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nerodi!!
I really wanted to write something twisted something DirtyWrong, but it seems I'm mired in shmoop. Though I've been assured by the lovely tabaqui whose opinion I value highly *waves madly, flings kisses*that it is indeed full of the WrongBadDirty, I fear it is not up to the standards set by others before me.
I present it here never the less.
Warning...as most every one knows my idea of shmoop might not be yours..by a long shot. So-- non-con, underage, a smidge of D/s...nc-17, yaddah, yaddah, blah, blah.
The Story Of C *giggles*
It was cold and dark in the carriage and Clark was nervous but tried to keep his face blank and still. The man who’d brought them from the brothel showed them scant attention, and he was glad. Seamus and Patrick sat next to him and chatted on, totally incurious as to where they were going. They knew their job, it required no curiosity. In the brothel, in an aristo’s rooms, what difference?
The carriage bumped and rumbled over cobbled streets and every sway brought the other boys bumping against him and they touched and rubbed him in ways they knew he disliked, and laughed together. Clark closed his eyes and tried to think of—nothing.
Soon they were being herded into a fine manor home, where the gentleman released them to the care of dour servants. Clark was led into a close room lit by an oil lamp, the air moist and fragrant from the porcelain coated iron tub of steaming water in the center of the tiled space. “Strip” he was told. “Get in,” he was ordered and he slid into the steaming bath.
It was almost unbearably good. He sank gratefully in the hot water, as buckets full were poured over his head. He spluttered and even allowed himself the luxury of a smile and his tense muscles relaxed almost painfully. “Stand” the sour-faced woman barked and he rose only to be savagely attacked by a soapy flannel. She scrubbed him in every place, modesty a ridiculous notion between a maid and a whore. She scrubbed soap into his hair and rinsed and rinsed until he was rosy red from head to toe. She nodded, satisfied at last.
“Good. Get out.”
Another maid led him to a closet and examined him, humming under her breath as she rifled through a collection of clothing until she presenting him with garments she judged would fit. She passed him to another, who rubbed his limbs with sweet smelling oil, his hands and feet, bent him over and oiled his hole as well, this part he did slowly and thoroughly. Clark kept his eyes squeezed shut and breathed slowly. He didn’t feel it, it wasn’t happening to him….
When the young man turned away to dress him, he was flushed and breathing heavily.
Clark grit his teeth. He concentrated on the luxury that was the bath, and the luxury of silk now next to his skin, and his hair being brushed slowly, gently, so relaxing that his head lolled back on the young man’s knees as he brushed it.
Over the silk vest came a fine white shirt and tie, a brocade waistcoat and a long satin jacket. His fingers danced over the brocade, he looked as fine as the boys he sometimes saw running next to the carriages.
The next item was passed into his hands. “Put these on.” Clark did as he was told.
The pants--he grimaced and shook his head, trying to push them away but the young man gently pressed them into his hands,"You have to wear them...they all wear them."
Clark looked at him self in the mirror and colored and pressed his lips together. They had no…middle. They were slit from front to back and his prick was exposed. The coat back was slit up to his waist and he could feel the cool air against his buttocks. His head dropped and he stood motionless.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” said the other boy. “You’re very beautiful…”
Pity? Clark cursed and spun toward the other. At that moment the door opened.
“He’s ready? Come along, then.”
Clark was reunited with Seamus and Patrick; they looked like angels both, blonde hair gleaming like gold in the lamplight, so beautiful in blue brocade coats, the gold threads worked through the cuffs adding to the splendor…and the pants. Of course it bothered them not at all- they walked in a way that emphasized the cut, and at each step revealed and concealed them. Clark worked out a soldier like stride, back stiff and straight as a rod, and kept the coat from gaping.
They were ushered into a dark smoky room, sweet music lilting in the air. In dark one corner played a blindfolded quartet of musicians. The smell of burning candle wax and incense, sweat and the smell of sex assaulted his nose, and when his eyes adjusted he saw men, all manner of men.
There were couches placed about the room and tables and…boys. Boys posed like ornaments throughout the room, all exposed to the hands and mouths of the men-- few boys like him--dressed like him, a few boys with nothing on at all but collars and silver chains. Some of those sat at the feet of these men, and some—did things. They were more beautiful than the Irish boys; they made Clark marvel, and his eyes lingered on one boy with flame red hair and an insolent expression.
Suddenly hands pushed him deeper into the room, he was pushed from hand to hand, felt and stroked and prodded on the way untill he and the others were led to a table laid with fine food, more than he’d ever seen at one time. The smells made his mouth water and he forgot everything but what was in front of him.
They were allowed to eat, and such food he’d never tasted, never imagined--and drink--so sweet and cool and hot at once. He ate furiously, swiftly, he had no idea when he’d be stopped, and the drink was so delicious, and his cup was refilled each time he drank it empty. In no time he was warm and giddy and he couldn’t stop himself from giggling. A passing man reached beneath his coat and tickled his balls—it made him gasp and giggle again, his head swam with the warmth of the room.
A muttered word, and the Irish boys were on him, tickling him, and skimming their clever fingers everywhere, it made him laugh, when their tongues replaced their fingers he still giggled. When his fine clothing was pushed aside, and Patrick’s scorching mouth was on his nipples, he arched helplessly into the touch, the warmth centering in his belly rushed into his groin.
Seamus was behind him and for once it wasn’t a punishment, he bent forward as liquid fire rimmed his hole, fire that pushed into him and made his belly clench, fire that grew as Seamus added fingers and licked wetly all around them, wet, wet as he shoved tongue and fingers into his ass and his prick stood out from the strange pants and jerked and drooled and he didn’t care---for once he didn’t care and it seemed right to take Patrick’s prick into his mouth, to caress him with tongue and lips, suck him down and work him until Patrick shouted and flooded his mouth with warm salty come….
Noise around him, and he opened his eyes to find he was at the center of a ring of men, men stroking themselves, eyes eager on him but he was beyond moving…concern. Slick coolness behind him and an oil-coated finger wormed it’s way into him--he tried to move away but strong hands clasped his wrists, forced him down over a stool that appeared in front of him—he blanked his mind and prepared to be pierced.
Fingers sank into him, opening him, softening the muscle and he barely held in a groan—it was so different to what he knew--stinking rutting drunks on top of him. His beautiful coat and vest was taken from him, his lovely soft shirt pulled down to trap his arms and again, a hot wet tongue breached him, fucked into him and every move he made rubbed his prick over the satin cover of the stool.
He saw the red headed boy, sitting on his master’s lap, leisurely lifting and dropping, fucking himself as he watched Clark. The boy’s master reached around to twist his nipples and stroke his erect leaking prick and Clark felt heat rush into his groin, felt his prick grow even harder against the stool.
He gasped as he watched the boy lick his lips and draw the slim chain between his teeth, wrap his tongue around the links and moan when his master rubbed a length of chain over his prick…
Clark groaned when he was breached, so ready for it, and never taking his eyes from the boy’s blue eyes, just as the boy never took his eyes from his, it made him push back and slowly they began to move in rhythm, one across the room, he there on his belly and being fucked by a stranger and it felt the most intimate experience he’d ever had—he was shocked when come struck his cheek, his lips, his shoulders, the cries of the men who watched him being fucked brought him back to his body—sent the man fucking him into climax, he slammed into him over and over. Clark kept his fluttering eyes on the red headed boy, watched the boy throw himself back against his master’s shoulder and cry out, come in shaking slashing spurts with his eyes always on Clark’s.
Clark felt the heat grow, fill him, rush down his limbs and his prick until it filled his senses, and he came, groaning through gritted teeth….
He felt ashamed, ashamed that he wanted it, ashamed he dreamed the boy with the flame red hair was the one in him.
*******
Days passed and he was called before Mr. Krumpert.
“Ah, Clark, you made quite an impression. They will be calling for you again.”
Clark inhaled sharply. Maybe he would see the red haired boy again and he was pierced with a sliver of happiness, so deeply it showed on his face for a moment.
Krumpert opened a small package on his desk. “You’ll need this,” he said and handed Clark the box. Inside was a collar, a length of silk. And an ivory peg.
Krumpert smiled at the look on Clarks face. “Be happy—you’re moving up in the world. Whore.”
ETA:hah! sorry screwed up the cut! *blush*
tabaqui whose opinion I value highly *waves madly, flings kisses*that it is indeed full of the WrongBadDirty, I fear it is not up to the standards set by others before me.I present it here never the less.
Warning...as most every one knows my idea of shmoop might not be yours..by a long shot. So-- non-con, underage, a smidge of D/s...nc-17, yaddah, yaddah, blah, blah.
The Story Of C *giggles*
It was cold and dark in the carriage and Clark was nervous but tried to keep his face blank and still. The man who’d brought them from the brothel showed them scant attention, and he was glad. Seamus and Patrick sat next to him and chatted on, totally incurious as to where they were going. They knew their job, it required no curiosity. In the brothel, in an aristo’s rooms, what difference?
The carriage bumped and rumbled over cobbled streets and every sway brought the other boys bumping against him and they touched and rubbed him in ways they knew he disliked, and laughed together. Clark closed his eyes and tried to think of—nothing.
Soon they were being herded into a fine manor home, where the gentleman released them to the care of dour servants. Clark was led into a close room lit by an oil lamp, the air moist and fragrant from the porcelain coated iron tub of steaming water in the center of the tiled space. “Strip” he was told. “Get in,” he was ordered and he slid into the steaming bath.
It was almost unbearably good. He sank gratefully in the hot water, as buckets full were poured over his head. He spluttered and even allowed himself the luxury of a smile and his tense muscles relaxed almost painfully. “Stand” the sour-faced woman barked and he rose only to be savagely attacked by a soapy flannel. She scrubbed him in every place, modesty a ridiculous notion between a maid and a whore. She scrubbed soap into his hair and rinsed and rinsed until he was rosy red from head to toe. She nodded, satisfied at last.
“Good. Get out.”
Another maid led him to a closet and examined him, humming under her breath as she rifled through a collection of clothing until she presenting him with garments she judged would fit. She passed him to another, who rubbed his limbs with sweet smelling oil, his hands and feet, bent him over and oiled his hole as well, this part he did slowly and thoroughly. Clark kept his eyes squeezed shut and breathed slowly. He didn’t feel it, it wasn’t happening to him….
When the young man turned away to dress him, he was flushed and breathing heavily.
Clark grit his teeth. He concentrated on the luxury that was the bath, and the luxury of silk now next to his skin, and his hair being brushed slowly, gently, so relaxing that his head lolled back on the young man’s knees as he brushed it.
Over the silk vest came a fine white shirt and tie, a brocade waistcoat and a long satin jacket. His fingers danced over the brocade, he looked as fine as the boys he sometimes saw running next to the carriages.
The next item was passed into his hands. “Put these on.” Clark did as he was told.
The pants--he grimaced and shook his head, trying to push them away but the young man gently pressed them into his hands,"You have to wear them...they all wear them."
Clark looked at him self in the mirror and colored and pressed his lips together. They had no…middle. They were slit from front to back and his prick was exposed. The coat back was slit up to his waist and he could feel the cool air against his buttocks. His head dropped and he stood motionless.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” said the other boy. “You’re very beautiful…”
Pity? Clark cursed and spun toward the other. At that moment the door opened.
“He’s ready? Come along, then.”
Clark was reunited with Seamus and Patrick; they looked like angels both, blonde hair gleaming like gold in the lamplight, so beautiful in blue brocade coats, the gold threads worked through the cuffs adding to the splendor…and the pants. Of course it bothered them not at all- they walked in a way that emphasized the cut, and at each step revealed and concealed them. Clark worked out a soldier like stride, back stiff and straight as a rod, and kept the coat from gaping.
They were ushered into a dark smoky room, sweet music lilting in the air. In dark one corner played a blindfolded quartet of musicians. The smell of burning candle wax and incense, sweat and the smell of sex assaulted his nose, and when his eyes adjusted he saw men, all manner of men.
There were couches placed about the room and tables and…boys. Boys posed like ornaments throughout the room, all exposed to the hands and mouths of the men-- few boys like him--dressed like him, a few boys with nothing on at all but collars and silver chains. Some of those sat at the feet of these men, and some—did things. They were more beautiful than the Irish boys; they made Clark marvel, and his eyes lingered on one boy with flame red hair and an insolent expression.
Suddenly hands pushed him deeper into the room, he was pushed from hand to hand, felt and stroked and prodded on the way untill he and the others were led to a table laid with fine food, more than he’d ever seen at one time. The smells made his mouth water and he forgot everything but what was in front of him.
They were allowed to eat, and such food he’d never tasted, never imagined--and drink--so sweet and cool and hot at once. He ate furiously, swiftly, he had no idea when he’d be stopped, and the drink was so delicious, and his cup was refilled each time he drank it empty. In no time he was warm and giddy and he couldn’t stop himself from giggling. A passing man reached beneath his coat and tickled his balls—it made him gasp and giggle again, his head swam with the warmth of the room.
A muttered word, and the Irish boys were on him, tickling him, and skimming their clever fingers everywhere, it made him laugh, when their tongues replaced their fingers he still giggled. When his fine clothing was pushed aside, and Patrick’s scorching mouth was on his nipples, he arched helplessly into the touch, the warmth centering in his belly rushed into his groin.
Seamus was behind him and for once it wasn’t a punishment, he bent forward as liquid fire rimmed his hole, fire that pushed into him and made his belly clench, fire that grew as Seamus added fingers and licked wetly all around them, wet, wet as he shoved tongue and fingers into his ass and his prick stood out from the strange pants and jerked and drooled and he didn’t care---for once he didn’t care and it seemed right to take Patrick’s prick into his mouth, to caress him with tongue and lips, suck him down and work him until Patrick shouted and flooded his mouth with warm salty come….
Noise around him, and he opened his eyes to find he was at the center of a ring of men, men stroking themselves, eyes eager on him but he was beyond moving…concern. Slick coolness behind him and an oil-coated finger wormed it’s way into him--he tried to move away but strong hands clasped his wrists, forced him down over a stool that appeared in front of him—he blanked his mind and prepared to be pierced.
Fingers sank into him, opening him, softening the muscle and he barely held in a groan—it was so different to what he knew--stinking rutting drunks on top of him. His beautiful coat and vest was taken from him, his lovely soft shirt pulled down to trap his arms and again, a hot wet tongue breached him, fucked into him and every move he made rubbed his prick over the satin cover of the stool.
He saw the red headed boy, sitting on his master’s lap, leisurely lifting and dropping, fucking himself as he watched Clark. The boy’s master reached around to twist his nipples and stroke his erect leaking prick and Clark felt heat rush into his groin, felt his prick grow even harder against the stool.
He gasped as he watched the boy lick his lips and draw the slim chain between his teeth, wrap his tongue around the links and moan when his master rubbed a length of chain over his prick…
Clark groaned when he was breached, so ready for it, and never taking his eyes from the boy’s blue eyes, just as the boy never took his eyes from his, it made him push back and slowly they began to move in rhythm, one across the room, he there on his belly and being fucked by a stranger and it felt the most intimate experience he’d ever had—he was shocked when come struck his cheek, his lips, his shoulders, the cries of the men who watched him being fucked brought him back to his body—sent the man fucking him into climax, he slammed into him over and over. Clark kept his fluttering eyes on the red headed boy, watched the boy throw himself back against his master’s shoulder and cry out, come in shaking slashing spurts with his eyes always on Clark’s.
Clark felt the heat grow, fill him, rush down his limbs and his prick until it filled his senses, and he came, groaning through gritted teeth….
He felt ashamed, ashamed that he wanted it, ashamed he dreamed the boy with the flame red hair was the one in him.
*******
Days passed and he was called before Mr. Krumpert.
“Ah, Clark, you made quite an impression. They will be calling for you again.”
Clark inhaled sharply. Maybe he would see the red haired boy again and he was pierced with a sliver of happiness, so deeply it showed on his face for a moment.
Krumpert opened a small package on his desk. “You’ll need this,” he said and handed Clark the box. Inside was a collar, a length of silk. And an ivory peg.
Krumpert smiled at the look on Clarks face. “Be happy—you’re moving up in the world. Whore.”
ETA:hah! sorry screwed up the cut! *blush*
no subject
no subject
:)
*Pet pet*