Wager Me A Kiss

Hi. This is the first chapter of what I hope will be an ongoing story. It starts out as M/F, but there\'s going to be plenty of M/M as we go along. I hate posting detailed warnings, because it gives too much of the story away. Those of you familiar with my writing probably have a pretty good idea what to expect. For those of you who haven\'t read my stuff before, you can probably look forward to angst, exceedingly twisty plots, at least one bondage scene, and some completely gratuitous descriptions of food.

I hope you enjoy!

Love,
Falcon

Wager Me A Kiss

Chapter One: Julen

Gingerly, Julen knelt on the church floor, careful not to dislodge any of its uneven flagstones. Although he was only twenty, countless repetitions of this ritual had already taught him which places were broken or worn loose by time. Above him, sunlight poured in through the alcove window, and on the altar beneath it, a green lizard basked in the summer heat. Smiling, Julen nudged the small creature with his finger until it scurried away. But he couldn’t bring himself to disturb the yellow butterfly which had also settled on the altar. Instead, he watched it slowly fold and unfold its wings, as if it, too, was offering prayers to the sacred relics which rested within.

Or perhaps it had only been warming itself. After a moment, the butterfly flitted away. Remembering his duties, Julen bowed his head so far forward that his light brown curls brushed against the altar. Then, he stood, and turned his face toward the light as he began the afternoon hymn. Written in the Holy Tongue, its words translated into heavy things, severe statements about God’s anger and man’s destiny to suffer. But Julen seldom thought about that when he sang. The joy in his heart seemed to infuse each note as it sprang from his lips. Without changing a single syllable, he transformed the solemn chant into a melody of praise -- praise for the tiny church, and the relics that he cared for, and the promise of hope that they represented.

Normally, when he finished, there was only silence, or perhaps the giggling of some village children who had crept inside to listen. But today, he heard the slow beat of a hand striking another. Turning, Julen saw one familiar face, and one unfamiliar one. The familiar face belonged to Benedetto, the old priest who had taught Julen the rites of worship. And, with him, was a young man of about Julen’s age, but dressed more richly than Julen would have imagined possible. His tunic was the color of old wine, and fastened by a row of gold disks like nothing Julen had ever seen before. A cloak worked with gold brocade fell over his shoulders. The cap on his head, also decorated by gold, sported two blue-green feathers, which made a bright contrast to his long black hair. Still clapping, he spoke to Julen.

“Impressive. Such a voice is wasted, with only the pigs and sheep to hear it.”

Julen blinked, confused by the stranger’s words. He’d never felt wasted, regardless of who did or didn’t listen to him sing. “But if God hears it, then surely—“

“This is Prince Sebastian,” Benedetto hurriedly interrupted. “His hunting party was passing by and he decided to do us the great honor of stopping for a visit.”

Sebastian laughed as he pulled off his gloves. “These little country shrines always amuse me. What miraculous relics do you lay claim to? A handful of mud taken from the ground where a great saint once stepped? Perhaps some dung from the mule he rode?”

Shocked by Sebastian’s scornful tone, Julen couldn’t answer. How could someone speak about holy things in such a blasphemous way?

“I’m afraid,” Benedetto apologized, “that Domele is a humble village. Our church contains nothing fit for the eyes of a great prince like you. If you come with me, I’ll find wine and food for your company.”

But Sebastian refused Benedetto’s offer with an impatient wave of his hand. Striding to the alter, he looked down at the metal box which rested on top of it, several feet wide, and as long as the span of a man’s outstretched arms. “Wings?” he murmured, tracing the simple pattern engraved on the box’s lid. “What sparrow or crow lies entombed in such a grand coffin?”

“No bird rests there,” Julen blurted out. “That box holds the wings of the angel Amaranda!”

“Amaranda?” Sebastian rubbed his sharp chin. “It seems to me I’ve heard something of that legend.”

Benedetto sighed. Then he began the story Julen had heard so many times. “Long ago, the pagan tribes to the north united into a great army. As it swept across the countryside, looting and murdering without mercy, a young cook’s apprentice prayed for the strength to save his people. The angel Amaranda appeared to him. She tore off her own wings, so that he might wear them. And, strengthened by their holy power, he united the faithful, who drove back the invading army.”

“But surely,” Sebastian protested, “you aren’t claiming to actually have--?”

“Once the enemy had been defeated, the wings were entrusted to the church, to be guarded until the next great need arose.”

“And they’ve been here? All this time?” For a moment, Sebastian’s voice seemed to hold something akin to awe. Then he shook his head again. “No, of course not. It’s nonsense. It’s always nonsense. Open the box and we’ll see nothing except a few rotting feathers.

“Perhaps you’re right, my prince,” Benedetto conceded. “Perhaps that is all you’d see. The box hasn’t been opened for hundreds of years. Amaranda alone chooses who may view its contents.”

“Bah. An old box with a rusted lock. Only the church could take such trash and call it a miracle.” Sebastian turned away from the altar. But, Julen noticed, the prince’s hand lingered, caressing the engraved wings. “You said something about food and drink?”

Benedetto bowed. “I’ll see to it at once.”

As Benedetto and Sebastian started to walk away, Julen couldn’t take his eyes off the prince. Sebastian’s irreverent words disturbed him. But there was also much about the prince that seemed intriguing. And, as with all the things Julen found fascinating, he wanted to share it with the woman he loved. After all, wouldn’t Rosemary be delighted by the chance to entertain a member of the royal house? It would give them something to talk about for years to come.

“Wait,” Julen called out. “Sebastian? Will you dine with me? My wife, Rosemary, sets the finest table in the village.”

Was it his imagination, or did a frown of worry flicker across Benedetto’s lips? But Sebastian only arched his eyebrow at Julen. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties.”

Julen hesitated, unsure if Sebastian was genuinely concerned or simply mocking him. But he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “The next hymn needn’t be sung until evening,” he assured, meeting Sebastian’s eyes. “I’ll be happy to play your host until then.”

“In that case, I shall play your most eager guest.”

Leaving Benedetto behind, Julen led the prince around to the back of the church. Here, the ground had been carefully worked with a hoe, until it formed a patchwork of little garden plots. As Julen guided Sebastian through the maze of cabbages and beanpoles, his mind searched for a suitable topic of conversation. There was so much he felt curious about. What was it like to be a prince? Did Sebastian enjoy living in Theodosia? Had he ever visited the capital city’s famous cathedral, where the sacred books of knowledge were kept, and where King Ilarius himself prayed? But Julen didn’t want to seem like a naive child. So, instead of pestering the prince with questions, he spoke about the things he understood – the church gardens that he and Rosemary helped tend.

“The angelica is doing particularly well this year,” Julen informed, as they passed by a plot dedicated to medicinal herbs. Fondly, Julen caressed the starburst of tiny green flowers which crowned one of the thick stalks. “After we collect the leaves, we’ll candy the stems. The village children are always more eager to come to church once they noticed the angelica has been harvested.”

Sebastian chuckled. “When I was a boy, I would have appreciated any similar incentive.”

Like water in a lake too small to hold it, the church gardens spilled onto the plot of land where Julen’s predecessor had built his home. After his death, the cottage stood empty for many years. Until, determined to ask Rosemary for her hand in marriage, Julen had begged Benedetto for a place to bring his bride, and was granted ownership of it. A thick tangle of vines still obscured most of the cottage’s walls, and squirrels hid their nuts under the loose shingles that formed its arched roof. But Julen didn’t mind his home’s perpetual state of slight disrepair. To him, it was a place nearly as sacred as the church where he sang his prayers.

“Mary?” he called, pushing open the wooden door.

“Julen?” Rosemary’s voice drifted from the solar. “I though you were going to help Benedetto chose the music for tomorrow’s service?”

“That has to wait. We have a guest.”

“A guest?”

Moments later, Rosemary hurried into the entrance hall, still clutching a carding brush and handful of wool. Her head was uncovered, and hair the color of freshly baked bread fell down past her shoulders. As she spotted Sebastian, a gasp escaped her lips, like a gust of wind brushing past two perfectly shaped rose petals. Julen felt his heart tremble, as if it had actually been touched by her breath.

“Mary, this is Prince Sebastian. Prince Sebastian, this is my wife, Rosemary.”

“My Lord,” Mary whispered, dipping her body into a graceful curtsey. As Julen observed her humility, he realized, somewhat belatedly, that he hadn’t bowed to Sebastian, nor addressed him by any honorable title. Not that he meant to be disrespectful. But in Domele, all men were more or less equal, and it simply hadn’t occurred to Julen that a prince would be accustomed to a certain amount of groveling.

But Sebastian didn’t seem offended by Julen’s failure to be obsequious. In fact, he appeared to have forgotten Julen was present. Returning Rosemary’s curtsey with a nod of his head, his eyes focused on her alone, and he spoke without any trace of teasing. “Truly, this is a miraculous village. I’ve barely been here an hour, and already I’ve discovered three rare treasures.”

Rosemary’s cheeks turned reddish, as if touched by a premature dawn, and she glanced away. “I was just preparing some wool to be spun,” she explained, holding up the carding brush. “But I’ll begin dinner immediately.”

“What can we do to help?” When his duties didn’t require him to be at church, Julen usually shared in the preparation of meals. “Do you need anything from the garden?”

Rosemary shot him a look of rebuke. As her eyes darted to Sebastian, and then back again, Julen realized he’d just suggested that a prince of the realm would help him dig up carrots. “I...” Julen stammered, trying to think of some way to correct the insult. “That is, I meant...”

“Julen? Why don’t you take our guest into the parlor?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Hurriedly, Julen ushered Sebastian into the next room. The change in scenery brushed aside any further discussion of preparing dinner, but once they were both seated, Julen again found himself faced with the challenge of making conversation. After several minutes of silence, he’d grown so desperate that he nearly resorted to asking Sebastian about his hunt, despite a complete lack of interest in the subject. But before he could open his mouth, Sebastian pulled something out of a pouch tied to his waist.

“Do you play cards?”

Julen stared at the rectangular pieces of paper that Sebastian held in his hands. Most were decorated by numbers and symbols, while a few even displayed lavish drawings of kings and queens. “Do I play what?”

“Apparently not. No matter. There’s time to teach you some simple games.”

At first, Julen could hardly believe that Sebastian really wanted him to touch the small works of art. But as Sebastian tossed some of the cards onto the table, cheerfully outlining a few basic rules, Julen finally summoned the courage to pick them up. And when he did, he discovered that what he had mistaken for paper was actually wood, cut unbelievably thin. Miraculous. How could such wonders be nothing more than pieces in some sort of game?

After talking Julen through a few practice rounds, Sebastian seemed satisfied. “I think you’re ready to play in earnest now. What would you like to wager?”

“Wager? You mean, gamble?”

Sebastian laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t expect you to stake your horse or favorite servant. But risking a few coins will add some excitement to the game.”

“I...” Julen hesitated, suddenly ashamed of his modest means. “I don’t have any coins.”

“Nonsense! You must have something. How do you buy the things you want?”

“We raise most of our own food. Mary makes our clothes. When we need something else, like a new pot or spinning wheel, Benedetto will give us a little of the money that people donate to the church.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair. Without seeming to be aware of it, he caressed one of his cards, as he had caressed the box which held Amaranda’s wings. “But a woman like your wife...surely you buy her grand gifts? Jewelry? Perfume? Ivory combs for her hair?”

Staring down at his lap, Julen watched his hands fidget, like two birds determined to peck each other to death. “When I can, I go for walks. Sometimes, I find a colorful feather, or a bunch of wildflowers. Once, I found a kitten. Poor little thing was nearly half-starved.” Despite his unease, Julen smiled. “Mary liked the kitten.”

“How charmingly bucolic.” Sebastian shook his head. “Take my advice about something, Julen. Women hunger for more than daisies and scraggily pets. They want presents like this.”

With theatrical relish, Sebastian produced a necklace. Silver links of delicate chain flashed in the room’s dim light. Then, Julen noticed the pendant dangling from them – a naked woman, also shaped from silver, with her hands raised over her head, and flowers blossoming at her feet. Tiny red jewels covered the flowers like droplets of blood. “It’s beautiful,” Julen admitted. “And I’m sure Mary would love to wear it. But even if Benedetto paid me a regular wage, I could never afford such a thing.”

“Ah. But perhaps you can win it.” Sebastian tossed the necklace down on the table. “That’s my wager. Now, all you have to do is make a wager of your own.”

Eager to win the necklace for Rosemary, Julen tried to think of something to bet. But what did he own that had any value? The beautiful rug that had been Rosemary’s dowry? The handful of nutmeg pods, given to him as payment for singing at a rich merchants wedding feast? The small, worn book in which Benedetto had painstakingly copied the words to all the church hymns? “It’s no use. Everything I have, you must have many times over, in far superior quality.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.” Sebastian leaned forward, and something hungry flickered in his dark eyes. “Wager me a kiss from your wife’s lips.”

For a moment, Julen couldn’t believe that he’d actually heard Sebastian correctly. Then, with a furious sweep of his hand, he knocked both necklace and cards from the table. “Mary’s kisses are not mine to give! And even if they were, you could bring me the crown of King Ilarius himself, and I still wouldn’t trade even one of them for it.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. But he chuckled as he bent over to retrieve the necklace. “I see that I’ve offended you. Please forgive me. Customs are different in Theodosia.”

“Of course,” Julen agreed, somewhat chagrined that he’d taken offense when Sebastian had not intended to give it. After all, Theodosia was far away. Perhaps kisses meant less there. Or, perhaps, the prince was simply accustomed to being surrounded by a retinue of pretty ladies, all eager to bestow their affections. In either case, taking umbrage at a misunderstanding made Julen feel like a poor host.

“Maybe...?” Julen suggested, as he helped Sebastian gather up the scattered cards. “Maybe we could play without a wager?”

“That would be fine.”

They played numerous hands, and Julen even won a few, although he suspected that Sebastian was trying to let him win even more games than he managed to. Then, Rosemary returned to announce that dinner was ready. Following her into the kitchen, Julen marveled at the elaborate meal his wife had managed to assemble in so short a time. As a starter, there was cabbage boiled in a rich broth, to be eaten with thick slices of brown bread. Then, for the main course, she’d killed one of the chickens, before roasting it, and presenting it on a plate lined with slices of boiled eggs. And she’d even found time to bake a custard for desert.

“You’re a marvel,” he complemented, kissing her on the cheek. “Everything looks wonderful.”

Rosemary giggled as she slipped out of his embrace. “Julen! Not in front of the prince.” Then, she turned to Sebastian, repeating her curtsey. “My Lord? Will you do us the honor of having a seat?”

“That title sounds very pretty dropping from your lips,” Sebastian complimented. “But there’s no need to be so formal. Your husband has been calling me ‘Sebastian’ ever since we met.”

Rosemary kept her eyes downcast, and Julen imagined that he saw her tremble when she spoke. “Please, My Lord. You have to forgive Julen. He spends all day in church, singing hymns and talking to angels, and he forgets how to behave in the world of men.”

“It’s true,” Sebastian acknowledged, “that I’ve had people’s tongues cut out for taking similar liberties. But he makes my name sound so charming that I can’t be angry. I’m certain it will sound equally charming coming from you.”

“Thank you, My Lord. That is – Sebastian.”

Together, they sat down at the table, and Julen let Rosemary take over the conversation. Unlike him, she didn’t hesitate to interrogate Sebastian about life in the capital. Her eyes shone with excitement as he talked about the fashions, revelries, and gossip of his father’s court. Julen didn’t recognize most of the names that Sebastian mentioned, but the prince provided such vivid descriptions, often accompanied by hilarious impressions, that he found himself completely caught up in the tales. It was only after they’d finished their meal, and long shadows began to fall across the table, that Julen remembered his church duties and reluctantly excused himself.

When he came back after singing the evening hymn, Rosemary and Sebastian had retired to the parlor. They sat in silence, and the air around them seemed thick and heavy, as if it could spare no room for words. But Julen attributed that to their understandable weariness. “It’s late,” he informed. “Benedetto has already arranged places for your hunting party to sleep. Will you spend the night with us? Mary and I can put some blankets on the floor down here, while you take our bed upstairs.”

Sebastian immediately accepted Julen’s invitation, so Rosemary escorted the prince upstairs. When she returned, she carried a blanket, and armful of pillows.

“What an extraordinary man,” Julen murmured, as he helped his wife spread out the bedding. “Do you think all royalty is like that?”

Rosemary didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed hold of Julen, and yanked him into a fierce kiss. At first, Julen felt too startled by his wife’s aggression to respond. But as her lips tugged at his, warm and insistent, his hunger awoke. Julen opened his mouth to meet hers, and the taste of her spilled into him like juice spilling from a ripe peach. Like honey-sweet mead, making him drunk. Julen worshipped that taste. Wrapping his arms around Rosemary, Julen pulled her close, until each breath pressed her chest against his.

He would have been happy to stay like that forever, sipping and savoring her lips. But Rosemary seemed to grow impatient with his gentleness. Even as she kissed him, she dragged her hands over his shirt, tugging at the rough fabric. Then, unable to tear it off, she shoved her caresses beneath it. Julen gasped at the feel of her fingers forcing their way through his chest hair. His heart flopped around in his ribcage like a fish trying to escape from a bone net. “Mary...?” he panted. “What’s gotten into you...?”

“Shh,” she whispered, blowing softly across his lips. Her green eyes seemed to burn with unholy fire, like false stars leading sailors to their deaths. “No talking. Not tonight.”

“But I want to say how much I—“

“No talking. Just enjoy.”

Stunned, Julen offered no resistance as Rosemary pulled his shirt up over his head. Nor did he object when she tangled her body around his, dragging him down onto the blankets spread across the floor. Her breath burned his skin, heating the blood that flowed beneath her kisses, and Julen’s vision blurred as his senses began to boil. An involuntary moan burst from his lips, despite the presence of a guest upstairs. Half-blind, Julen groped at the laces on Rosemary’s bodice, while she did a much more efficient job of unfastening the ties that held his pants shut. A shudder tore through Julen as they opened, allowing the cool evening air to wash over rigid flesh.

Straddling him, Rosemary began to lick his stomach, her tongue glistening as it darted between her swollen lips. Julen swallowed another cry of pleasure, while his body arched to meet her attentions. But when her mouth started to move lower, his hand shot down to block her. “Mary! No...”

“But I want to.” Rosemary raised her head to look at him, and a drop of sweat trickled down her cheek. “Why won’t you let me?”

“It’s not right for you to debase yourself like that. Like a...like a whore.” In truth, Julen had never seen a whore, but he’d heard vague tales told by some of the travelers who passed through Domele -- tales about the cities, and the desperate women whose poverty forced them to survive by performing humiliating acts. He couldn’t bear the thought of Rosemary sinking to that level. “It’s not right.”

Gently, Rosemary traced the inside of his thigh, skirting the area he had forbidden her to kiss. “Is it really so wrong? I’m sure that the prince has let women pleasure him like that.”

“Sebastian is of royal blood, and entitled to a great many things.” Reaching out, Julen took Rosemary’s hand, and wrapped it in his own. “I, on the other hand, am a simple man who still can’t believe how blessed I was on the day when you agreed to be my wife.”

For a moment, Rosemary refused to meet his eyes. But then she smiled, and bent forward, placing a fond kiss on his lips. “I do love you, Julen. Truly, I do.”

“And I love you, too, Mary.”

Lying down beside him, Rosemary allowed Julen to finish undressing her. Slowly, savoring the beauty of each exposed inch, Julen removed her clothes, like carefully peeling away a cocoon to reveal the butterfly sleeping within it. She looked so beautiful naked. Skin the color of fresh cream, unblemished as a perfect eggshell, and her light brown hair falling in swirls across the pillow. Even the angels in heaven couldn’t be more stunning. And once again, Julen silently vowed that as long as he lived, he wouldn’t let anything hurt, or taint, or corrupt her.

Softly, Julen kissed and stroked Rosemary, whispering words of devotion into her ear, until she was ready for him. She sighed in contentment as he pushed into her warmth, and her eyelashes fluttered before closing. Moving in a familiar rhythm, they pressed their bodies together, like two candles melting to become one. Julen felt his pleasure building with each breath. But he restrained himself until Rosemary cried out, and her legs snapped against his sides, holding him deep as she climaxed. Then, assured that he’d pleased his wife, Julen surrendered to his own release.

Later, as he lay on the floor, holding the Rosemary’s sleeping body, Julen thought about what she’d offered to do for him. Thought about her lips caressing him down there. And, to his dismay, he felt a stirring of desire. But, he quickly chastised himself for even considering it. Other men, men like Sebastian, might demand such things from their women. He would never be that selfish. Rosemary would never have to do anything like that to earn his love. And she would never know anything but gentleness from his hands. Instead of dwelling on the image any further, Julen listened to the insects thrumming outside in the summer night, and thanked God for giving him such a wonderful...such a perfect...life.

*****

Inside Domele’s small church, drops of blood fell onto the flagstones, like petals tumbling from a liquid rose. They ran down the skin of the woman who stood by the church altar, flowing from two matching wounds on her back – wounds that would never heal, despite the hundreds of years which had passed since she inflicted them on herself. A slight glow seemed to emanate from her hands, and it illuminated the pattern of wings engraved on the box she caressed.

“So,” Anamaranda whispered, speaking in the Holy Tongue used by all her kind. “It has begun.”