A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (11 page)

After kissing on the lips, his thoughts had quite naturally drifted to kissing other parts of the body. Of course, it was frowned upon to engage in oral pleasures with anyone, male or female, slave or free. It wasn’t something decent people were supposed to do. But if James and his friends with their slaves were anything to go by, people did it anyway.

Henry had once spent a long afternoon imagining a slightly disturbing scenario in which George and Theo kissed, blood was leisurely licked from a minor wound on Theo’s broad shoulder, and Theo’s cock was eagerly sucked. How would that feel? The skin, the slipperiness. He’d furtively tasted his own fluids, but would another man’s taste the same? What would it feel like when the man came, spurting against the back of the throat? Henry realized that he had been imagining all of it from George’s perspective. And then Henry had to wonder: wouldn’t Theo want to try it, too? Someone as bold as Theo, someone who cared so much for George, wouldn’t he want to at least
try
? You
could
make a slave do anything you wanted, submit to anything; would a slave really protest if you wanted to suck his cock? But if you did it, then he’d know something about you, something shameful and private, and if he told anyone, you’d be shunned. But George would keep Theo’s secrets, Henry had been sure of it.

Henry was not at all sure that Martin would keep
his
secrets. He simply didn’t know this boy, certainly not well enough to trust him, to be open with him. If he did something that made Martin think he was a fairy or queer, there was no knowing who he might tell. Timothy? Father?

In any case, Henry’s masturbatory fantasies were exactly the wrong thing to be focusing on during the family hour. He came back to the room with a guilty start, his cheeks hot, and looked around surreptitiously to see if anyone might have noticed his reddening face. Pearl had her eyes on her book, Mother had her eyes closed, Father was looking over reports. Only Timothy, standing behind and to the side of Father’s chair, was looking in Henry’s direction. He gave Henry a benign smile and then stepped forward as Father gestured for him to come close. Father pointed at something on the page in front of him and Timothy took out his ever-present notebook and began to write. Shifting in his chair, Henry took the opportunity to yank unobserved at the inseam of his trousers to relieve the pinching pressure on his cock.

Pearl finished the chapter and Mother patted her arm and said, “Thank you, Pearl, darling.”

“You’re quite welcome, Ma’am. Are you ready to retire now?” Mother nodded her assent and Pearl helped her up.

Henry adjudged his erection sufficiently subsided and got to his feet to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Mother.”

“Goodnight, darling.” She turned to look back over her shoulder. “Goodnight, Hiram.”

Father did not look up from his papers. “Goodnight, Louisa.”

Henry was slightly embarrassed for Martin to see how little his parents cared for one another, but he supposed Martin had nothing really to compare them to. Slaves didn’t have parents, really, or that’s what he’d been given to understand. It wasn’t a bad thing, most likely; they were raised up by nurses of a sort, and Henry’s own experience with Nurse was that such a person provided a superior atmosphere to a mother or father. He would have to ask Martin about his life before today, what it was like. What had Martin wanted when he thought of being sold? What constituted a good master, in a slave’s eyes?

Henry sat and picked up the Latin grammar, but put it down again within minutes. It was too hateful and too hard and he would never be good at it. Timothy watched him as he frowned and shut the book, but Father paid him no mind.

Martin was there behind him, perhaps two or three feet away, and Henry wanted to look at him, but he didn’t want to look like some gawking bumpkin, so he couldn’t just turn and put his head around the wing of his chair.

He let himself think about the rest of the evening. Would Martin look down on him for wanting the things he wanted? Would he be able to tell that there was something wrong with Henry just by the way he touched him? It was too big a risk. He could let himself do it if he felt sure he could stop at just what was allowed, but then he thought of Martin turning on the dais, his creamy skin and sleek muscles, his beautifully shaped mouth, and he couldn’t imagine
not
kissing him,
not
touching him all over,
not
holding him close. He felt aroused and miserable both.

“Are you just sitting there staring into space, son?” Father asked, seeming as if he did not like this idea at all, and Henry flushed guiltily. “You must be tired. Go to bed,” Father said. He turned to Timothy and said, “Care for a cigar, old man?” and Timothy smiled and nodded in the affirmative.

Henry stood up. He was a little afraid of what would happen when he got to his room. “Goodnight, sir,” he said, and Martin followed him out the door.

Henry’s bedroom, at the rear corner of the house, was all the way at the other end of the hall. He walked there with Martin in silence. Inside the room, Martin bustled around, finding Henry’s pajamas and turning down the bed.

“May I undress you now, Sir?”

Henry’s visceral response to the question was no less agonized the second time around. All of the clothes he’d put on three hours ago had to come off again. And this time he’d not have an acceptable excuse for keeping his drawers on. “Um, yes, of course,” he said.

Jacket and waistcoat. Shirt studs, collar and cufflinks. Braces. Martin worked the shirt buttons from just inches away, his fingertips brushing against Henry’s belly. Martin reached for the fabric of Henry’s undershirt and pulled it up, untucking it from his pants with brisk jerks. Nervously, Henry waved him off. “I’ll do it.” He pulled the undershirt off and handed it to Martin bashfully, not able to meet his gaze.

Martin looked at him with an inscrutable expression. “You’re very well-built, Sir,” he said. “You look so strong.”

“Thank you?” Henry had never had anyone, much less another man, compliment him on his physique. What did it mean? He thought of Martin turning before him, the muscles of his haunches moving beneath his tight pants, and swallowed hard.

Martin stood behind him again and helped him on with his pajama shirt, then watched in the mirror over Henry’s shoulder as he buttoned it himself. Martin came back around front and reached for Henry’s fly, but Henry waved his hands away and quickly undid it himself. Martin knelt down to help him step out of his trousers and Henry gingerly put a hand on his shoulder for balance. Henry let Martin remove his socks, one at a time. All that was left were his drawers. He took a deep breath and let it out with a soft whoosh, then unbuttoned the waistband himself and pushed them off his hips, closing his eyes. He kicked them off and opened his eyes, and saw that Martin kept his eyes down and held Henry’s pajama pants so that he could step into them and pull them up.

Martin gathered up underwear and socks and put them in the laundry basket with the rest.

“I’ll just get changed, Sir, if that’s all right.” Martin went down the little corridor into his room and Henry trailed him, only to stand gaping as Martin stood in full view, his back to the doorway, stripping off his clothing. Henry knew that slaves were discouraged from having any pretense of modesty, but it was still unnerving to see Martin, so unselfconscious and so heart-stoppingly beautiful, bending and turning, the light from the lamp making his skin glow. Henry stood frozen in shocked amazement, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, prick hard as iron, and he scuttled back into his own room to hide his shameful arousal, his face hot and red.

Martin emerged from his room in crisp new pajamas and summer-weight dressing gown and picked up the laundry basket with their mingled soiled linens.

“I’ll just take this down to the laundry, Sir, and be right back up.”

“All right.” Henry sat on the edge of the bed, hunching to hide his hard prick, and felt his thoughts foam and boil. He couldn’t let himself do it. He couldn’t. He supposed slaves were no more queer than the majority of boys who owned them; as far as he understood, they put up with the buggering because that was their lot in life, not because they wanted it. Henry couldn’t bear the idea that he might disgust Martin with his desires. He desperately wanted Martin to like him, even though he knew it shouldn’t matter so much how Martin felt. What mattered was how Martin behaved, and a well-trained slave would do whatever a master asked. But how much better to have desire returned!

He brushed his teeth and looked at himself in the mirror and thought,
coward
. He got into bed and fidgeted nervously, hands twisting in his lap.

Martin returned with a brilliant smile. He approached Henry with appropriate deference, though he seemed somehow amused. “Is there…
anything
I might do for you, Sir?” He licked his lip, cat that got the cream.

Flustered, Henry said, “No, no. I’m fine.” He scooted back on the bed, away from Martin and his confusing seductions.

“Are you sure, Sir?” Martin seemed surprised. “I could help you get to sleep.”

Henry had dreamed of a man talking to him like this, but it was too much, too frightening, too risky. “I’m sure,” Henry said firmly, though he was not sure at all. “Go to bed.”

“As you wish, Sir.” Martin seemed disappointed, though Henry could not imagine on what basis. Martin went into the hall and shut himself in the bathroom for a few minutes, running water and spitting, then emerged and went to his own room without looking back. He turned out his lamp and all was quiet from his quarter. Henry had meant to tell Martin to close the door between their rooms, but he had forgotten and now it was too late. Henry put out his lamp and lay down.

He thought again of Martin reading the story. It was a bit overwhelming, having his own slave read his primary fantasy material to him; he probably should not have had Martin do it. Hearing even an innocent reading of Theo and George from the beautiful mouth of the boy meant to serve him was heady stuff. He had long been accustomed to helping himself get to sleep with a bit of self-pollution while imagining George in Theo’s arms, but that did not seem possible now. Henry sighed and tried to get more comfortable in the bed, flipping over his pillow to get the cool side of the case.

Martin was no doubt accustomed to sleeping within hearing of other people, but Henry most certainly was not. Because the door stood open, he was exquisitely aware of the slide of Martin’s sheets, the slight tug of his breath. For Henry, the day’s considerable excitement resulted in a restless exhaustion that was incompatible with sleep. He was plagued by thoughts of Martin naked before the tailor’s mirror, the line of hair on his belly, his very pink nipples. As his cock grew hard, he put his hand on it meaning to flatten it, restrain it, but instead the touch inflamed him further as he imagined Martin’s bony, well-shaped hand in its place. With a pang of despair, he realized he’d never be able to touch himself again, not with Martin close enough to hear. He’d never be completely alone again, never able to relax. Why had he been eager for this? It seemed to take hours for his erection to wane. Almost as soon as he had settled into a stuporous, heavy-lidded, half-conscious misery, he was jolted alert once again by the rustle of Martin rising to use their bath, his feet thudding softly on the carpet. Henry stared up at the ceiling and listened to the tinkle of Martin’s urination, wondering if his own sounded so loud. Even though it was expected, the roar of the flushing toilet startled him and made him flinch.

Martin emerged from the hall and padded closer, the moonlight silvering his beautiful face. “Sir? Are you still awake, Sir, or did I wake you?”

Henry denied it with a firm shake of his head. Just looking at Martin standing there made him hard. “I was awake.”

“Can’t you sleep, Sir?” Martin’s smooth brow was creased with concern.

You
, Henry thought.
It’s because of you I can’t sleep.
“Just a touch of insomnia,” Henry said with a shrug.

“If there’s anything I might do…” Martin’s voice trailed off, then he added a soft, “Sir.” He came another step closer.

“Like what?” Henry blurted, surprising himself. He hadn’t meant to ask, but now that he’d done so he was desperate to know how Martin might answer.

“Sir?”

“What could you do, I mean.”

“To help you sleep, Sir?”

“Yes.”

“If you’d like, I’ll show you, Sir.”

Henry hesitated a moment, then said, “All right,” with a catch in his voice.

Martin gave him a radiant smile. “I’m happy to do it, Sir.” He turned on Henry’s lamp, bathing them in a low, gauzy incandescence. “Will the light bother you, Sir?” Henry shook his head. Martin stood at the bedside a few moments longer, then asked, “May I get in with you, Sir?” Henry nodded and Martin got into the bed at his side, slipping neatly between the sheets. His body radiated heat, shocking warmth. “Do you give me leave to touch you, Sir?” When Henry did not answer right away, he added, “Sir? It will make all the difference…”

“Yes,” Henry cleared his throat and then said in a hoarse whisper, “Whatever you need to do.” He lay still and stiff on his back, body fairly thrumming with tension. He was afraid to look at Martin, though out of the corner of his eye he could see that Martin had no such qualms and was watching him intently. Martin shifted closer, propped up on one elbow, his knees bumping Henry’s thigh. Henry gasped at the contact and was grateful that the dim lighting concealed his furious blush. He was already achingly hard when he first felt Martin’s touch on his hip, fingers warm through the thin cloth of his pajama pants. The contact was steady, neither hurried nor rough, trailing up to the curve of his waist and then back down again. Henry gritted his teeth to keep from moaning aloud.

“Can I put the cover back, Sir?” Henry nodded again and Martin took his hand away, sat up, and pushed the sheet and blankets down below their hips. Henry first stared at the ceiling, then screwed his eyes tightly shut, paralyzingly embarrassed by the spectacle of his cock tenting his pants.