by Kirby Crow
“I was trained to be an artist,” Paris studied the statue of Paladin as he spoke, as if reciting to the demi-god founder instead of an audience of one. “I liked to paint, and because I was adept at it, I was indulged. But no man in Cwen is untouchable. No matter how talented or charming, we're still only valuable for what we can provide, not for who we are. One day I was called in from my lessons and told to prepare for a carriage ride.” He smiled. “I was excited. I'd never ridden in a carriage. I was taken to a grand estate in the hills, and the mistress there gave me something to drink. It was bitter and made the world seem fuzzy and pleasant. There were other women, a group of them, mostly young, but there was one elder in charge of things. She brought me to a room hung with red silks and took my clothes away, then put me in a bed and lit lamps all around. A slave brought trays of wine. Then I realized I couldn't move my arms or legs.” Paris rubbed his thumb over the statue. “The other women undressed and they began to touch me.”
Bewilderment crossed Paris's features. “They were smiling and laughing, like on holiday. Like it was a party. I won't lie to you: my cock stood up like a pole. I was frightened that I couldn't move or speak, but my prick didn't care. Not yet, anyway. It wouldn't go down for hours. Each of the women took a turn riding me. It was good at first. Fun, you know? But then something went bad. The mood turned.” Paris shook his head, his brows knit tightly. “Maybe they grew bored and wanted to see what else they could do to me, just for amusement. They pulled my hair. They slapped me, and then they made a game of it, seeing who could strike me the hardest or leave the reddest mark, and they began to pinch me and to... to handle me.”
Jean realized he was gripping the arm of the chair hard enough to cramp his hand. He let go and flexed his fingers, which had turned pale. Small wonder that dealing with Paris was like juggling a hornet's nest, forever anticipating the sting that Paris would inevitably deliver.
“I didn't understand,” Paris murmured. “I still don't. It seemed to be play in the beginning, even if I was drugged, but it went sour. I laid there and listened to them talk about me like I was a piece of meat, or a good dog. In between rounds when they rode me, they used my mouth and toyed with my body and did things to me with objects.”
Jean fought to keep pity out of his tone, and failed. “What did you do?”
“Do? Nothing. I couldn't move.”
“What about when you could? After?”
Paris placed his index finger at the base of the statue and pushed it a little further away from him. “Nothing. When they were finished, I was taken home. They saw no wrong in what they did. If they regretted it, I saw no sign.”
How could anyone not see how evil it was? Jean cleared his throat. “I'd have fucking killed anyone who did that me.”
“Oh, would you have?” Paris asked sharply. “You must have a fond wish to die rotting in a cage on a city wall. I only ran away.” Paris laughed a little. “I had no gold and only a pair of breeches to my name. They caught me, of course, brought me back and did the same things to me all over again, and with even less courtesy. But the next time I ran, I stole. That's why I was exiled.” He held up his left hand. “Along with a parting gift.”
Jean looked at the V-shaped scar in the center of Paris's palm. He'd always wondered what it meant.
“Voleur,” Paris said. “The Cwen word for a thief.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Maybe it's Aequora, or because I can't just waltz into the Alley of Sparrows and pick a fight like you can. Not unless I wear a mask.” Paris plucked at the brooch on his chest, an eye molded from lead, framed by wings. “No one draws a fight with the carcelero.” He flicked open a marquetry box inlaid with a pattern of thistles. “Feel like a smoke?”
Jean held out his hand. Paris gave him two rolled erba. He sniffed them. They were wrapped in brown leaf with gilt trim, dusted with rose fragrance. “Nice.” He nodded his thanks and tucked one into his breast pocket. The other he put between his lips.
Paris struck a match. Jean leaned forward over the desk and curled his fingers
around Paris's wrist, pulling the match to him. He touched the end of the leaf to the fire and sucked. The match flared red between them. He glanced at Paris over the flames and saw that Paris was staring at his hand. He didn't let go.
“I see gears turning in your eyes, Paris. What's going on inside that handsome head?” Jean looked at the match, which was rapidly burning down to Paris's fingers. “That's going to hurt.”
Paris narrowed his eyes against the smoke curling from Jean's lips. “Compared to what?”
Jean let go and leaned back in his chair. “Huh. I'll be damned. So it was my attention you were after all along?”
Paris shook out the match. “You think highly of yourself.”
“You're denying it? If you wanted Tris that badly, you wouldn't have made your move in public. You wanted some man to find out. That man is either me, Marion, or Kon. It's not Marion. I'd be horrified if it were Kon. It must be me you want to fuck.”
“Why couldn't it be Marion?” Paris countered. “Or Dominique?”
Jean recalled that Dominique had been as pretty a boy as Tris, once. “Because sniffing around Tris is not exactly the best way to get on Marion's good side. You don't like Marion much.” He tilted his head. “I was beginning to wonder why you were courting a dangerous piece like Tris when there's so many other young men chasing you like tom cats.”
Paris laughed. “Tris? Dangerous? You must be joking.”
“He's a Sessane. He’d damn smart, too. Just like his father. If that isn't enough, the lord warden has already laid claim to him. Still not satisfied? Hurt Tris and Dominique will come after you, which is a ball-shriveling thought any day of the year.” Dominique had ruled the Arsenale and the soldati with an iron hand for ten years. He was as ruthless as his husband. “But you knew I might jump into the ring for Marion if I thought you were taking something away from him.”
“I happen to be on very good terms with Dominique Sessane,” Paris demurred.
“He's dumped more bodies over the seawall than you have hairs on your balls.”
“I shave mine, but thank you for two sentences addressing my balls.”
“Oh, fuck this.” Jean stood abruptly and flicked the cigarette into the wall. It popped against the polished wood with a shower of gold sparks. He marched around the side of the desk and jerked Paris up from his chair. “Stupid, stubborn boy,” he growled, dragging Paris close and kissing him hard.
He liked a plumper mouth than Paris's, but he was surprised at how good it felt. Paris knew how to bend just right and tilt his chin back so Jean could kiss him as deeply and hard as he liked, and Paris's tongue was a wicked thing, never still, flicking swiftly under and around excitedly.
Jean drew back. “Damn.” This close, Paris's eyes weren't brown, but a warm amber, wide-spaced and perfectly shaped. “Do that again.” He pulled Paris back to his mouth and thrust in again. Paris tasted of that good wine and spice from the erba, and his tongue was everywhere, so agile it seemed at times to be vibrating.
Jean’s pulse hammered in his ears. He wanted to feel that tongue on him. Paris had to know he'd want that. “Down on your knees,” he muttered against Paris’s lips. “Get down.” Jean pressed on his shoulders.
Paris's pliant body suddenly resisted. “Fuck you, Jean.”
Jean could give it to him that way, but not without being sure. He reached down and firmly grabbed Paris's cock, pleased to find it stiff.
“Stop being such a fussy bitch and get on your knees.” He stroked, staring Paris in the eye. Paris wavered, but didn't quite break. Jean's hand slipped to the back of Paris's neck, the place of control, cupping the nape before he gripped hard. He shook Paris a little to get a sense of him.
“Knees,” Jean ordered calmly. Paris dropped his gaze and his knees bent.
“That's it. Good boy.” First the whip, then the praise, whip and praise. He was back in the mood and lov
ing it. Marion refused to play to such tastes, but there were always other men who would. Not the leftovers and barrel-scrapings of the Zanzare, either, but clean, smart, handsome bastards like Paris who wanted what only men like Jean could give them.
But he had to be careful. What was submission now could become twisted later, if handled poorly, if he made Paris feel shame for what he needed. Remembering Paris’s confession almost made Jean change his mind, but Paris was neither weak nor impulsive. He would not ask if he didn’t need it, and he had definitely asked, in his own strange way.
Jean stroked Paris's cheek and brushed his thumb over his lips, tracing that enchanting upward curve. “Unbutton me.”
Paris began to slip the buttons of his trousers.
“Take my cock out. Hold it in your hands.” Jean arched his hips forward when Paris's warm fingers were around him. His cock was thickening from Paris's touch. “Kiss it.” He put his hand on top of Paris's head and urged him forward. “Kiss the head. Like that, yes. Oh fuck...” He closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of a new mouth exploring him. “Suck on it a little. Just the head. Put it in your mouth and get to know it. Ah!” He hissed when Paris slipped the plump, rosy head into his mouth and began to work it expertly with that lively tongue, swallowing him deeper.
Jean pulled out of Paris's mouth with a soft, sucking sound and drew back his hand, meaning to slap Paris across the face.
Paris looked up at him, wide-eyed and expectant, and for a moment Jean could see how Paris might have looked when he was younger; a boy so clean-cut he was almost plain. The Cwen had slapped Paris, too. How would that affect him?
Jean changed his mind and pressed his index finger to Paris's lips. “I told you: just the head. Do it again, and this time do it right.”
Paris inhaled shakily, staring up at him. When he didn't move, Jean took his damp, stiffened cock in hand and softly smacked Paris's cheek with it, leaving a wet line. “Are you trying to make me mad?”
After a charged moment, Paris shook his head slowly. “No, messere.”
Jean smiled. He petted Paris's lower lip with his thumb, then pushed it between Paris’s lips. Paris pursed his lips around it. “Good boy. Now suck me again.” He took his hand away and urged Paris's head to his cock.
Paris went to work obediently, taking the head in his mouth and sucking, careful not to take too much. Jean braced one hand against the wall and shuddered. It felt good to be so perfectly in control, so right. This was what he was made for.
Paris started inching his mouth up his cock, and Jean pulled away abruptly.
“That's enough,” he growled. “Damn, you're good at that. Get up here.” He pulled Paris to his feet. “Kiss me.” He kissed Paris hard enough to bruise, devouring his lips and sucking hard on that avid tongue until Paris whimpered.
“You whine so pretty,” he smirked against Paris's mouth. His hands dropped to Paris's hips and he tugged, popping a button on his trousers before Paris hurriedly helped him. “Lovely.” He looked down and saw Paris's long, pink cock bobbing free of the material. He brushed his palm on the silken underside of it, a thread of warm fluid sticking to his finger. He brought the finger to his mouth and licked it off, watching Paris closely. “Take your shirt off.”
Paris peeled off his vest and shirt. He tossed the clothes to a chair and sniffed. Probably thinking about the laundry bill.
Jean looked at Paris's body and smiled. “I can see why all the pretty things chase you. Not many scars, either. I don't like my boys scarred. Do you happen to have rope in your jail, carcelero?”
Paris shook his head.
Jean pinched one of Paris's rosy nipples between his thumb and index finger. Paris jumped.
“Really?” Jean slipped the bastone from his side and put the leather holding cord in his teeth, tugging at the knot. When it came free, he slid the leather out and took Paris's wrist. Paris jerked back.
“Scared?” Jean mocked.
Paris set his teeth and offered up his hands.
“That's more like it.” Jean lashed the cord around one of Paris's wrists. “Turn around.”
Paris moved, but too slow. Insolently slow. Jean reached to seize a handful of Paris's hair, then remembered: They pulled my hair.
He gripped Paris's shoulder instead and pushed him forward and down, over the very neatly-ordered desk. An inkwell slid off noisily into the floor. He grabbed Paris's other wrist and quickly bound his hands behind his back. Paris trembled silently. Jean placed his palm between Paris's shoulder blades and held him there, rubbing his hand soothingly in a small circle.
“You need a lesson.” He kicked Paris's feet apart. “You agree with me. Say yes.”
Paris tried to turn his head. Jean grabbed the back of his neck and slammed him down. “Yes. Say it.”
“Yes,” Paris quavered, his shoulders tense.
Still too much fight in him. “You're not very convincing.” Jean reached beneath Paris's body to wrap his fingers around that pink cock. Paris squirmed and bucked.
“Settle down.” Jean gripped very firmly and began to stroke him. Paris grunted and shoved his hips forward so quickly that Jean chuckled in happy appreciation.
Enough rehearsal. Time to see if Paris was really the kind of man Jean hoped he was. He grabbed Paris's trousers at his hips and jerked downward, pushing them past his thighs. Paris wore no underclothes and his ass was smooth and hairless, a little narrow in the hips but plenty of padding where it would count.
Paris squawked and tried to twist around. Jean slapped his bare ass hard.
“I said settle down.” He slapped again, hard enough to leave a red welt. Paris mewled lowly and tried to writhe away. Jean held him down and began punishing his ass in earnest with hard, rapid slaps, enjoying how quickly Paris's fair skin pinked up. Paris moaned and bucked, but when it was plain that Jean wouldn't stop until he was still, Paris froze.
Jean gave him one last, vicious slap and then brought his hand to his mouth and spat thickly on it. He slid his fingers into the cleft of Paris's ass, his index finger probing for that lovely little soft spot. He found it and pressed until it gave.
Paris exhaled a sigh like a sob and spread his legs wider.
“Oh yes,” Jean hissed, pushing in harder. He leaned over Paris's back and bit his ear. “You've got a sweet hole for such a scary fucking jailer.” He added another finger and worked them in and out. Paris moaned and wiggled his ass like he was trying to get more.
Jean chuckled, low and dirty. “You don't get my cock inside you yet. That, you have to earn.” He slipped his fingers out, ignoring Paris's inarticulate sound of dismay. That sound turned into a breathless moan of pleasure when Jean slid his rigid cock between Paris's thighs, not entering him, just letting Paris feel his length. Jean moved his hips, skin sliding on skin. “You like that?”
Paris nodded wordlessly, and Jean slid a hand under Paris's jaw and tilted his head back so he could get at that delightful mouth. He bit the corners of Paris’s mouth and slid his tongue over the edges of his teeth.
“Put your legs together,” Jean murmured. “Squeeze my cock between them.”
Paris obeyed and Jean shuddered in pleasure at the warmth and tightness of Paris's thighs. He began to mimic fucking him, feeling the soft roundness of Paris's ass cushioning his lap every time he pushed forward, feeling Paris's legs tremble in excitement and his cock become slick with his own fluids. He breathed harshly against Paris's ear.
“Fuck, you're sweet. You're my sweet whore, aren't you?”
Paris made a sound of denial and whipped his head back and forth as he shoved his ass back against him.
“You're the sweetest boy I've fucked all year,” Jean taunted. “Next time, I'll tie you up spread-eagled and face-down on my bed and take a belt to your pretty ass before I fuck you.”
Paris whimpered and clenched his legs tight. The slippery head of Jean's cock popped back and forth under Paris's balls, bumping and stroking Paris's cock every time. He wrapped his arms around
Paris, then closed his eyes and laid his cheek against the carcelero's back as he came.
Jean gave a long, happy sigh and slid his dripping cock back and forth as Paris moaned and squirmed under him. He tongued Paris's neck lazily. Paris tasted of clean salt and soap. “Beg me.”
“Won't...” Paris whined.
“Then I'll fucking leave you here with your hands tied and your ass in the air. Beg, slut. It's what you're good at.” He nipped Paris's shoulder, leaving a line of marks with his teeth.
“Please,” Paris moaned. “Oh please, do it.”
“Do what? And ask me right.” Jean’s hands delved into the hollow of Paris's thighs to the warm come sliding thinly down his legs. He swiped his hands over it and smeared the fluid on Paris's cock, wrapping his fingers tight. He slipped his other hand to the cleft of Paris's ass. “Respectfully,” he warned. “If you think I can't find something in this office to strap your ass with, think again.” He rubbed his rough chin against Paris's shoulder and slid two fingers deep into him.
Paris threw back his head and cried out as Jean began to stroke him and finger him at the same time.
“Messere,” Paris begged. “Per favore, messere.”
Jean gave him what he wanted, jacking him off hard and fast and slipping a third, wet finger deep inside. Paris gasped and whimpered, his hips bucking as he came into Jean's hand.
Jean took his sticky hand from Paris's cock and grabbed Paris's jaw again with it. “Open your mouth.”
Paris's breath came fast and hard, eyes closed, but he obeyed. He slipped two fingers past Paris's lips. “Suck. There's a good boy.”
Paris sucked on Jean's fingers until he slipped them out. “I could fuck you right now,” Jean murmured idly, feeling his cock rising again between Paris's thighs. “You're all loosened up and wet, ready for it.” He pistoned his fingers in and out, feeling the tight muscles grip him in excitement. “You want that?”
Paris nodded.
Jean smiled. “Maybe next time.” He slipped his fingers out and gave Paris's abused and reddened bottom an affectionate smack. If he was being honest with himself, he did want to fuck Paris. However, he'd already said that Paris had to earn it, and domination was a game where a man never, ever went back on what he said he was going to do.