Father's Gift

"I want no part in this," Charles protested, his voice unsteady. He had looked up to his father all his life, and even now, the weight of defying him felt unbearable. He felt like a little boy again.

Sir Robert scoffed. "I didn’t raise a queer, did I? Or have your balls not dropped yet? Are you still a little boy, Charles?"

Charles clenched his jaw, a flicker of anger cutting through his unease. "No, I am not."

"Then prove it." His father’s tone was sharp, a blade of command. "Here, you are not a man until you've bedded a woman. You want my men’s respect? My respect? Then prove yourself tonight. Take what you desire, my son. That is how adventurers like us have always tamed the darkest Africa."

"You should listen to your father," Sparrow cut in, slinking into the longhouse like a shadow, his grin all teeth and malice. His ever-present revolver rested casually on his hip.

Charles said nothing. His childhood dreams about Africa had curdled into something monstrous. And in a nightmare, one had to play by the rules.

Sir Robert took his son's silence as acceptance. He clapped his hands, and a young woman stepped into the room. She was striking, her skin a warm, burnished brown, her figure supple and curvaceous. Her hair was coiled in intricate braids, adorned with small beads that clinked softly as she moved. Her eyes were dark, framed by long lashes. She wore nothing but layers of colorful necklaces and bracelets, her body offered like a prize.

“This,” Sir Robert announced, gesturing at the nude native woman as though presenting a trophy, “is [Tisini]. A fine specimen, wouldn’t you agree?”

Charles stiffened. “Who is she?”

His father leaned back in his chair, swirling his brandy with a smirk. “A gift, my boy. Tisini here has been a loyal concubine to me for several years. She’s given me two fine sons: strong, healthy boys with my red hair.” His voice carried a tone of pride, as if speaking of prized livestock.

Charles’s stomach twisted. The oppressive wet heat of the longhouse, the scent of tobacco and sweat, the flickering lantern casting grotesque shadows, it all pressed down on him like a smothering weight. Tisini stood before him, unmoving, her expression unreadable. There was no fear in her dark eyes, no pleading, no resistance, only a hollow, practiced indifference.

He wanted to look away, but Sir Robert was watching him. So was Sparrow, his grin carved deep into his face like a mocking mask.

“She’s been trained well,” Sir Robert continued, sipping his brandy, casually fondling her breast. “Knows her place. Knows how to please a man. And, if you take her to bed, she’ll give you strong sons, just as she did me.” He smirked. “You should consider yourself lucky, Charles. Some men would pay handsomely for such an exotic treat.”