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He feared, when Feyd-Rautha suggested it, that it was a punishment. That Paul had displeased him in some way, and so the na-Baron meant to give him to someone else—perhaps have him passed around the barracks.
But his husband meant it only as an extension of their bedroom activities. He enjoyed Paul's pleasure. To be able to watch Paul's pleasure from another vantage point would serve to heighten Feyd-Rautha's enjoyment. Thus, his proposal that another man have sex with Paul while he observed from a short distance away.
Once Paul managed to speak, what he asked first was, "Did you have someone in mind?" He knew that his husband had taken many to bed before their marriage—perhaps this was a way to reintroduce a former lover to his quarters.
"You may choose for yourself."
His choice would have been no one at all—but Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen could hardly be denied. Paul replied, "No—I'm still a stranger to Giedi Prime, and I don't know of a candidate who would be both discrete and suitable to my tastes. I would prefer if you chose for me, husband."
Stranger—suitable—husband. Words that Paul imbued with meaning in the hopes that they might cause Feyd-Rautha to reevaluate his proposal. Did he really want another man to lay with his own husband? But it seemed that he truly did, because he merely replied, "As you will."
With nowhere to go but forward, Paul then said, "I will not have him in our bedchambers." It was another attempt at dislodging this desire of his husband's—at reminding him of their bond of marriage—as well as a true statement. If this was to occur, then he would not sully their marital bed with this particularly unseemly proposal.
His husband had smiled. "Of course, Paul. I'll make the necessary arrangements."
Enough time passed that Paul thought that the suggestion had slipped from Feyd-Rautha's mind. A mere whim, spoken aloud, and that, upon Paul's concession, swiftly lost its excitement and thus the na-Baron's attention.
He should have known. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen forgot nothing.
One day, a servant told Paul that the na-Baron requested his presence in the pleasure wing.
Paul knew its location, though he had never set foot in that section of the citadel. He found that it was made up of a honeycomb of rooms, numerous and interconnected, luxuriously outfitted but empty of permanent human residence; the pleasure-slaves were relegated to one large, shared room unless one was called to satisfy a member of House Harkonnen or their guest.
He was shown into a space that was furnished as a basic bedroom. There was a bed—neatly made—and a basin with hot water and a cloth to wash with, as well as a side table with a very generous glass bottle of oil. The servant gave him a robe. It was made from a black, sinuous material the color of an oil slick. When Paul draped it over his arm it seemed to want to pool into a puddle at his feet. Once the servant left, he allowed himself a small sigh. His instructions were clear: wash, and then ready himself for the evening.
When the door opened again, Paul had been laying on the bed for some time, waiting, his eyes closed, attempting to rest before the task he would soon have to endure. He heard two sets of footsteps—Feyd-Rautha's, expectant and confident, and another's that was completely unknown to him—the man that his husband had brought to fuck him.
Paul rose, positioning himself so that his feet were on the floor and his palms were on the bed. The robe came loose with the movement, slipping down his shoulders, exposing his bare chest. He wore nothing underneath. The material was already stained with oil he'd used to work himself open with his fingers.
In front of him was his husband and a Harkonnen soldier. The latter wore an officer's uniform and a bewildered expression. The former wore his training clothes, which consisted only of a pair of loose, black pants. He must have come straight from the courtyard; a light sheen of perspiration shone on his skin, and he still had his blade sheathed at his side.
Feyd-Rautha said, "Husband, this is Sergeant Eriksen. I have been very pleased with his performance as of late, and I promised him a reward."
After a moment of silence and a pointed look from Feyd-Rautha, the sergeant cleared his throat. "The na-Baron's recognition is a reward in itself. Truly, I would not ask for anything else."
"But you are not asking for anything else," drawled Feyd-Rautha. "I'm giving you a reward. They say humility is a virtue, but there's a fine line between saints and fools. Would you decline a gift from your na-Baron?"
Eriksen shook his head. "No, my lord!"
"Excellent." Feyd-Rautha turned to Paul. "What do you think, husband? Will he do?"
What a question! There was no man on Giedi Prime who could rival Feyd-Rautha's build—tall, not terribly broad but with such muscular definition that Paul could trace the length of his body and easily label each part of his anatomy—here, the trapezius, there, the pectorals, the biceps, the triceps, and so on. But the bemused soldier was clearly solid, well-built, and perhaps only a few years Feyd-Rautha's senior.
If he was handsome, then he was not more handsome than Paul's husband, who possessed a kind of terrible beauty that was akin to a black hole—utterly captivating, able to draw one in heedless of the danger it posed. Besides, Eriksen did not need to be handsome. He only had to fuck Paul until Feyd-Rautha was satisfied.
"He'll do," Paul murmured.
A black grin split Feyd-Rautha's face. "Excellent," he said again.
Having received no further instruction and not so much eager for things to start as he was desperate to get everything over and done with, Paul decided then to free himself from the robe's confines. Dropping the robe to the floor, he sat there on the bed entirely bare, watching for some sort of reaction from the two other men in the room.
As expected, his husband's gaze was one of heady interest—and triumph. There were many treasures in Feyd-Rautha's possession—fine jewelry, antique weapons, an entire collection of whalefur clothes—but he made it clear that he considered Paul his greatest prize. The heir of House Atreides! Sharing his bed! And now, shared with one of his own soldiers.
Though said soldier did not seem to know how to react. He'd gone a shade of pink—Harkonnens in general rarely seemed to reach a full, red flush—and his expression was one that Paul would described as utterly stupefied. He stood there, unmoving, with his eyes trained not on Paul but on the wall behind him.
Paul wondered, suddenly, if the soldier—Eriksen—was interested in men, and if he was, whether or not he found Paul attractive. Not all shared Feyd-Rautha's tastes! God, if he didn't find Paul pleasing—would he still attempt it? How humiliating for the both of them, if he could not manage to become aroused, if Paul's body did not arouse him! With acute self-consciousness, he moved to hide himself with a shift of his posture, a rearranging of his limbs, and averted his gaze from Feyd-Rautha and Eriksen.
"What's this?" asked his husband. Feyd-Rautha's steps seemed to echo throughout the room. He stood in front of Paul and lifted his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "I've never seen you shy."
You've never shown me to another man before! thought Paul. He said, "Perhaps I'm not to the sergeant's tastes."
"Oh? Have you looked at Sergeant Eriksen?" Feyd-Ruatha turned Paul's head toward the front of the room. "Does he seem like a man who has no interest in you?"
The sergeant continued to studiously avoid Paul's eyes, but the evidence of his arousal was now straining against the front of his uniform. Though it shamed Paul to admit it, the sight gratified him. The direction of the evening relied on Eriksen's attraction to him; now it seemed that everything would go that much more smoothly.
Feyd-Rautha pressed one kiss to his shoulder, then another. "You are every man's dream." Then he snapped at Eriksen, "Well? My husband is waiting! Disrobe and get onto the bed!"
"My lord na-Baron?" asked the sergeant in a strangled voice.
"Disrobe," Feyd-Rautha said, "And join my husband."
"Do you mean—that is—my lord na-Baron—"
"What did you think your reward was, sergeant?"
Eriksen answered, "I thought, at first, that I would enjoy the company of one of your pleasure-slaves, na-Baron. Then, when I saw your lord husband, I thought—you were permitting me to—to see him in, ah—in repose."
"You'll do more than that." Feyd-Rautha placed his hand along Paul's inner thigh. "I'm allowing you to enjoy the company of my lord husband tonight. That is your reward for your service to me. Now—" He moved to stroke Paul's cheek with the back of his hand. "Lay back. You must be comfortable."
My husband is so very attentive to my comfort, thought Paul bitterly. He did as Feyd-Rautha bid him, laying back against the pillows, gasping when his husband spread his legs farther apart and pressed his thumb against him, inside of him, probing curiously.
"You've prepared yourself already," said Feyd-Rautha, examining his thumb, slick and shining with oil. He brought it to his mouth and sucked it clean.
Paul felt himself blushing. He replied, "Yes—I thought it would ease the process."
They both glanced at Sergeant Eriksen, who had divested himself of his coat and was now frantically hopping out of his uniform pants. Flatly, Feyd-Rautha said, "A wise decision on your part."
A laugh managed to escape from Paul's throat in spite of himself. He bit down on it, held it back, thought, This might not be so terrible. "Feyd-Rautha?" he asked. "Don't—" Paul swallowed, tried again. His husband did not take well to being told not to do something. "Please, stay close to me."
There was a minute furrow in Feyd-Rautha's heavy brow. "Where else would I be?" he asked.
Then Eriksen was on the bed, naked and eager, and Feyd-Rautha was off to the side, observing. Paul looked at the sergeant and noted now the stark differences between him and his husband. Fit in the way all soldiers were fit, but not with the appearance of each muscle having been carved from stone. A thicker, more solid figure. And—Paul allowed his gaze to lower to Eriksen's hard, pink cock—he had neither Feyd-Rautha's length or girth, but at the moment that suited him. A member that he would not have to brace himself to take, or pretend ecstasy while it hammered at his insides.
Feyd-Rautha possessed a very impressive cock, but Paul had become accustomed to it, to him, and they now fell into a familiar but satisfying rhythm when Feyd-Rautha wanted his intimate company. Slow, and sensual, with Feyd-Rautha patiently stoking the ember of Paul's desire with strokes and massages and strategic laves of his tongue until all of Paul's body was aflame and open and ready for him and an evening of his husband atop of him, thrusting slow and deep and with the manner of a man indulging and determined to enjoy his indulgence.
Eriksen's hands were utterly unfamiliar, rough on his skin in a way that was more clumsy than pleasant. He ran his palm down Paul's chest, his stomach, with an unintelligible exclamation of wonder. That was nice—a welcome accolade for Paul's vanity. Turning again to Feyd-Rautha, the sergeant asked, "And—I'm allowed to just...?"
"You will keep your lips from his," Feyd-Rautha growled. "And you will not spill inside of him."
"Yes, na-Baron."
There are rules, Paul thought. My husband is aware that there is a possibility that Eriksen might overstep. But he is watching. He will prevent anything untoward. Though, Feyd-Rautha had not warned his sergeant against treating him violently. Or did he not see the need? Terror tinged Eriksen's expression—he seemed almost as afraid of Paul as he was in awe of him.
The sergeant took himself in hand and shuffled between Paul's legs. Here it was! Paul endeavored to keep his breathing steady as Eriksen entered him, but at the press of his cock—too much like an intrusion to be easily welcomed—Paul inhaled sharply, his fingers twisting in the sheets.
He heard Feyd-Rautha say his name. "Paul?"
Eriksen grunted. "You're tight," he said, then added, "My lord."
Paul couldn't bear to look at him. A stranger, looming above him, inside of him, illuminated by the suspensor lamp. He shut his eyes tightly, pursed his lips. He exhaled, slowly, then inhaled, slowly. I must not fear. He forced his muscles to relax. "I'm fine," Paul said. "Continue."
Those same, unfamiliar hands took hold of his hips and lifted them. Paul lay on the bed, his arms above his head, resting on the pillow, with his legs spread wide and Eriksen between them, beginning to move, to thrust.
He did not have Feyd-Rautha's skill—or, perhaps, Paul was now just that attuned to his husband's body, how they fit together in bed. Eriksen was a different man entirely. He moved differently, without Feyd-Rautha's grace and confidence. The first few attempts at rocking his hips were short, experimental. But soon his uncertainty gave way to excitement. A sharp thrust surprised Paul; he managed to swallow an exclamation, but a hiss escaped his gritted teeth. "Ah!"
Feyd-Rautha was there in an instant, snarling, "My husband isn't a pleasure-house whore. Do not treat him as such."
"Sorry—" Eriksen was gasping as he continued to thrust. Even the na-Baron's ire could not stop that. "Sorry, I didn't mean—you just feel—"
"It's okay," murmured Paul. He reached out to touch Eriksen's chest, to press there firmly. A way of grounding himself. He attempted to quantify the similarities between his husband and the sergeant—both smooth and pale and hairless—before deciding that was unwise and useless besides, because he found little comfort in their shared traits.
There was no pain, but there was discomfort. Nothing Paul couldn't withstand, and Eriksen was not intentionally harming him, merely eager and clumsy and somewhat awkward, unsure of what Paul enjoyed but very aware of the pleasure that Paul's body provided.
All the while, he felt Feyd-Rautha's eyes on them. On Paul. Watching. That sent a slight heat through him, but not enough for his own cock to be anything but half-hard. He moved his leg in order to hide his lack of arousal and hoped that Feyd-Rautha had been focusing only on his face.
It was not so bad. It could have been worse, truly. With a soft sigh, Paul nestled against the sheets, determined to simply wait it out.
Suddenly, his lower half was dropped onto the bed and he was abruptly empty. Paul opened his eyes, startled. Eriksen was stroking himself, fist moving frantically over his cock. The tip leaked precum. Out of everything, Paul found that the most vulgar sight of the evening. Nothing about this stranger appealed to him, and then to have to watch him finish...
"Fuck!" The sergeant moaned. "Sorry, but I had to—the na-Baron told me that I can't—grk!"
He went still in a strange way—a stutter-stop, like a mechanism malfunctioning. Eriksen opened his mouth; something gurgled in his throat. He blinked slowly, though he was staring at nothing. There was another sound, a sharp, wet snap, a crunch, and then a blade emerged from his chest, bursting through organ and cartilage and skin, steel covered in gore.
In a terrible feat of strength, Feyd-Rautha pulled his sword across the sergeant's torso, carving through it. The mechanism malfunctioned again; the body that was once Eriksen's jerked, and blood sprayed from the wound, droplets raining on the sheets and Paul's legs.
Paul made a noise that he didn't know he was capable of—not quite a scream, not quite a groan. He clapped his hand over his mouth and recited the litany in his head, rapidly, desperately.
I must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear—
Clucking his tongue, Feyd-Rautha removed the sword from Eriksen's mutilated body and shoved the corpse from the bed where it tumbled to floor with a dull thud. He wiped the blade on the bedsheet, sheathed his sword, then turned to Paul.
"Let me clean you up," said the na-Baron.
The water in the wash basin was lukewarm. With a damp cloth, Feyd-Rautha washed the sergeant's blood from Paul's skin, carefully wiping along his knees, his calves. As he did so, a servant entered the room—the same one who had brought Paul to the pleasure-wing in the first place—and swiftly removed the ruined sheets and used them as a makeshift shroud for Eriksen before dragging the corpse from the room.
Feyd-Rautha cupped Paul's cheek. His hand was clean, but the scent of blood still lingered. "You're shaking."
Paul did not know when he started shaking, but now he could not stop. His teeth chattered as he said, "You killed him."
"I did."
"Why?"
"He brought me no enjoyment." Feyd-Rautha rolled his shoulders back. "But he would have died regardless, so it is no matter."
"What?" Paul stared at him. "What do you mean?"
Sucking his teeth, Feyd-Rautha said, "Do you think that I would let anyone else know how you look—how you feel—and live?"
The entire time? He had made the suggestion to have another man fuck Paul—and the entire time he knew he was going to kill whoever did the deed? "Had I known that—" Paul could do no more than whisper. "Had I known that, I would never have agreed to this. Never."
A dangerous note crept into Feyd-Rautha's voice. "Did you want to keep him? Use him again in my absence?"
"I did not want him at all! I did not want this!" cried Paul.
His husband said, in a low, soothing voice, "He was only a sergeant. I can easily replace him."
"Oh," Paul said, covering his face. "Oh."
What a waste! A waste of a human life! A waste of his dignity! All for his husband's whims!
Feyd-Rautha's hand crept to his shoulder. "Paul," he said. "You did not enjoy it. His pleasure far outweighed yours."
Like the flip of a switch, fury replaced Paul's despair. He slapped Feyd-Rautha's hand away with a snarl. "How observant you are, na-Baron!" and retrieved his discarded robe from the floor. He put it on, tied it, and with one last glance at Feyd-Rautha's astonished expression, stormed from the room, heedless of who might see him in the hallways and what they might say.
What did it matter? Slave, servant, soldier—their lives belonged to the na-Baron. They were there for his entertainment, his pleasure, to use and be used as he saw fit.
Paul held the title of husband, but he was no different.
The citadel was cold. The robe was made for display, not for warmth. Paul wrapped his arms around himself and returned to the bedchambers that he shared with Feyd-Rautha and promptly locked the door behind him.