He had only intended a passing glance.
A furtive peek through the spyhole to assure himself of his brother’s wellbeing and perhaps a brief observance of his state of enjoyment. After all, he had paid a fine price for the undisturbed use of these whores, and his sibling being younger, he might have been maltreated or tricked through some womanly device into accepting less than he ought. An entirely unacceptable state of affairs and one he must ward against.
Thus he gazed through the crudely cut and hidden hole into the spartan, bareboned room which contained little more than a bed, a nightstand furnished with a washing bowl, and a small drinking table provisioned with a smattering of wines and cheeses. There, positioned on a bench beside the table was his brother, Loki, and the red-haired whore Gwenyth petting him and cooing in his ear as she caressed him, pawing at the exposed monolith that was his sex.
Face engulfed in heat, Thor stood aside that wall, slightly gaping, transfixed at the sight of his brother. During his years spent abroad partaking in his Grand Tour, Thor had acquired fluency in three languages and a taste for Italian art he heretofore had never developed, yet the years had also changed his homebound brother. Now they stood at nearly equal height and breadth of shoulder. Loki had also gained competency with foreign tongues despite remaining in England with only his tutors to converse with, and his appreciation of the Italian artisans was already well established. He was clever, urbane, fashionable, well read, handsome and well spoken despite being prone to cutting and crafty remarks. To see that he was also…
Dazed by the sight of his brother, Thor fumbled with the buttons of his falls hurriedly extracting his sex from his breeches, freeing the stiffening flesh. At a loss, bereft of his reason, Thor bit his lip and grasped his sex, mimicking the flighty motions of the whore currently exciting his brother.
Beyond any doubt they shared a similar girth. In other dimensions however his brother outstripped him. A most perplexing and distressing realization. His heart thundered in his ears, he heard nothing of the protracted sounds of the occupied whores in other occupied rooms nor the sweet nothings Gwenyth was whispering to his brother nor of the whore that came to his side offering to aid his release.
Grasping her wrist tightly in his hand, Thor guided the whore to his sex which she gripped unabashedly according to her training. Again he followed Gwyenth’s example, exacting her careless rhythm on his own self through the mechanism of this other whore’s hand while he continued his unbroken, undignified, immoral eavesdropping.
The young whore attempted to murmur in his ear to inspire him, but Thor knocked her away with a shove from his shoulder refusing to be diverted. She glowered at him with a sour expression, but engrossed as he was with the sight before him, Thor gave no notice. She turned to face outwards, stepping away from the young lord and at once became nothing more than a hand, which would have filled Thor with relief if he had spared a single thought for his own situation.
Gwyneth, an accomplished elder of her chosen profession, kissed his brother’s wan cheek teasingly and then laid herself out so that her mouth could engulf the uppermost tip of his member. Thor panted, his nostrils flaring with his rapid breaths as he studied his brother: eyes fluttering in ecstasy, head falling back, cravat removed and buttons undone so that his long, pale throat was exposed to full effect.
‘My love is a winter’s mist, gently dissolving...at the nape of your neck.’ A verse he had read long ago and never comprehended. Often had the poets pronounced the placid, gracile beauty of the necks of swans and how Thor had snickered at their sentimentality, for a bird no matter how well formed could never hope to overcome the weight of feathers and wings and beaks that defined its nature and thus circumscribed the depth of feeling aspired to by such pretty lines.
What swan with any degree of pedigree and picturesque comeliness could compare to the unblemished masculine beauty of his brother’s neck? What throat in all of Creation could be as striking or as momentous as that bared column? Did Helen of Troy possess such an alluring feature when she seduced the young Paris into secreting her away? Was he too undone by that innocuous and simple line of skin? The throat that arched and caught the light of many candles like crystal? ‘What a ruin she brought to you, Paris! What a ruin, he shall bring to me!’
Clenching his jaw, Thor wrenched the whore’s hand away and tugged the fille de joie in front of him. Before she could do more than bleat in protest, he pushed her down onto her knees. She cursed him under her breath, but he paid her no mind, and she for her part went to her work without needing to be told.
Thor twined his fingers into her unruly tangle of hair, holding her still so that he could match the lovers next door. Those white, dexterous fingers that Loki used to such a great effect upon the pianoforte now curved into Gwyneth’s brassy curls inducing her to take more of him into her mouth. The poor woman, experienced though she was, coughed and sputtered, choking upon his manhood. The whore before him had no such difficulties.
Loki smiled, reveling in her struggles as he was wont to do. How often had he wielded that smile against him? One that could mock or entreat with only a slight nod of the head or light in the eye. How often had he chased that smile, tracking it, hunting for the right combination of moment and environment to produce the genuine amusement so often hidden behind that grin? A wide smile to swallow him whole.
Unable to contend himself with loose thrusts, Thor shoved his sex into the whore’s mouth with nary a care for her person. His eyes never glanced away from the spyhole, never left his brother while he forced her to take all that he had. She gagged and cried as the tip of his cock tickled the back of her throat, but he did not relent not even for a moment.
Ardently, he watched his brother. He traced his every movement closely committing it all to his memory like a painter working at a sketch. Nothing could be lost. Not the splendid sight of his brother’s sex, glistening with spittle, nor the languid, careless positioning of his limbs. Not the delight in his eye, nor the flush of his cheeks. And certainly not the sublime contours of his brother’s throat, nor the thin-lipped grin that steadfastly remained on his face.
How many times had he kissed those lips in the darkness of their shared nursery? How many times had he groped that neck to comfort and control his willful brother? How many times had they slipped into one another’s beds to frolic and thump like rabbits in the fields? Playful and trusting in their youth, starved as they were for affection, that turned to shame and doubt as they aged and went apart.
‘...turn him into stars and form a constellation in his image. His face will make the heavens so beautiful that the world will fall in love with the night and forget about the garish sun.’ In all his travels no woman, no matter her beauty or intelligence, had ever inspired thoughts of poetry in him like Loki did. A pale god of night and beauty and sin. The Devil assumed into a pleasing shape.
With a strangled moan, Thor erupted. He battered the whore’s mouth with sharp thrusts, biting his lip to keep himself quiet, his face a burning scarlet. Twitching from his orgasmic fit, Thor held the whore close to him, her nose brushing against his linens. She squirmed in his tightened grip, but he held her firm until at last he finished and the breath returned to his body.
He released her and she fell back wiping her mouth with the back of one hand and brushing away her tears with the other. Thor took in her red-speckled face disinterestedly. Plain as she was only rouge and her youth made her acceptable fare in this house. Cheap. He dropped a coin at his feet and she snatched it up. “Send in another,” he commanded her in a severe whisper.
She smiled at him ruefully, unable to hide her discontent. Thor looked away from her unpleasant face and leaned against the wall. He burned with mortification both at his rough use of her and also at the circumstances and persons that had inspired it. Hateful enough to notice the masculine beauty of men and make merry with them in base degeneracy abroad, but his own brother?
Hellfire awaited him and for a moment he welcome the flames.
Then, from his brother’s room he heard an acute squeal.
Regaining his position, Thor peered through the spyhole to find that Loki and Gwyneth had assumed new positions. Now longer were they seated on the bench, but now they loomed much nearer to him atop the bed. From his height Thor could see Loki muffling the whore’s noises with his hand as he pushed into her steadily. He could see the broad girth of his sex forcing open her cunt demanding to be sheathed. She writhed beneath him, unaccustomed to such pressure, but he held her still.
“Silence, you mewling quim,” Loki rejoined. “One is a professional are you not?”
Gwyneth groaned in agreement.
A hand slid over his shoulder. Thor flinched, whipping his head around to find a blonde whore staring at him coquettishly. She opened her mouth to speak, but Thor raised his finger to his lips calling for silence and she obeyed. This one was pretty, waifish and golden and light with long flowing curls. If it were another night, he would take her to a room and bed her until the soft dawn light broke through the shuttered windows. But he could hear Gwyneth moaning through the wall and knew he could not now take his leave.
His brother had no need of his supervision, but Thor could not be dissuaded.
Taking her hand off his shoulder, he brought the small appendage to his flaccid sex. She understood his meaning and gently tugged on his manhood to incite a new erection. Offering her a preemptive conciliatory kiss to her supple lips for the brutish manner he would use her, Thor turned away and resumed his iniquitous spying.
Overeager, Loki released Gwyneth’s mouth and wrapped his nimble fingers around her throat instead. He harshly snapped his hips, sheathing his sword inside her with a single thrust. She wailed. Thor quickly covered his mouth to stifle a moan. Loki was merciless. His savagery made Thor’s heart hammer against his chest and soon his sex was returned to bounding tumescence in the whore’s light grasp.
Viciously, he took her and Thor watched with rapt attention. Loki choked her sobs, but they could still be heard echoing off the walls and through the spyhole. She sounded pained, but he could see her groping at his brother’s lithe nude form, clutching at his backside to hold him close. Loki chuckled, grinning at her as he tossed his head back and whipped his usually soft curls away from his eyes.
Thor caught the whore’s hand in his and pointed to the floor. Without a word needing to be spoken, she settled in front of him and waited with her mouth open. His eyes flicked briefly to her upturned face only long enough to being his manhood into her proffered orifice and then his attention went straight to his rollicking brother.
They were so near, Thor could see the sweat glinting on his brother’s brow. He could feel the wooden frame of the bed knocking against the wall in time to Loki’s ruthless onslaught. He could hear every whimper, every muffled moan from Gwyneth right alongside his brother’s pants and grunts. Thor matched him parry for parry, thrust for thrust, and this whore had no trouble in taking him quietly no matter how deeply he pressed.
His brother was a beast: primal and primitive. Concerned only with seeking his own pleasure. He had been right to buy Gwyneth for him. He doubted any other whore in the house, or in the county, could’ve taken Loki’s brutal ways half as well. She had been his first and now she was his. The circle was complete. Somehow, it seemed proper despite the filth and prurience.
“You filthy, dirty whore,” Loki muttered, his normally waxen cheeks blooming with color from his exertions. “Perhaps I will leave you here broken and used and not a penny the richer.”
Huffing feverishly through his nose, Thor fought to keep his lips closed, his jaw cinched tight. His brother always had possessed a razor-edged tongue, but the obscenities that flowed from his mouth so easily astonished him. Loki heaped abuse upon her and Thor closed his eyes powerless against the spell of his brother’s heated words and strained voice.
He listened as intently as he had previously watched, the image of his brother’s naked form emblazoned on his mind, consuming his every thought, subsuming his every notion of propriety, decency, morality, and familial affection under a storm of fire, perversion, and lust until only one word existed: Loki.
“ Loki ,” he whined, before he could stop himself, erupting into the girl’s mouth as he gnawed on his fist. His legs shook, his knees quaked, and every tension held within his frame evaporated as he died the little death for a second time that night.
He paid the girl her coin and sent her on her way without uttering a word. With shaky hands he returned his sex into his smallclothes and refastened his buttons. He did not linger to witness Loki’s finish. He desired to see, but did not trust he could survive another thunderous revelation.
Loki was beautiful and always had been, but now Thor knew of his lines and rivets. He knew the length and breadth of him and marveled. He could never unsee the vision of wickedness that would haunt him in this life and the next for all of eternity. The vision of his brother, Loki, not as a brother, but as a man. A man he would crave until the end of his days.
Thor left the cramped hall that contained the spyhole and seated himself near an open window for fresher air. He looked at no one and spoke to no one as he waited for Loki’s emergence. He was brought a mug of wine and he drank it absently without any awareness. All his mental faculties were bound in a singular, unravelable knot brought about from one passing glance and centered on the one he loved more than any other in this world.
His brother Loki.