Gambling Heart

by Thom Lane

  He didn’t seem to mind.

  He flopped back onto the mattress and I sprawled on top of him, both of us half-molten into each other. His cock slackened slowly in my mouth; I sucked at it until at last he gave a choking little chuckle, hooked his fingers into my collar, and tugged me off, drawing me up till my head could nestle into his shoulder.

  When he was done arranging me to his comfort, he kissed my head, patted my butt, and said, “Sleep now. Everything else can wait till the morning.” All the excitements of a different life, he meant, learning how to live in a world so utterly changed. If I’d been free, perhaps he’d have wanted to sit up longer, open a bottle of wine, talk it all through; but as things were, he’d be facing those choices and making all those decisions alone. Wise Master, he wanted to be well rested beforehand, with a steady eye and a clear head. Of course he’d have me rest too; he’d want me fresh and ready for the day. Ready to serve him, whatever that involved.

  I said, “Yes, Master,” lying boldly as I lay snuggled up against his side. Practicing disobedience. Spreading my open, empty hand across his chest like a boy just taking advantage of his master’s sleepy leniency, stealing more comfort than he should…

  I could feel it, as he slipped down towards sleep. The more he relaxed, the more I leaned in on him, trying to press my own urgency in through his skin, into his blood and bone; trying to infiltrate my thoughts into his slow steady heartbeat, so that they would resonate all through his settled body and his drifting, drowsing mind:

  We’ll move on in the morning. As soon as you’re awake, Master mine, you’ll think about leaving town. It’ll be the one thing you’re sure of, what you most want to do: buy a horse and ride out with your good boy trotting at your heels, money in your saddlebags and what more do you need? A new start, even a new city, perhaps; a new life, new friends, new prospects. It’s the most enticing notion you’ve ever had, it’s just exactly what you want, probably what you’ve been wanting all unadmitted for years now. And now you can do it, you’ve got the money and the freedom just to go…

  Like that, on and on, round and round. I was trying to make it true by wishing for it, trying to bend his mind as he slept the way you bend a tree to make it grow the way you want. But you bend trees little by little, slowly over time. I pushed too hard, I was greedy, I tried to seize too much influence too soon. I wanted my voice to whisper all night in his dreams, and instead his hand clenched suddenly tight about my arm, his eyes opened and he said, “What are you about, boy?”

  “N-nothing, Master,” but he knew I was lying. He scowled and pushed himself up on one elbow, pushed me away from him, pushed his hand through his hair in temper and said, “I could hear you muttering away at me, waking me up. And I told you to sleep, didn’t I? You’ll sleep when I tell you, and let me sleep too. I won’t have disobedience, and I won’t keep a willful boy…”

  He didn’t really know why he was angry, or quite what I was guilty of. Even so, he was quite sure of both those states, his anger and my guilt.

  And of course he was right, that too. It made no real difference to what was coming—no slave ever escaped a punishment by arguing or pleading innocence, that’s not how it works—but I could console myself a little, with the thought that I deserved it. I really had been disobedient, and presumptuous too, working to change my master’s mind; and I’d been careless with it. Had I really spoken my wishes aloud, and so disturbed him? Stupid, stupid me…

  Stupid me was feeling sorry for himself already, as my master rolled me roughly onto my belly. Then he reached across my body to the clothespress; I felt the weight of him on my back, naked and familiar already, and heard him fumble in the dark for what he wanted.

  That was his new leather switch, of course, stiff and springy. He grunted with satisfaction as his fingers located it. A moment later, I felt it sliding down over my ribs, finding my butt, tapping lightly. A lot of masters like to do that first: a warning and a promise, it ensures the slave’s attention, builds a little anticipation, a little dread. Gives you time to prepare, I suppose, as much as you can. You can bite your lip, maybe, promise yourself that this time you won’t yell.

  Maybe it wakes your skin up too, brings the blood rushing to the surface in its own obedience, makes sure the beating hurts that fraction more. I don’t know if it’s true, but I have heard that.

  Me, I squirmed slightly and bit into the mattress, just in time.

  His fist was in my collar, pressing me down. There was that brief moment of stillness, which just adds to the anticipation—and then I heard the switch hiss through the air, and felt it bite savagely across my butt.

  First the bite, then the burn: that’s a rule, and all leather obeys it. Switches, straps, whips: each one is different, but they all follow the same path. A vicious sting, and then a slow fierce flare. An experienced owner takes his time—or hers—to let the first stroke settle deep into the slave’s body before the next one comes.

  Master Jensen was an expert, seemingly. I was determined not to cry, but he gave me three slow, lingering strokes that left me gasping.

  “That’s for disturbing your master,” he said softly in my ear, while his hand strayed across the blazing skin of my butt, waking the fire to greater fury, so that I was surprised he didn’t burn himself just by touching me. “That’s punishment, to be sure you don’t do it again. This, now—this is purely for my pleasure…”

  Three more unhurried strokes, and blessedly the mattress was there to muffle my face against so that I could fool myself that I still wasn’t crying, see: not a sob, not a tear…

  I didn’t know if I was fooling him too, or if he cared. Some masters like to hear their slaves yelp and weep, and keep beating until they hear it, until they’re convinced; some want silence, and keep beating if they don’t get it. Either way, we just end up more sore.

  Some masters beat for their own amusement. Apparently I’d landed myself with one of those. Not one of the mean ones, who won’t or can’t give an order without a sting to back it up, but he was surely enjoying himself as he leathered me, as I writhed beneath his lash. I could feel the arousal all through his body where it lay stretched beside mine, his long leg pinning my ankles down now when they tried to kick. I could hear how his breath came short and hard, even before he grunted and tossed the switch aside, before his weight sprawled across me again as he reached for something else; before his hand came back to my butt with purpose now, before I felt his fingers probe between my cheeks.

  His greasy fingers: he’d dipped them in the pot of scented oil that he kept beside the bed there, presumably for this exact reason. Whether it was a kindness to me or just a convenience to him, I wasn’t sure. He was rough still as he pushed two fingers into my willing ring, but he spent some time working that oil deep into me, making sure I was good and slippery.

  Good and slippery and hot: it was my breath that came short and hard now, and I had another reason to squirm beneath his weight. When at last he drew his hand away, I moaned aloud. He laughed abruptly and slapped me quiet, finding exactly the sorest spot on my butt, and liking the feel of it—or my response—so much that he did it again.

  And then again.

  By now I had my face buried in the mattress again, biting hard to muffle my own noise. If Master didn’t like it, I’d smother myself sooner than let out another yelp.

  No need to go that far, but soon enough I had one more reason to want something to bite down on. I felt him straddle me, pushing my legs apart; I felt pressure between my cheeks again, not his hand this time; I felt the head of his cock surge through my ring.

  I practically chewed a hole in that mattress. If I’d had my way—if I’d dared—I’d have come there and then, as he thrust himself into me again and again, as the weight of him forced the last breath from my body, as his hand reached under my belly to curl around my cock.

  But he was master, he ordered all my comings and goings; he chose when or whether I came, tonight or tomorrow or ever again. If th
at grip on my cock was any kind of a message to me, it was a warning and not an invitation. Mostly, though, it was simply for his own pleasure, because he liked my cock and wanted to play with it as he fucked me. Wanted it stiff and responsive and no, absolutely not coming in his hand. Not yet.

  My butt was on fire still, and his every thrust woke new flame; inside I was melting-hot all through my body, from my dry, parched mouth where I sucked air desperately to my sphincter which hadn’t so much stretched as dissolved, where I could barely feel any limit between me and him. Maybe I wouldn’t need to come after all; maybe I’d just evaporate…

  For now, though, I was just about holding myself together, just to please him; and he did come eventually. I felt him pulse and spasm deep inside me as I heard him cry out breathlessly, close by my ear there.

  Even then he didn’t release me. He didn’t roll off or thrust me away, kick me out of bed as others had before him. He held me just as tightly, with all his weight still sprawled across me and his cock still buried in my ass, barely starting to slacken yet; and his hand still pumped at my own cock until I was bug-eyed in the dark and starting to whimper despite all my determination. And then his mouth closed on my ear, warm and wet and just a hint of teeth, and he whispered, “Now you, little slut.”

  And then he bit me, hard, and then I came: obedient to my soul, to his command, I spurted till I was drained utterly, hollow in my bones.

  Then he shifted his weight till he was comfortable but still didn’t let me go. He held me cushioned there against his chest, like two spoons in a box. When his cock finally slipped free of me I may have groaned softly, but I still nestled my butt firmly into his groin despite its soreness, and I wrapped my own hands around his wrist and ducked my head down to kiss his fingers.

  And then perhaps I did cry a little, though I had sworn I wouldn’t; and perhaps his arms came round me a little tighter in response, though I’d never presume to think so; and we lay there stickily tangled skin on skin as we both slid downward into sleep, and then would have been the perfect time to lean into him again, to let my thoughts slip into the beat of his blood, you’ll want to leave town in the morning, just take what’s important to you, take me and leave…

  But I didn’t do that, because he was master in this bed, master of me, and he’d forbidden it.

  So we slept late next morning, and Master Leonin found us still in bed when he came calling. Caught us, rather, it felt that way: as if we were doing something shameful, as if my master had disgraced himself by taking me to his bed or lingering in it with me past sunup.

  Me, I thought he’d just done something foolish beyond measure. I had my own measure of guilt; I should have tried harder to persuade him, to impel him out of bed and out of the house and away. I should have been more concerned for him, and more urgent.

  Too late now. I knew it in my sleep, even, in my dreams, nestled against the warm solidity of his body; I knew it in the moment of waking, even before I knew what had woken me. As I roused, I felt a lurch of heart-stopping despair, as if waking into the day was the same as stepping over a precipice. Before I could remember quite what I dreaded so utterly, I heard the boot steps of several men on the wooden floor of the gallery outside; before I could untangle myself from Master Jensen and be ready to open the door like a good boy when they knocked, it slammed open and they came bursting in without so much as a nod to courtesy.

  Master Leonin, his friend Lord Varty for witness, his slave Rollo for muscle—and a stranger, a man I’d never seen and couldn’t name.

  He didn’t need naming. His name was the least of him. His black garb declared his profession; the silver in his ear would declare his rank to anyone who could read the subtleties of Guild mastery. Not me. I didn’t need to. I just felt rank terror, being this close to a mage.

  This close and thoroughly ignored, and even so.

  The three free men arrayed themselves at the foot of the bed; Rollo stood by the door, to stop any attempt at getaway.

  Any attempt from Master Jensen, that is. Nobody cared about me. Why would they?

  The first thing my master did was push me out of bed, but that was only to give himself room to be angry without a frightened boy clutching at him, embarrassing him, getting in his way.

  I landed awkwardly, all knees and elbows on the bare boards, adding a few more bruises to the night’s crop. I was sore enough already, though, and fear numbs pain; I didn’t so much as yelp, just scuttled on hands and knees into the far corner of the room, as much out of sight as I could manage.

  Rollo’s eyes might have tracked me, just as a matter of course. None of the free folk paid me any attention. I pressed myself back into the angle of the walls, hugging my knees and trying not to breathe at all, hoping that the thudding pound of my heart was reaching no farther than my own ears.

  Fixing my eyes on Master Jensen, almost more frightened for him than I was for myself.

  Almost.

  He was coldly, calmly furious. I could see that just in the way he sat erect on the bed with the covers fallen away, naked and heedless, his eyes blazing at the intruders.

  At one intruder, one above all; the rest he scanned and dismissed. Even the mage was worth no more than a shrug to him, apparently.

  In that moment, I think I loved him: for his courage, of course, and for the sheer casual grace in him. He must have known just how deadly this trouble was, the mage was a guarantee of that; he must have been afraid, deep down; his face showed nothing but a savage contempt.

  “Well, Leonin? What is this? Have you come to steal back the money I won last night?”

  His voice snapped like a whip. It wasn’t even aimed at me, but still I’d have flinched if I wasn’t already huddled down as low as I could go. Master Leonin did flinch, though he made a good stab at recovery.

  “The money you stole,” he hissed, tossing my master’s own word back at him. “You used some magery, some street magician’s trick on us. You’ll be sorry now. The Mages’ Guild will see you hanged for it.”

  It was true, most probably. The Guild was ruthless in its pursuit of untrained mages, in its own interests and the interests of the empire. There were no hedge magicians working openly in Amaranth. Of course there was unlicensed magic, there were even backstreet spellhouses, but none that dared confess it openly. And none that lasted long.

  A man using magic to steal a small fortune from some of the most powerful young lordlings in the city—yes, that man could expect to hang, I thought. Or hope to. It would almost be an act of kindness, compared to what lay in the Guild’s power to do to him.

  Master Jensen barely blinked; he didn’t move a muscle else.

  “This is the man?”

  That was the mage asking, though he really didn’t need to. He wasn’t even looking for Master Leonin’s nod of confirmation. His eyes were fixed on my master and his voice was mild, almost doubtful.

  “Yes, yes, this is him. Can you see what power is in him, what spell he has? You said…”

  “I said that I would feel it, if he had magic in his bones. I feel…something, yes,” and for a moment he frowned, disconcerted, “but that is little enough, and may be far away. Unless he has great power of dissembling, of concealment. Perhaps he does. Let us see.”

  His hand thrust out suddenly, startlingly, to grip Master Jensen’s ankle. My master paled, but again I thought that was fury more than fear, until I saw all his bare skin shimmer with a sudden sweat. He swayed where he sat, and bit his lip hard just to hold focus, I thought, just to hold himself upright under these men’s eyes. I wanted to go to him then, but I didn’t dare.

  Not until the mage released him, and turned swiftly away from the bed.

  “You are wasting my time,” he snapped. “There is no magic in this man. None.”

  “What? There must be! Are you sure? He’s deceiving you, hiding something…”

  “He has nothing to hide, and nothing to offer the Guild. His mind is as empty as your coffers. This morning’s foll
y will cost you, Leonin—but not as much as last night’s, I suspect. At least, not as much in coin. You are rather too old to whip, but your father may take it out of you some other way.”

  “What? My father? But—”

  But the mage was gone, pushing rudely past him, barely giving Rollo time to open the door before he was stamping away along the gallery.

  Lord Varty hastened out in his wake, throwing some weak apology for the disturbance back over his shoulder as he left. Master Leonin lingered, almost slavering in his rage and frustration as he glared at where Master Jensen sat slumped on the bed, holding himself up with both arms braced now until I could scramble back onto the mattress to support him.

  “You fooled him, maybe,” Master Leonin seethed, “but you can’t fool me. You tricked us somehow, you cheated, I know you did—and magic is the only explanation. Something a mage can’t detect, maybe, some secret power… I’ll find out. I’ll have my money back and more. You’ll be sorry you ever thought that you could work your tricks on me…”

  “Oh, get out, Leonin. Learn to lose with a little grace, at least.”

  Master Jensen said that, in a voice that he could just barely hold steady, with an effort that I could feel all through him though it wouldn’t show to anyone not as close as I was, skin on skin and arms tight round his body; and then he turned his head to find me again. It was a gesture of sublime contempt, of utter dismissal: turning from the free man to the slave, from conversation to a kiss.

  Neither one of us saw Master Leonin leave. I barely registered the sound of it, his heavy boot heels followed by the soft barefoot pad of his slave, the creak of the door’s hinges and the click of the latch.

  It should have been nothing but relief—but all my master’s weight was in my arms, he was sweating cold and shuddering like a man in a fever, and I didn’t understand what was wrong with him.

  “Master? What, what did that mage do to you?”

  Even his head was trembling. He thrust it into the angle of my neck and shoulder, just to brace it still, and spoke through gritted teeth: “Everything. Nothing. He just—wandered like fire through my bones, seeking out the truth of me. And finding it, that too. Showing it to me, burning out all my vanity, showing me what a hollow creature I actually am. No matter. Gods, I could sleep for a week. If I can ever get to sleep again. Not here, not now… Come on.”