Chapter Text
His palazzo is wondrous and bountiful. He indulges me tenderly. He bestows me a private chamber and my own bathhouse, with exquisite golden baths and waters that never grow cold. I am granted my own manservants. I have a cook, devoted wholly to my youthful whims, preparing whatever my heart desires. Piles of satin robes freshly sewn await me on my desk. All Marius asks for in return is my company. He calls me his Botticelli angel. He paints me in repose. He gushes over me with blandishments that set me aflame.
I am at a loss to comprehend why he deems me worthy of it all. My mind ponders the disciples of Christ. Did they not suffer as I do, beset by the feeling of being unworthy? How did Mary Magdalene feel, prone before Christ, drowning in her abysmal shame as he told her she was forgiven? How did she conquer the horror of feeling so vile and repulsive before one so pure? How could she embrace his generosity without feeling herself a being of darkness?
I went from being spat on to being cherished. No one mocks me for my dark complexion. I am not called a devil. Rather, I am admired. My warm-toned features, marked by the sunlit realms of the East, are regarded as something most rare. Other boys lust for me. Maidens gaze at me with wide eyes and crimson cheeks. They name me their prince, and bow themselves before me. I fall into slumber each night with my stomach decadently full and pleasant vertigo afforded by most delicious, scarlet wine. I forget hunger exists. The past pain no longer touches me. Blood dripping down my legs and swollen lips are just a distant memory of a previous life.
Whenever I am amenable, I study Marius. He is a man of immense wisdom. He knows many outlandish tongues. He paints and reads poetry. Though he wields considerable power, he does not misuse it. He treats the boyservants with goodwill and beneficence. He gives his wealth to any lamb in need. The palazzo under his care brims with laughter and joy. Not only is he just. I perceive he is noble and seemly. The dens of debauchery hold no sway over him. While men his age frequent brothels, he passes his evenings with a book in hand. It appears he is untouched by the desires that govern most men. It baffles me. His gaze never lingers. His hands never stray where they should not. He does not summon courtesans for the night of pleasure. Though I am a beddable, pert flesh, he never reaches for me.
I see his loneliness. Sometimes, when night falls, he comes to my chamber and comforts me in his arms. I see the sorrow that dwells in his gaze. At times, he lays bare his soul to me. He entrusts the secrets that weigh on him mercilessly. How in every feminine visage he seeks Pandora’s gentle, blameless features. How, after her demise, he spent years in gloom, emptying himself in nameless beauties until he could not distinguish their oval countenances, and he wallowed in melancholy to no end. How his most ardent wish was always to have a son, and how I am a gift to him from Heaven above. How I am his muse, his child love, his beautiful kindred spirit.
Sometimes, it is I who holds him. My fingers are buried in his glistening, golden locks as he leans into my well-endowed chest. He kisses my breastbone as I tremble. He reiterates his love for me. I am the ray that dazzles him, after long, endless dark.
I realise I need him to covet me. I realise I will feel worthless if he finds me unfit for his bed. I see that nothing else can recompense him for his worshipful mercy. His beloved wife was taken, and he was so consumed by grief that he took no other to wed. There is an emptiness in his breast I am meant to fill. I must accommodate him and allow him to pour his desires onto me. It is only fitting he should use me, seeing as I am his.
So one night, I come to him, and he welcomes me with a benignant embrace. He presents his new painting he has wrought, and questions me kindly of my health. Thoughtfulness emanates from him. Anxiety for my plight. As he speaks, I cannot help but trace the breadth of his shoulders with my gaze. I watch his hands. Fine lines encircle them, where the veins stir and pulse. I marvel at how tall he is. I observe the way his locks adorn his head, aureate golden with silver. He is beyond handsome. His bearing, composed and assured, is even more fetching. I slowly simmer in my lust.
As he rests close to his desk, writing something down in his journal, I ponder my next move. The chamber is quiet. The candles lit bestow it an intimate, warm ambience. There is only stillness and the peaceful cadence of his respiring.
My dainty feet draw me closer. I venture towards him as my heart hammers beneath the confines of my chest.
‘Master,’ I say, as I pause before him, our knees touching.
He hums. He inscribes something in his journal, in Latin, a language closed to me. Resolved to win his love, I climb into his lap. As I compel his attention at last, he casts on me an amused glance. ‘What is it, Amadeo?’
My cheeks burn agonisingly. My voice deserts me. I am sore afraid, yet I do not cease. I gaze at his full mouth and swallow a lump in my throat. I draw near, and I press my lips to his.
I feel my pulse in my every immobile limb. I can sense the pounding of my heart in my ears. I have never wanted so much. My want is a ferine force. But suddenly, nausea suffocates me. I see that I alone am aflame. He is as cold and still as Roman sculpture. He is otherworldly and unaffected by base desire. My epidermis is blazing, while his remains wintery and statuesque. I feel torturously, unnervingly foolish.
I burn with shame, thinking myself a devilish harlot daring to tempt Christ Himself. My very first instinct is to rise and flee. I want to hasten to the nearest chapel, to collapse before the figure of Christ and flog myself to death. I stir anxiously. Yet Marius does not allow me to go. His hand suddenly encircles my thin wrist, keeping me still.
Though I am fearsome, I dare to look at him. I strive to be as poised and halcyon as he is. Sadly, my emotions govern me. Indignity smoulders my face. Despair clings to my eyelids, forcing limpid tears. Doubt makes my parched lips tremble.
‘Is it my penance,’ I hear myself say dolefully, ‘that he who is good to me does not want me?’
I see a crack in his impeccable mask of composure. His eyes, distant and commanding, commence to shimmer with anguish. Gently, he draws my wrist to his cold lips. He bestows a placating kiss on my anxiously pulsing, protruding vein.
‘I want you, cherub,’ he says. ‘I only strive to keep my actions honourable.’
So he covets me! The knowledge sends a shiver through me. I am awed by his restraint and his splendid self-command. My heart bleeds for him. So long deprived, his needs unmet, his bones frozen, no touch of a maiden to soften his grief.
He must be so gruesomely cold. There abides in him a ceaseless frost, a perpetual winter. How grievously lonely it must be.
‘How long has it been for you?’ I ask, as I touch his cheek tentatively. ‘Do you condemn yourself to eternal mourning? Will you deny the needs of your flesh forever?’
He seems at war with himself. His pupils dilate like a famished creature. Yet pain on his face only deepens. ‘Amadeo…’
He has given me so much. It is but fair I offer him myself. I tilt my head to the side, pleadingly. ‘Do you not need someone to keep you warm? Do you not desire my fire? Do you not want to partake in a boy who was carved for your pleasure?’
As I exhale my words, my hand ventures shyly to seek hold of his groin, right where his desire slumbers. I feel the firmness of him. Beneath my deft fingers, I sense lust that he tries to govern. It delights me.
I press my lips to his once more, and this time he deepens the kiss, desperate as the starving. Before I blink, he grasps my flesh by my waist and carries me upward. It is enthralling how easy a feat it is for him. I am a weightless, petite thing in his arms.
He lays me on the bed as though I were air. It is so hauntingly familiar. I strive to quell the sickness that suddenly writhes in my stomach. I close my mind to the beastly thought that I am loved merely for my body. I try to ignore that even he who took me under his roof ends up tempted by my godforsaken, alluring limbs. I laugh at my preposterous thoughts. Did I not want him to take me? What folly makes me question him now? I should lie prostrate before his visage and kiss his feet in gratitude for spoiling me so. He offered me shelter, food, education. He made me his only prince. He longs for me. He wants to enshrine himself in me. Chosen by him am I, favoured in his sight. I should praise him without end for his grace.
He gathers me close to him as we rest on the bed. He kisses me ardently, as my palms grasp his manhood. Muscle memory works in my favour. I remember what to perform. I caress his throbbing organ archly, marvelling at his thickness. A quiet groan that escapes his lips is a drug that enslaves me. I draw close with my mouth and enclose it around his length. I swallow around his manhood with a muffled whimper, rolling my eyes closed. He dazes me with gentle coaxing and cajolery, uttering how good I am as he strokes my black curls. It is a sumptuous repast for my senses. My sight, touch and hearing are flooded. I gag, trying to take him deeper. He takes it for countenance to ensnare my skull by my locks and force my mouth to take more of him. Air rapidly eludes me. I cannot summon breath to my lungs. My face is pressed painfully against his very pubic bone. He avails himself of my tight throat, utilising it for his sole indulgence. I hear passively sounds that my own flesh makes. I feel as though they belong to someone else. I realise I cannot see because of my tears. They flow down my face in overabundance. I feel eerily dehumanised, as though my mouth is merely a hollow where he can empty his long-repressed thirsts.
I berate myself for my ingratitude. Surely it is the Devil poisoning my mind. I am his chosen son and beloved. I should drink every drop of his seed and thank him for such baptism.
Dazed, I do not even register his withdrawal. Suddenly, he is granting me more kisses, whispering how beautiful I am, how agreeable, how perfect.
‘My sweet Amadeo,’ Marius says, as he kisses the corners of my swollen, reddened mouth. ‘You bring me happiness so deep it unsettles my soul.’
He reaches for olive oil in his drawer. I am witless and adrift. I was denied breathing for too long. I am as pliant as a toy. My limbs are not my own. I do not feel real. I am a comatose a doll of strings compelled by his very design. His right hand comes to dwell on the arch of my back, and he urges me to lie down. I carry it out thoughtlessly. Dimly, sluggishly, I experience horror and unrest. He arranges my limp form as he wills, and I am left face down. Why does he shun my face? Does he not wish to take me as one would make use of his wife? Am I compelled to play the dolorous courtesan for the rest of my existence? He presses my visage to the satin pillows as pearly tears befoul my feverish cheeks. He does not even bother to disrobe me. He only parts the cloth where my rear curves, and in that small, inculpable gesture, I feel agonisingly diminished. Does he not wish to cherish every fragment of me? Perhaps I am my vile past. Perhaps he is repulsed by me.
He rubs olive oil into my cleft. He enters me as I am still tight. He forces my quivering thighs wide as though I am a toy. He gasps unevenly into my nape as he shoves his manhood deep inside me. Every thrust reminds me I am used, though he calls me his beloved. He spills his delight into my swollen, pained crevice. I feel the smothering warmth of his seed settling in my insides, stinging me like raw fire.
I feel unclean. I perceive myself defiled. His semen blazes me excruciatingly, and my whole flesh tenses. I realise all this time I do not utter a single sound.