A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (12 page)

Martin settled back down at Henry’s side, pressed closer to him than before. “There’s no need to be shy with me, Sir,” he said softly, his voice like a feather tickling Henry’s ear. He reached for the waistband of Henry’s pajama pants and unbuttoned it with deft fingers. Henry swallowed hard and made his hands into fists at his sides. “Relax, Sir,” Martin whispered. “There’s no reason to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Henry told him sharply, bristling.

“Of course you’re not, Sir. If you’ll just lift your hips a little, Sir…” Henry did as he asked and Martin slid his pajama bottoms down to the middle of his thighs. His exposed cock stood stiff and fat, bobbing with his pulse, a thin line of fluid connecting the tip to his belly. Seeing him thus, Martin sucked in his breath and said, “Oh, very nice, Sir!” in a low, appreciative tone.

Henry gave a little sob, his breath fast and panicked.

“I want to touch you now, Sir, if it’s all right,” Martin said, his tone hushed and soothing. “Don’t be startled, Sir.”

Despite the warning, Henry started with a jerk as he felt Martin’s fingertips first on his belly, low, just shy of the root of his cock, then trailing across the ticklish expanse of skin between cock and hipbone, and then down the slope of his thigh. Henry gasped as Martin petted him, lavishing attention on the sensitized skin of his inner thighs, languid gestures that had Henry whimpering and struggling against the restrictions of his pajama pants. The first brush of Martins’ fingertips against Henry’s balls made him shudder with tension and he let out a low moan that he immediately tried to bite back. He kept his eyes tightly closed as Martin wrapped his fingers around his cock and gently squeezed.

“Is it good, Sir?” His voice was so intimate, so gentle; his breath hot in Henry’s ear. He squeezed Henry’s cock again.

Afraid that Martin would stop if he didn’t say anything, Henry managed to choke out a, “Yes.”

He hadn’t known how different, and how much better, someone else’s hand would feel. Martin’s fingers were bony, dry and warm, and he held Henry’s prick in a confident grip. It throbbed in time with his frantic heartbeat and he was ashamed to realize he could smell himself, so wet and aroused, and knew Martin could smell him, too. This was more than he’d bargained for, too intimate and too much, but he couldn’t seem to make himself tell Martin to stop.

At some point, he realized dully, he’d taken hold of Martin’s thigh and was clinging to it for dear life. His cock flexed in Martin’s fist and Martin slid his thumb across the head, smearing the fluid that had collected there, and gave it another squeeze. Henry cried out, sounding shamefully frightened to his own ears. Martin wouldn’t have to do much to finish him; he was close, too close, when he’d been waiting for this for so long and wanted it to last forever.

Martin began to work his cock with steady pumps, thumb slipping over the head with each upstroke. Henry felt himself wind up tighter and tighter, blood surging in his ears, until at last he could take no more and burst into insensible fireworks, spilling over Martin’s fist with a stifled wail that sounded more like misery than pleasure.

As he came, Martin made reassuring noises. “That’s right, Sir. Oh, that’s good.” He gently let go of Henry’s softening cock and patted his thigh.

Henry fell back against his pillow, letting out his breath in a rush. Despite the awkwardness of the circumstance, he felt profoundly relaxed, almost forcibly so, and felt slightly in awe of Martin’s ability to draw such a sensation from his body. His own experiments, varied as they had been, had never produced such a profound result. He realized he was still grasping Martin’s thigh and hurriedly let go. He shut his eyes while his breathing returned to normal, afraid to look at Martin, and stared resolutely at the ceiling when he finally did open them.

After a few polite moments, Martin slipped from the bed and padded from the room, returning with a damp cloth which he used to mop up the semen spattered across Henry’s ticklish belly. He asked, “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep now, Sir?”

“Oh, er, yes,” Henry told him. He lay still and kept his eyes averted as Martin finished cleaning him off. He hurriedly pulled up his pajama pants as Martin straightened the bedding. Belatedly, he thought to add, “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Sir.” Martin stood at the bedside, holding the wet rag discreetly behind his back. “Is there anything else I might do for you, Sir?”

The mere suggestion was enough to make Henry blush. “No. No, thank you.”

“If you give me leave, then, Sir,” Martin said, backing toward the door.

“Uh, yes, of course.” It
was
a little disappointing; Henry had wondered if Martin might expect to stay in the bed with him and wasn’t sure how he felt about that idea. If Martin were to stay, Henry couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t put his hands all over him. He couldn’t promise himself he wouldn’t get carried away, and he was terrified that Martin might judge him for doing so.

Martin disappeared through the dark doorway and Henry heard him running the taps in the bathroom and then returning to his own bed. Despite what he’d claimed, Henry could
not
fall asleep. He was consumed by thoughts of Martin’s sleek white body and pretty cock in the hard light of the haberdasher’s fitting room. He wanted to do to Martin what Martin had done for him. He wanted to do still more than that. Letting Martin touch him had been a mistake. He needed to keep things under control, and touching—even one-sided touching—was simply too wonderful to be borne.

He tried to remind himself that all of his friends would have done at least as much with their new slaves, that he hadn’t done anything wrong—yet. But the others didn’t have
Martin
, didn’t have the temptations that Henry faced, and weren’t cursed with Henry’s shameful nature besides. His friends could all be touched by their slaves without wanting to touch in return.

Tormented by his dilemma, Henry lay staring up at the ceiling until near dawn, when at last consciousness gave way to a restless, flickering sleep.

Henry woke to Martin’s hand on his shoulder.

“Rise and shine, Sir.”

Henry was surprised to see Martin’s handsome face; he’d imagined that somehow it had all been a dream. Someone had come to awaken and help dress Henry each and every morning of his life, but it felt different now that it was his own slave. Certainly this was at least in part because he and Martin were the same age and before it had always been someone older, Timothy, often Billy, or even Pearl a time or two, back when he was young enough that it didn’t matter whether a man or a woman served him. It made a difference, too, that he’d never been attracted to any of the other slaves.

Henry pushed himself up to sitting, hiding a yawn behind his hand and blushing, thinking of Martin’s hand on his cock just hours before. “Good morning.” He had his usual morning erection and kept the blankets piled on his lap, willing it to go down.

Seeing his hesitation, Martin asked, “Would you like me to bring you your breakfast in bed, Sir?” His smile was mischievous, his tone almost teasing. Henry had not expected such playfulness and it was a little startling but not at all unwelcome.

As for breakfast, Father would never permit Henry such an indulgence. “No,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll get up.” He swung his feet to the floor and Martin knelt down and slid his slippers onto his feet, his fingertips warm and dry. Martin looked up at him with the same impish smile as before, and Henry was flustered and did not know where he should look. Martin got slowly to his feet and Henry was struck anew by how handsome he was, how like some gilded young god, and blushed to think that Martin was his own. He hesitated to stand, feeling vulnerable in just his thin summer pajamas while Martin was fully dressed.

“Your dressing gown, Sir.” Martin held the garment ready and Henry turned and slid his arms into the sleeves with unaccustomed awkwardness. Martin came around to face him, his hands smoothing the fabric over Henry’s shoulders, and he reached for the sash at his waist. Henry flinched at the brush of Martin’s fingers against his belly then blushed for having done so.

“I can tie it myself,” he snapped, demonstrating by jerking the knot tighter.

“As you like, Sir,” Martin agreed, ducking his head and quickly withdrawing his hands, clearly embarrassed by the rebuke. The smile had disappeared from his face.

Henry had not intended to hurt his feelings. Quickly, he said, “Thank you, though, really.”

Martin turned on the taps for his shower and gave serious attention to getting the water temperature adjusted to Henry’s liking. It did take longer than usual, which Henry thought was to be expected. “It will go more smoothly tomorrow, Sir,” Martin said, sounding apologetic. “It’s just this first day, Sir, when everything is new, that I’ll be slow.”

“You’re not slow,” Henry said. “You’re doing fine.” He was rewarded by the return of the radiant, bewitching smile.

Martin helped him to remove the dressing gown they’d put on not five minutes before and Henry stood in his pajama pants on the mat and had a moment of freezing panic. Normally, he’d pull off his garments, hand them off to whoever was waiting, and step into the shower, but he wasn’t ready to be seen naked by Martin. He couldn’t count on his body to behave. With heat rising in his cheeks, he said, “I can do the rest myself, if you don’t mind.”

Martin looked concerned. “Are you sure, Sir? I’m most happy to help.”

“I’ll be fine,” Henry insisted.

“Shall I bring you your towel, Sir? I can listen for the water to go off and bring it to you then.”

The picture of Martin with his ear to the door, listening for the water, was slightly ridiculous but Henry did not really have any concept of how else he might end up with a towel. Every towel he’d ever used in his life had been handed to him by a waiting slave. “All right,” Henry said reluctantly. He waited until Martin had left the room and shut the door behind him before undressing and stepping under the water. When he had bathed and shut off the faucet, Martin was immediately in the door, holding the towel open before him; he intended, Henry realized, to
envelop
him in the towel rather than simply handing it to him. Mortified, Henry stood dripping on the mat while Martin’s arms surrounded him.

“There you are, Sir,” Martin said brightly, making as if to rub Henry dry.

“No!” Henry said, snatching at the towel and jerking away. “I’ll do it myself!” Martin drew back, again looking hurt and confused. “I’m used to doing it myself,” Henry insisted, though he’d been dried by Timothy or Billy countless times. However, he’d never worried about getting an erection from Timothy’s attentions—and, really, it wouldn’t have been a problem if he had. With the others, if he’d ever become hard, it would have simply been a matter of his body reacting to a stimulus. With Martin, it would
mean
something. It would be
telling
. It seemed a terribly vulnerable state to be in in front of a stranger, even a stranger who was his own property.

Once Henry was wrapped up again in his dressing gown, Martin asked, “Would you like me to shave you now, Sir? Or do you prefer to shave yourself?”

Henry knew how to handle a razor, but had typically allowed Timothy to do the job (never Billy, who could scarcely shave himself). Timothy was very practiced and made shorter work of it, and Henry was lazy. However, in his current mood, Henry couldn’t stand the thought of staying still and patient with Martin necessarily so close. “I’ll do it myself,” he said.

Martin laid out Henry’s shaving things neatly, then stood back to give Henry space, though he stayed in the room, watching intently as Henry dragged the razor over the taut skin of his throat, careful not to nick his Adam’s apple. It was difficult to do the job well under scrutiny.

“Forgive me staring, Sir,” Martin said, apparently sensing something of Henry’s discomfort. “It’s only that I’ll want to understand how your hair grows should you decide to allow me to shave you.”

“How it grows?” Henry paused, chin up, razor in midair. “What do you mean?”

“Which direction the hair grows, Sir. It’s different for everyone.”

“Really?”

“Well, subtle differences, Sir.” Martin smiled again. “Though mostly the hair grows out.”

It took Henry a moment to realize that Martin had made a joke, and a bad one at that, and he gave a surprised guffaw that echoed off the tile. Martin smiled at him in the mirror, pleased to have amused him.

Clean and somewhat haphazardly shaven, Henry was ready to be dressed. He snatched his clean drawers from Martin’s hand and put them on hurriedly before giving up his dressing gown. Dressing for daytime had more variables than dressing for dinner. Martin was eager to do everything properly and to Henry’s liking, but Henry was unused to having to answer so many questions about things that Timothy had done automatically and grew short with him. The endless line of inquiry made the entire process of dressing seem like a stage play, stiff and formal. Henry was deeply and awkwardly conscious of every step: socks and sock-suspenders, trousers, undershirt, shirt pulled over his head and buttoned, collar and cuffs attached, necktie tied (he insisted on tying it himself), braces buttoned, waistcoat snugged, and, finally, Martin held his jacket out for him to slip into. Relieved it was over, Henry stood looking in the mirror at Martin as he knelt down to tie Henry’s boots.