The Kindness of Strangers
Title: The Kindness of Strangers (part 1 of 2)
Author: Septemberoses
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Eric/Godric
Spoilers: none.
Rating: R for rentboys, creepy games, spanking, Top!Eric, angst. If you squint there's dub-con.
Word Count: 4,200 (part 1)
Summary: Eric thinks it's time to give back to the community and open a home for wayward boys.
Author's Note: poem excerpt is from Baudelaire's L'Invitation au Voyage, from Les Fleurs du Mal, trans. Richard Wilbur.
The rain's still falling in sheets, and it's cold enough the humans leave little clouds hanging in the air when they breathe. Eric maneuvers the car slowly, searching, up and down this dirty street past the boys walking along it. Some of them smoke idly while they wait, hiding from the rain in the doorways. A few of them wear nothing more than thin tee shirts even though they might be here all night with no chance to warm themselves except the time they'll spend in a heated automobile giving a blowjob.
They're near the bus station. Boys wash up here like flotsam from all over the country - unattached, broke, not even a pimp to turn to for protection. They might move on to other cities or other lives. Or they might overdose and die in the street or the abandoned buildings nearby. Some of them simply disappear. Since Eric's driving a nice car, that makes him a more promising john, one who may even have a place to take them for a few hours. The fact that they could get killed there doesn't prove much of a deterrent when it's in the low forties and raining like it's never going to stop.
Supply and demand. Eric stares out the window, his cold, dead eyes scanning the merchandise. It's on display here right now in the figures that cross in front of the car's headlights. There will be cheap, disposable boys as long as there are men who'll buy them. Maybe it's the rain and the cold, but he's on the verge of giving up tonight. He hasn't found what he's looking for among these drugged-up boys, their stares glassy, picking at sores on their arms. It's pretty easy to see what heroin and meth have done to the city. Some of these kids are out here whoring for their next fix.
Then he registers something in his peripheral vision and steps on the brake. A possibility. The boy approaches the car and quickly slips into the front seat, out of the rain, shutting the door behind himself. He's got long, shaggy auburn hair and the moon-pale face that usually goes with it. It's his eyes that caught Eric's attention. They're green like seaglass, with darker flecks. He smells as unwashed as he looks - filthy jeans and sweatshirt and damp hair, like piss and wet dog. But his eyes are focused and he doesn't look like a halfwit, nor does he smell of drugs of any sort.
"Are you looking for someone?" the boy asks. He has a nice, clear speaking voice.
Eric doesn't want to overplay his hand, but he thinks this boy will do.
"Can you read?"
"What?" The boy looks at him, baffled, but among this lot it's not such an absurd question.
"Read this," Eric says without preamble, handing the paperback over. "Start anywhere, I don't care. Read it out loud so I can hear you." He flips the dome light on. The boy considers his request for a moment, then lowers his head without asking any questions, opens the book to the middle and begins to read. His reading voice is pleasant, his cadence practiced, he doesn't hesitate or stumble over the words. He's obviously not some illiterate trash from the slums. If Eric had to guess, he's from California or Arizona, somewhere urban and without a heavy regional accent, although since this is Dallas he could be from almost anywhere in the states.
"That's fine." Eric reaches over and takes the book back. "There are two of us. Also, we're vampires." He might as well get that out of the way right now. There are humans who'd rather eat their own shit than fuck a vampire.
"That's okay." The boy seems utterly unperturbed by this news, although Eric can tell he's never been with a vampire. In that sense, the boy's cherry. All the other cherries are long since plucked. "Do you have a hotel?"
"No. We're going somewhere else." Eric swings the car away from the curb.
"I'll need cab fare back."
Eric nods.
"What do you want me to do?" the boy asks.
"It's a surprise. Nothing that'll make you run screaming into the street."
The boy shrugs his assent, leans his head back against the dry interior and closes his eyes. Until they get wherever it is they're going he doesn't seem to care. He doesn't even ask whether it's another man or a woman he'll be hooking up with. Life on the streets has taught him to keep his expectations nice and low. If he gets paid and makes it back alive to whatever filthy bolt-hole he's been sleeping in, the evening's been a smashing success.
Godric's put the word out and the others are gone from the nest this weekend. The boy's eyes wander, taking in the spare, luxurious expanse of the Dallas sheriff's living room. He looks quietly pleased but not overawed. He's been in nice houses before. Maybe he even grew up in one. Eric feels the faint prick of his own curiosity, piqued.
"I'm Matthew," says the boy, nodding to Godric, and it's probably a lie, but Eric finds himself smiling at the welcome change from the steady local diet of boys named Cody and Logan and Dylan and Trey.
"Welcome, Matthew," says Godric, in his quiet, assured voice. It's a wonder that his English still sounds foreign after all this time, considering how many languages he speaks, and how well. He's showered while Eric was out choosing the boy, Eric can see his warm, flushed skin and smell the shampoo in the air.
There's a long pause in which the boy decides against asking them their names. He's simply waiting to be told what to do next. Eric's assessment of him is revising itself upward.
"If you'll follow me," Godric says solicitously, and they head to the bath.
"Take your clothes off, please," Godric says over the rumble of the bathwater. The tile floor is heated and the room's still warm from his shower earlier. Matthew doesn't blink, just shucks his dirty things on the floor, his eyes downcast and his heart speeding up a little. He's not really a boy, more a young man, probably nineteen or twenty and taller than Godric. And he's not Godric's particular type, which in its way makes the game tonight more interesting. Godric doesn't have to pretend an attraction he doesn't feel, since the services are paid for.
"Go on and step into the bath," Godric says, his tone encouraging. Eric scoops up the pile of clothes from the floor and heads for the door.
"Wait … my clothes--" Matthew bleats, stopping halfway into the tub. This isn't right and he knows it.
"I'm just putting them in the wash," Eric says as he steps out of the room. It's true, but Eric wouldn't believe himself either. Also, now he's got the kid's wallet and whatever else he's carrying. The boy knows this, yet gives up and sits down in the tub. Eric pauses long enough to watch Godric perch on the edge, dip his hand in the water to warm it, then run it gently across the boy's shoulders. Matthew's trying to decide where to put his own hands, having vetoed covering himself demurely.
"It's not too hot?"
"No, it's good." They've veered back toward the familiar and understandable. Godric runs his hand through Matthew's longish hair which is beginning to curl even more in the damp heat in here, Godric's pale fingers applying gentle pressure to the scalp as he leans in, the inspection brief and surreptitious. Sometimes the boys have lice. Eric imagines Matthew's skull, as delicate as an eggshell in his maker's hand.
The bath itself is a lengthy affair and Eric doesn't try to hurry it along. Instead he leans against the wall and lets himself focus on the details. This boy has already deviated from the norm in that he's not frantically chattering, trying fill the silence while he decides if they're going to hurt him (or worse) and should he run away now, clothes or no clothes. Usually the quiet ones are exceptionally dim; they don't even have the imagination to be properly worried. But this kid seems bright enough. He's relaxed into Godric's strong hands as they wash the grime off his pale, thin shoulders and chest. The hands move on to his arms and legs in a steady, predictable rhythm.
The boy floats his own hands in the water in front of himself.
"Do you have a nail brush?" he asks. Maybe he isn't used to being this dirty.
"I'll take care of it," comes the quiet reply.
"I can do it."
"No, it's all right." Godric will trim the nails as well. When he's through, the boy will be scrupulously clean from the top of his expensively shampooed head to the bottom of his pumiced and moisturized feet. This part used to bore Eric immensely until he gave up and started paying more attention, choosing things to watch for. They come to the moment where Godric's soapy cloth is straying into the southern territories. Matthew catches his breath but maintains his silence, his legs shifting open under Godric's persistent touch.
"Very good. Now if you could kneel in the water…" Godric's already lifting him gently by one arm, the cloth working its magic. The kid's blushing furiously and half-hard by the time Godric's finished. Godric is too polite to notice. Eric wonders how long it's been since that tight little ass had such a thorough washing.
"You're going to step out in a minute," Godric says, pulling the lever to drain the tub. The front of his shirt is damp. "I'll get a warm towel, the floor's heated, I don't know if you noticed."
Matthew nods. Godric's apparently decided not to tell the kid that he'll be spreading his nice, clean legs here on the oversized bath rug while Eric lathers him up and shaves him carefully. For Eric, this is one of the special moments of the evening.
"What is this?"
"Boeuf bourguignon. I thought it might be a nice treat since it's such a cold night outside."
The boy studies the crockery bowl set in front of him, the fragrant steam rising. The smell makes Eric's mouth water.
"What's in it?"
"Well … there's beef, of course. A few onions, some garlic. A bottle of Bordeaux. Various seasonings. Oh, and I brown the beef in bacon fat, it's quite simple, really." Godric pours a glass of wine and sets it on the table beside the bowl and the goblet of water. "This is a cabernet. I hope you like it." Eric hopes he likes it too, since the sticker on the bottle said $129.99 and the kid will probably drink one glass before they move on.
"Aren't you eating?"
"No, we don't eat food. We want to watch you eat." It's delivered with an enthusiasm that's meant to be reassuring. The boy's now considering what else might conceivably be in the stew. Perhaps some rohypnol. Or strychnine. Or maybe it's human flesh, who knows with vampires? The fact that he's just had his balls shaved and is sitting here in this strange kitchen in nothing but a spotless white tee shirt, supremely conscious that he's naked from the waist down while they're still clothed, only adds to the tension. This would all be so much easier if they just explained it upfront, but doing so ruins it for Godric. And this - all of this, the entire evening, is for Godric. Eric understands parts of it, but not all.
"If you don't eat meat I can make you an omelet," Godric adds with a friendly smile. Matthew gives him a long, searching look, trying to read what's written there. He's apparently reached his limit for their bullshit.
"I don't get it. You're paying me a thousand bucks to give me a bath, wash my clothes, and feed me dinner?"
"Well, there's more." Godric nods. "After you’re finished, we'd like you to read to us."
"From Siddhartha? The book I read in the car?"
"No. A different book. Are you familiar with Hesse's work?"
"I read Siddhartha in high school."
Matthew lifts his spoon. He's just accepted his tumble down the rabbit hole. He digs in, closing his eyes briefly as he savors the first mouthful of stew. He swallows, a look of ecstasy crosses his face, then he opens his eyes and turns to Godric.
"Jesus. You made that? That's really, really good." He returns Godric's smile of unalloyed pleasure and reaches for the glass of wine. His nails are immaculate, his fingers long and tapered. Someone has taught him not to slouch at table, how to hold a spoon so he doesn't look like a peasant, and where his linen napkin goes. His skin is flushed from the bath; he's lost his guarded look. He's too thin, but now that he's cleaned and polished it's possible to perceive how fine his features are, Eric had missed that. His mouth is odd, small like a girl's, although he's not conventionally pretty.
"Now put this on." Godric's being so delicate, so exacting. He's already taken the boy's tee shirt. Matthew sees what he needs to do, lifts his arms up, and Godric drops the nightshirt over his head, pulls it down gently, pats it into place. It's cream-colored flannel, the expensive hand-stitching unappreciated by most humans. They're made in Salzburg by special order and sent to Dallas. Matthew's on the tall side, so it stops just above his calves.
Godric kneels down, his hands still arranging the fabric unnecessarily. At the sight of him, gazing up at the boy with that rapt expression, Eric's jaw tightens. He's caught in the invisible web of emotion that runs between them - his maker's naked lust and self-loathing and shame and yet still more lust. This is Godric at his least human, when they play this strange game. He thinks he's being kind to the boy, and in a way he is -- the bathing, the food, the books, not to mention the money. But Eric knows this boy would be more comfortable with an explanation, or something expected like a cock up his ass and another in his mouth. Something familiar. Although. His heart's not racing. He's not thinking of running as he looks down at the small, pale figure kneeling in front of him and begging with his eyes. Godric's fighting his own inexplicable and wildly conflicting urges, which right this moment are crashing over Eric's head like waves on a rocky beach.
Eric watches and waits.
There's a long pause, everyone's been bewitched, and then the spell breaks and Godric leans forward and rests his head against the boy's thigh, gasping once as he presses his face to the soft flannel. His hand has disappeared, crept up under the hem of the nightshirt. He literally cannot stop himself.
Eric watches Matthew's face, watches the expression change, watches his eyes widen and then close. After a minute Matthew tilts his chin up, his mouth slightly open, those damp auburn curls brushing the back of the nightshirt. It's time.
"Stop that," Eric says, his voice implacable. "That's disgusting."
Godric pulls his hand back as if it's been scalded and turns his head to look at Eric, all guilt and shame at the thing he's done. Eric feels the helpless, low pull in his groin, takes a moment to collect himself.
"I'm sorry," Godric whispers, his eyes wide and frightened.
Eric shakes his head slowly, his expression resolute. He's decided on his hand rather than the belt.
"That's not good enough."
"I'm - sorry-" There's a hitch in Godric's voice after each word. He's writhing, miserable, afraid. Eric stops, adjusts the body draped across his knees so Godric doesn't fall off in his squirming. Eric presses his left hand into Godric's lower back, pinning him more firmly, and brings his right hand down hard again on his maker's bare ass. The skin heals instantly. There is no redness, no blood, no bruising. Eric's palm stings, they've been at this awhile now. He waits until Godric relaxes a bit, here's a sign that Eric's satisfied and it's finally over. Godric isn't expecting the next blow when it comes and he wails afresh.
"Tell Matthew you're sorry," Eric says, and swats him harder.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll never do it again-"
"Tell him in fucking English," Eric says. Godric's started to babble in Danish, Swedish and German, with bits of old Norse thrown in, a sure sign he's losing his tenuous grip on reality.
"I'm sorry, please - please stop- I'll never--"
"-you will, you lying little swine-"
"-no, I swear, please-" Godric's breathing is ragged and frantic, and he's crying so hard now Eric can barely understand what he's saying, but it's not important anyway.
"-you filthy boy-"
"-oh, please…."
"Stop sniveling. Do as you're told and I won't have to punish you further." But Godric can't stop. Not any more.
Eric glances over to the armchair. The kid's curled up there, arms wrapped around his knees, watching them with no apparent alarm. He's figured out this is some sort of play-acting, and he's smart enough to pick up his role quickly and carry on. In his line of work maybe he's called some old man daddy while he gets fucked. Godric in the meantime has fallen down his own rabbit hole. Eric's not hitting him particularly hard, not much harder than he'd hit a human. For Godric, who's enough of a freak that he sometimes has himself flogged into bloody unconsciousness, this would be like swatting with a Kleenex. Only right now Godric's not play-acting - everything they've done, this elaborate skit, has allowed him to become a helpless human boy, pants shoved down around his knees, bent ignominiously over Eric's legs and spanked soundly while another human boy watches. Godric feels those blows, that shame. Eric finds this arousing and strangely disgusting and so tries not to think about it too much.
"Don't spill that, you'll burn the boy."
Godric nods. His hand is trembling. He sets the hot mug of tea and honey down on the table next to Matthew's chair, still sniffling. He's been allowed to visit the bathroom to wash his face so he doesn't get blood all over the sheets. Eric watches as Godric sets about straightening up the room, tucking away the bloody towel he's been crying into, straightening the minute creases on the duvet where Eric was sitting. Eventually Godric stops fiddling and stands still in front of Eric, his shoulders slumped and his eyes on the floor.
"Everything's cleaned. Can I have the book now, please?"
Eric responds by backhanding him hard enough to split Godric's lip although Godric's body barely shifts.
"Strip." Godric does, quickly and quietly, then stands up.
Eric backhands him again.
"Pick those filthy clothes up and put them in the hamper like I told you to." This part Eric enjoys more than he should. Godric scurries off with the clothes and then returns, flinching a little as he steps close enough that Eric could hit him once more if he wants to. Eric pauses. Makes him wait.
"Go get the gown. And the cream from the table."
"Are you going to be a good boy?"
"Yes, I will." Godric sounds sincere.
"No fussing or whining. It's time for bed." Eric lifts the heavily embroidered linen gown over Godric's head and lets it float down. Unlike Matthew's nightshirt it's covered with small, rough knots all over the inside which are deliberately designed to chafe and abrade. The gown's too small for Eric to try out, but touching the rough bits makes his skin itch. Godric has several of them to choose from.
"How is that? Is it comfortable?" He rests his hand on Godric's back and presses on the fabric until Godric shivers.
"Yes."
"Who gave you this gown?"
"You did."
"And why did I do that?"
"Because you love me."
Eric kisses him on the forehead.
"Go choose your book and give it to Matthew."
Eric strips his own clothes off while Godric selects a leather-bound volume from the shelf and hands it to the boy. The standing lamp by the chair throws a glow over Matthew's auburn hair, all unruly curls. Clean and dry it's a lovely color, and Eric wants to touch it. Eric wants a fistful of that boy's hair as he's sucking Eric's cock … he turns instead and walks to the closet. Sure enough, when he opens it the rope's still there on the shelf. It's an old three-strand twisted hemp, like nails against the skin.
Godric stares at it for a moment and then up at Eric. He looks like he's twelve.
"But …"
"I know you don't like it. But you'll fidget otherwise when you're asleep. I don't want you to scratch at yourself and ruin your pretty nightgown."
Godric lies down on the bed and doesn't fuss as Eric throws some quick knots around each wrist, binding them together, and then pulls the rope up tight to the corner post until Godric's arms are fully extended. Eric knots it again. Then he runs the extra length down and does the same thing with Godric's ankles, only they're pulled apart and spread so his maker's turned on his side, almost on his back. This way there's no easing himself by rutting against the mattress. It looks miserably uncomfortable.
Eric grabs the jar and flops down behind Godric's inert body.
"Now go to sleep," he whispers in Godric's ear. Then he looks at Matthew.
"All right. Read. Start at the beginning. That tea's got honey in it if your throat gets parched." He lifts up the back of the nightgown slowly, like he's unveiling something priceless. He can feel Godric's muscles tightening in fear at what Eric's going to do next. If he's careful he can make this last an hour, and by the time he's finished here, Godric, already exhausted, will be falling asleep. It's always easier the next day if Godric manages to sleep a little.
"Keep your eyes closed. You struggle or squirm once and I'll kick you into next week," Eric murmurs into Godric's ear.
"Do you want me to read the English or the French?" the boy asks.
Eric looks at Matthew, startled, his mind elsewhere. English or French? Then he sees the book and understands. It's Baudelaire, with the English translation on each facing page.
"The English." This kid speaks French? What the fuck. The rentboys around here are full of surprises these days.
…those scenes that image you, that sumptuous weather.
Drowned suns that glimmer there
Through cloud-disheveled air
Move me with such a mystery as appears
Within those other skies
Of your treacherous eyes
When I behold them shining through their tears.
Eric's stretched out to his full length behind Godric, holding him close. The gown brushes against Eric's arm, which he shifts periodically to change the places where the fabric's knot-covered interior presses against Godric's tender skin. Godric removes every tag in his regular clothing. Every seam is sewn flat, every one of his garments either bespoke or altered so that there is not a single thread or fabric edge to chafe or itch. This gown is almost unbearable.
Gold ceilings would there be,
Mirrors deep as the sea,
The walls all in an Eastern splendor hung-
Nothing but should address
The soul's loneliness…
Eric kisses Godric softly on the neck again, watches the pale eyelids flutter. Godric's feigning sleep. Eric eases out, then a bit further in. He's being careful, Godric thinks he's a human boy now. He's in pain and afraid, holding his breath, holding himself still, hoping it will all be over soon. Eric doesn't know who he's supposed to be, doesn't want to know, doesn't ask. Matthew glances over at them periodically without interrupting his reading. He's curious, but he's across the room, facing them, and can't see past the voluminous folds of Godric's nightgown. Eric keeps trying to make this something more, or at least something different, in his own mind than molesting a child who's either asleep or escaping from his torment by pretending to be asleep. The fact that Eric has, over time, come to enjoy this is something he doesn't want to think about too much, so he focuses on the boy's voice reading this particular poem, which is now so thoroughly associated with Godric's submission that Eric could never read more than a verse from the book without getting an erection.
See, sheltered from the swells
There in the still canals
Those drowsy ships that dream of sailing forth;
It is to satisfy
Your least desire, they ply
Hither through all the waters of the earth.
The sun at close of day…
He's all the way in finally, enjoying the friction because Godric won't relax. When Eric looks back at Matthew a few minutes later, the boy's slipped his hand under his nightshirt. He knows Eric's watching but otherwise engaged. He arranges his legs in the chair with his knees up and apart so that Eric can see him explore, running his fingertips over his newly-shaved skin, up and down between his slender thighs. He meets Eric's gaze, then wets a finger in his mouth and slips it deep into himself in one smooth motion, moves it slowly, watching and reading as Eric fucks the sleeping boy on the bed.
Author: Septemberoses
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Eric/Godric
Spoilers: none.
Rating: R for rentboys, creepy games, spanking, Top!Eric, angst. If you squint there's dub-con.
Word Count: 4,200 (part 1)
Summary: Eric thinks it's time to give back to the community and open a home for wayward boys.
Author's Note: poem excerpt is from Baudelaire's L'Invitation au Voyage, from Les Fleurs du Mal, trans. Richard Wilbur.
The rain's still falling in sheets, and it's cold enough the humans leave little clouds hanging in the air when they breathe. Eric maneuvers the car slowly, searching, up and down this dirty street past the boys walking along it. Some of them smoke idly while they wait, hiding from the rain in the doorways. A few of them wear nothing more than thin tee shirts even though they might be here all night with no chance to warm themselves except the time they'll spend in a heated automobile giving a blowjob.
They're near the bus station. Boys wash up here like flotsam from all over the country - unattached, broke, not even a pimp to turn to for protection. They might move on to other cities or other lives. Or they might overdose and die in the street or the abandoned buildings nearby. Some of them simply disappear. Since Eric's driving a nice car, that makes him a more promising john, one who may even have a place to take them for a few hours. The fact that they could get killed there doesn't prove much of a deterrent when it's in the low forties and raining like it's never going to stop.
Supply and demand. Eric stares out the window, his cold, dead eyes scanning the merchandise. It's on display here right now in the figures that cross in front of the car's headlights. There will be cheap, disposable boys as long as there are men who'll buy them. Maybe it's the rain and the cold, but he's on the verge of giving up tonight. He hasn't found what he's looking for among these drugged-up boys, their stares glassy, picking at sores on their arms. It's pretty easy to see what heroin and meth have done to the city. Some of these kids are out here whoring for their next fix.
Then he registers something in his peripheral vision and steps on the brake. A possibility. The boy approaches the car and quickly slips into the front seat, out of the rain, shutting the door behind himself. He's got long, shaggy auburn hair and the moon-pale face that usually goes with it. It's his eyes that caught Eric's attention. They're green like seaglass, with darker flecks. He smells as unwashed as he looks - filthy jeans and sweatshirt and damp hair, like piss and wet dog. But his eyes are focused and he doesn't look like a halfwit, nor does he smell of drugs of any sort.
"Are you looking for someone?" the boy asks. He has a nice, clear speaking voice.
Eric doesn't want to overplay his hand, but he thinks this boy will do.
"Can you read?"
"What?" The boy looks at him, baffled, but among this lot it's not such an absurd question.
"Read this," Eric says without preamble, handing the paperback over. "Start anywhere, I don't care. Read it out loud so I can hear you." He flips the dome light on. The boy considers his request for a moment, then lowers his head without asking any questions, opens the book to the middle and begins to read. His reading voice is pleasant, his cadence practiced, he doesn't hesitate or stumble over the words. He's obviously not some illiterate trash from the slums. If Eric had to guess, he's from California or Arizona, somewhere urban and without a heavy regional accent, although since this is Dallas he could be from almost anywhere in the states.
"That's fine." Eric reaches over and takes the book back. "There are two of us. Also, we're vampires." He might as well get that out of the way right now. There are humans who'd rather eat their own shit than fuck a vampire.
"That's okay." The boy seems utterly unperturbed by this news, although Eric can tell he's never been with a vampire. In that sense, the boy's cherry. All the other cherries are long since plucked. "Do you have a hotel?"
"No. We're going somewhere else." Eric swings the car away from the curb.
"I'll need cab fare back."
Eric nods.
"What do you want me to do?" the boy asks.
"It's a surprise. Nothing that'll make you run screaming into the street."
The boy shrugs his assent, leans his head back against the dry interior and closes his eyes. Until they get wherever it is they're going he doesn't seem to care. He doesn't even ask whether it's another man or a woman he'll be hooking up with. Life on the streets has taught him to keep his expectations nice and low. If he gets paid and makes it back alive to whatever filthy bolt-hole he's been sleeping in, the evening's been a smashing success.
Godric's put the word out and the others are gone from the nest this weekend. The boy's eyes wander, taking in the spare, luxurious expanse of the Dallas sheriff's living room. He looks quietly pleased but not overawed. He's been in nice houses before. Maybe he even grew up in one. Eric feels the faint prick of his own curiosity, piqued.
"I'm Matthew," says the boy, nodding to Godric, and it's probably a lie, but Eric finds himself smiling at the welcome change from the steady local diet of boys named Cody and Logan and Dylan and Trey.
"Welcome, Matthew," says Godric, in his quiet, assured voice. It's a wonder that his English still sounds foreign after all this time, considering how many languages he speaks, and how well. He's showered while Eric was out choosing the boy, Eric can see his warm, flushed skin and smell the shampoo in the air.
There's a long pause in which the boy decides against asking them their names. He's simply waiting to be told what to do next. Eric's assessment of him is revising itself upward.
"If you'll follow me," Godric says solicitously, and they head to the bath.
"Take your clothes off, please," Godric says over the rumble of the bathwater. The tile floor is heated and the room's still warm from his shower earlier. Matthew doesn't blink, just shucks his dirty things on the floor, his eyes downcast and his heart speeding up a little. He's not really a boy, more a young man, probably nineteen or twenty and taller than Godric. And he's not Godric's particular type, which in its way makes the game tonight more interesting. Godric doesn't have to pretend an attraction he doesn't feel, since the services are paid for.
"Go on and step into the bath," Godric says, his tone encouraging. Eric scoops up the pile of clothes from the floor and heads for the door.
"Wait … my clothes--" Matthew bleats, stopping halfway into the tub. This isn't right and he knows it.
"I'm just putting them in the wash," Eric says as he steps out of the room. It's true, but Eric wouldn't believe himself either. Also, now he's got the kid's wallet and whatever else he's carrying. The boy knows this, yet gives up and sits down in the tub. Eric pauses long enough to watch Godric perch on the edge, dip his hand in the water to warm it, then run it gently across the boy's shoulders. Matthew's trying to decide where to put his own hands, having vetoed covering himself demurely.
"It's not too hot?"
"No, it's good." They've veered back toward the familiar and understandable. Godric runs his hand through Matthew's longish hair which is beginning to curl even more in the damp heat in here, Godric's pale fingers applying gentle pressure to the scalp as he leans in, the inspection brief and surreptitious. Sometimes the boys have lice. Eric imagines Matthew's skull, as delicate as an eggshell in his maker's hand.
The bath itself is a lengthy affair and Eric doesn't try to hurry it along. Instead he leans against the wall and lets himself focus on the details. This boy has already deviated from the norm in that he's not frantically chattering, trying fill the silence while he decides if they're going to hurt him (or worse) and should he run away now, clothes or no clothes. Usually the quiet ones are exceptionally dim; they don't even have the imagination to be properly worried. But this kid seems bright enough. He's relaxed into Godric's strong hands as they wash the grime off his pale, thin shoulders and chest. The hands move on to his arms and legs in a steady, predictable rhythm.
The boy floats his own hands in the water in front of himself.
"Do you have a nail brush?" he asks. Maybe he isn't used to being this dirty.
"I'll take care of it," comes the quiet reply.
"I can do it."
"No, it's all right." Godric will trim the nails as well. When he's through, the boy will be scrupulously clean from the top of his expensively shampooed head to the bottom of his pumiced and moisturized feet. This part used to bore Eric immensely until he gave up and started paying more attention, choosing things to watch for. They come to the moment where Godric's soapy cloth is straying into the southern territories. Matthew catches his breath but maintains his silence, his legs shifting open under Godric's persistent touch.
"Very good. Now if you could kneel in the water…" Godric's already lifting him gently by one arm, the cloth working its magic. The kid's blushing furiously and half-hard by the time Godric's finished. Godric is too polite to notice. Eric wonders how long it's been since that tight little ass had such a thorough washing.
"You're going to step out in a minute," Godric says, pulling the lever to drain the tub. The front of his shirt is damp. "I'll get a warm towel, the floor's heated, I don't know if you noticed."
Matthew nods. Godric's apparently decided not to tell the kid that he'll be spreading his nice, clean legs here on the oversized bath rug while Eric lathers him up and shaves him carefully. For Eric, this is one of the special moments of the evening.
"What is this?"
"Boeuf bourguignon. I thought it might be a nice treat since it's such a cold night outside."
The boy studies the crockery bowl set in front of him, the fragrant steam rising. The smell makes Eric's mouth water.
"What's in it?"
"Well … there's beef, of course. A few onions, some garlic. A bottle of Bordeaux. Various seasonings. Oh, and I brown the beef in bacon fat, it's quite simple, really." Godric pours a glass of wine and sets it on the table beside the bowl and the goblet of water. "This is a cabernet. I hope you like it." Eric hopes he likes it too, since the sticker on the bottle said $129.99 and the kid will probably drink one glass before they move on.
"Aren't you eating?"
"No, we don't eat food. We want to watch you eat." It's delivered with an enthusiasm that's meant to be reassuring. The boy's now considering what else might conceivably be in the stew. Perhaps some rohypnol. Or strychnine. Or maybe it's human flesh, who knows with vampires? The fact that he's just had his balls shaved and is sitting here in this strange kitchen in nothing but a spotless white tee shirt, supremely conscious that he's naked from the waist down while they're still clothed, only adds to the tension. This would all be so much easier if they just explained it upfront, but doing so ruins it for Godric. And this - all of this, the entire evening, is for Godric. Eric understands parts of it, but not all.
"If you don't eat meat I can make you an omelet," Godric adds with a friendly smile. Matthew gives him a long, searching look, trying to read what's written there. He's apparently reached his limit for their bullshit.
"I don't get it. You're paying me a thousand bucks to give me a bath, wash my clothes, and feed me dinner?"
"Well, there's more." Godric nods. "After you’re finished, we'd like you to read to us."
"From Siddhartha? The book I read in the car?"
"No. A different book. Are you familiar with Hesse's work?"
"I read Siddhartha in high school."
Matthew lifts his spoon. He's just accepted his tumble down the rabbit hole. He digs in, closing his eyes briefly as he savors the first mouthful of stew. He swallows, a look of ecstasy crosses his face, then he opens his eyes and turns to Godric.
"Jesus. You made that? That's really, really good." He returns Godric's smile of unalloyed pleasure and reaches for the glass of wine. His nails are immaculate, his fingers long and tapered. Someone has taught him not to slouch at table, how to hold a spoon so he doesn't look like a peasant, and where his linen napkin goes. His skin is flushed from the bath; he's lost his guarded look. He's too thin, but now that he's cleaned and polished it's possible to perceive how fine his features are, Eric had missed that. His mouth is odd, small like a girl's, although he's not conventionally pretty.
"Now put this on." Godric's being so delicate, so exacting. He's already taken the boy's tee shirt. Matthew sees what he needs to do, lifts his arms up, and Godric drops the nightshirt over his head, pulls it down gently, pats it into place. It's cream-colored flannel, the expensive hand-stitching unappreciated by most humans. They're made in Salzburg by special order and sent to Dallas. Matthew's on the tall side, so it stops just above his calves.
Godric kneels down, his hands still arranging the fabric unnecessarily. At the sight of him, gazing up at the boy with that rapt expression, Eric's jaw tightens. He's caught in the invisible web of emotion that runs between them - his maker's naked lust and self-loathing and shame and yet still more lust. This is Godric at his least human, when they play this strange game. He thinks he's being kind to the boy, and in a way he is -- the bathing, the food, the books, not to mention the money. But Eric knows this boy would be more comfortable with an explanation, or something expected like a cock up his ass and another in his mouth. Something familiar. Although. His heart's not racing. He's not thinking of running as he looks down at the small, pale figure kneeling in front of him and begging with his eyes. Godric's fighting his own inexplicable and wildly conflicting urges, which right this moment are crashing over Eric's head like waves on a rocky beach.
Eric watches and waits.
There's a long pause, everyone's been bewitched, and then the spell breaks and Godric leans forward and rests his head against the boy's thigh, gasping once as he presses his face to the soft flannel. His hand has disappeared, crept up under the hem of the nightshirt. He literally cannot stop himself.
Eric watches Matthew's face, watches the expression change, watches his eyes widen and then close. After a minute Matthew tilts his chin up, his mouth slightly open, those damp auburn curls brushing the back of the nightshirt. It's time.
"Stop that," Eric says, his voice implacable. "That's disgusting."
Godric pulls his hand back as if it's been scalded and turns his head to look at Eric, all guilt and shame at the thing he's done. Eric feels the helpless, low pull in his groin, takes a moment to collect himself.
"I'm sorry," Godric whispers, his eyes wide and frightened.
Eric shakes his head slowly, his expression resolute. He's decided on his hand rather than the belt.
"That's not good enough."
"I'm - sorry-" There's a hitch in Godric's voice after each word. He's writhing, miserable, afraid. Eric stops, adjusts the body draped across his knees so Godric doesn't fall off in his squirming. Eric presses his left hand into Godric's lower back, pinning him more firmly, and brings his right hand down hard again on his maker's bare ass. The skin heals instantly. There is no redness, no blood, no bruising. Eric's palm stings, they've been at this awhile now. He waits until Godric relaxes a bit, here's a sign that Eric's satisfied and it's finally over. Godric isn't expecting the next blow when it comes and he wails afresh.
"Tell Matthew you're sorry," Eric says, and swats him harder.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll never do it again-"
"Tell him in fucking English," Eric says. Godric's started to babble in Danish, Swedish and German, with bits of old Norse thrown in, a sure sign he's losing his tenuous grip on reality.
"I'm sorry, please - please stop- I'll never--"
"-you will, you lying little swine-"
"-no, I swear, please-" Godric's breathing is ragged and frantic, and he's crying so hard now Eric can barely understand what he's saying, but it's not important anyway.
"-you filthy boy-"
"-oh, please…."
"Stop sniveling. Do as you're told and I won't have to punish you further." But Godric can't stop. Not any more.
Eric glances over to the armchair. The kid's curled up there, arms wrapped around his knees, watching them with no apparent alarm. He's figured out this is some sort of play-acting, and he's smart enough to pick up his role quickly and carry on. In his line of work maybe he's called some old man daddy while he gets fucked. Godric in the meantime has fallen down his own rabbit hole. Eric's not hitting him particularly hard, not much harder than he'd hit a human. For Godric, who's enough of a freak that he sometimes has himself flogged into bloody unconsciousness, this would be like swatting with a Kleenex. Only right now Godric's not play-acting - everything they've done, this elaborate skit, has allowed him to become a helpless human boy, pants shoved down around his knees, bent ignominiously over Eric's legs and spanked soundly while another human boy watches. Godric feels those blows, that shame. Eric finds this arousing and strangely disgusting and so tries not to think about it too much.
"Don't spill that, you'll burn the boy."
Godric nods. His hand is trembling. He sets the hot mug of tea and honey down on the table next to Matthew's chair, still sniffling. He's been allowed to visit the bathroom to wash his face so he doesn't get blood all over the sheets. Eric watches as Godric sets about straightening up the room, tucking away the bloody towel he's been crying into, straightening the minute creases on the duvet where Eric was sitting. Eventually Godric stops fiddling and stands still in front of Eric, his shoulders slumped and his eyes on the floor.
"Everything's cleaned. Can I have the book now, please?"
Eric responds by backhanding him hard enough to split Godric's lip although Godric's body barely shifts.
"Strip." Godric does, quickly and quietly, then stands up.
Eric backhands him again.
"Pick those filthy clothes up and put them in the hamper like I told you to." This part Eric enjoys more than he should. Godric scurries off with the clothes and then returns, flinching a little as he steps close enough that Eric could hit him once more if he wants to. Eric pauses. Makes him wait.
"Go get the gown. And the cream from the table."
"Are you going to be a good boy?"
"Yes, I will." Godric sounds sincere.
"No fussing or whining. It's time for bed." Eric lifts the heavily embroidered linen gown over Godric's head and lets it float down. Unlike Matthew's nightshirt it's covered with small, rough knots all over the inside which are deliberately designed to chafe and abrade. The gown's too small for Eric to try out, but touching the rough bits makes his skin itch. Godric has several of them to choose from.
"How is that? Is it comfortable?" He rests his hand on Godric's back and presses on the fabric until Godric shivers.
"Yes."
"Who gave you this gown?"
"You did."
"And why did I do that?"
"Because you love me."
Eric kisses him on the forehead.
"Go choose your book and give it to Matthew."
Eric strips his own clothes off while Godric selects a leather-bound volume from the shelf and hands it to the boy. The standing lamp by the chair throws a glow over Matthew's auburn hair, all unruly curls. Clean and dry it's a lovely color, and Eric wants to touch it. Eric wants a fistful of that boy's hair as he's sucking Eric's cock … he turns instead and walks to the closet. Sure enough, when he opens it the rope's still there on the shelf. It's an old three-strand twisted hemp, like nails against the skin.
Godric stares at it for a moment and then up at Eric. He looks like he's twelve.
"But …"
"I know you don't like it. But you'll fidget otherwise when you're asleep. I don't want you to scratch at yourself and ruin your pretty nightgown."
Godric lies down on the bed and doesn't fuss as Eric throws some quick knots around each wrist, binding them together, and then pulls the rope up tight to the corner post until Godric's arms are fully extended. Eric knots it again. Then he runs the extra length down and does the same thing with Godric's ankles, only they're pulled apart and spread so his maker's turned on his side, almost on his back. This way there's no easing himself by rutting against the mattress. It looks miserably uncomfortable.
Eric grabs the jar and flops down behind Godric's inert body.
"Now go to sleep," he whispers in Godric's ear. Then he looks at Matthew.
"All right. Read. Start at the beginning. That tea's got honey in it if your throat gets parched." He lifts up the back of the nightgown slowly, like he's unveiling something priceless. He can feel Godric's muscles tightening in fear at what Eric's going to do next. If he's careful he can make this last an hour, and by the time he's finished here, Godric, already exhausted, will be falling asleep. It's always easier the next day if Godric manages to sleep a little.
"Keep your eyes closed. You struggle or squirm once and I'll kick you into next week," Eric murmurs into Godric's ear.
"Do you want me to read the English or the French?" the boy asks.
Eric looks at Matthew, startled, his mind elsewhere. English or French? Then he sees the book and understands. It's Baudelaire, with the English translation on each facing page.
"The English." This kid speaks French? What the fuck. The rentboys around here are full of surprises these days.
…those scenes that image you, that sumptuous weather.
Drowned suns that glimmer there
Through cloud-disheveled air
Move me with such a mystery as appears
Within those other skies
Of your treacherous eyes
When I behold them shining through their tears.
Eric's stretched out to his full length behind Godric, holding him close. The gown brushes against Eric's arm, which he shifts periodically to change the places where the fabric's knot-covered interior presses against Godric's tender skin. Godric removes every tag in his regular clothing. Every seam is sewn flat, every one of his garments either bespoke or altered so that there is not a single thread or fabric edge to chafe or itch. This gown is almost unbearable.
Gold ceilings would there be,
Mirrors deep as the sea,
The walls all in an Eastern splendor hung-
Nothing but should address
The soul's loneliness…
Eric kisses Godric softly on the neck again, watches the pale eyelids flutter. Godric's feigning sleep. Eric eases out, then a bit further in. He's being careful, Godric thinks he's a human boy now. He's in pain and afraid, holding his breath, holding himself still, hoping it will all be over soon. Eric doesn't know who he's supposed to be, doesn't want to know, doesn't ask. Matthew glances over at them periodically without interrupting his reading. He's curious, but he's across the room, facing them, and can't see past the voluminous folds of Godric's nightgown. Eric keeps trying to make this something more, or at least something different, in his own mind than molesting a child who's either asleep or escaping from his torment by pretending to be asleep. The fact that Eric has, over time, come to enjoy this is something he doesn't want to think about too much, so he focuses on the boy's voice reading this particular poem, which is now so thoroughly associated with Godric's submission that Eric could never read more than a verse from the book without getting an erection.
See, sheltered from the swells
There in the still canals
Those drowsy ships that dream of sailing forth;
It is to satisfy
Your least desire, they ply
Hither through all the waters of the earth.
The sun at close of day…
He's all the way in finally, enjoying the friction because Godric won't relax. When Eric looks back at Matthew a few minutes later, the boy's slipped his hand under his nightshirt. He knows Eric's watching but otherwise engaged. He arranges his legs in the chair with his knees up and apart so that Eric can see him explore, running his fingertips over his newly-shaved skin, up and down between his slender thighs. He meets Eric's gaze, then wets a finger in his mouth and slips it deep into himself in one smooth motion, moves it slowly, watching and reading as Eric fucks the sleeping boy on the bed.