A Superior Slave (Ganymede Quartet Book 0.5) (11 page)

Henry stepped forward, his nervousness apparent. He kept his eyes down, his cheeks pinker still. Face to face, just inches between them, he was everything Martin liked in a boy, everything he found attractive. It wasn’t just his obvious beauty, though; standing together like this, the air was rich with a powerful erotic chemistry that made Martin want to rub up against this Henry, to fall to his knees and serve him. He thought of the boys at other Houses making just such offers to their prospective masters, and he wished that his Ganymede training would permit him to be so brazen.

Henry took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He was taller than Martin, though by no more than an inch, and a little broader. He put his hands on Martin’s shoulders, just as his father had done, but his hands immediately began to shake. Martin trembled, too, and wondered if Henry noticed, if Henry realized how Martin thrilled at his touch. Henry ran his hands down Martin’s arms and held his hands for a breathless moment, but then dropped them hurriedly. He stood back, shoving his hands in his pockets, and said, “Turn around.”

Martin turned in a circle and fervently wished Henry would ask to examine his hole. He was half-hard just thinking about it, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted Henry to notice this or not. Some masters might be put off by a slave’s enthusiasm.

“His parts are very nicely formed,” Mr. Paulsen remarked, as if reading Martin’s mind. “If you’d like to see—”

Before Henry could answer, his father broke in with a question. “What’s this?” Mr. Blackwell asked, jabbing at the catalog page. “Myopia?”

“He
does
wear glasses,” Mr. Paulsen admitted. “Just a touch of nearsightedness, sir. Really, it shouldn’t be a problem in the course of normal duties…”

Henry looked at his father, panic in his eyes at the possibility that his father might be unwilling bid on an imperfect boy. It was the first sure sign Martin had seen that Henry might be interested in him, and it provided him a little welcome reassurance.

“Where are his glasses
now
?” Father demanded, frowning. “Can he see? Boy, can you see?”

“I can see you very clearly, Sir,” Martin told him. “I only have trouble with distances.”

Henry met his eyes, and Martin smiled at him, his most dazzling smile. Henry ducked his head.

“He’s an excellent scholar,” Mr. Paulsen put in, hurrying to extol Martin’s virtues. “Should Henry have occasion to require assistance with his schoolwork, Martin is prepared to help.”

“How is he with Latin?” asked Mr. Blackwell, giving Henry a sidelong glance.

“He’s always received top marks,” Mr. Paulsen assured him. “But he’s also conversant in modern languages, as well. He manages quite well in French, Italian and German.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Blackwell flipped through the catalog with an inscrutable expression. He closed the catalog with a snap. “Henry is athletic,” he announced. “Whatever choice we make, we will expect the boy to be able to keep up.”

“Rest assured, that will not be a problem. As I’m sure you’re aware, all of our boys are given a thorough background in sport. Martin, for instance, is the House fencing champion for the fifteens and sixteens,” Mr. Paulsen told them. “He sits an excellent horse and is expert with bow and arrow. I should not presume that he is any match for Henry, but he should have no trouble keeping up.”

While the adults talked, Martin lowered his voice and asked, “Excuse me, Sir.
Henry
, Sir. What sports do you enjoy?” It was risky to have used Henry’s name, and his minders would be furious with him for taking such liberties, but he desperately wanted Henry’s attention.

“Just those.” Henry’s voice was barely audible. “Same as you.”

Martin hesitated a moment, confused; it seemed unlikely that Henry also participated in the exact sports that Martin had trained in. Well, he wouldn’t question it now, and, hopefully, he would have a chance to clarify matters in the future.

In the same intimate tone, Martin offered, “I also like to swim, Sir. I play the violin. And I’m keen on reading. I could read to you, if you wanted, Sir.”

Henry shook his head, but he did not seem to be rejecting the possibility outright.

How could he make this boy understand what he wanted? Martin leaned closer. “I don’t look it, but I’m very strong. Feel, Sir.” He took another risk: touching without asking. He reached for Henry’s wrist and drew his hand close, pressing it flat to his belly. Henry gasped and pulled back sharply.

“What are you boys talking about?” Mr. Blackwell asked, turning to look at them.

“Nothing, Father.” Henry shook his hand as if burned.

Martin shivered, feeling the hot imprint of Henry’s hand like a brand across his belly. He wanted to feel those hands on his body, holding him down. He wanted Henry to
make
him do things, to play dirty games with him. He’d known shy boys at Ganymede, and they could be just as dirty as any more brazen boy.

Mr. Blackwell stepped back and looked Martin over again. “Hmm…yes, quite impressive, but what about these others?”

Mr. Paulsen said, “Martin, return to your place, please,” and Martin would have preferred to stay within touching distance of Henry, but he certainly wasn’t going to be disobedient in front of the very boy he wanted for a master. He returned to his place on the dais and watched Henry intently.

As Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Paulsen discussed and compared the merits of the other Superiors, Henry poked at the Ganymede disk woven into the carpet with the toe of his boot. He glanced at Martin occasionally, always looking away quickly when Martin caught him doing it. Martin did what he could to attract and hold Henry’s attention, shifting position and arching his back, offering himself as blatantly as he dared. Mr. Blackwell called Henry back and directed him to look at Charlie and Stuart both, but Henry seemed to do this only grudgingly, reluctant and apathetic, and returned to carpet-scuffing and sneaking glances at Martin as soon as he was allowed.

Martin tried to looking as welcoming and unthreatening as possible in hopes that Henry might talk with him a little. Henry was definitely shy, but Martin suspected he might be a little strange, as well. Martin didn’t think he would mind overly much if his master was eccentric. After all, an unconventional master might be more amenable to the sort of relationship Martin fantasized about. It didn’t seem that Henry was going to want to make the sort of inspection of Martin’s body that he’d been putting up with all morning, and that was a disappointment after having to accommodate so many unwelcome touches, so many rough fingers shoved in his hole. Henry didn’t want to touch him now, perhaps, but Martin felt confident that, with time, he could make Henry come around.

His reverie was interrupted by a trio of prospectives, people called Winkler. The prospective master was Bobby Winkler, and he had read the catalog; he asked about the violin, and Martin smiled at him because it was his job to do so, and he chatted with Mr. Winkler about the music he enjoyed playing, always aware of Henry, of Henry’s eyes on his face. Henry looked like he wanted to come force his way in between Martin and Mr. Winkler, and Martin wanted him to do it.

“…most difficult pieces?”

Martin blinked. “Sorry, Sir. What was that again?”

Mr. Winkler frowned, irritated. “I
asked you
what you think are the most difficult pieces.”

Martin gave his opinions in a halting voice, half of his attention on the conversation between Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Paulsen, who were discussing Martin’s merits, and the merits of the other Superiors, and Martin couldn’t tell who Mr. Blackwell favored.

Mr. Blackwell called out, “Timothy, come here,” and the plain-faced slave joined him and Mr. Paulsen in lively consultation.

Martin answered some questions about fencing, which Mr. Winkler had never done but found interesting, and really Martin ought to have been paying more attention to him. He was a smart, curious boy who was musical besides, and he seemed gentle and was surprisingly tolerant of Martin’s inattention. But he did not make Martin feel the way Henry Blackwell did. Henry, who was slouching a short distance away, still kicking at the carpet.

“What do you think, old man?” Mr. Blackwell asked. “I think it has to be one of these.”

Timothy said, “Well, it’s quite plain that Young Sir is only interested in the one,” to his master. “
If
you’re going to take
his
opinion into account, Sir, which I think you ought to do.”

Mr. Blackwell snorted. “That’s what
you
think, eh?”

Timothy smiled. “
If
you’re going to take
my
opinion into account, Sir.” There seemed to be a great deal of affectionate familiarity between Timothy and his master, and Martin thought this precedent boded well for whoever was fortunate enough to become Henry’s slave.

Mr. Winkler turned to his father and said, “I think I like him, but I’m not sure he likes me,” and Martin was embarrassed at his own bad behavior.

“We seem to have quite a few things in common, Sir,” Martin offered tentatively. And although he didn’t want to encourage anyone to bid except Henry Blackwell, he made himself say, “I think we could get along well.”

“So do I. Thank you.” Mr. Winkler gave Martin a little nod and turned to leave with his father and father’s companion.

“Thank you for your consideration, Sir,” Martin said, because that is what they were supposed to say. That was what a top boy, a good slave, would say to any prospective master.

Mr. Paulsen addressed Mr. Blackwell and said, “If you have any further questions, sir, I should be happy to answer them.” Mr. Blackwell did not answer right away, so Mr. Paulsen added, “If these candidates are not to your liking, perhaps I might show you something else…?”

“I think we’ve seen enough.” Mr. Blackwell put his catalog in his pocket. “Thank you for your time.” He headed for the curtained doorway, Timothy in his wake, Henry trailing forlorn.

Martin followed their passage through the crowded room with a sense of panic. He willed Henry to glance around, to see him, to understand how much he wanted to be Henry’s slave. By the time the Blackwells reached the curtained doorway, Henry was nothing but a tall, dark blur, and Martin couldn’t be certain of anything, but he thought Henry looked back.

Mr. Paulsen stood before Martin. “Good job,” he said. “That young Blackwell seemed to like you all right, and his father seems amenable. They’re very rich people. That would be a nice outcome all around.” He gave Martin a friendly tap on the hip with his crop and headed off in search of more rich buyers.

Martin didn’t really believe in a god, but he prayed a little anyway, just in case. He wanted the Blackwells to bid high for him. He wanted Henry to put him on his knees and make him do his job. He wanted to make an effective wish—written down and then burnt, the way slaves always did wishes—but had to settle for just wishing in his head.

He leaned over and said to Stuart, “I wish I could make a
proper
wish.”

Stuart laughed and said, “I know what you’re wishing for. You want that tall one, don’t you? He’s a handsome thing! He didn’t like
me
at all. He only had eyes for you.”

Martin was cheered by this. “Do you really think so? Do you think he liked me?”

Stuart opened his mouth to answer, but he was approached by a trio of prospectives in the company of Mr. Pepper and needed to give them his full attention. The father and son were nice-looking blonds, and Martin couldn’t help but notice that the father’s companion looked as though he might be the father’s better-looking brother. Likewise, the prospective master looked like a lesser version of handsome Stuart. Martin tried to get his mind off of Henry Blackwell and instead contemplated all the possible reasons a rich family would want lookalike slaves.

The next two hours seemed the longest of Martin’s life. He was questioned and examined and prodded by boy after unremarkable boy, and he did his best to be polite and engaged with every one of them, but his mind was on lovely, shy, awkward Henry Blackwell, and the smiles he gave these prospectives were all meant for Henry.

Some of the prospectives were enthusiastic and indicated their intention to bid, and Martin was polite and grateful for their interest, but somehow he did not believe any of them would prevail. An occasional fearful thought of dreadful Adam Pettibone crept in, but Martin did his best to tamp down his panic. Mr. Pettibone’s confidence that his father would bid high enough might be misplaced. Surely someone else would want him more.

But the terrible fact was, if Adam Pettibone won Martin at auction, he’d have no recourse, and he’d have to make the best of it.

It was better to think of Henry.

At 11:30, the showroom doors were closed to new customers, and those who lingered in the viewing area and anteroom were gently encouraged to leave. When at last all the prospectives had departed, the boys were allowed to come down off the daises and were ushered into the back rooms where Mr. Jacob and Mr. Elliott had lemonade and weak tea waiting for them.

Martin asked Mr. Jacob for his glasses but was told he couldn’t have them until after the sale. However, he was given tea with milk and went to sit on the floor against the wall with Georgie and Noah. His back was sore from standing all morning, and his asshole was throbbing from all the rough handling. Despite his nerves and various discomforts, he was in hopeful good spirits. He turned to the other boys, smiling.

“Did you meet anyone good?” he asked.

“
Yes
,” Noah said happily. “A nice boy called Darling—”

“Oh, I met him!” Martin said, excited for Noah despite their history.

“And he didn’t want
you
,” Noah said with unbecoming satisfaction. “He loved my hair. I think he’d spoil me, really. He says his father will bid high, and he seemed to want me very badly. If he takes me, I’ll definitely be happy.”

“There were a few I liked all right,” Georgie said with a shrug. “None I’m too attached to, and I’ll be happy with any of them. But
you
,” he said, nodding at Martin. “
You
fell in love, didn’t you? I saw you do it.”