Kingsley sat alone in his bedroom, a book in his lap—unread—and a wine glass in his hand—half drunk. As Søren’s valet he must always be close to his master so when the new baroness came, he heard it quite clearly from his room across the hall.
“Well done, My Lord,” Kingsley said aloud. “And you, My Lady.”
Silence followed and he wondered if he pressed his ear Søren’s door, could he hear what they were saying to each other. Or, even better, peek through the keyhole…
Someone knocked and Kingsley nearly spilled his wine in surprise.
Before he could say “Come in,” Søren opened the door.
Kingsley’s eyes widened. Søren was dressed though his shirt was open at the neck and wrinkled and his throat sported a red mark, likely courtesy of the young baroness’s teeth.
“You presence is required in our chamber,” Søren said.
“Is it? I take it your little talk was a success.”
“You know perfectly well it was. Now go into my chamber at once and stop grinning, you degenerate French whore.”
Kingsley obeyed the first order, disobeyed the second. He followed Søren into the master suite. The baroness looked beautiful, bright-eyed and well-fucked as she sat propped on her pillows, counterpane pulled to her waist, gown barely buttoned past the top of her ample breasts.
“My Lady,” Kingsley said.
“Sit,” Søren said. “On the bed. We’re all friends here.”
Kingsley sat next to the young baroness and waited for his next orders. His heart was running wild. Had he once dreamed of being allowed into the intimacy of Søren’s marriage bed? Yes. But he’d never expected it and certainly not this soon.
“Eleanor,” Søren began, “if you’ll recall, during our wedding, as I put the ring on your finger I spoke these vows—‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.’”
“I remember it quite well,” she said, smiling tiredly.
“I’ve wedded you and worshiped you with my body,” he said. “Now it’s time I endow you with all my worldly goods. And so I give you Kingsley, the most valuable of all my worldly goods.”
And Kingsley said, “As I am his, I am yours.”
“Is that so?” Eleanor said. “I knew when I married I’d receive gifts of fine China and linens. I didn’t know I would also receive a handsome Frenchman. Marriage is full of surprises.”
To Kingsley, too. He’d never felt so owned by Søren as he did right now. For wasn’t this the ultimate proof of ownership? That Kingsley could be shared, lent, and used by others?
“Eleanor is now aware of what I require in bed,” Søren said. “Although I’m certain there will be times she wishes for pleasure without taking pain first. And when those moments come, Eleanor? You may have Kingsley serve you.”
She lifted her hand and ran her fingers through Kingsley’s hair. This time she didn’t tell him to get it cut.
“Would you enjoy serving me?” she asked.
“I would,” Kingsley said. “Very much.”
“Perhaps you should serve the baroness right now,” Søren said from where he stood at the end of the bed, watching them.
“Søren,” Eleanor said, blushing. “But what if—”
“Don’t argue,” Kingsley said to her. “Pointless. Entirely pointless with him. Nothing makes him happier than ordering me about. And nothing makes me happier than obeying his orders.” That being said…” Kingsley leaned close and put his mouth at her ear. “I’ll only obey this order if you wish it.”
“No whispering,” Søren said. “Against the rules.”
Eleanor cupped her hand around Kingsley’s ear, ignoring Søren’s edict entirely.
“I wish it,” Eleanor said to him. “Though I don’t know what to wish for.”
“Demerit,” Søren said and pointed at Eleanor and then at Kingsley. “One for each of you.”
Kingsley spoke to Søren sharply in rapid Italian that he knew Eleanor couldn’t understand.
“What did he say?” Eleanor asked Søren.
“He said I am an ass, and I should stop frightening you,” Søren translated. “Is that true?”
“You aren’t frightening me, no,” she said. “But you are an ass.”
Kingsley’s head fell back in delighted laughter.
“You married well, My Lord,” he said to Søren. Then he looked at Eleanor. “Shall I show you how I could serve you? And then when the time comes and we’re alone or you’re in need…you’ll know what to ask of me?”
“If you please,” she said.
Kingsley raised a hand and stroked her face. It was burning bright and hot, like she had a fever. He leaned over her and brushed his lips across hers. Then he kissed her again, deeper. She opened her mouth to his tongue and he was pleased to hear her moaning softly for him.
He smiled down at her. “Like that,” he said, “But here.” He slid his hand under the counterpane, over her stomach and then between her legs. He felt her warmth and her softness under his hand. It pleased him when she opened her legs a little wider for him.
“Kiss me? There?” she asked, seemingly astonished. “That wasn’t in the pamphlet Aunt Adeline gave us.”
“I have much better pamphlets,” Kingsley said. “Or perhaps I should demonstrate.”
Before her nerves got the better of her and she stopped him, Kingsley pulled the counterpane down to her thighs. When he started to push her gown up to her waist, she stiffened and covered Kingsley’s hand with hers.
“Don’t be shy, Eleanor. Remember…we’re only dreaming,” Søren said.
“This,” she said, “is a very wicked dream.”
“It’s about to get wickeder,” Kingsley said. “Wickeder? More wicked? Fuck, I hate English.”
“Less talking, Kingsley,” Søren said. “Put your tongue to better use.”
“You see what I put up with?” Kingsley said, shaking his head, as he lifted her gown up again. This time she didn’t try to stop him. “A brute. An absolute bastard.”
In one easy practiced motion, Kingsley moved between her legs and opened her thighs. He looked down at her, at her open body. With his fingers, he explored her—the soft black curls, the red and tender flesh glistening wet, the inner lips so lovely and delicate. And when looking wasn’t enough for him, he lowered his head and tasted her.
Eleanor gasped as he flicked his tongue over her open body. Gasped again when he did it once more. He tasted her wetness even more, he tasted Søren’s seed inside of her. The cocktail was potent and he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to drink every drop out of her.
Kingsley stretched out on the bed, buried his head between her beautiful thighs and served her with everything he had. He served her with his tongue, licking and lapping at her, stroking her with his tongue and lips. He used his fingers to carefully pull back the flesh that surrounded her clitoris and licked the little bud with the very tip of his tongue. Eleanor gasped his name softly and he did it again, and then again, and over and over until she was pumping her hips into his mouth.
He felt the bed shift and he glanced up to see Søren sitting at Eleanor’s side. He opened her gown and ran his large hands over his wife’s full breasts, stroking her pale red nipples, licking and sucking them. The sight of it excited Kingsley even more. Though he’d dreamed of it, they’d never shared a woman between them before and that it was Søren’s young bride, which made it all the sweeter.
He wanted to please his master and mistress more than anything. And to please the master, all he had to do was please the mistress. He worked a finger into Eleanor and when she contracted around it, he pressed in another. He found the soft hollow on the front wall of her vagina—did she know these words or would he have to teach them to her?—and kneaded it. That was the magic touch for her, it seemed. She came then, her hips hovering two inches off the bed as Kingsley licked her roughly. She released a low hoarse whimper and all around his two fingers, she clenched and contracted with delicious womanly flutters.
Kingsley could have lived between her thighs all night but Søren tugged his hair. He rose up and before he could wipe the wetness from his mouth, Søren kissed him. He didn’t merely kiss him, he licked Kingsley’s lips in one of the more sensual, sexual wicked kisses Kingsley had ever experienced in his life. Søren was tasting Kingsley’s mouth, his wife’s cunt, and his own seed in one long deep kiss.
Bliss.
“I’ve died,” she said, “and gone to Heaven.”
“You’ve come three times in one night, Eleanor. You aren’t dead. You’re spent,” Søren said.
“You’re a liar, you know,” she said to Søren. “You are one of them wicked lords who takes poor girls off the streets and does all sorts of nasty things to them.”
Søren laughed low and soft. “You’re welcome.”
As the new couple kissed their goodnights, Kingsley slipped out, across the hall, and into his bedroom where he collapsed back against the door and breathed and breathed again.
That had been a rather unexpected turn of events.
Before he even had a chance to catch his breath, someone knocked on his door. He opened it and Søren entered.
“What—” Kingsley said, and what he was going to say was “What are you doing here?”
When Søren grasped him by the back of the neck and pulled him for a kiss, he knew what Søren was doing there.
Søren pushed him against the closed door and began to strip him of his clothes—his waistcoat, his tie, his shirt, his trousers…Kingsley was hard, painfully so, and needed using, especially after tasting Søren inside his young bride.
Then Søren slapped him. Once. With the back of his hand. Right across the cheek. Hard enough to hurt. Not hard enough to leave much of a mark.
“That,” Søren said, pointing at Kingsley’s face, “is for your insolence.” He slapped Kingsley again. “And that, was for keeping secrets from me.” Søren grabbed Kingsley by the throat and kissed the breath out of him. “And that was for making my wife very, very happy.”
“Forgive me. Forgive me. And…” Kingsley said. “My pleasure.”
Søren pulled Kingsley in front of the fireplace where a low smoldering blaze still burned. And then there, on the floor, on the rough Persian rug, with Kingsley on his back and Søren over him and inside him, they coupled like two beasts in a forest. Kingsley was spread wide as Søren pushed himself in deeper and deeper with every thrust. The pain was potent and the pleasure obliterating as his lover’s cock speared him.
Søren’s weight bore down on him, and Kingsley lay pinned by the wrists and split beneath him. It had been some time since Søren had used him so roughly, and Kingsley’s body sang with the bliss of it. Søren gripped Kingsley’s cock and stroked it, bringing him to the edge of release and holding him there. The organ rammed into him mercilessly. And when Søren released into him, filling him with his thick hot seed, Kingsley couldn’t hold back another moment. He came onto his own stomach and chest with a dozen or more powerful spurts. And when it was done, and Kingsley lay limp on his back, and Søren knelt above him and over him that his master said the loveliest words Kingsley had ever heard spoken.
“And that,” Søren said, “was for me.”
“The Baron is dead,” Kingsley said. “Long live the Baron.”