☆ Round One!

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Fill: What the Master Doesn't Know (4/6)

[(Anonymous)]

Oliver Priddy had been in Mr. Norrell's employ for a good ten years before Mr. Norrell could remember either his name or that he was the cook. (Oliver would joke below stairs that he might as well have been a fairy servant, for all that Mr. Norrell assumed his food would simply be there-- whether he ate it or not.)

Oliver Priddy did not mind, for he had little use for the upper classes, excepting of course that they paid him.

He was by far more content to worry about his own kitchen, and really he thought-- it was all the life below stairs that pleased him.

Dido was a quick and happy worker, always ready for a joke, and eager to learn anything he could teach her about food or listen to his stories of misadventure as they worked together. She was not the most principled of kitchenmaids, perhaps, but what fun would that have been?

And the scullery maid they had in London, Sarah, (though still young) was not the overworked, bedraggled thing he'd seen in other households, but still content to be a girl and wonder at the world around her and would ask to learn every word of every song that Oliver ever sang. She was surprisingly content in her work (and everyone pretended they did not know about the litter of kittens she'd saved from the gutter, and to whom she fed milk by the means of a dropper she made from hollow straws from the stables, and kept in an unused pot in a warm corner of the scullery.)

Lucas and Davey were always good for a laugh, and when they came slinking in to see what the marvelous smells could be, Oliver only begrudgingly chased them out of the kitchen, for he loved to watch them so beautiful and so happy and artless in their happiness while below stairs.

And Lucy and Hannah - though of inherently quiet natures - were perhaps the sweetest things about the place, and he would do whatever he thought of to see them blush and laugh at them.

But the real reason he had stayed in the employ of such a strange man as Mr. Norrell was undoubtedly the master's man of business, John Childermass.

John Childermass kept the household running with stoic diligence, and never had an unkind word for a servant ('less the servant markedly deserved it), and was altogether such a fine picture of a man, that Oliver's wanderlust had kept him in Hurtfew (and now Hanover Square) without a second thought.

It helped, of course, that Oliver Priddy and John Childermass had come to an understanding years ago.

= = = = =

Dinner was over and the kitchen clean, so Oliver Priddy had leisure to lounge about the servants' hall and make a nuisance of himself, which was by far one of his most favorite things to do.

What with all the activity about the house these days, most of the servants had already sought their beds, but John Childermass sat reading the news of the day while Hannah sat unobtrusively beside him with her novel, occasionally making quiet inquiries about various words.

Oliver drank what he could afford (today it was rum) and watched the two of them with a contented air until he could take the silence no longer.

"Was it not it Mr. Childermass taught you your letters?" he asked Hannah.

"Yes, sir," she said.

"As you well know," Childermass added in a grumble without looking up.

"And was he a patient tutor?" Oliver went on, unperturbed.

"Yes, sir. Like a saint."

Oliver barked his laughter as he slapped the tabletop in his amusement.

Clearly, this was hilarious.

Childermass lowered the newspaper just enough to scowl over it.

Oliver stopped laughing. But he could not stop his cheeky smile as he observed, "I do not think you've ever been so patient with me, sir."

"And why should I be, thick with insolence as you are."

"Well," Oliver mused. "I'm thick with something."

"Yes, thick in the head," Childermass told him, and gave him a warning look before returning his attention to his newspaper.

"And how is your novel, Hannah?" Oliver asked.

"It is most diverting," she said without any clear emotion.

Oliver shook his head and drank his rum, and then muttered, "Use a diversion, I could…"

"Oliver…" Childermass warned.

"Only what is it so fascinating about books? They can't give you anything."

"They can give a great deal!" Hannah spoke out, more fire in her eyes than she would usually show. "Begging your pardon, sir. But a story can give you any number of diversions."

"I'll take your word for it, Hannah," he said. "I find my pleasures elsewhere, as do a good deal of the household these days, I believe."

Hannah gave Oliver a questioning look, but Childermass put down his paper and said, "He'll be like this the rest of the night, lass, and you'll have no good reading in the servants' hall tonight. Why don't you off to bed?"

"Yes, sir. Good night, Mr. Childermass; Mr. Priddy."

"So proper," Oliver shook his head. "Good night, Hannah. Enjoy your book."

"If my candle does not make Sarah wakeful, I will."

And she took herself upstairs, quiet as anything.

Childermass sat at one end of the table, glaring. "Happy now?" he asked.

"Well, yes. Got you to myself, haven't I?" said Oliver from the other.

Childermass snorted and lifted his paper once more.

Oliver stood and stretched and wandered about the room, checking that all was as it should be and that Hannah had indeed gone. Once he was sure that they were all alone, Oliver came to a halt in his wanderings somewhere behind his senior servant.

"I hear you've been poking the maids."

Childermass sighed. "You don't know the half of it…"

"Oh? And what of poor Oliver?" said Oliver, trailing his hand across Childermass's shoulders.

"I thought poor Oliver was being seen to by the poor coachman at Limmer's."

"Poor Oliver was, but the coachman at Limmer's has shit for brains-- he's taken up with that lusty little roustabout from Ireland who's always hanging about the Coach and Horses, and besides," he said, bending suddenly close to Childermass's ear, "I miss the way you bent me over the gardener's table at Hurtfew."

"That table was just the right height," Childermass fondly recalled, turning a page of the paper.

Oliver settled a firm hand on each of Childermass's shoulders, digging in with his strong fingers to chase the tension away. He put his lips close to a suspicious ear and said, "I need a good seeing to, John."

"You need something," Childermass agreed, rolling his eyes and in no way compelled to rise to the bait Oliver was so determined to dangle in front of him. Not immediately, anyway.

"You live to torment me," Oliver sighed, wandering away again and pouring himself another tot of rum.

"Not at all," Childermass denied, "but it is a fine hobby when I am not otherwise engaged."

"Quite engaged you've been, I hear tell. Dido and Lucy, sir?"

"Mm," Childermass answered, in the least agreeable way possible.

"Is Hannah next?"

Childermass only glared.

"She utterly adores you, you know."

"She's but a girl," Childermass muttered.

"Not if you ask ask the grocer's boy."

Childermass folded down the top of his paper to inquire in his lowest rumble, "The grocer's boy?"

"Oh, follows her like a puppy, he does. Sweet as anything. She - the poor dear - is oblivious, but not for long, I think… She's old enough for it."

Something - a muscle or tendon - began ticking in Childermass's jaw.

"You've got that funny protective streak, don't you?" Oliver pushed. "I remember you gave that stevedore a tidy punch on his nose when I rebuffed him and he wouldn't take no for an answer. And you guard the master like a bulldog, you do. Or a mastiff maybe. I suppose Hannah will remain chaste as anything so long as you're around to chase off all her lovers---"

"Oliver."

"Yes, John?"

"What can I do to make you stop talking?"

"You know the answer to that," Oliver promised with a wicked shift of his lips. "Put my mouth to better use, you must."

"You're hard up," Childermass lightly observed, picking up his paper again.

"You are a positive scoundrel, John Childermass, teasing me so."

"I'm only a man of business in a fine London house," Childermass said.

"Man of business, my foot," Oliver retorted, slamming his glass down on the table. "I have business that I'll be seeing to in my room, and if you aren't there to join me, I can make your life miserable."

"Do not you do that already?" Childermass asked, unimpressed.

"Damn you," Oliver swore out, leaning over the table as though anyone was capable of intimidating John Childermass in such an obvious manner.

Glass of rum and newspaper forgotten, they grinned at one another like fiends.

"I will fetch the oil," Oliver said.

"Be sure you're good and ready for me," Childermass said, slowly standing. "For I'm not of a mind to wait tonight."

Oliver Priddy waggled his eyebrows in a ridiculous fashion and turned on his heel to make for the kitchen in something like a sprint.

= = = = =

Oliver Priddy's room stood beside the kitchen, at the other end of the down stairs from the room shared by Lucas and Davey. Like their room, his had no windows, but he could boast that he had the place to himself, which was better than many a London servant got, excepting the luckier butlers and housekeepers.

But Mr. Norrell kept a skeleton staff, for his own needs were comparatively few, and John Childermass was not overwrought with needs of his own either.

Oliver Priddy stripped down to nothing after his candles were lit, and he ignored his growing cockstand to pay attention to the part of himself that so needed a seeing to.

When Childermass entered his room and toed a doorstop in place, he found Oliver on his knees upon the bed, working himself with three oiled fingers, back bowed and muscles straining.

John Childermass stood there with his unreadable expression, just watching as Oliver prepared himself: casting lascivious glances at his sometime-lover and grinning like some wild forest beast.

"You're not likely to last long," Childermass finally observed. "I feel I must restrain you, or our fun will be too soon ended."

Oliver let his forehead hit the bed as he groaned in anticipation.

Childermass swaggered about the room until he found Oliver's discarded neckcloth. Then, he approached the man on the bed with something of a predatory air.

"So," Childermass deduced, "You've had your fun with the coachman… Stings, doesn't it, a woolybacked Taffy like yourself thrown over for some bogtrotting Paddy? And who do you come to in your state of need with your bed left cold?"

"You, John Childermass."

"And have I as fine a cock as your coachman?"

"Better, John Childermass."

"And what would you have right now?"

"A damn dirty fucking from you, John Childermass."

"So I see," Childermass said, still fully clothed and with only a mild look of interest on his face. He shook his head at the sight before him and casually stated, "You'd put your whole fist in if it would fit."

Oliver gave a lewd moan and thrust his own fingers into himself as far as they might go. "You damned, dirty, fucking--"

"Language, Oliver," Childermass warned, grabbing him firmly by the arm and turning his face toward the edge of the bed. "You made something of a promise, did you not, to find better use for your mouth?"

"Yes, sir."

Childermass undid the fall front of his breeches and shifted the tails of his shirt out of the way to reveal himself, only half-hard but still big enough to threaten.

"Well, Oliver?" he asked. "Have you a mind to prepare me or shall I go in dry?"

Oliver only shot him his filthiest grin before sucking the tip of him into his salivating mouth and digging into his breeches with his hands to stir the ball sack and the skin behind it, encircling the length, and moving about with such eagerness that he hardly knew what to touch first.

He sucked and slobbered until Childermass was hard and slick with it.

Childermass pushed him off with a hand in his sandy hair and told him, "Leave off that now, and let me take care of you," and he dangled the forgotten neckcloth out to the side.

Oliver moaned as he laid back on his bed, obediently crossing his wrists above his head, eyes lit with want and mouth sinfully red and wet.

Childermass leaned over him with one knee upon the bed and wound the cloth around the strong wrists and then between them and then tied it off at the headboard with a sailor's ease.

Re: Fill: What the Master Doesn't Know (4.5/6)

[(Anonymous)]

Oliver was surprisingly silent throughout this operation, raking his eyes up and down Childermass's still clothed form, lingering upon the man's clever hands and handsome face. (Oliver knew Childermass would never call himself handsome. Oliver sometimes thought John Childermass did not give himself quite enough credit.)

Once this task was done, Childermass eased himself over Oliver, displaying his lean bulk to the best of his advantage before leaning down to kiss Oliver like they used to in the woods behind Hurtfew.

Messy and hard and biting and then somehow easing into sweet and tender in a way that always caught Oliver off-guard, no matter how often Childermass pulled the trick on him.

Not that it lasted. As soon as Oliver's guard was down, Childermass sucked into his mouth like some screaming Sidhe come to siphon the life out of him. Oliver wondered if he was mixing his mystical creatures before just about every thought was driven out of his head together.

John Childermass left off his mouth and licked (with little bites) behind his ear, beneath his jaw (with a firm tongue), and then laved over his Adam's apple (wetter than water) in a way that was completely unfair because Oliver could not retaliate by paying such attentions to all those similar places he'd found on John Childermass that turned the man mad. Because, of course, being tied up had seemed such a good idea at the time. Now all he could do was lay there and buck up into the man and curse at him.

"Jesus fucking Christ John Childermass, you fucker, you devil--"

Childermass calmly undid his own neckcloth and wrapped it round Oliver's head, over his mouth until words became no more than muffled sounds, and the Yorkshireman smirked all the while.

"You're like to bring the whole house down if you go on so," Childermass explained. "And there are some, at least, who have no need to hear such things."

Oliver had a smart answer for this, but it was lost in the cloth across his mouth. John Childermass kissed him over it and laughed at him and then smacked him on the hip and told him, "Turn over."

Still somewhat pinned beneath him, Oliver managed with a clever bit of wriggling to lay down on his front and then press his arse up against the hot length behind him.

Childermass pulled away and grabbed the ends of the neckcloth he'd wound about Oliver's mouth, using them as reigns to pull him into a kneeling position, or as much as could be managed with the man's hands bound still above him.

Oliver laced his fingers together and pressed down against the pillow in an attempt for some leverage, and helplessly pumped his hips against the air, for he had nothing to press down into nor to press back against. He could feel the weight of Childermass somewhere on the bed behind him, but the man was frustratingly out of reach.

But then John Childermass touched him, one burning-hot hand settling between Oliver's shoulder blades, just a firm presence and pressure.

"Shall I remind you of better times, Oliver? Or shall I force thought of every other man out of your head?"

Childermass slowly descended upon him, his rough old clothes dragging all along Oliver's sensitized skin until Childermass could speak directly to his ear: "The one could be sweet. The other… not."

Oliver tried to answer through his gag and pushed eagerly back against Childermass.

"Easy, now," Childermass calmed him as though Oliver were a worried horse, patting his sides and speaking low and calm. "We've all the night ahead of us, Oliver, and no matter how we go, you know it won't be quick."

Oliver simply writhed, begging for contact until he dropped to hump desperately against the bed.

"None of that now," Childermass told him, grabbing the traitorous hips in a vice-like grip and lifting him up again. "What shall I do with such disobedience?" Childermass muttered, as though to himself.

Oliver wiggled his arse in offering.

Childermass snorted, unimpressed, and instead reached out to pinch the man's sides in relentless nips.

Oliver squirmed and screamed, writhing desperately.

"You are making this far too easy," Childermass said, slapping him once on the arse before parting those tempting cheeks to press inward with a spit-wet finger.

But for the shivering that ran through his limbs, Oliver suddenly stilled, as though every bit of focus narrowed down to a single point.

"You're well open already," Childermass observed, his tone still casual and unimpressed.

Oliver made to speak, and then groaned with frustration through the gag.

"I'm thinking you're more desperate than you let on," Childermass said, withdrawing completely.

An obscene moan was pressed through the gag as Oliver looked over his shoulder to see Childermass thoroughly coating himself with the oil, eyes shadow-dark as they regarded Oliver all trussed up and helpless on the bed.

Childermass shrugged off his jacket, but this was his only concession to intimacy before he grabbed Oliver's hips, dragging him to the foot of the bed, arms now forced straight above his head, the cloth tied to the headboard stretched to its limit.

Oliver hooked his feet over the edge of the thin mattress and thrust his arse back, even as his shoulders and head were forced down into the blankets. He sobbed.

Childermass pressed up against him, the length of his hot prick settling into Oliver's crease and dribbling onto his lower back. One firm hand along Oliver's spine stilled any squirming, and Childermass rubbed his oiled prick up and down, pretending to ease in a number of times without actually breaching him.

If Oliver could speak, Childermass had no doubt of the curses that would be tumbling out. Childermass laughed briefly before finally pressing forward, past the tight ring of muscle. He halted, but Oliver pushed back in quest of more, so Childermass thrust in as far as he could easily go. He clasped Oliver's hips and set into an easy rhythm, testing how far he could press in before Oliver squealed, and then drawing back to try again.

It was not long (he knew it would not be) before Childermass could sink in to the hilt without much difficulty.

Childermass advanced the pace almost ruthlessly, knowing exactly how much Oliver could take, and more significantly, exactly how much Oliver wanted it.

The man positively writhed in pleasure, howling through the gag and straining against his bonds in furious rapture.

Childermass put his head to one side, admiring the mess of him before reaching out to drag the nails of one hand down Oliver's heaving back.

The man panted and shuddered, and so Childermass did it again. Hard. And the red welts he left behind were so pretty that it did it again.

He left off such artful efforts for a time to concentrate his forceful thrusts just where Oliver wanted them, angled slightly down and hard as could be.

When Oliver took up an endless wailing behind the smothering fabric, Childermass slowed, pulled out, and let Oliver collapse onto the bed.

His cock still standing proud before him, Childermass went round to the head of the bed to carefully untie the neckcloth.

Oliver's face was drenched in tears, the neckcloth wet through with saliva, his mouth reddened with the chaffing of it.

"You're all right," Childermass muttered, bending down to kiss him slowly.

"Which kind of fucking was that…?" Oliver muttered, batting his eyelashes and smiling through his ill-usage.

"Can you remember your coachman?"

"My who?"

"Exactly. Roll over. Onto your back now."

Oliver let Childermass shift him back up on the bed, easing the strain of his arms before parting and lifting his legs out of the way.

"Fuck," Oliver muttered as Childermass knelt half-beneath him and butted his cock at the ready hole before sinking in all the way.

Childermass began a slow and steady cadence, though deep, as he watched the various transformations of Oliver's face: obvious ecstasy, delight-tinged pain, red-faced pleasure, and wicked bliss.

One hand was hard at work keeping Oliver's hips roughly where they needed to be, but with his other hand, Childermass reached out to begin chafing one of Oliver's pert nipples.

"Oh god, you remember that…" Oliver moaned.

"I remember everything," Childermass vowed, a fire burning deep in his voice, lighting his promise like a flare in the night.

He pulled relentlessly at the stimulated nipple and Oliver's neck strained with the tension of having to keep his own silence now.

Childermass kept his thrusting tempo as steady as a metronome, but the hand that was not engaged in supporting Oliver's bulk eased away from the nipple, dragged nails down his heaving stomach, to settle at the base of Oliver's leaking cock.

"Oh fuck, don't, you bastard," Oliver wheezed.

Childermass grinned. He delicately took Oliver's cock in hand, gathering the dripping fluid from the tip and smoothing it down his cock with a touch light enough to tickle. Then dug a cruel fingernail into the slit at the head.

Oliver cut off a scream, transforming it with what willpower he had into a low groan that scraped his vocal chords raw.

Childermass squeezed the base of Oliver's cock to forestall any premature excitement.

"Not yet," Childermass said calmly. "You know you don't want to yet."

"Yes, I do," Oliver argued pettishly, practically breathless. "I've had enough…"

"I'll tell you when you've had enough."

Oliver threw his head back and sucked in breaths like a hard-ridden horse.

Childermass worked his cock hard for a few strokes, then clutched round the base again, ruthless.

And all the while he fucked into Oliver, steady and relentless.

Finally, Oliver was only capable of lying there, fiercely whispering, "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you…" over and over again.

Childermass played their little game a few more times before letting go of Oliver's cock to scoop his knees up under his elbows and fuck into him hard.

Oliver held his breath as he came with only the smallest friction against his prick.

Childermass fucked him through it and then finished by bending Oliver over completely to thrust into him like an animal and loose himself in a fiercely hot spending inside Oliver's quivering body.

Oliver's wheezing breaths altered very little as Childermass slowly withdrew, gently let down his legs, and slipped from the bed, wiping himself carelessly on the sheets before tucking himself away.

Childermass unbound the cook's hands to retrieve his neckcloth. He took one of Oliver's hands and kissed and laved the inside of his wrist until Oliver pulled away, murmuring, "Too much, you right sod."

Grinning, Childermass knelt upon the floor to bring their faces on a level.

Oliver picked up his head and closed his eyes and Childermass granted him a kiss as slow and loving as near-perfection can manage.

"I'm not able to keep up with you anymore, Oliver," Childermass said, stepping back and finding a blanket to pull over Oliver's rapidly cooling body.

"Now that is a shame," Oliver muttered, sleep dragging already at his eyes.

"You know Lucas has taken up with Dido," Childermass conversed, shrugging his jacket back on.

"Of course."

"It's left Davey quite out of it."

"Really?" Oliver asked, perking up at once.

"Truly," Childermass said. "Only remember he's young yet and not up for such games as we play."

Oliver chuckled with delight and said, "You old goat. Were you a matchmaker in another life?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Go to sleep and no more insolence from you around the young ones."

"Welshman's honor," Oliver promised.

"No such thing," Childermass whispered with fond affection before kissing Oliver's brow.

He blew out the candles and left the room like a shadow.

= = = = =