Saint George and the Dragon
I suppose that my tenure at Mr. Irons' residence may have gone without incident if I hadn't have taken a shortcut across the gallery to deliver the cleaning supplies that I had been sent for. Regardless, as I rounded a corner I was witness to something that I had in no way expected.
As I watched from behind a sculpture, my employer walked quietly up behind the collection's curator and put his arm around the latter's waist, whispering something into his ear. Whatever the response, it made him smile and run his hand down the back of the man's leg before kissing him on the neck patting softly away.
Suddenly I found myself wanting him to be like that toward me, touching me instead of this other. In a moment's time he had transformed from simply the master of the household in which I worked into something else altogether.
I was instantly degusted with myself and continued with my task.
Lust, unfortunately, is one of the creeping thinks that somehow overtake the afflicted no matter how fast or hard they run.
For one ungodly reason or another I found myself pondering the whole event, all about two minutes of it, while taking a bucket down a hall the next day and only came out of the mists of daydream as I almost slammed into the tall gentleman. I franticly apologized and thought that I had swept my chances of suspicion under the rug when he smiled and told me to be more careful—I blushed horribly.
A few hours later I was summoned to one of the sitting rooms where I found him sitting on a couch, waiting.
"George…Please," he smiled charmingly, patting the seat beside him.
I closed the door behind me and defied the voices in my head, sitting as bade.
He regarded me and leaned back, left arm on the back of the couch, right on its arm, fingers on his jaw.
"How is it that I've never really seen you about in the two years that you've been in my service?" he mused raising his eyebrows slightly.
"You're nearly always occupied with other things,…sir."
I knew what he was doing, but some part of me wanted it to happen. Despite it, the voices got loader as he moved closer and kissed me.
Such a passionate kiss.
He moved his head back just enough to look into my eyes and gently brushed my hair back. Somehow his left hand found my back and the right my lap. He was so close that I could feel his breath on my face. When he went to kiss me again something snapped and I tightened my lips, pulling my head away just far enough to avoid his lips.
"I'm sorry…" the words caught in my throat, "…I can't."
He moved his hands and allowed me to get up. His eyes looked slightly confused though he smiled coolly and leaned back into the sofa.
He looked away a little and told me to feel free to change my mind, eventually dismissing me with a motion of his hand.
As I lay in bed that night I realized that I couldn't bare those eyes again, something about them threatened to consume my soul.