by G. A. Hauser
That large hand was between his thighs. How did it know just how to stroke him? If he were a kitten he would purr. Opening his knees, he invited more. Splayed out, vulnerable and absolutely ecstatic.
When the bed shifted Mark blinked his eyes open. A set of heavy balls and a large engorged penis hovered over his face. At the same time his own set slid into a hot mouth. The tip nudged him. He got the message. His lips opened tentatively to receive it. It felt odd. Very strange to have it in his mouth. But his own body was being sucked so skillfully, Mark ignored the strangeness of the act. Unable to prevent it, he groaned and reached for that soft dangling sack. It pushed him over the edge instantly. His cries of pleasure were muffled while his mouth was full. That penis moved on its own, in and out of his throat. Mark gripped it with both hands, preventing it from choking him and also giving it a tighter hold. When it came, he was stunned. He knew if he didn't swallow it immediately he would gag and need to spit it out. One shiver and a gulp sent it down. It had an odd taste and almost numbed his tongue.
Soon after, Thomas’ face was next to his, sporting a very sleepy smile. “You are a princeling.”
“Am I?” Mark liked the sound of that.
“Yes, indeed.” That rich deep voice flattering him was really the ultimate reward, wasn't it? “Your beauty will only grow as you age. I can tell. Nearing twenty and already you are so endearing. Irresistible.”
“You will make me conceited and spoilt with your words, my handsome MP.” Mark's smile softened.
Thomas stared at Mark's eyes in the dim candle flicker. “Your long black eyelashes seem to be lined with paint, they are so enchanting. A man more beautiful I have not seen.”
“Flattery ... flattery...” Mark teased, batting his lashes at him.
When a very strong grip held his face and Thomas kissed his lips, Mark moaned softly. Loving the taste and the tip of Thomas’ tongue as it made circles around his own, Mark adored him. As they parted, Mark whispered, “Please, Thomas, may I sleep in your bed?”
“No, Mark. You must go.”
Mark sighed and stared at him for a moment longer. “Did you know my father? Was he a Member of Parliament like you?”
Even though Thomas tried not to show emotion, Mark could tell the question took him aback. “Off with you. It is getting late.”
Like a good lad, Mark found his nightshirt and stood as he draped it back over his nakedness. The coolness of the floor felt soothing on the soles of his feet. Mark shut the door and made his way to his own bedchambers. When he had closed himself in, the hidden door began to move. He could not believe his timing. How could he keep this up without someone finding out about someone else?
Gabriel set her candle down. She appeared surprised to see him standing next to his bed. “Can you not sleep?”
“I sleepwalk.” Mark nodded, assuring her it was true.
“Oh! How remarkable.” She crawled onto his bed and reached out to him.
He climbed on it and sat up, staring at her. She was beautiful in her plumpness. So soft and womanly. Her scent was like a sweet flower or maybe fruit pie.
She pinched his nipple through his nightshirt and Mark flinched and scolded her. “Oi! That hurt!”
“Take it off!” she said, like he had been completely ridiculous to have kept it on this long.
He shimmied out of it and lay back, a grin on his lips. “I am all yours.”
This seemed to delight her immensely. She reached between his legs and amused herself with him, like he was a wonderful new toy. In the dimness Mark could make out her erect nipples. He reached out to them and pulled on them with gentle little tugs. Her breasts were very heavy and delightfully large. Leaning up on his elbows, he sucked one through the sheer fabric, wetting a little aureole around the hard tip.
Gabriel moaned in pleasure and mounted him.
When he felt that damp heat, Mark sucked harder, feeling the urge to chew through that fabric and shove the whole of her breast into his mouth. He climaxed and arched his back. Number three was even more intense than its predecessors.
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* * *
Chapter Four
Once again morning came cruel and hard.
Uncle David shouted, knocking at his door and scolding him through the wood panel, “Why is it you cannot manage to wake up with the rest of the household and be present at the morning meal at a reasonable time?”
Mark burrowed under his pillows and moaned in anguish.
“If you are not dressed and down at the table in five minutes, you will be in trouble, young man!” came a very stern admonishment.
“Yes, Uncle.” Mark tried not to cry out the words in a groan.
* * * *
At the end of one week, Uncle David stood beside a coach with his kit stowed. He brought Mark to the far side of it to give him that expected private lecture.
“I don't know why you cannot acquaint yourself with the routine of this household, nor why you must lollygag in bed every morning. You never behaved in this way on the farm and I find no reasonable excuse for this behavior now.”
Mark lowered his eyes submissively.
“I just hope you pull yourself into shape and get something positive out of this experience. I don't want to find out that this whole escapade has been just a waste of everyone's time. Do make a man out of yourself, Mark.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Mark whispered softly.
“Right. I'll be expecting you in a month's time.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Mark kissed his cheek and stepped back from the carriage whilst his uncle was assisted in getting in.
“Goodbye, lad.”
The water threatened to spill from Mark's eyes as he stood on the cobble lane watching the sway of the carriage.
When the dust had settled, the small crowd at the mansion's door came into his view. Lifting his face to the noon sun and fast moving clouds that sought to cover it, Mark inhaled deeply and knew he was in for one very strange adventure. Allow the excitement to touch you. Don't dwell on the loss of security. Right.
With a pivot of his new paste-buckle shoes, he marched to that welcoming committee. The adoring smiles were a bit unnerving. Though they should have offered comfort, they didn't. They were filled with some expectation level he was having trouble coping with.
The Holloways parted like the Red Sea for him to pass unmolested, but he knew every finger wanted a taste of his tight velvet.
He dropped heavily on the settee in the sitting room and rested his chin in his palm.
Richard shook his head at that forlorn look. “Are you already bored, cousin?”
Margaret squeezed past her brother and stared at Mark curiously.
Gabriel and Thomas peered over their son and into the room. Peter leaned on Mark's lap and tried to rouse him.
“Let him be, Peter,” Thomas admonished softly. “I must go.” Thomas turned to his wife.
She kissed her husband's cheek and walked him to the door.
Richard moved closer to Mark. Before he touched Mark, Richard sneered at Margaret, “Don't you have a dolly to play with?”
She snorted in disgust and left.
“You too, little one.” Richard gave Peter a shove.
When he and Mark were alone, Richard sat next to him and placed his arm around his shoulders. “You need this, love. You need to cut the strings.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Mark sighed.
“Right. Off to town we go.” Richard rose up and reached out his hands. Mark clasped them and was assisted up to his feet.
They passed Gabriel who asked, “Where are you off to?”
“Out for his first lesson in being a gentleman.” Richard gave her a nasty smile.
“Just behave and keep him out of harm's way,” she warned. When she grabbed Mark's face and gave him a wet kiss, Mark blushed crimson and tried to wipe his mouth discreetly.
Once in the privacy of their carriage, Richard leaned on his shoulder. “Has Mum seduced you yet
?”
Mark swallowed in a noisy gulp and stared straight in front of him at the interior of the carriage.
Richard obviously guessed. “Never mind. You didn't go with her, did you?”
Still mute, Mark tilted his face out of the window.
“I'd be ever so cross with you if you had.”
Mark figured that response. He faced Richard and with as much conviction as he could muster, said, “I have not.” Lesson one: How to lie.
* * * *
Once in the center of London's bustling mayhem, Richard stopped the driver and they exited the coach to walk along the Thames in the shadow of Parliament. Mark leaned over the retaining wall to peer into the water. It was murky at best. Any browner or thicker and it would have been a tide of flowing custard.
They paused and absorbed the view as pedestrians and horses marched on around them. There were so many people, Mark had a hard time conceiving himself it was real and not some carnival that would be dismantled when the show was over.
“How do you know my middle name?” It was a hoarse whisper and did betray some pain, though Mark hadn't intended it to.
Richard let out a heavy sigh and said as if he were alone, “Why is it I who must tell you all this?”
Spinning around to face him, Mark was intrigued. He tapped Richard on the arm and gestured to a stone bench. Richard inspected the slab carefully and shook out a handkerchief to spread out under his derriere. Mark had no such care. He dropped down without a second thought.
“Tell me all what?” Mark wondered why he needed to ask again.
Richard eyed the skyline, noticeably hesitant.
Mark sighed. “No one will tell me. Why? Is it all so bad?” he asked. “Could hiding it from me forever be the only solution?”
“No,” Richard replied, “but if I tell you, you will undoubtedly let it slip to my parents that you know. You think they will not suspect me at once of telling?”
Mark ground his jaw. He rose up in a single movement and envisioned himself leaping on top of that wall and diving into the murky depths of that river. The frustration was overwhelming.
As if he knew Mark's intentions, Richard gripped his velvet sleeve and brought him back down to the seat. “All right. I will tell you what I know. But so help me, if you let on you heard this tale to anyone, I will forever be your enemy.”
Anxious to hear, Mark twisted his knees to him and waited, trying to be patient. When it seemed that Richard would not go on without him speaking some sort of vow, Mark muttered, “Yes, yes, I will keep it silent.”
Richard inhaled deeply before he began to unwind the mystery. “Your mother sang with the London Italian opera. She was their leading prima donna. Mother said her voice was remarkable, like some wooded instrument. I would not know. I have never heard it. I am too young, obviously.”
In his cluttered mind, Mark tried to picture it. He could not believe this story, so bizarre, had anything to do with him.
“She traveled with her group to all the major stages. They were a tremendous success here in London, so they went on to Paris, Naples, and of course, Venice.” Richard paused and stared into Mark's eyes. A light drizzle started to fall, but it was harmless in the mild air.
After taking a peek at their surroundings, Richard continued. “In Venice she was a triumph, singing as well as any of those gelded males that strut around like peacocks. Her fans were many, as you can guess. You have no idea what these people are like when they adore a singer. I can only imagine, for even when I myself witness the opera, I fall in love with every painted male contralto I hear. One of these suitors was a very wealthy Venetian aristocrat. This man was extremely powerful and everyone around him referred to him as ‘Excellency'. From what Mother has told me, he was a man of remarkable beauty and grace. He went backstage to compliment your mother and...”
Like a barn owl with mouse meat in his sights, Mark's eyes had widened as he drank in this unbelievable tale.
“Well, my lovely, you are the product of that union. He could not marry her. She was not a woman of any title, and those Venetians are so very strict in their laws. I don't think your mother would ever have been happy to be locked away in some villa and never appear on stage again. She was not left behind in a way you might think. At least not according to Mother. But you have to understand the scandal surrounding it back then. And she was in no position to give a young child a proper home. Not with her traveling. So, your uncle and aunt, who could not have children between them, gladly offered to take you.”
Mark's mouth tightened. For some reason anger was taking hold of him.
“Your father, he gave you his Christian name. He is Marc Antinous Caeserni. You take the surname deMontford from your uncle. Your father gave your mother the harpsichord that is in our sitting room. The one Margaret plays on.”
Mark was stunned. Nineteen years had gone by in his life and no one could tell him this? He was left to always wonder where he had come from? Well? This was an abomination! A traveling singer had a horrid affair with a foreigner, tossed the baby aside without so much as a desire to give up singing and be its mother and then? And now?
Richard's face began showing signs of regret.
“And what of them presently?” Mark growled.
“Your mother is gone. She passed after an illness. But your father, I assume he lives still. In Venice where he has wed and, I suspect, conceived children.” Richard added as an afterthought, “You are his first born, and yet you are worthless. You inherit not one ducat of his vast wealth.”
Punishment. That was what this was. Oh, that wonderful feeling he had once had. How he had this calling from the heavens. He would be this prancing, carefree lover. A life filled with pleasure and lust. No. He was simply an unwanted bastard that people had taken pity on.
He was standing now though he didn't remember rising.
“Mark! Mark, where are you going? Mark!” Richard chased after him.
“Leave me! Leave me!” he roared. As the story sank in, Mark was nearly in pieces from its meaning. He could not abide someone touching him, talking any more to him. He needed to be left alone.
“Mark! No! Not like this. Do not run away. I need take you back. Now! I will get us some wine. We will sit and be still if you wish. Please!”
Jerking his arm violently, Mark tore out of Richard's grip.
“Just come back with you?” Mark shouted. “Like this is nothing? Like I am the same person? What am I? What do you think this does to me? You speak abominations to me! I cannot abide myself now. Could my life have been so sheltered? Was I so blind to never guess what I am? I am worthless! I am the lowest form of life on this earth!”
Richard tried his best to hold him, comfort him.
“No! Do not touch me! You must let me be. I need time to think. Please, respect my wishes.”
“You are alone here in the city. You don't know the way—”
“Alone? Alone here? I am alone in the world!” Mark shuddered visibly. “I know the way. Let me be.” Again Mark walked away.
In a very black cloud of rage, Mark stalked the narrow streets and dark places of London. He pressed himself back against a soot-covered stone wall to allow a carriage to pass. It was so tight in the little alley he could stroke the horses as they thundered by. Over him read a street sign, “Cock's Lane". In misery, Mark covered his face as he wept.
The drizzle grew thicker and Mark turned his shoulder to the wind. His path took him deeper into realm of the brothels. Young men watched him from their doorway perches. Only tight breeches and an opened blouse covered their bodies. No cape to keep them hidden. It sent an odd rush over Mark's length. They were giving him very inviting looks. He knew why now. He was different from them. A half-breed. He had that Venetian blood in his veins, making him darker skinned. Did they think him a freak? Was that why they stared?
One man caught his attention. His jaw was so coarse with shadow it seemed it would scratch to touch it. His eyes were as black as a deep we
ll and very sensuous. He too was olive-complected. Yet he was broad, solid, and wide, not the tall, lithe spirit Mark knew himself to be. No six feet height to give him the appearance of a wraith. This man uttered a word that Mark heard. “Catamito.”
Italian, like himself. Mark sneered at his own internal dialogue. He approached the man to see him in more detail. “Do you speak English?”
The man smiled like Mark had asked a very odd question. “Of course. What do you want, my beautiful one?”
“What did you call me?”
The man's dark hand reached out to brush the hair back from Mark's face. “Tesoro mio. Vieni. Vieni tra le mie braccia, amor mio. My treasure. Come. Come into my arms, my love.”
Mark followed him up a flight of stone steps. The building appeared to be a century old and the large stone masonry gave off coolness he enjoyed. Mark had no idea why he was following this “foreigner". For all he knew he would be robbed and beaten. He didn't care. He wanted punishment.
A creaking sound accompanied the door closing. The dark man leaned against the old splintery wood and stared at Mark like he was simply an object.
“Do you know of a Venetian named Marc Antinous Caeserni?”
The man's expression revealed to Mark he had heard the name, though he never said a word. He moved across the expanse of that small space and cupped Mark's face in his callused, workingman's hands.
When their lips touched, Mark closed his eyes and tried not to tremble. As they parted Mark repeated his question.
“Why do you ask this?” The man started pushing Mark's expensive coat off his shoulders.
“Why do you not answer?” The velvet fell to the dusty floor.
“I know of him. He is a member of the Council of Three.”