A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (41 page)

“No, let me,” Henry whispered. “It's all right. Others are
doing it.” It would be okay, they’d never see any of these people again. He
kissed the skin in front of Martin's ear, his jaw, his neck where it met his
collar. Martin sighed and relented, moving his hand aside. Henry kissed him the
way he knew he liked to be kissed, deep and languorous, and Martin moaned and
arched into the pressure of Henry’s hand, pushing his cock against Henry's
palm. With the way Martin was gasping, Henry knew it wouldn't take long, and he
realized belatedly that there was nowhere for Martin to come, that his semen
would make a mess on one or both of their dinner suits, so he did the only
thing he could think of and went to his knees, holding tight to Martin's hips.

Martin cried out hoarsely, “Henry!” as Henry took him into
his mouth. Henry looked up and in the glow from the streetlight he could see
that Martin looked a little scared, but he knotted his fingers in Henry's hair
and pushed his hips forward, burying his cock in Henry's throat.

All around, strange men were looking at them, watching them.
Martin closed his eyes and bit his lip, but Henry wanted to look back, wanted
to see the effect their display was having. To the right, a man whose face was
in shadow watched and rubbed his own cock through his trousers. Someone behind
Henry said, “Go on, suck it, pretty boy,” low and coaxing, and others murmured
their approval. Henry took Martin deep and pulled back, deep and back, lips tight
and tongue curling. Martin tried to keep quiet, making strangled sounds instead
of the full moans Henry knew were building in his throat. The more noise Martin
tried
not
to make, the more the men around them were stirred up.
Martin's hands tightened in Henry's hair and he began making little frantic
noises, so close, so close now. Henry's own cock was painfully constrained, but
he didn't want to let go of Martin's hips to undo his own trousers. He felt
like he could come just from doing this, from being watched by these strangers
while Martin jerked to completion in his mouth.

Some unseen person standing close behind put a hand on
Henry's shoulder and squeezed. “Finish him,” a rough voice suggested, and Henry
did just that, pulling back to suck the head, cheeks hollow.

“
Henry
!” Martin begged, “Oh, Henry!” He stilled as he
shot into Henry's throat and let out a breathy moan. The world went briefly but
profoundly white, sparks along his nerves, and Henry slumped against Martin’s
legs in a daze, with the dim realization that he had indeed just come in his
pants, down on his knees, in a room full of strange men. He leaned his forehead
against Martin's hip, trembling as he caught his breath, then helped Martin
fasten his trousers and got somewhat unsteadily to his feet. The men around
them faded back into the darkness.

Martin kissed him, tasting himself in Henry's mouth as he
liked to do. “What shall I do for
you
?” he asked in a breathy whisper.
He reached for Henry's cock but pulled his hand back. “What happened? You're
wet.”

Henry blushed in the dark. He leaned close so no one else
might possibly hear. “I already came from sucking you. Let's find a washroom so
I can clean up.” He couldn't dance in this state, that was certain.

There were men fucking in the bathroom. There was a man
letting all manner of people, all comers, take him where he stood bent over in
a toilet stall, his hands braced against the tile wall. Henry stood in the
corner and dabbed haphazardly at his trousers with a bit of toilet roll, finding
the man in the stall very distracting. After he had cleaned himself up, he and
Martin lingered, watching the spectacle. Henry was interested in the men
waiting for a turn, the avid expressions on their faces. He thought of how he'd
felt with Martin's cock in his ass and imagined sustaining that raw intensity
through multiple couplings, a variety of cocks, and knew he couldn't do it, and
was a little in awe of the man, exhibitionist and endurance artist.

They returned to the ballroom and the music. As they waltzed
around the floor, Henry thought he saw the red-haired boy and his handsome
friend, but when he looked for them on their next circuit, there were no
familiar faces. They danced a polka, several waltzes, and then a varsovienne
before taking a break and drinking more champagne.

While they stood finishing their glasses, a man and a petite
woman approached. She was the only woman Henry had seen since they'd entered
the ballroom, but she stood out additionally because she was very pretty and
wore a lurid mauve dress. She had brass-blonde hair piled in curly masses atop
her head, a hat spiked with blue feathers, and wore more paint than Henry had
ever seen close-up. The man with her was short and dressed in a green velvet
jacket and floppy bow tie. His brown hair was slicked back from his forehead
and he gave a friendly but decidedly untrustworthy impression.

“You're new here, aren't you?” The man stuck out his hand
for either of them to take. Henry hesitated; Martin shook the man's hand
falteringly. “Anthony Fitzgerald,” he said. “My friends call me Fitz. And this
here—” pointing to the lady at his elbow “—is Stella, renowned star of the
stage.” The woman gave a little curtsey, giggling.

“How do you do,” they said together, giving her little bows,
just nods of the head.

“You boys are new,” Fitz stated again. “I'd have remembered
the likes of you.”

“They're a pretty pair,” Stella said, hanging heavily on
Fitz's shoulder. Her voice was surprisingly deep and raspy. “I always like it
when new ones are nice to look at.” She looked Henry up and down appreciatively
and smiled. Henry blushed.

“Do you boys enjoy a show?” Fitz asked, cocking his head.
“Burlesque entertainment?”

Henry had heard of it, of course, and knew it was meant to
be provocative, but did not know precisely what it entailed, and from the brief
look they exchanged, he was fairly certain Martin didn't know, either. Henry
cleared his throat. “Of course,” he lied. “We are connoisseurs.”

Fitz laughed. Did he know Henry was lying? It didn't matter.
“Wonderful!” Fitz exclaimed. “So, you'll come to the show, then, won't you?”

“Which show is that, Mr. Fitz?” Martin asked. He put a
tempering hand on Henry's arm, not wanting Henry to commit them to anything.

“Stella's show!” Fitz put his arm around Stella's waist and
gave her a squeeze. “She sings, she dances, she tells knock-knock jokes! She
does it all!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flyer which he
presented to Henry with a flourish.

It was only after reading the words “All-Male Revue” that
Henry understood that Stella was not actually a woman. He gaped at her and she
smiled, delighted to have fooled him. She was so small! There was no shadow of
a beard, nothing manly about her at all. She did not, however, have much of a
bosom; Henry was never looking for bosoms, so tended not to notice their lack.

“If I'm not mistaken,” Fitz said, gesturing at the room, the
general ambiance, “this will be the last tune tonight.”

Her head cocked, listening to the music, Stella confirmed
this. “Yes, ‘Home Sweet Home’ is always the last number. They'll be packing up
soon.”

“So come with us, gentlemen! Come see the show!” Fitz took
Henry's elbow and attempted to lead him toward the door.

Henry turned to look at Martin, who seemed at least open to
the idea. Henry leaned close. “I'm not ready for this night to be over, Martin.
What do you say?”

“I won't refuse you,” he said. “But let’s have more
champagne before we go.”

Henry bought champagne for Fitz and Stella, as well, and the
four of them went downstairs with their glasses. While Martin collected their
hats from the cloakroom, Fitz hailed an open cab, a landau. The four of them
tilted their heads back and looked up at the swirling, dizzying stars. Henry
drank his champagne and pulled Martin close, encouraging him to put his head on
his shoulder. He felt like he would burst from joy.

They rode further downtown, perhaps half a mile, to a
district that was seedier still than even the neighborhood of the Calamus. Fitz
and Stella made themselves scarce while Henry paid, giving the driver a
ridiculously generous tip just because he was happy.

At the theater, Henry paid for tickets—Fitz and Stella
encouraging them to spring for a table near the stage—and they all went inside.
Fitz led them to their table but then discreetly melted away, and Stella
disappeared to go backstage and ready herself. All around them were men in
couples, men in groups, and these men were dressed in all manner of costume and
were boisterous and unashamed, and Henry was excited to be in their number. He looked
around at all the faces, some of which were looking back, and sought but did
not find the red-haired boy from the restaurant.

They ordered a bottle of champagne. It was not good
champagne, but it was effervescent, and that was enough.

The lights dimmed and the curtain came up on a bawdy
tableau, an orgy of scantily-clad male bodies, and the band struck up a rousing
tune. The All-Male Revue was underway! In its structure, this show was like
vaudeville shows Henry had seen in the past, but the content was like nothing
he could've imagined. It was made up of the sort of shocking talk he got from
Martin's bold mouth, except played for laughs and frequently set to music.
There were feigned sexual acts, dirty jokes, acrobats whose set pieces always
ended with someone's face mashed in a crotch. There were lewd songs, including
one sung beautifully and with great humor by Stella, who was surely good enough
to sing on any stage. For the finale, there was a line of can-can dancers who
revealed with their high kicks that they were definitely all male beneath their
frilly skirts, showing off a plethora of wagging cocks. Most of the dancers
didn't look like actual women, yet were all the more alluring because of it.

Henry poured the last of the champagne into their glasses.
He beamed across the table at Martin, who smiled back with his heartbreaking,
enchanting smile, and Henry could not love him more. He had never laughed so
much. He had never imagined a night like this, could never have hoped for such
an excess of breathless erotic joy. He and Martin, they could do anything,
anything they liked, and it would be all right. Anything at all. He looked
around, at the men and men-dressed-as-women all around them, and exulted in the
kissing couples, the reveling friends. The last of the dancers had left the
stage, but the band was still playing, and now the performers were moving
through the crowd.

“Come around,” Henry said, beckoning. “Close to me.” Martin
scooted his chair so that he sat at Henry's left hand. Henry took hold of his
jaw and kissed him and Martin moaned into his mouth.

“Henry, everyone can see…” Martin whispered with an excited
little quaver in his voice that let Henry know he liked the idea.

“They're only looking,” Henry said, petting his neck,
whispering against his lips. “No one is judging.”

They kissed, tasting the last of the champagne in each
other's mouths.

“Did you boys enjoy the show?”

Henry looked up and saw Stella standing there, bathed in
golden light, still in her can-can costume. He vividly recalled the jouncing of
her cock against her white thighs as she lifted her skirts and kicked, and the
memory made him blush.

Martin showed her his brilliant smile. “It was wonderful,
Miss Stella.”

Henry cleared his throat. “You, uh, have a lovely voice,
Stella.” He did not trust himself to speak of her dancing.

“May I sit with you gentlemen?” She did not wait for an
answer, but pulled up a vacated chair from a nearby table and wedged herself in
between them, her knees touching theirs. Up close, she smelled exotically of
stage paint and sweat overlaid with some floral cologne. She put one hand on
Henry's knee, her other hand on Martin's. “Shall we order some more champagne?”

Henry caught Martin's eye and hesitated. He wanted to, he
did, but he was quite drunk already. He expected he'd feel terrible in the
morning as it was. Martin had spots of pink high on his cheeks and his eyes
were shining; Henry did not want to disappoint him. He dithered, unable to
decide.

Stella decided for him, flagging down a waiter and ordering
a bottle. “Add it to the gentleman's tab.”

Stella took his hand and placed it on her knee, under the
hem of her skirt, doing the same with Martin on her other side. “You two looked
so beautiful kissing,” she said softly, her lips at Henry's ear. “It made me
wish someone would kiss
me
like that.”

Henry looked at her, shocked. Was she asking him to…?

She laughed at his confusion. “If not you, maybe your
handsome friend…?” She leaned toward Martin, but kept her eyes on Henry,
watching his reaction. Whatever she saw in Henry's face, it made her stop
teasing. “Never mind, then,” she said with a cheerful shrug, sitting upright
between them. “I can always ask my mother to kiss me goodnight.”

She still had hold of their wrists, their hands beneath her
skirt. She slid Henry's hand up the inside of her smooth thigh, past the top of
her stocking, and Henry thought of her fat prick in its ruff of dark-blond hair
and wanted to touch it, touch it and nothing more, out of simple curiosity. He
looked at Martin, whose hand was similarly directed, and realized with a pure,
jealous pang that he didn't want Martin touching Stella's cock, for curiosity
or any other reason.

“No,” he said, wresting his hand away. “I can’t. Sorry, but
no.” Martin also withdrew his hand.

“Here's your champagne,” the waiter said, appearing suddenly
at Stella's back. He leaned in and put three champagne glasses on the table,
popped the cork with a great spray of bubbles, and poured.

Stella slung her arm around Martin's neck and picked up her
glass. “To beautiful couples,” she suggested, and all three drank. She
abandoned her chair and slid onto Martin's lap, which clearly startled him, but
he did not protest, and even put his arm about her waist. She turned and
whispered something in Martin's ear, something that made him blush, and Henry's
possessive anxiety ratcheted higher still.