It was after midnight of that night when he came to me, soft on his feet as the whispering wind. Though he still bore the form of a young man, his eyes burned with age and time.
He said nothing to me at first, simply lifted up the side of the coverlet and slid onto the bed beside me. I was not asleep, my head was too full of all I had seen, and the only movement I made to acknowledge him was to turn to my side, and pull him close to me.
We lay in comfortable silence for some little while, the sound of his breathing somewhat loud in the darkness.
“Why, Doctor?” I said, at last, leaving the question open to his interpretation.
“This is why I came here,” he said carefully, after a long pause. “I wanted to know the man who created such greatness. Your words will live on, Shakespeare, for more years than you have numbers for. Down the centuries, down the epochs, you will be remembered.”
There was no other adequate response. I kissed him. Words sometimes fail.
“My doting Doctor,” I whispered, my voice suddenly gone hoarse with unshed tears, “I would urge you to show your devotion in but one way — love that well which you must leave soon.”
A writer’s instincts took over for a moment, and I was critically assessing my own words even in the heat of passion.
“I should write that down,” I said. And suddenly the Doctor was very close indeed, arm wrapping around me with a casual ease.
“Remember it!” he whispered into my ear, fiercely. His hand slid from my side up my body into my hair, and he was clinging to me, half on top of me, his mouth over mine.
Remember it indeed. I hardly remembered my own name at the moment. Not with his clothed thigh sliding between my legs, applying the perfect amount of pressure to my hardening length. Against my hip I could feel an answering hardness, and the feel of him writhing against me, the soft moans he was making into my mouth, was almost my undoing.
My hands slid down to try the fastenings of his clothes, but I was confounded by them.
“How do you get these off?” I whispered against his lips. “These are strange garments you wear, my Doctor!”
“Oh,” he said, and with a few rustlings and strange noises in the darkness, his clothes were cast off, and he slid again into my arms, this time pressing his skin against my own.
And if I had thought him clothed to be near my undoing, the feel of his nakedness was far nearer. This strange and lissome body, like the shape of a man, but different blood beating within it. Curious, I let my hands roam down the curve of his back.
I had never been tentative in bed, never with a woman, never with a man, but here I felt an almost awed shyness — a most unaccustomed feeling!
He was not so shy, and was groaning softly at my touch. Emboldened, I slid my hands from his back to the hardness that waited for me at the front of his body. I felt one of his hands slide up my belly to my chest to my neck and he brought his mouth close to my ear, breathing softly into it, whispering words in an unknown language.
I concentrated on my pleasant task, enjoying the feel of him in my hands — not so unlike a man — and became lost to the rhythm of the words he was speaking.
Too soon he was pulling away from my hands, breathless against me. I protested briefly, but he was kneeling up on the bed in the moonlight, the look of him like a god, and I stilled, allowing him what he wished.
What he wished was me, apparently. More specifically, my cock in his mouth.
It was only with the greatest of efforts that I prevented myself from crying out at the cool touch of his mouth on me. For a moment he was simply bent over me, then he looked up, his eyes traveling over me until they met my own. And in his look was a kind of worship that I did not expect.
But I knew it truly needed to be in another fashion — he was my sovereign, and I, from then on, his slave. And with that thought I was spending myself in his mouth, my body pulsing into him, against him.
“I wish to,” I found myself saying what could have been moments or hours later, “give you the same pleasure that you gave me.” He was still kneeling above me, the moonlight tangled in his hair.
“Next time,” he said, and laughed. Then he slid down against me, kissing me deeply. When the kiss broke, I pulled him close to me, wrapping my arms tightly around him.
“There will be a next time, then?” I said.
“Watch the clock,” he said, sleepily burrowing against me.
I smiled, and as he slept against me I held him in my arms, and whispered a sonnet into his ear, the words coming to me like music to my ears. “Being your slave what should I do but tend upon the hours, and times of your desire?”
His breathing was slow and soft against me, and I felt the warmth of love — a familiar sensation — winding itself through my veins. “I have no precious time at all to spend; nor services to do, till you require.”
Light was beginning to show through the window as I continued. “Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, nor think the bitterness of absence sour, when you have bid your servant once adieu.”
‘Next time?’ It could be moments, or decades. I had no way of knowing, but I knew he would leave. “Nor dare I question with my jealous thought where you may be, or your affairs suppose, but, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, save, where you are, how happy you make those.”
Softly, I kissed his forehead, his hair, and felt myself to be completely lost to him, no matter what he should do or what the morning would bring. The words flying to my lips, I brought the sonnet to a whispered close. “So true a fool is love, that in your will, though you do anything, he thinks no ill.”
With the warmth of him in my arms and the first vestiges of dawn breaking on the horizon, I felt myself falling into sleep.