by Thom Lane
Like master, like man: Master Leonin’s house had been rife with hidden gambling. And even so, even there I’d resisted it. Month after month, I’d taken the worst that he liked to hand out—and that was very, very bad indeed—sooner than risk that dangerous kind of reputation.
The safest way was not to learn the rules, and so I never had.
It was one of my own rules, never ever to start gambling. There were others, that maybe mattered more. Some were commonplace, the rules that all slaves live by; some were all my own.
Never let a free man catch you staring. That was a common one. Nor a free woman either, of course, nor even a child; but it was men I had to deal with tonight. One man in particular, though I’d tread lightly around them all just to be sure.
If Master Leonin had looked up, if he’d bothered to look at me, he would have seen me standing with my eyes dutifully downcast, the way he’d always seen me. It hadn’t always saved me, but he had no rights over my body now. We’re forbidden to take oaths—who’d trust the word of a slave?—but privately I swore to myself that he never would again. Whatever his intentions.
I kept my head down, as I always had. I kept my eyes down, as a wise boy does. I watched his fingers, the way they held his cards and reached for his coins and his cup.
Last night, before they were done playing, there had been a visible tremble in those fingers: part fury, part frustration, all failure. I really, really wanted to see that again.
Play poorly. Make wild bids on weak cards. Lose your nerve, throw your best hands. Make it obvious when you’re bluffing. Lose and lose, and lose again…
There was nothing more I could do for Master Jensen; I couldn’t give him better cards, or make him a better player. But I could ill-wish his opponents. I was really good at that. Nothing showed on my face; I’d learned long ago to stand utterly still and look utterly neutral. Inside, though, I was sending out my spirit against them all. All of them, but Master Leonin particularly. He was the one who mattered. They’d all take their cue from him tonight. If he was careless with his cards and extravagant with his money, so would the others be. They couldn’t help it. Weak men shadow the strong.
So I stood there like a perfect slave boy, humble and attentive, while my mind raged against my former master and his cronies; and just like last night, it worked. It really seemed to work. Master Leonin made plays he never would have risked ordinarily; he heaped up stacks of coin against one hand; and the others around the table emulated him, took their own chances, made their own mad bids.
And they lost and lost, and lost again.
There was only one man who could benefit from such crazy play. I watched with a kind of apprehensive pride as my new master raked in the money, more and more and more.
At last I moved, because I had to. Master Leonin’s friends hardly had a coin left between them, and he was doing no better. He was swilling brandy through his teeth, and looking dangerous. If we wanted to get out of there alive, I thought, we really needed to leave now.
So I went to Lord Varty’s steward and asked in a murmur for some good strong bags, to carry my master’s winnings in.
“What, you think they’ll just let you walk out? With all of that?” He was an older man, his collar worn to a dull shine; I guessed he’d seen more than one generation of owners come and go. And more than one reluctant guest kept here against their will, that too.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I do. They’re honorable men. Fetch the bags.”
He snorted, as though he could count through all those generations and not find one vestige of honor among them, but he went. I went back to my master, to his side now, to help him tally and stack all that he’d won.
He made a gesture to brush me away, but I held still; his hand settled on my shoulder, and after a moment I felt it relax as he muttered, “Yes. Yes, you’re right, lad. We should go.”
That made a stir all around the table, a rising chorus of protest. “No, no. You shan’t leave, not yet. The night is young still; you have to give us our revenge.” The words were jocular, but from Master Leonin at least the meaning was anything but.
I took a chance myself then, lifted my head and looked at them, looked at them all. Just for a moment, before I closed my eyes.
Slaves aren’t allowed to be religious—what gods would trouble themselves with us, what free folk would willingly share their heaven?—but I might as well have been praying, I was that fervent and that urgent in the privacy of my head.
Let us go. Just let us go. Stay where you are and watch us leave. You’re too drunk to interfere, all of you; and what does it matter anyway? This isn’t a fortune to you, it’s just an embarrassment. Let us go, and scowl about it later among yourselves…
To their own surprise, I thought, that’s what they did. They just sat there, a little agape, while Master Jensen and I swept all his gains into bags and loaded me up with them. The house slaves were frankly astonished, but of course there was nothing they could do under their master’s eye, so long as he made no move and gave no orders. Even Rollo stood behind Master Leonin’s chair and waited, and couldn’t shift a muscle to prevent our leaving.
Sometimes a strict house can be a blessing, where the slaves don’t dare take any initiative.
If it had been me—well, actually, if it had been me I would have stood there just like Rollo did, and done nothing, just like Rollo. Except that I would have been smirking inside, not seething. And feeling how sore my back was already, and wondering if Master Leonin would take his temper out on me later.
Or, no. I’d know that he would. He was that kind of man. Even Rollo wouldn’t be safe from the whip tonight, if his master didn’t find another scapegoat in the meantime.
Honestly, though, nobody was safe. Certainly not me, and not my Master Jensen. I leaned into him a little as we left the house, just enough to have him reach out and grip my neck firmly, so that he could urge me along faster.
That’s right, Master. Don’t let’s linger. No keeping me at heel either, not tonight. We’re two young men in a hurry; free or slave makes no difference now, let’s just get off the streets with all this money, let’s get safe…
A room in a boardinghouse was not truly safe, and never would be. His particularly was not safe at all. Master Leonin knew where to look. But I thought—I hoped!—that it would be morning before that man drew his wits and his temper together, counted up his losses and decided whether or not to pursue them. Us. By morning, I was hoping to have us far away from here. Another quarter of the city, a new home, a new life. For both of us. With money behind him, Master Jensen could find a better way to live. I could play body slave and house slave both, stable boy too if he bought a horse. I could give him all the service he desired, keep us both happy. Keep us both safe, that too. I could do that. I was sure I could.
I’d need to persuade or inveigle my master, maybe lean on him a little—but that could all wait till the morning. As far as he was concerned, at least. If I was actually starting sooner, starting tonight, it was a more subtle process and he ought never to know. We all keep secrets from our owners, and a lot of that is hiding just how much we influence their choices. From the pretty pageboy wheedling a candy from his mistress to the weathered buck managing the stables as if they were his own, every slave has his little manipulations and his minor triumphs. If I was hoping to move Master Jensen all across town and remake his life for him—well, I just aimed higher than most of us, that was all. I was more ambitious for my master, and dared to dream that he could be a better man.
I’d like to say I looked further than my own interest, but you’d see through me in a second. This was in my own interest, to see my master safe and happy, and then to see him rise.
Right now—well. I wanted to see him rise.
Which was a really unfortunate thought, and I needed to choke down my giggle quick before he caught it. Luckily, we were back at his room by then. I could heft his bag of winnings onto the press with an audible grunt, then drop t
o my knees to help him off with his boots: busy and noisy and hiding my face at his feet. It was just ideal.
And it meant I could kiss his feet like a good boy while I was there, and then linger to nuzzle every separate toe like a good importunate teasing boy just asking for a treat or else a good thrashing, or very likely both.
After a minute, when he didn’t respond with so much as a twitch of a toe, let alone the sting on the shoulder that I was half expecting and half working for, I peeked up to see him sitting quite still on the bed there, staring across at the bag of coin.
“Master…?”
I knelt up and nuzzled at his hand, where it lay slack on his thigh. He reacted at last, caressing my head roughly while he shook his own in bewilderment.
“I don’t…I don’t understand it. Any of it.” He looked down at me, and his face twitched into a thin smile. “Even you, I don’t understand you either. I think this must all be down to you, that’s the only way I can make any sense of it.”
For a moment, my heart froze in my chest. How much did he know? Had he guessed how he was being manipulated?
But then he grinned suddenly, and scooped me up two-handed onto his lap; and fumbled impatiently with the ties of my tunic while I just nestled close in relief and let him do it, bad me, when I should have been helping; and he said, “I think you’re my luck, Jay. My new lucky token. I think some power sent you into my hand, all undeserving. I don’t suppose you’ve done anything to deserve a layabout master like me, and I’m sure I’ve done nothing to deserve a boy like you; but here you are, and suddenly everything’s different. Suddenly I can’t stop winning…”
Yes, you can, Master mine. You can stop gambling.
I didn’t say it, of course. Not yet. But his eyes had strayed back to that bag of money; I took a chance, laid my hand against his cheek, turned his head physically back to mine.
And set my lips softly against his, and kissed him.
And then not so softly as he responded, lips and teeth and tongue.
And then we were both breathing hard, and I was squirming awkwardly out of that tunic, and he was trying to help and mostly just getting in the way, while neither of us would let the other break away from the kiss; and then at last it fell away, and I was naked in his arms the way I did so want to be, and the only problem left was his own clothes.
Which were heavier and more complicated and couldn’t just be slipped free with a wriggle. In the end I did have to stop kissing him. Indeed, I had to put my hands on his shoulders and push him down onto the mattress, kneel over him and tell him to lie still and let me deal with it.
I was tempting fate yet again, this seemed to be the night for it; and yet again I got away with it. He laughed up at me and said, “Yes, Jay,” all submissively; and then he just lay there and played with whatever parts of me he could reach while I stripped the clothes from his body swiftly and efficiently. Just as I had last night, come to think: only last night he’d been slack from alcohol, utterly gone. Tonight he was almost sober—or at least drunk on a kind of baffled wonder, which was a very different thing—and it was a game, he was enjoying himself. Enjoying the distraction, I think. Playing with his boy was a lot easier than thinking about all that money, and what it meant for his future.
What it might mean, if he didn’t fritter it away on wine and cards and pretty boys. Or just linger here too long, and learn for himself how very not safe a boardinghouse could be. Even if Master Leonin didn’t actually know any toughs willing to knock a young man on the head for a silver shilling, his steward was sure to. Amaranth was that kind of city; Rollo was that kind of man. Even a slave could arrange for something bad to happen to a free man, if he only had his master’s voice to back him.
And if something bad happened to Master Jensen, then my own life too would suddenly be getting much, much worse.
I wasn’t, was not going to let that happen. Not to either one of us.
Right now, I wanted something good to happen to both of us. Between the two of us. That much at least was in my power to achieve, so long as he would let me; and so far he was cooperating delightedly. Delightfully. When at last I had him naked, I knelt back on my heels and waited, expecting him to take charge now; but he only lay still there between my legs, grinning up at me with a “what now?” expression on his face. Waiting. With his hand curled around my cock, but still. Waiting for me.
He didn’t need to wait long. As soon as I understood that he was leaving the game in my hands for the moment, I dropped down to lie sprawled across his long lean body. It’s not often a slave gets to be on top, let alone to choose what happens next. It was sort of unnerving—I was still new to him, he was new to me; I didn’t know what he liked—but fun too. A challenge, something to chew on. Carefully.
The way I’d toppled down on top of him, just catching my weight on my elbows in time, we were head to head and eye to eye. Which meant I could dig my fingers into the long luscious tangles of his hair, while I felt his hands slide up onto my rump; I could close my mouth over his and kiss him properly, insinuating my tongue deep into the warm wetness of him. He tasted cleanly of the water and fruit juices that he’d drunk, with only the hint of a memory of wine, my good master; under that, deeper than that he was all man, young man, hot and eager breath and really not so different from me except for… Well. Except for everything. He owned me, and I belonged to him. It made all the difference in the world.
Patience isn’t a quality that I’d mostly apply to free folk, and certainly not to this new master of mine; but he was remarkably patient just then. Almost passive, except that I could feel the stiff bolt of his cock against my belly, and there was nothing passive about that, it was only waiting. And maybe not so patiently as the rest of him.
Still, he let me explore his mouth to my tongue’s content. His own tongue played with mine, but quietly. Not passive, no: but patient, yes. Curious, perhaps, to see what I’d do next. Given a free hand for once, two free hands, and license to roam at will.
I moved down from his mouth to his throat, kissing and nuzzling, tasting: he’d been sweating lightly, and there was salt there, and the underlying musk of a man. A touch of something other too, the oily smokiness I’d smelled on him when he was fuddled, when Master Leonin had led him away to be fleeced. I wanted to wash that away, but this was no time to be mentioning a bath. And I couldn’t lick him clean all over, even if he’d let me; and I didn’t want to be fuddling myself with whatever residue of weakness might still cling. It was important to keep myself sharp and clearheaded tonight, in order to steer my master safe next day.
It was almost funny, how firmly I believed that he couldn’t find his own way safe without me.
Almost.
I loved how I could feel the beat of his blood right there under the tender skin of his neck, against the tender skin of my lips. Maybe nothing about him was as patient as he wanted to pretend, or else he was finding it harder to hold on to. His pulse and his breathing both were rapid, uncommonly urgent for a man who was just lying there waiting to be entertained.
I slithered farther down, till my mouth could encompass his nipple. That was as stiff and excited as his cock, even before I started sucking and nipping at it. At them, first one and then the other and then back to the first again. He was laughing, as my tongue flicked at the rooty little things—or at least, he was trying to laugh. It sounded more like gasps, hard pebbles of sound flung out at the world. Never mind his heartbeat, all his body was surging and pulsing now beneath my questing mouth.
I ran my tongue across his ribs and found them already wet with sweat. When I tried to wrap my arms and legs around him, to hold him still with simple dead weight, he was almost too slick to grip. And his hands were on my body now, and so much for his astonishing patience; and I was sweating myself, sweating and grunting under his touch as I worked my way methodically over his belly and down to where at last I found the tip of his hot cock waiting for me.
Waiting? Questing, rather: yearning
for me, reaching towards my mouth like a lodestone reaching for the north.
This wasn’t the time to play coy. I lipped it, licked it, sucked it, suckled at it, engulfed it as best I could, opening wide and taking in the whole head, feeling the jolt of it at the back of my throat.
When he grunted contentedly, I pulled free: just to hear his second sudden grunt of frustration, just to feel his hands lock around my head and drag me back to my work again. No more patience, no more passivity. Now he was my master entirely, demanding, exacting, enforcing.
Now I was his boy entirely, with no will of my own except to please him.
I ran my tongue all the length of his shaft from root to tip, thinking that I could feel how the blood surged after my tongue, how he grew stiffer yet, longer yet. I wondered what would happen if I nipped at him, if I chewed—but it was too early to take the risk. Some free folk like to feel a boy’s teeth, but not all. Sometimes it’s the quickest way to a whipping.
Just lips and tongue, then, until I knew him better. Up and down the shaft, taking the head into my mouth again, while my fingers teased at his balls and probed behind, found the cleft of his ass and probed deeper, pressed against his sphincter and so through…
When he came, it was with a yell and a sudden arching spasm that lifted us both clear of the bed. My mouth filled with the hot spurt of his cum; I clung and swallowed and held his cock determinedly between my lips, and maybe I did use my teeth just a little just to be sure, not to lose him before I had to.