Viscount Temptation: Damon Snow, #3

Chapter 1

December, 1809

Covent Garden

Istared down at the frumpy cull, and the cull stared back down at me, completely uncowed. But of course he wouldn’t be cowed. He was, after all, paying me a handsome figure to entertain him. He even went so far as to hire our best room with a four poster bed and fresh sheets free of the smell of sweat and cum, and the roaring fireplace decorated with printed tiles featuring men and women fucking each other in every conceivable manner. Oh yes, he was putting down a handsome sum to have me, only sixpence of which I’d ever see.

Yet, Mr Waller would not be entertained. His cock lay flaccid beneath his pantaloons, his eyes unimpressed. He just sat on the edge of the bed in his frumpy brown jacket and frumpy old-fashioned breeches and frumpy black leather shoes on either side of his frumpy brown stockings, lacking any stuffing to turn his frumpy calves into a pleasing shape. No, no, even that much effort would have made him too interesting.

In every single way, Waller was not a man capable of turning any heads. Yet, while I plied him with every sort of tease, from licking his salty earlobe to nuzzling his groin, he just sat there, unmoved, like he was somehow above me.

I hadn’t looked in a mirror since this morning, but somehow I didn’t think I’d suddenly sprouted some hideous defect in the meantime. I was handsome enough, although my brown hair needed a cut to keep it from brushing around my neck, and I even wore my best blue jacket, the one my long-time patron Byrne had bought me to wear to fancy dinners held by the ton.

And no one — no one — would ever dare call my calves unshapely. They were perfection defined, without the least bit of stuffing.

So why — why? — did nothing seem to move this rustic man?

No, correction. When I’d played with his jacket collar, stroking his neck, the placket had seemed to fill. I had taken a vengeful satisfaction in it, until I realised the placket had tented, but was hollow. His clothes had merely shifted.

Which left me shirtless and standing at one side of the small bedroom, and he sitting primly on the bed, ignoring the moans and creaks of far more successful mollies than I from the floors below us, entirely unruffled. Not a hair out of place, even though I’d run my hands through it.

I narrowed my eyes. Waller couldn’t just tell me what he wanted, now could he? He had to make this into some kind of contest of wills, wherein he refused to be aroused in the least, and I would receive a lecture from Benjamin Dover, the son of Mother Dover who owned and operated the molly house I belonged to.

Benjamin would not be amused, and I’d be sixpence short at the end of the night. So much for my nightly comfort of stark naked gin.

Unless… Unless I resorted to the incubus wiles I’d learned from another incubus, Frost. The only other incubus I’d ever met, and I endeavoured to keep it that way.

But the power… The incubus power. The sort of power that made men hard, whether they desired other men or not. If I simply stroked his cheek, letting my lust sizzle against his skin, he’d become like dough in my hand, begging me to touch him.

He’d even beg me to thrust my enormous cock into him. No. I hooked my fingers around the buttons in my own pantaloons. Waller’s eyes followed. I would never be like Frost. Never. I refused to force my prey to want me, feeding upon them – draining them was more accurate – until they died. Waller might be a willing victim, having hired me for the night, but even so, I didn’t need such enchantments. I was better than Frost. I knew better than to indulge any of the lies Frost had told me – and everything he said was a lie. I didn’t need Frost. I didn’t need to be an incubus. I’d make Waller hard all on my own.

I snapped the buttons off, the front piece billowing down as it exposed me.

And yes, I was a naughty boy, without a lick of linen under my pantaloons. I was working after all.

Waller’s eyes widened at the sight. As I’ve been told over and over again, mainly by my fellow cull cum friend Rogers, even at half mast, my length was an impressive sight to take in.

Ah, there we go. Waller’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips. His own placket seemed to be filling and not due to shifting cloth. At last, I had managed to arouse him.

Now what? I hesitated, pretending to observe his reaction, although Waller’s gaze could not be further from my face.

I let go of my pantaloons, and tight little beasts they were, they remained clinging to my legs. I must have looked ridiculous, but again, Waller’s eyes were glued to my cock, as if his pupils were a compass needle and my cock True North.

I grinned. Frost may have had need to rely on his incubus wiles. But I did not. I was better than that.

My hand clasped around the root of it, my thumb stroking along. Oh yes, Waller enjoyed that. As statuesque as he had been before, now he was panting. Nearly drooling over my cock. The same look Rogers had when he hungered to kiss my head.

No… Waller couldn’t possibly be interested in that. He was a cull — he paid me to suck his cock, not to go around sucking mine like some queer philanthropy effort.

Yet, I couldn’t ignore the look in his eyes, the way his tongue pressed through his lips.

Perhaps… Perhaps… Mister Waller, I said.

The man didn’t look up. I repeated his name again, and he jumped, babbling, Yes, that’s me.

Ah, the problem with assumed names. One never quite responded to it like they should when called.

I cupped myself, and gave him a naughty grin. Would you like a taste?

I shouldn’t have covered myself, for it only proved an impediment. In a flash, Waller was on his knees, throwing my hands aside and finding his own grip.

For a moment, he stared reverently at my cock, as if he couldn’t believe I would grant him such a favour. I couldn’t believe it either. Or rather, I couldn’t believe that this was the tease that would break through his wall.

Ah well, thank goodness for small favours, I suppose. I leaned back onto the wall as I felt his lips tentatively kiss the tip, and then went about devouring me.

Yes, I suppose I could forebear this… inconvenience. I laughed around the moans he extracted from me.

A good time later, I had to pry him from me before he made me spill my seed. He actually moaned, like a child told to spit out a sweet, at least until I led him to the bed, where he gave me a firm buggering.

After the man thanked me — thanked me! — and gave me a few small coins in gratitude, begging it was the only coin he had left with him that night, I retired down to the parlour. If I was lucky, I’d still be able to catch one more cull that night, although the hour drew late. Waller had taken far too long.

But at least I had enough coin for a bottle. If I threw off paying Mother Dover for board and I went another week shuffling to Mayfair and back without a great coat. I sighed and stepped into the parlour.

The parlour at Mother Dover’s was not the most ostentatious I’d ever visited, but it was comfortable enough with its well-worn chairs, most of them matching colours and in better condition than the third-hand Oriental rug rubbed patternless by so many passing soles.

But the best feature was the fireplace, the tiles bare of any decor. Better yet, the coal flames had been stoked far too high by some naughty molly, turning the room into an oven. A very toasty, pleasant oven, considering the cold snap London was experiencing this December.

I sighed and plunked myself in a chair next to Rogers, my fellow molly.

Only a month ago, I would have avoided the broad-shouldered blond cherub, despising him for only being twenty or so and looking it, and the way he’d attempt to fondle me at every opportunity, but now…

I knew Rogers had already seen at least one man tonight. He may have been waiting for one last cull, but more likely for me, when we’d climb the stairs to find a free room to bed down on for the night. Then Rogers would plead with me — just one more roll, just for him. We were friends, were we not?

My fingers curled around the chair’s arm. Better friend than Frost may have been… No, no guesswork needed at all. Rogers was the one who had rescued me from Frost’s clutches, when I’d been so stupidly blind as not to see the obvious.

Incubi were predators, parasites, and Frost no different than the others. This might have been the only truthful word to ever slip past Frost’s lips.

At the moment, however, I couldn’t have felt less predatory. Just tired.

Rough tumble? Rogers asked.

I shrugged. It could have been worse. He sucked me off.

He chuckled and shook his head, as if he was amused at my behaviour. Only you, old—

Don’t you dare, I said, stopping him before he could say it. Rogers had taken to the unfortunate pet name of old chap for me. He thought it seemed sophisticated, above the Cockney life he’d adopted and closer to my own affectations.

I, on the other hand, despised nothing more than to be reminded of my age. No matter how innocent it may be. Especially not as my birthday approached, Jesus Christ’s and mine both, another year gone by.

I was one-and-twenty, damn it. Always and forever. Christ could take all the years for the both of us.

Rogers pouted.

I let you call me by my Christian name, I said.

I’ve always called you Damon.

Not from me allowing it, to be sure.

Roger jerked his head back, as if I’d just slapped him. You didn’t like me calling you Damon? Why did you never say?

I always told you— I stopped, spotting his grin. He was mocking me. Perhaps the only person I allowed to do so without bitter recourse, only because any retribution slid off him like rain off a duck.

So I suppose you also don’t want to talk about your birthday, Rogers said.

Correct, I said. As far as anyone was concerned, I didn’t have one.

But how are we going to plan?

Plan what?

What to do on your birthday, he said.

Rogers…

Fine, fine, he said. We can talk later.

Not if I could avoid it. I already knew how I wished to spend it, and it didn’t even involve a crate full of gin bottles. But only if I received permission from a certain bedridden cull.

That door ain’t likely to open again, Rogers said, repealing any attempt at finer diction. He nodded to the parlour door through which the culls came through after speaking with Mother Dover or her son. We could…

Rogers flicked his eyes up, as if I didn’t already know to what he alluded. As if he didn’t say the exact same thing every night — multiple times at that.

A month ago, I’d finally given into Rogers’ demands upon my body. He had, after all, been trying to do me a good turn all along. He wanted to be my friend, or so he said. And he had seen through Frost’s plot to trap me in his web, a helpless incubus for him to gorge himself on.

Afterward, as we had stood shivering outside Frost’s flat in the frigid November weather, Rogers had promised he’d leave Mother Dover’s forever so I would never have to worry about him infringing on my body, not like Frost.

Only then, had I realised Rogers might have been sincere in his requests, that he only wished to be my friend. And that he only wished to be with me if we both had a good time.

So before Rogers packed his bags, which luckily happened on a Sunday