Porthos: The Incident with the Flower: Part 1
PART I: UN PEU DE PORTHOS
Chapter 1: Morning Rituals
He woke the way he always did, with a hand around his hilt, and the other around his cock, his instincts towards preservation and procreation pulling in equal measure. Twenty minutes later, his cock spent and his hilt bridled, our heroic fornicator, Porthos, the future Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, alighted from his bed.
From the vantage point of his window, he could see that the day was already half way spent. What had he done the previous day? He tried to recall, but his mind, never his greatest asset even in the best of times, seemed determined to elude him. He cast an auspicious eye about the room, revealing a battle ax, a woman’s shoe, a torn corset, a man’s torn trousers, a mewing cat, and a cape made entirely of feathers. Putting these clues together would logically lead him to believe…but a discrete knock saved him from further reverie, and a letter slid smoothly under his door, the Captain’s seal unmistakable on its face: it appeared that he was being summoned.
Chapter 2: The Assignment
Upon arriving at M. Treville's apartments, our hero found the Captain’s form silhouetted against the open window, and from this vantage point, Porthos found it difficult if not impossible to read the M.’s facial expression.
“Porthos," the Captain began, his posture assuming a pose of poise and calm.
"Sir."
"I have an assignment for you."
"And I accept it." The Captain’s figure appeared to tense.
"Please do not accept until I have completed assigning you your task. I want your full understanding before your acceptance. We have discussed this."
"But I accept it."
The Captain's shadow reacted in an irritated series of movements. "Listen first. This assignment is a delicate matter-"
"Then I am not suited for it."
"No, it is delicate...but I have given it a great deal of thought, and your particular strengths...are perfectly suited for this matter." And with that statement, the Captain's face emerged from the shadows to cast Porthos a look of Pointed Significance, which was completely lost on our Hero.
The remainder of the Captain appeared from the shadows.
"What I mean to say is...this assigns would take place in a domain within which I am sure you are already quite familiar..." Again, the Captain cast a Significant Look towards our Hero, which again went completely over his head. The Captain sighed.
"Nevermind. I have an assignment for you-"
"And I accept." A facial tick began to pulse in the Captain’s left cheek, a fact which both parties pointedly ignored.
"We are searching for an underground group of anarchists,” the Captain continued. “This is a young group, not completely organized, but we believe that they have the potential to become something much more dangerous. We want to locate key members, to extract information, and then to stamp them out before they fully form. Is this clear?"
"Perfectly. Where should I begin searching?"
"I have only two key pieces of information: the sign by which they recognize one another is that of a small flower, and an address. I have written them down for you." Handing our Hero a small piece of paper, the noble Captain dismissed him with a wave. Standing outside the Captains quarters, Porthos reviewed the note. On one side was a drawing of a small non-descript flower comprised of five symmetrical petals. On the other side was written an address. It appeared vaguely familiar, which meant either of two things, it was either a tavern or a whorehouse.
Chapter 3: Tavern or Whorehouse
Porthos approached the house directly, without guile or caution. First, he passed directly across its face. Then, at a second pass, he attempted to slow to a more leisurely pace. Both these stratagems yielded nothing. The exterior was entirely nondescript.
There was no marking on the outside face or on the door. The building appeared clean, even respectable. There was not even a slow but steady trickle of reprobates milling around and about to showcase its contents. Even when, upon applying his hand to knock on the door, a small window opened to review him, and he could feel eyes move up and down his person, could he entertain any suspicion. He knew how he appeared: eyes fat from smiling, face pleated from laughing, built as wide as he was tall, and with an expression that suggested pleasantry without guile. It was the same face and form that greeted him every morning, which was being appreciated now. He had no second nature, had never understood the need for such pretense, and presented the same face and form to all admirers, whether friend, foe, or Death.
The door opened to reveal a small sparrow of a woman whose face he would immediately forget. She gestured for him to follow her inside, and so he did. Inside her sparrow quarters, there were few indications that this was her home. He noted a spare table without an accompanying chair, and an empty room further behind. She led him deeper into the residing hallway, and then around into another corridor, and on they went until he began to hear something that sounded vaguely like music. There were no markings on the walls, but Porthos could feel that they were walking on an almost imperceptible descent. What this indicated, however, he had no idea. Farther along, he could distinguish that what he had heard previously had indeed been music, but more importantly, he began to hear voices accompanying the music, then movement, and finally a light reaching out from an open doorway. Without a word, the sparrow moved aside to allow him to pass before retreating, first from his sight, and then from his memory.
Chapter 4: The Flower
Porthos entered, and immediately felt...at home. From the entrance, he could see an open blaze reaching out from fire pit set into the floor. The light cast was strong enough to suffuse the entire room with color and heat. There were musicians playing furiously at the far end of the room, and their music reached out to mix with voices, creating a continuous hum that was not altogether unpleasant. Through the licking flames, Porthos could see that in every naked space and bare corner were cavorting bodies, dripping mouths, and gyrating women, and everyone was beautifully, magnificently drunk. It was simultaneously too disgusting and too wonderful to bear. He was at once hit by the full force of his own sobriety. Around him, music was playing in full force, couples were swaying in disarming states of undress, orifices were being openly violated at every opportunity, and Mon Dieu, he was dead sober. This was entirely unacceptable, he thought, and commenced debauching.
A flagon of wine found its way into his hand. He drank it. Nothing had ever tasted richer or sweeter. A second joined it. Our Hero, dedicated to his investigation, finished a third bottle until the world began, pleasantly, to spin. He could feel the bodies undulating around him like extensions of himself. And somehow the bodies parted to reveal snatches of a woman, first her shapely arms, then her full breasts, and then there she was: young, dark eyed and brunette. When he pulled her into his lap, she resisted lightly.
“Monsieur!” She sounded severe.
“Oui.” He grinned, and looked directly down the open neckline of her dress. There, nestled between the lushness of her breasts, he noted, was a small faint bruise. She pulled the neckline down further, until he could almost see the edge of her nipple, and he pulled her fully into his lap, where he could feel himself hardening. He could already feel the heat of her on his thigh, and was trying to decide where he could take her, when he saw the young man, staring at him. He had the same dark hair and eyes, a nice broad chest, and his shirt lay open at the throat revealing warm olive skin. He had to turn slightly to pass a drunk lying across the floor and Porthos took this opportunity to note the nice firm slope of his backside. He consulted his cock, his cock assented. Oh, this would do, he thought, this would do nicely.
“Oliver,” the woman whispered to him, as the man walked up to them. Porthos looked at her. “Jeanne,” she continued, gesturing towards herself. For a moment, he wondered if they were related, and then he realized he did not care. It made no difference to him what their names or surnames were. They were here for a purpose. He ran his hand under Oliver’s shirt and felt stomach muscles that were hard and taut and eminently suitable. Before he could move his hand lower, Oliver backed away, giving him no choice but to follow.
From the main room, they proceeded to a hallway, and then to a room with two beds and a table. One bed was already occupied, Porthos noted absently that there was already a couple, a man with a woman’s legs wrapped around his hips, but no one seemed to care, and when Oliver removed his shirt and pants, he discovered he did not much care, either. He was staring at a chest that was finely muscled and lean, the shoulders broad and nicely defined, while his hand was stroking a cock that was so thick and hard that he could feel how much Oliver wanted him, and who was he to deny? He turned the other man around suddenly and planted his hands on the table, taking time to admire Oliver’s muscled back and the flex of his ass, where he noted there was a small, non-descript mole. He was so much stronger, and it felt so easy, he could be so much rougher now than with a woman. He could feel Jeanne stroking him through his trousers, so he removed them, and then felt her strong fingers oiling his cock - she was truly a gift. Then he reached around the other man, stroked once, and thrust into him, hard.
Oliver moaned, and he could feel the moan run through him. It felt so good, he thrust again, sinking deeper, Oliver’s moans mixing with the sounds of the other couple. He continued to stroke and thrust in unison, and saw the other man pushing into the woman with the same rhythm. On the man’s hip, there was a familiar mole. When the man moved his hips, as he was doing now, the mole seemed to change and to assume another shape altogether, until it almost resembled…a flower. There were too many images building for his head to contain, and there was an even more insistent pressure building at the base of his cock. In fact, the room seemed to be getting even more crowded altogether. Had more men just entered the room? Another part of him, the small part not actively engaged in fucking, seemed to be trying to tell him something. More men had indeed appeared. It may even, if Porthos had been thinking clearly, have had all the makings of an ambush. His brain could not make any sense of this, and then he came violently, and violence erupted around him.
Porthos caught the rope just as it swung over his neck and swung it’s holder into a wall. His reactions were automatic. Now that he was lucid, he could see that he was naked, swordless, and surrounded by unattractive men. The odds were hardly fair. However, his first instinct, as anyone who knew him would tell you, had nothing to do with modesty. No, he would gladly dance naked in front of schoolchildren. Realizing he was outnumbered and unarmed, his initial reaction was to grin. In practice, our Hero was the first to fight, the last to leave, and usually the last left standing.
One of the men slashed at him, the blade missing by barely an inch. He was quickly disarmed, and our Hero re-armed. Two men came at him simultaneously. He overcame them, easily. It made no difference. He was larger than two men, and stronger than three. If four men came at him afterwards, he simply dueled with two of them, punched the third, and shouldered the fourth onto the bed. The last man cast a gaze over his fallen comrades, and turned and fled. Porthos declined to give chase; they would come back for him eventually, and when they did, he would still win.
He took stock of his surroundings. Jeanne had disappeared, thoughtfully leaving him his pants. He contemplated putting them back on and saw Oliver was huddled beside a table. Porthos put down his sword and reached down his enormous hand to the man.
“Come with me.” Oliver looked at the hand, but did not accept it.
“Take it. I am almost sober. You would not like me sober.” Oliver, displaying a sound instinct for self-preservation, accepted the proffered hand.
Part II: http://watercrescent.livejournal.com/1503.html