Lee chapter 31

[maculategiraffe]

Despite his arousal, Holden resisted orgasm, fucking Bran long and hard enough that the boy came before he did, his eyes rolling back in his head, clenching tight around Holden's cock so that Holden gasped and spasmed inside him as Bran's warm semen spattered onto his stomach.

He leaned over Bran, watching the boy yank in breath as if he'd been drowning, clutching at Holden's upper arms with a bruising grip, his beautiful mouth open so sweetly Holden wanted to get hard again to fuck it before he'd even gotten around to pulling out.

He brought his own mouth down on it instead as he slid himself out of Bran, kissing so hard Bran gave a muffled whine and struggled a little, pushing his hips up against Holden's pelvis, and then they were crushed together, clasping each other, Bran's legs tangling in Holden's, kissing not only with their mouths but with everything else they had. They were so close in height that, horizontal like this, there was nothing that didn't match, nothing of Holden's that wasn't pressing up against the same thing of Bran's. There was nothing in the world like holding someone this close and being held back this hard, nothing like an embrace that told every part of your body that the one person who mattered in the world right now loved you this much. Holden wanted to lie like this for an undefined but potentially limitless time, kissing Bran, resting from their fucking, holding him so close he could feel the boy's soreness, the ache and the burn and the pure bright exhaustion, in his own body, along with his own relief.

Of course, you couldn't figure for very long that there was only one person in the world who mattered, especially not with one of the others kneeling by the bed.

"Lee," he managed, and cleared his throat, and he and Bran pulled a little apart, opening back up. "Come lie with us, sweetheart."

Lee, pretty Lee, came obediently, his eyes wide and brilliant in a flushed face that reminded Holden of Bran's in the grip of his fever, his lips parted in a sensual lust that Holden was starting to realize never lay too far beneath the surface with this boy. He'd felt Lee melt in his arms with Bran's mouth around his slender cock, he'd seen the boy lean into Andrei Taganov's kiss, and tremble as the young nobleman's long fingers stroked his healing back; he'd slid himself inside as Lee wept silently, kissing Bran, learning a world where his master's cock breached his body without pain or anger, where there was kissing and tenderness and pleasure for him and being taken meant being taken somewhere besides hell.

"We're all going to need a bath after this," said Bran as they drew Lee into the space they'd both just moved enough to make, a warm place between them. Holden stroked Lee and kissed him, and so did Bran, their hands meeting and hesitating against one another's skin before they moved on. Bran looked at Holden questioningly, his eyes darting to Lee's cock, which was hard, even though Lee was shivering; Holden reached down and stroked Lee's cock, gently, with his fingertips. Bran leaned down to kiss Lee's mouth, and Holden bent to kiss his neck, stroking, and Lee's breath hitched hard enough that Holden knew he could come from this.

"Come for me," he said, watching Bran's hand on Lee's nipple, and Lee moaned and heated up, trembling harder, and after a minute he got there, spurting and softening in Holden's hand. He was crying again.

"Master," he said, "please, I, I love--"

He broke off and fairly flung himself into Bran's arms, whimpering. Bran held him hard; Holden moved closer, pressing his chest to the boy's heaving back, his soft cock nestling against the warm little bottom, and kissed the back of Lee's neck, and said nothing at all for a long time.





Holden had been nineteen when he decided that the word love either meant nothing, in which case you shouldn't say it, or something, in which case you could presumably convey it without resorting to the actual word, and still shouldn't say it. He and Alix and Jer had had some interesting conversations on the subject; it was funny how intensely the young could debate a semantic point, even under the circumstances. Alix, eighteen, utterly in love with the master and manipulating him anyway to protect Holden; Jer, twenty, already tired from working so hard to please, never taking risks except for Holden; and Holden, furious and pedantic and arrogant and undeserving of either of them, mocking them for wanting to please the master Holden hated and could have murdered cheerfully if he hadn't also needed his love and approval so much it felt like dying. They'd all fucked like rabbits, whenever they weren't on restriction or locked up in one of Argounov's goddamn chastity devices, and they'd lie around afterwards and talk, earnestly, about the meanings of words.

"That's silly. That's like saying... you shouldn't say 'apple' because you can just give someone an apple and it means the same thing." Alix, flushed and gleaming, still unscarred, perched on Jer's thigh with her hair sticking to her face and her legs carelessly open, one knee drawn up and the other resting on Holden's lap. "That's why words exist, because they mean something real. So you can tell somebody about it."

"Bullshit," said Jer, but without cuffing Alix the way he would have Holden, to punctuate his point; Jer had a healthy awe of Alix that had nothing to do with the fact that he outweighed her by about eighty pounds. "There are plenty of words that don't mean a damn thing. Or they only mean-- you know? Like 'perfect.' You ever seen anything perfect?"

"He calls me perfect," said Alix, too softly, so softly Holden sort of wanted to punch her in the face. No, scratch that: he wanted to punch Argounov in the face. Easy to get confused.

"Of course he does," said Jer, rolling his eyes at Alix with more affection and tolerance than Holden could possibly have mustered for her idiocy right then. "Cause he's a fucking liar. You're great, kid, but you're not perfect any more than I am. You think he'd call you perfect if he knew the way you play him to keep this one alive?" He jerked his head at Holden, who gave a mock-courtly bow of acknowledgement past the sudden speeded-up heartbeat that always came when Jer said things like that, because Jer would know, better than Holden would, just how close Holden was to the edge, how many chances he'd squandered, at what point neither of them would be able to help him any more.

"I know I'm not," said Alix, "but I've felt perfect. I've felt like everything was perfect, right at that-- at a certain moment. Haven't you?"

"No," said Jer. "And that's not the point. Feeling like something's real isn't the same as it being real. Word means nothing. Nothing ever has been, nothing ever will be."

"Like love," said Holden to Alix, with enough of a snarl in his tone that she sighed without even looking at him, kneading his thigh with her toes. He wanted to push her foot away, but he didn't.

"I love you," she said.

"See," said Holden, "that doesn't mean a fucking thing to me. You love that shithead who owns us, too, and I hate his guts and he's never going to quit trying to break me, so eventually you either pick me or you pick him, which means either you didn't love me or you didn't love him, so you're lying right now either way."

Alix shook her head. "I can love somebody without-- choosing him."

"Not me, you can't."

"Can if I want," said Alix with exaggerated petulance.

"So you would choose him."

"Will you two knock it the fuck off?" Jer shook his head. "Aesir deliver me from lovebirds. I thought this whole conversation was about how there's no point saying something if you can't prove it's real. If love is a meaningless word, can we all shut up about about who loves who more than who?"

"I'm not asking who she loves more, that's the point-- I'm just saying if she--"

"Will you kick him in the balls, please?" said Jer to Alix, who moved her bare heel promptly to Holden's groin; Holden gasped, his cock hardening as Alix met his eyes with her sweet soft smile and applied just a little too much pressure. "That's better. Not perfect," he added, deadpan, "but better."



Bran was the first to stir, and he and Holden got a shaky-legged Lee between them to the girls' little bathroom, where they bathed Lee and one another, without speaking, just smiling a little as Holden ran his hands over Bran's crimsoned ass. In the same half-dazed, half-easy silence they dressed, the three of them, in their citizens' clothes, belts and boots and all, and Holden glanced at them in the spotty mirror as they moved back towards the hall, thinking Lee really was mistakable for his son. If he'd been capable of fathering children, and Alix of bearing them; if that hadn't been taken away along with everything else.

When they came out into the living area, Inga was sitting at the kitchen table again, reading, coffee percolating on the counter.

"Morning, sir," she said, smiling benignly at the three of them. "Hi, Bran. Hi, Lee."

"Morning, sweetheart. Is that for me?" Holden asked curiously, nodding at the coffee.

"Well," said Inga, rather hesitantly, "and-- me. If-- I mean--"

"You don't have to ask my permission," said Holden neutrally, "if you have your mistress'."

Inga nodded apologetically. "Yes, sir. It's-- She likes me to-- She told me I could eat or drink anything I wanted. I didn't, at first-- I mean, I didn't want to stain my teeth or anything-- but she got me drinking coffee, and I sort of got to liking it. And anyway, watching me drink it is practically the only time she smiles at me."

It was only at that moment that Holden realized how thoroughly the events of the morning had relieved the maddening sense of undirected irritation and wrongness, of homesickness and frustration and worry, that had been building since they arrived here, magnifying these small evidences of Inga's unhappiness into unbearable offenses against all human decency. Not that he didn't now have a powerful urge to get on a train immediately for home, where he would chase Valor down the street if necessary-- he just knew Greta, Alix, and Yves, all of whom had always spoiled the girl within an inch of her life, were coddling her through her emotional crisis instead of giving her the high-volume lecture on responsibility of which she was desperately in need. But his muscles felt loose and relaxed, he was pleasantly tired, and his sympathetic smile at Inga wasn't forced as he got two mugs out of a cabinet above the percolator and poured out into both of them.

"Cream and sugar?" he asked, and she smiled back at him gratefully.

"Please," she said. "There's herbal tea, too, if--" She glanced at Bran and Lee. Lee was clinging to Bran like a limpet, slouched and tucked half under the taller boy's arm, his face bowed to Bran's chest; Bran's eyes were on Holden with blissed-out magnetism, following him without tension or anxiety, just with pleasure, as if Holden were where his sight felt most at rest. Holden filled the black enamel tea kettle and put it on to boil.

"Are there any lemons?" he asked, and watched Bran's smile. "Bran, go sit down on the couch, you and Lee. I'll handle breakfast."




Before Bran had recovered enough to resume the marketing debate, Lisa rendered it moot by returning, cheerful and slightly pink-faced, laden down with packages. She was wearing a boyish tunic again, light blue this time, and had her hair tied back in a loose ponytail that made her hair fluff around her face; she looked more like a young Pavel than ever.

"I hope Bran can work with this," she said, dumping everything on the kitchen counter. "Hey, something already smells good."

"Mr. Larssen cooked breakfast," said Inga, not without a delicate note of astonishment in her throaty voice.

Lisa looked up at him in surprise. "Really, Mr. Larssen? I didn't know you could cook."

"I can't, really. Bran gave me directions," said Holden, nodding at Bran, who smiled at Lisa from where he still curled, loose-limbed in his stocking feet, on the couch, with Lee half in his lap. "Well, I used to cook a little when I was a kid and my mom was-- not feeling well. Eggs and stuff. Enough to keep us from getting poisoned, anyway. But Bran told me what to put in them."

"Any left for me?" Lisa asked hopefully, as she began to unpack her purchases.

"There are a couple of eggs left," said Holden, getting up. "I'll fix them for you."

"Thanks," she said, moving out of his way. "Any word from Val?"

"No," said Holden; Inga took a long, slow sip from her coffee cup as Holden cracked eggs into a bowl with only a little more force than necessary. "Not yet. Want coffee?"

"Got some on the way to class," said Lisa. "Thanks. Bran, come look at what I got. See if there's anything you can make here. Or teach me to make-- I'm a terrible cook."

Bran stirred, rather reluctantly, lifting Lee with him, and Lee clung close to Bran's side as they came into the kitchen. Holden, beating cream and pepper into the eggs with a fork, moved over to make room for them in the tiny kitchen; Bran laid his hand on the counter, his fingers spread seekingly, and Holden brushed his fingertips over the boy's knuckles. Bran smiled.

"This looks great, my lady," he said as Lisa exhibited her purchases for him. "But you got so much-- are you having guests?"

"Well," said Lisa, looking at Holden. "I haven't invited anyone yet-- but I know David would love to meet Lee. He barely even counts as company-- I mean, he's my brother. And Natasha's the one who's been working with him on the Lee project, so--"

She looked at Holden, who was already considering. Inga was emotionally fragile right now, but these people wouldn't be strangers to her, and it might be that she could do with some distraction. She certainly didn't look dismayed at the prospect when he caught her eye, even if she also didn't look fully overjoyed. Bran would be fine-- he was coming gently off his post-spanking high, but it ought to leave him relaxed and centered, and anyway, he liked company. Lee-- well, Lee was the question. He didn't seem distressed since the spanking and its aftermath, just clingy with Bran, and he might be as centered by all the affection as Bran was, but he was still awfully vulnerable in general, and to be the centerpiece of a gathering, however small or informal--

"Of course," said Lisa, who wasn't an idiot or anything, "it could just be us. And I mean, we're waiting to hear from Val, so--"

Precisely on cue, the phone rang, and without even thinking, Holden hurried into the hall to pick it up. "Hello?"

"Who is this?" demanded a boy's voice.

"Whom are you trying to reach?" Holden asked, wondering if Lisa had a boyfriend.

There was a short pause, and then the boy said, "Larssen?"

Holden blinked. The voice sounded familiar, but-- "May I ask who's calling?"

"Who the hell do you think?" the voice demanded. "And what the hell are you doing there, Larssen? Finally decide to shack up with Kareyev's daughter, instead of just having Bran proxy-fuck her? Hey," on a new note of interest, "how is Bran? You keeping that stupid grin on his face from the last time I saw you two?"

Holden put a hand against the wall for support. "Jesse?"

"No shit," said Jesse. "Listen, is Robin there? I need to talk to her."