Chapter 10
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Ishould probably be upset as I walk back to my room.
Or, better yet, scared. But all I feel is exhilarated curiosity with a side of astonished disbelief.
Not because Aba? can seemingly use magic or because he acted so violently, but because even as strange as the situation is, I feel seen. Seen in ways I never have before.
I know, I know, I must be insane. I’ve heard it all too often throughout my life.
I should be afraid, but…scars winding over a broad back, a too-pouty mouth.
Obscene. Screaming. I shouldn’t care. I should stop.
Stop wanting, stop trying, stop thinking.
Red eyes, gleaming like a river of blood. Fuck.
Stop thinking.
Tapestries telling stories of the past. Strange animals frolicking. A knight with long black hair—just stop.
Lamps like dripping candles, gas-fueled fire flickering on a mismatched profile. Faded rust-coloured carpet sprawled across the floor, threadbare and worn. Tufts defying centuries of feet. Black boots—nope, definitely not.
The wooden boards creak and groan, almost like a whimper. No. I hear it. A whimper coming from a door.
I sneak toward it and peek through the keyhole.
Inside is a room much like my own. There’s a narrow bed, a dresser, a chair, and a man.
I see a hunched figure jerking in a familiar motion.
I can only see a deflated bare ass and the side of his face, but his movements make it very clear what he’s doing.
With sweat running down his temple, I see Bayard masturbating desperately.
From here, I can even hear him trying to swallow his pathetic whimpers.
“Master,” he mumbles over and over.
I turn away, the sight too appalling, even for me.
Nothing kills your joy like seeing a stiff board like Bayard desperately jerking off within earshot. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
I wonder if he was thinking about Aba?. I mean, he had to be, right?
But a faint memory tries to burrow to the front of my thoughts.
I distinctly remember Bayard calling Aba? the young master.
Did this imply there might be another so-called master somewhere else in this castle?
This place was big enough to house however many masters could fit.
Dozens, maybe even hundreds. I hadn’t seen anyone else so far, but that didn’t mean much.
I’m clearly not being told anything at all.
After all, I only met Pepper on my third day here, and that, by complete accident.
Maybe she lives here, too. In her own wing, someplace on the far side of this building.
But a thought suddenly strikes me. When I saw Bayard masturbating, I felt nothing but disgust and contempt. An extremely different reaction to seeing Aba? doing the same thing just a few days earlier. I remember what it did to me when I saw him spread out on the armchair.
It wasn’t just instinct. There’s no button you can press that makes me suddenly filled with lust for anyone who shows me their cock. Not anyone or anything. Just him.
But why him? Why now? I didn’t even know the guy, I mean I still don’t.
So why did I react so intensely to Aba??
It couldn’t be because of his non-existent charm.
Was it because he was such a pompous prick?
Am I finally discovering my type at 34? It must be the simplest explanation.
He’s just hot and that’s it. Right? Hot, large, and permanently furious.
Back in my room, under the pale light of the waxing moon, I change into my pyjamas and flop on my bed.
With my headphones on, I drift in and out of sleep for hours.
I spend the entire night struggling to move my body.
Why was I so intensely restless? I want to sit up.
Go for another night walk. Dig up the ditches and peel a thousand seeds.
But something is keeping me paralysed in place, almost as if my exhausted body is forcing my riled-up brain to rest.
I’m awoken by the familiar quiet clicking of the key and the light shining too brightly into my room. My eyes ache as they adjust to the sun, my head filled with packed foam. So much dust dances in the beam of light, it makes me wonder if anyone’s cleaned this place since the castle was built.
I must have slept real funny because I feel the urge to do something reckless again.
I don’t feel that urge often, but usually—alright, I confess, always—it means nothing but trouble.
But I’m not fazed by that because there’s nothing more that I want right now than to figure out what exactly is going on in this strange castle.
The question is, what is the best plan of attack? How can I find out more without getting sacked, thrown out, or who knows what else these people might be capable of? As I dress, the ditches in the garden start to call my name.
There is no note under my door today, so I decide to head to the kitchen to see if I can find Bayard anywhere.
With his back turned at the open yard door, he stands staring into the distance.
There’s no wooden floor here to give my arrival away, the sandstone swallowing any noise my feet could make.
When I clear my throat to let him know I’m here, he jumps a little.
He immediately straightens his coat, swallowing too loudly, and turns around, looking at me as if I were a piece of trash he wouldn’t touch even to throw away.
“Mister Bloom, it was about time.” His words are clipped, and his thin lips stretch too tightly over his mouth.
I ignore his scolding tone and sit down wordlessly to eat some of the beige mush that’s been served in a wooden bowl.
“Today, you will clean the corridors,” he says as dismissively as he can muster. “The supplies are placed at the beginning of each. When you are done, tip the soiled water into the yard.”
I can’t help but see how desperate he looked when he was touching himself, and I try to erase the images of him moaning into his palm. But I guess that’s what I get for snooping around.
I nod, hoping he’ll just leave me alone. I’m not in the mood to speak today. After a moment of silent glaring, Bayard clicks his heels and walks off into the castle.
As quickly as my body lets me, I eat the flavourless slop, and when I’m done, I leave the bowl in the sink before getting on with my task for the day.
I find a bucket of water and a stack of rags at the beginning of the bottom floor corridor. There is no mop or broom, so it seems like I’ll have to clean these flagstones on all fours. Luckily, I remembered to bring my Walkman, so I put in Young God and get started.
My too-tight livery is the least convenient set of clothes to wear for this kind of manual labour.
I take off my coat and roll up my sleeves.
The moment my skin is bared, cold air slithers over my arms like frozen snails.
I’m shivering already, but I know the tightness of my uniform will make this job even more uncomfortable.
I consider removing more clothes, but when I imagine Bayard catching me half-dressed, I think better of it.
The moment I submerge the first rag, my fingers recoil from the chilly temperature of the water. I take a slow breath and turn my body off limb by limb. I go deep into the music, leaving my bones behind. My heart pumps; my hands move. I rot.
It takes me a long time to scrub the bottom floor, and I already know I won’t finish this task today.
The rest of the day becomes a blur of angry music, shrivelled up fingers, and sore knees.
My hunger signals have been off for so long, I don’t even notice I’ve skipped lunch and dinner.
Outside, the world slowly slips into night.
I’m crawling along one of the many corridors, a moist rag pushed in front of me with chilled hands, when I feel the air change around me.
Then something caresses the nape of my neck.
I freeze, look up, and see Aba? standing at the end of the hall.
He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking as pompous as ever.
I see his mouth move but can’t hear his words over the screaming of the music.
“What?” I ask, pulling my headphones down.
“I said: here you are, getting filthy again,” his voice is impossibly smooth.
I look down at myself; the once-white shirt is a muddy beige, and the trousers are soaked in dirty water. My forearms and hands aren’t looking much better either.
“Leave that,” he nods toward the cleaning supplies. “Join me,” he adds, and walks through a nearby door.
Without hesitating, I drop the rag where I knelt, and I follow him.
I enter a room I haven’t seen before. It’s practically empty besides a giant basin placed at the centre.
The only light source is a massive fireplace.
A fire taller than me dances between life-sized stone men, their naked forms grimly holding it up at the sides.
I can feel its heat radiating through the room, the flames pushing the gloom away with force.
The blistering of the logs sounds like a distant choir, singing of promises and obliteration.
There’s a chair, a chaise longue, and little else. Aba? stands next to the fireplace, watching me expectantly. I don’t move from the threshold, unsure of what to do.
“Get in,” Aba? beckons.
I hesitate for a moment, then walk over to the basin.
It’s huge, and there’s steam rising from the inside.
When I get closer, I see it’s filled to the rim with invitingly hot water.
I take a second to digest this, too stunned to say anything.
But it looks so enticing that I strip my dirty clothes and slip into the basin faster than I can count to three.
The water is hotter than expected, but it feels glorious on my sore limbs.
I melt into it until my bones stop shouting at me.