Another Glass of Wine

Lady M: Don't think me too cruel to our Christian in this chapter, I love him dearly, but when I sent the germ of this story to Rosemarie, this was the germ.

Christian stared at the enormous bed and wondered how he had gotten himself into this impossible situation. The voice behind him was all the reminder he needed.

"Disrobe."

Trembling almost uncontrollably, he slipped the braces that held up his pants from his shoulders and let them fall to his sides. One snapped out of his shaking grip and struck his thumb. The boy gasped and stuck the offended digit in his mouth to soothe the burn. Reaching out with his other hand, he gripped one of the bedposts to steady himself as he removed his thumb from his mouth to unbutton his trousers. For a moment he stood there, wanting desperately to run, his pants hanging down precariously from his hips, and then slowly he shifted his hips left and right to let them slide down to the floor. His shirt came off easily as it had already been partially destroyed; he shrugged his shoulders and let the ruined cambric flutter to the floor.

As he lifted one foot to step out of his trousers, Christian realized that he'd forgotten to remove his shoes. Flushing with embarrassment, he bent to unbutton them. The sharp intake of breath from behind froze him in a partial crouch. Oh how he wanted to just crumple down into a puddle on the gleaming floor tiles! But a throat clearing followed the breath and a slight cough that made him think of Satine. This would her here, undressing, if it wasn't him.

Christian rose to his feet as newfound strength flowed through him. Holding his trousers up, he angrily kicked the shoes away, sending them sliding across the floor to strike a small table that held a decanter of wine. I've saved her from this, he thought, with something akin to relief. I wanted to die when I thought she would be here tonight, but now it is I, and no matter what else happens, I've saved her.

Stepping out of his pants and walking to the chair that sat next to the table, Christian calmly folded his pants and laid them on the chair. He unclipped his suspenders and slide off his stockings, sucking in a sharp breathe when his bare feet came into contact with the freezing floor. But He thanked whatever God there was for the cold as it kept him focused on his task as he removed his undershirt and added it to the pile. As he stood there in his last layer of protection, he hesitated, even though he could feel the Duke's impatience growing to fill the room.

He pictured his beloved muse again: he could see her sitting on the bed in his garret, eyes shining like stars on a deep blue field, as he undressed for her on a sunny afternoon when it had been joyous play. She giggled like a girl and bit her lip, as he fumbled opening the buttons of his shirt and he realized she might be just as nervous as he. His hands had trembled that time as well, from simple nervousness instead of fear, and from excitement as she boldly slid the shirt from his shoulders and stopped his shaking hands with hers'. "Here, let me do that for you…"

Closing his eyes and drawing strength from that memory, he untied the drawstring to his drawers and stepped lightly out of them, just like everyone else, one leg at a time. There was another accompanying gasp to this action, but Christian stayed calm and folded the thin garment carefully, so as to hide the two large holes in the seams, and placed it atop the others.

He cringed at the sound of footsteps and whimpered when a hand, large, and thick-fingered, clasped his backside. The other hand landed on his shoulder, caressing the fair, freckled skin with a featherlight touch. These were the hands of a man who had never performed a moment of manual labor, and whose every need was met by an uncounted number of servants. It was disconcerting that those hands should be as soft as Satine's were…perhaps he could simply imagine that it was she…

But that hope was dashed an instant later. "Oh, my boy, you are far more beautiful than I have ever imagined." The Duke's warm breath stirred the fine hairs on the back of Christian's neck and he found no sweet memory could stop his trembling now.

"Y-you've imagined me?" The poet didn't know whether to be flattered or repulsed. Christian felt the Duke press his lips to a particular spot on his left shoulder blade. The older man's mustache tickled the sensitive skin and Christian realized, feeling just a little light-headed, that it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be.

"Oh yes," The Duke purred, "I've imagined you many times." He slid one hand lightly over Christian's arm to take one of his hands and raise it to his mouth, kissing the tips of the fingers. "Your features are so very fine, yours' and Satine's both – one wonders how two such low-born specimens could turn out to be so attractive."

Unable to think of an answer to that statement that would not anger the other man, Christian wisely remained silent. He kept his eyes closed until the weightless kisses reached his chest and then could not stifle a moan of anguish. The Duke chuckled, but perhaps took pity on the wretched boy.

"You're breaking all out in goosebumps, my dear poet. Why don't you have a glass of wine? It will warm your blood." So saying, the Duke stepped around him, filled one of the glasses almost to the rim, and held it out to the trembling poet.

Not pausing to find out whether or not the wine was any good, Christian took the glass in both hands so he wouldn't drop it, and simply gulped it down and held it out to be refilled. The Duke smiled – an expression somewhere between sympathy and amusment that Christian did not like at all. Nonetheless, he took the second glass and drank it off as quickly as the first, swaying slightly with a sudden dizziness as he gripped the edge of the table and held out the glass once more.

The Duke laughed, "Easy boy, let's not have you falling down drunk!" He filled the glass again, but set it on the table and turned to place a hand in the small of Christian's back and propelled him towards the bed. "Go over there and get into bed." He gestured to the windows around them, "With all this glass its cold in here, and I wouldn't want you to catch a chill. Get under the covers while I bring you another glass."

Although the sight of the enormous bed should have frozen him in his tracks, Christian was only too happy to find cover and delay the inevitable. He yanked back the satin coverlet and silk sheets, and dropped rather ungracefully onto the bed. The Duke, who had followed him, gently laid the coverings over him and returned to the table.

As the trembling poet watched, the Duke removed his tie and laid it on the chair arm opposite of the one Christian's clothes were laid across. He glanced back, his eye catching the boy's, and smiled wickedly. Christian shut his eyes tightly, leaving only his hearing vulnerable to the sounds, rather than the sight, of the Duke undressing. For years to come, Christian would not be able to bear hearing someone undress. He would be the only man alive afraid of the sound of silk against skin.

All too soon the Duke's voice beside him made Christian open his eyes. Holding out yet another full glass of wine, the Duke took the poet's trembling hands and wrapped them around the glass. The boy was frozen, staring at the other man's form. Caught entirely by surprise in the rush of events, the last thing he would have ever imagined was the sight of the Duke – utterly naked.

In spite of the cold, the older man moved without a tremor. He was pale as milk, and slender, without a single ounce of extra flesh. Even without his elegant clothing, the Duke was still in command. With his predatory smile and graceful movement, he possessed the beauty and paralyzing charm of a serpent. Christian, the mouse trapped by the spell of the Duke's gaze, could only stare and hope the first strike would not be painful.

The Duke sauntered around the bed, drew back the covers and climbed in on the other side. When he broke his gaze to look down, Christian took a long drink from his glass. When he lowered it the Duke reached out and took the glass from his hand and drained it himself. Christian felt an odd rush of petulant annoyance, "Wait! I thought that was for-"

The Duke silenced Christian by putting one finger over his mouth. His lips lifted in a smile that Christian thought one would normally reserve for a beloved but naughty pet. Setting the glass on one of the bedside tables, the Duke turned back to Christian and cupping his cheek in one hand kissed him.

It was so swiftly executed that Christian was taken completely by surprise and gasped aloud, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. The Duke took full advantage of this and slipped his tongue inside Christian's open mouth, tasting the poet's wine-drenched lips and tongue. The Duke's hand slid from the younger man's cheek, stroking his throat, coming to rest on his shoulder. His other hand cupped the back of Christian's head, burying itself in the boy's thick hair.

Christian felt as though he had completely lost control. While he'd certainly drunk more than three glasses of wine before (although these were big glasses – goblets would be the more appropriate word), it had never been in such odd circumstances, or without being accompanied by a full meal. Today, the last day before opening night, Christian had had nothing more than tea and a piece of toast that morning. His emotions in turmoil and his control all but gone, he simply gave in to the physical and returned the kiss.

The Duke reacted swiftly and pushed the poet onto his back, his hands skating over the younger man's chest, down to his waist, one hand stopping to stroke Christian's belly while the other cupped one cheek of the boy's shapely backside. Tilting his head, he kissed the corner of Christian's mouth and down along his jawline to the hollow of his throat and the edge of his collarbone. When the lingering kisses reached one of the boy's small brown nipples Christian cried out and clutched at the Duke's shoulders, his fingers digging into the other man's flesh.

The combination of intoxication, fear, anger, and arousal transformed the poet whose awareness existed largely in his intellect into a creature who existed only in the flesh. Satine's lovemaking was gentle and patient. Sex with the Duke was gentler than expected, but he was anything but patient. When his warm wet mouth fastened on the boy's nipple—the man's moustache tickling the sensitive skin, the quick, light nips of his teeth heightening the excitement—Christian fled into a corner of the poet's brain. The being that remained cried out in passion and gave in to the encounter.