"Turn over," Lascelles told him brusquely, "and touch yourself." He himself reclined back on the bed, languorous in post-coital relaxation. He watched as Drawlight slowly obeyed. He was very hard indeed, his chest and cheeks flushed, but he seemed reluctant to comply with the second part of the order. Something in him suggested shame.

"Go on," Lascelles said, licking his lips deliberately, turning his gaze into a predatory weight.

Drawlight wrapped a hand around his cock and pulled, then a little faster. He seemed unable to stop his head tipping back. Those beautiful eyes fluttered closed, and he swallowed convulsively. After a moment he moaned, and then tried to stop himself moaning. An especially good stroke of his hand made his whole face flinch, his eyebrows draw up in an unaffected expression of pleasure.

"Very good," Lascelles said softly.

Drawlight's eyes flashed open and, self conscious, he looked away.

"No," Lascelles said. "Look at me."

That got him another flinch of hate. But Drawlight stared at him, his eyes almost drowning, as his hand worked faster and faster— "Not too fast," Lascelles told him, and Drawlight groaned in frustration— and he made noise after noise, little raw noises of breathing, all the noises that men typically made. He worked himself till he was trembling, his cock straining through his fist. His desperate eyes sought Lascelles as pushed himself towards the edge of climax, and Lascelles watched with a faintly interested air as he tripped himself over it: mouth hanging open as his cock pulsed white against his chest, all the muscles in his arm quivering. He was still making dazed noises two minutes later.

"Acceptable," Lascelles said. "We can revisit the matter." He stood and carelessly stripped himself of shirt and trousers, going to wash. Behind him, Drawlight did not make a sound.

When Lascelles had finished cleaning himself and donned a blue dressing gown over his bare skin, he returned to find that Drawlight was, in fact, in almost the same position: stretched out on the bed, drowsy-eyed.

"I don't know what you're waiting for," Lascelles said. "Your clothes are there." He pointed to Drawlight's neatly folded items.

He watched as Drawlight's mouth curled and he went to retrieve the items. He did not seem to want to deign to speak to Lascelles, but he said finally, "Am I permitted to wash?"

"Oh, I suppose so. If only because your clothes are so very expensive. Dare I ask where you got them from? No; do not answer; I am not interested at all." He stretched himself out upon the chaise-longue. "I suppose you ought to dress well if I am going to put you about. Do not worry; I will see to it."

"I am so very grateful," Drawlight said scornfully.

"Do not be like that, Ganymede. You are very lithe and charming, and I have enjoyed having you, and I am sure I will enjoy having you again. And so will everyone else. And you will do very well for yourself off it."

This did seem to temper Drawlight's resentment. By the time he was dressed, he looked merely sulky. Lascelles deigned to stand to straighten his waistcoat and pet his hair back into place.

"There you are," he said. "Not good as new, but presentable nonetheless. Come back on Friday, and I shall have a use for you then."

He watched Drawlight leave with a strong sense of achievement. Theirs, he thought, was going to be a profitable partnership.