“I got hard from touching you before,” the soulless voice hissed sibilantly into his ear. “I almost spilt my seed. Then I had to show restraint, but now I can do with you as I please. As often and as mercilessly as I choose. Nobody sets foot outside their door this night, not when I spend two weeks visiting everyone personally to put fear in their hearts.”
Christophe’s head had begun to shake back and forth in denial once again. He could not believe this was happening. He sent a frantic, silent prayer for succour, from any source. Surely this was a nightmare from which he would soon awake?
“What is that you say?” Michael mocked, touching Christophe’s gag. “But I am a priest? Ah, yes, I was once a priest, ’tis true. However, my more carnal ways and enjoyment of corporeal pleasures brought censure and I was de-frocked. But that was many years and even more miles from here. You would be surprised at just how easy it is to insinuate yourself into a position of power in these small, isolated villages. There are so many men who are gullible, greedy, corrupt or credulous enough. And tonight, an innocent like you pays the price.”
Christophe tried to squirm away as clutching hands groped greedily beneath the short shift. They stoked at his thighs before reaching to fondle at his lax length to his muffled screams of despair. Frantically he kicked out, pleased with the contact he made and the grunt of pain that ensued. He would not simply lie and let himself be ravaged. Even if he must ultimately lose, he would force Michael to fight for what he wanted to take. A short, cruel laugh preceded two hard, brutal blows to his unprotected midriff and Christophe’s breath was expelled forcefully. As he hung limply, slaps to his face had his head ringing and left him dizzied and disorientated. He felt himself be cut from the pole, his hands still bound, to crumple to the ground. Too dazed to resist, he felt the shift sliced from his body, his nude form illuminated by the full moon that suddenly shone bright, making him look like an ethereal being.
“Let’s get you positioned…”
The priest’s voice penetrated his haze as he was roughly pawed before being rolled on his stomach, his legs spread obscenely apart.
“What….who is it?” Michael shouted into the darkness. “Show yourself.” He stood holding his lamp, certain he had heard a sound. He stepped away from his victim, angered his despoilment had been interrupted and anxious to return to it.
Christophe tried to move. He dug his fingers into the damp earth and tried to drag his body away. His arms, aching with having been pulled so tight above his head, were slow to obey his brain’s frantic commands. He gave a sob as he painfully inched forward. There was a shriek of fear, cut short and the sound of a brief struggle before silence once again settled as a thick blanket. A hand to his naked shoulder had Christophe screaming into his gag once again, then he realised these hands were trying to soothe, not violate and the voice was different. He went limp, small hiccupping sobs breaking free.
“I have you now. You are safe.”
The voice was accented, deep, dark and soothing to Christophe’s distraught spirit. He let himself be rolled over and felt the gag be carefully removed. As the moonlight illuminated him once more, he thought he heard a gasp, but his rescuer was shrouded in darkness. His hands were cut free and he clutched desperately at the body that held him before plunging into an abyss of darkness.
****
Turquoise eyes opened slowly. Christophe’s body ached everywhere and he gave a soft moan. Then he sat up and stared in disbelief. He lay in an opulent four-poster bed. The cream sheets were silk, the thick woollen coverlet a deep indigo with blue and gold stitching. The curtains of the bed and at the window opposite were the same indigo. He could see an over-stuffed armchair in blue and gold brocade which sat by a roaring fire to the left. The lower half of the room’s walls were in dark wood wainscoting, the upper half painted a creamy colour and decorated with tapestries which helped retain heat. Across from the fire was a large wooden chest of drawers and on each side of the bed, a matching bedside locker. Glancing at himself he saw he wore a cream silk nightshirt. From the way it hung off one shoulder then the other, it was clear the shirt’s owner was of a broader build. He let his hand slide over the silk and then the wool. The weave was very fine. Whoever owned this home was of wealth that Christophe could scarce imagine. He knew there were castles dotted all around the mountains where he lived, but none were particularly close to his village, yet the room reminded him of a castle, not a house. He wondered just how long he had remained unconscious.
He jumped at a noise to the left and a door opened after a perfunctory knock. Christophe could do nothing other than stare at the man who entered. Straight hair, as black as a raven’s wing, hung like a glossy curtain to broad shoulders. Silvery grey eyes were warm and intelligent. A patrician nose and almost chiselled features denoted nobility and breeding. His height and breadth told Christophe it was this man’s shirt he wore and which covered his nudity. The thought made his body tremble with an unknown sensation. The black velvet jacket and pants seemed to have been sewn onto his frame as they caressed the strong muscular body and a pristine, white frilled shirt completed the ensemble. The clothes seemed to emphasise the man’s beauty, elegance and masculinity. Christophe’s eyes ran back up to the man’s face and a crimson blush stole across his cheeks as he met the amused look from his benefactor.
“I…I am sorry if I was staring. It was very rude of me,” Christophe tried to halt the flow of words before it became an incoherent babble.
“There is no need for shame, young one,” the stranger replied. His accented speech was strangely reassuring as he approached the bed. “I have no doubt you are as curious about me as I am about you. Of course, I had the benefit of seeing you as I tended you. It is only natural you would wish to study me.”
Christophe was certain he could sit and listen to the man speak all day, the beautiful, lilting voice soothing him. Then, just as his initial flush had faded, it surged once again at the man’s words.
“Relax, young one,” the voice now held at trace of amusement that matched the man’s eyes. “I am Lucien and this, such as it is,” he said waving his hand in a sweeping gesture “is my home. You are safe here and welcome to remain for as long as you wish.”
“Christophe…my name is Christophe.” Big blue eyes locked on grey that glittered enthrallingly.
“A beautiful name that befits its owner,” Lucien said with a slight bow. “But how did one so lovely come to be beaten and naked? Were you attacked by bandits?” He sat at Christophe’s side. “Will you tell me?”
Christophe had the strangest feeling Lucien knew it was not bandits and was testing him to see if he would trust him with the truth. He gazed levelly into the entrancing eyes. He would gift this man with the truth, he deserved nothing less. Hesitantly, but with mounting anger and fervour, Christophe recounted how he came to be where Lucien found him. As he spoke, Lucien sat, a silent sentinel, as the tale was told.