Counterpunch

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Nathaniel opened his legs wider and hooked his ankles behind Brooklyn’s back, and then pushed himself up enough to kiss him. “You’re such a top, aren’t you?”

  “If I have the choice?”

  Nathaniel grinned and licked his lips. “It’s not like I could hold you down. Even if I wanted.”

  “Do you?”

  “I like to keep things interesting.” Nathaniel squeezed his nipple, making Brooklyn groan. Half of that sensation set his teeth on edge; the rest went right to his cock. “I’m versatile: top, bottom, switch, dom, sub. I do whatever I’m in the mood for.”

  “Hope you’re in the mood to get fucked hard.” Brooklyn ground against him and reached over to the bedside table. Yes, the top drawer had lube. He slapped Nathaniel’s leg. “Open up.” He pushed the knees farther up, uncapped the lube, squeezed enough into his hand to coat his fingers well, and slid two into Nathaniel, working quickly, just as much as necessary.

  Nathaniel watched him with hooded eyes, an almost ironic expression around his lips. It was the “make me” or “challenge me” face he wore really well. Nathaniel pulled a pillow closer and placed it under his arse. Yes. Brooklyn had planned to thrust in fast, but that didn’t quite work, so he eased himself in, allowing for Nathaniel’s body to relax. Which he did well, in the end, no sign of discomfort on his features.

  Brooklyn kissed him again. But hell, Nathaniel was an excellent kisser, passionate and tender at the same time. No reservations, no rush, and the most delicious, soft sound when Brooklyn entered him.

  The blissed-out expression told him he’d done something right, and he kept doing it, rolling his hips, trying to keep some of the weight off Nathaniel, but again, he was stronger than a woman. There was a lot more force and strength involved. Part of him wanted to bruise Nathaniel, to remind him—hell, them both—of this.

  “Do you know why I prefer you? To Rose, I mean?”

  “Because I am very much better dressed?”

  “No. I’d have to beat him into submission, at which point I’d be too tired to be a good fuck.”

  Nathaniel laughed. “You’re safe with me.” The mirth in his eyes shocked Brooklyn. He slowed, drawing this out for them both, thrusts now less about getting to the end than savouring it, savouring the man and the closeness just as much as the sensations.

  Slide of skin on skin, brushing of lips, and the odd sense of peace and fulfilment right there, right now. Part of Brooklyn wanted Nathaniel to look away, because it was damn near too intense to stare at him like this, but another part of him realised the man’s hunger for him wasn’t just sexual. But he’d known that, right?

  One way to break eye contact was to kiss him again, and this time, Nathaniel held him tight, just seized his neck and hand and held on, grinding against him and arching up, until they both came in a sweaty, glorious mess.

  “You can let me go now.”

  “Don’t want to,” Nathaniel murmured, but still allowed Brooklyn to slip away and untangle himself.

  He fell to the side, content in the buzz of adrenaline and endorphins and whatever other hormones were racing through his system. Nathaniel moved next to him and finally placed his head on Brooklyn’s shoulder.

  Brooklyn reached out lazily and ran his fingers through the sweat-damp hair. And damn him, but he could get used to this. And that was a treacherous thought. Main difference between meeting his future wife and a one-night stand? The thought that he could really get used to her smell, her little sounds, the way she looked early the next morning, all tousled and blurred, with mascara stains under her eyes.

  He’d never felt anything like that for a guy, though. Friendship, sure, some kind of loyalty, definitely. But he’d never entertained the thought it could be different. More. The whole package.

  “You worked pretty hard to get under my skin.”

  Nathaniel breathed laughter, cool against Brooklyn’s chest. “You could say that. Do you feel manipulated?”

  “I don’t particularly care.” Brooklyn turned his head and looked into Nathaniel’s face, but the man’s eyes were closed, features relaxed, which made him appear almost innocent. “Wouldn’t change anything.”

  Emotions. Thoughts. Possibilities. Except, of course, his only option was to be treated like a slave in public and a lover in private. Could he live like that? Right now, he could. But what about when they returned to London?

  “Those are some heavy thoughts,” Nathaniel murmured and pushed himself up on an elbow.

  “What?”

  “Frowning.” Nathaniel smiled. “I can’t read your mind.”

  “Not always so sure about that.”

  “You learn to read people in my profession.”

  Brooklyn huffed. “You do get to know a man after going twelve rounds against him.”

  “Touché.” Nathaniel kissed him on the chest, and then slid to the edge of the bed, got up, and walked to the folding doors at the far wall. Brooklyn mostly watched his arse and the long, lean upper body. Nathaniel was built for speed and grace, somewhere between a dancer and a runner.

  Brooklyn pulled the thin covers free and slipped underneath, aware that Nathaniel stood near the windows, gazing far beyond.

  He grabbed a pillow, turned, and relaxed, allowing himself to slip away. Nathaniel joined him shortly after, one arm over his hip, hand on his belly. It felt so normal it was uncanny. “I thought you’d leave.”

  “You think too much, Nathaniel.”

  “So, what’s going to happen when we return to London?”

  Nathaniel shielded his eyes with a hand against the sinking sun that splashed reddish light across the ocean. “You will beat Odysseus. And you’ll be famous.”

  Brooklyn tilted his head and glanced down at Nathaniel, his chest bared, an orange-and-white batik-dyed piece of cloth wound around his hips like an ankle-length skirt. Sarong, Nathaniel had corrected him when he’d called it a skirt. It made Nathaniel oddly graceful, slender—somewhat feminine, even, with his long, lean upper body. It suited him shockingly well.

  “Are you listening?” Nathaniel turned to face him.

  “And then?”

  “It’s going to be a good platform to campaign for your freedom. You won’t be just ‘any slave’; you’ll be the boxing world champion. This will make every headline, every news portal, every newspaper and TV, too.”

  “What about us?” That was the real kicker. So easy to think it could go on like this, with sex in the morning and afternoon, intimacy, banter. Caring. Tenderness. He’d almost forgotten how that felt, and it hurt whenever he became aware of it.

  Nathaniel smiled and grabbed his hand, entwined their fingers. This reminded Brooklyn of sex, open-mouthed wonder and greed, grinding together, and how Nathaniel gave him everything. Allowed himself to fall, to surrender. He could have anything from that man, and that had a strange effect on him.

  He wanted to do the same, but there was always something small and insidious holding him back. Here on the island, with just them, he was usually in control. They’d used the handcuffs on Nathaniel, which had spiked their desire—it seemed like the ultimate in trust, much more than who got to fuck whom or who blew whom. And Nathaniel was beautiful when he submitted, face flushed, eyes glowing with passion and life.

  “What do you mean? I see no reason why anything should change. I was rather hoping it wouldn’t?” Nathaniel squinted against the light and then frowned at him. “Will it?”

  Way to ruin the mood, Brooklyn.

  “I don’t want to go back.” Brooklyn expected a protest or a “don’t be stupid,” but Nathaniel just watched him. He still struggled to predict what the man would do next. Not that he chastised Brooklyn—ever. Or at least not like that.

  “Once you’re free, all this can be permanent if you want.”

  “Yeah, because then it will be my choice.”

  “And if I were to ask you if you’d like to stay with me, you would say yes?”

  Brooklyn’s heart leapt in his chest.
He tightened his fingers around Nathaniel’s as if to test the strength and firmness of that grip. “Is that some kind of proposal?”

  “Some kind of, yes.” Nathaniel smiled widely.

  “I would. I think. It might be weird with another guy. It doesn’t feel weird, though. Not with you, anyway.” Where were all the elegant shiny words for this situation? Maybe Nathaniel had used them all up, and he was left scraping the barrel.

  “Don’t tell me I remind you of your wife,” Nathaniel teased.

  The topic they had never even skirted. But now he didn’t mind talking about her. They’d shared just about everything else. “No, she’s very different. For one, her boobs are bigger.”

  Nathaniel laughed. “I’ll need to work on my pecs, then.”

  Brooklyn grinned. “It’s just, the things I wanted once. A house, a garden, kids. Coming home after a shift, dinner with the family. That’s because . . .” He faltered and felt his throat constrict. “That’s what other people had, but I didn’t. That’s not where I come from.”

  Home had always been a threatening place, with the big, shouting man and his cowering mother. When he remembered that time, the council flat was cavernous, dark, gloomy, and strewn with debris after the man had torn down the TV stand or a shelf in a fit of rage.

  He’d driven past there a few times as a copper, and the flats didn’t look so bad from the street. Kids played out front, and while the garden looked untidy and neglected, that wasn’t so special from any kind of rented accommodation. Nobody really cared about a place they’d leave eventually.

  “Do you still want children?”

  “We tried, but it didn’t happen.” Which is damned lucky. That way my kid won’t grow up without a father. Or whoever she brings in. “Maybe I was wearing too-tight trousers.”

  “Did you have an examination?”

  “Nah. Guess I didn’t want confirmation that I have too low a sperm count to be a father.” But of course, being a father had nothing to do with the amount or quality of wiggly little cells swimming for first prize in Darwin’s race.

  “If it helps, you’re completely healthy. I had access to your file, and nothing there indicates you’re not fertile.”

  “Yeah, they checked that before I was sold.” One of the first things, in fact. He’d heard later that that was a major price component of even vaguely attractive slaves. Nobody wanted to buy something pretty that couldn’t be replicated easily. If they were otherwise worthless, they could still be used for breeding. “They tried to breed me, just a few weeks after I joined the stable.”

  The guards driving in terrified-looking young women. Naked. The boxers surprised, but interested. Do whatever you like with them, but come in her pussy. Nothing more humiliating than fucking somebody under orders to the jeering of the guards.

  She’d been absolutely terrified, and Brooklyn had done what he could to make it less bad for her, for him too. Others were less considerate. But none of the women cried. Brooklyn had wondered why. Maybe they’d been through far worse. Female companions stopped being fashionable around the age of twenty-five; after that, most were used for breeding. That fate, at least, wasn’t as bad for men. They weren’t being inseminated by a stranger.

  “That’s one thing I never want to go through again,” Brooklyn said.

  “Another reason to be free?”

  “There are no reasons to stay a slave.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “There are talks of curbing the growth of the slave population relative to the free population. In essence, it boils down to the lower classes being resentful of the cheap labour source and politicians very aware of the fact that slaves don’t vote.” He sighed. “Real income growth hasn’t happened for way too long, and that’s directly due to the growth of the slave population. It’s one way to exert pressure on what’s left of the trade unions, and other countries have it worse. The trade unions were broken in the US, whereas in Britain, they held on for much longer.”

  “So you’re against slavery on principle?”

  “I’m a realist, Brooklyn. I hope the system, as it currently stands, will be reformed. I’m hoping to see rules reintroduced that some Roman emperors passed. A quick fix to many problems would be to address the status of a child born between a slave and a freeperson—I think they should be automatically free, rather than automatically slaves. I want to see better legislation that would make it a lot easier to adopt a slave child to be free. That slaves can work their way to freedom, saving up some of their earnings, which would be held by a government body—rather than their owners, who couldn’t be trusted to not dip into that pot as they please. That slaves can be freed in the wills of their owners, which was common practice in Rome. That any slaveholder can free their slaves if they want, for any reason. That slaves are aptitude tested and educated to their ability and interest, rather than leaving potential geniuses to languish illiterate on some factory floor. You’d be surprised how many slaves never even learn to spell their own names. So we have a large pool of workers unable to do more than very basic tasks, and there are some economists that believe this alone costs us two or three percentage points of GDP growth a year. Which is a substantial amount of money, by the way.”

  “‘The hidden cost of the slave economy’?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re writing about that? I saw a column in the newspaper.”

  “Yes. Ethics don’t count for anything with politicians or economists unless you have solid proof. Many things can be done to make the lot of slaves better. And once all these reforms are enacted, slave matters are no longer black and white, but allow for a considerable grey area. Once people have got used to this, the real challenge can be tackled. It might take a generation or two, but I believe we are on the verge of major social reforms.”

  “Make sure they don’t assassinate you,” Brooklyn murmured.

  “I’m not alone in this, Brooklyn.” Nathaniel pulled him in for a kiss. It was a “shut up and trust me” kiss, but Brooklyn didn’t object.

  Rose and Em made terrific-looking bodyguards. Brooklyn wouldn’t have expected to need any additional protection—usually, a normal guard was enough to dissuade people from messing with somebody else’s property—but right now, he was the centre man, with Rose and Emanuel flanking him and Eric leading the way.

  Leaving the customs zone of Heathrow Airport, he was faced with a wall of people. Faces. Screaming. Waving. Frantic.

  “Shit,” Nathaniel muttered under his breath and reached inside his suit to pull out a pair of dark sunglasses.

  Lights flashed. Cameras, phones, even really big professional rigs. Press. Media. A TV camera. Eric sped up, not quite running, but certainly rushing, and Brooklyn kept his head down, disbelieving that all these people were here for him.

  “Who told them when we would arrive?” Nathaniel demanded. But nobody answered. Brooklyn had no idea.

  Airport security looked on with impassive faces that implied they’d only get involved in a dire emergency, and otherwise resented the source of the hubbub.

  Brooklyn and the others managed to reach the elevators and push back anybody who tried to join them. A big, black van parked very close was sanctuary, and Brooklyn shook his head, dazed, when the car doors closed.

  “Fuck. What’s going on here?”

  “You’re famous, bro.” Rose grinned at him. “Very good for ticket sales.”

  Eric accelerated so hard Brooklyn was pushed back into the seat. The man not only ran like an athlete, he drove like a Formula One driver too. And all that behind his friendly, relaxed attitude.

  Brooklyn turned in his seat when they raced towards London. Several cars and motorbikes followed close behind. “I’m starting to feel like Lady Diana.”

  “Oi, I’m a better driver than that wanker who made her go squish,” Eric shouted from the front.

  “Any red-haired riding teachers on the agenda?” Nathaniel murmured close to Brooklyn’s ear.

  Brooklyn grinned. “Guess I
could find some time in my social calendar.”

  They didn’t manage to shake off the wolves. Eric eventually drove the car into the garage of the Diamond, and the hotel staff cut off the pursuers with uncanny skill. Nathaniel groaned and rubbed his face. “They are mad for you.”

  Brooklyn shrugged. “That’s completely one-sided. Fucking bloodsuckers.”

  Eric turned in his seat. “What now, sir?”

  “I was originally planning to go home,” Nathaniel said. “But I don’t want them in Guildford. And the flat in Knightsbridge is too small. The nanny is going to use that.” He frowned. “Check if the Sapphire suite is available. It’s only going to be for a couple days, anyway.”

  “What about training?”

  “We’ll find a private gym you can use. And we’ll keep the Cubans close, get them rooms here too.”

  “Yes, sir.” Eric left the car and took the elevator up.

  “The press knows where you train. I’d rather keep you out of the light for the time being. I don’t want you distracted or worrying about anything but the fight.”

  “Thanks.” Brooklyn reached over and squeezed Nathaniel’s hand. “That’s very helpful.”

  They waited until Eric jogged back and nodded. He opened the car doors, and they stepped out. Two hotel staff came for the luggage.

  They went up in the elevator, Nathaniel again with the sunglasses, but Brooklyn knew he himself had no chance to hide. With his size and build, he’d stand out anywhere. And the two Cubans weren’t fooling anyone. Maybe next time they could attempt to look like part of a rugby team. All they’d need would be matching jerseys.

  Nathaniel dealt with check-in while Brooklyn kept an eye on the entrance. Anybody could be press. A slowly passing car. A woman with a newspaper over at the bar.

  “You’re not secret agent material, Brooklyn. Come.” Nathaniel took him by the arm and led him to the elevator. The Cubans joined them but left for a different suite down the corridor.