A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (42 page)

“Of course not!” Louis scoffed. “But I want to
see
them.” He let the booklet drop to Henry’s bedspread. “Admit it: you do, too.”

Henry picked up the booklet and flipped through it. A house was described as a den of iniquity. Another house was a palace. Yet a third had an unpleasant proprietress. The descriptions were amusing and many of the houses sounded like an exciting time whether or not one wanted to pay for sex. He was about to toss the booklet back to the bed when a phrase jumped out at him:
men dressed as women
. Furtively darting his eyes toward Louis, who was otherwise engaged with his pocketknife, Henry made note of the address and read the description:

No. 36 14th Street is an establishment that will disappoint or delight entirely upon the point of the visitor’s feelings about there being no female lodgers in the establishment, but instead men dressed as women, many of whom, it must be said, are very convincing.

Henry did not particularly want a man dressed as a woman but recognized that anyone who was interested in such a creature might be a kindred spirit.

“I need it back,” Louis said, taking the pamphlet from Henry’s hand. “James doesn’t know I took it.”

“Why is James at home? Shouldn’t he be at school?”

Louis shrugged. “He’s being disciplined. He’s always in trouble.” As if it had suddenly occurred to him, Louis added, “I bet if I ask this time he’ll take me downtown to show me prostitutes. He’s always thought I was too young before, but now that I have my slave…”

That seemed exactly the wrong thing for James to do when he was already in some unspecified sort of trouble, but Henry did not say so; rather, he hoped that Louis would head for home immediately to ask. When this did not happen, and Louis continued to pick at his ragged nails with his pocketknife, Henry gave an exaggerated yawn and stretched, saying, “I think I might take a nap.”

Louis looked at him in bafflement. “Are you a
baby
?”

Offended, Henry said, “No. Are you?” which was not the snappiest comeback he’d ever formulated, but he wanted Louis to go home and didn’t feel like he could just come out and say so. Then he tried again. “I have a lot of schoolwork. I have to write my essay.”

“For Mr. Cobb? What are you doing it on?”

“I don’t know,” Henry said, his irritation making him short with his friend. “But I should get started now.” He stood and went to his desk where he began unpacking his school books from his bag.

Louis stood, too. “Did I say something to make you mad, Henry?”

Henry felt bad. He didn’t want to hurt Louis’ feelings—he just wanted him to go home! He shook his head. “No, I just want to get started on this paper. Father is on me about my schoolwork.”

“All right, then. You’d tell me if you were mad?”

“I’d tell you,” Henry promised.

“Peter!” Louis called. “We’re going.” Peter emerged from Martin’s room, Martin close behind. Peter gave Henry a look, sidelong and shy, that made him realize that Martin must have told him something, which was mortifying. Henry felt his face grow hot.

He walked Louis downstairs, said his goodbyes, and shut the door behind him with relief. Martin was close behind him, no one else in the hall, so Henry turned and kissed him, glancing and sweet. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.”

“Sir, it’s not safe,” Martin murmured, but he smiled and seemed pleased Henry would take the risk.

“Young Sir.” Timothy entered the hall at their backs, startling them both. Had Timothy seen them? Henry blanched at the thought. “May I have Martin for a minute?” Without waiting for Henry’s reply, Timothy turned to Martin and said, “I have time for you now if it’s satisfactory to Mr. Blackwell.”

It wasn’t good timing in Henry’s opinion, but he could think of no way to deny Timothy’s request without seeming churlish and petty. “I suppose it’s fine.” To Martin, he said, “Don’t be long,” and hoped Martin would catch his meaning.

Upstairs in his room, Henry thought to change out of his school uniform, but was then unsure if he should put on his regular clothes, or if he should wait, naked, for Martin to join him. He decided to undress but then contemplated the picture of himself naked and waiting, and was so uncomfortable with the idea that he could go no further than removing his school jacket, which he left on an armchair for Martin to put away.

Flopping down on the bed, he wondered what was so important that Martin needed to have a special conference with Timothy and began to feel annoyed. He tried to distract himself with vastly more pleasant thoughts: Martin on elbows and knees, Martin’s mouth around his cock. Remembering, he grew hard and idly rubbed at his erection through his trousers, thinking that he could tell Martin to suck him a little when he came in, and then he could return the favor. He heard footsteps in the hall and brightened.

“Henry, Sir.” Martin’s tone was conspiratorial; he smiled and shut the door softly behind him, locking it. “I have something for you.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a green glass vial. “It will make it easier for you to fuck me, Sir. You
do
want to fuck me again, don’t you?” Martin gave him a sharp-toothed, coquettish grin and covered the distance between them in a few long strides, leaning down to give Henry a deep, breathtaking kiss.

He stood, set the vial on the nightstand, and began shedding his clothing. Henry sat up and hurriedly began undressing. Martin was efficient and lightning-fast; he was naked at Henry’s feet, untying his boots, while Henry was still working on his shirt. Henry’s heart raced frantically; he feared that somehow he’d be left behind.

“Let me help you, Sir,” Martin said, deftly moving Henry’s hands out of the way and finishing the job himself. They kissed while Martin unfastened Henry’s trousers, then Martin broke away so that he could put his face in the open vee of Henry’s drawers and kiss his hard prick with a wet, open mouth. He lifted his face from Henry’s lap, exulting, and said, “The smell of you, Sir! Your beautiful cock! It makes me so hard, Henry. Do you want to feel?” Without waiting for Henry to answer, he pushed him back to lie flat on the bed and straddled his hips. “Feel, Sir. Feel how hard.”

Henry felt. Martin moaned as Henry’s fist closed around his cock and he let his head drop forward, his hair falling to obscure his face. Henry felt the blood surging beneath Martin’s skin and swallowed. “Touch me, too,” he said hoarsely. “Touch mine, Martin.”

Martin tilted sideways, reaching, and plucked up the bottle from the nightstand. He pulled out the stopper and poured a pale, clear liquid into his palm, then applied this measure of fluid to Henry’s cock.

“This will be better than last time, Sir, you’ll see. You won’t believe how good I’ll feel.”

Slick, slippery grip, Martin working the full length, making Henry quiver. Martin let go of it abruptly and took up the bottle again, wetting his fingers and this time reaching back to apply the fluid to his own body, working it in with two fingers.

“I’ve thought about your cock all day, Sir. Thought about you fucking me till I scream.” He leaned forward, bracing himself with a hand against Henry’s shoulder, and reached back with the other to position Henry’s prick, sitting back on it with a groan, his eyes rolling back in his head. Muscles trembled in his thighs as he spread his knees wider, trying to get as much of Henry inside himself as possible.

It did feel even better, slick and smooth but still so tight and hot. He’d known it must have been uncomfortable for Martin the first time, but feeling how much easier it was now and seeing how Martin moved, he had an inkling of just how painful it must have been, despite Martin’s enthusiasm. He was filled with a vast, aching affection for him, his emotions of an unfamiliar complexity, quite unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Henry felt helpless, stunned; numb yet also aflame.

Martin moved over him, putting on a marvelous show, and it seemed that all he need do was stay hard while Martin took his pleasure. He took hold of Martin’s hips and lifted against him and Martin cried out, “Oh,
Henry
!” and tossed his hair back so that Henry could see the haze of lust that softened his features.

Martin came down hard against him again and again and Henry pushed up to meet him, the meaty sound of their bodies colliding deliciously obscene. Everything was happening so fast, hurtling toward a marvelous inevitability. Martin was keening, reedy little cries, his hand moving over his cock. “Please, Sir,” he begged, “come with me!” Throwing his head back again, slave mark so bright against his throat, color high in his cheeks. “
Please
, Henry.”

The sound of Martin pleading was more than Henry could stand. He came with a shout, Martin’s voice rising above his, Martin’s hot semen spattering his chest. He lay dumbstruck, arms outspread. Martin folded over him, and whispered in his ear, “I’m so glad I belong to you, Henry.”

Henry was so moved he couldn’t speak. He put his arms around Martin’s back and held him tightly. Martin returned the embrace and kissed his neck, but released him with a pat and got up from the bed. “Don’t move, Sir,” he said. “I’ll just get a rag to clean that up.”

Henry lay still, his breathing rough, and listened to water pour from the tap. There were sloshings and splashings as Martin washed himself, then he returned with his basin and rag and mopped the pearly fluid from Henry’s chest, washing his cock and setting the bowl aside. He stretched out at Henry’s side and came willingly into his arms.

“What was that?” Henry asked when his breathing had returned to normal. “In the bottle, I mean.”

“Oil, Sir. Olive oil, I think.”

“Where did you get it from?”

“Mr. Tim, Sir. I asked him for something suitable.”

Henry stiffened, mortified. He was not comfortable with any of the household knowing anything of his sex life, and he was even less comfortable with the realization that Timothy would necessarily be aware that he hadn’t had sex with Martin before now. “Why did you have to tell Timothy?”

“Well, Sir, Mr. Tim is responsible for household matters. I didn’t think it appropriate to ask Miss Pearl!”

“Couldn’t you just…go to the kitchen and take it, or something?”

Martin furrowed his brow, confused by Henry’s line of questioning. “But, Sir, Cook would be angry if I did that, and there’d be trouble. It’s how things are done. I’m your companion; I go to the most senior companion in the household when I need something.”

“So everyone knows my business,” Henry said grumpily. “That’s wonderful.”

Martin looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Sir. I did what I thought was right.” He repeated, “It
is
how things are done, Sir. It doesn’t matter if the slaves know, does it?”

“You told Peter, too, didn’t you?” Henry’s tone grew accusatory. “He gave me a look today, and I knew at once that you must have said something to him.”

“I only wanted to tell him because I was so happy, Sir. He knew I’d been worried that you’d changed your mind about having me for a companion.”

“What did you tell him, then?”

“I told him you fucked me until I went off like a rocket, Sir,” Martin said defiantly, his tone injured. “But I didn’t tell him anything else.”

“Nothing else?”

“Of course not, Sir. I wouldn’t tell our secrets.”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it,” Henry warned him. “If I say you’re a liar, you’ll be punished.” As the words were leaving his mouth, he immediately regretted making the threat.

Martin’s face crumpled, but he instantly tried to hide his hurt behind an impassive mask. “I see, Sir. I’ll just finish cleaning up.” He got up from the bed and returned to the bathroom with his basin and cloth and stayed in there for what seemed like a very long time to Henry, who grew increasingly anxious.

Henry waited on the bed, propped up on his elbows, watching the hall, nervous and expectant. His hands were cold and shaking, his cock shriveled and vulnerable. How could he have said something so horrible? It had just come out of his mouth, a vicious defense, fighting dirtier than he’d known he was capable of. He was appalled at himself for saying such a thing. The idea of Martin’s back whipped and scarred was too upsetting for Henry to contemplate; he imagined it was quite a bit worse for Martin to think on the matter.

He was stupid, a terrible master, unthinking and mean. He was mortified at his own callousness. Just as soon as he’d gotten what he wanted, he’d ruined it; surely Martin would never want anything to do with him ever again.

When Martin emerged from the bathroom, he’d covered his nakedness with Henry’s dressing gown and his eyes were red and puffy. He did not look at Henry. “I’ll just get dressed, Sir, and then I’ll help you.” He retreated into his own room without waiting for acknowledgement.

Henry needed a minute to muster the courage to speak. “Martin,” Henry called. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Martin, please come here.”

Martin came to the doorway in trousers and an unbuttoned shirt. “Sir?” His manner was distant, eyes downcast, fingers fidgeting with buttons, putting them through their holes.

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t think, Martin!” His face was hot with shame as he begged.

Martin frowned, still frosty, still looking down at his buttons. “You needn’t explain yourself to a slave, Sir.”

Henry desperately insisted, “But I want to apologize! I’m sorry! You didn’t do anything wrong.” He sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, his legs dangling. “It’s just, if anyone finds out that I…that I
kissed
a slave, a
boy
, or that I did those other things to you, it would be the end of me. Everyone would know me for a fairy!”

“You threatened me with punishment, Sir. Liars are
whipped
,” Martin pointed out, in case Henry had somehow forgotten, but he looked Henry in the eye as he spoke, which gave Henry hope. “But think, Sir,” he continued. “If I were to tell our secrets, it would ruin both of us. Where you go, I go. Simple self-preservation dictates that I not be outspoken, Sir, but there is my regard for you to factor into the equation, as well.”

Henry rather thought he might have put a dent in Martin’s regard, but he did not suggest it for fear of making it be true. “It was an awful thing to say, and it’s not true, not at all. You have to believe me, Martin, I would never let you be punished,” Henry reassured him. “Tell all the lies you want.”