Mark Antonius deMontford

by G. A. Hauser

The baron climbed onto the bed and reached his hand between Mark's thighs, cupping his balls, then sucked at Mark's mouth and tongue ruthlessly.

  The grip on his testicles was close to pain. Mark tried to relax under it, not push it away. A finger penetrated him. As it explored, Mark shivered and attempted to turn his face aside to gain air. Almost with anger, the baron turned him back just as quickly. That mouth wasn't through yet. Mark's tightly wound body finally yielded. He spread his legs and opened his mouth wider.

  This only served to bring the baron into a heightened state of arousal. With a gasp, Mark's mouth was released. No matter how he tried Mark could not gain enough air. Mark panted heavily as he attempted to stay calm. No one had ever handled him this way. It was sending him to new heights of delirium.

  The baron knelt up next to him and spread wide his britches. “On your knees. Suck it.”

  Mark rolled to his knees quickly and opened his mouth. The organ was wide and solid like the baron himself. That musky, masculine scent sent him reeling. Mark groaned as he tasted him, trying his best to please.

  The baron shoved him back violently. The suddenness of it surprised Mark. He was about to ask if he had done something wrong when the baron forced him to roll over, face down, and wrenched his legs apart.

  Mark clenched his teeth and waited for the assault. He felt hot come on his ass first and then a penis pushed through the cream and into him. Mark arched his back and gasped. That powerful, velvet covered arm wrapped around his hips and raised him up to meet thrusting hips.

  Mark groaned and labored for air as if he were in agony, yet euphoria was mixed with the pain. The baron's cock slipped in and out of him for so long seeking its second pleasure, Mark didn't know how much more he could bear, his own satisfaction waiting untouched.

  Finally, a deep, aggressive grunting reached his ears. It seemed to linger, a release of need and yearning.

  Mark lay still, that weight and heat on top of him. He waited. He dared not move. A hot breath passed his ear, moved his hair as the baron recuperated.

  A long moment lingered before Mark was released from his captivity. Mark rolled to his side and wiped back his damp hair from his soaked brow.

  The baron washed himself clean at a basin and fastened his britches. Just as Mark thought he would turn and go, the baron crawled back onto the bed to mirror Mark's posture. Baron Abel cupped Mark's jaw and gazed into his eyes for what seemed like hours to Mark. Then Mark felt a hand on him. A hand to give him what he craved. Just as roughly as before, Mark was pushed to lie flat on his back. Mark kept his arms to his sides and watched the baron with unmatched intensity. His large hand gripped Mark's shaft as though it wanted to tear it off. Then it went to work.

  With all his might, Mark tried to keep his eyes open, but he could not. Mark writhed and rocked on the bed until he was spinning. When he came it was so powerful it hit the pillows next to his face. Mark blinked his eyes wide and twisted to see the spot in astonishment.

  The baron set back and smiled, trying not to laugh.

  Mark opened his mouth to speak some expletive, some verbalization of the shock he felt, but nothing came out.

  Even as the baron gathered himself together and poured a handful of gold onto the bed, Mark tried to think of some way to express himself. To thank the baron, maybe to share what it felt like, to tell him he worshipped the ground he walked on, to ask the baron to marry him, all these insane thoughts passed through his mind and he could not utter a single sound.

  The baron touched his cheek lovingly and left the room.

  Through a strangled throat, Mark wanted to call out to him, to stop him, to say something! When the door closed he could only sigh and stare at it.

  * * * *

  It was past the midnight hour when Mark was woken by someone petting the fine hair back from his face. “Have you saved one for me?” the man whispered.

  Stirring, Mark started coming around slowly. He opened his eyes and squinted into the candle flame. It took a moment for Mark to realize where he was and who was with him. “I'm sorry...”

  Percivel leaned closer. “Sorry?”

  “I have fallen asleep. I didn't mean to. Is the party over?”

  Percivel smiled gently, caressing him to comfort him. “Yes. It is over. Have you done well?”

  Mark sat upright on the bed. “Another twenty sovereigns from the baron. Yes, I am very wealthy now.”

  “Good lad. I presume you will take your leave in the morning and begin your quest.”

  “Yes ... in the morning. Are you cross with me?”

  Percivel pressed his thumb into a crease between Mark's eyebrows to smooth it out. “No, why on earth should I be?”

  Mark worried. “You should be angry because I feel I have used you. Here I have come to your home and made a whore of himself with your friends. Now as quickly as I came, I will vanish. It seems rude somehow.”

  “I will be cross only if I do not get a proper goodbye.”

  Mark replied quickly, “Yes! Of course. I am awake for you now.”

  “Give me a few moments to get ready.”

  Mark waited as Percivel rose off his bed. He nodded in understanding, wondering how long to wait. Gathering the rest of the coins up, Mark opened the little compartment of the nightstand. He dumped the pile in, thinking he would count them before he went to sleep, or in the morning light. He was quite certain he had enough for the entire trip and possibly the return as well. It amazed him how much people thought the act was worth. Pure gold? Astonishing! Simply astonishing!

  Mark grew impatient and dove into his nightshirt. On tiptoes, he made his way down the hall. Scratching at the door, a servant opened it. “Am I too early?”

  Ready for him, Percivel was in bed, his wig off, his face washed, and his smile broad. “No, my lovely, come in.”

  Mark raced in, bounded on the bed, and grinned wickedly. “Good!”

  Percivel dismissed the servants with a wave and then crossed his arms over his chest in amusement. “Well?”

  “I have saved the best for last!” Mark grinned.

  “Best? Oh, I doubt anything beats Baron Abel.”

  “Do not underestimate yourself.” Mark crawled under the quilt and embraced him.

  The duke gave him a generous smile. “Good man, always make your lovers feel they are the best. You have learned a lot very quickly.”

  “Yes, I have. I am on my way.”

  Percivel pinched out the candle flame and found Mark's lips.

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  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  The amount of gold Mark carried alarmed him. Percivel gave him several more weapons, including a long sword and a dagger to go with the short jeweled sword given to him by his cousin. In a suede bag that hung around his throat, Mark held the majority of his wealth. The spending money was in his jacket's deeply lined pockets. The duke had contributed to Mark's purse and his generosity amazed Mark. Did they all have so many riches to give? Or were they just kindhearted people? Both, maybe?

  Setting out on what he hoped was an adventure of a lifetime, Mark hailed his own carriage. It made him feel like a man for the first time in his life. After careful consideration, he had set out a plan in his head and only hoped it would go well. Did any of his plans? No, but he would not think of that now.

  Mark waved to his good friend who had provided travel papers and several introduction letters to important people to help him on his way.

  Before Mark started his journey to Dover he had one last stop to make.

  Asking the driver to turn back into London's crowded city to the tight alleys of the brothel district, Mark pretended he did not see the driver's disgusted expression, and sat in the rocking carriage, thinking, hoping things would go his way.

  When they slowed and the driver shouted they had arrived, Mark leaned out of the window finding the sign. Cock's Lane. Assuring the coachman he would only be a moment, Mark had the driver wait whilst he hunted for the rig
ht doorway.

  When he found it, Mark was dismayed. It was empty. Lowering his head in defeat, he headed back to the carriage. Taking one last look, Mark spotted a gentleman leaving and then that dark male back in his place, leaning against the frame.

  Without a second thought, Mark rushed to him and stared into his startled black eyes.

  “You remember me?” Mark tried not to gulp the air in excitement. He thought this man was divine and the thrill of being back in his company was spinning him to new heights.

  “Yes, of course, Catamito.” He brushed the fringe back from Mark's eyes.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  “Yes, come up with me.” The dark man gestured.

  “No! No. Not that kind. Come with me to speak privately in my carriage.” Mark grabbed his hand and brought the suspicious man inside the secluded space.

  “Look, let me get this out before you refuse me.” Mark felt as if he were on fire as he spoke. “I need you. You speak both English and Italian. I want to hire you to help me get to Venice. I will pay you extremely well. More than you will make here in months.”

  The man stared at Mark curiously. “Why do you want to go to Venezia? London is so much more alive.”

  “My father. Remember, I asked you about Marc Antinous Caeserni? He is my father.”

  As he digested the words, the man's face paled a little.

  “Yes! I am telling you the truth. I want to meet him.”

  “Meet him?”

  “I am his illegitimate heir. You must help me.”

  A slow smile emerged from the man as if he now understood. “He will not acknowledge you. He will send you away. You waste your time.”

  “Maybe. But it is something I must do. Please, will you help me? I will pay you. I will make it worth your while.”

  Slowly, the man raised his hand to Mark's face and cupped it. “What if I want more than the shilling, tesoro mio?”

  Mark smiled seductively. He already adored this kind man. “Then you will get it. What is your name?”

  “Francesco Cavella. Yes. All right. I have a few possessions. Wait here.”

  Looking back at Mark once, the man climbed out and disappeared. Mark's heart beat wildly in his chest. He knew Francesco would know how to get him there. It was working out exactly as planned, so far.

  The driver of the coach curled his lip and uttered, “Pooftahs,” with contempt. Mark ignored it.

  * * * *

  Mark noticed Francesco had very few items he could not part with. A sword, a sharp stiletto, and a small purse of coins.

  Knowing the coachman disliked the contents of his carriage, Mark instructed the driver to take them as far as he could on their way to Dover, ignoring his sneer.

  As Mark sat back with a sigh, he stared at this dark man whose face had a deep, black shadow, like night, on his jaw. “Tell me about Venice.”

  Francesco laughed like a rumble of a volcano. “What is to tell? It is filled with pompous fools who keep a crumbling city at bay.”

  “No, come now. It can't all be bad.”

  “No, not all bad. Sometimes it is wondrous. You sit in a gondola and watch the beauty of the Grand Canal flicker with a thousand lights reflected from the city. But she is a dying place, bello mio. Filled with greed and unwholesomeness.”

  “Is that why you left?”

  “In part. I came here for love. But as you can see, that love left me penniless and in a bleak position.”

  “Then am I helping you by getting you back to your home?”

  Appearing to consider that thought, Francesco chuckled softly, almost with a grumble in the way it came out. “Maybe so. We shall see.”

  “Thank you. I don't know what I would do without you to help me. What can I say?”

  Francesco reached out his hand.

  Mark took it and Francesco brought him to the same side of the carriage as he was. “You can say nothing. We have many weeks ahead and silence would be the best. Incessant chatter is most unpleasant.”

  Enjoying the heat emanating from his body, Mark sighed and laid his head down on that large, barrel chest. “Yes, it wears on me as well.”

  “Good. Bene. Come, look at me.”

  Mark sat up and faced him.

  Francesco smiled lovingly. “Yes, I will enjoy traveling with you.”

  Feeling that large male urging him forward until their lips met, Mark closed his eyes and wrapped around him. He had no idea why, but this man gave him security. Maybe it was because he was strong, imposing, and confident. All the things Mark felt he lacked. Francesco was his bodyguard. Mark would reward him with money and with sex, as much as he could provide. Francesco was different from the others. He was real, honest, and to Mark's eyes, a gorgeous god. Mark already adored him though they hardly knew each other.

  * * * *

  They decided to sleep in the coaches as much as they could, eat only twice a day, and think of nothing but speed. If they dawdled, then the trip would last months.

  Mark's purse gave them enough for wine and meals, as well as the fast coaches that were becoming part of England's fame.

  In two days they arrived in Dover. It was the farthest Mark had ever been away from the farm. The farm. If he thought of his Uncle David and Aunt Katie, he'd cry. By now he was almost certain that Cousin Thomas had notified Uncle David of his disappearance. What would they do? Would they search frantically? He tried not to care. All would be explained when he returned. If he returned.

  Maybe his father would take one look at his gorgeous son and find him irresistible. He would open his loving arms and bring Mark home to introduce him to his family, his brothers and sisters, to live in a grand palazzo. And if pigs had wings they would fly.

  As Francesco looked on, Mark paid the driver upon arrival in the bustling seaport. They had no choice but to stay at an inn overnight as they learned the next ship out wasn't until morning. Noticing a shingle of an inn with the sign of a boar, Mark inquired of a room.

  Ducking his head as he moved through the doorway, Mark grew excited when he entered, enjoying the roaring fireplace and low, wood beam ceilings that were supposedly made from the hull of ancient ships. The long hours in the carriage had taken their toll. They found a table together, sitting stiffly. Waiting until Francesco was seated, Mark made sure his companion had everything he desired. Keeping his back to the graying walls, Francesco's eyes were on the occupants and door.

  Mark studied him closely. “You are very cautious.”

  “Always, Catamito.”

  “Do you think we will be attacked?” Mark surveyed the room.

  “Not if we are aware. No.” Their drinks were served first and sated a great thirst.

  “Are you skilled with the sword?” Mark leaned closer to him.

  “I know enough.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  Pausing as if attempting to read more than his words, Francesco met Mark's eyes. “If you wish.”

  “I wish.” Mark slurped down his ale and scooted his chair so close to Francesco he was leaning against his side. “Teach me. Teach me how to defend myself. I was raised on a farm. I know nothing of daggers and swords.”

  At Mark's innocent confession, Francesco smiled to himself. “I was a bravo back in Padua. Protecting people was my business. Si, yes, I will do this for you.”

  Grinning happily, Mark nodded in gratitude, sitting back to stare at his companion. “I will fall in love with you.”

  Stunned by his comment, Francesco raised his dark eyes to Mark's. “Don't be foolish, Catamito.”

  “What does that mean? Is it an affectionate term? Like what you would call a lover?” Mark whispered seductively.

  Francesco laughed to himself. “No, then maybe yes. It is one who sins against nature ... my Ganymede.”

  “Ganymede!” Mark sighed. “If you only knew how many times I have been called that!”

  “Good. It fits perfectly.”

  As the meal arrived Mark shifted over to give h
is companion some room.

  The food was superb and their mood elevated with the savory tastes and fine spirits.

  Mark loved watching Francesco as he devoured his plate. There was something so base and animalistic about him. A raw masculine essence to Francesco he adored. Like Baron Abel. Robust, muscular, confident. He wanted to be like them. He aspired to it, in fact.

  As Mark watched Francesco tear off the meat from the bone and shoved it into his mouth, the excitement Mark felt almost caused him embarrassment. Francesco used a chunk of bread to mop up the juices. No dainty little tricks with a knife. This man knew how to eat!

  * * * *

  After their meal, a swaying skirt led the way to their humble bedroom. The chamber was crudely furnished, but clean. Mark thanked the woman and closed the door behind her. Francesco watched him in the single candlelight's glow.

  Concentrating on his task, Mark latched the door and shook it to make sure it stayed.

  “You asked me for a lesson. Come. Before we get too tired.” Francesco drew his sword.

  Wondering if he was already too exhausted, Mark nodded in agreement and stood on the same side of the room so they both faced the door. With an unaccustomed clumsiness, Mark drew the long sword given to him by the duke. Mimicking Francesco, he began learning the basics of fencing.

  Over and over again he would lunge and parry. Francesco drove him harder than anyone had so far in his many years of schooling.

  At one point Francesco said, “You have so little time to get skillful with the weapons that we must make sure you practice as much as possible. First with the long sword, then with the menacing stiletto.”

  By midnight Mark's calves were aching, his head hurt, and his shoulders were in agony. Though he was in pain, Mark worked through it, not wanting to cry out he was too spent. Somehow he managed to continue until Francesco told him he'd done enough.

  The relief in Mark was overwhelming. He set the weapon aside and tried to gain his breath again.

  “You are very elegant with the blade,” Francesco praised him. “A natural. For you this will come very easy. You will be surprised one day when you need it, and you will have it in you like a reflex.”