A Master's Fidelity (Ganymede Quartet Book 2.5) by Darrah Glass Page B
Authors: Darrah Glass
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were apparently all clumsy oafs—with the notable exception of handsome Mr. Ross—but the slaves were another story. Martin never asked for details, but somehow he learned so many anyway—who amongst his own friends had a big cock, who was the best at sucking, who actually preferred men, who was good at fucking or being fucked, who could put on a satisfying show for an audience. He went through his days with this information far in the back of his mind, just trivia, but on the slender chance that he was about to attend a swap party, suddenly these details seemed relevant.
Martin wasn’t sure that Henry even knew what happened at his friends’ parties. Henry never asked questions of either Martin or his own friends, and Martin knew better than to volunteer information. Henry liked to maintain the illusion that his friends were as kind to their slaves as he was to Martin, but of course that wasn’t true. Still, Algonquin parties were said to be both tamer and stricter than parties elsewhere in the city. Martin had heard stories of what boys at other schools got up to, and it sounded like masters elsewhere had more fun at their swaps—or more of what seemed like fun to Martin, at any rate. Boys from other schools weren’t policing one another’s behavior so rigidly. They were more playful, more daring.
The omnibus stopped and they got off with Mr. Briggs and Peter. Martin was looking forward to spending time with Little Miss, and seeing her reaction to the present he’d chosen with Henry, but with all this thinking about swapping, he felt flush with yearning and wished that there might somehow be time for some degree of intimacy before going up to the third floor for cake.
But there was no time. They hurriedly changed their clothes, Henry choosing the bottle green suit and the green-striped waistcoat he’d worn to the auction.
“I do so like you in this,” Martin told him, wondering if Henry remembered that this was what he’d worn when they’d met. Henry kissed him in reply, and it was a kiss that might have easily led somewhere, but Little Miss was waiting and Martin gently pushed Henry away.
DECEMBER 20, 1900
The next day at school, the others continued eager and interested in including Martin in swap talk at the meal break, but Martin held back. If Henry had made it clear what he intended, Martin would know what to do, but it was not clear at all, and Martin did not feel he could ask for clarification. If he knew Henry wanted to participate in the swap, then he could feel free to indulge in all manner of fantasies and to flirt with his friends, but if Henry did not want to play—which is what Martin suspected—then such fantasies would do nothing but lead to dissatisfaction and disgruntlement. He was so very happy with Henry, but he’d always liked novelty. He’d always liked to show off. He’d always liked being at the center of a pile of boys, crammed full and gasping, hands on every inch of his skin, and he’d never tell Henry that he missed it, but sometimes he did, just a little bit.
It was cold out in the yard, but they were all tired of being cooped up inside. Shivering in his overcoat, Martin leaned against the brick wall in between Sam and Tom. Poor Sam didn’t look well at all, but he wouldn’t talk about whatever Mr. Pettibone might be doing to him, and Martin knew better than to hope that this meant the torments had ceased.
Tom slipped his arm through Martin’s and leaned against him, companionable and a little possessive, and Martin had to admit he enjoyed Tom’s attention, his affection and little gallantries. He had never given Tom any reason to think it could go any further, though, and Tom knew better than to push.
The masters divided into two groups during breaks, Henry’s faction and Mr. Pettibone’s, but the slaves always mingled freely. Miles and Simon stood huddled together for warmth, both eager to tell Martin about swaps. Ralph and Peter played rock-paper-scissors,
Martin wasn’t sure that Henry even knew what happened at his friends’ parties. Henry never asked questions of either Martin or his own friends, and Martin knew better than to volunteer information. Henry liked to maintain the illusion that his friends were as kind to their slaves as he was to Martin, but of course that wasn’t true. Still, Algonquin parties were said to be both tamer and stricter than parties elsewhere in the city. Martin had heard stories of what boys at other schools got up to, and it sounded like masters elsewhere had more fun at their swaps—or more of what seemed like fun to Martin, at any rate. Boys from other schools weren’t policing one another’s behavior so rigidly. They were more playful, more daring.
The omnibus stopped and they got off with Mr. Briggs and Peter. Martin was looking forward to spending time with Little Miss, and seeing her reaction to the present he’d chosen with Henry, but with all this thinking about swapping, he felt flush with yearning and wished that there might somehow be time for some degree of intimacy before going up to the third floor for cake.
But there was no time. They hurriedly changed their clothes, Henry choosing the bottle green suit and the green-striped waistcoat he’d worn to the auction.
“I do so like you in this,” Martin told him, wondering if Henry remembered that this was what he’d worn when they’d met. Henry kissed him in reply, and it was a kiss that might have easily led somewhere, but Little Miss was waiting and Martin gently pushed Henry away.
DECEMBER 20, 1900
The next day at school, the others continued eager and interested in including Martin in swap talk at the meal break, but Martin held back. If Henry had made it clear what he intended, Martin would know what to do, but it was not clear at all, and Martin did not feel he could ask for clarification. If he knew Henry wanted to participate in the swap, then he could feel free to indulge in all manner of fantasies and to flirt with his friends, but if Henry did not want to play—which is what Martin suspected—then such fantasies would do nothing but lead to dissatisfaction and disgruntlement. He was so very happy with Henry, but he’d always liked novelty. He’d always liked to show off. He’d always liked being at the center of a pile of boys, crammed full and gasping, hands on every inch of his skin, and he’d never tell Henry that he missed it, but sometimes he did, just a little bit.
It was cold out in the yard, but they were all tired of being cooped up inside. Shivering in his overcoat, Martin leaned against the brick wall in between Sam and Tom. Poor Sam didn’t look well at all, but he wouldn’t talk about whatever Mr. Pettibone might be doing to him, and Martin knew better than to hope that this meant the torments had ceased.
Tom slipped his arm through Martin’s and leaned against him, companionable and a little possessive, and Martin had to admit he enjoyed Tom’s attention, his affection and little gallantries. He had never given Tom any reason to think it could go any further, though, and Tom knew better than to push.
The masters divided into two groups during breaks, Henry’s faction and Mr. Pettibone’s, but the slaves always mingled freely. Miles and Simon stood huddled together for warmth, both eager to tell Martin about swaps. Ralph and Peter played rock-paper-scissors,
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