Chapter Text
1.
I was brought up in the countryside of Dorset, not spending as much time in class as my mother had liked me to. I found it much more fun playing in the fields with my mate and helping my father at the store. That is why by the time my brother went to business school, I had left the life of education altogether and started to collect work experience in random odd jobs I found in the village. Needless to say my mother was not pleased with me; she wanted us to strive and pursue a better life than what they had left us. Out of her two sons, I always knew my brother would have done a better job at being her favourite. Fred was always better at school: he actually liked arithmetic and was helping my mother with the bookkeeping of my family's butcher shop by the time he was 17. He managed to befriend a few nice girls in the village and, I could imagine, would be charming and smart enough to get married to and provide for one of them when they came of age. So he did. At 17, I was a sheepherder in Osmington. At 19, I was employed at Pendersleigh Park as a gamekeeper.
Life at the park was not too far from my previous life living on the farm in Dorset with my parents, which was also the countryside and contained a lot of labour, though it is more liberating. The estate is more luxurious, even my room in the servants' quarter is bigger than my old room at home. This is also where I started to know the truth about myself. When I first came here, I shared this room with another servant, Sam, who quit just a few months afterwards. He had been serving the Durham family for five years before I came, which begged even more questions when he suddenly decided to leave. What he told Mr. Durham was that he was going to take over his late father's farm in Wiltshire.
What would sit with me for the rest of my life is that I was the reason that made him leave.
I had always known since my teenage years that I was different from my mates. My body changed dramatically when critical years hit, and pretty soon, I found myself fancying random people, sometimes the girls and sometimes one of my mates. After sports, while I liked to join them for a bit of an excursion to the girls' dressing room, I enjoyed my view at the boys', too. We country boys were curious creatures, and sometimes we would sneak round the bush by the river to check each other out, see how we had grown over the summer and such. Though to them it was all fun and games, I was pretty sure it meant something different to me, because I had to try very hard to stop my body from reacting at all.
When I met Sam, he was all of 32 years old. He was a kind and polite man, and he was not married. Unlike Simcox who always passed snarky comments and stern criticism on my performance at work, Sam often tried to encourage me whenever he saw fit. "Alec, you did great with the roof tiles" or "Alec, I saw you play at the cricket game yesterday, that was amazing". I drowned myself in his warm and gentle manners, and before I knew it, we were sharing one bed.
I had tragically received the news of my grandmother's death earlier that day through a wire and missed the last chance to ever see her. I didn't cry - I couldn't, at least not in the presence of Mrs. Durham, so when I broke down in our shared room, Sam was there to hold me tight in his arms, rock me through my ugly sobbing, and tell me "it's okay", and "I understand". In a moment of vulnerability, I reached up and kissed him on the lips, for I was desperate for an intimate touch. To my surprise, he didn't pull away, but he was waiting for me to lead, not wanting to take advantage of the situation.
It was a strange experience, but a welcomed one. I hadn't read any Shakespeare or Brontë but I felt like that might be what the famous writers of my time called love, or at the very least, affection. If a man didn't love another man, he couldn't have done what Sam did to me that night. He quickly made my sadness melt away, made my grief feel like but a small grain of dust in the grand scheme of things. I clung to him and he gave to me, every bit of my being pleaded shamelessly to be his, to be rid of the burden that was life and death, and to forget the penalty that was waiting for us outside the door.
Sam left during the few days I went back to Osmington for my grandmother's funeral.
Only three days after my return did I find a letter from Sam deeply snuck in my closet. Something about him not being able to continue living in my presence, and pleading me to forget about him. I couldn't remember the exact words of it, because I burned it after reading it once, heart full of anger. Regret.
2.
When I first saw Mr. Hall, my heart jumped. What a beautiful man, was my first thought. I wish I had him, was my second.
Wishful thinking is what I have sometimes, and it was just like that with Mr. Hall. He was a friend of Mr. Durham's from Cambridge. His suits were expensive and his hair was sleek and shiny, almost sparkling in the sun. He asked for my name when I helped him carry the luggage up to his room for the first time, and he almost made a point to remind me that he remembered it.
"Thank you, Scudder, here's your tips," was the second thing he ever said to me.
I contemplated not taking his three shillings. I genuinely didn't want to take his money.
I liked observing Mr. Hall from afar. He was much different from Mr. Durham, though from the same educational background. Where Mr. Durham was delicate and particular, Mr. Hall was straightforward and relaxed. He was kind to all of the servants, offering us tips even when he didn't have to. Though close with Mr. Durham, he never seemed to have much interest in lengthy conversations with other friends of the family over dinner or tea. The two young masters used to spend much more time alone together, either riding horses or picnicking, reading books.
There were rumours aplenty. Millie said they were hugging in bed the first time Mr. Hall came visit. Sally said she heard from Simcox that they were kissing by the Goblin House. They were passed around like a ball with snarky connotations, implying their friendship was somehow a bad thing. They were good friends. In fact, their friendship was a thing I came to admire very much. They understood each other without having to say words - I saw it during tea sometimes, they seemed to be in their own world when they were together, talking about the Greeks, poetry, laws, businesses, for hours on end. I loved watching them talk, even if I was only watching Mr. Hall's expressions: they changed ever so interestedly every time Mr. Durham made a point, or sometimes they suggested that he already knew what his friend was going to say next. It was a complete understanding of some sort that not even Mrs. Durham or Ms. Durham could get through.
That is until one day Mr. Hall stopped coming.
I last saw Mr. Hall a few weeks before Mr. Durham left for Greece. I had only but a glimpse at the man as the cabbie dropped him and Mr. Durham off at the gate to the main house. They both walked up to the staircase and lingered there for a moment. The connection between them was at stake; I saw Mr. Durham looking anywhere but at the man in front of him, while he - my Mr. Hall - was as attentive as ever. He brought a hand up to Mr. Durham's face to sweep away the one strand of hair out of place in his otherwise all gelled up hairstyle. When Mr. Durham turned away, he seemed flushed and out of breath. I guess he thought it was polite to walk inside, but he looked like he was ready to run. Mr. Hall left with a smile on his face, he was confused, but he smiled.
Half a year after that I didn't see him again. He came back just before Mr. Durham's wedding. It was a good day for all of us; there was a lot of drinking and good food but Mr. Hall seemed to be less than excited to celebrate. Over the months I hadn't seen him, he had changed somewhat. He was wining and dining at the reception with all of the guests just the way a good usher would, but the beaming smile on his face was gone, what was left was a mere masquerade. There were a few points in that evening where I desperately wanted to part the crowd of people to get to him - the utterly lonely man in that room full of people he didn't actually enjoy - and hug him tight, how Sam did me the night I felt the loneliest. To tell him "it's alright" and "I understand".
3.
Mr. Hall's visits to Pendersleigh got few and far between. Mr. Durham was not accompanying him most of the time anymore. Mr. London did. Though a jolly and positive man overall, Mr. London was not the person he expected to see at the park, and naturally he got quieter and quieter.
That fateful day in August 1913 was the first time we came in contact. The first of many.
I had the honour of being in company with him and Mr. London for a hunt around the park that one day. I had never been this close to him, and while Mr. London was focusing on the bunnies, I had my eyes fixed on Mr. Hall the whole afternoon. Mr. Hall, on the other hand, had his mind somewhere else entirely. They got two bunnies in total. Mr. Hall didn't even touch the trigger.
When I finally pulled my eyes off of him, it was already nearly dusk.
"The mist is coming down soon Sirs."
Mr. London thought I was cheeky with that comment. I wasn't.
I later found out it was Mr. Hall's birthday. No man should have felt like his birthday was not to be celebrated. I remember my birthdays back at home, full of songs and beer and endless congratulations from my mates. Every year, without fail.
It was clear Mr. London's company wasn't really what Mr. Hall wanted on his birthday, but the chiskeys were more than welcomed.
"Happy birthday, Sir," I ventured. He gave me a confused look, and nodded.
*
I, idiotic I, Millie and Sally did have a little bad habit. We used to fool around in the odd hours of the night, it was always playful. It was one of those days when I was feeling particularly high on emotions and I convinced them to sneak out with me into the greenhouse. “There aren’t gon’ be too many people tonight,” I had said, “there won’t, don’t you girls worry.”
It was a fun afternoon. For one, I was happy for saying the first damn thing to Mr. Hall and though all I got was a confused nod, it was enough for me to grin like a fool for the rest of the day. I was stealing grapes – oh the sweet sweet grapes that were good old Wilson’s life work – and fed them to Sally and Millie with my mouth. They loved it when I do that, and when I had my arms around them. I knew the girls liked me, and I liked them. But it was never the way I had liked Sam or I did Mr. Hall. We were friends, and they were open to me, as natural as all things.
Sally saw him first, holding a half lit cigarette, standing speechlessly outside the greenhouse just in front of us. She tucked at my vest in urgency and I promptly parted my lips from Millie’s. I took my hands off the girls and stood there before his gaze like a naughty boy who had been caught skipping class. Through that whole thing, I didn’t break eye contact with Mr. Hall, knowing though it was in an unfortunate circumstance, it might be the last time I could look at him like that. I looked at him with plea. In an hour he could get us all sacked from our jobs. I would soon be leaving for the Argentine, but the girls would have nowhere to turn to.
Mr. Hall looked back at us, angry and gentle both together, and then he left. I couldn’t understand that gaze to save my life. But somewhere deep down in my heart he wouldn’t tell.
That evening we met again when I was called to save the piano from a leaky crack on the ceiling. The air between us was awkward. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him as I walked into the room. It seemed he didn’t tell Mr. Durham about what we did in the greenhouse, but it was still tense as I stood next to Millie taking orders. Mr. Hall was quiet and shifting constantly out of discomfort until the rest of the people had gone.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him walking up to the piano and a moment later, helping me move it.
Had something changed?
I had another habit. After finishing my tasks for the day I would go round to the back garden, looking up at Mr. Hall’s window every time he came visit after Mr. Durham's wedding. I used to watch him until the lights went out. Sometimes he would read or write. Sometimes he would just take his time to admire the starry sky. He always liked to sit by the window, and each day I was curious what choice he would make when sitting there: Would he read? Would he write? What would he read or write?
Our interactions that whole day still played over and over again in my head even when I looked up at his window wondering what he was doing. To my surprise, Mr. Hall aggressively yanked the window open. He was already in his undershirt - he had seemed much bigger in his dinner suits, but then that he was reduced to one layer of fabric, he looked quite fragile. In the heavy rain and the dim reading light in his room, his silhouette flickered in front of my eyes, almost dancing. He didn't only look at the rain, he stuck his head out, getting his golden hair and face all wet. God. He was beautiful. I looked and laughed to myself at that thought. It was not obscure to me. Mr. Hall was gentle to all of us servants and he was beautiful. How I wanted to climb up there and pull him outside to dance with me, share my coat, feel the rain with me. What had happened that night remained unknown to me, but at the end of it, Mr. Hall was gorgeous, and the thought of us standing in the rain together was dreamy and glorious. I felt close to him. In that rainy evening, we seemed to share something. He didn't see me, but I hoped he had sensed my existence in the rain. And I hoped he felt better for it.
4.
It was still raining the next morning. I woke up when the church stroke 4, precisely like I always did. There was not much I could do by the boathouse, it could rain all day for all I knew. I was called to the main house to help with the packing and cleaning. The gentlemen were living today. Young Mrs. Durham too.
I saw Mr. Hall coming down the stairs at around 7. Urgent business in town was all I heard.
He started looking for me after a short breakfast with the Durhams. I knew it was me because Simcox called for me. My heart jumped. Would it be a scolding? Would he threaten my little existence in Pendersleigh by reporting me to Mr. Borenius, or worse, Mr. Durham? What reason would make him want to call for me, at all? I couldn’t help trembling in the presence of Mr. Hall.
Gently, he held out his hand and dropped a five shilling coin into mine.
I remember shoving it back to his, a little panicked. He quirked his eyebrows and tried again. I returned the coin promptly, not missing a beat.
“I’m only tipping you,” he said, and shoved the coin back to my hand, “For your service yesterday.”
I was insistent on keeping quiet and returning the tips. He became visibly annoyed but I couldn’t turn around and leave and end this ridiculous charade. That would be rude and punishable. I also didn’t want to.
“Fine then, if you don’t like my money,” he said angrily as he turned away.
I didn’t know I was holding my breath until he was gone from my sight.
Later, when Mr. Hall and Mr. London were preparing to get on the carriage, I was still shifting in my place thinking about our interaction earlier. I couldn’t help a few sneaky look at their direction, my face flushed with heat every time I caught Mr. Hall’s eyes. Between the rain and Simcox’s barking orders, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. After a few minutes of talking, Mr. London approached me and dropped seven shillings in my hand.
“Five shillings is not good enough?”, Mr. Hall said with an air of hostility as he walked past me, “You’ll only take gold?”
I didn’t like his tone, but I volunteered to bring his luggage to the waiting car. It went without much further fuss.
*
The rain stopped at around midday. It seemed to be sunny until at least after the cricket match. Seeing that both Mr. and young Mrs. Durham would be gone for the next day, I had to ask Simcox about my tasks for the next day. I didn’t like Simcox very much, but he was my superior. He was always snarky and sort of annoying, always on about how much of a lewd I was being so close to the maids. I even knew it was Simcox who told Mrs. Durham about it, which had brought Mr. Borenius here so close to my departure. It was exhausting with Mr. Borenius, but I couldn’t care less – not about him, not about the religion. Religion meant very little to me, but it would make my mother happy for my family to belong to a church wherever we went. I rarely attended a bible class, and when I did my head was not in the book. My conversation with Simcox went a little like this:
“What am I to do tomorrow?”
“Waiting on hand and foot for the ladies and gentlemen is all we’re good for.”
“Okay but there will only be Mrs. Durham and Mr. Borenius tomorrow.”
“Fix the boats or something. Take them out. Might be a good day for swimming tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Durham doesn’t swim. I wonder if Mr. Hall will come back.”
“Sure.”
I was on roof duty that afternoon when I heard Mr. Hall approaching. All alone again, in his dinner jacket. From where I was standing, he looked small and tired. He didn’t seem to have a destination, and only stopped to light a cigarette.
To look at him from this angle. Wow.
I wondered if anyone had had the honour to look at him from here, directly watching as his hair fell apart in the face of a strong wind.
I climbed down the ladder as he was hiding from the wind to light his cigarette in peace. There were only the two of us in the garden. Somehow I was convinced that if I had stepped too harshly the moment would have been ruined.
“Would you gentlemen be shooting tomorrow?” was the first thing I said. I didn’t want to say that.
There would be a cricket match, he said and turned the opposite direction. He was ready to walk away.
“I’m very sorry if I failed to give you and Mr. London full satisfaction, Sir,” was the second thing.
“That’s alright, Scudder,” he smiled. He smiled at me when there was no one around to give him credit for it, like it was private. He turned around and kept walking.
“I’m glad you’re down again so soon Sir,” I blurted out as I watched him leave. Don’t leave, was the sentiment. But I doubt he understood that when he gave me another confused look and kept his track.
I could drown in embarrassment. I meant it. I was glad he was back so soon. It took all of my courage to say it out loud, and I wished I could have said something else, something to make him stay, or at least lengthen the conversation.
Sod it, I thought, it was my last few weeks in England, I might as well go for it.
I had lurked around the bush for 15 minutes when he came out for a walk after dinner. Alone, again.
“Good night, Sir,” I said, stepping out of the bush to walk alongside him.
He was taken aback, “Oh, Scudder! Good night.”
It was clear he had to scramble through his muddled head for a thought the moment after that. I simply enjoyed walking with him.
The conversation was short but pleasant. An actual connection was formed, I felt like. He left with a smile, at the very least. Not a confused smile. He left laughing and wishing me a good night.
5.
That evening I went to the garden under the Russet Room again. Mr. Hall was reading a book by the window, then promptly closed it after a few minutes of not turning any pages. He paced around the room, muddled with something. He disappeared from the window frame for a bit before turning the lights off and presumably going to bed.
More than anything, I was curious. I knew next to nothing about the man, but he was severely troubled and I desperately wanted to help. To talk, maybe. He could use a listener.
It was late, I thought to myself in the middle of my pining. I looked back up one last time before turning back to the servants’ wing, and to my surprise, there he was again in the window frame, looking outside.
A lot happened during the next few moments. He pulled up the window and stepped out to the balcony. He was in his pyjamas, and the cold breeze hit him cold. For a second I thought he was looking straight at me, and though I knew he couldn’t, my heart was rushing, my face flushed, a million thoughts came flooding into my head and I couldn’t keep track.
Mr. Hall looked utterly confused and lonely as he shuddered in the cold wind, in the moonlight. His face was tired but his eyes were wide open, anxious, terrified. He held onto the ladder I had left since the afternoon for strength, and seeing how it didn’t help, he yanked it in frustration. How I wanted to hug him. It was the thousandth time that thought came to me and I wasn’t getting tired of it.
Before I knew it, I was standing next to the ladder. Without another thought, I started climbing. What happened next was almost a dream.
I saw Mr. Hall from outside his window. His face was pure terror, but he tried to keep his calm as he saw it was someone he knew – me. His jaw dropped open at the sight of me climbing through the window. I dragged it out, made it slow, tried to approach him with caution, just like I would a hurt deer.
When I finally caught him in my arms, electricity flashed through my whole being. He was stunned, my cold damp coat draped all over his body as I hugged him as tightly as I had wanted to a thousand times over. He smelled of musk and tabacco with a tiny hint of cologne left from before dinner. My heart pounded like crazy, my eyes went hazy and my ears went completely deaf. What was left were his surprised gasps at every movement I made and myself mumbling over and over, "It's alright, Sir" and "I know, Sir". I was under some kind of spell, I was certain of it.
I dragged my lips across the side of his neck and drew the most delicious gasp out of him. Was I dreaming? He leaned closer to me as if it was possible, giving in to my frantic touch over his silk pyjama top. His skin. I wanted his skin. I wanted to touch him more. It was easily managed for his shirt was much too loose. Soon I was on top of him in his bed, hands pulling his shirt off his shoulders, revealing the milky fair skin that was begging for my touch. I kissed him once where I knew would give a reaction, and it did. Before I could register the sweet gasp he gave me, my lips had peppered endless more kisses on his neck, his shoulders, his chest, each elicited the next best sound from him.
Oh, God. Oh, Jesus.
His hands reached up to me with a purpose for the first time, clinging onto my back, knocking off my hat. He got a small handful of my hair on the back of my head, tugging lightly as a response to everything I did. His head turned to one side to give me more access to the spot on his neck that was the most sensitive. I followed every one of his silent orders without fail. I wanted so much to please him. I couldn't have submitted to him or anyone anymore than that. My whole being existed in that moment for him and for his pleasure only.
I moved downward to explore more of him and my mouth caught his nipple along the way. I took my time at it, letting my tongue swirl around the sweet spot, nipping and sucking. Mr. Hall sighed, and the tension eased. He gave in to my touch, and finally allowed himself to touch me from outside my many layers of fabric. It was all I needed to move further.
When I brushed a nipple with my fingers and bit down the other one with my teeth, he yelped. He flung his hand up to cover the mouthful of curses that was about to fly out of his mouth. It was not unpleasant, I felt, but I stopped and looked up.
God, the flush had now spread from his forehead to down his neck. He looked at me, eyes glassy from unspilled tears, mouth slightly open in disbelief. He looked so pure and angelic. What was I doing? What had I done?
Panic started to spread from my brain to the rest of my body. I saw stars for a moment before peeling myself off of him, terrified. I scrambled to my feet, but only managed one foot on the floor before he grabbed my arm, weakly but purposefully.
"Don't go," he said.
Now it was my turn to open my mouth in disbelief.
"Don't go, Scudder," he repeated, as though he thought I couldn't hear him the first time. The words came right down to the end of my nerves, shook me to my core.
"Sir, I-," I stuttered.
God, what was I to say? But I had already melted before his eyes and leaned in again before I knew it. Our faces were only a few breaths away.
"I want you here," Mr. Hall said to the crook of my neck; I could feel the heat from here, "Touch me, please, Scudder."
No one had said please in that tone to me before. I simply obliged. I kissed his neck again, drawing out the gasp that I so clearly adored.
"Take off your clothes, I want- I want to see you," he said with a tremble in his breath.
It couldn't have been easy to say. I knew my body was dirty and rough from the handiwork I'd done all day. I knew it would starkly contrast with Mr. Hall's smooth fair skin but I had very little in me to care. I shook off my top layers down to my undershirt in a series of quick and successive movements. I was quickly back in his embrace again, my mouth trailing, down, down, until the last button of his pyjama top was removed. My hands traced and touched his torso thoroughly, going in sync with every of my movement. His breath slightly hitched up as I nipped at his waistband.
“Christ, Scudder, up- up here.”
And so I obliged. Like the good servant I was.
He held me in place, just on top of him, my face hovering on top of his. My eyes was unfocused from the heat of the moment, but his were insisting on staring straight as mine. Just like that I strained my breath and look at him, fully.
“I- I don’t know what to do,” he said, voice higher, almost a cry for help, “It is so, very too much.”
“I’m so sorry Sir,” I murmured, “You could tell me to stop anytime you like, Sir.”
“No, I don’t want you to stop,” Mr. Hall said, finally averting his eyes somewhere else, “It’s alright. It’s good. You- you’re making me feel good.”
I got drunk on that last sentence. My mind was fixed on that mission and that only. He worked his hands idly up my arms, his touch more certain at this point.
“What do you want me to do, Sir?” I asked between kisses on his neck, “What do you need?”
“I don’t know,” his voice tripped over itself as I delivered a sweet nibble on the skin of his clavicle, “God, I don’t know if I can think.”
“It’s alright, Sir,” my hands kept exploring downward, “Let me do everything for you. Make you feel good.”
When I touched his waistband, his body went tense again. He held his breath in, his eyes fixed at the ceiling above us, his mouth a straight line. “May I, Sir?” I heard myself ask, and again when he didn’t answer, “May I touch you-”
“Yes,” he interrupted, a little breathless, “God, yes, please, touch me there.”
He didn’t have to say please, but he did it anyway, and once more, I felt myself strained even more in the fabric of my trousers. How I wanted to pull everything off of our bodies, feel the heat of his body on mine, connect to him in the most natural way there was. I breathed hot on his skin as I felt his erection through his silk trousers. He sighed, his breath was trembling.
“Oh-”
“It’s alright, Sir,” I kissed once on his smooth tummy as a reassurance.
“Take your clothes off,” he repeated, “And mine, too. Let me feel you.”
The man was walking in my head. Like a child that was promised a good bicycle for Christmas, I took everything off of myself in less than a blink. His eyes widened, almost sparkling in the moonlight. Suddenly self-conscious about my body, I hid my face in the crook of his neck, helping him out of his trousers just as quickly.
We were quickly tangled again, chest to chest, skin on skin. There was heat everywhere. We just laid there and shared an embrace, breathing together, air blown hot on each other’s skin. At that moment, stripped bare of fancy clothing, he felt just like me, body and soul. He was as much mine as I was his. He kissed my neck the way I did his, and I gladly gave him access to it. His lips were gentle on me, experimenting, learning. He was lovely. A hand of mine went round his back, caressing every bit of skin I found, the other went in between our bodies, and touched his bare cock full of intent. His mouth stopped abruptly on my shoulder.
“You are hard, Sir,” I whispered, “It must have been painful for you, Sir.”
He let out a breath and nodded.
I took it as my cue and started stroking, smearing his slick precome all over the long shaft. He leaned into my touch, hiding his face right next to mine, his breath got quicker in sync with my hand movement.
“I got you, Sir, here, lie down.”
There he was, underneath me, all worked up and begging for a release. The light from the window caught him just right in bed now: he was posed like one of those paintings, face flushed, hair mussed, eyes shut closed. I couldn’t help but bring one finger and traced his face along the jawline, which made him jolt. He opened his eyes and looked at me. God. His eyes. His blue eyes had gone grey, his eyelashes damp with sweat and tears. I bowed down and kissed him on the eyelid.
“You are beautiful, Sir,” I blurted out, “Let me help you.”
With that, I went down and kissed his shaft. My mind was quickly filled with foggy, incoherent thoughts as I covered his cock with my mouth. I could barely hear Mr. Hall’s ragged breathing, his moans, or anything else in the room through my buzzing ears. I could only taste him and my world was filled to the brim with contentment. Anymore of this and I felt like I could implode.
His hands reached for my hair, and a sudden tug pulled me back to the ground.
“Scudder- I’m going to- I don’t feel- ah-,” he stuttered when I pulled back and looked up. His hands loosened.
“It’s alright, Sir, release yourself. I’ll gladly take it, Sir.”
“But you mustn’t- That’s filthy.”
I hummed in disapproval and went down again. I could feel his fingers tightened again in my hair and the sensation was sent right down to my lower half. I grunted in my throat and it seemed to have done something to Mr. Hall as well, because his cock throbbed delightfully in my mouth and he held me in place with his fists in my hair as he thrusted up relentlessly. Only a few more strokes of that and there he went, exploded in my mouth, his come hit the back of my throat, and I was there with him through it, focused on the task at hand.
He flopped down onto the pillow and released my hair at once. I licked the last drop of come off his softening cock. He groaned.
“Come up here,” he said to me.
I laid down next to him, listening intently as his breathing got back to normal.
“Let me help you,” he said, almost as a repetition, “Let me help you, too, Scudder.”
Before I could make up my mind about letting a gentleman touch the private part of my filthy body, he was up on his elbow, his hand down my tummy, teasing the hair down there. He was timid, and it took him a little bit to finally grab my cock in his skinny fingers.
“Show me how,” he asked as he stroked idly on my shaft, fist way too loose.
“You can grab it tighter, Sir,” my hand wrapped around his, “and you can do it faster. Yes, just like that.”
He kissed behind my ears and along my neck as he did what I told. It didn’t take too long for me as I was way too worked up already. My come came spilling on my torso, and a little bit got on his hand.
I huffed and puffed through the aftershock, and when I came to, I saw him still looking at me. During the next moment, he brought his hand up to his lips, and licked.
God. This man.
My eyes widened in disbelief. I grabbed his arm almost immediately but my come was already shiny on the tip of his tongue. He proudly showed it to me before swallowing it fully.
“Now we both have something of the other in our systems,” he smiled.
And I melted.
*
I was woken up by Mr. Hall the next morning, his head rested on top of me, his hand gently tracing down my neck. It wasn’t even dawn yet.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he murmured. I shook my head. I could feel him smiling though I couldn’t see his face, “May I ask your name?”
“It’s Scudder, Sir,” I replied.
“I mean your other name,” he chuckled. I felt a little stupid.
“Only Alec, just.”
He was in my arms now, and we talked until dawn.
Little did I know it was the start of a dream that would last my whole life.