A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (38 page)

He ducked into the dark bathroom and locked the door behind him before flicking on the light. His face in the mirror was transformed by his heightened state of arousal into something more adult, more knowing. If he could be sure that Martin wanted him, his whole life would be different from this point forward.

He let himself think back to their first night, Martin’s hand on his cock, and he touched himself and pretended it was Martin’s hand instead. He imagined he could still feel the warmth of Martin’s skin, the beat of the pulse in his throat, against his fingertips. He leaned back against the wall, braced his bare feet against the cool tile, and bit his lip against a moan as he came in hard, wrenching jerks.

He was red-faced and breathless in the aftermath, kneeling on the tile and wiping up his mess with a length of toilet roll which he then flushed in support of the pretext that he’d been using the room for its intended purpose. The door latch was very loud in the night. He paused outside the bathroom door, but there was no sound from Martin’s quarter.

Henry got into bed and stared at the ceiling. He thought long and hard about everything he knew about himself, and about the attitudes of the people around him, and he thought about what it might be like to do as he pleased. He thought of Martin’s pleas to be of use to him, any sort of use. He thought about all the acts that were forbidden, and he knew, as he had always known, that Martin would necessarily submit to them, but now, perhaps, he might submit willingly, with relish. If Martin wanted Henry in return, there was literally no limit to what they might do together, a terrifying and exhilarating prospect that kept Henry’s mind whirring until near dawn.

Despite his lack of sleep, Henry felt rested and alert in the morning. Martin was, as ever, solicitous and servile, but he seemed happier. When Henry rose from bed, Martin held his gaze a moment longer, smoothed his dressing gown over his shoulders with a more proprietary air. When he asked, “Would you like me to start your shower, Sir?” it was like every morning that had preceded it in its particulars, yet it felt different.

If he was right, if Martin wanted him, if Martin would
choose
him, then maybe he should risk it. Maybe he should have everything he wanted after all.

Henry stepped out of the shower into the towel that Martin held up like a banner and began to dry himself while Martin watched and waited. Henry flung his dripping hair out of his eyes with a sharp movement of his chin and, in contrast with his usual self-sufficient habit, said, “Here, then, Martin. My hair needs drying.” He stood on the bathmat with the wet towel slung around his hips feeling both awkwardly exposed and oddly hopeful.

“Let me, Sir.” Martin smiled with obvious pleasure as he moved around Henry, rubbing his hair with a dry towel. “You’re so tall, Sir…perhaps if you sit?” Henry obligingly perched on the edge of the tub and Martin stood before him, close enough that Henry felt the warmth of him, smelled the sharper scent of the laundry soap used for the slaves’ clothing. “Lean forward a little, Sir.” Henry slumped toward Martin, who applied the towel to the back of his head in vigorous circles. Henry realized with bracing certainty that his face was mere inches away from Martin’s cock, a few inches and a few layers of fabric and nothing else between them, and his own cock hardened with an alacrity that left him lightheaded. He could, he realized, direct Martin to help him with it, and if Martin grew hard in the doing, then Henry could take him in hand, if he dared. He lifted his hand and with a few false starts brought his palm to rest against Martin’s hip.

“Sir?” Martin asked, startled.

At the same moment, there was a knock at the bedroom door, and Billy called through the oak, “Sir? May I come in?” He did not wait for an answer, but opened the door and entered.

Henry snatched his hand away guiltily and Martin took a step back, holding the wet towel bunched between his hands. They both stared out the open bathroom door, breaths held.

Billy appeared in the short hall. “Sir,” he said. “Mr. Blackwell is leaving fifteen minutes early this morning. Mr. Tim asks if you boys will be ready, or if Mr. Blackwell should go ahead without you?”

Henry met Martin’s eyes; he hadn’t a clue what they should do. He was preoccupied with his throbbing prick. He was still absorbing the fact that he’d dared to reach out and put his hand on Martin’s body. He opened and closed his mouth, saying nothing.

Martin decided for him, “We can be ready, thank you, Billy.”

“Very good,” Billy said. He nodded at Henry and said, “Sir,” and left the room.

“We must hurry, Sir,” Martin said, moving to set out Henry’s shaving things.

“We could be late,” Henry suggested, thrilled by his own boldness. “We could let Father go ahead.” He reached for Martin’s arm, let his fingers brush the sleeve of his jacket and fall away. He didn’t know what he’d do if Martin agreed, if Martin would let them be late.

Martin wasn’t going to agree. He didn’t even seem to have noticed Henry’s hand on his sleeve. He worked Henry’s shaving brush into the soap, making a lather. “Please get up, Sir.” He held out the foamy brush. “I’ll just get your clothes ready.”

Henry stood reluctantly. His cock had mostly deflated anyway. He shaved quickly, frowning at his face in the mirror. Maybe he’d been wrong about Martin. Maybe it hadn’t meant Martin wanted him at all.

Martin was all business while he dressed Henry and hurried him out the door and down the stairs to the breakfast room. Father was his usual self, just fifteen minutes earlier than any other day. He looked up as they entered the room. “Hmm. Good,” he said, and Henry felt stupidly proud of himself, so rare was praise from his father.

In the carriage, Father paid them no more attention than usual, nor was there any reason given for the earlier start; Father never explained himself and Henry hadn’t expected this morning to be any different. Henry, though—today, Henry was different. Emboldened by the evidence of Martin’s hard cock the night before, he was newly brave, and he took a deep breath and let his legs fall open until his left knee met Martin’s right.

Martin shifted in his seat and inclined his head toward Henry. “Am I crowding you, Sir?” he asked in a low, worried whisper.

“No,” Henry replied. “Stay where you are.”

“Oh!” Martin said, surprised. Then, belatedly, added, “Sir!”

They rode a few blocks without speaking further, their knees touching, a bright, burning point of contact. Henry could scarcely breathe. Martin made himself look busy with something inside his schoolbag and slid fractionally closer along the tufted leather cushion. Henry felt the heat of Martin’s lean thigh through their trousers as an intense tingling that spread slowly throughout his hip and groin. Henry’s throat felt dry; he coughed and swallowed.

Martin held up a piece of paper that Henry could plainly see was blank. “Your Latin homework, Sir,” he said. “Don’t forget this please.” When Henry looked at him in confusion, Martin gave the paper a little emphatic shake. Timothy glanced up from the notebook in his lap and gave them a bland smile.

“Th-thank you.” Henry said slowly. He took the paper from Martin’s hand and felt the feather-light pressure of Martin’s fingertips linger against his own, exquisitely sensitive. He blushed and Martin smiled. Neither Timothy nor Father seemed to notice anything unusual. Heart pounding, Henry dug in his own bag and pulled out the first thing that came to hand. “I-I think this is your pencil,” he said haltingly.

Martin smiled at him again, mischievous and beguiling. “Thank you, Sir.” He took the pencil deftly, yet nearly intertwined their fingers in the doing, and the gesture was breathtakingly reminiscent of Martin’s hand wrapped around his cock, equally deft. “I know I’ll be wanting that later, Sir.” The words had an edge of wicked promise.

Martin delved back into his bag. “Would you like a piece of gum, Sir?” Head cocked, grinning.

“Yes, thank you,” Henry said, holding out his hand with a cautious glance at the adults, who noticed nothing. Martin’s fingers grazed the palm of his hand, sending sharp bolts of sensation to the root of his cock. He gasped aloud and darted another fearful glance at Timothy, but neither he nor Father had registered the outburst. Henry slowly closed his hand around the stick of tutti-frutti and lifted his eyes to meet Martin’s, which were dark, his pupils wide. Martin licked his lip and Henry’s eyes followed the movement of his tongue with breathless longing. He wanted to feel Martin’s mouth against his own, wanted at last to share a kiss. Would Martin want that, too? Would Martin let him do it?

As they rounded the corner to school, Timothy asked, “Do you boys need anything, Young Sir? Martin?”

“No, thank you.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Tim.”

Father gave them a moment of his attention. “Do you need pocket money?”

“If you’re offering, sir,” Henry said brightly. Martin climbed out of the carriage while Henry stood on the step, half-in, half-out, slightly impatient as Father pulled bills out of his money clip. He was glad of the cold, of his coat hiding his erection. “Thank you, sir,” Henry called out as the carriage rolled away.

Martin stood waiting on the street before the school, his expression hopeful yet guarded. As Henry approached, he pushed his glasses up his nose and looked around. There were no boys near them, though certainly that couldn’t last. “Sir…” he began.

“Did you think I was starting something?” Henry asked in a low, pressured voice. “In the carriage, I mean. And before, in the bath.”

“Sir, I—”

“Well, I was,” Henry admitted. “I wanted to begin, with you…” It was frustrating; he didn’t know how to put it. “Do you want that, too?” It wasn’t Martin’s choice to make, he knew, but he
wanted
it to be.

Martin beamed and put his hand on Henry’s sleeve. “Oh, Sir, I—”

Henry spied Louis fast approaching over Martin’s shoulder. “Tell me later. Here’s Louis.”

They stood around in the street chatting with the other boys and their slaves, Louis and Peter, Albert and Stuart, and all the rest, until the first bell, the backs of their hands brushing and their shoulders bumping more than was necessary but not so much that anyone might remark.

Inside, as they stood poised to go their separate ways, Martin down the left corridor to the slave classrooms and Henry to the right, Martin said, “All day long, I will be thinking on what you said, Sir,” and though his voice came out steady and unremarkable, his words made Henry shiver, as did the heated look Martin gave him as he turned to walk away, saying his usual, “Goodbye and good day, Sir.”

In the classroom, Henry was pleased to note that Adam had two black eyes and a plaster over his nose, and even though he glared murder at Henry all day long, neither Adam nor any of his cronies dared challenge him.

Henry learned not a thing, did not absorb one iota of knowledge, in the long course of the day. He wondered if Martin was truly thinking about his overture, clumsy as it had been, as he’d been sincere and wanted to be afforded equally sincere consideration. He didn’t want Martin to
submit
to him; he wanted Martin to
want
him.

At lunch he tasted nothing. He dropped his fork twice, tangling his fingers with Martin’s both times. He yearned to turn and look at him, but he didn’t trust himself to manage it calmly. Better to wait until the end of the day when he could look at him as much as he liked.

After the meal, standing in the yard, he said to the group, “Thanks for nothing, by the way. For just watching while that cretin molested my slave,” and received a bunch of embarrassed, muttered excuses in reply. No one came out and said so, of course, but he suspected that it
was
because he didn’t share Martin around, and that everyone had wanted to see what they were missing.

On and off throughout the day, Henry thought of Adam forcing Martin to his knees and seethed with quiet rage. Not only had it been disrespectful to Henry, but it was terrible that Martin had had that pig’s cock in his beautiful mouth. It was also terrible that Henry had experienced nothing of the sort with Martin, that Adam knew Martin in this way when Henry did not. But if Martin wanted Henry, then maybe he could allow himself some intimacy with him—not everything, of course, but
something
. Something to equal what Adam had taken from him.

Miraculously, there was no penalty exacted for his inattention to the business of the classroom. He was passed over for questions by all of the teachers, even Dr. Foster, who returned his paper with a tight smile, saying, “Better than usual, Mr. Blackwell.”

Released into the afternoon, all Henry wanted was to see Martin, see the expression on his handsome face, see his answer written there, but his friends were in the way. Louis, Albert, Charles, Robert, all of them, all in the way. Martin was giving him meaningful looks over Robert’s shoulder but he had to keep his own face impassive while he listened to Robert tell a story about him and Charles looking at peep shows downtown at a new arcade.

“…there are dirty ones in the rear, but the manager chased us out since we were in our school uniforms. Still, if we go on the weekend in our regular clothes, and if you come with us, because you look older, maybe then…”