Counterpunch

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Brooklyn paused. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “You look like a completely different man when you’re fighting. You’re gorgeous.”

  Brooklyn shrugged. “And when I’m not fighting? What do I look like then?”

  “Like a—pardon my French—a mean motherfucker.”

  Brooklyn laughed, and Nathaniel gazed at him a lot more fondly. Again. Fuck, he was a hard one to deter. “That’s what I am.”

  “No, that’s what you were made into.” Nathaniel dropped the rest of the bread. “Ironic that you look a lot less mean and bitter when you’re hurting another man.” He leaned forwards. “But you also look like that when you sleep. Or after you’ve come. You wonder why I did things the way I did? To see that expression in your eyes. To imagine, for a moment, kissing you without fearing for my neck.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Put that expression on your face again.” Nathaniel smiled, wistfully.

  Brooklyn shifted on the seat. He was just saying this shit because a freeman could say whatever to a slave, and would never have to own up to it. Slaves, children, and pets could be spoken to like that.

  Still, it had an effect. Especially since there was no way Les would ever fuck him. Whereas Nathaniel was right here. And gagging for it. The only thing between Brooklyn and some quality time was his bloody pride. He could follow Nathaniel to his hotel room, or return to his much less cushy accommodation with Curtis and Les, no sex or breakfast included.

  “Dessert?” Nathaniel asked.

  Too many cheesy answers for that. Brooklyn shook his head, twisting his neck to catch a glimpse of Les. The trainer looked up, met his gaze, and nodded. Brooklyn turned back to Nathaniel. “Let’s skip that part and go fuck.”

  Nathaniel chuckled and looked up when Les drew closer. “It appears that Brooklyn will join me at my suite. Could I make use of your guard?”

  Les quickly glanced at Brooklyn and then back to Nathaniel. “He’s expected back in London on Monday. Should I courier his papers over, sir?”

  Nathaniel pursed his lips. “That would be good, thank you. I’m sorry to interfere with his schedule so much.”

  Les shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “A change of scenery might be good for him. He’s been working very hard.”

  Nathaniel gave Les a downright angelic smile. “Thank you.” He reached inside his pocket, pulled out some notes held together with a metal clip—euros and sterling—and placed two fifties on the table. “Let’s go.”

  Nathaniel had a driver. Who drove a limo. Brooklyn sank into the black leather seats, feeling suddenly weird about it all. But at least Curtis joined the driver in the front, and the glass separating them was darkened.

  Nathaniel sat down near him, close, but not touching, one arm on the back of the seat, half-turned to Brooklyn.

  “What?”

  “Just watching you.”

  “And?”

  “Enjoying it.” Nathaniel smiled. The expression was so open, so friendly, Brooklyn thought of Cash. There were just some people in the world who had that kind of smile.

  Nathaniel got his kicks in a strange way, but he didn’t seem like a bad guy overall. Brooklyn glanced out of the window at the houses, and there was a glimpse of a river glittering in the night. If there were any posters in this part of town, he didn’t spot them.

  After a few more minutes, the car stopped in front of a hotel, and somebody opened the door for them. Only Curtis had to open his own door. The guard trotted behind them as Nathaniel led the way into the building—all polished stone floors, glass, and wood surfaces.

  The elevator was decked out with mirrors on three sides, with steel doors the only orientation. How would Curtis react if he grabbed Nathaniel now and kissed him, touched him, pressed him up against the wall? Would Curtis dare to interfere?

  The doors opened. The suite was to the left, and Nathaniel paused only long enough to slide his key card into the lock. “I won’t require you tonight, Miller. Reception will have a room for you.”

  “Sir . . .”

  Brooklyn turned and saw Curtis reluctant but respectful. Damn, he liked Nathaniel. He’d like anybody who made Curtis stop dead in his tracks and stammer.

  “I’m capable of defending myself.”

  Curtis looked dubious. He then nodded, briskly, and gave Brooklyn a stare that was probably meant to intimidate. “Just call me if you need me, sir.”

  Nathaniel smiled again, pushed the door open, nodded Brooklyn inside, and left Curtis standing in the corridor, just like that.

  Brooklyn didn’t care much for anything else, just grabbed Nathaniel the moment the heavy door was shut and shoved him face-first against the wall. The man tensed with surprise, but no fear. His breath became heavy when Brooklyn pressed up against him, pushing his groin against his arse. There was just no fucking way Nathaniel would restrain him again. Not without Curtis or a whole pack of guards.

  “And now?” Nathaniel asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “This can still go either way.” Nathaniel cleared his throat. “But we both know there are no guards in the room.”

  “Either way? What’s the choice?”

  Nathaniel hesitated, and Brooklyn grabbed his throat, felt the pulse beat rapidly against his fingers. “Maybe it’s not a choice. Maybe you don’t see it.”

  Brooklyn pushed harder, rubbed himself against the man’s arse. Athletic, trim, taut. He wanted to watch his cock spear that butt, to see and feel Nathaniel clench around him. “I’ll fuck you.”

  “Yes,” Nathaniel said in a low voice. “The question is how you’ll do it.”

  “Up against the wall, maybe.” Brooklyn released Nathaniel’s throat but kept him in place with his body weight while he pulled the jacket from Nathaniel’s shoulders and dropped it on the floor. His hands went to the man’s belt, opened it, and then the button and the zip. Nathaniel’s cock fit snugly into his hand. Brooklyn shoved the briefs down and stroked the man, who pushed back, elbows supporting himself against the wall, neck bent.

  Right there, Nathaniel could have been anybody. A stranger in a bar. A fellow slave. Just a body that responded to his.

  Brooklyn whispered close to Nathaniel’s ear. “Shoes off.”

  Nathaniel kicked his shoes off, uncoordinated while Brooklyn continued to stroke and tease him. Well. This much was clear. The man wasn’t impotent. He was hard and ready.

  Brooklyn grabbed him by the neck and pushed him farther into the suite. There. The first bedroom looked like it was being used. Even better, there was some body lotion on the bedside table. Brooklyn grinned. “Used that for the fucking machine?” he asked and pushed Nathaniel to the bed.

  “No, it dries too quickly.” Nathaniel didn’t resist much when Brooklyn pressed him down on the mattress.

  “Turn.” Brooklyn didn’t want to see his face, just wanted to get into that arse as soon as possible. And call the shots. He pinned Nathaniel down with his weight, pushed his legs apart with his own. Nathaniel struggled, but it’d be a cold day in hell when Nathaniel would outmuscle him.

  Brooklyn reached for the lotion, opened the cap, and squeezed a fair amount of it on Nathaniel’s crack. The sight of the white stuff on the man’s skin jolted him, and he pushed forwards, slicked his cock by rubbing it against the crack, and then dug in with both thumbs and opened him enough to force his cock inside.

  Nathaniel groaned, but it wasn’t just pain. His breath came in short, hard gasps, very nearly desperate. Brooklyn thrust deeper into the tight heat, not nearly slick enough to make it easy, but at least it was possible. Better than a dry fuck, in any case.

  “That answers that question . . .” Nathaniel managed to say, but anything he would have planned to add broke off into gasps and groans when Brooklyn began to move.

  Nothing else mattered, just the heat and the tightness, the body that half welcomed, half resisted him, torn between the indignation of the situation and naked lust. Brooklyn felt
it like it was his own. He despised freemen, but he wanted this one. Shoved around, ordered, controlled, owned as he was, right now he was almost free. By forcing another. He knew that all too well, and it was most of the thrill. Completely forbidden to treat a freeman like this. But Nathaniel had brought it upon himself. He’d sent the guard away. He’d wanted it like this.

  He kept thrusting, rolled his hips with every movement, felt Nathaniel relax, respond to him on that most basic level. Push back, breath controlled by their movements, every gasp when he thrust confirmed Nathaniel was loving it. And so was Brooklyn. His clawing mellowed, arousal melting something inside him, and he relented. He pulled Nathaniel up and pushed his knees under him, hand grasping his cock.

  “Too . . .” Nathaniel groaned, then tightened and came. With barely more than a touch. Brooklyn thrust harder and faster to get off too, turned on beyond belief that Nathaniel had just lost it like that. Where was the man who’d controlled him so effortlessly?

  Right now, he was quivering right under him, taking every thrust, every touch like deserved punishment, until the pleasure crested, and Brooklyn came. No thought of pulling out, Brooklyn bore him down into the mattress again and came deep inside. He’d wanted that. Badly.

  He enjoyed feeling Nathaniel’s chest expand underneath him, the play of his muscles, something like a tremble coursing through his body. The smell of male lust all around them. Brooklyn closed his eyes, listening to Nathaniel’s breath, and rested there, still inside him, for a while, until the sweat had dried.

  He pulled out and rolled off to lie on his back. Nathaniel’s face was half-hidden by the pillow, the dark eyebrow relaxed. No frown. No pain.

  Then Nathaniel inhaled deeply and turned his head. Lips opened. “You’ve wanted to do that for a while.” No question. Should he deny it? He should probably tell him it was nothing personal. That he preferred fucking to being fucked. If this had been the first night they’d spent, he would have.

  “I don’t get much chance.”

  Nathaniel chuckled. “Nobody else sending the guard away?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Brooklyn pushed up against the headboard and sat there, at once tired and restless. “What do you think? I’m a slave.”

  “Yes.” Nathaniel reached up and trailed the muscle of his thigh. “There’s a lot of rage.” His fingers dug into the muscle. “I’d be the same way, in your position. It amazes me that people assume anybody would just submit to being a slave.”

  Brooklyn closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. “Still, you pay money to fuck me.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” Nathaniel rubbed his face and sat up, then turned to look at Brooklyn. “I’d make it up to you if I knew how.”

  And that was really the core of it all. Nathaniel paid for this, expecting to be fucked. No surprise, no force, just a fantasy, and one Brooklyn shared. He’d wanted it, and he wanted it again, maybe even soon.

  Life was too bloody complex like this. He couldn’t make sense of Nathaniel or this situation. Nathaniel wasn’t just one of those perverts that had him chained up to fuck him. None of them cared in the least about what he said or thought. None cared if he felt anything. If he enjoyed it. “Why?”

  Nathaniel sighed. “We’re back at the why question. What about this: I wanted to meet you. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted you. I’m gay, Brooklyn. You’re very much my type. And I thought you’d enjoy it too. Take off some of the pressure. Treat you well—for a change.”

  “Buy why meet me?”

  Nathaniel frowned, but it looked compassionate rather than displeased. “I was curious. I heard of this up-and-coming champion. I happen to have connections. But even more, I heard about your case two years ago. Your conviction. I have come to the conclusion that it was wrong and should be overturned.”

  “Great. You’re the only one.”

  “They made an example of you, Brooklyn.”

  “She’s fucking dead, okay? Dead. And I killed her.” Brooklyn got off the bed, the surge of rage a red haze in front of his eyes. He shook his head, tried to control it. He could kill in that. He felt the rage like a living thing beating against the insides of his skull, an almost-painful pressure against his throat.

  “Yes, you did.” Nathaniel watched him, but there was no judgement. No forgiveness. Just accepting the facts.

  Brooklyn wanted to beat the neutrality out of him. Make the man hate him, despise him. Hurt him, and hurt him bad.

  He fought it down, couldn’t entertain the thought or the memory. Only remembered a bloodied head and legs that kicked, uncoordinated, automated. And his own horror when he understood what was wrong. Two years of slavery so far—was that even beginning to make amends? No.

  He stood there, aware of Nathaniel getting up too. Nathaniel left and returned a little later in a bathrobe, still tying it around his waist. The calm presence was even bearable. Les would have tried to touch him, but how ironic, the guy who fucked him knew when he needed a moment to himself. There was nothing he could do but bear it. The reason why he was a slave. He’d never forget it. Maybe the punishment was just right. Maybe he should accept it. Find a way to bear it.

  You’ll regret you were born, Marshall.

  Mr. Marshall, your profession needs to adhere to higher standards of conduct, so you will be judged to the full extent of the law.

  “You said they made me an example?”

  “I think so.” Nathaniel came into the bedroom with two steaming mugs, set one down near Brooklyn, and leaned in the doorframe.

  “Explain.”

  “What you did looks like manslaughter to me. Yes, she died, but it wasn’t your intent, so the whole thing falls apart on the mens rea clause. Your case should have been built on the irresistible impulse defence, which would have definitely earned you a downgrade to manslaughter. Of course, the judge could have had you committed if he’d thought you were a menace to society, but if we discard that possibility and assume a more realistic outcome, at the very least, you would have avoided the life sentence. In other words, you wouldn’t have been sentenced to slavery, let alone under constant guard. If this were overturned, or at least downgraded, you could at the very least get rid of the guard, possibly have a profession, and reclaim part of your life. In the best case, you could go free; most manslaughter convictions don’t spend more than ten years in prison. And it’s entirely possible the conditions you’ve lived under would be counted against any remaining sentence you might have to serve. In other words, the beatings, sexual exploitation, and deprivations you’ve suffered would be enough that you’d be released immediately. In theory.”

  “I could be free?”

  “Yes.” Nathaniel sipped his tea. “The catch being that there are only a handful of solicitors or barristers interested in representing you. It would have to go to the Court of Appeal. New evidence would have to be found. It could take months or maybe even years.”

  “And I don’t have any money.” Brooklyn shook his head.

  “I’ve been known to do pro bono work,” Nathaniel said and glanced at Brooklyn over his tea.

  Brooklyn stared at him. Was this another one of those freemen games? I could do this, but you’d have to get me in the mood first. Then why did Nathaniel come out with this now? “You would represent me?”

  “I would.”

  Now, game or no game? “What’s it going to cost me?”

  “It’s part of my professional code of conduct that I cannot represent a client without being told to represent him. I can’t make these decisions on my own. You’d have to tell me you want me to look into this for you.”

  “What about management? I can’t even sign a contract, let alone hire somebody to represent me.”

  “Don’t worry about them. At this stage, they don’t need to know. But, of course, I can’t make any promises. I think you have a case, but you might ask for a second opinion.”

  “I can’t afford a second opinion!”

  “Yes, t
his is where the process as it currently stands looks a little tenuous.”

  “So you’re a barrister? Solicitor?”

  “Both, actually. I studied law, qualified as a solicitor, and was called to the Bar by the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple, which is one of the four Inns of Court.”

  Smart and rich. Barrister. God, they made more money per hour than he’d made in a week. At least the very top dogs. “And I thought you were a banker or businessman.”

  Nathaniel smiled at him, a surprisingly boyish expression on his face. “You had a high opinion of me.”

  Brooklyn grinned. “Well, yeah.”

  “In any case, I can take care of both research and representation. It might be a few weeks or months until we’re ready, but I think we should at least try.”

  “And why? I can’t be that good a fuck.”

  Nathaniel laughed. “I think breaking you free could, in the long run, be cheaper.” He finished his tea and opened the belt of his robe. “I’m going back to bed. It’s getting quite late for me.”

  The robe fell open, and Brooklyn actually studied the naked body underneath. Damn, but Nathaniel wasn’t bad looking at all. He wasn’t stunning, but neither was Les. Compared to Les, Nathaniel was certainly the better-looking and by far the better-groomed man. His was a silent, calm confidence that ensured he was heard. Yes, barrister fit him well. Not flashy, but people listened to him. Even Curtis.

  He watched Nathaniel climb back into bed and took a mouthful of the tea, lukewarm by now, but oddly soothing.

  Nathaniel was lying on his side, arm, shoulder, and a stretch of back visible. Damn. Like this, it was hard to discount him as a stranger. Not pushing him, not forcing him, not pressing him to do anything. Just there.

  And maybe a ticket back to freedom.

  Brooklyn huffed. If the guy wanted to fuck him in return for free legal assistance, that wouldn’t be such a bad deal.

  He approached the bed, sat down, and slid under the covers. Nathaniel reached out and switched off the lamp on the bedside table. Brooklyn was aware of the man’s movements, his closeness, without touching or brushing. He didn’t mind it at all. It made all this feel more normal. Most people who’d fucked him had kicked him out afterwards.