Haughty Paris

Erotic short. A sailor picks out the coolest and most beautiful of the tavern’s boys, like he always does.

Rated E, cis M/M, 800w. D/s, humiliation kink, face slapping, sex work.

It’s bustling in the mollyhouse when Britten goes ashore, and he looks around the room, at the fiddlers and horners playing a jig in the corner, people up on their feet and dancing together, a great many men laughing with boys or girls in their laps.

There are a few free, of course, leaning against the bar or the walls with their eyes full of expectation, sitting back at tables and laughing with each other while looking oh-so-pretty.

Britten doesn’t look at any of them, really — they’re all warm, charming things, ready with a joke and a laugh, ready to play, ready to tease, and Britten really doesn’t go in for all that.

His eyes land on haughty Paris, sitting alone at his table in the corner with his nose in his book and a face like stone — a face like well-carved marble, gorgeous beyond measure, and just as intimidating. With the candle he has lit for him to read by, his face is lit from beneath, and it only serves to exaggerate the effect, makes him seem so much more as though he’s art upon display.

Britten steels himself, his mouth dry, and he moves forward with his coin purse in his hand, dropping it down onto the table surface with a clink. Paris looks up from his page without moving his head, his eyes flitting up to Britten, his face an unchanging mask of carved beauty, the cupid’s bow of his lip, his brown eyes shining from the candlelight, his hair black and sleek and looking smooth as water.

“Oh,” he says mildly, and draws an embroidered bookmark from inside his clothes, marking the page in his book and closing it. “It’s you.”

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t smile or look anything other than disdainful as he rises to his feet, puts his book under his arm and carries the coin purse in the other, his hips moving hypnotizingly as he leads Britten out of the main room and down the corridor, up the stairs, into a bedroom.

“You look beautiful,” Britten manages to get out.

“Yes,” agrees Paris in bored tones, and Britten hurries to unbuckle his belt, shove down his trousers as he falls back on the bed, his shoes kicked off onto the floor. He watches Paris as he slides off his breeches, revealing a plump arse that seems as perfectly proportioned as his face is, and Britten shivers in anticipation as Paris slicks his fingers, wets his hole. “I see you’re already hard.”

“I’m always hard when I think of you,” says Britten breathlessly. “Let alone when I lay eyes on you.”

“I’m sure,” says Paris witheringly, and fuck, but that just makes Britten’s cock harder, makes it throb between his legs even as Paris climbs on top of him. Britten surges to meet him, but before he can catch him in a kiss Paris has him gripped by the jaw and is shoving his head back onto the bed.

Britten’s given no warning before Paris lines Britten’s cock up with his arse, and as soon as he sinks down Britten cries out at the sudden wet tightness engulfing him, overwhelmed by the heat, the desperate pleasure of it.

“Stay down,” Paris says crisply when Britten tries to rise up to meet him, and Britten obeys, drops his head back into the pillows — when he tries to put his hands on Paris’ hips, Paris slaps them away, and growls again, “Down.”

Britten fists his hands in the sheets instead, and he can’t believe how painfully hard he is, buried in Paris’ boycunt, looking up at his expression, his pressed-together lips, his dark and distant eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he whimpers.

“You’re pathetic,” Paris replies, and Britten can’t help the desperate moan that drags out of him, the way his hips jerk up and into Paris’ arse, and then he feels a sort of fluttering heat all over, because whatever it is about the angle, it makes Paris sigh. Britten does it again, tries it again, watches greedily at the close of Paris’ eyes, showing off the thickness of his eyelashes, even as he rests his palms against Britten’s chest to steady himself.

“Is that, is that good?” asks Britten.

“Hush,” says Paris. “I like your cock better than I like your mouth, Master Britten.”

“I’m a lieutenant now, actually,” he says, and gets a sharp slap across the face for his trouble, Paris’ pretty palm making sharp, satisfying contact with the side of his cheek and whipping it to the side. He lets out a moan, breathless with it, and thrusts up into Paris as best he can, looks for the angle that makes Paris’ eyes flutter closed again, that make him softly sigh.

Reaching for Paris’ cock earns him another smack, but it’s worth it just to try.