Chapter 28: Enduring — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 28 Enduring

Chapter Notes

Back to this story! I’ll post a few chapters before I get deep into writing my final installment.

Chapter Notes

Back to this story! I’ll post a few chapters before I get deep into writing my final installment.

It must be fall, because the darkness lasted longer and longer. The nights stretched to engulf the days.The room was Tilrey’s world now, and reading and sleeping were his life, or the only parts of his life he enjoyed. He had to be coaxed to do everything else: eating, bathing, working out, his job.Occasionally he felt a hollowness in his chest that he supposed was loneliness, and then he sat up in bed and talked to Malsha.

I told you you’d be sorry if I ever went away.

“You tortured me.”But they don’t even know you, do they? Not like I do. Then Malsha chuckled sympathetically, understanding. They have no idea who you are, they never will, and you need to be known. Maybe someday they’ll see. Shall we talk about that book you’re reading?“Yes, please.”He was in the thick of one of these conversations when Vlastor came to tell him to get ready for Fir Councillor Gourmanian.Gourmanian—that was the one with the barrel chest and dark, curly hair. The one who had held him down on the night of the spring fling so that the others could sit astride him.There was no use in dawdling, though. Tilrey threw off the covers and planted his feet on the floor. “I’m not hungry,” he said in response to Vlastor’s question about a bowl of rice and fish.“I’m bringing it anyway.” The driver paused in the doorway. “Who were you talking to just now?”“I wasn’t talking.”“I heard you.” Worry twitched at the corner of Vlastor’s mouth, but he closed the door again.Tilrey waited for his footsteps to retreat, then said, “I like how much he hates me. It’s fun.”Sitting opposite Tilrey on the bed, Malsha tilted his head reprovingly. Annoying him is a petty self-indulgence. You’re not getting anywhere that way.“Where am I supposed to get?” Tilrey rose to his feet, flinging out one arm to indicate the locked door. “This is it for me now. I’ll never be your secretary, never sit in an office in the Sector. This is my last stop.”

Don’t be defeatist. I’m getting tired of it.

“What do you suggest, then? What kind of attitude is appropriate for this situation?” Tilrey went into the bathroom and turned on the shower—but, of course, Malsha followed him. “Gourmanian is a brute,” he said, stripping off his clothes. “Am I supposed to look forward to that?”

You have nothing to be afraid of and plenty to gain. Think of every new man as an opportunity.

“Oh, that’s a positive attitude, all right.” He stepped into the stall and let the hot water soak his hair. “Opportunity for what, exactly?”

Find their vulnerabilities. Believe me, they have plenty.

“You spoiled me,” Tilrey muttered, spitting out a mouthful. “If you’d treated me like Verán does, I would know how to act with him and the rest of them. But you talked to me. You made me think I was real.”Malsha didn’t answer; he had faded away again. Tilrey finished washing his hair in silence.Gourmanian came to fetch him. As soon as they were settled in the darkness of the back seat, and the driver had pulled the car away from Verán’s building, the Councillor threw his arms around Tilrey. He kissed him as lengthily and tenderly as if they were lovers.Tilrey didn’t resist, but he didn’t reciprocate, either. Remembering how Gourmanian had held his wrists pinioned to the floor of Verán’s bedroom, he held his mind at a distance and observed.Think of every new man as an opportunity. An opportunity to do what?Gourmanian emerged from the kiss breathing heavily. “Green hells, you’re beautiful,” he said, his cock jabbing Tilrey’s thigh. “Will you forgive me?”“For what, Fir?”“For…” Gourmanian’s grimace was only just visible in the dim car. “Let’s not pretend the night of the spring fling didn’t happen, shall we? I don’t want you holding a grudge.”A grudge? What a strange idea. Over the past few ten-days with Verán, Tilrey had learned to view his feelings as distractions—or perhaps even illusions, because he was only the illusion of a person. “I’m none the worse for wear,” he said, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his tone.“Oh, but you’re angry with me.” Gourmanian’s voice had gone low and mournful. “It was unacceptable,” he said, massaging Tilrey’s jawline with his forefinger. “The sap, the group, the whole atmosphere—I let it carry me along. I’m not normally that person at all.”“I never said you did anything wrong, Fir.”“But we both know I did. Please don’t sulk. I want you to feel safe with me.”I’m not sulking. Or was he? Maybe Tilrey needed to pay more attention to things beyond his own misery. There was something about Gourmanian’s excitement right now that wasn’t purely sexual, and it reminded him of Malsha. The man wanted to get inside his head.“You like to hurt people,” he said experimentally. “You’d like to hurt me.”The Councillor turned liquid eyes on him. “Not like that! Never again.”“No, maybe not like that.” But Gourmanian hadn’t shown any ambivalence about holding him down so a procession of other Councillors could enjoy him. “You like to do it more privately,” Tilrey said, making a safe guess. “With rules. Maybe you even want to make me like it.”The Councillor’s whole body seemed to thrum for an instant, and he pressed his erection harder against Tilrey. “You know, then,” he whispered. “You understand.”They proceeded indoors, where Tilrey learned again how it felt to be taken care of. To have his mouth gently explored by a teasing tongue. To have his clothing stripped off piece by piece. To be complimented on everything he did with his own mouth, and then to hear gratifying moans of ecstasy. (Verán grunted sometimes, but he didn’t seem to believe in expressing his pleasure.)“Where did you learn to do that?” Gourmanian asked once he had recovered from his orgasm. Then, without missing a beat: “You’re an eager dirty little slut, aren’t you? Someone should beat the cheek out of you.”Tilrey winced. But then the Councillor winked, and he realized they were play-acting. “I’m not afraid of you, Fir!”“No? Maybe it’s time I got you over my knee.”Tilrey shook his head theatrically, then added in a low voice, “You won’t leave marks?”“Of course not. Haven’t you done this before?”Rather than admit he’d never been spanked, Tilrey draped himself over Gourmanian’s lap of his own accord. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore how humiliating the position was, and braced himself for something unpleasant.Find their vulnerabilities. This kink was obviously one of Gourmanian’s, but what was he supposed to do with the knowledge?The first blow stung so hard it brought tears to his eyes, followed by a rush of adrenaline. As the pain retreated, he became acutely aware of everything around him: the hum of the heating, the blur of bedspread under his cheek, the tang of sweat, Gourmanian’s ragged breathing. He had his ass in the air and a hand on his nape pressing his face into the bedclothes, yet he didn’t have the slightest impulse to move.The second spank made him gasp as the token pain turned quickly to warmth. He could almost see the red flush spreading over his skin. Before he knew it, he was hard against Gourmanian’s thigh.“Was that too much?” the Councillor asked, sounding a little worried.“No, no.” Tilrey squeezed his eyes shut and felt a tear slip down his cheek. He had never enjoyed physical pain before. What was going on? “More, please.”“If you’re sure.” Gourmanian took on the tone of a schoolmaster. “But we need to agree on a word you’ll use to stop me if things go too far for you.”“Yes, Fir. Anything you want.”Tilrey learned the safe word, but he didn’t use it—didn’t have to. Gourmanian knew better than to leave marks on him that Verán might notice later.After a few more spanks, the Councillor laid Tilrey out on his back and used a soft, stretchy rope to tie his hands to hooks that had been cunningly screwed into the headboard. He took time over the knots, his fingers careful on the sensitive undersides of Tilrey’s wrists. When he was done, he reached down to give Tilrey’s cock a stroke. “Not too tight?”“No.” It made Tilrey want to cry. Not the stimulation, but the closeness to another human being. When he said, “Please fuck me, Fir,” he actually meant it.What was wrong with him? He pushed the question away. The sensations were so good, a warm reddish energy sparking and buzzing and tingling over his skin—so many sensations after all those hours alone with nothing but the walls of his room and the words of long-dead authors for company.Gourmanian moved on top of him, inside him, touching him just often enough to keep him hard. Tilrey tugged on the rope and relished the resistance and the constriction of his wrists, firm boundaries that ensured he wouldn’t come apart completely. He wanted more, more, more.The Councillor’s climax was a flooding warmth. When it was over, he bent and whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “You can come now.”The command released Tilrey, and he obeyed without the slightest guilt. It was good to give and take pleasure from another body. It was so, so good.Later, untied and resting in the humid nest of the Councillor’s arms, he asked, “How did you know?”“Know what?”“That you need to, uh . . .” He didn’t want to say the words, admitting what Malsha had done to him. “That I need help.”“That you need permission to come?” Gourmanian kissed Tilrey’s earlobe, his voice a husky purr. “That’s pretty standard. He trained you well, didn’t he? I didn’t know he even liked this kind of thing.”Tilrey didn’t want to talk about Malsha. Malsha was his. “Maybe I like it.”The instant the words were out of his mouth, he no longer knew what they meant. Did he like it? Did he like anything?Gourmanian, however, chuckled affectionately. “I had no idea you were such a beautiful submissive.”“I am?”“Verdant hells, yes. Most lads can pretend, but you’re the real thing, and that’s priceless. I couldn’t tell until tonight.” The Councillor stroked Tilrey’s hair. After a moment, he said, “Will you forgive me? You never said.”Forgive you for what? Tilrey could barely remember their conversation on the way over. “Of course, Fir. I forgive you.”That night he slept soundly, despite having had only a quarter vial of sap. There were no nightmares. Waking early, he lay for a while with his eyes closed, savoring the sensation of a warm body beside his. He was still awake when Gourmanian rose, dressed, and left—with a last tender kiss and a “See you again soon, I hope, love.”I wish I could stay here. I wish I could live with you. But then Vlastor arrived to bring Tilrey home.Home meant the room.In daylight, the city was vast and intimidating. Tilrey didn’t mind leaving the car and stepping back into the coldroom and then the protective warmth of Verán’s apartment. When they reached the door of his cell, however, he hesitated.“Go,” Vlastor said irritably, shoving him over the threshold.Tilrey went. He knew the main apartment door wouldn’t open for him, even if he weren’t afraid of dying outdoors in the cold.And the room wasn’t so bad. Once the walls closed around him, he felt quite safe, though in a colder, more antiseptic way than he had in Gourmanian’s bed.Vlastor brought him a full vial of sap and a bowl of fish and rice. “Eat. I’m watching. You can shower after.”Tilrey didn’t have the energy for a fight, so he ate. With each bite, the warm tingle of last night bled out of him, leaving a hollowness.As his body went numb, his mind woke up again. And it had questions that made him feel as if he were threading his way along the edge of a precipice.A beautiful submissive. Priceless. Then he heard Gourmanian’s coaxing voice on the night of the spring fling: Just a few more.That was what Gourmanian wanted forgiveness for—holding him down so a whole string of men could use him. And Tilrey had granted him absolution without a moment’s thought.

What’s wrong with me?

He drank half the sap. After Vlastor left, he went to the bathroom and poured the rest down the toilet. Before he knew it, he was retching and heaving and puking up everything he’d eaten, too.He showered in steamy water until he was red all over, pulled on sweats, then curled up in bed and sank into his familiar half sleep.Apparently he needed more sap to stay in the pleasant doze, though, because he was soon wide awake again. He hugged himself, wishing he were still in Gourmanian’s bed. As he turned over, his ass tingled and ached from the spanking, and his face burned.

Malsha. Can you explain last night? What’s wrong with me?

This time Malsha didn’t answer.Toss. Turn (ouch). Doze. Read a few pages, try to sleep again. He missed nightfall and woke in darkness to the sounds of two men arguing outside his door.“Fir Councillor doesn’t want him wandering all over the city.” That was Vlastor, pompous as ever.“He’s not gonna get lost. He’s twenty years old!”The second voice, achingly familiar, made Tilrey sit up in bed. Could it really be, finally? Or was he dreaming?He sprang up and crept to the door, through which he heard the driver saying something about him not being competent to take care of himself. Nothing new there.“We’d watch out for him.” This time, there was no mistaking Bror’s friendly drawl. “You could chaperone if you gotta, like Krisha used to. Come to the Café and sit a few tables away.”Bror! I’m right here! Tilrey had to stifle an impulse to pound on the door.To his intense relief, after some grousing from Vlastor, the door opened, and the driver carried in a steaming tray. “Eavesdropping, huh?” he asked when he saw Tilrey standing in the middle of the room. “Better eat up if you wanna see your visitor.”Bror loomed on the threshold. Vlastor shot him a glare, clearly telling him to wait outside, but Bror barged in. “Rishka,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and dodged Vlastor to throw his arms around Tilrey. “I tried to come before.”Something got jammed in Tilrey’s throat. He wanted to hug Bror back, but his joints seemed to have locked. It was an effort to breathe.Bror must have sensed the tension. He released Tilrey and wheeled to face Vlastor, who was scowling at them.“What? Is it against the rules to touch him now?”“He’s valuable,” Vlastor said, his eyes darting from Bror to Tilrey and back. “I hope you appreciate that.”“I sure do.” Bror reached for the tray. “You want him to eat this? No problem.” A glance at Tilrey. “You’re hungry, right?”Tilrey couldn’t imagine chewing and swallowing right now, but he said, “Starving. Vlastor, please let him stay. Just us. I’ll eat everything.”“Now you’re cooperative.” But Vlastor yielded the tray to Bror and backed out of the room. “Half hour, and I’ll be back for that. Better not lay your hands on him in any way that’s not strictly friendly, Birun.”The door closed. They looked at each other—Bror happy and excited and beautifully himself, Tilrey frozen. He couldn’t help imagining how he must look to his friend: scrawny body, bloodless cheeks, dull eyes that expressed only resentment.Bror glanced after Vlastor. “What a self-important prick. It took me ten minutes of arguing to get in here, and I had to hold myself back from slugging him. How do you do it?”“Keep from slugging him? I never thought about it.” Tilrey sat down on the bed. “If I eat, he might let you stay a little longer.”“Fucking hell.” Bror set the tray on the rumpled bedspread. “Tilrey, this is fucked. It’s like moral rehab. Do they have you on meds?”Tilrey picked up a plastic fork—he wasn’t allowed proper cutlery, and he knew why. “Only sap. I’m okay, really,” he added because if Bror made too much of a fuss with Vlastor, he might not be allowed to come again. “He says they’ll let me out eventually, so stop worrying. It’s just good to see you.”“Same.” Bror sat down. “I tried to talk to you at the gym, but Ansha got in the way. Said I might get you in trouble because my Councillor’s in the wrong party. I ended up waiting outside and ambushed your driver coming back from an errand. How do you stand him, seriously?”“He means well. He’s just a little obsessive about his orders.” Surprised to find himself defending Vlastor, Tilrey twined noodles around the fork. They wouldn’t seem to stay on.“You’re shaking. Here, let me.” Bror took the fork from him, deftly twirled it in the dish, and handed it back. “You don’t seem sapped, Rishka.”“Not today. I dumped my dose,” Tilrey added in a furtive murmur, in case Vlastor were eavesdropping.“Then you could be in withdrawal.” When the noodles fell off the fork again, Bror took it back, filled it, and raised it to Tilrey’s mouth. “You need to eat.”“I’m okay!” But Tilrey allowed himself to be fed a few bites. When he had the same trouble with the broth, Bror helped him with that, too. The hot liquid felt surprisingly good going down.“It’s not so bad, see?” Bror tore a bun in half and handed it to him. “Slow and steady. One bite at a time.”Tilrey hadn’t forgotten the argument he’d overheard outside the door. Between bites, he said, “I guess you see what Vlastor meant now. I can’t take care of myself.”Bror handed him the other half of the bun. “Rishka, how much time do you spend in this room?”“Not that much. I go to the gym for a few hours most days, and I’m with Fir Verán and his friends on freenights. And the Library every ten-day or so.”“But the rest of the time you’re here?” Bror’s expression darkened. “I feel like walking up to Verán and giving him a piece of my mind. Levels and politics be damned—even in moral rehab they have group recreation. You should at least have the run of the apartment. You don’t, do you?”Tilrey wasn’t going to answer that. “It’s better than Int/Sec. There’s light and a window.” He stopped at the troubled look on Bror’s face “And I wasn’t there for long, either. Bror, please. Don’t do anything stupid.”“Verán doesn’t scare me.” Bror’s brows were drawn down hard. “But you’re right, that wouldn’t help. I know a few Islanders who have Verán’s ear. If I work on them, they might be able to persuade him to treat you decently. Do you think the others even know you’re locked up?”Tilrey accepted another spoonful of broth. “I don’t think they’d care much one way or the other. Spoils of war.” If he’d complained to Gourmanian last night—well, that would have been even more humiliating than everything he’d actually done.Memories of the night flashed through his head, and his stomach turned over. He backed against the wall. “I’m full.”“I don’t think you are.” Bror lifted a tumbler from the tray. “How about some nice buttered tea to settle your stomach?”Tilrey took a sip. Before he could stop himself, he said, “I need to ask you something. I was with Angar Gourmanian last night.” He didn’t want Bror to know any of this. But Bror was a kettle boy, too; he wouldn’t be shocked. And if Tilrey didn’t let something out, it would all stay stewing inside him for hour after solitary hour. “He tied me up, stuff like that.”“That’s his thing.”“And after, he called me a . . . a beautiful submissive.” He ducked his head.Bror’s frown deepened. “That man is so precious, it’s honestly a little creepy. He didn’t hurt you, did he? Not for real?”“No!” Tilrey took the tumbler and managed to get it to his lips. The tea did steady him. After a few deep breaths, he said, “You know what happened the first night I was here.”It wasn’t a question. Ansha had hinted that people were talking.Bror’s mouth tightened. “I’ve heard a few things that made me want to punch somebody.”“I was so sapped I barely remember anything.” Tilrey forced the words out. If only he could make himself believe they were true, things might be easier. “But I do know that Gourmanian took the lead. When things got bad, he . . . held me down.”Seeing crimson rage flood Bror’s cheeks, he added hastily, “He apologized to me last night. Sort of. Anyway, it was all a blur and it’s over, I’m fine. What I need to ask you is how . . .”The tumbler wobbled in his shaking fingers. Bror rescued it, covering Tilrey’s hand with one of his larger ones. “Go on. Nothing you say is gonna shock me.”How did you talk about something like this? “I didn’t like what happened with all the Islanders that night.”“Course you didn’t!”“But the thing is, when Gourmanian did things to me last night, just him, I did like it. All of it.” Tilrey’s cheeks burned as the memories returned. “I mean, in terms of the actual amount of pain, discomfort, um, degradation, whatever, those two nights maybe weren’t so different. I don’t know. It’s hard to measure.”Bror gave Tilrey’s hand a light squeeze. “It’s never just about the actual pain. It’s how you feel.”“But my feelings don’t make sense.” Tilrey plowed on with his real question: “So, if I liked it the second night, does that mean I deserved what happened the first night?”“Of course not! Why would it mean that?”“Because I can like it.” He didn’t know how to explain. “Because I like . . . being hurt. Sometimes.”“Tilrey, there are Upstarts who like playing the submissive role in the bedroom. It doesn’t mean they want to be held down and forced to do those things for real.”Bror sounded very confident, but Tilrey wasn’t convinced. “How is it different, really?”Beautiful submissive still rang in his ears. What if wanting to be hurt was his nature? What if Verán and the others were treating him the only way he could be treated?“Strutters ask me to hurt them sometimes, and believe me, it’s different.” Bror scratched his temple. “They arrange it so they’re in control the whole time—did Gourmanian give you a safe word? Right, that’s one way to make sure things don’t get out of hand. And then they expect me to ‘hurt’ them in a special way and touch them and talk to them the whole time, so it’s not like really hurting somebody at all. Those are two different things, Rishka.”Tilrey turned his hand over so he could clasp Bror’s. In a small voice, he said, “But maybe I should learn to like being hurt the other way? If they’re going to do it anyway?”“I don’t think it works that way. A person has boundaries, Rishka. When other people cross them, it’s gotta be because you invited them.”I’m not a person. I’m the Island’s jewel, the spoils of war. But right now, sitting here with his friend, Tilrey did feel like a person again. Almost.“Boundaries,” he said. “I guess.”“We all have stuff we like and don’t like. Crowd scenes, for instance—you don’t like them, do you? Me, I don’t mind putting on a little show, as long as most of the watchers don’t try to touch.” Bror picked up the tumbler and brought it to Tilrey’s lips again. “Getting turned on is good, Rishka. Part of being human. If you can get off on what they do to you, that’s your business and no one else’s. And it doesn’t excuse them hurting you, ever. Gourmanian was careful with you last night, wasn’t he?”Tilrey nodded.“Good. But you don’t have to accept his apology for what he did the other night—I sure as hell wouldn’t. Bet it was a shitty apology, too.”“I told him I did accept it,” Tilrey admitted, dropping his eyes. “It made him happy.”“You do what you gotta do, and don’t ever feel ashamed.” Bror pressed Tilrey’s hand to his heart. “Listen, I mean what I said before. I’m gonna talk to some Islanders about getting you out of here before you start climbing the walls. If Gourmanian likes you, I bet he’d help. Lindahl, too.”“Don’t get yourself in trouble, Bror.” Or get me in deeper trouble—but he wouldn’t admit to his friend what a mass of anxieties he was these days. “Promise?”“You’re taking this way too seriously, kid.” Bror’s breath caught as he looked at Tilrey. “No, forget I said that—it was a shitty thing to say. I haven’t been through what you have.”“I’m okay! I swear to you.”Bror just shook his head. “I’ll find a way to convince Verán that letting you have more freedom is his own idea. You just have to do your part and get this Vlastor on our side so I can visit you again. Which means you’ll start eating more, okay?”His eyes swept up and down Tilrey’s body, and this time there was a barely perceptible wince. “I think that’d be good for you, too.”

It must be fall, because the darkness lasted longer and longer. The nights stretched to engulf the days.

The room was Tilrey’s world now, and reading and sleeping were his life, or the only parts of his life he enjoyed. He had to be coaxed to do everything else: eating, bathing, working out, his job.

Occasionally he felt a hollowness in his chest that he supposed was loneliness, and then he sat up in bed and talked to Malsha.

I told you you’d be sorry if I ever went away.

“You tortured me.”

But they don’t even know you, do they? Not like I do. Then Malsha chuckled sympathetically, understanding. They have no idea who you are, they never will, and you need to be known. Maybe someday they’ll see. Shall we talk about that book you’re reading?

“Yes, please.”

He was in the thick of one of these conversations when Vlastor came to tell him to get ready for Fir Councillor Gourmanian.

Gourmanian—that was the one with the barrel chest and dark, curly hair. The one who had held him down on the night of the spring fling so that the others could sit astride him.

There was no use in dawdling, though. Tilrey threw off the covers and planted his feet on the floor. “I’m not hungry,” he said in response to Vlastor’s question about a bowl of rice and fish.

“I’m bringing it anyway.” The driver paused in the doorway. “Who were you talking to just now?”

“I wasn’t talking.”

“I heard you.” Worry twitched at the corner of Vlastor’s mouth, but he closed the door again.

Tilrey waited for his footsteps to retreat, then said, “I like how much he hates me. It’s fun.”

Sitting opposite Tilrey on the bed, Malsha tilted his head reprovingly. Annoying him is a petty self-indulgence. You’re not getting anywhere that way.

“Where am I supposed to get?” Tilrey rose to his feet, flinging out one arm to indicate the locked door. “This is it for me now. I’ll never be your secretary, never sit in an office in the Sector. This is my last stop.”

Don’t be defeatist. I’m getting tired of it.

You have nothing to be afraid of and plenty to gain. Think of every new man as an opportunity.

“Oh, that’s a positive attitude, all right.” He stepped into the stall and let the hot water soak his hair. “Opportunity for what, exactly?”

Find their vulnerabilities. Believe me, they have plenty.

Malsha didn’t answer; he had faded away again. Tilrey finished washing his hair in silence.

Gourmanian came to fetch him. As soon as they were settled in the darkness of the back seat, and the driver had pulled the car away from Verán’s building, the Councillor threw his arms around Tilrey. He kissed him as lengthily and tenderly as if they were lovers.

Tilrey didn’t resist, but he didn’t reciprocate, either. Remembering how Gourmanian had held his wrists pinioned to the floor of Verán’s bedroom, he held his mind at a distance and observed.

Think of every new man as an opportunity. An opportunity to do what?

Gourmanian emerged from the kiss breathing heavily. “Green hells, you’re beautiful,” he said, his cock jabbing Tilrey’s thigh. “Will you forgive me?”

“For what, Fir?”

“For…” Gourmanian’s grimace was only just visible in the dim car. “Let’s not pretend the night of the spring fling didn’t happen, shall we? I don’t want you holding a grudge.”

A grudge? What a strange idea. Over the past few ten-days with Verán, Tilrey had learned to view his feelings as distractions—or perhaps even illusions, because he was only the illusion of a person. “I’m none the worse for wear,” he said, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his tone.

“Oh, but you’re angry with me.” Gourmanian’s voice had gone low and mournful. “It was unacceptable,” he said, massaging Tilrey’s jawline with his forefinger. “The sap, the group, the whole atmosphere—I let it carry me along. I’m not normally that person at all.”

“I never said you did anything wrong, Fir.”

“But we both know I did. Please don’t sulk. I want you to feel safe with me.”

I’m not sulking. Or was he? Maybe Tilrey needed to pay more attention to things beyond his own misery. There was something about Gourmanian’s excitement right now that wasn’t purely sexual, and it reminded him of Malsha. The man wanted to get inside his head.

“You like to hurt people,” he said experimentally. “You’d like to hurt me.”

The Councillor turned liquid eyes on him. “Not like that! Never again.”

“No, maybe not like that.” But Gourmanian hadn’t shown any ambivalence about holding him down so a procession of other Councillors could enjoy him. “You like to do it more privately,” Tilrey said, making a safe guess. “With rules. Maybe you even want to make me like it.”

The Councillor’s whole body seemed to thrum for an instant, and he pressed his erection harder against Tilrey. “You know, then,” he whispered. “You understand.”

They proceeded indoors, where Tilrey learned again how it felt to be taken care of. To have his mouth gently explored by a teasing tongue. To have his clothing stripped off piece by piece. To be complimented on everything he did with his own mouth, and then to hear gratifying moans of ecstasy. (Verán grunted sometimes, but he didn’t seem to believe in expressing his pleasure.)

“Where did you learn to do that?” Gourmanian asked once he had recovered from his orgasm. Then, without missing a beat: “You’re an eager dirty little slut, aren’t you? Someone should beat the cheek out of you.”

Tilrey winced. But then the Councillor winked, and he realized they were play-acting. “I’m not afraid of you, Fir!”

“No? Maybe it’s time I got you over my knee.”

Tilrey shook his head theatrically, then added in a low voice, “You won’t leave marks?”

“Of course not. Haven’t you done this before?”

Rather than admit he’d never been spanked, Tilrey draped himself over Gourmanian’s lap of his own accord. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore how humiliating the position was, and braced himself for something unpleasant.

Find their vulnerabilities. This kink was obviously one of Gourmanian’s, but what was he supposed to do with the knowledge?

The first blow stung so hard it brought tears to his eyes, followed by a rush of adrenaline. As the pain retreated, he became acutely aware of everything around him: the hum of the heating, the blur of bedspread under his cheek, the tang of sweat, Gourmanian’s ragged breathing. He had his ass in the air and a hand on his nape pressing his face into the bedclothes, yet he didn’t have the slightest impulse to move.

The second spank made him gasp as the token pain turned quickly to warmth. He could almost see the red flush spreading over his skin. Before he knew it, he was hard against Gourmanian’s thigh.

“Was that too much?” the Councillor asked, sounding a little worried.

“No, no.” Tilrey squeezed his eyes shut and felt a tear slip down his cheek. He had never enjoyed physical pain before. What was going on? “More, please.”

“If you’re sure.” Gourmanian took on the tone of a schoolmaster. “But we need to agree on a word you’ll use to stop me if things go too far for you.”

“Yes, Fir. Anything you want.”

Tilrey learned the safe word, but he didn’t use it—didn’t have to. Gourmanian knew better than to leave marks on him that Verán might notice later.

After a few more spanks, the Councillor laid Tilrey out on his back and used a soft, stretchy rope to tie his hands to hooks that had been cunningly screwed into the headboard. He took time over the knots, his fingers careful on the sensitive undersides of Tilrey’s wrists. When he was done, he reached down to give Tilrey’s cock a stroke. “Not too tight?”

“No.” It made Tilrey want to cry. Not the stimulation, but the closeness to another human being. When he said, “Please fuck me, Fir,” he actually meant it.

What was wrong with him? He pushed the question away. The sensations were so good, a warm reddish energy sparking and buzzing and tingling over his skin—so many sensations after all those hours alone with nothing but the walls of his room and the words of long-dead authors for company.

Gourmanian moved on top of him, inside him, touching him just often enough to keep him hard. Tilrey tugged on the rope and relished the resistance and the constriction of his wrists, firm boundaries that ensured he wouldn’t come apart completely. He wanted more, more, more.

The Councillor’s climax was a flooding warmth. When it was over, he bent and whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “You can come now.”

The command released Tilrey, and he obeyed without the slightest guilt. It was good to give and take pleasure from another body. It was so, so good.

Later, untied and resting in the humid nest of the Councillor’s arms, he asked, “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That you need to, uh . . .” He didn’t want to say the words, admitting what Malsha had done to him. “That I need help.”

“That you need permission to come?” Gourmanian kissed Tilrey’s earlobe, his voice a husky purr. “That’s pretty standard. He trained you well, didn’t he? I didn’t know he even liked this kind of thing.”

Tilrey didn’t want to talk about Malsha. Malsha was his. “Maybe I like it.”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, he no longer knew what they meant. Did he like it? Did he like anything?

Gourmanian, however, chuckled affectionately. “I had no idea you were such a beautiful submissive.”

“I am?”

“Verdant hells, yes. Most lads can pretend, but you’re the real thing, and that’s priceless. I couldn’t tell until tonight.” The Councillor stroked Tilrey’s hair. After a moment, he said, “Will you forgive me? You never said.”

Forgive you for what? Tilrey could barely remember their conversation on the way over. “Of course, Fir. I forgive you.”

That night he slept soundly, despite having had only a quarter vial of sap. There were no nightmares. Waking early, he lay for a while with his eyes closed, savoring the sensation of a warm body beside his. He was still awake when Gourmanian rose, dressed, and left—with a last tender kiss and a “See you again soon, I hope, love.”

I wish I could stay here. I wish I could live with you. But then Vlastor arrived to bring Tilrey home.

Home meant the room.

In daylight, the city was vast and intimidating. Tilrey didn’t mind leaving the car and stepping back into the coldroom and then the protective warmth of Verán’s apartment. When they reached the door of his cell, however, he hesitated.

“Go,” Vlastor said irritably, shoving him over the threshold.

Tilrey went. He knew the main apartment door wouldn’t open for him, even if he weren’t afraid of dying outdoors in the cold.

And the room wasn’t so bad. Once the walls closed around him, he felt quite safe, though in a colder, more antiseptic way than he had in Gourmanian’s bed.

Vlastor brought him a full vial of sap and a bowl of fish and rice. “Eat. I’m watching. You can shower after.”

Tilrey didn’t have the energy for a fight, so he ate. With each bite, the warm tingle of last night bled out of him, leaving a hollowness.

As his body went numb, his mind woke up again. And it had questions that made him feel as if he were threading his way along the edge of a precipice.

A beautiful submissive. Priceless. Then he heard Gourmanian’s coaxing voice on the night of the spring fling: Just a few more.

That was what Gourmanian wanted forgiveness for—holding him down so a whole string of men could use him. And Tilrey had granted him absolution without a moment’s thought.

What’s wrong with me?

He drank half the sap. After Vlastor left, he went to the bathroom and poured the rest down the toilet. Before he knew it, he was retching and heaving and puking up everything he’d eaten, too.

He showered in steamy water until he was red all over, pulled on sweats, then curled up in bed and sank into his familiar half sleep.

Apparently he needed more sap to stay in the pleasant doze, though, because he was soon wide awake again. He hugged himself, wishing he were still in Gourmanian’s bed. As he turned over, his ass tingled and ached from the spanking, and his face burned.

Malsha. Can you explain last night? What’s wrong with me?

This time Malsha didn’t answer.

Toss. Turn (ouch). Doze. Read a few pages, try to sleep again. He missed nightfall and woke in darkness to the sounds of two men arguing outside his door.

“Fir Councillor doesn’t want him wandering all over the city.” That was Vlastor, pompous as ever.

“He’s not gonna get lost. He’s twenty years old!”

The second voice, achingly familiar, made Tilrey sit up in bed. Could it really be, finally? Or was he dreaming?

He sprang up and crept to the door, through which he heard the driver saying something about him not being competent to take care of himself. Nothing new there.

“We’d watch out for him.” This time, there was no mistaking Bror’s friendly drawl. “You could chaperone if you gotta, like Krisha used to. Come to the Café and sit a few tables away.”

Bror! I’m right here! Tilrey had to stifle an impulse to pound on the door.

To his intense relief, after some grousing from Vlastor, the door opened, and the driver carried in a steaming tray. “Eavesdropping, huh?” he asked when he saw Tilrey standing in the middle of the room. “Better eat up if you wanna see your visitor.”

Bror loomed on the threshold. Vlastor shot him a glare, clearly telling him to wait outside, but Bror barged in. “Rishka,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and dodged Vlastor to throw his arms around Tilrey. “I tried to come before.”

Something got jammed in Tilrey’s throat. He wanted to hug Bror back, but his joints seemed to have locked. It was an effort to breathe.

Bror must have sensed the tension. He released Tilrey and wheeled to face Vlastor, who was scowling at them.

“What? Is it against the rules to touch him now?”

“He’s valuable,” Vlastor said, his eyes darting from Bror to Tilrey and back. “I hope you appreciate that.”

“I sure do.” Bror reached for the tray. “You want him to eat this? No problem.” A glance at Tilrey. “You’re hungry, right?”

Tilrey couldn’t imagine chewing and swallowing right now, but he said, “Starving. Vlastor, please let him stay. Just us. I’ll eat everything.”

“Now you’re cooperative.” But Vlastor yielded the tray to Bror and backed out of the room. “Half hour, and I’ll be back for that. Better not lay your hands on him in any way that’s not strictly friendly, Birun.”

The door closed. They looked at each other—Bror happy and excited and beautifully himself, Tilrey frozen. He couldn’t help imagining how he must look to his friend: scrawny body, bloodless cheeks, dull eyes that expressed only resentment.

Bror glanced after Vlastor. “What a self-important prick. It took me ten minutes of arguing to get in here, and I had to hold myself back from slugging him. How do you do it?”

“Keep from slugging him? I never thought about it.” Tilrey sat down on the bed. “If I eat, he might let you stay a little longer.”

“Fucking hell.” Bror set the tray on the rumpled bedspread. “Tilrey, this is fucked. It’s like moral rehab. Do they have you on meds?”

Tilrey picked up a plastic fork—he wasn’t allowed proper cutlery, and he knew why. “Only sap. I’m okay, really,” he added because if Bror made too much of a fuss with Vlastor, he might not be allowed to come again. “He says they’ll let me out eventually, so stop worrying. It’s just good to see you.”

“Same.” Bror sat down. “I tried to talk to you at the gym, but Ansha got in the way. Said I might get you in trouble because my Councillor’s in the wrong party. I ended up waiting outside and ambushed your driver coming back from an errand. How do you stand him, seriously?”

“He means well. He’s just a little obsessive about his orders.” Surprised to find himself defending Vlastor, Tilrey twined noodles around the fork. They wouldn’t seem to stay on.

“You’re shaking. Here, let me.” Bror took the fork from him, deftly twirled it in the dish, and handed it back. “You don’t seem sapped, Rishka.”

“Not today. I dumped my dose,” Tilrey added in a furtive murmur, in case Vlastor were eavesdropping.

“Then you could be in withdrawal.” When the noodles fell off the fork again, Bror took it back, filled it, and raised it to Tilrey’s mouth. “You need to eat.”

“I’m okay!” But Tilrey allowed himself to be fed a few bites. When he had the same trouble with the broth, Bror helped him with that, too. The hot liquid felt surprisingly good going down.

“It’s not so bad, see?” Bror tore a bun in half and handed it to him. “Slow and steady. One bite at a time.”

Tilrey hadn’t forgotten the argument he’d overheard outside the door. Between bites, he said, “I guess you see what Vlastor meant now. I can’t take care of myself.”

Bror handed him the other half of the bun. “Rishka, how much time do you spend in this room?”

“Not that much. I go to the gym for a few hours most days, and I’m with Fir Verán and his friends on freenights. And the Library every ten-day or so.”

“But the rest of the time you’re here?” Bror’s expression darkened. “I feel like walking up to Verán and giving him a piece of my mind. Levels and politics be damned—even in moral rehab they have group recreation. You should at least have the run of the apartment. You don’t, do you?”

Tilrey wasn’t going to answer that. “It’s better than Int/Sec. There’s light and a window.” He stopped at the troubled look on Bror’s face “And I wasn’t there for long, either. Bror, please. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Verán doesn’t scare me.” Bror’s brows were drawn down hard. “But you’re right, that wouldn’t help. I know a few Islanders who have Verán’s ear. If I work on them, they might be able to persuade him to treat you decently. Do you think the others even know you’re locked up?”

Tilrey accepted another spoonful of broth. “I don’t think they’d care much one way or the other. Spoils of war.” If he’d complained to Gourmanian last night—well, that would have been even more humiliating than everything he’d actually done.

Memories of the night flashed through his head, and his stomach turned over. He backed against the wall. “I’m full.”

“I don’t think you are.” Bror lifted a tumbler from the tray. “How about some nice buttered tea to settle your stomach?”

Tilrey took a sip. Before he could stop himself, he said, “I need to ask you something. I was with Angar Gourmanian last night.” He didn’t want Bror to know any of this. But Bror was a kettle boy, too; he wouldn’t be shocked. And if Tilrey didn’t let something out, it would all stay stewing inside him for hour after solitary hour. “He tied me up, stuff like that.”

“That’s his thing.”

“And after, he called me a . . . a beautiful submissive.” He ducked his head.

Bror’s frown deepened. “That man is so precious, it’s honestly a little creepy. He didn’t hurt you, did he? Not for real?”

“No!” Tilrey took the tumbler and managed to get it to his lips. The tea did steady him. After a few deep breaths, he said, “You know what happened the first night I was here.”

It wasn’t a question. Ansha had hinted that people were talking.

Bror’s mouth tightened. “I’ve heard a few things that made me want to punch somebody.”

“I was so sapped I barely remember anything.” Tilrey forced the words out. If only he could make himself believe they were true, things might be easier. “But I do know that Gourmanian took the lead. When things got bad, he . . . held me down.”

Seeing crimson rage flood Bror’s cheeks, he added hastily, “He apologized to me last night. Sort of. Anyway, it was all a blur and it’s over, I’m fine. What I need to ask you is how . . .”

The tumbler wobbled in his shaking fingers. Bror rescued it, covering Tilrey’s hand with one of his larger ones. “Go on. Nothing you say is gonna shock me.”

How did you talk about something like this? “I didn’t like what happened with all the Islanders that night.”

“Course you didn’t!”

“But the thing is, when Gourmanian did things to me last night, just him, I did like it. All of it.” Tilrey’s cheeks burned as the memories returned. “I mean, in terms of the actual amount of pain, discomfort, um, degradation, whatever, those two nights maybe weren’t so different. I don’t know. It’s hard to measure.”

Bror gave Tilrey’s hand a light squeeze. “It’s never just about the actual pain. It’s how you feel.”

“But my feelings don’t make sense.” Tilrey plowed on with his real question: “So, if I liked it the second night, does that mean I deserved what happened the first night?”

“Of course not! Why would it mean that?”

“Because I can like it.” He didn’t know how to explain. “Because I like . . . being hurt. Sometimes.”

“Tilrey, there are Upstarts who like playing the submissive role in the bedroom. It doesn’t mean they want to be held down and forced to do those things for real.”

Bror sounded very confident, but Tilrey wasn’t convinced. “How is it different, really?”

Beautiful submissive still rang in his ears. What if wanting to be hurt was his nature? What if Verán and the others were treating him the only way he could be treated?

“Strutters ask me to hurt them sometimes, and believe me, it’s different.” Bror scratched his temple. “They arrange it so they’re in control the whole time—did Gourmanian give you a safe word? Right, that’s one way to make sure things don’t get out of hand. And then they expect me to ‘hurt’ them in a special way and touch them and talk to them the whole time, so it’s not like really hurting somebody at all. Those are two different things, Rishka.”

Tilrey turned his hand over so he could clasp Bror’s. In a small voice, he said, “But maybe I should learn to like being hurt the other way? If they’re going to do it anyway?”

“I don’t think it works that way. A person has boundaries, Rishka. When other people cross them, it’s gotta be because you invited them.”

I’m not a person. I’m the Island’s jewel, the spoils of war. But right now, sitting here with his friend, Tilrey did feel like a person again. Almost.

“Boundaries,” he said. “I guess.”

“We all have stuff we like and don’t like. Crowd scenes, for instance—you don’t like them, do you? Me, I don’t mind putting on a little show, as long as most of the watchers don’t try to touch.” Bror picked up the tumbler and brought it to Tilrey’s lips again. “Getting turned on is good, Rishka. Part of being human. If you can get off on what they do to you, that’s your business and no one else’s. And it doesn’t excuse them hurting you, ever. Gourmanian was careful with you last night, wasn’t he?”

Tilrey nodded.

“Good. But you don’t have to accept his apology for what he did the other night—I sure as hell wouldn’t. Bet it was a shitty apology, too.”

“I told him I did accept it,” Tilrey admitted, dropping his eyes. “It made him happy.”

“You do what you gotta do, and don’t ever feel ashamed.” Bror pressed Tilrey’s hand to his heart. “Listen, I mean what I said before. I’m gonna talk to some Islanders about getting you out of here before you start climbing the walls. If Gourmanian likes you, I bet he’d help. Lindahl, too.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, Bror.” Or get me in deeper trouble—but he wouldn’t admit to his friend what a mass of anxieties he was these days. “Promise?”

“You’re taking this way too seriously, kid.” Bror’s breath caught as he looked at Tilrey. “No, forget I said that—it was a shitty thing to say. I haven’t been through what you have.”

“I’m okay! I swear to you.”

Bror just shook his head. “I’ll find a way to convince Verán that letting you have more freedom is his own idea. You just have to do your part and get this Vlastor on our side so I can visit you again. Which means you’ll start eating more, okay?”

His eyes swept up and down Tilrey’s body, and this time there was a barely perceptible wince. “I think that’d be good for you, too.”