boys with unmanicured hands who just wanted to examine as many slaves as possible. One such boy had just finished with Martin, and he had stood upright and turned to face forward when he saw the tall pair from across the room. He froze in place, open-mouthed and staring.
One was fat with sandy hair and the other was dark and slim, and it was as if there was a spotlight following these prospectives, keeping Martin’s attention on them and their progress through the crowd. As they drew closer, Martin could see them well enough to know that the dark one was the younger, the son. They were accompanied by the father’s slave—a Ganymede man and a bland-faced fellow, quite unusual for a companion—and Mr. Paulsen, who was gesticulating with his crop and fending off the Standard boys who tried to grab at the son’s sleeves.
Even at this distance, even with the details hazy, this prospective master was notable. He wore his hair longer than most, and he was wearing a fashionable dark green suit with a striped waistcoat, but he did not have the swagger of a true dandy. Martin squinted a little, trying to see the boy’s face; it seemed possible that he was a pretty boy, a handsome fellow. Martin’s heart began to pound a little harder. Here was quite a lot of what he wanted, and Mr. Paulsen was bringing it directly to him!
Martin stood up straighter, hands clasped behind his back, and leveled his best, most welcoming smile at this still-blurry boy.
They came a few steps nearer and, as his vision clarified, Martin went weak-kneed, swaying on the dais and short of breath with the force of his attraction. At close range, the boy was handsome, so very handsome, and just Martin’s type. He was everything Martin wanted: black hair, olive skin, a shy blush on his cheek, tall and lean and graceful, his clothes hanging beautifully from his broad shoulders. There was something sensitive in his aspect that made Martin think he must be an artist, or perhaps a poet—or maybe he would simply appreciate such things.
It wasn’t just the boy’s looks, though. There was something between them, some magnetic pull, that made it so painfully obvious to Martin that this was the boy he belonged to that it was impossible to believe the boy didn’t feel it, too. He’d felt powerful attractions to boys at Ganymede, but this was of another order entirely. He was too pragmatic to believe in love at first sight, but this was certainly something, something momentous . If this had been a boy at Ganymede, he’d have been able to proposition him, say exactly what he wanted and what he could offer, and it was terrible that he had to wait patiently for this boy to indicate that he wanted Martin, too.
Just based on his initial impression, his visceral response, if this boy took him, if he could belong to this boy, he didn’t think there was anything he wouldn’t do for him. Just to know that this was the boy fucking him would be enough, and he could imagine the rest of what he needed. He’d never receive them, of course, but he could imagine searing kisses from that beautiful poet’s mouth being pressed between his shoulder blades as he was fucked from behind. He could imagine—
Thwack!
Mr. Paulsen’s crop came down hard on the edge of the dais, and they all obediently turned to the left for a beat, to the rear, to the right, then forward again. Martin darted a glance at the boy, and the boy was looking back at him but then blushed and quickly looked away. Martin arched his back a little and wished with all his might for this prospective master to look at him again, to look as long as he liked. He watched the boy’s long hands wringing together nervously and fervently wished that the boy might want to examine him. He’d do everything he could think of to seduce him, bending over so as to blatantly offer himself and squeezing around his fingers once they were inside. The thought of having any part of this beautiful young man inside his body
One was fat with sandy hair and the other was dark and slim, and it was as if there was a spotlight following these prospectives, keeping Martin’s attention on them and their progress through the crowd. As they drew closer, Martin could see them well enough to know that the dark one was the younger, the son. They were accompanied by the father’s slave—a Ganymede man and a bland-faced fellow, quite unusual for a companion—and Mr. Paulsen, who was gesticulating with his crop and fending off the Standard boys who tried to grab at the son’s sleeves.
Even at this distance, even with the details hazy, this prospective master was notable. He wore his hair longer than most, and he was wearing a fashionable dark green suit with a striped waistcoat, but he did not have the swagger of a true dandy. Martin squinted a little, trying to see the boy’s face; it seemed possible that he was a pretty boy, a handsome fellow. Martin’s heart began to pound a little harder. Here was quite a lot of what he wanted, and Mr. Paulsen was bringing it directly to him!
Martin stood up straighter, hands clasped behind his back, and leveled his best, most welcoming smile at this still-blurry boy.
They came a few steps nearer and, as his vision clarified, Martin went weak-kneed, swaying on the dais and short of breath with the force of his attraction. At close range, the boy was handsome, so very handsome, and just Martin’s type. He was everything Martin wanted: black hair, olive skin, a shy blush on his cheek, tall and lean and graceful, his clothes hanging beautifully from his broad shoulders. There was something sensitive in his aspect that made Martin think he must be an artist, or perhaps a poet—or maybe he would simply appreciate such things.
It wasn’t just the boy’s looks, though. There was something between them, some magnetic pull, that made it so painfully obvious to Martin that this was the boy he belonged to that it was impossible to believe the boy didn’t feel it, too. He’d felt powerful attractions to boys at Ganymede, but this was of another order entirely. He was too pragmatic to believe in love at first sight, but this was certainly something, something momentous . If this had been a boy at Ganymede, he’d have been able to proposition him, say exactly what he wanted and what he could offer, and it was terrible that he had to wait patiently for this boy to indicate that he wanted Martin, too.
Just based on his initial impression, his visceral response, if this boy took him, if he could belong to this boy, he didn’t think there was anything he wouldn’t do for him. Just to know that this was the boy fucking him would be enough, and he could imagine the rest of what he needed. He’d never receive them, of course, but he could imagine searing kisses from that beautiful poet’s mouth being pressed between his shoulder blades as he was fucked from behind. He could imagine—
Thwack!
Mr. Paulsen’s crop came down hard on the edge of the dais, and they all obediently turned to the left for a beat, to the rear, to the right, then forward again. Martin darted a glance at the boy, and the boy was looking back at him but then blushed and quickly looked away. Martin arched his back a little and wished with all his might for this prospective master to look at him again, to look as long as he liked. He watched the boy’s long hands wringing together nervously and fervently wished that the boy might want to examine him. He’d do everything he could think of to seduce him, bending over so as to blatantly offer himself and squeezing around his fingers once they were inside. The thought of having any part of this beautiful young man inside his body
Similar Books
