by G. A. Hauser
“What is that?” The man kneeled and opened the pewter buttons of Mark's breeches.
“It is one of the highest powers in Venice. Look, my pretty. Did you come here for your lesson in politics? Or for some pleasure?”
“Pleasure?” His breeches were peeled back to his stockings.
The man stared up at Mark and smiled. “Si, yes, pleasure. You came to me and I will see to it you are pleased.”
Mark swayed back as a very strong arm held him firm and a mouth sucked him expertly.
When the climax rushed over Mark, the man stared up at his face to see it. Mark recuperated slowly and opened his eyes to get used to the dimness in the room.
The man gave a slow, deliberate smile. “You forget everything you ask me. Good.”
“Good ... oh, very good.” Mark gathered up his breeches and, very gently with two of his knuckles, he caressed the roughness of this man's face. Mark had never seen a shadow so coarse. Then he touched his own hairless one. He thought this man was incredibly beautiful. More beautiful than any other he had met so far in this trip. And his masculinity and size intrigued him.
The man smiled sweetly. “You will not grow it like this.”
“No, I am not pure Italian.”
The man's expression dropped and he seemed to study Mark more closely.
“Do I pay you? Or do I return the offer?” Mark asked innocently.
“You choose this yourself, bello mio, my beautiful man.”
Mark instantly dropped to his knees, delighted to be able to taste a man so fantastic.
Mark padded down the stone steps, glowing after the encounter. The feeling of yearning to be with this man again and again gnawed at him. But how could he do that? He was in no position to choose. Yet he had gotten more information about his father. It was mostly general knowledge about the comings and goings of statesman in that city of water. The name of Caeserni had been written into the Golden Book. If he had been a legitimate child of this man, he would have had a future. As it was, he was a farm hand. A hog tender. A nothing.
It was raining harder now. With one hand Mark shielded his eyes to see through the gray water coming down like urine in a gutter. A public house came into view on his left so he ducked into the doorway to get out of the torrent. So many people were rushing, caught unprepared for the change in weather.
The drops of water fell from him like pellets of mud from a beaten rug as he brushed his fingers down his coat and hair. It was very dim inside without the sunlight to lift the gloom. The landlord had begun lighting several candles.
A vacant seat enticed him. Mark sat heavily in its embrace, one that had been worn by hundreds of bottoms so that it was concave. Completely preoccupied, Mark ordered a bottle of ale and fingered the coins in his pockets. Gabriel made sure he was never short on funds.
After sating his thirst, the first waves of melancholia washed over him, followed by a creeping malaise. What if...
What if he set out to Venice and confronted the mighty Marc Antinous? The Italian whore had told him that this man, this man who people claimed was his father, had the power to put people to death. He was greater in influence than even the Doge.
How did that compare to the MPs of Parliament? To the Queen?
Mark rubbed his face. Oh, why didn't I learn more about the world of politics? Here I sit so naïve to everything. I know nothing. No. I know one thing. Giving and receiving pleasure. What has that done for me? Where will that bring me?
It didn't take long on an empty stomach to feel the alcohol. He knew not the time, nor did he care. Mark thought not of his uncle, nor his cousins. He wanted to vanish forever rather than live with what he considered an embarrassment that everyone knew of. Deep in his heart he was ashamed. Ashamed of his mother's behavior. And that shame burned in him like a hot coal.
His impeccable posture changing, Mark slumped over his beer. Through his stupor, Mark felt someone brush by his elbow. In his state he could hardly raise his head to acknowledge it.
Richard sat down next to him and leaned over to see under all his unruly hair. “Come home, Mark Antonious.”
In a far off place of his mind Mark heard it. He wept again. “Marc Antinous.” “Mark Antonious.” Branded. He had been branded with that name. A foreigner. In distain, Mark muttered something profane under his breath.
Richard leaned closer to whisper into his ear, “Come home where I may tend you properly, my lovely prince.”
Mark managed to raise his chin and make out the white wig and outline of Richard's familiar features. “I am a whore's son.”
“Shush...” Richard shook his head. “Come.” He stood and held Mark's upper arm.
Mark staggered to his feet. The tables made complaining noises as he fell against them and they scraped heavily on the hard tile floor.
“I am a whoreson!” Mark shouted before Richard could cup his hand over his mouth.
* * * *
Their carriage had come to a halt. Richard leaned out to see why and Mark woke up a little from his stupor to lean out as well. A parade of armed horsemen led a small procession and a gilded, white carriage drawn by white horses with tall white plumes in their bridles. Through the gloom they pranced to the palace.
When it seemed no one was moving anywhere whilst the spectacle continued, Mark opened the carriage door and climbed out. Shoving himself to the very front of the line of waiting coaches, Mark moved as close as he dared. A soldier's steed veered out as if to warn him to back up.
Mark took heed of it and stayed back. Suddenly shouts surrounded him of, “Long live the Queen!”
He blinked in amazement. “Anne is in there?”
Why did a lowly soldier keep him back? He was the son of a Caeserni! One of the most powerful men in Venice! Would she shun his father? Would His Excellency be denied access to her halls?
With defiance, Mark cut between the enormous chargers and made for her window. Before he could be stopped or sliced in two, for no one ever dared approach Her Majesty this way, Mark peered in. To his amazement he found a very infirm woman in her late forties. Though her dress was lavish and covered in gems, her face was withered and worn. “Your Highness,” he whispered, “long may you live.”
Right before he was dragged back, she met his eyes. A fragile smile formed on her lips.
A force as strong as a mule's kick sent him to the wet cobbles.
Four soldiers surrounded him with bared swords. Mark knew he was as good as dead.
The parade had halted. The crowd held its breath.
A pale hand appeared first, pushing back the curtain. The Queen showed her sickly pallor to all. When she found Mark on his back, hemmed in by cold steel, she called out to her guard, “Leave him be!”
Their fury was contained with great frustration. No one risked an act of insolence as great as this against the royalty. But obviously Queen Anne did not feel threatened or violated. Perhaps to her eyes a young, innocent man wanted to view his Queen and had the courage to come to her. “Let him be,” she repeated, retiring back into the gloom of her carriage.
The honed steel withdrew from his chest. As the cavalry mounted their chargers Mark was left behind, soaking wet and soiled from the drenching rain and sloppy streets.
Richard made it through the chaos to him and helped him to his feet. “My God, Mark! I already envisioned you in the prison tower awaiting execution.” With a hand around Mark's back, Richard helped him to return to their astonished driver, shoving Mark into the carriage. The line of waiting coaches moved on once again.
Richard stared at him and Mark felt his fury. As if acting on impulse, Richard slapped Mark's face, hard. Mark felt his skin burn on his cheek from the power of it. “How could you do that? How could you risk your life like that?” When Mark touched the raw spot with his muddy hand, Richard took him into a passionate embrace. “I adore you! Never do that again!”
They were back at the house to find both Gabriel and Thomas waiting. Seeing Richard flinch in regre
t, Mark paused before he stepped out of the carriage.
Richard whispered, “You know when they realize the state you are in, I will be held responsible.”
“No. It is I, not you, who is responsible.” Spent from exhaustion, Mark leaned heavily on him as Richard helped him out of the back of the coach.
Gabriel's anger was at such a state she didn't wait more than a moment for them to enter the house to slap her son in the face.
The sound woke Mark up. Richard took it calmly.
In an irritated huff, Gabriel nudged her two younger children out of the sitting room so they did not hear what was said. Mark could see Margaret grow resentful as she turned her cold shoulder to her mother and stormed out.
Before Mark could say a word, he found Gabriel's infuriated eyes, then even more frightening, Thomas'.
“Let me explain...” Richard began, his hands seeming to hold off their wrath.
Thomas crossed his arms and puffed up in a very threatening gesture. Before he blasted out a ferocious shout at his son, Mark stood between them to deflect it.
“I am to blame. Richard did his best to control me. Please. I beg you to believe me. He tried his best to get me home. It is I who must be punished. I who was defiant and willful.”
Richard added, “No, it was I who let you down, Mark.”
“If someone does not tell me what has occurred, you will both be whipped!” Thomas roared.
Waving her hands, Gabriel tried to calm everyone.
Mark glared at Thomas. “Punish me then! I deserve to be beaten.”
Richard grabbed at Mark to stop him from revealing what Mark knew could not be revealed.
“Your insolence is pushing me to my limit,” Thomas warned with an index finger extended into Mark's face.
“Do you know what I have done?” Mark thundered. “I am not fit to be in your presence. Punish me!”
As if in fear of that unknown act, Gabriel covered her mouth. She looked down at Mark's spattered fine fabrics. “Oh, my word!”
When Thomas grabbed Mark's arm violently and started to drag him off, Richard went to protest, but Mark intervened. It was then Mark witnessed the unbelievable fury in Thomas’ face. A mask so enraged Mark had never recognized it in him before, and quickly shut his mouth.
A door of a room Mark knew was seldom opened, never used, was forced back and Mark was shoved into it.
He regained his balance and through his wet, wild hair he watched Thomas.
“Get me a switch!” Thomas shouted to his servant and Mark cringed at the volume.
Mark had no fear of the thrashing, none, but he was cold, damp to the skin, and losing the battle for sanity. What had happened? A day back he had been so pleased, he would have begged to stay in this city of wonder and life. Now it was his hell.
With a flicker of light, a candle was set out and the door was closed.
“Drop your breeches, boy!”
Mark could tell Thomas was grinding his teeth in his fury. His wig had gone askew.
“NOW!”
Fumbling with his buttons, Mark peeled his soaking wet breeches down over his equally soaked, mud covered stockings, and faced a wall. A painting of the family came into view. He recognized Gabriel instantly. But she was so young! Mark took a step to it instinctively to get a closer look.
Like he had forgotten for a moment what was to come, Mark gasped in surprise as a heavy hand pushed him forward, bending him in two until his fingertips touched the ceramic floor.
At the first lash, Mark was stunned. He had never been punished in his life. All his nineteen years he had been the dutiful, obedient, humble servant to his uncle, thanking him, appreciating everything he had been given. He remembered only once Uncle David having to raise his voice to him. But it had never been in fury, more out of fear for his safety.
Again the switch came down. Mark cried out from it. The coolness of his skin was heating up to flames, painful flames. One more licked his cool, damp skin before it stopped. Just three lashes. Three painful, excruciating, wonderful lashes.
Mark was sweating profusely. In moments, he had gone from chilled dampness to boiling steam.
With his right hand Mark reached out to steady himself on a chest, one directly underneath that painting. All he could hear was his own pumping heart and breathing. It felt as if he were alone in the room. That was, until he was caressed.
While complete exhaustion threatened to make him drop, Mark lowered his head to his arm to rest. Thomas’ large fingers tried to comfort him, smoothing down Mark's hot flesh, raising the goose bumps on him. Without an effort, Mark grew incredibly hard. Hands wrapped around his waist and lips kissed his neck through his damp hair.
The tip of a cock poked at Mark between his legs. Allowing entry, Mark widened his stance as it pushed under his balls. Mark clamped tightly around it with his thighs. When Thomas’ hand brushed by Mark's penis and discovered how excited Mark was, it seemed to ignite more passion in Thomas. He moved quickly to give Mark satisfaction.
Mark panted in time with Thomas’ thrusts, his eyes coming to rest again on that painting. On a woman. One next to his cousin Gabriel. A beautiful woman with long, flowing hair and a narrow face. His eyes clenched. Mark came and his knees gave out.
Behind him a masculine grunting noise filled his ears. Every pulse of that large cock echoed through Mark's body until hot semen ran down his leg. When Mark was released he lay his head back down on that ornate painted surface, closing his eyes.
Mark heard Thomas fastening his breeches and trying to catch his breath behind him.
Unmoving, lifeless, Mark's pants were still folded at his knees. He rested his chin on the back of his hand and stared at the painting. Gabriel had been so beautiful in her youth. She was still comely now, just a bit heavier and certainly older. Other than that, his mind was blank. Once again hot wetness trickled down the inside of his thigh.
Thomas touched his back gently. “Mark...”
In what felt like a distorted dream, Mark raised his weary head.
“Come, Mark. Let's get you a hot bath and some brandy.”
Mark pivoted around. His hips pushed out forward as he leaned with both hands on the table behind him for support. Staring in confusion, like he was hearing a foreign language, Mark could not grasp what was expected of him. There was a numbness to him like he had never encountered.
Thomas gathered Mark up in his arms and squeezed him, inhaling him. “I am sorry. Forgive me.” Thomas crushed Mark mercilessly, burrowing under his long hair to his neck, rushing his hand down to cup Mark's tight, rounded cheeks and massage them lovingly.
Mark heard Thomas’ apology in confusion. His nakedness rubbed against those rough clothes and a spark of passion seared through him unexpectedly. His sex drive was so great he was only just beginning to understand the extent of it. Mark was elevated off his feet. “I do not understand.”
As if it took a great effort of will, Thomas forced himself to release Mark and set him on his feet. Before Mark covered himself decently, Thomas ran his hand over his length. “Pull up your breeches, Mark.”
Obeying slowly and silently, Mark pushed his hair out of his face, for it was now driving him crazy it was so wild. Once Mark had settled himself, he found Thomas’ beautiful, sad eyes. “Do not apologize to me. I get what I deserve.”
“No ... no, Mark, you didn't deserve what I did.” Thomas held Mark's hand and brought him out of the room. “Come, let me get a servant to draw a bath.”
Behind a screen, Mark disrobed. A servant mixed one pail of boiling water to two at room temperature. It seemed the right recipe for a comfortable soak. He eased down into it and sighed audibly.
A servant handed Mark a glass of strong brandy. Mark drank it like water and handed him the empty glass.
Peeking timidly, Richard appeared from behind the screen. “You all right?”
Mark met his eyes. “As well as can be expected.”
Entering the room, Richard flipped over one of the
empty pails to sit on. “I'm sorry about Father. He feels he must play disciplinarian in the absence of Uncle David.” Richard found the soap and rubbed a wet cloth to it, scrubbing Mark's back.
“I know. I deserved it, Richard. What a fool am I. Rushing the Queen's carriage. I should be dead. She is lucky I am no assassin. So? What do I do now?”
“Do?” Dropping the cloth into the tub, Richard dried his hands. “Like the rest of us, you act like a perfect prince in public and then do as you like behind closed doors. What else is there?”
“That's it? You have no other aspirations?”
Richard studied Mark's face carefully before he spoke. “No. Nothing else. I want only pleasure. That is where you fit in, my lovely.”
Mark sighed. “Yes, yes, pleasure, but what about the world?”
Richard's smirk faded. “Somehow I feel you are seeking something deep and meaningful. If so, my gorgeous Ganymede, you have come to the wrong house. The Holloways are known for their excesses. We drink, eat, play heavily, and do not mention our liaisons. You will insult us if you act shocked.” Richard found a towel and held it in ready.
Mark stood, the water rushing off him. “Yes, I begin to see that wealth and power bring with it excess.” Mark took the towel and rubbed it through his hair and over his face.
Stealthily, Richard leaned forward to kiss Mark's cock.
Mark stared down at him curiously.
“Power and excess. Yes, my plaything, so very right.”
“What if I were to travel to Venice? On a pilgrimage.”
“Go to Becket's shrine instead,” Richard admonished.
Gingerly, Mark stepped out of the tub to the wet floor. “No, no. Not that type.”
“You don't think I know what you say? To your father? He will behead you. No, stay here. Play with me.” Richard tried to touch him everywhere at once.
The sound of the harpsichord reached Mark's ear.
The hearkening to it was so abrupt that Richard could not help but look jealous. “The music. Your mother passed it to you in your blood.”
“Hmm?” Mark pretended to not understand.
“Every time Margaret plays you get lost. You make me envious of her talent.”