Cambridge Men

Lord Henry Whitridge was used to being master of his own world. He wielded effortless command over any milieu in which he found himself, whether it was among his family, his Cambridge classmates, or the tenants of the estate he had inherited from his father. He possessed all the traits a gentleman ought to have–beauty, strength, wit, wealth–all in perfect proportion. His beauty was not so dazzling as to outshine his intelligence. His intelligence, in turn, was never so virtuosic that it distracted from the sturdy symmetry of his figure or the healthy vigor of his athleticism. And, of course, every body can be made more beautiful, and every mind can be made to appear sharper, if one possesses a large fortune and a title. The four letters that preceded Lord Whitridge’s name were as beautiful as any chiseled muscle, as impressive as any feat of strength. The sum of his bank account made any statement he made the pinnacle of wit.

Could one blame the young Henry if he thought much of himself? His manner was always dominant, but never domineering. He ruled his cohort at King’s College with the easygoing entitlement of one whose supremacy had never been questioned. He was captain of the cricket team and received frequent invitations to exclusive dinners and societies. He was a man with whom one wanted to be acquainted, an advantageous connection for all those lucky enough to associate with him. All the world seemed to be made for Henry’s enjoyment, and he molded the wills of those around him like soft dough in his sturdy hands.

That is, until Enzo entered his cohort.

Vincenzo Negri transferred to Cambridge in Henry’s second year. The drama of his backstory conferred on him an automatic aura of mystery. He had originally been a student at the University of Bologna, but he had fled Italy after Mussolini came to power. Rumor was he had only narrowly escaped imprisonment for his political opposition by stowing away on a fishing boat headed for Albania. Enzo himself neither confirmed nor denied the rumor.

Enzo was, in many ways, a perfect foil to Henry, in body and in spirit. In contrast to the perfect symmetry of Henry’s figure, Enzo’s body was disproportionate. He was too thin. His nose and cheekbones were too pronounced. The matte of black hair on his head stood out in every direction. Whereas Henry projected a sturdy English stoicism, Enzo seemed to feel everything too deeply. He argued with his classmates and spoke back to professors passionately and boldly. He was an outspoken communist, and the vehemence with which he opposed the status quo attracted the attention of many. If the world was made for men like Henry to mold, Enzo seemed determined to oppose the mold, to rub against it, to unsettle its boundaries.

Henry introduced himself to Enzo as soon as he arrived, with the intention of impressing upon this newcomer that he was a power to contend with. He knocked on Enzo’s door and offered him a gift: an expensive tie pin with the name of the college inscribed on it. “I brought you a welcome gift,” he explained when Enzo opened the door.

Enzo took the box, opened it, and ran his finger over the small gold pin. “This looks expensive,” he commented. Henry noticed a musical lilt in his Italian accent. His expression conveyed neither approval nor disapproval.

Henry took the opportunity to make sure Enzo understood his position. “Lord Henry Whitridge,” he said pointedly.

Instead of being impressed, however, Enzo simply raised one eyebrow. “Tell me,” he responded coldly, “how does it feel to be part of a dying caste of aristocrats?”

Henry found himself unable to think of a satisfactory response. No one had ever spoken this bluntly to him before or questioned the unequivocal virtue of his nobility. He gaped at Enzo, who stared back at him with cool intensity. Finally, to break the silence, he laughed uncomfortably as if it were a joke.

“I don’t need this,” Enzo said, handing the box back to Henry. Before Henry could protest, he shut the door in his face.

It was the first crack in the foundation of Henry’s primacy.

There would be many more little transgressions to follow. Indeed, Enzo seemed to take active pleasure in antagonizing Henry and disrupting his comfortable orbit of acquaintances. When Henry organized a study group to discuss classical philosophy, Enzo showed up with a copy of Marx’s Capital. When Henry played first batsman in the cricket finals, Enzo was the only man from King’s College who did not show up to watch. Slowly, Enzo gathered a group of followers, fellow malcontents who questioned the institution of the college and, by extension, the power of Henry’s wealth and status. It bothered Henry to no end, angered him, itched at him; with every small act of defiance, a chip on his pedestal fell to the floor.

***

Henry was not always the pinnacle of gentlemanly perfection that he projected to the world. He allowed himself precisely one hour every week when he let his composure slip.

Henry frequented a small, clandestine nightclub in town every Thursday. It was a seedy place, located in a part of town that none of the Cambridge men visited unless they were after one thing: boys. It was Henry’s only vice, his weakness for men’s bodies, and although he knew it was an egregious one, he was also an expert at containing it. He made his sojourns there as inconspicuous as possible, departing late at night and taking a cab with a different driver every time. He had a boy he favored at this particular club, a brawny, flaxen-haired man named Clive. Clive was beautiful, with a bodacious, muscular body, but best of all he was discreet. He never spoke to Henry unless necessary; he performed the transaction with prudent indifference.

On the occasions Henry visited, he had his routine down like clockwork: he would enter the nightclub, head straight for the back corner where Clive was usually to be found, purchase a quick, efficient burst of release, and be on his way. He spoke to as few people as possible, then returned to his life at Cambridge as if the transgression had never happened. Quick and contained, that was how Henry liked to keep his habits–contained enough that he never had to think about them too deeply or experience their consequences.

Halfway into the Michaelmas term, Henry’s routine was interrupted. On this particular evening, he ducked his head into the basement of the nightclub and began to head in the direction of his usual corner. Before he could reach it, he crossed paths with a man who made him stop in his tracks. He wore different clothing than he did at the college, more casual and colorful, but his pronounced features and the intensity behind his eyes were unmistakable: it was Enzo.

Henry stared at Enzo; Enzo stared at Henry. Neither said a word. In Enzo’s eyes, Henry saw a flicker of acknowledgment. It was not an expression of surprise, nor approval, nor derision, but rather simply an acknowledgment of sameness. Henry gave a curt nod. Enzo nodded back. Then, just like that, the moment of understanding passed. Henry turned away and continued on his route wordlessly, and Enzo was lost in the crowd–lost, but certainly not forgotten. His presence weighed on Henry’s mind throughout the evening, a convergence of worlds that unsettled the separation between his real life at school and the brief escape that these weekly sojourns provided.

Why was this man everywhere Henry went? It was bad enough that he disrupted the order of Henry’s cohort at university, but to follow him here, to the secret space he went to escape from himself, was too much. From that night on, every time Henry saw Enzo, whether it was in class, in chapel, or walking through the cloisters of the college, he knew that Enzo knew his secret.

***

It was not until the beginning of the Lenten term that Henry decided that something must be done about his unruly new classmate.

They were sitting in their history tutorial, discussing the British Empire with an eminent scholar of modern history, Dr. John Morley. Henry sat on one side of the room, flanked by his group of friends, and Enzo sat on the opposite side, accompanied by his own group.

“Now,” Dr. Morley was saying, “I wonder if we might discuss why the British Empire came into existence. What was the point of it?”

Henry, confident that he knew the correct answer, answered immediately. “To spread civilization,” he responded.

From the other side of the room, Enzo let out a loud guffaw.

“You have a different opinion, Mr. Negri?” said Dr. Morley.

Enzo smiled coldly and said in a sarcastic tone, “Ah yes, how civilized the British are. What a wonderful gift the empire gives the people of the world: the privilege of working themselves to death on its behalf.” He made the remark in a throwaway manner, but he directed his gaze unwaveringly at Henry. Henry understood that the statement had been a challenge: Enzo had thrown down the gauntlet and was waiting for him to pick it up.

Henry blustered forward. “We have shown the black men and the brown men of the world the value of a hard day’s work, the rule of law, and the written word. We have brought light to the dark continent.” He was sure that this was the correct answer, the answer the professor was looking for. It was what he had always been taught.

Enzo, however, seemed to think differently. “The dark continent indeed!” He scoffed. “Tell that to the men who fought in the trenches in France. Was it Europe or Africa that waged the bloodiest war in history? There is only one dark continent, and we are living on it.” The provocative flair of his final statement generated a hum of approval from his comrades.

“If you’re suggesting…” Henry stammered, then stopped himself, unsure how to continue from here. He had never needed to defend the incontrovertible goodness of Western civilization before. It had always been self-evident, a given. “And what about…what about the word of the Gospel?” He said finally. “Christian morality? Salvation? I suppose you’d like us all to squat in the dirt like savages!”

A curious expression came over Enzo’s face. His eyes bored into Henry with that same recognition that they had had that day Henry had run into him in the nightclub. “Ah yes,” he said softly. “I had forgotten how committed you are to Christian morality, Lord Whitridge.”

Henry’s eyes widened. Only he and Enzo knew the implication of the statement, the source of its irony. Would Enzo go further in revealing what he knew? Would he dare? Terror shot through Henry, freezing him to the spot as he waited for Enzo to continue. Enzo, meanwhile, stared Henry down with his unwavering gaze, seeming to know that, in this moment, he had Henry completely in his power. “Look closer at your own country,” he continued finally. “I think you’ll find plenty of savagery right here in England.”

Henry was speechless. He breathed a sigh of relief that the danger had passed, but Enzo’s statement had shaken him to his core, and he could not think of an intelligent response. Eventually, Dr. Morley interjected. “Thank you both, Negri and Whitridge.” He turned to Enzo. “You are quite the impassioned speaker, Mr. Negri. I am impressed.” To Henry he said nothing.

It was defeat, bitter and blunt. Henry hung his head. He could feel the derision in his classmates’ eyes as they looked at him. How easy it had been for Enzo to take him down! And with such cool, efficient ruthlessness! Henry was out of practice as an orator, unused to being challenged on beliefs that had always seemed to him to be common sense. Enzo, on the other hand, had clearly been sharpening his rhetorical sword in preparation for just such an occasion, and he had used the one weapon against which Henry could not stand. Henry’s primacy had been toppled. The seemingly solid fundament of his command had been undermined irrevocably.

Something had to be done.

***

Henry was practiced in the art of securing obedience. In school at Eaton, he had grown accustomed to using physical force to beat outliers into submission. The weapon of choice at Eaton had been a slim wooden cane–not the subtlest of techniques, granted, but quite an effective one. Henry had been on the receiving end of its rebuke on occasion, but he had learned quickly that if he submitted to its order, he would soon be the one on top. He had brought his own cane to Cambridge with him, but until now he had kept it away in his closet. His power here was a softer power, relying on the implicit social code that privileged his wealth and status. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Henry was ready to use whatever means necessary to secure his position.

Henry came to Enzo’s room that night, alone, armed only with his cane. If he was to impress upon Enzo the extent of his power, he wanted to do it through his strength alone, without the help of his friends.

The door was unlocked. Henry entered the room without knocking to find Enzo sitting at his desk by the window. Enzo looked up. An expression of calculated nonchalance played across his face. His eyes flicked down to the weapon in Henry’s hand, then back up to Henry’s reddened face. He gave Henry a knowing smile, as if he had been expecting him.

“I suppose you’ve come to teach me a lesson,” he said calmly.

“That’s right,” Henry replied, walking toward Enzo and standing over him as he sat.

Enzo chuckled. “And how quickly the English gentleman turns to violence! Words proved too difficult, did they? Couldn’t win an argument with me, so you thought you’d try to win in the only language you know.”

In answer, Henry slapped him in the face, hard, with the back of his hand.

Enzo flinched, but his gaze stayed trained on Henry, reading him. A patch of red shone on his cheek where Henry had struck him. All of a sudden, he laughed out loud. A strange expression came over his face, and he began to speak in slow, deliberate words, as if he knew the devastating effect that each word would have: “Is this how you like your men, Lord Whitridge? Is this what you pay for at the nightclub?”

It was the first time Enzo had ever said it explicitly. It chilled Henry just to hear the words. The muteness that overtook him every time Enzo insinuated about their meeting at the nightclub returned. He felt frozen to the spot. He could not speak of it, not ever, not even alone–to speak it aloud made it real.

Enzo sensed his advantage and pressed forward. “It eats away at you, doesn’t it? Henry Whitridge has the world in his hands, but deep down, what is he? A sinner. An outcast. A fairy.”

Henry’s tongue felt glued to his mouth. He stared at Enzo in petrified fury.

“What are you afraid of most, I wonder?” Enzo pried. “That others might find out? That you’ll lose that power you hold so dear? Or perhaps…” Enzo seemed to choose his words carefully, “perhaps you’re afraid that deep down, power isn’t what you want at all?”

Henry tried to brush the words off of him, but they bit at him with an incessant question. Was it true, he wondered? Was it possible?

Enzo crossed his legs in his chair and looked up at Henry as he stood, stupidly, rooted to the spot. He smiled. He had the full advantage now, and he knew it. “Not all men are made to dominate the world,” he observed. “There are other desires, other impulses. I think you’ve felt it before. In the arms of a strong man…the urge to submit…”

Henry’s mind flashed back to his evenings at the nightclub. The sweat, the flesh, the muscles–hot and close, sticky and vulnerable. He recalled the feeling of being enveloped in Clive’s body, of letting go of the boundaries between himself and the world, giving in to the visceral togetherness of the experience.

No! No, no, he suppressed the thought. He would not give in to it. He could not. He turned away from Enzo and paced the room at an erratic, agitated pace.

“You have, haven’t you?” Enzo pressed on, standing up and approaching Henry. “You know, that’s the difference between you and me: we’re both queers, but at least I admit it!”

Suddenly, Henry lashed out at Enzo, brandishing the cane at him, meaning to strike him, to silence him from saying those terrible words. But this time, Enzo was prepared for him. He intercepted Henry’s blow, grabbing him by the wrist and twisting his arm. Henry grunted in pain and tried to free himself from Enzo’s grasp, but he was surprised by Enzo’s strength. Enzo may have been thin, but he was muscular, and he had clearly been in fights before. Henry, for all his bravado, had never had come to blows with a real adversary; he had never been in a fight with a man who was not afraid of him. He dropped the cane, which clattered as it landed. Enzo used his leverage to force him to the ground. Henry tripped Enzo, sending him sprawling to the ground on top of him. In only a few seconds, Enzo regained his composure and pinned Henry to the ground underneath him. He grabbed the cane off the ground next to them and pressed it to Henry’s neck, keeping him trapped underneath.

It had all happened too quickly. Henry was completely at Enzo’s mercy. He tried to break free from the stronghold, but his arms were pinned to his sides underneath Enzo’s legs, and the cane pressed against his neck uncomfortably, limiting his breath and making him gulp for air.

“Okay!” He gasped, “You win!”

Enzo stared down at him in furious concentration. “Say it again,” he ordered quietly.

“You…you win,” Henry faltered.

Enzo smirked. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he continued, “you’re not my boss. I don’t play by your rules. And that’s how it’s going to stay. Do you understand?”

There was nothing else for it. “Yes,” Henry assented in a quiet tone. Henry stopped struggling. He had been defeated. There was nothing to do now but to submit to whatever revenge Enzo had in store for him. In truth, there was a seed of relief that had begun to blossom in Henry’s consciousness. The decisions were out of his hands, which sat, pinned uselessly to his sides. “What are you going to do to me?” He asked, a tremor in his voice.

Enzo’s expression softened, and so did his grip on the cane. Henry gave a sigh of relief as it became easier for him to breathe. He looked up at Enzo anxiously, waiting for his response, but Enzo seemed to be taking his time. He set the cane down by his side. He ran a hand through the fine texture of Henry’s sandy brown hair. “I’m going to make you an offer,” he answered finally, “and I think you will say yes.”

“What is it?”

“I want to fuck you,” he said. “I want to make you submit to me.”

Henry’s eyes widened. His heart began to race–in fear or excitement, he wondered?

“What do you think?” Enzo was saying. “Would you like that? Powerful men, I’ve notice, so often have a submissive streak.”

Henry was struck by the sincerity of Enzo’s remark. The indication that Henry would like to submit to Enzo was not an accusation. It was not an expression of derision or a weapon wielded to shame or abuse him. It it was an offer. Enzo continuing studying the smooth, symmetrical contours of Henry’s face with his finger, tracing the outline of his jawbone. Henry felt his skin tingle at Enzo’s touch. His mind returned to the scenes of forbidden indulgence that he so often banished from his mind. He remembered the feel his lover’s hands on his neck, the power of his lover’s body, the ecstasy of release. He let the hum of arousal play across his body, and this time, he allowed himself to linger in the sensation, to feel pleasure in it.

But still, it was difficult to bring himself to say that he wanted it. “It doesn’t seem like I have much choice, do I?” He offered, hoping that Enzo would take the statement as an invitation.

Enzo was not moved. “No,” he said. “I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you tell me that that’s what you want, if it is what you want. I want to hear you say please.”

Henry drew in a deep breath. Could he say those few monumental syllables? Would his lips know how to form the sounds? But he found that the act of saying the words was, physically, no different than stringing together any other sequence of syllables: “I want it,” skipped off the tongue with surprising ease. “Please,” he added faintly, almost as an afterthought.

Enzo smiled. “Very well.” He loosened his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt and vest. “Have you ever been with a man who really wanted you before?”

Henry shook his head. The only affairs he had ever had were with men whose bodies were for hire.

“It is an entirely different experience,” Enzo explained. His hand moved around Henry’s scalp, took hold of a fistful of Henry’s hair, and tilted his head upward. Henry let him do it. Enzo leaned down and planted a kiss on his lips, deep and full. An electric power pulsated through his lips. It was not a possessive power, not exactly; this power was kinetic, potent, exuberant. Henry absorbed it like water. “When you’re with a man who wants you for his own pleasure,” Enzo continued, “he shows you all the ways he likes your body.” As he said the words, he traced an invisible line with his finger along the smooth, symmetrical contours of Henry’s face. He kissed his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. He licked each facial feature with a hungry, curious tongue, as if he wanted to consume Henry’s beauty, to taste every morsel.

Enzo helped Henry to remove his jacket and tie, and began undoing the buttons of Henry’s shirt. His hands snaked under the shirt, grasping the sturdy flesh underneath. Enzo’s touch was rough, squeezing and scratching the contours of Henry’s chest. He learned its topography deeply and thoroughly, grasping each curve and valley of Henry’s torso, feeling its strength and its pliancy, its hardness and its softness. He undid Henry’s belt, then slipped his trousers down his legs. Henry’s skin came alive in each place Enzo touched. He began to lose himself in Enzo’s consumptive zeal, and he closed his eyes and let Enzo envelop him. Enzo removed his clothes as well; Henry felt his lean, muscular chest press against his own, his naked legs straddling him as he lay on the carpet.

A sharp pain rent through his left cheek. Henry gasped and opened his eyes. Enzo had delivered a precise and painful slap. The pain flashed across his eyes, sharpening his senses and rousing his attention. “That was for earlier,” Enzo grinned. “The next one’s just for you, if you want it,” he continued. He held up his hand, ready to strike again, waiting for Henry’s approval.

Henry nodded. He did not know why, but for some reason he did want it.

“I want to hear you say it out loud,” Enzo pressed. “If you want it, tell me you want it.”

Henry hesitated. “I…” he began… “I want it,” Henry admitted.

Enzo slapped him again, this time more forcefully, on the same spot as before. Henry drew in a sharp breath as a neat imprintation of pain cleaved into him, swelling, then subsiding. Henry shuddered with the thrilling novelty of the sensation. It was rousing and arousing, waking him up and awakening his desire. “Do you like it?” Enzo asked.

Henry nodded.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” Henry admitted.

“Very good.”

Enzo pinned Henry’s hands down to the floor and kissed him, penetrating his mouth with a curious tongue. His hands traveled down Henry’s arms, then ran up and down his chest. His fingernails traced lines across Henry’s torso, showing up pink on his pale flesh. With a quick, sharp movement, he slapped Henry again on the chest. Henry moaned as the pain played across his chest. Enzo slapped Henry again, this time across his right cheek, then twice more on his chest. He twisted Henry’s nipples, drawing out a biting, cathartic pain. Henry whispered his assent. He felt alive in his skin, more aware than he had ever been of the fact that he had a skin, and that its pain and its pleasure were being deftly manipulated by Enzo’s steady hands. Enzo’s slaps began to increase in frequency. Henry felt the pain of each slap swell, then intensify as Enzo agitated the sensitive flesh with a second blow, a third, a fourth. He gritted his teeth. His moans turned to whimpers. He found that he was gasping each time he breathed.

“Do you still like it?” Enzo asked.

“Yes!” Henry exclaimed.

Enzo removed Henry’s underwear, revealing his erection. “I’ll say you do!” Enzo grinned and struck him again, hard, with both hands on each of his inner thighs. Henry flinched and drew in a sharp gasp. Enzo struck Henry’s thigh again, this time with a closed fist; it was a deep, full pain that rent through his leg. Henry groaned deeply. Then, a flash of pleasure as Enzo ran a hand over his cock.

“Yes,” Henry moaned, then the moan turned into a gasp as Enzo punched his other thigh. With one hand, Enzo began to play with Henry’s cock, while with the other, he continued to deliver blows all over Henry’s body–his thighs, his chest, his face. The sensations of pleasure and pain competed for primacy in Henry’s body, and he gave himself to feeling everything, to experiencing every contrast, every gradient of ecstasy and agony. Enzo grabbed Henry roughly by the chin and kissed him, channeling his exuberant power through his lips into Henry’s. Henry melted into him. His hips moved up and down involuntarily as Enzo masturbated him.

Enzo removed his own underwear and positioned himself so that he was straddling Henry’s neck and shoulders. Henry looked up at his cock. It was sturdy and girthy, and fully erect. “Open your mouth,” Enzo told him. Henry obeyed. With one hand on his hair, Enzo guided Henry’s head toward his member. Henry took to the task enthusiastically, drawing Enzo’s staff into his mouth, licking it, feeling its curves and its imperfections. Enzo pushed his cock deeper into Henry’s throat. Henry gagged and jerked his head away. “Too deep for you?”

“I could try again,” Henry offered. He brought his mouth back to Enzo’s cock and continuing moving his head up and down its length, taking it into himself with a determined appetite. Enzo held him by the hair with one hand. Slowly, he thrust himself deeper into Henry’s throat, claiming space for himself, gently but persistently. Henry relaxed the muscles at the back of his throat. He welcomed Enzo into him. Enzo filled his mouth and his throat, blocking his breath, and he closed his eyes and shuddered with the intensity of the feeling.

“Open your eyes,” Enzo told him. Henry did so. “I want you to look me in the eye as you suck me.” Henry looked up at him, straight into his dark, piercing eyes. Enzo moved his pelvis backward an inch. “Breathe in through your nose,” he told Henry. Henry obeyed. Enzo moved his hips forward, blocking Henry’s windpipe again. He held fast to Henry’s hair with his hand. Henry lay there, immobilized, the breath building up in his lungs as he stared Enzo in the eye and waited for him to release him, to let him breathe again. With deliberate care, Enzo slid his cock out of Henry’s throat. “Now breathe out,” he said. Henry breathed out. Before he could draw in a second breath, Enzo thrust himself down Henry’s throat, blocking his breath. “Keep looking at me,” Enzo implored. Henry’s chest burned, but he did not try to jerk his head away. He stayed still, caught in Enzo’s gaze, filled with Enzo to the bursting point. Time seemed to slow. Each second passed by as if in slow motion. Finally, Enzo relented. He slid his cock out of Henry’s mouth, and Henry coughed and gasped.

“Oh!” He exclaimed. “Oh!”

“Again?”

“Yes!” Henry opened his mouth. Enzo thrust his cock into it, then began to pump in and out at an accelerating pace. One hand held fast to Henry’s hair; the other fastened around Henry’s nose, preventing him from breathing through his nose. Henry fought back his gag reflex. He kept his eyes trained on Enzo, locked in his gaze. A strange calm was sweeping over him. There was no pressure of decision making, no need to think beyond any moment but the present. He had rescinded control of even his most basic faculty: his breath. There was nothing for it but to give himself up to Enzo’s mercy. As the pressure built up in his lungs, it became harder to resist pulling his head away. His muscles tensed in agitation. Enzo seemed to sense that he was nearing his limit. He held fast to Henry’s head and stayed inside of him for two more, long, deliberate seconds, before finally releasing him.

“Breathe in,” he ordered. Henry followed the instruction. He lingered, waiting to be told to exhale. Enzo looked down at him, an expression of amusement brightening his face. “Breathe out,” he said finally. Henry breathed out. “And you can breathe when you want now.”

Henry breathed heavily, gathering his thoughts. Enzo sat back and waited for him to say something. “How did you know how to do that?” Henry asked presently.

“I had a lover back in Italy,” Enzo replied. “He taught me every trick I know.”

“What else did he teach you?”

Enzo grinned and gave Henry a significant look. “How to fuck a man and make him like it.”

Henry’s heart raced. He offered Enzo a nervous smile.

“Do you like being fucked?” Enzo ran his hand through Henry’s hair, twirling a strand around his finger.

“I don’t know,” Henry admitted.

“You’ve never done it before?”

Henry shook his head.

“With me, you’ll like it,” Enzo assured him.

“Okay.”

“Get on your knees. Head on the ground.” Henry followed the instructions. Enzo held a hand next to Henry’s mouth. “Spit on it,” he instructed. Henry did so. “You’ll want more that,” he chuckled. “Remember where this hand is going? Go on, get my fingers wet.” Henry spat on Enzo’s hand again, then wrapped his mouth around the fingers for good measure. “Good.”

Enzo brought his fingers to Henry’s hole and began encircling it, teasing it, perusing its outline. “One thing I’ve learned,” he said, “is that the body is a much more flexible instrument than we give it credit for. With time, patience, and an open mind, anything is possible.” His finger pressed deeper, then retreated when he felt Henry’s resistance. He repeated this action several times, and each time he found room for his finger deeper and deeper in Henry’s hole. “Relax,” he beguiled. “Let me in.” Henry tried to obey, to make himself soft under Enzo’s touch, to yield to his persistent fingers. Enzo began rubbing up and down Henry’s cock with his hand, coaxing moans and sighs out of Henry, who felt flickers of pleasure course through his body at Enzo’s touch.

Patience indeed, Henry thought. Enzo worked Henry’s cavity with such patient, masterful technique that his steady penetration felt like the most natural action he could perform. Henry found himself wanting to welcome Enzo’s finger into him, to draw him further and further down. One finger turned to two, and a shudder ran through Henry as he felt himself being stretched out. “Very good,” Enzo whispered. “You’re almost ready.” Henry felt Enzo’s cock tease the edges of his hole. His eyes widened, eager and fearful in equal measure. “Now, here is what I want you to do,” Enzo said. “Slide back onto my cock. You can go at your own pace. Take all the time you need.”

“Okay,” Henry acquiesced, a tremor in his voice. He moved his hips back a few centimeters, trying to relax his passage and give room to Enzo’s cock. He gasped as Enzo’s girth stretched the muscles around his hole. Enzo grabbed a fistful of his hair and raised Henry’s head up so that he was on his hands and knees. He pulled Henry’s head back, encouraging him to move his body further back onto his cock. Henry yielded, inching backward, pressing deeper. “Ohhh,” he groaned in a deep voice.

“Good, very good,” Enzo encouraged. “One more inch to go.”

Henry whimpered. With effort, he slid his pelvis backwards, feeling Enzo’s cock fill him. He dwelled in the sensation of having Enzo deep inside him and the enthralling sense of vulnerability that it brought. He felt undone, turned inside out, every inch of him discovered.

“Now move back and forward,” Enzo instructed. “Fuck yourself. Make it good for me.”

Henry took to the task readily. He moved forward, giving a deep moan and a shudder, feeling Enzo’s cock tease the walls of his channel, then gave a sharp gasp as he moved back onto it again. With effort, he breathed in and out, gasping and groaning, feeling as if he had to manually remind himself how to breathe. He repeated the motion, back onto Enzo’s cock and forward again. The intensity of the sensation rent through his entire body, tingling from his core through his fingertips. With each movement in and out, it became easier to bear; his body became more flexible, opening to Enzo.

Enzo began to move his own pelvis, thrusting in and out with smooth, vigorous thumps. Henry moaned to the rhythm of his fucking. “You’re doing so well,” Enzo told him, breathing hard with exertion. “Do you like having me inside you?”

“Yes!” Henry gasped.

“Say it,” Enzo ordered. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“I like having you inside me,” Henry parroted. “It feels so good!”

Enzo reached a hand down and began to masturbate Henry. At his touch, Henry emitted a deep, guttural sound that emerged from the deep recesses of his penetrated body. He let the sound escape him passively, past all vestiges of control. He moaned. He gasped. He clutched the lining of the carpet beneath him. Enzo thrust himself in and out, crescendoing in intensity and accelerating in speed. The beginnings of an orgasm reverberated through Henry’s body, building toward a breaking point. Yes! He thought to himself, Yes! He could tell that Enzo was nearing his climax as well. He was sweating with exertion, and it seemed with each thrust as if he were driving toward something just outside his reach.

With a great, wrenching shudder, Henry ejaculated onto the carpet. Enzo’s thrusting persisted, spurred forward by Henry’s release. He pounded Henry into the ground, thrusting deep into him. Henry moaned underneath him, wanting him to come, to spill his seed inside him. “Yes,” Enzo moaned, “yes!” With a final, decisive thrust, he climaxed, shuddering and clutching Henry.

Henry lay on the ground, breathing heavily, thoroughly spent. Through the haze of exhaustion and soreness, a sense of calm crept over him, soothing his limbs and sharpening his senses. He smelled the musk of exerted bodies and the sweet, sharp scent of semen. He listened to the sound of Enzo’s feet on the floor as he stood up to fetch a wet cloth from the washroom. He took note of the feeling of the cloth on his skin as Enzo ran the cloth over his messy body wordlessly. And he noticed above all the emotion coursing through his body, as palpable as any physical pleasure: joy.

Why joy, he wondered? This was a new emotion, something he had never experienced before in connection to his exploits with other men. Relief, yes. It had been like scratching an itch or swatting a fly. But nothing like this. Henry felt serene through and through. Every limb in his body felt as if it were made of exactly the stuff it should be made of.

Enzo sat next to Henry on the carpet and offered him a cigarette. Henry sat up and let Enzo light it for him. Enzo took a long, thoughtful drag. His lips curled into a smile, and he began to chuckle, then to laugh out loud. “And you thought you were going to be the one to teach me a lesson!”

Henry was momentarily affronted, but even he could see the humor in the situation. He chuckled to himself. “I suppose that’s true,” he mused.

“I’ll tell you this, you may be an overprivileged twat, but you’re a good lay,” Enzo’s expression was half joking, half serious.

“Well, you’re an over-outraged little nobody,” Henry shot back in an acid tone.

Enzo took another drag of his cigarette, then said in a despairing tone, “Look at us! We just shared something truly intimate, and we’re still at each other’s throats. Men are really fucking stupid, you know that?”

“I suppose.”

“Let’s cut the fucking power games, okay? I’ll keep out of your business if you keep out of mine.”

Henry grinned. “I don’t know, Enzo, you were pretty up in my business just now if you know what I mean…”

Enzo laughed. “You can joke about it,” he observed.

It was true. Henry had made the comment offhand; it had slipped out of his mouth without thinking. Whatever had passed between him and Enzo, it had apparently broken that invisible barrier that held his tongue in its grasp. Henry could speak aloud his desire. He could joke about it as if it were not shameful at all–and perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it was only shameful if he let himself feel ashamed. He decided to try joking about it again. “Yeah,” he said, “you fucked the hesitation right out of me.”

“I’m flattered!” Enzo smiled broadly. “But seriously, Henry, let’s have a truce.”

Henry considered this. A truce with Enzo would mean relinquishing his dominant position among his cohort. It would mean acknowledging that there was a different source of power than the wealth and status on which he staked his own claims. Was he willing to give it up so easily?

Enzo seemed to read his thoughts. “Power’s not so easy to give up, is it?”

“No,” Henry concurred.

Enzo gave Henry a winning smile. “But you like giving up power, don’t you remember? You love it. You can’t get enough of it.”

Henry offered a sheepish grin in response.

“I’ll tell you what.” Enzo’s face brightened. “If you ever forget that that’s what you like, you come to me. I’ll put you in your place. And I’ll make you like it.” He gave a jovial wink.

So there would be a second time, Henry realized, his pulse racing at the thought. “What will you do to me?” He asked, barely concealing his excitement.

“Well,” Enzo mused, taking another puff of his cigarette, “how would you like it if I hit you with the cane? It’d be a shame if it went to waste, wouldn’t it?”

Henry glanced at the cane lying on the floor next to them. The thought of it sent a fresh spark of fear through his body. He had been caned only a few times before as a child, and the memories of its searing blows, and the humiliation that had accompanied them, were not pleasant. “I don’t know…” he hesitated.

“We don’t have to,” Enzo assured him. “But I think you would like it if I was the one hitting you.”

“Show me.”

“Alright!” Enzo stood up. He put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk, then walked over and picked the cane up from the ground. He examined it, running his hand across its length, assessing its texture and density. Henry watched with interest as Enzo got to know the weapon in his hands. He swished it through the air, not aiming it at anything in particular. Then he struck his own thigh with it, first lightly, then more forcefully, imprinting a line of red along his skin and making him wince in pain. “This thing’s no joke,” Enzo observed. “I’ll go easy on you. This time.” He grinned. He sat down in the desk chair. “Come kneel right in front of me, facing away from me.”

Henry followed the instructions, moving over and resting on his knees in front of Enzo, between his legs. He felt Enzo’s hand give his hair an affectionate ruffle. Enzo moved the cane over Henry’s torso, tracing lines across it, down toward his pelvis, then across his thighs. The end of the cane scratched Henry’s skin, invigorating it. Enzo pressed the end of the cane into Henry’s thigh, causing a dull pain to emanate from the place of impact. Henry whimpered. Enzo brought the cane up, and Henry saw that a small, round bruise had appeared in the spot where the end of the cane had been. “Breathe,” Enzo whispered. Henry drew in a deep breath, just in time for Enzo to deliver a quick, sharp blow onto Henry’s bruised thigh. Henry cried out in surprise. Enzo clapped his hand over Henry’s mouth. He struck Henry twice in a row on the same spot, lightly but precisely. Caught in Enzo’s grasp, Henry trembled in reaction. “Very good,” Enzo encouraged. He rapped the cane against Henry’s other thigh, offering a clean burst of pain that subsided as soon as it came. “I’m just getting started.”