Dinner with my lover's family can have a certain awkwardness about it.
In the few weeks I have been here, protecting the youngest son of the royal family of Eab Nanoorn, I have already learned that nothing of any importance is ever discussed at these meals. Blaine's mother will remark on his brother's absence (he and his new bride having departed on their year-long tour of the planet); his father will comment on the weather; some distant relation will compliment one or both of them on their dress, their health, or the quality of the cuisine. The almost entire lack of content to the conversation frees me to observe other things.
For instance, the fact that none of those present seems to have observed that Blaine sat down very carefully this evening.
I catch a thought from his mother -- I'm not deliberately listening, but the woman thinks so emphatically that it's hard not to -- approval at Blaine's relatively conservative mode of dress, and the fact that he sits up so very straight. Something there about my influence. The words "Jedi discipline" are near the surface of her mind.
Skies. "Jedi discipline." I suspect if the Council had any idea of the sort of discipline I was subjecting the non-heir of Eab Nanoorn to -- at his own very explicit request -- I would be on the next transport back to Coruscant facing actual Jedi discipline. Blaine wears a high-necked, long-sleeved tunic today -- deep blue, a seldom-worn gift from an elderly relative. The long sleeves hide marks on his wrists from the handcuffs he asked me to use on him last night; the high collar hides assorted bites. Nothing hides the dazzling smile he turns my way as he recommends that I try the fish, and yet no one seems to notice.
No, not quite no one. The waiter, who produces and removes courses so deftly as to be almost invisible, raises a well-groomed eyebrow. As always, it is the servants who know what is actually going on in the palace.
I wonder if even he guesses the reason sweet Blaine sits so straight this evening: a generously proportioned plug that I worked into his body moments before we set out for the formal dining room. I'd commented on what I presumed was a decorative sculpture on the bedside table, Blaine corrected my presumption; I expressed skepticism that a thing of that size could be put to such use, Blaine insisted on a demonstration. I'm a little surprised that Blaine's appetite for food is as enthusiastic as ever, considering how thoroughly filled he is below. I watch in amazement as he unobtrusively transfers half my meal onto his own plate, supposedly in exchange for the tastes I take from his meal. I've detected poison only once -- attempts on the Bail's life have fallen off sharply since my arrival -- but I take my duty seriously.
Dessert is served, a kind of frozen cream studded with red berries. I taste Blaine's; he takes most of mine, and proceeds to lick the cream from the berries in such a way that I cannot stop thinking of the night before, his cries of delight when I licked his nipples with a tongue I'd made rough as a cat's, and the way the taste of him changed as his flesh became raw under my ministrations. The juice of berries mingles with the cream, and reminds me that he bled, that I made him bleed, that his nipples were studded with tiny drops of his blood, and that he kissed me to taste it and moaned. The very tip of his tongue, pink from berry juice, comes out to lick the last of the cream from his perfect lips. I close my eyes and release my impulse to kiss him, there, then, voraciously, before everyone, to the Force.
Dinner is over; compliments are given; elderly royal relatives arise and go on to their quiet pursuits. My Blaine stands with perfect grace and walks easily from the room. I follow, my duty to preserve him from any injury but that which he desires.