Placing his hands on Benjamin’s hips, he looked over the top of his head at his home. “Well, Benjamin, this is your home now, if you will allow it. Permit me to show you around.” Placing a hand on his shoulder – oh, God, those taut muscles again – he steered Benjamin down a long hallway lit with elegant candelabras, into a series of rooms. The drawing room, warm and bright with firelight, rugs and books, through to the library, compact but cosy, with two leather armchairs; the dining room, high-ceiling and dark, most of the candles on the long table unlit, the silverware glinting slightly in the light; the kitchen, hot and cheerful, with a laughing woman housekeeper, all rosy cheeks and wicked grins.
Upstairs, Camorra steered him through a series of bedrooms – his own extravagant and ornate, draped with dark velvet drapes, a desk and chair against one wall, a chaise-longue and armchair by the crackling fire against the other, with the four-poster bed taking up most of the third wall. His own room was smaller, but certainly not mean; a simple but comfortable double bed, a table and chair on one wall, and a couple of easy chairs facing a smaller, but similarly styled fireplace on the other wall. A door to the left of the bed led to a small bathroom; nothing more than a basin and a toilet, with a small mirror on the back of the door, but nonetheless amply sufficient. Benjamin’s reverie was broken by Camorra: “I trust this is all to your satisfaction, Benjamin?” Ploughing on as though agreement was irrelevant, he continued, “Now, it is getting late. I shall instruct the maid to bring you a nightcap; sleep now, and tomorrow we shall make arrangements to transport your belongings here and get you fitted for your uniform, as is appropriate in this house. Now, I shall bid you goodnight, and see you in the morning.” With a half bow, he withdrew and shut the door, leaving Benjamin to his thoughts.
His reverie was broken by a gentle tap at the door, and the maid entered. Curtseying, she set down a tray with a pot of steaming tea, and a small glass of what looked like fine whisky. Lowering her eyes, she said softly, “Have a good night, master Benjamin. I shall see you tomorrow morn, I expect. If you come to the kitchens when you are ready, the cook will prepare a hearty breakfast for you.” Curtseying again, she left the room.
The crackle of the fire, and the warmth of the tea and whisky, were enough for Benjamin to begin to fall asleep. Rousing himself, he relieved himself in the bathroom, stripped naked, and slid between the soft sheets of the bed. At once, he began to drift off, and was soon sound asleep.
Benjamin dreamt. In perfect silence, his new master drifted through the door, without even opening it. He moved to the bedside and stood, staring at Benjamin, his eyes somehow piercing the shadows of his face in spite of the dark. Leaning down, Camorra slowly withdrew the covers, first baring Benjamin’s chest, then his stomach. He paused for a moment, running fine fingers over the taught skin and muscle of Benjamin’s torso. Slipping cool fingertips under the edge of the covers, he gently slid them through the tufty hair, grazing the base of Benjamin’s shaft. With a deft movement, he swept the remaining covers to midway down Benjamin’s thighs, exposing him to Camorra’s hungry eyes. A single fingertip hooked gently under his shaft, lifting and teasing it to its full potential. A soft his escaped Camorra’s perfect teeth as he watched it harden and lengthen at his touch, the head beginning to emerge from the smooth young skin.
Benjamin heard his own breathing begin to change, becoming heavier, and a delicious frown of desire began to form on his forehead, entrancing Camorra still further. Sliding two fingers and a thumb down the shaft to the base, he gently scraped his nails over the silky skin of the boy’s sack, using the barest pressure to massage the contents. Benjamin moaned slightly, and his hips shifted involuntarily to meet the pressure as his sleeping brain searched vainly for the source of the pleasure.
Changing tack, Camorra wrapped his long fingers around Benjamin’s erection and began to slide up and down, tortuously slowly and deliberately, watching as Benjamin’s frown deepened and his young hips began to thrust more ardently into Camorra’s fist. Camorra watched in delicious appreciation as Benjamin felt his fingers knot themselves into the bed sheets and his erection twitch in Camorra’s cool grasp. For long, tortuous minutes, Camorra continued his deliberate pace, as Benjamin felt his pleasure mount and begin to peak. With a long moan, he dug his fingers further into the bed clothes, and saw through half-lidded eyes Camorra bending over him. As he felt the tip of his master’s tongue snake out and run over the head of his ardent member, his self-control fled and he climaxed, in long, languid streaks of pure pleasure. He was vaguely aware of a hiss of satisfaction escaping Camorra as he sat back and drew a fingertip over his lips, catching the last drops of Benjamin’s efforts.
Leaning over Benjamin, Camorra drew a fingernail up from Benjamin’s stomach to his collarbones, leaving a thin red line. For a moment he stared at the gently sheen of sweat covering Benjamin’s face, before he gently drew the covers back up and kissed him upon the forehead. Without a sound, Camorra withdrew, seeming to melt effortless into the shadows.
With a start, Benjamin awoke. Sitting upright, he stared out the window, and saw that it was morning, around 8, if the sun was anything to go by. With a moment of shocked recollection, he remembered, flushing, the dream he had last night. Quickly sliding a hand down the covers to his crotch, he found that there was no sign of last night’s release. “Just a dream,” he sighed to himself, finding himself almost sorry. He rose, and stepped into the bathroom, where he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What he saw froze him in shock, for stretching from his collarbones to his stomach was a thin, red line. His mind reeled in shock; this could not be possible!