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Jack’s days are demanding. Up early to look over the script, then there were the problems with costume and make up, the usual level of drama from the talent plus the never-ending demands of the money men. He’s hardly stopped all day and this evening had to sit through another stuffed shirt dinner with The Family. Buttering them up to continue getting access to the house for the filming is also part of his job, of course. He’s exhausted. Entirely spent. There are still tomorrow's scenes to read and a letter to write to an investor too. But his plan is to do that in bed. Strip to his birthday suit and relax. At long last.
So when he was finally making his way to his room for the night and he heard voices echoing in the corridor, he didn’t even stop to think about it and simply crammed himself into the nearest available hiding place. He absolutely definitely can’t speak to any more people today. He’s at his limit and his jovial smile is well and truly in danger of slipping. So he’ll wait it out in private and then creep to bed once the coast is clear.
Except the voices in the hall didn’t appear to be passing. By good God, they are lingering out there gossiping. Will his torment never cease? Jack leans his forehead up against the cool gloss paint of the door to his sanctuary.
Realising that he might be here for a stretch Jack pats the walls around him in an attempt to understand where he has found himself. Locating the round nub of a Bakelite switch, he flicks it on. Linen cupboard, it seems like. There are worse places to find oneself in. He’s surrounded by stack upon stack of crisp white sheets folded with precision. Ironed by some poor skivvy and then hefted up here to be stored, regimented and waiting for when they are next required. Reaching out to touch the uniform starched folds relaxes him. He runs his fingers across the smooth lines of the piles and piles of bedsheets. The shelves are so meticulously ordered, an impressive feat really, all the work ticking away in the background to keep the house going. Standards. He supposes that one must feel a sense of achievement to strip an unkempt bed and have this as the end result. Clean and fresh and neat.
The cotton feels so pleasing on his skin that he drives his fingertips deeper into the base of the closest heavy pile. The pressure, the uniform smoothness. It’s delicious. He pushes harder til both his entire hands are covered, smothered, encased. Further until his wrists disappear and his shirt cuffs ruck up. He can no longer bend them at all, even if he tries, due to the weight of the linen crushing his every muscle and tendon. It’s strangely calming to be held in this manner. He should keep it in mind as the tonic he needs after a tiring day. Perhaps he’ll make it a regular part of his routine.
Just then, the cupboard door knob clicks behind him. He’s become so engrossed by the linen that he hasn’t realised that the chattering from outside in the corridor has stopped. Leaning at the open doorway is a man he thinks he’s seen before. Not a servant judging by his style of dress, nor a member of the family, he is certain of that. Dark hair, shapely cheekbones, a distinctive mouth. Features which stick in the brain.
Conscious that he’s been caught in the act of whatever the hell he’s doing in here, Jack smartly tugs his hands from the bedding. He holds them up and rotates his wrists, trying to pass it off with a gesture that says, “Oh these old things?” as if he was searching for some misplaced belongings in the piles of bed sheets.
“Did I disturb you?” the intruder enquires. A foreigner it seems.
Jack scratches the back of his neck. “Oh no, I ah, I was…” He waves at the press hoping he didn’t need to go on before resting his hands on his hips.
“Needing a change of linens?”
Jack smiles, his cheeks heating a little under the scrutiny. “Well, quite. No, I must admit you caught me, I was avoiding a crowd out there.”
The man twists to check the hallway and pouts. “It seems safe now.”
Jack steps forward with his palm extended in the offer of a handshake. “I do apologise, I’m Jack Barber, with-”
“The pictures,” the man finishes for him as he takes hold of his hand. By God, his grip is firm. His skin is warm and uncalloused, suggesting a lack of manual profession. But strong, without the inherent weakness of the aristocracy.
“Yes, for my sins.”
The man’s mouth twitches again. He leans in and asks quietly, “What sins might those be?”
Jack chuckles. “Oh, now you really have caught me. International linen thief, obviously.” He gestures around him.
The man continues to examine him with curiosity, not offering his name or designation in return.
“Please, do forgive my rudeness but have we met? I feel I know you but can’t quite place you.”
The man indicates the leather case clutched in his hand. “You’ve seen me visit to attend to her ladyship.”
A doctor's bag, of course. That explains it.
Jack points upwards to the family rooms. “Of course. Yes. Sorry, so many faces, I rather lose track.”
To fill the subsequent awkward silence he carries on, “And you find yourself in here? Am I in your way?” He pivots in the cramped space and flaps his hand at the towers of folded cotton.
“No. Her ladyship is convinced there is a ghost in our midst. I assured her I would explore the house to be sure.”
Jack could not tell how much of this is true. He suspects absolutely none of it.
“Oh, I see.” He rests an arm along a ledge, wondering if he might continue with his tale. Jack wants this handsome man to stay, his tiredness forgotten.
“So here I am.” There is a soft tap as he sets his case upon the lacquered floorboards.
“It's most kind of you to indulge her ladyship.”
“It’s my job. What is your opinion? Have you seen any spooks around here?”
Jack pauses for a dramatic second and then shakes his head. “Not a whiff I’m afraid.”
The man steps into the cupboard and closes the door behind him.
“You never know, it could be me. I could be the spook.” His voice is low and a touch intimidating.
“I might have to suggest that as my next story. Ghostly apparition posing as the family doctor. Will send a chill down everyone’s spine.” Jack spreads his hands theatrically and waggles his fingers.
The man shifts closer in so that Jack’s backside is now pressed snug against the shelves. There truly isn’t much room in this closet.
“Making a thorough inspection, are we?” Jack asks.
He crosses and uncrosses his arms in rapid succession before leaning his elbow on the ledge once more. He can’t stop watching those fine lips flex and curl.
“What’s your expert opinion? Do you find that this is spooky?”
“Really, I’m not sure I’m the person to judge.” Jack tugs at the edge of his collar. He hadn't noticed how hot this small space was.
“Don’t I seem quite real to you now.” He continues to advance and presses his weight against the shelving tantalisingly close to him.
Jack swallows. “You do. Perhaps not a bona fide Englishman but flesh and blood all the same.”
He glances at the obvious outline of a tumescent cock in the doctor’s trousers. The man watches him looking.
“I’m not an Englishman by birth, no.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he talks.
“Dutch?” Jack ventures.
The man slowly shakes his head. Jack remains transfixed by his mouth. His lips and tongue and teeth. Sharp and supple at the same time.
Quietly he says, “If you guess wrong again then I’m afraid I’m going to kiss you.”
Jack licks his lips. His voice croaks unappetisingly as he asks, “Are you perchance from Mars?”
Now the man’s arms are up on the shelf at his head, hands planted either side of Jack’s ears. His body isn’t on him yet, but he brings his hips in closer. A fraction of an inch and they’d be making contact.
“No. Not from Mars. From a little kingdom called Denmark.” The humid sweet air escaping his lungs tickles Jack’s face.
“Close enough.” Jack reaches under his tweed jacket for his waist. His neat white shirt is tucked mouth wateringly into his trousers. His solid flesh is warm through the fabric. He longs to pull it free, to strip him and taste him all over. Touching him already feels so familiar, like touching his own body.
Jack likes best the intoxicating way his eyelids fall, making him appear on the verge of boredom as his gaze travels across each detail of his face and down his neck.
“You are very interesting,” the man announces.
“Am I?” His voice sounds shaky to his own ears. He tilts his chin a minute amount towards him, dying for their mouths to meet. Jack continues, “And might I be permitted to know your name?”
“Horst. My name is Horst.”
The rumble of his pronunciation hits Jack right in the chest. Horst advances one foot into the space between Jack’s Oxfords. And, idle as you like, he nudges his knee forward until his upper thigh rests snug on Jack’s groin. A shuddering groan escapes Jack at the brush to his aching cock. He wonders if he dares to move against it. To rub himself. He feels dizzy with anticipation and tightens his grip at Horst’s waist.
Horst’s face comes nearer still, his mouth just there. As he slowly dips his head a touch to the side, his intent clear, Jack lifts his chin, so wanting to meet his lips. Jack’s hands shift under his tweed jacket, to reach more of that sturdy back. Horst begins playing with his hair, twisting locks of it around his fingers. Able to contain himself no longer, Jack pushes up to him and brings their mouths together. Their stubble drags against each other’s skin as they kiss. Horst’s tongue immediately meets his own, the first sign of any enthusiasm from him. His fingers slide further into his hair, holding them close.
The whole world disappears in that kiss. There is nothing left in Jack’s mind except the taste of him and the smell of him. Tobacco and antiseptic over something more base, musky and manly.
Horst pulls back. He runs a thumb across Jack’s wet lips. Into his skin Jack murmurs, “Yes, you seem a solid and real creature to me.”
“Not a ghost, as far as I know.” Horst runs the wet thumb along his own in turn, the other hand remains wrapped in Jack’s hair. Jack doesn’t want him to ever let go.
Jack’s grip slips down to cup Horst’s behind, drawing him in closer against him. “Which is a relief.”
“It‘s a relief for me as well.”
Horst shifts to rub up against him, on purpose. His gaze tracks Jack’s reaction to the pressure. Jack allows his eyelids to flutter closed for a moment as the sensation threatens to overwhelm him. He longs to let himself go, to grind to completion here surrounded by the fresh scent of clean laundry. But there’s no lock on a linen cupboard and it would be foolhardy to continue like this. Anyone could discover them.
Pulling himself together, Jack squeezes his arse and enquires, “I wonder might I interest you in a tour of some other of the fine rooms of the house, aside from this undoubtedly charming one.”
Horst looks up to the ceiling and hums thoughtfully as if he really has to think about it. The bastard.
Jack continues, “For instance, I occupy a most delightful bed chamber on this floor that I would be glad to show you around.”
Horst leans in and whispers into his ear, “Has it been inspected for ghostly presences?”
In response, Jack moves in to whisper breathily in his ear, “I believe not.”
“In that case, I feel it is my duty to examine it.” He dips his mouth close to Jack’s once more.
Jack lifts his chin and mutters against his lips, “Be very thorough. Please.”