A Superior Slave (Ganymede Quartet Book 0.5) (10 page)

“I
really
want to meet the redhead, Papa,” the boy said. “This one won’t do for me at all.” Again, he glanced at Martin and said, “Sorry.”

“It’s quite all right, Sir,” Martin told him, buttoning his breeches.

“Very well,” the father said to Mr. Pepper with a sigh. “Show us this redheaded boy.”

Mr. Pepper led the Darlings toward the Choice daises and Noah’s red hair, and a new trio came to look at Martin, to ask that he expose himself and bend over.

Two more trios of prospectives came and went, and then Mr. Stephens approached with a new set. This grouping was unusual in that the prospective master, a thickset blond with a combative demeanor, already had a slave, a dark-haired, delicate, cringing boy from House Apollo, who looked quite despondent. Was this master planning to replace his current slave? But then how cruel to bring the slave on his shopping trip! Martin took an instant dislike to this prospective master.

The family were the Pettibones and the boy was called Adam. They stood before the Superiors’ dais, Adam Pettibone with his hands on his hips and a scowl furrowing his brow.

“Which is the best one, then?” young Mr. Pettibone demanded of Mr. Stephens. “My father says I can have whichever I want, and I want the best.”

“Our Martin is our top candidate this year—”

“Is he a smart one? Because the one I have is stupid, and I won’t put up with another dummy.” The little Apollo boy flinched when Mr. Pettibone called him stupid and Martin wished he could say something in the boy’s defense or offer him some comfort. A master
could
treat a slave however he chose, of course, but this callousness was worrisome. If Mr. Pettibone was this unkind in public, it was easy to imagine how much worse he might be in private.

Mr. Stephens seemed quite taken aback by Mr. Pettibone’s vitriol. “Oh, I see, Sir. Well! Yes, Martin is a smart boy. He receives top marks in every class. He’d be able to help you with your schoolwork if that’s something you’re interested in.” Mr. Stephens looked up at Martin. “Martin, please turn around. Let Mr. Pettibone have a look at you.”

Martin obediently turned in place, avoiding making eye contact with Mr. Pettibone. He willed Adam Pettibone to lose interest, to lose interest in him and
all
Ganymede slaves.

“What sort of talents does he have, then?” Mr. Pettibone jabbed at the little Apollo slave with a finger thick as a sausage. “This one doesn’t do anything you can show off. I want one I can show off. I want everyone at school to be jealous.”

“Martin is an excellent sportsman and he plays the violin beautifully,” Mr. Stephens offered.

Adam considered this. “What sorts of music do you play?” he asked, his tone aggressive and demanding. Everything out of his mouth sounded belligerent.

Martin cleared his throat and swallowed. “Any sort you might like, Sir. I have a wide repertoire.”

“A what?” Adam frowned, eyeing Martin suspiciously.

“Sir?”

“What did you just say to me? Reper…?”

“Oh, Sir, I only meant that I know a wide variety of music.”

“Well, why not say that instead?” Mr. Pettibone demanded irritably.

“My apologies, Sir.” Martin ducked his head in a show of contrition. The prospect of going to this horrible boy filled him with dread, and it took effort not to let his lips turn down in a frown.

“I suppose I ought to examine him,” Mr. Pettibone said to Mr. Stephens. “Have him drop his pants.”

Mr. Stephens said, “Martin, if you please…”

Martin gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement and unbuttoned his breeches. His balls were drawn up tight, his cock shrunken. The idea of being touched by Mr. Pettibone was abhorrent.

“Turn around,” Mr. Pettibone demanded. “Bend over.”

Martin did as he was asked, bracing his hands on his knees. He was jolted nearly off balance by the abrupt force of Mr. Pettibone’s examination. Mr. Pettibone shoved two fingers inside him and rooted around as if searching for something he’d misplaced. Martin winced at the discomfort, and it was all he could do not to squirm away.

“He’s better than the one I have,” Mr. Pettibone remarked, withdrawing his fingers.

Martin turned to face forward again, pulling up his breeches, and noted with distaste that Mr. Pettibone wiped his fingers on his trousers.

In a challenging tone, Mr. Pettibone asked, “So, what makes this one the best, anyway?”

“Martin is
particularly
well-suited for this role,” Mr. Stephens said. This was the phrase they always used when talking about boys like Martin, boys who preferred the attentions of other boys.

Mr. Pettibone snorted. “Ha. That’s what they said about
this
one.” He elbowed his slave hard in the ribs, and the boy hunched over and gasped, clearly in pain.

Martin frowned in concern and Mr. Stephens gave him an answering frown and a little shake of the head. It wouldn’t do for Martin to be scowling on the sales floor, much less scowling at a prospective master.

“Is he obedient? I don’t want one that fusses or fights back.”

Mr. Stephens seemed slightly nonplussed. “‘Fights back,’ Sir?”

“You know. When you make him do things, does he do them like he’s supposed to? I want one who does what he’s told and doesn’t try to get out of following orders.”

Mr. Stephens recovered somewhat. “Martin is well-trained, as are all of our offerings. They’re all tractable, obedient boys.”

Mr. Pettibone looked Martin up and down and then turned to his father. “I like this one, Dad. You’ll buy me this Martin, all right?”

No
. It couldn’t happen. The thought of being this master’s slave was terrifying, and Martin hated that it was even a possibility. He went numb, freezing cold, his lips frozen in a friendly-seeming rictus, while inside he was howling in a panic. He didn’t want to end up like that miserable, cowed boy at Mr. Pettibone’s side.

The elder Pettibone said, “He’ll be expensive. Why don’t you look at the rest of these Superior boys, as well?”

“Don’t you want me to have the best, though?” Mr. Pettibone demanded. “You didn’t spend enough on
this
one—” he elbowed his slave again “—and he’s no good. Now that
everyone
is going to have one, I have to have a better one, and Ganymede is best. Everybody knows that.”

“I told you back in April that it would be prudent to wait,” the father said, frowning. “But no, you insisted you had to have one the minute you turned 16.” The father puffed on his cigar, then added, “Sam’s better than you give him credit for.”

Sam. That must be the slave’s name.

“I want the best slave from the best House,” Mr. Pettibone insisted. “I don’t need to look at the others. They won’t be good enough. I’m not settling for second best again.” He shot a baleful glare at poor Sam, who cowered under his scrutiny.

Mr. Pettibone turned his attention back to Martin, who was having trouble maintaining his benign smile. Couldn’t this horrid boy tell that Martin loathed him? Didn’t it matter to him? He pressed his lips together in a tight line and was at least able to keep himself from outright frowning in a prospective master’s face.

“We’ll be bidding high on you.” Mr. Pettibone reached out and jabbed Martin in the belly with his oafish finger, and it hurt, and Martin hunched over with a surprised grunt. “You’ll be mine all right,” he said cheerfully, quite satisfied at the prospect.

Martin could manage no more than a curt nod and a, “Very good, Sir.”

Sam made momentary eye contact with Martin, and his gaze was full of sympathy.

As the Pettibones walked away with Mr. Stephens, Martin began to shake. Any one of these prospective masters might take him home if his father was indulgent enough, and the fact that Adam Pettibone already had a slave was a good indication that the elder Mr. Pettibone was very indulgent. Martin took deep breaths and tried to calm himself. Someone else might bid higher. Someone else, someone kinder, might want him more.

Stuart leaned close and said, “I hope you don’t go to that one.”

A steady stream of men was passing through the room, all black hats and dark suits, cigars and mustaches, and clumsy boys with unmanicured hands who just wanted to examine as many slaves as possible. One such boy had just finished with Martin, and he had stood upright and turned to face forward when he saw the tall pair from across the room. He froze in place, open-mouthed and staring.

One was fat with sandy hair and the other was dark and slim, and it was as if there was a spotlight following these prospectives, keeping Martin’s attention on them and their progress through the crowd. As they drew closer, Martin could see them well enough to know that the dark one was the younger, the son. They were accompanied by the father’s slave—a Ganymede man and a bland-faced fellow, quite unusual for a companion—and Mr. Paulsen, who was gesticulating with his crop and fending off the Standard boys who tried to grab at the son’s sleeves.

Even at this distance, even with the details hazy, this prospective master was notable. He wore his hair longer than most, and he was wearing a fashionable dark green suit with a striped waistcoat, but he did not have the swagger of a true dandy. Martin squinted a little, trying to see the boy’s face; it seemed possible that he was a pretty boy, a handsome fellow. Martin’s heart began to pound a little harder. Here was quite a lot of what he wanted, and Mr. Paulsen was bringing it directly to him!

Martin stood up straighter, hands clasped behind his back, and leveled his best, most welcoming smile at this still-blurry boy.

They came a few steps nearer and, as his vision clarified, Martin went weak-kneed, swaying on the dais and short of breath with the force of his attraction. At close range, the boy was handsome, so very handsome, and just Martin’s type. He was everything Martin wanted: black hair, olive skin, a shy blush on his cheek, tall and lean and graceful, his clothes hanging beautifully from his broad shoulders. There was something sensitive in his aspect that made Martin think he must be an artist, or perhaps a poet—or maybe he would simply appreciate such things.

It wasn’t just the boy’s looks, though. There was something between them, some magnetic pull, that made it so painfully obvious to Martin that
this
was the boy he belonged to that it was impossible to believe the boy didn’t feel it, too. He’d felt powerful attractions to boys at Ganymede, but this was of another order entirely. He was too pragmatic to believe in love at first sight, but this was certainly
something,
something momentous
.
If this had been a boy at Ganymede, he’d have been able to proposition him, say exactly what he wanted and what he could offer, and it was terrible that he had to wait patiently for this boy to indicate that he wanted Martin, too.

Just based on his initial impression, his visceral response, if this boy took him, if he could belong to this boy, he didn’t think there was anything he wouldn’t do for him. Just to know that this was the boy fucking him would be enough, and he could imagine the rest of what he needed. He’d never receive them, of course, but he could imagine searing kisses from that beautiful poet’s mouth being pressed between his shoulder blades as he was fucked from behind. He could imagine—

Thwack!

Mr. Paulsen’s crop came down hard on the edge of the dais, and they all obediently turned to the left for a beat, to the rear, to the right, then forward again. Martin darted a glance at the boy, and the boy was looking back at him but then blushed and quickly looked away. Martin arched his back a little and wished with all his might for this prospective master to look at him again, to look as long as he liked. He watched the boy’s long hands wringing together nervously and fervently wished that the boy might want to examine him. He’d do everything he could think of to seduce him, bending over so as to blatantly offer himself and squeezing around his fingers once they were inside. The thought of having any part of this beautiful young man inside his body made him tremble.

Mr. Paulsen was speaking to the father. “Let me introduce you to our Superiors, Mr. Blackwell. These five represent the highest standards of service and achievement that Ganymede has to offer. These are well-trained and lively boys, obedient and gentle. They’re the culmination of a proud tradition and are eager to begin service. If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll just show you…” Mr. Paulsen took the catalog from the father’s hands and found the page he wanted. “Here we go, sir.” Using the crop to point, he said, “This is our Martin. Our finest offering this season. A handsome boy and, as you can see, he is also quite accomplished.”

Martin directed a smile at the elder Blackwell, who paid him no mind, and then at young Mr. Blackwell, who seemed hesitant to meet his eyes. He darted glances at Martin, skittish as a wild animal, and his cheeks pinked. That such a handsome boy would be so bashful was charming, and it made Martin want to teach him to be bold. Oh, how he loved the idea of teaching him! He’d need to learn everything, wouldn’t he? Martin gave a little shudder and nearly moaned aloud at the idea of being the first one to suck this boy’s cock. Would he blush while Martin did it? Would he pull Martin’s hair with his nervous hands?

Mr. Paulsen and the elder Mr. Blackwell chatted about Martin’s health, and then Mr. Paulsen invited the gentleman to examine him.

Mr. Blackwell said, “Turn around, boy,” and Martin did as asked, rotating in place on the dais.

Mr. Blackwell said, “Come here.”

Martin came down the two steps from the dais to stand close in front of Mr. Blackwell, who was extremely tall, intimidatingly so. Mr. Blackwell set his hands heavily on Martin’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

“Hmm.”

He examined Martin’s arms and hands with the air of someone looking for something specific, but Martin could not guess what. He took hold of Martin’s chin and turned his head to the right and then the left and then gazed levelly into Martin’s eyes.

“Henry. Come here and have a look at him.”

Henry
. That was his name. Beautiful Henry.