The Flesh Cartel - Episode #7: Homecoming

it was firmer, surer, the words confident and rhythmic and imbued with meaning.
    Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
    Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
    Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
    When you have bid your servant once adieu;
    Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
    Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
    But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
    Save, where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love, that in your will,
    Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
    Nikolai’s grin had spread from ear to ear, and when Douglas finished, all flaming cheeks and shy smiles but steadfastly unwavering gaze, Nikolai crossed the room, hunched down before Douglas, took that lovely, hopeful face in both hands, and kissed it. Forehead, cheek, lips. They parted for him, let him in, and Nikolai sighed into Douglas’s mouth as the boy tentatively kissed him back. No passion, not yet, but it was sweet and lovely and so very giving , and Nikolai knew that if he were to lay Douglas down right now and ask for more, for anything at all, the boy would say yes to please him. Not out of fear, but hunger. For affection. For love. For the secret key that might let him feel those things in return. The boy was so tired of pretending; Nikolai could sense that in the manic edge creeping into the kiss. So tired of trying to fool himself.
    “Soon,” Nikolai murmured against Douglas’s lips. “I promise you. Soon.”
    Douglas nodded. He knew exactly what Nikolai meant. Gods knew they’d discussed it enough, Douglas’s halting, fearful, tearful questions, shame pinking his cheeks as he stumbled through one fresh admission after another. I-I want to, but I don’t and I’m sorry but I don’t know how . . . And then the last part, always the same, warming Nikolai’s heart: Please, help me.
    Yes, Nikolai would help him.
    He sat on the edge of the bed, and Douglas immediately shifted so that his upper body was draped over his master’s lap. Nikolai ran a hand down the smoothness of his neck, down to cup his shoulder.
    “Sit up.” Nikolai patted the mattress next to him. “I have a gift for you.”
    Douglas rose to obey. There was no mistaking the tinge of fear in his eyes, but he suppressed it quickly. Good boy.
    This new position, with his knees parted and his hands resting on his thighs, left his body perfectly open to Nikolai’s gaze, and Nikolai took advantage of that, eyes roving over the smoothness of his chest and belly, down to his soft pink cock resting against his inner thigh. “Roger visited you with the wax?” he asked.
    “Yes, sir.” Barely a waver, but the remembered pain was clear on his face. Good; Nikolai could afford no moments of fondness between Douglas and anyone else but himself right now—no more than he could afford to personally do too many painful or upsetting things to Douglas during this formative time. Like waxing. Not for the first time, Nikolai was glad he could trust Roger to take on such sensitive work.
    “Good. It pleases me, you know. You have a very beautiful body, Douglas. Firm and strong, but still slim enough to edge just this side of feminine.” For a moment, distaste—outright offense —flashed plain as day on Douglas’s face, but the boy schooled himself quickly, and Nikolai chose to let the fleeting bad manners go. For now. “Which ties in with part of today’s gift. Go fetch the bag on the table.” Douglas stood, a bit on the graceless side, and Nikolai grabbed his wrist and held him back. “Careful, Douglas. Your master’s eyes are upon you; don’t bound up like a newborn giraffe. Elegance, Douglas, in everything you do. Grace. Subdued power. Sit and try again.”
    Better this time. The boy was no dancer, lacked the hyperaware control over his body that his brother possessed, but at least he was meticulous this time, spine straight, head up, motions smooth and unwasted. He paced over to the table with the same self-conscious deliberateness. Picked up the bag by the handles without even trying to glance inside, though surely he was burning to. Nikolai could see it on his face, guileless as the boy was—curiosity, fear, apprehension. When he reached the bed, he held the bag out for Nikolai. Nikolai didn’t take it.
    “Is that how I’ve taught you to present things to your master?”
    A brief flare of panic, quickly stifled; it’d been long enough since Nikolai had hurt him that he’d begun to trust it