Author's note:
This is a very short period tale of an older gentleman discovering the previously unsampled delights of sex with a handsome young man.
*
Valter Landgrave stumbled over his own feet as he left the tavern, to the tittering and edification of two ladies of the night. He'd fucked them both not long since but had wearied of them and would not bring them to his chambers tonight. Tonight, he was half gone, drunk on ale and too much port wine, and in need of something else to assuage his nameless hunger this bedraggled night.
He squinted into the darkness, lit only with the coal-gas lamps that lined the cobbled lane, and caught a sound on the wet breeze. It was a sound he knew well, a whistle, clean and pure. A lad, whistling as he shined boots in the shoe-shining quarter of the city.
Without thinking, Valter stumbled towards the sound, pausing when the lad paused, staring about in confusion as he forgot his purpose, then wandering forward again as the sound beckoned him.
His meandering took him to a part of the city he wouldn't usually traverse after dark. Here, thieves and vagabonds prowled, seeking out anyone who might be easily parted with their coin.
Eyes watched him from the shadows as he turned into the dark square, off which the bootblack's stall still operated under the dull glow of a gas light standard.
As Valter approached, he recognized the lad's current client, a man by the name of Ingram Cassius. Valter stayed his distance as his good friend, a coin lender in times of financial crisis (usually immediately following a game of cards), stared down at the crown of the bootblack's head.
The boy was late into his teenage years— at least eighteen, Valter was certain—and wore a loose muslin shirt tucked into tight breeches smeared with boot polish. Valter knew the boy's name was Tobey, having had his boots polished by the lad before. He was, without doubt, the best at his craft for miles around.
His dark hair was tied back out of his eyes, and while Valter could not see the lad's face from his vantage, he knew him to be extremely handsome. Many a wench encouraged Tobey to consort with them, but he kept himself to himself, preferring, Valter suspected, the company of other men rather more.
Valter watched the boy run his brush over Ingram's boots, and pressed himself further into the shadows as the man tossed the lad his coin and stepped from the stand. There was a short exchange, during which Ingram shook his head and the lad inclined his in acknowledgement, and the man went on his way.
With no customers to concern himself with for the moment, the lad leaned back against the wall, rubbing his hands together to warm them. In the glow from the standard, the lamplight highlighted his high cheekbones and full mouth. Strands of his hair, come loose from their tie, curled down either side of his face.
How many customers would he have on a frigid, foggy night such as this one? Valter wondered. He watched curiously as the lad undid the drawstring at the front of his shirt and loosened it. Adjusted thus, the cloth fell open, revealing a glimpse of the boy's pale chest. It was clear that he was in fine form under his well-worn clothing, although he must feel the chill.
Valter gazed about, checking, however drunkenly, to see if anyone wandered near, then approached the lad.
"How much?" he asked, slurring his words as he wove in place.
"Sir?" enquired the lad. "How much for...?"
Valter frowned. "Can you not see? I need a polishing rather urgently!"
It was true, his boots were spattered with mud up to the ankles.
"Of course," said the boy, "Please, seat yourself."
Valter fell heavily into the wooden chair on the platform and placed his feet upon the rail. Immediately, the lad dropped to his knees and began to brush the dirt from his boots.
"A cold night to be dressed so," said Valter conversationally.
"Yes, Sir," said the boy shyly. He put a hand to his shirt's strings to draw them tight, but Valter nudged him with his boot.
