He ignores me, still staring at my cock. “It’s a very nice-looking penis.”
“Is it?”
“Oh yes. Your skin is beautiful, and everything looks very neat.” I wasn’t aware a penis could look messy, but I keep myopinion to myself as he continues talking. “Most of the men will like that you’re circumcised. Apart from the Bandhill twins. They prefer their men’s cocks to resemble a turkey’s neck at Christmas.”
“What a truly beautiful image. I’ll pass the majority’s thanks for my circumcision to the doctor I had when I was a baby.”
“Stand up straight.”
I obey, and he walks around me again, his mouth pursed.
“What?” I ask worriedly.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says, and there’s something simple and almost pure about the admiration in his voice. Then he blinks and it vanishes, leaving behind pure calculation. “Long legs, narrow hips. No hair on your chest either, thank goodness.”
“What’s wrong with body hair?”
“Most men at the club don’t like it. Apart from a few who like their men to have body hair that you could plait, but you’re not for them. You’ll probably have to get a crotch wax as well as your arse.”
“Oh shit. I hate that.”
“I’m sure you’ll get over it. Pain is just the pursuit of a goal, after all.”
“Have you ever thought of writing a book of your inspirational sayings?”
“Nice arse.”
“Thank you very much.”
“No, really. It’s lovely and full. Do you do squats?”
“If I have to.”
He looks up at me from his alarmingly close appraisal of my bottom. “A toned gym body is a must, but not so much that you look like Popeye.”
“Oh, how I long for my very own Olive Oyl.”
He grins, showing a dimple of his own, and his whole face warms. “So, are we doing this?”
“Can I get dressed if I say yes?”
“Of course.” He waits, leaning on the windowsill as I hastily drag my clothes on.
“You’ll have to practise getting dressed and undressed,” he remarks.
I pull my T-shirt down. “I don’t need any practice. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Well, your movements are as graceful as a carthorse.” I blink, and he shakes his head. “Bloody hell. Preparing you for Friday will take a mammoth amount of work.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you helping me? I don’t believe I’m the shambling gorilla you seem to be implying, but it’s still work for you.”
He considers me, and he looks almost shy for a moment. “Maybe I’m a bit lonely and I’d like a friend too,” he says. His cheeks flush but his expression resumes its usual haughtiness. “Or maybe helping feral-looking boys is my calling in life. Let’s go, Wes. We’ve got a lot to do.”
I follow him out of the room. My conscience is screaming incoherently, probably trying to tell me not to do this. This sort of decision could have a massive impact on my life. Then I think of my bank account and the money Julian quoted. My conscience won’t be paying my debts, will it?
