris asked, puzzled.
I waved a hand, dismissing the servant. “It is... nothing, I am merely
surprised we are to be called upon.” I rose and Chris, sensing my urgency, did
as well. “We must return to the pets’ quarters at once to ready ourselves. Or
perhaps the baths first. Yes, the baths.” I looked up at Chris. “I am sorry to
say, it is time for your first official evening attending your master.” I had
not had the time to tutor him properly in Veretian customs for pets in social
situations at all, none at all! This was not ideal.
“Come,” I said, my mind racing over what must be done first. “We must ready
ourselves.”
----
We made a quick stop at the baths—long enough only to wash and perfume
ourselves, there was no time for massages or that sort of thing. I reflected
that it was fortuitous that we’d visited the barber earlier in the day, for if
Chris was to present himself in company, at least he would be presentable below
the waist.
There was barely time for the application of scented oils, for I rushed us back
to our own quarters to dress and make ourselves ready. The matter of what I
would wear was not important—though I had new fur-trimmed slippers I had been
dying to have an occasion to wear. It was what Chris did and how he looked that
mattered more. Though we had had less than three days together, it would be a
reflection upon me—and my master—if Chris was able to excel this evening or if
he was not. The importance of this, his first outing, could not be underplayed,
and I knew Lord Nimoy would see it that way as well. And though I said nothing
of the kind about it—thinking it a kindness not to—Chris nevertheless picked it
up on my urgency and tone.
“Oh, I’ve torn it!” he cried at one point, as he was attempting to draw on the
bit of satin cord and sheer silken pouch that would serve as a loincloth
beneath the harem pants he would wear. As this was not a formal or state
dinner, we would not be called upon to wear our finest clothes, therefore
standard pet lounging attire was appropriate. Nevertheless, it soon became
apparent that Chris had not yet become adept at some of the complexities.
“We can have it repaired later, use the other one,” I advised.
He fumbled with the slip of cloth, but no matter what he did, his fingers
seemed too clumsy, his hands too large and ungainly to manage it.
“Will you allow me?” He didn’t so much indicate his agreement as much as his
entire posture signaled his surrender. I took the garment and sorted it out.
“You see, this cord goes up the back, and you put your legs through these two
openings, and then it ties in the front.”
“What, up my bum?” he asked, incredulous.
I refrained from the obvious comment, instead kneeling down and holding the
garment ready for him. “Put your foot through here,” I instructed, and he
complied, following suit with the other foot. I drew the garment up his legs
and over his hips, pulling the straps tight. At last, I came to the front,
adjusting the silken pouch around his tackle, and checking the fit before tying
the straps up in the front. I drew back, inspecting my handiwork.
“We will need to go back to the clothier and get you the next size up,” I
observed.
“How do you know I am not just pleased to see you?” he asked.
“I know you are pleased to see me; that is the problem. Now here!” I threw his
pants at him. “Try not to embarrass yourself in getting these onto your body.”
I left him to it while I attempted to get my own clothes on; a lack of noise
behind me caught my attention—something else was wrong. “What is it?” I asked,
turning to find him seated on his bed, pants on but unlaced.
“I don't... I don’t know what I’m doing, I don't know how to... to act tonight,
Zach.”
He was shaking, I observed, his eyes wide and face pale—Chris was legitimately
frightened. “What do you mean?”
“How to eat, what fork to use, what to say.”
I approached him like I would a skittish horse, with my palms facing out, and
when it was clear my approach was welcomed, I slipped my arm around his
shoulders and sat beside him. “You've eaten at table before—surely your parents
taught you basic table manners, yes?” He nodded. “Wouldn't your father have
entertained important business associates?”
“Yes, but I mean, the harbor master and his wife don't really count.”
“But they do. The mechanics are much the same. You offer conversation when
called upon, you laugh at their jokes even if they are not funny, and you try
not to spill anything down your front. If you run into anything strange, just
look to me for guidance. I'll demonstrate what to do.”
He still seemed unsure of himself. “But what of how to act in front of my
master? I have not the flirtatious air about me as others like Anton do.”
“That I would consider an advantage, but it is not the nature of your question.
I think the answer will lie with your master. How did he act towards you on
your journey here?”
“He was kind. He let me have my own room. And he always called me 'my boy.' He
would pat me on the head, like a fond uncle.”
“There you have it. He is kind and patient.” Some masters -- the better ones -
- liked to earn their pets’ trust, and it seemed Lord Greenwood was one such
man.
“That's a good thing?”
I rubbed his shoulder and some of the tension began to fade away. “That is a
good thing. Now. We must finish getting ready. I will want to apply the paint
to your face myself—you’re too nervous to get it right!”
----
Dinner was to be held in the Rose Room, a small dining room in the main part of
the palace so-named for the immense, carved ivory rose set in its ceiling. It
was two hundred years old and the centerpiece for an elaborate crystal
chandelier that the queen, Prince Laurent’s mother and Lord Greenwood’s sister,
had had brought from her childhood home in the west and had installed here. The
decor in the room took its inspiration from it, with roses to be found in the
paintings, the wall paper, the rugs, the upholstery and china, even carved into
the legs of the table.
The room was empty when we arrived, but for a few servants, who snapped into
action and began pouring out wine and laying down platters of delicacies
immediately. The table—built to accommodate eight—was surrounded by the
customary double seats that easily accommodated a noble and his or her pet. The
seats were little more than purpose-built chaises, with plush upholstery and
pillows designed for flirty lounging and actual dining from time to time. I
chose the seat on the side of the table that faced away from the door; Lord
Greenwood, as the higher-ranking noble, would claim the seat opposite. I
indicated that Chris should sit as I was, to the left of his lordship to always
be at the ready.
“Drink,” I said, lifting my own goblet. I hoped the wine would calm him;
despite my last minute reassurances that all would go well, he'd been as
nervous as a cat, licking and biting at his lips for the last hour. “And stop
fidgeting.”
I caught him with his hand reaching for one of the small pastries on the
nearest platter; it was one I’d had many times before, a flaky, rich concoction
filled with minced, spiced chicken liver. “You may have one if you are hungry,”
I said.
He chose one off the platter and popped it in his mouth, chewing with gusto.
“It is customary for pets to eat a choice morsel first; you will observe that
their masters will often feed them tidbits. Nowadays it is a harmless
indulgence, but in days past, it was to ensure the food was not poisoned.”
Chris’s mouth dropped open, offering an unwelcome view. “Poison?”
“Do not trouble yourself, it hardly ever happens anymore.”
He swallowed. “You’re joking. Sometimes I can’t tell, but this time I know it.”
I smiled and drank my wine, resolving to break the truth of it to him later.
Pets were far more expendable than the nobility.
“This pastry reminds me of ones they used to serve at banquets at the
university,” he said after consuming another.
“Oh?”
“They were always filled with fruits there. My favorite was the apricot.
Sometimes the students were allowed to have whatever was left over from the
table. And sometimes Professor Abrams would bring them to me.”
“He was a kind man? Your professor?”
“He could be. When I first arrived, he especially took an interest in my
studies. We would have long conversations, late into the night, about the
Akielon texts. Sometimes, when it was very late, he would let me sleep in a
real bed!”
“His bed?” I asked.
“Why yes. But—oh! Nothing ever happened! Nothing untoward. He liked to watch me
sleep, he said.”
“Naturally.”
“We would talk about the deeper meaning of the texts—he was of the opinion they
were proof the Akielon people were and always will be barbarians. He said to
read anything more into them was to give more credit than was due.”
“Yours was a dissenting opinion?”
“It was my contention the ancient texts must be interpreted within the cultural
context of the time they were written, but could also to be looked at as
instructive to their audience. Like a morality play, you see? A means to teach
the basics of a society's mores and scruples. I feel that to judge the current
civilization by the literature of its forebears is to discount centuries of
progress and development.”
“Your professor was accepting of this line of thought?”
Chris smiled ruefully. “The pastries became much more infrequent after that
argument.”
I picked one of the pastries up in my fingers and looked at it closely. “These
pastries remind me of an inn—the Busted Guppy. It is on the main Arles road,
close to Chastillon. It is one of the house specialities.”
“I know the place,” Chris said. “We stopped there on our way here.”
“Was your journey pleasant?”
“It was uneventful. Lord Greenwood's entourage included twenty men at arms, so
we passed unmolested along the high road.”
I did not know that piece of information—that Lord Greenwood must travel with a
small regiment was telling. I resolved to bring it up with Lord Nimoy later.
Chris went on, “But you say you have traveled through there yourself? Tell me
all about it. I confess the journey to Arles has been my only experience with
travel. Where else have you been?”
“I have been to Varenne and Toulouse, and of course to Chastillon for the
hunts.”
“How exciting that Lord Nimoy travels so often. I was given to understand he
mainly keeps to Arles in recent years.”
“He does. I refer to my experiences with my former master, Lord Cumberbatch. He
was a great traveler, with a great many in his retinue.”
“Oh? A full regiment?”
I snorted at the idea. “No. No, he has a great many hangers-on, those who have
benefited from his largesse. This is something Lord Cumberbatch thrives upon,
of course, because great men enjoy being told they are great.”
“Was he a kind master?”
My mind recalled, quite against my will, my first night in service, and of a
request to demonstrate my talents. Fourteen and eager to please, I was asked to
play my lyre and sing. My voice was still high and sweet, and I performed the
piece well. Afterwards, my virtue was made a gift to the man who delivered the
most flattering compliments, his words barely-veiled praise of Lord Cumberbatch
himself. “He is attentive to those that matter to him,” I said in a flat voice.
Thankfully, Chris changed the subject. “But now you are with Lord Nimoy.”
“And I could not ask for a better, more learned, or kinder master,” I said
truthfully. After little more than a year, when Lord Cumberbatch made it known
he was looking for a new pet, Lord Nimoy had offered to buy out my contract.
Cumberbatch had jumped at the chance—he had not expected to recoup my original
price. He and his forces now fought at the Regent's side in the south.
Our conversation was interrupted by voices of men approaching from the
corridor. Soon their Lordships entered.
I had never before met Lord Greenwood, but he was a handsome man, with
distinguished, greying hair and eyes the color of sapphires. His look and his
manner bespoke of an inner cunning and intelligence, or so I discerned, and I
immediately adjusted my estimation of him. That he was of vital importance to
the plans of my master was something I knew; how difficult swaying him to our
cause would be remained to be seen. One glimpse of him, however, and I knew we
would need to take care not to antagonize him.
Chris and I rose to greet them, I taking the lead. “My Lord,” I said, walking
smoothly over to Nimoy and sliding into his open arms.
“Zachary, it is always a pleasure,” he said in his deep rumble of a voice, and
I could not resist a small shiver at the obvious sincerity in his tone.
Chris followed, coming around the table corner perhaps a little too
enthusiastically, for he managed to trip on the foot of one of the chaises. He
quickly recovered, though Lord Greenwood did not seem to care. His countenance
softened almost as soon as he laid eyes on Chris. He held a hand out to his
young pet and Chris went to him. “How are you, my boy?” he murmured into
Chris’s soft hair as they embraced, and he placed a kiss upon his unwrinkled
brow. “Oh my, look how pretty you are for me,” he added, holding Chris at arms’
length, his hands on the young man’s shoulders.
“You like it?” Chris asked nervously, a shy smile on his lips. He plucked at
the sheer blouse he wore; with the light of the room behind it, one could see
directly through it, and I could see the moment Lord Greenwood realized this. I
couldn’t help but feel some small sense of satisfaction for my efforts.
Lord Greenwood noticed, too, the golden lock and chain Chris still wore that
had been his gift. “Well done. Quite well done,” he said, his eyes twinkling as
he tapped at the charm with a fingertip.
“Shall we dine?” Lord Nimoy said, and we all sat.
I arranged myself at Nimoy’s side, close enough that our bodies touched. We
fell into our usual rhythm, one well-practiced after years together. I called
the servant over to pour him wine, and he offered his goblet to me to drink.
Having already sampled the pastries, I served him a few from the platter. He
fed me one with a smile and wiped his fingers delicately onto his napkin. These
days, such fare was too rich for him, but he liked to see me enjoy it.
Across the table, Chris watched us but looked at a bit of a loss. He looked to
Lord Greenwood who, still all smiles, poured out more wine for them both. He
offered his goblet to Chris, who took a sip. Greenwood smiled encouragingly and
watched as Chris copied my behavior, serving his master some of the pastries.
“Have you already had some?” Greenwood asked.
Chris looked away demurely. “Yes.”
“Were they delicious? They look delicious.”
“Yes.”
“I will bet I could still taste them on your lips.”
Chris blushed to his neckline and further. “Now you would taste only wine, my
lord.”
Greenwood laughed as if he had heard the best joke of his life and popped a
pastry into his mouth.
“Your new pet is charming, Bruce,” Nimoy said.
“I thank you, Leonard. And I agree.” He smiled once more at Chris, truly
appearing to be smitten. “He is comely to be sure, and as smart as a whip. You
know, he has had two years at university?”
“Impressive.”
“Indeed.” Chris was staring at his hands in his lap now, his blush deepening; I
could tell he was discomfited to be the center of attention. “And just look at
him, the color of fresh beets!”
“Please, my lord,” Chris murmured.
“And as modest as a maid,” Greenwood added, clearly pleased. “Do not worry, my
boy, I will embarrass you no further,” he caressed Chris’s cheek, coaxing him
to raise his chin. “Why, you are as warm as may be. Do you want a cooling
cloth?” He snapped his fingers and a servant produced a goblet of water, into
which Greenwood dipped his own handkerchief. Wringing it out, he applied it to
the back of Chris’s neck. “There now, there,” he said soothingly, until Chris
smiled once more.
“He is all innocence,” Nimoy observed.
“I prefer it—I like it better to break them in myself, do you see? Then I know
where their true allegiance lies. I will not abide disloyalty in my household.”
“A prudent policy.”
“Indeed. And I must thank you for offering the service of your own pet in his
training. While I prefer a new pet, it is preferred they have some skill, is it
not?”
He laughed heartily, and Lord Nimoy smiled to indicate his agreement. “I am
honored to be of service to you in this way. My Zachary is one of the most
accomplished pets at court.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the first course. I caught
Chris’s eye as the plates were being laid down, but they were unreadable. I
surmised he was finding it hard to be spoken of as if he was an object, but
when one’s central purpose was adornment, it was inevitable. If we were lucky,
the conversation would move on to other things.
The first course was escargots in their shells, a personal favorite of mine,
and of Lord Nimoy, who made a small, pleased sound when his plate was placed
down. As I ate the first snail from his fork, I noted Lord Greenwood coaxing
Chris to do the same. He was pleased when Chris took the morsel in his mouth,
seemingly reluctantly.
When the lad’s face brightened upon tasting the delicacy, Greenwood asked, “You
like it?”
“I didn’t expect it to be so good,” Chris responded.
Greenwood met my eye a moment later, and gave me a smug smile. “There will be
many good surprises while you are with me, dear one.”
The main course was to be duckling, served with the traditional accompaniments.
Lord Greenwood bade the servants put both portions on his own plate and fed
Chris himself, taking delight in his pleasure and enthusiasm for the food. “Do
you like it?” he asked, his response a fervent nod. “May I coax a kiss?” Chris
lowered his eyes. “Perhaps later?” Chris nodded again.
Once more Lord Greenwood looked up to find me watching. I leaned back to
arrange myself languidly along my lord’s side, as he had already finished
eating and was reclining back against the chaise.
“Tell me, Bruce, how go things in your home district? Is trade thriving?” Nimoy
reached for his wine nad sipped deeply.
This was a loaded question. If trade was “thriving,” it meant Lord Greenwood
was outfitting his troops for war. Being one of the largest landholders in all
of Vere—and the Lord Protector of the country’s western border—if that were the
case, then it could be an indication that he was preparing to join the fray.
“Oh, you know how it can be during times of unrest,” Greenwood replied airily,
wiping his fingers on a napkin. He nudged at Chris and offered him more wine;
Chris politely demurred.
“Is that what we are calling it? Unrest?”
“Would ‘insurrection’ be a better word?”
“I imagine it would depend upon one’s point of view,” Nimoy said as the
servants took the dinner plates away and replaced them with bowls of fruit and
nuts.
“Shall we settle on ‘unpleasantness’?” Greenwood’s manner was light, but his
eyes held a challenge, one I knew my master would not back down from.
Unpleasantness was the term the Regent had taken to using in the absence of his
nephew the Crown Prince, and its use was fraught with meaning. Was Lord
Greenwood testing Lord Nimoy’s loyalties? And to whom? We had no indication
whether Greenwood supported his nephew or not, and Lord Nimoy had taken great
pains over the last several months to retain the appearance of neutrality.
I had the sudden impression of two fighting dogs sizing one another up. I
glanced at Nimoy, could see his eyes harden, but if he played his hand too soon
and Lord Greenwood did not support his nephew as Nimoy did…
“Shall we have music?” I asked loudly, rising from my seat and turning a bright
smile on everyone in the room, fluttering my eyelashes like a simpleton. “I
have brought my lyre.” I held a hand out and one of the servants brought it to
me.
Lord Nimoy blinked up at me with astonishment, but I could tell he approved my
intervention after a moment’s consideration. “Yes. Yes, my boy, that… that
would be welcome indeed.”
In my relief, I smiled, and hoped it appeared as if I was pleased to have their
attention upon me.
I took my lyre to the front of the room and gave it a few strums of the
strings, testing to be sure it was still in tune. Chris leaned forward in his
seat, humming a tune, one I knew, so I played it. It was a traditional Veretian
air, one commonly used for a variety of folk songs and hymns. Presently, Chris
began to sing one of the more popular ones,
“Beauty sat bathing by a spring where fairest shades did hide her...
The winds blew calm, the birds did sing, the cool streams ran beside her.
My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye to see what was forbidden,
But better memory said ‘fie’ so vain desire was chidden.
Hey, nonny nonny, oh, hey nonny nonny.
Hey, nonny nonny, oh, hey nonny nonny.”
Chris had risen during the chorus and was clapping along with it joyously.
Their lordships, I noticed, were captivated by his clear voice and obvious
enthusiasm, and I was happy to see that the tension in the room had dissipated.
I played more diligently as Chris went on to the second verse.
“Into a slumber then I fell when fond imagination,
Seemed to see but could not tell her feature or her fashion.
But e'vn as babes in dreams do smile and sometimes fall a-weeping,
So I awaked as wise this while as when I fell a-sleeping.”
As he got to the chorus once more, Chris encouraged his audience to join him
and clap along; even the servants were smiling and taking part.
“Hey, nonny nonny, oh, hey nonny nonny.
Hey, nonny nonny, oh, hey nonny nonny.”
When the song was done, everyone applauded, and Chris took a smart bow. He then
clapped for me, and I rose to bow as well.
“Bravo! Bravissimo!” Lord Nimoy called out, rising and clapping me on the back
as I returned to his side.
“Oh, that was marvelous, simply marvelous!” Lord Greenwood said, approaching
Chris where he stood, opening his arms for an embrace. Chris laughed, his eyes
brightening as he went to his master. A moment later, they kissed, a chaste
brushing of lips; when they parted, Chris raised a hand, fingertips touching
his lips. Lord Greenwood murmured something to him, something I could not hear,
and Chris smiled once more, the hint of another blush rising to his cheeks.
They parted, and his lordship returned to the table, taking up his wine goblet
once more.
“Such an enjoyable evening this has been! We must have you both recreate the
experience and perform that song for the Equinox Festival.”
“The Equinox Festival, my lord?” Nimoy said, unable to hide his astonishment.
“Why yes, my lord, do not tell me we do not still honor the gods in Arles, and
thank them for the bounties of the harvest?”
“We do, of course we do, but I did not think it appropriate to celebrate in
quite the same manner as has become traditional. I thought a more restrained,
reflective celebration would be more appropriate this year.”
“Why should we not? Just because there is unrest in the land, and civil war?”
The use of the words ‘civil war’ were lost on no one in the room, even Chris,
who looked mildly alarmed. But Lord Greenwood went on, his tone reasoning. “Of
course, as the nominal head of the government while the Regent is absent, it
will fall to you to decide if it is fitting or not, my good Lord Nimoy. I do
not want to step on any toes.”
“My toes are fine.”
“There then, it’s settled. We shall have the customary feasts and revelries.”
“How wonderful!” Chris said, clapping his hands with delight. Truly, while the
autumnal festival was traditionally held in most towns in Vere, tales of the
annual bacchanal hosted in Arles were well-known throughout the land.
“Will it please you?” Greenwood asked his young pet.
“I do not know if my pleasure matters, sir.”
Greenwood took the lad’s face between his bejeweled hands. “It matters to me.”
Chris smiled widely, and the conversation moved on to general plans for the
feast day.
It was some hours later that the party finally broke up. Chris had begun
drooping visibly at the table, the victim of too long a day and too much wine.
Even I, a veteran of many a protracted state dinner, was beginning to lose my
ability to follow the conversation. When Chris dozed off, his chin hitting his
chest as his head fell forward, Lord Greenwood made his apologies for keeping
him up. He suggested a meeting with Lord Nimoy and his staff the next day to
begin preparations for the festival, which was only four weeks away.
As we left, it happened—possibly by chance, but more than likely not—that Lord
Nimoy and Chris walked down the corridor at the head of the party, and Lord
Greenwood and I at the rear. He strolled at my side, taking in the artworks on
the walls as we passed. “Chris is very tired, my poor lamb,” he observed; as if
on cue, the lad tripped over his slippers, which were arguably too large for
him.
“He is unaccustomed to such long evenings,” I said. “He will soon learn to
compensate.”
“He will have a good long rest tonight?”
“I will look after it myself, my lord.”
“Good, good.” He stopped walking and, since I was accompanying him, I did too.
“Your tutelage with him is already apparent to me—I must thank you again.”
“It is my pleasure, lord.”
“Yes, but I am sensitive to the fact that to be saddled with a naïf such as he
might be perceived as something of an unpleasant assignment.” He pressed a
small item, wrapped in cloth, into my hand. “I appreciate it.”
“Thank you. My Lord Greenwood is most generous.”
He waved a hand. “It’s nothing, it’s my pleasure. But it brings me to the
reason I would speak with you. The festival is in one month, and I view that as
the perfect time to enjoy Christopher’s… newly-acquired skills.”
“Oh yes, my lord, I’m happy to teach him anything I might know, though you
should see him ride—he’s got a bit of Vaskian blood in him and it’s quite
evident in the way—“
“That is not what I meant. I mean I expect, by that time, that you will have
schooled him appropriately in matters more… erotic. I don't much care if he
knows how to comport himself at table and recite pretty verse.”
I closed my mouth, my teeth clicking together audibly. “Of course.”
Greenwood clasped my shoulder with his hand, squeezing the muscle just shy of
painfully. “You have already done wonders with him in just two days. I look
forward to seeing what you may do given four weeks.”
“Four weeks?”
“Now then, I don’t expect him to be as—shall we say wanton?—as some of the
other pets about the palace. Half his charm lies in the fact butter would not
melt in that beautiful mouth. But I also want him to know well what will be
expected of him.”
I looked into his eyes. “And what will be expected of him, my lord?”
“I am a simple soldier, Zachary, my tastes are quite pedestrian. But they
include someone sharing my bed who is as willing and as giving as I. Do you
see?”
“I believe I do, sir.”
He smiled and patted me on my cheek. “I thought so. Good night to you.”
“Good night, my lord.”
When he had gone, I remembered the small item he had pressed into my hands. It
was wrapped in a bit of soft velvet, and tied with a silken ribbon. I opened it
to find a small, exquisitely carved ivory pot. Its lid was hinged, so I opened
it. A pleasant aroma wafted to my nostrils—it was a substance I was familiar
with, oil of coconut—and I marveled at the rarity and expense of such a
commodity, to be placed in my hands.
Its purpose, however, was unmistakable: Lord Greenwood meant for me to take
Chris’s virginity.
Chapter End Notes
     The song Chris sings is “Hey Nonny Nonny” by The Violent Femmes.
End Notes
     Thank you for your time.
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