Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Warnings: This is the story of a romance between two men. It gets explicit, and includes themes of institutionalized slavery and BDSM. I don't believe there are other major squicks, but don't plan to list the plot just so you'll know for sure. If in doubt, don't read it. It is not terribly violent, and I do like in happy endings, so no hatred of the human race or major depression should ensue from reading it.
Would love to hear your comments (prefer that negative ones be specific enough to be helpful). In any case, thanks for reading!
The Violet and the Tom
My first taste of what it meant to be the slave of royalty came at his feet. The smooth pungency of a well-aged cheese placed carelessly between my lips, the fragrant sugar of a ripe summer peach, with the salt from the cheese—or was that simply his skin?—still lingering on his fingertips.
It was solstice feast and I knelt beside him, my eyes trained only towards the floor or at his fingers, back straight, hands folded in my lap just so. Demure, and quietly alluring…or so I hoped. Because I truly did want him pleased—to believe me worth the price the King had paid.
He seemed to have calmed since I'd been presented to him. At least, rage no longer vibrated from his frame. I was hopeful that he'd come to accept me—once he took the trouble to actually look at me. Eros, he was beautiful, and I was yet giddy with the thought, nibbling memories of the glances I'd stolen, wondering at my good fortune. Because although we exist only for our masters' pleasure, that existence is so much more pleasant when the man isn't a doddering, indolent gourmand.
This man was still young, forty years, give or take, the lines around his eyes still faint, the merest touch of gray at his temples. He was darker than most men of the Isles and I wondered if exotic blood ran in his veins. Though several cents shorter than I, he was feline-sleek, with wide shoulders, slim hips, and long, lanky muscle. His bearing was straight and confident. His hair was of the deepest shade of brown, with curls that twisted to his shoulders in back and fell wantonly about his face. Sharp brooding eyes were almost black in their depth and set in dark lashes.
So many angles to his face—in his nose, in the prominent bones of his cheeks and jaw. Even his mouth was chiseled, the sharp line of his upper lip, the exaggerated Cupid's bow that punctuated his frown. The whole effect was one of danger, but a danger so exquisite that I might easily plead for the honor of giving myself to his cruelest fantasies.
To have those teeth dig into my back…
Lord Nygell. Rolling the name over in my mind, like a hard candy over a tongue, not so much to set it to memory—it had been branded there since this morning—but because I was already infatuated with the sound of it. Lord Nygell. Master.
It was difficult to stay still and calm. My bare arm rested alongside the cloth of his trousers and with every breath I took, the fabric scraped against me. Minutely, a charge on my fevered skin, fine hairs prickling brightly, far too sensitive. I shivered.
He fed me, in what I'd been taught was the proper manner of a royal supper, and if he seemed distracted…well, a Lord had more important matters to ponder than a new slave, and it would be presumptuous to expect anything of him. I was grateful for what I received.
Ignoring the other slaves, I concentrated on recalling the lessons of years past, responding appropriately to his offered sustenance. The light kiss at each morsel, the occasional flick of the tongue; keep it subtle, not so bold as to jar him from his thoughts, but a constant, quiet invitation.
I will always be open for you, lips and legs, heart and soul.