by Anna Martin
He hadn’t been lying when he told Dalton that he’d heard things from the other men. Some of them had been captured by enemy troops, terrible tortures inflicted on them before they were reclaimed and sent to Tennessee for treatment. Tennessee had never revealed the extent of those injuries, but the haunted look left in some men’s eyes had lingered in Finn’s subconscious.
If nothing else, Dalton was reassuring him that these actions between them came from a place of beauty, not terror. He didn’t feel naïve under Dalton’s searching hands and lips—he felt empowered.
Although he’d never imagined doing so before that afternoon, Finn let his own lips wander over the other man’s body, pulling a nipple into his mouth, pressing kisses to his hard, flat stomach, swirling his tongue in the light, tangled hairs under Dalton’s navel.
He was nervous about taking Dalton’s cock into his mouth but intrigued enough to do so for a moment, sucking on it gently before pulling away again. Something told him he had plenty of time to perfect this act. There were other things he wanted to do.
“What should I do?” Finn asked as the fingers of his right hand, copper and springs, rhythmically pinched and squeezed one of Dalton’s nipples.
“We need some oil,” Dalton muttered and rose, walking naked through the room again to search through his kitchen area. He returned with a jar and placed it carefully next to the bed before rolling back into Finn’s embrace.
“You’ll need to show me,” Finn said.
Dalton nodded. He took Finn’s hand—his natural one—and poured some of the oil in his palm. Sliding the oil around Finn’s fingers was an erotic act in itself; Dalton had to force himself to stop, hand the jar to Finn, and roll over to face away from him.
“Go slowly,” he whispered. “It’s been a while.”
The sun was starting to set over London, revealing how long they’d spent together during the daylight hours. The warm orange glow was still enough to see by, though, and Finn settled himself behind his lover.
Dalton pulled his top leg up toward his chest and hooked his arm around it, steadying himself. Still unsure of what was expected of him, Finn started with gentle, tentative strokes around Dalton’s smooth buttocks, eventually moving in to touch the other man’s hole.
When Dalton whimpered, almost desperately, Finn guessed that this was what was expected of him. He kept his fingers light, exploring, eventually pushing the tip of his finger inside when Dalton pushed back on him.
He was immediately gripped with an intense heat, and a pulse of lust traveled through his veins. His oil-slicked fingers pushed deeper inside, and he started to learn where to touch, how to touch, to make his partner feel good. Finn knew the size of his finger wasn’t really comparable to the size of his own cock, and so pressed a second finger in next to the first, wanting to ensure that this easy preparation was enough.
When Dalton begged him, “Now, Finn, please,” and “… use more oil,” Finn abandoned his task, poured more oil on his cock, and guided himself toward Dalton’s hole.
From there, his body seemed to take over, understanding what to do even if he had little prior knowledge to help him. He listened to Dalton’s commands—both verbal and physical—and held when he needed to, thrusting further when asked.
After long minutes of waiting, and learning, Finn felt his hips come in contact with Dalton’s body.
“There,” he murmured, close, now, to the other man’s ear.
Dalton said nothing but reached back blindly, eventually tangling his fingers with Finn’s and bringing their joined hands together over his chest. From there, they started to move together, pushing and pulling in equal measure, trading kisses and breathless words of encouragement.
Having not experienced this, or anything like this before, Finn knew that his movements were somewhat erratic, probably causing Dalton pain if the other man’s occasional grunts and hisses were anything to go by.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Dalton’s neck, pressing one kiss after another on the soft, lightly stubbled skin. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Dalton told him. “It’s okay. It’s just….”
Finn thrust hard again, causing Dalton’s back to arch and his body to shudder.
“It feels so good.”
“For me too,” Dalton said. “I promise.”
With their hands still joined, Finn searched out Dalton’s cock, expecting to find him flaccid, not aroused. To his surprise, and pleasure, Dalton was fully erect, his cock straining up toward his stomach, the tip seeping sticky, clear fluid.
Together, they wrapped warm fingers around Dalton’s cock, and their strokes and squeezes developed a similar rhythm to Finn’s movement inside Dalton’s body. He was yet to learn how to angle his body to exploit that most sensitive spot deep inside, and so most of the thrusts that met it were by accident. Still, this meant that the occasional bursts of pleasure that Dalton felt were untimed and unpredictable, sending his arousal level ever higher.
“I think,” Finn said on a breathless whisper, “again, soon, Dalton, please….”
Dalton understood and took over the task of stroking himself, knowing he wanted to reach that climax too, wanting to feel it with Finn still inside him. His body tensed, on edge, then shuddered, and he cried out, shaking with relief and pleasure as his own seed spilled over the top of his hand.
For a moment, as he caught his breath, he wondered if Finn had climaxed too while he was lost in his own, but no, Finn pressed his face to Dalton’s shoulder, and his hand clenched painfully on Dalton’s hip as he found his own pleasure once again.
When his body trembled, partly from lingering aftershocks and partly due to the cold, Dalton reached for a rough towel he kept under the bed and cleaned the oil and semen from his own body and Finn’s.
The younger man looked decidedly sleepy now, and Dalton pressed a kiss to his forehead, then another to his lips, allowing himself to be drawn into a long, slow kiss with hot, sliding tongues before nudging Finn’s head onto his chest.
“Do you need to go back to the tavern tonight?” Dalton asked as he threaded his fingers through Finn’s hair.
“No,” he said. “If they ask—and I don’t expect they will—I’ll say that I stayed with a friend.”
“You can stay here, if you like,” Dalton said. “Instead of having to pay for a room.”
Finn smiled against Dalton’s chest. “That’s very kind of you. I wouldn’t like to impose.”
“You’re not imposing if I want you here.”
“Then I’ll stay,” Finn said simply.
They seemed to be able to enjoy each other’s company for long periods of silence without either feeling the need to fill the time with conversation. It was a trait that Dalton admired. He considered the ability to be quiet as important as the ability to communicate.
Anything he had with this wonderful, quiet boy was temporary by the very nature of their relationship. He couldn’t ask Finn for the things he wanted, and however much he tried to push thoughts of something more from his mind, they seemed to creep back in.
As Finn’s breathing deepened and he eventually fell into sleep, Dalton tried to quiet the murmurs in his mind and find some kind of peace too.
THE next morning Finn returned to the inn to collect his belongings and tell the proprietress that he would not be returning. While Finn was away, Dalton moved some of his own things around, making space for Finn, if he wanted it.
He didn’t really need an assistant, but he couldn’t say he minded keeping Finn. There was rarely anyone in the shop, and never more than one person at a time. Still, Finn seemed to be happy to sit and talk or sit and read or pace aimlessly while Dalton worked, and over time, Dalton started to appreciate the company.
When the door was pushed slowly open, and both men were inside, Finn looked up in shock. He had become used to spending his days alone with Dalton and found himself somewhat jealous that his partner’s attention would be directed elsewhere.
An
elderly woman hobbled into the shop, holding herself up on two crutches. Finn immediately sprang to his feet, his book abandoned, and quickly moved to help her.
“Thank you,” she said, then, upon closer scrutiny, “you’re not Dalton.”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m his….”
“Assistant,” Dalton said from behind them, still sitting at his workbench. “Of sorts. Can I help you?”
The woman moved in a strange, lilting way toward the man who could help her. “I find myself in need of a new leg.”
Dalton stood, then, and moved around the table to greet her.
“Would you like to take a seat, Mrs.…”
“Mrs. Parker,” she said. “Mrs. Mary Parker.”
“Mrs. Parker. Finn, could you make Mrs. Parker a cup of tea?”
Finn nodded and moved to fill the kettle and hang it over the fire. He hung back slightly, watching Dalton work as he helped the lady to sit.
“Mechanical knee, wooden leg,” Dalton was murmuring, making notes for himself. “I should be able to do that for you from stock.”
Familiar with the process of measuring and preparing, Finn made himself scarce to save the lady’s modesty. Instead, he made three cups of tea with the water, taking his time over the task, and then returned to the workshop.
The lady was hunched over, and she seemed to blend into the stone wall, every part of her appearing in shades of gray. Her hair, clothes, and skin all had the same cloudy pallor, all except her hands, which were scarred black with soot.
Dock worker, Finn decided as he handed her the tea.
“I can pay you,” Mrs. Parker said defiantly, as if expecting him to challenge this. “I have money. I can pay.”
“I understand,” Dalton said easily. “I’ll take the first payment from you today, and then I can visit you every week on a Friday, if that’s suitable for you, to collect the next payment. The last payment will be made three months from today.”
Finn understood what Dalton was doing; it was obvious that the woman was poor, and to pay immediately, up front, would likely almost bankrupt her. There was little point in providing the woman with a new leg if she was then thrown in jail for her debts. Dalton had presented the payment arrangement as standard procedure, sparing both the woman’s pride and her pocket.
It was the work of a few hours to attach a mechanical knee to Mrs. Parker’s thigh, then fitting the wooden leg to it. Finn proved himself to be a more than competent assistant, to Dalton’s surprise. From the man’s first, initial squeamishness at the sight of his own damaged arm, he was able to calm Dalton’s new client surprisingly well, talking her through the process with comparisons to his own experience.
“That’s a thing of beauty, that is,” Mrs. Parker said, gesturing to Finn’s new hand.
“It is,” Finn agreed. “I’m still learning how to use it, though.”
“That’s why he’s still here,” Dalton said, interrupting from his job of carving the new wooden leg. “I’m helping Mr. Croucher to develop the strength and dexterity in his hand.”
“Will I need to learn how to walk again?” Mrs. Parker demanded, her voice panicked.
“No,” Dalton said frankly. “I’m not giving you a new leg that will respond to your body in the same way the old one did. I’m attaching a knee that operates in the same way the old one did in a mechanical way, and a wooden leg. One day, doctors may learn how to implant these in the body, to take the old damaged knee out and put this in instead. They can’t do it yet, though.”
Appeased at this explanation, Mrs. Parker settled back, although Finn reflected on Dalton’s words for a lot longer.
The old woman left after her leg was fitted, the time now late enough for Dalton to justify closing the shop and relocating them upstairs. Finn helped close down, familiar now with this routine and how he fit into it.
Part of his rehabilitation that Dalton had designed involved doing many everyday tasks repetitively, until he could do so without having to concentrate on how his hand moved. Their evenings were spent tying and untying his bootlaces, writing or drawing, chopping vegetables. Finn found, to his horror, that stabbing himself with a knife, scratching at the metal, hurt. The first time it happened he looked down at his hand, expecting to see blood welling at the fingertip.
Of course, that didn’t happen.
As night fell, their lessons changed; Finn learned the agility required to roll down silk stockings without tearing the delicate fabric, how to touch another man’s body using the right amount of force. He learned other things too, of his own sexuality, how he was aroused by the silky skin that covered Dalton’s erection. How another man’s rough stubble felt nice against his cheek.
There was something magical about waking up next to someone every morning, making tea, sitting quietly before starting the day.
“I have to go out this morning,” Dalton said with a hint of apology as he rose and cleaned out his cup. “There are payments to collect. I need some things from the market, though, if you don’t mind going to get them for me.”
“On my own?”
“Yes. You’ll be fine. You can keep the hand covered if you like. Or I could lend you some gloves.”
Finn straightened his spine, an unconscious gesture that Dalton was starting to notice as one of defiance.
“I don’t need the gloves,” Finn said. “Thank you.”
“Okay. I need some vegetables—whatever you can get—and bread. And some meat. I don’t mind what.”
He counted out coins from a bag hidden in a drawer and handed them over. Finn slipped a few into his pocket and gave the rest back.
“You don’t need to buy meat,” Finn said. “I’ll go catch something.”
“Catch something?” Dalton repeated, amused. “We’re in the middle of London, Finn, not the wild woods of Europe.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’m sure there are rabbits in the parks. Or ducks.”
“Probably safer to stick to rabbits,” Dalton said. “You’ll be less likely to be stopped for poaching. You may be charged if you’re caught with ducks—rabbits are pests.”
“Good to know,” Finn said. “I’ll go out at dusk—it’s more likely to catch something at that time of day. But I don’t mind going down to the market now.”
Dalton nodded and handed the coins back again. “Get a couple of bottles of mead, or beer,” he said. “I haven’t had any in a while. Don’t get it from a tavern, they’ll charge you more. Go to Lucy….”
He wrote an address on a scrap of paper, and Finn read it, memorized it, and tucked it into his pocket in case. Hesitating at the door, Finn made a snap decision and strode back into the room, kissed Dalton hard, then left without another backward glance.
FINN had several options; there were many markets in this area of London, and he could take his pick. It was a warm day, though, the sky a hazy blue, and he decided to go to Spitalfields.
He could remember the first time he’d come through London as a boy; his family were travelers, moving from one place to another every few months, and it was inevitable that they would pass through the capital once every few years to replace supplies they couldn’t purchase anywhere else. The place seemed too big for a young boy, and even with his older brothers desperate to run off and explore, Finn had felt more secure at his mother’s side.
When the opportunity came for him to carve a career of his own, he’d chosen one that often took him away from big cities and out into the vast wilderness. He was not, and would never be, the type of soldier that rode onto a battlefield; he was the silent enemy, lurking in shadows and darkness. It was a role that he had always felt fit him like a second skin.
From his fear, only a few weeks before, of exposing the ragged stump of his arm, Finn had progressed to a point where he purposefully rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing his forearms and the mechanical hand that was now a part of himself.
It drew stares, but these were looks of admiration, awe, and respect.
Bread was an easier selection; Finn had no particular taste for it and didn’t mind which loaf was handed to him, wrapped in newspaper, so long as it wasn’t burnt.
He left the market, then, heading for the address where he could buy the ale Dalton had requested. It wasn’t too far from Spitalfields, meaning he could make a wide loop back to the shop and return in time for tea.
A shop on the other side of the road made him hesitate, stopping short, then apologizing to the other people whom he had caused to bump into him. It was a shop selling ladies garments. He wondered if they sold stockings.
Heat pooled in his cheeks at the thought of buying such a thing—would the owner even sell them to him? Yet his feet seemed to make the journey across the road with no need for his mind to tell them to do so.
The bell above the door tinkled as he pushed it open, and his eyes were forced to adjust to the light—much dimmer than the bright day outside. There were no other patrons inside, for which Finn was grateful, and a man sat behind the counter.
A man. Thank goodness.
“Can I help?” the proprietor asked in a gruff voice.
Finn nodded and cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a gift,” he said cautiously, tugging his sleeve down to cover his hand. The man didn’t seem to notice.
“Ah, right.” He gave Finn a nod. “A gift for a… lady friend?”
The way in which he said it—lady friend—left Finn with no doubt that the man expected him to buy something for a prostitute. He quickly decided that this assumption was far superior to the truth and gave a short nod. “Yes.”