The Athletic Aesthetic

by Vanessa Wu

  Tom narrowed his eyes. Cerra should have seen Bisset coming …

  Rather than change tactics as one might expect, Cerra attacked, once more, from the mid-line. By then, Bisset had caught on. The Frenchman parried and lunged. Then he attacked Cerra corp-a-corp for the point.

  “Point right.”

  Rather than watch Bisset the next time around, Tom kept his eye on Cerra, who launched the same attack. Again, Bisset took the bait, scoring the point Cerra fed him. Now Tom was sure that the Frenchman was getting played, though he couldn’t think why, unless as part of the test.

  When the same thing happened for the final point, Bisset took off his mask, smiling like Errol Flynn.

  “Congratulations, Monsieur Bisset. Your training serves you well. Now. Mr. Granger. Your turn.”

  Slowly, Tom rose and retrieved one of the barbed épées from the rack. His muscles ached, his welts stung and, save for the padded codpiece, he was as conspicuously naked now as he had been during his match with Elle. And yet, this time he didn’t care. His attention was on Cerra. He wasn’t going to be played.

  “Gentlemen, en-garde. Ready. Allez.”

  Tom watched Cerra from behind his mask, allowing the Spaniard first attack. As predicted, he attacked from the midline. Tom parried, then countered with a lunge, easily scoring the point.

  “Point right.”

  Tom’s mouth compressed. It was bullshit. He wanted a proper match.

  “En-garde. Ready. Allez.”

  Tom rocked back and forth, waiting for Cerra’s attack. As predicted it came from the midline again. Offended, Tom swiped at Cerra’s blade, beating it back once, before retreating a step—fencer for “fuck this.”

  Cerra paused and considered, before giving Tom a nod.

  This time, Cerra launched an entirely new attack. It was an old variant Tom hadn’t seen coming, though he was still able to parry and retreat. Nearly three quarters of the strip lay between them when Cerra lowered his guard. Relying on surprise, Tom launched into a flèche, scoring an honest point before the Spaniard could raise his guard.

  “Point right. Well done, Mr. Granger,” Donati said.

  Tom nodded, breathing hard. Every instinct told him to fall back on decades of training, but he resisted the urge. Cerra was better, which meant he was going to have to gamble, not on the bout, but on the whole trial. The only way to win was to lose, and Tom was going to lose well.

  “En-garde. Ready. Allez.”

  Cerra launched a series of rapid attacks, binding Tom’s blade. He fought to disengage, but he couldn’t stop Cerra from slipping in the point.

  “Point left.”

  The final two bouts happened much as the third, with Cerra relentlessly binding his blade as Elle had, however, this time, Tom defended his position without stepping off the strip. Still, it was not enough to win.

  “Point left. Match to Cerra.”

  Elle’s voice echoed through the training room, as Cerra’s point pierced Tom’s skin for the third and final time. Tom ignored the pain as his head snapped up. He’d had no idea she’d been there.

  “Well done, gentlemen. Masks off.”

  Tom pulled off his mask and looked at Elle Mason. She seemed brighter somehow, as if someone had turned her color up an extra notch. The effect was subtle and powerful. He had the sudden feeling that she had spent much of the past two days holding herself back.

  “Excellent match, Granger,” Cerra said, taking off his mask. Pulling his eyes off Elle, Tom shook Cerra’s hand.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You too,”

  “You both performed well, gentlemen,” Donati said, addressing Tom and Bisset. “Alas, only one of you may train.

  “Monsieur Bisset,” he went on, “your victory is a testament to your training. You are a credit to the École and my good friend, Peidferre.”

  Tom waited for Bisset’s ego to fill the space between them, but he felt nothing from the Frenchman, which was strange.

  “On the other hand, you, Mr. Granger, are a credit to yourself. While Monsieur Bisset embraced his training, you abandoned yours and engaged your experience of the last two days. It was a valiant effort. Unfortunately, you lost.”

  Tom nodded, forcing himself meet Donati’s eyes.

  “And yet,” Donati went on, “it is not the win that interests us, but the spirit, if you will. Which is why, taking into account Ms. Mason’s notes and your performances here, we congratulate Mr. Granger on passing the trials. Tamás, you shall train with the Master, if you so choose.”

  For a moment, Tom stood there, unable to speak. Then, without pause or hesitation, Bisset held out his hand. There were two pink spots on his pale cheeks, but otherwise, he looked almost relieved.

  “Congratulations, Granger. This method is not, perhaps, best suited to me. I wish you every luck.”

  “Thanks, Bisset,” Tom said as, for the first time in years, he and Bisset addressed each other without subtext.

  “Welcome, Granger,” Cerra said, with a sly, playful grin. “Fencing you was a real pleasure. I look forward to doing it again.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Tom said, distracted by Elle Mason’s unreadable feline eyes.

  “Come, Monsieur. Take that contraption off,” Donati said, waving at Bisset’s codpiece. “Join us for a brandy. You have earned it. As for you, Tamás,” he went on, patting Tom’s arm with a warm, arthritic hand. “The Master will see you soon.”

  Tom nodded. Soon Cerra and Donati had ushered Bisset out, and he was alone in the training room with Elle.

  “You can take that off now,” she said, facing the window. Beyond it, twilight was falling over the ice and snow. He knew without her telling him that she meant the training cup. He unbuckled it, easing himself out of it before letting it drop to the ground. He was hard, of course. Cerra, and even Michel, hadn’t gotten near to giving him what he actually craved—power. Real, instinctive, animal power. Elle had that power, and he wanted it. Even more than he wanted her. Without being told, he knelt in rest position, like the supplicant he was.

  Elle didn’t turn around. Rather, she slowly unzipped her jacket and peeled off her shirt, revealing the long expanse of her lean, muscled back. Tom’s cock filled and lifted even more, until it stood hard, nearly parallel to his abdomen. Then she slipped out of her black breeches and turned around, framed by the mountains behind her, as naked as ice in the overwarm room.

  “Who do you think I am,” she asked, echoing Donati’s question from the day before.

  “You’re the Master,” Tom said, low and sure.

  “Yes,” Elle Mason said, walking towards him, pale and perfect, from the curve of her breasts to the narrow swell of her hips. “I am now. My father was the Master before me. I grew up in the tradition.”

  “Your name,” Tom asked, hazarding the question.

  “Eleanor Dalca,” she replied. “Mason was my mother’s maiden name.”

  All across her torso, arms and chest, a lacework of pretty white scars marred her otherwise perfect skin. Elle saw him look her over, and smiled.

  “If you agree to train with me, you agree to certain things. Obedience, devotion, discipline, trust. Can you commit yourself to me?”

  He looked up at her, at her feline grace and power, and felt himself relax as he gave her his strengths and weaknesses to eradicate and mold.

  “Yes,” Tom said, meeting her pale, blue eyes. “I can give you this.”

  He reached out, not tentatively, but with tremendous respect, as she allowed him to rest his head against the flat plain of her belly. Moving as if every inch were a granted permission, he pressed a kiss to the curls at the apex of her thighs. The skin beneath his fingertips was cold, as cold and hard as marble limned with ice, but beneath it there was passion, molten and strong. Tom lowered his head. Her core was liquid fire. With a sigh, she shifted, parting her legs so t
hat his lips could find her wet, pink heat.

  He lapped at her clit as her narrow fingers threaded through his hair, drifting and coiling gently. Then she grabbed a fistful, hard enough to sting.

  “Good, Mr. Granger,” she said, bending back his head and forcing him to look at her cold, impassive face. “Then let your training begin.”

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