A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (32 page)

This special treatment made Henry happy, though he was at pains to hide his pleasure.

James stood up from the billiard table and went to sling a brotherly arm around Henry’s shoulders, just as he might with Louis, but Henry was far too tall and James couldn’t reach. James laughed and punched Henry’s shoulder. “When did you get so big, you little pissant?”

Henry shrugged and blushed; he had no answer. The older boys laughed at him, but not unkindly.

“So Budley is this big, strapping fellow at our college, very burly and tough, and his roommate is Fontaine, and of course they have their slaves, Oscar and Mickey.” James paused and took a deep sip of his brandy. “Fontaine’s a little guy, all pale and spindly, and if you were going to be suspicious that anyone was a fairy, it would be this Fontaine character, right?” He looked at Henry, head cocked, and Henry realized James expected an answer.

“Oh, er, yes,” Henry blurted, his face reddening. He gulped his drink.

“So Fontaine’s slave Mickey, he’s popular with the others because he’s especially good at buggering or something…anyway, Mickey’s in demand at parties because he puts on a good show.” James sipped again, and as he drank, one of his friends leaned closed and whispered something in his ear that made him laugh.

“We had a big party last weekend,” James continued. “Well, we do
every
weekend, I guess, but this was a
big
one, a real barnburner. Everyone had liquor, of course, and some fellows came up from the city and brought hashish, and we got the slaves arranged how we wanted them…and then someone said, ‘Where’s Mickey? We can’t start without Mickey,’ because the rest of the slaves are so crazy for him, see?”

Again, a response seemed to be required. Henry nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Fontaine didn’t know where Mickey was, and he was mad because he hadn’t given him leave to run off on his own, and he asked me and a couple other fellows if we’d help him look. He was mad, too, because Budley was supposed to bring his cigarettes from their room and he hadn’t shown up.” James was grinning now, relishing whatever came next.

“We couldn’t find Mickey anywhere, and we didn’t see Budley, either. Oscar was with the others and didn’t know where his master was. Fontaine was furious, about fit to burst. I said maybe we should check their room, that maybe Budley left the cigarettes there, so we went up to the third floor where everything was quiet, except the closer we got to Fontaine’s room, the more it sounded like someone was fucking
somewhere
up there, and then we were outside Fontaine’s door and it was definitely coming from inside. Someone was just getting
pounded
.” James began to laugh, and his friends were laughing, too.

James composed himself again and sipped more brandy. “All right. So, we all assumed that Budley was fucking Mickey, and Fontaine was absolutely
enraged
that Budley would do it without asking, and he motioned for us to be silent and put his key in the lock and opened the door—”

Louis had been working valiantly to contain himself during this entire recitation, but he had reached his limit. “
Budley
was getting fucked!” he crowed, “Henry! The
slave
was fucking him! Can you believe it?”

James scowled at his younger brother. “
Goddamnit
, Louis! Let me tell a story, would you?” He reached out and punched Louis’ shoulder hard enough to make him spill the dregs of his drink. “Yes, well.
Anyway
, the door opened and there was Budley buck-naked on all fours and Mickey slamming into him from behind. Fontaine ran in and started swinging, hitting whoever he could, while Budley kept shouting that it wasn’t what it looked like.” James laughed again, a wicked cackle, and his friends all joined in.

While Henry wasn’t at all sure he’d ever want to be fucked, he felt some kinship with any man who wanted something forbidden with another man, and he pitied this Budley. He laughed along with everyone else though, and drank in guilty gulps.

“He was packed up and gone by Sunday night,” James said cheerfully. “Mickey confessed everything to Fontaine. He’d been screwing Budley on the sly since practically the beginning of the term. Fontaine forgave him, though. After all, what was Mickey supposed to do when some big, intimidating fellow was demanding service?”

James and his friends began an animated discussion of queers and their disconcerting ability to hide in plain sight, and the conversation made Henry very nervous,

Martin and Peter approached, but without drinks in their hands. “There were no clean glasses, Sir,” Peter explained to Louis. “Some of the other slaves were passing around a bottle, though, and we had some of that.”

James stepped forward to look at Martin, suddenly serious. “This is him, eh?”

“At your service, Sir,” Martin said, bobbing his head.

James took hold of Martin’s chin and turned his head from side to side, looking at him from all angles. “Very nice,” he pronounced with a slow, sly smile. “Good bones. Good mouth. A girl’s better, obviously, but no one minds a boy so much if he’s got a pretty face. I’m betting your father’s getting his money’s worth.” He winked at Henry, and Henry blushed a furious red while everyone laughed.

Henry finished his first drink and then sent Martin off with the glass to get another. He felt more comfortable now that he was a little drunk. He was glad to have seen James again, and for James to no longer have a hold over him. Martin came back with his fresh drink and Henry reluctantly gave him leave to congregate with the other slaves at the far end of the room as all the other masters had done.

Henry finished his second drink in short order, a matter of minutes, and called Martin back to his side. He sent him for a another drink and, although he seemed reluctant to do it, Martin went. Martin hovered as Henry sipped this third drink.

Martin leaned close. “Sir? Would you like me to bring you some water?”

“I already have a drink,” Henry pointed out, holding up his glass.

“You might wish to pace yourself, Sir,” Martin said in a low voice.

Henry waved off this concern. “I’m
fine
,” he insisted, both pleased by and resentful of Martin’s attention. It might be Martin’s job, but Henry certainly didn’t feel he needed looking after.

Henry became dimly aware that the men around him were talking about something unusual, something to do with a companion slave. “Wait, what?” Henry looked around in confusion. “What happened?”

“Listen, you little drunk,” James said, laughing. “Pay attention. It’s this ass, Johnston, at school. He let his slave Andrew get whipped.”

Henry was shocked. Martin gasped and went very still at his side. It wasn’t that whippings were rare—there were whippings every week downtown for anyone who wanted to see such things—but in almost all cases, those being whipped were from the lower rungs of the slave ladder. By virtue of their training and privilege, companion slaves rarely did anything that would warrant a whipping.

One of James’ friends said, “He’s tired of Andrew, I think, or why else would he let him be punished? Andrew will be afraid of him from now on and things between them will just get worse.”

“What did the slave do?” Louis asked.

James said, “Johnston got him drunk at a party and he wandered into Wilkinson’s room, and Wilkinson accused him of stealing—a ring or something, some family heirloom—and Andrew lied and said he hadn’t done it, but Wilkinson made him turn out his pockets, and that was that.”

“Johnston made him keep drinking until he was so drunk he could barely stand,” one of the other college men added. “We were all laughing, he was such a wreck. I doubt he even knew what he was doing.”

“Poor Andrew’s a good egg,” another said fondly. “I don’t know what problem Johnston has with him, but a gentleman should stand up for his slave, don’t you think?” There was general agreement.

James continued. “Instead of solving this man-to-man with Wilkinson, Johnston let Wilkinson bring charges against Andrew and wouldn’t defend him…so Andrew had to line up with the field workers and scullery maids to get his twenty stripes. Ten for stealing, ten for lying about it.”

Henry had seen men whipped, their backs cut to bloody ribbons, slumped unconscious from pain, and it was horrible. How could a man let that happen to the slave who was closer to him than anyone else? Henry couldn’t imagine letting anyone hurt Martin. How cold would a person have to be to let a slave go to the whipping post when he might have stopped it? The idea was so upsetting that Henry required a deep, comforting swallow of his drink to turn his mind away from the idea.

“It’s turned out a damn nuisance for all of us, too,” James said, a pinch of annoyance creasing his brow. “All the slaves are spooked, afraid they’ll be accused of doing something punishable.” He frowned at his empty snifter. He looked up and across the room. “Joseph!” He held up the glass. “Another!”

Louis called Peter over as he drained his glass, then shoved it into Peter’s hand. “Get me another, too” he said, his tone slightly belligerent. “And you—” pointing at Martin “—
you
get one for
him
.”

“Sir,” Martin said, “Sir, do you…do you really want more?” He did not seem convinced that it was a good idea, and Henry was inclined to agree with him, but Louis was not taking no for an answer.

Resigned, Henry drank the rest of his drink in two overlarge gulps and handed Martin the glass.

“Go!” Louis urged. “Look after your master!” He poked Martin in the chest. Martin frowned, but turned and did as he’d been told.

“Henry, right?” The man standing beside Henry elbowed him in the ribs. “Louis’ friend. Listen, are you sticking around this party? I say, I wouldn’t mind a go at that slave of yours. He looks like he knows his business.”

“What?” Henry didn’t understand what was being asked. What did this man want with Martin?

“I’m offering a swap,” the man said. “You know, mine for yours.”

Realization dawning, Henry drew back in disgust. “No, absolutely not!” He sidestepped around Louis, away from the man who wanted to fuck Martin. He looked around the crowded room in a mild panic. Were all the men looking at Martin, at Martin’s good mouth, and thinking about negotiating a swap?

By the time Martin came back with Henry’s fourth drink, Henry was feeling quite unwell. He stumbled over to sit on the old leather sofa in front of the fireplace and let his drink sit untouched on the floor beside his feet.

Martin hovered nervously. “Sir? Are you all right, Sir?” He patted at Henry’s shoulders with quick, flighty gestures, as if unsure if he was allowed to touch Henry at all. Henry felt sad; he wished Martin were more at ease with him, but he also knew the distance between them was entirely his own fault. He wanted to reassure Martin that he’d never let him be whipped, but that was silly.

“I’m fine,” Henry said, waving Martin off. He felt horrible. If he could just sit here without moving then he thought he’d be all right.

“Maybe if you have something to eat, Sir,” Martin suggested.

Louis sat down heavily on the cushion next to Henry. “What’s that?” he asked, reaching over and plucking the cigarette out of Henry’s jacket pocket. “Where’d you get this?”

“Dunno. One of them,” Henry waved his hand, taking in all of the room.

“Peter, get us a match!”

Peter came back with a match-safe and lit the cigarette while Louis drew on it. Louis immediately coughed out a foul blue cloud and began laughing. “Oh, that hurts! You have some now, too, Henry.”

Henry did not want any, suspicious that the quantities of smoke in the room already were contributing to his ill feeling, but he had a habit of doing what Louis asked of him. He tentatively inhaled around the end of the cigarette, unpleasantly wet from Louis’ lips, and was overcome by a horrible sense of suffocation and choking, somehow worse than any cigarette he’d tried in the past. He coughed, wanting the smoke out of his lungs, and Louis laughed delightedly, happy to be sharing this terrible experience with his best friend.

Henry felt truly unwell now. The room was moving rapidly counterclockwise. He leaned forward to escape the spinning, his chest pressing against his thighs, and stared down at the toes of his boots.

“Sir, perhaps if you get some air,” Martin suggested, his hands on Henry’s shoulders. “Please, Sir, let me help you.”

“Hey, you look really bad!” Louis said, just realizing it.

Martin helped Henry to his feet and led him out of the game room into the clearer air of the hall. Martin stood in front of him, holding him by his shoulders, looking worried and serious. “Sir, do you think you’ll be sick?”

“I feel so bad,” Henry admitted.

“Let me take you to the washroom, Sir, just in case.” Martin put his arm around Henry’s waist and led him to the nearest bathroom, which turned out to be already occupied by a vomiting guest, so they staggered upstairs to use Louis’ bath.

Henry sank to his knees in front of the toilet. Martin helped him off with his jacket and knelt beside him. “You’ll feel better after it happens, Sir,” Martin assured him. “You mustn’t try to hold back.” Martin kept a hand on Henry’s shoulder, and Henry was grateful for the contact. He began salivating like a dog and knew he would throw up soon. He was finally pushed over the edge by a noxious whiff of cigarette smoke coming off of his own clothing and retched for several miserable minutes, Martin rubbing his back the entire time.

Martin drew a glass of water for him and he rinsed his mouth. He did feel better, though still pretty awful. “You’re unused to drinking, Sir,” Martin said, a faint admonishment in this statement of fact. “The others are all college men, Sir, and drink for sport.”

“I shouldn’t have been drinking,” Henry admitted. He could say this to Martin, though he’d never say it to Louis.

“Perhaps not, Sir,” Martin said by way of agreement. “We should discuss what story we’ll tell at home.” When Henry looked puzzled, he elaborated. “You don’t look well, Sir, and you smell like a clubroom. It’s getting late and you can’t sit down to dinner with your parents in this condition.”