older man dressed in formal wear had been one of the men who’d paid to watch him seared. He’d been holding a glass of champagne and laughing, chatting with another man in the small group of revelers gathered at New Bedlam Island. From what Robin could gather, they’d supper with the warden once the branding was done and then make their way back to St. Francisco on a late ferry.
He’d not heard much after that. It was hard to hear anything over the crackle of his skin roasting beneath the iron, and the smell of his own flesh cooking made him sick. He’d passed out after a few seconds and woke up a few days later, his body weak from fighting off a ravaging infection.
The man walked past Robin, his thick fingers studded with rings, their gems flashing under the lights as he gesticulated, making a point to his companion.
It was as if the man had never set eyes on Robin before. That he’d never seen Robin’s naked and sweaty body or heard his cries for mercy when the pain grew too much for Robin to take.
Then again, perhaps he hadn’t really been looking at Robin’s face when they’d come into the asylum’s punishment room.
The last time he’d seen Robin, it was dark, and the man’s focus probably hadn’t been on Robin’s face. It wasn’t until nearly six months after the branding when a guard he’d formed a friendship with finally told him the men gathered in the room weren’t witnesses for the court. They’d paid a hefty amount of money to the warden for the privilege of seeing Robin’s humiliation. It hadn’t mattered who the man on the wooden table was, so long as he was nude, reasonably attractive, and being branded.
Apparently there were greater perverts than Robin. And their money and rank kept them safe from ever being bound to a table for others’ sexual pleasure.
Then the older man caught Robin looking at him and smiled , a clear pour of sexual interest in the curve of his puffy lips.
Robin fled to the gardens, only making it as far as the balcony before losing the duck comfit he’d choked down at the Duke of Harding’s table.
He couldn’t remember what the duck tasted like when he’d first eaten it. Everything he’d put in his mouth seemed flavored with sawdust and grit, but he’d chewed away, mechanically nodding at the stories someone’s boisterous uncle told their corner of the room. It wasn’t until he’d stood up did he realize he’d probably also drank too much, because he couldn’t recall his wineglass ever being fully empty due to the seemingly continuous presence of a bottle-bearing footman at his elbow throughout the entire meal.
There was a handkerchief somewhere in his evening jacket, and Robin fumbled through his pockets to find it. Wiping his mouth, he opened the large snuffbox his father’d given him at his graduation and shook out one of the mints he kept in it. The lozenge was compact and strongly flavored, nearly burning his sinuses, but Robin sucked on it anyway, washing away the bitterness on his tongue.
He’d nearly gotten the taste of bile out of his mouth when Robin felt a pair of hands sliding up his thighs. The cloying scent of a pungent cologne blocked out the sweetness of the garden’s cabbage roses, and the press of a man’s body pushed him into the balcony’s stone railing, a thickening erection jutting into the curve of his ass.
“I knew you’d recognize me, Harris.”
Robin stilled, frozen in the memory of where he’d first heard the man’s voice. He’d just seen one witness to his shame. Now another had come up on him, and his stomach creased and churned with the unexpected shock.
If he’d had anything more to lose in his belly, he’d gladly have coated the man’s encroaching arms with his sick, but he had nothing inside of him, not even the fortitude to move when the man’s hand caressed the burn hidden beneath layers of Robin’s clothes.
He struggled to break free of the man’s weight, but the aristocrat, benefiting from
He’d not heard much after that. It was hard to hear anything over the crackle of his skin roasting beneath the iron, and the smell of his own flesh cooking made him sick. He’d passed out after a few seconds and woke up a few days later, his body weak from fighting off a ravaging infection.
The man walked past Robin, his thick fingers studded with rings, their gems flashing under the lights as he gesticulated, making a point to his companion.
It was as if the man had never set eyes on Robin before. That he’d never seen Robin’s naked and sweaty body or heard his cries for mercy when the pain grew too much for Robin to take.
Then again, perhaps he hadn’t really been looking at Robin’s face when they’d come into the asylum’s punishment room.
The last time he’d seen Robin, it was dark, and the man’s focus probably hadn’t been on Robin’s face. It wasn’t until nearly six months after the branding when a guard he’d formed a friendship with finally told him the men gathered in the room weren’t witnesses for the court. They’d paid a hefty amount of money to the warden for the privilege of seeing Robin’s humiliation. It hadn’t mattered who the man on the wooden table was, so long as he was nude, reasonably attractive, and being branded.
Apparently there were greater perverts than Robin. And their money and rank kept them safe from ever being bound to a table for others’ sexual pleasure.
Then the older man caught Robin looking at him and smiled , a clear pour of sexual interest in the curve of his puffy lips.
Robin fled to the gardens, only making it as far as the balcony before losing the duck comfit he’d choked down at the Duke of Harding’s table.
He couldn’t remember what the duck tasted like when he’d first eaten it. Everything he’d put in his mouth seemed flavored with sawdust and grit, but he’d chewed away, mechanically nodding at the stories someone’s boisterous uncle told their corner of the room. It wasn’t until he’d stood up did he realize he’d probably also drank too much, because he couldn’t recall his wineglass ever being fully empty due to the seemingly continuous presence of a bottle-bearing footman at his elbow throughout the entire meal.
There was a handkerchief somewhere in his evening jacket, and Robin fumbled through his pockets to find it. Wiping his mouth, he opened the large snuffbox his father’d given him at his graduation and shook out one of the mints he kept in it. The lozenge was compact and strongly flavored, nearly burning his sinuses, but Robin sucked on it anyway, washing away the bitterness on his tongue.
He’d nearly gotten the taste of bile out of his mouth when Robin felt a pair of hands sliding up his thighs. The cloying scent of a pungent cologne blocked out the sweetness of the garden’s cabbage roses, and the press of a man’s body pushed him into the balcony’s stone railing, a thickening erection jutting into the curve of his ass.
“I knew you’d recognize me, Harris.”
Robin stilled, frozen in the memory of where he’d first heard the man’s voice. He’d just seen one witness to his shame. Now another had come up on him, and his stomach creased and churned with the unexpected shock.
If he’d had anything more to lose in his belly, he’d gladly have coated the man’s encroaching arms with his sick, but he had nothing inside of him, not even the fortitude to move when the man’s hand caressed the burn hidden beneath layers of Robin’s clothes.
He struggled to break free of the man’s weight, but the aristocrat, benefiting from
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