Chapter Three-- Property of the Father
Chapter Three-Property of the Father
And so it was.
Gramis entertained quite often, and he had been insisting on Vayne’s presence at his parties more and more often. The picture-perfect family could be a very powerful political image, and the emperor sought to capitalize on it more and more. He spoke to them as much as they would tolerate in the tones a father might use; he called them his strong son, his talented son, and his clever son.
Vayne almost resented being called clever by such a man.
However, he was subject to this man’s whims, all the same. On the evening of importance, his whims were a costume ball, held in the Imperial Palace, in honour of the retirement of the Senate majority leader, a ‘dear friend’ of the Solidor family. Vayne had seen him once or twice, but had never spoken to the man directly.
The costumes were aforementioned Senator’s wife’s idea, but Gramis and his wife had embraced the concept whole-heartedly. Gramis was costumed elaborately as Mateus, and his wife, as the captive Shiva. She did not remain captive for long, however, as Gramis had a great deal of socializing to do with the more powerful families of Archades.
Costumes had been made for his sons; Leonalt was gawdily dressed as Exodus, and had excused himself at the earliest possible moment to be with his Rozarrian friends. Royan had chosen his own costume, and had chosen Adrammelech, muttering venomously behind his father’s back, “Someone has got to control you monsters. I will be your king.” The middle brother attended his father around the floor, taking his part in the talk-and-posture custom of the Archadian upper class. Vayne, attached to the ideals of order and structure, had chosen a stylized Hashmal costume. The lion’s mane blended with his own hair at shoulder level, leaving his neck and shoulders free. He tried to keep the rest of the costume as understated as possible, despite his father’s insistence that it be grand; even so, he felt trapped.
Then again, it may have been the party which caused him to feel so. He knew the social mores and required etiquette of court functions-he was, after all, a Solidor and the son of an emperor-but he felt no particular need to be involved. He didn’t want to become emperor, like Royan.
And so it was that he was left at the head table with no one but a few gossiping nobles and the woman of his wet dreams.
She sat to his right, gazing boredly over the dance floor and the surrounding ring of nobility and statesmen. Idly, she sipped wine and toyed with her costume braids. Her face was painted, but Vayne could tell she was young-no more than six or seven years older than himself, at the most, and certainly to his liking.
She glanced over and caught him staring at her; she smiled as he looked away shyly. Thus advised of his attention, she stood and floated over to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Dance with me.”
The order took him off-guard. He raised his eyebrows in the most stately expression of surprise he could manage.
“You are the son of the Lord Emperor, are you not?” she asked with a tone of amusement and a half-smile. “Surely you know how to dance.”
He stood up in a hurry, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles chivalrously. “Lady Deyanira, I do. It would be my honour.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her to the floor, heart pounding in his chest like a small bird trying desperately to escape a cage. Perhaps this young woman is much like a small bird, as well; trying to escape.
She danced like a bird, despite her partial inebriation. Vayne followed the muscle memory his training had instilled in him, stepping easily and as gracefully as she did; he guided her awkwardly at first, afraid to touch, but she pushed herself in his personal space until his hormone-hazed teenage mind could no longer sort out anything but touching. He let his hands roam discretely about her painted skin where the costume exposed it. She encouraged him by bringing herself to his hands where he dare not bring his hands to her.
Moments or hours later, they stopped to take a rest. Vayne glanced quickly about the room while Deyanira drank wine and caught her breath. No one was watching them. Indeed, no one seemed interested. All eyes were on Gramis and the retiring senator, and they seemed to be jointly telling a very amusing story. All the better, he smirked to himself.
“You dance by the book, Lord Vayne,” Deyanira purred directly into his ear, running her painted nails up and down his back.
Vayne froze as her hands skated around his sides, palms pressing against his belly.
“What else have you learned to do by book?” she breathed against his neck, pulling him gently back against her.
He smelled the alcohol on her breath, heard the tone of her voice, felt the intention of her hands, all more than he understood her words. He turned slowly, reaching out, breath lengthening dangerously. As her hands wrapped around his and tugged slightly at his wrists, he could do nothing but follow.
They fairly ran down the halls and hid around corners, unseen by the house staff, until they reached Vayne’s quarters. Once inside, Deyanira locked the door and threw herself onto him, hands in his hair and at his neck, pulling him so that she was between the wall and his solid, warm frame. She discarded the lion headdress hastily and unclasped the hook-and-eye at the back of his neck.
As she removed his clothing, he explored every part of her body with his hands, eager and young and unafraid; his mouth traced her neck, up to her ear, and down her jaw. The only thing either of them heard was the other’s breathing.
Deyanira grasped him to her, chin resting on his shoulder, and rubbed just the right way. Vayne gasped, holding her in return and stopping his kisses on her rather generous breasts, moaning and nearly losing himself. She impatiently tore at his breeches as he unhooked the deep blue halter bra, taking a moment to contain himself and at the same time giving her breasts thorough exploration and a healthy squeeze. She whimpered in aggravation, pushing him back until he fell against the bed.
Once they got down to the act, Vayne was careful to be slow. He had heard somewhere that women liked it slow, heard from the scientists in the Draklor coffee room as they spoke in lewd tones about their wives or mistresses. He had heard that women liked to make love, not simply mate. But here was this beautiful creature, writhing beneath him, begging in sweet, gasping breaths for him to move faster and push harder.
They made love for a few hours. As they relaxed after the final round, Vayne held Deyanira against him and enjoyed the pleasure of simply touching and holding her. He felt as if he had waited all his life to touch and be touched in such a way. He felt as if all the world ceased to matter; his father, his brothers, Archadia-with Deyanira in his arms, he could be content.
And it was with that young-man’s feeling of nobility and love that he spoke when she pulled away, dressing and preparing to take her leave.
“Stay with me,” he requested gently.
“If anyone found us together, your father would kill us,” she replied impatiently. “I have to wash up and leave.”
“He will do no such thing,” Vayne insisted.
“Is that so?” Deyanira scoffed, hooking her top behind her and pulling a face at the blue body paint all over Vayne and his bed sheets. “You’ll have those disposed of, shan’t you?”
He disregarded the sheets. “Deyanira, he’ll not cause us harm. He needs me, and I shall protect you.”
“Gramis has three sons,” she reminded him, “And you are but the youngest.”
It was his turn to scoff. “Royen is too ambitious and far too cruel, father will not let him inherit. And have you noticed that my dear Lord Brother Leonalt is a little over-fond on his Rozarrian friends? His male Rozarrian friends? And my father is too old to produce any more sons.”
She frowned at him, hesitating. “I cannot. I belong-“
“Leave him,” Vayne interrupted. “I will protect you from all the world.”
She smiled a little at him as if wishing to believe such; she leaned back over the bed to kiss him on the forehead. “You are a fine young man, Vayne Solidor. Have the sheets cleaned.” She turned and left.
He sighed and sat back, smiling to himself a little and basking in the warm glow that sex had left on him. He would win Deyanira over, in time. For now, he was content to have lost his virginity at the ripe old age of fifteen.
A proud, mischievous part of him wondered what Royen might say; he was fairly certain Royen had not lost his virginity until the age of eighteen, when he was betrothed and sought out his wife before the wedding night. He wondered what Cid might say, but he decided quickly not to inform him of anything. He would, however, have a story to tell in the coffee room in Draklor, next time the sons of the scientists took to jealous gossip.
They shall be even more jealous, now.