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valarltdThe music and pictures are in a previous post, because this one is very long. Each Friday,
I'll post out one of my paranormal short stories.
Tuition Fees is collected in Into Dark Waters ebook from Inkstained Succcubus. Paperback is also available.
Enjoy!
Originally written for Torquere's Arcana line, a set of stories based on Tarot cards. This was, of course, The Devil. We pulled the card and Angel had the idea of the Scholomance, so we ran with it. It's not exactly Brimstone fanfiction, but we really can't help the resemblance.
Tuition Fees
Christian McIntosh set his carry bag down in the courtyard of Teufelsteinschloss and lit a clove. He couldn’t believe he was actually here, that all this wasn’t a dream. He’d received the invitation letter along with the other art school acceptances. It wasn’t until he went back over the papers that he realized he’d never applied to The Academy.
That’s all the literature called it: The Academy. “A rarefied atmosphere in which promising talent is intensively nurtured for seven years." Professor Morgenstern was apparently wealthy enough to offer a full ride, right down to his passport, plane tickets and train fare to the airport. That alone was enough to make his grandparents insist he accept the offer.
They were good people but had worried about college since he was a baby. Fixed incomes didn’t go far, not in rural New Hampshire, and especially not with a grandfather who was an invalid. He’d insisted on working part-time as soon as he was old enough: paper routes, aluminum collection, mowing lawns, anything that would help.
A red-haired woman had met him during his extremely long layover in New York and taken him shopping. “The Professor knows not all his students are appropriately accoutered. Therefore, he has me meet specific ones and take care of the situation."
Her accent was not American, but sounded like no European accent he’d ever heard. She had dragged him through two clothing stores, a shoe shop and then let him linger in an art supply store as a reward for his patience. She bought everything he needed and anything he wanted. She took him for lunch in Greenwich Village. He scarcely knew what he was eating. The village was the last known location of his mother and he watched distractedly, searching the faces of every curly-haired brunette that passed. The red-haired woman made sure he caught the proper flight to Europe.
He didn’t remember much of the trip after that. The plane ride was long and dull. Europe was a sleepy haze of landing in Stuttgart, being greeted by a red-haired woman, who looked much like the New York lady, holding a sign that read “McIntosh” and getting into a large, black, antique car. He slept until they reached the castle.
“So that’s what flagstones look like,” he mumbled, not quite awake. He ran a hand through his rumpled dyed-black hair and realized the rest of his baggage was still in the car, which had purred away into the gathering dusk. He blinked against the cold New Year’s Day air and rang the bell pull. He’d missed all the parties.
Another car rumbled into the courtyard. Three young men, none of them more than twenty-five, one obviously American, one in traditional African dress topped with a parka, the third indeterminate under the scarf and hat, climbed out. They, too, stood blinking in the courtyard. Chris caught sight of a necktie and was suddenly quite aware of the buckles and straps on his pants, his tanker boots and Carhartt coat. The blond American boy rang the bell. He gave Chris a grin and stuck out his hand. The gloves were black leather and Chris guessed the coat was alpaca wool.
“Nicholas Admire, former legislator from Missouri District 124. Call me Nick." The smile never touched his green eyes.
Chris, too shy to say he’d already rung, shook the boy’s hand, quite aware of how practiced the firm grip and two pumps felt. He was glad he’d left the mittens his grandmother had knitted in his pocket, even if the wind did bite at his bare fingers. “Chris McIntosh. Artist. I’m from New Hampshire.”
The dark-haired boy offered a hand. “Geoffrey Laurent." His French accent was mild, to Chris’s surprise. “I have recently finished medical school. Do you ever do anatomical drawing? The textbooks need good illustrators.”
Chris almost blushed. “Only a few studio nudes." He wasn’t going to say anything about the trip to the psychologist after Grandma had found them.
The African boy shook his hand. “Okeleke Nzenga. I am a student of agriculture.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The big doors swung open. A tall redheaded woman, who looked enough like the others to be their triplet, held a lamp. “This way please, gentlemen,” she said in the same unidentifiable accent. She led them down the hall to a large parlor where nine other young men were already waiting.
It was all dark wood over stone and deep wine carpets and heavy leather furniture. A plate of small cakes and a silver tea service sat on a low mahogany table. A well-stocked bar stood opposite a black marble fireplace large enough to stand in.
Geoffrey and Okeleke poured tea and helped themselves to the cakes. The red-haired boy at the harpsichord looked up with annoyance when Nick rattled the ice in a cocktail shaker. A Japanese boy looked up at the new arrivals and his two Hispanic companions did the same. Chris was enthralled by all the amazing faces and his fingers twitched for his sketchpad. He would have a splendid time drawing here, but right now, he wanted to fade into the woodwork and not be the center of attention.
Nick seemed to have no problem with it. He worked the room after his martini was made, introducing himself first to the Indian boy who had been leaning on the harpsichord, vocalizing with the redhead’s playing, and then apologizing to the musician. Chris just looked, working up the nerve to get a cup of tea.
An Australoid black man, a little older than the rest of them, sat on the sofa sharing pictures with a Chinese youth and an Arabic one. A blue-eyed American boy sulked, leaning on the mantle of the fireplace.
“What’re you staring at?” he growled at Chris. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
“Politeness, Sterling.” A middle-aged man spoke from the shadows of a dark leather armchair. “You shouldn’t antagonize your classmates in the first five minutes." He rose, tall and angular. The firelight put golden glints into his wavy hair and his smile spoke of far too much knowledge. “So we are all assembled. Welcome, my boys, to Teufelsteinschloss Academy. I am Professor Morgenstern. As each of your letters stated, you will study here for seven years. At the end of that time, you will pay the tuition and go out, leaders in your fields.”
He took a drink from the brandy snifter in his hand. “Each of you was invited because you are one of the best men in your field under the age of twenty-five. When you leave, you will be the best. All of you are extraordinarily gifted."
Morgenstern looked them over and Chris dropped his eyes when the professor’s fell on him. He’d never met anyone like this, charismatic, compelling and almost preternaturally beautiful. He knew what his first drawing at the Schloss would be.
“Thirteen of the most talented, most lovely young men in the world. In seven years, you will own the world. Come. Dinner is at nine sharp. Both attendance and formal dress are mandatory." He pulled part of a deck of tarot cards from the pocket of his jacket and fanned them out in one long hand. “Thirteen: six pairs and a trump. The cards’ numbers correspond to your room assignment. The cards will pair you for your stay.”
“This is a very large castle. Why don’t we get our own rooms?" The Indian youth at the harpsichord asked.
“Because if I allow that, our little artist will never emerge for meals and Mr. Admire will never go to bed for politicking. You will not get the rest you need and Matthew will compose until he drops. You will all watch out for each other. Who is first?”
Nick gave a cocky yet charming smile. Chris could see why he’d been elected to the State House so young. He strode forward and picked a card out of Morgenstern’s hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Admire. It’s a pleasure to have you here." Morgenstern’s smile was as polished as Nick’s.
“Five of swords,” he said.
One by one, the men drew their cards. As each man found his roommate and the two cards came together, a small flash of light created a glowing beacon. The fox fire balls led them out of the sitting room and to their bedrooms.
Li, who Morgenstern greeted as a chemist, poked at the fox fire and left discussing it with Faki, the philosopher from Cairo, trying to figure out what it was and what had caused it. Sterling, who turned out to be a criminal mastermind, scowled more when he was paired with Matt, the redheaded musician.
“Better not be any damn violins at all hours,” he grumbled.
Professor Morgenstern laughed. Then he smiled when Ayutu pulled the trump card of the Tower. “Most fitting for you, my astrophysicist. The view from the tower is quite good and I have several excellent telescopes. Yes, I think you should have your own garret. Mind the singing mice.”
A laugh ran through the remaining men. Even Chris smiled. Apparently Disney animated movies were a universal experience. Two by two, the others left.
Morgenstern held out the last card to Chris. “Little artist?” he said, his voice making Chris’s knees go weak even as it drew him forward. Morgenstern barely touched Chris’s hand as he took the card, sending hot and cold shivers all over the youth.
“Fi-five of swords." He already knew, since Nick–now working on his third martini–was the only one left.
“Last is first and first is last and so we make the Kingdom ourselves.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s quite how that goes. C’mon Chris, we’ll get settled.”
“Shakespeare?” Chris mumbled, letting Nick draw him out. He couldn’t stop looking at Professor Morgenstern. The light from the fireplace played with his handsome face, creating shadows and highlights that made Chris want to weep and sketch and paint. The fire put red and gold highlights into the graying mane and beard. It caught a last small smile, just for Chris, sending him out hard and needy.
The bedroom mixed the castle’s antiquity with every modern convenience. The wall sconces held adjustable soft fluorescent bulbs. The mattress on the great canopied four-poster was a Sealy Posturepedic. Cherry wood roll-top desks boasted state-of-the-art computers and ergonomic chairs, made of the same cherry wood and scarlet brocade that matched the bed curtains. Two cherry armoires waited for their clothes. A porcelain washbasin and pitcher stood next to the door of a very modern, very luxurious bath of black marble and gold fittings.
Chris examined a mirror with attached candles. “Girandole, early baroque period. I think it’s real.”
“Of course it is." Nick hung his suits and khakis and oxford shirts in the armoire with the air of a man accustomed to living out of suitcases in the lap of luxury.
“No phone. But we have the Internet,” Chris added checking the computer.
“No cell signal either." Nick turned off his phone and tossed it in his nearly empty suitcase. “Better unpack and dress.”
Chris tried not to be embarrassed about the tags and store tissues still in his new clothing. He hung everything neatly and laid out the dinner jacket and good pants. “I’m having a shower." He looked at the bed, where Nick was sprawled working on his palm pilot. “One bed.”
“Yeah, I at least expected bunks." Nick flashed him a grin. “Top or bottom?”
Chris swallowed hard and ducked into the bath. The casual way Nick had asked threw him. He’d known for years that he liked boys as well as girls. He washed, already aroused from the professor and Nick’s offhand suggestion. When Nick joined him in the shower and slid down to suck him without any preliminaries, all he could do was lean against the wall and gasp for breath.
Nick’s tongue left him stunned, doing his best impression of a beached tuna. He came in very short order. Nick gave him a grin, stood up and began washing his hair as if nothing had happened.
“Uh, pleased to meet you too?” Chris ventured.
“Beats the hell out of a handshake, doesn’t it?” Nick ducked under the water to rinse.
“How long have you known?” Chris asked. “That you liked boys?”
“Since I was about 12 and saw Leo DiCaprio in The Man in the Iron Mask. He was so beautiful in that scene where his mistress killed herself, alla that red hair, I wanted to kiss him and console him. Kissed my first boy a couple months later. You?”
“Always knew. I’ve been fighting it. Small town." Somehow, Chris couldn’t manage complete sentences.
“Yeah, me too." Nick didn’t want to talk about his one-blinky light town with the funny name and the Bass Pro Shop. He stepped out of the shower and dried off.
“Starting your scandals young?" Chris followed him, reaching for his own towel.
“Nah. It’s only a scandal if I deny it. If I just say ‘yeah? So?’ they back off. The only way to be a politician in my particular loop of the Bible belt is to either be purer than God or just brazen it out. Most of the pious hypocrites go for the first route. And that is what makes a scandal, babe.”
“I’ll remember,” Chris said as he got dressed. He managed the dress-shirt and the pants well enough, but looked puzzled at the cuff links and shirt studs. The bow-tie baffled him.
“All right, let me help you." Nick sighed. He was already dressed. He showed Chris how to fasten the jewelry. Then he stood behind Chris and made him learn to tie the bow tie. He kissed the nape of Chris’s neck. “Look, don’t let me push you. I come on kinda strong.”
Chris shuddered under the kiss and nodded. He went down to the main hall with Nick and found the other milling around. Most wore dinner jackets. Ayutu had a black kimono cut almost like a tuxedo. Bansi and Okeleke chose formal ethnic costume, Bansi’s bright crimson silk and Okeleke’s deep green standing out the sea of black.
The doors of the dining room opened at 8:57. Professor Morgenstern stood before a chair at the head of a long table. The men’s names were on place-cards. They had been shuffled so that no one sat next to his roommate. It didn’t stop Chris from looking down the table now and then at Nick, remembering the shower. He also caught Professor Morgenstern looking at him a time or two when he glanced up the table. He wasn’t paying any attention to Ignacio talking mathematics to Ayutu on his left or Li and Okeleke discussing pH balances in soil on his right. He ate the meal, scarcely knowing what it was, so lost was he in his own thoughts.
As the dessert, warm bread pudding with whiskey sauce, was brought out, Professor Morgenstern stood up. “Gentlemen, in your rooms you will find your course packets. Each of you will have one hour a day of tutoring and the rest–save dinner–as independent study. Your packet will inform you of the time, what you are expected to bring to the first session and what you must produce this week. I bid you good evening."
He left and the dining room ate in silence. The silence hung even as they left the dining room, headed back to their own rooms. Nick finally broke it. “Weird kind of school, if you ask me.”
“No one did, Admire." Matt, the musician, scowled, his color high and his brogue getting thicker with each word.
“Oh yeah, O’Neill? Don’t mean I can’t speak up." Nick’s temper was showing on his face, jet-lag and weirdness taking their toll.
“Stop it. No fighting." Bansi stepped between the pair. “We are all tired.”
Nick took a couple deep breaths, stepped back and nodded. “Thanks. I needed that break. No hard feelings, O’Neill.”
“None here on you either." Matt headed toward the room he shared with Sterling. So far the other had not liked a single one of his compositions, preferring to plug himself into his hip-hop and rap by way of his ipod. Simple noise in Matt’s opinion.
Back in the room, Chris sat on the bed and opened his packet. “My class is at seven. That leaves an hour to get ready for dinner.”
“Nine in the morning. Boy, we can really sleep in." Nick read over the meal schedule: breakfast available from seven until nine, lunch from eleven to one, mandatory formal dinner at nine. He yawned hugely. “Bedtime. And no frills.”
Chris gave a small smile and got into his pajamas, feeling silly. Nick had already seen him naked. But Nick, too, pulled on flannel sleep pants and drew the curtains on the bed against the chilly night air.
***
Chris brought his entire portfolio, even the nudes he’d never shown to anyone, to his first class session with the professor. A half-finished sketch of Nick holding his coffee, the newest piece, caught Morgenstern’s eye, even though there was no face on it.
“Your roommate?" Chris nodded, a bit stunned that he’d recognized it without a face. “The mole." He pointed to a distinctive figure-eight mole on the back of the hand holding the coffee cup. “You say in your application letters you want to transition from the pencil and oil pastels to painting, eventually into the style of the Old Masters. Today would be a good day to try." Chris dared not open his mouth to say he’d never written an application to The Academy. Morgenstern had voiced his deepest desire, the one he had never told anyone. He wanted McIntosh to be remembered with Van Gogh and Rembrandt in another five hundred years.
Morgenstern settled Chris in with the paints and showed him the ways that painting was different from drawing and the ways it was the same. Chris had some experience mixing pigments from various art classes and summer institutes. He began a landscape that looked like the one out the window, but darkened and twisted.
At seven forty-five, Morgenstern called a halt for clean up. “You’ve made great progress, little artist. I will see you at dinner.”
***
Over the days and weeks, Chris’s barely concealed awe of his teacher only grew. Nick was a pleasant room mate, even if he did insist on making sure Chris ate regularly and socialized with the others.
Sometimes Chris wondered what it would be like to be rooming with someone less outgoing. Someone less sexual, who didn’t blow him at the drop of a shower curtain or kiss him every time they passed. He loved the attention. His grandmother had been a fine specimen of puritan Yankee matriarchy who believed physical contact was at best distasteful and more likely sinful.
Nick was beginning to push for more, though. After four months of blow jobs, hand jobs and frotting off behind every tapestry they could find, he was ready to fuck. Chris, well, Chris wasn’t. He liked Nick just fine, enjoyed fooling around, but he thought his first time should be with someone he loved and wanted.
Someone like the Professor, the persistent little voice in the back of his mind whispered as it had been since Easter. He shushed it and went to his art lesson.
“Dear little one, show me what you've drawn today." Morgenstern was sitting quietly before the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand after Chris finished with his painting and cleaned his brushes. Chris had noticed, weeks ago, that Morgenstern never called him by his name.
He had another landscape done: the crags around the schloss, with Okeleke’s just-blooming roses making a splash of color like fresh blood against the bare and jagged rocks.
“Dear little Goth boy, turning all you see into bleakness and despair." Morgenstern smiled his approval. “How is your painting coming?”
“Acrylics are still going better than oil.”
“Splendid. Do keep at it. Have you tried any human figures lately?”
Chris dug through his work and handed over several sheets, most pencil-work, but one small oil canvas. He watched Morgenstern look them over and nibbled the end of a brush in anxiety.
Morgenstern smiled as he looked at them. There was Marcelo at prayer, his fingers working his rosary. The style of the picture led him to expect a hair shirt or some Inquisition victims in evidence. Here was Li with his test-tubes, looking like a mad scientist under Chris’s skills. Okeleke dug in his garden, but looked more as if he was burying a body than planting the flowers beside him in the wheelbarrow. Morgenstern caught himself looking for a skeletal hand under the peonies. The oil was of Nick, stretched naked on the bed, apparently working on his PDA. The angle of the viewer was from the floor looking up, as if Nick had casually tossed them out of bed, assuming the proper place for a used sex slave was on the floor.
“You have an eye for the morbid, my little artist. It is fashionable now." He tapped Nick’s painting. “Your roommate. It is an unusual angle." Morgenstern looked Chris up and down until he shivered under the appraising eyes. “Has he had you yet?”
Chris swallowed hard. “Had, sir?”
Morgenstern leaned in close, too close. His voice purred seductively, “Has he fucked you yet?”
Chris shivered, from the breath on his ear, the crudity or simply the Professor’s closeness he couldn’t say. “No.”
Morgenstern smiled. “Very good. If you are willing, after dinner, we will have an oil tutoring session. You will not return to your room as virginal as when you left it.”
Chris blinked a few times, stunned by the suddenness of the proposition.
“Problem, little artist?”
Chris smiled. “No, sir." He glanced at the Professor’s package quite obviously before he caught himself.
Morgenstern saw this and smiled. “I will not hurt you, child.”
“I didn't think so." Chris gathered up his materials, seeing time was nearly over.
“Are you willing?" At Chris’s nod, he smiled more broadly. “Very good. I do not force anyone." He watched as Chris made for the door. “And do keep drawing. You have an eye for the shadows." He crooked a finger.
“Thank you, I-” the words died on Chris’s lips as he saw the beckoning. His stomach fluttered when he stepped close to the red velvet sofa.
Morgenstern’s kiss was light, gentle. Chris closed his eyes and sighed into it. When he opened them again, Morgenstern was at the door, opening it. Confusion wrote itself large on Chris’s features and he picked up the portfolio he’d dropped.
“After dinner then,” he managed.
“Indeed." Professor Morgenstern vanished out the door.
After dinner, Chris barely noticed the glare Nick shot at him as he gathered his art materials. He fumbled his easel on the stairs and had to sit down until his stomach stopped knotting. He got himself together and made it to the parlor. He swallowed until his mouth wasn’t quite as dry and knocked at the door.
Morgenstern smiled as he opened the door and Chris leaned a little on the wall for support because his knees no longer wanted to hold him up. He followed the professor into the parlor.
The lesson demanded complete concentration. Morgenstern moved quickly, requiring much from Chris. Chris performed brilliantly. He’d always worked well under pressure.
“Excellent, little artist." Morgenstern seized him by the shoulders and kissed him in congratulation as he finished adding his initials to the stark landscape.
The long-desired kiss took Chris by surprise. He melted before it and then returned it, reaching his paint-smeared hands up to Morgenstern’s hair before he realized it. He left gray and brown and black smudges in the fair hair and on his teacher’s face.
Morgenstern did no more than laugh. “Eager child." He blotted at his face with a handkerchief. The kiss left Chris too fuddled to notice the ease with which the paint vanished. “Clean your brushes and yourself, then come with me.”
Chris made a fast but thorough clean up and went to where Morgenstern waited near a door behind a tapestry. To his surprise, the professor’s bedroom looked exactly like a student room, save there was only one desk and one armoire. The four-poster was identical to the one he shared with Nick. He’d expected something much more personal, more lived-in. Only the Gustav Doré engraving of Lucifer Cast Out from Paradise Lost marked the room as any different. Chris lingered at the foot of the bed.
Morgenstern had settled himself on the bed, already in his dressing gown. “Talk to me, little artist.”
“How do you do these things?" Chris’s eyes were large. Morgenstern merely lifted an eyebrow and Chris elaborated, “You move too fast to be seen. I barely make it to the foot of the bed and you’re already changed. You clean messes with barely a wave. How?”
“Little one, are you so dense? Do you not know me?" Morgenstern’s smile never faltered.
“We talk. Marcelo says you’re the Devil himself. I don’t believe in it.”
Morgenstern laughed and Chris realized he was the butt of the joke. “It doesn't matter what you believe. Believe the moon is made of green cheese for all I care." He lounged, seemingly heedless of how the dressing gown was falling. For all that Chris had always heard angels were sexless, the man before him was demonstrably male. Based on observation, he was twice the man Nick was. Chris went as Morgenstern beckoned him to the bed.
“Whether you believe or not, and no matter what churchmen say, I remain Archangel Lucifiel, Light of God and best beloved of the Father. The one who loved God enough to take on the most despised of duties, that of Adversary." He ran a hand over Chris’s trembling shoulder. “Why should having it said upset you so? You knew, did you not? What do you fear?”
“I don’t want it to be true,” Chris blurted. “I can’t believe, can’t comprehend.”
“Do you want me? Do you comprehend what we are doing?”
Chris nodded and stripped off his clothes, folding them neatly on a chair.
“Will you tell me if I am hurting?”
“I’ll try not to scream too loud, yeah.”
Morgenstern hooked the tip of his index finger under Chris’s chin and drew him down for a kiss. He was fire and honey under Chris’s mouth, opening and kissing not with haste or urgency, but with a measured slowness as though they had infinite time to enjoy themselves in nothing more than this kiss.
When Chris finally moved away, Morgenstern gave him another smile. “Fear not, little artist." He smiled wryly. “It has been millennia since I used the common greeting of my kind to mortals. You will be fine and we will create a work of art between two bodies. Touch me. I will not break, nor will I hurt you.”
Chris’s smile felt sickly on his face. He reached out and traced his teacher’s strong jaw, his chest, his stomach, making his way to the goal. “Yes,” he sighed, wrapping one hand around the thick shaft. He experimented with different grips, different speed, the softness firming into velvety iron.
“Yes,” Morgenstern responded. He smiled, encouraging Chris with each different hold. “Yes, sweet one, that’s perfect,” he sighed when Chris lowered his mouth for a taste.
Chris had wanted this for weeks, ever since Nick started letting him reciprocate on the blow jobs. Morgenstern was clean and the same sweetness of his mouth was here as well. As Morgenstern grew harder, Chris wasn’t sure he could take all of it. He fitted his mouth around the head, licking under the foreskin, just experimenting, learning as he would with a new brush. He felt Morgenstern’s hands, stroking his hair, his jaw. The soft words from above him were litanies of soothing sound with no meaning. Unlike Nick, Morgenstern never shoved into his mouth. Chris was glad; the monster in his mouth could choke him without trying.
Chris sucked and licked and kissed until his jaw ached. Morgenstern drew him back up for a kiss and held him.
“You do that wonderfully well, little one.”
Chris shot him an impish look. “Practice.”
Morgenstern laughed a little, then kissed him. “I did not climax for a reason, although you had me quite close. I would rather be within you." He slid one hand along Chris’s body to stroke his ass, feeling the give of his buttocks.
Chris caught his breath and nodded. “Want that too,” was all he managed.
“Gently then, my sweet lover." Morgenstern rolled Chris away from him and spooned in behind him. He ran his hand over Chris’s body, grazing his cock several times before stopping to stroke it.
“Very gently?" Chris squirmed a little, trying to hold back the orgasm on whose brink he teetered.
Morgenstern kissed his neck. “Come for me. It will relax you." The words knocked Chris’s precarious control from him and sent him over the edge, spurting all over the professor’s hand. Morgenstern brought his hand to his mouth and licked at it, offering Chris only single finger, mock-grudgingly.
Chris moaned softly as he licked the length of Morgenstern’s long forefinger. His own bland salty flavor combined with the professor’s skin seemed to be making him hotter than ever.
When the finger was clean, Morgenstern began working on him. That finger worked its way into Chris’s body, slick and careful. A second joined it, gentler than the first.
Chris voiced his fear. “Never going to fit in there.”
“It will, little artist, and I will not hurt you." The passage loosened under his unfailingly gentle ministrations. He added a third finger and used them to form a funnel for more lubricant. Slowly he moved into position and removed the fingers. “Easy now." He rocked gently against Chris, letting him open under the pressure and not forcing his way in.
Chris hissed at the burn, then yelped when the head worked its way inside his body. He could do this. He bit down hard, then eased up. He took deep breaths, trying to relax so it would stop hurting.
Morgenstern stopped moving and merely held him. “Tell me when you are ready." He kissed Chris’s neck and stroked his body. He felt Chris relax well before he heard the shaky affirmation. He slipped in, slow, gentle, very careful, until he was buried in the artist’s body.
Chris gave a long, low moan, feeling filled beyond expectations.
“See? I told you, sweet one." Morgenstern punctuated this with a kiss and was delighted when Chris moved tentatively on him while still in the kiss. Morgenstern smiled into the kiss and continued, his hands stroking even as his tongue did. At length, they broke. “Are you still afraid?”
“Maybe,” Chris hesitated. “Mostly of liking this too much.”
Morgenstern gave a purr like a great lazy cat. “Too much is almost enough." He took control, moving gently but firmly. To his delight, Chris emitted that low moan again, louder this time. “Sexy boy,” he whispered, stepping up his motion to firm thrusts. “So very good, so tight." When Chris rolled a bit more onto his stomach, Morgenstern asked. “More?”
“Oh yes...” Chris breathed, parting his legs, trying to give Morgenstern more access to his body. He lost the breathiness and grew loud as Morgenstern moved harder and faster, almost pounding at him.
Morgenstern gave a soft laugh at the filth that poured from his boy, a steady stream of vulgarity that was almost a prayer in its intensity. In return, he pounded very hard for a few strokes. When Chris screamed for more, more and more, Morgenstern gave it, burying himself completely, with full force of his strength behind the thrust as he came with a scream of his own.
That sound, half wail, half-startled surprise, triggered Chris into an explosive second orgasm. They came down together, Morgenstern kissing Chris’s neck and shoulders.
“Sweet boy,” he whispered.
Chris gasped, “Don't leave yet.”
“I'll stay within as long as I can." Morgenstern rolled them back to spooning, cradling Chris gently and whispering filthy French poetry until the young man calmed down.
“So good,” Chris said softly.
“So very good, little artist. A work of art in itself." When Chris laughed, Morgenstern kissed his neck, his ear and his cheek, his lips light and comforting. “You came to my bed fearful: afraid of pain, afraid of my size, afraid of your inexperience. Have I quelled your fears?" He shifted as he softened enough to leave Chris’s body.
Chris rolled to face him. “All of them." For the first time, he looked deep into Morgenstern’s eyes, losing himself in them, drowning in honey and amber. “I've wanted this for months." The intensity in his voice drew an answering nod from Morgenstern.
“I knew the first night, from the way you looked at me. You were not simply storing me up to draw. But Walpurgis night seemed a much more appropriate time for a,” he chuckled, “virgin sacrifice.”
The name rang a bell, but Chris couldn’t put any specific idea to it. “Why?”
Morgenstern tsked. “My little Goth, I thought you of all people would know. Have you forgotten your Stoker? From "Dracula's Guest": ‘Walpurgis Night was when, according to the belief of millions of people, the devil was abroad--when the graves were opened and the dead came forth and walked. When all evil things of earth and air and water held revels.’”
“Beltaine,” Chris realized suddenly. “It’s Beltaine. I guess I forgot." He wasn’t sure if he was speaking of the quote or the date. Probably both and he knew Morgenstern would understand.
Morgenstern stoked his face gently. “After your evening, I am surprised you know your own name.”
Chris laughed quietly. “Of course I do. It's...Roger?”
Morgenstern smiled and kissed his cheek. “Very well, Roger, and you have been, quite thoroughly, you know.”
“Mmmhmm,” Chris agreed. He’d suspected it was love for some time, but now, he was sure.
Morgenstern held him a while longer. “I will not have you every night, but you may ask for me any time you like.”
Chris looked at him, confused and a little hurt. “You wish to sleep alone tonight?”
Morgenstern kissed his forehead. “Dear one, I nearly always sleep alone. I fear your roommate is growing disgruntled." He whispered, “I revert to myself in sleep and my own form is not so comely as this." Seeing Chris about to protest, he laid a long finger across the boy’s lips. “Some night, you will stay and you will see. There is always one who is brave enough to do so.”
Wanting to be that brave one, Chris sat up. Morgenstern pulled him back for a long, deep kiss. His lips burned hot against Chris’s mouth, his tongue slick and invading, knowing the places Chris would like best. Chris gasped when they parted.
“Go on, little artist."
Chris shut the door behind him and climbed the stairs, each step reminding him of the evening. He pushed the door of the bedroom open, barely able to stay upright. He hadn’t bothered to dress beyond his jeans and he clutched the rest of his clothes like a security blanket.
Nick looked up from where he was reading Machiavelli in bed, highlighter in hand. “You look fucking wrecked. Are you stoned?" Chris shook his head. “Drunk?" Nick looked him over. “What did you do?”
Chris staggered across the room and fell into bed. “Got deflowered.”
Nick looked him over and gave a short humorless laugh. “Baby, you didn't get deflowered. You got picked and plowed under and resown with ragweed." Chris’s laugh held more humor and he missed the undertone in Nick’s voice.
Nick kissed his neck. “Come on, let me check you over. You're probably bleeding if you’re walking like that. Standing in that door, you looked like a whore that just took on a whole legion.”
Chris squirmed out of his pants without getting up and rolled over. Nick’s hands moved over his ass, parting him gently. Nick’s breath on the back of his balls would have aroused him if he hadn’t been spent.
“Nope, I was wrong. He's good then." Nick licked along the cleft of Chris’s ass, tasting him, tasting Morgenstern, resisting the temptation to shove his tongue deep then follow it with fingers and cock and then, maybe even more.
Chris glanced over his shoulder. “Want me too?”
Nick got up, covered Chris with the blanket and laid down beside him “Always. But not after he's had you." His face hardened. “I don't take sloppy seconds.”
Chris missed the danger again. “Later, then.”
Nick slid under the covers himself. “Definitely,” he promised, no longer seeming so jealous. He drew Chris in for a cuddle, then kissed him, only to find he was already asleep.
***
I'll post out one of my paranormal short stories.
Tuition Fees is collected in Into Dark Waters ebook from Inkstained Succcubus. Paperback is also available.
Enjoy!
Originally written for Torquere's Arcana line, a set of stories based on Tarot cards. This was, of course, The Devil. We pulled the card and Angel had the idea of the Scholomance, so we ran with it. It's not exactly Brimstone fanfiction, but we really can't help the resemblance.
Tuition Fees
Christian McIntosh set his carry bag down in the courtyard of Teufelsteinschloss and lit a clove. He couldn’t believe he was actually here, that all this wasn’t a dream. He’d received the invitation letter along with the other art school acceptances. It wasn’t until he went back over the papers that he realized he’d never applied to The Academy.
That’s all the literature called it: The Academy. “A rarefied atmosphere in which promising talent is intensively nurtured for seven years." Professor Morgenstern was apparently wealthy enough to offer a full ride, right down to his passport, plane tickets and train fare to the airport. That alone was enough to make his grandparents insist he accept the offer.
They were good people but had worried about college since he was a baby. Fixed incomes didn’t go far, not in rural New Hampshire, and especially not with a grandfather who was an invalid. He’d insisted on working part-time as soon as he was old enough: paper routes, aluminum collection, mowing lawns, anything that would help.
A red-haired woman had met him during his extremely long layover in New York and taken him shopping. “The Professor knows not all his students are appropriately accoutered. Therefore, he has me meet specific ones and take care of the situation."
Her accent was not American, but sounded like no European accent he’d ever heard. She had dragged him through two clothing stores, a shoe shop and then let him linger in an art supply store as a reward for his patience. She bought everything he needed and anything he wanted. She took him for lunch in Greenwich Village. He scarcely knew what he was eating. The village was the last known location of his mother and he watched distractedly, searching the faces of every curly-haired brunette that passed. The red-haired woman made sure he caught the proper flight to Europe.
He didn’t remember much of the trip after that. The plane ride was long and dull. Europe was a sleepy haze of landing in Stuttgart, being greeted by a red-haired woman, who looked much like the New York lady, holding a sign that read “McIntosh” and getting into a large, black, antique car. He slept until they reached the castle.
“So that’s what flagstones look like,” he mumbled, not quite awake. He ran a hand through his rumpled dyed-black hair and realized the rest of his baggage was still in the car, which had purred away into the gathering dusk. He blinked against the cold New Year’s Day air and rang the bell pull. He’d missed all the parties.
Another car rumbled into the courtyard. Three young men, none of them more than twenty-five, one obviously American, one in traditional African dress topped with a parka, the third indeterminate under the scarf and hat, climbed out. They, too, stood blinking in the courtyard. Chris caught sight of a necktie and was suddenly quite aware of the buckles and straps on his pants, his tanker boots and Carhartt coat. The blond American boy rang the bell. He gave Chris a grin and stuck out his hand. The gloves were black leather and Chris guessed the coat was alpaca wool.
“Nicholas Admire, former legislator from Missouri District 124. Call me Nick." The smile never touched his green eyes.
Chris, too shy to say he’d already rung, shook the boy’s hand, quite aware of how practiced the firm grip and two pumps felt. He was glad he’d left the mittens his grandmother had knitted in his pocket, even if the wind did bite at his bare fingers. “Chris McIntosh. Artist. I’m from New Hampshire.”
The dark-haired boy offered a hand. “Geoffrey Laurent." His French accent was mild, to Chris’s surprise. “I have recently finished medical school. Do you ever do anatomical drawing? The textbooks need good illustrators.”
Chris almost blushed. “Only a few studio nudes." He wasn’t going to say anything about the trip to the psychologist after Grandma had found them.
The African boy shook his hand. “Okeleke Nzenga. I am a student of agriculture.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The big doors swung open. A tall redheaded woman, who looked enough like the others to be their triplet, held a lamp. “This way please, gentlemen,” she said in the same unidentifiable accent. She led them down the hall to a large parlor where nine other young men were already waiting.
It was all dark wood over stone and deep wine carpets and heavy leather furniture. A plate of small cakes and a silver tea service sat on a low mahogany table. A well-stocked bar stood opposite a black marble fireplace large enough to stand in.
Geoffrey and Okeleke poured tea and helped themselves to the cakes. The red-haired boy at the harpsichord looked up with annoyance when Nick rattled the ice in a cocktail shaker. A Japanese boy looked up at the new arrivals and his two Hispanic companions did the same. Chris was enthralled by all the amazing faces and his fingers twitched for his sketchpad. He would have a splendid time drawing here, but right now, he wanted to fade into the woodwork and not be the center of attention.
Nick seemed to have no problem with it. He worked the room after his martini was made, introducing himself first to the Indian boy who had been leaning on the harpsichord, vocalizing with the redhead’s playing, and then apologizing to the musician. Chris just looked, working up the nerve to get a cup of tea.
An Australoid black man, a little older than the rest of them, sat on the sofa sharing pictures with a Chinese youth and an Arabic one. A blue-eyed American boy sulked, leaning on the mantle of the fireplace.
“What’re you staring at?” he growled at Chris. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
“Politeness, Sterling.” A middle-aged man spoke from the shadows of a dark leather armchair. “You shouldn’t antagonize your classmates in the first five minutes." He rose, tall and angular. The firelight put golden glints into his wavy hair and his smile spoke of far too much knowledge. “So we are all assembled. Welcome, my boys, to Teufelsteinschloss Academy. I am Professor Morgenstern. As each of your letters stated, you will study here for seven years. At the end of that time, you will pay the tuition and go out, leaders in your fields.”
He took a drink from the brandy snifter in his hand. “Each of you was invited because you are one of the best men in your field under the age of twenty-five. When you leave, you will be the best. All of you are extraordinarily gifted."
Morgenstern looked them over and Chris dropped his eyes when the professor’s fell on him. He’d never met anyone like this, charismatic, compelling and almost preternaturally beautiful. He knew what his first drawing at the Schloss would be.
“Thirteen of the most talented, most lovely young men in the world. In seven years, you will own the world. Come. Dinner is at nine sharp. Both attendance and formal dress are mandatory." He pulled part of a deck of tarot cards from the pocket of his jacket and fanned them out in one long hand. “Thirteen: six pairs and a trump. The cards’ numbers correspond to your room assignment. The cards will pair you for your stay.”
“This is a very large castle. Why don’t we get our own rooms?" The Indian youth at the harpsichord asked.
“Because if I allow that, our little artist will never emerge for meals and Mr. Admire will never go to bed for politicking. You will not get the rest you need and Matthew will compose until he drops. You will all watch out for each other. Who is first?”
Nick gave a cocky yet charming smile. Chris could see why he’d been elected to the State House so young. He strode forward and picked a card out of Morgenstern’s hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Admire. It’s a pleasure to have you here." Morgenstern’s smile was as polished as Nick’s.
“Five of swords,” he said.
One by one, the men drew their cards. As each man found his roommate and the two cards came together, a small flash of light created a glowing beacon. The fox fire balls led them out of the sitting room and to their bedrooms.
Li, who Morgenstern greeted as a chemist, poked at the fox fire and left discussing it with Faki, the philosopher from Cairo, trying to figure out what it was and what had caused it. Sterling, who turned out to be a criminal mastermind, scowled more when he was paired with Matt, the redheaded musician.
“Better not be any damn violins at all hours,” he grumbled.
Professor Morgenstern laughed. Then he smiled when Ayutu pulled the trump card of the Tower. “Most fitting for you, my astrophysicist. The view from the tower is quite good and I have several excellent telescopes. Yes, I think you should have your own garret. Mind the singing mice.”
A laugh ran through the remaining men. Even Chris smiled. Apparently Disney animated movies were a universal experience. Two by two, the others left.
Morgenstern held out the last card to Chris. “Little artist?” he said, his voice making Chris’s knees go weak even as it drew him forward. Morgenstern barely touched Chris’s hand as he took the card, sending hot and cold shivers all over the youth.
“Fi-five of swords." He already knew, since Nick–now working on his third martini–was the only one left.
“Last is first and first is last and so we make the Kingdom ourselves.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s quite how that goes. C’mon Chris, we’ll get settled.”
“Shakespeare?” Chris mumbled, letting Nick draw him out. He couldn’t stop looking at Professor Morgenstern. The light from the fireplace played with his handsome face, creating shadows and highlights that made Chris want to weep and sketch and paint. The fire put red and gold highlights into the graying mane and beard. It caught a last small smile, just for Chris, sending him out hard and needy.
The bedroom mixed the castle’s antiquity with every modern convenience. The wall sconces held adjustable soft fluorescent bulbs. The mattress on the great canopied four-poster was a Sealy Posturepedic. Cherry wood roll-top desks boasted state-of-the-art computers and ergonomic chairs, made of the same cherry wood and scarlet brocade that matched the bed curtains. Two cherry armoires waited for their clothes. A porcelain washbasin and pitcher stood next to the door of a very modern, very luxurious bath of black marble and gold fittings.
Chris examined a mirror with attached candles. “Girandole, early baroque period. I think it’s real.”
“Of course it is." Nick hung his suits and khakis and oxford shirts in the armoire with the air of a man accustomed to living out of suitcases in the lap of luxury.
“No phone. But we have the Internet,” Chris added checking the computer.
“No cell signal either." Nick turned off his phone and tossed it in his nearly empty suitcase. “Better unpack and dress.”
Chris tried not to be embarrassed about the tags and store tissues still in his new clothing. He hung everything neatly and laid out the dinner jacket and good pants. “I’m having a shower." He looked at the bed, where Nick was sprawled working on his palm pilot. “One bed.”
“Yeah, I at least expected bunks." Nick flashed him a grin. “Top or bottom?”
Chris swallowed hard and ducked into the bath. The casual way Nick had asked threw him. He’d known for years that he liked boys as well as girls. He washed, already aroused from the professor and Nick’s offhand suggestion. When Nick joined him in the shower and slid down to suck him without any preliminaries, all he could do was lean against the wall and gasp for breath.
Nick’s tongue left him stunned, doing his best impression of a beached tuna. He came in very short order. Nick gave him a grin, stood up and began washing his hair as if nothing had happened.
“Uh, pleased to meet you too?” Chris ventured.
“Beats the hell out of a handshake, doesn’t it?” Nick ducked under the water to rinse.
“How long have you known?” Chris asked. “That you liked boys?”
“Since I was about 12 and saw Leo DiCaprio in The Man in the Iron Mask. He was so beautiful in that scene where his mistress killed herself, alla that red hair, I wanted to kiss him and console him. Kissed my first boy a couple months later. You?”
“Always knew. I’ve been fighting it. Small town." Somehow, Chris couldn’t manage complete sentences.
“Yeah, me too." Nick didn’t want to talk about his one-blinky light town with the funny name and the Bass Pro Shop. He stepped out of the shower and dried off.
“Starting your scandals young?" Chris followed him, reaching for his own towel.
“Nah. It’s only a scandal if I deny it. If I just say ‘yeah? So?’ they back off. The only way to be a politician in my particular loop of the Bible belt is to either be purer than God or just brazen it out. Most of the pious hypocrites go for the first route. And that is what makes a scandal, babe.”
“I’ll remember,” Chris said as he got dressed. He managed the dress-shirt and the pants well enough, but looked puzzled at the cuff links and shirt studs. The bow-tie baffled him.
“All right, let me help you." Nick sighed. He was already dressed. He showed Chris how to fasten the jewelry. Then he stood behind Chris and made him learn to tie the bow tie. He kissed the nape of Chris’s neck. “Look, don’t let me push you. I come on kinda strong.”
Chris shuddered under the kiss and nodded. He went down to the main hall with Nick and found the other milling around. Most wore dinner jackets. Ayutu had a black kimono cut almost like a tuxedo. Bansi and Okeleke chose formal ethnic costume, Bansi’s bright crimson silk and Okeleke’s deep green standing out the sea of black.
The doors of the dining room opened at 8:57. Professor Morgenstern stood before a chair at the head of a long table. The men’s names were on place-cards. They had been shuffled so that no one sat next to his roommate. It didn’t stop Chris from looking down the table now and then at Nick, remembering the shower. He also caught Professor Morgenstern looking at him a time or two when he glanced up the table. He wasn’t paying any attention to Ignacio talking mathematics to Ayutu on his left or Li and Okeleke discussing pH balances in soil on his right. He ate the meal, scarcely knowing what it was, so lost was he in his own thoughts.
As the dessert, warm bread pudding with whiskey sauce, was brought out, Professor Morgenstern stood up. “Gentlemen, in your rooms you will find your course packets. Each of you will have one hour a day of tutoring and the rest–save dinner–as independent study. Your packet will inform you of the time, what you are expected to bring to the first session and what you must produce this week. I bid you good evening."
He left and the dining room ate in silence. The silence hung even as they left the dining room, headed back to their own rooms. Nick finally broke it. “Weird kind of school, if you ask me.”
“No one did, Admire." Matt, the musician, scowled, his color high and his brogue getting thicker with each word.
“Oh yeah, O’Neill? Don’t mean I can’t speak up." Nick’s temper was showing on his face, jet-lag and weirdness taking their toll.
“Stop it. No fighting." Bansi stepped between the pair. “We are all tired.”
Nick took a couple deep breaths, stepped back and nodded. “Thanks. I needed that break. No hard feelings, O’Neill.”
“None here on you either." Matt headed toward the room he shared with Sterling. So far the other had not liked a single one of his compositions, preferring to plug himself into his hip-hop and rap by way of his ipod. Simple noise in Matt’s opinion.
Back in the room, Chris sat on the bed and opened his packet. “My class is at seven. That leaves an hour to get ready for dinner.”
“Nine in the morning. Boy, we can really sleep in." Nick read over the meal schedule: breakfast available from seven until nine, lunch from eleven to one, mandatory formal dinner at nine. He yawned hugely. “Bedtime. And no frills.”
Chris gave a small smile and got into his pajamas, feeling silly. Nick had already seen him naked. But Nick, too, pulled on flannel sleep pants and drew the curtains on the bed against the chilly night air.
***
Chris brought his entire portfolio, even the nudes he’d never shown to anyone, to his first class session with the professor. A half-finished sketch of Nick holding his coffee, the newest piece, caught Morgenstern’s eye, even though there was no face on it.
“Your roommate?" Chris nodded, a bit stunned that he’d recognized it without a face. “The mole." He pointed to a distinctive figure-eight mole on the back of the hand holding the coffee cup. “You say in your application letters you want to transition from the pencil and oil pastels to painting, eventually into the style of the Old Masters. Today would be a good day to try." Chris dared not open his mouth to say he’d never written an application to The Academy. Morgenstern had voiced his deepest desire, the one he had never told anyone. He wanted McIntosh to be remembered with Van Gogh and Rembrandt in another five hundred years.
Morgenstern settled Chris in with the paints and showed him the ways that painting was different from drawing and the ways it was the same. Chris had some experience mixing pigments from various art classes and summer institutes. He began a landscape that looked like the one out the window, but darkened and twisted.
At seven forty-five, Morgenstern called a halt for clean up. “You’ve made great progress, little artist. I will see you at dinner.”
***
Over the days and weeks, Chris’s barely concealed awe of his teacher only grew. Nick was a pleasant room mate, even if he did insist on making sure Chris ate regularly and socialized with the others.
Sometimes Chris wondered what it would be like to be rooming with someone less outgoing. Someone less sexual, who didn’t blow him at the drop of a shower curtain or kiss him every time they passed. He loved the attention. His grandmother had been a fine specimen of puritan Yankee matriarchy who believed physical contact was at best distasteful and more likely sinful.
Nick was beginning to push for more, though. After four months of blow jobs, hand jobs and frotting off behind every tapestry they could find, he was ready to fuck. Chris, well, Chris wasn’t. He liked Nick just fine, enjoyed fooling around, but he thought his first time should be with someone he loved and wanted.
Someone like the Professor, the persistent little voice in the back of his mind whispered as it had been since Easter. He shushed it and went to his art lesson.
“Dear little one, show me what you've drawn today." Morgenstern was sitting quietly before the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand after Chris finished with his painting and cleaned his brushes. Chris had noticed, weeks ago, that Morgenstern never called him by his name.
He had another landscape done: the crags around the schloss, with Okeleke’s just-blooming roses making a splash of color like fresh blood against the bare and jagged rocks.
“Dear little Goth boy, turning all you see into bleakness and despair." Morgenstern smiled his approval. “How is your painting coming?”
“Acrylics are still going better than oil.”
“Splendid. Do keep at it. Have you tried any human figures lately?”
Chris dug through his work and handed over several sheets, most pencil-work, but one small oil canvas. He watched Morgenstern look them over and nibbled the end of a brush in anxiety.
Morgenstern smiled as he looked at them. There was Marcelo at prayer, his fingers working his rosary. The style of the picture led him to expect a hair shirt or some Inquisition victims in evidence. Here was Li with his test-tubes, looking like a mad scientist under Chris’s skills. Okeleke dug in his garden, but looked more as if he was burying a body than planting the flowers beside him in the wheelbarrow. Morgenstern caught himself looking for a skeletal hand under the peonies. The oil was of Nick, stretched naked on the bed, apparently working on his PDA. The angle of the viewer was from the floor looking up, as if Nick had casually tossed them out of bed, assuming the proper place for a used sex slave was on the floor.
“You have an eye for the morbid, my little artist. It is fashionable now." He tapped Nick’s painting. “Your roommate. It is an unusual angle." Morgenstern looked Chris up and down until he shivered under the appraising eyes. “Has he had you yet?”
Chris swallowed hard. “Had, sir?”
Morgenstern leaned in close, too close. His voice purred seductively, “Has he fucked you yet?”
Chris shivered, from the breath on his ear, the crudity or simply the Professor’s closeness he couldn’t say. “No.”
Morgenstern smiled. “Very good. If you are willing, after dinner, we will have an oil tutoring session. You will not return to your room as virginal as when you left it.”
Chris blinked a few times, stunned by the suddenness of the proposition.
“Problem, little artist?”
Chris smiled. “No, sir." He glanced at the Professor’s package quite obviously before he caught himself.
Morgenstern saw this and smiled. “I will not hurt you, child.”
“I didn't think so." Chris gathered up his materials, seeing time was nearly over.
“Are you willing?" At Chris’s nod, he smiled more broadly. “Very good. I do not force anyone." He watched as Chris made for the door. “And do keep drawing. You have an eye for the shadows." He crooked a finger.
“Thank you, I-” the words died on Chris’s lips as he saw the beckoning. His stomach fluttered when he stepped close to the red velvet sofa.
Morgenstern’s kiss was light, gentle. Chris closed his eyes and sighed into it. When he opened them again, Morgenstern was at the door, opening it. Confusion wrote itself large on Chris’s features and he picked up the portfolio he’d dropped.
“After dinner then,” he managed.
“Indeed." Professor Morgenstern vanished out the door.
After dinner, Chris barely noticed the glare Nick shot at him as he gathered his art materials. He fumbled his easel on the stairs and had to sit down until his stomach stopped knotting. He got himself together and made it to the parlor. He swallowed until his mouth wasn’t quite as dry and knocked at the door.
Morgenstern smiled as he opened the door and Chris leaned a little on the wall for support because his knees no longer wanted to hold him up. He followed the professor into the parlor.
The lesson demanded complete concentration. Morgenstern moved quickly, requiring much from Chris. Chris performed brilliantly. He’d always worked well under pressure.
“Excellent, little artist." Morgenstern seized him by the shoulders and kissed him in congratulation as he finished adding his initials to the stark landscape.
The long-desired kiss took Chris by surprise. He melted before it and then returned it, reaching his paint-smeared hands up to Morgenstern’s hair before he realized it. He left gray and brown and black smudges in the fair hair and on his teacher’s face.
Morgenstern did no more than laugh. “Eager child." He blotted at his face with a handkerchief. The kiss left Chris too fuddled to notice the ease with which the paint vanished. “Clean your brushes and yourself, then come with me.”
Chris made a fast but thorough clean up and went to where Morgenstern waited near a door behind a tapestry. To his surprise, the professor’s bedroom looked exactly like a student room, save there was only one desk and one armoire. The four-poster was identical to the one he shared with Nick. He’d expected something much more personal, more lived-in. Only the Gustav Doré engraving of Lucifer Cast Out from Paradise Lost marked the room as any different. Chris lingered at the foot of the bed.
Morgenstern had settled himself on the bed, already in his dressing gown. “Talk to me, little artist.”
“How do you do these things?" Chris’s eyes were large. Morgenstern merely lifted an eyebrow and Chris elaborated, “You move too fast to be seen. I barely make it to the foot of the bed and you’re already changed. You clean messes with barely a wave. How?”
“Little one, are you so dense? Do you not know me?" Morgenstern’s smile never faltered.
“We talk. Marcelo says you’re the Devil himself. I don’t believe in it.”
Morgenstern laughed and Chris realized he was the butt of the joke. “It doesn't matter what you believe. Believe the moon is made of green cheese for all I care." He lounged, seemingly heedless of how the dressing gown was falling. For all that Chris had always heard angels were sexless, the man before him was demonstrably male. Based on observation, he was twice the man Nick was. Chris went as Morgenstern beckoned him to the bed.
“Whether you believe or not, and no matter what churchmen say, I remain Archangel Lucifiel, Light of God and best beloved of the Father. The one who loved God enough to take on the most despised of duties, that of Adversary." He ran a hand over Chris’s trembling shoulder. “Why should having it said upset you so? You knew, did you not? What do you fear?”
“I don’t want it to be true,” Chris blurted. “I can’t believe, can’t comprehend.”
“Do you want me? Do you comprehend what we are doing?”
Chris nodded and stripped off his clothes, folding them neatly on a chair.
“Will you tell me if I am hurting?”
“I’ll try not to scream too loud, yeah.”
Morgenstern hooked the tip of his index finger under Chris’s chin and drew him down for a kiss. He was fire and honey under Chris’s mouth, opening and kissing not with haste or urgency, but with a measured slowness as though they had infinite time to enjoy themselves in nothing more than this kiss.
When Chris finally moved away, Morgenstern gave him another smile. “Fear not, little artist." He smiled wryly. “It has been millennia since I used the common greeting of my kind to mortals. You will be fine and we will create a work of art between two bodies. Touch me. I will not break, nor will I hurt you.”
Chris’s smile felt sickly on his face. He reached out and traced his teacher’s strong jaw, his chest, his stomach, making his way to the goal. “Yes,” he sighed, wrapping one hand around the thick shaft. He experimented with different grips, different speed, the softness firming into velvety iron.
“Yes,” Morgenstern responded. He smiled, encouraging Chris with each different hold. “Yes, sweet one, that’s perfect,” he sighed when Chris lowered his mouth for a taste.
Chris had wanted this for weeks, ever since Nick started letting him reciprocate on the blow jobs. Morgenstern was clean and the same sweetness of his mouth was here as well. As Morgenstern grew harder, Chris wasn’t sure he could take all of it. He fitted his mouth around the head, licking under the foreskin, just experimenting, learning as he would with a new brush. He felt Morgenstern’s hands, stroking his hair, his jaw. The soft words from above him were litanies of soothing sound with no meaning. Unlike Nick, Morgenstern never shoved into his mouth. Chris was glad; the monster in his mouth could choke him without trying.
Chris sucked and licked and kissed until his jaw ached. Morgenstern drew him back up for a kiss and held him.
“You do that wonderfully well, little one.”
Chris shot him an impish look. “Practice.”
Morgenstern laughed a little, then kissed him. “I did not climax for a reason, although you had me quite close. I would rather be within you." He slid one hand along Chris’s body to stroke his ass, feeling the give of his buttocks.
Chris caught his breath and nodded. “Want that too,” was all he managed.
“Gently then, my sweet lover." Morgenstern rolled Chris away from him and spooned in behind him. He ran his hand over Chris’s body, grazing his cock several times before stopping to stroke it.
“Very gently?" Chris squirmed a little, trying to hold back the orgasm on whose brink he teetered.
Morgenstern kissed his neck. “Come for me. It will relax you." The words knocked Chris’s precarious control from him and sent him over the edge, spurting all over the professor’s hand. Morgenstern brought his hand to his mouth and licked at it, offering Chris only single finger, mock-grudgingly.
Chris moaned softly as he licked the length of Morgenstern’s long forefinger. His own bland salty flavor combined with the professor’s skin seemed to be making him hotter than ever.
When the finger was clean, Morgenstern began working on him. That finger worked its way into Chris’s body, slick and careful. A second joined it, gentler than the first.
Chris voiced his fear. “Never going to fit in there.”
“It will, little artist, and I will not hurt you." The passage loosened under his unfailingly gentle ministrations. He added a third finger and used them to form a funnel for more lubricant. Slowly he moved into position and removed the fingers. “Easy now." He rocked gently against Chris, letting him open under the pressure and not forcing his way in.
Chris hissed at the burn, then yelped when the head worked its way inside his body. He could do this. He bit down hard, then eased up. He took deep breaths, trying to relax so it would stop hurting.
Morgenstern stopped moving and merely held him. “Tell me when you are ready." He kissed Chris’s neck and stroked his body. He felt Chris relax well before he heard the shaky affirmation. He slipped in, slow, gentle, very careful, until he was buried in the artist’s body.
Chris gave a long, low moan, feeling filled beyond expectations.
“See? I told you, sweet one." Morgenstern punctuated this with a kiss and was delighted when Chris moved tentatively on him while still in the kiss. Morgenstern smiled into the kiss and continued, his hands stroking even as his tongue did. At length, they broke. “Are you still afraid?”
“Maybe,” Chris hesitated. “Mostly of liking this too much.”
Morgenstern gave a purr like a great lazy cat. “Too much is almost enough." He took control, moving gently but firmly. To his delight, Chris emitted that low moan again, louder this time. “Sexy boy,” he whispered, stepping up his motion to firm thrusts. “So very good, so tight." When Chris rolled a bit more onto his stomach, Morgenstern asked. “More?”
“Oh yes...” Chris breathed, parting his legs, trying to give Morgenstern more access to his body. He lost the breathiness and grew loud as Morgenstern moved harder and faster, almost pounding at him.
Morgenstern gave a soft laugh at the filth that poured from his boy, a steady stream of vulgarity that was almost a prayer in its intensity. In return, he pounded very hard for a few strokes. When Chris screamed for more, more and more, Morgenstern gave it, burying himself completely, with full force of his strength behind the thrust as he came with a scream of his own.
That sound, half wail, half-startled surprise, triggered Chris into an explosive second orgasm. They came down together, Morgenstern kissing Chris’s neck and shoulders.
“Sweet boy,” he whispered.
Chris gasped, “Don't leave yet.”
“I'll stay within as long as I can." Morgenstern rolled them back to spooning, cradling Chris gently and whispering filthy French poetry until the young man calmed down.
“So good,” Chris said softly.
“So very good, little artist. A work of art in itself." When Chris laughed, Morgenstern kissed his neck, his ear and his cheek, his lips light and comforting. “You came to my bed fearful: afraid of pain, afraid of my size, afraid of your inexperience. Have I quelled your fears?" He shifted as he softened enough to leave Chris’s body.
Chris rolled to face him. “All of them." For the first time, he looked deep into Morgenstern’s eyes, losing himself in them, drowning in honey and amber. “I've wanted this for months." The intensity in his voice drew an answering nod from Morgenstern.
“I knew the first night, from the way you looked at me. You were not simply storing me up to draw. But Walpurgis night seemed a much more appropriate time for a,” he chuckled, “virgin sacrifice.”
The name rang a bell, but Chris couldn’t put any specific idea to it. “Why?”
Morgenstern tsked. “My little Goth, I thought you of all people would know. Have you forgotten your Stoker? From "Dracula's Guest": ‘Walpurgis Night was when, according to the belief of millions of people, the devil was abroad--when the graves were opened and the dead came forth and walked. When all evil things of earth and air and water held revels.’”
“Beltaine,” Chris realized suddenly. “It’s Beltaine. I guess I forgot." He wasn’t sure if he was speaking of the quote or the date. Probably both and he knew Morgenstern would understand.
Morgenstern stoked his face gently. “After your evening, I am surprised you know your own name.”
Chris laughed quietly. “Of course I do. It's...Roger?”
Morgenstern smiled and kissed his cheek. “Very well, Roger, and you have been, quite thoroughly, you know.”
“Mmmhmm,” Chris agreed. He’d suspected it was love for some time, but now, he was sure.
Morgenstern held him a while longer. “I will not have you every night, but you may ask for me any time you like.”
Chris looked at him, confused and a little hurt. “You wish to sleep alone tonight?”
Morgenstern kissed his forehead. “Dear one, I nearly always sleep alone. I fear your roommate is growing disgruntled." He whispered, “I revert to myself in sleep and my own form is not so comely as this." Seeing Chris about to protest, he laid a long finger across the boy’s lips. “Some night, you will stay and you will see. There is always one who is brave enough to do so.”
Wanting to be that brave one, Chris sat up. Morgenstern pulled him back for a long, deep kiss. His lips burned hot against Chris’s mouth, his tongue slick and invading, knowing the places Chris would like best. Chris gasped when they parted.
“Go on, little artist."
Chris shut the door behind him and climbed the stairs, each step reminding him of the evening. He pushed the door of the bedroom open, barely able to stay upright. He hadn’t bothered to dress beyond his jeans and he clutched the rest of his clothes like a security blanket.
Nick looked up from where he was reading Machiavelli in bed, highlighter in hand. “You look fucking wrecked. Are you stoned?" Chris shook his head. “Drunk?" Nick looked him over. “What did you do?”
Chris staggered across the room and fell into bed. “Got deflowered.”
Nick looked him over and gave a short humorless laugh. “Baby, you didn't get deflowered. You got picked and plowed under and resown with ragweed." Chris’s laugh held more humor and he missed the undertone in Nick’s voice.
Nick kissed his neck. “Come on, let me check you over. You're probably bleeding if you’re walking like that. Standing in that door, you looked like a whore that just took on a whole legion.”
Chris squirmed out of his pants without getting up and rolled over. Nick’s hands moved over his ass, parting him gently. Nick’s breath on the back of his balls would have aroused him if he hadn’t been spent.
“Nope, I was wrong. He's good then." Nick licked along the cleft of Chris’s ass, tasting him, tasting Morgenstern, resisting the temptation to shove his tongue deep then follow it with fingers and cock and then, maybe even more.
Chris glanced over his shoulder. “Want me too?”
Nick got up, covered Chris with the blanket and laid down beside him “Always. But not after he's had you." His face hardened. “I don't take sloppy seconds.”
Chris missed the danger again. “Later, then.”
Nick slid under the covers himself. “Definitely,” he promised, no longer seeming so jealous. He drew Chris in for a cuddle, then kissed him, only to find he was already asleep.
***
