A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (28 page)

Flustered, Martin said, “That isn’t necessary, Sir. I already have Peter and Tom and Stuart and I feel quite fortunate.”

Henry felt annoyed. He wanted to do something nice for Martin, but Martin wouldn’t accept. “Well, all right then, Martin. Is there any slave you
don’t
like that you have to spend time with because of me?” Henry could tell by the look on Martin’s face that there was such a person. “Come on, tell me the truth.”

“Well, Sir…” Martin clearly wanted to keep his opinions to himself. “I—I’m not as fond of Mr. van Houten’s Davey as I am of the others, Sir. But, really, it’s not terrible for me to be with him.”

“Why don’t you like Davey?” Davey struck Henry as being sort of a loudmouth, much like Phillip, his owner.

“He can be a bit mean-spirited, Sir. He picks on little Sam, and I think Sam has quite enough trouble without being picked on by other slaves. But Davey doesn’t pick on
me
, Sir.”

Henry’s lip curled just thinking about Adam Pettibone. “Sam, huh? Are you friends with him?”

Martin’s eyes searched Henry’s face worriedly. He was, Henry realized, trying to determine what Henry wanted him to say. Annoyed, Henry said, “Just tell the truth!”

Martin bowed his head. “Yes, Sir. We’re friends. Sam is a good boy. He’s in a very unfortunate situation. Most of us are kind to him, though, Sir, even if our masters don’t like Adam. It’s not Sam’s fault that Adam chose him.” He gave Henry a look, wide-eyed and beseeching, and Henry realized that Martin feared he might be forbidden from associating with Adam’s poor wretch of a slave.

“I’m glad you’re kind to him, then,” Henry reassured him. “With Adam for a master, he needs good friends.”

Martin gave Henry his beautiful smile, warm and generous and so charming, and Henry couldn’t help but smile back, even as the heat rose in his cheeks.

“Thank you, Sir. You’re a good person, Sir, a kind person.”

Really, Henry thought, he was only a not-horrible person. Martin was too generous.

There had been a lot of murmured conversation all week about the slaves, their various merits, and the benefits of swapping them around, and Henry had tried to stay out of it all. Louis had been right: everyone was convinced that Martin had some sort of special bedroom talents to account for his high price and all were hinting that they’d be most grateful for a chance at him. Henry put off his friends as best he could, but he could tell that some of them felt he was being unreasonable, even stuck-up. As the weekend drew near, there seemed to be some sort of plans being formulated for a party, but Henry stayed clear of those conversations as best he could and no one came right out and asked him to participate, for which he was grateful.

On Friday afternoon, walking to the omnibus, Louis was vague about his Saturday plans. Henry had been hoping they might go cycling in the park or to an arcade, that Louis and Peter might serve as a friendly buffer between Martin and himself, but Louis wouldn’t commit.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Henry suggested. “See how you feel about it then.”

Louis was shifty-eyed and evasive when he reluctantly agreed that Henry might do this.

Saturday afternoon, Henry telephoned and was informed that Louis was out. Friendly Patrick, who had answered the phone, expressed surprise that Henry wasn’t with Louis.

“I thought he was with you and all your schoolmates, Sir,” Patrick said, and then, realizing that he had potentially stepped in a hornet’s nest, quickly added, “but I must have been mistaken, Sir. I’m not privy to Mr. Briggs’ plans, of course, Sir.”

With a sinking sensation in his chest, Henry realized that there must be a swapping party, that Louis was in attendance, and that he had been deliberately excluded. He hated feeling like an outsider, but it was his own fault.

When Henry hung up the telephone, Martin was waiting with an interested expression to hear what their plans would be.

“Louis is out,” Henry said shortly. “We’re on our own today.”

“What would you like to do, then, Sir?” Martin looked at him, head cocked, eager and attentive, hands behind his back.

“I don’t know.” Disheartened, Henry found he barely had the energy to get to his feet. “Let’s just go upstairs, I guess.”

Inside his bedroom, Henry turned to Martin and informed him that, “You can do whatever you like, I suppose. I should do homework anyway.”

“Anything I can help you with, Sir?” Martin seemed so eager to be near him, and Henry just wanted to be left alone.

“I should do it myself,” Henry insisted. In truth, he could use Martin’s help, especially in Latin, but he didn’t want Martin to know what an imbecile he had for a master. “You can play your violin, if you want.”

“Very well, Sir.” Obedient, Martin went to his room and soon began to play.

Henry didn’t work on his Latin. He stared into space and thought about what Louis might be doing. Henry knew how a swap party worked, of course, thanks to James. Boys would find a place where they wouldn’t be disturbed by younger brothers, girls, or nosy adults, and brought whatever contraband they had, alcohol or cigarettes. The slaves would be made to strip naked and the young masters could command whichever were available to service them. Everything took place in full view of all the other attendees to make sure everyone followed the rules. Boys could actually bugger the slaves if they didn’t mind doing it in front of a room full of their friends; it was more usual to be sucked off. The rules were the same as they were for private behavior: no more contact than necessary to achieve orgasm, no kissing, and certainly no touching the slaves’ cocks.

Besides the novelty of a strange slave’s ass or mouth, there was a voyeuristic component: slaves could be compelled to touch themselves, to kiss one another, and to suck and fuck one another for the masters to watch. Enjoying watching other boys fuck seemed frankly quite queer to Henry, every bit as queer as touching another boy, but the fact was that watching was allowed and touching was not and there was nothing Henry could do about it.

It wasn’t as if Henry didn’t like the idea of watching a bunch of attractive young men touch each other—he loved the idea!—but he didn’t like the brutish attitudes, the roughness that James seemed to revel in when he told his swapping stories. It wasn’t done to be too protective of your own slave. Unless someone was actively and willfully harming your slave, you’d have to let your friends treat him however they pleased. Even if Henry wanted to participate, he’d fear for Martin’s safety; the others were all far too interested in him and his rumored special talents, and they’d all be lining up for a turn at him. For Martin’s sake, he wouldn’t have participated if he’d been asked, of course, yet he couldn’t help wishing he’d been asked all the same.

Later, as Henry lay awake staring at the ceiling, grimly anticipating Martin rising to visit the bathroom and then posing uncomfortable questions, he wondered how Peter had fared at the party. He hoped Louis had been looking out for his slave a little bit, not treating him in a cavalier fashion or letting him be hurt. He felt very protective of Martin, not only because Martin was his possession, but because Martin deserved to be treated with tenderness for his own sake. How could his friends not feel the same about their own slaves?

He also worried that he and Louis would grow apart, their interests too divergent. He feared that Louis would follow James’ example, engaging in swap parties to the exclusion of all other forms of recreation, and would no longer have time for Henry and the less-titillating pursuits that they had in common.

Henry slept and dreamed that Louis had a new best friend with whom he traded slaves. This faceless adversary had somehow taken Martin from Henry and was passing him around. Henry’s friends were all laughing, their faces distorted and jeering, and somehow Martin was always out of reach. He woke with his heart pounding, pushing himself up to sitting, eager to climb up out of the dream.

Awake, he was able to quickly establish that Martin was there with him and safe, and he felt much better after he’d eaten a nice breakfast. Then, to his great relief, after the Briggses had returned from church, Louis called and invited Henry to go cycling, and Henry readily agreed.

Henry was curious to see Peter, to see how he was doing in the aftermath of the swap. Peter was Louis’ property, of course, and it was unlikely that Henry would have dared to say anything even if Peter
had
seemed distressed, but as they rode, he was relieved to note Peter’s cheerful demeanor. As Henry listened to Peter laughing with Martin, he began to believe it possible that the swap party had not been an arduous experience for him after all.

They had a good ride, and then ate a late lunch at the Briggs house as they discussed school and gossiped about their friends. The topic of what Louis had been doing with his Saturday afternoon was never raised. If Peter said anything to Martin about the swap party, it wasn’t repeated to Henry.

On Tuesday after the final bell, Henry went to the cloakroom and found Martin waiting for him in a slightly less-cheerful state than usual, tension in the muscles around his mouth. He gave Henry a false-seeming smile and flicked a baleful glance at someone to Henry’s back. Henry turned around and saw David Maxwell’s slave glaring back at Martin.

“What’s going on between you and him?” Henry asked, with a jerk of his chin in the other slave’s direction. “Is there anything I need to do about it?”

“No, Sir.” Martin shook his head and seemed embarrassed. “Alex and I…” He sighed and pressed his lips tightly together. “We don’t get along, Sir, that’s all there is to it.”

Alex—that was the slave’s name. He had dark hair, amber eyes, sharp features, and evoked some sly, ferrety creature despite being quite handsome. Henry slipped his books into his bag. “Why don’t you get along?”

“We just don’t, Sir. We just rub each other the wrong way.”

“Has he said anything he shouldn’t? Done anything to hurt you?” Henry frowned at Alex, who averted his eyes and busied himself with David’s book bag.

“No, Sir, really. It’s nothing for you to be concerned with.” Martin handed Henry his hat. “I think we’re ready.”

Louis and Peter were waiting outside and they all walked together to the omnibus stop. Henry turned around to look at Peter. “I want to ask you something, Peter.”

“Oh! Certainly, Sir!” Peter seemed a little flustered, perhaps pleased.

“Are there any of the other slaves you don’t get along with?”

“Sir?” Peter looked at Henry in confusion, and darted a questioning glance at Martin.

“If this is about before, Sir—” Martin began nervously.

“I’m just wondering if he has trouble with the same one,” Henry explained. They arrived at the stop and stood waiting with a crowd of nurses and their young charges.

“We all try to get along, Sir,” Peter said. “Though some are harder to get along with than others.”

“Like who?” Louis asked, now interested, as well. “Who’s the biggest pill, Peter?”

Peter grimaced, not liking these questions at all. “I really couldn’t say, Sir?”

“You
won’t
, you mean,” Louis said, slightly disgusted with Peter’s diplomacy. “Do I have to
order
you to give me the answer to a simple question?”

“No, Sir, of course not,” Peter hurried to assure him, blushing to the tips of his ears. “I-I’d rather not spend time with Mr. Gaines’ Ollie if I had a choice.”

Maurice Gaines was not even friends with Louis and Henry and their group; he was one of Adam Pettibone’s friends.

“Why are you hanging out with Ollie, anyway? Maurice isn’t part of our crowd.”

“But we all have to get along, Sir,” Peter said, almost desperately. “That’s how we all grew up, and that’s how we’re meant to go on, Sir. Being cooperative, all in a group. We get lectures about it.”

Now that he thought about it, Henry had noticed out in the yard that the slaves didn’t split up along the same social lines as their masters did.

“What do you think of Alex?” Henry put in.

“I don’t mind him, Sir,” Peter admitted. “Some of the others don’t like him, I know, but he’s all right with me.”

Henry saw that Martin frowned and cut his eyes at Peter, annoyed.