A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (41 page)

He spit on the place where they joined and rubbed it with his thumb. He could feel Martin thrumming around and under him so intensely that he was afraid to move, afraid he’d come before he could give Martin what he wanted.

“
Please
, Henry,” Martin begged, “please fuck me, Henry!”

Henry shivered, terrified and yet so aroused, and tentatively tilted his hips back and out and it was incredible, his nerves running with ragged fire, and Martin cried out and whimpered his name. He pushed back in, pulled out again, and nothing had ever felt as good as Martin stretched hot and tight around his cock. Another thrust, harder, and Martin cried out sharply and shuddered with evident pain.

Henry stilled his hips. “Did I hurt you?”

“Don’t stop, Henry! Don’t you dare stop!” Once again, Martin reached back and took hold of Henry’s thigh, pulled him in tight.

Henry spit again, a string of saliva connecting his lip to Martin’s asshole, and rubbed it all around, feeling the muscles spasming under his fingertips. He gave a tentative thrust and Martin moaned, so wanton, making Henry’s cock jerk. Another thrust, and Martin moved back against him, forceful and urgent; he wouldn’t let Henry be gentle, didn’t want it. Henry began to move his hips, trying not to care if he caused Martin pain, and Martin writhed beneath him, making greedy little grunts, as if with each thrust Henry was giving back something which had been taken from him.

This closeness, the closeness of fucking, was beyond anything Henry had ever imagined. Martin’s physicality was overwhelming and intense, throbbing pulse and clutching muscles and velvety heat. Henry dug his fingers into Martin’s hips and pulled him back onto his cock over and over again. Martin shifted his weight onto his right arm alone, his left hand busy below his body, moving over his cock. “Oh,
god,
you’re going to make me come so hard, Henry!” he said.

Hearing this, Henry redoubled his efforts. Slap of flesh on flesh, Martin’s heavy breathing, his own grunting effort. Martin stilled beneath him and cried out, his voice muffled by the bedding, his thighs shuddering. “
Henry
!” he cried. “Oh, Henry!” Henry was so delighted that he’d done it, that he’d made Martin come, that he began to laugh, and he came still laughing and collapsed onto Martin’s back.

Henry rolled off Martin but kept a hand on his ribs, feeling him breathe while he caught his own breath. Martin rolled to his side and propped himself up on an elbow to look down at Henry’s face. “Thank you, Henry.” He seemed unable to suppress a joyful grin as he toyed with the hair on Henry’s chest. “You’ve made me so happy,” he said shyly.

Henry also rolled to his side and pulled Martin close. He wished he had words to describe his own overwhelming happiness. He did not trust himself to say anything without seeming a fool. He pushed Martin’s hair back from his face and kissed him, then ran his hand down his long back and cupped his ass. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m sure I’ll be a bit sore, Sir,” Martin admitted. “But it was worth it.” He gently broke the embrace and rolled away, staggering from the bed to the bathroom. Henry heard water splashing, the squeak of the taps being turned, and then Martin returned with a basin and cloth and sat next to Henry where he lay sprawled. “Let me clean you, Sir.”

“What about you?” Henry smiled and put his hand on Martin’s thigh. “Do I get to clean you, too?”

Martin frowned, wrinkling his nose. “Certainly not, Sir! I’ve already taken care of it.” He washed the fingers that had been inside his ass, as well as Henry’s cock and groin, and Henry watched him do it, enjoying the contact. He could already feel a twinge of interest at the root of his cock, entertained the idea of doing it again, and wondered if Martin could, what he would say if Henry asked.

Martin set the rag and basin aside and stretched out along Henry’s side, nestling close within the curve of his arm. “Is this all right, Sir?” His hand rested over Henry’s heart and moved with its beat, tiny jolts.

“Everything’s all right,” Henry told him. He rolled onto his side so that they faced one another. “I don’t even know how to tell you how amazing you are, Martin.”

Martin shook his head, embarrassed, and cast his eyes down. “It’s you who’s amazing, Sir,” Martin countered. “Doing what you did for me today. Putting my cock in your mouth. I never thought anyone would do that again, Sir. You’re a proper lover.” He leaned in and kissed Henry languorously, yet with promise. “Can we sleep a little, Sir? I’m sorry, but I’m quite exhausted.”

“Of course,” Henry said, folding him into his arms. He remembered sleeping with Martin while they were sick, the tangled flannel and weight of hot limbs, and compared this favorably, Martin nude and pliable and worn ragged by the force of Henry’s ardor.

As Martin fell asleep in his arms, Henry thought over his day, eventful and momentous. The floodgates, he thought, had indeed opened, and it was exactly as he’d always feared: he hadn’t been able to stop at what was allowed, hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t even tried. Yet, he found he couldn’t really care—he was too happy. If this made him a fairy, then he was a fairy. If it made him queer, he was queer. All that mattered was not getting caught.

He woke in the early hours to Martin straddling his hips, holding their stiff pricks together in a tight grip and stroking them as one. He did not question that Martin should do such a thing of his own initiative, but arched beneath him, reaching to take hold of his hips and lift against his weight. Martin bent to kiss him, his breath coming fast, and said, “It’s like I can’t get you close enough, Sir.”

It was the most wonderful thing anyone had ever said to him, but. “My name,” Henry said. “Say my name.”

“
Henry
,” Martin said, as if the name was especially satisfying on his lips. He let go of Henry’s cock and climbed off of him, kneeling at his Henry’s hip and turning so he could bend and put Henry’s cock in his mouth.

It felt so good and looked so marvelously indecent that Henry immediately wanted to do the same for Martin. He pushed Martin down to lie on his side and slid over so that his face aligned with Martin’s cock, his own prick insistent at Martin’s lips. He nuzzled Martin’s balls, breathing him in, and gasped as Martin took him into his mouth. He followed Martin’s lead, thinking
cocksucker, I’m a
cocksucker
with profound satisfaction, and was gratified by Martin’s low moan.

They sucked each other in a dozy, woozy state; Henry imagining that he felt what Martin felt, push and pull, give and take, the air thick and spangled. What seemed like blissful hours later, Henry came with Martin’s cock deep in his throat, gagging him, and it felt as right as anything had ever felt.

Martin followed close behind, and Henry was ready this time, felt how Martin’s cock swelled just a little fatter, his body so still, just before he came, and he didn’t choke. He swallowed Martin’s spunk greedily and kept Martin’s cock in his mouth until Martin at last pulled away.

Martin turned around and put his head on the pillow and they smiled at each other, shy and happy, and exchanged slow, searching kisses full of their mingled flavors, and they slept again, through till morning.

Henry woke to Martin shaking his shoulder. “Sir,” he said. “We’re late.” He looked harried and uncombed and he had Henry’s dirty linen from the day before heaped over his arm. “We’ll have to hurry, Sir.”

Henry wanted to pull Martin back down to the bed with him but Martin was too busy to notice that Henry wanted anything. He knelt to pull Henry’s boots from beneath the bed as Henry swung his feet down to the floor. “Oh, of course, Sir. Your slippers.” Martin slipped them onto his feet with a brisk pat.

“Wait,” Henry said, feeling forlorn. “Can’t we just—” He held out his arms in supplication, for an embrace.

“There’s no time, Sir.” Martin moved toward the bathroom. “I’ll start your shower.” He turned, though, in the doorway to the bath. “A kiss,” he said. “Just one kiss, Sir. We have time for that.” Henry took three long strides and pushed Martin up against the door frame, Martin’s arms came tight around his back, and their lips met with bruising pressure.

The taste of Martin’s saliva was sweet and clean, and Henry was instantly hard at the glancing touch of his tongue. But then Martin broke away. “Enough, Sir. Enough.” His hand against Henry’s chest, firm. “If we’re late, I’ll have to answer to Mr. Tim.”

Henry showered and shaved in record time. By the time he emerged, Martin looked his usual tidy self, hair neat and glasses polished. He helped Henry dress and smiled at him in the mirror but took no more time for intimacies. They were a few minutes late for Henry’s breakfast, but Father was even later, and Mother did not pay attention to such things, so neither boy would have trouble as a result after all.

They rode to school in the carriage with Father, who seemed to notice nothing different about them, and paid them no more mind than he ever did. Timothy, more observant, said, “You seem in a fine mood this morning, Sir,” to Henry and Henry blushed and nodded in acknowledgment.

“I have a household matter I must discuss with you later, Mr. Tim,” Martin said.

“Will it wait until dinnertime?” Timothy asked. “Come down a few minutes early and we can discuss it then.”

Henry did not know what Martin was talking about, but neither did he much care. The slaves discussed many things amongst themselves that were necessary but essentially uninteresting.

Henry walked into the school with Martin close behind him. Martin said, “Goodbye and good day, Sir,” as he turned down the left-hand corridor toward the slave classrooms and Henry did not acknowledge him, although he wanted to, because it wasn’t done and the others would notice.

Throughout the day, he found himself considering his classmates anew. They all had already known what was so new to him, and now he felt that their considerable boisterous excitement at the beginning of the term was, in truth, a sober reaction to the explosive power of sex. He found it hard to believe that Louis had been experiencing this all along, for
weeks
now, and Henry had never sensed the extent of it.

Was Henry, with his humid tangle of emotions, really so different from the others? Were they all feeling these feelings, or were they more sanguine? He fought the urge to constantly, insipidly smile, and so tried to keep his face arranged in what he guessed to be a normal expression, which felt progressively more false and peculiar the longer he kept it up.

At lunch, he dropped his fork on the floor so that Martin would have a reason to approach. Martin picked it up and said, “Let me get you another, Sir,” and his fingertips brushed Henry’s below the level of the table. Louis chattered to Henry about the electric carriage he’d seen and Henry made interested noises, but all he could think of was the length of Martin’s back from his raised ass down to his bony shoulders as he offered himself to Henry. In a low voice at his ear, Martin said, “Here’s your fork, Sir,” and Henry thanked him, breathless.

After school, they walked home with Louis and Peter, and because it was the proper way, the way they always did it, the slaves walked behind. Henry felt frustrated; he hadn’t seen enough of Martin today, hadn’t been able to feast his hungry eyes, and he needed to look upon him and remember what had been, imagine what was to come.

At the Blackwell house, Henry paused at the gate to bid Louis goodbye, but Louis would not leave.

“Do you still have my book? The paleontology one? I need it back. Robbie wants to look at it.”

Henry did. “I have it,” he admitted. Reluctantly, he asked, “Do you want to come in to get it?”

Louis and Peter followed them inside and up the stairs. Once in Henry’s bedroom, Louis shooed Peter away to Martin’s room and Martin went with him but with obvious reluctance, his eyes telegraphing his dismay over Louis’ shoulder.

“Shut the door,” Louis said, and Henry did not have the wherewithal to contradict him, so Martin shut the door between their rooms. Louis sat beside Henry on the bed and opened his school bag. “I wanted to show you something,” Louis said with a wicked grin. “Something James brought.”

It was a booklet, pocket-sized, that listed whorehouses in all different districts of the city. It named the proprietors and discussed the sorts of girls that might be found in each house. It purported to be an instructional guide for those who wished to avoid dens of ill repute, but the descriptions made it clear that the authors were very familiar with whores and their environs and made no effort whatsoever to eschew such associations.

The houses were in parts of town where the boys had already been told not to go in any case, though they knew there to be a red-light district near Union Square, near one of the penny arcades where they sometimes congregated with their school friends on weekends. “The addresses are right here! We could just walk a few more blocks,” Louis said. “Just another street over and we could meet some of these ’enterprising young ladies.’”

“Maybe,” Henry said with a shrug. He did not wish to commit himself to whore-hunting but he knew well enough that Louis was not of a mind to take no for an answer. “Do you really want to pay for whores, though, Louis?”