Émile had a simple internal math - thus far, the attempts to silence their mocking tongue by application of a fist had been about on par both within and without this house. At least in here they had the rare delight of sleeping in a warm bed, the indescribable pleasure of eating to fullness.
Never mind the jealous gutter-rat, who posed more of a threat than they had surmised. Never mind the capacity for cruelty they could sense lurking beneath their host's placid exterior. For now, they were safe. For now, they would wait.
They were only dimly aware they had been returned to their host's bedroom. Their grasp on consciousness was tenuous on that first day after the bothersome beating, and they floated in and out of restless dreams.
Unmoored, their thoughts drifted. They recalled their mother in one of her rare moments of lucidity, her laughter at the antics of quarreling cormorants warming the back of their neck with joy. In their dreams, she smelled of wood-smoke and they grasped hurriedly for another image to avoid what came next.
The scar raking their scalp throbbed as it often did when they lapsed into thinking of home - a visceral reminder they had no home to return to.
They awoke fully for the first time on the second day of their bed-rest. It was impossible to gauge the time in this room with the red-spattered curtains over the windows and they blinked against the crimson gloom for some time before easing themself upright.
They stirred, stretching their idle limbs beneath the blankets. Their attempt at a yawn brought tears to their eyes and they gingerly felt along their bruised jaw, wincing at the crackling pain their fingers evoked.
Their host was silhouetted on the balcony beyond a drawn curtain. They startled to see his sightless eyes regarding them from across the room. They self-consciously swiped their tangled hair from their eyes, spine straightening.
Their host bowed his head to duck beneath the curtain at the threshold, bringing the cool night air into the room with him. Émile watched silently as he drew close to the bed.
"How are you feeling?" The old man evidently had little use for niceties.
"Better, monsieur." Their voice cracked pitiably in their crushed throat.
"Very good." And then, idly, in the tone one would use to issue a command to a dog, "On the floor."
They had considered themself renounced of hope long ago, and felt a spark of irritation when their heart sank in their chest. They knew the unspoken terms of this agreement.
"Oui, monsieur," they whispered hoarsely and slid from the bed. They fell to their knees and looked up at him expectantly, the softening of their swollen features lending their face something cherubic.
"Non," he said, unclasping his belt. "Sit back."
They did as bid and rocked back on their heels, sitting flat on the floor. It was a relief to shivering calves that had already begun to ache.
Their host stepped between their legs and gently eased their head back until their crown was flush against the side of the bed. Satisfied with his handiwork, he stepped away to finish disrobing and Émile's shoulders relaxed against the bed.
He returned to the space between their legs and lifted their chin with two fingers. "Open your mouth."
Émile closed their eyes and took a shuddery breath before exposing their wet tongue.
This was, admittedly, less of a challenge when they weren't so damnably sore, when their face didn't sting and throb at the slightest touch. But Émile was not one to shirk a duty and they sucked him to firmness with their tongue, wincing only at the prodding to their split lip.
There was no consideration paid to the raw welts still tender on their face, nor the trouble they had in breathing through their swollen nose when his cock pushed past their lips to fill their mouth. They stifled a choking gasp. Their host worked them over with deliberate pumping strokes and they struggled to accommodate him, nails clawing at the floor.
They could not help the twisting of their hips as they struggled to take him in their aching mouth, nor the stifled whimpers that he drew from their bruised throat. Their eyes watered as their host's pelvis struck their nose, and they registered dimly the sticky wetness of blood.
The side of the bed provided an unyielding backdrop that prevented them from pulling back, and it took a monumental effort of trembling will not to push their host away. Their nails dug into the meat of their palm with enough force to break the skin.
It was a blessed relief when they slipped to that familiar place where the pain seemed to be inflicted on another body. They thought of nothing, listening with only cursory interest to their own choked moans, the short, hot breaths their mouth pulled from their host. Their cheeks were wet with tears.
Their host shuddered and gave way with a low groan, flooding the back of their mouth with heat. They could taste only blood as he took a step back.
They swallowed thickly. "Merci," they rasped, head lolling on their neck. They lacked the energy to wipe the spit and come and blood from their mouth and it began to cool maddeningly tacky on their lips.
"Très bon, Dubois." The soft praise flushed warm blood to their cheeks. Their host wiped himself down and ran a hand affectionately through their dark hair before stepping to the side to dress. They panted for breath with their back against the bed, hands curled limply at their sides.
"Stay there until I return," the old man instructed, straightening his shirt with a press of his palm. "I may have use of you yet."
There was no time to remark what a simple instruction this would be for their exhausted body to follow before he had slipped out the door and was gone. Émile was left on the floor with only the sound of their wheezing breath for company.
They turned their head to press their aching cheek to the bed, already half-conscious. They drifted to sleep sitting upright. The last sense that had of the waking world was the acrid taste of smoke burning their tongue.
Never mind the jealous gutter-rat, who posed more of a threat than they had surmised. Never mind the capacity for cruelty they could sense lurking beneath their host's placid exterior. For now, they were safe. For now, they would wait.
They were only dimly aware they had been returned to their host's bedroom. Their grasp on consciousness was tenuous on that first day after the bothersome beating, and they floated in and out of restless dreams.
Unmoored, their thoughts drifted. They recalled their mother in one of her rare moments of lucidity, her laughter at the antics of quarreling cormorants warming the back of their neck with joy. In their dreams, she smelled of wood-smoke and they grasped hurriedly for another image to avoid what came next.
The scar raking their scalp throbbed as it often did when they lapsed into thinking of home - a visceral reminder they had no home to return to.
They awoke fully for the first time on the second day of their bed-rest. It was impossible to gauge the time in this room with the red-spattered curtains over the windows and they blinked against the crimson gloom for some time before easing themself upright.
They stirred, stretching their idle limbs beneath the blankets. Their attempt at a yawn brought tears to their eyes and they gingerly felt along their bruised jaw, wincing at the crackling pain their fingers evoked.
Their host was silhouetted on the balcony beyond a drawn curtain. They startled to see his sightless eyes regarding them from across the room. They self-consciously swiped their tangled hair from their eyes, spine straightening.
Their host bowed his head to duck beneath the curtain at the threshold, bringing the cool night air into the room with him. Émile watched silently as he drew close to the bed.
"How are you feeling?" The old man evidently had little use for niceties.
"Better, monsieur." Their voice cracked pitiably in their crushed throat.
"Very good." And then, idly, in the tone one would use to issue a command to a dog, "On the floor."
They had considered themself renounced of hope long ago, and felt a spark of irritation when their heart sank in their chest. They knew the unspoken terms of this agreement.
"Oui, monsieur," they whispered hoarsely and slid from the bed. They fell to their knees and looked up at him expectantly, the softening of their swollen features lending their face something cherubic.
"Non," he said, unclasping his belt. "Sit back."
They did as bid and rocked back on their heels, sitting flat on the floor. It was a relief to shivering calves that had already begun to ache.
Their host stepped between their legs and gently eased their head back until their crown was flush against the side of the bed. Satisfied with his handiwork, he stepped away to finish disrobing and Émile's shoulders relaxed against the bed.
He returned to the space between their legs and lifted their chin with two fingers. "Open your mouth."
Émile closed their eyes and took a shuddery breath before exposing their wet tongue.
This was, admittedly, less of a challenge when they weren't so damnably sore, when their face didn't sting and throb at the slightest touch. But Émile was not one to shirk a duty and they sucked him to firmness with their tongue, wincing only at the prodding to their split lip.
There was no consideration paid to the raw welts still tender on their face, nor the trouble they had in breathing through their swollen nose when his cock pushed past their lips to fill their mouth. They stifled a choking gasp. Their host worked them over with deliberate pumping strokes and they struggled to accommodate him, nails clawing at the floor.
They could not help the twisting of their hips as they struggled to take him in their aching mouth, nor the stifled whimpers that he drew from their bruised throat. Their eyes watered as their host's pelvis struck their nose, and they registered dimly the sticky wetness of blood.
The side of the bed provided an unyielding backdrop that prevented them from pulling back, and it took a monumental effort of trembling will not to push their host away. Their nails dug into the meat of their palm with enough force to break the skin.
It was a blessed relief when they slipped to that familiar place where the pain seemed to be inflicted on another body. They thought of nothing, listening with only cursory interest to their own choked moans, the short, hot breaths their mouth pulled from their host. Their cheeks were wet with tears.
Their host shuddered and gave way with a low groan, flooding the back of their mouth with heat. They could taste only blood as he took a step back.
They swallowed thickly. "Merci," they rasped, head lolling on their neck. They lacked the energy to wipe the spit and come and blood from their mouth and it began to cool maddeningly tacky on their lips.
"Très bon, Dubois." The soft praise flushed warm blood to their cheeks. Their host wiped himself down and ran a hand affectionately through their dark hair before stepping to the side to dress. They panted for breath with their back against the bed, hands curled limply at their sides.
"Stay there until I return," the old man instructed, straightening his shirt with a press of his palm. "I may have use of you yet."
There was no time to remark what a simple instruction this would be for their exhausted body to follow before he had slipped out the door and was gone. Émile was left on the floor with only the sound of their wheezing breath for company.
They turned their head to press their aching cheek to the bed, already half-conscious. They drifted to sleep sitting upright. The last sense that had of the waking world was the acrid taste of smoke burning their tongue.
