Page 3 of Burying Venus

‘No,’ the boy confirmed, stepping closer. ‘I’m one of the fair folk.’

A faerie. The mermaids would have been enough for a lifetime. Now Dermot had to contend with this.

‘What’s the matter?’ the boy said, staring up at Dermot with wide eyes. ‘Am I not fair?’

Dermot startled as he was embraced, watching in disbelief as the faerie stood on tiptoes and leaned forward, entangling them as their lips clashed together. An unholy union to be sure, but his partner’s lips were full and soft, and Dermot soon wrapped his arms around the boy’s thin frame in return. It was his first kiss; ambrosia was on his tongue.

Hands unravelling from around Dermot’s neck and slowly trailing his chest until they rested firmly on his breeches, the faerie said, ‘I can give you so much more.’

‘How old are you?’ Dermot choked out.

The faerie smiled. ‘Older than you can fathom. Lie down.’

Legs already shaking, Dermot did as he was bid. Lying flat on the earth with the realisation the boy could kill him in an instant, cold fingers brushed against skin as trousers were clawed away. It was madness; to think a man might stake his existence for a chance at pleasure. No doubt his fellows rested on the ocean floor, else in the stomachs of those women. Sense returning, Dermot began to rise as the faerie’s tongue teased his aching cock. It was harder than he'd ever known it, engorged and straining.

The lad’s golden eyes met Dermot’s, and the faerie smiled before plunging forward and licking in earnest, teasing the entire length, peppering kisses on the head like depraved worship. Better than Dermot’s eager hands rubbing himself raw as he imagined dark hair, a slender form. But he could not just then recall who frustrated him so.

‘I love human men. You are more impressive than anyone in my realm,’ the faerie said, wrapping thin fingers around the length. And with that, he put his lips on the thing entire.

The drudgery of life was forgotten, eased between the lips of the creature that had become his world. Everyone could burn and it wouldn’t matter so long as the faerie kept bobbing his head, twisting his tongue around Dermot’s length as he jerked his hand in tandem.

Bliss struck, heralding his peak. It was as if he were Lord Stanley, being fussed over like a god. The lad’s hair covered most of his sweet, doll-like face, but between the strands, they glimpsed one another.

‘You’re an angel,’ Dermot gasped. Breath hitching, vision blackening in pleasure, his head hit the ground. The rest of him shuddered through climax. His core pulsed and sang, stopped only by a scream he belatedly realised was his own.

He might’ve died, the bright spark of pleasure all that remained save for fingers weaving through his curls. His brain tingled in delight.

‘Not an angel,’ the boy murmured. Soft lips pressed against Dermot’s forehead. ‘What is your name, hero?’

‘Dermot Hatfield,’ he said. ‘I’m no hero.’

‘You are to me. Such a brave, virile man,’ the faerie said. ‘Few mortals can see us, you know. You have a gift. And a strong hand, at that.’

Dermot blearily opened his eyes. The faerie knelt above him without a single blemish on porcelain skin.

‘Have you enjoyed yourself, Dermot Hatfield? It certainly seemed like it,’ the faerie said. He gave Dermot’s hair a tug before pulling away. ‘Don’t you think you should give me something in return?’

He looked up at the boy and smiled, still a thrall to the faerie that had serviced him.

‘So handsome,’ the faerie said. He moved to sit on top of Dermot so their position mimicked the act. ‘Surely you’d be able to help a poor creature like me.’

‘And what is it you need doing?’ Dermot asked, entranced by the way their bodies moved together.

The boy hummed, and even that turned Dermot to cinder; lovelier in that moment than anything sung to completion. He procured a vial from his pocket and held it in front of Dermot’s face. ‘Not an epic quest of some kind, I assure you. I merely ask that in a few days, when the bishop comes again to your castle, you pour some of this in whatever you happen to be making. Food or wine, it doesn’t matter, so long as everyone has a taste.’

Narrowing his eyes at the vessel, Dermot considered. He’d imagined a sexual favour but, as their play became more frenzied, every question was forgotten. No man was wise when there was a chance of losing his virginity.

‘Why?’ Dermot managed.

‘Because I’ve done something for you. Now you must repay me,’ the boy said.

‘What are you, a prostitute?’ Dermot said. When he saw the creature scowl, he realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, love. Clearly you know who I am. A simple scullion used to kitchen humour. No great hero.’

‘By all means, if that’s what you want to be, don’t take the vial. But I am giving you the opportunity to do something with that life of yours,’ the boy said, now very still. ‘It’s not every day that man and faerie meet. Even the ones that go to the merfolk knownothing but compulsion. It is a gift of the blood to even lay eyes on me.’ The boy moved again, teasing.

Dazed and pleasure-addled as he was, it made a grim sort of sense. ‘What’s in the vial?’ Dermot asked. Black hair and dark eyes played in his mind; the realisation that if not for Aubrey’s sweet voice, he’d give it to the Stanleys without asking, hoping they all choked on it until their bodies succumbed.

‘It’s not poison, I assure you,’ the boy said. ‘A simple concoction full of wonderful things. Flowers, fruit…’