Full Synopsis: Elian was once the golden boy of a sun-drenched coastal estate. Now, he is its most beautiful prisoner. Following the tragic death of his parents, Elian is left to the mercy of his predatory stepfather, Alistair (a tyrant ruled by a cold, possessive hunger). Stripped of his inheritance, Elian is forced into a life of servitude, his days filled with back-breaking labor and constant, humiliating surveillance. His only companions are the leering gazes of his two brutish, gym-sculpted stepbrothers, who see him as a toy to be tormented and broken.
Meanwhile, Prince Kristopher (“Kit” to his few trusted friends) is trapped in a gilded cage of his own. He is bound by duty to a strategic marriage he dreads. He yearns for a single, genuine connection in a world of protocol and artifice.
The kingdom’s fate, and the prince’s future, rests on a grand royal gala (a night of immense political importance). For Elian, it is just another night of servitude. But his fate is watched over by his mother’s oldest friend: Vespera, a dazzling and dangerously witty drag queen fairy godmother, who decides that her beautiful godson has suffered enough. With a whisper of magic and a cloud of glitter, she offers Elian a single night of impossible freedom, transforming the servant boy into a vision of breathtaking beauty.
When Elian, transformed and magnificent, collides with Prince Kit at the gala, the connection is immediate, electric, and utterly forbidden. For Elian, it’s a taste of the gentle, passionate desire he’s been starved of. For Kit, it’s the authentic, soul-deep connection that could cost him his kingdom. But the shadows of Elian’s prison are long, and as Alistair’s possessive gaze sweeps the party and the clock ticks toward midnight, their stolen moments become a desperate race against time.
Notes: This is a unapologetically explicit gay retelling of Cinderella story. I tried to do something fun, dark and (very) sexy. So, unlike my other stories, this one is more focused on sex than on a novel.
I hope you like it! ♡
Once upon a time...
The coastal estate at Mariner’s Point was once a place of brilliant, aching beauty. It clung to the cliffside like a lover, its white walls drinking in the sunlight and its gardens spilling over with the promiscuous colors of bougainvillea and hibiscus. The air was once punctuated by the sound of laughter—the deep, easy laugh of Richard, the master of the house, and the bright, carefree peels from his son, Elian. In those golden years, the estate was a paradise, a sun-drenched kingdom ruled by a kind man and his beautiful, adored boy.
That kingdom drowned. Richard, a man who knew the sea as well as he knew his own heart, was lost to it during a sudden, violent squall. A boating accident, they called it. A tragic, convenient fluke of nature that left his grieving wife, Edden, and his heartbroken son utterly adrift.
Into that vacuum of grief stepped Alistair. He had been Richard’s business partner, a man built like a mountain, with a voice that rumbled with false sincerity and eyes that held the flat, predatory patience of a shark. He did not court the fragile, weeping Edden: he conquered her. He wrapped himself around her sorrow. He insinuated himself into every corner of the estate, his heavy tread replacing Richard’s light step, his dark suits casting long shadows where sunlight used to pool. He was a master of seduction, whispering promises of stability and strength until Edden, exhausted and hollowed out by loss, finally yielded. She became his wife, and in doing so, signed away not just her own future, but her son’s inheritance.
Soon the light of the estate, already dimmed, began to die. Her laughter vanished first, then her smile. She became a ghost in her own home, a pale, silent creature drifting through rooms that no longer felt like hers. The official cause of her death, a year after her second marriage, was a broken heart. Those who knew Alistair suspected it had been methodically, expertly smothered.
With Edden gone, the last pretense of civility burned away like morning mist. Alistair’s true nature emerged, cold and absolute. The kind words he’d once offered Elian curdled into clipped, dismissive commands. The paternal hand on the shoulder became a hard, bruising grip. The estate was no longer a home: it was a fortress, and Alistair was its tyrant king.
His two sons, Driscoll and Anton, arrived soon after. They were chips off the old, brutish block—twin monoliths of muscle and sneering arrogance who saw the lithe, beautiful Elian not as a stepbrother, but as a new toy to be broken.
And Elian, the golden prince of this fallen paradise, became its most beautiful prisoner. Stripped of his name, his inheritance, and his freedom, he was made a servant in the halls where he once ran free. But the tragedy forged him into something breathtaking. The endless, back-breaking labor carved his body into a masterpiece of lean, functional muscle. The sun that beat down on him as he tended the now-overgrown gardens tanned his skin to a warm, inviting gold.
He became the last beautiful thing in a house filled with ugliness. And in the dark, hungry eyes of his stepfather and the leering gazes of his new brothers, Elian began to understand a terrifying new truth: he was no longer just the son of the former master. He was the estate’s most coveted, and most vulnerable, possession.
Chapter 1
The darkness before dawn was a thin, cool blanket, the only comfort Elian knew. He came awake to a primal clockwork in his bones that told him his brief reprieve was over. The mattress beneath him was a thin wafer of foam on the concrete floor of the old wine cellar, a room that smelled perpetually of damp earth and servitude. He uncurled his body, a long, graceful stretch that sent a shiver through his lithe frame. For a single, delicious moment, he was just a boy, warm and naked under a threadbare sheet.
Then the chill of the morning air hit his skin, and he was a servant once more.
He rose, his movements silent and fluid. The single, bare bulb overhead flickered to life, casting his shadow, sharp and defined, against the stone walls. It was the shadow of a god, not a slave. His skin, kissed by a thousand suns, glowed a warm gold, a stark contrast to the pale, untouched skin of his feet. He reached for his only work uniform: a pair of frayed denim shorts, worn soft and thin with use. As he stepped into them, the cheap light caught the breathtaking sculpture of his form.
The elegant line of his spine dipped into the small of his back, drawing the eye to the two shallow dimples that sat just above the swell of his ass. It was a perfect ass, two high, tight globes of muscle, round and firm, bisected by a stark, tantalizing tan line that promised a creamy pale softness hidden from the sun’s greedy rays. He pulled the shorts up, the rough denim a familiar chafe against his flawless skin, and left the room without a sound.
The pool was his first task. A turquoise jewel set in the pre-dawn gloom, it was still and perfect. He picked up the long-handled net, the movement pulling the muscles of his back and shoulders into sharp relief. He worked with a practiced, hypnotic rhythm, his bare feet silent on the cool stone tiles, his body a symphony of efficient, sensual motion.
A heavy scrape of a patio chair broke the spell.
Elian didn't need to turn to know who was there. The air itself grew heavier. He kept his back to the house, his shoulders tensing as he continued his work, every muscle in his body suddenly, painfully aware of being watched.
Alistair’s voice was a low rumble. "You're starting late."
Elian finally turned and saw his stepfather for the first time that day. He was a dark monolith against the pale morning sky. He wore a robe of deep crimson silk that hung open, revealing a thick-set, hairy body clad only in a pair of black boxer briefs. His eyes were hidden behind impenetrable dark sunglasses, but Elian didn't need to see them to feel their power. They were a physical presence, crawling over his bare chest, tracing the line of sweat that was already beginning to trickle down his sternum, and lingering, always lingering, on the way the worn denim cupped his ass.
"No, sir..." Elian said, his voice quiet, respectful. "It's the same time as always."
"Don't contradict me." Alistair stated, not with anger, but with the flat finality of a man who owned the very air they were breathing. He took a slow sip from a heavy glass tumbler. "You missed a spot. Over there." He gestured vaguely with the glass.
Elian looked. The water was pristine. It was always pristine. This was the ritual. "Yes, sir. I'll get it."
He turned back to the pool, bending at the waist to reach the phantom speck of debris. He could feel Alistair’s gaze like a brand on his skin, a hot, searing focus on the curve of his spine, on the stretch of denim across his ass.
"You'd do well to remember." Alistair’s voice purred from behind him, closer now. "what you're good for. Hard work... and a fine view."
A hot flush of shame and anger burned up Elian's neck. He straightened up, clutching the pole of the net until his knuckles were white, and kept his eyes fixed on the water, waiting for the heavy footsteps to finally retreat back into the house.
"Dismissed."
The single word from Alistair was a release. Elian didn't dare look at him as he scurried away from the pool, the damp back of his shorts clinging to his skin. He moved through the silent, cavernous house, his bare feet making no sound on the polished marble floors. He was heading for the kitchen, for the familiar, mindless ritual of preparing breakfast for his three masters. But the hallway, a long, shadowy corridor, was no longer empty.
A solid wall of flesh barricaded his path. Driscoll.
He loomed there, fresh from an early workout, his massive, sweat-sheened body clad in nothing but a pair of thin, grey athletic shorts. He was holding a shaker cup, a smug grin plastered on his handsome, brutish face.
“Working up a sweat for us, pretty boy?” Driscoll’s voice was a low, mocking drawl. His eyes raked over Elian’s body, a crude, possessive inventory. “Gotta keep that little body tight.”
Elian tried to step around him. “Excuse me. I need to make breakfast.”
“In a minute.” Driscoll took a step, closing the small gap between them, forcing Elian to shrink back against the wall. The sheer heat radiating from his body was suffocating. “You know, I was just thinking…” He tilted the shaker cup and a thick, creamy protein shake splattered onto the marble floor, a sticky white puddle that pooled right at Elian’s feet.
“Oops...” Driscoll’s grin widened. But he knew It wasn’t an accident. “Clumsy me.” he said, his voice dripping with false innocence. “Clean it up.”
Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, Elian went to the nearby utility closet, retrieved a cloth, and knelt at Driscoll’s feet. The cool stone was a shock against his bare knees.
As Elian began to wipe at the mess, he saw movement in his peripheral vision. Driscoll shifted his stance, spreading his thick, powerful thighs. He reached down and blatantly adjusted himself, hooking a thumb in the waistband of his shorts and pulling the thin fabric taut, hoisting his enormous, semi-hard cock into stark relief. The bulge was obscene, a thick, heavy ridge of flesh straining against the grey material, the prominent shape of its thick head clearly defined. It was a blatant, throbbing display of dominance.
A second voice, colder and laced with amusement, echoed from the grand staircase. “Well, well. He does look natural on his knees, doesn’t he, brother?”
Anton stood there, a perfect, cruel mirror of his twin, leaning against the banister. He descended the stairs with a lazy grace, his eyes fixed on the humiliating tableau. He stepped right over the puddle without a word and continued towards the kitchen, the silent dismissal more insulting than any taunt.
Shaking, Elian finished cleaning, his face burning with a shame so hot it felt like a fever. He rose and followed them into the kitchen, his body rigid with suppressed fury. He moved on autopilot, cracking eggs, toasting bread, his hands performing the tasks while his mind screamed.
Alistair sat at the head of the massive dining table, a newspaper spread before him. He didn’t look up as his sons sat down. “Driscoll, you have a session with your trainer at ten. Anton, your finance tutor is at eleven. Do not be late.” He planned their day with the detached arrogance of a god arranging the stars. The boys grunted their assent, their mouths already full.
Finally, Alistair’s attention fell on Elian as he placed a plate in front of him. He slid a crisp, white piece of paper across the table. “Your tasks for the day.”
Elian picked it up. The list was impossibly long: mow the entire lawn, weed the east gardens, polish the silver, clean the guest house from top to bottom, wash all the cars. It was a full week’s work, meant to be done by sunset. Driscoll and Anton smirked into their plates.
As Elian stood there, clutching the list, Alistair added, his voice dropping to a low, intimate command. “A business associate will be arriving in my office in one hour. You will be ready to serve us. Immediately.”
There was no room for argument. There never was. With his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor, Elian gave the only answer he was allowed: “Yes, sir.”
An hour later, the kitchen was sterile and gleaming, every surface wiped clean of the morning’s excesses. Elian’s hands were raw from the harsh soap. He was just putting the last dish away when Alistair’s voice echoed from the intercom, a disembodied bark that made him flinch. "Office. Now."
Elian’s stomach plummeted. He quickly splashed water on his face, trying to erase the signs of his morning’s humiliation, and walked the long corridor to Alistair’s sanctum. The office was a cage of dark mahogany and worn leather, smelling of old money and cigar smoke. Alistair was behind his massive desk, a portrait of absolute power. But he wasn’t alone.
Seated in one of the deep leather armchairs was a man who radiated an even colder, more refined authority. He was older, with a shaved head and a meticulously trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. His suit was impossibly expensive, his posture ramrod straight. His dark, intelligent eyes—the eyes of Duke Valerius, a man whose name was synonymous with ruthless corporate strategy—flickered to Elian and held for a fraction of a second too long.
“Whiskey.” Alistair commanded, gesturing towards a crystal decanter on a sidebar.
Elian moved with practiced obedience, his hands steady despite the tremor in his soul. He could feel both men’s eyes on him as he poured the amber liquid into two heavy glasses. He didn't dare meet their eyes, keeping his own fixed on his task.
“Come here, boy.” Alistair said, his voice a low purr. He leaned back in his leather throne. “My shoulders are tight.”
He moved behind Alistair’s chair and placed his hands on the thick, knotted muscles of his stepfather’s shoulders. The flesh was hard as rock beneath his fingers. He began to knead, his touch firm and impersonal, trying to dissociate, to pretend he was anywhere else.
Alistair let out a low groan of satisfaction, a sound that was purely for show. He shifted in his seat, deliberately spreading his powerful thighs. The fabric of his tailored trousers pulled taut, revealing the thick, heavy outline of his cock and balls with graphic clarity. It was a blatant, proprietary display. This is mine, the gesture screamed. All of it.
Elian could see Valerius from his vantage point. The Duke’s mask of cool professionalism was still in place, but his eyes were now fixed on Alistair’s groin, a flicker of heat in their dark depths. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the glass. A subtle, sharp intake of breath was the only sign of his arousal, but for Elian, who had learned to read the slightest shifts in dangerous men, it was as loud as a shout.
Alistair had seen it too. A slow, cruel smile touched his lips. “He has good hands, doesn't he, Valerius? Very attentive.” He tilted his head back, looking up at Elian. “Go on. The Duke looks like a man that would like to be take care of.”
Trembling, Elian moved from behind Alistair to stand behind Duke Valerius. The Duke didn't move, didn't even turn his head, but Elian could feel the coiled tension in him. The scent of his cologne was sharp and expensive, like gin. He placed his hands on the Duke's shoulders. The muscle here was different—just as hard, but leaner, a dense, disciplined strength.
As he worked, his knuckles brushed against the Duke’s thigh. He felt it instantly: the undeniable, rigid hardness of a fully erect cock pressing against the fine wool of his trousers. It was a thick, solid ridge of flesh, a weapon at full attention. Elian’s breath hitched. He was trapped between two aroused, powerful predators.
“You see, Duke Valerius...” Alistair said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, seductive tone. “Your investment will secure my expansion, yes. But if we are to be partners, true partners, moments like this could become a regular perk. A bonus for our mutual success.”
He was selling him. He was selling his body like a stock option.
Valerius finally turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto Alistair’s. A silent, primal negotiation passed between them. A slow, predatory smile spread across the Duke’s face. “The terms are very compelling.”
Alistair’s grin was triumphant. He stood, a looming shadow, and walked to the office door, without saying a single word. He turned, the light from the hall silhouetting his massive frame. He looked at Elian, who stood frozen behind the Duke’s chair. Then, with a sharp, imperious sound, he snapped his fingers.
“On your knees.” Alistair said, his voice devoid of all emotion. “I expect you to take good care of our guest today.”
He pulled the office door shut, the heavy click of the latch sealing Elian’s fate and now he was alone with the Duke.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of breathing in the room. Then, Valerius set his whiskey glass down with a soft click. He didn't speak. He simply looked down at Elian, his eyes burning with a controlled, intelligent lust. Elian, his mind numb with a mixture of terror and resignation, sank to the floor, the expensive rug rough against his bare knees.
He looked up at the man’s crotch, at the impressive, thick bulge that tented the fabric of his trousers. With a trembling hand, he reached for the expensive leather belt. The buckle was heavy and cool beneath his fingers. He undid it, the sound loud in the silent office. Then the button, then the zipper. The sound of its descent was like a scream.
The Duke’s cock sprang free, thick and magnificent. It was just as Elian had felt: a hard, authoritative length of flesh, circumcised, with a large, dusky-rose colored head that was already leaking a single, clear bead of precum.
“You know what to do...” Valerius’s voice was a low, rough command.
Elian leaned forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. He opened his mouth and took the tip of the cock between his lips. It tasted of salt and power. He began to lick and suck tentatively, his movements clumsy with fear.
“No, no, no...” the Duke’s voice was sharp. A large, firm hand tangled in his hair with an unbreakable grip, holding his head in place. “I want you to take it all.” he commanded, his voice a guttural whisper. “Show me how you serve your master.”
Spurred by the cold command, Elian took him deeper. He wrapped his lips around the thick shaft, his throat protesting as he worked his way down. The Duke was huge, filling him completely, a brutal, overwhelming presence. A tear escaped his eye, tracing a hot path down his cheek. Valerius let out a low groan, the first crack in his iron control. His hips began to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm, fucking Elian’s mouth with a practiced, masterful power.
“That’s it.” he hissed, his fingers tightening in Elian’s hair. “Good boy. Made for this, aren't you? Made to be on your knees for men like me.”
Elian closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable, moving his head faster, desperate to bring this to an end. He could feel the Duke’s entire body tense, the muscles in his thighs turning to steel. A deep, rumbling groan started in his chest.
“Right there… oh, fuck! Swallow it. Swallow it all.”
His hand clamped onto the back of Elian’s head, holding him firmly in place as his powerful body convulsed. A hot, thick torrent of semen flooded Elian’s throat, potent and overwhelming. He gagged, but the hand held him fast, forcing him to take every last drop. He swallowed, the taste of the Duke’s climax coating his tongue.
As quickly as it began, it was over. Valerius released him, his breathing heavy. Elian coughed, his throat raw, his eyes streaming.
The Duke stood, calmly tucking himself away and zipping his trousers as if nothing had happened. He walked to the desk, picked up a pen, and signed the contract that lay there with a firm, decisive stroke.
The office door opened. Alistair stood there, a triumphant, proprietary smirk on his face. He had been waiting just outside. He walked over to Elian and crouched down, gripping his chin and tilting his face up to the light. He saw a stray trace of semen at the corner of Elian’s lips. With a sickeningly paternal gesture, he wiped it away with his thumb and then, slowly, licked it clean.
“Good boy.” he murmured, his eyes glittering. He stood up, towering over him. “Now go back to your chores. You have a lawn to mow.”
Elian obeys and leaves in silence.
Night was Elian’s true sanctuary. When the great house was finally silent, its monstrous inhabitants lost to their own heavy, dreamless sleep, the estate became his again. Just after midnight, he slipped from his cellar room, a ghost in the darkness. He slipped through a gap in the overgrown hedge at the edge of the property, a secret path that led down a winding cliffside trail to the sea.
Two shadows detached themselves from the darkness beneath the pier. Leo and Sam.
"You made it!" Leo whispered, his voice a burst of bright energy in the quiet. He threw an arm around Elian’s shoulders. "I was about to storm the castle. I had a whole plan involving a distraction and a sequined cape."
Sam offered a quieter greeting, his gentle smile luminous in the moonlight. "We were worried. He was late."
"He's always late." Leo countered, nudging Elian affectionately. "Living with those three gorillas, it's a miracle he gets out at all."
They settled on the cool, damp sand, a small trinity huddled against the vastness of the sea. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic sigh of the waves, a gentle counterpoint to the violent turmoil in Elian’s soul. He hugged his knees to his chest, making himself small, trying to absorb the peace of the night, the peace of their presence.
It was Leo, of course, who broke the silence, his voice a firecracker in the dark.
“Oh my god, you will not believe the day I had!” he began, already gesticulating wildly, his hands sketching drama in the air. “So, Marco, the barista at The Daily Grind, the one with the forearms and the stupid, perfect smile, you know? The one I’ve been telling you about for weeks?”
Elian managed a small, genuine smile. “The one you tried to tip with your phone number?”
“It was a smooth move! He was just too flustered by my raw charisma to accept.” Leo shot back without missing a beat. “Anyway, I go in today, and he’s finally wearing the tight black t-shirt. I’m talking, like, painted on. You could see the outline of his pecs, his abs, even his goddamn nipples, Eli! It was a work of art. So I’m trying to be cool, I order my iced latte, and my brain just completely short-circuits. I asked for ‘extra horny’ instead of ‘extra honey.’”
Sam let out a low chuckle, tracing a spiral in the sand with his finger. “What did he do?”
“He just smirked that stupid, perfect smirk and said, ‘Coming right up.’ I think I’m in love. Or at least in deep, debilitating lust.” Leo sighed dramatically, flopping back on the sand. “Then, as if my nervous system hadn’t been through enough, I had Henderson for History. He was going on about ‘great men’ building empires, and I asked him where the ‘great men’ who were enslaved to build them fit into his narrative. He went completely purple.”
Elian watched him, a familiar mix of awe and terror. Leo’s courage was a thing of brilliant, terrifying beauty.
“He gave me detention, obviously...” Leo continued, sitting back up. “Said I had a ‘subversive attitude.’ I told him thank you, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day. I think his left eye started twitching.”
“One day he’s going to actually explode.” Sam said, his voice fond. “And we’ll have to scrape you off the ceiling.”
“A martyr to the cause.” Leo declared, pressing a hand to his chest. “And you will be playing my music that day.” He turned his bright, intense gaze on Sam. “Talking about it, how’s the song coming along, maestro?”
Sam’s posture shifted, a subtle change. He looked out at the dark water, his expression turning inward. “It’s… getting there. I think I finally figured out the bridge.” He hummed a few bars, a melody that was hauntingly beautiful, full of a quiet, aching melancholy. It sounded like the moonlight on the water.
“It’s about wanting to leave, isn’t it?” Elian asked softly, the first full sentence he’d spoken.
Sam met his gaze and nodded. “It’s about that feeling of standing on one side of a door, and you know your entire life is on the other side, but your feet are stuck to the floor. You can hear the music, you can smell the air, but you just can’t turn the knob.”
The description was so precise, so painfully accurate to the cage Elian lived in, that he had to look away, a lump forming in his throat. He felt Leo’s hand find his, squeezing it gently.
“It’s beautiful, Sam.” Leo said, his voice softer now. “When we get out of here, that’s the song that’s going to make you famous. I’ll be your ridiculously overpaid manager, and Eli can be our… I don’t know, our muse? Our in-house thirst-trap model for the album covers?”
Elian let out a choked laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, please...” Leo scoffed. “You’re literally the most beautiful person any of us have ever seen. We’ll all get an apartment in the city. A big, shitty, wonderful place with a leaky roof and amazing light. Sam can write his music, I can be fabulous, and you can finally do whatever the hell you want. Be a painter, a dancer, a professional beach-lounger. Anything!”
The dream was so vivid, so tantalizingly close in that moment, that it hurt to breathe. A life of choices. A life where his body belonged to him. It was an impossible, wonderful fantasy.
“Speaking of freedom...” Leo said, his energy surging back. “Ashley Peters is having a huge back-to-school bonfire party on Saturday. Her parents are out of town. It’s going to be epic. Kegs, bad decisions, the whole works. We’re going. All three of us.” He looked at Elian, his eyes pleading. “You have to come, Eli. Just for a few hours. We’ll sneak you out, sneak you back in. They’ll never know.”
The fantasy shattered. The invisible walls of his prison slammed back into place, cold and hard. Elian’s smile faded. He pulled his hand from Leo’s, the warmth already a fading memory. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” Leo pressed. “Just say you’re sick. Or that you’re staying with one of us.”
“I really can’t...” Elian repeated, his voice flat. He couldn’t explain that his every moment was accounted for, that his exhaustion was a physical chain. He couldn’t explain the consequences, the cold fury in Alistair’s eyes if he were to be caught. The punishments.
Sam put a gentle hand on Leo’s arm. “Leo. Let it go.”
Leo looked from Sam’s warning eyes to Elian’s shuttered face, and the fight went out of him. He slumped, the silence between them now filled with the things Elian couldn't say. They all stared out at the ocean, at the endless expanse of dark water that represented the freedom they all craved in different ways.
"What about you, Eli?" Sam asked, his voice soft, trying to bridge the sudden chasm between them. "How was… how was your day?"
The question hung in the air. Elian looked out at the water, where the moonlight lay across its surface like a shattered mirror. How could he possibly explain his day? How could he put words to the cold weight of Valerius’s gaze, the bruising grip of Alistair’s hand, the taste of another man’s climax forced down his throat? The words were poison, and he couldn't speak them, couldn't taint this one clean space with the filth of his life.
Silence was his only answer.
Then, a sudden, desperate urge seized him—a need to wash it all away, to shed the skin he was in and become someone else, someone clean. He stood up abruptly. His friends watched, confused, as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his worn shorts and pulled them down, stepping out of them and leaving them in a heap on the sand. He peeled off his thin t-shirt, his entire body, lean and golden and beautiful, now naked under the scrutiny of the moon.
Before they could speak, he ran and sprinted across the wet sand, his feet splashing in the shallow surf, a wild, liberating energy surging through him. He didn't stop until the water was at his waist, and then he dove forward, a clean, powerful arc into the cold, shocking embrace of the sea.
He broke the surface with a gasp, the frigid water a violent, glorious baptism. The salt stung his lips, cleansed his skin. He slicked his hair back, treading water and looking back at the shore. Leo and Sam were standing, two stunned silhouettes. Then, a wide grin broke across Leo’s face. He ripped his own clothes off with a defiant whoop, his body pale and slender in the moonlight. Sam followed a moment later, more hesitant, but with a quiet smile, his own body lean and graceful.
They plunged in after him, their shouts and laughter echoing across the empty beach.
The water became their playground. They were no longer servant and friends: they were just three boys, weightless and free. They splashed and wrestled, their naked bodies slick and gleaming as they slipped past each other in the dark water. The initial playfulness slowly subsided, replaced by something quieter, more intense.
Elian floated on his back, his eyes closed, the water lapping gently around him. He felt a presence beside him. He opened his eyes to see Leo, his face serious, his brightly dyed hair now dark and plastered to his skull. The moonlight caught the water droplets on his lashes, making them look like tiny diamonds.
"Eli..." Leo whispered, his voice barely audible over the waves.
He leaned in, and his lips met Elian's. It was nothing like the bruising, demanding kisses of his nightmares. It was a kiss of impossible tenderness, soft and questioning. It was a kiss that asked for nothing but offered everything. Elian’s entire body melted into it, a desperate, aching sigh escaping his own lips. He kissed back, pouring all his unspoken pain and longing into the simple, gentle press of their mouths.
He felt a hand on his waist, warm and steadying in the cold water. Sam was there, on his other side, his calm presence a comforting anchor. He didn’t intrude, but his touch was a silent statement of inclusion. Sam leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Elian's neck, just below his ear, sending a shudder of pure, unadulterated pleasure through him.
It became a slow, drifting dance of bodys. Leo’s hands moved to cup his face, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones as their kisses deepened. Sam’s hands roamed over his back, tracing the elegant lines of his muscles, the dip of his spine. These were not the hands of a master taking what was his: they were the hands of friends, of admirers, mapping his body not as property, but as a precious, living thing.
Elian felt himself held between them, a cocoon of warmth in the vast, cold sea. He was being touched, being kissed, being desired not for what could be taken from him, but for who he was in that moment. They were stolen moments like this that he felt truly seen.
They kissed his mouth, his jaw, his shoulders, their movements a languid, unhurried exploration. His own hands grew bold, stroking their smooth backs, their slender arms, feeling the hard, excited proof of their desire pressing against him in the water.
But they went no further than this. It wasn’t about completion. It was about connection. It was about the heated, breathless intimacy of shared touch, the silent acknowledgment of the beauty they saw in each other.
Floating there, naked in the moonlight, held in the tender embrace of his only friends, Elian closed his eyes. For this one stolen hour, beneath the silent, watchful stars, he wasn't a servant. He wasn't a prisoner.
He was free.
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