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Book V: Serving
By Ganymede
Thirty-six minutes after leaving Sloan House, Bruce arrived at Winton Crescent, and that included sightseeing pauses at Trafalgar Square and Buckingham Palace. Winton Crescent was one of the most affluent addresses in Belgravia. There was just enough light spilling from the grandly illuminated five-story semi-circle of stucco and stone mansions for glimpses of a private garden-park.
He was worrying about finding a legal parking spot in the dark when Simon, who’d pulled rank to ride with Daniil’s father, gesticulated to turn the next corner.
“Grandpa said you should park in his courtyard.”
Keeping an eye on Claire’s Range Rover in the rear vision mirror, Bruce followed a curving narrow cobblestone lane as Simon went on about who lived where; famous past residents, celebrities, embassies, a few billionaires when they visited London. He ended with a gleeful, ‘We’re here.’
The courtyard was anti-climactic, stone paving, potted orange trees outside a prefabricated conservatory covering a small swimming pool, and a green Mini Cooper S, the original one.
“Simon’s grandfather drove it in the Monte Carlo Rally,” Claire explained. “Boys, you need to ready. Your guests will arrive in less than an hour,” she called.
Simon and Daniil raced to the rear entrance door, leaving Bruce scratching his head. They’d swapped jeans in the Sepulchral Chamber, kissing and bumping their stiff little penises together, like a bizarre post-coital ritual. Sweatshirts they’d swapped in the Library, giggling and carrying on; he had no idea why.
After the Sepulchral Chamber, the rest of their visit to the Sloan House was a blur—nine-year-old catamites didn’t care for classical fragments and paintings in fabulous gilt frames crammed onto walls; however, Bruce still had to drag his son away from Piranesi’s fantastical drawings; and the architectural model collection—they were ten minutes late because of it.
“His first time bumming, no wonder he’s still excited,” Bruce remarked as the boys disappeared inside the house.
Ever the stoic governess, Claire regarded him. “I Was rather surprised, actually. Boys with little willies usually have trouble keeping it inside.”
“He’s smart enough not to pull back too far.”
“He also took to analingus much better than I expected for his first time, especially with us watching.”
“I expect he enjoyed it.” Bruce swallowed saliva, imagining the taste; acrid, bitter, or nothing at all.
“Oh, he did. The sooner you do it with him, the better.”
Bruce wasn’t sure about that, not at all.
Their sex play had resumed in the Sloan House library, stately yet eclectic. He’d captured the best parts of a ‘sword fight’ on camera, and more... Outrageous! And a little bit dangerous with a security guard roaming the premises, which made it even more thrilling.
No wonder Bruce had been distracted the entire way down The Mall, and nearly missed seeing Buckingham Palace. In fact, he was still thinking about two naked boys in the Crypt, posing, cavorting, doing debauched things; things no boy should know at Daniil’s tender age.
“What’s the best way to get to the Orchid Hotel from here, Claire?”
She regarded him with smug amusement. “My father and I have everything arranged. Your wife sent your suit over earlier today.”
He’d anticipated marital discord, at best an argument, when they returned from Scotland. Worse, he had yet to tell his wife about the plans for rehabbing GlenIolaire, guaranteeing a blow-up, if not a feud that lasted for days, even weeks.
“What about Daniil’s clothes?”
“His clothes arrived four days ago.” Her snide tone, and smile, was intended as a reminder.
Imagining his wife’s reaction to high-style for a nine-year-old boy, let alone the expense, Bruce panicked. He’d never hear the last of it; ‘You spent a fortune to dress my son like a little faggot’; and likely far worse.
“They’ll look fabulous on him, exactly he deserves; only they’re not appropriate for his mother’s inauguration.”
Claire looked down her nose. Haughty, taking charge as Daniil’s governess as she normally did, she relished her role as doyenne of Handley House.
She cut him off. “It’s not up to you. Besides, with his looks, he could wear blue jeans to her party and get away with it. However, he’ll be wearing a morning suit.”
“You’re kidding?”
“This isn’t about her, Bruce. Formal attire is required for a catamite’s debut...” She checked her watch. “It’s time you got ready. I’ll bring the boys down when they’re dressed.”
Claire bustled him inside.
oUo
No wonder Bruce gaped as his son and Simon descended the graceful spiral stair, both trying to carry out Claire’s final directions to the letter; be serious and don’t giggle. Still, as soon as their eyes met his, knowing smiles flitted across both precious faces, desperately pretending solemn as they neared Claire, who was waiting at the carved marble newel post.
Naturally, Bruce’s gaze locked on Daniil. However, he wasn't the only man who turned and stared; at least a dozen others did. His son was front and center, Simon a distant second. However, he was glad they were best friends, outwardly apparent in their wedding-style morning suits; navy-blue for Daniel and gray for Simon.
“He’s a sight for sore eyes, truly radiant,” Edwin murmured from behind him.
Bruce turned briefly, somewhat surprised to see Edwin still typing on his cellphone. His best friend had just spent five minutes railing against technology’s impact on social etiquette. Now, he had one eye on Daniil, and a sly knowing smile.
Edwin pressed ‘send.’
“He’s sexy and gorgeous.” He smiled fondly, his voice low. “And to think you deflowered him just a week ago.”
Bruce nodded, confidently calm despite an adrenaline rush, unable to stop staring at Daniil. Had he turned his head even slightly he would've seen Edwin's two-finger wave. Instead, he strained his eyes to see Daniil, two small fingers brushing away an intractable curl, a teasing gleeful smile that left him all but breathless. Love and lust raged, merging with memories of the last seven days, almost none of it truly alone with Daniil, yet happier than he’d ever been.
At the bottom of the stairs, the boys stopped and huddled around Claire to peer at Daniil’s iPhone, hastily retrieved from his pocket.
My Precious Daniil,
You are a sight for sore eyes. Your dear father is the luckiest man in the world. How I long for a catamite like you to stand beside me. Mull that in your capacious brain and turn it into what you will. I wait to hear your pledge of love, and your father’s pledge in return.
To reply to your text; yes, ‘ultra hot.’ The image of you and Simon in your morning suits will stay with me forever. Enchanting!!!
Joyfully,
Edwin
Seeing his son's gleeful smile brought unparalleled joy to Bruce, surely enough to obliterate his bad-tempered wife for the rest of his life. He closed his eyes as if designating certain details to memory. Daniil’s morning suit highlighted his slimness, the style was so sophisticated that size was irrelevant. His relaxed stance next to Simon, his arm casually draped around his best friend’s shoulder, indeed every movement, brought out his real self. Still a child, yet refined and elegant, his innate intelligence was in total control. At the same time, he possessed a kind of vulnerable awareness, not carefree, not blithe, cool-nonchalant.
“Anyone can see you’re besotted. You’ll embarrass the poor boy if you don’t stop fawning over him,” Edwin whispered, both observation and warning.
Bruce nodded again, increasingly desperate as Claire escorted her boys on a weaving path, stopping briefly at small groups of guests, men and women, a dozen or so with boys in tow, all of them older than Daniil, a few by as much as three years.
They were still yards away when Bruce finally muttered, “He cleans up rather nicely, doesn’t he?”
Daniil’s elegant long-tailed jacket was lined with ivory paisley satin. Slender-legged single-pleat trousers disappeared under an ivory paisley waistcoat with four real-ivory buttons. A loosely tied, matching cravat delightfully contrasted a crisp, white-wing-collar shirt—impeccably formal, yet nonchalant, ideal for a catamite’s social debut.
“Best thing for him, wearing a pouch,” Edwin confided. “You’ll never regret it. Neither will he.”
Bruce was so used to the bump in the front of Daniil’s trousers, he hadn’t noticed. It was a golf-ball-sized ‘knob’, inimitable when he put his mind to it.
Claire courteously dodged the crotchety Minister for the Cabinet Office, his conceited second wife, and the unctuous Permanent Secretary. As Claire and retinue veered to less-boring guests, Bruce focused on his son’s behind. He could tell simply by Daniil’s restrained movement that his little bottom was properly plugged. Stretching and reshaping no longer required; L’ Entraîneur now guarded the portal. It made a boy prudent, alert, constantly aware of his sensitive core; and it exercised his muscles.
“The most beautiful boy in Britain has a bum to die for,” Edwin sighed.
Simply looking made Bruce’s face glow. Daniil’s long coat tails came within inches of his knees, pleated to emphasize length, and split all the way up to his waist, thereby framing his bottom. He was blessed; not a flabby bubble, small and firm and well-used... Impossible to forget what ‘well-used’ felt like; hot, succulent, tight, slippery, grasping, comforting...
“I should’ve emailed you first. However, surprising my godson was worth it. A thousand bucks and seven hours on a plane was cheap for this moment.” Edwin was brutally supercilious for a reason.
“I apologize,” Bruce muttered, not the first time. “Her reaction was totally uncalled for. I’m sure Kate’s just nervous.”
At the time, he’d shaken his head in mute disbelief; what else could he do? The first thing out of his wife’s mouth when she saw Edwin in Lord Handley’s library was, ‘The most important day of my life; I should’ve known you’d be here to spoil it.’
“I should’ve called so you could let her know,” Edwin said quietly. “I wanted to surprise Daniil. As it was, he almost wet himself right then and there, not that it would’ve been a problem at the time.”
Bruce looked about to make sure no one overheard. “I take it he was in the shower with Simon?”
Edwin smiled agreeably. “Boys will be boys. At least, Katrina can’t say he looks queer,” he added, keeping a watchful eye on Daniil.
Flustered at the thought of his wife’s likely reaction, Bruce looked around nervously. Across the room, Katrina was conversing with a senior partner, his dumpy wife interrupting periodically. A moment later, Katrina’s faked fascination became an impulsive glare—she’d finally noticed her son, and the woman with him. Lady Claire switched from governess to suave sophisticate, and waved, changing course with Daniil and Simon in tow.
“Don’t bet on it,” Bruce exhaled, heading on an intercepting course, already too late.
Claire stopped before Katrina. She gave an acknowledging smile, ahemed for effect, and waited for the senior partner to finish, something about the misjudging the risk exposure of Venezuelan-registered ship insurance policies.
“Ms. Koklov; this is my nephew, Simon Handley, Marquis of Norton-Wyle, second son of Sir Trevor Handley, and grandson of Lord Eric Handley. You’ll be pleased to know Master Daniel is his best friend and soccer mate.”
Katrina smiled gratuitously at Simon and muttered a few inanities, still playing second fiddle to her two companions, and pretending to be sociable. When the senior partner engaged Simon in a discussion of skeet-shooting, she switched her attention to a now-nervous Daniil.
“Well, aren’t you the little gentleman?”
Her collectivist-father-and-Irish-mother’s daughter, she tended to feisty condescension.
Daniil chilled for a moment. “Hello mother.”
Taken aback, Claire stepped closer, resting her hand on Daniil’s shoulder.
“You’re supposed to be with your father.” Katrina said, clearly a reprimand. She scoured the room.
“He’s with Mr. Ed.” To annoy her further, and placate himself, he added, “Where else would he be?”
He didn’t expect, or want, a kiss. But no hug? No, ‘did you have a nice time in Scotland?’ Not even, ‘how was the weather?’ However, he didn’t miss Claire’s warning squeeze, talon-like fingers clawing his collarbone. He got the message; she expected far better.
“I’m really proud of you, Mom. So is Dad. He talks about you all the time. We both missed you so much.”
Katrina frowned briefly and allocated a motherly smile, mostly for Claire’s consumption.
“Just look at you, finally grown up. And such a sweet thing to say. I’ve missed you, too. Lady Claire says you’re best friends with Simon? You better behave yourself.”
“I like him more when he misbehaves,” Simon interjected, licking his lips for Daniil’s benefit. “We’re staying up all night to misbehave, aren’t we, boyfriend?”
Somehow, Daniil managed not to smirk as his mother recoiled. It was okay if she called her female friends, ‘girlfriend.’ Mr. Ed called it ‘hypocrisy,’ nothing to do with the doctor’s oath.
“It’s okay for me to sleep over, right Mom?”
“Grandpa said it was a wonderful idea, but only if you agree,” Simon interjected. “Please say yes, Ms. Koklov?”
Daniil stole a sideways glance. Simon did smirk, no hesitation at all, and he gave a sly salute with two fingers.
Katrina turned to Claire. “I haven’t seen my precious boy for a week, and I just heard I’m leaving for Venezuela first thing in the morning.”
“I’m afraid, Lord Handley asked specifically for you to go. A good experience for you and all that. If it’s that much of a problem, it could wait another day, I suppose; although the risk is increasing,” the senior partner grumbled.
“It’s not a problem, Mr. Kinderblatt.” Katrina gave a corporate smile, obedient and managerial. “I’ll only be gone a few days, Sweetie; and then I’ll be back for a whole week.”
Kinderblatt pointed out the blatantly obvious, as he so often did. “It’s a pity you’ll have to leave early to get ready. I’m sure Lord Handley won’t be offended. He has a Freemason retreat scheduled for tomorrow.”
He gestured at the other guests, spilling out of the crowded ballroom into the drawing room and picture gallery, a large yet unpretentious marble-tiled chamber packed with landscapes, Constable, Corot, and Turner.
“I believe the Freemasons are the men with boys.”
“My idea, and Simon’s,” Claire interjected. “They’re staying for Simon’s sleep party.”
“Rather a nightmare, if you ask me,” Kinderblatt said.
Daniil used his ingratiating tone. “May I stay for the sleepover, Mom? Please?”
“Oh, look Dear, Sir Graeme Browne’s arrived,” Kinderblatt’s wife interrupted, already steering him away. “We really must thank him for letting us stay in his Paris apartment.”
They passed Bruce and Edwin, oblique nods only, not a word to lesser beings like professors, even if they were Ivy League.
Bruce stopped beside his son, greeting him with a fatherly wink, getting a fond smile in return. Perhaps he was too obvious, yet he wanted it to be an intentional spousal snub. His wife had gone out of her way to be rude to Edwin.
“Simon looks smashing, doesn’t he Dad?” Daniil teased, mocking Simon’s English accent.
Claire’s influence was palpable; he was flawless and poised; just a few of the changes wrought in a week. Oozing pride, Bruce smiled, looking at Simon, mostly at his son, up and down, with a pause in the middle.
“Master Daniil’s the smashing one. I’m but a miserable page who frets his fifteen minutes of fame, and then is heard no more,” Simon giggled, a wolfish smile that was quite out of place in a morning suit.
Unamused, unread, or simply unappreciative, Katrina turned away to catch a glimpse of Edwin’s dubious gesture, two-fingered like some kind of secret sign. Just the kind of silly nonsense he’d plant in her son’s mind. She glared at Bruce, took a deep, long breath, and turned away.
Simon whispered, “Bum licker and boy fucker all in one day.”
Unfortunately, Daniil giggled...
“Daniil!” she snapped. “You’re smart enough to know when to behave.”
Daniil flinched at her tone, beyond snarky. “I am behaving.”
“Your father and I still have to decide what’s best for you,” she continued coldly. “As you know, your grandmother has graciously offered her home in Hartford, which would mean switching schools.”
“I told you on the phone. I don’t want to go to Hartford Academy,” Daniil said evenly, standing as tall as four feet three inches allowed.
Bruce caught his wife’s grimace. “Kate, we’ve already talked about it. Claire’s agreed to be his governess. Daniil couldn’t do any better.”
“Did you know he’s having a sleepover, here, tonight?” Katrina pivoted.
“Eric mentioned it when we arrived.”
“Eric?” came out with a frown. “It’s very nice of Lord Handley to invite him; however, I’m his mother the last time I saw his birth certificate.” Her grouchy tone raised hackles all around. “I’d like to be consulted before you agree.”
“Do we have to do this right now?”
“I’m leaving in the morning, Bruce; at 5:00 am. While you were inspecting your inheritance, I had my secretary look into Simon’s school. It doesn’t accept boarding students until Fall. Daniil will have to go back to Connecticut and stay with my mother in the meantime.”
“He’s not boarding!” Bruce’s voice crackled. “I want him with me.”
“Mom, I want to travel with Dad. I can live in Scotland with him while he writes his book.”
Another deep breath to release tension before she exploded. “That’s not possible, Daniil.”
Daniil looked hopefully at Claire, avoiding the looming squabble by scanning the room. She finally spotted her father, standing beside a George III satinwood trompe l'oeil cabinet. The man next to him rested his hand on his blond-headed son’s shoulder; both uniformed in brilliant-white jackets with blue-satin sashes. Gold braid and regal medallions decorated his front like some kind of military hero, or royalty.
“An opportunity like this comes along once in a lifetime, Katrina. With Claire as his governess, Daniil can learn so much more than going to school,” Edwin said evenly.
“He’s nine! I’ve been out of the office once this week, and that was to look at apartments and schools. He’s already been on a jaunt to Scotland.”
“That’s my point, exactly! He learned about its geology, biology, and history; from the Celts to Bonnie Prince Charlie. Education, not a jaunt.” Edwin turned to Daniil. “Quelle choses en France veut-tu le plus voir?
Daniil smiled, pondered in silence, and ignored his mother. “I can’t choose just one building to see. Notre-Dame du Haut or Villa Savoye. No, the monastery. Sainte Marie de La…”
“Since when did you start speaking French?” his mother interrupted.
“Since Claire started giving me a crash course.”
Realizing the timing couldn’t be better, Claire beckoned her father. When she caught Daniil’s eye, she smiled perceptively.
“Ms. Koklov; I doubt many nine-year-old boys know Le Corbusier,” she began, switching back to governess-mode. “Let alone know that La Tourette is the perhaps the most thoughtful building of the modern era.”
“Daniil’s an exceptionally bright boy, which is why...”
“... a budding architect must travel Europe and see its greatest buildings in person,” Lord Handley interrupted from behind them.
In slow-motion, Daniil inclined his head to look up at the man standing beside Simon, a familiar face, aristocratic yet grandfatherly, with gray hair and steel-gray eyes set among crinkles. His heart surged when the man from the porch of the Orchid Hotel smiled at him, something more than reassuring him. He was being admired by a stranger, exactly like Mr. Ed said he would be. Blood rushed into his penis. He shifted uncomfortably, discombobulated before he remembered eye contact was key, at least according to Hellene. He went for ‘coy boy,’ tried and true after practicing in front of the mirror, innocent blue eyes wide and fluttery, a timid little boy looking up.
“Daniil!”
His hankering to flirt fizzled with his mother’s razor voice, just moments before he realized a mottled hand not only claimed his best friend’s shoulder, it seemed to belong there. He deflated completely, addled, and a more than a little humiliated when the man addressed his mother, not him.
“Katrina, this is Prince Johannes Friedrich Wilhelm von Wittelsbach of Hohenlohe-Auersperg and his son, Baron Christoph. Johannes, this is our newest rising star, Katrina Koklov, Senior Vice President of Underwriting and a key part of our management team.”
Bruce gaped, of the mind that a stunning boy deserved a memorable name, certainly more than Prince Christoph.
Daniil’s gaze shifted left as his much-older admirer went on about Katrina’s outstanding qualifications. Prince Johannes was middle-aged like his father, gypsy-swarthy and balding on top with a trimmed dark goatee, not nearly as good-looking as Mr. Ed...
Unaware, Bruce daydreamed as his wife curtseyed to Austrian royalty, socialist-liberated-woman demagoguery tossed out the window when she graciously allowed her limp-wristed hand to be captured for a kiss. They engaged in the usual social pleasantries.
Standing anything but idly by, he’d become a boy connoisseur. For the first time, a boy other than Daniil dominated his thoughts. Christoph; he dwelled on the name even as he indulged his innermost desires.
He was preteen, attention-grabbing genetic perfection; no gypsy with his insipid Nordic complexion, curly blond hair longer than Daniil’s, pellucid blue eyes, and delicate features. Combined with distinctly feminine mannerisms, it was enough to counter the down-sized version of his father’s soldierly attire. Appropriately, he lacked the gold braid and regal medallions decorating the front of his tight jacket.
Observing Bruce, Simon nudged Daniil and whispered. “Your dad’s willy’s as stiff as yours.”
Glancing down, Daniil wanted to shrivel up and die. Still tiny, yet it was more prominent than ever; it had to be because of his trousers, elastic-waisted and constantly pulling into his crotch. Then, he peeked at his father, just to be certain Simon was teasing. He wasn’t!
“Don’t be so nervous,” Simon added under his breath. “Grandpa’s handling it. Stay cool.”
Daniil’s mother was still talking when his training regained control. He could feel the old man’s eyes on him, compelling him to look back. It lasted mere seconds, yet that glimmer of a smile he’d noticed outside the Orchid Hotel had returned in full force. Moreover, the old man’s eyes were intense, searching for something, not openly, surreptitiously. Nervously, Daniil brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, two fingers together the way Claire had said.
Finding what he wanted, Lord Handley elevated a furry eyebrow, two fingers aligning his wrist collar, silently posing an unspoken query as he lifted his fingers past his nose. Daniil panicked, scarcely hearing his mother talking about finding a school for him, something about grades and years, and advanced levels.
Edwin was the fly on the wall, instinct and intuition sensing Bruce’s envy and Daniil’s yearning, primal lust raising its head, taking over commonsense. He’d seen it before and expected something of the kind. Sooner rather than later. He went about intentionally distracting Bruce before lust bubbled over.
“Christoph’s a pretty one, isn’t he? Not like Daniil, though,” he murmured.
Bruce quickly glanced away. Christoph was pretty, blond and effeminate, still not his ideal. His Daniil was the only truly beautiful boy in the room... But why was he peeking furtively at Lord Handley, not once, again and again? The man was old enough to be his grandfather.
Suddenly, Daniil felt light-headed, his face and neck as hot as his very-erect penis, now straining into his pouch. He couldn’t stop himself from staring at Lord Handley’s big bulge. Bewildering to any young boy. Demanding his attention like the proverbial cannon shot across the bows. Would it be bigger than his father’s, Mr. Ed’s, Trevor’s? Claire said it was natural for a gay boy to think about size.
Shuffling his feet, a demure little boy taking quick little breaths, chewing the tip of his tongue, wondering what it would be like to hold it, suck it, not understanding why an old man made him quiver inside.
Then, Simon snickered beside him, and spoke with a very soft whisper, “My grandpa really likes you.”
Daniil gaped, not at Simon, his grandfather. Hellene said ‘vulnerable’ suited him. He smiled at the old man again, starry-eyed zany kid, little penis throbbing so much he couldn’t stop twitching.
Waiting for Katrina to finish ingratiating herself, Lord Handley risked a darting glance at Daniil’s midsection, just to be sure. Sure enough, an erection; he was wriggling around exactly as Graeme Browne said he would! No shame or reluctance on the American boy’s part. His silly smile was most endearing.
“... And, of course, her husband, Professor Bruce Stirling, and her son, Daniil James,” Lord Handley finished.
After a firm adult handshake, Prince Johannes beamed at the boys in morning suits.
“Master Simon, you’re as charming and dapper as ever...” He squeezed Simon’s small hand and turned to Daniil. “I’m delighted to meet you, Master Daniil.”
He seemed jovial as he clasped Daniil’s hand, yet the way he looked at the smaller, younger boy was nothing short of furtive, instant lust tinged by invidia.
Introductions completed, Lord Handley also turned his gaze on Daniil, leaving the young catamite both shaken and stirred. Lost for words, utterly overwhelmed, his elderly admirer was far more eminent than he ever imagined; hardly the man who had gaped at him on the hotel steps, even winked at him with his father standing just a few feet away.
“Daniil, I hear you’re ready for the EU; but is the EU ready for you?” Prince Johannes’ aristocratic tone said much more.
Lord Handley regarded Daniil. “No question he’s ready, and willing and able; but does he merit a grand tour of the EU?”
“I say we should test him, Eric,” Prince Johannes joked.
Panic erupting, Daniil looked from one man to another. Both made him anxious, excited. What had Claire said upstairs, between supervising his third flush and painting Simon’s toenails? Most men preferred enthusiastic boys. He looked up meekly, translucent eyelids flicking, oozing nine-year-old gay-boy charm.
“Okay, my budding architect, how many Noble Orders be there in Architecture?” Lord Handley posed.
“There are five, Sir,” Daniil shot back. “Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite, or Roman. There’s a tower in Oxford that uses all of them...” He searched for a name. “Bode-something. It’s a library.”
He peeked at his father, hoping he wasn’t mistaken. Bruce winked, increasingly enamored.
Prince Johannes chuckled. “Let’s see what he’s learned in London. Name London’s greatest architect?”
Daniil gulped. His mother carped constantly about him taking after his father, always reading, drawing, talking architecture. His father’s books energized him... However, he couldn’t think, not with her glaring at him...
“Most books would say Sir Christopher Wren.” Safe, and less likely to be contentious.
“If in doubt, always say a Freemason!” Lord Handley chuckled.
“Wren was the Master of the Lodge of Antiquity,” Edwin whispered to Bruce.
“I have something in my library of interest to a budding architect. Perhaps you and your father would like to see it,” Lord Handley went on. “Prince Johannes, while we’re gone, could you and Christoph convince Katrina that a grand tour of the EU is in her son’s best interest.”
oUo
“How could you not vant Daniil to visit Italy?” Christoph said brightly, astutely beginning with Catholic doctrine. “Roma, Caput Mundi; ze Vatican alone deserves a month. Firenze, where ze Renaissance began. Venezia, trading center of ze world in ze 14th century...”
“He must meet Vittorio Monti when he’s in Venice,” Prince Johannes picked up. “Ideally, during Carnivale. That’s in a week. Vitto is one of the great minds in corporate governance. He lives in Villa Barcello, one of Palladio’s finest.”
With Prince Johannes and Christoph detailing the educational benefits of touring the EU, and Katrina besieged by continental cleverness, Lord Handley lead the way to his library. Like acolytes, Daniil and Simon followed obediently; behind them, Bruce and Edwin.
“I’m sure you know Sir Christopher Wren never trained as an architect,” Lord Handley continued. “Latin and Aristotelian physics at the University of Oxford, then scientist, astronomer, and mathematician, yet he changed the face of London after the Great Fire.”
“’If you seek his memorial – look around’,” Daniil quipped.
He stopped in his tracks, barely through the doorway. Claire, Hellene, and Sir Graeme Browne waited by a table.
“I told you my grandpa likes you, a lot,” Simon whispered from behind him. “He’s giving you that.”
‘That’ was the perfect gift for a budding architect, even in the digital age. The mechanical desk was sturdy, late-17thCentury English Baroque. The Rosewood top was hinged with adjustable supports, sitting atop a frieze of drawers. The legs were typical of tables of the period, bulb and ring-turned with stretchers having opposing spiral turnings.
Lord Handley draped his arm around Daniil’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “You know what it is?”
“It’s a drafting table, Sir; a really old one.”
At home in Connecticut, Daniil used his father’s old drawing board propped up on books. Bewildered and awed, he took in foliate-brass inlays on the drawer fronts—they formed flowery pentagons before they merged into rectangles. Rectangular infill panels created an alternating, yet related geometry on the frieze. The pattern was Euclidean, Extreme and Mean ratios, Mr. Ed’s Golden Section, the Divine Proportion of Medieval master masons.
“Phi is everywhere,” he murmured.
Lord Handley beamed. “Indeed, it is. Phi is intellectually fruitful, a ubiquitous harmony.”
“It’s way too nice for a kid, Sir.”
“You’re a very special kid.”
He placed his hand on Daniil’s shoulder and drew him near. Daniil flinched, reverent, yet too edgy to acquiesce to any embrace except his father’s, or the other important man in his life.
“I’m giving it to you because you have enormous potential, whether serving Eros, or the professional side of your life.”
It was overwhelming, especially when the man seemed to be inside his head, like Mr. Ed. Lost for words, he blinked as tears started to form.
Lord Handley lowered his voice. “You’re a beautiful little homosexual, Master Daniil. You will make me, and many other men very happy. My advice, take advantage of what the Gods have gifted you, dear boy. Yield to the principal; you’ll never regret it.”
“It’s really, really nice. Thank you ever so much,” Daniil murmured.
“It would please me if you treasure my gift above all your other gifts. Within it, you will discover the other secrets of Freemasonry; the universal harmony and underlying order of the cosmos, of nature, and the origin of life, itself.”
Daniil trembled, avoiding the man’s severe gaze; his humorless words and an exorbitant gift implied things he wasn’t ready to think about. He was out of his league. He inched away, silently pleading for his father to come over.
“Becoming a Masonic Brother is a big step. Rather like a catamite being shared with another man for the first time, I expect, ” Lord Handley went on, smiling at Daniil.
“It’s kind of a huge step, Sir.”
“You have nothing to be afraid of with me, or any other man in the Eros Union. They will guard you until you’re ready.”
Realizing his son was worried, Bruce started to close the gap. He stopped when Edwin shook his head.
“A supplicant must decide for himself, of his own ‘free will and accord,’ without burden,” he whispered.
Graeme beckoned to Daniil as he stepped closer. He acknowledged Bruce with a handshake.
“We’ll talk over dinner, Bruce. What is best for the son, is also good for his father... Master Daniil,” he intoned. He waited until Daniil stood before him. “We come together before Eros to consummate your Sacred Vow of Parastatheis. Is that what you desire?”
“What’s consummate?” Daniil murmured, his mind turning scarily blank.
Simon elbowed him and whispered. “First, you complete your vow. That’s in private, with all of us. Then, you copulate in the attic with everyone else watching.”
“What’s copulate... You mean I get bummed, right?”
Simon smirked. “Nine times in the attic. Every position. I pooped spunk all the next day.”
Graeme ahemed. “Daniil, is Parastatheis what you desire? If it is, you need to say so, and why.”
“I love my dad more than anything,” Daniil muttered before solemnly meeting Graeme’s eyes. “All I want is to be his parastatheis.”
Barely an appropriate response, Graeme frowned. “After Lord Handley’s party ends, we will witness the loving union of man and boy.” He cleared his throat. “First, the Declaration... Who accompanies this man?”
“I, Edwin Browne, Master of the Union of Eros, accompany Bruce Adam of the House of Stirling.”
Edwin stepped back, leaving Bruce standing before Graeme.
Lord Handley took Daniil’s hand, guiding him to stand beside his father.
“Who sponsors this boy?” Graeme said, his tone softer, heartening.
“I, Eric Handley, Grand Master of the Union of Eros, sponsor Daniil James, son of Bruce.”
Bruce caught himself just in time. Like assembling a jigsaw puzzle, there was a pattern, relationships that made things fit together. His wife was hired for reasons unrelated to her underwriting prowess... It was all about Daniil... Now, that was scary! He made himself breath slowly, deeply. Who was the puppeteer? Graeme Browne? Lord Handley? They both wanted his son; he was certain of it…
“Before me standeth a man and a boy with their companion and sponsor as witnesses.”
Graeme extended both hands, clasping Daniil’s small left hand and Bruce’s right hand, the grip as firm as his own. No Mars, yet the man’s purposeful reflection and steady gaze more than compensated for physical strength.
“In the union of father and son, much love will be given. Bruce, Daniil, know that your vows form a special contract of love, consecrated from time immemorial.”
Then, he waited.
Daniil stood tall, summoning from within. “I offer myself as erômenos.”
He’d said the exact-same words eight times with Claire supervising, correcting his enunciation, tone, even his stance. No wonder his ninth time was perfect. His heart raced, excitement unlike any other, a few frantic moments until his father’s declaration.
“I accept you as my erômenos, and offer myself as erastês.”
Not a counteroffer in any legal sense, the complement.
Suffused with intense joy, Daniil almost giggled. “I, erômenos, accept you as my erastês.”
Graeme tightened his grip on Daniil’s hand as if to be sure the boy before him understood the significance of his vow, the consecrated right to stand beside his lover. Instinctively, Daniil squeezed back, joining with the multitude of boys who had spoken the same words for over two and a half thousand years.
“Who comes as page?” Graeme resumed, a slight nod to Simon.
A hint of a smile flickered on both faces, recognition and memories energized as Simon stepped forward. Positioned between Daniil and Graeme, he inhaled, remembering his last visit to Cunsey Castle, posing naked with his older brother in the boat house, both boys utterly shameless, whether together or cuddling with their infatuated artist.
“I, Simon Handley. I am Daniil’s best friend.”
“What is his number?”
“He is recently of nine years, Master Graeme!” Simon took a breath, focused his mind. “He is the culmination of himself and what precedes him. He is the number of love and life, indestructible and non-destroying.”
Daniil’s mind churned through arcane meaning already instilled, adding numbers zero through nine; 45 was four plus five. Culminating in nine. Whether multiplying any number by nine, the result always summed to nine. Indestructible nine!
“Grandpa wants his spunk in your bum so badly,” Simon whispered—he was a stickler for tradition until there was fun to be had, or was teasing all part of the ritual?
Daniil paid him no heed. Whether adding nine to any number, the result summed to the sum of the original number. Non-destroying. Nine again, and again. Hellene’s Numerology, like Edwin’s Sacred Geometry…
“Nine is Universal Truth, the Number of the Gods, Divine in all ways, and manner of things.”
Graeme regarded Daniil. “There are Nine Virtues, erômenos. Which do you reserve for your erastês?”
Daniil quivered, excitement raging, scarcely resisting the urge to peek at his father.
“The First Virtue, Love, will always belong to my father, Grand Master.” Finally, loud enough, and word for word perfect!
Graeme smiled approvingly. Simon held out his hands, opening them to reveal a small Catamitus ring and a larger man-sized ring in each palm. Palladium, not platinum, rarer than gold with the Nine Virtues in Roman letters on either side of the mobius.
With the last hurdle but one remaining, Graeme handed the rings to Bruce and Daniil. He raised his voice.
“I call upon the House of Handley and the House of Browne to witness the joining of man and boy.”
Claire and Hellene came forward, elegant gowns brushing the polished oak floor. Claire knelt before Daniil and pulled down his zipper. Dexterously, she reached within, exposed his bulging red pouch, and untied it. Not at all surprised she stood up and backed away.
Simon glanced down and whispered. “Grandpa’s going to love pulling your Viagra lever.”
Daniil smirked—they’d shared a 100mg pill at Claire’s insistence, enough Sildenafil to keep a boy erect for four hours; no erectile dysfunction for her catamites.
“Guaranteed orgasm when he puts it on,” Simon murmured.
Catamites lived for fun, like all boys.
It didn’t help Daniil’s aching hard state that his father squatted beside him, his gaze unfaltering. A stubby little penis confronted him, curved, tapered, skintight, ruddy tipped, the perfect boy-toy by any standard.
Bruce’s heart hammered. With a trembling hand, and some awkwardness, he placed the small Catamitus ring on his son’s very erect penis. It was loose enough to go all the way down to the base, charmingly ornamental with a little room left to grow.
Then, as soon as Bruce regained his feet, Hellene opened his zipper, pulled down his boxers, and promptly moved out of the way for Daniil to kneel and place the larger ring. His father’s erection was inflated, harder than he expected; but not from Viagra. Swollen with bulging veins, no goose grease, no saliva, and it kept flexing, jerking in front of his face. Of course, what gay boy wouldn’t want to suck. He opened his mouth, licking his lips, imagining.
Simon didn’t help; he made slurping sounds, just loud enough for Bruce to hear.
Finally, after several tries, mostly smearing oozing preseminal fluid over the helmet, Daniil wriggled the metal ring past the bulbous glans. Gleefully, he pushed it down the shaft, the same shaft that now belonged inside him. Thick, powerful, needing more than two hands for a nine-year-old boy. It was manly, everything he’d dreamed about, and now, it was properly shaved around the base. He stood up, grinning at his father, proud that he’d been able to restrain himself.
Graeme spoke softly, as if intended solely for man and boy.
“With the placing of your rings, I sanctify this union in The House of Stirling. Erastês and Erômenos, you stand side-by-side, father and son, man and boy joined in love, and welcomed by the Gods of Olympus.”
oUo
If position accounted for prestige, Eros, Ares, and Aphrodite was the high point of Lord Handley’s collection of classical mythology. It adorned the entry foyer and hall. Exuberant in scale, it was overwhelming, simply by virtue of the play of light and sensuous eurythmy, 80 years before the term was invented.
“I’ve always admired Bouguereau,” Edwin murmured, never so tempted by his godson.
“Boogger you, too,” Daniil whispered, slightly tipsy and on the verge of giggles. “You think the Catsworth statue inspired it?”
For the life of him, Edwin couldn’t remember the dates of either one. He shrugged it off, more important things on his mind.
He stood behind Daniil, lost in adulation, morning-coat-tails parted with his excruciatingly erected penis pressing against a firm little rump, hands resting on narrow shoulders, relishing youthful vitality.
Anyone who’d taken an art history class could see symbolism pervaded the painting, expected from a staunch Romanticist. It demanded the exercise of intellect, a flight of fancy freed in outstretched wings, the boy’s meaningful backward glance, the God of War’s disturbed tunic, Aphrodite’s frustration, her hand extended, fingers not quite touching his impregnable shield.
“When I was your age, I discovered that having sex with other men was far more fun than spending a day at the British Museum,” Edwin whispered, inhaling gardenia from artisanal-crafted soap, Pre de Provence with shea butter.
Warm, soft, cuddly boy, patiently pressing back ever so slightly. Taking slow deep breaths even as his pulse went up by ten percent, sharing the moment, secure and calm, dreaming. No longer embarrassed, worrying more about the smear of his mother’s lipstick on his cheek. He could still feel her hands invading, brushing curls behind his ears. He hated that!
He used his spy voice. “Graeme didn’t mind?”
“Not when he had another boy to keep him company,” Edwin tittered, yet looking around just in case. “The same as you with Trevor, and Simon with your father. You weren’t jealous then, were you?”
Daniil shook his head, increasingly impatient. His bossy mother was still talking about whether to buy or rent until something better came up. The cheapest ‘flat’ she’d seen was almost a million pounds, no view to speak of, vinyl in the kitchen, and two bedrooms, which meant no private office for her.
“You’ll need to make an appointment to see my three favorite flats tomorrow, Bruce. Don’t forget and do not be late,” Katrina instructed.
Bruce nodded, not about to tell her Daniil’s Grand Tour started immediately after brunch; the M20 and Channel Tunnel to Calais, then A26 through pastoral France. With luck, they would stop in Laon for a late lunch and cathedral, then on to Épernay, the heart of Champagne.
Katrina glanced at her watch, his Christmas-gift Seiko transposed by a woman’s Rolex, budget model appropriate to her status. A scowl followed, directed at Edwin as if ‘late’ was already his fault, plus he was standing far too close to her son. He was practically hugging the boy from behind, smelling his hair whenever he leaned in to whisper something, which he seemed to do nonstop.
“I’m already a half-hour in arrears,” she grumbled, pivoting as a rent-a-Jeeves bustled inside.
“I have an Uber for Ms. Koklov,” he announced in nasal-Wodehouse.
Flustered, she waved a final goodbye to Lord Handley, now also lurking behind Daniil. Her son was very good-looking; even her own grandfather said he needed to kept on a chain, or chained up; she couldn’t remember which, not after guzzling champagne.
Tipsy before dinner, it came to a head when Prince Johannes insisted that she point out the best-looking child at the party--with not a single girl present, he was trying to provoke her. Of course, she picked cute little Christoph; and he picked Daniil, ‘far too pretty to be on his own.’ Whatever that meant!
Unaware, all nine boys at the party joked and gorged on dessert, Banoffee pie sozzled with banana liqueur, and Dooley’s; vodka, Dutch cream, and Belgian toffee.
As soon as Jeeves escorted her out the front door, Lord Handley heaved a sigh.
“Women! They’re only good for bearing boys.”