A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (40 page)

“Is this all right?” Henry asked, worried, praying that it would be what Martin liked.

Martin moaned in answer and lifted his hips, pushing his prick at Henry’s lips. Henry took a deep breath, gathering his courage, and drew the slick, fat head into his mouth where it throbbed against his tongue. Martin cried out and arched up off the bed, pushing his prick deeper into Henry’s throat, and everything began to move so fast. Henry frantically rubbed his tongue over every inch of Martin’s cock, the surging skin of the shaft and the wet, raw head, wanting to know it utterly, an eager initiate into the mysteries of cocksucking.

Martin moved beneath him, wild energy barely contained, and he was going crazy, and it was all Henry’s doing. It was Henry’s mouth on his cock that was making him jerk and thrash, Henry’s tongue erasing the distinctions between master and slave. He sucked, cheeks hollow, and lifted his head and Martin began to call his name, low and urgent, and knotted his fingers in Henry’s hair, urging his head down as he lifted his hips. Henry felt how Martin shook, coming apart, the long muscles in his thighs taut, tension in his wrists.

“Oh, Henry,” Martin sighed. “
Henry
, Sir, you have to stop. I’m going to—”

Ignoring Martin’s warning, Henry redoubled his efforts, shrugging off Martin’s feeble efforts to push him away, and Martin soon relented and let him do as he pleased. He’d thought he’d know it when the time came, but he was taken by surprise when Martin spilled down his throat, cock flexing and jerking against the roof of his mouth
.
He gagged but swallowed Martin’s spunk down with real hunger despite the unfamiliar bitterness, and exulted in Martin’s ragged cries.

In the aftermath, Martin lay limp on the bed looking thoroughly debauched, just as Henry had always wanted to see him, his tawny hair spread across the sheet. Henry sat back on his heels, shaking. He knew with momentous certainty that he’d never be able to get enough of Martin, never in a thousand lifetimes.

He was still hard but he didn’t know what he could do about that. He didn’t know the etiquette now that he had broken all the rules for proper master-slave relations. He felt ashamed of his erection, felt that it was greedy, in a way, to be hard again, and turned away from Martin to sit on the edge of the bed, feet dangling, hunched and self-conscious.

He sat there only a few moments before he felt the bed shift, Martin moving behind him, and felt Martin’s hand on his back, then Martin’s chest pressing against his spine, and he breathed into the contact, feeling his ribs expand like wings as Martin’s arms wrapped around him. Martin kissed the back of his shoulder and rubbed his cheek over the place he’d kissed.

“Oh, Sir,” he said. “
Henry
,” saying the name with such tenderness. Henry turned to look at him and Martin took him by the chin and kissed him deeply. “I can taste myself on you.”

“Do you like that?” Henry hoped that he did.

“Oh, yes, I do, Sir.” Martin kissed him again and again, searching kisses, his tongue insistent yet somehow languorous. Henry let himself be drawn down onto the bed to lie on his back, Martin bending over him. He could feel the cool air moving over his hot skin, his insistently throbbing prick, and he trembled.

Martin drew back, looking down into Henry’s face. “You’re so beautifully made, Sir,” Martin murmured. “I’d never really allowed myself to look before.” He rolled Henry’s nipple between his fingertips, smiling as Henry sucked in a hard breath. “So strong and sleek,” he said with a smile. “Like my very own god.”

“You’re the beautiful one,” Henry insisted, wishing he had a facility with words. “And the way you feel…” His voice trailed off inarticulately.

Martin, though, seemed happy with Henry’s paltry compliments. He ran his hands over Henry’s body, such voracious hands. “You want to be a real lover to me, don’t you, Henry?”

“Yes,” Henry said fervently. “Yes, I do.”

“Then we’ll be lovers, Sir, and no one else need know.” Martin smiled and pushed Henry’s hair off his forehead, and kissed him, moving against him at a leisurely pace until Henry could stand it no more and grabbed hold of his shoulders and rolled over him, rutting against him with rough energy.

“Wait, Sir,” Martin said, breathing hard. “Wait and let me suck you again. I promise it will be even better this time.”

Henry lay back and let him do it, and Martin was right: he lasted much longer this time and it was better for it. He’d never imagined the act would feel as good as it did—he’d had no frame of reference—and yet, as much as he enjoyed having it done, he thought it was even better to do it, to take Martin’s cock in his mouth and make him cry out in helpless ecstasy. In fact, he wanted to do it again, but Martin put him off, despite what seemed a very sincere desire to let him have his way, because he would be expected at the slaves’ meal imminently and then it would be time for the Blackwells’ dinner.

They talked as Martin hurriedly dressed, Henry sprawled naked on the bed watching.

“I’m so happy right now, Sir. I thought you would never want me, even just to use me. I thought that maybe you felt you’d made a mistake in choosing me.”

“There was no mistake. I’ve always wanted you,” Henry admitted. “Since the moment I saw you.” He could still picture Martin on the showroom dais, graceful as a dancer, with his broad bony shoulders and lithe limbs.

Martin opened his mouth to speak but then bit his lip, and Henry knew that he had wanted to ask
Why
, then,
Why had he waited so long?
but was too well-trained to ask such a question of his master.

Martin fetched Henry’s dressing gown and then gave him a lingering kiss before going down for his dinner. As the door shut at Martin’s back, Henry slumped against the headboard of the bed, stunned stupid. His cock was hard again and he could still taste Martin in the back of his throat. He felt itchy and constricted and impatiently shrugged off the dressing gown, immediately feeling better. He felt a yearning for the warmth of Martin’s skin like the pull of some fantastic magnet. He didn’t know how he was going to be able to stand to wait for Martin’s return, but had no idea what the alternative might possibly be.

He thrashed around fitfully, messing up the bedding, and caught a whiff of Martin’s scent in passing, evidence that Martin had been in his bed, which made him moan aloud. He lay on his belly and ground his hips against the heaped blankets and thought of everything Martin had said, everything they’d done. Martin had said they were lovers, and that was so much better than just master and slave.

When Martin returned to dress Henry for his dinner, it was late and they had time for no more than a few kisses, but Henry felt hopeful Martin would want him again before they slept. Wouldn’t he? He didn’t dare ask for fear of appearing insecure.

During dinner, Henry was sure it must show on his face, what had been done to him and what he’d done: that he was a cocksucker, that he loved sucking cock. He expected Father to denounce him, Mother to faint. But instead, there was a pleasantly bland conversation about the meal, about what Cook had done with the lamb and how it was to everyone’s liking. He could neither see nor hear Martin and could contrive no reason to bring him to the table and all he wanted to do was turn in his chair and look at him, at his beautiful face and decadent mouth.

After dinner, Henry stood up from the table and at last could look at Martin, who gazed back at him with eyes dark with intent. He hung back, letting Mother and Pearl, Father and Timothy, go up the stairs before him and reached for Martin’s hand, just a squeeze of his fingers while they were side by side at the base of the stair, and Martin leaned close and whispered,
“I want you inside me, Sir.”

Henry gasped, instantly erect, and turned to look at Martin’s face so near to his own.

“As soon as you can get away, Sir.” He lowered his voice and said, “Henry.
Please
.”

Henry entered the parlor awkwardly, a hand in his trouser pocket holding his hard cock flat against his belly, and slunk into his usual spot. He was acutely aware of Martin behind his chair, the muffled sounds of his feet moving on the carpet. Mother and Pearl were settled on the sofa and Pearl was about to open
The Wicked Master
to begin the night’s reading, but Henry did not think he could bear to sit through it.

“Excuse me,” he blurted. “Mother, Father. I have schoolwork for tomorrow…if I could be excused?”

“Still having trouble with Latin?” Father asked.

“Yes, sir,” Henry agreed. He would say yes to anything, anything that would get him out of that room.

“Hmm. You need to bring that grade up.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry was half out of the chair, aware of Martin at his back already heading for the door. “Goodnight, sir. Mother.”

“Goodnight, dear,” Mother said.

Without speaking, they raced to Henry’s room at the other end of the long hall. Henry closed the door behind them with an extravagant movement of his arm and it shut with a bang that Henry knew would make Mother wince. He prayed that Timothy would not come to see that everything was all right. Martin pushed him up against the wall and kissed him roughly while pulling at his clothes. Once again, Martin showed none of his usual concern about wrinkles or keeping track of collar studs. His mouth was hot and sweet, his teeth sharp on Henry’s lower lip. He broke off kissing and bent to untie Henry’s boots, then left Henry to remove the rest of his garments while he undressed, leaving his clothing in a heap on the floor.

Naked, Martin stood trembling, his cock stiff before him, and asked, “Do you understand what I want you to do, Henry?”

“I think so.” Henry kicked off his drawers and went to stand with him. He touched Martin’s shoulders and ran his hands down his arms. “You’ll show me?”

Martin nodded, smiling, and Henry leaned in to kiss his neck, then backed him up to the bed, still kissing, sinking his teeth into the flesh over his pulse, wanting to devour him. Martin threw his head back and groaned. He sat on the bed and pulled Henry down with him. Henry buried his hands in Martin’s hair and forced his head back, as he had long dreamed of doing, and licked and bit at his neck, and Martin moaned and trembled beneath him, but pulled away with obvious reluctance.

“We mustn’t leave marks, Henry,” he breathed, “or everyone will know our secret.”

Henry saw the wisdom of this and so instead kissed Martin’s mouth with bruising pressure, lips flattened against his teeth, Martin’s tongue sliding alongside his own. They rolled to and fro on the bed, bellies slick with their mingled juices, until at last Martin broke away, visibly shaking. In a low, urgent voice, he said, “I want you so much, Henry! It hurts how much I want you!”

“I want you, too,” Henry assured him. “Tell me what to do.”

Martin got up to kneel on the bed facing the ornate headboard and looked back over his shoulder at Henry. “We’ll use spit for now, Sir. We don’t have anything better.” He dropped to hands and knees and now looked at Henry from beneath his arm. “I’ve been wanting you
so long
, Henry. Please don’t make me wait.”

Henry knelt behind him and held his hips with shaking hands, pushed his thumbs into the muscular globes of his buttocks. “Spit?” he asked uncertainly.

“That’s right, Sir. Spit on me, then work it in with your finger.”

Henry parted the cheeks of Martin’s ass and looked between at the dusky pucker of his asshole, earthy pink and ringed in sparse, reddish hair, which looked somehow shy, like something not meant to be exposed to the light. Seeing this intimate part of Martin made something swell in Henry’s chest, a golden bubble, a complex mess of protective instinct and possessiveness and desire.

Martin reached back with one hand and pulled his ass cheek wide. “Go ahead, Sir,” he urged, interrupting Henry’s reverie and hurrying him along. “Spit on me.”

Henry couldn’t bring himself to
spit
on
Martin, but he did let a string of saliva hang from his lip and used his finger to circle Martin’s asshole, which clenched at the contact. “More, Sir,” Martin urged, “Work it in.” Henry drooled again onto Martin’s asshole and tentatively pushed his fingertip against the muscle. There was a moment’s resistance, and then he was in, to plush heat and a gratifying growl from Martin. “Another finger, Henry. Stretch me. Stretch me for your cock.” Henry worked the single finger in and out for a few breaths before adding the second. Martin panted like an animal and pushed his hips back against the pressure of Henry’s fingers. “Another, Sir.
Please
. And more spit.” Henry did as asked. Martin got down on his elbows, ass in the air, and said, “You didn’t know, did you, Sir, what a dirty boy I am.”

Martin’s bold speech worked on him like a tonic. Henry thought he might die from the fierceness of his ardor, but he would not die before he’d done what Martin asked. “You won’t believe how hard I am,” he said in a furtive tone. “How much I want you.” He ran his free hand down Martin’s back then up again to squeeze his hip.

“Then fuck me now, Sir.
Henry
. Put your cock in me.”

Henry spit again on Martin’s asshole and withdrew his fingers. He took hold of his cock and smeared the wet head between Martin’s buttocks. Martin made a pained, eager sound that made Henry want to ravish him. He held his prick against the pucker and pushed forward; it didn’t seem like it would go in, but then Martin was leaning back into the pressure and he was inside and it was tight, so much tighter than it had seemed on his fingers, and hot, hot as blood.

Martin cried out and Henry could tell it hurt him, but he reached back and held Henry’s thigh and said, “Don’t stop, Henry! Whatever you do.”

Henry wouldn’t disappoint him for anything. He kept pushing forward, easing in until his hipbones were tight against Martin’s ass, and it felt so good that he ran his hand up and down Martin’s back again and grabbed a handful of his hair at the nape and
pulled
, pulled him back farther onto his cock, and Martin gave a wild groan and shuddered against him.