A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (40 page)

Henry let Martin dress him in the brown suit that Martin had
been wearing, warm from his body. He thought longingly of his bottle-green suit
in the wardrobe at home, his green-striped waistcoat. Perhaps he should have
bought a new suit for himself after all;
he
was not afraid of bold
patterns! Looking around the room as he stepped into the trousers, he wondered
if there was a laundry on the premises; Martin had tried to keep things neat,
but they were going to be buried under soiled linen within a day or two.
Laundry was one of the many things he hadn't considered when he'd left his
father's house.

Martin stood before the mirror, his expression inscrutable.
He had on the suit pants, shirt and braces and held up the
black-and-white-figured necktie before him as if reluctant to put it on. Henry
appreciated the way these stylish clothes fit him. The collar hugged his neck,
and the style chosen came up just a little higher than Henry’s own collars,
very elegant. Henry could not get over the way Martin looked in a gentleman's
shirt! He went to Martin and nuzzled his neck, licked his Adam's apple, and
pressed a surreptitious kiss to the line where the collar met skin.

“You have an obsession with collars!” Martin laughed and
draped the tie around the back of his neck, beginning to coax the knot into
shape.

“I have an obsession with
you
,” Henry corrected. He
stood behind Martin, holding onto his hips, looking over his shoulder to meet
his eyes in the mirror. They made a very handsome couple. He kissed Martin's
neck again and reached around to slowly and deliberately rub his cock through
his trousers until he was hard. He took hold of Martin's shoulders and turned
him sideways to the mirror, then went down on his knees before him. He undid
Martin's trousers and untucked his shirt and licked his cock while Martin
watched him do it in the mirror. When he'd had enough of Henry's teasing,
Martin put a hand on the back of his head and fucked his mouth a little
callously, making him gag, making him feel a bit used.

When he looked up, Martin's eyes were narrowed, his lips
twisted almost in a sneer, but he petted Henry's head like he still loved him.
Henry knew how much Martin liked rough use, but he wasn't sure how he felt
about this treatment for himself. Martin pulled him to his feet and kissed him
hard and deep, tasting himself in Henry's mouth, before gently pushing him
away.

“Let me finish getting dressed, Henry.” He tucked his shirt
in, buttoned his trousers and then finished tying his tie while Henry watched.
“Where's the green waistcoat?”

“Here.” Henry held it up for him and he shrugged it on and
then buttoned it, frowning. “Do you really hate it so much?” he asked.

Martin smiled at him in the mirror. “No, I don't hate it at
all. It's just…I look like such a dandy! It's not really me, is it?”

“What do you think is 'you,' then? Black jacket and tan
pants?”

Martin blushed a deep pink, a rare thing. “Is that so
terrible?” He smoothed the waistcoat over his stomach and turned to one side
and then the other, assessing the fit in the mirror. “I spent the happiest days
of my life wearing that uniform. That uniform meant I belonged to you.”

This frustrated Henry. He didn't want Martin to be wasting
time being sentimental about his slave days when he was offering him freedom.
“Don't you belong to me anyway? Not because you're my slave, but because you
love me?”

“I belong to you, Henry,” Martin agreed without hesitation.
“Body and soul.”

They went to the Venetian Bar. Scotty was delighted to see
Martin again and was at least polite to Henry. He made them each something
called a gin daisy, with gin, orgeat syrup, and maraschino liqueur, which Henry
found every bit as agreeable as the Martinez of the night before. He looked up
from time to time to admire himself and Martin in the mirror behind the bar,
vainly noting how handsome they were together. Martin paid the mirror no mind.
He kept his eyes on Henry, inclined his head so that he might better hear the
things Henry said, and sipped his daisy. Scotty sent a boy out to get them sandwiches
(Henry snickering and elbowing Martin as Scotty agreed to do this) and they
lingered over a second and then a third drink before bidding Scotty adieu a
little after ten o’clock.

It might have been the effects of the gin, but Martin seemed
at last to be completely in the spirit of their adventure. He was affectionate
and agreeable, like his old self, and he spoke to Henry using his name or
nothing at all, just as a free boy would. They returned to the Calamus and had
a leisurely bath, then shaved again. Martin helped Henry dress for dinner and
then dressed himself. Henry had to admit their clothes didn't fit as well as
the full dress costume they'd left behind at his father's house, but they still
looked very handsome and elegant, and he especially appreciated the detail of
the flashes of red from the linings of the jackets as he and Martin moved about
the room.

They took the elevator down with another pair of men, these
dressed in everyday suits and bowler hats. They looked both Henry and Martin up
and down and then looked at each other, smiling.

One of the men, a blond with prominent teeth, addressed
himself to Henry. “Going out, then?”

“Yes,” Henry replied stiffly. “Out for dinner.” He wasn't
sure why the man was asking, but could see no harm in answering.

“The two of you look swell,” the other man offered. He gave
Henry a slow smile. When the elevator reached the ground floor, the man held
the elevator door open for Henry and Martin to get out.

“Enjoy your evening,” the blond called after them as they crossed
the lobby.

“Thank you,” Henry replied. As they stepped through the
front door onto the sidewalk, he turned to Martin. “Were those men
flirting
?”
He began to laugh, amused and flattered.

Martin laughed, too, and bumped him with his shoulder. “They
were jealous of me, being with you!”

“I think it was the other way ‘round!”

The restaurant door was a mere ten paces from the Calamus.
Henry let Martin hold the door for him and they went inside. They checked their
hats in the cloakroom and surveyed the main dining room, which was big and
slightly shabby, with dark wood and red walls, fogged mirrors and dull gilt
everywhere. Henry could not help but notice that the floral arrangements were a
bit wilted. All in all, it looked like a tired version of a restaurant his
father might go to with Mrs. Murdock.

They were led to their table by a host in a tailcoat who
pulled out their chairs for them and told them their waiter would soon be by.

The waiter arrived bearing menus. Henry asked for “A bottle
of your finest champagne, please,” and the waiter went to fetch it while they
looked over the bill of fare. Henry thought he might like lobster, but then
looked around the dining room and saw people cracking claws and wearing bibs
and changed his mind. He really didn't care much about the food; he only wanted
the champagne and the dancing, if there really was dancing to be had.

When the waiter returned, Henry let Martin choose their
food, not paying attention, but instead looking about the dining room to see
what sorts of people were there. It was nearly entirely men, few of them in
full dress, but all of them looking extremely stylish nonetheless. That people
would go out to dinner without putting on evening clothes seemed novel and
daring. Champagne was poured and Henry proposed a toast after the waiter had
left tableside.

“To us,” he said, and drank deep.

“To us,” Martin agreed.

They could hear lively music drifting down from the upstairs
ballroom, the dance floor creaking above their heads. Henry was more and more
hopeful that it really would be a party where they could dance together as men,
not just master and slave, not just as a practice, but
really
dance.

“Afterward,” Henry told him, “we'll go upstairs. It's
rumored that we can dance together.”

“Is that so?” Martin seemed intrigued, which Henry took as a
good sign.

There was some sort of creamy soup, then a plate of fish and
vegetables. It was not delicious, but neither was it terrible. The champagne
was delightful, however. This was followed with a beef dish and some potatoes.

While Henry cut his meat, a couple was seated at an adjacent
table, a well-dressed and handsome gentleman, perhaps in his thirties, and a
haughty-looking red-haired boy of uncommon beauty, much younger. As Henry was
noticing them, they were returning the interest. Martin looked up from his
plate and the boy smiled at him. With his eyes still slanted on Martin, the boy
leaned across the table and whispered something to his gentleman friend behind
his hand.

Henry was both annoyed and titillated by their regard. He
had had enough champagne, however, that his irritation was easily overridden by
his curiosity. He knew what the men wanted with them, with Martin, and he
wondered what it would be like to see Martin with this boy, kissing him, moving
beneath him. The boy hadn't taken his eyes off of Martin. Martin cocked an
eyebrow and lifted his champagne glass to the boy before drinking, and the boy
laughed delightedly.

Henry signaled for the waiter to pour them more champagne.
He raised his glass. “To flirting,” he proposed.

Martin laughed and clinked his glass against Henry's. “To
us,” he said, “and to them.” They raised their glasses to the strangers, who by
now were drinking their own champagne. Henry was tempted to speak with them, to
engage, but Martin leaned across the table and put a hand on his wrist.

“Don't give them the wrong idea.”

It
would
be the wrong idea. He didn't want to share
Martin with strangers any more than he'd wanted to share him with friends.
However, he could imagine a haughty redhead making Martin beg for his cock, and
the idea was
very
compelling!

They had baked Alaska for dessert and finished off the
champagne. Henry felt giddy, happy. This was exactly what he had wanted: to be
with Martin in the world, without the burden of his father's expectations or
Louis' disapproval. When he looked across the table, Martin's eyes were
shining, and he seemed to be truly enjoying himself.

Henry asked for the bill and paid it. They put aside their
napkins and got up from the table. The strange couple stopped eating and
watched them prepare to leave. Henry smiled at the older gentleman. “Perhaps
we'll see you upstairs?” The man smiled at Henry and gave him a curt nod.

“Henry!” Martin put a hand on his arm, laughing, as they
headed for the stairs. “What are you doing? They'll think we're interested in,
in—”

“Swapping,” Henry finished for him. “No, I won't swap you,”
he admitted, “but I
am
enjoying thinking about it.”

They paid their admission fee at the top of the stairs, just
outside the doors to the ballroom. There were men loitering about the entrance
looking at everyone who came up the staircase, looking them up and down. To
Henry, the blatant gaze was a statement, a refusal to be sidelined just because
one happened to be queer. The men looking, they were saying that it was okay to
want to look, and by letting them look, Henry was saying that he thought it was
okay, too.

The ballroom was a cavernous space. The musicians were at
the far end of the room, which was better lit than the area near the door,
where there was a bar serving champagne at ten cents a glass, and the men
milled about in pairs and singles, so many searching eyes. A waltz was playing
and the floor was packed full of dancers, dozens of them, seemingly all men,
most in ordinary clothes. These, Henry thought, were his people. It was
magical, better than anything he might have imagined.

“Dance with me.” Martin put a hand on Henry's arm and pulled
him through the crowd, into the stream of whirling couples.

They had not been able to dance together since the last
master-slave lesson at Gill's. Henry was meant to be focused on dancing with
girls after that and it had not seemed prudent to continue dancing together in
the ballroom at the Blackwell home. Henry had missed how easy it was to dance
with Martin, how they seemed to be made to go together, Martin light in his
arms.

They danced the remainder of the waltz, then the next one,
then a polka, another waltz, then a schottische, and at last Martin begged for
a break. His skin looked dewy and pink and his breath was coming fast. Henry
led him back to the bar and bought them glasses of champagne. They stood out in
the crowd because they were tall, because they were in full dress, because they
were young and beautiful, and the men around them looked and were appreciative.
Henry kept a possessive hand on the small of Martin's back but he also coolly
returned smiles. He wouldn't swap, but he could think about it.

Martin drained his glass. “What do you imagine is back
there?” He gestured with his glass toward a doorway in the back wall that led
into a darkened room. A steady stream of men moved in and out. There were a few
couples this side of the doorway who were embracing and kissing in full view of
the crowd.

“Let's go find out,” Henry suggested. He took Martin's hand
and led him back.

It was dark inside, not pitch-black but very dim, the only
light coming from the streetlight just outside the window. There were dozens of
couples leaning up against the walls embracing, kissing, and groping, and they
had to be careful not to trip over anyone's feet as they made their way deeper
into the room. There were whimpers and groans coming out of the dark, sounds of
greedy kisses. Henry wanted more than anything to kiss Martin in this room full
of strangers, the air thick with sexual longing. He wanted to be a part of it.

Martin turned to him and touched his jaw. They kissed and
embraced. He could feel immediately that Martin was aroused and he trembled in
Henry's arms. Henry did not hesitate. He broke the kiss and led Martin through
the crowd to a narrow place at the wall, close between strangers' shoulders,
and backed Martin into it. He touched Martin through his trousers and Martin
whimpered. He unbuttoned Martin's fly and Martin made a cautionary sound and
made as if to cover himself with his hand.