Camorra cursed, vehemently. Sliding back in the shadows of the alleyway, he watched as the young man joked and laughed with his friends. He’d let his admiration get in the way, again. He knew he should have struck sooner, but had found himself unable to make the final move, tracking the young man as he’d moved through London’s cobbled streets. Every breath of wind had blown his hair in all directions, its apparent softness transfixing Camorra. Now, it was too late; the boy had met his friends, and his chance was gone.
Sighing to himself, he turned on his heel and strode away, his coat flapping in the breeze. The streets were deserted, the gas lamps just barely illuminating the wet cobbles. Muffled grunts from a corner indicated a whore and her customer at work, while further along, the sounds of a noisy tavern drifted through the fog. Perhaps, mused Camorra, he would have some luck in there.
Deftly tipping off his top-hat as he entered the tavern, he made his way through the crowd to the bar. The bar-maid, a young, busty thing, was harried with the influx of customers, but Camorra was in no mood to wait after his previous disappointment. Removing his kid leather glove from his right hand, he slowly and deliberately snapped his fingers.
The bar was noisy, and by all rights, the sound of Camorra’s fingers should have been completely inaudible. However, it was not. The soft, insistent click pierced the noise, and for a long second there was complete, stunned silence, as the patrons found themselves inexplicably silent, not knowing why. The stillness was broken by Camorra’s voice, deep and smooth, as he leant over the bar slightly and asked for a glass of water. A clean glass of water, moreover.
The noise of the bar flooded back in a frenzied wave, and within seconds, the only indication of anything strange was the occasional confused look from some of the more sober patrons. With an odd shiver, the barmaid found herself washing a glass and presenting it, along with a water jug, to the handsome gentleman she didn’t remember requesting anything.
Nodding slightly in acknowledgment, Camorra picked up the glass and jug in one hand, his top-hat in the other, and began to wend his way through the crowd to find a suitable table. It wasn’t hard. Thee crowds parted at his approach, drunk people who just happened to stagger away from him, sober people who decided to take that moment to adjust their position. He made no motion to part the crowd, they just found themselves out of his way.
As he approached the table he desired, one with a good view of the door, the man sitting there seemed to decide he was drunk enough for the night, and lurched off as Camorra approached. Smiling subtly to himself – centuries-old presence still had its uses – Camorra seated himself down and relaxed.
His reverie was broken by the curtain at the door being brushed aside and a crowd of young men stumbling in, all clearly somewhat merry. Camorra raised an eyebrow to himself, and studied them under his lashes, his face wreathed in shadows by his hair and the cowl of his coat. He dismissed them one by one as they jostled past, until the last one stumbled and almost fell onto the table. Reaching forward and catching the boy’s arm, he steadied him, and said softly, “Have a care, young man, for you know not who you may offend…” Again, his words carried perfectly through the din, and the boy’s eyes widened, flicking, terrified, to meet Camorra’s. “I – I’m sorry, sir. I was just – ” Smoothly, Camorra cut him off. “It is no matter, boy. Come, get yourself a drink and sit with me for a while, that I may get to know the young man who so gracefully stumbled into me.” With the gentlest of pushes, he sent the unresisting boy to the bar. Leaning back, Camorra smiled again to himself, running his tongue over the points of his teeth in anticipation.
The young man, it turned out, was named Benjamin. He was tall, slender, and had a tousled mass of dirty blonde curls that tumbled nearly to his shoulders. His frock coat was elegantly fitted, if a little out of date, fashionably speaking. At just over 22 years old, he had already lost both his parents, and lodged with an uncle who, Camorra established, was not an ideal landlord. Motioning across the bar, Benjamin pointed him out, and Camorra recognised his type instantly. Drunk, oafish, and intent upon behaving lecherously towards the young wench at the bar.
Leaning back in his chair, Camorra eyed Benjamin speculatively. Young, handsome, yet not hardened by the world just yet. The muscles under his clothes were taut, lean, and utterly appealing. Sitting forward suddenly in his chair, he steepled his hands and said, “Now, young Benjamin. From all you’ve told me, it seems that your living arrangements are far from satisfactory. As it happens, I have rather taken a liking to you, and, since I am in the market for a new butler for my home, I would be extremely grateful if you would give me the honour of agreeing to take up the position.” The subtle stress of ‘grateful’ left the boy with no conscious choice, but Camorra continued, “Clearly, all board and lodging will be taken care off. A small deduction will be made to your wages each week to cover living costs, which will not be extravagant. Shall we, say, begin you on five pounds a week, with a guinea withheld for housekeeping costs?”
The boy could only nod. Such an offer was quite extraordinary, but Camorra was not finished yet. “In case you find yourself unable to feel at ease in my household, I propose that for the first week, you shall be paid at the end of every day, with no housekeeping deduction. That way, should you find yourself indisposed to continue in my service, you are reasonably rewarded for your services thus far. I trust this is all to your satisfaction, young man?” Again, Benjamin nodded. Rising from his seat, Camorra gestured towards the door. “Come, then, young man. Allow me to show you your new lodgings!” With that, he picked up his top hat and strode from the tavern, beginning to make his way along the road.
Before Camorra had taken ten paces, he heard a breathless clatter behind him, and the boy swiftly fell into step beside him. “My apologies, sir Camorra, but your offer left me but a little stunned. Forgive my unseemly haste.” Camorra merely nodded, patting the young man on the shoulder, gripping slightly before he released him. The feel of the smooth, young muscles, gently sliding as Benjamin’s arm swung at his side, left a tightening in his throat, and an answering tightness in his trousers. He was desperate to take this one, to steer him into a side street and explore him, to make him utterly his, and taste everything his young body had to offer. Steeling his resolve, he fought down his rising desire and continued to stride briskly towards a better kept area of London.
The walk did not take long, and within twenty minutes, the pair had arrived in front of an elegant flat-fronted house. Taking the steps two at a time, Camorra produced an ornate key from the depths of his coat and unlocked the door, Striding inside, he planted his top hat on the hatstand by the door, sinuously sliding off his coat and hooking it underneath the hat. Beckoning Benjamin in, he said, “Come now, young man, for I do not bite!” With a bashful grin, Benjamin stepped over the threshold, looking about him in wonder. He was barely aware of Camorra standing behind him, gently tugging his coat from his shoulders, freeing his arms and patting his shirt down, before hanging his coat alongside his own.
Placing his hands on Benjamin’s hips, he looked over the top of his head at his home. “Well, Benjamin, this is your home now, if you will allow it. Permit me to show you around.” Placing a hand on his shoulder – oh, God, those taut muscles again – he steered Benjamin down a long hallway lit with elegant candelabras, into a series of rooms. The drawing room, warm and bright with firelight, rugs and books, through to the library, compact but cosy, with two leather armchairs; the dining room, high-ceiling and dark, most of the candles on the long table unlit, the silverware glinting slightly in the light; the kitchen, hot and cheerful, with a laughing woman housekeeper, all rosy cheeks and wicked grins.
Upstairs, Camorra steered him through a series of bedrooms – his own extravagant and ornate, draped with dark velvet drapes, a desk and chair against one wall, a chaise-longue and armchair by the crackling fire against the other, with the four-poster bed taking up most of the third wall. His own room was smaller, but certainly not mean; a simple but comfortable double bed, a table and chair on one wall, and a couple of easy chairs facing a smaller, but similarly styled fireplace on the other wall. A door to the left of the bed led to a small bathroom; nothing more than a basin and a toilet, with a small mirror on the back of the door, but nonetheless amply sufficient. Benjamin’s reverie was broken by Camorra: “I trust this is all to your satisfaction, Benjamin?” Ploughing on as though agreement was irrelevant, he continued, “Now, it is getting late. I shall instruct the maid to bring you a nightcap; sleep now, and tomorrow we shall make arrangements to transport your belongings here and get you fitted for your uniform, as is appropriate in this house. Now, I shall bid you goodnight, and see you in the morning.” With a half bow, he withdrew and shut the door, leaving Benjamin to his thoughts.
His reverie was broken by a gentle tap at the door, and the maid entered. Curtseying, she set down a tray with a pot of steaming tea, and a small glass of what looked like fine whisky. Lowering her eyes, she said softly, “Have a good night, master Benjamin. I shall see you tomorrow morn, I expect. If you come to the kitchens when you are ready, the cook will prepare a hearty breakfast for you.” Curtseying again, she left the room.
The crackle of the fire, and the warmth of the tea and whisky, were enough for Benjamin to begin to fall asleep. Rousing himself, he relieved himself in the bathroom, stripped naked, and slid between the soft sheets of the bed. At once, he began to drift off, and was soon sound asleep.
Benjamin dreamt. In perfect silence, his new master drifted through the door, without even opening it. He moved to the bedside and stood, staring at Benjamin, his eyes somehow piercing the shadows of his face in spite of the dark. Leaning down, Camorra slowly withdrew the covers, first baring Benjamin’s chest, then his stomach. He paused for a moment, running fine fingers over the taught skin and muscle of Benjamin’s torso. Slipping cool fingertips under the edge of the covers, he gently slid them through the tufty hair, grazing the base of Benjamin’s shaft. With a deft movement, he swept the remaining covers to midway down Benjamin’s thighs, exposing him to Camorra’s hungry eyes. A single fingertip hooked gently under his shaft, lifting and teasing it to its full potential. A soft his escaped Camorra’s perfect teeth as he watched it harden and lengthen at his touch, the head beginning to emerge from the smooth young skin.
Benjamin heard his own breathing begin to change, becoming heavier, and a delicious frown of desire began to form on his forehead, entrancing Camorra still further. Sliding two fingers and a thumb down the shaft to the base, he gently scraped his nails over the silky skin of the boy’s sack, using the barest pressure to massage the contents. Benjamin moaned slightly, and his hips shifted involuntarily to meet the pressure as his sleeping brain searched vainly for the source of the pleasure.
Changing tack, Camorra wrapped his long fingers around Benjamin’s erection and began to slide up and down, tortuously slowly and deliberately, watching as Benjamin’s frown deepened and his young hips began to thrust more ardently into Camorra’s fist. Camorra watched in delicious appreciation as Benjamin felt his fingers knot themselves into the bed sheets and his erection twitch in Camorra’s cool grasp. For long, tortuous minutes, Camorra continued his deliberate pace, as Benjamin felt his pleasure mount and begin to peak. With a long moan, he dug his fingers further into the bed clothes, and saw through half-lidded eyes Camorra bending over him. As he felt the tip of his master’s tongue snake out and run over the head of his ardent member, his self-control fled and he climaxed, in long, languid streaks of pure pleasure. He was vaguely aware of a hiss of satisfaction escaping Camorra as he sat back and drew a fingertip over his lips, catching the last drops of Benjamin’s efforts.
Leaning over Benjamin, Camorra drew a fingernail up from Benjamin’s stomach to his collarbones, leaving a thin red line. For a moment he stared at the gently sheen of sweat covering Benjamin’s face, before he gently drew the covers back up and kissed him upon the forehead. Without a sound, Camorra withdrew, seeming to melt effortless into the shadows.
With a start, Benjamin awoke. Sitting upright, he stared out the window, and saw that it was morning, around 8, if the sun was anything to go by. With a moment of shocked recollection, he remembered, flushing, the dream he had last night. Quickly sliding a hand down the covers to his crotch, he found that there was no sign of last night’s release. “Just a dream,” he sighed to himself, finding himself almost sorry. He rose, and stepped into the bathroom, where he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What he saw froze him in shock, for stretching from his collarbones to his stomach was a thin, red line. His mind reeled in shock; this could not be possible!