by KJ Charles
I have, myself, no objection to being watched as such. I don’t consider fucking a sacred act—it is hard to when one is liable to be gaoled for it—and I had spent most of my life in boarding school, the Army, and the more insalubrious back streets of half a dozen cities. Privacy is a privilege; I have frequently not had funds, or time, or safety to secure a quiet room with a bed and a lock. So I do not mind being watched. I do object most strongly to being spied upon as a matter of general principle, but the fact that we knew made some small difference.
Not nearly as much difference as Hentzau’s eagerness. He was flown with wine but more so with gleeful anticipation. I knew several men who found observation doubled their pleasure, and now I thought of it, Antoinette had said Hentzau liked more than two in a bed. Evidently my young devil was not of a private nature, and who was I to argue.
We stumbled into his room. I had not been in it before; it was finely furnished, suitable for a gentleman of birth. My main concern was for the bed, which was large with posts but no hangings. I supposed Michael did not like his view obstructed. I pushed Hentzau onto the bed and came down on top of him, and we kissed savagely and hard, biting and rolling, making frankly something of a spectacle of ourselves. Well, if the duke liked to watch, he should have a show.
We broke off to disrobe, I standing, Hentzau sitting on the bed. He began pulling off his clothes at speed again, the heedless boy. I waited till he had stripped to the waist, then said, “Stop.”
“Why?”
“Shut up. Lie back.”
He did so, extended over the bed, chest bare, looking up at me with gleaming eyes. We were both dressed in the Ruritanian fashion with tight buckskins and high black riding boots, polished to a sheen. Ah, Rupert Hentzau and his boots. I stood by the bed, looking down.
“What are you waiting for?” he enquired.
“You’ll work it out.”
He opened his mouth to say something annoying, which became a gasp when I pinched a nipple hard. “Ow. Ow.”
“Does that hurt?” I squeezed harder. He yelped. I ran my nails over his skin, down his side, returned to graze the nipples again until I had tormented them to hardness, slapped him when he squirmed. “Lie still.” I slid my hands down those taut, buckskin-covered legs, and up between them, over the muscular thighs until he jerked, and slapped him harder, for sound rather than pain. “Don’t move until I tell you.”
“Why not?”
I slid my hand over his calf, encased in smooth leather. “Once you have your boots off, I’m going to fuck you. But not until then.”
“Perhaps we could take them off, then?” he suggested.
“In due course. I’m enjoying myself. I’m going to enjoy myself very thoroughly with you, and you are going to please me.”
“It seems that you’re pleasing me,” he managed, sounding slightly strangled as I ran my hand all the way up one smooth leg and over the bulge of his crotch.
“Give it time,” I suggested and went to work.
I had wanted a full night with him, and I made use of it. I caressed and licked and bit, roaming his body with my hands and mouth until he was moaning without restraint, shoving him down every time he tried to wriggle or squirm. “God’s sake, Jasper!”
I skimmed my hand over his straining crotch, making him buck. “I said, still.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to lie still?” he yelped.
“Try,” I said. “Don’t move at all. Be a good boy now; it will be worth your while.”
He swore at me, gritted his teeth, and stilled. I didn’t think I had ever seen that before; he was always toe-tapping and squirming and on the move. A restless youth, my Rupert, but a determined one. He held still, and I slid my hands over and under him, stroking the curve of his arse, the join of his legs, the bulge of his arousal, over and over until he said, “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please do something before I spend like this, damn it!”
“Wrong.” I rubbed him gently with my palm. He whimpered. “I will keep you like this as long as you need to learn. Please what?”
He thought about it. “Please take my boots off?”
“Better. Not quite good enough, though.”
He made a strangled noise. “What then?”
I sat on the side of the bed with some awkwardness, easing off my own boots slowly and carefully. Rupert watched, eyes huge and dark in the candlelight. I had no idea if Michael was still watching, and in truth couldn’t give a damn if he was; still, I was careful not to let the hidden knife fall when I shed my own clothing, and dropped my buckskins close by the bed where I could reach for the weapon if I needed it.
I knelt naked, straddling Rupert’s chest with my full weight and pinioning his arms with my legs. “Persuade me.”
“Am I allowed to move?”
I took hold of my prick and gave it a long stroke. “No.”
Rupert licked his lips. “Then what—?”
“Ask.”
“Take my boots off and fuck me?” Rupert suggested, adding, “That is, if you would be so kind?”
“Wrong again. You learn slowly.”
He made a determined effort to buck me off, which would have worked with a smaller man. I planted a heavy hand on his chest, over the base of his neck just below the lovely hollow of his throat, and saw his eyes widen.
“Rupert,” I said softly. “Do you recall me saying I would teach you to give?”
“Mmm.” His skin vibrated under my fingers with the sound.
“This is the first lesson. If you merely take, you must take what is given to you. It’s not just about what you want.”
He thought that one through. “What do you want?”
“Try harder.”
“All right: how may I please you?” I cocked my head. He shut his eyes. “Would you care to fuck me at all, Jasper? If that would please you?”
“Eventually.” I shifted to get one hand behind me, massaging his arousal. He whimpered. “When I’m ready.”
“May I help you get ready?” he suggested, running a tongue over his lips in a pointed fashion.
“I think we’ll get you ready instead,” I said. “Stay still, now.” I shifted back off him and eased up one leg. He lay with head thrown back, looking like one of the more salacious religious paintings. I picked up his calf, stroking the boot and the leg above it till his breathing was harsh, then eased the boot off. He gave a groan of relief.
“Not yet,” I said. “Stroke yourself. No, leave that button where it is. As you are will do very well.”
Rupert blinked, but obeyed, running his hand over his trapped prick. He watched my face. I watched his, and saw his eyes darken. “More.”
“I—” He bit that off. “Do you like that? Watching me do this?”
“Very much.”
He slowed his movements, making them firmer, teeth set against the threat of climax. “Whatever you say, then.”
I could barely breathe, for all the bravado. I wanted to make him spend like that; I wanted him bare; I wanted him spread out for me and moaning. I waited just a moment more until his hand and breath were quickening, and then said, “Unbutton yourself.”
His fingers shook as he obeyed, drawing out his rigid prick, shining with soft moisture. It was irresistible. I bent forwards and took him in my mouth. He moaned pleasure, hips twitching in his effort to stay still, and I sucked him deep into my mouth, once, twice, and let go.
“Jesus!” He spasmed on the bed. “Jasper!”
“You can come with me inside you. Not before. Would you like me to take your other boot off?”
He whimpered agreement. I grinned. “Then stroke yourself. But don’t spend.”
“May—not be possible.”
“Make it possible.”
He set his teeth, giving his prick the slightest, most tentative stroke. I shook my head. “More. And harder. I’ll fuck you when you want it enough. Show me that.”
Rupert exhaled, hand moving with
more certainty, wrapped around his cock. His lips moved slightly; I imagine he was doing Latin declensions in his head. I certainly was. I took hold of his boot. “Don’t stop, now.”
I took my time working the boot off. Rupert whispered an oath. “Right. Buckskins,” I told him, and he let go of himself with a gasp of relief. He looked painfully hard. I eased the tight trousers down his legs, stripping him bare, and knelt over him, looking my fill.
It wasn’t that he was a beauty. That catches my interest but doesn’t keep it. It was the pure unrestrained, unashamed, bursting life of him, the way he flung himself into whatever he did with utter commitment. For most of us, living is simply our ongoing state until we die; Rupert lived as an active verb, and did it as hard as he could. I had absolutely no doubt that he would have played the master with me every bit as enthusiastically so long as he got to play, and having an audience only made it better.
I slid my hands over his bare thighs, stroking his flanks, staying just a little away from his straining prick. He groaned. I took both his wrists, pulling his arms wide, and leaned forwards over him, weight heavy on his wrists, trapping him under me. I dare say I looked intimidating, all scars and sinew; it was certainly my intention, and I made my voice accordingly harsh. “Are you ready to give me what I want?”
Rupert looked up at me, all huge appealing eyes and soft unresisting body, playing the helpless youth for all he was worth. It was irritatingly effective given that he was as defenceless as a cobra, and I don’t like helpless youths anyway. “Oh, yes, Jasper,” he said. “Please—”
“Uh-uh,” I said. “No more asking. I’m going to fuck you for my own pleasure, and you are going to take everything I do. It’s all about what I want now. Understand?”
“Whatever you want,” he echoed breathily, submissively, with the candlelight striking sparks from his eyes, and I gave up on finesse.
“Turn over,” I told him. “No, a moment.” Shit; I had not had this in mind today. One can manage perfectly well without lubrication or without experience, but not without either, and I wanted my Rupert’s first time to be memorable for the right reasons. “Oil. Linseed will do well. Have you any? Then fetch it.”
I clambered off him; he hopped up and retrieved a bottle from a chest. “Excellent. Lie down.”
He lay, face down, legs spread. I poured oil into the palm of my hand and went to work.
That night is a cloud of impressions in my memory. I recall the candlelight, the warm glow and flickering shadows, the way it turned Rupert’s skin mellow gold and lit the smooth planes of his back, the smooth shifting of his muscles. I recall the way his body tensed, just briefly, and then opened to me, how he twisted around my fingers, his wordless yelps, the way he pushed back and whimpered, and the almost unbearable building need, so that when at last I pushed into his body—still so tight—I feared I would spend at once. And Rupert, writhing and groaning, breathing through the initial pain with a fighter’s disregard, finding his point of pleasure with a laughing, surprised inhalation that almost undid me.
Christ, he was a marvel. I wrapped my arms round him, fucked him and stroked him, brought him off crying out his long-delayed ecstasy, and then pushed him face down on the mattress, holding his shoulder down, and took my own enjoyment, knowing how much he would feel every stroke now. He cried out my name, muffled in the sheets, as I fucked him, and I cried out his, unable to stop myself, when I came.
Rupert, my Rupert. Reckless and wary, graceful and graceless, handsome, debonair, vile, and, for just one night, very thoroughly conquered indeed.
We lay together afterwards, awash in sweat and spending and the smell of fucking, entwined with one another in a way I would not normally encourage, and in which I would not have indulged with another man. There is so much comfort in closeness and bare skin, so much peace to be had in lying together. The chance had rarely come my way; if one even has the privilege of a bed, one is all too often obliged to hop out of it to avoid the objecting landlord or the avenging law (whatever it might be avenging). And I had not done well by my last lover: I did not, in truth, deserve peaceful embraces. But Rupert gave his body, his affection, with such absurd generosity that I let myself take both in the same spirit, and sank blissfully into that brief moment of rest.
I wondered if Michael was still watching, the spying, lying prick. I hoped he’d had as much enjoyment as we.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It took Rassendyll two days to act. Perhaps he delayed because Princess Flavia came up to Tarlenheim; perhaps her presence was what spurred him to act at all. I didn’t know, and if Hentzau did, he didn’t tell me.
The day after that memorable night was a trying one even to a man of as few sensibilities as myself. Michael kept us busy from dawn to dusk, and had us split up once more to guard the king, with Hentzau and I on separate shifts. And he had evidently drawn conclusions from his secret spying: he said nothing so far as I know, but he looked at Hentzau with a little contemptuous smile. That was entirely predictable, and indeed I was sure Hentzau had wanted to provoke precisely that response as a means of deflecting suspicion, but it rankled nevertheless. I have no patience with the idea that a man’s courage or competence are related to his bedroom habits, and I knew an urge to slap that smile off Michael’s face, but masked it. Hentzau and I would settle our score with Michael Elphberg in due course, and it would be a grand reckoning indeed.
There was a summer storm the night Rassendyll attacked. I was in the Tower, guarding the king. I had the windowless outer room to myself, since Bersonin and de Gautet were stretching their legs up and down the stairs. The drawbridge was up and the Tower as close to impregnable as might be, except for the great pipe. I had pointed out that a daring man might climb up inside it, and Michael had been chewing on that ever since. His solution was to moor a boat by the pipe and set men to spend the night at watch.
Max, the manservant, was on duty. It is hard enough to stay awake on guard duty on one’s feet, there was no sense of urgency in his mind, and he had covered himself with a warm oilskin against the rain. Of course he slept.
I didn’t hear it when Rassendyll cut his throat in the dark. I heard nothing at all until the first shots rang out, and then I drew my sword and held myself poised to act.
If the attack was coming, I would need to kill de Gautet quickly, since he was unquestionably the greatest threat. Rassendyll would doubtless be able to cope with Bersonin. He could heroically fight his way through and—if I did not mistake my man—take a moment to ensure the king was found dead on the straw. I intended to use the pipe for my way out, concealing myself in the dark water until someone friendly lowered a rope, and then go after Michael.
So I readied my blade, checked my pistol, and positioned myself by the closed but unlocked door, prepared to take de Gautet when he ran in to defend the king.
But the attack did not come. There was more gunfire, more shouts, and then nothing. After a few moments, footsteps came down the stairs. “Detchard! Don’t shoot—it is I, de Gautet. Open up.”
“What’s happening?” I asked, making scraping noises with the bolt.
“An attack. As far as I could see from the window, Krafstein is hurt and perhaps Hentzau. The assailants have ridden away, it seems, but we must keep close guard.”
I sheathed my blade and opened the door; Bersonin came down to join us, and the three of us watched and waited in silence.
Hentzau perhaps hurt. Well, a minor blooding would teach him caution, and if his wound was more serious, there was nothing I could do about it. So I stood with my uncongenial companions, impatient and alert, through the rest of what proved a very long and entirely uneventful night.
Morning came with the usual call from the chateau signalling that the drawbridge was to be lowered. I will admit I was pleased to see Hentzau standing on the other side of the moat, apparently in rude health. He crossed the bridge as soon as it had swung into place and held his hand up as the three of us emerged, herding us back within the
Tower.
“What’s afoot?” I asked him.
“Excursions and alarums last night. Krafstein and Lauengram are dead. And Max, too, the manservant.”
I whistled. “Rassendyll did well.”
“I got one of his men and Lauengram two before he fell, so honours are even.” Hentzau had a look I recognised, that glittering spark of excitement that comes only from life on the edge of death. “It was a close thing with me, come to that.”
He was clearly desperate to give the story, and it made me remember how young he was. I said, “Come, tell us what happened.”
“The king’s party attacked by stealth last night. One man ahead with a number of others on horseback. Michael had sent me, Lauengram, and Krafstein to ride down to Zenda—”
“In the middle of the night, in a storm?”
“He had a task for Krafstein, and asked us both to accompany him,” Hentzau said. “Except we did not get so far, because we were just riding round the road when we heard a whistle and the sound of horses. We rode up, shouting to raise the alarm, and there was a melee. There were perhaps ten of them, all told. Lauengram fought damned bravely, but he fell, and Krafstein too. We had put paid to three of them by then but there were plenty left, I alone in the middle of it, and I heard the king—the player-king—shout my name and cry, ‘Shoot! Shoot!’”
“A nasty position,” I said. “Mind you, they don’t seem to have shot particularly well?”
“Not well, but a great deal,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me, and entirely failing to hide their sparkle. “I took my brave Hilda—my mare, you know—round as close to the moat as I dared, and leapt in.”
“You jumped into the moat from horseback?”
“If I’d kept riding, they’d have kept shooting and they’d surely have hit Hilda,” Hentzau explained. “I threw myself in and swam like the water was filled with sharks, with bullets dropping around me. Cursed dark and cold it was, too. I called for help, and after what I can only call an unconscionably long delay, more of our side came running up, and someone hauled me out. By then the king’s party had long gone. They threw the bodies into the moat first—Krafstein and Lauengram, and even Max, though his throat had been cut in the boat. The player-king was the one who assassinated him, by the way; he was soaking wet.”
