maculategiraffe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maculategiraffe) wrote2008-08-09 12:07 pm
maculategiraffe) wrote2008-08-09 12:07 pm
Lee chapter, uh, something
A plague o' the hospital guest network, which has been crapping out on me for the past several days and seriously hindering my efforts to take advantage of waiting room time to make a dent in catching up on comments and stories. (That and the fact that Haven Kimmel has a new book out, which I just read in one long thirsty gulp over the last two days. *satiated sigh*) But even when the network is down, my beloved word processor doth not desert me, so: story!
This might be out of sequence, chronologically, with the general Lee storyline (I think it is, but I'm still futzing around with where the next chapter of Lee will pick up, so I'm not one hundred percent sure), so if you want to be sure to avoid spoilers about the identity of the person to whom Holden will eventually sell Lee, don't read this yet. :P
Lee, compulsively rubbing the soft fabric of his new lavender tunic between finger and thumb, followed his new master up wide stairs with a carved balustrade, down an equally wide corridor, around a corner and opening a door. They both stopped on the threshold, and then the master stepped back slightly, letting Lee look into the room.
It was a bedroom. Considering the obvious eagerness that had been emanating from Lord Taganov ever since he came over to finalize the sale and bring Lee home, Lee couldn't say he was surprised. It was more surprising that his master hadn't so much as kissed him yet, and he certainly wasn't hustling Lee towards the bed even now; he was watching Lee carefully, as if interested in his reaction.
"I'll give you a more thorough tour of the house later," he said, "but I thought we should come here first. Do you like it?"
"Yes, master," said Lee, and although he would have said that in any case-- criticizing the decor of his new master's bedroom in his first ten minutes at the house wouldn't be the action of a sane slave-- he did like the room. It wasn't as big as the master bedroom at Mr. Larssen's house, which was a bit surprising, considering the size of the rooms they'd walked through downstairs, and the halls; Lee would have thought the master bedroom here would be proportionally vast and imposing. But it was a lovely room, amply though not lavishly furnished. The walls were painted a soft cream color, trimmed with glossy dark wood, and the furniture was of the same dark wood-- a desk with desk chair, a small freestanding bookshelf filled with books, a chest of drawers and matching dressing table, a little sofa upholstered in beige, a bed-- not a particularly large one-- covered with a cream silk spread. The floor was dark wood, partly covered with a rug that looked as if it would be soft to bare feet. There was a large, west-facing window that bathed the room in the sunlight of late afternoon, with a view of treetops, and there were two framed paintings on the walls-- one of a house at dusk with lighted windows, and one of a leafless tree on a hill, against a clouded sky.
Lee wondered if he'd be sleeping here, too-- maybe in his master's bed. He'd been allowed in Lord Dunaev's bed sometimes as a favor, and more often required to sleep on the floor in his master's room, but he'd still had his own basement room for when his master wanted him out of the way. And of course he'd had his own room at Mr. Larssen's, but that had been an altogether strange and irregular situation. Maybe his new master had decided that since he wasn't married, and Lee was his only sex slave, it would be a waste to give Lee his own room. Lee guessed he wouldn't mind that, though he did hope he'd be provided with somewhere to retreat to if he was in disgrace, when the sight of him would be additionally irritating to his master.
Maybe he wouldn't be in disgrace very often here, though.
The master moved further into the room, and Lee followed obediently, but instead of heading for the bed and pulling Lee down on it, Lord Taganov came to a halt by the bookshelf.
“I like to read,” he said, rather shyly. “I know you probably haven’t had much opportunity to, but these are-- well, these are some books I really like. You don't have to read them unless you want to-- I just put them here in case, you know, you got bored. And the pictures-- if you don't like them, we can take them down."
Lee had no idea what his master was talking about-- he was planning to redecorate his room for Lee? He'd already brought in books for Lee that Lee didn't have to read?-- so he said, cautiously, "I like them, master."
"Good," said the master. "I think they're-- well, I like them. But this is your room-- you can do whatever you like with it."
Lee was still trying to come up with ways he could have misunderstood that sentence when Lord Taganov added, "Mona's room is on this hall, too, and mine is a little further down and around the corner to the left. I'll show them to you later. These rooms-- yours and Mona's-- they were originally designed as guest rooms, so they have their own washrooms, which is nice. Yours is back through that door. I've tried to put in everything you might need, but if there's anything else, please don't hesitate to ask me. I want you to be-- comfortable."
Lee looked up into his master’s sweet, anxious face, framed with tendrils of red hair, and finally managed a heartfelt if inadequate, “Thank you, master. I-- I didn't expect to be given my own room."
“Well, of course you need your own room," said the master. "At least, I know I like to have my own space. Although--" he blushed a little-- "I expect you'll be spending a fair amount of time in my room, too."
Lee stepped closer to his master, in front of the books, and his master turned and took Lee’s face between his two palms and kissed him, softly, on the lips. His lips were still warm and tangy-sweet, and Lee closed his eyes as he kissed back as thoroughly as he knew how, but then his master pulled away—his lips flushed, his eyes wide, like a boy’s—and said softly, “Lee, honey, let’s talk.”
Lee didn’t exactly see the need for talking right now, but he said, obediently, “Yes, master.”
The master sat down on the little beige sofa and touched the seat next to him; Lee sat down too, and his master turned to face him, looking serious and determined and so cute Lee almost laughed. He kept a straight face, though, not because the master would be angry, but because he might be embarrassed, or think Lee was laughing at him. Lee didn’t want to hurt Andrei’s feelings.
Andrei?
“Lee,” the master began again. “You’re a very beautiful boy. And I love kissing you—and when the time is right, I’ll be—very happy to do more with you. But I’m not in any hurry. I know you’re shy. And moving to a new house can be very stressful. You need time to… settle in. Get used to things. I’m not—expecting anything of you, just yet.”
Lee considered explaining that if his master planned on waiting until Lee was used to this bedroom they might never have sex, or that he wasn’t feeling at all shy right now, what with that soft red hair, the gentle mouth, and the slow-but-steady rising tide of joy at the realization that things were only just beginning. But he hadn’t gotten very far towards putting any of that into words when it occurred to him, as quietly and clearly as if someone had leaned over and said it in his ear, that it was actually the master who was feeling shy and unsettled, and that he wanted Lee to tell him what to do next.
Lee smiled at him, his heart pounding.
“Thank you, master,” he said. “I’m a little tired. May I lie down on the bed?”
“Of course,” said the master, obviously relieved that Lee was making requests. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“Not unless it pleases you, master,” said Lee. “I'd-- I'd like you to stay.”
“Of course,” said the master again, and when Lee got up, he got up, too, and drew back the coverlet and the top sheet. Lee slipped off the sandals he'd been given and lay down on the cool, clean sheet, on his side, his head cradled in the soft pillow. The master stood looking down at him for a moment.
"May I help you take off your boots, master?" Lee asked boldly, and the master said quickly, "No, no, I can do it," and sat back down on the couch to pull off the soft-looking tan leather boots, one by one.
Lee was starting to see what Mona meant about not taking advantage of their master.
Boots off, the master came back to the bedside and sat down beside Lee, not touching him. Lee smiled up at him, and he smiled back.
“There’s no hurry,” he said again. “We’ve got—well, we’ve got plenty of time, now.”
“Yes, master,” said Lee softly, smiling back. “Master?”
“Yes, beautiful?”
“May I ask a favor?”
“Of course you may, Lee. Please. You have-- standing permission, to ask me for anything. I—well, what is it?”
Lee’s stomach was fluttering-- not twisting in knife-sharp jerks the way it used to with Lord Dunaev, but fluttering gently, almost pleasurably. “Master, these times you’ve been coming to my—to Mr. Larssen’s house, you know how you sometimes—touch my back?”
The master’s face smoothed and softened and warmed somehow—it was hard to figure out exactly what he was doing, besides smiling, but he looked happier, and more relaxed. “Yes.”
“I’d like it if you’d do that,” said Lee, and before Lord Taganov could move or speak, “but I’d like permission to take off my clothes first, please, master.”
For a moment he thought he’d gone too fast and startled his master, but then the master looked even happier, and he cleared his throat and said, “All right. I mean, yes, you have permission.”
Lee sat up and pulled his tunic over his head, not abruptly—he felt instinctively that he shouldn’t make any sudden moves right now—but not so slowly that it would feel like a striptease. He didn’t want to tease.
He stood up to fold the tunic—casually, as if being naked in front of Lord Taganov were the most natural thing in the world-- and it was, of course; Lord Taganov was his master, so being naked in front of him was going to be a fact of life from now on. He set the tunic down carefully before lying back down, on his belly this time, but with his face turned towards his master. His master moved a little closer, looking down at the scarred mess of Lee's back, and then he laid his hand on Lee.
Lee closed his eyes as his master’s hand moved over him. It felt much better than being stroked through the cloth of his tunic; the skin of his master’s palm and fingertips was cool, careful, infinitely gentle against Lee’s skin. Lee sighed, and the master said, softly, “Is this good?”
“Yes, master,” Lee said, just as softly. “Thank you.”
There was more stroking, and Lee’s mind had had time to wander and linger lazily over several things—the room, the books, Mona—when the master, tracing a delicate fingertip along one of the whip scars, said, “Lee, you know I’ll never-- hurt you-- like this?”
He made it sound like a question, so Lee answered, without opening his eyes, “Yes, master.”
“I don’t even own a whip. Or anything to—hit with.” His master seemed reluctant even to say the words. “And I don’t plan on striking you with my hand, either. I don’t think—it doesn’t really seem necessary, does it? I can’t imagine needing to resort to that, with you—well, with anyone, I mean, I’ve never hit Mona, either. But I don’t know how anyone could stand to hurt you like this, Lee, you’re so—sweet, and—tender. Your skin… Lee? Are you all right?”
It was a reasonable question, since Lee was trembling, a little. Partly that was because of the magnitude of the idea that his master didn’t intend to hit him, ever. It was so strange, but in another way, it wasn’t strange at all—of course his master didn’t need to resort to that, to make Lee obey. And Mr. Larssen hadn’t hit Lee, either, not once; he hadn’t needed to. Lee didn’t need to be hit, and his master wouldn’t hit him, and it was as simple as that. It was only strange because—well, because his master had said it—promised it, almost—and so it was something, like the room and the books and the pictures, that he was being offered, and Lee had never been offered so much. Not all at one time. Not when he understood, and believed, what was being offered.
The other factor in his trembling was the tone in his master’s voice—not that it was frightening, it was as gentle and solicitous as ever—but there was a hunger there, too, a carefully controlled desire, and the control was another gift, something to think about and wonder over in its turn.
“I’m fine, master,” he answered, his voice pitched low and quiet to keep the quaver out of it. He didn’t want to sound frightened, not when he wasn’t. “Thank you.” He couldn’t quite keep his voice from cracking between the next two words, but he couldn’t have stood not to add them, either: “So much.”
“You’re welcome, Lee,” his master answered, his hand brushing over the jut of one shoulder blade, then across to the other, and then to his spine and, slowly, down.
Lee lay very still as his master’s hand skimmed his vertebrae, rested briefly in the dip at the small of his back, and then moved slowly over the rounded, scar-scored mound of one buttock, down the other side, and stroked the back of his thigh. He felt blood moving lazily into his penis, making it push pleasurably up against the mattress, and he waited for more, for the hand to slide between his cheeks, tease at his hole, but nothing like that happened. His master just stroked, petted his bottom and his thighs the way he’d been petting his back; Lee realized, with the same sudden, quiet certainty as before, that his master wasn’t going to go any further than this unless Lee did something to encourage him. And for a moment that was a relief, because it meant that if Lee just lay still enough, barely breathing, then he would be safe.
But then, wasn’t he safe anyway? If he cried out in pain, if he whispered “No,” if he tensed up, no matter what had started, it would stop. Andrei would stop. If Lee wanted him to stop.
Right now Lee wanted—well, he wanted to feel his master's cheek resting against his skin and hair again, for one thing, and he wouldn’t say no to his mouth, either. He wanted his master’s mouth, with its taste of warm tea and lemon, back on his own mouth, and he wanted to know what his master would want to do with him, which parts of Lee’s body he’d want to start with, to focus on. If the master wasn’t quite certain what he wanted to do first, Lee had a few ideas, gleaned from Bran, that he might consider advancing. Even if the master did have definite ideas, in fact, Lee had some thoughts for later.
There wasn’t any hurry, of course; there was plenty of time. But right now seemed to Lee like a good time to start.
He moved—his master’s hand jerked away, startled—and rolled over towards his master and onto his back, his naked flank pressed up against his master’s cloth-clad thigh, his growing arousal on full display.
“If it please my master,” he said, smiling up into Andrei’s surprised and dawningly delighted face, “you could touch my front, too...”
This might be out of sequence, chronologically, with the general Lee storyline (I think it is, but I'm still futzing around with where the next chapter of Lee will pick up, so I'm not one hundred percent sure), so if you want to be sure to avoid spoilers about the identity of the person to whom Holden will eventually sell Lee, don't read this yet. :P
Lee, compulsively rubbing the soft fabric of his new lavender tunic between finger and thumb, followed his new master up wide stairs with a carved balustrade, down an equally wide corridor, around a corner and opening a door. They both stopped on the threshold, and then the master stepped back slightly, letting Lee look into the room.
It was a bedroom. Considering the obvious eagerness that had been emanating from Lord Taganov ever since he came over to finalize the sale and bring Lee home, Lee couldn't say he was surprised. It was more surprising that his master hadn't so much as kissed him yet, and he certainly wasn't hustling Lee towards the bed even now; he was watching Lee carefully, as if interested in his reaction.
"I'll give you a more thorough tour of the house later," he said, "but I thought we should come here first. Do you like it?"
"Yes, master," said Lee, and although he would have said that in any case-- criticizing the decor of his new master's bedroom in his first ten minutes at the house wouldn't be the action of a sane slave-- he did like the room. It wasn't as big as the master bedroom at Mr. Larssen's house, which was a bit surprising, considering the size of the rooms they'd walked through downstairs, and the halls; Lee would have thought the master bedroom here would be proportionally vast and imposing. But it was a lovely room, amply though not lavishly furnished. The walls were painted a soft cream color, trimmed with glossy dark wood, and the furniture was of the same dark wood-- a desk with desk chair, a small freestanding bookshelf filled with books, a chest of drawers and matching dressing table, a little sofa upholstered in beige, a bed-- not a particularly large one-- covered with a cream silk spread. The floor was dark wood, partly covered with a rug that looked as if it would be soft to bare feet. There was a large, west-facing window that bathed the room in the sunlight of late afternoon, with a view of treetops, and there were two framed paintings on the walls-- one of a house at dusk with lighted windows, and one of a leafless tree on a hill, against a clouded sky.
Lee wondered if he'd be sleeping here, too-- maybe in his master's bed. He'd been allowed in Lord Dunaev's bed sometimes as a favor, and more often required to sleep on the floor in his master's room, but he'd still had his own basement room for when his master wanted him out of the way. And of course he'd had his own room at Mr. Larssen's, but that had been an altogether strange and irregular situation. Maybe his new master had decided that since he wasn't married, and Lee was his only sex slave, it would be a waste to give Lee his own room. Lee guessed he wouldn't mind that, though he did hope he'd be provided with somewhere to retreat to if he was in disgrace, when the sight of him would be additionally irritating to his master.
Maybe he wouldn't be in disgrace very often here, though.
The master moved further into the room, and Lee followed obediently, but instead of heading for the bed and pulling Lee down on it, Lord Taganov came to a halt by the bookshelf.
“I like to read,” he said, rather shyly. “I know you probably haven’t had much opportunity to, but these are-- well, these are some books I really like. You don't have to read them unless you want to-- I just put them here in case, you know, you got bored. And the pictures-- if you don't like them, we can take them down."
Lee had no idea what his master was talking about-- he was planning to redecorate his room for Lee? He'd already brought in books for Lee that Lee didn't have to read?-- so he said, cautiously, "I like them, master."
"Good," said the master. "I think they're-- well, I like them. But this is your room-- you can do whatever you like with it."
Lee was still trying to come up with ways he could have misunderstood that sentence when Lord Taganov added, "Mona's room is on this hall, too, and mine is a little further down and around the corner to the left. I'll show them to you later. These rooms-- yours and Mona's-- they were originally designed as guest rooms, so they have their own washrooms, which is nice. Yours is back through that door. I've tried to put in everything you might need, but if there's anything else, please don't hesitate to ask me. I want you to be-- comfortable."
Lee looked up into his master’s sweet, anxious face, framed with tendrils of red hair, and finally managed a heartfelt if inadequate, “Thank you, master. I-- I didn't expect to be given my own room."
“Well, of course you need your own room," said the master. "At least, I know I like to have my own space. Although--" he blushed a little-- "I expect you'll be spending a fair amount of time in my room, too."
Lee stepped closer to his master, in front of the books, and his master turned and took Lee’s face between his two palms and kissed him, softly, on the lips. His lips were still warm and tangy-sweet, and Lee closed his eyes as he kissed back as thoroughly as he knew how, but then his master pulled away—his lips flushed, his eyes wide, like a boy’s—and said softly, “Lee, honey, let’s talk.”
Lee didn’t exactly see the need for talking right now, but he said, obediently, “Yes, master.”
The master sat down on the little beige sofa and touched the seat next to him; Lee sat down too, and his master turned to face him, looking serious and determined and so cute Lee almost laughed. He kept a straight face, though, not because the master would be angry, but because he might be embarrassed, or think Lee was laughing at him. Lee didn’t want to hurt Andrei’s feelings.
Andrei?
“Lee,” the master began again. “You’re a very beautiful boy. And I love kissing you—and when the time is right, I’ll be—very happy to do more with you. But I’m not in any hurry. I know you’re shy. And moving to a new house can be very stressful. You need time to… settle in. Get used to things. I’m not—expecting anything of you, just yet.”
Lee considered explaining that if his master planned on waiting until Lee was used to this bedroom they might never have sex, or that he wasn’t feeling at all shy right now, what with that soft red hair, the gentle mouth, and the slow-but-steady rising tide of joy at the realization that things were only just beginning. But he hadn’t gotten very far towards putting any of that into words when it occurred to him, as quietly and clearly as if someone had leaned over and said it in his ear, that it was actually the master who was feeling shy and unsettled, and that he wanted Lee to tell him what to do next.
Lee smiled at him, his heart pounding.
“Thank you, master,” he said. “I’m a little tired. May I lie down on the bed?”
“Of course,” said the master, obviously relieved that Lee was making requests. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“Not unless it pleases you, master,” said Lee. “I'd-- I'd like you to stay.”
“Of course,” said the master again, and when Lee got up, he got up, too, and drew back the coverlet and the top sheet. Lee slipped off the sandals he'd been given and lay down on the cool, clean sheet, on his side, his head cradled in the soft pillow. The master stood looking down at him for a moment.
"May I help you take off your boots, master?" Lee asked boldly, and the master said quickly, "No, no, I can do it," and sat back down on the couch to pull off the soft-looking tan leather boots, one by one.
Lee was starting to see what Mona meant about not taking advantage of their master.
Boots off, the master came back to the bedside and sat down beside Lee, not touching him. Lee smiled up at him, and he smiled back.
“There’s no hurry,” he said again. “We’ve got—well, we’ve got plenty of time, now.”
“Yes, master,” said Lee softly, smiling back. “Master?”
“Yes, beautiful?”
“May I ask a favor?”
“Of course you may, Lee. Please. You have-- standing permission, to ask me for anything. I—well, what is it?”
Lee’s stomach was fluttering-- not twisting in knife-sharp jerks the way it used to with Lord Dunaev, but fluttering gently, almost pleasurably. “Master, these times you’ve been coming to my—to Mr. Larssen’s house, you know how you sometimes—touch my back?”
The master’s face smoothed and softened and warmed somehow—it was hard to figure out exactly what he was doing, besides smiling, but he looked happier, and more relaxed. “Yes.”
“I’d like it if you’d do that,” said Lee, and before Lord Taganov could move or speak, “but I’d like permission to take off my clothes first, please, master.”
For a moment he thought he’d gone too fast and startled his master, but then the master looked even happier, and he cleared his throat and said, “All right. I mean, yes, you have permission.”
Lee sat up and pulled his tunic over his head, not abruptly—he felt instinctively that he shouldn’t make any sudden moves right now—but not so slowly that it would feel like a striptease. He didn’t want to tease.
He stood up to fold the tunic—casually, as if being naked in front of Lord Taganov were the most natural thing in the world-- and it was, of course; Lord Taganov was his master, so being naked in front of him was going to be a fact of life from now on. He set the tunic down carefully before lying back down, on his belly this time, but with his face turned towards his master. His master moved a little closer, looking down at the scarred mess of Lee's back, and then he laid his hand on Lee.
Lee closed his eyes as his master’s hand moved over him. It felt much better than being stroked through the cloth of his tunic; the skin of his master’s palm and fingertips was cool, careful, infinitely gentle against Lee’s skin. Lee sighed, and the master said, softly, “Is this good?”
“Yes, master,” Lee said, just as softly. “Thank you.”
There was more stroking, and Lee’s mind had had time to wander and linger lazily over several things—the room, the books, Mona—when the master, tracing a delicate fingertip along one of the whip scars, said, “Lee, you know I’ll never-- hurt you-- like this?”
He made it sound like a question, so Lee answered, without opening his eyes, “Yes, master.”
“I don’t even own a whip. Or anything to—hit with.” His master seemed reluctant even to say the words. “And I don’t plan on striking you with my hand, either. I don’t think—it doesn’t really seem necessary, does it? I can’t imagine needing to resort to that, with you—well, with anyone, I mean, I’ve never hit Mona, either. But I don’t know how anyone could stand to hurt you like this, Lee, you’re so—sweet, and—tender. Your skin… Lee? Are you all right?”
It was a reasonable question, since Lee was trembling, a little. Partly that was because of the magnitude of the idea that his master didn’t intend to hit him, ever. It was so strange, but in another way, it wasn’t strange at all—of course his master didn’t need to resort to that, to make Lee obey. And Mr. Larssen hadn’t hit Lee, either, not once; he hadn’t needed to. Lee didn’t need to be hit, and his master wouldn’t hit him, and it was as simple as that. It was only strange because—well, because his master had said it—promised it, almost—and so it was something, like the room and the books and the pictures, that he was being offered, and Lee had never been offered so much. Not all at one time. Not when he understood, and believed, what was being offered.
The other factor in his trembling was the tone in his master’s voice—not that it was frightening, it was as gentle and solicitous as ever—but there was a hunger there, too, a carefully controlled desire, and the control was another gift, something to think about and wonder over in its turn.
“I’m fine, master,” he answered, his voice pitched low and quiet to keep the quaver out of it. He didn’t want to sound frightened, not when he wasn’t. “Thank you.” He couldn’t quite keep his voice from cracking between the next two words, but he couldn’t have stood not to add them, either: “So much.”
“You’re welcome, Lee,” his master answered, his hand brushing over the jut of one shoulder blade, then across to the other, and then to his spine and, slowly, down.
Lee lay very still as his master’s hand skimmed his vertebrae, rested briefly in the dip at the small of his back, and then moved slowly over the rounded, scar-scored mound of one buttock, down the other side, and stroked the back of his thigh. He felt blood moving lazily into his penis, making it push pleasurably up against the mattress, and he waited for more, for the hand to slide between his cheeks, tease at his hole, but nothing like that happened. His master just stroked, petted his bottom and his thighs the way he’d been petting his back; Lee realized, with the same sudden, quiet certainty as before, that his master wasn’t going to go any further than this unless Lee did something to encourage him. And for a moment that was a relief, because it meant that if Lee just lay still enough, barely breathing, then he would be safe.
But then, wasn’t he safe anyway? If he cried out in pain, if he whispered “No,” if he tensed up, no matter what had started, it would stop. Andrei would stop. If Lee wanted him to stop.
Right now Lee wanted—well, he wanted to feel his master's cheek resting against his skin and hair again, for one thing, and he wouldn’t say no to his mouth, either. He wanted his master’s mouth, with its taste of warm tea and lemon, back on his own mouth, and he wanted to know what his master would want to do with him, which parts of Lee’s body he’d want to start with, to focus on. If the master wasn’t quite certain what he wanted to do first, Lee had a few ideas, gleaned from Bran, that he might consider advancing. Even if the master did have definite ideas, in fact, Lee had some thoughts for later.
There wasn’t any hurry, of course; there was plenty of time. But right now seemed to Lee like a good time to start.
He moved—his master’s hand jerked away, startled—and rolled over towards his master and onto his back, his naked flank pressed up against his master’s cloth-clad thigh, his growing arousal on full display.
“If it please my master,” he said, smiling up into Andrei’s surprised and dawningly delighted face, “you could touch my front, too...”