The Wager
The weather is splendid this morning, sunny and dry after three days of rain. I wait impatiently for O’Keefe, the stable boy, to saddle Thunder, my bay horse. I cannot decide whether O’Keefe is just slow or an idiot, but I swear he needs my whip more than Thunder does.
When I am finally in the open, I breathe in the fresh air. ‘Tis a relief to be out of the house. For the last few days I have been forced to play the graceful host to my mother and sister and a bunch of their friends. It is rather convenient to live not too far from the race tracks and I am looking forward to the start tomorrow, but not being able to lead my normal life unsettles me. My mother has a keen eye for my flaws and I restrained myself from my usual fun and games. If mother knew, she would probably disown me.
For the last ten years she has been nagging me to get married, from the moment her chambermaid, whose name I can not remember, ran to he mistress to show her the telltale marks of the cruel handling I, the evil son, had inflicted on her. She became even more insistent after walking into one of my disciplining sessions with Miller, the poacher.
She seems to think I will leave that all behind me when I am married to a ‘decent’ woman, and even though I am not totally against marrying, I resist. I do want heirs, but Lord knows I am bored to death by most decent women. Or men.
I give Thunder the spurs so he moves from gallop to a more exciting speed and the way he moves his ears tell me he enjoys the freedom as much as I do. I even laugh when the wind takes my top hat and sends it spiralling up to the air. Thunder follows the corrections I give him pressing my thighs into his flanks, but we still seem to fly.
All of a sudden, I am aware of another horse approaching and I glance over my shoulder. A man on another big brown bay seems to be in pursuit and I realize he is trying to race us. I smile and this time I do use the whip, determined not to let this stranger overtake me. Every now and then I look back at him and admire his riding skills; he is really good and for a moment I think I am about to lose, but then Thunder speeds up a tiny bit and we reach the outskirts of the woods before my mysterious opponent does. I reign in Thunder and he stops, scraping his hooves and throwing back his head to neigh triumphantly at the bay.
I turn around in the saddle to take a look at this man who dares to challenge me. Now I can see that his horse is a beautiful animal; young and a bit nervous, but magnificent nevertheless. Its owner does look even better, but I know instinctively he is not thoroughbred like his horse. He did have the nerve to try and best me though and it makes my blood sing in anticipation.
“Good morning; that is a fine horse you have there,” I say, raking a hand through my now unruly hair.
“Good morning to you, Sir,” he replies, taking off his cap in a respectful way. “My name is Mortensen, Viggo Mortensen. This is my master, Mr. Venables’ horse. He will race tomorrow and I am exercising him. When I saw you racing your horse I just could not resist; I really hope you do not mind mister..?
“I am Fenton, Lord Fenton,” I say and he bows his head.
“Your Lordship.”
There is nothing like sitting astride a fine piece of horseflesh on a glorious morning like this and I thrill as Duke responds to my every touch. Up on the heath, I can ease him into a gallop and he whinnies in delight as we move together as one.
He is a lively two year old, up for his first race tomorrow and although he is inexperienced and strung a tight as a bow, he has a good heart and his owner has high hopes of him.
I know that whatever the outcome, I have prepared him well and he will be turned out to the best of my ability. Horses have been my life and he and I have become firm friends.
He lifts his head and whinnies again, as we see another bay ahead of us. The rider is an elegant gentleman, clad all in black and as we approach, the wind takes his top hat and whisks it away. I feel Duke surge beneath me and I know what he wants, because I want it too. I give him his head and we set off in pursuit of horse and rider, the wind in our ears and the blood thrumming in our veins.
As we gradually gain on the pair, the rider suddenly seems to become aware of us and he looks behind him. Realizing that the game is on, he kicks his horse with his spurs and uses his whip to urge his mount on.
I have no need of either, nor any taste to use them on a beautiful animal and yet we continue to close the distance between us, until it seems inevitable that we must overtake them before we reach the copse of trees ahead.
But no, the rider stays ahead and manages to beat us to the edge of the woods, where he reins in his mount in and turns to greet us. Both man and horse are triumphant and make no bones of showing it to us.
In truth they are both proud and magnificent creatures. His horse is a big, handsome glossy bay and he is a very handsome man. Both clearly know it.
He runs his hand through his hair, deigns to greet me and compliments me on my horse. I snatch my cap off in due deference and bow my head, bidding him a “Good Morning”.
I venture to introduce myself, which is probably forward of me, given the strict rules of Society over here, but I was born and raised in America, where things are not so stiff and it is hard to get used to these rules. I tell him that Duke is not my horse, but belongs to my master, Mr Venables, beg his pardon for racing with him and wait for him to tell me his name, which he does,
“Fenton, Lord Fenton.”
I bow more deeply, his tone and title leaving me in no doubt of what is expected of me, “Your Lordship”.
He seems pleased and smiles at me. *God, he is a handsome devil* He also seems to be looking me over, as if I am a piece of horseflesh, which makes me smile inwardly.
Moving his horse forward, so that our knees are almost touching, he leans over and runs his hand over Duke’s flank
“So, Mortensen, your master intends to race this fine fellow tomorrow? Do you think it worth a wager? What is his name?”
“His right name is Duke’s Bounty, My Lord. He is by Duke of Kilkenny out of Captain’s Bounty. We call him Duke in the stables. As to a wager, he’s untried as yet and tomorrow will be his first outing on the track. I believe in him, but I shouldn’t like Your Lordship to risk losing his guineas.”
His lips curl and his smile becomes somewhat cruel,
“No? Perhaps a private wager, then, my man?”
A groom, just a few steps up from O’Keefe, but a complete stairway removed from him in every other respect. I don’t know this Mr.Venables, but if my groom looked like Mortensen I would not just let him take care of my horses.
I deliberately move closer to him while I ask the name of the horse and if Mortensen thinks he is worth a wager. His cautious answer, how he does not want me to lose my guineas makes me smile and a devious, but delicious plan unfolds in my brain.
“No? Perhaps a private wager, then, my man?”
“A private wager, My Lord? I beg your pardon, but I am not a wealthy man. I am afraid I can not risk losing money.”
I smile at him reassuringly, “It is not your money I am interested in, but your skills. You say you believe the horse to be a winner. It is a fine animal, but I happen to think he is too young and unpredictable.”
For a moment his eyes blaze with blue fire, but then he hastily looks down and keeps silent.
“I can see you disagree with me and of course, I could be wrong. I say let us put a little wager on it. You say Duke’s Bounty will end up as one of the three best horses, I say he will not. The loser can pay his debt, not in money, but in services. During one day he will serve the winner in whatever way is demanded of him. Fair enough; don’t you agree, Mortensen?”
He hesitates and looks at me, clearly searching for words. “But My Lord, you can’t mean you…”
“On my word as a gentleman, Mortensen; if I lose I will keep my part of our agreement, just as I know you will.” I offer him my hand and he shakes it.
“Agreed?”
“Agreed, My Lord.”
“Let us meet here again the day after the races at noon, Mortensen.”
“Very well, My Lord.”
I nod and then ride off back home. As soon as I know I am out of sight I laugh out loud. It has been so easy to lure him. There is absolutely no way this horse, this newcomer, would be able to get even close to, for instance Kavanagh’s horses, or Flanagan’s. They and their jockeys know the track so well and the horses are reliable and calm, not nervous like that young devil Mortensen was riding. It would be almost too easy.
Already I am thinking about that day soon to come. Thank heavens my guests will be leaving early in the morning, so I can do whatever I want. There is no doubt in my mind that I will win and over the coming day I will think about all the things I shall make him do. I shiver in anticipation and when I dismount from Thunder in the stables, I am in a much better mood than I had been earlier,
Luckily the weather conditions are stable and my guests are able to drive to the race track in an open carriage the following day, while I accompany them, riding Thunder. Mother, impressive in a white dress and an enormous hat with ostrich feathers, holds her head high, and my sister, Emily, seems almost invisible sitting next to her.
We hear the music from afar and many people are already there when we arrive. After I escort the ladies and make certain they are seated, I escape to a group of men gathering near the entrance to the paddock. I smile when I recognize my American opponent and I assume that the gentleman he is talking to is Mr. Venables.
“Good morning, gentlemen, a nice day for a race, don’t you think?”
Mortensen looks up and answers my smile, “My Lord, may I introduce you to my master, Mr. Venables?”
Venables is a ruddy-faced man and hearing my title seems to make him flush even more.
“My Lord, I am delighted to meet you.” He throws a surprised look at his groom, “You never told me you knew his Lordship, Mortensen.”
“We met only briefly yesterday,” I intervene. *So he clearly did not tell his master about our wager. Good.*
Duke is looking at his best on the day of the races and my master is very pleased with the way he is turned out. He is going to be up against some fierce competition, but we have an experienced jockey, Jimmy O’Malley and we are confident he will make a good showing, in spite of his inexperience.
Venables is just giving final instructions to Jimmy, when an arrogant and cultured voice bids us “Good Morning” and we turn to see His Lordship, the debonair picture of elegance.
He bestows a smile on me and seeing Mr Venable’s surprise, I quickly return the smile and introduce him. The title gives my master, who has made his money in haberdashery, quite a jolt. His red face becomes even redder as he clearly wonders at my intimacy with the landed gentry.
With practised ease, Fenton charms him and smoothes over any momentary awkwardness, explaining that we met only yesterday. He goes on to explain how we met and compliments Mr Venables on a fine piece of horseflesh.
Flustered and flattered, my master fails to notice that His Lordship’s eyes flicker over my body, when he says that, but it is not lost upon me and I feel myself blush. If I should lose the wager, I have a good idea what services Fenton will require of me and I hurriedly look away from his appraising glance.
A throaty chuckle tells me that he has noticed I cannot meet his eyes and after Mr Venables bows deeply and takes his leave with Jimmy, we are alone for a few moments and he leans forward and hisses in my ear,
“I trust you have not forgotten our little wager. For myself, my money is on Kavanagh’s grey mare to win. You cannot beat experience, you know.”
Mr Venables calls to me to come and help Jimmy to mount Duke and I take the opportunity to hurry away without replying, but I can feel his eyes watching me as I head for the paddock. I am certain that he is very experienced in many ways and not used to losing in any field.
I help Jimmy into the saddle and give Duke’s nose a rub. He nuzzles me affectionately and I lead them to the starting gate, before joining Mr Venables in the Owners’ and Trainers’ stand.
Then they are off and we are caught up, in the drumming of the pounding hooves, flying clods of earth, the shouts of the crowd and the thrill of the race. It is a close run thing and it seems that Duke will finish in the first three, but in the final straight, when we have shouted ourselves hoarse, he is just edged out by a nose and makes fourth place.
My master is a little disappointed at first, but is soon being slapped on the back by many of the owners, who are telling him that Duke gave a very creditable show for his first outing and is sure to do better next time out. He is even receiving offers to buy the horse and seems content.
As I hurry to take care of my horse, I see Fenton on his way to collect his winnings on the grey, which came first, as he predicted. He smiles that rather cruel smile again and tips his hat to me. A shiver, part fear and part anticipation runs down my spine.
Next morning, I complete my chores and, bid farewell to Duke, stroking his mane and rubbing my face against his to calm myself. He whickers softly, as if he understands.
” I am nervous, my friend, but a wager is a wager and I lost.” Bidding him farewell, I set off on foot to the meeting place by the copse.
For a few awkward moments I hold my breath, afraid that what I had thought impossible, this newcomer winning, was about to happen. Not that I intended for even a second to keep my part of the ‘gentlemen’s agreement’, he was a servant, not a gentleman and the mere thought of my serving himwas absurd. I do hate losing though and I had been looking forward to the next day when I would have this man at my disposal.
Fortunately it does not happen, but the horse comes close and I would not wager against him the next time. For now life is beautiful again and I merrily collect my winnings.
The next morning after breakfast, I wave off the departing carriages, relieved to be finally alone. I inform Hodges, my butler, that I wish not to be disturbed all day and then I head to the stables, where I assign O’Keefe to help the gardener and stay away from the stables today. He looks at me questioningly, as if he expected me to explain myself.
“Out!” I say and he moves to the door, sullenly.
I look around me and grin when I see the big pile of hay in the far corner of the stables. *Perfect!*
From the saddle room I take a few coils of rope and drop them next to the pile of hay, then place a big log in front of it. This is about as comfortable as it will get for Mortensen.
I saddle Thunder myself and deliberately leave home a little late, to make things clear from the beginning. I never doubted that he would be there; I feel I understand what he is like and he will stay true to his word.
He is waiting patiently, sitting beneath a big tree. No noble Duke’s Bounty this time, and for a moment I wonder what he has told his master to be able to disappear for a day.
“Good day, Viggo, isn’t it?”
“Good day, My Lord,” he replies politely, “ yes, my name is Viggo.”
“Well follow me, Viggo.” I turn my horse and he follows on foot. I let Thunder walk at an easy gait, but still Viggo has to make an effort to keep at a respectful distance without getting hopelessly behind.
When we near the gates of the Manor, I make Thunder stop and turn in the saddle to look down at a sweating Viggo. He seems in awe and stares at the house, mouth slightly open. *Before this day is ended, I will have him look at me like that,* I promise myself.
“Well Viggo, it seems appropriate we spent our time together in your usual surroundings. You would probably feel very ill at ease in a gentleman’s private chamber and we would not want that, would we? Let me show you my stables.”
I can see he feels thoroughly humiliated. His face is flushed, but he lowers his head and his voice is respectful, “Whatever you say, My Lord.”
“That is the spirit my boy,” and I direct Thunder towards the stables. Inside, I let Viggo take care of the horse, while I sit down on the log and watch him. I like the confident way he moves and the strength of his body. It will be delicious to break that confidence, to make him submit to me in every possible way.
When he is done, Viggo picks up the brush still lying on the floor and turns around, “Do you want me to groom your horse, My Lord?”
This time I laugh out loud, “Good heavens; no, man! Do you think I brought you here for my horses?”
“You said you wanted my skills,” he mutters but there is something in his face that makes clear he knows very well what I want him for. Or at least, he has a damn good idea.
“Not those skills. Today you will be my horse. I will ride you and will not spare the whip to get what I want from you.”
“But My Lord,” he says, cheeks aflame.
“Whatever is demanded of you, remember? You agreed to that.”
He stands, frozen for a moment and then he nods, “Yes, My Lord.”
"Come here," I say, unbuttoning my breeches. "On your knees and suck me off to start with."
Fenton makes sure he walks the horse at such a pace that I have to be brisk to keep up, while of course maintaining a respectful distance behind. He has a good seat on a horse, his back straight and his bearing haughty. His Thunder is also a fine animal, so I enjoy the view and am thankful for my physical fitness. Nevertheless, by the time we reach his Manor, I am sweating and it is not just from the exertion, nor the warmth of the day.
The Manor is magnificent and he looks round to check that I am suitably awestruck, enjoying our relative positions, which of course reflect our positions in society. How he enjoys his superiority as he makes it clear that I am too lowly to enter his chamber, but can accompany him to the stable.
I drop my head submissively. I know my place.
We go to the stables, which are strangely deserted for the time of day. Thunder enters and proudly passes the other horses in their stalls, who dip their heads. He is clearly the Lord here, just as his master is at the Manor.
He dismounts and sits on a log next to a pile of hay, while I attend to Thunder. I guess that he has dismissed his own groom today. He wants us to be alone here and I am sure that I know why. I can see coils of rope peeping out from beneath the hay, which sends a trickle of sweat down my spine. Keeping up the façade that I am here to serve as a groom, I ask whether he wants me to continue with the horse, but he mocks me and orders me over to suck his cock.
I latch Thunder into his stall and move over to where he is sitting, leaning back, his legs spread apart, his breeches unbuttoned and an arrogant smile on his handsome face.
Dropping to my knees, I rub the back of my hand over my mouth and dip my head hesitantly towards his formidable, erect member. He seems to enjoy my reluctance, as he grows even harder and his long fingers take hold of my head, forcing it down. I can smell the musky, male scent of him, which even his expensive cologne cannot mask. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and hold his cock loosely, while I tentatively lick the head and at his insistence, take it further into my mouth.
He draws in his breath as I graze his shaft gently with my teeth and I cannot resist the tiniest nip of the loose skin at the tip. He curses and yanks my head up, pulling my hair painfully, so that I open my watering eyes. Picking up his riding crop, he rests it against my cheek and berates me angrily,
“You clumsy bastard! Bite me again and I’ll lay your pretty face wide open. A little inexperience is stimulating and amusing, but for God’s sake, man, surely even an ignorant clod like you can do better than that.”
*Oh yes, My Lord, I can do much better than that!*
What I say out loud is, “Sorry, My lord, please forgive me. I shall try to do better.”
“See that you do!” He shoves my head down again and this time, I swirl my tongue around the head, wiggling it into the slit and tasting him, before I use the flat of my tongue to press the underside, gripping his cock firmly with my right hand and using my left to roll his balls in their heavy sac. When I relax my throat and swallow him whole, he curses again, but this time in surprise and pleasure.
He goes down to his knees and hesitantly lowers his head towards my cock. That’s good; if I had wanted willing eagerness I would not have had to go to the trouble. To make a physically strong man like this bend to my will makes my erection grow even harder. I grab his head and push it down forcefully into my groin. He struggles a little, which makes it even better, but then gives in to the relentless pressure of my hands.
At first he just uses his tongue, but I push harder, so that he finally takes me into his mouth. I do not know if this is the first time he has done this and he is clumsy, or if he is trying to get back at me, but when I threaten to whip his face, he apologizes quickly. All of a sudden he proves he is not clumsy at all, nor is this his first time, but he works my flesh in a delicious way and even fondles my balls. A sharp intake of breath and then without warning, he swallows me whole.
A curse escapes me, the pleasure he gives too much to stay still and I grab a handful of his hair to guide the pace, not wanting this to be over too soon. I look down at his bobbing head and lift my hips a little to pull down my breeches to give him better access to the soft skin behind my balls.
All too soon I am close, whether I want it or not, and I lean back against a bale of hay, spreading my legs even more. I shout as I come, pulling out of his mouth, but keeping hold of him, so I streak his face with hot evidence of my release. He tries to get up, but I push down his face again and force him to lick me clean until it starts to hurt and I shove him away.
I let my head fall back in the hay, waiting for my breath to calm down. *God, he is good.*
My eyes still closed, I think of more delicious things to do to him and I smile.
“I’ll wager you groom your master, just as you groom his horses. I wonder if he would be willing to sell his whore to me.”
He does not reply, but suddenly I feel a tug on my wrists and I open my eyes, realizing he is tying a piece of rope around them. Before I can even react he pounces on top of me, straddling my thighs. An iron hand grabs my balls and squeezes hard, while he claps the other hand over my mouth, so I almost choke on my own pained screaming.
When he finally releases his grip and takes away his hands I can only whimper, my own hands flying down to cup my balls. It is easy for him now to tie my wrists together and even though I try to throw him off I cannot, because the pain is still excruciating. I struggle to get my voice back and then I address him sharply.
“”What do you think you are doing, Mortensen? I demand that you let go of me immediately. Are you out of your mind? Do you know who I am?”
“I know who you are and what you are, and I do not give a fuck,” he says, his hands now working on my ankles. “Now if you do not shut up I’ll stuff your mouth with hay.”
“You would not dare,” I start, but I am beginning to realize he probably would, that he already has me trussed up and slowly fear is getting the better of me.
“Why are you doing this? Just because I made you suck me?”
“My sister,” he answers curtly, which makes no sense at all and then he grabs the ropes on my ankles and wrists and lifts me as if I weigh nothing. He drops me unceremoniously onto the ground inside an empty stall and for a moment we stare at each other.
“My sister,” he says again, voice now softer.
I manage to turn the tables on His Lordship, while his limbs are slack from his release. One minute he is calling me a whore and the next I literally have him by the balls and I twist and squeeze grimly, my hand clamped firmly over his mouth. Not that I think there is any danger of us being discovered. He will have made sure that he would be undisturbed, while he had his wicked way with me. The only witnesses are the horses, who are shifting nervously and pawing the ground, but they will not tell.
When I need to use both hands and release his mouth, his voice has risen by an octave and his green eyes glisten with tears. Still he tries to find his old arrogant tones and challenge me.
As I am busy trussing him like a goose for the oven, I tell him that I care not who he is and threaten to stuff his mouth. With grim satisfaction I see that pain and indignation are giving way to fear. He asks me why I am doing this and I answer him simply with two words, two words which have brought me across the ocean with anger on my mind and vengeance in my heart. I pick him up and throw him into an empty stall.
He lies there looking up at me fearfully, his hands and feet bound and his breeches round his knees, his formerly proud cock looking small and shrivelled, his bruised balls trying to escape back into his body. Generally a compassionate man, I cannot find it in me to feel any pity for him, when I think of the innocents he has abused and one in particular most dear to me.
“My sister,” I repeat softly. “You will probably not remember her, for she was one of many, I have no doubt. Her name was Bridget and she travelled here to help care for our old grandmother, who was one of your tenants. When Grandma died, you came to evict her from the cottage and she took your offer to employ her at the Manor and see that she had a roof over her head as one of charity, poor sweet, naive girl.
By the time I received her letter, telling me how vilely you had raped her, beaten and abused her, she had thrown herself from the cliff, unable to live with her shame and the knowledge that she was bearing your child.”
His eyes have not left my face, but the colour has drained from his and I pick up the riding crop he threatened me with and turn him over onto his belly.
“Wait, Mortensen, if it is money you want, I have plenty….”
“Money? You think that money would make this right?” My anger is rising and I want to stay in control. I silently count to ten and breathe deeply,
“I do not want your money, you black-hearted bastard. I want you to know what it is to feel fear and helplessness at the hands of someone without pity.”
Raising the crop I bring it down hard on his lily-white backside, raising a red welt and a sharp cry from him. I continue laying stripe after stripe across his ass and the backs of his thighs until my arm aches, ignoring his yelps and pleas for mercy.
When I am done thrashing him, I heave him onto his knees, pushing his face down into the dirt and fuck him hard and savagely until I spend myself in some relief, but little pleasure.
I stand up a little shakily and tuck myself back into my breeches. He is still in the same position, keeling with his striped ass in the air and my seed trickling down his legs, flecked with blood. He turns his face streaked with dirt, sweat, tears and snot and begs me not to kill him.
“Kill you? Why would I do that? I want you to live and remember how this feels; how your victims have felt. You make a nice picture for your groom to find, but I think that on my way through the village I will suggest to the good people that they might like to visit your stables for entertainment. Farewell now.”
I stoop and take his purse from his pocket. I do not want his money, but before I leave the country, I have a jockey to pay for helping me with a little wager.
Summary: Lord Fenton gets more than he expected.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Lord Fenton/Viggo
Warnings: Non-con, ViolenceChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 5441 Read: 879
Published: 01 Nov 2009 Updated: 01 Nov 2009