by P. J. Fox
She started sobbing again and this time, when he pulled her to him, she didn’t try to escape.
They sat like that, together, for a long time.
“There were three of them,” she said eventually. “They were armed. I was on my way home from a friend’s house. It was just after sunset; it wasn’t even dark. Someone hit me from behind and I blacked out and when I came to, I was in some kind of basement or warehouse. I’m not sure. I was blindfolded. I could tell by the smell, though: old, wet concrete and mold.” She paused, composing herself. “They took turns, sometimes one at a time, sometimes all three at the same time. They told me they’d kill me if I fought them, and fuck me anyway. So I let them do it, and I waited. The only reason they didn’t kill me was because they didn’t think I knew who they were. The law might not concern itself with rape, or the occasional murder of thugs, but it does make an appearance for the murder of under-aged girls. Especially the daughters of clerics who run hospitals.”
He nodded. It made sense.
“But,” she added, “I did recognize them; I recognized their voices.”
“And?”
She sighed. “I volunteer for my father, sometimes; they’re the men who bring the charitable donations from other parts of the planet, sometimes from off-world. I still see them, once or twice a week. And they still don’t know that I know who they are; I’m too much of a coward.”
“That’s not cowardice,” he corrected her. “That’s bravery. Any fool can die.”
“My father doesn’t know,” she replied. “With any luck, he never will.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” he said, an edge to his voice.
“Why not?” she asked, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.
He brushed her hair back from her face.
And he told her the truth. “Because I can’t face the idea that I’m powerless.”
She waited. He could see the question in her eyes.
He decided to answer that one, too.
Settling her more comfortably against him, he put his arms around her waist and she leaned back against his chest as they looked out over Dharavi. There were very few lights; most couldn’t afford them. It felt right, sitting here like this, even though he didn’t know why.
“When I was a child, my parents were killed.”
He paused, wondering if he had it in him to discuss this.
He’d never discussed it with anyone outside the context of confessing his weaknesses during the long, painful process of training. The Brotherhood of the Dragon placed a high value on confession; one of the first things he’d memorized was an answer. He’d memorized many questions, and many answers, but this one was perhaps the most important: what is the value of confession? To encourage the destruction of the individual ego through admission and, thus, acceptance of personal weaknesses and innermost feelings of doubt.
He took a deep breath, and continued.
“They were good, and decent, and kind. Too kind. They wanted everyone to love them, and so forgave things they shouldn’t. It sounds terrible, to call someone too kind, but meaningful kindness must be tempered by decision. Thoughtful and generous actions born of fear—fear of judgment, fear of harm, even fear of economic loss—aren’t true kindness, but cowardice.”
He hoped she understood what he was telling her. She seemed to.
“They didn’t do what they did out of love, but out of fear. And so, slowly, they allowed others to control them. By the time I was twelve years old, old enough to know what was happening but not yet old enough to understand it, they were deeply enmeshed with a group of grasping, evil-minded sycophants who told them what they wanted to hear.
“There was—”
There was a palace coup.
“My father’s so-called friends grew jealous of him, jealous of success—success they believed they’d earned because it was they who, while he was sitting around making friends and influencing people, made the hard decisions. Success, in business, is built on hard decisions.”
His ministers resented him for being weak; the very control he gave them over him, in order to appease them and make them his friends, made them lose respect for him. They needed a leader, not a friend, and he never saw that. And when my brother retook the throne, he was so terrified of alienating the people who’d helped him get there that he married a woman he hated, and broke the heart of the woman he loved, in order to appease them.
And I knew I’d made the right choice, because I couldn’t stand it.
She was waiting for him to continue.
“They broke into our house; it was only an accident that I wasn’t there. I’d been with a friend. My brother fought his way free—he was quite a bit older than I was, and had considerable martial skill—but he couldn’t save our parents. My mother was raped, repeatedly, before she died.” He shut his eyes, briefly, and then opened them. “She died alone, covered in her own blood and filth, of the internal injuries that resulted. I learned that afterward, when we recovered her body. My father,” he continued, “was—”
Flayed alive, as a traitor, and he died screaming like a dog as I watched from the crowd. He’d been concealed, of course; there was a warrant out for his execution. But he’d had to see.
“Also killed.”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes glistening in the eggplant-colored gloom that seemed to pass for night in all major cities. It wasn’t pity he saw—he couldn’t have stood that—but understanding. And acceptance. She knew, now, what had led him to seek, at thirteen, admission to the most feared, least understood organization in the known universe.
He was kissing her again before he even realized what he was doing, and she was kissing him back. Even as he felt horrible guilt over forcing himself on this, this child, he couldn’t stop himself. She was, undoubtedly, reacting to what had for her been a very traumatic experience. And yet, as her arms encircled his neck and he felt her small, warm body pressed against his, he knew that she wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.
It wasn’t possible, but it was true.
She nibbled his bottom lip, then tugged on it gently, almost experimentally. The sensation drove him wild. His cock ached against the constriction of his pants, the flesh rigid and stretched. He wanted to feel himself inside her. The intensity of the urge was almost overwhelming.
She sank back against the roof, hair spreading out around her. Her face was open, and trusting, and it was almost more than he could bear. His lips sought hers, eagerly, as he parted them with his tongue. He wished, more than anything, that it was his cock sliding inside her.
One hand was on the back of his head, the other on his back. He took most of his weight on his elbows, afraid that he’d crush her. She was so frail, so small.
He forced himself to pull back slightly. If this went much further, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
“I want you,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“I want you, too,” she told him. He studied her eyes and saw that she meant it.
“Not here,” he said. Yes, here. Force that flimsy dress of hers up over her hips and take her here, now, while she still wants you. Fuck her until you both drop dead of exhaustion.
She waited, eyes on his.
“Come back to my room with me.”
Swallowing, she nodded.
Chapte Five
They walked hand in hand through the streets, enjoying the strange night life of a world class slum.
Dharavi was a surprisingly cheerful place at night. People laughed and danced to all sorts of music, ragtag bands playing on mostly homemade instruments—and doing a better job of it than he’d heard at the Imperial Opera House, if truth be told. The thought both encouraged and depressed him. There were a few lights strung up across the narrow streets, cables running from window to window. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Udit’s hand felt small and warm in his. He squeezed it, once, and she squeezed his back.
He’d had to help her cli
mb down the side of her house; given the proposed nature of their evening, he’d thought it best to avoid another interview with her father. She’d been surprisingly agile even so. But, then again, she’d managed to follow him up five floors into the abandoned warehouse.
She gasped, delighted by a particularly precocious trained monkey. Someone had taught it to juggle kumquats. Not, he suspected, the current owner: an organ grinder with an obvious drinking problem. He nodded lazily at Udit, started to smile, saw Ceres, and thought better of the idea.
Ceres had never thought of himself as a jealous man but, he realized now, he’d never had anything to be jealous of.
He loved her smile. She smiled not to entice men, or to enchant people into doing what she wanted, or to make them like her, but simply because things made her happy.
Turning slightly, she smiled up at him before returning her interest to the mangy simian. Her smile had been uncomfortably knowing, as if to say, I know what you’re up to. And perhaps she did; she’d certainly punched his ticket at the café, an idea that both irked and thrilled him.
God, he wanted her. His cock ached from his unused erection, and his balls hurt worse. It felt like every nerve in his body was on fire. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so aroused before because, truthfully, he’d never been denied before. He’d never seen the point.
But he hadn’t wanted to be with her, for the first time, on a roof. Besides the very real danger that it might collapse at any moment, dropping them onto the kitchen table, there was the equally real danger that her father might grow suspicious and come up for a visit.
I realize, sir, that I have my cock in your unmarried daughter, but I want you to know that my intentions are entirely honorable.
No, not such a good program.
When he finally did get her clothes off, he hoped he’d be able to last longer than thirty seconds. If it was really bad, she probably wouldn’t want to have sex with him again.
Several roadside carts were still doing a brisk business. He thought longingly of the chicken and decided they’d better stop.
He guided Udit to one of the less upsetting-looking carts. The man standing under the red and white striped awning smiled at them.
His smile, too, seemed very knowing.
“Such a curmudgeon,” teased Udit, smiling up at him.
“I am not,” he replied, discouraged by how truculent he sounded.
“You’re ill-tempered and stubborn,” she said, smile widening, “like a camel.”
He was going to be annoyed, but then she kissed him.
Straightening up, he realized that the man behind the cart was laughing at him.
“I will have you know,” he said seriously, “that the camel is a very noble animal.”
Neither one replied.
“What’s that?” he asked her, pointing to a rather desiccated-looking piece of meat in brown sauce. It had been roasted on a stick, and the stick was still attached.
“Rat on a stick,” she replied.
Oh, gross.
“It’s okay,” she said sweetly, patting him on the arm. “You’re just a wimp.”
“We’ll take five,” he told the vendor.
“That,” she said, pointing to something equally disreputable-looking, “is pureed potato that’s been floured and deep fried. And that”—she pointed again—”is a spinach-filled biscuit.”
Why couldn’t he have asked about that one first, he wondered.
“We’ll take some of everything,” he told the delighted vendor.
They left five minutes later with a bag of dead rats, some potato pancakes, and a couple of glass jars of iced tea.
“What a gentleman,” she said, “buying me dinner.”
“I’m going to eat this rat,” he said, brandishing it at her.
She laughed, a high, tinkling sound like bells. “You don’t have to.”
“Yes I do,” he assured her. “After a challenge like that?”
Besides, it was important to have the proper energy for sex—although he wasn’t sure that this would do the trick.
“They don’t remove the entrails, you know, before they cook it.”
He arched his eyebrow.
“I’m a vegetarian,” she said demurely.
Now she tells me.
He bit into it. The experience was indescribably awful. Its skin split like a tough, extra rubbery sausage casing, and the smell of entrails filled the air. He concentrated on his breathing, determined not to vomit. He’d show her. He forced himself to take a bite, chew it, and swallow it. Just ripping the rat apart with his teeth had been an exercise; it was very, very tough.
He gagged. He couldn’t help it. Getting his tattoos had been like getting sucked off by beautiful maidens compared to this.
Turning, his eyes met hers and they burst out laughing.
“Give it to me,” she told him.
“I thought you said you were a vegetarian?”
“I can make an exception,” she said with a small smile.
She took the rat from him. And finished it.
He just stared at her, overcome by how wonderful she was.
Tossing away the stick, she smiled. “You suck at pretending to be a poor person, you know.” She slipped her hand back into his. “I’ll have to teach you,” she concluded, that same small, secret smile still on her face.
Does this mean you’ll stay with me? He felt his heart skip a beat.
And he realized, in that moment, that the thought of being without her made him feel hollow—like he’d lost a part of himself he hadn’t known he had, and hadn’t realized was essential.
They reached the hotel and, still hand in hand, walked up past the same desk clerk who’d been there earlier—and the day before. He was reading the same tablet and, Ceres guessed, probably the same article. Hearing the door open, he glanced up without any real interest. He was either too tired or too stoned. After nodding vacantly, he went back to ignoring them.
Ceres led her upstairs, to his room.
He opened the door but, before he could grab her—and God did he want to grab her—she darted into the bathroom.
“I have to take a shower!” she called through the closed door.
He collapsed into the chair. Of course.
Foregoing any more rat, he ate one of the potato pancakes. Not bad. The rat was probably infected with some dread disease but he’d had all his shots.
Should he undress? Should he not undress? He wanted very much to undress but he also didn’t want to frighten her. In the end, he opted to stay where he was and wait for her return.
This shower wasn’t quite as long as the last one. He heard the water turn off with something like delight.
Soon, he was going to see her naked. That was another advantage of bringing her back here: he could take all her clothes off and admire her for as long as he wanted—just like unwrapping a present.
What would she think of him naked?
The door opened, and he came out. She was wearing the same robe she’d worn the day before, and she still looked beautiful in it. His breath hitched in his throat as she smiled, shy.
He stood up and came toward her, sliding his hand over her shoulder. She tilted her head up and he kissed her, very gently. He was, he supposed, still worried about frightening her.
She kissed him back, her mouth opening under his just the tiniest bit.
She dropped down onto the heels of her feet, breaking the kiss.
“Your bath products all smell very masculine,” she admonished him.
He arched an eyebrow. “Would you prefer that they didn’t?”
She blushed, staring at the floor. “Well it’s just that….”
She was stalling. Sliding a finger under her chin, he tilted her head up so her eyes met his.
“I think you smell wonderful,” he told her.
She nodded, thoughtful, as though he’d said something else.
He waited, while she came to a decision. And then, face serious
, she reached up and undid the first button on his shirt. He’d taken his jacket off, tossing it over the back of the chair, and removed his weapons, but other than that he was still fully clothed. Biting her lip in concentration, she worked with a careful deliberation that he found charming. She was obviously inexperienced with men’s clothes, which didn’t surprise him.
It was a new experience, being with someone this uncertain. He’d never had sex with a woman that he hadn’t paid for, before this night. Those women had known how to enjoy themselves if they’d wanted to, and ignore what was happening if they didn’t. And, in either case, their pleasure was an afterthought. Their duty was to please him. He’d never cared whether he was pleasing them; why would he? They’d tell him he was, no matter what.
But this…this was much more personal. She was giving something to him, and her experience was like a blank slate. He found the idea of making her his, of teaching her what he liked—of finding out what she liked, and making her want it—intensely arousing.
She paused.
“I’ve never seen a naked man before,” she said, sounding nervous.
He waited, sensing that she wasn’t done. She looked up at him, still biting her lip, and he smiled. A small smile, but genuine. She blushed, dropping her eyes, her hands still on his shirt.
“I’ve heard,” she said, obviously embarrassed, “that some of you have certain, ah, modifications.”
Thank God, he’d thought she was about to say something else.
She looked up. “Do you have any…strange ones?”
“Define strange.”
“Um….” She was chewing on her lip now.
“No,” he told her finally. He was both amused and captivated by her innocence. “Just tattoos,” he continued, “and a bolt through my cock.”
She laughed.
It occurred to him that they probably didn’t use that word in her house.
“You’re joking, right?”
Oh, sweet mother of the Prophet. He shook his head. “No.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
Do you want to see it? I’d like to show it to you.
