Chapter 2 #4
He understood the implication and gasped.
Hawk tried not to clutch at his chest in shock.
He was meant to be one of them now; he couldn’t be scandalized by the idea of fucking someone.
But: “In public?” March laughed, outright, head thrown back, the thick column of his throat bare for Hawk to gaze upon in simmering consideration. “Have you done that?”
“I have,” said March. “It’s been a great many years, but yes. I’ve sucked someone in that very seat you occupy.”
Hawk looked down at himself, at the floor-mounted chair with its lacquered wooden base. Easy for cleaning, he supposed. He said, “Did you bring me here to…”
March’s hand, still resting upon the back of Hawk’s chair, climbed onto the back of his neck. “Of course not. The theatre is an experience on its own.”
“Oh,” said Hawk, and he sounded disappointed—because he was. He could feel his face grow dark with a blush.
March’s fingers combed through the back of his hair and he said, “Hm? You needn’t worry about work, sweet boy; you’ve got no obligation to train. Just enjoy yourself.”
Hawk nodded, and turned his attention back to the stage, but he only made it through one more scene before he said, “I’ve never done that.” March made a puzzled noise and Hawk squared his shoulders and said, “Sucked someone.”
March’s fingers drummed on the chair. “That’s alright. It wouldn’t be required.”
“I’d like to,” said Hawk, and he dared a glance at March’s face—which appeared as impassive as ever. “I’ve—ah. I’ve always wondered what it would be like.”
A silence ticked by while the actors cried out in dramatics below. March asked, “Would you like to try now?”
Hawk felt a pulse of want rocketing through him like one of the bass drums from the band beneath the stage. He nodded, still watching March’s expression for a hint on whether or not this was an acceptable thing to say; an acceptable thing to want.
The corner of March’s mouth tilted up ever-so-slightly. “Then…”
Hawk fell to his knees in such haste that he may have felt shame, but March leaned forward, combing his hair behind his ears, all gentle, all encouraging.
A swell of something filled Hawk’s chest—matching the crescendo of the music from the show—and he sat tall enough to reach March’s lips with his own.
They kissed, soft, until their tongues met.
Already Hawk’s knees ached against the hard floor, but it was the kind of pain that made him dizzy and pleased.
Against March’s mouth, he said, “Will you tell me if I do it right or wrong? Please?”
March’s reply came in a smile. “I shall endeavor to train you to do well in such a task. Go on. Take out my cock; slide it from my pants like that. Yes.” He hissed in pleasure as Hawk handled him, half-hard and warm against his fingers. “If nothing else, your enthusiasm will take you quite far.”
If a candle had been lit, Hawk would have failed for a second time, because he kept March’s cock in his mouth until the play ended nearly an hour later.
March let him experiment and taste and swallow and cough and try again and again.
And at the end, as the epilogue swept the stage, Hawk gazed up at March, lips stretched and swollen around him.
“I can finish inside of your mouth,” March said, voice rough and pitched low. “Or I can come on your face.”
Hawk didn’t ask permission to take himself into his own fist, pumping hard as he sat back on his sore ankles. He and March never once broke their gaze, and Hawk didn’t need to explain.
March came with a sigh of relief, spilling across Hawk’s face. And the hot wet feeling of him—that was enough. Hawk came, too, against his own palm, but he wasn’t quite as quiet.
They washed up in the restroom down the hall, inside the theatre—March standing in front of the door so that it may not open while Hawk dutifully rinsed cum off himself and down the drain.
He stared at his reflection, at the fading dark circles beneath his eyes, at his shiny brown eyes. He looked different.
When he emerged, March offered him a hand to hold, and said, “Shall we go walk the Sutaire garden?”
Hawk’s first four days at Sutaire passed in a daze. The window in his room had been fixed at some point while he and March enjoyed an evening walk, but March had Hawk’s few personal items brought up to his tower, and Hawk took that as an invitation to stay as long as he wished.
Hawk had no real work yet aside from eating enough to get himself back into shape, and sleeping enough to clear the exhausted fog from his burnt-out mind.
The rest of the time, he and March sampled wine at the cheese shop next door, took walks around the many parks in Abblesbet, and played games of cards.
They didn’t have sex again—really, there wasn’t time, with March’s consorting schedule.
Part of the delay in Hawk’s training was that Sutaire had to evaluate the available masters for his apprenticeship.
March wasn’t the only one who took on apprentices.
There was a short, muscular, red-haired young elf named Bren that had been at it for even longer.
Dansa, a female elf with short white hair—she’d married a year ago—was also an option.
It wasn’t such a simple decision to make; they all three had different responsibilities.
Client lists. Galas to attend, families to care for.
And, of course, different methods by which they would teach Hawk.
He imagined March’s lessons would be much more hands-on than the other two. He couldn’t imagine being at Sutaire with anyone other than him. And he believed March agreed.
“Mar, it’s not up to you,” Reeves said one late afternoon, shortly after everyone woke up for the night. Hawk eavesdropped outside the closed office door, straining to hear.
He heard the bass tone of March’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words.
Reeves’s reply was clear, however, as he said, “You’re being ridiculous. And that’s reason enough to not let you—”
“Ooh, is someone fighting again?” asked Angel, sidling up to Hawk. “Who is it? Is it Lovey and Wilhelm? They’ve been going in circles for months about this bedroom renovation.”
Hawk hissed for him to be quiet. But the conversation had already ended, then—damn. Hawk frowned. “It’s Reeves and March.”
“What were they talking about?” whispered Angel, craning his head like he could see through the closed door.
“I would know if you hadn’t stormed up like a big beast,” Hawk said, eyes throwing daggers at Angel’s innocent, rosy face.
“You probably shouldn’t be snooping anyway.
It’s not too late for them to turn you loose.
Come on.” Angel stood tall and offered his elbow for Hawk to take.
“I heard word your new wardrobe is ready. You’ve got to show me everything you ordered.
Not that you don’t look dashing in the hand-me-downs you’ve been in. ”
Hawk huffed. He hesitated before depositing a hand in Angel’s arm, and allowed himself to be guided through the halls to the tailor’s room.
He didn’t know where to go, anyway—this place was like a maze, taking up almost an entire city block on the hill.
“It’s not much. I didn’t know what to request.” He sighed.
“I mean, what, do I ask for underwear with holes in the back so patrons can bugger me more easily, or…”
Angel threw his head back, laughing, and Hawk found himself smiling along. “Some are into that, no doubt. There are quite a few people that are into fucking with clothes on, you know.”
His mind served him the damp, salty memory of his intake, gasping for air as March fingered him open, pants pulled down only enough for him to spread open his hole. “Quite weird,” Hawk mumbled.
“That’s not even on the list of weird. I have one woman who sees me a few times a year—she likes me to keep my clothes on. Like, all the way. We essentially dry hump the whole time we’re in bed.”
Hawk raised an eyebrow. “She pays for such a thing?”
“Certainly.”
The oddest part of working at Sutaire wasn’t the adjusted hours, or the building full of beauties, or even the often-overheard moans of satisfied patrons.
It was the money. There were absurd amounts of it exchanged every day.
“How do people come to have so much coin that they can spend it so flagrantly?”
Angel hummed thoughtfully. “I think she’s the wife to some baron.”
“She’s married?”
Angel looked surprised that Hawk was surprised. “I’d say the majority of our patrons are married, Hawk. Obviously.”
That wasn’t obvious, no, but Hawk bit his tongue—especially as they arrived at the open door of the tailor, a young human woman. She looked up, her curly brown hair climbing in every direction. “Ah, Hawk. Welcome. Your new set is there on the chair. Go ahead and try it on for me, if you will.”
Angel clapped excitedly as he skipped into the room and plopped onto the only available seat not covered in clothing or fabric scraps.
Hawk sighed. At least he had undershorts on.
Still, as he undressed from his robe, he faced away from Angel and the tailor, and made quick work of sliding into each outfit.
They both oohed and ahhed at him in order, and Hawk’s cheeks were furiously warm by the time he was done.
He’d procured loungewear, a suit, several trousers—short and long, and a half-dozen silk tops that tied at the neck, as was fashionable.
Angel wore one presently. “Thank you,” said Hawk.
He shifted for a moment, debating how to make such a request. “Could I get something for the week’s end?
When my apprenticeship is announced at dinner that night? ”
The tailor looked unbothered, stitching something on a piece of fabric. “Sure. What’d you have in mind?”
“The first day I came here.” He looked anywhere but at her, or Angel. “March had a very fine-looking jacket-robe. It fastened at the hips. It was thin? Silky?”
“Oh, yes. I can make you one.”
“Would black be alright?”