Charles - A Seditious Affair

J ULY 1819

The Tory was waiting when Silas entered the private room.

He stood as if looking out the window, though it was covered by drapes. No prying eyes wanted. His back was to the door, and Silas gave himself a moment to look. Curly black hair that he knew to be shot with silver at the temples. A pair of shoulders beginning to round, just a little, from too long spent at a desk. Fawn breeches that didnt hug his arse nearly as much as they might. A rich man, by Silass standards. Probably an important man. An unknown man.

He turned a moment after Silas entered, though he must have heard the door. Dark eyes under the black hair. Welsh blood at work, that was, that and the strong, dark features.

The Tory looked at him, unblinking. Didnt smile. Didnt say good evening.

Silas crossed to his usual chair, watching. The Tory watched him back.

Silas sat. It was a comfortable chair, and hed been on his feet all day and had walked here from Ludgate too. He allowed himself a sigh of contentment, then looked up at the well-dressed man who waited in silent stillness.

Wine. His own Cockney rasp always seemed more pronounced in the Torys presence.

The Tory didnt move for a moment, as if shocked by the order, a flush darkening on his cheeks, then he went, in silence, to the little table. There was a bottle there, already uncorked, two long-stemmed glasses. He poured for them both with a hand that shook, left one glass there, came over to hand Silas his.

Silas tasted the wine. Rich, red, almost certainly costing some impossible sum. Like the private room at Millays, like the Torys coat and gleaming boots, like everything in the room except himself.

The Tory stood close, watching. Silas swung one leg over the other. He wore shoes and worsted stockings. The Tory wore Hessians and silk.

Take my shoes off, Silas said harshly, and then, No. On your knees.

The Tory gave a convulsive swallow. He went down to his knees, head bowed, and reached for Silass roughly stitched leather shoe.

Look up.

His head came up, dark eyes unreadable. His face was taut with emotion, but his mouth was a little open, lips a little red, and he took hold of Silass shoe like the best-trained servant Silas could imagine.

Other one. Silas moved his foot, forcing the Tory between his legs as the man served him. His prick was hardening already, and he could see the bulge in the Torys breeches. He spread his legs wider. See that?

The Tory nodded, a barely perceptible movement. Silas curled a leg around his back and kicked the kneeling man forward. It took him by surprise. He lurched, steadied himself with a hand on Silass thigh, and Silas took the opportunity to grab his face, taking a tight hold on his well-shaven chin. I said, see that?

Yes. A whisper. Forcing the word out.

Wheres that going tonight?

Please, the Tory said. Please. Dont make me.

Silas stared at him, feeling the pulse beat beneath his fingers, hearing his harsh breaths. The Tory stared back, eyes full of shame and defiance, chin stubbornly up.

One of those nights.

Dont make you, Silas repeated. Dont make you, when I come all this way to get my prick pleasured? He set his jaw, tensing his shoulders, increasing the pressure on the Torys skin. Youll do as I say.

No. The Torys voice was a soft thread of pleading. Dont.

Silas pushed him away, hard, catching him off balance a second time so he went over onto his tailbone, sprawling on the wooden floorboards. He slapped a hand on the floor to stop himself going over completely, and stayed there, bent backward, legs folded under him. His posture suggested a man who was going to lose this fight. The bulge of muscle in his arms and the tension of his lips suggested a man who wasnt used to losing, who had to struggle with it.

Get up. Strip yourself. Do it.

The Tory stood. His hands were shaking as he obeyed, pulling off his coat and waistcoat, tugging the clean linen over his head. His chest, tangled with wiry black hair. His belly, just a little soft from fine living.

Breeches.

The man doubtless had a valet, someone who folded his clothes and took off his boots. Silas enjoyed watching him do it himself. No opportunity for caustic comments as he struggled with a tight coat or stiff boots tonight, though. He was dressed to undress. His boots came off easily; he pushed down soft breeches, linen drawers. Such a fine gentleman.

And then he stood naked. Candleswax candles, no stinking tallow hereburned all over the room, giving a clear light. Silas liked the light. He liked to see the Tory bare, without the fine fabrics and expensive tailoring that marked his class. Just a man, skin and flesh, a face braced against pain or humiliation, and a cockstand begging for it.

His Tory.

Silas was tempted to have him on his knees again, but there was something about him standing in the middle of the room, bare and staring and aroused. Like a spare prick at a wedding, he thought, and grinned, knowing it looked wolfish. He was no fine gentleman with polite smiles to ease the social passage. No doubt the Tory could have any gentleman he desired up his social passage, come to that, but it wasnt what he wanted. He came here.

He unbuttoned his own trousers. Two buttons, that was all, none of your fancy tailoring, and his prick sprang free. The Torys eyes went to it as if dragged. Well they might, Silas thought, giving himself a slow, complacent stroke. Not so long, perhaps, but thick enough to be sure the Tory wouldnt forget this night in a hurry. Wouldnt rush off to another bed before next Wednesday.

Ill give you something to remember me by, he said aloud, and saw the Tory shudder. Well? Whatll it be?

The Torys chest heaved as he struggled to speak. Silas had never been much of a talker either, always thought you might as well get on with it. Get in, get on, go back to work.

Not with this man. The Tory needed words.

Silas caressed his prick, thumbing the end. Asked you a question. Now, you can get on your knees and beg for it, and maybe Ill let you gamahuche me. Good big prick in your mouth, just the way you like it. Might even let you have a bit of fun, once Ive done, if you serve me well enough. Or. He cupped his balls, a gesture the Tory called vulgar, and saw the flare in his eyes. Or you say no to me