MFB19: Of Strawberry Cordial and Tarts

WARNING: Smut ahead! (Although only in reflection.)


After the festivities were finally brought to a conclusion, the two kings of Narnia returned to their chambers, ready to drop into their beds as they were. However, the servants had already carried the tub into their room and were waiting to fill it again.

“Go ahead, Ed — you look like you’re ready to fall asleep, and I need to check my hand,” Peter said, claiming a small basin of the hot spring water to wash his wound.

“All right… Thanks,” Edmund yawned, then asked of one of the servants, “Where’s Per?”

“He is getting his belongings together, your Majesty,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. It was Darian, the young knight who had sparred with Edmund. “I will serve you in his stead tonight, as he must prepare to leave with you on the morrow. He is a good lad, and I wished to thank your Majesties myself for giving him this commission.”

“There’s no need to thank us,” Peter replied, struggling with the knot on his bandage. “We will be gaining a good friend and ally, although at the expense of King Lune’s court, even if he did suggest it.”

“Did he, now?” Darian said with a smile as he helped Peter untie the knot. “I should have known… Very little escapes our Lord’s attention.”

“Was Per being treated badly?” Edmund asked while he stripped out of his clothes, concern wrinkling his brow.

Darian hesitated in his answer. “Not badly, Sire, but… he would not be entrusted with some things. Certain lords would not allow him to touch their Horse, or their armour… little things like that which can, nevertheless, make one feel keenly that one’s presence is… less than welcome.”

Edmund scowled, and Peter pondered the knight’s assessment with a sober expression.

“Then I am doubly glad to have him join us,” he stated. “For I can assure you, none in our court would snub him for something that was not of his doing, nor even of his father’s choice.”

“I am relieved to hear that, your Highness,” Darian said, bowing to Peter before he knelt to help Edmund with his bath. “And I would stake my sword that Per will serve you all his days with gratitude and fervour.”

Peter nodded, then turned to examine his hand so that his eyes would not linger on his brother’s smooth shoulders. The skin over the cut had grown strong and, though still somewhat tender, was no longer in danger of reopening.

“I should like to take him to meet Mr. and Mrs. Beaver,” Edmund remarked while scrubbing his tired limbs, “and the Rabbits and Hares and —hic!— Hedgehogs in the Forest near the castle. He might get a turn from seeing the Marsh Wiggles, but they’re all right, really, once you —hic!— get used to them.”

“He’ll have enough to deal with at Cair when he sees the Centaurs and Minotaurs,” Peter pointed out, keeping his eyes steadfastly away from his brother.

“Oh! Right. I’d forgotten abou—hic!— oh, bother!”

“What is it?” Peter asked, looking over at Edmund in spite of himself and noticing that his brother was flushed about the neck.

“After that last dance, I asked for something to drink, and they brought me a —hic!— flagon of something, only I didn’t think about it until I’d —hic!— swallowed a great gulp and it rather burned going down. It must’ve been straight wine or —hic!— something. It was sweet, though, and delicious.”

“Ed! You didn’t drink all of it, did you?” Peter demanded, alarmed.

“Well… I only meant to sip at it,” Edmund answered sheepishly, “but I was thirsty, and —hic!

“Edmund!” Peter scolded. “You know you can’t handle more than half a glass!”

“It was a very small glass,” the younger king contended, “and I followed it up with a big slice of cake…”

“‘Twas a good thing you did, your Majesty,” Darian put in, unable to hide his amusement. “The silver flagons were filled with Cook’s special Strawberry Cordial, which is more potent than some of the King’s favourite brandies!”

“Well, it was certainly —hic!— memorable,” was Edmund’s appreciative comment. “And I’m sure I’ll be —hic!— fine. I’ve had a drop too much once before, and all it did was m—hic!— make me drowsy.”

“Oh, Edmund!” Peter sighed, “What would Mother say if she knew? You mustn’t let this become a habit, you know! Promise me you’ll be more careful in the future.”

“Oh, Peter!” Edmund parroted. “You sounded exactly like Susan just now! And I —hic!— won’t, I promise. Or I will — be careful, I mean. It was simply —hic!— too much trouble, to ask for something else. I’ll be all right. You always —hic!— worry too much…”

The younger king was then seized with a fit of the giggles on top of the hiccoughs, which made it quite difficult for Darian to wash his hair for him. Before he was done he had swallowed at least a mouthful of soapy water, but his spirits were hardly dampened by it, and he laughed at his own clumsiness when the knight had to help him out of the tub. As fresh buckets of water were poured in for Peter’s bath, he pushed the sleeves of his nightshirt up to his elbows so he could help his brother again.

“Ed, my hand’s all healed up now,” Peter told him, showing him the proof. “You should go to bed and get as much sleep as you can, since we’ll be traveling tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Edmund replied, and if he hadn’t been slightly drunk he might have been disappointed. But after a final combing of his hair before the fire, he tottered over to the bed. Peter was having his hair washed at the time, and did not notice that his brother had slipped into the wrong bed until a strange shuffling noise began emanating from his own.

What are you doing?” Peter cried, seeing an Edmund-sized lump moving under his covers.

Edmund’s head poked out and he grinned, “I’m —hic!— warming it up for you, old chap. What else?”

And before Peter could respond, his brother had disappeared again and the sound as of a dozen Talking Mice rustling and rolling about resumed.

“Oh, Ed…” Peter sighed, murmuring to himself. “What am I to do with you?”

“Shall I call for the Apothecary?” Darian offered.

“No… thank you. I don’t think there’s a need for that,” Peter answered. “He isn’t sick yet, at any rate, and I suppose he’ll be able to sleep it off.”

The noises had subsided by the time Peter stepped out of the tub, and Edmund was half asleep when Darian bid them both goodnight.

“Goodnight, Per,” he called out in reply, forgetting who it was. Darian chuckled as he closed the door.

“Ed… You’re in my bed,” Peter said, gently shaking his brother by the shoulder.

“That rhymes… Ed, in my bed,” Edmund mumbled with a sleepy grin.

“You need to get back to your own bed, Edmund,” Peter told him a bit more firmly.

“But I like this one,” came his response. “And it’s warmer when we sleep together, Peter.”

“Ed… You know what happens in the morning,” Peter began, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. “We can’t touch each other when… when we’re like that, remember?”

“I know… I remember. I won’t touch you like that, I promise. I just want to… stay here… for now…”

With a sinking feeling, Peter realised that his brother had fallen asleep.

“It’s not you that I’m worried about,” he bemoaned under his breath.

He knew he had a choice: force Edmund to wake up and drag him into his own bed or (failing that) carry him over; or simply join him and hope that his own willpower would be strong enough to resist temptation come dawn. Gazing at his brother’s rumpled hair and fair skin in the light of the dying fire, Peter realised that he had little hope of succeeding in the latter, for already he could not resist the temptation of leaning down to kiss that tender cheek.

“Oh, Edmund,” he repeated, almost reverently, as he slipped in next to him and wrapped his arms around his brother’s warm body, pulling him close. “Edmund, my dearest… my love,” he whispered, trembling to hear himself say the words aloud, even if none other could hear them. But Edmund continued to sleep soundly, aided by the strong drink he had imbibed, leaving his older brother at liberty to explore the delicate curves of his face with his lips. Peter kissed the tip of his nose first, then bent closer to brush against the rounded softness of his cheeks, mouthing his way up to the smooth brow, now tranquil in slumber, and sealing the closed eyelids with two more kisses.

“Edmund… my beautiful, fair, lovely Edmund,” Peter intoned, sliding his uninjured hand along the gentle curves of the younger boy’s hips. He felt his need grow but was determined to ignore it; he wanted only to savour the pure bliss of tracing those perfect features at his leisure, even if his shoulder cast a shadow over them and obscured them somewhat. He moved to cover Edmund’s slightly parted lips with his own, and as they touched he inhaled the sweet breath his brother exhaled — vestiges of the Strawberry Cordial which the younger king had recklessly finished. Peter could not help smiling as he pressed a final kiss on those tender lips before cuddling him close against himself.

“Goodnight, Edmund,” he whispered, allowing sleep to conquer him as well. But the darkness of night was, for him, illuminated with images of Edmund’s elegant figure and peaceful, exquisite face.

‹‹‹‹‹ ж ›››››

“Good morning, your Majesties!” came Mr. Tumnus’ cheerful voice. Peter groaned against the light shafting in from the curtains which the Faun had just opened. “Time to rise, King Peter! Wake up, King Edmund! We must leave our kind friends today, but we’re going home! To Narnia and the North!”

Edmund buried his face against his brother’s breast, causing Peter’s heart to leap into his mouth and his manhood to rise up rampant.

“I take it you’re glad to be heading back, then, Mr. Tumnus,” he managed with a strained smile.

“Oh, indeed, your Highness — not that our stay here hasn’t been perfectly splendid, of course, but no matter how fair a path one’s hoofs may roam, the heart always rests best at home,” the Faun replied.

“I suppose so. I’ll try to get ready quickly… and get Edmund to wake up, too,” Peter added, jostling his brother. Edmund only squirmed and tried to burrow in deeper against him. Peter did not try too hard to wake him, though, for once their attendant had left the room, he needed to take care of his male desire in private. He bit his lip resolutely so no sound would escape them as he imagined letting his lust run wild on the rolling hills and plains of his brother’s delectable body.

‹‹‹‹‹ ж ›››››

Before they had come to Narnia, Edmund had spent one year in the same boys’ boarding school as Peter, but since First Years were considered too young to be “fair game” and he had a rather popular older brother, Edmund was spared most of the lewdness and indelicacy to which Peter had been subjected since his second year. By then Peter had had the business of school — the classes, homework, rules, compulsory games, and also necessary obedience to one’s senior students — sorted out, and had returned for the term feeling surer of himself.

Nothing in his first year, however, had prepared him for what began as soon as he returned for his second. For that very first evening, while he was settling into his room after dinner, no less than five Bloods (the ruling class of the school, the athletic gods and unofficial authorities of the student body) came looking for him, each wanting the same thing: namely, for him to be their Tart.

Of course Peter had known of the existence of Tarts in his first year, but his notion of what their duties entailed were vague and (he now found) incomplete. From their thinly-veiled propositions, he realised that the Bloods expected much more of a Tart than simply polishing their boots (which they could get any Fag, or younger boy, to do). Indeed, they wanted nothing short of a willing participant in sodomy, which — while common enough in practise — was still considered abhorrent in principle, and a mortal sin by those religiously inclined.

Peter had escaped their insistent requests only by his unwavering refusal. There were some who still approached him with hopes of a more welcome reception, but even they knew that “Pious Peter Pevensie” (as some of his rejected lovers called him out of spite) had never compromised his virtue, and did it more to tease him than from any real expectation of his acquiescence.

That alone would have been merely tedious; but one of the two boys with whom Peter shared a study had succumbed to the pressure and become a Tart. Usually his lover would come for him — bearing gifts of chocolate, trinkets, or the odd pencil — and take him away to some remote and rarely visited (except for this purpose) corner of the school. However, on one occasion Peter had returned to the study to retrieve a book he had meant to read in bed. From the lateness of the hour, he had crept down the hall and opened the door quietly, only to be stunned by the sight that then assaulted his eyes.

His classmate was lying supine on two desks that had been shoved together, naked but for one sock that clung precariously on his foot as his legs waved wildly in the air. His lover, the Blood, was standing between those legs and causing their agitation as he thrust his manhood deep into the younger boy’s arse. All this Peter took in at a glance, but in his horror he was glued to the spot, unable to turn away from their frenzied dance. It was not until the Blood had reached his climax and collapsed on his lover’s weary form, panting, that Peter was also able to draw his breath and make his escape. Luckily, the two had been too engrossed in their activity to notice him.

‹‹‹‹‹ ж ›››››

What troubled Peter most about this encounter, though, was that he could not erase what he had seen from his mind. Not only that, but in moments of desperate lust (as in when he sought to release his own male seed) he found himself imagining what it would feel like to be in the Blood’s position and — horror of horrors! — with his lovely brother in the role of the Tart. He could no longer deny it, for it had insidiously become a part of his daily routine; so much so that he could hardly fulfill his desires without the mental image of Edmund writhing beneath him. And although he was burdened with guilt every time he indulged in his secret fantasy, the very fact that he could not forswear it proved that the pleasure still outweighed the shame.

Peter swallowed before adjusting his clothing and washing his face in cold water. Then he woke Edmund, who protested more than usual and complained of a headache.

“That’s why you shouldn’t drink strong wine,” Peter chided, though stroking his brother’s back with compassion. “You have to pay for it eventually.”

“Ugh. Please don’t say ‘I told you so,'” Edmund begged.

“I won’t,” Peter assured him, then helped him to stand up and wash his face. When Edmund made use of the chamber pot, however, he determinedly looked away and busied himself with his packing.


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2 Comments

  1. the-great-dragon

     /  2017/02/03

    Just wondering – why couldn’t Peter sleep in Edmund’s bed? Is it a status thing?

    Reply
    • You know, I hadn’t really thought of that. I would assume they’d given Peter the bigger one or something. No reason why he couldn’t have used the other bed, but he preferred to be together, of course. 😉

      Reply

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