What began as just another collaboration between us quickly escalated into what we feel is a very ambitious story.  Ambitious because it turned into much more work than we anticipated, sucking us emotionally dry throughout the course of its writing.  There's a lot we tried to convey and whether we achieved that noble goal is up to you.  All we know is that neither of us could have done it alone and we owe much to our wonderful beta readers, sister SmutGrrrls Dail "Can he do that with a bad leg?" Koehler and Anne "Doesn't it have to be soft first?" Zook, and Colleen Phillipi.  Thanks ladies!!  

 

Once again, this story must bear the NC-17 rating due to same sex situations and violence, both consensual and otherwise.  It is angst ridden and could be deemed depressing by those not used to our own little form of reader torture or low on their recommended dosage of Prozac.

 

** authors' notes:  In addition to his club foot, which caused an infirmity a bit exaggerated here for the sake of drama, George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) was also a victim of epilepsy during his pre-immortal years, a condition that his new state of immortality could not alter.

 

Descent of the Muse

(Or A Winter of Possession)

Meghan Black & Maygra de Rhema

Another M&M Production, (c) 1997

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geneva, Switzerland

September, 1816

 

"And there was mounting in hot haste."

  - George, Lord Byron -

 

Summer was over and the Shelley's had returned to France, taking Claire with them for the time being.  The poor girl was so besotted by Byron, they'd practically had to drag her back, kicking and screaming, but the poet had been adamant.  He wanted to spend the rest of the year alone in Geneva -- well, except for one person.  He considered Doc his muse, his inspiration, and if there was one thing George Gordon, Lord Byron had learned in his short, but shining life, it was to use whatever inspiration came your way while it was there.  For inspiration was fleeting.

 

Doctor Benjamin Adams, of the long, angular body, with curves and valleys that never ended. Doc of the expressive, ever-changing eyes and hair the color of sable, which like him, would not be ruled by convention or man.  The quill worked furiously across the page.  No, he would keep Doc with him through the autumn and winter of 1816.  After that, who knew?

 

He could hear the object of his thoughts returning home from yet another foray into the nearby woods, no doubt hunting mushrooms or some other such search in the name of science.  The door slammed and boots were stomped at the door.  Byron reveled in the feeling of finally having the manor to themselves.  He'd enjoyed the parties, the story telling; the love of the summer; and that had been the problem.  He'd drunk deeply from the hedonistic fount of self-indulgence, to the detriment of his work. Unfinished pieces were strewn across his desk, the floor, piled by the bed.  Only alone, or with Doc, would the words find their way from his heart to his brain to his pen.  Straightening the white lace cravat at his throat, the young man eased out of his seat, grabbing the parchment as an afterthought, and made to join his companion for the quiet afternoon together he knew they'd both been waiting for.

 

Doc glanced upward at the sound from the landing.  Byron's breath caught at the sight of his smiling face looking up at him.  He hurried down the remaining stairs to the hallway where the other man still worked at shaking the leaves and mulch from his cloak.

 

"It's awfully damp out there," he noted, thrusting the work before the man could even get comfortable.  "Come in by the fire, have a drink with me and tell me how you like this.  I want to know how it makes you feel.  Besides, I'm bored with writing for now and just want to relax." His hand reached out to massage the long, slender neck exposed by the short cropped hair.  His flesh was so warm, even after hours in the crisp, autumn air, digging about in God knew where.

 

"Bored already?  Everyone just left this morning," Methos observed sardonically, taking the proffered poetry while making no move to resist the pull of the young man now leading him into the salon.  Rather, he returned the touch once they stood, comfortably ensconced before the welcoming fire.  Stopping close enough to feel the warmth of the crackling wood, flickering in the dying light of the afternoon, he turned Byron toward him, threading his fingers through long, auburn hair, and pulled his face forward.  They kissed briefly, but Byron was impatient for praise and accolades for his latest work. 

 

Indulgently, Methos read the words which reached out and gripped his

soul in the very claws of desire.  This man had appeared in the older

immortal's life when he was tired and world-weary, dreading the next

1000 years...more of the same with little to look forward to.  But

Byron...Byron relit the flame he'd thought long extinguished.  The poet's

genius warmed him and his simmering dark eyes promised things he'd had

no interest in for centuries.

 

Remember him, whom Passion's power

    Severely---deeply---vainly proved:

Remember thou that dangerous hour,

    When neither fell, though both were loved.

 

That yielding breast, that melting eye,

    Too much invited to be blessed:

That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

    The wilder wish reproved, repressed.

 

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

    But saved thee all that Conscience fears;

And blush for every pang it cost

    To spare the vain remorse of years.

 

Yet think of this when many a tongue,

    Whose busy accents whisper blame,

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

    And brand a nearly blighted name. **

 

Turning back to the man, restlessly awaiting his reaction, Methos was

speechless.  He'd never given much thought to the long term consequences

of his relationships and this one was no different.  Stubbornly ignoring

the little voice somewhere in the back of his mind which warned of the

fierce danger Byron presented to both his well being and sanity, Methos

had permitted himself to fall under the enchanting spell of the bard

during their languid summer with the Shelleys and was unwilling to let

him go yet.  Reaching up once more to smooth that shining hair and run a

thumb lightly across the sensuous lips, he leaned in, letting his

actions speak of the adoration he had for the man's art.

 

The kiss was not the tentative first of newly formed love.  They'd played at seduction all summer with looks, touches and innuendo; something they both excelled in. They'd engaged in sex of every variety throughout these languid months, with Claire, Percy, even Mary; but never alone, just the two of them. They'd shared the pleasures of those laid before them like a banquet of sumptuous food, but this eve would be their first encounter as exclusive lovers and both felt they had waited long enough.

 

Although not shy, the kiss did have the quality of something one might want to savor and not gobble up too quickly.  But the press of lips and teasing tongues soon grew insistent, as neither man was of a bent for self-denial. It's what made them so perfect...and so tragic together.  Their personalities blended like the notes of a Beethoven symphony, in harmony, each complementing the other. The one thing each had in abundance was a penchant for indulging the senses.

 

Byron moaned softly against Methos' lips and the small vibration tickled. Then the kiss deepened with the urgency of their anticipated union.  The taller man used deft fingers to undress the other.  Tie, shirt and jacket fell to the floor in a flurry of velvet, satins and lace.  Byron's hands had not been idle either.  Within minutes they were both still standing in front of the fireplace, but covered only by the thin fabric of their breeches, and the hard-ons each sported bulged against the constraint.

 

Two pair of hands roamed freely, reveling in the feel of smooth, almost hairless skin.  Except for height, the two men where of a similar build and composition.  But soon touching was not enough.  This they'd done before while indulging in the fruits of other offerings, when the aborigine carpet they now stood upon had been covered with a tangle of arms, legs and bared bodies after a night of drinking and storytelling.  Debauchery was an activity both were familiar with and neither was treading on unfamiliar ground this afternoon.  Except, through some perverse, torturing reasoning they could not explain, they'd denied the one thing they'd both wanted so badly throughout the days of the playful summer.  Each other.  Alone.

 

Doc's hands were the first to reach for the fastenings which would release Byron from the last of his clothing, efficiently removing the garment with deft, quick movements.  The poet was swept up in the feeling of pure euphoria and not a little disbelief that this was finally happening.  Why he'd ever denied himself this man was another mystery to add to life's already distended tome of questions.  He felt the air, cool despite the warmth of the fire, brush across his groin and before he could return the favor, found Doc also standing before him naked; finally.  It was nothing new.  They'd both lacked the modesty to bother with clothes when not convenient in the past, each coming and going into the other's rooms without knocking for months.  Then there were the orgies lasting late into the nights, sometimes including guests who might be passing through on a journey to some summer palace.  But this was different.  No sharing, no distractions.  Just he and Doc, skin to skin.  He nearly exploded on the spot with the thought that this dark-haired god with alabaster skin and a throat he longed to nuzzle all night long was *his* alone.

 

Methos began lowering them to the soft wool carpet, helping Byron without being obvious, knowing his infirmity would prevent a graceful descent, and still their lips never parted.  When the two men lay comfortably on a makeshift bed of pillows pilfered from the nearby sofa, Methos continued the assault on Byron's senses with his mouth, trailing a path of moist, hot kisses across his face, neck and shoulders.  When he began nibbling at the hollow of the poet's luscious throat, the spot which had always evoked a similar reaction in the group play, Byron shivered beneath him and he felt small goose bumps of pleasure rise wherever his lover's hand roamed. 

 

"Ah, you were definitely worth waiting for.  There may be something to this abstinence thing after all."  Byron chuckled softly at his own joke and Methos laid his head on the smooth chest, now rumbling with laughter.  He too had often wondered, during the hot days of pleasure and regalement, why it was exactly he had not taken Byron as lover.  But the bittersweet denial of this experience was forgotten as the poet's scent filled his nostrils with desire.  The thought flitted through his mind that even now, they seemed to be putting off the inevitable, delaying the culmination of months of hunger and need.  He decided it had been long enough.

 

Moving over the prone body of his lover, Methos moved down, placing soft kisses and feather light strokes across the angular planes of chest and stomach.  He stopped to suckle one pink nipple and its instant reaction to this attention encouraged him to continue with the other.  The ribcage, thinly covered by a layer of translucent skin, rose sharply as his teeth teased the puckered nub to attention while his fingers lightly caressed the sensitive skin along Byron's side, moving ever downward.

 

The play unfolded, act by tormentingly sensuous act.  Methos' mouth worked across Byron as skillfully as his hands had performed any surgery until he'd reached the spot where legs joined body, where Byron had been guiding his head with restless hands.

 

"Be patient, my poet," he chided once during his ministrations.  "You should know, of all people, that you cannot rush a work of art."  Byron had growled a warning that this particular art required immediate attention and Methos had laughed at his new lover's urgency.

 

Methos raised slightly, meeting the darkened gaze of his lover through the nearly black, untamed locks falling across his eyes, paused for effect, then lowered his head once more, plunging his tongue around the quivering cock being pushed up into his face.  Byron ground his hips into the hot mouth encircling him, holding tightly to the thick mane of the other man. Methos began a slow waltz around the base of Byron's cock, working up to a crescendo as he sucked harder and faster on the entire length of the turgid member.  His hands cupped the twin spheres beneath, slowly raking his nails lightly across the grooves formed by tightened skin.  Using his saliva and Byron's own juices, he wet the forefinger of his free hand and gradually inserted it into the tight ring of muscles between the poet's buttocks. The hips below worked faster, pressing his cock hard into Methos' mouth, then pushing his ass into the floor, reaching for the added stimulation.  When he came, the mouth he fucked sucked harder, milking the flow of white fluid thoroughly from him.  As he lay spent and relaxed, Methos continued to lick and suck the last drop, cleaning away all evidence of Byron's spent passion before climbing back up that lithe frame.

 

As he kissed Byron warmly and deeply, the poet reveled in the taste of himself, bittersweet as the final culmination of their four-month seduction.  He knew it would never be like this again for him.  As a man ruled by passions, ever searching for higher planes and more acute diversions to ride upon, Byron would never be satisfied with the past, but would always seek for more.  This much he knew about himself.

 

Doc nuzzled the slender column below Byron's ear, letting his tongue sweep across the tender flesh and the poet knew what he wanted.  He turned his head to kiss him again.  "Will you finally take me as we've both dreamed?"

 

"Yes.  That is what I want," Methos whispered back.  A simple statement, yet so full of promise for them both.

 

The slighter man rolled over, an offering to his muse.  Methos began a slow, relaxing massage of back, hips and buttocks.  When he reached the small, puckered opening, he used the seeping pre-cum from his own burgeoning erection as lubricant and breached the channel gently, yet insistently with first one finger, then two.  Byron made no sound, but the slight jerk, then a squirm upward into Methos' hand indicated that his need to be filled matched the other man's own to fill him.  Methos slid between the tight space provided by the pliant flesh of the other man's cheeks, stimulating both himself and Byron, spread before him.  Then, bracing the slender hips with both hands, he pressed the crown through first, stopping just long enough to assure himself of the other's comfort. They rested that way for long, precious seconds, Methos reveling in the feel of tight constraint.

 

"Get on with it.  I want to feel all of you."  The hissed command urged Methos higher and he let his own need drive the completion of their union.  When his cock was buried deeply, totally inside his lover, he stilled once more, bathing himself in the feeling of snug warmth which began at the base and extended into his groin, then upward throughout his body and down into his trembling legs.

 

They found a rhythm quickly, each playing counterpoint to the other's rocking motion.  Doc steadied himself with one hand on Byron's shoulder and the other gripping almost painfully into the sparse flesh covering one hip.  He was totally lost in the flow of sensation and found his movements becoming mindless and erratic.  He worked to bring himself back under control, altering the pace to one which would benefit them both, but too soon his fingers dug deeper into the slender hips as he struggled once more to hold onto to some tangible evidence that he still occupied physical time and space.  His spirit seemed fluid, flowing and mutating.  Their bodies were one entity and he could *feel* his own hands kneading the soft skin beneath him, felt his own cock inside himself, knew the feeling of his own climax pumping heatedly into the body of the man below who even now shook with his own completion and the strain of weight on a limb unused to the pressure. Methos could no longer stop himself from tumbling atop Byron than he could make himself fly away and the two men lay in a jumble of limbs and sweating bodies on the deep wine bed of carpet and pillows.

 

For long moments Methos refused to move, waiting for his heart to still, for his consciousness to resettle itself in his own mind as he knew it must. But as those two events began he did move, concerned that the prolonged stress of their positions would further abuse the limb that already failed Byron regularly. He moved only to find his arms held fiercely, the muscles of his young lover's ass clenching around his softened cock to hold him in place.

 

"No," Byron hissed. "It's too soon. It is over too soon -- I want to feel you in me again -- I want to be filled by you until there is nothing left but you." The request was nearly desperate and Methos acquiesced, gathering the slight form closer and began shifting in small increments as he nuzzled the throat beneath his lips.

 

"You need not be so impatient, my genius," he murmured reassuringly. "We have all the time we need."

 

"It is not enough! The moment is all there is for me...it's where my muse waits, always in the present -- never in the memory."

 

"Byron, you can not hold onto a moment," Methos said hearing the fear in the younger man's voice, the fear that his muse, his gift, would someday abandon him entirely. "But we can move through them -- together."

 

He did shift then, pulling himself free of the trembling body and rolling his lover back a bit so he could stare into the dark eyes and caress the sweet, youthful face. He closed the eyes with gentle kisses, halted the protests of fear with his mouth and ranged his long fingers between the parted thighs to encourage Byron's passions to rise again.

 

Nor was he disappointed in his entreaties. Soon enough the heavy shaft of flesh grew hard and hot and the body was gasping. The skills of millennia past sprang newly learned under the older Immortal's hands until his lover was writhing with pleasures yet unfulfilled.

 

He rolled them both until Byron lay atop him, already thrusting against his groin, nearly incoherent with the need to find completion, release, and Methos gentled him, sweeping the damp auburn locks back from the sweating face and parting his own thighs. He lifted his hips and Byron found the entry then thrust inside with the need to sheath his burning desires in some vessel. His gasp was near a cry, one echoed by his lover as he arched under him, face paling momentarily at the sudden pain, but the look on the older man's face was anything but pained when Byron had control enough to notice.

 

His lover lay stretched out below him, the sleekly muscled chest and stomach arched upward to meet his impatient thrusts. His head was back exposing the elegant throat, eliciting in Byron the sudden desire to be one of the vampires of legend to be able to suckle the blood pulsing just below the skin.

 

And then he could think of nothing as the orgasm erupted through him without warning, spilling into the body clenched so tightly around him.  His lover caught him as the strength in his arms gave out, hands reaching immediately to smooth his hair as they both panted from exertion and sensation.

 

The other man's cock was only semi-hard and trapped between them but he seemed content to kiss and fondle and reassure until Byron felt sleep overtake him. Methos encouraged his slumber and Byron slipped into the quietude, wondering, with a smile on his face, if his Muse would come like an incubus to deposit the words to describe the passions he had just expended.

 

~~~~

 

Byron woke to find himself in his own bed, in his own dressing gown. The room was dark and still, the sounds of the autumn night creeping in through the opened doors that led to the balcony of his room. His muse had indeed come to him or stayed with him, standing now half illuminated by candle and moonlight.

 

He made no sound as he observed the other man. The good doctor had dressed enough for propriety's sake, although none of the servants in the house would have commented if both men had remained naked all the time.  Servants were usefully discreet. But there was an air of propriety and restraint in the physician...Byron smiled.  In his lover -- it felt much more natural to think of  him that way, now.  He could still feel the press of the deceptive body against his, the reality of form a perfect match with his memory as he let his eyes rove over the pale skin of Doc's back.

 

He was loathe to disturb the silent contemplation, knowing his own Muse for the capricious creature it was. Yet, having the enigmatic man so close but not touching seemed a horrible waste of time that could be spent closer. They had put off this joining of bodies and spirits for long enough in Byron's mind -- and since the full impact of his immortality had not yet manifested itself in him, he felt there was not enough time in the world to explore life in all its fascinations.

 

Moving quietly he shifted to the edge of the bed, planning to slip up behind his lover, only to have the lame leg betray him with both pain and weakness. His hiss of pain immediately brought Doc's attention around and the man hurried to him, laying a solicitous hand on the limb to rub at the stiffness.

 

"I should have brought you to bed..."  his voice was soft as he worked the atrophied muscles.

 

Crouched beside him, Byron could only see the shadows as they danced across the pale skin, disappearing into the darker cloth of his trousers. His hand went out to touch the thick silken hair and the face lifted to his, still in shadow.  "You should have come to bed with me," Byron said, leaning forward to smell the gossamer strands.

 

"And I will, but this first," Methos said as he worked to ease the spasm.

 

"Damn my leg! I can stand it -- What I cannot abide is to have you this close but not closer.!" Byron said, knowing he sounded like a petulant child and caring not at all as he gripped his lover's hair tighter and drew him upward.

 

"Gordon," Methos said rising with the pull. "I am going nowhere..." he added and kissed the pouting mouth firmly before gripping both Byron's legs and swinging them up onto the bed and sitting beside him. "Relax," he said softly and ran his hands up the infirm limb, putting both ease and passion into his caresses.

 

~~~~~

 

The following days and nights could only be described as tranquil, yet laconic.  Byron could no more write for longer than a few hours at a time than his legs could be whole again.  Methos amused himself with the new myriad of herbs becoming available for harvest with the new season when he wasn't sharing the poet's hearth and bed.  "Doc" was perfectly content to let the shortening days pass uneventfully, but the whirling dervish of calenture could not rest for long.  Often, as the older man would return from the city or a ride in the countryside, he would find the household in an uproar of activity due to orders from the Lord of the manor, altering yet again their lifestyle on some whimsical notion he'd conjured with his muse.  At times like this, Methos could only shake his head, an amused smile curving his lips.  Wasn't this one of the reasons he'd found Byron so enchanting...being inexplicably drawn to that passion for living which always attracted him to his lovers?  He knew his existence would never be simple or quiet as long as he occupied a space in the bard's life. 

 

But, it was the life he'd chosen.  Despite the upheavals and sometimes pernicious whims of his partner, he was content to linger in Switzerland.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

As the shafts of dust-filled sunlight crossed the room to their bed, Methos silently watched the sleeping face of his golden lover.  The weeks since the consummation of their desires had begun to turn turbulent, unbalanced...and totally delicious to the ancient Immortal.  He hadn't felt so alive in centuries, hadn't allowed himself to give and receive love so easily until the web that was Byron had spun an irresistible filament of challenge across his dead existence.  But, Byron seemed less than satisfied with their arrangement of late and a small frown formed between the dark eyebrows.  He'd do anything to see that carefree, childish small light his lover's face once more.

 

The object of his regard shifted next to him, pulling the sheet tightly across his groin.  Methos could discern the outline of a steadily hardening cock against the thin material of the sheet.  Even in sleep, the poet reached for that ultimate expanse of sensation that would keep the demons at bay during his waking hours.  Under their own volition, his long, sensuous fingers reached toward the sleeping figure, allowing himself to run the length of protruding hardness.  Through the fine linen he felt the erection twitch before the body moved again, this time towards its observer.  The result was Byron's face laying inches from Methos' own, the soft, warm breath of sleep suggesting a deceptive sense of innocence.

 

Then dark eyes were peering curiously at gold.  Wide awake, as if Morpheus had never visited, Byron smiled lazily and closed the distance between himself and Methos with a good morning kiss meant to rouse his bed partner.  It wasn't necessary.  Methos reached out, gathering the body, still warm and pliant from sleep, into his arms.

 

"And what's your pleasure today, Lord Poet?" he asked in a voice, low and husky from its first use of the day.  He began softly kissing his lover's face.  Closed lids, soft cheeks...then moving toward the plump lobe that was Byron's most sensitive spot.  His exploration of the lithe body had yielded many erogenous zones, but his ears had proven to be the quickest way to elicit a response from the other man.

 

Byron wiggled enticingly in Methos' arms, rubbing against the body which had so entranced him.  But soon, as always, it was not enough.  He pulled back and Methos looked at him curiously, accustomed to the ever changing moods of this sensual being, waiting patiently to see what exploit his lover might now have in mind.

 

"I had a dream last night.  I was falling from a great craggy cliff into the crashing waters of the sea.  But I wasn't afraid.  For the first time, I fear not my dreams and you know why?"  Methos shook his head.  "Because I know the pain will pass, the darkness will recede and I will be reborn again."  Byron's eyes took on the fire of the fanatic.  Methos felt a metal band of anticipation cinch about his chest and held his breath, listening.  "Would you help me, my love?  Take me to the other side as we join, fly me on the wings of not only le petite morte, but the most feared of deaths that no man can escape, as well?"  the poet begged. 

 

The older man's heart sank.  All through the summer Adams, Byron, Percy and the rest had experimented, explored, and searched out new and unusual sensations to feed their pathos as they searched for inspiration in the depravities of the physical realm.  He'd known it was but a matter of time before his beloved reached beyond the limited experiences of mortal men, grasping at this new dimension which allowed his imagination to move unfettered by the laws of nature. 

 

Then for a brief moment, the panic...and excitement returned.  The memory of his own body convulsing in death while crying out its release into an ecstatic state of being he'd been unable to achieve again through his travels of centuries and continents.  For however well the mind may process the knowledge that you will return, that death is a fleeting moment in eternity to accept and even appreciate, the body recoils from it.  That last second of terror before the flicker of life is snuffed out mingling with that exquisite rush of ecstasy...yes, he knew the possibilities, had experienced them over and over.  He was helpless to deny Byron this experience, for who knew what Muse he'd find in the darkness of oblivion.  

 

"Then come to me and explore the domain of death which yields no quarter to breath and being."  Methos rolled atop Byron and the poet could see that his lover had moved beyond this moment in time, back to some lost secret only he could see and grew harder when the flashing gold-green eyes lit up with memories of the past.

 

"Yes, my healer.  For once don't think of saving a life, but of using death as a vehicle for my Muse to come once more to me, to whisper in my ear of things unknown and wondrous." 

 

Methos reacted to the passion of his words instantly.  Holding Byron's wrists tightly, he pulled the poet's arms above his head, leaning over to tie them securely to the bedposts with the heavy cords from their canopy.  Settling back on the body below him, now distended to outline ribcage and breastbone, Methos reached down to cup the face of his lover. 

 

"First, I want to feel the heat of your mouth surround me, before it turns cold with the ceasing of your heartbeat."  He knew his words would excite Byron even further and wasn't far off in his estimate of what the poet needed to hear.  The reddish-brown head lifted eagerly to taste him and Methos let his head roll back in bliss as he sank into the sensation of moist pressure.  Byron suckled him expertly, while trying vainly to press his own hips more firmly against the spread legs above him.  His moan vibrated along the shaft filling his mouth and a small shiver ran through his lover.

 

"Enough!"  Methos didn't want to satisfy his own longing until the timing was perfect.  If he was going to follow through with this, he'd do it with the artful flair he'd been taught.    

 

Leaning to the side of the prone body, he picked up the long silk sash belonging to the robe he'd discarded on the floor the night before.  He ran its length enticingly across his lover's neck, letting the trail linger at the end before whipping it away to be used later.  Byron labored to raise himself, head thrown back, letting the soft material tease him to the highest sense of arousal he'd ever experienced.  "Yesss," he hissed in a soft whisper, which Methos cut off with his mouth, grinding their lips together in a brutal parody of his earlier tenderness. 

 

The sable head moved downward, roughly nipping at the twin nubs on Byron's chest, knowing just where to stop before he'd reached that level of unacceptable discomfort.  The poet's low threshold for pain was common knowledge between them and had stayed Methos' hand more than once during their love play. 

 

"No," his lover ground out through clenched teeth.  "Don't stop now!" he demanded and Methos proceeded with his torment of the trembling body.  His touch grew harsher as he raked the tender flesh exposed under his lover's arms and his teeth drew blood at the protruding hipbone marking the joint of legs and torso.  He sat back and watched the marks fade in the surrounding sparks of immortal healing.  With Byron's impassioned words, Methos let loose the demons of his past and immersed himself fully in their game.

 

Cruelly he raised the weaker leg, gripping its bent length at ankle and thigh, teasing behind the knee with first his tongue, then the surprising force of teeth and nails as he worked his way forward to the crux of the body.  Byron's cock had grown no less turgid for the rugged treatment, but rather strained for the touch that would release him into the nether world.  Methos scraped the sensitive skin along the underside of the distended member until Byron's whimpers echoed through the chamber, then kissed the injured flesh tenderly, causing his lover to cry out in frustration.

 

"Do it!"  he pleaded.  "Fill my muse and set me free!" The last almost a sob.  Methos briefly considered prolonging his anguish to make the final completion all the sweeter, but realized that regardless of his brave words, his gentle genius would not be able to walk the delicate line between pleasure and pain much longer.

 

Placing himself squarely between extended legs, Methos pulled the limbs forward and up.  Laid now across his shoulders, the body before him was spread eagerly, helpless and waiting for his pleasure.  The hazel eyes shut briefly, as he suddenly felt the need to brace himself for what he was about to do.  Then, suitably primed, he reached over for the tie and wrapped it loosely about Byron's neck, scanning his lover's face for any show of doubt or regret.  There was none.  So be it.  He dipped his fingers in the small pot of oil they kept on the table by the bed and prepared them both.

 

Without breaking eye contact, yet continuing his role as dominant lover, he pressed the engorged head firmly against the tight cavity.  With a growl of pure lust, Byron pushed himself forward as forcefully as he could in his bound state, impaling himself on the thick cock.  Methos released his tightly reined control, pulling out and returning to the depths of his lover's heat over and over, stroking the sides of the channel roughly with each impact.  His hand wrapped tightly about Byron's quivering cock at the base of his stomach, using the loose skin covering tight muscle to stimulate and drive the poet closer to the edge of descent.  His grip loosened briefly until he had the tie coiled and twisted in the fist of his free hand.  Then he was pumping Byron again, his hips flexing in time with the movement of his hands.

 

Methos could feel the build up...intense and furious as always with this man.  His mind engaged just in time to recall the purpose of this game and he tightened his hold on the silk as Byron lost all cognizant perspective of his surroundings, the pendulum of fulfillment swinging ever closer.  For a few seconds he feared he'd misjudged the timing of the man thrashing beneath him as he watched the dark eyes roll backward as his chest heaved a final gasp and still he had not come.  But as quickly as the thought presented itself, he felt the hot seed spill over his fist and across the flat planes of the prone figure's belly, causing the still working hand to slip loosely over the head of Byron's cock.

 

Then he felt his own climax, bringing with it a dark suspicion.  A feeling he barely recognized as anger began building, side by side with his passion, and he tried to process its meaning.  Was he no longer enough to satisfy the pure hedonist he called lover?  Then all other thoughts were wiped from his mind as the orgasm descended upon him, intensified by the sad realization that he'd been left behind by a man obsessed with the search for his Muse. 

 

"Damn you," he whimpered at the lifeless body, while at the same time filling it with the product of their lethal adventure, then collapsed, sobbing against the still chest.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The auburn head jerked upright as Byron coughed violently, then sucked precious oxygen back into deprived lungs.  Methos found himself holding the poet down against the soft mattress as panic overtook reason and his eyes widened with remembered pain.  But, the attack lasted but a moment before he was once again himself, pushing his lover away impatiently.  A look of wonder shown on the pale continence.

 

"Oh God! What a feeling of helpless bliss!  I must do it again..." Methos grabbed the poet's arms, whirling him around to face his anger.

 

"Is it never enough for you?  Where will you stop?  When will your Muse be satisfied?"  He searched the beloved face for any sign that his words weren't fruitless sounds falling on deaf ears, but Byron was already pulling away, moving toward his desk, anxious to capture the feelings of forlorn darkness before they vanished into the ether of his mind forever.

 

"Why do you do this to us?  You know I can deny you nothing, would do anything to see that jubilant look of childlike wonder cross your face again as it did our first time together."  Methos knew how he sounded and his anger flared into a fire of self-loathing that he could not prevent the words from tumbling from his mouth. 

 

Byron ignored his pleas, intently scribbling lest he forget one second of the spiritual experience of an hour ago.  Methos gripped the back of his chair, yanking it and its occupant about...anything to make his lover listen.

 

"You've had your 'Haunted Summer'. Will you try now for a Winter of Possession?" Methos demanded, eyes flashing as he faced the poet.

 

"I might," Byron shot back and was on his feet, graceful hands reaching for Methos' arms to rub them, dark eyes intense.  "I feel I already am possessed -- by my muse, by you -- by this immortal creature I have become. Mary was right in her label. I feel I must be a Prometheus, to be reborn every moment into something new, lest my own passions burn out of me."

 

Framing the desperate face in his hands, Methos spoke softly. "But those passions are what feed your genius...your words. If you cast them side too quickly for what is new, you will never know what they have to say."

 

Byron wrenched away, anger flashing in his eyes as he turned to snatch at the papers strewn across his writing table. "This is not passion! It is drivel -- meaningless. They are but words! My muse leads me farther and you drag me back -- and I am caught between the two of you! Yet, one cannot exist without the other; you, my demon muse, nor I! So which master do I heed, Benjamin? Whose siren call will lead me to greatness?"

 

"You must listen to yourself."

 

"Platitudes? I expected better of you, Doc!" Byron snarled and strode out of the room, grabbing up clothes and calling for Manning to have his horse saddled.

 

Methos stood silently watching his lover depart and the room dropped in temperature  by several degrees.  His own flushed face lost some of its color as the warmth which always wrapped about him when Byron was near faded with the loss of its cause.  He worried about the poet...and himself.  Methos knew he was falling...slipping uncontrollably under the spell of Gordon's genius.  The man's gift was like the mushrooms he'd studied over the course of the summer.  Only thriving and producing under cover of darkness, shrinking away from the brightness of the sun lest it outshine his own creativity.  And he was dragging Methos into the shadows with him.

 

Slamming the papers down on the desk, he whirled about and exited the bedchamber through the opposite door taken by his lover.  This possession of his soul was driving him mad.  Methos knew the immaturity of the poet had much to do with his demand for the constant attendance of his muse, wherever he may find it.  But for himself?  He should know better.  He'd had almost 5000 years to discover that one cannot command a muse...or love.  His heart was heavy with the foreshadowing knowledge that he had not the power or passion to hold on to the man who craved sensation and sensationalism, only to spew it all out once it could no longer provide inspiration for the demons which haunted him.  Methos, Immortal with five millennia of experience to draw upon, could not continue to feed the appetite of a young prodigy who was driven by the fear that his fire would die with the rise of each sun or the fall of each night.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Byron returned just as dark was settling over the manor.  Methos sat brooding in the study, chasing memories of the summer from his mind with the second bottle of wine.  Mary Shelley, trepidatious wife of Percy...timid to a fault, yet able to discern the crux of immortality in a sweeping moment of revelation.  The Immortal could envision her plainly, watching from the cover of shadows as the rest of the party drank and laughed, finally falling upon each other in a frenzied attempt to stir the dying passions of sensation and empathy.  Watching and waiting...waiting for her chance to shine.  And, oh, how she had that night after Gordon's first quickening.  Her story of a reborn being, made monstrous by man's own hand outdid any prose or poetry the rest of them could birth that eve. 

 

And there was Claire, over there on the settee, lounging indolently, one breast impertinently exposed to the gaze of her heart's desire.  Such a child and so in love with Byron.  Little did she know that her small, insubstantial flicker could never be enough to ignite even a flare of interest other than the odd passing fancy. 

 

Methos' musings were interrupted when the cause of these chaotic thoughts threw open the twin doors and strode back in, all smiles and grace.  Like the quicksilver moods of his muse, Byron seemed to have conveniently forgotten or ignored the circumstances of his earlier departure.  He glided over to Methos, as well as he could, and planted an enthusiastic, deep kiss on his lover's mouth, which had been opened in elation and surprise.  As much as Methos might not want it, the sight of his genius poet could stop his heart flat, then shatter it with the joy of his nearness.  But he also knew as surely as the flowers wilted each fall, bending under the harsh Northern wind, that if this man became aware of the spell he'd cast over the ancient Immortal, the attraction would wither in a similar manner.

 

Mentally preparing for whatever his lover might have in store for the evening, Methos allowed himself the tiniest bud of yearning to show in his eyes as he gazed into the dark ones of the poet.  "Come here," and he pulled Byron down, throwing the man slightly off balance and causing him to fall ungracefully into a heap beside the settled occupant.

 

"Doc, whatever do you think you're doing?" he protested in fond annoyance.  "I've brought us a treat tonight.  No time for this."  And the fairer man struggled once more to his feet and called for the guests he'd left nervously waiting in the hallway.

 

They entered hesitantly, but not fearfully - simply and slightly awed by the manor, and by their host.  They favored each other, thick dark hair crowning two nearly twin oval faces. They were well dressed but not richly. Not peasants nor were they gentry, but caught somewhere in between. Methos caught his himself staring at the woman, something in the dusky skin appealing to him - suggesting a touch of Romany in the dark eyes, a gypsy cast to the sensuous mouth and slender but well curved body. There was none of the frailty of Society's delicate damsels. This girl, this woman, was as earthy as the woods encircling the manor, dark and secret, inviting with whispered promises of hidden delights under the rich blue of her dress. Her hair was caught up in a heavy braid, an outward display of propriety as was her dress. She could pass for a merchant's wife or daughter. But the illusion of propriety failed when he met her eyes, the nearly black depths challenging his with both interest and humor.

 

Byron smiled watching the exchange, knowing his lover's interest was piqued. He had contacted these two after many discrete inquiries.  Common sluts would not do for what he desired to observe, he needed - wanted - talents that could bring his companion to ecstasy.  These two, who offered their services at a price that was neither cheap nor negotiable, touted themselves as siblings. Having seen them, Byron had little cause to doubt.  The woman, Veronique Adelarde, had done the actual transaction, as self-assured in her dealings as Mary Shelley was timid. Her brother, Stefan, was far more retiring and despite the heavy muscular build, was nearly more delicate than his sister. Other than his coloring, he could have passed for Michelangelo's David, the face almost too perfect, the dark gray eyes intense and dreamy at the same time.

 

His lover's gaze had shifted from Mlle. Adelarde to her brother and Byron felt the rousing stirrings in his breast. The idea that he might be jealous of Benjamin's interest in either of their guests was new and interesting. He savored the small burn of anger, then turned it inward...a smoldering low burn of passion, already anticipating the inspiration it would evoke as he envisioned his two hires plying their skills over the responsive body of his lover.

 

"Mademoiselle Veronique Adelarde and her brother, Stefan. This is my very dear friend Dr. Benjamin Adams," Byron said stepping between his Doc and the couple. The doctor caught the lady's hand in his fingers, bending his head to brush his lips across her knuckles.

 

Her skin was subtly scented, old memories triggered by the aroma of sandalwood and myrrh and roses. Methos had no doubts about either the woman's identity or her profession - nor that of the exquisite young man next to her - be he brother or no. He had met women very like her over the centuries and could but marvel that Byron had been so intent on exploring his pleasures to have sought out such a pair. Dropping her hand he met the dark eyes once more before turning to face her "Brother". The young man's grip was strong without being oppressive and Methos could not halt the faint shiver of anticipation that ran through him as the youth's fingertips deliberately grazed his palm when he disengaged his hand.

 

"Manning," Byron called to his butler and the silent servant appeared, face impassively uninterested as usual. "Please show Mademoiselle and Monsieur Adelarde to their rooms. We shall expect you to join us after dinner, my friends. Manning will see that you have what you need and that your meals are sent to you as you requested, Mademoiselle. Manning will also see to your other...requests."

 

"Merci, My Lord," Veronique murmured, her voice as throaty and dusky as her appearance. "We shall see you later this evening." She turned to follow the manservant out, as graceful as a dancer, Stefan trailing in her wake. There was an unconscious sensuality to the way the pair moved, every nuance of movement seemingly choreographed. Something cold reached deep within Methos -- wrenching long forgotten memories from his soul and he closed his eyes against the implications of  the visual evidence of hard won training in the couple.

 

"She is exquisite," Byron breathed and Methos hazarded a glance at his lover, not surprised to see a flush in the pale cheeks. "And he is...."

 

"Yes, he is...." Methos murmured and moved away to seek the near empty bottle of wine. Perhaps if he were sufficiently drunk, he might not remember by morning whatever games Byron had orchestrated.

 

"How would you take him?" Byron asked, stealing the bottle and drinking deeply, finishing it before seeking another. This one he shared with his lover, eyes fascinated as he watched his dark Muse swallow the wine, heedless of the vintage. "Tell me. Or her? Describe it for me..."

 

Byron had moved to the table, the papers and tools of his trade scattered about the house in every room so he could capture his spirits wherever he was. His slender fingers were already twitching but had not yet reached for a pen.

 

"You have seen me take a woman before...," Methos said flinging himself back down on the sofa, drinking once more to call oblivion if only for a few moments. He lay back, the ruffled gathers of his blouse open to reveal the ivory chest and expose the slender throat. Byron shifted, coming up behind him to drop his fingers against that skin, pushing the fabric aside seeking the dark disc of flesh.

 

"True," Byron said a smile twitching at his lips, eyes bright with fondness.  The sweetness of his face and expression eased the confusion and anger warring within Methos' heart and mind. This was his Byron, his love, rare glimpses though he caught any longer. He caught the fingers, pressing kisses against them and Byron circled the sofa to settle beside him. His hands roved and played with cloth and skin, never lingering. 

 

"I have watched you. Seen you and felt you deliver wave after wave of pleasure upon others, upon me. But what for yourself, Benjamin? Can there really be so much pleasure in giving?"

 

His tone was only slightly mocking and Methos turned to him, pulling him close, wrapping one leg around the poet's to keep them both securely on their perch. "Can you doubt that every smile you offer me, every touch could be less than heaven," Methos said against the auburn hair. "You fill me with your very presence, beloved. Were I never to touch you again I could live centuries remembering the times you had. All your carnality, your thrill seeking will not replace that. I but wish I could convince you of it rather than watch you torment yourself trying to capture that which eludes you."

 

"I am a burden to you, Benjamin. I know that--"

 

"Never--" Methos' protest was stopped by the full and open pressure of Byron's mouth. The poet sought him hungrily and Methos fed him for long moments.

 

"Can you not see? Your passions burn slow and steady," Byron murmured, expression saddened and lost as Methos held him. "Mine must ever burn bright and fast. I cannot answer to the centuries you say are spread before me lest I become dull and trite or become less than a man." Byron shifted raising himself above Methos to meet the eyes watching him so intently. "You are a creature of time and space and memory, Benjamin. You have tamed your muses and they may well come to your call. But I must answer to mine -- dance at her command."

 

"What do you want from me?" Methos closed his eyes already knowing that whatever the angelic faced demon demanded of him he would do.  Consequences might damn him until the end of time but there was nothing he could deny his limpet of a lover.  Byron's very scent was a spell Methos could not break, his touch, his presence...and his poetry. Those words that spilled across paper with the ease of Byron's blood flowing from a wound...the worst of Byron's verse could cut Methos to his soul, elate him or destroy him. The poet was a sorcerer and his poetry his enchantments.

 

"For this night I would see you take what you so willingly give," Byron said softly and Methos opened his eyes again to the tenderness in the voice and the feel of cool fingers against his cheek. " I have no restraint with you. I cannot find the patience to bring to you what you bring to me. Nor, I think, do I have the skill. But Veronique and her brother do -- or so they say. I would watch them pleasure you until you are incoherent, until you are fainting with ecstasy, until you are so spent you can make no sound. And then I will hold you if you weep or sleep to know what it is you feel when you do so for me. It is no gift for you I offer, but one for myself. Can I have it? Will you give it to me?" Byron murmured making no apologies for his selfishness or his motives. "I want to know the passion of jealousy, to know envy when someone else brings to you what I cannot."

 

"There is no one who can bring me anything of worth that you cannot," Methos said sincerely and got another searing kiss for his honesty.

 

"Then I would know that as well," Byron murmured and then was off again with laughter ringing off the walls, calling for servants, checking on arrangements until he whirled and held his hand out entreatingly to Methos. "Come then, lover muse. We must prepare for our guests," he said joyfully and the look on his face once more banished Methos' own demons as his joyful lover returned to him once more.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Had Byron not been so absolutely pleased with his own arrangements, Methos might have laughed at the atmosphere the poet tried to create.  The decadence of Rome was his current theme -- or decadence as he perceived it. Outer accouterments resembled drapery rather than the tunigas and chitons Methos recalled from more youthful days but Byron was a poet -- not a historian.  One of the guest rooms had been swathed in drapes of gossamer fabric, baths drawn for himself and his Lordship, while food

was spread in a lavish display.

 

Byron would not let him try his costume, calling instead for servants with a clap of his hands and all the enthusiasm of a child seeing the circus for the first time. Veronique and her brother emerged from an adjoining room, dressed as Byron had proposed and both looking far more comfortable in the loose swathes of fabric than Methos knew he would feel. Veronique's hair had been unbraided and redone, heavy coils of nearly black hair falling across the olive skin of her shoulders.  Stefan fit the role rather well, though he evoked Grecian gods rather than Roman body slaves.  They both entered and knelt before the two men and Methos was aware again of the peculiar tightening in his chest.

 

"Will you bathe, my Lord?" Veronique asked of Byron, eyes cast down even when he agreed.

 

"Will you bathe, my Lord?" Stefan spoke for the first time and Methos nodded, caught by the rich bass of the man's voice. Stefan was taller and broader than Methos, movements strong and sure as he reached out for the ties of Methos shirt, parting them and loosening them, heavy fingers surprising in their light touch as they skimmed across his flesh. A glance at his companion found Byron sitting on a low chair as Veronique helped him remove his boots, struggling only a little with the

reinforced bracing that supported Byron's bad leg. Had the woman any revulsion or surprise at the damaged limb, she gave no sign, only moved quickly to strip the poet.

 

Neither of the pair's hands lingered anywhere for very long but the touches were nonetheless erotic. Someone, somewhere had taught these two very well. Stefan moved behind him to ease him out of his shirt, large hands sliding sensuously across Methos' chest before catching the fabric and dragging it backward. The same sure movements and touches followed as he divested Methos of his breeches  and boots before wrapping him in the light toweling of a robe. He guided him to the bath and settled him in the hot water.

 

Stefan left him for a moment to assist Veronique in making sure Byron was similarly ensconced then returned. The bath was just that. It was on the tip of Methos' tongue to inform their 'servants' that such baths had actually been closer to pools and the water tepid rather than hot but they made do with what was available at the manor.

 

There was a certain relentless luxury to being bathed by someone who knew what he was doing and Stefan did know. The large hands moved steadily and rhythmically in long strokes as he held out Methos' arms to bathe the skin, cloth following the curve of muscle as he flexed the arm then moved to bathe the other. Touches and murmurs moved Methos into position as he leaned forward and Stefan washed his back. Methos lifted his head only once to seek out Byron's face and found his lover standing, one hand braced against Veronique's shoulder as she bathed his leg, small circular motions working their way up his thighs to his groin. Already Byron was growing hard and Methos found himself responding to the display he was witnessing.

 

Then Stefan was urging him to his feet as well and Methos became cognizant first hand of the touches that so aroused his lover. Stefan's hands stroked him, parted his thighs as the warm cloth was wiped gently from his buttocks to his sensitive rounds of flesh at his groin then around his lengthening cock. The dark head was bent close to his hip, Stefan's breath feathering against his skin as his fingers worked gently around the creases in his skin. His limbs were trembling and he steadied himself against the dark head then went still as the youth moved, mouth brushing the tip of his cock with a kiss. Open eyes showed Veronique applying the same gentle skill to Byron. Her delicate rose lips covered the engorged flesh gently, cheeks hollowing as she suckled him.

 

Byron was swaying against her skill, Methos' heart leaping as he saw his lover stagger. He moved, Stefan's attentions forgotten but Veronique was as attuned to the poet's infirmity as he was and stronger than she looked. Her arms locked around the slender hips to brace him as she rose, reaching for the bath wrap and assisted him in stepping out of the tub, but he faltered and Methos pushed Stefan away impatiently, surging out of the bath with the wrath of god on his face.  Byron's face was flushed from the heat of the bath, from the passions and sensation Veronique had roused and from sheer excitement alone.

 

Dripping water and with Stefan at his elbow, Methos caught the majority of the weight of his lover, easing the trembling form back onto the low stool. But the flush was unnatural and Byron's pulse was fast and thready. The pupils were dilated and the skin cool and damp despite the warmth of the bath.

 

"What did you take, Gordon?" Methos asked.  "Bring me cool water and cloths," he commanded, slipping out of his role of a pampered master and back into that of a physician within a heartbeat.

 

"Just the wine," came the breathless reply and Methos cursed softly under his breath.

 

"With laudanum?" he demanded.

 

"No. Only the wine we shared...," Byron said breathlessly.

 

 A bowl of water was presented and Veronique knelt beside him, Stefan laying a light wrap across his shoulders as Methos bathed the flushed face.  Byron's addiction to the laudanum was a thing Methos thought past once the Shelley's had left, but the poet was convinced the sedative opened the gates to his muse, made him more receptive. Yet, there was no scent of the opiate on his breath with the sick-sweet cloying smell.  Puzzled, Methos vainly sought for another explanation, prepared to search Byron's things for other drugs he might have availed himself of quickly.  Before he could move, however, the slim fingers closed around his wrist and Byron looked feverishly into his eyes.

 

"Don't stop this... I saw your face...I want..."

 

"Hush," Methos said evenly, soothing him, fearful of a fit or rage overtaking Byron in this unpredictable twilight state brought on by the drug.  "We will continue, but you need to let this work from your system...else you will know nothing....feel nothing."

 

"What can we do, sir?" Veronique murmured, calm and nonplused by the poet's reaction.

 

"Get him onto the bed," Methos said rising and tightening the wrap around his waist. Before he could reach for his lover, however, Stefan had moved, gathering the slender fainting form up in his arms as if Byron weighed no more than a child and carried him to the large bed.

 

Methos moved to follow but Veronique laid a light touch on his arm. Dark eyes met his steadily, perceptively. "Your stake in these games is far deeper than his, Monsieur. You know this?"

 

"You forget your place, Mademoiselle," Methos said evenly, eyes fixed on the quiet giant laying Byron on the bed. He moved away from her without a word, pushing past Stefan to check on his lover. Byron's heart rate had calmed and he framed Methos' face with his hands, pulling the concerned face down to kiss him. 

 

"I am quite well, Doc," he said with an apology softening his gaze.  "But it was exquisite. She is all she says she is. And you...?" his hands roved across Methos' body through the fabric, feeling the partially rigid rise of flesh at his groin. "I will strain myself no further."

 

"Another time, Gordon. I want you to rest," Methos said smoothing the auburn curls back from the pale face.

 

"No! " Byron caught his hand. "No, this was never meant for me...but for you. Please. Let me watch. You will rest against me, clasped to my bosom as Veronique and her brother ply their skills, their trade, and I will know your pleasure vicariously." He pulled impatiently at Methos' robe, finger tips stroking the muscled curve of his lover's shoulder. "Is he not beautiful, Mademoiselle? Monsieur? You and your trade could learn much from the good doctor here. But he will not tolerate false flattery, will you, my beloved?"

 

"Byron, this is not the time for games!" Methos hissed feeling his lover's pulse begin to race again.

 

"You promised...." Byron said with all the petulance of a child and prepared to fight Methos every step of the way. The poet was trembling with emotion, with need, and Methos soothed him with gentle touches and soft words.

 

"Calm down...." Methos murmured as the frenzied hands moved across his flesh in entreaty. " I will do as you ask," he said softly, stroking his lover's arms as he leaned in and kissed him gently. "But you must calm yourself, first. Breathe, Byron." It was an exercise Methos had practiced often with his patient and it had the desired affect as the poet's color returned. Methos concentrated only on Byron, only vaguely aware when Veronique finished slipping the robe from his shoulders, her hands working to ease the hard knots of tension in his back and shoulders.

 

Lulled by the deep breathing and the rhythmic stroke of Methos' hands along his arms, Byron relaxed noticeably and drew Methos toward him in an embrace. He pulled at Methos, settling the dark head against his shoulder. Not willing to be the catalyst to another attack, Methos acquiesced, stretching out between Byron's parted thighs, head resting on the soft shoulder. Byron clasped his arms around his lover briefly, kissing him with a mix of passion and benediction, before pressing his lips to the dark hair and releasing him.

 

"Mademoiselle, your art..." he breathed against Methos' hair.  He felt warm with Benjamin's body against his own and calmer, even focused as the brother and sister joined then on the bed, shedding their clothing and kneeling on opposite sides of the pair. Coaxing hands brought Methos to his knees between Byron's parted legs, facing the poet. Byron felt the undeniable thrill of arousal burn through him at the bright-eyed watchfulness of his lover as Benjamin's seduction began.

 

They began with simple massages and Byron watched with contentment as his lover closed his eyes under their ministrations. Selfish he might be but Byron was not oblivious to the tension that still resided in the long, lean lines of his lover's body. He began his own massage, spreading his fingers wide and rubbing the hard muscles of Doc's thighs, savoring the feel of the smooth skin, barely covered by dark, sparse fine hairs. His delight grew as Veronique added her mouth to the stimulation, applying tiny nips along Benjamin's arms until she reached his throat. Behind them, Stefan had begun similar manipulations along the curved spine and the slender frame trembled as the caresses increased, with Stefan's broad hands stroking his sides from beneath his arms to his hips in long solid strokes. Those same broad hands slid across his hips to begin a series of slow circular motions along the hollows of his pelvis, fingers slipping tantalizingly close to the crisp dark curls at his groin.

 

Watching in enthralled fascination, Byron swallowed heavily as Veronique made her mouth available to his lover. The small hard nipples of her breasts barely brushed Benjamin's chest as she rose above him, tilting his head back before dropping her fingers to rake them lightly across his flesh, leaving thin white lines that rapidly turned red against the ivory skin. She caught the sensitized nipples, rubbing them delicately as her mouth moved from his lips, along his jaw, nipping again.

 

"Beneath his ears, Mademoiselle," Byron murmured and chuckled softly as she followed his instructions. His lover's lips parted, the hazel eyes growing dark with arousal just before the delicate lashes fell to his cheeks. That sweet pang of jealousy sang through Byron's blood when he heard and saw Benjamin's gasp as the woman pressed lips and teeth and tongue at the spot Byron knew would set his lover trembling in desire.

 

The graceful hands came up to stroke at the woman's breasts and Veronique offered up a softly voiced sigh of delight but then moved his hands lower, parting her thighs wider to allow him access to the most intimate parts of her body.

 

Methos stifled a moan as Stefan's hands finally moved to his groin, unable to halt the sudden stretch of his spine as the sure hands stroked him delicately. Veronique had bent her head to lave his nipple with her tongue and he could feel the youth behind him. Stefan's cock felt large and heavy pressed to his buttocks but the youth made no attempt to enter him, simply allowing his swollen shaft to caress the cleft of Methos' buttocks and his lower back. His own cock was growing turgid under the studied pull and pressure of the talented hands and he could feel the warmth coiling in his loins. With Stefan's mouth pressed against his throat he managed to open his eyes and found himself lost in Byron's dark eyes, the poet's pupils dilated and his breath coming in short, shallow pants. Wordlessly Methos lifted his fingers to trace the parted lips, a faint smile on his own when his lover first bit then suckled the proffered digits. 

 

He had been trying his best to relax into the seduction of his senses and the feel of Byron's moist lips and tongue gently drawing on his fingers shattered his barriers and he gave into the shudder of desire that overwhelmed him. His chest heaved once as Stefan tightened his grip around his cock and began stroking in earnest. Byron caught his hand.

 

"Surrender, my love," Byron urged and at that releasing command, Methos did.

 

Veronique pulled away, Methos' chest suddenly cooled but he was soon warmed again as Stefan embraced him from behind. The silent youth tilted his head back with one hand to capture his lips in a deep and searching kiss while the other continued to work the swollen flesh until Methos moaned against his mouth.

 

Jealousy flared in Byron again as his Doc reached up to capture the dark head, long fingers threading through the thick hair to pull the youth closer then breaking the kiss to draw in a long shuddering gasp for air, then a moan as his hips flexed involuntarily.  Another groan followed as Stefan eased his caresses and Veronique returned bearing a small vial of oil in one hand. The vial she gave to her brother, moving in to take his place as he pulled back from the slender body to coat his cock and groin with the thick, scented stuff. Byron watched the youth, confused and fascinated by the total lack of expression on the youth's face although his cock was rigid and hard and possibly the largest Byron had ever seen. He wondered for one brief moment if such an impressive penis would not cause his lover pain but silenced his doubts, filled with the desire to see this young giant take his slender lover until Doc was sobbing with passion.

 

Listening to the soft sounds his lover made as Stefan began to slick the oil across and between his buttocks, Byron was caught by the feeling of power he held. For him Benjamin was allowing two strangers intimacies he had previously reserved for Byron alone. The two skilled courtesans would follow his every order, his every command. He knew what points on the beloved body would make Benjamin writhe in ecstasy, knew the exact pattern his breathing took just before an orgasm overtook him. And that precise point in time was what he longed to see, to watch his lover's face as he was caught on the precipice of sensation. 

 

"Can you prolong this?" he demanded softly of Veronique, his eyes meeting the glazed gold-green ones. 

 

"Gordon...." Methos voice was thick and halting with emotion. He fell silent as the poet's finger pressed against his lips.

 

"Through you will I know..." Byron began and his voice dropped to the soft lilt of his maddened muse to beseech and plea. "'Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse, Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign. To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source'." **

 

"Prometheus..." Methos breathed as Byron moved in to kiss him, to touch his face, fingers tracing delicately across the pronounced cheekbones.

 

"Will you be my Prometheus, beloved? Will you let me see you bound and reborn again from moment to moment, feeling to feeling, to burn in passion's flame as I do?"

 

Hazel eyes searched brown and Methos nodded, Veronique moving once more and returning with a small filigreed ring of silver, a delicate chain the closure, the interior surface padded with soft leather. At Byron's nod she fit the deceptively delicate ring around the base of Methos' cock, watching him carefully as he shuddered and stretched as the pressure built to a new level in his groin.  The small chain she secured around his testes, fitting it carefully but Methos could not suppress the shuddering moan that escaped him at the exquisite edge of pain the device prompted.

 

Thus bound Methos was gently turned, Stefan straightening his legs then parting them as he was positioned between his lover's thighs, Byron's arms closing around him, soft lips pressed to his temple.

 

"I want to witness this," Byron said, shifting slightly to slide his hands along Methos' arms until he caught the graceful hands as the man and woman moved in closer.  Feeling lightheaded and over-sensitized, Methos kept a tight grip on Byron's hands as the two moved over him, stroking and caressing his skin once more. Byron bent over to kiss him and it was that kiss that roused his passions rather than the touches, expert though they were.

 

Stefan's lightly callused hands stroked his thighs, applying pressure and touches where only one man would know to touch another. Veronique bent over his chest, breasts lightly rubbing his skin as she sucked at his nipples.

 

"Let me see, Benjamin," Byron whispered against his mouth, the dark eyes bright and dancing with passion and mischief and excitement. Methos could not deny the entreaty in those eyes and gave himself over to the pleasures -- and they were pleasures -- the pair were offering.

 

Hands and mouths teased at his cock, his balls, pulling at the delicate chain, the stimulation causing his spine to arch as his cock began throbbing from the need to release the pressure there. His breathing became short, harsh pants as touches were laid upon touches. Byron's lips danced across his face, the auburn curls tickling his skin, the soft lips applying butterfly kisses to his eyelids.  Other mouths pressed his skin, nipped at his flesh, sucked at his breasts until he could no longer focus on only one touch or kiss. Strong hands cupped his ass to raise it, spreading his thighs. He was fighting for every breath, now, as he felt Veronique straddle him. Was aware when Byron's mouth lifted from his own that she had leaned in to kiss the poet, even as the moist warm apex of her thighs brushed tantalizingly across his erection.

 

She dipped her hips to barely envelop the head of his cock then pulled away again and he strained upward to reach that depth held just out of his reach.  He was dizzyingly, achingly hard, a moan escaping him as Veronique repeated the maneuver, taking him briefly and barely inside, then pulling away again.

 

His grip on Byron's hands became brutal and the poet hissed but returned the clasp and bent his head once more to take Methos' mouth with a savagery the older Immortal did not expect but welcomed. Everything around him was pulsing in time with his heart, throbbing in time with blood pounding through his groin.  He could feel the ring tightening as his cock swelled, his hips beginning to spasm.

 

He was lifted again, buttocks positioned as Stefan's thick fingers began preparing him, pressing inward with oiled ease -- first one thick finger then a second and Methos thrust back against the penetration seeking anything to ease the consuming need for release. The slickened fingers pressed inward and found the bundle of nerves, stroking Methos expertly until a shudder ran through him. He tried to focus on the taste and feel of Byron, imagining him pressing for entry, imagining the lips that were possessing his own to be those also sliding along his cock. The poet's hair brushed his shoulders, veiling their faces from the pair, until Methos felt Stefan part his thighs wider and lift his hips, the tip of his cock hovering just at the entrance of his most intimate hollow.

 

"Oh, gods..." The oath exploded from him as Veronique suddenly dropped onto him, his cock penetrating her in one harsh thrust. Warmth suffused the tender flesh, moisture slicked him as she moved and he felt he would explode were it not for the ring holding him rigid, the pain nearly outweighing the pleasure. He sobbed, spine arching upward, barely cognizant of Byron's murmured encouragements.  And then Veronique left him and he sobbed again only to gasp and moan at the solid press of the youth's cock pressing inward. A gasp as pain washed momentarily through Methos and he arched away with a moan only to find Byron's mouth on him again. His insides were stretched slowly, the tight channel yielding as Methos struggled for a solid breath. His fingers clenched convulsively around Byron's as Stefan finally seated himself firmly into the heat of Methos' body. Then Veronique was on him again surrounding him with a different kind of moist heat as her mouth closed over him.

 

He was lost then to both the reason and thought as Stefan moved within him, the near overwhelming pleasure of the couple's skills and attentions obliterating any grasp he had on reality or control. His chest heaved at the stimulation and he was only barely aware when Byron pulled away again, holding his arms out as he watched his lover taken slowly and thoroughly.

 

Byron could barely catch his own breath, his heart had leapt to his throat, his groin aching in sympathetic need as he watched Stefan drive his engorged shaft deep into the trembling body with one long smooth thrust. The moans escaping the slender throat were steady, punctuated occasionally by sobs that could have been pain or pleasure as the taut body flexed to meet the powerful thrusts of the young giant's hips.

 

Already Byron's mind was working, his muse settling before him into the graceful arch and heave of Benjamin's body. The muscles were tight and sweat covered, body bared and splayed so Byron could watch each ripple of sensation. His touch on one dusky nipple brought it instantly to attention, the skin flushed. The dark head dropped back as the hips continued moving in a sensuous dance against the woman's rosy mouth and the lithe body of the youth. Every surge drove the back of his lover's head against Byron's erection and yet he remained still, fascinated and enthralled by the beauty of his lover. Benjamin fought to free his hands to touch Byron or the girl or anything and Byron held him, unwilling to allow his lover to urge the culmination of his passion.

 

"Stop," Byron hissed and both man and woman ceased their motions, panting as harshly as the man they tormented, their bodies straining as the slender figure beneath them was, but far more in control. His lover trembled, opening glazed eyes in a plea to Byron without a word, body writhing in a torment of desire and passion. "Continue. Bring him to the end. Slowly," the poet said and caught the groan that escaped his lover; all too aware that the body was rapidly losing restraint, slipping past pleasure into pain. 

 

Veronique reached with delicate fingers to release the ring before once more applying her talented mouth to the trembling flushed shaft which was now weeping steadily. She ceased her suckling and Stefan paused as well, body tense and rigid as their subject tried to reach for both of them at the same time with the flex of his body.  A moan escaped him, hazel eyes open and unseeing as he rode the unrelenting waves until they eased. Veronique clasped him firmly and stroked, Stefan moving once more in time with his sister's hand. Once again the body surged, thighs trembling where Stefan held them pressed apart. A choked sound and the body jerked. Veronique once more stilling the dual assault.

 

Methos sucked air into his lungs convulsively, moaning his needs as the woman's hands closed tightly around him and the pressure between his buttocks grew nearly unbearable. Pleasure rippled across his body and senses and his mind slipped away from the present into the darkness of the past as he came close to fainting. Other hands held him, stroked, brought him to the edge of release and stayed the final plunge until he was begging for mercy. Tormenting hands surged through his memories, hands and touches that promised heaven and delivered only hell.  <<Surrender. Surrender. Give way.>> It became a litany in his mind as the stroking and touching began again and he was helpless to stop his responses as a mouth covered his straining cock again, as another body tore through his in a pleasure so acute he all but cringed from it.

 

The tremors wracking the slender body had turned to shudders, which then became spasms as he was brought to the edge of orgasm again and again.  Every muscle in the his body was quivering with tension, on the edge of collapse or release.  He began frantically pumping into the woman's mouth, thrusting against the thick cock filling him until with a cry and a sob and a convulsive spasm the orgasm crashed over him.

 

Veronique took the spilled seed until there was nothing left to savor, following Byron's instruction and leaning across the still shuddering body to kiss Byron and surrender the taste of his lover.

 

And then Stefan was straining as Benjamin arched his spine again and again into the powerful thrusts until the youth was spent. He pulled his cock free then bent to kiss the still parted lips, hands working to ease the still tense thighs for a moment before a toss of the poet's head dismissed them. The pair slipped away silently to dress.

 

Byron held the still shuddering body, his own cock still achingly hard at the display he had witnessed. Tears tracked along his lover's face and every touch Byron laid against the fevered skin brought fresh trembling.  Byron slipped down on the bed, gathering the nonresistant body in his arms as he had promised, but his mind was still frenzied by what he had witnessed. Verses screamed through his brain, sang in his blood, lay in his mouth as did the taste of his lover. With uncommon care he pulled a blanket across the cooling skin before slipping off the bed to gather pen and ink, hastily scribbling across pages. He glanced back to find his lover's eyes upon him, the hollow exhausted look in the gold-green depths cutting into him.

 

He was seeing the face of abandonment and an uncomfortable shame flooded through his mind and a flush to his face at the look of reproach in those eyes. He hesitated, pen hovering over the scraps of paper before he made his decision, answering to his muse and finishing. By the time he returned to the silent form, his beloved was breathing quietly and evenly in asleep. "Thank you, my love," Byron murmured against the delicate curve of his ear, smoothing the still damp hair from the pale face before settling next to his lover to sleep.

 

Feigning sleep still, Methos fought back the burning storm of rage and despair that washed over him. Even Byron's murmured gratitude was enough only to ease the ache in his heart but a little. He remained silent and still, not wanting to blame Byron for his thoughtlessness but unable to deny the pain he felt when the poet had slipped away from him before he could recover from the soul shattering orgasm. That loss completely overshadowed any lingering  feeling of pleasure he retained from the experience. He felt weak and drained and he ached deep within his loins not only from Stefan's overwhelming invasion of his body but from the prolonged state of arousal Byron had insisted upon. 

 

But it had been that release his lover had desired, Methos realizing the irrationality of his sense of betrayal. Byron answered to his muse first and always. But to further allow Byron to see how deeply the poet could cut him would bring naught but hasty apologies and a brief conciliatory air which would vanish and be forgotten the next time the Muse called to his mad genius. Best to accept what the poet could offer and expect no more. If he were disappointed in his lover's attentions he had none but himself to blame for being too weak to abandon this mad romance before it destroyed him. Pulling his pains and his misery close to him for comfort, Methos surrendered to the aching lethargy of his body and slept.

 

~~~~~~

 

Panic gripped him wildly as a hand covered his mouth, hands and grip far stronger than his own only to have a newly familiar bass whisper thrum against his ear." No, fear, milord," Stefan murmured. "An' no harm. Veronique bids you come to her. She has words you must hear."

 

Swallowing his momentary fear, Methos nodded, cursing himself for being so careless as to leave his blades elsewhere. Fate and Luck alone had decreed it the giant come for him rather than another Immortal, no matter how safe he might think Byron's domicile to be. A glance showed him the candles had burned low and his lover had left his side again to sprawl across his writing table, sleeping now, a soft snore punctuating his breathing. Despite Stefan's silent entreaty, Methos checked on the poet, fingers reaching for the hastily scribbled verse and bending toward the flickering candle to read.  His breath caught at the brilliance of the verse and he reached to smooth the auburn curls from the cherubic face.  He reached for his lover, preparing to move him to the bed for fear leaving him in such a position would render him unable to walk by morning.

 

Stefan stifled a sigh and stepped in once more to lift the slim form carefully and carry him to the bed. Byron mumbled and stirred but did not wake. Drowsiness aided no doubt by the nearly empty bottle of wine left on the table. 

 

The poet settled, Stefan held out a robe of heavy weave to Methos, his movements as proper as those of a manservant and himself dressed in loose breeches and a shirt.  Shrugging into the wrap, Methos followed the dark giant from the chamber and into the adjoining room. There he found Veronique, dressed simply, hair once more bound up in heavy braids, but the shine of youth was gone from her face and Methos found himself looking at a woman much older than he had first believed.

 

She stood by the open doors leading to the gardens, Stefan leaving them to finish packing their few things. The pair were obviously leaving.

 

"You shall have to wait for his Lordship to receive your payment," Methos said softly, believing that was what the summons entailed. 

 

"Payment for our services is always arranged in advance, Monsieur le Docteur," Veronique said, her dark eyes sparkling at his presumption.  She was not at all offended. "Non, I have words I must say to you if you will hear them," she murmured gesturing simply toward the garden with a glance at Stefan.

 

The youth came forward to settle a heavier coat across the slender shoulders and offered thick slippers. Methos accepted both and thus braced against the cool autumn night followed Veronique outside.

 

She did not go far, light from the room still spilling out and the full moon bathing the topiaries of the garden in silvered light. "I know what you are and what you have been, Monsieur," she murmured once she was certain her companion could not overhear.

 

Methos stopped, heart pounding in his chest. Veronique stepped in close and caught his hands, pulling them away from the lapels of his coat to expose the slender wrists, her fingers gently tracing the slim bands around his wrists where none of the fine hairs grew.  "I need not ask why or how a child of the bordellos came to be a physician -- only that you are luckier than some," she began and squeezed his hands lightly. "But it is because of the gains you have made that I must warn you."

 

Methos allowed the tension to ease from his chest slightly. "And how do you know of my past?" he asked.

 

Veronique chuckled, a deep throaty pleasant sound as she caught his fingers. "You know what I am as well. My people are the Rom, the gypsies and among my other gifts I can see beyond what lies at the surface, mon cher. I have plied my trade of pleasure for nearly two decades - you need not look so shocked!" she said with another rich laugh. "My folk and I leave this area for the winter at dawn and it is unlikely I will return this way soon. Stefan is my son, Monsieur. And before you ask --what skills we ply, we ply on our clientele and never upon one another."

 

"It would not occur to me to ask," Methos said dryly. "But still I think you overstep your bounds, Madame Adelarde."

 

"Vraiment. It is true and likely common sense as well, but what I see I cannot hide, Monsieur, and I beg you to listen. I do know you. I know that beneath this exterior of breeding is a man who was once trained for the pleasure of others as I was. And not kindly. My own instruction was pleasant and willingly sought. Not so for you, I think," she said softly and her touch on his face was gentle and compassionate. " I have seen others thus bred and know the signs.  But your poet knows naught of this, n'cest pas?"

 

"He knows what he needs to," Methos said warily, wanting to end the uncomfortable dialogue but caught and mesmerized by the dark eyes and serious tone.

 

"Does he? You have lived many lives, Monsieur. There is too much age in your eyes to belong to one whose face is so young still. And that too, is why I am compelled to tell you...to warn you...This poet, this Lord Byron will never be yours. He belongs to his Muse, to his own fate and though you share this time together it is not meant to last. But you know this, too?" she prompted, undismayed when Methos said nothing.  "I have seen the future of your lives entwined, Monsieur. If you remain here, with this man, he may destroy you. He may well kill you, for there is a death hovering close by this man. And close to you as well.

 

And not death from these games you play, Monsieur. I have seen many paths you might tread -- the one you walk now will eventually cost you your head."

 

Methos went still as the dark eyes met his and Veronique's voice took on a timbre of the otherworld. "I know your ancient soul and of others like you who walk the ages with no trace of time on their faces. My folk have ever been a sanctuary for those of your race, and will be so for you, should you have need of us."

 

She pressed a small object into his palm and Methos stared at the tiny amulet on its leather thong.  "Should you have need of us, Monsieur, show that to any of my race and they will aid you. As for my own tribe, we travel to our homeland, to Romania by the main roads...should you have need of us," she murmured and pulled away.

 

"Veronique," Methos said softly catching her hand, voice soft as he closed his hand over her gift. "What else do you see -- what is there for me if I stray from this path I am on?"

 

She hesitated then returned to him, to frame his face in her hands.  "This love you seek, mon cher. It waits for you but you have tread your lonely road for so long that you have forgotten what it looks like. And so you are drawn to these bright spirits, these creatures of excess and desire that make you burn with what you think is love but in truth is only passion. They cannot be your life, cher, for they will burn you as quickly as they consume themselves."

 

"Your prophecy leaves much to be desired, Madame," Methos murmured.

 

"'Tis not prophecy, old one. 'Tis truth. But none but yourself can show you that," she said sadly, and kissed him. The kiss was deep and intimate but not meant to rouse passion or desire. "I have told you what I can, Monsieur. None but you can turn your path."

 

She released him and stepped away, Stefan coming toward them at the gesture of her fingers with their bags slung over his broad shoulders.  The giant paused and reached out one hand to stroke his thumb across Methos' cheek gently. "Your death will benefit no one," he murmured, fingertips under Methos' chin to invite him forward. The dark eyes burned into Methos' and he went, Stefan's mouth closing over his with

neither art nor artifice as the giant kissed him with all the passion his mother had left out of her own blessing.