Chapter 5: Accustomed — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 5 Accustomed

Chapter Notes

This long chapter is basically the origin story of Tilrey’s most famous ability. Slowly and fumblingly, he’s finding ways to exercise power. The plot thread involving his mother won’t be resolved until The Trip to Thurskein, when he finally returns to see her.Thanks for reading! <3 I’m making some headway on the sequel to “The Trip to Harbour” and hope to start posting that in a few weeks.

Chapter Notes

Thanks for reading! <3 I’m making some headway on the sequel to “The Trip to Harbour” and hope to start posting that in a few weeks.

“Tilrey,” Artur said the next day as they sat together in the sauna overlooking the snowbound Sector, “you’re really okay?”Tilrey ran his fingertips over the smooth finish of the cedar bench. Chlorine residue from the pool rose from his and Artur’s bare, sweaty shoulders: a clean smell that reminded him of strength and exertion.“Fine.” He kept his voice steady. “I mean, like you said, it’s nothing special. Nothing I haven’t done before.”Artur was getting the canny look that always meant uncomfortable questions were coming. “Malsha fucked with your head, though, didn’t he?”“You warned me. I should’ve been better prepared. But I’m fine. I’m good. I mean, it must have been worse for you than for me,” Tilrey added, seizing on a way to end this line of questioning. “To be his kettle boy and go to bed with him after he, well . . .”“Raped me?” Artur’s muddy-green eyes had shuttered. “Yeah. He was all courteous and sappy the first few times afterward, too, and he kept apologizing. Which made me want to gut him even more, and he knew it.”A familiar shudder moved over Tilrey’s scalp. “What’s wrong with him?”“Where do you start? Malsha didn’t need to drug or rape me. He could have started off with the bribery. He told me later that the only reason he did it was to see my face when I woke up in his bed and tried to remember how I got there.”Tilrey felt a little dizzy. He tightened his grip on the aromatic wood (smooth, strong, clean) and asked what he’d been wondering for the past several days: “How can you stay with him, Turshka? I mean, how can you still work for him? Did he threaten your sister to make you do that?”Artur gazed off toward where snow flurried against the windows. “It’s not actually that bad. Politics is a game, and most of the players are assholes—believe me, I know.” He gave the bench a kick. “Malsha hates them all, even the ones he pretends are his allies. He spends all his time finding creative ways to turn them against each other and screw them over. And when you’re on his team, you usually win. It’s fun.”“That doesn’t sound fun to me.” Artur hadn’t answered the last question, which meant he’d stayed on with Malsha of his own volition. It seemed like madness to Tilrey.“You may change your mind,” Artur said. “Anyway, he wants you to start reviewing for the E-Squareds. He’s so eager to see you ace them, it’s kind of funny. Like a proud uncle.”“What do you think would happen if I bombed the test?”Artur’s face turned serious. “Don’t even think about it.”“Maybe I’m just not as smart as he thought,” Tilrey said innocently. “Maybe those lower-form tests were a fluke, or I cheated. If I don’t score well enough to be his secretary, do you think he’ll let me . . .” He couldn’t say the words go home to Thurskein. It hurt even to think them.Artur’s russet brows were drawn tight. “Maybe he’d take it well. Maybe not. Maybe he’d hack your academic record and force you to be his secretary—believe me, he’s capable of it. But that’s not what matters. Do you want to trash your future just to spite him?”Tilrey raised his chin. “It’s my future. I’m not afraid to work in a factory, and I wouldn’t be ashamed.” Better than this, anyway.But his resolve was slipping. Throwing the test would go against a lifetime of study and achievement, and besides, it would wound his pride. There had to be another way.“Malsha’s seventy-two, Tilrey. He won’t be here forever. You’re young, and you want to give yourself as many options as possible. Don’t you?”Yes, he did. And if that meant doing his best job on the E-Squareds even if that was exactly what Malsha wanted—well, maybe he’d have to grit his teeth and do it.Free-nights in Redda still confused Tilrey. Sometimes there were three days between them, sometimes four, occasionally just two, depending on which ten-day of which month it was.His second night with Fir Magistrate went more or less like the first, minus the initial conversation. This time Tilrey answered questions in monosyllables, and Malsha filled in the silence with anecdotes about Reddan architecture and the history of his tea trees, many of them amusing. The man was a good storyteller, Tilrey observed. Noticing without reacting, like a spy gathering intel, was his new strategy.They bathed before retiring to the bedroom. Once again, Malsha was careful and considerate, and afterward he served tea. He made no effort to stimulate Tilrey the way he had the very first night.And once again, when Malsha pulled him into his arms, Tilrey wept. He couldn’t seem to stop it, as if not crying that night in the officers’ club had broken the part of him that controlled such things.Waking in the morning was bad, too. He pretended to be fast asleep as he listened to Malsha rise and dress for a day in the Sector. That didn’t stop the Magistrate from tousling his hair and giving him a kiss and a whispered “Till later, love” before leaving him alone at last.Every term of endearment was a smarting brand. I’m not your love or your sweetheart. I’m not, I’m not. But Artur had taught Tilrey that Malsha would take objections as pleasant provocations, so he bore it.During his days and nights “off,” he studied test review manuals, read, swam, lifted weights, and learned the art of massage from the gym’s unctuous resident masseur. So there were distractions, anyway. It was always a pleasure to go to the gym and see Bror, who was cheerful, breezy, and encouraging, though Tilrey never got a chance to speak to him alone.How much longer would he be locked up? As long as it took him to prove he could cooperate? He would not ask, not even indirectly through Artur. He would not beg.On the third free-night, Tilrey wore a tunic that was pure white with red piping. Malsha’s choice, not his own.After he’d poured the tea and drunk the sap from Malsha’s palm, the Magistrate said, “I have a couple of letters from your mother here.”The words made Tilrey sit bolt upright despite the sap humming in his brain. Somehow it had never occurred to him that his mother could contact the Magistrate. Was this some kind of trick?He schooled his face into indifference. “Fir Supervisor must have told her where to write.”“Indeed.” Malsha fished a slip of paper from inside his tunic. “Here’s the first one: Dear Fir Magistrate. I write to you as a humble functionary who has served Sector Six of Thurskein for the past nine years as Lieutenant Supervisor, receiving annual performance scores of 93 or above. Fir Supervisor Fernei informs me that you have made yourself the patron of my son, Tilhard Edvard Bronn, who is of age but not yet Notified. Needless to say, you honor my family with this choice. I realize you may doubt my sanity when I say that I write to beg you to reconsider.”Tilrey’s pulse seemed to turn his head into a hollow drum, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out what he was hearing. When Malsha glanced at him, he managed to keep his face blank.The Magistrate skimmed the rest of the letter, then the second one, muttering disconnected phrases. “‘Lack of Notification renders any posting provisional’—‘misunderstanding resulting from a regrettable mistake’—‘scores in the top tenth percentile throughout his schooling’—‘with all due respect’—‘while I would never question your wisdom’—hmm. She’s a master of bureaucratese, your mother. Mind-numbing. Ah, but here’s a good part, right at the end: I speak to you not only as a loyal citizen, but as a mother. Fir Magistrate, I know my son. He has qualities of mind that make him an ill fit for this posting, honorable as it may be.” The Magistrate chuckled. “That’s her way of hinting she doesn’t find it honorable. You may find him sensitive, private, and quick to turn inward in situations he finds unpleasant. In short, I fear for both him and you in these circumstances. With all the force a mother’s love can have, I beg you to treat him with patience and—”Tilrey snatched the letter from the Magistrate’s hand and crumpled it. The next moment, he realized what he’d done and cowered, his cheeks burning, the half-crushed sheet still in his shaking hand. “I’m sorry, Fir. I shouldn’t have. I’m—”Malsha cut him short, laughing. “No, no. Serves me right. Here, take the other as well.” He folded the second letter and tossed it on Tilrey’s lap. “There’s an enclosure that’s addressed to you, too—I didn’t read that one. You’ll need them all for reference when you write back to her.”Tilrey’s face was still hot, and tears sprang too easily to his eyes. “Write back?”“Of course! The poor woman needs some reassurance.”Malsha patted Tilrey’s shoulder in the grandfatherly way that always made him queasy. Tilrey shook his head, staring down at the letters.“Nonsense,” Malsha said. “Are you worried I’ll read it first? You can seal it and give it to Artur to post. I shall, of course, write your mother myself, to assure her that her fears are foolish and I have the utmost concern for your future, as evidenced by the fact that you’ll soon be taking the E-Squareds. But she needs to hear from you. She seems to be worried that one of us will kill the other.” He smiled at the absurdity.If you only knew how I’ve thought about killing you. But if Malsha did know, he’d probably think Tilrey’s impotent rage was amusing, too.It was stupid to refuse to write the letter outright. If Tilrey promised to write and then put it off, Malsha might forget about it. But it mattered more to him right now to draw a boundary: You can make me do or be whatever you want in Redda, but you can’t interfere with me at home.During the long, gloomy afternoons locked up in his room, Tilrey liked to imagine that when he’d left Thurskein, he had split in two. Part of him stayed behind to be his mother’s cherished son, while the rest of him became the Magistrate’s kettle boy. And if that wasn’t actually true—well, his mother needed to forget about this person he was now. She needed to forget.And so he said in a firm voice, “That part of my life is over, Fir. You can write her whatever you like.”Then, without waiting for an answer—no answer would be tolerable—he slid off the couch, crawled across the carpet, and reached for the old man’s cock.Malsha tensed with surprise at first. But soon he relaxed, spreading his legs and inching forward to give Tilrey better access. “My. I did not see that coming, but I like it. Ah, yes. Here you go.” He tugged his robe of office aside.Tilrey’s pulse hammered in his ears as he unfastened the man’s trousers, observing his own revulsion without letting it overcome him. He would have asked for this anyway. Artur had made it clear that Fir Magistrate would soon expect him to start participating in their “intimacies” more actively. If this served as a distraction from the way he’d just disobeyed, then at least he was getting something out of it.He suppressed a shudder as he bent to lick tentatively around the head. Green hells, he wouldn’t do this well, but he would do it. This was who he was now.He was still smarting from the words his mother had used—sensitive, private, quick to turn inward. Was she trying to make this harder for him? Didn’t she realize Malsha would seize on every clue he had to Tilrey’s innermost self and use it against him?But no. How could she know that? She must think the General Magistrate of Oslov was a more or less normal man—selfish and lustful, but also capable of compassion, especially for people he could view as his distant inferiors. She’d obviously chosen her words carefully—hiding her anger, hoping to activate Malsha’s pity. She had no idea what she was dealing with.Tilrey kept gagging. His throat was too tight, just as it had been with Jena, so he tried to make up for the lack of depth with a frenzy of tongue lashing. It worked, at least to some degree; Malsha threw his head back and groaned, his hands at his sides.He didn’t touch Tilrey or offer suggestions, just sat there and let Tilrey bring him to his climax. Then Tilrey withdrew as fast as possible and spat into his palm, cringing inwardly.Malsha relaxed with a great sigh. Body boneless and eyes closed, he said, “Next time you’ll swallow, my love. And every time after that.”He didn’t mention it again until they were in the bath together with steam mercifully obscuring their faces. “Thank you for earlier, sweetheart. That was an honest effort.”Tilrey looked down at the seething water. “I guess I need training, Fir,” he said, practicing the blankness again. Sucking men off is just another skill. Something to learn with my body instead of my head, like massage.Malsha said, “I guess you do.”After they’d toweled off, he walked Tilrey into the bedroom, peeled the robe from his shoulders, and laid him down on his back.Tilrey lay still as a corpse and closed his eyes, expecting to be rolled over in the usual way. When, instead, a firm hand began pumping his cock, he was so startled he nearly struggled. Then something warm and yielding closed over the sensitive head, and he arched his back and moaned before he could help himself.After a few more strokes of Malsha’s tongue, the delicious pressure withdrew, replaced by the hand again. Malsha laughed in the distance. “Now, my love, I don’t claim to be an expert. But I’ve learned from those who were, so pay attention.”Those were the last words he spoke before Tilrey came—with embarrassing speed, because he’d never in his life felt anything quite so good.The one time Dal sucked him off, she’d been nearly as tentative as he’d been with Malsha in the living room. It was good, but he’d been so worried about coming too soon or too late or not saying the right thing afterward. This was different. All he had to do was lie here and keep still and quiet while a tight, hot cavern swallowed him deeper and deeper, and a flicking tongue added burning, provocative lashes of pleasure to the mix. It felt like teetering on top of the steepest ski slope in Thurskein, ready to push off and go, his body becoming one with the wind.His hands were tangled in the Magistrate’s sparse hair, taking control of the man’s head, before he realized what he was doing. Too late to stop. Two vicious strokes under his own power, and then he was over the top and flying. You don’t want this, his brain insisted right before it exploded into pure bliss.When he came back to himself, Malsha lay stretched beside him, propped on an elbow, examining him neutrally. “Now you see,” he said.“I’m sorry, Fir. For—you know.” Tilrey was blushing again, and he knew Malsha enjoyed every second of it. “I couldn’t really control—”“I’m well aware how far gone you were, sweetheart.” Malsha sat up. Fingers threaded themselves through Tilrey’s hair and tugged him closer, taking possession of him again. “I doubt I’m the only man who’ll want to give you that kind of pleasure. You have a lovely cock. I think we can wait to begin your proper lessons until next time.”And with that, he rolled Tilrey’s pleasure-limp body over and nudged his hips up to prop a pillow under them. “Mmm,” he said, cupping an ass-cheek with one hand while pulling a knee akimbo with the other. “I do love you when you’re displayed this way. Very primal.”Tilrey tried to freeze out his senses the way he usually did in bed, but the orgasm had brought every inch of him to tingling life. He settled for bringing a knuckle to his mouth and biting down, using the pain to refocus inward. Then he spread his thighs and tried to relax.A hand stroked his hair back from the nape. “I’m so glad I didn’t let Vanya pack you away to that dreadful brothel for good. That would have been a crime. You’ve already surpassed all my expectations, do you know that?”Bite down. Relax. Don’t feel anything.“And by the way,” Malsha said, a little hoarse from his earlier labors, “I haven’t forgotten about your mother, sweetheart. You’ll give Artur a letter for her in the next ten-day, or I’ll hear about it.”Malsha must have gotten busy then, because it was actually slightly more than two ten-days before he mentioned the letter again.The morning after his third night with the Magistrate, Tilrey opened the message his mother had enclosed for him. His first glimpse of her shaky handwriting brought tears to his eyes, and he refolded the paper and fantasized about destroying it unread. But after a few minutes, he broke.

Dear Rishka,

Supervisor Fernei has told me you attended a treasonous gathering. Since you have not been formally charged, let alone convicted, I choose to believe in your innocence. But whatever the truth may be, I want you to know I forgive you, and I love you.

That will never change. From the moment I first felt you stir inside me, my mission in this world has been to nurture and protect you. Now you are without me, but you are grown, my son, and stronger than you know. Study. Learn. Do me proud and do yourself proud until we see each other again. I know Fir Magistrate has too much compassion and discernment to wish to separate you from the only surviving member of your immediate family.

With all my love and steadfast support and confidence in you,

Angelika Lindtmerán

Tears sprang to Tilrey’s eyes as he began reading. But soon they dried up, and he felt empty inside again. His mother was a clever politician. She’d assumed Malsha would vet the letter before giving it to him; she’d been careful to compliment the Magistrate while targeting him with a subtle reproach. How much of this was for Tilrey at all?His mom’s forgiveness was genuine, at least. She probably blamed Dal for his attending the shirker meeting; she blamed Dal for everything he did wrong.It was the words That will never change that stuck to him, stabbing him with tiny daggers as he showered and ate breakfast in his warm, comfortable prison. Why did his mother have to say she wouldn’t stop loving him? Why did she think he needed the assurance?She must be wondering who he was now—whether he was someone she might have trouble loving, or at least respecting. He wondered, too. He’d gotten down on his knees last night and sucked an Upstart’s cock on his own initiative. Was this person—this boy—really her son?Do me proud and do yourself proud. The more he repeated the words to himself, the more reproachful they sounded. Pride wasn’t part of his world now. A proud boy would have stepped off the parapet when he had a chance, or stabbed himself in the jugular with that nail file. A proud boy wouldn’t be here today.He’d made his choice. And he remembered that on the fourth and fifth and sixth free-nights, as his “proper lessons” began.It always started with Tilrey working his tongue desperately up and down the Magistrate’s shaft, hoping against hope that if he distracted him skillfully enough, he wouldn’t have to take it deeper. It always ended with him on his back and Malsha on top of him, thrusting into his throat the way the soldiers had. Tilrey closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly through his nose and not squirm or gag.When he was finally allowed to swallow and curl into himself, he cried silently. He’d almost stopped being ashamed of it. Dripping rageful tears was apparently his condition of being.Afterward, every time, Malsha served him tea and biscuits and assured him he was getting better with each session. “The gag reflex should go soon,” he said, rubbing the knob of Tilrey’s shoulder.“How would you know, Fir?” Tilrey hugged himself tight and let the bitterness out, even though Malsha probably enjoyed it.“I have some experience,” the Magistrate said mildly.“You didn’t take me that deep.” Tilrey knew the difference now. “You can’t show me what you want me to do, can you, Fir?”Malsha was silent. Tilrey was just starting to fear he was offended in earnest when he said, “You have a point. Perhaps I can arrange for a better-qualified tutor.”Krisha gave Tilrey’s arm a firm tug, pulling him over the threshold. “Don’t be an idiot. There’s nothing to be scared of.”The foyer of the Sanctioned Brothel stretched before them—seemingly acres of polished black slate lit by the skylights of a dramatically pitched ceiling. It looked like Tilrey imagined the inside of the Sector buildings did. It looked nothing like the dim, stuffy corridors of the officers’ club. So why was his heart racing?Krisha dragged him across the echoing floor to the far corner of the room, where a bald, ageless man presided over a desk and computer. “Krisha,” the man said, smiling with his lips alone. “You’re looking well.” He barely glanced at Tilrey.Krisha didn’t smile back. “We’re here for Matthias.”“Of course.” The man consulted his screen. “Room twenty-four. He’s ready for you.”The corridors were high-ceilinged, wood-paneled, and lushly carpeted in gun-metal gray. Tilrey barely heard their footsteps. “Is this place just for Upstarts?” he asked, a little stunned by the luxury.Krisha grunted in distaste. “High Upstarts. It costs a fortune in rec credit.”Room 24 was just big enough for a bed, a couch, and another skylight. Matthias rose from the couch as they came in. He was Artur’s age or a little older, with close-cropped chestnut hair, dark make-up outlining his eyes—something Tilrey had never seen before—and a silver disc dangling from one ear. He wore only a robe, and while he wasn’t particularly handsome, all his movements had a fluid grace.His eyes moved over Tilrey appraisingly, then flicked to Krisha. “You’re going to have to leave him with me, you know.”Krisha released Tilrey but didn’t budge from his spot. “Fir doesn’t want me leaving him alone.”Matthias rolled his eyes in the same unhurried way he did everything. “The Fir knows me, Krisha. And you know me. I’m not going to misbehave.” He shifted his weight to the other hip. “Or do you want to watch?”“Fuck you,” Krisha muttered. But he did leave, after assuring Tilrey he would stay a few paces away on the couch where the corridor branched.When the door had closed behind him, Matthias took a few steps toward Tilrey, his eyes narrowing. “What’s the Magistrate done to you? You look halfway catatonic.”Tilrey’s cheeks flamed. Even whores pitied him now. “I’m not. I’m fine. He just sent me here because I’m . . . not good at it.”“Of course you’re not. You’re a kid.” Matthias sank onto the couch, opened his robe with a flick of his fingers, and shrugged it off. His golden skin flowed over fine musculature, accented by brown hair at the chest and crotch. His cock was half-hard, the scrotum a plump shadow. “You’ll need to relax,” he said, meeting Tilrey’s eyes again, clearly not at all uncomfortable. “And before I can show you, you’ll need to show me what you can do. Sorry about that. No way around it.”His tone was so impersonal that Tilrey did begin, almost imperceptibly, to relax. Here there would be no ogling, no “sweetheart,” and he’d already prepared himself for what he needed to do. He walked to the couch and dropped to his knees, avoiding eye contact.“Green hells, this isn’t an Int/Sec cell. I’m not going to torture you.” A hand caught his hand, gentle, and guided it to the hardening cock. “Take me as deep as you can, but at your own pace, okay? I promise not to touch you again.”By now, Tilrey had something of a routine. He went through it as thoroughly as he could, coordinating the movements of his hand and tongue. But when he reached the point where Malsha would normally have taken over and thrust down his throat, he had no idea what to do. Why was he sucking a Drudge’s cock, anyway? He forced himself to take another centimeter and gagged miserably.“Okay. Okay.” Matthias was inching backward, giving him space. “You can stop now.”Really? Tilrey pulled free—wincing at the wet popping sound—and sat back on his haunches. He wiped his mouth. “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”It was a relief finally to admit it, but now of course the tears were rising. He stared at the shiny wood floor, trying not to blink, waiting for Matthias to laugh at him. Why would someone who was widely considered to give the best head in Redda—according to Malsha—have any sympathy for him?Matthias patted the couch. When Tilrey had risen from his knees and settled himself there, the young man drew his robe closed and belted it. “It took me a while to learn, too. Want to know my secret?”There was a secret? He nodded eagerly.“Ah, but you see, that’s your problem.” Matthias slipped off the couch and onto his knees. “You tell me yes, but your whole body says no. You don’t want to know the secret because you don’t actually want a cock down your throat.” He took hold of Tilrey’s knees and looked up at him, brown eyes earnest. “And that is the secret. Every cock you suck, you need to convince yourself you want it. More than anything.”He parted Tilrey’s knees and inserted himself between them, one hand rubbing Tilrey’s thigh in slow, measured circles. “Let me show you.”Tilrey swallowed as a hand reached under his tunic. “I’m nervous. I don’t know if I can—”He broke off, gasping, as Matthias took possession of his cock through the fabric. Two pumps with those strong, knowing fingers, and he was helplessly hard.“You were saying?” Matthias freed him from the trousers. “Oh, yes.” He sighed happily. “Plenty to work with.”Matthias started out languid and teasing, using most of the same skills Tilrey had mastered under Malsha’s tutelage. His tongue was strong and inventive, and he knew how to coordinate it with his hand and throat. He advanced and withdrew, sucking Tilrey slightly deeper each time, until Tilrey was arching his back so hard he had to grab the couch to keep from sliding off.Then Matthias eased him out and got a punishing grip on the base of his cock. “Easy now. We don’t want you coming just yet.” He chuckled. “Think about your Fir, not me. That should calm things down.”Tilrey tried, but he was helpless even when Malsha did this to him. And what was happening now was far, far better than anything Malsha could do. If that was speeding down the highest ski slope, this was flying.The hot wetness was all the way down his length now, pulsing and alive, making everything tingle with desperate need. He felt closer than he’d ever been to another person, so close it was almost suffocating, almost shameful. Like he was nourishing that eager mouth from some hidden store in his deepest self. Yet each time Matthias withdrew and exposed the base of his cock to the open air, he whimpered. He needed to be inside that warm, welcoming place. He needed to be whole. He needed.The climax came without warning, tearing a cry from his throat. For a long moment he soared, weightless and burning, and dimly he felt the warm envelope convulse around him, hungrily swallowing his seed.It took a few minutes for him to feel the weight of his body pressing into the couch again. He opened his eyes to find his trousers and tunic all fastened up and Matthias sitting on the floor, grinning.“So, yeah,” said his colleague (because they were colleagues now, weren’t they, or at least peers?). “To do it right, you gotta want that cock like a baby wants its mom’s teat. Suck it like you need it to live.”Tilrey was still lightheaded. “But how? I mean, you didn’t really want mine that badly, did you?” His cheeks warmed again. “You were pretending.”Matthias shook his head, then popped up to sit beside Tilrey. He kept a respectful distance, as if he realized the intimacy they’d just shared was nothing that translated to this conversation. “No, no, no. You can pretend for everything else, but not this. The only way to relax is to make it real. And do you know why it’s real? Do you know how I manage to crave every single Strutter cock that comes through this shithole?”Tilrey had no clue.Matthias grinned again, glowingly. “I know what I’m going to do to them is going to make them absolutely fucking helpless. Imagine for a second what it’s like watching a Councillor or a high Admin beg and snivel for more of your mouth. Having that kind of power. It’s better than sap, kid. It’s better than coming. It’s good.”Tilrey imagined making Malsha lose his precious control, even for a few seconds. Seeing the General Magistrate of Oslov squirm and weep and blush and curse his own needy, sensitive responses, while he himself remained calm and indifferent.“I’d like to,” he said. “I just don’t know how.”Matthias tapped him playfully on the knee. “The wanting is the hardest part. Shall we try again?”“Verdant hills and valleys,” Malsha groaned. All the way flat on his back, he writhed against the bedclothes, seizing handfuls of duvet as Tilrey took him deeper and deeper.It still didn’t feel comfortable or natural, but the gag reflex was history—Tilrey’s long lesson with Matthias had seen to that. He put his shame and self-consciousness away in a drawer and focused on the responses he was producing, undoing Malsha’s control gasp by gasp. He imagined that the pre-come he was swallowing was the man’s power, his life force. Each gulp made the Magistrate a little weaker and him a little stronger. Malsha might think he was being serviced and served, but actually he was being sapped. Just a little deeper, now . . .He waited for the moment when Malsha would shake him off and flip him over and hold him down. But it never arrived. Tilrey remained on top, sucking and pumping shamelessly. Until at last the seed rushed warm into his throat and he swallowed it, savoring the Magistrate’s long, harsh moan and the pain of nails digging into his shoulders. That desperate need, that loss of control. He’d done that.Afterward, he didn’t feel the need to huddle or curl into himself. He rolled on his back, stretched, and lay staring at the canopy until Malsha woke from a light doze and pulled him closer.“I made the right choice,” the old man murmured into his hair. “Expert tutoring is always better.” Then, after a moment, “He didn’t touch you any more than he needed to, did he?”Tilrey shook his head. From start to finish, Matthias had been a professional.“Good, good. I feel absurd even admitting this, but I’m jealous.” Fingertips pinched his earlobe, teased down his neck. “Absurd because I do realize I’m going to have to share you. But I’m putting it off as long as possible.”Tilrey had been putting off thinking about it, too. Artur had outlined how it all worked: the Lounge, the tea parties, the solemn hand-overs to other Councillors. A lump of dread settled in his gut, but he willed it away. What difference did it make to him if he was “obliging” Malsha or someone else?Was he supposed to be flattered by the admission of jealousy? Not fucking likely. But when the Magistrate’s finger traced his lower lip, he opened up and sucked it the way he’d sucked the man’s cock.He remembered the fire in Matthias’s eyes when he’d talked of making Upstarts beg and cry. Matthias might work at the Sanctioned, but he clearly “belonged” to no one. Why should Tilrey be any different? No one could legally own another human being.Never, he vowed, giving himself up to a long kiss. No one will ever own me, because I’ll never love anyone after Dal. From now on, for the rest of my life, fucking is just a tool. And I can use it better than they can.“Mmm,” Malsha said. “I can taste me inside you. Go rinse your mouth, love, and bring me a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk in the living room.”Tilrey obeyed. Though he allowed himself a fleeting fantasy of stabbing the Magistrate in the eye with the pen, he handed the implements over and slid into bed. When Malsha held out a palm splashed with sap, he licked it clean with the same seductive thoroughness he’d learned sucking cock, and he felt the old man’s body thrum from his touch.Power. It felt like that.“Now,” said the Magistrate, handing him the pen, “you are going to write a reassuring letter to your mother.”Tilrey’s heart lurched. So Malsha hadn’t forgotten. “I’ll do it tomorrow, Fir.”“No, sweet, you won’t do it tomorrow, or the day after. That’s become clear. But it needs to be done, so you’ll do it tonight, in my presence.” Malsha rolled onto his stomach. “In fact, you can use me as a writing desk. Put the paper on my back. Use that book on the night table.”Tilrey could follow those orders easily enough. But when it came to writing anything on the paper—no. Every time he tried to think of something “reassuring,” rage mounted in his skull and threatened to blind him. He sat with his pen poised and his elbows jammed into the old man’s ribs, shuddering.“You’re not writing,” Malsha complained.I won’t lie to her. But he didn’t quite dare say it aloud, so he was almost relieved when Malsha said, “Shall I dictate, then?”“She’ll know it’s not me.”“Then write your own fucking letter, sweetheart—but you won’t, will you?” Malsha sighed long-sufferingly. “Just write. I’ll make it as believable as possible. Dear Mother, I’ve been postponing writing this letter to you because yours was painful for me to read.”Tilrey twitched, drawing a scribble across the paper. “No.”“You’d rather have it be a lie? Write.”After a long moment, Tilrey did. His script was faint and shaky at first, but he didn’t want her to think he was doing this under duress. He drew a deep breath and grasped the pen tighter.“Don’t worry,” Malsha said, “it’ll get less heavy. I don’t want to drive her to Soldrid. Okay, continue: I’ve been doing my utmost to put thoughts of home behind me. For better or worse, that part of my life is over.”They were the words Tilrey himself had used to explain his reluctance to write. Malsha had remembered. He controlled his breathing and tried to make the cursive look normal.“But I want you to know, whatever I do or become here in Redda, you’ll always be close to my heart. Everything good I am, I learned from you. I won’t neglect my studying, and Fir Magistrate is adamant that I take the E-Squareds and prepare for a solid career.”Tilrey snorted quietly at that, but he wrote it all down. None of it was a lie, and if he wasn’t sure his mother would consider being the Magistrate’s secretary a “solid career,” there was no point in saying so.“I hope to do you proud the way you said—if not now, someday. Parts of my new life do feel difficult and against my nature—“Tilrey jerked the pen to a halt. “I won’t say that, Fir. Also, you said you didn’t read the enclosure.”“I may have peeked. Does that really surprise you? Anyway, you want this believable, don’t you, love? Continue from there: —but I’m strong, as strong as you raised me to be. Maybe you think of me as sensitive and fearful because I’ve never been put to the test, Mother. But be assured, I’m tough—as tough as you, or as you say my father was. Your father died before you were born, correct? Would she say that?”Tilrey nodded. His father was practically a saga hero in his mother’s eyes.“I will rise above obstacles and endure.” Malsha paused. “Who are a few special friends of yours? That girlfriend—what’s her name?”“Dal.” It almost stuck in his throat. “Dal and Pers are my friends.” Was he putting them in Malsha’s power by admitting it? But no, it would be easy enough for Malsha to have someone ask around in Thurskein and learn their names.“Please send my best wishes to Dal and Pers and tell them I long to see them again, just as I long to see you. It may be some time, but we will be reunited. With all my love, Tilrey. No, wait.” The Magistrate smiled fondly. “With all my love, Rishka.”Tilrey wrote it down, every word. Would his mother be fooled? Perhaps. He had to admit, it was dangerously close to what he might have written if he’d managed to write. Even the adolescent bravado of I will rise above obstacles and endure—that was him, or the boy he’d been a few ten-days ago. She would recognize him in the words, and she would have reason not to despair. That was more important than the truth.Now he knew better what enduring meant. It meant being broken over and over, more times and ways than you would have believed possible, and trying to convince yourself the shattered pieces were still you.*The next day, Krisha drove Tilrey to a blocky granite building on the edge of the Sector. The top floor was all brilliant plate-glass, and through it he could see people sitting at tables in warm yellow light. It reminded him of the corner of the caf where he and Dal and Pers used to sit, stretching their meals into marathon conversations.“That’s the Café,” Krisha confirmed. “We’re not going there today. He doesn’t want you out in public too much.”“So, where are we going?”The answer was better than Tilrey could have imagined. Krisha led him up from the dark garage into a vast, musty hall where bookshelves stretched in every direction.The titles on the spines were like voices calling to Tilrey. He itched to go to them, but he did his best not to show it. “This is the Library?”“This’s just the basement; there are nine floors. Most of the books you ask for, they’re up higher.”They took a rickety lift to a floor where tall windows on either end let in the light. Each window was paired with a reading carrel, and when Tilrey sat in one and looked out, he saw the jagged black towers of the Sector close up for the first time, poking the windswept sky.The treasures in the stacks were even more exciting. Running his finger along the spines, he found books he’d seen described in his school texts but never imagined he could actually read. Here were the full memoirs of Edvard Whyberg—ten volumes, supposedly full of embarrassing personal confessions. Here was an uncensored, unabridged version of Ill Eisslev (The Native), the little-read classic that chronicled the bumpy transition from Feudalism to meritocracy.Tilrey no longer agonized over how his reading choices would reflect on him. Clearly Malsha had no interest in sending him to an Int/Sec cell. Still, when he returned to Krisha with his arms piled high, he asked, “Are these all right?”Krisha didn’t even glance at the titles. “Fir says you can have any books you want.”On their next free-night, Malsha would probably ask how he’d liked the Library, and Tilrey would have to thank him for the new privilege, and Malsha would laugh and tell him how sulky his thanks sounded. He might even be quizzed on the titles he’d selected. Every gift came with a penalty.But this one was worth it. Pushing these thoughts aside, Tilrey handed the stack of books to Krisha. “All of them, please.”

“Tilrey,” Artur said the next day as they sat together in the sauna overlooking the snowbound Sector, “you’re really okay?”

Tilrey ran his fingertips over the smooth finish of the cedar bench. Chlorine residue from the pool rose from his and Artur’s bare, sweaty shoulders: a clean smell that reminded him of strength and exertion.

“Fine.” He kept his voice steady. “I mean, like you said, it’s nothing special. Nothing I haven’t done before.”

Artur was getting the canny look that always meant uncomfortable questions were coming. “Malsha fucked with your head, though, didn’t he?”

“You warned me. I should’ve been better prepared. But I’m fine. I’m good. I mean, it must have been worse for you than for me,” Tilrey added, seizing on a way to end this line of questioning. “To be his kettle boy and go to bed with him after he, well . . .”

“Raped me?” Artur’s muddy-green eyes had shuttered. “Yeah. He was all courteous and sappy the first few times afterward, too, and he kept apologizing. Which made me want to gut him even more, and he knew it.”

A familiar shudder moved over Tilrey’s scalp. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Where do you start? Malsha didn’t need to drug or rape me. He could have started off with the bribery. He told me later that the only reason he did it was to see my face when I woke up in his bed and tried to remember how I got there.”

Tilrey felt a little dizzy. He tightened his grip on the aromatic wood (smooth, strong, clean) and asked what he’d been wondering for the past several days: “How can you stay with him, Turshka? I mean, how can you still work for him? Did he threaten your sister to make you do that?”

Artur gazed off toward where snow flurried against the windows. “It’s not actually that bad. Politics is a game, and most of the players are assholes—believe me, I know.” He gave the bench a kick. “Malsha hates them all, even the ones he pretends are his allies. He spends all his time finding creative ways to turn them against each other and screw them over. And when you’re on his team, you usually win. It’s fun.”

“That doesn’t sound fun to me.” Artur hadn’t answered the last question, which meant he’d stayed on with Malsha of his own volition. It seemed like madness to Tilrey.

“You may change your mind,” Artur said. “Anyway, he wants you to start reviewing for the E-Squareds. He’s so eager to see you ace them, it’s kind of funny. Like a proud uncle.”

“What do you think would happen if I bombed the test?”

Artur’s face turned serious. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Maybe I’m just not as smart as he thought,” Tilrey said innocently. “Maybe those lower-form tests were a fluke, or I cheated. If I don’t score well enough to be his secretary, do you think he’ll let me . . .” He couldn’t say the words go home to Thurskein. It hurt even to think them.

Artur’s russet brows were drawn tight. “Maybe he’d take it well. Maybe not. Maybe he’d hack your academic record and force you to be his secretary—believe me, he’s capable of it. But that’s not what matters. Do you want to trash your future just to spite him?”

Tilrey raised his chin. “It’s my future. I’m not afraid to work in a factory, and I wouldn’t be ashamed.” Better than this, anyway.

But his resolve was slipping. Throwing the test would go against a lifetime of study and achievement, and besides, it would wound his pride. There had to be another way.

“Malsha’s seventy-two, Tilrey. He won’t be here forever. You’re young, and you want to give yourself as many options as possible. Don’t you?”

Yes, he did. And if that meant doing his best job on the E-Squareds even if that was exactly what Malsha wanted—well, maybe he’d have to grit his teeth and do it.

Free-nights in Redda still confused Tilrey. Sometimes there were three days between them, sometimes four, occasionally just two, depending on which ten-day of which month it was.

His second night with Fir Magistrate went more or less like the first, minus the initial conversation. This time Tilrey answered questions in monosyllables, and Malsha filled in the silence with anecdotes about Reddan architecture and the history of his tea trees, many of them amusing. The man was a good storyteller, Tilrey observed. Noticing without reacting, like a spy gathering intel, was his new strategy.

They bathed before retiring to the bedroom. Once again, Malsha was careful and considerate, and afterward he served tea. He made no effort to stimulate Tilrey the way he had the very first night.

And once again, when Malsha pulled him into his arms, Tilrey wept. He couldn’t seem to stop it, as if not crying that night in the officers’ club had broken the part of him that controlled such things.

Waking in the morning was bad, too. He pretended to be fast asleep as he listened to Malsha rise and dress for a day in the Sector. That didn’t stop the Magistrate from tousling his hair and giving him a kiss and a whispered “Till later, love” before leaving him alone at last.

Every term of endearment was a smarting brand. I’m not your love or your sweetheart. I’m not, I’m not. But Artur had taught Tilrey that Malsha would take objections as pleasant provocations, so he bore it.

During his days and nights “off,” he studied test review manuals, read, swam, lifted weights, and learned the art of massage from the gym’s unctuous resident masseur. So there were distractions, anyway. It was always a pleasure to go to the gym and see Bror, who was cheerful, breezy, and encouraging, though Tilrey never got a chance to speak to him alone.

How much longer would he be locked up? As long as it took him to prove he could cooperate? He would not ask, not even indirectly through Artur. He would not beg.

On the third free-night, Tilrey wore a tunic that was pure white with red piping. Malsha’s choice, not his own.

After he’d poured the tea and drunk the sap from Malsha’s palm, the Magistrate said, “I have a couple of letters from your mother here.”

The words made Tilrey sit bolt upright despite the sap humming in his brain. Somehow it had never occurred to him that his mother could contact the Magistrate. Was this some kind of trick?

He schooled his face into indifference. “Fir Supervisor must have told her where to write.”

“Indeed.” Malsha fished a slip of paper from inside his tunic. “Here’s the first one: Dear Fir Magistrate. I write to you as a humble functionary who has served Sector Six of Thurskein for the past nine years as Lieutenant Supervisor, receiving annual performance scores of 93 or above. Fir Supervisor Fernei informs me that you have made yourself the patron of my son, Tilhard Edvard Bronn, who is of age but not yet Notified. Needless to say, you honor my family with this choice. I realize you may doubt my sanity when I say that I write to beg you to reconsider.”

Tilrey’s pulse seemed to turn his head into a hollow drum, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out what he was hearing. When Malsha glanced at him, he managed to keep his face blank.

The Magistrate skimmed the rest of the letter, then the second one, muttering disconnected phrases. “‘Lack of Notification renders any posting provisional’—‘misunderstanding resulting from a regrettable mistake’—‘scores in the top tenth percentile throughout his schooling’—‘with all due respect’—‘while I would never question your wisdom’—hmm. She’s a master of bureaucratese, your mother. Mind-numbing. Ah, but here’s a good part, right at the end: I speak to you not only as a loyal citizen, but as a mother. Fir Magistrate, I know my son. He has qualities of mind that make him an ill fit for this posting, honorable as it may be.” The Magistrate chuckled. “That’s her way of hinting she doesn’t find it honorable. You may find him sensitive, private, and quick to turn inward in situations he finds unpleasant. In short, I fear for both him and you in these circumstances. With all the force a mother’s love can have, I beg you to treat him with patience and—”

Tilrey snatched the letter from the Magistrate’s hand and crumpled it. The next moment, he realized what he’d done and cowered, his cheeks burning, the half-crushed sheet still in his shaking hand. “I’m sorry, Fir. I shouldn’t have. I’m—”

Malsha cut him short, laughing. “No, no. Serves me right. Here, take the other as well.” He folded the second letter and tossed it on Tilrey’s lap. “There’s an enclosure that’s addressed to you, too—I didn’t read that one. You’ll need them all for reference when you write back to her.”

Tilrey’s face was still hot, and tears sprang too easily to his eyes. “Write back?”

“Of course! The poor woman needs some reassurance.”

Malsha patted Tilrey’s shoulder in the grandfatherly way that always made him queasy. Tilrey shook his head, staring down at the letters.

“Nonsense,” Malsha said. “Are you worried I’ll read it first? You can seal it and give it to Artur to post. I shall, of course, write your mother myself, to assure her that her fears are foolish and I have the utmost concern for your future, as evidenced by the fact that you’ll soon be taking the E-Squareds. But she needs to hear from you. She seems to be worried that one of us will kill the other.” He smiled at the absurdity.

If you only knew how I’ve thought about killing you. But if Malsha did know, he’d probably think Tilrey’s impotent rage was amusing, too.

It was stupid to refuse to write the letter outright. If Tilrey promised to write and then put it off, Malsha might forget about it. But it mattered more to him right now to draw a boundary: You can make me do or be whatever you want in Redda, but you can’t interfere with me at home.

During the long, gloomy afternoons locked up in his room, Tilrey liked to imagine that when he’d left Thurskein, he had split in two. Part of him stayed behind to be his mother’s cherished son, while the rest of him became the Magistrate’s kettle boy. And if that wasn’t actually true—well, his mother needed to forget about this person he was now. She needed to forget.

And so he said in a firm voice, “That part of my life is over, Fir. You can write her whatever you like.”

Then, without waiting for an answer—no answer would be tolerable—he slid off the couch, crawled across the carpet, and reached for the old man’s cock.

Malsha tensed with surprise at first. But soon he relaxed, spreading his legs and inching forward to give Tilrey better access. “My. I did not see that coming, but I like it. Ah, yes. Here you go.” He tugged his robe of office aside.

Tilrey’s pulse hammered in his ears as he unfastened the man’s trousers, observing his own revulsion without letting it overcome him. He would have asked for this anyway. Artur had made it clear that Fir Magistrate would soon expect him to start participating in their “intimacies” more actively. If this served as a distraction from the way he’d just disobeyed, then at least he was getting something out of it.

He suppressed a shudder as he bent to lick tentatively around the head. Green hells, he wouldn’t do this well, but he would do it. This was who he was now.

He was still smarting from the words his mother had used—sensitive, private, quick to turn inward. Was she trying to make this harder for him? Didn’t she realize Malsha would seize on every clue he had to Tilrey’s innermost self and use it against him?

But no. How could she know that? She must think the General Magistrate of Oslov was a more or less normal man—selfish and lustful, but also capable of compassion, especially for people he could view as his distant inferiors. She’d obviously chosen her words carefully—hiding her anger, hoping to activate Malsha’s pity. She had no idea what she was dealing with.

Tilrey kept gagging. His throat was too tight, just as it had been with Jena, so he tried to make up for the lack of depth with a frenzy of tongue lashing. It worked, at least to some degree; Malsha threw his head back and groaned, his hands at his sides.

He didn’t touch Tilrey or offer suggestions, just sat there and let Tilrey bring him to his climax. Then Tilrey withdrew as fast as possible and spat into his palm, cringing inwardly.

Malsha relaxed with a great sigh. Body boneless and eyes closed, he said, “Next time you’ll swallow, my love. And every time after that.”

He didn’t mention it again until they were in the bath together with steam mercifully obscuring their faces. “Thank you for earlier, sweetheart. That was an honest effort.”

Tilrey looked down at the seething water. “I guess I need training, Fir,” he said, practicing the blankness again. Sucking men off is just another skill. Something to learn with my body instead of my head, like massage.

Malsha said, “I guess you do.”

After they’d toweled off, he walked Tilrey into the bedroom, peeled the robe from his shoulders, and laid him down on his back.

Tilrey lay still as a corpse and closed his eyes, expecting to be rolled over in the usual way. When, instead, a firm hand began pumping his cock, he was so startled he nearly struggled. Then something warm and yielding closed over the sensitive head, and he arched his back and moaned before he could help himself.

After a few more strokes of Malsha’s tongue, the delicious pressure withdrew, replaced by the hand again. Malsha laughed in the distance. “Now, my love, I don’t claim to be an expert. But I’ve learned from those who were, so pay attention.”

Those were the last words he spoke before Tilrey came—with embarrassing speed, because he’d never in his life felt anything quite so good.

The one time Dal sucked him off, she’d been nearly as tentative as he’d been with Malsha in the living room. It was good, but he’d been so worried about coming too soon or too late or not saying the right thing afterward. This was different. All he had to do was lie here and keep still and quiet while a tight, hot cavern swallowed him deeper and deeper, and a flicking tongue added burning, provocative lashes of pleasure to the mix. It felt like teetering on top of the steepest ski slope in Thurskein, ready to push off and go, his body becoming one with the wind.

His hands were tangled in the Magistrate’s sparse hair, taking control of the man’s head, before he realized what he was doing. Too late to stop. Two vicious strokes under his own power, and then he was over the top and flying. You don’t want this, his brain insisted right before it exploded into pure bliss.

When he came back to himself, Malsha lay stretched beside him, propped on an elbow, examining him neutrally. “Now you see,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Fir. For—you know.” Tilrey was blushing again, and he knew Malsha enjoyed every second of it. “I couldn’t really control—”

“I’m well aware how far gone you were, sweetheart.” Malsha sat up. Fingers threaded themselves through Tilrey’s hair and tugged him closer, taking possession of him again. “I doubt I’m the only man who’ll want to give you that kind of pleasure. You have a lovely cock. I think we can wait to begin your proper lessons until next time.”

And with that, he rolled Tilrey’s pleasure-limp body over and nudged his hips up to prop a pillow under them. “Mmm,” he said, cupping an ass-cheek with one hand while pulling a knee akimbo with the other. “I do love you when you’re displayed this way. Very primal.”

Tilrey tried to freeze out his senses the way he usually did in bed, but the orgasm had brought every inch of him to tingling life. He settled for bringing a knuckle to his mouth and biting down, using the pain to refocus inward. Then he spread his thighs and tried to relax.

A hand stroked his hair back from the nape. “I’m so glad I didn’t let Vanya pack you away to that dreadful brothel for good. That would have been a crime. You’ve already surpassed all my expectations, do you know that?”

Bite down. Relax. Don’t feel anything.

“And by the way,” Malsha said, a little hoarse from his earlier labors, “I haven’t forgotten about your mother, sweetheart. You’ll give Artur a letter for her in the next ten-day, or I’ll hear about it.”

Malsha must have gotten busy then, because it was actually slightly more than two ten-days before he mentioned the letter again.

The morning after his third night with the Magistrate, Tilrey opened the message his mother had enclosed for him. His first glimpse of her shaky handwriting brought tears to his eyes, and he refolded the paper and fantasized about destroying it unread. But after a few minutes, he broke.

Dear Rishka,

With all my love and steadfast support and confidence in you,

Angelika Lindtmerán

His mom’s forgiveness was genuine, at least. She probably blamed Dal for his attending the shirker meeting; she blamed Dal for everything he did wrong.

It was the words That will never change that stuck to him, stabbing him with tiny daggers as he showered and ate breakfast in his warm, comfortable prison. Why did his mother have to say she wouldn’t stop loving him? Why did she think he needed the assurance?

She must be wondering who he was now—whether he was someone she might have trouble loving, or at least respecting. He wondered, too. He’d gotten down on his knees last night and sucked an Upstart’s cock on his own initiative. Was this person—this boy—really her son?

Do me proud and do yourself proud. The more he repeated the words to himself, the more reproachful they sounded. Pride wasn’t part of his world now. A proud boy would have stepped off the parapet when he had a chance, or stabbed himself in the jugular with that nail file. A proud boy wouldn’t be here today.

He’d made his choice. And he remembered that on the fourth and fifth and sixth free-nights, as his “proper lessons” began.

It always started with Tilrey working his tongue desperately up and down the Magistrate’s shaft, hoping against hope that if he distracted him skillfully enough, he wouldn’t have to take it deeper. It always ended with him on his back and Malsha on top of him, thrusting into his throat the way the soldiers had. Tilrey closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly through his nose and not squirm or gag.

When he was finally allowed to swallow and curl into himself, he cried silently. He’d almost stopped being ashamed of it. Dripping rageful tears was apparently his condition of being.

Afterward, every time, Malsha served him tea and biscuits and assured him he was getting better with each session. “The gag reflex should go soon,” he said, rubbing the knob of Tilrey’s shoulder.

“How would you know, Fir?” Tilrey hugged himself tight and let the bitterness out, even though Malsha probably enjoyed it.

“I have some experience,” the Magistrate said mildly.

“You didn’t take me that deep.” Tilrey knew the difference now. “You can’t show me what you want me to do, can you, Fir?”

Malsha was silent. Tilrey was just starting to fear he was offended in earnest when he said, “You have a point. Perhaps I can arrange for a better-qualified tutor.”

Krisha gave Tilrey’s arm a firm tug, pulling him over the threshold. “Don’t be an idiot. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

The foyer of the Sanctioned Brothel stretched before them—seemingly acres of polished black slate lit by the skylights of a dramatically pitched ceiling. It looked like Tilrey imagined the inside of the Sector buildings did. It looked nothing like the dim, stuffy corridors of the officers’ club. So why was his heart racing?

Krisha dragged him across the echoing floor to the far corner of the room, where a bald, ageless man presided over a desk and computer. “Krisha,” the man said, smiling with his lips alone. “You’re looking well.” He barely glanced at Tilrey.

Krisha didn’t smile back. “We’re here for Matthias.”

“Of course.” The man consulted his screen. “Room twenty-four. He’s ready for you.”

The corridors were high-ceilinged, wood-paneled, and lushly carpeted in gun-metal gray. Tilrey barely heard their footsteps. “Is this place just for Upstarts?” he asked, a little stunned by the luxury.

Krisha grunted in distaste. “High Upstarts. It costs a fortune in rec credit.”

Room 24 was just big enough for a bed, a couch, and another skylight. Matthias rose from the couch as they came in. He was Artur’s age or a little older, with close-cropped chestnut hair, dark make-up outlining his eyes—something Tilrey had never seen before—and a silver disc dangling from one ear. He wore only a robe, and while he wasn’t particularly handsome, all his movements had a fluid grace.

His eyes moved over Tilrey appraisingly, then flicked to Krisha. “You’re going to have to leave him with me, you know.”

Krisha released Tilrey but didn’t budge from his spot. “Fir doesn’t want me leaving him alone.”

Matthias rolled his eyes in the same unhurried way he did everything. “The Fir knows me, Krisha. And you know me. I’m not going to misbehave.” He shifted his weight to the other hip. “Or do you want to watch?”

“Fuck you,” Krisha muttered. But he did leave, after assuring Tilrey he would stay a few paces away on the couch where the corridor branched.

When the door had closed behind him, Matthias took a few steps toward Tilrey, his eyes narrowing. “What’s the Magistrate done to you? You look halfway catatonic.”

Tilrey’s cheeks flamed. Even whores pitied him now. “I’m not. I’m fine. He just sent me here because I’m . . . not good at it.”

“Of course you’re not. You’re a kid.” Matthias sank onto the couch, opened his robe with a flick of his fingers, and shrugged it off. His golden skin flowed over fine musculature, accented by brown hair at the chest and crotch. His cock was half-hard, the scrotum a plump shadow. “You’ll need to relax,” he said, meeting Tilrey’s eyes again, clearly not at all uncomfortable. “And before I can show you, you’ll need to show me what you can do. Sorry about that. No way around it.”

His tone was so impersonal that Tilrey did begin, almost imperceptibly, to relax. Here there would be no ogling, no “sweetheart,” and he’d already prepared himself for what he needed to do. He walked to the couch and dropped to his knees, avoiding eye contact.

“Green hells, this isn’t an Int/Sec cell. I’m not going to torture you.” A hand caught his hand, gentle, and guided it to the hardening cock. “Take me as deep as you can, but at your own pace, okay? I promise not to touch you again.”

By now, Tilrey had something of a routine. He went through it as thoroughly as he could, coordinating the movements of his hand and tongue. But when he reached the point where Malsha would normally have taken over and thrust down his throat, he had no idea what to do. Why was he sucking a Drudge’s cock, anyway? He forced himself to take another centimeter and gagged miserably.

“Okay. Okay.” Matthias was inching backward, giving him space. “You can stop now.”

Really? Tilrey pulled free—wincing at the wet popping sound—and sat back on his haunches. He wiped his mouth. “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

It was a relief finally to admit it, but now of course the tears were rising. He stared at the shiny wood floor, trying not to blink, waiting for Matthias to laugh at him. Why would someone who was widely considered to give the best head in Redda—according to Malsha—have any sympathy for him?

Matthias patted the couch. When Tilrey had risen from his knees and settled himself there, the young man drew his robe closed and belted it. “It took me a while to learn, too. Want to know my secret?”

There was a secret? He nodded eagerly.

“Ah, but you see, that’s your problem.” Matthias slipped off the couch and onto his knees. “You tell me yes, but your whole body says no. You don’t want to know the secret because you don’t actually want a cock down your throat.” He took hold of Tilrey’s knees and looked up at him, brown eyes earnest. “And that is the secret. Every cock you suck, you need to convince yourself you want it. More than anything.”

He parted Tilrey’s knees and inserted himself between them, one hand rubbing Tilrey’s thigh in slow, measured circles. “Let me show you.”

Tilrey swallowed as a hand reached under his tunic. “I’m nervous. I don’t know if I can—”

He broke off, gasping, as Matthias took possession of his cock through the fabric. Two pumps with those strong, knowing fingers, and he was helplessly hard.

“You were saying?” Matthias freed him from the trousers. “Oh, yes.” He sighed happily. “Plenty to work with.”

Matthias started out languid and teasing, using most of the same skills Tilrey had mastered under Malsha’s tutelage. His tongue was strong and inventive, and he knew how to coordinate it with his hand and throat. He advanced and withdrew, sucking Tilrey slightly deeper each time, until Tilrey was arching his back so hard he had to grab the couch to keep from sliding off.

Then Matthias eased him out and got a punishing grip on the base of his cock. “Easy now. We don’t want you coming just yet.” He chuckled. “Think about your Fir, not me. That should calm things down.”

Tilrey tried, but he was helpless even when Malsha did this to him. And what was happening now was far, far better than anything Malsha could do. If that was speeding down the highest ski slope, this was flying.

The hot wetness was all the way down his length now, pulsing and alive, making everything tingle with desperate need. He felt closer than he’d ever been to another person, so close it was almost suffocating, almost shameful. Like he was nourishing that eager mouth from some hidden store in his deepest self. Yet each time Matthias withdrew and exposed the base of his cock to the open air, he whimpered. He needed to be inside that warm, welcoming place. He needed to be whole. He needed.

The climax came without warning, tearing a cry from his throat. For a long moment he soared, weightless and burning, and dimly he felt the warm envelope convulse around him, hungrily swallowing his seed.

It took a few minutes for him to feel the weight of his body pressing into the couch again. He opened his eyes to find his trousers and tunic all fastened up and Matthias sitting on the floor, grinning.

“So, yeah,” said his colleague (because they were colleagues now, weren’t they, or at least peers?). “To do it right, you gotta want that cock like a baby wants its mom’s teat. Suck it like you need it to live.”

Tilrey was still lightheaded. “But how? I mean, you didn’t really want mine that badly, did you?” His cheeks warmed again. “You were pretending.”

Matthias shook his head, then popped up to sit beside Tilrey. He kept a respectful distance, as if he realized the intimacy they’d just shared was nothing that translated to this conversation. “No, no, no. You can pretend for everything else, but not this. The only way to relax is to make it real. And do you know why it’s real? Do you know how I manage to crave every single Strutter cock that comes through this shithole?”

Tilrey had no clue.

Matthias grinned again, glowingly. “I know what I’m going to do to them is going to make them absolutely fucking helpless. Imagine for a second what it’s like watching a Councillor or a high Admin beg and snivel for more of your mouth. Having that kind of power. It’s better than sap, kid. It’s better than coming. It’s good.”

Tilrey imagined making Malsha lose his precious control, even for a few seconds. Seeing the General Magistrate of Oslov squirm and weep and blush and curse his own needy, sensitive responses, while he himself remained calm and indifferent.

“I’d like to,” he said. “I just don’t know how.”

Matthias tapped him playfully on the knee. “The wanting is the hardest part. Shall we try again?”

“Verdant hills and valleys,” Malsha groaned. All the way flat on his back, he writhed against the bedclothes, seizing handfuls of duvet as Tilrey took him deeper and deeper.

It still didn’t feel comfortable or natural, but the gag reflex was history—Tilrey’s long lesson with Matthias had seen to that. He put his shame and self-consciousness away in a drawer and focused on the responses he was producing, undoing Malsha’s control gasp by gasp. He imagined that the pre-come he was swallowing was the man’s power, his life force. Each gulp made the Magistrate a little weaker and him a little stronger. Malsha might think he was being serviced and served, but actually he was being sapped. Just a little deeper, now . . .

He waited for the moment when Malsha would shake him off and flip him over and hold him down. But it never arrived. Tilrey remained on top, sucking and pumping shamelessly. Until at last the seed rushed warm into his throat and he swallowed it, savoring the Magistrate’s long, harsh moan and the pain of nails digging into his shoulders. That desperate need, that loss of control. He’d done that.

Afterward, he didn’t feel the need to huddle or curl into himself. He rolled on his back, stretched, and lay staring at the canopy until Malsha woke from a light doze and pulled him closer.

“I made the right choice,” the old man murmured into his hair. “Expert tutoring is always better.” Then, after a moment, “He didn’t touch you any more than he needed to, did he?”

Tilrey shook his head. From start to finish, Matthias had been a professional.

“Good, good. I feel absurd even admitting this, but I’m jealous.” Fingertips pinched his earlobe, teased down his neck. “Absurd because I do realize I’m going to have to share you. But I’m putting it off as long as possible.”

Tilrey had been putting off thinking about it, too. Artur had outlined how it all worked: the Lounge, the tea parties, the solemn hand-overs to other Councillors. A lump of dread settled in his gut, but he willed it away. What difference did it make to him if he was “obliging” Malsha or someone else?

Was he supposed to be flattered by the admission of jealousy? Not fucking likely. But when the Magistrate’s finger traced his lower lip, he opened up and sucked it the way he’d sucked the man’s cock.

He remembered the fire in Matthias’s eyes when he’d talked of making Upstarts beg and cry. Matthias might work at the Sanctioned, but he clearly “belonged” to no one. Why should Tilrey be any different? No one could legally own another human being.

Never, he vowed, giving himself up to a long kiss. No one will ever own me, because I’ll never love anyone after Dal. From now on, for the rest of my life, fucking is just a tool. And I can use it better than they can.

“Mmm,” Malsha said. “I can taste me inside you. Go rinse your mouth, love, and bring me a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk in the living room.”

Tilrey obeyed. Though he allowed himself a fleeting fantasy of stabbing the Magistrate in the eye with the pen, he handed the implements over and slid into bed. When Malsha held out a palm splashed with sap, he licked it clean with the same seductive thoroughness he’d learned sucking cock, and he felt the old man’s body thrum from his touch.

Power. It felt like that.

“Now,” said the Magistrate, handing him the pen, “you are going to write a reassuring letter to your mother.”

Tilrey’s heart lurched. So Malsha hadn’t forgotten. “I’ll do it tomorrow, Fir.”

“No, sweet, you won’t do it tomorrow, or the day after. That’s become clear. But it needs to be done, so you’ll do it tonight, in my presence.” Malsha rolled onto his stomach. “In fact, you can use me as a writing desk. Put the paper on my back. Use that book on the night table.”

Tilrey could follow those orders easily enough. But when it came to writing anything on the paper—no. Every time he tried to think of something “reassuring,” rage mounted in his skull and threatened to blind him. He sat with his pen poised and his elbows jammed into the old man’s ribs, shuddering.

“You’re not writing,” Malsha complained.

I won’t lie to her. But he didn’t quite dare say it aloud, so he was almost relieved when Malsha said, “Shall I dictate, then?”

“She’ll know it’s not me.”

“Then write your own fucking letter, sweetheart—but you won’t, will you?” Malsha sighed long-sufferingly. “Just write. I’ll make it as believable as possible. Dear Mother, I’ve been postponing writing this letter to you because yours was painful for me to read.”

Tilrey twitched, drawing a scribble across the paper. “No.”

“You’d rather have it be a lie? Write.”

After a long moment, Tilrey did. His script was faint and shaky at first, but he didn’t want her to think he was doing this under duress. He drew a deep breath and grasped the pen tighter.

“Don’t worry,” Malsha said, “it’ll get less heavy. I don’t want to drive her to Soldrid. Okay, continue: I’ve been doing my utmost to put thoughts of home behind me. For better or worse, that part of my life is over.”

They were the words Tilrey himself had used to explain his reluctance to write. Malsha had remembered. He controlled his breathing and tried to make the cursive look normal.

“But I want you to know, whatever I do or become here in Redda, you’ll always be close to my heart. Everything good I am, I learned from you. I won’t neglect my studying, and Fir Magistrate is adamant that I take the E-Squareds and prepare for a solid career.”

Tilrey snorted quietly at that, but he wrote it all down. None of it was a lie, and if he wasn’t sure his mother would consider being the Magistrate’s secretary a “solid career,” there was no point in saying so.

“I hope to do you proud the way you said—if not now, someday. Parts of my new life do feel difficult and against my nature—“

Tilrey jerked the pen to a halt. “I won’t say that, Fir. Also, you said you didn’t read the enclosure.”

“I may have peeked. Does that really surprise you? Anyway, you want this believable, don’t you, love? Continue from there: —but I’m strong, as strong as you raised me to be. Maybe you think of me as sensitive and fearful because I’ve never been put to the test, Mother. But be assured, I’m tough—as tough as you, or as you say my father was. Your father died before you were born, correct? Would she say that?”

Tilrey nodded. His father was practically a saga hero in his mother’s eyes.

“I will rise above obstacles and endure.” Malsha paused. “Who are a few special friends of yours? That girlfriend—what’s her name?”

“Dal.” It almost stuck in his throat. “Dal and Pers are my friends.” Was he putting them in Malsha’s power by admitting it? But no, it would be easy enough for Malsha to have someone ask around in Thurskein and learn their names.

“Please send my best wishes to Dal and Pers and tell them I long to see them again, just as I long to see you. It may be some time, but we will be reunited. With all my love, Tilrey. No, wait.” The Magistrate smiled fondly. “With all my love, Rishka.”

Tilrey wrote it down, every word. Would his mother be fooled? Perhaps. He had to admit, it was dangerously close to what he might have written if he’d managed to write. Even the adolescent bravado of I will rise above obstacles and endure—that was him, or the boy he’d been a few ten-days ago. She would recognize him in the words, and she would have reason not to despair. That was more important than the truth.

Now he knew better what enduring meant. It meant being broken over and over, more times and ways than you would have believed possible, and trying to convince yourself the shattered pieces were still you.

The next day, Krisha drove Tilrey to a blocky granite building on the edge of the Sector. The top floor was all brilliant plate-glass, and through it he could see people sitting at tables in warm yellow light. It reminded him of the corner of the caf where he and Dal and Pers used to sit, stretching their meals into marathon conversations.

“That’s the Café,” Krisha confirmed. “We’re not going there today. He doesn’t want you out in public too much.”

“So, where are we going?”

The answer was better than Tilrey could have imagined. Krisha led him up from the dark garage into a vast, musty hall where bookshelves stretched in every direction.

The titles on the spines were like voices calling to Tilrey. He itched to go to them, but he did his best not to show it. “This is the Library?”

“This’s just the basement; there are nine floors. Most of the books you ask for, they’re up higher.”

They took a rickety lift to a floor where tall windows on either end let in the light. Each window was paired with a reading carrel, and when Tilrey sat in one and looked out, he saw the jagged black towers of the Sector close up for the first time, poking the windswept sky.

The treasures in the stacks were even more exciting. Running his finger along the spines, he found books he’d seen described in his school texts but never imagined he could actually read. Here were the full memoirs of Edvard Whyberg—ten volumes, supposedly full of embarrassing personal confessions. Here was an uncensored, unabridged version of Ill Eisslev (The Native), the little-read classic that chronicled the bumpy transition from Feudalism to meritocracy.

Tilrey no longer agonized over how his reading choices would reflect on him. Clearly Malsha had no interest in sending him to an Int/Sec cell. Still, when he returned to Krisha with his arms piled high, he asked, “Are these all right?”

Krisha didn’t even glance at the titles. “Fir says you can have any books you want.”

On their next free-night, Malsha would probably ask how he’d liked the Library, and Tilrey would have to thank him for the new privilege, and Malsha would laugh and tell him how sulky his thanks sounded. He might even be quizzed on the titles he’d selected. Every gift came with a penalty.

But this one was worth it. Pushing these thoughts aside, Tilrey handed the stack of books to Krisha. “All of them, please.”