Fuck, seemed that nothing he’d learned about the bloody perverts applied to Nathaniel.
While Nathaniel was in the shower, Brooklyn toured the suite. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, and he certainly wasn’t going to rifle through the man’s pockets to establish his name and identity. There had to be a passport somewhere, but finding it might be a bit more difficult than patting his jacket. Who went to a restaurant with one’s passport tucked in the inner pocket?
Two instincts warred with each other: finding out more about Nathaniel, and not imposing on the man’s business. One was an instinct from his former life, the other a slave reflex. In the end, he sat down on the couch and pulled a pile of magazines close. A few law magazines, The Economist, and a back issue of Sublime. Some American slave was on the cover: pretty guy, certainly prettier than Brooklyn. Apparently a newsreader. He checked the contents.
The Mean Machine—Sublime speaks to Brooklyn, slave boxer.
Brooklyn found the story. Eight pages, ninety percent images. But what images. Gritty and so vivid they leapt off the page.
You look like a mean motherfucker.
And he did. He didn’t see it that much in the mirror, but right there, he looked imposing, and more so against the rough textures of the gym. In the ring against Glenn, he looked scary, focused, both snaps had frozen him in midattack, never on the defensive. Ironically the shower shot made him look almost human, half-hard dick and soap and closed eyes.
“I have to get them to send me the files,” Nathaniel said, running a white hotel towel across his neck. “That article caused quite a stir. I wanted to meet you even more after I’d read that.”
“Not much reading.” Brooklyn pointed at the text.
“Yes, but you are challenging Dragan Thorne. Now, I’m no real boxing aficionado, but even I know he’s the world champion.”
“There’s no single world champion, but yeah, he has three titles or thereabouts.” Brooklyn nodded at the magazine. “Caused a stir?”
“Oh yes. There’s a lot of talk about you on the internet. Fan clubs, forums, galleries.”
“Really?” Brooklyn laughed. “I’m a bit isolated.” Apart from the screeching fans waiting for him outside and in the hall. Well, okay, maybe he could have guessed. Les had warned him there was more of an interest to “meet” him. Nathaniel certainly wasn’t the worst that could happen to him on that front.
“They keep you out of the way, but that doesn’t stop it. If anything, it gets people more interested. They’re keeping you a pretty scarce resource.”
“Les probably thinks I need to focus on the boxing. And that’s what I want.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Nathaniel pointed at the pile of magazines. “The Economist has an interesting analysis on the similarities of modern-day slave fighters and Roman gladiators. Only, of course, your legal status is by far worse than that of a gladiator during Roman times. Back then, slaves could buy their freedom. They got to keep part of their winnings.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“They could afford fancy stonework on their tombstones and sarcophagi.” Nathaniel smiled. “Whereas you don’t have any assets. You don’t get a portion of your winnings, you don’t have insurance, and you’ll likely end up in an unmarked grave, like most slaves over the last thousand years or so.” He leaned forwards and folded his hands. “Of course, if you did keep some of your winnings, your price would also increase, making it a bit of a moving target, but I think it would keep you motivated to work harder and strive for freedom, even if it takes twenty or thirty years.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Yes. Our civilization hasn’t necessarily only improved since then. Manumission was a reality back then. That’s the act of releasing a slave by ‘sending him from the hand,’ if I remember my Latin correctly. These days, only the Queen can issue manumission.”
“Yeah, like for that Victoria Cross winner, not that he goes anywhere, both legs blown off in Afghanistan, but hey, he’s free.”
Nathaniel laughed. “Personally, I’m glad you’re not in the army.”
“Me too. I don’t like orders.”
“I’d never have imagined.”
“Now you’re being sarcastic.”
“Takes one to know one.” Nathaniel smiled. “There’s a restaurant I’d like to try. Are you interested?”
“Sure.”
“Excellent. We should upgrade your wardrobe.” Nathaniel glanced up, watchful, as if expecting violent protest. “If that is all right with you.”
“I’ve never been to a place that cares much what I’m wearing.”
“I prefer you wearing only a grin.”
Brooklyn laughed. “Don’t think there’s any restaurant on the planet that can deal with that.”
Kitted out in a nice suit that had the shop assistant racing around to try and find “the closest approximation,” as he’d called it, Brooklyn admitted it felt like a very different world. Was it that people treated him differently, was it that he moved differently, or was it that the French cuffs of the shirt hid the slave bracelets? Probably a healthy mix.
He’d only worn suits for marriages of friends and relatives—and his own, of course. The uniform had been formal enough. After duty, he’d liked to “let his hair down,” wearing jeans and a T-shirt. If it was cold, he’d top that off with a hoodie. If people insisted on thinking him some piece of council trash, that was entirely their mistake.
Nathaniel had bought him a full ensemble. Five shirts, even two ties, socks, leather shoes, three pairs of trousers, and a woollen overcoat. What a way to blow an average monthly salary. But he did feel less out of place in the restaurant, and he almost laughed at Curtis’s sweet-sour expression at the sight.
No food for him, Brooklyn reckoned. He’d wait with the other guards and servants outside the restaurant. He’d likely have to pay for that later, but right now, he was completely enjoying himself, letting Nathaniel choose the wine for the main course because he had absolutely no clue.
Three courses later, Nathaniel ordered coffee and the bill. When it arrived, he placed his card in the leather wallet and stood, excusing himself to the loos. Brooklyn pulled the bill closer and opened it to look at the card. Mr. Nathaniel Bishop. At least no double-barrelled super-posh name. Bishop. Sounded nice.
Look at you, Brook. Not like you’ll take his name. You’re a white dress short there.
“Anything funny?” Nathaniel asked when he came back, running his hand over Brooklyn’s shoulder.
“Just wondering what people think.”
“That I’m a lucky man.” Nathaniel smiled and sat down again. “Getting to spend an evening with an extremely fit young man.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.” Nathaniel smiled. “Here I am, ridiculously overeducated, overpublished, overendowed with assets, and all aflutter like a teenager.”
Brooklyn leaned forwards, elbows on the table. “Really?”
“Which part?” Nathaniel lifted an ironic eyebrow.
“I believe the first three; what about number four?”
Nathaniel licked his lips. “You have a way of making my heart pound, Brooklyn. Even more in the flesh. And I assure you, in terms of cardiovascular health, I’m doing well.”
Brooklyn grinned, motioned him closer over the table as if he were planning to whisper to him, but when Nathaniel followed him, he brushed his lips with his own. “Pretty sure I can put your cardiovascular fitness to a bit more of a test tonight.”
Nathaniel stared at him and then chuckled. “Do that again, and I may faint.” He finished his coffee, slid the card back in his wallet, and looked at Brooklyn. “Back to the hotel?”
If possible, Brooklyn enjoyed Curtis’s expression even more now. He almost laughed when Nathaniel dismissed him again in front of the suite door, telling him “you won’t be needed tonight” in a tone that suggested anybody who “needed” Curtis—in any capacity at all—was a moron.
“You’re evil,” Brooklyn said once Nathaniel had closed the door.
“I hope you’ll never have reason to call me that and mean it,” Nathaniel said, strangely sober. “But yes, I find him entirely lacking in charm.”
“He’s a sadistic wanker.”
Nathaniel nodded. “Another reason to free you.”
“Biggest problem would be not killing him out on the street if I ever saw him again.”
“You won’t. He’s not worth it.”
Brooklyn paused, remembered the expression in Nathaniel’s eyes in the restaurant. He stepped closer and then even closer, brushing Nathaniel’s face with his own.
Nathaniel swallowed and put a hand on the side of Brooklyn’s neck. “Ah, testing the hypothesis?”
Brooklyn laughed. “What do you mean?”
“About my heart.”
Brooklyn placed a flat hand against Nathaniel’s chest. “Feels all right to me.” In fact, the heartbeat was strong and on the fast side. “But I figure I like having that effect on you.” He did. The same man who presented that calm, superior facade to the world, the same man who’d tied him up, used his body against him, and had somehow wormed his way through his defences, this man was now clearly nervous. And aroused.
Brooklyn opened Nathaniel’s jacket and brushed it back over his shoulders. Nathaniel let it drop, but otherwise didn’t move.
Brooklyn then undid Nathaniel’s leather belt, pulling the end with more force than was necessary, which made Nathaniel laugh softly. Nervously. He tugged the zip down and spread the trousers apart wide enough to bare Nathaniel’s package, the cock hardening rapidly in the tight boxers. Brooklyn met Nathaniel’s gaze. “You still haven’t fucked me. You haven’t tied me up again, either.”
“I understand you’ll show me what you like.” Nathaniel moved closer until their breaths mingled and tilted his head ever so slightly, clearly asking for permission. Brooklyn grabbed his head and kissed him so hard the man almost jumped back. Fuck. This was rapidly spinning out of control. The kiss resonated in his whole body, tingled everywhere like it meant something.
“I’d better,” Brooklyn murmured. “I’m flying back tomorrow. And then I have to prepare to punch the shit out of the slave champion.”
“Would you prefer to stay?”
“Here? Or with you?”
“With me.” Nathaniel opened Brooklyn’s jacket and immediately his shirt underneath. “Provided you could still train to fight.”
“I don’t think Les likes threesomes.” Brooklyn grinned and shed his jacket and shirt, kneeling down in front of Nathaniel to lick the bulge in his boxers. Nathaniel gasped, and Brooklyn took his time, tracing the outline with his tongue and lips until Nathaniel was rock hard. He took hold of the cloth and ripped it with both hands before he took Nathaniel’s cock as deep and harsh as he could.
Within moments, Nathaniel was fucking his mouth, and Brooklyn accepted it. More: He welcomed it, hungry for anything he could take from the man. Cock. Admissions of weakness. Really almost the same thing, because not for a moment did Brooklyn think Nathaniel was in control here. He wanted to do this, would have fought to have it.
He grabbed Nathaniel’s arse in his fine trousers and kneaded the taut muscle. Promising more for later.
Nathaniel groaned and slowed, clearly fighting for control. Brooklyn considered not allowing that, but then pulled back, letting the cock slip from his mouth. “Want to take it to bed?”
“Don’t expect me . . . to be coherent . . .” Nathaniel placed his hands against Brooklyn’s chest.
Brooklyn laughed, stood, and grabbed Nathaniel around the waist. A fair bit heavier than Shelley, but carrying him wasn’t hard work by any stretch.
He dropped him on the bed and began pulling Nathaniel’s trousers off. Nathaniel stared up at him, lips parted, and kicked off his shoes. “Okay, what have I done to trigger that?”
Brooklyn dropped the trousers and removed Nathaniel’s socks. “Nothing.” He pushed Nathaniel’s legs apart and slid between them, rubbing his clothed groin against Nathaniel’s naked dick. The man groaned, arched, curved his back, offering his arse. Brooklyn grinned, paused long enough to open his fly and pull his trousers down, and continued to grind against Nathaniel. “You want it inside, right?”
Nathaniel laughed, breathless. “Not if that means you’ll stop.”
Brooklyn took Nathaniel’s wrists and pressed them over his head and wide apart, then kept grinding, fucking against the sweat-damp skin. Women were easier, less complicated, but he was doing all right with this guy.
Nathaniel closed his eyes and arched up against him, gasping and groaning as they struggled together. No fight, just trying to get off. Neck bared and arched like that, recklessly chasing climax, Nathaniel was unspeakably sexy. Brooklyn bit his neck, just enough to taste and feel him more, and when Nathaniel was clearly about to come, he swallowed Nathaniel’s groans with a hungry, open-mouthed kiss that he only broke when his own climax hit.
Nathaniel grabbed his neck and held him close through the last few shudders. Brooklyn gave up and rested on top of him, their cum and sweat mingling between their bodies, but he really couldn’t care. Sex with Nathaniel was only getting better and better, and he liked being held like this. Even liked the kissing. Maybe he’d missed that most. Tenderness. Intimacy. Another human being holding him like he mattered, like he was a person. Maybe even somebody special.
Shuffling towards immigration at Heathrow was always a pain in the neck. Brooklyn could have gone through the iris scan, but Nathaniel hadn’t been set up for that. All slaves were registered in that database, but freemen had the choice. Curtis stood behind them, the constant thundercloud hanging over Brooklyn’s life. Ever since Curtis had been put in charge of him, Brooklyn knew what it must have felt like for the awkward kids at school—constantly being watched by a bully who was just waiting to kick their arse. Not a fair fight with that fucking tonfa, either. Or the electroshocks.
All this was more difficult because at the same time, being with Nathaniel was so very different. They’d had sex in the morning, slow and gentle, Brooklyn behind Nathaniel. Shelley had liked spooning sex, but of course the body was all different. And comparing Nathaniel to her wasn’t fair, either; he knew that. Maybe he compared them because he missed her. Or because that had been the last time he’d really cared for somebody and had felt human.
Once outside, Nathaniel flagged down a cab. “I’ll drop you off near the gym,” he said when the driver opened the door for them. “It’s on the way.”
“Where are you headed?” Brooklyn asked.
“None of your fucking business, slave,” Curtis growled.
“Middle Temple. I need to get some paperwork,” Nathaniel said, pointedly.
They drove in silence. Brooklyn stared out the window, unwilling to show weakness in front of Curtis. Curtis was silent too, probably exploring the dark, jagged edges of his own mind in search for new methods of torture, and Nathaniel switched on an iPhone and read what looked like a million emails.
Back at the gym, Brooklyn hurried inside—he knew Curtis was just itching to catch him out.
Here, the world went on like it always had. The other slaves looked up when he came in, but otherwise, precious little acknowledgement. Les, who’d been working with another boxer, saw him and signalled with an open hand. Five.
That was “powwow in five minutes.” Brooklyn dropped his clothes and resisted the impulse to hop under the shower.
The smell from the hotel shower gel lingered. And faintly, the smell of the new clothes and Nathaniel’s aftershave. He’d left the clothes with Nathaniel—he had no use for them in the gym, and it seemed like a promise they’d meet again.
Well, Nathaniel had offered him representation. So they had to meet again. But when? Nathaniel had said “as soon as I can,” but what did that really mean?
He changed into training clothes and went back to the main gym, where Les caught his gaze and waved him ove
r into his own room.
“How’re you doing?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Great. Cash called and said you’re on to fight Odysseus. They’ve agreed to do the fight in three months, in London. You must have impressed Dick.”
Brooklyn grinned. “I’m good with dicks.”
Les laughed. “I walked into that one.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ll fight the slave world champion. Brooklyn, that’s amazing.”
“I’ll beat him too.” Brooklyn aimed a playful jab at Les and found himself parried. It was just a reflex, but Les’s boxing responses were still very much intact. “Are we starting with the training then, today?”
“I have to meet with the management to discuss your schedule and what we’ll need for the training camp. Three months isn’t a lot of time, Brook. The Greek is a very good technician. We’ll have to polish your technique a bit or you’ll suffer a great deal before you put him down.”
“Okay. So we’re starting tomorrow?”
“Did you hear a word I said?”
“Yes. I can take him. Let’s do it.”
“I should be done in the late afternoon. Just do a normal, light training, and we’ll start once I come back.”
“That’s it for today, Brook.”
Brooklyn slowed down his skipping and then stopped. They were the last ones in the gym; everybody else was already gone or in bed. And he was more than ready to follow them. As nice as the weekend of sex had been, he still felt the fight, and he was a lot more mellow than normal. Almost human.
“Just one thing,” Les said.
Brooklyn paused and glanced back. He’d wanted to know what the management had said, but hadn’t asked. None of his business. But Les hadn’t looked like he’d liked the outcome very much.
“There are a couple things we need to talk about.”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“What did you tell Nathaniel Bishop?”
Counterpunch Page 8
