Victorian Boy || l.s. ✔︎

CHAPTER VII

"When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man, to have so inexhaustible a subject." 

― Charles Dickens, Bleak House

Louis rarely slept alone.

In London he shared the bed of the Prince Consort; in Paris, the Marquis d'Oilliamson; in Madrid, the Lord of Lazcano; in Bavaria, the Freiherr von Eichendorff; in Amsterdam, the Baron De Haan.

He had a man in every city, for every season, and every mood.

At his home in Warwick, he had a footman warm his bed but when the Bilsdale club met, he preferred Frederick the Viscount Greindl or Roy the Earl of Pembroke.

Frederick, a fine-boned blue blood, had a haughty equine elegance in the bedroom that delighted Louis. Roy, a muscular marksman, possessed a direct brutishness that brought him to his knees begging for mercy. On this night he couldn't quite figure out what flavor of pleasure he craved and decided to have them both.

They stripped off the last of their clothes between urgent caresses and hot, breathy kisses. Louis drew back the curtains of his four-poster bed. Frederick was taking ages with the pearl buttons on his shirt. Roy tried to help him only to have his hand slapped away. Impatiently, Louis pulled the shirt off over his head and pushed him onto the bed. Frederick arched his back with naked indifference. Louis liked it when he played coy and lay down beside him. Roy lay beside Louis as they began the slow pointed touches that were the preamble to lovemaking.

"This bed is huge," Frederick remarked twirling a finger in Louis' hair. "I was worried Roy wouldn't fit."

Roy pressed his length against Louis thigh. "I always fit."

"Perhaps we should invite a fourth next time."

Louis flipped Frederick on his knees and got behind him, "You insatiable little minx," he growled, holding the Viscount's hips. "Who did you have in mind?"

Roy came up behind Louis and licked his neck, the scruff of his cheek sending a shiver down Louis' spine.

"What about The Virgin Duke of Somerset?"

Harry thought the men's nickname for him was The Surgeon, but they only called him that to his face. His real nickname was The Virgin.

Louis stopped. "No. I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" Roy whispered in his ear. "I'd love to deflower him. He has the prettiest head of dark curls. And the things I'd like to do with that mouth--"

"I said, no."

Frederick rolled over and drew Louis' head between his thighs. "You're right, darling. He's a terrible bore just like your cousin."

Roy chuckled. "They do have a lot in common."

Louis dropped Frederick from his mouth. "I have more in common with Harry than stuffy old Clarence!"

"Like what?" Roy asked, sinking his teeth into the flesh of Louis' ass.

Louis thought for a moment but couldn't come up with anything tangible. All he knew was that his desire for men, every sexual experience he'd ever had, could be traced back to one singular moment in time, in a stable four years earlier, when a curly-haired boy removed his glove and showed him how to pet his mare...

"Can we please stop talking about that dull virgin!" Frederick slipped his tongue into Louis' mouth, while guiding Louis' length to his soft velvety entrance.