ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.S. Pacat is the best-selling author of the Captive Prince trilogy and the comic series Fence. Born in Australia and educated at the University of Melbourne, she has since lived in a number of cities, including Tokyo and Perugia. She currently resides and writes in Melbourne.
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ALSO BY C.S. PACAT
THE CAPTIVE PRINCE TRILOGY
Captive Prince
Prince’s Gambit
Kings Rising
CAPTIVE PRINCE SHORT STORIES
Green but for a Season
The Summer Palace
The Adventures of Charls, the Veretian Cloth Merchant
Pet
FENCE
Fence
Text copyright © C.S. Pacat, 2017.
The right of C.S. Pacat to be identified as the sole author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Cover design © C.S. Pacat
ISBN 978-0-9876223-2-7
Pet is a Captive Prince short story set during the events of Captive Prince.
CHAPTER ONE
Ancel was a virgin the first twelve times he had sex. The thirteenth time, it lacked all plausibility.
He tried something different. ‘I shouldn’t. Lord Arten owns my contract.’
‘Oh fuck. You’re a noble’s pet.’
The voice behind him was more turned on than ever. Ancel could feel the hard cock of the merchant’s son rubbing against him through layers of fabric. Pets were exclusive commodities, and a pet under contract was forbidden.
‘You could buy out my contract.’
‘How much?’
He made up a figure. There was no Lord Arten. Ancel landed his first contract that day: three months of his time, signed over to the merchant’s son. At the end of it, he was gifted a peridot. The colour of his eyes, green as emeralds. But not as expensive.
Yet.
The servant who dressed him told him what he needed to know about clothes, and the etiquette was easy. Watch, copy, or else make his own rules. In the brothels of Sanpelier, he had already learned the most important question: Who is the richest man here?
Ancel turned down the first flurry of offers for his contract. He let the merchant’s son parade him about, show him off, let desire build among the acquaintances they dined with during the day and the young hotheads they drank with at night. The richest man in the province was the trading magnate Louans, and Ancel knew that the merchant’s son and his father were seeking a gift to open business talks with him.
‘Give me as your gift,’ said Ancel, on the sheets, his body still flushed, his red hair sweat-tousled.
‘What?’ said the merchant’s son.
‘Give me to Louans. For the night. I’ll get you your trade deal.’
Since the only jewellery Ancel owned was not impressive, he wore neither ornaments nor paint when he was brought to Louans’s rooms. He wore nothing at all, except for a bolt of green silk, wrapped around his waist, when he arranged himself in a sprawl on the bed.
Louans was a man of forty-six years, more than twice Ancel’s age. Ancel had never been inside a residence as grand as this one. He had thought the merchant’s son was wealthy, when he’d first seen him in the brothel. He had thought: that’s the richest man in the province. Now he knew his own limited experience of the world. The merchant’s entire house was the size of Louans’s entrance hall.
Ancel’s heart beat quickened as Louans entered, a dark shape in the doorway. Louans owned this residence and everything in it: the gold candlesticks, the rich tapestries depicting hunts and gardens, the patterned tile, the green silk on the bed. And what lay under it.
‘You kept me waiting,’ said Ancel.
He felt the dip, as Louans sat beside him on the bed. ‘Your master chose his gift well. I like rare things.’ Louans reached out, with easy ownership, and took a lock of Ancel’s hair between his fingers. ‘Is it red everywhere?’
‘Guess,’ said Ancel. Holding Louans’s gaze, Ancel took the man’s hand and guided it down, under the silk. ‘Can you tell by feel?’
The offer came two days later. A year’s contract, at ten times the rate paid by the merchant’s son.
Ancel smiled. Louans was still only a merchant. But he went to parties with aristocrats, and now Ancel had a sense of scale.
He walked into Lord Rouart’s gathering on Louans’s arm, and every head in the room turned.
Only the richest merchants had pets, copying the manners of the aristocracy. A pet was a symbol of status. It was not only that Ancel’s contract was expensive; so was his clothing, his jewellery, the constant gifts tradition demanded be lavished on him. Owning a pet was a pure display of wealth: Look what I can afford.
No merchant in Louans’s acquaintance could afford Ancel. They all talked about him. I’d pay a fortune to have him. And, You’d need a fortune. That’s Louans’s pet.
Ancel liked the attention and he liked the gifts. He liked the feel of silks, furs and velvets against his skin. He liked to be attended by his own servants. He liked the rarity and expense of the jewels. He was given three emeralds to wear in his ears, a silver chain for his ankles, a pendant to wear around his neck. He kept them all in a jewel box, also a gift. It was inlaid with mother of pearl. He kept his old, single peridot there, too, but at the bottom.
He had affected a better accent, to cover up his provincial lilt, letting the rumour mill go wild. He was a foreign pet, he was a court pet, he was the younger son of an aristocrat playing a pet for fun. His ears were pierced, three sharp pricks. His hair stayed long but was cut in a fashionable style. His body was bathed and steamed and waxed, and on the evenings when he was entertaining Louans privately, it was washed far more intimately, and oiled to allow Louans to slide home.
When he looked at himself in the mirror now, he no longer saw a boy from a brothel who could be had for a few coins, but something far more expensive, more polished, and more desirable, particularly when his face was daubed with paint.
He saw the same thing now, reflected in the acquisitive gleam in Lord Rouart’s eyes.
Louans bowed to Lord Rouart deeply—Lord Rouart was far above him in status, and richer, too, the host of this evening’s entertainments.
Ancel didn’t bow. He just looked at Lord Rouart. As Louans bowed, their eyes met.
Behind Lord Rouart, lounging on a reclining couch like an ornament, was a gorgeous brunet pet of about nineteen years of age, covered in diamonds. He regarded Ancel with eyes of exquisite boredom, a long, scrolling look, as if unimpressed by the quality of Ancel’s jewels, his silks, his paint. Underneath the boredom was black jealousy.
Ancel murmured an excuse, and took himself out into the lamp-lit gardens. He already knew the answer to the question: Who is the richest man here, and what does he want?
And sure enough.
‘It’s Louan’s pet,’ said Lord Rouart, strolling up with his companions.
Ancel found himself encircled by Lord Rouart and his entourage, a scattering of minor nobility.
‘I’ve never had a redhead,’ said Lord Rouart.
‘Try me out,’ said Ancel.
Electric silenc
e; the exhilarating static before lightning in a thunderstorm. He had scandalised even these jaded courtiers. A pet who’d cheat on his contract?
In shocked tones, ‘Try you out?’
It was delicious insolence, dancing on the edge of propriety, when everyone here was bored.
‘Put your pet in the ring with me. I’ll pretend he’s you.’
Amazed laughter came from one of the minor nobles. Ancel’s eyes were only on Lord Rouart. He had riveted the attention of everyone here, and he knew it. They didn’t know what to make of him. Unpredictability excited them.
‘I’ve never done it in public before,’ said Ancel. ‘You’d be my first.’
He was readied in an antechamber. Through the door that was ajar, Ancel could glimpse the makeshift ring of chairs surrounding a circle of patterned floor tile. There was a close, prurient atmosphere, aristocrats murmuring to one another their salacious expectations.
His first performance.
Ancel knew what happened in the ring. Pets fucked. Sometimes, they faked a struggle first. The one on top got to stick it in. The one on the bottom pretended to like it, or pretended to hate it, or pretended to hate it then like it, depending on their own performance style, and how they judged the mood of the room.
Brought out in front of the audience, he saw flashes of silk, whispers behind hands. Lord Rouart had taken the best seat, right at the front.
He saw at once that the crowd liked him, partly because he was new, partly because of his looks—partly because the story of his challenge to Lord Rouart had spread like wildfire. The crowd also seemed to like Lord Rouart’s pet, that pouty boy covered in diamonds, who—from the catcalls and comments—was something of a crowd favourite.
Ancel on the other hand . . . Ancel hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’d never done it in public before. Louans liked it with Ancel face down in the bedroom. The merchant’s son had once drunkenly grabbed at him at a public gathering but had not done much more than hump at him. In the brothels it had been mostly behind a curtain.
His heart was pounding. He knew what he had to do. He walked right into the ring, waving off the attendant, and said to the diamond boy in a cool voice, ‘Strip.’
The crowd liked it—there were encouraging calls, applause. Ancel waited for, ‘Make me,’ but the boy was playing his own games, because instead of refusing, he held Ancel’s gaze, lifted a hand to his laces, and deliberately parted his shirt.
Fabric slid from a shoulder. A susurration of silk, and everything came off except the diamonds. No one was looking at Ancel.
‘You’re not going to take him away from me, you slut,’ said the boy sweetly, murmuring the words too quietly for anyone else to hear.
‘Too late,’ said Ancel.
The first stages were performed somewhat by rote. They each knew how to make it look hot rather than professional, positioned to show things off to best advantage. Lord Rouart’s pet shone, flushed cheeks, breathy little moans. It was why he was a favourite. Everyone wanted to fuck him, to be the one to get him to make those sounds.
Ancel’s pulse was accelerating wildly, not because of the pet’s performance, but because of what he was about to do.
He pushed the pet’s face down to the polished rosewood floor, and positioned himself.
Then he looked up, looked right into Lord Rouart’s eyes, and while they were locked together, said it loud enough for every noble in the crowd to hear.
‘Spread your legs, Rouart.’
He felt the pet under him jerk in startlement, and pushed him back down. The crowd erupted, a wild, shocked reaction as they realised what was about to happen. Put your pet in the ring with me. I’ll pretend he’s you. Ancel kneed the pet’s legs apart. He heard a laughing voice say, ‘Fuck him, Red.’
He could see Lord Rouart’s face, equal parts turned on, humiliated and furious, and he knew he had him. Lord Rouart was going to bid for him—Ancel was about to screw him in front of everyone. And Lord Rouart’s rivals were going to bid as well, for the same reason.
‘You take cock like a pet,’ said Ancel.
He closed his eyes as he pushed in. It really did feel good. More so when he opened his eyes again and Lord Rouart was still staring violently at him.
He let the sound of desire come deliberately from his throat. Rhythmical sounds. ‘Unnh. Uhhn. Uhnn.’ Deliberately indulging himself. Was this how men felt fucking him? No wonder they paid a fortune for it. ‘Take it. Like that.’
He had the audience’s hot, scandalised attention. He could feel how much they liked it. Fucking Lord Rouart, fucking every lord here. Being watched by everyone while he did it was like a blinding white light.
Ancel pulled out—flipped the boy over—aimed his own cock downwards with a hand, and came all over the boy’s face, getting his long lashes sticky.
The room exploded in approval, cheers, calls of his name. He could hear shouts of suggestions, ribald calls to Lord Rouart in the thick excitement of the crowd.
He felt shivery with triumph, and had to ignore the sensitivity of orgasm still on him as he rose, his legs unsteady. ‘How was he?’ came the amused call from somewhere in the audience.
Ancel gave Lord Rouart a single taunting look, playing to the crowd as he said, ‘I’ve had better.’
The heated snarl of a look Lord Rouart gave him in return was like victory.
Of course, Ancel still had six months of contract remaining with Louans. A bidder would need the agreement of both Louans and Ancel to buy that contract out. But Ancel would accept the highest offer—had angled for it, could hardly wait for it—and Louans was just a merchant. He would not say no to a lord.
On the sidelines, Ancel was bundled into a sheer silk wrap. He felt it on his still-sensitive skin before he was taken to an antechamber, a bidding war erupting behind him.
In the antechamber, he closed his eyes and breathed and smiled and was ready when Louans entered behind him.
‘Congratulations,’ Louans said, only a little bitterly. He may have been outmanoeuvred by his own pet, but the deal overall reflected well on him. ‘Your career is made.’
‘Whose bid was highest? Rouart? Or one of his rivals?’
‘Neither,’ said Louans. ‘It was Lord Berenger.’
‘Berenger?’ said Ancel. He didn’t know the name. He’d thought he knew everyone from this region. ‘I don’t know him.’ He thought over the men he’d seen tonight, the spectators among the stands. Which one was Lord Berenger?
And then he heard the amount that had been offered, and his eyes flew wide. A year’s contract, to an aristocrat, at a fee that had everyone talking . . .
‘He’s given you a week to say your goodbyes and wrap up any business,’ said Louans.
‘No. Send me to his rooms right away,’ said Ancel. ‘Tonight.’
He was taken through a series of three antechambers in the dim light, then made to wait, alongside an old manservant called Parsins, in front of a large wooden door.
He could feel the spark of success, the anticipation that spiked his pulse and made his heart pound. It felt like validation. The climax to his actions in the ring. He was going to meet his new owner, and his new owner was going to fuck him.
He had washed only what was necessary, and stayed in his silks from the ring, loosening them slightly, leaving his paint a little smudged, his lips and eyelashes heavy with it.
The doors opened, and he got his first look at Berenger.
Berenger was a man of perhaps thirty years of age, austerely dressed, with strong features and dark eyes passing over a sheaf of papers at the desk. He was clean shaven, as was the current fashion, and he wore his dark hair short as well. He looked serious, even stern, his expression one of intent concentration.
The room itself was small and intimate, containing a reclining couch and a desk with a rich walnut patina and tapered
feet. The desk was covered in papers and was the focus of the room’s light, three lamps that were all lit.
Ancel leaned his body against the door column, let the light touch him just so, let his silk garment fall open to his waist, though not beyond. He knew how he looked, the elegant line of his body, his green eyes under sultry lashes, his nipples slightly pinked with paint.
‘So, you saw me in the ring, and decided that you just had to have me,’ said Ancel.
Berenger looked up. ‘No. I hate the ring.’ The words were matter-of-fact. ‘Parsins, hand me my jacket.’
‘So it was just me,’ said Ancel.
‘I told Louans that you had a week to set your affairs in order.’ Berenger had returned his papers to the desk and was shrugging into the jacket that Parsins held out for him.
‘I couldn’t stay away, once I heard it was you.’
Ancel came into the room, his skin fresh, the silk almost slipping from his shoulders, like a flower waiting to be plucked. He felt the pulse of possibility that hung between two people in a small, intimate room, his body prepared and ready.
‘My household is travelling back to Varenne tonight. You can travel with them. I’m riding to Ladehors. Parsins will take care of whatever you need: clothing, jewellery.’
Ancel blinked. ‘Your household is travelling back to Varenne . . . but you’re not?’
‘How old are you?’ As if Ancel hadn’t spoken.
‘Sixteen.’
Berenger gave him a flat look.
‘Twenty,’ said Ancel, the truth coming out with a flash of annoyance that he had to work hard to keep out of his voice. He heard the slightly waspish tone, and purposefully smoothed the frown from his forehead.
‘Was Louans your first contract?’
‘No. I— there was one other. A regional merchant. For three weeks.’ He felt off-kilter. Was that the wrong thing to have said? Having a contract with a regional merchant didn’t sound appealing at all.