He endured blows three and four. He was gasping, and his body flexed involuntarily in response to each impact, but he was taking it. Tugging uselessly at his wrist restraints, tightening his arm muscles, indeed provided a distraction. And a curious sensation of intense, saturating warmth was spreading across his back. It was, weirdly, almost like the end result of a thorough massage. He fought to remain calm, to regulate his breathing.
“You are new to this, my son,” he heard Padre Valentin say. “Shall I stop?”
“No…keep going, please, give me all twelve,” Sebastien replied, gasping for breath.
Five…six… His back felt hotter, exactly as though a hot compress had been applied to it. Seven…eight… The heat was very intense now. He was sweating profusely, as had the others.
Nine…ten… Part of the torture was not knowing exactly where the next blow would fall, because Padre Valentin was careful to aim for a different area each time. Sebastien thought that his lungs would burst from the effort it was taking him not to cry out. He remembered the story Cristiano had told him about the miracle, at the dinner table, the night he had arrived at the fazenda.
“O Saõ Martinho, save us poor wretches!” he heard himself saying, in a voice that was astonishingly steady, under the circumstances. The eleventh blow descended. “O Saõ Martinho, defend and preserve us!” Twelve!
He slumped, almost expecting a thirteenth blow. It didn’t come. And he sure wasn’t going to try to compete with the padre by telling him to Continue! Stênio quickly cut him loose.
The solemn mood was abruptly shattered. The two cowhands laughed and slapped Sebastien on his bare shoulders, exactly as though he’d just scored the winning goal in a soccer game.
“That was well done, senhor Sebastien,” Padre Valentin said. “Many men are not so stoic, their first time.”
“I had the obvious advantage of being flogged by a pro—if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”
Stênio and Estevao wrestled the whipping post free from the ground, then separated it back into its two component parts. All four men retrieved their discarded items of clothing and pulled them back on, and Padre Valentin collected the pieces of rope and put them back in the bag, along with the mallet and the bullwhip. They began to walk back toward the compound, leaving no trace behind them that anything out of the ordinary had occurred beside the cairn.
Stênio put the pipes back inside the storage shed, along with the mallet. Even the lengths of rope were set aside, to be reused for some more humdrum purpose, if possible. The bullwhip was apparently his own personal property, used on the job. He tucked it into his belt.
“Come into the house with us a for a moment, Stênio,” Sebastien urged. “I think a drink is in order, before we all go to bed. You are allowed to drink alcohol, padre, aren’t you?”
“I am not required to abstain, when others are celebrating in my presence,” Padre Valentin replied. Sebastien was beginning to recognize a certain dry irony, characteristic of the monk’s speech.
Sebastien ushered the other men into the smoking room. It was, after all, the room in which male guests were supposed to be entertained. “Fetch the bottle of port, Estevao, and four glasses,” he instructed. When Estevao returned, Sebastien proposed a toast. “To Saõ Martinho,” he said. “Our patron—and to the fazenda named for him. May he always protect it, from the flood waters and all other harms.”
“To Saõ Martinho,” the others repeated as they raised their glasses and then drank.
Sebastien listened while Padre Valentin, Estevao, and Stênio discussed some of the arrangements for the Good Friday celebration, in Guarás. It was obviously an event that the locals looked forward to each year. The port flowed freely, and the mood was relaxed and convivial. Finally, though, Padre Valentin excused himself, saying he was ready for bed.
When Estevao and Stênio knelt in front of the padre, Sebastien knelt, too.
“See? You are already doing that more convincingly,” Padre Valentin joked, before he became serious again and made the sign of the Cross over each of the three younger men’s heads. “Boa noite, my dear sons.”
Stênio left to walk to the bunkhouse, and Sebastien and Estevao retired to the master bedroom. While Sebastien was undressing, Estevao left the room, only to return a moment later with a small jar in his hand.
“I will make a deal with you, mestre,” he said. “I will rub this soothing ointment on your back, if you will rub some on mine. It will ease the smart, and we will both feel less discomfort in the morning.”
“It will probably be worse for me. After all, you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“Many times,” Estevao boasted.
“No wonder the flood waters have never actually reached the house,” Sebastien joked.
“St. Martin was undoubtedly impressed that the mestre of the fazenda should deign to suffer willingly for his sake,” the valet said, apparently in all seriousness.
“Nonsense, Estevao. On the contrary—I’m sure the saint is no snob, and all men’s devotion is equally valuable in his estimation.” What a strange evening, Sebastien thought. First I get flogged by a monk…and now Estevao and I are having a theological debate!
Both men were now completely nude, and Sebastien, sitting on the edge of the bed, groaned with undisguised relief and pleasure as Estevao knelt behind him on the mattress and used both hands to massage the ointment into the whip-warmed skin of his shoulders and back.
“Padre Valentin is an interesting man,” Sebastien said. “I like him. Did he hear your confession, tonight?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I respect the seal of the confessional, Estevao, but I can’t help wondering what the padre’s attitude is toward…sexual activity between men.”
“He is surprisingly tolerant of men’s frailties and sins.”
“Really?”
“The Church—that is, some of the authorities within the Church—would not approve of what we did tonight, or of what will be done in Guarás on Good Friday. Since Padre Valentin and the other good brothers follow their own consciences in that regard, perhaps it is not surprising that they…think independently about other matters.”
“I’d like to spend more time with the padre, and discuss these and many other things with him. Oh, this cream is delightful, Estevao. Thank you. Now, roll over onto your stomach, and I will massage you. Admit it, Estevao,” Sebastien coaxed as he began to work on his servant’s back, which was reddened from the blows he had received, “you enjoyed being flogged, tonight, didn’t you?”
“My contrition was sincere. I had many sins to atone for. Surely we are allowed to take pleasure in what pleases God?”
“Um, quite the little divinity student, aren’t you?” Sebastien teased.
“And you, senhor. Did you not find a certain unexpected pleasure in it?”
“The pleasure wasn’t entirely unexpected. I know that many men enjoy such activities, even though their motivation is secular rather than spiritual—to say the least.”
“What we did tonight gave me certain ideas.”
“Such as?”
“Some night, mestre, you and I must go to the cairn, just the two of us. You must tie me to the whipping post—naked. And you must not only whip me, on my behind as well as on my back—you must then take me. By force. Fuck me, while I am still bound by the ropes, and cannot resist you.”
“Really, Estevao. I doubt that St. Martin would approve.”
“Why not? We offered up our bodies to him tonight. We made him a gift of our pain. Why should we not make him a gift of our pleasure, as well? Why should we not offer up our sexuality, in a good cause?”
“You are a sacrilegious little scamp.”
“Yes, mestre. I am very wicked. Perhaps you should tie my hands behind my back…and punish me.”
“Shameless. You are absolutely shameless. You dare to suggest such a thing, while Padre Valentin is still under this roof.”
“Padre Valentin is in the gue
st wing, on the other side of the house,” Estevao pointed out. “If you are worried about him hearing me yell…you can always gag me.”
Chapter Nineteen:
A Nocturnal Revelation
Sebastien spent the better part of one day just going through his uncle’s desk, in the study. He had to admit, though, that his uncle was a meticulous organizer, on the whole. Seated at the desk and sorting through the contents of its drawers, one by one, Sebastien realized that, the farther he had to reach, the less relevant the items became. By the time he had begun to explore the last of the bottom drawers, he was dealing with such mundane items as receipts for personal items, mostly articles of clothing, that his uncle had purchased years ago.
But he also found, buried under the receipts, a small photo album, with elegant brown crocodile leather covers. To Sebastien’s surprise, it contained no photos of anyone he recognized. There were two or three dozen pictures—all of the same black-haired young boy. The photos were arranged chronologically, beginning with baby pictures, and ending with images of a broodingly handsome adolescent. A few of the photos had the neutral backgrounds and slightly stiff, self-conscious poses typical of studio work, but most were candid shots, having in common the subject’s shy but appealing smile. On some of the pictures, the boy was on horseback. In the last photo, clad in shorts and a polo shirt, he was energetically kicking a soccer ball.
Sebastien set the album aside as he returned to his work, starting in on the filing cabinets.
Estevao brought him his coffee.
“Thank you, Estevao. Tell me—who is the boy in these pictures?” Sebastien handed Estevao the album.
Was Sebastien imagining things, or did Estevao look just a bit flustered as he perused the photos?
“I do not know, senhor.”
“Why would my uncle have them in his desk drawer?”
“Perhaps…ah, yes…perhaps this belongs to one of your uncle’s friends, who stayed here in one of the guest rooms? The gentleman, or his wife, may have forgotten the album when they packed, and left it behind. And your uncle set it aside so that he could send it to them. And then…perhaps…he forgot to do so. Perhaps this took place shortly before he became ill?”
Sebastien nodded. This theory sounded plausible enough.
“If you wish, senhor Sebastien, I will make inquiries…and try to have the album returned to its owner. I can check the guest books. One of the maids may remember seeing the album in one of the rooms.”
“Very well, Estevao. I’ll leave it to you.”
After dinner, Sebastien worked some more and eventually turned on the computer, continuing to familiarize himself with its contents, especially the accounts. When he took note of the date, he was surprised to be reminded that it was Holy Thursday—tomorrow would be Good Friday. It was another quiet night. He had lost track of time when Estevao came back into the room.
“It is getting late, senhor.”
“Is it? I am feeling tired.”
“Do you require…anything else?” the valet asked, with the faintest hint of innuendo in his suave tone of voice.
Sebastien grinned. “Not tonight, Estevao. Thank you, all the same. You go to bed. I intend to do the same, very shortly. Wake me up at the usual time tomorrow morning, if you will. I still have a lot of work to do, in here. Tomorrow, I guess, I’ll go through all those things in the safe.”
Estevao looked a bit startled. “You have the combination?”
“Of course. Joaquin gave it to me.”
Estevao’s face was now expressionless. “Boa noite, senhor.”
“Boa noite.”
After another hour or so of staring at the computer’s screen, Sebastien turned it off and gratefully went to bed. But, after falling asleep almost at once, he found himself returning to consciousness in the dead of the night, drowsing fitfully. After twenty or thirty minutes of tossing and turning, he climbed down from the bed—he was already becoming adept at doing so, without running the risk of taking a tumble, even in the dark—and walked over to the windows, nude, to look out. Beyond the terrace, the grounds were peaceful, with only the faintest of insect noises breaking the silence.
He didn’t feel particularly sleepy now. With a shrug, he decided that he might as well go into the study and put in another hour or two of computer work. That might be monotonous enough to tire him out, so he’d be able to fall asleep when he did go back to bed.
Not bothering with clothes, he crossed the bedroom, turned the knob of the door that led to the study, and began to push it open. The heavy door moved slowly and silently on its hinges—and then Sebastien heard an odd, distinct clicking sound, coming from the study. He froze, still holding the doorknob. There was another sound—a rustling, as of papers being shuffled.
The study was dark, except for a feeble glow emanating from the floor, near the desk. Sebastien eased the door open just wide enough so that he could slide his naked body through the gap, and took a cautious step inside the room.
The tiny pool of light, he now saw, came from a pocket flashlight, lying on the floor in front of the safe—the door of which was wide open. The click Sebastien had heard was the handle of the safe’s door being engaged. And there, kneeling on the floor in front of the safe, was Estevao. Like Sebastien, he was stark naked. He knelt with his buttocks resting on the heels of his feet, which were tucked in under his butt. His broad shoulders and back were partially illuminated by the light thrown by the little flashlight. It was quite a provocative sight. Estevao was ignoring the stacks of paper money, the gold bars, and the other valuables on the top shelf of the safe. He had removed a sheaf of envelopes from lower down and was looking through them, taking care to make as little noise as possible.
He seemed to find the one he wanted. He extracted a piece of paper from it, unfolded the paper, and held it down so that it was lit up enough for him to see what it was. Apparently satisfied, he set the paper aside, on the floor. Then he replaced the stack of envelopes inside the safe, picked up the paper and the flashlight, and stood up. He had begun to ease the safe door closed, when Sebastien spoke.
“Estevao,” Sebastien called. Startled by the sound of his own name, the valet jumped so violently that he banged his arm against the inside of the safe door—which gave Sebastien a certain sadistic satisfaction. “You can just slam the door of the safe shut,” Sebastien added sarcastically. “You need not worry about waking me, now.”
“I was not stealing, senhor.”
“It never occurred to me that you might be. So…what, exactly, are you doing?”
“I…I remembered that your uncle allowed me to keep this personal paper of mine in the safe. I thought I had better retrieve it. That is all.”
“I see. And what ‘personal paper’ could be so important that you had to ‘retrieve’ it in the middle of the night, when you could have done so at any time during the daylight hours?”
“I…I, that is…!” Even the quick-witted Estevao was having difficulty coming up with a plausible-sounding explanation, at such short notice.
“I would hate to think, Estevao, that a man of your integrity would start lying to me now.”
Even in the gloom, Sebastien could see Estevao’s face flush.
“You are right, senhor. I lied to you.”
“Explain yourself, then.”
“You may punish me, senhor. You may beat me, if you wish. But I beg of you—forget that you ever saw this paper. Forget that you saw me here, tonight. Go back to your bed, and sleep.”
“Don’t be absurd, Estevao.”
“It is for your own good.”
“Nonsense. What could possibly? Give me that paper. At once.”
“You will be angry.”
“I’m already getting angry.”
“You will not just be angry with me. You will be angry with your uncle, perhaps.”
“What could possibly?” Sebastien repeated.
When he fell silent, for a moment, revolving various possibilities about in h
is mind, Estevao tried to take advantage of his master’s hesitation. He was still clutching the flashlight and the piece of paper in his right hand. Now, with his left, he took hold of his cock and began to stroke it, coaxing it quickly into semi-erection.
“You should beat me, mestre,” Estevao purred, in a silken whisper. “I deserve to be beaten. I will submit to it willingly, and I will enjoy it. I always do. And then, afterward?” He smiled seductively. “You know how excited you become, whenever I submit to you.”
“Nice try, Estevao, but no sale. You should’ve seduced me first—earlier, tonight. Then I might have slept more soundly, and not been aware of your nocturnal wanderings.”
The valet flushed again and stopped playing with himself.
“The paper,” Sebastien said. “Hand it over.”
“You may regret it. You may think less of your uncle. Once again, senhor, I beg of you!”
“Estevao, I know perfectly well that, although my uncle was a fine man, he was surely not a saint. Every man makes mistakes, does things that he is ashamed of, afterward. Unless you are telling me that my uncle committed some sort of shady business dealing, or some crime? And that paper is some sort of evidence?”
“No, senhor, not that. Never.”
“Then you are beginning to try my patience.” Sebastien remembered seeing cop shows on television, in which police officers mentioned being trained in the use of their “voice of command,” to take charge of potentially volatile situations. He took his best stab at adopting his own voice of command now. “Estevao, you will give me that paper. Now.”
Estevao hesitated. If it came to a physical altercation, Sebastien was fairly certain that the Brazilian could take him. The husky valet was probably quite capable of overpowering Sebastien, then taking the balled-up piece of paper and shoving it up Sebastien’s ass! But, instead, much to Sebastien’s relief, Estevao stepped forward and meekly handed him the paper.
“Thank you.” Sebastien switched on the desk lamp and held the paper under it. The little pool of light also lit up both men’s bodies as they stood there, naked. Sebastien was aware of the incongruity of the situation, but he was too curious to be self-conscious about his own nudity, or to be distracted by Estevao’s. He scrutinized what he now saw was a photocopy of a legal document, in Portuguese, with a notary’s signature and stamp among the other signatures, including those of witnesses, at the bottom.
Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove) Page 40