In Which Jerome Pussyfoots

Bracing himself with a deep breath, Jerome prepares to knock on his Master’s door. It’s something he’s done thousands of times during his lifetime of service to Lydon, but rarely has he been as hesitant as he is now. He’s about to ask about something very, very sensitive that could very well earn him a beating…or worse. Another deep breath, and his knuckles are no closer to the door. Finally, the aging butler closes his eyes, turns his whole head away, and screws up his face.

“Stop pussyfooting about outside my door and come in, damn you.” Lydon’s voice could easily be heard through the door.

“Ack!” Startled, Jerome loses his customary composure for a moment. “Ah, yes sir. Thank you, sir.” Exhaling, Jerome grabs the doorknob and flings the door open rather dramatically.

“Did you forget what you came to see me about, or were you just stalling?” Lydon chuckled, not bothering to turn and look at his butler. He was curled up in the bay window, wrapped in a thick quilt and his robe.

Jerome smiles, pleased that his master is resting and warm. “No, sir, it’s just…well, it’s Perry.” He flinches even saying the name. He continues before he can lose his resolve, or Lydon loses patience altogether. “He’s doing much better, as you know, from his time spent with Christian. He came to see me last night, and…” Jerome falters, trying to think of how to continue. “…he asked me to kill him.” Finally, he just says it straight out, flatly, not looking at Lydon.

Lydon turned to look at Jerome, sighing quietly. “Did he say why?”

“Yes. He thinks that he’s the reason you’re unhappy, and he believes that if he were dead, you would get better. I think he may have asked Christian to kill him, as well.” Jerome can’t entirely blame Perry; he’s had the same thought, many times before. But Perry’s life—and death—are, and have always been, in Lydon’s hands.

“I’ll speak with him.” Lydon said, understanding now why Jerome was hesitating outside his door. “Is he still sick?”

“Thank you, sir. Yes, he is, sir. He’s spent the last two nights in my bed; I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner, I just…” Jerome gestures helplessly. “Also…I think his masochism has, returned, for lack of a better word.”

“What makes you think that?” he raised an eyebrow, unwrapping his blanket and holding out his hand for Jerome to help him sit up.

Jerome strides across the room and takes his master’s cool hand to assist him. “Well…he, ah, keeps trying to have sex with me. And while he’s trying, he grabs my hands and tries to get me to scratch him and hold him down.”

“Have you had sex with him?”

“No! No, of course not, sir. Not until I had spoken with you and asked you how you wanted me to proceed.”

Lydon leaned on Jerome, getting him to walk him to his bed and sitting down, robe opening a bit around his chest and shoulders. “I think it would be good for both of you.” he said softly, “on the condition that I get daily reports on his mental health.”

Jerome automatically settles the robe back around his master, letting Lydon’s answer settle in. “Really?” The butler is surprised enough to ask. “Yes sir. If you think so, sir.” He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but this wasn’t it. Especially Lydon’s tone.

Lydon allowed Jerome to fuss over him, watching his butler with a bit of amusement. “Do I keep surprising you, boy?”

“Yes,” Jerome laughs. “It’s been years since you called me boy…” He finds himself reminiscing, especially to the days before his master had met Ivar. “Sir, may I ask you a rather personal question.”

“I suppose.” he arranged himself comfortably against the pillows.

Jerome asks permission to sit on the bed with his eyes, and tries to think of how to word his question. “…if you were feeling better, sir, would you be playing with Perry? For that matter, why do you think that it would be good for me?”

Lydon nods at Jerome’s silent question. “I will never play with Perry again. But I believe it was a part of him that he shut down after … what happened. Seeing it come back is good, I hope. Perhaps he’s healing. And you have been alone for a long time. Any sort of intimacy will be good for you.”

Seating himself quite gracefully on the edge of the bed, Jerome looks absolutely heartbroken, watching his master. “Why never again, sir? And…yes, I believe that he is healing. I think that his time with Christian, however unlikely a companion our guard may be, has had a very positive influence on Perry. I am hardly an expert on such matters, sir, but…I do believe that any return to his…former state…can only be for the good. It may be painful, but I suppose that it’s like returning an injured animal to the wild. As for myself, sir…I have no opinion on the matter.” The butler smiles softly.

“No opinion indeed.” Lydon smirked at him, pulling Jerome down next to him. “And I… I was there when Perry broke and I will never remind him of what I’ve put him through. I’m glad that he still loves me, but if I broke him further, it would undo us both.”

With a startled laugh, Jerome curls against his master, reminded again of those carefree days before Lydon had left for school and met Ivar, when it had just been the two of them. “None whatsoever, sir,” the butler replies, allowing a bit of humour into his voice. With a sigh, he continues. “I’m glad sir. I don’t believe that he associates you with that time, or remembers your part in it, but if you have any doubts, I’m sure you’re right to not chance it. I’m honoured that you would allow me, sir.” The thought of Lydon reduced to the same state as Perry, especially in the first few years following being broken, makes Jerome shudder involuntarily. Although the thought of his master screaming at him whilst being bathed manages to be simultaneously hilarious and horrifying.

Lydon nodded, nestling into Jerome’s shoulder and chest. He’s found himself craving attention lately, even from Jerome, who he still has mixed feelings about. Mostly he misses Ivar and the way they had been in their school days. But it wasn’t going to be the same again.

Jerome gently twines a leg between his masters' and strokes Lydon’s hair and back. He can feel his master’s heartache, and he suspects, given his own train of thought, what may be causing it. “Ivar and Gregor haven’t been by in some time, sir. Would you like me to message them for a visit?”

Lydon glared at him silently, but nodded. “That would be fine.”

Though he can feel Lydon’s movement and suspects that he’s being glared at, the butler can’t actually see his master’s face to confirm it. Not that it would make any difference. Stifling a yawn, Jerome nods. “First thing in the morning then, sir.”

“Good boy.” he says, yawning.

Jerome stands to stoke the fire. “Is there anything else before you retire, sir?”
“Come back and hold me until I sleep.” He sat up and undid his robe, shrugging it off his shoulders and handing it to Jerome.

Finding himself staring as he watches his master reveal his pale, lean chest, Jerome nods hastily and takes the robe. “Ah…yes, sir. Of course, sir.” The butler hangs the robe in its customary place, and quickly banks the fire for the night before crawling back into bed with Lydon.

Lydon wraps himself in a warm blanket of his butler, closing his eyes and preparing to drift off with a yawn.

Jerome settles them both, making sure that no buttons or seams or anything else are making his master uncomfortable. He feels himself drifting off as well, but he’s wont to move, feeling that Lydon is still awake.

Lydon fell asleep, but his sleep gave no indication to Jerome. His breathing was even and soft.

The butler realizes that his master is asleep, but too late to escape sleep’s clutches himself, and he’s soon snoring softly in Lydon’s arms.

Lydon woke later in the night, falling into bed in his dream. He sat up a little, surprised to find himself in a warm embrace. He turned to see Jerome snoring quietly, his hair tousled and his jacket wrinkled. Smiling, he leaned down and kissed his butler gently. “And here I thought you didn’t sleep. You’re human after all.” he chuckled, brushing some stray hairs out of Jerome’s face and nestling back into his arms.

Attack of the Killer Butler!

Michel is running, more or less blind with the amount of blood dripping incessantly down his hair and into his eyes. He cannot stop; if he does, they'll catch him, and he'll have a lot more than blood to worry about. He's forgotten, for the moment, that one hand is pressed to his abdomen, keeping...things...safely inside where they belong.

Ivar is walking sedately, following the trail of blood, his cock dripping with anticipation of the kill. He's not concerned. Even if the boy manages to leave the manor, he's miles from help.

Jerome is in his small study, sipping tea with shaking hands, trying to block out the horrific sounds from below.

Lydon laces his bloody fingers with Ivar's, smiling at his friend with a baring of teeth. They would finish this night with the best sex, they were both thoroughly aroused.

Ivar curls and straightens his fingers, relishing the tackiness of the still-wet blood binding their hands together. His answering grin shows the blood oozing between his teeth.

Michel sobs, hearing their footsteps behind him. He's bruised and bloody, not just from the torture he's fled, but from crashing into furniture and other obstacles on his panicked flight. "Please!" he screams, "please, just let me go!" as he crashes through the house.

Lydon laughs, kissing Ivar, then pulling him along as he sped up. "Ya tebya lyublyu!"

"And I love you, my Englishman," Ivar cries, throwing back his head and laughing, until they're skipping along like schoolboys following the trail of blood and broken things.

Lydon fingers the little kitchen knife he's been playing with all night. His fingers are sticking to it, just as they're sticking to Ivar's skin. Blood soaks them both up to the elbows, spattered across their clothes and skin, stuck to their hair and even their eyelashes.

Ivar smiles, more a curling of his lip. "I can't wait to lick it all off of you," he growls, wiping a bloody curl off of his forehead, his accent thickening with lust and the hunt.

Lydon groaned, knees going a bit weak.

They're close enough now that Michel can hear them, but he can't seem to make himself run any further. He's reduced to a painful, shambling walk, trying to keep his noisy sobs in check.

Ivar catches his partner easily, twirling him into his arms and pressing their chests, their lips together, leaving bloody handprints on one of the few remaining bits of Lydon's skin. "I have you, my treasure."

Lydon wraps his arm around Ivar's neck, kissing him deeply, melting against him.

"Mmm...Lydon, darling, as much as I want to fuck you right here in this wonderful puddle, there is the boy. He won't get far, but..."

"Nnngh..." Lydon groaned, fingers undoing Ivar's apron. "Jerome!" he shouted.

Jerome puts down his tea with a sigh of regret, standing and going to the undoubtedly bloody and lustful young Master and his terrifying friend.

Ivar rips the apron loose and pins Lydon to the floor with his hips, smearing some of the blood onto his partner's opening as lubrication, before grabbing both of Lydon's wrists and violently penetrating him.

Lydon screams, his whole body bucking under his lover's thrusts.

"Don't just stand there gaping," Ivar snarls at Jerome, "do your fucking job and clean this up. But first, find the boy and take care of him." He lowers his dripping mouth to Lydon's throat, biting and worrying the soft skin there.

Lydon makes a series of inhuman sounds, wrapping his legs around Ivar and pulling him deeper, neck offered up to the teeth happily.

Jerome splutters, but leaves, following the blood trail. Take care of him. Kill him?

Ivar doesn't notice the butler leave, so intent is he on ravishing and ravaging his partner.

Michel has found himself in the kitchen, where he is frantically, but weakly, pounding on the glass patio door from where he's fallen to his knees.

Jerome goes to the weak, struggling boy, trying to keep his horror in check. He hesitates beside him, then kneels.

The kneeling boy screams, coughing pink foam from his mouth, and for a moment his hand falls away from the ragged wound in his belly, revealing things that shouldn't see light. He gazes up at Jerome, the horror in his eyes matching the butler's. "...help..." he gasps. He has no idea who the man is, only that he hadn't been in the basement while...

Jerome swallows hard. He can't help but wonder if the boy has already lost some organs and other things that weren't meant to be outside of his skin. The slit across his stomach is wide and the boy is drenched in blood and other unmentionable things. "I... I'll help." he stands, looking about for any sort of weapon.

Michel stares up at the older man with complete trust, allowing himself to relax and settle on the floor.

Jerome chokes back tears, digging through a drawer and finding a kitchen knife. He kneels back down with the boy, cradling him, keeping the knife behind the boy's back.

The boy nestles against the stranger, croaking, "What's your name?"

Jerome wraps an arm around the boy, stroking his hair. "I'm Jerome." Please don't tell me your name.

The boy smiles painfully. "Michel. Did they...hurt you, too?" He closes his eyes, pressed against Jerome's side like a frightened child.

"I... no." he holds the boy. He can see how labored his breathing is. He can see the slick, dark things falling out of the gaping wound in the boy's belly. He closes his eyes and slits the boy's throat.

Michel has time for a fleeting, betrayed look at Jerome before he collapses in the older man's arms. He splutters a little and jerks a few times, then is mercifully still.

Jerome silently cleans up the body, the blood and the horrible trail all the way back to the basement.

*****

Christian is enjoying one of his few days off with a bottle of bourbon, regaling his wide-eyed Yves with war stories.

Yves is suitably wide-eyed and hanging on Christian's every word. Also, literally hanging on to Christian.

Jerome is writing letters on the table, sitting across from them, having his own -glass- of bourbon.

Squeezing his husband's sweet ass under the table, Christian leers across at Jerome, with just the beginnings of a slur tilting his words. "Yeah, that'sh what a man does. He gets it done. He kills people. Right, Jerome?"

"I don't think the measure of a man has anything to do with killing." Jerome says quietly.

Yves, always a little--well, infinitely--more of a keen observer than his husband, drunk or no, leans into Christian and murmurs, "C'mon, Christian...let's go have sex."

"No, I wanna talk to Jerome! What does it have to do with, Jerome, if not with killing? That's a pa--a pa--a wussy answer, that's what that is. That's the answer of a man who's never killed anyone."

Jerome gives Yves a small smile, sipping his bourbon and turning back to his work stiffly.

Yves smiles back, looking rather pained. He moves to the next phase: grabbing Christian's crotch.

Christian brushes Yves' hand aside, looking smugly across the table at Jerome. "Don't just sip there and sit your drink!"

Jerome stood abruptly, finishing his drink and collecting his papers to leave, trying to ignore Christian.

Yves gives a sigh of relief, giving Jerome his most apologetic expression.

"No, no, Jerome! Don't just leave. We were having...a conversation." With another belt of bourbon, Christian strides (in his mind, anyway) across the room and grabs Jerome's sleeve.

Jerome turned and decked him, face red with anger.

Yves shrieks and he grabs the armrests of his chair, but he stays seated--anything he tries to do will just make the situation worse, at this point.

"Jerome!" Christian laughs heartily, clapping the older man on the back and rubbing his jaw with his other hand. "I didn't know you could hit like that."

"Be quiet, you fool." Jerome said softly. "You know what kind of house this is. You remember Ivar, don't you?" His voice never raised above his usual quiet, but it was shaking.

Christian pales, and he actually takes a step back from the butler. "Yes...what has that got to do with anything?"

Yves quietly bangs his forehead on the table a few times.

"You know what he likes." Jerome sighed. "You can't even imagine what Master and Sir got into once the Master inherited this house." Jerome shuffled his papers again, making them perfectly neat. "I have cleaned up after them through it all."

"Cleaned up..." Christian is clearly having a little trouble keeping up. "Oh. Jerome, you have killed someone! Good for you!"

"Alright, that's it! Come on, Christian, I'm taking my ass and leaving, and you're coming with me." Yves shoves his chair violently back and heads for the doorway Jerome isn't in.

Jerome clenched his hands, crumpling his papers a little. "Go with your husband." he hissed.

With something close to fear in his eyes, Christian follows Yves out.

Gregor's Brand

Bound, gagged and blindfolded, Gregor is led into an unknown building...seeing as he's stepped out of a horse-drawn carriage, having travelled by boat, he's not -that- unclear about where he is, but he's not sure why he's so restrained. He follows the gentle tugging of his master meekly.

"Good boy." Ivar murmured, drawing him along to a room warm from a crackling fireplace. He was made to sit on the floor against a strange man. The stranger held him around the chest, with one hand on his jaw to keep his head still.

Gregor nestles happily against the unknown, large chest. He's a little nervous, but his cock is at at least half-mast, and he trusts his master with his life.

He hears a metallic clang as Ivar draws a brand from the fire, and feels the heat moving as Ivar kneels between his legs, holding his face firmly. "Be still."

Gregor's eyes widen behind the blindfold, and he's drawing shallow, quick breaths through the gag, but he nods, pressing himself into the restraining hands as hard as he can.

"Good boy." Ivar pressed the brand to his cheek for less than ten seconds before pulling it away. He put the brand back in the fire and gathered his cold compress.

Gregor's muscles are tense the whole time, but he goes completely limp when it's withdrawn--he would fall if he weren't supported. His breathing slows again, and his eyes are half closed. The pain hasn't really hit him yet.

Ivar presses the cold to Gregor's face, kissing his boy's forehead. "Ya tebya lyublyu, malchick"

"Ya tebya lyublyu, master..." he murmurs, leaning into the coolness.

"Thank you, Christian, you may leave." Ivan addressed the man holding Gregor. The man left, silently. "My Gregor." Ivar chuckled. "What a strong boy you are."

Gregor nods, a little shakily. "Sp-spasibo, sir..."

After the burn had cooled, Ivar applied a salve to the burn, collecting Gregor in his arms and carrying him to a bed. He removed Gregor's blindfold and cuffs, laying with him in the bed.

Gregor lays on the bed, smiling at his master a little distantly; he's clearly not all there. "Kak eto vyglyadit, sir?"

"Eto krasivyĭ, malchick." he kissed the opposite cheek.

"Spasibo, sir." He glances up at his master, asking permission with his eyes to snuggle closer.

Ivar opened his arms for Gregor, nestling the smaller man against his chest.

Gregor cuddles as close to his master as he can, working his way into his favorite 'parcel' position.

Ivar chuckles, holding Gregor around the neck and cupping his balls. "You'll never escape me now, malchick."

Gregor groans happily, struggling just a little to enjoy the sensation. "Why would I want to, sir?"

"Just giving you fair warning." Ivar tightened his arm around Gregor slightly. "You rest now. You're relieved of your duties until your brand has healed."

"Spasibo, sir," he murmurs, sounding rather sleepy. He presses himself against Ivar as hard as he can, as if to meld them together, eyes drifting shut.

Gregor's abduction

Gregor wakes in a small, dark, enclosed space. He realizes that there's a gag shoved almost painfully tight in his mouth, he's blindfolded, and his wrists and ankles are tied. He has a moment of vertigo before realizing that he's moving, and he can dimmly see light flashes passing through the cloth--he's in a car trunk. Then he remembers the men...and the note...

The car slows to a stop and he hears doors open and close as men get out. The trunk opens and he sees silhouettes of men standing above him.

He braces himself, glad that the sudden brightness is tempered by the blindfold. He lays as still as possible, hoping to learn something if they think he's still unconscious.

"You carry him." one of them said, stepping back a little. The other man grabbed Gregor around the waist and threw him over his shoulder roughly.

"Do you think Ivar will come after him?"

"Not if he's left a note. I'd rather just mail bits of him to Ivar afterwards."

Gregor is small enough that he can be easily carried, and he feels that the man is quite a bit larger than him. His eyes widen for a moment behind the blindfold, but he forces himself to stay limp and keep his breathing even.

They carry him inside, then down some stairs. He can see some bright lights through the blindfold. He is dropped to a concrete floor that slopes down to a drain and he hears one of the men grab a pair of chains or shackles. There's a clink and a cold sensation as they are closed around his wrists. The chain is long and goes off somewhere behind him. Gregor gets a kick in the ribs. "Wake up."

Gregor feels himself start to fall, and positions himself to land as best he can, as inconspicuously as he can. He gives an exagerated groan when he's kicked, making it sound like it bothered him far more than it did.

The english accent had given away at least something. "Get up, you piece of shit." he got another kick, this time in the groin. "Ivar's bitch."

Gregor actually does groan at that--he'd never been able to handle much pain in that particular area, though he's accustomed enough to pain in general that he isn't rendered helpless. He sits up, slowly.

The blindfold is removed and he's sat in a chair, forcefully lifted by his collar and pushed down into it. The man who's further away from him is holding a large and heavy looking hammer. "Gregor." he smiled. "I'm Percy. This is my brother, John. You're not the first bitch Ivar has had, you know, but you're the first that lasted so long. Our brother lasted four months." he hissed.

"Ya ne govoryu po angliĭski," he says, shaking his head and shrugging apologetically; he wants to learn as much as he can before committing himself to anything.

"We know you speak english. We know a lot about you, Gregor. We were planning on going after Lydon instead, but his place was pretty tough to even get to." he hefted the hammer experimentally, dropping it into his palm.

Gregor shrugs inwardly; he hadn't really expected that to work. "I am...sorry...about your brother," he says, thickening his accent intentionally.

"I don't really care if you are or aren't. This isn't about you. This is about the man who owns and seems to like you."

"You can kill me. Ivar can always find another. I'm not sure what you hope to do here."

"We want him to realize that he can never have another boy. If he replaces you, we'll kill the next one. If he ever loves one of you, he will feel it when we send you back in parts." the hammer was hefted again and this time came down on Gregor's thigh.

Gregor screams freely; even Ivar had never used something like this on him, and he's always found screaming helpful when dealing with pain.

The hammer raises and descends probably a dozen times before the sound of his femur breaking can be heard. There is blood staining his pants and the man is panting, still holding the hammer.

Gregor closes his eyes and breathes deeply throughout, swaying back and forth gently. The crack of his femur snaps him out of his concentration and he screams again, head spinning as he looks at the mutilated leg.

Now the men stand him up, forcing him to put weight on the leg by kicking at his good leg.

Gregor instead lets his good leg drop, keeping the knee of his bad leg bent as much as possible so it doesn't hit the floor or anything else. It hurts, and the world swims, but he hasn't put weight on it.

They drag him up by his hair, forcing him to his foot. One of them holds him by the hair while the other undresses him, ripping off his shirt, buttons flying. When he gets to his pants, he takes special care to peel the material away from the bloody wound.

Gregor stands, a little shakily, not trying to hide his pain, keeping his the knee of his bad leg cocked to keep it off the ground still. He doesn't move, letting them undress him, staring into space. Only his ragged breathing shows that his control isn't perfect.

The brothers exchange a look, then both of them unzip their pants.

Gregor swallows hard, mostly out of surprise--this, he had not been expecting.

They bend him over the chair, one of them behind, the other in front. The one in front opens Gregor's mouth, hooking a finger behind his teeth and pulling, forcing his cock in the other's mouth.

The one behind grabs Gregor by the thighs and forces his way in.

Tears run freely down Gregor's face when he's bent over the chair--there's no way his leg won't be jostled, and the pain is unbelievable. His vision explodes in black and white spots and he passes out for a moment. The feeling of being forcefully, painfully entered brings him round with a sharp groan. Panicked, and realizing with what's left of his rational mind that he probably won't survive, he bites as hard as he can.

"Fuck!" the man screamed, forcing Gregor's teeth apart, removing his cock and kicking Gregor in the face, mostly hitting his cheek and nose. Blood started to pour from his nose. The one behind him didn't stop, in fact he tightened his fingers in the wound.

Gregor screams over and over until his voice gives way to ragged panting, his eyes huge. He's thrashing as best he can, tears coming in such a flood that he can't even see, trying only to desperately get away, no longer thinking at all.

After awhile, the man behind him finishes up. The one in front left to go tend to his injury. Gregor was left bent over the chair, thigh and nose dripping quite a lot of blood on the floor.

Gregor lays completely limp, all his energy spent in his wild and futile struggle. His breathing is shallow and infrequent, his eyes swollen shut. If anyone were looking, they would see his eyelids twitch occasionally as his eyes move underneath, but that's the only sign of life. He dimmly hears a dog barking, and assumes he's dying. He smiles, slowly and painfully, and inhales deeply, preparing to breathe his last.

***

Ivar's face slowly swam into view. "Master?" Gregor murmured, bewildered. "...are you dead, too?"

"No, Gregor." Ivar bent down, pressing a cool cloth to Gregor's forehead. "And neither are you."

"But...how...my note...I'm so sorry, sir!" The manservant suddenly found himself sobbing hot, noisy tears as he clung desperately to his beloved master's hand.

"Shh, Gregor, you'll hurt yourself." Ivar soothed him. "Everything is alright."

Gregor can only nod helplessly until his tears subside. "What happened?" he croaked, voice tight with pain and sobbing.

"I found you. I told you I would find you if you ever left me." Ivar's face swam out of Gregor's sight for a second, then he returned with a syringe, injecting it into Gregor's arm. "I am glad I got there when I did. If I had been much later, you wouldn't have made it." he stroked Gregor's forehead gently.

"I thought I was dead," Gregor admitted, turning away from the shot. "What's that? ...I had always assumed that if you came looking for me, it would be to kill me, not to save me," he said, wryly.

"It would depend on the situation." he chuckled. "You were obviously not there of your own free will. No matter what the situation, I was going to find you."

"I'm very glad you did," Gregor whispered, blinking away more tears. "They're dead?"

"Yes." he gently brushed the tears off Gregor's cheek with a pale finger. "It's alright, boy." he smiled a little.

"Good," the manservant said, fiercely. "I don't care what you did to their brother," he avoided looking at Ivar, "I didn't do anything to them."

"Do you want to know what happened to their brother?" Ivar asked softly.

"Yes. If you want to tell me." Gregor shrugged, wincing a little as the movement hurt him.

"Don't move too much. The pain killer won't kick in for a little while longer." Ivar stroked Gregor's hair, trying to relax his manservant. "Their brother was one of the most extreme masochists I'd ever met. He came when I slit his throat and he did so with a smile."

Gregor nodded, soothed by Ivar's hand on his hair. "Really? That's...wow." He laughed. "I don't imagine they knew that about him. Or wanted to. I didn't think you enjoyed, ah...back then..."

"Enjoyed willing boys?" Ivar smiled, weaving his fingers through Gregor's soft hair. "It was rare, but when an opportunity presents itself... it's always fun to take advantage."

"That makes sense. Um...will there be...permanent damage? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Yes. You'll limp. Probably for the rest of your life." Ivar said bluntly. He'd never believed in cushioning a blow when it came to one's health (which may have helped to drive a wedge between him and Lydon).

Gregor nodded again, turning his face away for a moment to hide his pained expression. "Thank you," he whispered.

Ivar stroked his chin. "You'll still be every bit as useful to me, Gregor, if that's what you're worried about."

The manservant's eyes widened in pain; he hadn't even thought that far ahead yet. "I would understand if you wanted to let me go."

"No. You'll need time to recover, but I'll be taking care of you." Ivar sighed. "I will make it as easy for you as I can."

Gregor shook his head violently. "No. You hired me to do a job. If I can't do it, I shouldn't be a burden on you."

"You will still do your job. And, if you remember, you have full health benefits if any accidents occur. I'm only sorry I didn't keep you safe."

"Yes sir. I'm sorry," Gregor murmured, mollified. He abruptly sat up and clung to his master. "It's not your fault. You saved me, even though for all you knew I had just left. ...ow."

Ivar pushed Gregor back down, getting up on the hospital-style bed and holding his servant in his arms, against his chest. "You rest, Gregor." he kissed the other man, surprisingly tenderly.

Gregor nodded, feeling a little foolish for his outburst, but slowly relaxing as the drug kicked in and he was comforted in Ivar's arms. "Thank you, sir," the stocky Russian said, fiercely. "I would do anything for you, you know," he murmured, getting a little less than lucid.

"I know, darogoi." he said, stroking his lover's hair and humming a lullaby.

"Even...fight off the invading chipmunk army..." Gregor blinked, realizing what he had just said made no sense. "Ah...sorry...must be falling asleep..."

Ivar chuckled. "Good boy. You sleep."

"Mmm-hmm..." Pressed safely to his master's chest and pleasantly drugged, Gregor is soon asleep.

Gregor's Brand

Bound, gagged and blindfolded, Gregor is led into an unknown building...seeing as he's stepped out of a horse-drawn carriage, having travelled by boat, he's not -that- unclear about where he is, but he's not sure why he's so restrained. He follows the gentle tugging of his master meekly.

"Good boy." Ivar murmured, drawing him along to a room warm from a crackling fireplace. He was made to sit on the floor against a strange man. The stranger held him around the chest, with one hand on his jaw to keep his head still.

Gregor nestles happily against the unknown, large chest. He's a little nervous, but his cock is at at least half-mast, and he trusts his master with his life.

He hears a metallic clang as Ivar draws a brand from the fire, and feels the heat moving as Ivar kneels between his legs, holding his face firmly. "Be still."

Gregor's eyes widen behind the blindfold, and he's drawing shallow, quick breaths through the gag, but he nods, pressing himself into the restraining hands as hard as he can.

"Good boy." Ivar pressed the brand to his cheek for less than ten seconds before pulling it away. He put the brand back in the fire and gathered his cold compress.

Gregor's muscles are tense the whole time, but he goes completely limp when it's withdrawn--he would fall if he weren't supported. His breathing slows again, and his eyes are half closed. The pain hasn't really hit him yet.

Ivar presses the cold to Gregor's face, kissing his boy's forehead. "Ya tebya lyublyu, malchick"

"Ya tebya lyublyu, master..." he murmurs, leaning into the coolness.

"Thank you, Christian, you may leave." Ivan addressed the man holding Gregor. The man left, silently. "My Gregor." Ivar chuckled. "What a strong boy you are."

Gregor nods, a little shakily. "Sp-spasibo, sir..."

After the burn had cooled, Ivar applied a salve to the burn, collecting Gregor in his arms and carrying him to a bed. He removed Gregor's blindfold and cuffs, laying with him in the bed.

Gregor lays on the bed, smiling at his master a little distantly; he's clearly not all there. "Kak eto vyglyadit, sir?"

"Eto krasivyĭ, malchick." he kissed the opposite cheek.

"Spasibo, sir." He glances up at his master, asking permission with his eys to snuggle closer.

Ivar opened his arms for Gregor, nestling the smaller man against his chest.

Gregor cuddles as close to his master as he can, working his way into his favorite 'parcel' position.

Ivar chuckles, holding Gregor around the neck and cupping his balls. "You'll never escape me now, malchick."

Gregor groans happily, struggling just a little to enjoy the sensation. "Why would I want to, sir?"

"Just giving you fair warning." Ivar tightened his arm around Gregor slightly. "You rest now. You're relieved of your duties until your brand has healed."

"Spasibo, sir," he murmurs, sounding rather sleepy. He presses himself against Ivar as hard as he can, as if to meld them together, eyes drifting shut.

Ivar's ad

Looking for a butler/valet for a single servant household.

Experience preferred but not required. Willing to train.

Must be fluent in Russian and English.

German and French preferred but not required. Willing to teach or provide lessons.

Must be willing to be a live-in servant.

Must forgo all contact with family and friends.

Must not drink or smoke.

Must be a masochist.

Must be a sadist.

Must have first aid – willing to provide course.

Pay is negotiable, includes benefits after a period of three months.

Serious inquiries only.

Allowed release

The Master called me to his room late in the evening. He had been served dinner and had a short walk with Perry already. He’d been in good spirits earlier and I was praying that he wasn’t going to ask for the Doctor. His health had been almost normal this week and it seemed as if the household was holding it’s collective breath, praying that he’d stay in such good health.

The Master was partially undressed, still wearing his trousers and undershirt. He had a peculiar expression on his face, one that recalled his youth; almost mischievous.

“Jerome.” he snapped his fingers for me. I moved quickly to kneel next to his bed, where he was propped against the pillows.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long has it been?”

“Sir?”

“Since you’ve been allowed release?”

I swallowed, now both apprehensive and curious. “It’s been more than nine years, sir.”

“It has, hasn’t it.” He stretched languidly, obviously enjoying himself. “Undress. Get on the bed and lay on your back.”

I did so immediately, already growing erect. I lay with my naked back on his blanket, face flushed. Lydon hadn’t seen me naked in years. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, or how he’d react. I wasn’t anywhere near as fit as I used to be. I had become thin and pale, my hair almost completely silver. I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. What was he seeing?

The Master laughed, using his toes to trace my thin hips.

“It has been awhile.” He sat up, leaning over me.

He leaned in, teasingly close, ‘til I could feel his breath on my lips, on my neck, on my chest.

What truly surprised me is that he continued downward. I had assumed that he would tease me, perhaps cane me. When his lips actually touched…. me… I almost came in his mouth.

“Sir!” I squeaked, every muscle tensing.

He pulled back, smirking wickedly. “Don’t cum, Jerome. Not unless I say so.”

His mouth went back to my cock, swallowing my skin. Tears burst from my eyes and I clutched at the bedspread wildly. I knew better than to buck into his mouth, but I could hardly control myself.

I hadn’t been allowed even to touch myself since my transgression, let alone have someone else… I hadn’t believed the Master would ever forgive me. And this just seemed like a new torture and a gift from god at the same time.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it. “P-please, sir! God, sir, please!” I cried, weeping. I was on fire, everything was concentrating into a white hot ball of pressure. I felt as if I would explode.

The Master pulled away once more, with a slow lick. “Are you going to disobey me? Should you wait another nine years?”

I shook my head, tears trailing down my face into my ears and hair. I bit the inside of my lip to keep from making any sound.

He slid up beside me, hand caressing its way up my side. “Should I forgive you?”

I felt the explosion subsiding slightly, the pressure finding its way out through my tears. I gasped between tears, biting back sobs. I could do nothing but shake my head. I couldn’t bear to say anything and have my words broken by tears.

“No?” he raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think you’ve been punished enough?”

I took a slow, shaky breath, trying to get myself under control. “I deserve whatever you decide I deserve, Master.”

He wiped away one of my tears and I managed a smile for him. He sat up again and rested himself comfortably in his pillows again. He waved at me, dismissively.

“Go fuck someone, Jerome. Whoever you like.” he gave me a stern look. “But if you ever take a lover outside of this house, without my permission, ever again-“ his eyes hardened. He didn’t need to finish his threat.

“Thank you, sir.” I slid off the bed, trembling, no longer hard. I dressed silently, bowing to him before I left his room.