I climb the narrow stairs quietly and kneel before the hidden panel in the wall, and I'm careful to slide it back slowly and silently. A slice of flickery orange firelight spills into my little secret place, blotted out once I press my eye to the tiny hole I've revealed.
I'm in time: my father is just sitting down in his armchair, talking to the cluster of aproned servants there bringing him dinner, setting it up on a side table. His copy of the evening newspaper is there as well, along with a crystal decanter of good brandy and a thick cigar. It's a complicated dance I've seen many times before-- the servant girls making sure my father's comfortable, that he has his slippers ready, that there's a basin of hot water and scented oil for him to wash up in. They flit around him, making things just so, and he lays his head back, sighing.
My father's Boy is watching them all from beside the fireplace. He's a servant as well, but not the type that would demean himself going back and forth from the kitchens with tea and biscuits. Draped in exquisite silks, face sparkling with glitter dust, sleek dark hair alive with small charms and bells, he is a servant who has servants of his own.
He stands as a dancer does that is waiting for his cue to go on stage: relaxed, head inclined, pretty eyelashes lowered. The firelight flickers on his pale skin and glints off of the silver in his hair; just his appearance bespeaks wealth and luxury. He remains very still as the other servants work, but he's watching them all very carefully, making sure my father has everything he needs, that everything is in place. His expression is blank, but his eyes are calculating.
Finally, the girls have finished their fretting, and they file out of the door, closing it behind them and leaving my father and his Boy alone. The boy waits a beat, then as my father opens his eyes and looks over, he steps forward gracefully. His delicate, manicured hands move over the tray that's been set out, serving tea from the porcelain pot and offering it, head bowed, to my father.
He goes next to the newspaper, unfolding and then re-folding it so that my father can comfortably read it in one hand. He ladles soup from the silver tureen, slices off a piece of bread, offers each in turn to my father while the man keeps one eye on the paper. The boy then kneels before my father, a movement slow and reverent, as if he were bowing before a sacred altar.
I shift in my hidden spot, letting out a slow breath.
My father's boy rolls up his wide silk sleeves, exposing slender white arms, and draws the basin of water towards him. Still reading the paper, my father holds out one foot for the boy, who gently eases his shoe off and sets it aside. He removes the other shoe as well, and both socks, folding them neatly and putting them out of the way.
The boy dampens a white cloth in the hot water and takes one foot between his hands, wiping away all the day's stress and tension. He refreshes the cloth often, but only just enough to let the heat seep into my father's tired feet.
He slicks his hands with oil next, taking my father's feet once more into his hands and expertly massaging them, slowly, firmly, seeking out every pain, every frustration, and banishing it with his nimble fingers. My father has since started on his dinner, pausing only to shuffle the paper or dab at his lips with a napkin.
Once finished with my father's feet, the boy washes his hands in the basin, pushes it aside, and stands up. He loosens my father's clothing, undoing buttons at cuffs and collar, and briefly sets the newspaper aside so he can help father out of his coat.
When the coat is smoothed and folded and hung carefully over a chair, the boy sets his hands to massaging my father's shoulders, working from the back of the neck down to the collarbone. He's silent through all of this, but as my father relaxes, he begins to remark to the boy about certain items in the news, and things that happened at work. It's clear he doesn't expect the boy to respond or even understand; it's just another way of unwinding, releasing the tension of the day.
Father finishes with his meal, and the boy clears the dishes and tray away, returning to pour brandy into a tumbler. He passes this to my father, who for the first time makes eye contact with his boy and is rewarded with a gentle blush and a shy smile. The boy watches as my father tastes, then moves to refresh the glass before snipping the tip off of the cigar. He places it between my father's lips, strikes a match to light it, and smiles again as father takes a deep draw and then sighs in contentment.
He looks back up at the boy, reaches out to curl a finger under his chin, and then tuck his hair behind his ear, setting tiny bells ringing. The boy leans in to kiss my father's cheek, lingering, then draws away and offers him the newspaper again.
As my father goes back to his paper, the boy moves about the room, dimming lamps and putting the tray and basin by the door for the servants to retrieve. He builds up the fire, and even up in my secret place I can feel the room growing pleasantly warm and close.
By the time the boy returns, my father is looking sleepy and satisfied, puffing away on his cigar, swirling brandy in the bottom of the glass. The boy pours again for him, holds out an ashtray so that father can tap his cigar off into it. The boy then goes to kneel before the chair again, and the shy, knowing look he gives my father through his eyelashes sends chills through me.
The boy leans forward, moving close, and gently presses his lips against the crotch of my father's pants. My father shifts slightly, bringing his legs further apart, and turns another page in the paper. His boy kisses again, then reaches up to slowly unzip the front of the pants, stroking the growing hardness there with two fingers. This time as he kisses, he touches his tongue to the fabric, and my father gives another sigh.
In a moment the boy has pulled my father's erection out into the open. He kisses and licks the tip, pulling his fingers down the shaft, then straightens up so he can take it into his mouth. I draw in a small breath as my father's cock disappears between those pretty lips, and my father echoes me, closing his eyes and setting aside the paper so he can reach down and stroke the boy's hair. The boy draws back up again briefly exposing the head, now slicked with saliva, before taking it in again. His hand moves deeper between my father's legs, kneading and squeezing, as he bobs his head down as far as he can.
My own hand is stroking my cock as the boy sucks hard at the head of my father's, tongue digging into the slit. My father pushes the boy's head down again, leans his head back as the dark head bobs up and down once more. He relaxes against the back of the chair, taking a drink of brandy, and his hips give a little jerk. His sigh turns into a groan, and he tightens his grip on the boy's hair, forcing his cock deeper and deeper into the boy's open mouth. The boy makes a sound of his own-- a whimper, barely audible, and he pulls back to pant for a moment before my father drags him down again.
My father's hips jerk again, more violently, and he gives a sort of grunt, releasing the boy's hair. The boy remains where he his, his throat moving as he swallows before slowly pulling away, letting his lips trail lightly over my father's softening cock. I have to pull away from the wall to tend to myself as the boy helps my father become presentable again; I've come into the wadded-up rag that I've brought with me for the purpose, and sweat is dripping down the back of my neck from the heat of my body and of the fire.
When I've finished, I press my eye to the crack again, but find that the boy has already cleaned up, summoning the servants to take away the remains of my father's dinner. Father has stood up, stepping into his slippers, and is ordering one of the girls to draw him a bath and to have his bed warmed and turned down by the time he comes out.
He turns and beckons to the boy, who follows him quietly through the doors.