The Devil's Brothers
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by Jean Marie Stine
Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: The Ultra-Hot Inside Story of History's Most Famous Male Dom and Sub! A gripping novelette portraying an almost forgotten moment in history. The author's interpretation of the relationship between two of history's most famous gay men. Spiced with torrid scenes of male action, the story challenges you to guess who the main characters are and what era the story is set in. Or will the steamy sex blind you to the clues the author carefully places in the narrative? Cover art: Terrie Balmer
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: July 2007
7 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [42 KB]
Reading time: 23-33 min.
"You ask me what I plan to do about my brother's plight, my dear Walter?" The speaker studiously avoided using his visitor's new title. "I hear he spoke in his own behalf at his trial so eloquently that the judge kissed him afterward. Perhaps, he has already talked himself free of his entanglement."
The young man with the fair skin and hair, who sat on the edge of the bed, undressing, looked up, a scowl on his broad, comely countenance. Behind him, the tall, purple bed-curtains had been pulled aside, and the visitor glimpsed the naked back of another man, snoring prone upon the sheets.
"Let me answer you, by first telling you something of myself and my brother."
The visitor sighed (to himself, lest his host hear and take the umbrage his celebrated temper made certain), and prepared to listen to what might well prove a lengthy disquisition.
As he spoke, the young man's face seemed sometimes frank and honest, sometimes dissolute and haughty, so that his visitor was never quite certain within himself as to the true nature of the man he was listening to, or what the answer to his supplication might be. * * * * CHAPTER II.
I've always been high-strung and prone to fits of temperament. I admit it. Wouldn't you be, if your father despised you from birth, and showed his feeling by dividing his holdings among your three older brothers, giving nothing to you? But there was never anything womanish about me, I don't think anyone would ever say there was. Except Dick, with his soldier's stoic phlegmatism, of course. He always held me in contempt for it.
I had flown into a passion that morning. I admit that, too. It was the day father told the four of us how he planned to divide our patrimony. I was still raging as Dick and I left the meeting hall, and made our way up the stairs. Our eldest brother, the arse-kisser, who of course was to inherit father's position and domestic properties, had remained to rail at the fact that that his portion wasn't even larger. Geoff had disappeared a party of friends to terrorize rabbits--or perhaps a deer. Dick and I were alone.
The humiliation of receiving nothing in my own right of father's vast holdings--so that I would have not even the smallest source of income, and must needs rely on the generosity of my brothers for my keep after his death--had left me livid. (And a fat lot of good it did him, they were never grateful and conspired in any number of takeover attempts during the remainder of his life.) I had barely been able to contain my feeling during that meeting, and although I had expressed myself hotly, it was nothing to the rage I held in check. Only when Dick and I were outside the room, did I give vent to my true feelings, expostulating vehemently on the subject of father's mistreatment.
We had but arrived outside his rooms when he dared put hands on me and used me roughly. "Stop carrying on in such a womanish fashion and be a man," he said. "Thou art acting like a hysterical girl-child deprived of some trifle she wants. Certs, every time you sense an injury or slight, you scamper for the protection of mother's skirts, and she takes your part and pets and comforts and spoils you like a girl."
I whirled to face him, rage flushing my face and burning hotly through my veins. He had always called me womanish, and perhaps I was acting just a bit womanish that morning. But it hardly justifies him calling me so or laying hands upon me. And I whirled in an absolute passion and struck out at him.
But, when not otherwise occupied, Dick's martial training went on almost around the clock, and he caught my arm in his massive grip before I could touch him. Suddenly his burly, well-muscled frame was leaning over me, and an anger came into his face so monstrous black with blood, that my own was snuffed out in an instant, and I attempted to back away.
"If a man struck me, brother, I would kill him. If a woman struck me--I'd let her live," he grated. "You're going to admit to me--and yourself--that you are one. And I am going to let you live."
Dick flung me into his rooms as casually and effortlessly as you would a kitten, and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. "It's time for you to face the truth about yourself, you mewling little pussy," he said.
His massive hands slammed me to my knees, his trews on a level with my eyes. "You're not just a pussy, you're a whore," he snarled. "You're going to prove your womanishness. You are going to say you are a 'pussywhore' and you are going to unbutton my trews and prove it by serving me with your mouth, the way women serve their lords."
I was young enough to have still been innocent in the Biblical sense, but I had seen horses and bullocks and sheep and falcons "go at it", and knew men and women engaged in similiar couplings. I had also heard of my brother's proclivities in this regard. Already, his bedtime rompings with the more comely men of our circle, and even, it was rumored, with father's deadliest enemy, was a subject of gossip among the servants.
No matter my fear of him, the gorge rose in my throat at the thought of the use he proposed to make of me, and I surged upward, struggling to gain my feet. "I'm no woman," I shouted, "I'm a ma--"
But he easily held me still with one hand, and slapped me across the face with the other. "You're a 'man.' Is that what you were going to say? Some say a "'man' would rather die than submit to doing to another man what I am going to make you do to me." He slapped me again. "Isn't that true? A 'man' would refuse no matter how hard he was beaten." He cuffed me casually and brutally again. "But a woman couldn't suffer the pain. She'd submit herself to a man rather than endure it." He slapped me once more. "Wouldn't she, brother?"
He lifted his hammy fist again. "Now say it. Say you're a pussywhore."
I stared at that fist and felt myself whimper. I knew that I could never stand up to all the punishment he could mete out--few could. Yet my wrath was so great I was hardly sensible of where I was, let alone what my reactions were. My body struggled upward of its own.
And that terrible, masterful fist, that would yet make nations and usurpers quail, descended twice again.
I will not relate my pain and hurt. Suffice to say, I sobbed in fear, tears streaming down my face. I could take no more. I knew that that I would do anything to stop that hand's descent, and that by doing so, my brother was proved right. No 'man' would submit to what I was about to submit to, a 'man' would have fought back and let himself be beaten until he died. In that knowledge, I found myself no better than woman, as weak and frail and cowering as any maiden in the face of his kind's brutality.
He read his victory in my face and shook me. "Say it. Say you're a pussywhore."
"I'm ... a pussy ... whore," I barely whispered between choking breaths.
"What?" he roared. "Say it louder." His fingers knotted painfully in my shoulders.
"I'm a pussywhore," I spat out bitterly. "A pussywhore."
"Goddamned right, you are," he roared. "Now obey me like the woman you are and strip yourself naked like a maid before master."
I hardly understood him, an know not even why he wanted this further shame but, as I looked up into the eyes that blazed so fiercely from beneath the tangled hairs of his brow, my hands simply began to expose my body to his view of their own accord.
When I was finished, and knelt naked and humbled before him--all too aware of my vulnerable bareness and the dependencies dangling below--the nostrils of his long nose flared, and he snorted. "Now, Lady Joanna," he said, savoring the play he had made on my name, "undo the buttons of my trews."
My hands shook as if palsied and my fingers fumbled at the buttons. Something bulged beneath the silken mound of his cod, my mouth seemed to gag at the thought of having such a thing in it. I whimpered, realizing it was a womanish sound, but couldn't stop.