Electric silenc
e; the exhilarating static before lightning in a thunderstorm. He had scandalised even these jaded courtiers. A pet who’d cheat on his contract?
In shocked tones, ‘Try you out?’
It was delicious insolence, dancing on the edge of propriety, when everyone here was bored.
‘Put your pet in the ring with me. I’ll pretend he’s you.’
Amazed laughter came from one of the minor nobles. Ancel’s eyes were only on Lord Rouart. He had riveted the attention of everyone here, and he knew it. They didn’t know what to make of him. Unpredictability excited them.
‘I’ve never done it in public before,’ said Ancel. ‘You’d be my first.’
He was readied in an antechamber. Through the door that was ajar, Ancel could glimpse the makeshift ring of chairs surrounding a circle of patterned floor tile. There was a close, prurient atmosphere, aristocrats murmuring to one another their salacious expectations.
His first performance.
Ancel knew what happened in the ring. Pets fucked. Sometimes, they faked a struggle first. The one on top got to stick it in. The one on the bottom pretended to like it, or pretended to hate it, or pretended to hate it then like it, depending on their own performance style, and how they judged the mood of the room.
Brought out in front of the audience, he saw flashes of silk, whispers behind hands. Lord Rouart had taken the best seat, right at the front.
He saw at once that the crowd liked him, partly because he was new, partly because of his looks—partly because the story of his challenge to Lord Rouart had spread like wildfire. The crowd also seemed to like Lord Rouart’s pet, that pouty boy covered in diamonds, who—from the catcalls and comments—was something of a crowd favourite.
Ancel on the other hand . . . Ancel hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’d never done it in public before. Louans liked it with Ancel face down in the bedroom. The merchant’s son had once drunkenly grabbed at him at a public gathering but had not done much more than hump at him. In the brothels it had been mostly behind a curtain.
His heart was pounding. He knew what he had to do. He walked right into the ring, waving off the attendant, and said to the diamond boy in a cool voice, ‘Strip.’
The crowd liked it—there were encouraging calls, applause. Ancel waited for, ‘Make me,’ but the boy was playing his own games, because instead of refusing, he held Ancel’s gaze, lifted a hand to his laces, and deliberately parted his shirt.
Fabric slid from a shoulder. A susurration of silk, and everything came off except the diamonds. No one was looking at Ancel.
‘You’re not going to take him away from me, you slut,’ said the boy sweetly, murmuring the words too quietly for anyone else to hear.
‘Too late,’ said Ancel.
The first stages were performed somewhat by rote. They each knew how to make it look hot rather than professional, positioned to show things off to best advantage. Lord Rouart’s pet shone, flushed cheeks, breathy little moans. It was why he was a favourite. Everyone wanted to fuck him, to be the one to get him to make those sounds.
Ancel’s pulse was accelerating wildly, not because of the pet’s performance, but because of what he was about to do.
He pushed the pet’s face down to the polished rosewood floor, and positioned himself.
Then he looked up, looked right into Lord Rouart’s eyes, and while they were locked together, said it loud enough for every noble in the crowd to hear.
‘Spread your legs, Rouart.’
He felt the pet under him jerk in startlement, and pushed him back down. The crowd erupted, a wild, shocked reaction as they realised what was about to happen. Put your pet in the ring with me. I’ll pretend he’s you. Ancel kneed the pet’s legs apart. He heard a laughing voice say, ‘Fuck him, Red.’
He could see Lord Rouart’s face, equal parts turned on, humiliated and furious, and he knew he had him. Lord Rouart was going to bid for him—Ancel was about to screw him in front of everyone. And Lord Rouart’s rivals were going to bid as well, for the same reason.
‘You take cock like a pet,’ said Ancel.
He closed his eyes as he pushed in. It really did feel good. More so when he opened his eyes again and Lord Rouart was still staring violently at him.
He let the sound of desire come deliberately from his throat. Rhythmical sounds. ‘Unnh. Uhhn. Uhnn.’ Deliberately indulging himself. Was this how men felt fucking him? No wonder they paid a fortune for it. ‘Take it. Like that.’
He had the audience’s hot, scandalised attention. He could feel how much they liked it. Fucking Lord Rouart, fucking every lord here. Being watched by everyone while he did it was like a blinding white light.
Ancel pulled out—flipped the boy over—aimed his own cock downwards with a hand, and came all over the boy’s face, getting his long lashes sticky.