The Prince
“And why not?”
“Because they die. Or will die…someday. Even you. We’re doomed from birth. Might as well just have all the fun we want, oui? Doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“You Satanic Huguenot. I can’t believe I’m sullying myself with a Calvinist.”
“Neither can I,” Kingsley said, trying to keep a straight face. He refused to let Søren see how much he enjoyed sullying himself with this Catholic pianist who scared everyone at the school but him. “What were you thinking?”
“Clearly, I wasn’t.” Søren came over to Kingsley and took the rag from his hand. “Clearly I’m not.”
Raising his hand to Kingsley’s neck, Søren began to unbutton his shirt. Soon Kingsley had been stripped naked and lay facedown across the table. The edge of the rough wood tabletop cut into his hips. Søren had removed his leather belt and now used it to show him just how little he thought of Kingsley’s theology.
And after the extended whipping, when the back of Kingsley’s entire body was raw with fiery welts, Søren showed him how little their differences in theology mattered to him. Two hours of pain and pleasure passed in a red haze. They both ended up on the now spotless oak floor of the hermitage—Kingsley naked and Søren still clothed; Kingsley smiling and Søren trying not to.
On the floor they lay next to each other, staring up at the ceiling. Kingsley reached between them and sought out Søren’s hand. He found it next to his hip and let his fingers rest against Søren’s. And although Søren had been inside him only a minute earlier, it seemed too much of a liberty to hold his hand.
“I think I’ll like it here,” Kingsley declared. “Hellhole…peut-être. But it’s our hellhole.”
Søren finally smiled.
“It is. And it’ll be better when we’re finished. We can bring out a clean cot and mattress from the school. There are dozens in storage.”
“The floor works.”
Søren shook his head.
“I might hurt you on the floor. I want you to be comfortable. And we may have to sleep out here some nights.”
Kingsley’s eyebrow twitched. “Have to? Or want to?”
Søren turned and faced him. “Either. Both.”
Kingsley decided that both was his new favorite word. A minute earlier he’d been too shy to take Søren’s hand. But now he rose up, leaned over Søren’s chest and kissed him. Søren did nothing at first, didn’t even respond.
“You Satanic Catholic—kiss me back,” Kingsley said against his lips. Søren laughed, but then gave in and returned the kiss, lazily at first, but then with renewed passion. In seconds he had Kingsley on his back once more. The rough wood bit into Kingsley’s skin, but he relished the discomfort, gloried in the pain. This was life. Pain, sex, fear, sin…he thought he’d died the day his parents’ bodies were cremated and their ashes put into jars. But with Søren he discovered a new life, a life that wouldn’t have been his had his parents not died.
“Please…” Kingsley begged. “S’il vous plaît. I want you...” He fell into French and out again as they kissed. He hungered for Søren’s body and the moment of union they always shared after the beating ended.
Søren pulled away and gazed down at him. He touched Kingsley’s lips.
“I can’t.”
With a sigh, Søren rolled onto his back. Side by side once more, they stared up at the ceiling—Søren utterly silent and Kingsley panting from frustrated need.
“You meant it. You can’t…” Kingsley let the words trail off. He thought he’d believed Søren that night he’d confessed that he couldn’t become aroused without inflicting pain first. But that kiss, that incredible kiss…no man could kiss like that without his body responding.
“No. Something broke in me a long time ago. I won’t ever heal. Can you forgive me?”
“Non. I mean, no, you aren’t broken. You’re different. I must be different, too, that I don’t mind, that I like the pain.”
“You are different.”
“Vive la différence, oui?”
“Oui,” Søren said, laughing softly. “Vive la différence.”
“Do you think…maybe…somewhere there are others like us? Or is it just in the books by de Sade?”
Søren exhaled. “I think there would have to be others out there like us.”
“Terrifying thought.” Kingsley smiled at the ceiling.
“Truly.” Søren seemed to relish the idea. Kingsley certainly did.
“I’ll find them someday,” Kingsley decided then and there. “And I’ll give them to you. You can have a thousand people at your feet whenever you want them.”
“I wouldn’t need a thousand.”
“Just one, then. We should have a girl, you and I. If only for variety.”
“A girl would be nice.”
“Mary or Mary Magdalene?” Kingsley asked with a devilish grin.
“Mary Magdalene, of course. I’ve always found her the more interesting of the Marys.”
“And what will our Mary Magdalene look like?”
“She can’t be blonde,” Søren said. “And she can’t look like you, either.”