Lesser Monsters, Part 1: Using John by Kevin Thorne
Setting his shoulders back, he reached out and tapped twice.
And waited.
Just as he was going to tap again, a tired voice called, “Come.”
He opened the door, stepped inside, closed it carefully behind him, trying to make no disturbance, no noise. The room was all done in shades of blue: upholstery, rugs, bedclothes, even the walls.
Above the hearth hung two large, heavy, double-headed battleaxes, their handles studded with sapphires. He was surprised; the other Ladies’ chambers held no relics, no reminders of the war. John swallowed tightly, wondering how many people these prominently displayed axes had cut down. He was careful not to look too closely at their edges.
And then he saw her, a slight figure drifting barefoot across the blue-veined marble floor, clad carelessly in a sky-blue robe, fingers combing through wet, shoulder-length black hair. A tin hip-bath steamed in front of a cheery fire in the hearth; she must have just gotten out of it. Her face was surprisingly plain, her mouth a little small, her cheeks a little round. But her piercing, pale gray eyes—they dizzied him instantly.
She was leaner than her sisters, and looked younger, almost coltish, compared to their well-fed curves.
A coverlet the deep blue of the sky at late dusk lay untouched on the bed. With a practiced flick, John settled one cream-colored sheet on top of it, then held the other out as a modesty screen, averting his eyes.
“You’re John?” came her voice. She sounded cool, even a little solemn.
He risked a look at her. She stood in front of him, nearly a foot shorter, entirely unprepossessing. Except for those unnerving eyes.
His throat felt dry. He swallowed quickly and said, “I am, milady.”
“I’m Lady Helène,” she said. “I’ve heard great things of you. To hear my sisters tell it, you could massage the stiffness out of a mountain, so it flowed down into soft little hills.”
“I—I’m sure I don’t deserve such praise.”
“Hm,” she said, and slipped off her robe, sliding between the sheets he’d laid out. He barely had time to look away. When he risked a glance at her face, she was lying on her stomach with her eyes closed. Not seductive, not flaunting her body, as her sisters would have been, had they shucked their robes so carelessly. What was her game?
Let the minutes pass, and pile up on one another. Eventually, the night will end.
John dripped a few drops of oil onto his hands, settled his palms onto Helène’s narrow shoulders. “Is there any place where you’re especially tense, milady?” he asked. It was often a good opener. Early on, some of the raunchy answers he’d gotten had surprised him.
“Back and shoulders,” she said, her voice muffled by the sheet beneath her. “Long ride.”
“From where?” he said, probing at the flesh of her upper back. It was like ropes of steel; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to loosen her muscles at all. He dug in hard, and was rewarded with a soft groan.
“Do you mind,” she said, “if we don’t talk? I’d like to just drift away.”
Panic struck. He had already misstepped. “Of course, milady,” he said, forcing his hands to continue their calm, rhythmic movements, so as not to betray his nerves. “Forgive me if I’ve offended.”
As he worked her muscles, they did, against all probability, start softening. Her skin felt good beneath his hands, warmed from her bath, not cool like her sisters’. He gently moved her arm to better reach under her shoulder blade; she let him place it where he chose, an occasional sigh or caught breath telling him the massage was working.
He could cover her narrow back entirely with both his hands, without even splaying his fingers. He had his father’s strong, broad hands, inherited from generations of smiths. Most people understood that smiths had to be strong; few understood the delicacy of those thick fingers, to hammer either hard iron or soft gold with equal skill.
It had been a while since he’d been able to devote his attentions to massage for more than a few minutes; most Ladies were eager to dispense with the appetizer and get to the main course. He started relaxing into the evening, letting his mind focus in his fingertips, achieving an almost meditative state as he kneaded and pummeled, stroked here, dug in with a knuckle there.
Some sense of self-preservation boosted him out of his reverie; he knew this was not his prime purpose here. So he altered his touch, making it lighter, fluttering it along Helène’s neck and the backs of her knees, up the outsides of her thighs, segueing into an erotic touch intended to stoke her internal furnace.
When he stopped and held up the sheet, she turned her head and half-opened one eye, her dark eyebrow quirking a question at him.
“If milady would turn over,” John said, “I can continue.”
Had this been Nathalie, she would have torn the sheet from his hands, and pulled him atop her.
Had this been Agathe, she would have started one of her cat-and-mouse games, watching him with avid, hungry eyes.
Lady Helène shrugged and turned over, eyes closed. Ignoring him.
He massaged her calves carefully, then her lower thighs—but, receiving no encouragement from her, went no further. He could tell from the flush in her cheeks and her wet, parted lips that his ministrations were having their intended effect, but she gave him no clue as to what she wanted, or expected, next.
He started on her arms, working his way down from shoulder to hand, rubbing each joint of each finger in turn.
A tiny sound, like a mouse’s sigh, caught his attuned ears. He looked at Helène’s face in time to see the quiet shudder of her shoulders. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, dripped down into her wet black hair.
He froze. “I’ve upset you,” he said, trying hard to keep his voice level while his heart accelerated like a runaway horse. He thought of the axes on the wall. “Please, milady, tell me what I’ve done. How I can fix it.”
“It’s nothing,” she said, in a choked voice. “It’s all right. It all feels lovely, John.”
“But you—you’re distressed. Is there nothing I can do?”
She finally opened her eyes, blinked tears from both of them. “I suppose,” she said, “you could fetch me a handkerchief. There should be a fresh one in the top right drawer of the desk.”
He hurried to the maplewood desk, almost stumbling on the indigo throw-rugs scattered across the floor. Panic made his fingers swollen and heavy as he wrenched open the drawer and pulled out two soft linen handkerchiefs the color of a summer sky.
“Thank you,” she said, taking one and wiping her eyes.
“If there’s anything else—” he stammered.
She looked at him for a long moment. It felt like her eyes bored through his skull and catalogued his mind.
Belle Helène the Conqueror, he thought with mounting dread. A murderous legend lay before him. How many of his kind had those hands slain?
She said, “Have you ever lost someone you loved, John?”
The words sent ice sluicing through his limbs. He thought of his father, crippled now with arthritis, vulnerable in his house down the hillside. And his mother…. “I don’t—Lady Helène, I beg of you, if I’ve offended, let me pay the price myself, please spare my family, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You’re frightened,” she said, in a tone of mild surprise. Shaking her head, she said, “Things have changed since I was here last.”
Miserable with fear, John said nothing, not wanting to make things worse.
Helène said, “Many years ago, I loved someone very much, and he died. I’ve carried that grief with me ever since. That’s what you feel in my shoulders, what you’ve loosened, what led to the tears. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just—no one has touched my hands with kindness like that since—since I lost him. I wasn’t threatening your family, John. I was trying to explain.”
“My grandfather,” John blurted, to his own surprise. “He was a quiet giant of a man, taller even than I. Took care of my brother and me when our paren
But Helène was nodding. “There are people whose presence in your life changes you. The world seems incomplete without them in it.” She offered him a slight smile, and he wondered how he could ever have thought her plain. She was lovely, with her sad, wise, luminous eyes.
To his surprise, he felt stirrings of lust. It was because she didn’t seem like one of them, he knew. She seemed like some young, fragile girl. He felt a brief urge to wrap his arms around her and comfort her while she cried, kiss the tears from her cheeks, nuzzle the warmth of her throat, taste the skin of her breasts—but of course, he suppressed such a presumptuous impulse instantly. It was early yet; their bodies would merge soon enough. He found, to his surprise, that he looked forward to it.
She closed her eyes again, and he lifted her other arm, stroking down toward her fingers. He watched her face carefully, but she didn’t weep this time; she seemed lost in deep thought, very far away.
He came to the end of his repertoire, turning away slightly so he could, with one hand, reach inside his trousers and ensure his readiness for what was to come.
After a few moments, she took a deep breath. “Mmm. That was lovely, John. My sisters spoke accurately of your gifts.” It sounded like a dismissal.
He blinked. “Is there—um—anything else I can offer you?” He let his voice slide down into a seductive, questing range.
She opened her eyes again, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. “Such as?”
“The Ladies—they, they often enjoy a more, um, intimate touch.” Feeling awkward as a teenager, he said, “You know.”
Her puzzled look cleared, replaced by a small, knowing smile. “Ah. Thank you, no.”
“It’s all right,” he said in a rush. “It’s what I’m here for, what’s expected. I understand.”
“That makes one of us,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows and gazing at him curiously. “Although it does explain the leer in my sister’s eye as she lauded your… talents.”
“I won’t disappoint you, milady,” he said. Was this the game, him begging her to let him do what she knew he was there for?
“It’s not that it’s not tempting,” she said, “but a massage is what I expected, and a massage is what I’ve had. Whatever my sister’s intentions, I don’t expect you to whore yourself to me.”
Whore. The word burned into John’s ears. That’s all she thought he was. Of course she didn’t want him; she could have her pick of fine men, probably was used to that in her travels, cultured and sophisticated men, even of her own kind.
He forced a smile, quickly, so she would not see his reaction. It had happened, once in a while, that a guest was so focused on her hunger that she turned down his erotic services. He raised a hand to the drawstring at his collarbone and loosened it, then knelt beside her, tilting his head away and closing his eyes. He braced himself against the incipient tearing of his flesh.
Her voice came, laced with doubt. “You—you want that?”
“It’s what I’m here for.”
“No, John, it’s not. I would not trespass on your dignity like that. I know how painful it would be for you.”
Painful? This was the first time John had ever heard one of the Ladies refer to the pain of humans, or even recognize its existence. He felt vertiginous, like his whole world was turning upside down.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” she said.
A bump of fear surged through him at the familiar words, leaving him shaking. This was where the game would begin—here, with him confused and uncertain, and, paradoxically, with a growing hunger in his loins. Helène was even better at games than Agathe, and that was saying something.
“I can’t seem to say the right thing,” Helène said, sounding puzzled. “Perhaps it’s time for you to go. It’s been a long day.”
“You’re—you’re sure, milady?” I’ve done something wrong, he thought wildly. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve disappointed her. There will be trouble.
“I’m sure,” she said. “Good night, John.” She lay back and closed her eyes.
He fumbled the cork back into his bottle of oil, and stumbled out of the Sapphire Suite.
~
John prowled the servants’ corridors, unsettled and twitchy. Though he didn’t understand all that had happened in the Sapphire Suite, the one thing he knew for sure was that it had left him with a massive erection and a bruised ego.
He wanted company.
He knew from experience that Maida’s worshipful eyes and warm skin would do much to restore his confidence, and cool the fire in his groin. He headed toward the bathing room, hoping to find her cleaning up there.
She wasn’t.
He left the corked bottle of rosemary oil on a table and headed toward the laundry. If not Maida, any of half a dozen others would do.
As he made his way through little-used corridors, he heard the soft, urgent sounds of sex. A combination of mischief and prurient curiosity led him to quiet his footsteps and move toward the sounds, which emanated from a nearby shadowed alcove.
He saw a man’s short, stocky frame, trousers in a pile at his feet, his bare ass working rapidly back and forth.
With a grin, John inched closer, wondering which maid’s favors the man was enjoying.
But then, the man’s head turned. John realized that the face tight and flushed with pleasure was that of Pelton, another attendant, and the hips he gripped were another man’s, with another set of trousers in a pile beside his feet. The other man’s identity was lost to the alcove’s deep shadows.
John’s stomach twisted. It was no secret that Pelton attended Lords as well as Ladies, when their tastes ran that way—but how could Pelton do something so disgusting to another man? If he ever tried to do that to John…. John’s eyes narrowed, and his hands closed into fists.
Agathe’s sly taunt came back to him, speaking of the Lords who would be visiting soon: I wonder what they’d make of you.
The thought revolted him—hardly the boost to his confidence that he was seeking. He quietly moved back and away, heading down a different set of dim stone hallways, trying to forget what he’d seen.
He turned a corner and spotted little Abigail, she of the freckles and blushes, setting fresh candles into wall sconces.
Oh, yes. Abigail would do nicely. She was relatively new, and younger than most of the staff; he had not yet had time to sample her most tender delights. A fortuitous encounter, indeed.
He made a little extra noise as he walked along the corridor, so as not to startle her. She turned and, as soon as she spotted him, sprouted a smile she could not tamp down. Her infatuation was palpable.
“Our Abigail,” John said in his smoothest voice, “bringing light to the darkness.”
She laughed, a little harder than the joke merited. He could tell his presence warmed her like wine.
He moved closer, trailed his fingers down her cheeks. She froze, so he left them cupping her cheek instead of stroking down her neck. “Lovely Abby,” he murmured. “Can I tell you a secret?”
She nodded, eyes shining.
He leaned in so his warm breath tickled her ear. “I had hoped you’d be there, bathing me, this evening. Seeing you always lifts my heart. Among other things.”
Still grinning wildly, she stammered something unintelligible and pulled back, against a wall. He followed, pinning her there loosely with his arms. It was a delicate thing, seduction. He prided himself that he’d never heard a “no” when he’d set his mind to bedding a girl.
“Shall I show you how you affect me?” he continued, taking one of her hands and pressing it to the bulge in his trousers.
She inhaled sharply, her eyes widening with fear, so he let her withdraw the hand.
“You’ve seen me entirely exposed,” he said
“I—we shouldn’t—” she managed, so he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, deeply.
His hands wanted to rove, to untangle the ties at her bodice, to pull her breasts into the candlelight, but she stood poised to flee, and so he contented himself with kisses. The girls liked that, kisses. Abigail had probably dreamed of him kissing her, professing his love. If he could play into that dream, he could relax her. And then, she’d be his.
“Tell me I haven’t mistaken your glances,” he said, pulling back a bit, cradling her face between his hands. “Was it just wishful thinking that led me to see, perhaps, a little kindness for me in your eyes? Ah, Abby, my dove, tell me my heart is not alone in beating so hard for you.”
“I—I mean—” she said, helplessly, as his words bound her more surely than his arms could. “Someone might see—”
“It’s late,” he said. “No one will disturb us.” He bent toward her lips again, kissing her deeply, feeling her warm, respond. “Don’t you know that you and I are alone, in all the world, tonight? Can’t you feel it? This chance encounter—it must be fate, drawing us together.”
Her eyes shone with the romantic fever of a young girl confronted with what she wanted—and feared—most.
He kissed her lips again, then her neck, and finally the soft swells of the tops of her breasts. She gasped, squirmed—so he picked her up, one arm beneath her shoulders and one beneath her knees, as a groom would carry a bride over a threshold.
“You are the only one in all the world,” he murmured, pressing her close, his lips touching hers. He felt her racing heart as he pressed her chest to his.
His insistent cock nipped at his thoughts; he could not wait much longer.
“Surely you will not torment me,” he said. “Surely you will ease the pain you have caused in me.”
“I—pain?”
He swung her up so her back pressed against the wall, and covered her mouth with his as he reached under her skirts with one hand and pulled down her undergarments. This was the trickiest moment, the one most at risk for a “no”—and, thus, the one for which it was most important to make sure she could not speak, not till he knew she would no longer protest. While ardently kissing her, he freed the knot on his trousers, which sank to the floor. His cock bobbed free. He wrestled hard with himself not to spear her right then.