Tutor

by hColleen

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/133042.html)

I had never met anyone so interesting before. Perhaps I was biased, jaded from my father’s position, the privilege I had known all my life, but to meet a man, one who’d worked himself up from a peasant background to become the tutor of the second son of the Duke of C—.. Truly, that was something to be admired.

Yet, I was young, only just sixteen the summer we met. I didn’t know how things would turn between us, but did anyone? I know if my esteemed Lord Father had seen it coming, he would not have suggested such a course for his precious son. I only knew some uppity commoner dared to presume to be my tutor.

I had never really gone to school, being in poor health most of my life. As such, I was woefully ignorant of many things involving the relations between men and women and men and men. I knew what my body looked like, how it functioned, yet I did not know what women looked like under their clothing, nor had I been exposed to any talk of it. I didn’t truly believe that the paintings of nudes were accurate, especially since the males in them seemed as ill-endowed as the females. My education on social and sexual considerations was lacking. His first introductions on the subjects of copulation and reproduction in animals had me near into fits of embarrassment and horrors.

He left the subject at that, but it awakened something in my body that I didn’t understand, nor could I bring myself to ask anyone about it. A strange tingling itch low in my belly that grew worse when I thought of him or at night. There were times I woke with my prick standing and it took while before it would go away.

I was something of a horror to him, I must confess, playing tricks on him, avoiding lessons. Yet, there was something about him that kept me obedient enough that my father didn’t send him away. It was an interesting game to play, just how much could I get away with.

One day, I took his books and hid them in the servants’ lavatory. I had taken care to wrap his books in oil cloth, as I knew they were expensive and difficult to replace, though. It was a pleasant day, so I stayed outside in the orchard, waiting for him to come fetch me. It was the better part of the day before he found me and his eyes burned when he looked at me. He grabbed my arm and pulled me round until he was seated where I had been and I was ignobly bent over his knee. There, he laid into my arse until I was sure I would not be able to sit again. He then pulled me to my feet and held me so that we were barely a breath apart, his hands on my upper arms. “If you ever conceive of such a trick again, I will remove your clothing and paddle you with a switch,” he threatened me, his voice a low growl.

Oddly, such a threat made my cock ache. “I shall speak of this to my father,” I said, lifting my chin, knowing I sounded like a sullen child. I was in the wrong, I knew this.

“That is your choice,” he replied, his voice so cold it was obvious he cared not if I did or did not. I think he knew, better than I, just how much I wanted him around.

I looked away, trying to see the ground without seeing him, but we were too close and I saw him no matter where I looked. “I wrapped them in oil cloth,” I muttered.

“And the scullery maid nigh unto shat on them,” he said sharply. “On the top of them, where the cloth gapped. And, they were lying in urine. It is fortune who favors fools that there was no urine inside.”

I winced. His books were paper covered as well as leather bound. I bowed my head. “I am sorry,” I whispered, truly contrite.

“I think you should forgo dinner this evening. You are not feeling well. You need to rest,” he said, as much of an order as a suggestion in his voice. “If your parents inquire, I shall explain you over exerted yourself during our lessons.”

He continued to punish me. I should have been incensed, but I wanted him to spank me more. I still do not understand why. I whimpered when he released me, but I did not remain. I bowed quickly and ran to my room, taking routes that I was sure no one would bother me on.

My prick was standing when I reached my room and I doused my head in cold water, trying to cool my own fevered imagination. I threw myself face down onto my bed and when my hips pressed into the bed and off again with my bounce, the sensation made me gasp. It was so strange that I turned to my side and brought my knees to my chest, willing myself to calm down. Truly, something must have been wrong with me. I was asleep before the sensation faded.

Though we didn’t speak of reproduction again, our studies did turn to literature. We went through the Classics, studying Socrates, Aristotle, Homer, and others. With those, we also studied myths and legends. The Bible, of course, was part of our course of study, but I had never heard anything in church such as we studied.

My imagination was inspired, though. I could not read the Song of Songs without wondering what it would be like to be cherished as Solomon did the one he wrote that book for. I wondered what it would be like for him to cherish me that way. For some reason, my imaginations were of him cherishing me, though I didn’t know what more beyond being held. I didn’t know what could be done beyond that.

One morning, I woke feeling very content, pleased with the world. When I became more aware of my position, my hand was around my prick and it was half-standing. On the hem of my sleeping shirt, I could feel something thick and sticky. I came to understand later that I had frigged myself in my sleep. I remember other mornings where I woke with spunk on my shirt and not my hands with thoughts of him burning in my mind. I never spoke to anyone of these, though, and did my best to hide the evidence from the servants.

It was spring that year when I took ill with a fever. He would come in, every day, and read to me our lessons when I was lucid. When I was not, he would hold a cloth to my head and sing. He couldn’t sing. I told him I would come out of those deliriums just to make him stop. But, it was during that time that I began to truly see him as a man, not just someone forced upon me by my father’s whim. It was during that time I began to develop feelings for him that surpassed a mere teacher-student relationship, beyond the fevered imaginations of the night.

After I recovered, I began to seek out his company. My father was pleased that I was taking my studies more seriously. The truth of it was, though, I wanted to get to know more about him. At the time, I didn’t understand my own motivations. Yet, he cultivated them, encouraged me in every whim I suffered. Poetry, plays, fictions, truths, philosophies, anything I desired to learn of, he would teach me, introduce me to more. I hung on his every word like a moon-struck pup.

When the winter weather forced us close to fires for most of the day, he turned me to the ideals of Greek and Roman culture, of their beliefs on love between men. I should have been revolted, yet I found myself wanting to know more of those heathen practices. The stories he told me and my own growing fondness for him encouraged me to begin experimenting in my own chambers at night. I would fondle my prick in the dark of my room, thinking of him, wondering what it would be like for his hand to be on me. But, they also left me with a rather pressing question.

“How is it done?” I asked one night after dinner. My Lord Father and Lady Mother had retired to their quarters for the night and we were alone in the library. I had known men and women joined their bodies somehow to create children, yet I had not been to a public school and my education was lacking in the practicalities of the act. At first, he wouldn’t answer me, but finally he acceded to my pressing question.

“The younger would take the elder’s cock into his bum,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

My eyes fair fell from my head. “Truly?” I breathed. I wasn’t sure if I was more impressed or frightened of that notion. We had already spoken of how only younger men were allowed to be taken as lovers by older men and that it was generally frowned upon for older men to be with each other. That didn’t truly make much sense to me, but I didn’t doubt his story.

He nodded. “Truly,” he assured me.

“Yet, how was it done?” I insisted. As I only had my own prick for comparison and knew that my arsehole was much smaller than it, I wasn’t sure how anything would fit in it. Though, it was true that shit came out of it, but even that wasn’t as thick as my cock when it was hard.

He crossed the room to me and laid a gentle hand on my cheek. “To be done properly,” he began, his voice deeper, more than it had been, “it is done slowly.” He seemed to be waiting for something.

I leaned into his touch. I don’t know how I couldn’t have. Yet a part of me knew I shouldn’t. That part was the small part of me that heard the priests lectures every week on the immorality of sex and passion and indulging oneself. Those words, though, didn’t apply to me. I was the Duke’s son. I was above such petty concerns. “Show me?” I said, my voice faint in my ears. “I want you to show me,” I added, a little more definitely.

He drew me in and brushed his lips against mine. It was too tender, too gentle to be a kiss, yet I could feel it with every fiber of my being. It was in that moment I knew that my feelings for him were love and that he felt the same of me. There could be no other explanation. Yet, I didn’t speak of it that night. No, that night I did not speak again until much later.

After that light kiss, he led me to my room. We would not be disturbed there. He closed and barred the door behind us and I watched, powerless to do anything but what he willed me to do. The way he crossed the room to me made my mouth go dry and things much lower in my body tighten in anticipation. I couldn’t have said what was different about how he walked, but it was now a sensual feast, something I could feel even as he was crossing to me.

His hand caressed my cheek and I leaned into his touch. Again, his lips touched mine with more certainty this time, more weight. His other hand went to my waist, drawing me closer to him. “Are you sure?” he whispered, his lips so close to mine I could feel them moving against mine.

I nodded, my voice left in the library. To reassure him, I moved closer to him, closing the distance between our mouths more firmly than he had kissed me. My hand went to his cheek and into his hair. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but I figured it out quickly, especially when he responded to my efforts.

His arm around my waist tightened and I could feel his arousal pressing against my hip. I had never felt nor seen another man’s cock, save for in art. At that touch, I longed to see it, to touch it, to do anything he’d allow me to do with it. I couldn’t imagine what else could be done with a cock in that moment, but I longed for it.

He moved us, though, crossing closer to the fire until I wasn’t sure which warmed me more, the blazing logs at my back or the press of his body to the front. Before the fire, a thick bear skin, taken from a creature that was preparing for hibernation, thick and full for winter, laid over the stones. Here, he encouraged me to kneel through the method of sliding his tongue between my lips. I still do not know why such a gesture would cause my knees to weaken, but it did and I nigh unto fell at his feet. He guided me gently down until I was on my back beneath him as he knelt over me, still fully dressed.

He looked upon me and his expression was so tender I thought my heart would burst from joy. “Wait a moment,” he whispered. He rose and crossed to my bed and I watched as he drew out the cream I used to keep my hands soft as befit my rank. He returned to me, setting it down beside me. “We’ll need it as your arse will not wet itself as a woman’s quim does.”

I had never heard him, or anyone, speak so vulgar and it excited me. My hips rolled up of their own accord and a whimper made its way through my throat. I didn’t know what he meant, but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

He smiled, a gentle expression as he worked my cravat, carefully removing the tie pin that nestled in its fullness. He set the pin on the hearth before loosening the fabric from around my neck.

I reached up to remove his tie and he caught my hand. “This time, let me show you.”

I let my hand fall to the ground. I watched his fingers nimbly work his own tie off. My mouth went dry when he began opening his vest. I had never seen another man without a vest on, nor without a tie. And, yet, I wanted to see more.

When his vest hung open, I again reached up. He didn’t stop me as my fingers traced his shirt, the line of his braces. As I explored, he pulled off his jacket and vest. I found it difficult to breathe. My fingers traced over his chest to his arm, fingering the bright red sleeve garter there. I looked at him, a question in my expression.

“Slide it off,” he invited me.

His words took me by surprise, yet I complied. I slipped my fingers under the band I wanted to ask if he’d done this before, yet I could not bring my mouth to speak. He took the garter from my fingers, bringing my hand to his lips. “The other,” he prompted me, tossing the garter on a nearby chair.

I obeyed, excitement quivering in my belly. Again, he brought my fingers to my lips.

“May I?” he asked, his fingers on the top button of my vest.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat and nodded. I could not speak, not in that moment, yet I wanted. I wanted so much, more than I ever had wanted before. I didn’t even really know what I wanted, just more. Skin, to touch, but beyond that, I couldn’t have said.

He unfastened each button with exquisite care, removing my pocket watch and setting it by the tie tack. He then began again at the top, with my collar, slowly opening each button of my shirt, tracing around the buttons of my long underwear.

Breath came in short gasps and I was powerless to do anything but give in to him. His hand came up and he caressed my cheek. I leaned into his touch, needing it. I so longed to ask him how he knew, what he was going to do, who taught him, yet my voice was burned away by the fire of need. I should have protested, yet I could not, did not want to.

“Be calm,” he said, his voice like velvet as he leaned over. He brushed his fingers over my cheek His lips brushed over my, silken, whispering.

I quivered under him. He stole my senses with his kisses and when I was aware again, he was bared to the waist, his union suit hanging over his pants, his braces falling toward his knees, his shirt cast aside. Truly, it was a wonder, to see his skin, so white. I reached up, my fingers on his belly, tracing lines to his navel. Below that, and on his chest, though scantly, dark hair trailed downward. I touched it, finding it coarser than that of his head. It was then I remembered that the hair at the base of mine own cock was coarse compared to that on my head.

“How forward,” he teased, though approval was in his voice.

I found my voice. “Teach me,” I murmured. “Teach me to be proper.” Such an odd request. I doubted, even then, there was anything proper about what we were doing. Not because we were two men, but because it involved the removal of our clothing.

“Such a willing student,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss me again.

I leaned up into his kiss and felt his hands over my body, working to remove my shirt, my braces, pushing my clothing off my shoulders. Still kissing, we moved so that I was sitting and he knelt over me.

His hands on my skin excited my senses in ways I never knew could happen. My breath quickened and I moved with his touch. There were places on my body that drew a gasp from my lips, but I returned to his kiss as quickly as my body would allow. I felt as though fire had replaced the blood coursing through my system. It was marvelous, intoxicating bliss. I wanted it to continue forever.

It was far too soon when his lips left mine. Yet, when they found my neck, traced the lobe of my ear, I knew what had gone before had only been a teasing pleasure. Each touch of his lips, each inch of flesh he explored showed me more and more just how little I knew of my body.

He guided me down to my back again, his lips moving to my chest and stomach. His hands unfastened my trousers and I wanted him to touch me there. I begged him to and he obliged me. His hands slid under the waistband and around to my back, encouraging me to arch up. The feel of his hands, warm from touch and the fire, sliding on my ass, pushing my trousers and underclothing down, was a more blissful thing than I had ever experienced before.

Then, he took my cock into his mouth. I cried out, unable to stop myself. The sound was faint and breathless to my ears. His moan was more substantial, pulling me in deeper as I both felt and heard it. He pulled away before I could climax, though, leaving me whimpering in want.

I felt him pull my cloths off over my feet and then his kisses moved up my body, though I couldn’t feel his hands. When I managed to pry my eyes open, he was working off his own trousers. When I saw his cock, my mouth went dry and wet at the same time. I wondered what it would be like to suck upon it as he had to mine.

I had to swallow hard as he reached for the lotion and began to stroke himself over me. Air became scarce and my body seemed both very close and very far away.

“Raise your knees to your chest and spread them wide,” he instructed me.

I couldn’t but obey him. I watched as he stroked his cock and lowered himself over me. My hands reached for his shoulders as he lined himself up to enter me.

“Breathe, relax,” he murmured. “This may hurt some, but only for a little bit,” he said.

Without the warning, I would have thought he was splitting my body in twain. My hands curled around his shoulders as I fought not to scream as his cock entered my body.

“Breathe,” he said, sounding as though he were having trouble breathing himself. “You feel good,” he added, moaning. “Breathe, relax, it will feel good to you,” he said, moving to where I could see his eyes. They were full of desire, of concern, of want.

It was his concern that allowed me to relax, so much in the forefront of what he showed me in his eyes. It still hurt, there was a burning, stretching pain in my arsehole, but it was less than it had been. As he continued to pump in and out of me, pleasure began to build. I reached for his cheek and drew him down. I needed to kiss him, to taste him.

His tongue returned to my mouth and I welcomed it eagerly. In his kisses, I forgot my pain. The feel of our bodies together is bliss redoubled. I trembled, my hips moved to meet his, my legs wrapped around his body. I wanted, loved, needed and he provided.

I broke our kiss to pant, to try and breathe. “I…I…oh, by all,” I gasped as my dick began to pulse out release onto my stomach. I had never felt anything so intense.

“I come,” he panted and I could feel his hips jerk harshly into my ass. I thought I felt his dick swell and twitch in my hole, but I cannot be sure. I only know that I cried out and he cried out with me. His lips found mine again and our kisses cooled from passionate fires to gentle warmth.

When he pulled from me, I whimpered in want and a touch of pain. He rolled me onto my side and held me so my chest was to his and his hand on my lower back, massaging gently. “You’ll be sore,” he murmured, “but it will pass.”

I wrapped my arm around him, clinging. “I…” Words failed me. I knew not what I wanted to say.

He knew, though. “I love you,” he whispered, a secret that wanted shouting from the hills. Yet, I knew, somehow, it could never be.

“Yes, and I, you,” I murmured, burying my face in his chest.

We lay on the rug almost the night through. We only separated so that the servants would not find us bare and in each other’s arms when they came to wake me in the morning.

For the rest of the year, we met as often as possible in the library after dinner. My parents were pleased with my interest in my ‘studies.’ At their insistence and with his encouragement, I applied to college. I was accepted and began my course in law the following fall.

The time apart was difficult, but my holidays were most pleasant. My father had given him a cottage on the grounds for his service. I would spend as much time as I could out there. My parents believed we studied, and we did. Our texts were the heights of pleasure and the depths love and I was a most studious pupil. We even arranged meetings between holidays, for our hunger for each other was unabated. The times when we could not be together was filled with letters outlining our daily activities and what we would prefer to be doing. It was a lonely time for both of us.

Upon my graduation, my parents declared I would marry. Being young, naïve, I did as they willed. We tried to maintain our relationship, but my wife complained of our friendship, saying that he interfered with the performance of husbandly duties by keeping me out all hours. The truth was, though, that I had no desire for her. I laid with her on our wedding night, but her body did not arouse me in the way that his could. In response to her complaints, my father ordered us to never speak again, reminding me of my rank and of his. If they knew of the depth of our relationship, it was never mentioned.

We met once more in the forest near his house. My father had threatened to take everything he owned. He was willing to surrender everything if I willed it. For me, he would have given up everything.

I was a most insufferable fool. I could not declare he suffer for me. I could not say to him ‘yes, give up everything and I will renounce everything.’ I could not give up the comfort I’d known all my life. I did not love him as well as I professed. I told him I could not ask such a sacrifice of him. I could not bring myself to make that sacrifice of him.

News came to me less than a week later that he had been found hanging from the rafters of his cottage. I knew I had as much as hung him there with my own hands.

I only pause long enough to leave this history. I must join him. I can only hope he will forgive me for my foolishness. Never give up on love. It is worth more than any mere possession, more than status, more than family.

My love, I come anon.

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