A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (59 page)

Martin had to hurry downstairs to get his dinner and Henry lazed in bed feeling proud of himself, remembering the look on Martin’s face as he came, how it had all seemed too much for him, as if he might even be a little scared. Then, afterward, he had given Henry the most loving kisses, full and passionate, and Henry had not wanted to let him go. When Martin returned at last to dress him, Henry was as glad to see him as if they’d been separated for days and kissed him until he trembled.

“Henry! Sir, what are you—”

“I belong to you. Say it.”

“Henry—”

“Say it.”

Martin hesitated just a moment more. “You belong to me, Sir. You’re mine. My very own.”

Henry went down to dinner with a warmth in his chest, a gladness. That invisible thread that connected him to Martin went taut between them, sensitive to the very currents of the air. Henry felt so joyous, so light, and so certain that all his emotions were on the surface to be seen by anyone, yet his parents didn’t seem to notice anything different about him. Of course, they had never noticed when he was sad, so why would they notice when he was happy?

Henry’s happiness had been building steadily over these past few weeks, and he’d been a little afraid to acknowledge it for fear of causing it to unravel, but as of today it seemed undeniable: his most secret wishes were all coming true. Martin really felt what he said, Henry was sure of it, and wasn’t just saying the words to make Henry happy: he
wanted
Henry, just as Henry wanted him. Henry had dreamed of this, of a boy wanting to possess him, and he’d dreamed of giving in, of letting himself be steered by the dictates of a lover’s heart and doing as he was bid. So long as Martin wanted it, Henry would lavish him with affection.

Thinking back over the day, Henry imagined what it might have been like if instead of Miss Flannery he’d been able to take Martin into the narrow corridor between the palm reader and the lemonade stand. How wonderful it would have been to push Martin up against the wall and kiss him, then drop to his knees and lick his cock in the brisk salt air. He imagined it, the bitter-salty taste of Martin rich on his tongue as he breathed in the ocean breeze, and fervently wished that he could have had that instead of Miss Flannery’s unwelcome kisses. There had to be someplace he could be close with Martin out in the world. It seemed so unfair that his feelings should have to stay boxed up in his room forever!

When the meal was over, Martin held Henry’s chair for him as he got up, and Henry dared touch Martin’s wrist in passing, soft skin over hard knobs of bone, warm and so very alive. Martin’s eyes flicked up to meet Henry’s gaze, and time stopped for a breathless moment as they looked at one another and Henry saw, really saw, what Martin was offering him. Henry felt Martin’s fingertips brush against his own and shivered, grateful that Martin would risk touching where anyone might see. A quick glance around the room showed that no one paid them any mind. It was best, of course, that no one notice anything remarkable taking place, but it was astounding that the momentous changes occurring in his life were really so far below the notice of the people who saw him every day.

Up in the parlor, Pearl read them some poetry, which Henry ignored in favor of contemplating his relation with Martin, their mutual warm regard, and all that they had said to one another this day. He felt Martin’s belonging quite literally in his heart, a sweet ache in his chest, and wondered if Martin felt anything like it, a sense of Henry persistent in his body. He wanted desperately to touch Martin, to put his mouth on him and claim him anew. He felt a little like he was drunk, effervescence in his blood and stars in his eyes. When Father decided to go downstairs for his cigar early, putting a halt to the poetry reading, Henry felt like he’d been given a gift.

Henry was undressed quickly, kissing between buttons, then Martin undressed himself. Henry lay bare and exposed, hard and yearning, and waited while Martin took down their laundry, and when he returned, Henry held out his arms and Martin came into them with unmistakable delight. They kissed and kissed until they were breathless, and Henry rolled over, pulling Martin to lie atop him. He loved Martin’s weight holding him down. He loved the firm curves of Martin’s ass under his hands. He loved Martin hard and wet against his belly. He loved that they both wanted this, both needed this.

“Say it, Martin,” Henry whispered. “I want to hear you say it again.”

Martin bit Henry’s lip and then kissed away the sting. “You belong to me, Henry,” he said. “You’re
mine
.”

Blackwell Family:

Henry Blackwell & Martin

Hiram Blackwell & Timothy

Louisa Wilton Blackwell & Pearl

Cora Blackwell

Blackwell slaves:

Butler: Randolph

Footmen: Paul, Billy

Coachmen: Old Bob, Jack

Grooms: Jerry, Arthur

Stableboys: Little Bob, Danny

Housekeeper: Dora

Cook: Alberta/Bertie

Scullery Maids: Vida, Ruby

Upstairs/Chamber Maids: Peggy, Delia, Katie

Downstairs/Parlor Maids: Lucy, Ruth, Ellen

Laundress: Mary

Laundry Maid: Sally

Errand Boy: Johnny

Gardener: Pat

Nurse: Esther

Algonquin School:

Walter Addison
&
Harvey

Jeremy Blankenship & Ray

Joshua Brand & Miles*

Freddie Caldwell & Tom*

Albert DeWitt & Stuart*

Randy Fox & Howard

Wendell Franklin & Ralph*

Maurice Gaines
&
Ollie

Daniel Hollingsworth & Allen

Gordon Lovejoy & Julian*

David Maxwell & Alex*

Adam Pettibone & Sam

Charles Ross & Simon*

Victor Spence & Will*

Robert Townsend & Dick*

Philip van Houten & Davey*

*
Henry’s friends

Thank you to Leta Blake and Ajax Bell for reading, cheerleading, and helping me find my way through the first 10 pages. Thanks to Nozman Glass for listening so patiently and helping with my research. Thank you to Anne-Marie for her very thoughtful remarks. Thank you to Leeh O’Rainey and Pun for enthusiasm and encouragement.

A special thank you to anyone who ever read and commented on my fanfiction. If not for fandom, I never would have believed there was an audience for my writing.

Several excerpts from
Psychopathia Sexualis
by Richard von Krafft-Ebing, M.D. are used in the text.
Psychopathia Sexualis
is in the public domain, and it makes for fascinating reading for anyone interested in sex, history and mental health.

Darrah Glass is a writer and generally inquisitive person who likes her fantasies to be as historically accurate as possible. She loves research, sex scenes, and researching sex scenes. She’s married and happily childless, does yoga, never cleans her house, likes shoes and toenail polish, and is vain about her hair. As far as her priorities are concerned, she’d rather write than do just about anything else, and she drives a 15-year-old car but carries really nice purses.

Darrah previously published fanfiction under the name
velvetglove
. The books and side stories of
Ganymede Quartet
are her first published original works.