A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (45 page)

In class, while Mr. Granger droned on about William the Conqueror and the Battle of Hastings, Henry’s attention drifted. He thought back to the previous day and felt grateful anew that Martin had forgiven him the terrible things he’d said. He vowed he would never be cruel to Martin again—
never
. He had never had anything like this in his life before—this growing, vital closeness—and he would not jeopardize it.

At lunch, he let his napkin slip to the floor and felt a little erotic thrill as Martin spread a fresh one across his lap.

“There you go, Sir,” Martin murmured. “Might I do anything else for you?”

Henry blushed. “No,” he said hoarsely, though he longed to cling to Martin’s sleeve, to pull him onto his lap, to push him down and ravish him on the table amongst the dirty plates. “No, that’ll be all.”

Out in the yard after the meal, Henry could think of no good reason to keep Martin nearby and could not contrive a reason to touch him, and so released him to join the rest of the slaves. Henry leaned against the wall next to Louis and tried to pay attention to his friends’ conversations, but he was distracted and could not resist glancing over at Martin again and again, just to see what he was doing. In actual fact, he wasn’t up to anything terribly exciting. He stood between ever-present Tom and little Sam, laughing at something Dick was saying to him.

Louis elbowed Henry and said, “So, you’re coming, right?”

Henry started with a jerk. “What? Coming where?”

“The arcade, dummy. After school. We talked about it yesterday, remember? You said you’d come.”

Henry did not remember. He had no room in his brain for thoughts that were not of Martin naked. But he said, “Oh, sure. Yeah, I’m coming,” even though he didn’t really want to go anywhere except home to bed.

Henry daydreamed about Martin’s body during Mr. Brasenose’s class, only intermittently writing down facts about various of the forty-five states and staring without seeing, the pastel shapes of the map at the front of the classroom replaced by images of Martin’s body, which he explored at leisure, with no boundary lines or demarcations to restrict his movements. Henry recalled in exquisite detail the feeling of fucking Martin with force. He loved the solidity of Martin’s lean body, and the fine, downy hairs that made his skin feel like velvet. He loved the smell of him, all full of the warmth of blood and overlaid with the grassiness of vetiver. He loved the taste of his skin, a human flavor that was salty, milky, rich and raw.

He wanted to have Martin completely, for Martin to be
his
, and he considered how to effect that. Already, he had claimed him everywhere with his hands, but he felt strongly that he should do the same with his mouth. Henry had a startling thought, an idea he’d never considered before—a thing he’d never even heard of. Could he put his mouth on…on Martin’s hole? Was that something people did? Henry had never heard of anyone doing such a thing, not even from James. It seemed unlikely that Henry was the first person to ever think of it, but perhaps it was especially perverse. Would Martin allow it? Would Martin be disgusted? It was only that Henry so liked the way Martin’s hole felt squeezing his fingers and clenching around his cock, and Martin seemed to love having it touched, and he just wanted to know how it would feel—for both of them—if he licked it and tried to push his tongue inside. With this exciting, unprecedented idea, his cock, already twitching at the tenor of his thoughts, sprang fully erect, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard in an effort to curtail his arousal. He felt his face growing hot and kept his head down, eyes on the scarred surface of his desk, not wanting any of his friends to notice his distress.

By the class break, Henry had calmed down sufficiently that he could meet his friends’ eyes, and then Mr. Greaves quizzed them about the periodic table, forcing him to concentrate on science, though surely the scintillating chemistry between Martin and himself was science, too.

Latin was an unpleasant hour. Henry was called upon to decline an unfamiliar noun and stood in a humiliated silence while Dr. Foster frowned at him and his classmates snickered.

“
Pudor,
Mr. Blackwell,” Dr. Foster prompted again. “You, more than anyone else here, should be familiar with
pudor
.”

Henry shook his head mutely, his face growing hotter by the second.

“Very well.” Dr. Foster sighed and made a check mark in his grading ledger. “How about you, Mr. van Houten?
Pudor
?”

Philip got to his feet and gave Henry a sidelong glance and a smirk before giving his answer.

Pudor
turned out to mean shame, bashfulness, and Henry was mortified anew.

He was not in a good mood, then, when he left the classroom with the others at the end of the day, but he brightened considerably upon seeing Martin in the cloakroom, standing ready with Henry’s hat in hand.

“Good afternoon, Sir.” Martin beamed at him, seeming very glad to see him.

“Afternoon, Martin.” Henry ducked his head shyly and let Martin help him with his book bag. “We aren’t going straight home today. I guess yesterday I promised Louis I’d go to the arcade.”

“Oh!” Martin frowned, looking a little disappointed. Clearly, he had wanted and expected to be alone with Henry, and this lifted Henry’s spirits greatly. Martin adjusted quickly, however, and shrugged off his disappointment with a smile. “Very well, Sir.”

They took the omnibus downtown in an unruly group and walked over from 5th Avenue to Union Square spread out across the sidewalk, calling back and forth to one another, and getting in the way of people who had places to be.

At the arcade, Henry got change for a dollar and gave Martin a handful of pennies. Martin took them with both hands, his fingers tangling with Henry’s, and gave Henry a look of such intensity that Henry forgot where he was and let out a broken whimper. Luckily, the arcade was a noisy place, and he was not heard in the hubbub. Martin took the coins, gave Henry a shy smile, and went to join the other slaves.

While Henry moved from game to game with his friends, he remained always aware of where Martin was in the room, Martin’s strawberry hair as bright as flame against the backdrop of black overcoats and his laughter somehow distinct in the cacophony.

“Why do you keep looking around?” Louis asked, craning his neck to see if there was anything worth looking at.

“What?” Henry started guiltily. “I, uh, thought I saw Adam,” he said, the lie coming relatively smoothly.

“Ignore him,” Louis said firmly. “Him and his stupid friends.” He put a coin into the fortune teller machine and took the card that the gypsy doll dropped for him. “Ugh. I’ve had this one before.
You will be successful in business endeavors
. Like I care about business!” He sighed and let the fortune drop to the dirty floor. “Your turn.”

Henry inserted his coin and waited for the doll to drop the card. He blushed when he read,
You will be lucky in love
.

Louis took the card from him and scoffed. “Ha! You’ll have to like a girl first.
I
should have gotten that one.” He held it out to Henry. “Do you want it back?”

Henry did, though he was embarrassed of it. He shrugged, but took the card and tucked it into his coat pocket.

Martin was making his way through the crowd toward Henry, his smile bright, and Henry felt so generous toward him, so loving and lucky, and he smiled in return.

“Sir,” Martin said. “I’m out of pennies, Sir.”

It would have been more usual to give Martin money and send him to get change on his own, but Henry seized the opportunity to take a moment with him instead. “Let’s get more,” he suggested, and Louis looked at him quizzically, eyebrow cocked, but Henry ignored him and headed for the manager’s booth with Martin close behind.

“Are you having fun?” Henry asked, accepting the coins from the cashier. “I see you’re with Tom.”

“And Simon and Dick, Sir,” Martin said cheerfully, giving Henry’s hand a surreptitious squeeze as he took the pennies Henry offered.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Henry told him, lowering his voice. “I
wanted
to go home—”

“Oh, me, too, Sir!”

“—but I didn’t think I should put my friends off.”

“Of course, Sir,” Martin agreed. “It will look bad if you only do things with me.”

“That’s what I want to do, though,” Henry confessed. “No matter how bad it would look.” It was true: with the way he felt now, Henry didn’t care if he spent time with anyone else ever again. Martin would be enough.

They stood so close, mouths close to one another’s ears, their voices low, and if the arcade had been less crowded, they would never have gotten away with such intimacy.

“I’ve thought about you all day, Sir,” Martin offered in a shy whisper. “I-I shouldn’t say the rest in public, the kinds of thoughts I’ve had…”

Henry was thrilled by this, but his face went hot and red, and he was afraid they were making a spectacle of themselves. “I want you to tell me later,” he said, but he took a shuffling step back from Martin. “Shall we rejoin the others?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for the pennies.” Martin surveyed the crowd, looking for the other slaves, and Tom waved, halfway down the room.

Henry joined his friends in playing gambling games and was enjoying losing his pennies when Robert began bragging about Dick. He’d mentioned it many times, Dick’s remarkable physical strength and stamina, so nothing of what he said was news to any of the boys.

“I’ll admit it,” Robert said, “he’s a lot stronger than me. I’ll bet he’s stronger than any of you fellows, too.”

“Henry’s strongest,” Louis said. This wasn’t news, either. Whenever they had held impromptu competitions in the past, Henry had always been the victor.

“I’ll bet he’s stronger than Henry,” Robert asserted. “I’ll bet money, for that matter.”

“Bet on what?” Charles asked. “They’d have to compete for you to bet on anything.”

Everyone looked at Henry.

“You’ll do it, won’t you, Henry?” Robert asked. “It’ll be fun.”

Henry was unsure. He didn’t care about things like this, for one thing, and it wasn’t something a gentleman did, for another, this direct competition and comparison with a slave.

“Yeah, Henry. Come on. Say you’ll do it,” Charles said, encouraging.

Other voices joined in, Freddie and Victor and Gordon, all in favor of Henry squaring off against Dick. Henry glanced at Louis, who seemed slightly embarrassed by the idea, but he wasn’t telling Henry
not
to do it.

Wendell whistled sharply, a sound that carried over the din of the arcade, and Ralph came at a trot to see what his master might need.

“Get Dick and the others,” Wendell told him.

Henry still hadn’t said yes, and he was going to point this out, but maybe it didn’t matter what he might say. His friends expected him to do this for them, for their entertainment, and he didn’t seem to know how to get out of it. Maybe it was best to just do it and get it over with.

The slaves were assembled, and the group stood before the punching machine with its thick leather pad. Henry shrugged off his jacket into Martin’s hands.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Sir?” Martin looked concerned.

“It’ll be fine,” Henry said, though he did not sound convinced to his own ears.

Simon stepped forward to take Dick’s jacket and hat, and Dick unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He was shorter than Henry by a good six inches, but he was well-muscled, powerful and graceful in his movements. He gave Henry a nervous bob of the head and said, “Sir.”

“Dick.”

“Are you sure you’re all right with this, Sir?” Dick seemed concerned, too, his handsome face creased with worry. This sort of competition wasn’t done, and they all knew it, but somehow Henry had agreed—or at least he hadn’t said no—and now he was doing a thing a boy from an old family would never do. Stubbornly, he decided he wouldn’t back out of it. He wouldn’t care. After all, his own father did unexpected things, and he was universally respected. Henry had no expectations that he would garner anyone’s awed admiration by going up against Dick, but at least they’d all have to agree he was a good sport.

Because Henry was a free boy, he went first. He punched the leather pad as hard as he could and the results were duly noted by the crowd. Dick easily bested him and looked guilty because of it, and Henry felt a little bad for him. He thought perhaps he ought to explain that he didn’t really care, that he felt detached and almost scientific about the results of competitions.

They moved on to the next machine, and then the next. They hit a punching bag, squeezed levers, lifted bars, and punched more things, and Dick was the victor each time, and looking increasingly more miserable about it. Henry began feeling annoyed at Robert for putting Dick in this position; he would certainly never put Martin under such pressure deliberately.

The final contest was a lung strength tester, the object being to blow the hats off a group of grimacing doll heads, and Henry fared better at this. Dick was palpably relieved at his loss.

Robert clapped Henry on the back and said, “Good try, but overall you’ve lost.”

Henry sighed and gestured to Martin, who held up his jacket for him to put on, and ignored Robert.

“Are you all right, Sir?” Martin whispered.

“What? Oh, I’m fine.” He let Martin settle his jacket over his shoulders and then turned to look for Dick, who was being congratulated by Simon.

“Dick,” Henry said. “Come here.”

Dick came, head bowed, and all the boys, free and slave alike, watched to see what Henry would do.

If they wanted to see him do wrong things, inappropriate things, then he’d
do
wrong things. “Congratulations,” he said, holding out his hand.

Dick looked at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending. “Sir…”

“Congratulations,” Henry insisted, with a little forceful gesture of his extended hand. “Be a good sport, Dick.”

“O-of course, Sir.” Dick regained his composure, though his face remained red, and he shook Henry’s hand. “Thank you, Sir.” He pulled back his hand as if burned.