Bouncer

(Music: Obsession by Army of Lovers. Inspired by Ode to the Bouncer by Studio Killers. This is a pre- and sequel to Before the Kitchen)

Jess had been stalking this boy for weeks; quietly, discreetly. He drank at the same bar, danced at the same nightclub, went to the same restaurants and watched his home. The boy wouldn’t be missed for a few days, since he had a tendency to get roaring drunk with strange men and crawl out the front door after the morning after and often the morning after that had passed.

He was in the nightclub and Jess was ready to strike. He had all his knives packed, his apron wrapped around them in the car. He was all raw energy and delicious sexual tension. This was going to be wonderful. The only problem seemed to be the bouncer.

The bouncer eyed the short, chubby man trying not to glare up at him and tried to hide his smile. “Woah, there. I’m sorry, the club’s full. You’re just going to have to wait.” The club was full, but more than that, there was something about this guy. Micah was a big man, and he’d been a bouncer a few years (and done worse things, before that). There wasn’t much he was afraid of, but this pudgy little guy…he set off alarm bells. For one thing, he was not at all the sleek, preppy sort of cliental that this club catered to. He set off Micah’s gaydar, but beyond that…

“Oh, so early?” Jess put on his best sweet seductress face, even though he felt like stabbing this man in the navel. Not only was he very tall and in his way, but he’d immediately bristled when Jess approached. Very few people reacted to him this way, but once in awhile he’d run into someone who could see the predator that he was. “I really need to get in, I’m meeting friends for birthday drinks,” he smiled up at the bouncer, biting his lip. At least the man was attractive, it wouldn’t be at all painful to seduce him.

“Mm-hmm.” Micah gave the shorter man his best ‘so sorry, nothing I can do’ expression. Bullshit, birthday drinks, he found himself thinking uncharitably, though he had no idea why the thought had come into his head. “Well, I’m sorry, sir, you’ll just have to wait, and it could be a while.” Please, just leave, he thought.

“Isn’t there any way I can get in?” Jess was suddenly closer, running a small hand up the bouncer’s chest, grinning up at him.

Micah just raised an eyebrow and stared at the man’s hand like it was something mildly vulgar or offensive. The guy really reminded him of someone…

“Come on, if you don’t like it, don’t let me in,” the short man shrugged, good-naturedly. “At least you’ll get some good head out of it.”

Micah shook his head with a laugh. “Sir, I’ll be frank with you. This is a gay bar. If I let every guy in who hit on me…I wouldn’t have a job, comprende?”

Jess chuckled, “Hitting on you is one thing, offering you a blowjob is another. Maybe by the time we’re done, there’ll be room. At least let me treat myself on my birthday.”

“Now it’s your birthday, is it. Look, I’m working, and there’s a line behind you. I’m…flattered…but if you keep this up I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Ah. That was it. When Micah had first arrived in the city, one of his cousins had shown him around, gotten him a few jobs. Micah was a big guy; it was only natural that he’d end up working for the mob. He’d watched one of them cut a guy up, just slice him to pieces, and all the time he had smiled like he was having a Sunday picnic or something. That’s who this guy reminded him of. A smiling predator. Micah shivered. Someone tapped his arm and he fought back a startle, turning to see the smiling face of his replacement.

“Hey, Micah, why so tense? C’mon, you’re done, go get some sleep or something.”

Micah nodded. “Yeah…this guy doesn’t get in, understand me?” He whispered into Connor’s ear.

“Sure. Whatever. It’s packed in there.” Shaking his head—Micah was so twitchy sometimes—Connor clapped his co-worker on the back and turned to look down at the dude who had freaked him out so badly. He was just a plump little guy. Harmless.

Jess grinned at the bouncer’s replacement. The new bouncer seemed much easier. “Hi…” he licked his lips.

“Hey,” Connor purred, completely taken in. “Sorry about Micah. He’s twitchy, y’know? Did I hear it’s your birthday?”

“Mhm,” he nodded and bit his lip, looking wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve chosen us for your, ah, birthday needs. What can I do to make your birthday wishes come true?” Connor put a little extra emphasis on ‘cum’. Damn, but he was a sexy little chub.

“Letting me in would be nice, but I understand if you’d rather wish me a happy birthday more privately.” Jess gave him a sweet little smile, putting a hand on his chest and practically melting into him.

“Dahhh…” Connor scrambled to close the velvet rope across the entrance to the club, ignoring the groans of the people standing further back in line. “Ah, yeah, sure. C’mon, over here.” The bouncer draped a hand over the shorter man’s shoulder, almost protectively.

Jess grinned, eyes flashing with a triumphant ferocity. He got on his knees in front of the big bouncer, undoing his pants in a hurry and stroking the boy to full erection. He didn’t exactly take his time, but he still believed these things could not be rushed. His mouth slid over the head of the bouncer’s cock and he took him all in, eyes rolling back.

“Ohhh…fuuuck…” Connor sighed, one big hand tangled deep in the other man’s hair. “Fuck, you’re good at that…” In a very short time, his cock was weeping drops of clear fluid, and his eyes were closed as he leaned heavily on the man between his legs.

The little chef groaned around the cock in his mouth, enjoying the sensation of it hitting the back of his throat. He pushed Connor back against the wall gently to help him stay standing, bobbing his head hungrily.

“Oh. Oh, yeah…fuck, I’m gonna…” With a gutteral noise, Connor spasmed and came down the kneeling man’s throat, his hands scrambling at his hair and shoulders as he moaned and pounded as far and as hard as he could.

Jess swallowed, letting a little dribble down his chin and wiping it away with a smile when he pulled back. He looked up at Connor with a big, dopey grin. “You got me just what I wanted.”

“Mmm…that’s good.” Connor grinned down at the smaller man. “Um…you can, you know, go in. If you want. I’m sorry about Micah. Happy birthday.” The bouncer stumbled back to his place in line and nodded his head for the little man to enter.

Jess stood on his tiptoes to kiss Connor’s chin. “Thanks, sweetheart. It’s going to be a good night,” he winked, going into the club to start his birthday hunt.

****

“In other news, a body believed to be that of 24-year-old Jacob Holmes was recovered last night. Authorities say that the body was badly mutilated, and…”

Micah clicked off the TV, feeling light-headed. He sank onto the couch, the last image fixed in his mind. It was a picture of a smiling young man, his hair perfectly styled, in the prime of life, beautiful and vibrant and…dead. Micah had a sick feeling, and he knew what he had to do. The phone was in the bedroom. He forced himself off of the couch and made his way down the hall. He grabbed for the light and flicked the switch. Nothing. What the hell? He jiggled it a few more times before backing out of the doorway. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Something was definitely wrong. He backed down the hall, with a vague idea that he had to get out, had to leave the apartment.

The knife had been blacked out, so he didn’t see it glimmer when it slashed out of the darkness, stabbing him deep in the thigh. In the dark, with such a large man, Jess had gone straight for the femoral artery.

Micah’s hand moved to cover the wound before he even felt the pain. He had grown up in a small town, and he had done plenty of stupid things as a kid. He knew when he was badly hurt. He took three steps before his leg buckled and he fell to one knee, slipping in terrifyingly large puddles of his own blood. He struggled to stand again, to face his attacker, fighting to keep his hand pressed against the wound through the spurts of slick blood. He had a horrible suspicion that he knew what was happening, but no. That was just paranoid. He pulled himself onto his good leg using the armrest of the couch, but blood was gushing from between his fingers and his head was already swimming as he fought to reach the door, one helpless, hobbling step at a time.

He felt himself pulled back by a strong arm around his neck. Now that he was hunched over, Jess found it easier to grab the giant of a man. “Remember me?” he purred, using the same flirtatious tone he had taken at the nightclub.

Micah gave a rasping laugh, his hand pulled away from the wound for a vital instant. “Yeah, I remember you…” he sighed. It was all just sort of distantly amusing now. He was paranoid, but he was also right. “I remember you.” He couldn’t remember if he had said that already, and it was so cold in here. He shivered. “It was you, wasn’t it? With that guy…Holmes…” he laughed. “Is your name…Moriarty?” He could almost feel what years of TV programs had shown—synapses or nerves or whatever firing, just shooting off whatever they thought of first, making him say crazy shit as he no longer seemed to care. “You got him.”

“I certainly did,” Jess chuckled. “And now I’ve got you, too.” He bent down and kissed the man, roughly. He was certainly fading fast.

“Why…?” Micah gasped. His breathing was slow, so slow. It felt like a revelation, like something he should have known his whole life. If only he could go swimming like this, not needing oxygen! He could hibernate. He could…his eyelids were so, so heavy, but he wanted to fix the man’s image in his mind forever so the police would know… “Who?” It was nice to be kissed, though, and he tried to reach up and grab the man, to hold him until help came, to touch skin one last time. His fingers barely fluttered.

“He was delicious.” Jess murmured against Micah’s mouth. It had taken him only a few nights to find out where Micah lived. Following him home from the nightclub had been the hardest part, since the paranoid man seemed to constantly be watching. It was wonderful to finally have the man who had seen him for what he was at his mercy. “Sleep well, Micah.”

In the time it took him to try and think of something witty to say, Micah died.

Jess butchered the beautiful bouncer efficiently, taking only the parts he knew he would use in the next few days. He gave him a last kiss, then left through the back door, his bloody apron stashed in a bag along with various kinds of meat and some used kitchen knives.

Luck Grown Up

“Augustus?” a quiet voice called from the Roman’s doorway. Augustus hardly recognized the man standing there. He wasn’t the shy, tiny waif that he remembered. Luck had grown taller, though not much broader. His sandy blond hair was tied back neatly and his mismatched eyes were more confident.

Augustus frowned when he glanced up. “Can I—Luck!” Augustus leapt to his feet and rushed to embrace his lover. “You’re…different. And you’ve been gone so long, damn you!”

Luck kissed Augustus over and over, hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry,” he smiled, “but I had lots to do. Did you get my letters?” He stroked Augustus’ strong jaw, enjoying the stubble.

“Yes, I got your letters. And all your, ah, treasures. I kept them all.” Augustus felt his eyes tearing up, so he turned away. “But where were you?! What did you have to do that was so damned important?” He kept hugging Luck, almost too tightly, stroking the thinner boy—man’s—back over and over in a restless pattern. “Gods…you’re growing a beard!”

“I know.” He sounded remorseful. “I missed you. And I wanted to come back sooner, but I don’t think I’d have grown up unless I did what I did.” He nuzzled Augustus, stroking his hair and pretending not to see his lover’s tears. “But I went everywhere. It was so amazing. The world is so big.”

“Yes, it is big,” Augustus smiled and surreptitiously wiped his eyes. “And I would have gone with you, dammit! Why did you need to grow up, now, all of a sudden. Why not centuries ago! Why now…without me…” The last part was whispered.

Luck kissed him and smiled foolishly. “You can’t breathe underwater, silly.” He crawled up into his big lover’s arms like he used to. “You’re part of why I had to grow up. ‘cause I love you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” the stocky Roman growled. “You’re…you’re taller than me!” he gasped. “…never mind.”

“I’m part of the sea, Auggie. I can’t always choose what to do.” He grinned. “I’m taller, but you’re still big and strong.”

“The sea didn’t sweep in here and carry you away. You did! I mean…you walked…but you left!” Augustus was feeling increasingly helpless and confused by this new, older Luck. “Since when did you start calling me ‘Auggie’?”

“Do you not like it?” he frowned. “I had lots to do, Augustus. I met all the lords of fish and sea-mammals. I visited every body of water. I met lots of people and animals. I…sort of had a fling with the moon.” He flushed.

Augustus raised an eyebrow. “…and what does any of that have to do with me?”

“I lived like a boy all my life. I seduced you because I thought you would take care of me.” He nestled into Augustus’ chest. “But you were the first person to treat me like an adult and to make me feel grown up and in love and lust and I started aging.”

“I did take care of you,” Augustus whispered, hurt.

“Yes, but you also loved me. You took care of me like a lover.” Luck kissed him. “I’m sorry. I left, but I needed to and I missed you so much.”

Tam's First Surgery

"Tam? Can you hear me?" Brock's face swam into view, his constantly concerned eyes even more worried looking.

Still drowsy from the anesthesia, Tam blinks a few times, visibly trying to focus on his lover's face. "Brock? Where am I?"

"In the hospital." he leaned down and kissed his forehead, stroking his hair. "How are you feeling?"

"Mmm...oh yeah..." Tam grins blearily, nuzzling into Brock's hand. "Is it over?"

"Yeah, everything's done. The doctor said it went really well."

Tam abruptly sits up, almost knocking Brock out of the way as he flings the blanket covering him aside, staring wide-eyed at the bandage on his thigh.

Brock took his boyfriend's hand, kissing it. "You okay?"

With a happy yell, Tam starts furiously masturbating, his neck fully extended as he rolls his hand over his swollen cock.

Brock's jaw drops.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Tam gasps, grabbing Brock's hand and trying to pull it into his lap.

"Y-you... what are you doing?" Brock stuttered.

"Uhhh...yeah...I think that would be...obvious! Hurry up or I'll be done!"

Brock stood, putting his amputated wrist into his pocket and taking a step back.

Tam raises an eyebrow, but shrugs and quickly finishes himself. Settling back on the bed and tucking himself back in with a contented sigh, Tam turns his attention back to Brock.

"You're messed up."

"I...what?" Tam stares at his lover, genuinely hurt (and completely confused).

"I can't do that. I appreciate everything you've done for me. And I love you. But I can't see it as sexual. It will never be sexy to me."

Tam launches himself out of the bed and into Brock's arms, his eyes filling with tears. "Don't go!" he cries, in an unusual display of emotion.

"I'm not going anywhere." he groans, wrapping his arms around Tam's shoulders. "Get back in bed, you'll hurt yourself." he pushes the boy back into his hospital bed.

"...ow..."

"Sorry." Brock tucks him in and kisses his forehead.

"It's not your fault." Tam clings tightly to his Brock. "...you won't go? Even though I'm stupid and silly and no good for you?"

"You are good for me. Everyone else takes the surgeries so seriously that I just couldn't deal with them. But you can laugh about them. You help me laugh about them and you let me enjoy life. But it's still not sexy." he wrapped his arm around Tam tightly. "I won't go."

Eyes wide and lips slightly pouted, Tam stares up at Brock, looking very vulnerable (and not having heard anything but the last three words). He nods. "...will I have a scar?"

He punched him gently in the stomach. "Yes."

"What was that for? Why would you punch a wounded person?"

"For being a brat."

"...you're weird. But I love you."

"Same to you."

"Aw. That's good, I guess." Tam sneaks over to make room for Brock on the narrow hospital bed.

Brock slides down next to him and nuzzles his boyfriend.

"Mmmm...they should make these beds wider."

"They're not meant for snuggling." Brock chuckled.

"They should be. When do you need snuggles more than in hospitals?"

"You should complain."

"Maybe I will." Tam grins. "Do I get extra-special treatment now?"

"For awhile." he smiled.

"...will you stay home from work and take care of me?"

"Yes." he snuggled against Tam's shoulder. "I already booked two weeks off."

"Hurrah!" Tam rolls onto his side and curls against Brock, laying his head on the larger man's shoulder.

"You sleep now." Brock kissed him.

"I've just been sleeping!" Tam says, yawning.

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"...can we go home?"

"Not yet."

"What do you usually do?"

"After surgery?" Brock said more seriously.

"Yes, silly."

"I eat, I read, sometimes watch tv or talk with counselors. Mostly I sleep though."

Tam makes a face. "That sounds terribly boring. My way is much more interesting."

"But kinda weird." Brock stuck out his tongue.

Tam obligingly nibbles his tongue, ending in a kiss.

Brock laughed, biting Tam's lip and running his fingers over Tam's bandage.

Tam moans as he feels Brock's big hand caress the soft cloth covering his recent incision. "Mmm..." he purrs against his lover's mouth. "You don't seem to mind a little weird..."

Brock rolled his eyes a little, pinching his boyfriend's scar.

Fortunately missing Brock's eye roll, Tam happily bucks and writhes, offering his leg as best he can. He's hard again.

New Chef

“Detlef!” Even though the intervening years since school have mellowed him, Lydon still eagerly throws himself into the older German’s arms, racing past the servant who had opened the door. “I’m sorry we haven’t visited in so long. There’s been a lot of business to attend to.” He makes a face at the thought of ‘business’. “Really, I thought Jerome would be doing more of it, but…anyway, it’s all settled now. Ivar and I are living in my parents’ manor, you simply must come and visit us.” Lydon had been fond of his parents, but…their deaths have been quite convenient, allowing him to pursue his interests more freely. At twenty-four, Lydon has become quite skilled at torturing and killing boys. Ivar, as always, seems born to sadism.

Detlef crushed Lydon in a great big hug. “Hello, young Lydon.” the older man smiled. He’d missed the boys visiting. “I’m glad you could make it. Roland is excited to see his new home. Is Ivar still at home?”

“Yes, thought someone should stay home. And I don’t think Jerome likes him very much, and I do so love to torment Jerome. I can’t wait to meet Roland, I was so happy when you said you had a chef!” Lydon reaches up to stroke the hair over Detlef’s temples. “You’re going grey, old chap. It looks quite distinguished.”

The big German man laughed. “My replacement chef is turning me grey. He has a few… peculiarities.”

Lydon raises an eyebrow. “So you wrote, but you were being terribly vague. What would you find peculiar?”

“He spent most of his youth in an asylum and seems to have come up with the idea that sex will solve everything. He’s keeping Roland –and the other servants- quite busy.” Detlef chuckled.

“I see…an asylum, you say?” Despite his own inclinations, Lydon is a little unsettled at the thought of sleeping in the house with a known madman. “Whatever for?”

“For killing and eating his sister.” he said with a smirk. “Only for the same sins we’ve committed, little Lydon.”

Visibly relieved, Lydon smiles back. “Ah. Well, there but for the grace of God, and all that. Is he straight, then?”

“I don’t have any female servants, so I don’t know if he is inclined towards women. However, he certainly seems to enjoy men.” Detlef wraps an arm around Lydon and leads him down to the kitchen. “Roland, Jess, this is Lydon.”

Roland – a great tall man with red hair- crosses the kitchen and offers Lydon a big hand. “It’s an honor to meet you!”

Tucked safely under Detlef’s arm, Lydon peers around the kitchen. Despite his old friend’s assurances, he’s still a little wary. Seeing the large man approaching, Lydon recognizes Detlef’s description of Roland, and eagerly takes the chef’s hand. “You must be Roland. I’m very pleased to meet you, as well. Detlef has nothing but the best to say about you, and I know how exacting his standards are for his game.” He eyes the short, pudgy blond behind Roland carefully. He’s never met a madman before!

Jess looked up from the contents of the bowl he was whisking briefly, meeting Lydon’s eyes, then going back to his work.

Roland was flushed with happiness, “I’m glad he’s given me such a glowing review! I only want to do the best that I can.” he turned and looked back at Jess. “Come say hello.” he encouraged.

“Hello Lydon.” Jess intoned, clearly disinterested.

“Hello, Jess.” Lydon says, rather awkwardly, before turning back to the enthusiastic Roland. “I’m only glad that he’s letting me steal you away from him. Now that everything is settled at home, Ivar and I have been lamenting our lack of a decent chef.” Ivar has killed several of them, in point of fact, but Lydon decides this is not the time to mention that fact.

Roland grinned. “I hope I’ll be up to both your standards.”

“Of course he will. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll always take you back here.” Detlef said, looking at Lydon pointedly. He knew that it was likely that the failed chefs had died horrible deaths at the hands of Ivar.

Lydon flashes his most innocent expression, daintily examining his manicured nails. “Very good. I assumed I would stay the night. For old times’ sake.” Now Lydon’s innocent look takes on a decidedly flirtatious edge, pointed firmly at Detlef. “Ivar doesn’t mind, he just gets quite jealous if he’s around, you know. But…he’s safely at home.” Linking hands with Detlef, Lydon presses his body against the German’s side, quite casually.

Detlef laughed, squeezing Lydon firmly to his side. “Is that how it’s going to be?” he teased. “And I thought you’d be eager to get to know Roland.”

Prize of War: Part Three

One of Ganzorig’s concubines shook Jun awake, helping him out of the bed from amongst the dozen other men and passing him his clothes. Dawn was just breaking. “He’s asking for you,” the slender Asian said. “You can take him his breakfast.” The man handed the half-dressed warrior a plate of warm Khuushuur.

Taking a moment to grumble quietly, Jun finishes dressing and takes the food. The early morning air is crisp, and there is still frost on the blades of grass; he is glad he’s added a fur-lined coat to his clothing. All the non-Chinese concubines are jealous of his silk undergarments, after Jun had let them all try them on, and they had seen how warm the beautiful, soft material is.

Staring resolutely ahead, Jun does his best to ignore the snickers and crude remarks of the warriors who have activities outside their tents, walking briskly to Ganzorig’s tent. Opening the flap, he offers the plate of food to the seated general.

It had been more than a week since Ganzorig’s poisoning, and the general was much stronger now. He was sitting up in bed, drinking a cup of mare’s milk.

The Mongolian general takes the Khuushuur from Jun in the traditional way, supporting his elbow with his left hand. He offered Jun the mare’s milk, smiling.

In his time with his new people, Jun has gotten more used to their food and customs. He accepts the milk, holding his elbow in a similar way. He does a cursory inspection for floating hairs before taking a gulp. Mare’s milk is very sweet, tasting almost of honey, and had made him gag the first few times he had tasted it. He still can’t bring himself to drink airag, but being drunk around these men hardly seems a good idea, anyway. He sits on a heap of fabric at the side of Ganzorig’s bed, leaning against the bed comfortably.

Ganzorig held the dumplings in his big palms, warming his hands with them before eating them. When he was done eating, his hand slid off the side of the bed to squeeze Jun’s muscular upper arm affectionately. His hands were still quite warm.

“I have something for you, little General.”

Making a small grimace of distaste, sure that some grease has been wiped on his clothing, Jun half-turns to look at his master. He is a little wary of what Ganzorig might have to offer him. “Oh?” he asks, politely neutral.

Ganzorig pulled a sheathed sword out from the blankets. It was a little smaller than most Mongolian swords, though not much lighter. He puts it into Jun’s arms. “Only what you asked for.”

Jun laughs softly, pleasantly surprised. Standing, he takes the gift with a small bow. “Thank you,” he murmurs, touched. Stepping back from the bed and unsheathing the blade, Jun executes an intricate dance with the sword, testing its balance and how comfortable it is in his hand. Finished, he ties the sheath around his waist and slides the weapon into it. “Now your concubines will have another reason to be jealous of me…though I doubt most of them would want a sword. Your men will not be concerned?”

“I know that you will never harm me. My men may not understand, but they will not disobey me.” Ganzorig watched Jun handle the sword with pleasure. “If you do not wish to keep the sword in the concubine yurt, you may leave it here.” the General passed Jun the last Khuushuur. “And I have one more thing for you. However, this thing you may only have with me or one of my men with you.”

Taking the greasy dumpling and popping it in his mouth, Jun chews for a moment, then swallows. “How do you know I will never harm you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow thoughtfully. “I do not think the concubines will mind my having a sword, I am not sure why I said that. Perhaps because I was thinking about how much they admire my silks.” Jun frowns slightly; he might, possibly, have guessed what the first present would be. Now, he has no idea. “I understand,” he nods.

“You are a clever man; you know hurting me would end in your death. And you respect the wishes of your Prince, no matter how you disagree with them.” Ganzorig whistles, “Batzorig!” and his horse ventures into the tent, leading a dun mare, attached by a rope around their necks. “Sarangerel.” he says, holding out his hand for the second mare. “She has no rider. She is patient and she will teach you to ride one of our horses.”

Trying to hide his concern—the Mongol horses have, to a one, been cantankerous, stubborn and prone to biting and kicking. Much like their riders, he thinks, suppressing a smile. “Yes,” he agrees, “that is exactly why. Thank you, again. This is a fine gift.” He cautiously approaches the short, stocky horse, offering a hand for the mare to sniff. Horses in his country, even warhorses, are treasured for their even dispositions and loyalty to their riders. Every moment with them is not a test.

Sarangerel sniffed Jun’s palm, snuffling and lipping a bit. She watched the foreigner with dark, intelligent eyes. Batzorig huffed impatiently.

“She has taught children to ride.” Ganzorig chuckled, seeing the concern in Jun’s eyes. “She has been ridden for many years. If you were one of my children, you would have been given a horse at three, and before that, you would have ridden sheep.” he stroked the man’s dark, coarse hair idly.

Smiling at Ganzorig’s mare, Jun unties his new mount, letting Batzorig loose. Holding the rope lightly, Jun strokes Sarangerel’s velvety nose, deciding to ignore Ganzorig’s comments, and the hand on his head. “Thank you,” he repeats, watching the mare closely for signs that she may strike, flee, or bite.

Sarangerel leaned into his hand, guiding it up to her ear and scratching herself on him, rubbing vigorously. Ganzorig laughed.

Momentarily confused—Jun has not had much experience with horses when he is not riding—the young general scratches softly on the mare’s shaggy ear. He slowly works his hand over more of her face, neck and shoulders, his fingers sinking into her thick winter coat. He’s obviously smitten.

Ganzorig smiles as he watches his little General scratch and love the horse. Jun’s people have so little affection for their horses. They’re merely a form of transport to them, whereas for Ganzorig’s people, they’re part of the family. They are a man’s pride, like his children and his wives. Jun had obviously never learned to scratch a horse. It was like not learning how to walk! Ganzorig could hardly fathom it.

“Would you like to ride? I’m well enough.”

Jun quickly assesses Ganzorig—while the larger man is still clearly not fully recovered, he does look better. “Alright,” Jun replies, only a little hesitantly. “Your horse has wandered away, though.”

The big general whistles again and his mare reluctantly presses through the tent flap, ignoring Jun and Sarangerel completely as she goes to rest her nose against Ganzorig’s chest. He pulls himself out of bed –completely naked- using her mane, and guides her to his clothes, neatly laid out for him by one of his wives or concubines. He leans against Batzorig as he dresses.

Jun is a little surprised by Ganzorig’s nakedness, and he delicately glances away while the warlord dresses. “…are you sure you are well enough?” he asks, stroking Sarangerel’s powerful neck. He is not yet aware just how much more comfortable the Mongols are on horseback than on their own two legs.

“Riding will be easier than walking.” Ganzorig explained, “Batzorig will take care of me.” He pulled on his sheepskin coat and pulled himself onto her back. He nudged her and they stepped forward as one. He waited for Jun to mount.

Looking skeptical, Jun watches Ganzorig mount. Indeed, as soon as the warlord is on horseback, he does seem healthier. Jun eyes his mare’s complete lack of tack, knowing there is no way he could control a horse the way Ganzorig is.

Ganzorig takes a moment to realize what Jun needs. “There’s a bridle by the door.” he pointed to a pile of what looked like random scraps of leather.

Quite perplexed, Jun stares at the heap of leather strings roughly knotted together. Picking up the tangle, he turns it this way and that, trying to figure out how it is supposed to work. Periodically, Sarangerel nudges him, trying to help. Increasingly frustrated and not wanting to look foolish or ignorant, Jun begins undoing knots to start fresh with a length of leather.

Ganzorig chuckled, offering a hand to take the bridle. He quickly sorts it out, putting it on Sarangerel’s face and patting her cheek. He gives the reins to Jun. “You can practice when we get back.” Batzorig walked forward and left the tent.

Sarangerel gives a horsy sigh, tossing her head as if noting how silly her new rider is.

Laughing softly at himself, Jun is now faced with the problem of mounting without the aid of stirrups. Although the mare is short, Jun is none too tall himself. Finally, he leads Sarangerel to the bed, positioning the mare beside it. Standing on the bed, he’s able to scramble onto the willing horse’s back. Tugging the reins, he turns her toward the tent’s flap, ducking against her neck as she pushes through and they rejoin Ganzorig and Batzorig.

Ganzorig smiles at his little concubine. Batzorig took off through the camp at a trot, weaving through tents, men, fires, horses and livestock.

Jun soon gives up trying to control his mount, noticing that she is mostly following Batzorig, anyway. Sarangerel seems to have decided her rider is some sort of hopeless imbecile who needs to be cared for. Jun is surprised by the size of the camp; it is even larger than he would have guessed. He settles back and enjoys the ride, laughing as Batzorig stops to bite or nuzzle several enemy or friend horses as she passes, quite unhindered by Ganzorig, who is doing much the same with people he sees. In fact, Ganzorig seems to be allowing his mount to choose their speed and direction, with very little input. It is a very strange style of riding to Jun.

Once they’re free of the camp, Batzorig pauses unwillingly to wait for Jun and Sarangerel. Ganzorig looks back to Jun. “Is she taking care of you?” he chuckled.

Frowning a little at Ganzorig’s patronizing tone, Jun cannot help but smile back. “Yes, I think she is,” he admits, patting the mare’s sturdy neck. He stares out across the vast steppe, imagining riding and riding until he is home again. With a sigh, he turns Sarangerel to face a different direction.

Ganzorig pushes Batzorig to move and she takes off at a canter across the wide-open grassland. He enjoys being out of his tent. He finds staying inside stifling. Being on horseback feels much more like home.

Jun cannot help but smile as he watches Ganzorig ride; the warlord’s delight at being mounted is clear as he bounces along on Sarangerel’s back after the other rider, allowing his mare to guide them.

They rode together for perhaps an hour before Ganzorig slowed Batzorig so the horses were side by side.

“What do you miss most?”

Surprised, Jun relaxes his grip on the reins (making Sarangerel snort appreciatively). “About home, you mean?”

“Yes. Your city. Your people.” Ganzorig kept his eyes on the horizon as he asked, stroking Batzorig’s mane.

“I…I do not know. The food, perhaps,” Jun says, trying to sound frivolous and not show how much the question had rattled him. He turns to face the horizon, as well. “What about you? Why are you attacking my country? You do not seem to care about gold or worldly possessions, you have told me that yourself. What do you hope to gain?”

“All the men in this camp come from different tribes. Did you know that? We fought, killed each other and were paid to do so by your people. Under me, my people fight under one banner. We’re one people. Before me, it was centuries of your people pitting my people against each other.” Ganzorig said, eyes dark. “That’s why I burn the cities and wipe the land clean of them. I want there to be no memory of them when I am through.”

Unable to think of a response to this, Jun sits quietly on his horse for some time. "Then why keep me?" he asks.

"Though I despise what your people have done to mine, I still find you beautiful." Ganzorig looked Jun up and down.

Blushing a little under the warlord's penetrating gaze, Jun digs his heels into his mare's sides, urging her faster. He needs to move, to think on what Ganzorig has said. He is aware that his people have been keeping the Mongols under control, but he had always thought of them as primitive savages, who needed benevolent guidance to not overrun the world. He had never seen them as people.

Ganzorig allowed Jun to ride ahead, slowing Batzorig's urge to race the other mare and patting her. He kept pace behind Jun quietly.

Finally, Jun reins in his mare, halting and waiting for Ganzorig to catch up with them. "I cannot say that I disagree with my people's ways, because they are still my people...but I can see why you would be angry." Turning to face the massive camp, with fires just beginning to glow in the twilight, he murmurs, "and this is very impressive."

"Impressive? The camp, or what we've done?" Ganzorig stopped his mare right next to Jun's. Batzorig took this opportunity to bite Sarangerel's neck.

"Both. There are not many men who could bring such fierce people together under one banner." Jun is forced to grab his mare's mane as Sarangerel dances sideways to avoid Batzorig's teeth.

Ganzorig nods, watching the campfires with Jun silently. After a moment, he asks, "Are you ready to ride back?"

Jun nods, deep in thought.

They let the horses canter back. They both know where they're going and soon they find themselves weaving through the camp, noisy and busy with all the men eating, drinking and talking. The horses stop outside Ganzorig's tent and the warlord dismounts.

A moment later, Jun slides off Sarangerel, with rather less grace than Ganzorig. He is quite sore, being unused to riding without a saddle, and a little out of the practice of riding at all.

"Where would you rather sleep?" Ganzorig asks him.
Jun considers the question for a moment, then looks at the ground. "With you," he admits. "The concubines never let me sleep," he adds quickly.

"Even though I snore?" Ganzorig laughed.

"As long as I fall asleep before you, it is not a problem. What do we do with the horses?"

"Let them loose. They'll graze with the herd." Ganzorig patted Batzorig on her flank, sending her off. He lifted the tent flap for Jun.

Sarangerel follows Batzorig, playfully kicking up her heels at the other mare, as the two horses trot off to join their friends.

Jun ducks under the flap, breathing in the deep, rich smells of the tent: fabric, leather, sweat, horse, tea, smoke...he certainly has fewer responsibilities here, he reflects.

Ganzorig followed Jun into the tent, going back to his bed and sitting on the edge, unbuttoning his long lambskin coat.

Placing the complicated skein of leather that makes up Sarangerel's bridle back where he had found it, Jun sits lightly on the edge of the bed, some distance from Ganzorig.

Ganzorig pulled off his coat, leaving it on the edge of his bed. "I did have one more thing for you."

Laughing softly, Jun turns to the warlord. "Is this some sort of festival?" he asks.

"We had a very good battle a few weeks ago. I meant to give it to you earlier." he dug through the furs on his bed (where he seemed to keep everything) and came up with a round black bottle. He handed it to Jun.

Jun takes the bottle, reading the graceful Chinese characters on the side. "Rice wine! Thank you." The young general had not been aware that Ganzorig had noticed his distaste for airag. He tries not to think about where the warlord had gotten the drink.

Ganzorig grinned, clapping him on the back. "Now you'll have something to drink besides mare's milk."

Jun gasps a little at the force of Ganzorig's hand on his back, but he smiles back at the warlord. "Do you treat all of your...I mean, your concubines...this well?" Jun has tried very hard to make it clear that he is separate from the concubines.

"I bring things back often." he laughed, "Why did you think their tent was so lavish?" He didn't mind if Jun thought of himself as something other than a concubine. He certainly was different than those weak, slender men.

"True." After a moment's consideration, Jun fixes Ganzorig with a careful stare. "What is the price of these gifts?"

"You're already paying the price." Ganzorig assured him, fingers weaving into Jun's coarse hair. For some reason, the man's hair delighted him.

"Yes, I suppose I am," Jun says, wryly. However, he has to admit that the hand in his hair does feel good, and he closes his eyes, leaning into Ganzorig's hand. Just a little.

Ganzorig leaned in closer, kissing Jun's ear.

Jun tenses, but leans against Ganzorig's side to steady himself.

"Dinner." Ganzorig murmured.

"My ear?" Jun murmurs, confused. His mind is feeling a little foggy from the pleasant sensation of Ganzorig's warm, wet mouth.

Ganzorig chuckled. "You can make Khuushuur now, can't you?"

"Ahh...oh, yes. The concubines taught me."

"Make some for me."

(then we went and made Khuushuur, which are delicious. You should all eat them. Eat them now!!)

A Hunting Party

Detlef grabbed his servant's pants and tossed them to him, wiping his cock across the man's thigh and getting up from bed. "Get dressed, I'm having some friends over for a hunt soon."

With a shuddering moan, wishing he had more time to recover, Eben pulls on the trousers and tries to make himself look as presentable as possible on post-coital shaky legs, covered in sweat, with mussed hair. "Yes, sir..."

"Good. I'll be downstairs, we'll be having a drink while they ready the horses. I expect to see a more presentable version of yourself in the stables when we get there." Detlef laughed, slapping Eben on the ass appreciatively before heading downstairs.

"Ahh...yes, sir." Although he's not entirely certain how he came to be getting regularly fucked by his Master, Eben can't deny that Master Detlef is uncommonly good at sodomy. He can be a little rough, but...Eben quickly smoothes his hair in the mirror, wipes the sweat from his face, and finishes dressing. He's in the stables as quickly as he can.

Detlef had a quick drink with his friends, all of them foreign though all very well traveled and with his same... interests. They all went out to the stables. Eben was waiting for them there. Detlef grinned, tossing him something pointy. "Put them on." he said, getting on his horse. He'd loaned the Russian a horse, but the Englishman had brought his own.

Eben fumbles with the strange object he's been tossed, trying to figure out how exactly he's supposed to put it on. And why there are only three horses tacked.

One of the grooms steps forward quietly and helps him adjust the straps. It's a pair of antlers to wear on his head. Detlef grins down at his servant pleasantly. "You should run. We'll take a quick turn around the property, then we'll be after you." he nudged his horse and was followed by his friends, all talking as if this was perfectly normal.

Completely surprised--he's gotten used to his master being somewhat peculiar, but this! Eben remains still for a moment, thinking. His master had seemed completely serious. Realizing that he's losing his head start, Eben starts running for the woods backing the property. He's a little miffed and hardly wants to run, especially in his good clothes, but he wouldn't want to ruin his master's game and get a beating. Especially over a harmless bit of fun and entertainment for his visiting friends.

It wasn't long before he heard the pounding of hooves behind him. The horses were crossing the field towards the woods.

Eyes a little wide, even though he knows it's just a game, Eben increases his speed to enter the woods. Once he's in the woods, reflecting that he's glad they aren't using the hounds, the servant tries to think of a strategy while running. He can't outrun a horse, but he should be harder to find in the woods. He heads for the deepest part.

The horses have to slow when they enter to forest, but they don't sound too far behind him. Once in awhile he can hear their voices, but he can't make out the words yet.

Trying to move as quietly as possible while still keeping up good speed, Eben continues through the woods toward the older, more tangled growth, where he can hide and the horses will be forced to move even more slowly. He has to untangle his cumbersome antlers a few times.

He can't tell where the horses are coming from anymore, the sound seems to be coming from more than one place. There's a gunshot from not too far away.

Eben almost cries out at the sound of the shot, biting his hand as he runs to keep from making a noise. Seeing a dense clump of bushes, he hurls himself into the middle of it, heart racing with fear and exertion. "Of course, they're using blanks," he murmurs to himself, trying to stop his violent trembling and reassure himself. "They're not actually shooting at me." He laughs softly, deciding to rest here a moment.

There are horses all around him it seems, and he can see flashes of the men's clothing through the bushes. Another shot is fired and this time it takes him in the stomach.

At first, Eben isn't sure what had happened, except that his face is suddenly in the dirt. He pushes himself to his knees and sees a wet spot on his nice black jacket. Frowning, he tries to stand, only to realize that something is very wrong. Panicked, he scrambles to his feet and begins madly stumbling his way through the thicket as fast as he can.

He can hear Detlef's voice and suddenly there's a horse in front of him. His Master kicks him, catching him just under the chin.

Eben's scream is interrupted by his master's booted foot connecting, and he goes down hard, flat on his back. He lays, panting, in the dirt, staring up with wide, betrayed eyes at his former master.

Detlef dismounts his horse, his two friends catching up to him as he shouts for them, dismounting themselves. Eben watches as Detlef takes out the leather roll of his knives. He'd seen the big man dress a deer in the field before.

Eben makes a final, desperate attempt to stand at the sight of the knives, all too aware of what they'll do to him. The pain in his stomach has faded in his panic, and he's hardly aware of Lydon and Ivar standing near him.

Ivar steps on his wrist, kneeling down to slice the dirty dress clothes off his body, revealing his twisting, pale torso and the exit wound. Detlef stroked his Eben's face gently, still smiling. "I'm glad you ended up being my kill. I was starting to feel attached." The knife slid from his neck down to his navel and the three men began to skin and butcher him.

Eben manages a final scream for help at the sharp pain in his wrist, struggling as hard as he can. He may as well be laying still, with three men on him and the wound in his gut. He keeps his eyes on Detlef while his face is being stroked, trying to form words, to ask why, what he had done wrong. He falls silent as the knife takes him past speaking.

"Good shot, Detlef, old boy!" Lydon exclaims, smiling over the carcass. "You're right, he does look delicious."

Detlef grinned. "I'm glad you agree, since I'll be sending some sausage and jerky home with you." he pulled Lydon down and put a knife in his hands, guiding him through the steps.

Lydon is surprised, but pleased, when he's grabbed, and he grins up at Ivar. Soon, he's completely focused on the task at hand, grinning with pride and pleasure, enjoying the feeling of Detlef's rough hands guiding his own. "I can hardly wait."

Detlef helped the boys dress the carcass, removing the servant's organs and storing the ones he wanted to keep in bags. He wrapped the meat in a plastic stretcher and tossed it over the front of his horse. "Good job." he patted Lydon on the back.

Lydon smiles, pleased by the older man's praise. "Thank you." He's licking his lips already, just looking at the meat. "I can't wait to see what your chef comes up with." Aroused as well as hungry, Lydon saunters over to Ivar for a messy, passionate kiss.

Ivar grins, kissing back, wiping some blood on Lydon's cheek and ear as he grabs him.

Detlef laughs, mounting his horse. "I'm heading back. If you two need a few minutes, take your time." he nudged his horse and they wandered away through the woods.

Lydon waves vaguely in Detlef's direction, mouth still pressed to Ivar's. The blood and grabbing only serve to make him harder, and he's soon leaning into Ivar's body from mouth to groin, moaning against his lover's lips.

Ivar growled, pushing him down into the bloody grass and undoing his pants, grinding against Lydon.

"Ahhh!" Lydon gasps, sprawling for a moment before wrapping all of his limbs desperately around Ivar. "Please, Ivar, please..." he moans lustily, scrabbling at his lover's clothes.

Ivar forced him down by his throat and kneed him in the crotch, undoing Lydon's pants and taking his cock in his mouth.

Lydon is almost completely undone by this, babbling and clawing wildly at any part of Ivar that comes within reach. He's almost thrashing too much to keep his cock in Ivar's mouth, until he calms enough to realize what's going on, and settles on the still-warm, bloody grass.

Ivar sucks and grazes him with his teeth for awhile, sliding an unlubricated finger inside his lover and curling it sharply.

With a delighted shriek, Lydon first arches away from the finger, then drives himself down on it to the knuckle, squirming happily and beaming up at Ivar.

Ivar slides in a second finger, biting the very tip of Lydon's cock.

Lydon screams in ecstasy, thrusting his hips as much as he can, hands clawing the grass above his head, getting them slick with blood.

Ivar curves a third finger into him, sliding his mouth down until Lydon's head hits the back of his throat and his lips touch the base of his cock. He groaned around his mouthful.

"Ngh!" Lydon groans back, rocking Ivar's fingers over and over his prostate, crying out again as he feels how deeply his cock has entered his lover. "Ivar!" he gasps, "fuck me!"

Sitting up, Ivar pulls his fingers out, wipes his hand on the grass and lubricates his cock with the 'deer' blood, slowly forcing himself into Lydon's tight anus.

Lydon sits up as well, to see what Ivar has used to lubricate himself. The sight of his lover's bloodied cock sliding into him almost pushes him over the edge, and he grits his teeth to keep from cumming on the spot. He lays back down, laughing a little wildly, and resumes clutching the wet, cooling grass.

Ivar sheaths himself entirely, raking his nails down Lydon's chest.

"Nah-hah!!!" Lydon bucks beneath his lover, sitting up to wrap his upper body around Ivar, kissing his neck, throat and chin.

Ivar bites Lydon's jaw, forcing him back down and fucking him raw.

Lydon can feel his eyes filling with tears, and he's trembling as though feverish, as he always does with a really good fucking. He lays more or less passively, held in place by Ivar's teeth, biting his own lip.

"Cum." Ivar hisses around the skin between his teeth, spurting into Lydon, his own hips bucking.

Screaming freely, knowing that the only person who could possibly hear them is Detlef, Lydon does as he's told, cumming all over both of their fronts. He sprawls on the earth again, panting and grinning.

Ivar finishes, pulling out of his boyfriend and kissing him soundly, flopping onto the bloody, sticky grass next to him.

Purring with contentment, Lydon snuggles against his Ivar, smiling at his lover, eyes half-closed. "Mmm. We should get back. I want to try some of that meat, and I know you do."

"It'll take some time to prepare." Ivar panted. "We can rest a bit."

Lydon sulks playfully, trying to sit up, only to collapse again. "Ah...alright, I suppose..." he pants, laying his head on Ivar's chest and closing his eyes happily.

******

Tossing his horse's reins to a groom, Lydon runs as quickly as possible for a gentleman into the estate, sniffing deeply for the smell of cooking boy-meat as he hurries to find Detlef, Ivar in tow.

Ivar laughed, always enjoying Lydon's post-coital energy. Once they'd had a nap, he was always raring to go. Ivar, on the other hand, could always nap for hours after good sex.

"Detlef! We're back!" Lydon calls, heedless of the bloody footprints he's tracking everywhere, enjoying the feeling of the blood cooling, then drying, on his face and clothing. His arm is firmly wrapped around Ivar's waist, stealing kisses from time to time.

Detlef called out to them from the dining room, where he was lounging in a chair, smoking, looking post-coital himself. The servant kneeling in front of him got up, face red, and left in a rush.

Lydon laughs heartily at the servant's expression and escape, settling himself in a chair, again not caring about the blood--that's what servants are for. "Well, maybe not for you..." he muses out loud, smiling at Detlef.

"Not for me?" Detlef asks, buttoning up his pants. Ivar laughed, settling in next to Lydon.

"Mmm? Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about servants, and how their job is cleaning. But maybe less for you," he nods his head at Detlef's pants, resting his hand on Ivar's thigh.

"Oh that? He was just polishing my cock." Detlef chuckled.

Lydon nods sagely. "Yes, those are important to clean. ...how's dinner coming along?" he asks, not able to contain his eagerness for long.

"It'll be ready soon!" Detlef put out his cigarette. "Haven't you tasted longpig before?"

Lydon shakes his head, eyeing the cigarette. Ivar has put plenty of his own illicit cigarettes out on him, much to his enjoyment. With a playfully bratty sigh, Lydon settles back in his chair, smiling at his companions. "A fine hunt, Detlaf old boy."

"Agreed." Ivar chuckled, flagging down a passing servant and getting a drink. He gave a happy sigh and relaxed into his chair.
"Thank you both." Detlef chuckled, "I'm glad you could make it. I only wish you could stay longer than a week."

"We're glad you invited us. And we wish we could stay, too, but we have to be getting back to school." Lydon envies Ivar his drink; every time Lydon tries to have alcohol, he pictures Jerome's disapproving face. Same with cigarettes of his own.

"Ah well, you can stay longer once it's summer. And you can bring some of your own servants along if you wish. If you have any... delectable boys." he winked at Lydon.
Ivar downs his drink with a purr, fingers tightening on Lydon's thigh.

His eyes rolling at the pressure on his leg, Lydon pauses a moment before he can answer. "Ahh...yes, we would like that very much...I only have one servant of my own, and I don't see how I could replace him. I don't know how you do it. Good help is so hard to find."

"Good help is hard to find, but I do well with what I have. I don't need them, for the most part. I enjoy having them cook and clean... as well as other things, but I enjoy living on my own as well." Detlef shrugged. "Perhaps that's why I can get along after I kill them. Though I couldn't do without a willing chef." he laughed.

A servant opened the door and brought in a silver platter. The boy was almost as whole as they had left him, roasted like a whole pig.

"Mmm! That smells wonderful!" Lydon is leaning forward in his chair, as though to get the food sooner. "How does one find a willing chef?" he asks. "I shall have to find one, when I'm of age." Lydon can't imagine living alone.

"I put out an ad on a cannibal site, actually." Detlef told him. "And I was lucky enough to find a wonderful chef." The servant served them all, then left.

"Really? I should think you would get mostly poseurs and frauds. I'm glad you found someone!" With that, Lydon begins devouring his savory meat as quickly as he can with good manners.

"Well, if frauds agree to meet me, I can do a fair job of cooking them up myself." Detlef dug into his food. Ivar was savoring his first mouthful, eyes closed.

Lydon laughs heartily, finally slowing down enough in his excitement to relish his meat. "This is exquisite!" he murmurs.

Ivar laughs, patting his boyfriend's thigh. "Slowing down?" he asked.

Blushing a little, Lydon nods. "What a wonderful vacation, Detlef. Thank you."

"You're very welcome! I hope you plan to come back and visit." he smiled.

Schoolboys Meeting

Ivar was changing into his new school uniform, the smart black coat with gold buttons, the green shirt and the stupid little shorts. He wasn't sure why the English had such silly uniforms, but it seemed to be part of the culture to be silly. He was mostly nude when his new room mate walked in. He smiled, confidently. "Hello. I'm Ivar." his Russian accent was thick.

Lydon, who had finally shed his entourage of Jerome, parents and older brother, walks in on his undressed new room mate. "Oh. Oh! Lord, I'm sorry!" Blushing a little, Lydon turns to go, dropping his suitcases just inside the door.

Ivar laughed softly. "No apologies." He offered his hand to the handsome English boy.

Lydon smiles shyly. "Ah, well, I suppose we'll be seeing a lot more of each other, now won't we?" He steps inside and takes the half-naked boy's hand with only a little hesitation. "Sorry about that. It takes some getting used to." Lydon's accent is pure upper-crust English, and he's delighted by Ivar's speech.

Ivar nods in agreement. "We will be close." he can't help but look the boy up and down. Hopefully he'll at least be of interest during the school years.

Naive as he is, Lydon catches the glance and his blush deepens. He recovers quickly, lugging his luggage to his assigned half of the room. "Ah, I'm Lydon. You're...Russian, yes?" He has a funny feeling when he hears the other say 'we will be close', but he can't quite figure out why.

"Is my accent obvious?" he says wryly, smirking at his new friend's blush. "What are your classes?"

"No! No, I mean...I like it." Shaking his head at his less-than-stellar introduction to his new room mate (everyone has always stressed how important introductions are), Lydon begins putting his belongings away. "Ah, let me see...maths, English, Science, drama, art, geography, history, music and Latin. You?"

"All the same, except for Latin. I have French." Ivar pulled on his shirt and started buttoning it up, knotting the little tie at his neck.

Lydon nods, with a playful grimace. "I wanted to take French, but Father and Jerome--he's my butler, you see--~insisted~ that I take Latin. Bloody useful, if you ask me." The young Englishman flops on his bed dramatically.

Ivar chuckled, sitting on the edge of Lydon's bed. "Butler?"

Grinning apologetically, Lydon sits up with a shrug, bouncing on the bed a little. "Yes, my family's terribly old-fashioned. He's my father's butler's son. I had the damndest time not having him stay here at school with me. Poor old Jerome. He'll probably waste away without me."

"I am sure he will." Ivar laughed, lying back on the bed. "What do you enjoy for fun?"

"Um...riding, boating, reading, sport, archery...dunno. You?" After a moment Lydon lays beside his new friend, a small distance away. He finds himself liking Ivar immediately--especially now that he's dressed! "Why'd you come to England? ...if you don't mind my asking."

"I've been in Russian schools up until now. My parents thought school in England would be a good way for me to learn fluent English." he turned his face to look at Lydon, vaguely wondering if the boy has ever enjoyed archery when faced with more than inanimate targets. "I enjoy archery as well. I also enjoy hunting, riding and traveling."

"Your English is very good. But...I'm glad you're here." Lydon grins shyly. "I've always wanted to go hunting, and to travel. My parents travel frequently, mostly on business, and Jerome thinks that I'm too young."

"Perhaps we will hunt together. I will be going back to Russia on the first break, for hunting." he stopped short of inviting the boy. Though his instincts about people were usually spot on, he wanted to be sure. He would have to live with this boy for quite some time.

Sensing the possibility of an invitation, Lydon nods eagerly. "I would like that...someday. Anyway. I've never been to boarding school before, have you?"

"Yes. A few in Russia and for a short time in France."

Lydon leans forward, looking a little relieved. "Oh. Why so many?"

"My parents travel and I have had some trouble in the past." he chuckled. "Where did you go to school before?"

"Trouble?" Lydon asks lightly, clearly trying to change the subject.

"Home schooled?" Ivar asked with a little smile, just as stubborn as Lydon.

Lydon nods, his blushing returning a little. "Yeah. How'd you guess?"

"Even your accent seems.... a little sheltered."

Trying to hide his pained look, Lydon sighs and buries his face in a pillow, growling a little. "Tell me about it," he murmurs. Sitting up again, he presses. "What kind of trouble?"

"They couldn't prove anything, but they thought it best that I leave." he grinned, stroking Lydon's soft brown hair.

Lydon raises an eyebrow, impressed, and snuggles against Ivar's side. "You know," he says, flirtatiously, "I've heard that buggery is a time-honoured tradition at English boarding schools."

"Are you offering?" Ivar grinned, wrapping an arm around his chest.

Purring a little, Lydon moves so he's sitting in front of Ivar, resting his head on the Russian boy's chest. "I'm not declining."

"So soon?" Ivar purred, accent thickening dramatically.

Lydon shivers against the other boy, tilting his head back to look at him. "Is that wrong, oh wise and traveled one?"

"You hardly know me." he tightened his arms around Lydon's chest and abdomen.

Gasping with surprised delight, Lydon melts eagerly into the strong grip. "Maybe I like that about you," the English boy laughs.


Ivar's hands slid under Lydon's shirt, roughly exploring his skin.

"Ngh...and here you've just gotten dressed. What a pity."

"It won't take long to undress." he growled, biting Lydon's neck.

Lydon gives a muffled shriek that quickly degenerates into a laugh. "We should probably at least close the door," he gasps, arching his neck for Ivar.

"Then go close it." Ivar sat up, stripping off his uniform.

Amused at taking an order rather than giving them, Lydon strides to the door and closes it with a flourish, then turns to watch his room mate undress. "You've already got all sorts of hair!" he says, admiringly.

Ivar giggled, lying back on the bed and offering his body to Lydon for exploration. The English boy was adorable.

Lydon all but pounces on his new Russian friend, exploring all the coarse black fuzz that he has yet to grow.

Ivar groaned happily. "You're still dressed..."

"Yes...? Does that matter?" Lydon's mouth is hovering just over Ivar's chest, and he's looking up at the Russian playfully.

"Yesss." he murmured. "If you want me to sodomize you."

"Oh," Lydon says, enjoying playing the innocent. "Well, I suppose." He rolls off of Ivar, laying on his back, propped up on his elbows and smiling at the Russian.

"Strip." the Russian growled.

In a trice, Lydon has his uniform jacket off, and he begins slowly, teasingly, undoing his shirt, button by button.

"You're awfully commanding, aren't you?" he grins.

"I certainly can be. You seem to be trying to tease me." he chuckled, pushing Lydon onto his back.

With a happy little gasp, Lydon easily allows himself to be pushed down and spreads his legs a little.

Ivar popped off the remaining buttons on Lydon's shirt, lowering his head to kiss the hairless chest and belly, nibbling gently, then biting more and more roughly.

"Nghhh..." Lydon finds his hips bucking like a slut, and can't seem to mind about it. He just wants satisfaction. He gasps with each bite, even as they get steadily harder.

Ivar nibbled and bit his way down to Lydon's pants, taking them off roughly and kissing the pale skin above the English boy's cock.

"OhIvaryes!" Lydon moans, lifted off the bed a little by Ivar's grip on his trousers. His eyes flutter shut and his cock tries to jump down the Russian's throat.

Ivar laughs, biting down just above Lydon's cock and not letting go, shaking his head a little.

"Ahhngh!!! Ivar!" Lydon's head snaps back, almost braining himself on the headboard, and he scrabbles to find something to grab, which happens to be Ivar.

Ivar slid his mouth up to the head of Lydon's cock, licking the head, then taking it in his mouth, scraping his teeth all the way down to the base.

Lydon's mouth opens, but he's totally silent, eyes wide and staring down at Ivar as the Russian blows him. He grabs a fistful of Ivar's hair with one hand, clawing down his room mate's back with the other.

Ivar growls around his mouthful, lips pressed to the hairless base, head of Lydon's cock almost gagging him.

The growl almost undoes Lydon, and it's only by tightening his grip and grabbing a handful of Ivar's skin that the English boy is able to keep himself from cumming immediately.

Ivar scrapes his teeth all the way back up, teeth hooking under the head of Lydon's cock and tongue swirling around his urethra.

Lydon cums with a shriek, tearing wildly at Ivar's back with both hands, hips bucking into his friend's mouth.

Ivar swallowed his friend's semen, chuckling thickly. "Good?"

"Ohhhhh yes. Have you done that before?" Lydon asks, flopped bonelessly on the bed, staring up at Ivar.

"Da." he grinned.

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.