Page 16 of The Songbird of Wychwood

PERCY

I liked George’s cozy apartment room above the theater, with its artistically draped oriental silks, French brocades, and voiles. It was unconventional and bohemian, not dour and dark like my own lackluster rooms at Blackwood Hall. I was always drawn to the romantic, artistic life and would have chosen to be a writer if I hadn’t been saddled with the inherited pressure of the family business. I knew I was luckier than most in that I not only received a university education, but on graduation, I walked straight into a career, within Harcourt Press.

I was an only child, a son and heir, and I’d never had a say on how I chose to live my life. My grandfather and father decided the trajectory my life would take when I was born. I’d attended boarding school at Harrow from the age of ten to eighteen, and then went onto study English at Cambridge. Mother decided that I would marry by the age of twenty-eight and give her at least three grandchildren. And thus, it was the tradition of well-connected families to enhance their standing through marriage. Many grubby men of business were keen to marry off their daughter to me in a bid to be connected to the Harcourt Press Empire. I’d respectfully fought against all possible pairings presented to me since I’d joined the family business. They were all fine girls, I was sure, but no, not for me. I was determined I would not imprison a girl in a loveless marriage, not for my mother, not for anyone. I would rather remain a bachelor and damn this prison of family duty to hell!

In my everyday life I would never dare to indulge in a lingering look at a handsome gentleman. So terrified was I of somebody seeing me looking at a man in a lustful way that I suppose I switched myself off and became agreeable Percy , the boss’s son. But here, now, I watched George stride gracefully across his room and as I had no doubts about his preference or his attraction to me, I openly admired his powerful athletic thighs and calves and my, what a fine arse! I smoothed my moustache and licked my lips. When I’d met George as Miss Georgette, he was wearing a lady’s gown and so I hadn’t witnessed the exquisite masculine shape of him. Tonight, having recently come off stage he wore loose, casual clothing, navy blue trousers, a white cotton undershirt with a low neckline and black braces, with navy felt slippers on his feet. His physique was virtually that of a ballet dancer, robust shapely thighs, nicely muscled buttocks, a flat abdomen, and sharp boned shoulders. I could see the androgyny in his face and how, depending on the application of greasepaint, he could appear masculine or feminine. I was quite in awe, bedazzled by his mercurial nature, and I could not help but look my fill. For who knew how this meeting would progress, and after tonight, I might never have the honour of a second invitation to his room. I realized then that George was talking. He paused and pivoted to meet my gaze. Our looks collided and heat burned through me. He turned away first.

“I’ll, um, put the kettle on,” he said nervously and even his nervousness made heat coil in my belly. I supposed I’d drunk a fair bit with my colleagues so that explained why I was so feather headed, but it didn’t explain why I was tongue tied, embarrassingly so. I found I was incredibly hot, and yet I was frozen to the spot. What the devil was wrong with me? I’d never been so overwhelmed by my attraction to any man.

George busied himself setting a kettle of water on the stove and then putting a teapot, cups, and saucers on a tray. He was coming over with the tray now and I supposed I’d better sit down. I willed my legs to move. I removed my coat and hung it on a hook behind the door, and then I hurried to the couch where I picked up some of the papers that were strewn there so I could sit. I glanced down at the sheaf of papers I held and realized they were manuscript papers and notes…for poems, or song lyrics.

George set the tray on the steamer trunk and sat down on the far end of the couch. I was stunned, joyfully so when he told me he wrote because that meant we both shared a love of words.

Oftentimes a composer worked with a lyricist and would then have the songs published in a manuscript book and sold widely. Singers could purchase the books and perform what was popular with the general public while the composer received a cut of the royalties from sales. But George composed, wrote, and performed his songs. He was a unique talent and I couldn’t quite believe an actor with such dazzling flair wasn’t on stage at the Gaiety, or snapped up to be off touring America.

“I was um…touched by the poem in your note,” he said softly, “It was lovely.”

“Oh, thank you.” I felt the heat rise to colour my cheeks. “I…I write too,” I revealed awkwardly, “But I guess you know that already,” I fumbled. ”I mostly write poetry.”

“Is that your profession? Are you a poet?”

“Oh, no, no I’m an editor…for the Archaeological Journal . Although, I do endeavor to become a real poet.”

“How does one become a real poet? The way I see it, if you write poetry, you’re a poet!”

He was right of course, “My dream is to publish a book of poetry. I hope to do so this year, so I guess, then I will believe I’m a real poet.”

“And how will you do that…publish your poetry?”

“I’m rather lucky on that score. My family owns a publisher…not of books, of newspapers, and periodicals. Harcourt Press,” I revealed. George’s brows rose with interest.

“I’ve heard of them, they print the Daily Gazette, don’t they! So, you can get a print book made of your poetry? That’s exciting. I’d buy a copy! Would you sign it for me?” His smile was intoxicating.

I wished I had the courage to tell him that if this book did come into being it was because of him, and how his mercurial beauty inspired me.

“So, how do you like your tea?” he asked as he picked up the tea strainer, held it over one of the teacups, and poured.

“Hot is always good,” I joked.

George laughed and triumphant pleasure rushed through me at knowing I had made this clever actor laugh. He poured a second cup.

“How old are you, Percy Harcourt?” he asked in a low, playful tone.

“Twenty-six, and you?”

“What do you think?” George teased, stirring a spoonful of honey into his black tea.

“Hmmm…” I considered his profile, and feeling the boldness of the beer I’d consumed earlier, I leaned in, cupped his cheek with my palm and made him turn to face me. I had never acted so audaciously in all my days, but here with George it felt safe to be me. The teaspoon was abandoned in the teacup as I claimed George’s full attention. His skin was smooth, freshly shaved. His mousy brown hair with natural waves was adorable. I traced my thumb over his cheek and then lower to gently slide over his plump lower lip. I pinned him with my eyes all the while, noting the fierce challenging look he sent in return.

“Maybe twenty-one or twenty t—“

I never got to complete my sentence because George launched himself across the couch and pressed his lips to mine.

Everything changed then.

I wasn’t in the habit of kissing a fellow on the mouth because I was terrified of someone finding out and reporting me to my father, or to the authorities! But, given the chance with a man who understood— .

Our first kiss wasn’t the soft and romantic lips pressing together that I’d envisaged in my many imaginings and day dreams. I found it an almost painful surrender to give in after a lifetime of believing that what I desired was shameful and sinful. But George’s soft lips upon mine felt so good, so right, and then I groaned involuntarily as passion erupted inside of me. His seeking kiss was a key, and I opened to George, welcoming him into my arms, and my mouth. We were men starved of touch and affection, ordinarily fearful of reaching out in case of rejection. Our joining was desperate, kissing, sucking, and nipping at one another, our hands tangled in the other’s hair. The full length of his body, thrumming with precious life was pressed to mine. Tears sprang to my eyes with the release of such intense passion. How could something as simple as a kiss undo me? I could feel the hardness of George’s slender prick pressing against my belly. I’d never experienced a sensation like it. I was sure he could feel my arousal too because he moved then, rutting against it, the exquisite new sensation making me cry out in surprise because the rocking friction felt so—damnably—exquisite!

That guttural cry pulled George out of whatever fever had led to his audacious move. He pulled away and glared at me in a strangely accusatory manner. His lips glistened and were puffy from our kisses, he was panting as he said,

“Why did you go without saying goodbye?”

I didn’t understand his wounded tone, “I…I beg your pardon?”

“At Wychwood, we danced something magical. We had a connection. I thought you’d felt it too. But then you were gone. What did I do wrong? Why didn’t you at least say goodbye?”

It hit me then that my unexpected departure had hurt his feelings. I’d had no idea. I felt rather rotten about leaving at the time, but there was no alternative.

“You did nothing wrong; I assure you. And I did feel it…the connection. I do. God forgive me.” I pressed my face into my hands, thoroughly ashamed of my bad manners and of running off without a word. I looked up and met George’s wounded glare. “Honestly, it wasn’t my intention to vanish. I was taken aside by Mr. Joshua.”

“Oh…he didn’t tell me that. He just said you’d left.”

“I have no experience of…intimacies with men. And it was my first night at a house of that nature. I caused a little drama...a social faux-pas, so to speak. I saw you and that was it for me. No one else could interest me. But you and I were…noticed because you returned my attentions. I suppose other men didn’t like me monopolizing your time and someone commented to Mr. Joshua. He took me aside and explained there could be no favoritism, and he reminded me of the house rules. I thought it best to leave so that we didn’t—”

“Oh,” George’s face was flushed pink. He bit on a hangnail and sat back against the couch. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze lowered shyly, before he admitted,

“I, um…suppose the both of you did me a favour. I would have…you know…if you’d asked me a second time.” George looked at me then and there was fire in his eyes. He bit his kiss swollen lower lip again, sending me a sultry stare that communicated more than words could say. I gulped, my Adams Apple bobbing in my throat. It was my turn to say “Oh,” as I realized what he meant. George extended a hand and without another thought I took it. He clutched my trembling fingers as he stood and pulled me up from the couch. We hadn’t even taken a sip of tea. This was the moment I’d dreamt of and written poetry about. Finally, I was going to touch another man.

George led me across the room and behind the crimson velvet privacy drapes to where a large double bed was hidden, piled with blankets and pillows. Then he dropped my hand and looked at me as if I was his next meal.

“Will you let me bugger you or do you wish to bugger me?” he asked matter-of-factly. I was rather startled to hear the candid, crude question. My chest felt tight. No one had ever spoken to me like this before. Our shared attraction was so new and fragile, and, even though I desired him immensely I wasn’t ready to go that far.

“I’ve, um, never done that before, or had it done to me,” I admitted hoping he didn’t think me an inexperienced fool. “Can we do…other things? I’d like very much to…to touch you…and kiss some more,” I said tentatively.

“Very well,” George didn’t seem disappointed at all as he pulled back the bed covers. He shrugged the braces off his shoulders and then dragged his undershirt over his head, displaying a pale, hairless, well-sculpted chest. I watched him, in awe of the acres of his pale, unblemished skin. My fingers shook as I hurriedly followed suit, scrabbling out of my garments until they were a messy pile of fabric on the floor. I didn’t care to pick the garments up and fold them, there were other, more favourable things I wanted to do with my time. I stood nervously before George as naked as he was. I licked my lips in anticipation. George’s eyes were alight with desire as we took one another in, our pricks both jutting out for the joust, displaying a mutual appreciation of what we saw.

George gripped his prick and pulled the gossamer skin back revealing the glistening plum head. He pumped it a few times as he looked his fill. My mouth watered. I hadn’t seen a boy grip and pump his stand like that since my school days. The sight of it thrilled me.

“Come ‘ere,” he said and like a marionette I stepped forward, our erect pricks facing off like fencing foils. He ran his hands over the blond hair on my chest. His were the fine-boned hands of a musician, and the trail of his fingertips sent a shiver to my bawsack. I gasped. And in Miss Georgette’s teasing voice he asked,

“Now, tell me, fine fellow. What’s your pleasure?”

“You are!” I reached up and cupped his handsome face with both hands, and then gazed into the fires of his eyes.

“You are relief, a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day. Your kisses intoxicate like wine, and as I look into your eyes, I long to make you mine.”

Oh! I’d rather surprised myself. I had no idea where those poetic words sprang from, and I was worried for a moment that I’d sounded like a ninny. But George’s expression sort of…melted and he sighed, “Oh Percy,” and then he was on me, wrapping his arms around my neck, and the glorious feeling of his bare skin pressing to mine made my thoughts white out. I was forced backward, and pulled him with me onto the bed. I lay back on the cool sheet that smelled of him, and he was atop me, his thighs straddling my hips, the soft dark hair of his calves brushing against my skin, and our cockstands side by side. The sensation of his silken prick and wrinkled sac against my skin was divine. He gathered both cocks in his hand and frigged us together. The sensation made me whimper, a sound I couldn’t ever recall making. George leaned in then, and my lips and throat were devoured. All I could do was cling on to his warm firm buttocks, pulling him closer as George chose an undulating rhythm, and proceeded to undo me, kiss by kiss.

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