The Art of Bathing

Full Summary:

Timothy has been taking baths in the castle's heated springs late at night. One night, he encounters a nobleman who teaches him another way to clean himself.

Or

Oblivious uneducated peasant meets smarmy nobleman who takes advantage.

Trigger Warning: This work contains Rape/Non-Con elements. A character has too little knowledge of what's going on to properly consent.

. . . .

Timothy of Bilewitan village has been accepted as a castle servant in the citadel of Pintelas.

The result surprises both Timothy and his father.

Timothy isn't ungrateful, not at all. But when he had undertaken the three-day journey towards the citadel to find a job, he had not expected such an amazing opportunity. He had strode into the castle on a whim, merchants and vendors and even blacksmiths refusing to hire him after looking at his pale complexion, wide brown eyes, skinny arms, and lithe form.

Timothy knows what they see when they look at him; a coddled village boy who barely worked a day on his life. Which isn't true at all! He helps his father on the farm, working day and night to hoe the land and harvest crops. It isn't his fault that his body failed to develop muscles even after years of hard work, that he's prone to sunburn rather than tanning, that he can't grow even the slightest of stubble to make him look his age. He's twenty summers, for gods' sakes. He's no boy.

However, the castle's steward takes in his figure, from the dusty worn boots up to his dark curls and hires him on the spot. Timothy stares at her in shock before stuttering out a "Thank you!"

He writes to his father about it. A few days later, after a higher-ranking servant has taught him all the ropes and his things are settled in the servant's chambers, he receives a short reply.

Timothy, my boy, what the fuck? And how the fuck?

— Your very confused father.

Timothy merely laughs, used to his father's swearing.

A few more days later, Bargy, the manservant of one of the lords in council, pulls Timothy aside.

"No one has told you about the baths yet, have they?" Bargy asks with an amused grin.

Timothy runs a hand through his ringlets, which has become oily now. "Baths?"

Apparently, the castle of Pintelas was built over an underground cavern filled with clear hot springs. The king had allowed anyone living in the castle, from the lowliest servants to the highest of royalty, to use them. The only rule is that men and women bathe in separate springs to preserve propriety. The servants had bathed in the springs every night after a hard day of work, the heat like a balm to their sore much-used muscles.

The nobles and royalties had scoffed, too prudish to be naked in the presence of commoners.

When Bargy invites Timothy to join them in the baths that very night, Timothy agrees eagerly. He usually never liked baths but that is because hot water has rarely accompanied it. Now, there's perpetual heated water, free to use? Timothy will be taking his bath everyday now, he decides.

Bargy, Timothy and four more servants climb down a set of stairs, towels and soaps in hand. The granite walls eventually give way to obsidian stones, the air damp and warm. A sort of fog or mist hangs in the air, making everything a bit fuzzy and unreal. Several other servants have already taken a dip, and their chatter fills the spacious air.

The men's heated spring is as wide as the servant's chambers and looks to be more than a few feet deep. Timothy wastes no time, stripping off his tunic, trousers, and small clothes. He kneels down at the nearest precipice of the spring; whose waters are so clear that Timothy could see the rocky bottom.

He dips a hand, testing the water's temperature. It's absolutely perfect, warm enough to soothe but not to scald.

"Bargy, this is perfect." He shifts around to beam at the very servant who informed him of it.

Bargy's gaze flick up, looking caught. Behind him, the other servants abruptly turn away, and resume arranging their things.

"Yeah," Bargy replies, sounding out of breath. "Perfect."

Timothy turns back to the springs, and gracelessly climbs down into it. The heated water caresses his aching limbs. He closes his eyes and lets out a deep moan of satisfaction. This is heaven, truly.

His neck prickles, and Timothy's eyes shoot open. He finds every single eye trained on him.

He squeaks, wondering what he has done wrong. "Uh, hello . . .?"

Most of the gazes fall off him, and Timothy sighs in relief. Bargy joins him soon after, the taller servant wrapping an arm around his waist and leading him to an unclaimed corner. Timothy is surprised at the touchy gesture, but he welcomes it; his father isn't one for hugs but Timothy is. He welcomes every kind of affectionate touch bestowed upon him.

Bargy and Timothy talk about their day for the time it takes to finish their respective baths. Timothy quickens his, uncomfortable at the eyes he can still feel on him.

For a week, this becomes Timothy's routine. He goes to the springs, feels several eyes poking at his back, and hurriedly washes up to escape them. Bargy has helped in his endeavor to haste the bathing; the other servant scrubs his back, all the way to his arse cheeks. Timothy is grateful for the help but no amount of it will change his mind on his next decision.

He needs to bathe when there is no one around the springs. He cannot even enjoy his bath properly because of the stares! Baths are supposed to remove stress, not add more to it. Timothy has looked himself over in the mirror but found no weird birthmark or creepy growth throughout his body that would make him earn the scrutiny. He asks various servants why they stare but all he gets are responses full of jests.

"It's your arse. It's bouncy like a bun. Makes me want to bite it," Olri answers with a grin full of teeth. Gods, Timothy has heard of these kinds of people from his father's stories. Olri's a budding cannibal, someone who thinks human meat is as delicious as pork. Timothy resolves to speak as little as possible to the man in the future.

"You're very . . . pretty," shy Ninnin says with a smile that must be teasing. Men can't be pretty.

"You have the whitest skin among us." Yir shrugs. "I want to bruise it."

Timothy doesn't know what he did to Yir that makes the other servant wish violence upon him. Timothy won't be approaching Yir again anytime soon.

Since no one would give him a proper answer, Timothy decides to change his routine. He will go to the baths in the middle of the night when he's sure no one would be awake. He could have more than a ten-minute bath, and lounge in the springs like some sort of nobleman with nothing else to do. Ahh, the dream.

"What?" Bargy demands when Timothy refuses to join them in the springs that night. "Why?"

Timothy shrugs, not wanting to tell Bargy of his plan and have the other servant tell the others. They might get the horrible idea to join him and destroy his plan of peace. Timothy likes Bargy but he likes peaceful heated baths more. "I'm just going to wash my face everyday. It's too tiring to dip in."

Bargy storms off with an angry huff when he fails to convince Timothy.

That night, Timothy sneaks away from the servant's quarters with a towel and a sponge of soap.

He soaks in the heated spring, alone and unbothered, for almost an hour. It's the happiest moment of his life, barring that one time he surreptitiously licked the remains of sweetened cocoa off of a noblewoman's plate — it was and still is the most delicious thing Timothy had tasted.

And so, he acquires a new habit; serve nobility during the day, and be somewhat of a spoiled nobility at night where no one would see.

Weeks passed with Timothy playing around the springs, splashing water, humming, singing, swimming, and having fun all around. No one bothers him, and he doesn't bother anyone. A royal banquet here, a beheading there, a war over in the north, a treaty in the south.

Timothy may be one of lower ranking servants, serving as an errand boy for other high-ranking ones. But with two meals a day, a roof over his head, and access to the most wonderful springs in the kingdom, he's the most content he could be.

. . . . .

A chilling autumn day drags high and long for Timothy. Preparations are made for some sort of banquet, and he is tasked to move furniture around the Great Hall. In the end, their efforts are for naught because the banquet has been cancelled for some reason or another. Timothy has been too tired to listen properly.

Every servant head for the baths, irritated and wanting the whole day to be over with. Timothy heads for his bed and drops into a dead sleep.

Because of his nightly habit, he blearily awakes deep into the night. Mechanically, he grabs his share of soap and a wide cloth to serve as a towel, and tiptoes past the sleeping servants.

Gods, the bath today would be extra satisfying because of the less than stellar day. No other grouchy servants around, just him and his sore muscles.

He reaches the spacious cavern in minutes. He disrobes excitedly, ridding himself of his sweat-soaked-and-dried clothing.

He runs towards the men's spring with his spongy soap in hand, bare feet slapping against the rocks. He jumps in with a gleeful shout, curling like a cannonball out of a canon. The water welcomes him back with warmth.

He resurfaces from his dive, humming happily, flipping his dark unruly curls away from his eyes.

From the corner of his eye, Timothy spies a bright color. He turns his head to it, wondering if there's a shiny rock in the cavern he has yet to discover.

The bright colors are silky blonde locks atop a livid man's scarred face. The said man has bulging muscles almost as thick as Timothy's head, and the hand he lifts out of the water in front of him could snap the servant's neck with little difficulty. The water blurs the lower half of the man's body, but Timothy can see that the man is sitting down on a protruding rock at the corner of the spring. Even sitting down, the man looks huge and intimidating, especially since his darkened blue eyes are glaring a hole right through Timothy from only a foot away.

Timothy squeaks like a mouse, putting a much-needed distance between them. "S-Sorry, sire. I didn't know anyone else was here," he stutters out, mortified at his display.

Timothy immediately figures out that the other man is of nobility. He knows every servant in the castle by face, if not by name. He also knows that no servant who eats two meals a day can accomplish the kind of muscle this man has. Judging by the small laceration scars on the man's face, and slightly bigger ones on his torso, he's most likely a gallant knight.

Timothy stares wide-eyed at the man, having never seen nobility in the public springs before.

"Wash up and get out," the nobleman growls lowly, snapping Timothy out of his trance.

The nobleman probably came to the baths late at night, like Timothy, because he expected no one else would be here. And now, the servant is breaching a noble's privacy. Gods, the punishment for that is ten lashes, isn't it?

Timothy swallows, and vigorously nods at the order. No more long baths for him tonight. He swivels around to hopefully give the nobleman some belated privacy and scrubs the hand with soap over a forearm. Then, he realizes there is no hand with the soap. He must have dropped the soap earlier in shock.

He dives down, praying to the gods that he finds it immediately to get this horrible day and night over with. Some god must have answered him because his eyes catch onto it not even a second later. The visibly softening soap, guileless white against dark stones, lays inches away from the sitting nobleman's feet. Timothy swims over to it, and gingerly picks it up so as not to break it apart further.

His gaze drifts and latches on to the engorged cock of the nobleman.

His wide brown eyes take it in. It's huge! The other servants' and Timothy's own cannot even compare to it. While Timothy's penis is more or less the length and width of his open palm, the nobleman's girth is nearly as wide as the servant's arm and its length is almost as long as his forearm. But maybe that's just because the cock is bloating so much!

Timothy resurfaces once more, now less than a foot away from the nobleman. The nobleman looks absolutely murderous, blue eyes flaming with fury. Timothy backs away with another squeak.

Gods, he has been caught staring at a prudish nobleman's body for one whole minute. That will be quite a number of lashes.

Timothy, in an effort to the nobleman's good graces and avoid a flogging, hastily informs him. "Wrapping a cold towel around it would help immensely, sire!"

It's no wonder that the nobleman has been in a sour mood. The way his cock has swelled so much must be very painful!

Confusion paints the nobleman's scarred face, temporarily banishing his scary scowl. "What?"

"Uh, it must be very painful, sire." Timothy gestures at the nobleman's lower half, making sure not to look again. "I usually soak a towel in cold water and wrap it around my cock to reduce the swelling." When his own cock had first hardened and reddened, his father had carefully instructed him on how to fix it, and the method had never failed him before. "Heat makes it more painful, sire," he elaborates politely. He glances meaningfully at the heated springs both are soaking in.

The servant couldn't believe that an educated nobleman such as the nobleman would not know that heat makes the swelling worse. But he guesses nobles have much more important things to learn than a remedy to an engorged cock.

The nobleman stares at Timothy, mouth opening. Then, a second later, the mouth closes without uttering a word. Timothy fidgets under the nobleman's gaze for one long minute but is finally released from the unsettling situation when the other man speaks, "It's not painful."

"Oh." Of course! The man is a nobleman. He must have a higher pain tolerance than Timothy, a mere servant.

"How old are you?" the nobleman asks after a beat, looking thoughtful now instead of murderous. It is an improvement Timothy can get behind.

The servant tilts his head at the question that came out of nowhere. "Twenty summers, sire." The servant uses two fingers to separate a dollop of soap in his hand and begins hurriedly rubbing it against his arm. The faster he washes up, the lesser chances of further offending the noble in front of him. The servant may yet get away without a single lash.

"Are you married?" the nobleman follows up.

Timothy flushes, embarrassed. "No, sire." It's a bit of a sore topic. People his age already have a number of children, and Timothy has yet to even court a single girl! He knows he should be at least planning for a family at his age but the notion of the heavy responsibilities that comes with it frightens him beyond understanding.

Gods, he sounds like a damn child.

"Do you know how babes are formed?" the nobleman asks another unrelated question, something strange glinting in his darkened blue eyes.

Timothy pauses in his vigorous scrubbing, beginning to feel puzzled at the questions. The nobleman doesn't know how babes are formed? That should be common knowledge! "A man kisses a girl. The girl swallows the man's saliva, and immediately gets pregnant, sire," he recites his father's exact words. So don't go kissing any girls unless you want children, you hear me, Timothy? his father warns him.

Amusement flashes in the nobleman's features as he asks, "So you've never kissed a girl before? Or anyone?"

"That would be improper, sire! And dangerous!" Timothy exclaims. Having a child out of wedlock would ruin both his and the girl's reputation!

The nobleman hums. Timothy soaps up his shoulders and neck, thinking the conversation done. Rivulets of white run down Timothy's chest; oh, the dip in the water really did his soap in. It's supposed to last three more days but at this rate, he has to borrow some from Bargy for tomorrow's bath.

"Come here," the nobleman abruptly orders.

Timothy freezes, gazing wide-eyed at the nobleman. Gods, is he going to get murdered tonight after all? He had gratefully thought the nobleman had forgotten his offense.

"I'll help you wash up," the nobleman says with a disarming smile.

A nobleman helping a servant wash up? Timothy has never heard of it! "Sire, I can't possibly ask you—"

"I'll help you wash up a lot faster," the nobleman insists. "Your soap's nearly gone. I can help you finish before it's gone."

That's probably true. Baths do go faster with someone helping him, and Timothy is more than prepared to put the whole scary night behind him. And the nobleman is educated; he probably knows how to bathe much quickly.

Timothy waddles towards the nobleman, cradling the melting soap with both hands.

When the servant is a mere foot away, the nobleman commands, "Sit on my lap."

Timothy gapes at him.

The nobleman gives a nonchalant shrug. "We're both men. Nothing inappropriate about it. I could reach you easier the closer we are."

"Um, all right, sire."

What could be the harm really? Timothy's not averse to non-violent contact, even with strangers. He's merely surprised a nobleman would initiate it. He has been told that all nobles are prudes, not desiring anyone but close friends to even touch them. Clearly, this nobleman is an exception to that, if the man is willing to let Timothy get close.

Timothy climbs the protruding stone the nobleman is lounging on. He places his folded legs on either side of the nobleman's thighs — toned thighs that are as large as Timothy's head. Timothy wishes he has those instead of the skinny ones he has now, thighs that look like they have more fat in them than muscle.

Timothy ensures that he has put none of his weight upon the nobleman, and that he has made no contact with the enlarged cock between the nobleman's legs. He keeps hands close to his chest; it's a precarious position but Timothy won't risk angering the nobleman for touching the man more than necessary.

The nobleman renders the servant's efforts void. With his big callused hands, the nobleman grapples the sides of Timothy's hips and jams the servant's body down so that the servant is fully seated on the man's lap. The nobleman's hardened cock slides between Timothy's arse cheeks, causing the man to release a deep-throated groan.

"Sire, are you all right?" Timothy asks, trying to wiggle away. He knows any kind of warm contact with the swelling will increase the pain.

The nobleman tightens his grip on Timothy's hips, his own hips thrust forward ever so slightly. "I'm fine," the noble rasps. He lets out a low chuckle. "You really are innocent."

Timothy blinks back at the nobleman's amused expression. "I've committed no crime, sire," he defends, wondering whether he looks like a criminal.

Timothy shifts, feeling a tad uncomfortable at the humongous throbbing flesh between his arse cheeks. The nobleman probably thought that the position is more comfortable for Timothy, seeing as he no longer needs to maintain his balance. The servant is grateful for the consideration because he knows the nobleman must be in more pain now.

"Let's wash you up," the noble man says, voice rough, as he grabs the remains of the soap from Timothy's palm with one hand.

He flattens it in the middle of Timothy's chest, broad palm spreading it around the servant's torso. The nobleman's other hand, meanwhile, kneads a soapless palm over Timothy's inner thigh. Is this how nobles bathe? It seems a bit inefficient.

The thick calluses on the nobleman's hands tickle Timothy's skin, causing him to stifle giggles. Then, the nobleman's thumb flicks over Timothy's nipple, and the servant flinches. The touch sends an uncomfortable trill of pain down Timothy's stomach.