A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (55 page)

“He doesn't share,” Louis said hurriedly. “You remember that, right?”

Albert waved this off as if it were of no consequence. “Come in and see,” he encouraged. “Just bring your slave and get in here.”

Henry was torn. He
did
want to see. He
was
curious. He thought of Jesse inviting him to stay and watch; this might be like that. He wouldn’t have to share Martin. He could just look. He stood up, swaying a little on unsteady legs. He was drunker than he’d realized.

Louis stood, too, and put a hand on his arm. “Henry. Maybe you should just go home.”

Henry shook off Louis' hand. “No, I want to see. Martin, come here,” he called. “You, too, Peter.”

Albert pushed the door open and ushered them inside with a sweep of his arm. It was some sort of library or game room with a table in the center, bookshelves all around, a settee to the left. The masters were arrayed around the perimeter of the room, lounging against the bookshelves or sitting slumped on straight chairs. Their faces were sly, indolent, and they sipped their drinks with their eyes firmly fixed on the flesh of the slaves. The slaves were all naked, their strong young bodies every form of perfect, their discarded clothes piled in the corner. The scent of male arousal was heavy in the air. Freddie's pretty Tom was on his back on the gaming table and Robert’s Dick stood between his thighs fucking him. Tom made little hitching sounds with each slam of Dick’s hips against his ass. As Henry watched, Charles' Simon went to stand by Tom's head and Tom fellated him awkwardly, craning his neck. At the directive of one of the masters, David's Alex reached for Tom's cock with one hand while stroking his own with the other. Slaves not directly engaged in this tangle were kissing one another and playing with one another's pricks. Without being told to do so, Peter began to strip off his clothes. Martin moved to join him, but Henry caught his wrist and held him in place.

Charles sat on the settee with his cock out, stuffed into the mouth of Albert's Stuart, who knelt naked on the carpet. He looked up when Henry and Louis entered with their slaves. “Ah-ha!” he cried. “Finally, Henry! I thought we'd never see you and your fancy slave at one of these things!” He kept his hand on the back of Stuart's head as he spoke.

Henry panicked a little. “I'm not—” he said. “I mean, Albert said that I didn't need to, or, rather, I don't share.” He felt relieved to say it. “I’m not going to share Martin.” Making himself clear.

Charles looked baffled. “But why not?” he asked. “You'll never know if any of them are better than yours unless you try.” He looked down at his lap. “Stuart here has the best mouth, in my opinion, but Robert swears by my Simon.”

“No one's favorite is their own, it turns out,” Albert said, close at Henry's elbow. “It's fun as hell to try them all, Henry.”

“But you have to share,” Charles said. “Or it isn't fair.”

Across the room, Freddie unbuttoned his trousers and called to Peter, who went without even looking at Louis, as if while he was in this room he belonged equally to any of the masters.

Henry shook his head. “No. Sorry. I won't share.” He wouldn’t put Martin in the position of having to answer to any master who called his name. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Charles frowned. “Well, you can't just stand around and watch, Blackwell. It's not fair to the rest of us. Play along or leave.” He petted Stuart's head then pushed it down into his lap. “Acting like some stuck-up, selfish prude,” he muttered, but meaning for Henry to hear. “Completely unreasonable.”

Fuming, Henry turned on his heel, elbowed Albert aside and opened the door.

“If you go, Blackwell,” Charles called, “I won't let you change your mind. I won't invite you to another one of these.”

Henry did not turn around. “Thanks for your hospitality,” he snarled. He stormed out of the room, Martin close behind him. They exited the party room into the hallway and Henry made a wrong turn somehow, taking the service stairs and ending up in the kitchen, and one of the scullery maids had to find them a footman to get their hats and coats and see them out the door.

It was bitterly cold. His nose began to run almost immediately. He wanted to crush Martin to him, to protect him and hold him close, but they were on a public thoroughfare and so he could do nothing of the kind. He walked faster. The thought that anyone else might touch Martin, and that they might do so callously, was completely unacceptable. Louis had been right: these were not his kind of parties.

“Sir? Sir?”

“What is it?”

“I—I wouldn't mind, Sir. If you want.”

“What?”

“If you wanted to go back, Sir, I…would understand. This sort of thing…I knew it could happen. It's well-known that gentlemen have these sorts of parties after all, Sir.”

Incredulous, Henry came to a dead stop under a streetlight. “What? You wouldn't
mind
?” Martin was just as bad as the rest of them! “
I
mind, Martin! You…you
matter
to me.” He took hold of Martin's shoulders and gave him a good shake.

Martin pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sir, I only meant—”

“It's bad enough there were men
before
me, Martin. There aren't going to be any others
after
me.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Henry strode off, and Martin hurried to catch up. “And why the hell would I
want
to go back?” he demanded. “What possible reason would I have?”

Martin appeared to be choosing his words carefully. “It's just that the boys you know now will be your business associates in the future, Sir, and these sorts of activities bond boys together. It may be advantageous in the future, Sir, is what I'm saying.”

Henry understood what he was talking about, but he didn't care. The idea that he might someday lose out on a business deal because he hadn't let a friend fuck Martin's mouth when they were 16 seemed of no importance at all. “It doesn't matter to me, Martin. They're all careless and selfish, even Louis. I would never let them use you.”

“Just so long as you know, Sir. I wasn't sure you understood the implications, seeing as how Mr. Blackwell is such an iconoclast—”

“A what?”

“A unique individual, Sir. A self-made man. Mr. Blackwell wasn't brought up understanding how things are done in high society, if you don't mind me saying so.”

It was true that Father hadn't had the experiences with Timothy that Henry was having with Martin. Father had no idea how to grow up rich—at Henry's age, Father had been out west, sleeping in the rough and riding the rails, just like someone in a story. Father had known how to take care of himself—he'd had to, of course; he hadn't had a slave then.

“Thank you for considering my welfare, Sir,” Martin said softly. “I appreciate how much you care for me.”

Henry bumped him with his shoulder in place of the embrace he wanted to give him. They walked the rest of the way home in companionable quiet. At the house, Paul let them in, glassy-eyed and smelling of alcohol.

Henry shrugged off his coat into Paul's hands and turned to Martin. “Is he drunk? Are the slaves having a party? Did you know?”

“Keep it down, Sir,” Martin said, laughing. “Don't wake the house!”

“Can I go? To the slaves' party?”

Martin steered him toward the staircase. “Why don't you let everyone have their little drinking party, Sir, and then we'll come down at midnight to set off the fireworks?” Paul was not looking, so Martin leaned in and licked the curve of Henry's ear. “I'll keep you busy until then, Sir, I promise I will.”

Martin was especially playful and coquettish, licking Henry everywhere and paying extra attention to his nipples, which Henry appreciated very much. Martin straddled his hips and rode him, digging his knees into Henry's sides. Henry came, and then Martin knelt over Henry's face and fucked his mouth while Henry fingered his sticky hole.

They knew it was midnight when they heard the shouts and explosions from all over the city. They quickly redressed and went downstairs for their coats, and then to the service yard, where the household's slaves had gathered with champagne and fireworks and were just finishing singing
Auld Lang Syne
.

Caught mid-revelry, the slaves all looked at Henry with carefully blank faces.

“Does it ruin it if I'm here?” Henry asked. “Tell the truth.”

“Of course not, Sir,” said Paul.

“It's just a surprise, Sir,” said Katie.

Randolph held out a match-safe. “Do us the honor of lighting the first fireworks, Sir.”

Henry did, a whole string of firecrackers that went off rapid-fire. He threw them to the middle of the yard, wary of getting his fingers blown off and laughing. Martin dared to squeeze his hand, just for a moment, and if any slave saw, they gave no sign. The slaves drank champagne from the Blackwell crystal and Henry wondered about this but said nothing; they would have gotten permission from Timothy, and if Timothy thought it was all right, then he supposed that it was. He drank a glass of champagne, too.

It came out that Timothy had spent ten dollars on the fireworks, a huge sum just to burn to ash, and all were most appreciative of the luxury.

“Your house is so generous, Sir,” said Ruby, an overly-talkative girl Henry thought he remembered was a scullery maid. “Every day I'm grateful I belong to Mr. Blackwell and not one of these other high-and-mighty so-and-sos.”

Henry liked knowing this, that his family were good slave owners, the sort that slaves preferred.

Slaves from other houses came by to wish their compatriots a happy new year, to see the fireworks, to gossip. Most didn't notice Henry was there and their behavior was free and natural. It turned out that Billy had a girl, a maid called Jane who belonged to the Slatterys next door, and he waltzed her around the yard while the others sang a dance tune that Henry did not know.

There was quite a crowd in the yard, twenty people or more at any given time. Henry recognized most of the faces of his own family's slaves but was, as always, a bit iffy on putting names to the maids. The slaves visiting from other houses seemed somewhat deferential to the Blackwell slaves, lending credence to what Ruby had said about the Blackwells being good owners.

There was an elaborate firework, tiers and pinwheels and a tail of braided fuses, that was carried into the middle of the yard by Billy and Paul and lit by little Johnny. The pinwheels spun, shooting white and green sparks, while a fountain went off at the center of the structure and spewed forth red stars. The maids and Johnny waved lit sparklers.

Henry yawned. It was very cold and he wanted to curl up with Martin and sleep. He nudged Martin and turned for the door, and they went inside and up the stairs. Martin undressed him and he climbed into bed naked. Martin undressed himself, put on his pajamas, and took their laundry downstairs. When he returned, he stripped off the pajamas and got under the covers.

“Do you have any New Year's resolutions, Henry?” Martin whispered, stroking Henry's hair.

Henry turned to rub his cold nose against Martin's chest and nestled closer. “Hmm. To have more sex,” he suggested. Martin snickered. “To be braver, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not to worry so much about what everyone thinks. Not to worry so much about whether everyone will figure out that I'm some sort of queer.”

“I'm sure it doesn’t matter,” Martin said. “You're going to be a very important man one day.”

“I don’t care about being important,” Henry insisted. “I don’t care about business or society. None of that matters.
You
matter, us together. That’s
all
I care about.” He lifted his head off of Martin's chest so he might look him in the eye, defiant.

Martin chuckled and eased his head back down with soothing strokes. “All right, Henry. I believe you.”

“What about you? What are your resolutions?”

“Might I also resolve to have more sex?” They both laughed. “But, really, all I want to do is to make you glad you chose me for your own. I never want you to regret that, Henry.”

Henry could not imagine any circumstance that would make him seriously unhappy with Martin. “I won't,” Henry promised him. “I could never regret it.”

Henry made a further resolution, though he didn’t share it with Martin: he resolved to find a way to tell Martin how he felt in the new year. Sometimes he imagined that it was obvious, that Martin already knew. After all, he’d given Martin his heart the moment he’d laid eyes on him. It had been foolish and reckless, but he’d had no choice, and he didn’t regret it, couldn’t possibly. He hesitated to lay himself bare, however, without feeling more certain Martin would reciprocate. How horrible it would be to risk declaring his feelings only to have Martin hesitate, look embarrassed for him, and say,
You’re such a kind master, Sir. I’m very lucky,
his pity devastating.

But even if Martin were to say the words back to him, risks of a different sort would entail. If his love was returned, he was sure the joy of it would spill out of him. If he was showing love with every glance, every utterance, exposure and humiliation seemed inevitable. More than anything, he wanted to be stalwart and brave and face his fears of ridicule because Martin deserved a man who was bold and unafraid, but they had to be
safe
, too, and Henry didn’t trust his own discretion.

His gut and heart argued for a dramatic, romantic declaration, and the sooner the better, but he knew it would be risky, at best. Martin, who was very strict about proper behavior outside of the bedroom, might not appreciate any such ardent proclamation anyway. The person who would best be able to tell him whether or not it was a good idea to say the words was Martin himself, but obviously there was no way for Henry to ask his advice on this matter.

Besides, he needed to start making decisions for himself.

He would think about it, seriously think, and he’d figure something out. In the meantime, he would be loving and kind and generous and above all deserving, and would hope Martin could read between the lines and discern his intent. For now, he could demonstrate the depth of his feeling without saying the words. He felt confident the new year would present opportunities to say
I love you
if he would only look for them.