Page 85 of Roguefinder

“Non, monsieur,” I said, Jesse’s voice rumbling my throat. Jesse’s body knew what Philippe wanted, and it moved without permission, bending me forward and pressing my lips to the top of his boot.

“Encore,” Philippe said softly.

More. Jesse’s body understood that, too. I licked all around the toe, dirt and tiny stones from the courtyard catching on my tongue. The scent of grass and dew entered my lungs. I worked my way up, and more scents followed, boot polish and hints of manure sticking in my nose and throat. The welts on my back pulled and burned, but I kept licking, pausing every now and then to press kisses to the damp leather.

Philippe’s sigh drifted down. After a moment, he nudged my mouth away with his toe and presented the other boot.

I licked that one clean, too.

“Look at me,” Philippe ordered. When I obeyed, he was smiling faintly, the candlelight throwing shadows over a face that had always gotten him anything he wanted. The glossy tail of the ribbon in his hair draped over one muscular shoulder.

“Bien.” He used his boot to tap my penis. “Stroke that beautiful cock, petit loup.”

My hand—Jesse’s hand—moved to my shaft, which had plumped under his smile. And I stroked because Philippe wanted it. Monsieur had ordered it, and maybe this time I’d do it right.

He swung away and went to a sideboard, where he poured himself a glass of wine while I pumped my dick. The dining salon was always cool this time of night, but sweat prickled under my arms and around my groin. The slick, hurried sound of my foreskin was loud in the quiet salon, our only observers Philippe’s ancestors on the walls.

Philippe faced me, wineglass in hand, and leaned against the sideboard with his wolf glittering in his eyes. Power slid around me. My beast yelped in my mind, and I tried to drop my eyes but his authority locked my head in place.

My chest heaved as I shuttled my cock. Philippe sipped his wine, his boots still gleaming from my saliva. My uneven breaths mixed with the fleshy sound of my hand on my dick, which grew harder under his stare.

He took another sip, his throat working between his open collar. His erection pushed against the front of his trousers.

I kept masturbating. Sweat rolled down my back and worked its way into the welts. Pain bit, pulling a choked cry from my throat.

Philippe’s nostrils flared. The bulge between his thighs swelled.

Grunts broke from me. My chest lifted, something within me reaching outward. It strained and flailed, and I wanted to scream because nothing waited for it. I ran and ran, and the ground was a wheel under my feet, never advancing me forward.

But I had to keep going. The alternative was stopping, and Philippe didn’t want that, which meant I didn’t want it, either.

I wanted him. So I strained harder, and suddenly I was racing across the field behind my parents’ farm.

Philippe set down his wine and lifted the crop. But I was running, legs pumping and worry nipping at my heels. I couldn’t be late.

“You are late,” my father’s voice echoed in my mind, and it was Jesse’s mind so the guttural, vaguely German-sounding words made sense.

Philippe stepped around me.

The crop landed across my back, the slice of fire deposited neatly between two existing rows of welts.

My fist stuttered on my cock.

A strap struck my shoulder blades, and my father’s voice cut through my groan.

“Again, you have missed your prayers.”

But I’d hurried. I’d had so much to do and no horse to help with the plow. We’d sold it the previous winter to buy grain.

The crop trailed over a welt. It ventured lower, mapping the ghosts of the German bullets that had left me staring up at a night sky. Star-spangled. The constellations had glimmered through the smoke, the heavens too stubborn to dim themselves even with the world on fire. So beautiful. The words of that song had never made sense until then.

The crop lifted from my skin.

“Slovenly, ungrateful boy.”

I worked my shaft faster.

Hurry. I had to hurry. But I was already late.