the duel fell away from me. My face must have gone instantly scarlet, since I could feel the heat of my skin.
I could neither face nor deny the fact: inside my breeches, my cock was standing up taut where he put down his gloved palm.
You must understand that in the court of our previous King, Henri III, in which I grew up as a young man, my reaction would not have been unusual—under other circumstances. M. Dariole, haloed by the sunlight, reminded me vividly of that King’s louche young men, far more interested in their own company than that of the Queen’s women-in-waiting.
If panic seized me, at that moment, it was because these were not those other circumstances.
“Now will you look at that?” Dariole repeated with a wicked child’s leer, looking back at me in a complete travesty of lust. I suppose my expression must have been something to behold, because the false face broke and he burst out laughing.
And I suppose that any other man, or any man not as I am, would at that point have freed his hands, at the cost of one eyeball, and used them to strangle the life out of M. Dariole. Dariole was slight; it would have been little harder than wringing the neck of a poached rabbit. But I did not do that. I froze, under the insignificant weight of him, staring up at his face.
“You’re not going anywhere, you know,” he said confidently, and with the fingertips of his left hand, set about unhooking the front of my hose.
I am a gentleman; I am used to servants dressing and undressing me. To be pinned to the stone floor of a stables, however, and to have the fabric wrenched at by a boy who giggled as he did it—who laughed with such joy and malice that humiliation held me frozen still—was an indignity that I could not have conceived of.
He undid my linen under-breeches, and took out my stiff prick in his hand.
A man’s cock is such a small amount of flesh compared with all his body. And yet everything changed with the shame of it being bared to the open air—and the still-greater, overwhelming shame of its response. I forgot Sully, Henri, the panicking streets of the capital; forgot everything but this ignominy.
The cold air on my flesh, and the disgrace of such nakedness, should have wilted the member in his grip. And it did not. I grew stiff as a man on the point of congress with a woman, and with such confusion in my head that I could have roared out blasphemies, hit him, or wept, with equal ease.
“You could get out of this,” the boy said, as if he could read the thoughts behind my blank face. “I’d have your eye, but you could get up, and you might even kill me. But you’re not going to, are you?”
“I’ll kill you,” I got out. “So that you can never tell any man what happened here—”
“I’ll call men in from the street.” He spoke with not a fraction’s hesitation. “What do you think, there might be a crowd to see the great M. Rochefort on his back with his prick hanging out—oh, whoa! You liked that one!”
His gloved fingers were tight around me, and I could have sobbed like a boy. Between shame, confusion, and the sensation of weakness that flooded my muscles, I was for the first time completely at a loss. I did not know what to do.
The boy shifted, his buttocks grinding my pelvic bones into the cold flagstones. His teeth were bared in an amazed smile of pleasure. He said, “And this is what I should have done at Zaton’s, in front of everybody.”
My flesh leaped in his hand. I could feel my skin heat from my throat to my forehead. I could feel, too, droplets of sweat running back into my hair.
That is the end of Rochefort, I thought with a stunned calm. If I was not forced to leave the city before, I would have to go now.
And not because this brat might— will —tell other men what he has seen. Because I cannot live in a place that has seen me react so to disgrace.
I confess that all I could find to say, to choke out, was, “ Let me go! ”
It was an error,
I could neither face nor deny the fact: inside my breeches, my cock was standing up taut where he put down his gloved palm.
You must understand that in the court of our previous King, Henri III, in which I grew up as a young man, my reaction would not have been unusual—under other circumstances. M. Dariole, haloed by the sunlight, reminded me vividly of that King’s louche young men, far more interested in their own company than that of the Queen’s women-in-waiting.
If panic seized me, at that moment, it was because these were not those other circumstances.
“Now will you look at that?” Dariole repeated with a wicked child’s leer, looking back at me in a complete travesty of lust. I suppose my expression must have been something to behold, because the false face broke and he burst out laughing.
And I suppose that any other man, or any man not as I am, would at that point have freed his hands, at the cost of one eyeball, and used them to strangle the life out of M. Dariole. Dariole was slight; it would have been little harder than wringing the neck of a poached rabbit. But I did not do that. I froze, under the insignificant weight of him, staring up at his face.
“You’re not going anywhere, you know,” he said confidently, and with the fingertips of his left hand, set about unhooking the front of my hose.
I am a gentleman; I am used to servants dressing and undressing me. To be pinned to the stone floor of a stables, however, and to have the fabric wrenched at by a boy who giggled as he did it—who laughed with such joy and malice that humiliation held me frozen still—was an indignity that I could not have conceived of.
He undid my linen under-breeches, and took out my stiff prick in his hand.
A man’s cock is such a small amount of flesh compared with all his body. And yet everything changed with the shame of it being bared to the open air—and the still-greater, overwhelming shame of its response. I forgot Sully, Henri, the panicking streets of the capital; forgot everything but this ignominy.
The cold air on my flesh, and the disgrace of such nakedness, should have wilted the member in his grip. And it did not. I grew stiff as a man on the point of congress with a woman, and with such confusion in my head that I could have roared out blasphemies, hit him, or wept, with equal ease.
“You could get out of this,” the boy said, as if he could read the thoughts behind my blank face. “I’d have your eye, but you could get up, and you might even kill me. But you’re not going to, are you?”
“I’ll kill you,” I got out. “So that you can never tell any man what happened here—”
“I’ll call men in from the street.” He spoke with not a fraction’s hesitation. “What do you think, there might be a crowd to see the great M. Rochefort on his back with his prick hanging out—oh, whoa! You liked that one!”
His gloved fingers were tight around me, and I could have sobbed like a boy. Between shame, confusion, and the sensation of weakness that flooded my muscles, I was for the first time completely at a loss. I did not know what to do.
The boy shifted, his buttocks grinding my pelvic bones into the cold flagstones. His teeth were bared in an amazed smile of pleasure. He said, “And this is what I should have done at Zaton’s, in front of everybody.”
My flesh leaped in his hand. I could feel my skin heat from my throat to my forehead. I could feel, too, droplets of sweat running back into my hair.
That is the end of Rochefort, I thought with a stunned calm. If I was not forced to leave the city before, I would have to go now.
And not because this brat might— will —tell other men what he has seen. Because I cannot live in a place that has seen me react so to disgrace.
I confess that all I could find to say, to choke out, was, “ Let me go! ”
It was an error,
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