A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (15 page)

“Sir? Did I wake you?”

Henry turned his head. Martin stood a few feet away, close enough that Henry could see his pretty face in chiaroscuro.

Henry cleared his throat. “No. But I was almost asleep.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll try to be quieter.” Martin hesitated a moment, then asked, “Are you certain I can’t help you get to sleep, Sir? Any method you’d like.” He sounded so earnest, so eager. What would he think if Henry tried to hold him, caress him, kiss the mark on his throat? What would he do? Would he be shocked? Proper gentlemen—good masters—did none of those things, nor did they have any desire.

“I’ll be fine,” Henry said, taking and then releasing a deep breath. “Thank you. Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight, Sir. Sleep well.” Martin disappeared back into the shadows.

It made Henry’s heart ache to see him go. He was a failure as a master, intimidated by his slave. He wanted things he shouldn’t want, things that would bring ridicule and scorn down upon his head. He’d already been presented with the evidence that he was mentally unsound, and now he worried it was only a matter of time before his status became apparent to everyone. He’d put it out of mind for quite some time, but now that Martin was here, the shameful memory came back unbidden.

Two summers prior, following a desultory game of baseball in the park in which the players had wildly varying degrees of investment, Henry had accompanied Louis back to the Briggs family home. To his great pleasure, which he was careful to hide, James had been home and at loose ends. Usually, James considered himself too adult to associate with the younger boys, but on this day he had been bored.

“Say, do you idiots want to see something interesting?” he’d asked, biting into an apple with a crisp snap as he lounged in the doorway to the game room.

“Like what?” Louis had asked skeptically.

“A secret book. It belongs to Dad. If he knew that I know what it is, he’d lock it up.”

The boys had followed James to the library, trailed by Joseph. “Keep watch,” James had told Joseph, leaving him in the hall to guard the door.

The book was thick, with a plain, unenticing cover and a Latin title,
Psychopathia Sexualis
. It hadn’t appeared promising, but James’ avid expression suggested it was worthwhile. “It’s a book for psychiatrists,” he’d explained. “It’s full of case studies of perverts!” His handsome face had been animated with delight. “Listen,” he’d said, flipping open the book seemingly at random. “Listen to this: ‘X. was potent; during the sexual act the female had to be elegantly dressed and, above all, have on pretty shoes. At the height of sexual excitement—’”

“What
is
this?” Louis had cut in. “This book belongs to
Dad
?” He’d seemed purely delighted by the thought.

“Listen, brat!” James had continued with the recitation. “‘At the height of sexual excitement, cruel thoughts about the shoes arose. He was forced to think with delight at the death agonies of the animal from which the leather was taken…He had the woman walk on him with her shoes on, the harder the better.’” James had closed the book with a thud, his lips twitching in a satisfied smirk.

Henry had stared at James in disbelief, fascinated and horrified while Louis had laughed hard, bent over, hands clutching his waistcoat.

“Shoes!” Louis had cackled. “
Shoes!
”

Henry had realized his mouth was hanging open, shut it, then opened it again to ask, “Are they all like that?”

“What? No.” James had flipped through the book again. “There’s loads of them, all different. Let me find something good. Ah, here!” He’d cleared his throat and begun to read in a snooty, scholarly voice:

“‘B. asserted that he had always been delicate and sickly. His sex life awoke at the age of 8. He began to masturbate and derived much pleasure from putting the erect penis of other boys into his mouth. At the age of 12, he began to fall in love with men, preferring those in the 30s who had mustaches. At that time, his sexual needs were extraordinary, and erections and pollutions’—pollutions are when you come, see—‘were frequent. He masturbated daily, thinking of a man he loved. His
ambition
was always to put an erect penis into his mouth, which was thought to cause ejaculation accompanied by utmost lust.’ Ha! Imagine if
that
was your ambition!”

Henry, who felt he was not too far from this example, had miserably flushed a furious red.

“What else can I tell you about this fellow?” James had mused. “Okay. Here’s more: ‘At the circus or theater his attention was drawn only by the male performers. He had an irresistible desire to loiter about bathrooms in order to get a look at the men’s genitals.’” James had shook his head, amused but repulsed. “What a pathetic creep!”

“More!” Louis had urged. “What else is there?”

“There’s a whole section about fairies and queers,” he’d informed them. “All right; here’s another: ‘I put the young man’s penis in my mouth and move it about with my mouth in such a way that my lover ejaculates semen; I then spit the sperm onto his perineum’ —I don’t know what that is, actually. Anyway—’I then spit the sperm onto his perineum, tell him to press his thighs together, and rub my penis against and between his closed thighs. The young man, meanwhile, must embrace me as passionately as he can.’”

Louis had been incredulous. “I’ll never understand why a man would want to suck a cock. I mean, even slaves don’t
want
to do it.”

Henry had kept very still, afraid that he’d inadvertently expose himself. What James had read to them quite honestly sounded wonderful. He longed to do such things himself. But he’d heard himself saying, “No kidding. Who would
want
to do that?” in a contemptuous tone and laughing along with the others, and it’d seemed that he’d convinced them because Louis had elbowed him and smiled agreement.

When James had read them more stories about neurasthenic masturbators who were aroused by petting cats, or by ladies’ gloves, or by slapping prostitutes, Henry had made an effort to share in the brothers’ hilarity, though his thoughts had still been with the gentlemen (if they could be called that) who’d so enjoyed putting penises in their mouths. Here was the evidence that Henry had never wanted: people who desired what he desired were crazy perverts, on par with people who had sex with shoes and pets—it said so in a book.

James had put the book back on the shelf. “Don’t let Dad know you know about it,” he’d warned Louis. “He’ll hide it good if he thinks we’ve found it.”

“I’m not stupid,” Louis had insisted grumpily. “I know how to keep a secret.” The brothers had continued to bicker as they’d left the library.

Remembering all of this, Henry’s sympathies remained with the men who would put another man’s penis in their mouths even though it was forbidden by decent society, by every parent in the world. It was forbidden, but the men did it anyway, and they enjoyed it. And then he had a thrilling thought: if you were willing to be outcast, if you were willing to disappoint people, you could do anything you wanted; you could be happy.

But Henry wasn’t quite willing to be cast out. He wasn’t quite ready to accept that he’d never do anything but disappoint his father. As long as he didn’t touch Martin, as long as he never put a cock in his mouth, he could still turn out all right. He lay awake another hour before exhaustion overtook his worries and he slept at last.

Once again, Henry woke to Martin’s hand on his shoulder.

“Rise and shine, Sir.”

It was physically painful to look at him, like a kick in the gut; he was the most perfect specimen of young manhood Henry had ever encountered. Henry closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, pretending he was alone.

Martin did not seem to notice his distress, or was too polite to mention it. “Sir, are we riding bicycles today?” He bent and pushed Henry’s slippers into more perfect alignment. “If we are, Sir, which sporting costume would you prefer to wear?”

Henry sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed then slid his feet into the slippers. He stood and turned to put his arms into the sleeves of the dressing gown that Martin held ready for him. “The green tweed, I think.”

“Very good, Sir. I’ll have all in readiness after you’ve showered and shaved.” He paused and then said, “Unless you would like me to shave you today. I’m quite good at it, if you should wish to test me, Sir.” He seemed hopeful, and Henry hated to disappoint him.

But he did. “No, thank you.” Martin shaving him, fingertips on his face, would be more intimate than Henry could bear.

Henry bathed and shaved and emerged in a cloud of steam. They managed the dressing quite efficiently, and Henry was both relieved and pleased. Admiring himself in the mirror, Henry suddenly noticed that Martin was wearing his day-to-day uniform, black jacket and fawn trousers. “See here, Martin, you can’t ride a bicycle in that,” he said.

“I’m sure it will be fine, Sir.” Martin smiled at him, chipper and optimistic. “My new clothes won’t be delivered for a few more days, but this will do for now, surely, Sir.”

“No,” Henry insisted. “It won’t.” He thought a moment. “We’re almost the same size. Wear mine, the brown check.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, Sir.” Martin shook his head adamantly, looking appalled. “Those are
your
clothes!”

“I don’t see the problem,” Henry said flatly. “You need to wear a proper outfit, Martin.”

Martin looked off to the side, not meeting Henry’s eyes. “They’re not clothes for a slave, Sir. They’re too…distinguished. I’ll stand out too much.”

It was true that people dressed their slaves in plain black or perhaps a black tweed for sports, but it wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule. It wasn’t a
law
. Frustrated with the conversation, Henry said, “I’m telling you to do it, Martin, how about that?”

Martin ducked his head. “Yes, of course, Sir.” He began to immediately strip off his uniform where he stood, and Henry hurriedly turned his back and busied himself with the contents of his desk drawer, dried-up fountain pens and broken pencils.

“Are you sure this is all right, Sir?”

Henry turned around. Martin was dressed in the brown check: Norfolk jacket over his collarless shirt, knickers, high socks. The suit was a bit loose, but, really, they were very close in size. Martin looked very unsure of himself. He also looked very handsome. If not for the long hair, he’d look like a free man.

“You look fine,” Henry said shortly. “I’m hungry. Can we go down?”

“Of course, Sir. I’m sorry for the delay.”

Henry worried he’d been too impatient with Martin. On the staircase, he said, “It’s not your fault, I know that. I’m glad the rest of your clothes will be here soon.”

“Me, too, Sir. Though this suit is very nice. I shouldn’t get too used to it!”

They were alone in the breakfast room. Henry let Martin make him his coffee (tan with four sugars) and bring him second helpings of eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, and pancakes with fruit compote. He put scones in his pockets and indicated to Martin that he should do the same. “For later,” he explained.

When they went outside, Paul had already brought their bicycles out from the shed and had them waiting.

Martin smiled at Paul and said, “Thank you…Billy?”

Paul smiled, shaking his head. “I’m Paul. I have a mole here, see? Billy doesn’t have one.” He pointed to a little dark dot above his Ganymede tattoo. Henry had not known or noticed this until age 12; he had used the twins’ names interchangeably to that point and had never been corrected. It was only when Louis had asked him how he told them apart that he had realized that he didn’t.

“Thank you, Paul, then. I will remember, I promise.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make,” Paul said in a reassuring tone. “You’ve only been with us two days, after all.” He turned to Henry, his manner changing, formalizing. “Is there anything else I might do, Sir?”

“No, thank you, Paul.” Henry swung a leg over his bike frame and put his foot to the pedal. Paul ran ahead to open the gate and Henry rode through, Martin close behind.

Two blocks north, they abandoned their bicycles in the side yard of the Briggs house and went to be let in. Louis’ house was chaotic, as always, the younger Briggses noisy and dramatic. Robbie and Teddy were playing war on the staircase. The Briggs nurse, Annie, was at the base of the stair attempting to calm little Edward, who was bleeding profusely from a scrape on his knee and sobbing. Louis came down the staircase with Peter right behind him and his 9-year-old sister, Alice, on his heels, though when she saw Henry she became shy.

“You wanted to see him,” Louis told her irritably. “So
look
, dummy!” To Henry he said, “She’s been whining about when you would get here all morning.”

“I have
not
!” Alice hollered. “You’re horrible! I
hate
you, Louis!” With an anguished look at Henry, she turned and ran back up the stairs.

Henry felt his ears grow hot. He was uncomfortable with Alice’s crush. He didn’t know what he was meant to do. It seemed like a responsibility he wanted no part of. She was only a little girl, so it didn’t seem warranted to outright reject her. Still, he would be glad when she outgrew her interest.