by Hiwaru Kibi (火悪 木美)
“Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant.”
Bailey snorted and kicked a loose bit of stone down the cobbled road. “Is that supposed to impress the girls?”
“It’s not supposed to depress them, which is more what you’re known for.” Higgins elbowed him in the side, causing Bailey to lose his footing and grab at Higgins’ school jacket for support. Higgins was sturdy, though, and far more so since the year had started; thus he did not so much as falter under Bailey’s added feather-weight. “Amabam, amabas, amabat, amabamus, amabatis, amabant,” he recited.
Bailey hated Higgins. He absolutely loathed him with every fiber of his being. He rationalized spending so much time around such a mortal enemy by reminding himself that it just meant he’d have a better chance at smothering the bastard in his sleep someday. He’d been saying that for years, as it happened, and the fact of their having become roommates at the start of term did not lessen the repetition, even it the smarter part of his brain reminded him that he’d had ample opportunities and not once yet taken one. Bailey was a practiced expert at telling the smarter part of his brain to stuff it.
“Amabo, amabis, amabit, amabimus, amabitis, amabunt,” Higgins continued, this time softening his delivery to make it sound like more of a delicious secret. His voice had deepened since the start of the year, in fact, and his shoulders broadened considerably, and his jaw squared out such that though he shaved every morning, as per dorm regulations, by the early afternoon he had a shadowy stubble come to shade his cheeks. And yes, all the girls in town, and the ones from St. Marian’s, on the rare occasions they had shared events, all the girls thought John Royceston Higgins was just a dream and a delight. He didn’t even need the Latin. It was just showing off.
“Perfect. So you can talk of love. Well done, you.” John Martin Bailey, on the other hand, was still a slip of a thing, even a month away from his seventeenth birthday. His continued small stature was something of a disgrace to his family, he’d gathered, as his father had mentioned it no less than a half-dozen times during the last parents’ weekend. None of the other boys were still so slight at that age, eh, Martha? and his mousy mother had nodded and agreed that, yes, all three of the elder Bailey brothers had been tall, strapping lads by the end of their sixth years. They said it as though it might somehow be his own fault that he hadn’t shot up like a weed, as though something about his temperament was holding back his physical progress just to spite them.
Higgins grinned at him and elbowed him again, though this time more gently. “What else do girls want to talk about?”
“And if they are insufficiently enraptured by your elementary conjugations?”
“Poetry,” said Higgins with a wry smirk. “I believe that every young man should know no fewer than three dozen poems by heart, in a number of languages, which he can then call upon for recitation at appropriate moments. It is a vital piece of advice. I shall include it in my book.”
That Higgins was writing a book of advice for young men on wooing women seemed improbable, considering that Bailey knew Higgins’ entire experiential history with women had been a few sticky fumblings with various St. Marian’s girls while the chaperones had their backs turned. But Higgins was not a man to let something as pedantic as reality stand in his way.
Bailey turned from the road toward the path down to the old mill, and Higgins followed close behind. The late spring was still cool, but they’d had enough sun of late that the countryside wasn’t paved with chalky mud, as it sometimes could be. It was actually quite pleasant out, in fact, enough that Bailey loosened his tie as they strolled, letting the air hit his bared throat. Between the iron rule of Mr. Jay, headmaster of St. Stephen’s, and the oppressive weather, Bailey had spent much of the past few months feeling as though he were living in a prison. To be allowed out on a day like this was equal to having the bars of a cell thrown wide.
“That Margaret was quite interested in you, you know,” said Higgins as they passed over an old stone bridge.
With a sigh, Bailey turned to look over its side. There were fish in the creek below, little minnows that disturbed the surface as they flitted about with their minnowy lives. They didn’t have to learn Latin or memorize poetry or deal with a constant desire to murder another boy. “She was interested in all the boys there — no, I don’t mean like that, I mean she was friendly. She was congenial and personable to everyone. That’s all.”
Higgins shook his head in slow amazement. “Willful blindness is no way to get a girl.”
“Well, she talked to you far more than she did to me!” Though he hadn’t meant to, Bailey snapped the words at Higgins, whose perpetually sunny expression actually faltered at the barb. Good, though the mean part of his brain, even as he found himself opening his mouth and saying, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He was never going to smother Higgins in his sleep at this rate. “But it’s true. She did. So why didn’t you ‘get’ her?”
As though he’d never for a moment felt anything other than elysian joy, Higgins puffed out his chest and placed a regal hand atop it. “I am still sowing my wild oats.”
A bigger load of cock and bull Bailey had scarcely ever heard. “What would you even do with a girl?” he asked, starting up their constitutional again.
Higgins shrugged. “What does anyone do with a girl? Write her letters! Promise her your undying love in as many acceptable variations as possible, rhapsodize about her matchless beauty, apologize profusely for wrongs actual and perceived, tell her you dream of the day you can hold her in your arms. It’s all in my book. You should read it.”
“The one you haven’t written yet.”
“When it comes out, you should read it.”
Rolling his eyes, Bailey mimed picking a book off a shelf. “Ah, yes,” he chirped with ersatz brightness, “what have we here? Why, an indispensable font of knowledge! Contents: a checklist of one’s minimum necessary hygiene, abridged, and then several pages copied whole from a Latin primer.”
Higgins swooped down to pick a daisy from the side of the path. “But you have to admit, it’d sell,” he said, truncating its stem so the blossom fit neatly on his lapel.
The worst thing was, Bailey figured it probably would. With Higgins’ absurd dumb luck, in no time at all the halls would be swarmed with young would-be lovers convinced that the surest way to a young lady’s heart was through the subjunctive. Choosing not to dignify that with a response, Bailey strode on ahead, knowing even as he did that his shorter limbs were no match for Higgins’ own powerful legs. Higgins ought to go out for rugby, Bailey had thought more than once; he might get clobbered in the head and die and then Bailey would no longer have to deal with him.
They walked in silence a while, listening to the birdsong and the wind through the high grasses. It was a fine day to be out, but no one would be out this way; an inheritance dispute had left the mill unused for years, or so Bailey had been told. Either way, he’d never seen another soul with legitimate business down this way. And yet though the farm spread out for acres down the countryside, the mill house itself was still just within the town’s borders, so technically they weren’t even breaking St. Stephen’s rules regarding students and unsupervised travel.
Not, of course, that Higgins would care, and as such Bailey had never come clean about how the strolls he took really were not so transgressive at all. Higgins would only have made fun of Bailey for being so cowed by authority. But then again, Higgins had some minor royalty in his family, on his mother’s side, and as such his lifelong consequences for not being cowed by authority were not the same as they would have been for anyone else. Just another reason, Bailey thought, for suffocation.
As the dirt path began to show evidence of long-ago paving, Bailey heard from behind him, “Amavero, amaveris, amaverit–”
“Oh, will you shut up?” snapped Bailey, and this time he did mean the bite to his voice.
“Make me,” Higgins teased — and then one arm was around Bailey’s shoulders, except it was more around his neck, and then Bailey was in a headlock, squealing as Higgins mussed his dark pomaded hair. He wanted to say that the joke was on Higgins, getting a palmful of grease, but he knew the joke was on him. It never wasn’t.
At last, Higgins seemed to decide he’d had enough of this good boyish roughhousing; he relented, disengaging from Bailey with a little shove that likely wasn’t meant to send Bailey close to toppling to the ground, but did anyway. Higgins pushed ahead into the old mill house, its rusted hinges giving a loud creak that would surely have given their entry away, had there been anyone in the vicinity to hear. “So this is where the boys come,” Higgins said, looking around its ramshackle interior.
“Yeah,” said Bailey, shutting the door behind them. Boys, plural, often came for all manner of contraband usage, as evidenced by the cigarette butts and empty glass bottles and tattered magazine pictures of half-to-full-naked women. When Bailey came, it was alone, because he had no friends.
No, that was perhaps the most irritating thing about Higgins. They were friends, or at least Higgins was certain of that fact, which made it as good as gospel truth. His having hated Higgins since the first day of their first year, hating him merely for existing, seemed not once in all that time to have penetrated Higgins’ thick, handsome skull, which had only grown thicker and more handsome since their first meeting. If he were being truly honest with Higgins (and he absolutely was not), he would have admitted that he came here not just for peace and quiet, but to have a good solid wank that with embarrassing frequency featured Higgins’ remembered body as primary stimuli.
The reasons to hate John Royceston Higgins numbered that of the stars.
And yet, one more was added to that galaxy as Higgins reached into his coat and produced a chartreuse bottle of cheap gin. “Want some?” he asked, shaking it in Bailey’s direction. Well, that at least explained why Higgins had been so keen to join Bailey on his constitutional.
“Gin’s for girls,” said Bailey, who had no idea whether or not that was true in the slightest. It had just been something he’d once heard someone say, and now it came to mind as the least unmanly thing he might say to refuse.
Higgins rolled his eyes and sat on one of the crates nearest to the window, the room’s once source of light. “It is not. Come on. I bet you’ve never even tried it.”
He would have won that bet, too. Trying to look as cool as possible, Bailey leaned against one of the central pillars. It was a bit rotted, but at least his slight frame wasn’t likely to be the straw that broke this proverbial camel’s back. “‘Course I have. It’s fine.”
“Then come have some more,” said Higgins, uncorking it, and there was no way Bailey could have refused. The dorm monitors were crafty in their searches; Bailey had no idea how or where Higgins had managed to conceal it, nor even where he’d managed to acquire it in the first place. Had they been found on campus stinking of the devil’s drink, as it were, Mr. Jay would have given them a what-for not even Higgins’ family connections could have saved him from. Bailey held these thoughts in his head quite clearly as he lifted the bottle to his lips and swallowed.
It was foul. It was as though he’d picked up one of the perfume bottles from his grandmother’s dresser and downed that instead, setting it on fire as he did. He could keep neither the look from his face nor the cough from his chest as the floral elixir dried his throat all the way down. Higgins just laughed and took the bottle back; he drank deeply of it and did not so much as flinch, because of course he didn’t. Bailey wanted to reach over and choke him, but was too busy gasping for air himself.
Hardly one to be outdone by such a pompous, privileged braggart, though, Bailey grabbed the bottle and took another drink, willing himself not to react to its vileness. Indeed, the second draught was easier than the first even without his effort, and by the time he’d swallowed the whole colossal, unwise mouthful down, he found he was beginning to feel … better. Still somewhat put-upon, and without a single doubt that the universe could be improved by accessorizing Higgins’ face with a broken nose, but on the whole, improved. He was no longer, for instance, questioning why he’d let Higgins bully him into showing him the way down here.
“Do they bring girls here?”
Bailey frowned. “Who?”
“The other boys. Is this where they meet girls?”
Resisting the urge to point out that surely someone of Higgins’ purported expertise should have known the answer to that, Bailey shook his head. “We went southwest from the front gates. St. Marian’s is due east of the village, almost a league’s distance as the crow flies. If they are having rendezvous, they’re having them with some very sturdy girls from the hiking club.”
Higgins laughed at that, perhaps a little more than was warranted. “Just as well. Wouldn’t want the place spoiled with the smell of too many fucks, would we?”
A year rooming with Higgins had been a constant exercise in not being scandalized by his foul mouth, and if Bailey ever let his shock at such blue language show, it was only to cover the electric excitement of hearing Higgins say the word fuck. Bailey had heard it before as a verb, of course, but Higgins had a way of making it a noun that sent Bailey’s imagination off in directions he’d rather it not wander. There was such thing as a fuck, something that two people could do. Maybe it was even something he could do, if he ever stopped being such a small, pathetic embarrassment to himself and everyone connected to him. It was a fairly large if.
“How do you fuck in Latin?” someone asked, and some part of Bailey’s mind was scandalized further to realize that that someone had been he, and the mouth that had said that particular word had been his own.
The mouth of the bottle perched at his lips, Higgins grinned. “Take off your toga and stick your prick in her, one supposes.”
“No, I–” That had given Bailey the specific mental image of Higgins’ prick, and try though he might, he could not keep his gaze from landing upon Higgins’ lap. Higgins was reclined against some old crates, his knees spread as though they were magnets of opposite polarities, and there at his legs’ juncture was an ill-lit convergence of fabric and the shapes that might be beneath it. It might have been a wrinkle in his school trousers, or Higgins might have some monstrous appendage hidden there; Bailey had no way to tell. “How do you say fuck in Latin? There’s got to be a way.”
Higgins’ grin just widened. “Futuo, futuis, futuit, futuimus, futuitis, futuunt,” he said, either doing a conjugating exercise or describing a truly versatile orgy. It was almost a logic puzzle: What was the fewest number of people who would need to be present to make that sentence true? Bailey’s throat caught to realize that two of them must, by first- and second-person necessity, be himself and Higgins. “Of course, that’s only one kind of fucking.”
Bailey cursed his terrible mind and the terrible things it got him into. “There are others?”
“Irrumo, irrumas, irrumat, irrumamus, irrumatis, irrumant.” Higgins put the gin bottle toward Bailey’s mouth, and by instinct, Bailey parted his lips obligingly to take its smooth glass lip between his own. “I fuck someone’s mouth with my cock, you fuck someone’s mouth with your cock, he/she/it fucks someone’s–”
“Yes, yes,” Bailey interrupted, and though he’d meant for it to sound exasperated, it came out more of a breathless plea: yes, yes. He supposed the impression wasn’t helped by how he absolutely needed to push that bottle away from his lips and not keep it there while pretending it was Higgins’ prick. He especially needed not to part his lips and let Higgins pour in another mouthful of gin, though that was exactly what he did. Maybe this seemed normal. Maybe this was what boys did together here all the time. He honestly had no clue.
When he was done filling Bailey, Higgins took another deep drink. It was not a large bottle of gin, small enough to have been concealed beneath a jacket, and it was almost gone. When had that happened? “Also: ceveo, ceves, cevet, cevemus, cevetis, cevent. I am fucked, you are fucked, and so on and so forth.”
Bailey’s stomach took a strange turn there, one he was willing to blame on the gin. “Well, that’s–” He shut his eyes for a moment; the room had begun to spin a little, and the temperature inside the millhouse was rising. He reached for his collar and tugged open the first two buttons, letting in what cool air he could find. “That’s very … thorough.”
“Because it was important for the Romans, you see, whether you were the fututor or just the one getting fucked.” Higgins reached down to that dangerous point where his legs met one another, and as he adjusted what was there, Bailey began to get a much stronger idea of what was shadow and what was substance. And there seemed to be quite a bit of substance in play here.
“And does Mr. Wheelock give you these as exercises?” asked Bailey, trying to picture the doddering, rotund Latin teacher handing out workbook exercises that involved conjugating lewd acts.
“Poetry!” Higgins reached over and tapped Bailey on the ball of his nose, making Bailey start. When had they moved so close together? But Higgins was in the same spot, or so it seemed, so … surely that meant something. “I told you, three dozen, by heart, multiple languages. And if the books are going to leave Catullus untranslated, then by all the gods of Olympus, I shall translate him myself! Catullus and all his fucking, his sucking, his buggery, his women, his boys. Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo: I will fuck you in the arse and fuck my cock in your mouth! Of course, he meant it as an insult, but … well, it doesn’t sound half-bad, does it?”
“I suppose it depends on which end of it you were on.” It was the gin talking now, Bailey was certain, and not he himself. He would never have said such things, especially not in the presence of the illustrious John Royceston Higgins, whose face would perhaps look not so good even with a broken nose as it would with a prick in it, a huge one between his lips, while he sucked it until it spunked all over him. And if the prick in question were Bailey’s, then, well, so much the better.
Higgins stretched his arms above his head; his shirt had come loose from his belt, and as the hem tugged up, it revealed his furred belly. The hair on his body was the same light brown as that which crowned his head, and there was more of it now than there had been even at the start of the term, not that Bailey was paying any such attention to that. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to not pay attention to some things, which is how he had managed thus far living in the same space with Higgins and not having a good estimation of the size of his prick. Much of Bailey’s life was made easier by selective blindness.
“Well,” asked Higgins at last, “which end of it would you rather be on?”
This was taunting, it was teasing, it was surely beyond the pale, and under no circumstances did Higgins actually want to hear the words that next slipped Bailey’s traitor mouth: “Either would be all right by me.”
Higgins laughed, and at first Bailey felt like throwing up; surely Higgins would regale everyone else at the school that exact quote, such that Bailey really ought go fling himself into the stream and work at drowning to save himself further humiliation. But Higgins’ hand was on Bailey’s knee in a way that didn’t seem like something he’d tell the others at all. “Fello: I suck,” said Higgins, his voice liquid and dry at once, like the gin. “No, wait, I never have before. Fellarem, I should suck.” His hand crept up Bailey’s thigh, his meaty digits squeezing all the way. “But do you know what the object is?”
Bailey’s tongue darted out to wet his desert-like lips. He’d always been such rubbish at languages. “Um … est?”
Higgins grinned as he shook his head. His hand found the zipper at the front of Bailey’s trousers and purred it down. He only had to shift the fabric once or twice, and there was Bailey’s cock, popping on out to say hello. “Incorrect several times over,” he said, shifting to his knees in front of Bailey, between his thighs. “But never fear. I found it myself.”
There was no time for protest even if he’d wanted to raise one, and he surely had not. Of all the times he’d shamefully indulged himself in imagining (for the length of a wank, and certainly no longer) some combination of himself, Higgins, a cock, and a mouth, Higgins’ mouth had never been the one opening wide to give the hard prick in front of it a good introductory licking, which was what was happening at this moment. Higgins was alternating between looking up at him with wide earth-brown eyes and hiding them behind his long lashes, and all the while Bailey was having a great deal of trouble not falling over and expiring. Those handsome lips of Higgins’ closed around the head of Bailey’s cock, making Bailey shake with the incredible combination of what he had already and what more he wanted.
“Fuck!” Bailey exclaimed, glad that no one else was likely to be around, whether classmate or townsperson; at best, he might just have scandalized several field mice. He gripped Higgins’ shoulders mostly for a lack of knowing anything more appropriate or productive to do. Higgins flicked his tongue over the slit at the tip of Bailey’s prick, making Bailey cry out again. “I hate you,” he gasped, drunk and aroused and no longer capable of holding back the thoughts that undergirded his everyday existence. “I am going to kill you in your sleep, you stupid rubbish bastard, do not stop!”
The grin on Higgins’ face showed that he was at least amused by this sudden burst of locution, death threat and all. “I hate you so much,” Bailey continued, words pouring forth despite a lifetime’s worth of practice holding them back. Perhaps that was the secret to British gentlemanliness, that it only existed so long as the object of one’s desire was not demonstrating further conjugations of the verb to suck. “You smug selfish arse with your stupid grin, Christ!” Higgins’ tongue had found some hitherto-undiscovered sensitive spot on Bailey’s prick so good that it led to blasphemy.
Higgins took Bailey’s prick in deep, all the way down to the root, then grinned as he let it slip out from his mouth with torturous slowness. “Why, young Master Bailey, I had no idea you were capable of such intemperate discourse,” he quipped, which only made Bailey want to murder him more. Just Bailey’s luck, Higgins had found the world’s only surefire defense against immediate, well-deserved murder. Clever bastard.
Bailey decided that the only way to teach Higgins the appropriate lesson from this encounter was to simply refuse to ejaculate, to let Higgins continue debasing himself until such point as he realized that his attempts were useless and he wasn’t good at this at all and perhaps he never even should have started it in the first place. Alas for Bailey, around the time he made this determination, he felt a great sense of rushing relief pouring out of him and looked down to see his traitorous prick shooting jet after jet of jism into Higgins’ waiting mouth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck you,” Bailey gasped, aware that the force of the invective was somewhat diminished by his having an orgasm caused by the person he claimed to hate. He was definitely going to kill Higgins to death right there. Just as soon as he could find his limbs again.
“Roll over,” ordered Higgins, standing up and wiping his mouth, and Bailey’s body complied even as his dignity gave great protest. His entire body had betrayed him so many times over in such a short span; he resolved to look into the mechanics of becoming a severed head, for simplicity’s sake. But his still-attached body obeyed, planting both itself and the rest of him face-down on the crates, which were at least cleaner than the floor.
Then he felt a tug at his trousers, and though his neck felt noodle-limp, he managed to turn an accusatory glare toward Higgins. “What are–”
His inquiry, however, was truncated as he felt Higgins get atop him from behind — and there was that prick’s prick, and oh, it surely was some ordinary size, but pressed against the cleft of his arse it felt the size of a cricket bat. “Futuo et fello. I fuck and I suck.” He ran a hand down Bailey’s buttock, and the touch was almost loving in its tenderness. “Paedico et fello, there, that’s a bit more apt.”
Some several factors were at last coalescing in Bailey’s drunk, well-sucked brain, and they landed as a splash of cold water on the situation; he felt his buttocks clench at the thought of being fucked dry, or even really at all. But Higgins, who had his hand still on the beat of Bailey’s backside, only laughed. “Come now, you took Greek, didn’t you?”
“Briefly,” answered Bailey, who had no idea what this had to do with anything.
“Then trust me.” Higgins spread out his body the length of Bailey’s, then lifted his hips and pressed them down again, and in that gesture, he pushed his hard prick between Bailey’s thighs, just beneath the point where his buttocks met. “Press your legs together,” Higgins instructed, and Bailey obliged, though as begrudgingly as he could, considering he was already growing stiff again himself. As his thigh muscles squeezed the meat of Higgins’ erection, Bailey felt Higgins sigh against the back of his neck. “That’s good, that’s very good. You’re a good little fuck.”
To hear Higgins use such language was heady already; to hear it used to describe Bailey was as intoxicating as the gin had been. He wanted to be a good little fuck, damn every instinct in his body. “You fucker,” Bailey said, unsure if he was being nasty or descriptive. He found himself pushing back, lifting his ass like a wanton little whore. “Going to smother you in your sleep. Going to choke you on my prick.”
“Promises, promises,” taunted Higgins; he kissed the curve of Bailey’s ear, and Bailey could smell his own semen on Higgins’ breath, which was a heady experience indeed.
Higgins moved his prick in and out of the cleft between Bailey’s thighs with deep, deliberate speed, and every time he pressed in, Bailey’s cock was pressed between his body and the boards beneath so tight that he could feel his own pulse throb in it. Had this been Higgins’ goal all along, with coming out here and bringing the bottle? They were so tightly monitored at the dorms, and their beds made such terrible noises every time someone so much as shifted in his sleep. Had he known, when even Bailey himself had not, that all it would take was a few mouthfuls of cheap gin and some dirty Latin verbs and John Bailey would present his arse for the fucking?
Worst of all, Higgins had of, of course, damn his stupidly perfect face, been correct. Higgins nipped at Bailey’s ear again, then sucked a little red mark behind it, just where his hairline surely would not be able to hide it. “Tell me some more,” Higgins said, his voice breathy. “I want to hear about how you’re going to choke me.”
“Irrumabo,” said Bailey, hoping he’d recalled enough of that word from earlier to deploy it correctly. The way Higgins groaned and pushed into him, he supposed he’d been at least a little right. “Going to wake you in the middle of the night and jam my prick into that hideous handsome mouth. Just kneeling on the bed with my shaft shoved whole down your throat.”
Higgins laughed, and Bailey cursed that sound for having gone from irritating to arousing in such short order. “Irrumator,” he purred into Bailey’s ear. “One who fucks another’s mouth. Is what what you want to be to me?”
Bailey nodded as frantically as his being face-down in old storage crates would allow. “I want to fuck your mouth. I’m going to fuck your mouth. Going to make you suck my cock whether you want to or not.” Beyond the self-aggrandizing talk, Bailey was certain he had neither means nor desire to force himself on Higgins, though from the eager way Higgins had swallowed him before, he supposed ‘or not’ might not be a common state. “Write a chapter in your god-damned little book about that.”
Higgins gave a strong thrust, pressing Bailey’s body so hard he all but had the wind knocked from him. “Perhaps I will,” answered Higgins, who sounded far too calm for the fevered pace at which his hips had begun to move. “All about what a pleasure it is to have a pretty prick between one’s lips. Maybe even you should try it sometime.”
He absolutely should not. “Yes,” Bailey moaned, thinking of the hours he’d spent ruminating on what he had previously thought was the impossible idea of sucking on Higgins’ prick. Right then he wanted two Higginses — and what a horrible thought, more than one of those wretched creatures, put on this earth for no reason save to vex Bailey into an early grave — one at his rear and one at his mouth. It was an absurd, grotesque fantasy, one his family would have disowned him for knowing that he’d even thought, and it created a gnawing need in his belly. “You bastard, you right cocksucking bastard, fuck me.”
“I can get some oil,” said Higgins. “I’ve seen the older boys who have it, little bottles for fucking. If I get one, will you come back here with me?”
“Yes,” swore Bailey, who right then would have vowed to bring Higgins the moon on a platter if he’d asked for it. But unlike the vows of murder, this promise was not empty. And yet he was a Bailey of the line of Baileys, solicitors all to the well-to-do, and he knew not to cede anything without some sort of equal sacrifice from the other end. “But … but then I’m going to take my prick and I’m going to oil it up and I’m going give your arse a fucking as good as you gave me.”
Whatever response Higgins might have made was preempted as he thrust and came then, shooting his seed between Bailey’s legs and onto the boards beneath them. He groaned, but said no words as he shook and thrust, spending the last bit of himself between Bailey’s thighs. Finishing a fuck, their fuck.
Or perhaps not even finishing, as Higgins smacked Bailey’s buttock so hard Bailey lifted it from the ground in surprise, just enough for Higgins to get his hand beneath. An embarrassingly few number of strokes later, Bailey was shooting his prick dry for the second time in such a short while. Bailey was certain he yelped or pleaded or made some other humiliating display of raw need, but all he really remembered past the wave of sensation was how good it felt to have Higgins’ softening, meaty prick clamped between his legs. He had fucked Higgins to completion now, and so what if Higgins had spent himself only once to Bailey’s twice? He was too boneless and content to be ashamed of anything now, particularly his lack of stamina.
Presently, Higgins settled them down on their sides against one another, leaving his cock, gone fully limp, tucked at the warm juncture of Bailey’s legs. He tossed one arm over Bailey’s waist and used his other as a pillow for them both. With the hand closest to Bailey’s hair, Higgins found a short lock and gave it a tug. “Tu, puero quodcumque tuo temptare libebit, cedas: obsequio plurima vincet amor,” Higgins recited, his voice a sweet murmur against the back of Bailey’s neck.
Bailey resisted the urge to toss an elbow into the soft, unprotected span of Higgins’ middle, but it was a close call. “Do you ever shut up?”
“‘You’ll try whatever it is your boy wants to try,'” answered Higgins with a smile, and Bailey remembered just enough of his lessons to recognize a translation; “‘love always wins the most when it gives in.’ That’s Tibullus, you know.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” asked Bailey, as though he were not already, as though he were not sinking into Higgins’ embrace in the faint hope that they might both just fall asleep and die right here together, so that they would not have to face the walk back to the school, or the separation of polite society, or any living from this day forth that required they pretend that nothing had just transpired between them. It was all so stupid he could have burst out sobbing. A single tear escaped the corner of his eye and he opted to blame it on the gin.
But Higgins just held him as though nothing that might come would be of any consequence, because this was all that mattered. “Amavero,” he said, as though that were an appropriate response to anything. “Amaveris, amaverit, amaverimus, amaveritis, amaverint.”
Defiant to the last, Bailey shook his head. “No. I don’t believe that’s a real conjugation. I won’t. I believe you have run out of conjugations and you are just making up words now to sound pompous, because you are an insufferable bastard and I want nothing more to do with you or any of your made-up words. Which I’m certain do not exist, nor have they ever.”
“Tell that to the ancient Romans,” said Higgins with a laugh, and Bailey would, certainly, just as soon as he met a single one of them, just as soon as he rose from the safe warmth of Higgins’ embrace. Any minute now.