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He was trembling. He presented himself as any A-class courtesan would upon meeting their owner, trying to make a pleasing impression: his back ramrod straight (tension more than anything else), hands clasped behind his back, knees spread, head bowed. Though he'd been the best in the academy, he had no idea if he did please the crown princess, who, rumor had it, tortured her pleasure slaves more ruthlessly than the Chief Inquisitor did her subjects. A thought crossed his mind: perhaps she only likes bleeding bodies. In his final years at the academy, he had yearned above all to please his future owner, whoever they might be, whatever they might require. In moments of weakness, he had dreamed that she might treat him gently.
When his new owner spoke, her voice carried a laughing edge. "Are you afraid of me?"
Anger and indignation, gone in a second. He took another second to be sure. "Yes, master," he answered neutrally. His voice betrayed no response to the question itself.
His eyes on her feet, he saw her join him on the floor. Her hand tipped his chin up and her other hand gripped his shoulder firmly. She kissed him. After a split second, he responded, kissing her back tenderly, opening his mouth to grant her entrance.
She took it. He responded to her as only a highly-trained courtesan knew how, making himself the perfect complement of her, seeking nothing but his partner's pleasure. But, incomprehensibly, she was feeling out his responses as well, matching his tenderness with gentleness. Even recognizing the danger, he felt himself falling into the fantasy of being a fragile thing, that his lover would hold gently and treat with care. His movements lost the expertise of a courtesan's, acquiring a hesitance, a shyness.
And, for a moment, his vulnerability seemed to touch a matching cord in the crown princess. She lost the easy confidence that had seemed a part of her skin; he, so practiced in identifying the subtlest responses in his partners, saw plainly her hunger, dared he even say loneliness— she pulled back, not tearing herself away and yet a little too quickly to be natural.
Her eyes were cool. After a moment, she said, "You're very pretty." Her voice stroked him fondly, the way someone, even a ruthless tyrant, might stroke a beloved cat.
He took his first proper breath in weeks. His eyes smiled (it would be far too crass to beam). The rumors, even if they were right, were wrong. His heart felt lighter than it ever had at the academy. It wanted to be what his owner seemed not to need, but to so desperately want.