Ebony Castle

Doha turned his head away, unable to look any longer. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would crash into his ribs, and he backed away on his knees by half a step. Watching this, Tristan Locke spoke, his face showing signs of growing fatigue.

“Come here and handle it yourself.”

“……”

“You even said that if I was asleep, you’d take care of it, so I don’t think I need to help, do I?”

Then, as if ignoring the awkward situation in front of him, he closed his eyes. His thick, golden lashes rested on his cheeks. His expressionless face looked as if he were asleep.

Doha was momentarily flustered, not expecting him to react this way, but his mind soon calmed down. In a way, this was better. It was easier to think of it as just a medical tool shaped like a man’s genitalia, as Tristan had said.

Steadying his breath, he crawled up towards the head of the bed on his knees. Kneeling between Tristan’s spread legs, he carefully reached out his hand.

Just before his hand touched Tristan’s genitals, his courage faltered, and his hand brushed against the inside of Tristan’s thigh instead. His stiff hand felt the smooth, firm skin as though it were wet.

“Ah…”

It was Doha, not Tristan, who let out a soft gasp. The moment their skin touched, a shiver ran through his body. Tristan remained completely unresponsive.

Doha took a deep breath, steadying himself, and reached out again. This time, the back of his hand touched the swollen head of Tristan’s penis. He resisted the urge to pull his hand back and forced himself to endure. Surprisingly, it wasn’t hot. The texture of the skin was soft, and it felt more pliant than he had expected.

Looking down, Doha pulled back his hand and bent over while still kneeling. Since he couldn’t use his hands, he had no choice. With his eyes closed, he leaned down until his closed lips brushed against the flesh.

Tristan’s thigh seemed to twitch slightly, but when Doha opened his eyes to check, Tristan’s expression hadn’t changed. Doha closed his eyes again. The faint scent of soap mixed with his body odor lingered in the air. Though he felt unsettled, the sensation of his lips against the soft skin wasn’t as unpleasant as he had anticipated.

“…Mmph.”

Doha opened his mouth and took the tip of Tristan’s penis into it. His jaw ached as his lips stretched wide. After taking a deep breath, he took in as much as he could, stopping only when the swollen tip pressed against the back of his throat.

“Huff, ugh…”

Though his mouth was full, when Doha opened his eyes, he saw there was still more than half of the shaft remaining. Trying to ignore the fog clouding his mind, he began to tentatively lick the underside of the shaft. When he couldn’t breathe, he’d stick out his tongue to lick, then take the shaft back into his mouth, moving his head back and forth. It was a clumsy imitation of something he had seen before. The fleshy shaft in his mouth became wet with saliva, but despite his efforts, it showed no sign of hardening.

“Mr. Eden…”

The man muttered from above, eyes still closed.

“You definitely wouldn’t win any oral sex awards.”

“……”

“Not that you’d be given a chance to enter, anyway.”

Doha spat out Tristan’s penis. Out of breath, dizzy, and with an aching mouth, he hadn’t accomplished anything, just as Tristan had said.

“What should I—”

His voice was thick and garbled, as though submerged in water.

“It would help if you told me what turns you on, Mr. Locke.”

At that, Tristan half-opened his eyes, looking down at Doha kneeling between his legs, his expression subtly displeased.

“It’d be faster to tell you what doesn’t turn me on.”

His gaze pointed directly at Doha. His emaciated body, gaunt, pale face, and the fact that he was a man with male genitals between his legs. In that moment, Doha recalled what Niklas had once said. Tristan Locke’s entire romantic history had been documented by the media. Among the many women who had passed through his life, there were models and actresses alike. They were all buxom, with large breasts and hips, fitting the Western ideal of beauty, born into good British families and draped in luxury, upper-class women.

Doha could picture his ideal type perfectly, even without him saying a word. A flush of shame instantly burned his cheeks.

“This won’t work.”

Tristan spoke, slowly rising from the bed. He grabbed the bottle from the bedside table. Doha sat back, watching as Tristan poured lubricant into his palm and took hold of his own penis.

The wet sound was unmistakable. His pale fingers wrapped around the fleshy shaft, stroking it rhythmically from base to tip. His eyes were closed, and occasionally, short breaths slipped through his clenched teeth. His hair fell messily over his slightly furrowed brow.

“Not something I did in high school…”

He said between rough breaths, his voice calm.

“I never thought I’d be doing it for this reason.”

“……”

Doha didn’t know where to look. He traced the patterns on the blanket, but his gaze kept drifting back to Tristan. His heart pounded in his throat and ears.

The raw sight of Tristan’s self-pleasure felt like trampling through a sacred white temple with muddy feet. The gradually hardening penis in his hand seemed out of place against his pale skin, red and fierce. The thick shaft bobbed, nearly touching his stomach as it stood erect. Doha didn’t want to know what he might be imagining, or who he might be thinking of.

Finally, Tristan opened his eyes and let go of his penis. He frowned slightly as if assessing his level of arousal, then grabbed some tissues from the nightstand to roughly wipe his hand and the shaft.

“This should be good enough.”

Tristan’s gaze landed on Doha, now tinged with exhaustion.

“I think I’ve helped enough. You can handle the rest yourself.”

“…Okay.”

Feeling disconnected from reality, Doha crawled toward him. He awkwardly climbed onto Tristan’s body, settling over his groin. The hot shaft brushed against the inside of his thigh.

“…Ugh.”

He struggled to align his body with the thick shaft. He didn’t want to touch Tristan, but his body, tense with fear and nervousness, wouldn’t cooperate. He tried several times to align the narrow entrance of his body with the tip of Tristan’s penis, but each time the hard head merely grazed between his buttocks and slipped away.

“…Ha, ah…”

The more frantic he became, the more labored his breathing grew. His thighs and knees ached from supporting his weight. His numbed hand couldn’t hold the shaft and guide it into his body.

After several attempts, Doha finally managed to press the tip of the penis against his entrance, but no matter how hard he tried to lower himself, it wouldn’t go in. The small, slightly open entrance throbbed painfully. He tried to push down harder, but the shaft missed again, hotly striking the inside of his thigh.

“…Mr. Locke. Just once…”

Cold sweat dripped down his back. Doha swallowed with his dry throat.

“Could you hold it for a moment while I… put it in?”

Doha couldn’t bear to look any longer and turned his head away. His heart pounded so hard that it felt like it would hit his ribs, forcing him to retreat half a step on his knees. Tristan Locke, who had been watching, finally spoke in a voice that hinted at exhaustion.

“Come here and do it yourself.”

“……”

“You even said you’d take care of it if I was asleep, so I don’t think I need to help.”

Tristan closed his eyes, as if to block out the uncomfortable situation. His thick golden eyelashes brushed against his cheeks. His face was expressionless, almost as if he had fallen asleep.

Doha was taken aback by Tristan’s unexpected reaction but soon calmed down. In a way, this was easier. He reminded himself that this was just a medical tool modeled after a man’s genitals, as Tristan had said.

Taking a deep breath, Doha crawled up the bed on his knees. He knelt between Tristan’s legs and carefully reached out.

His hand, which was about to touch Tristan’s genitals, lost its nerve at the last moment and brushed against the inside of Tristan’s thigh instead. The smooth, firm skin felt almost wet against his stiff hand.

“Ah…”

The sound that slipped out was from Doha himself. The moment their skin touched, a shiver ran through his body, but Tristan remained unresponsive.

Doha steadied his breathing and reached out again, this time touching the swollen head of Tristan’s penis with the back of his hand. He forced himself to hold back the urge to pull away. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as hot as he expected. The skin felt soft and more pliant than he had imagined.

He looked down at it for a moment, then pulled his hand away and bent over from his kneeling position. Since he couldn’t use his hands, he had no other choice. With his eyes closed, he leaned down until his lips lightly touched the warm flesh.

Tristan’s thigh seemed to twitch slightly, but when Doha looked up, Tristan’s expression hadn’t changed. Doha closed his eyes again. A faint scent of soap and body heat filled his nose. Though it felt unsettling in his mind, the sensation of the soft skin against his lips wasn’t as unpleasant as he had feared.

“…Mmm.”

Doha parted his lips and took the tip of Tristan’s penis into his mouth. His jaw strained as his lips stretched wide. After taking a deep breath, he pushed as much of it into his mouth as he could, stopping when the head pressed against the back of his throat.

“Huff, huff…”

His mouth was full, yet when he looked down, more than half of the shaft still remained. Trying to ignore the fog in his mind, Doha awkwardly began licking the underside of the shaft. When he couldn’t breathe, he would stick his tongue out to lick, then take the shaft back into his mouth and move his head back and forth. It was a clumsy attempt at something he had seen before. The flesh inside his mouth grew wet with saliva, but despite his best efforts, it showed no signs of hardening.

“Eden…”

Tristan muttered from above him with his eyes closed.

“You wouldn’t win any awards for oral sex.”

“……”

“Not that you’d be eligible to enter in the first place.”

Doha pulled Tristan’s penis out of his mouth. He was out of breath, dizzy, and his mouth ached, but as Tristan had pointed out, he had achieved nothing.

“What should I…”

His voice came out hoarse, as if submerged underwater.

“If you could tell me what turns you on, Locke, it would help.”

Tristan opened his eyes halfway. He looked down at Doha, who was kneeling between his legs, and frowned slightly.

“It would be quicker to tell you what

turn me on.”

His gaze pointed directly at Doha’s thin, emaciated body, his pale, gaunt face, and the fact that he was a man with male genitalia. Doha suddenly remembered what Niklas had once told him. Tristan Locke’s love life was well-documented by the media. Among the many women who had passed through his life were models and actresses, all of them with large breasts, curvy hips, the quintessential Western beauty ideal. They had all come from high society, draped in luxury brands, born into prestigious British families.

Even without Tristan saying a word, Doha could picture his ideal type as clearly as if it had been drawn with a ruler. A flush of shame spread across his cheeks.

“This isn’t going to work.”

Tristan sat up in bed, grabbed the bottle from the nightstand, and poured some lubricant into his palm. Doha, now sitting back, watched as Tristan rubbed the lubricant onto his own penis.

A slick sound filled the room as Tristan’s pale fingers stroked the shaft from base to tip in a steady rhythm. His eyes were closed, and every now and then, a short breath escaped through his clenched teeth. His hair fell messily over his slightly furrowed brow.

“Even in high school, I didn’t do this kind of thing.”

His voice came out calmly amidst his increasingly ragged breathing.

“Never thought I’d end up doing it for this reason.”

“……”

Doha didn’t know where to look. He tried tracing the patterns on the blanket, but his eyes kept darting back to Tristan. His heart raced up to his throat and ears.

The sight of Tristan’s hand moving up and down his shaft felt like a profane act, desecrating something pure. His penis, now fully formed in his hand, looked red and aggressive, in stark contrast to his pale skin. The thick shaft twitched as it stood straight, nearly touching his stomach. Doha didn’t want to know what Tristan was imagining, or who he was thinking of.

Finally, Tristan released his penis and opened his eyes. He glanced down at his erection, furrowed his brow as if assessing it, then grabbed some tissues from the nightstand and wiped off his hand and shaft.

“This should be good enough.”

His gaze turned to Doha, now filled with weariness.

“I’ve done my part, so handle the rest yourself.”

“…Okay.”

Feeling detached from reality, Doha crawled over to him. He clumsily straddled Tristan’s lap, positioning himself above Tristan’s groin. The heated flesh Tristan had worked up brushed against the inside of Doha’s thigh.

“…Ugh.”

He struggled to align his body with Tristan’s thick shaft. He didn’t want to touch him, but his body, tensed with fear and anxiety, wouldn’t cooperate. No matter how many times he tried to lower himself, the hard head of Tristan’s penis kept sliding between his thighs, never quite entering.

“…Ha, ah…”

The more desperate he became, the more erratic his breathing grew. His thighs and knees ached from trying to hold himself up. His numb hands couldn’t grasp the shaft to guide it in.

After several failed attempts, Doha managed to press the tip of the head against his entrance, but when he tried to sink down, it wouldn’t go any further. His slightly parted entrance ached and throbbed. He forced his body lower, but the head slipped out again, brushing painfully against his inner thigh.

“Locke… Could you just… help guide it in?”

Tristan’s fingertips grazed the edge of the stretched opening. Doha’s inner thighs trembled.

“Even if I stop, Eden, you’re going to say no,” Tristan remarked.

Doha gritted his teeth and nodded. A sigh came from behind him.

“Then bear with it. It’ll be better if I do this quickly.”

“Ah—wait, hnn, ah!”

The thick shaft, which had been halfway out, thrust back in deeply. Doha tightly shut his eyes as a burning heat spread across his eyelids. The pain was unbearable, as if his insides were being torn apart. Each time Tristan entered him deeply, Doha struggled to breathe; when Tristan pulled out, the skin around the opening stung, dragging along painfully. Fear suddenly gripped Doha, worried that his body might truly break.

At some point, Doha began holding his breath, biting his lips as if suppressing a familiar convulsion. His stiff hand, resting on the sheets, was drenched in sweat. Tristan said nothing more. Like someone eager to finish an unpleasant task, he moved mechanically and mercilessly.

Doha, barely conscious, forced himself to endure. Finally, Tristan’s movements quickened.

“I’m going to finish inside.”

Tristan’s voice was rough.

“Normally, that wouldn’t be polite… but in this case, it’s the opposite.”

“Hnn… ugh…”

With one final thrust, harder and deeper than before, Tristan held Doha’s hips and climaxed multiple times. The sticky warmth of the semen soaked Doha’s inflamed insides, mixed with blood, and dripped out.

“…Are we done now?” Tristan asked in a tired voice.

His shrinking shaft slowly withdrew, and the warm fluid trickled down Doha’s thighs.

Doha, still trembling from residual spasms, took in a shaky breath as he tried to lift his head and look at Tristan Locke. Whether he wanted to thank him or gauge his expression, he wasn’t sure.

But as soon as he lifted his head, his already narrowing vision finally closed off completely. Doha lost consciousness, collapsing into the sheets.

***

In his dream, a dog whimpered pitifully. The sound of paws scratching at a door echoed, causing Doha to stir beneath the sheets.

“…Ulysses.”

He thought he had sat up, but that too was a dream. In the dream, his body felt weightless, as though he had shed all burdens. Despite wearing slippers, his feet barely touched the ground as he floated like a ghost through the mansion’s hallways, passing through walls instead of doors. The drawing room, garden, greenhouse, kitchen, Tristan Locke’s bedroom—he drifted in and out of rooms he’d never been in before. The dream mansion was filled with cobwebs and dust, as if no one lived there anymore. Tristan and his staff had vanished.

“…But that security issue…”

“…Nevertheless, it’s a risk…”

The secretary’s voice tore through the dream, shattering it. Doha jolted awake.

“Ugh…”

The sharp afternoon sunlight poured over his sensitive eyes. The familiar ceiling trim that had become recognizable in the past few days came into focus. This wasn’t Tristan’s bedroom; it was the guest room on the second floor.

The bright room was empty—no secretary, no Ulysses. Doha groggily lifted his torso, only to grimace as a sharp pain shot from his backside to his head.

The memories of the previous night returned as if a veil had been lifted from his unconscious mind. Doha, disregarding the pain, quickly sat up and raised his hands before his face.

“……”

Under the yellow sunlight, his hands still resembled gnarled branches, unchanged from the day before. His stiff legs were the same. No matter how hard he focused, willing all his nerves into motion, his fingers barely twitched. If anything, they felt stiffer than usual.

The overwhelming sensation from last night clenched at his throat. Doha lay still with his eyes closed until he heard the door open.

The sound of soft, nearly inaudible footsteps followed. When Doha opened his eyes, Hazel, who had been approaching the foot of the bed, appeared startled.

“You’re awake?”

“…Yes, I woke up a while ago.”

“Judging by your complexion, it seems the fever has gone down. How are you feeling?”

“…I’m fine.”

“Earlier, you took the medicine on an empty stomach, so it would be better to have something to eat now. Everything’s ready; I’ll bring it right away.”

Whether Hazel knew or pretended not to know, her face was a perfect mask of neutrality.

She returned in less than ten minutes, accompanied by the quick sound of paws. Unlike Hazel, who carried a tray into the room, Ulysses’ excited panting stopped at the threshold, followed by a faint whine.

“Ulysses has been trained not to enter bedrooms,” Hazel explained as she set up the tray table beside Doha’s bed. When she lifted the lid, beneath it were a deep bowl and smaller dishes containing dried fruit, honey, and nuts, all neatly arranged.

“This is a porridge, light and easy to digest. Don’t worry about Ulysses. He’s hoping for an invitation, but if you ignore him, he’ll get the message.”

Sure enough, after a few hopeful barks, Ulysses retreated, his footsteps padding away from the door. Doha thought there was no harm in letting the dog in, but this wasn’t his room—it was a guest room in Tristan’s mansion. He only had six days left of his week-long stay.

“Where is Locke?”

He thought he’d asked casually, but his throat felt tight, as if something was lodged there. Hazel, who had been about to leave with the tray’s lid, turned to face him.

“The CEO is usually in his office at this time.”

Her impassive expression wavered slightly.

“He also left a message for you: don’t come upstairs during the day, apply your medication, and rest. And don’t come up to the third floor before 9 p.m.”

“……”

Though delivered in Hazel’s measured tone, the words echoed with Tristan’s distinctive manner of speech. Alone once again in the room, Doha slowly ate the porridge, taking small, deliberate bites.

Curious, he opened the bedside drawer. Inside, he found the fever medicine he’d taken earlier and a new tube of ointment, still sealed. It seemed Tristan had anticipated his every move.

***

The idea that the second time would be easier was nothing more than a foolish delusion.

“…Hnn…”