Page 24

Lymok stops in the middle of the room, a good distance from the bathtub, but with a smirk on his face that suggests he knows exactly what Tobi was doing.

He is carrying a gold tray.

“Greetings again,” he says with a small bob, “My kushir.” He speaks it almost as if it is a formal title. Perhaps it is.

Tobi wonders if that is now his name. But he doesn’t think he can protest about being called a hole after Lymok almost caught him with his fingers inside himself as he dreamed of being roughly taken by Harok.

Lymok reaches the edge of the bath, “I brought you some refreshments.” He lifts the gold tray he carries. “To further help you prepare.” On it is an elegant fluted glass containing a pale pink liquid. “Flower cup.” He sets the cup down on a small table beside the bath, then stirs the contents with a long handled silver spoon. Sitting up straighter in the scented water, Tobi leans over and picks up the glass with a wet, slippery hand. He has to grip it tightly. He lifts it and sniffs at the content. It smells deliciously floral. Like the scent of summer flowers. “What is this?” he says. “Flower cup?”

“I think you might enjoy it. It is a sweet delicacy. Our tradition is that only kushwen may drink it. It is traditional for a kushir to drink this before the anointing. They say it makes you ready for a man’s cock inside your body.”

“You said kushwen meant women?” Tobi says as he takes a sip of the drink. The drink tastes as flowery as it smells. It makes his belly feel warm. It is like drinking summer.

Lymok frowns. “It does, but not exactly. You would also be considered kushwen.”

Before Tobi can say anything more there is a sharp rap on the door and Lymok says, “Ah,” and then calls, “Come in please.”

The door opens to reveal three Ambolk women. They are dressed like maids. One carries some linens, another a tray of small bottles, the third a knife. They bow to Lymok and speak to him in Ambolk.

Lymok turns to Tobi. “These women are to be your personal body servants.”

“Oh,” says Tobi, quite surprised. He is to have three body servants. “Why does one of them have a blade?”

Simply, Lymok says, “They are here to shave you.”

“Shave me?” Tobi rubs his chin. He is not the most hirsute of men. His chin barely has a hair upon it. “My face?”

Lymok fails to hide a small smile. “Not only your face.”

Tobi gasps. “Everything!”

“Not your head,” says Lymok.

And Tobi supposes he ought to be grateful for that. This is a strange place. But he still can’t hide the shock in his voice as he says, “Irgo Harok wants me shaved?”

Lymok’s voice sounds sweet. “It is tradition,” he says, “for kushirs.”

Tobi swallows hard. He needs to play this part, he thinks. He needs to become Irgo Harok’s devoted kushir while he waits for rescue. So he simply nods and stands up, naked in his bath and allows the three body servants to approach and shave him without complaint.

And they do shave everything. Chest, arms, legs and then his cock. They even spread his ass and run the blade over his hole. That part tickles, but he stays deathly still. When it's done he feels strange. More naked than he has ever been. He didn’t have a lot of hair on his body before they began, but without even that he feels intensely vulnerable, so deeply reminded that he is Harok’s sexual property. A kushir.

A hole for a cock.

He reminds himself that this is simply a role he is playing. The reluctant, but enchanting kushir of Irgo Harok.

Tobi’s mother used to tell him that less than a day after his birth she had gone onto the stage to perform with the players in Fanost. And that when she had finished her last song she had brought her newborn babe out, cradled in her arms, to meet her audience.

He has been a performer all his life. From when he was a day old.

The servant holding the tray of bottles sets it down beside the bath. She says something in Ambolk and Lymok, who has discreetly turned his back, says, “She is asking if you want oil.”

“Oil?” Tobi says. “For my hole. Kush oil?”

Lymok laughs without turning around, “For your skin, kushir. To soothe it and make it soft, and so the hair does not grow back so fast.”

“Ah,” says Tobi, “I see.”

The servant with the linen holds it out. A huge piece. Thick and snowy white. Tobi climbs from the bath and the servant steps forward and pats his skin dry. The woman with the oil pours some of it into her hands, and briskly applies it to every part of Tobi’s freshly-shaved skin.