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Though now many years a resident of London, Mr Norrell still dined at the country hour of 6 pm. Since he and Mr Strange had been very much employed by the government of late, he often found himself exhausted by all company by the end of the day, and therefore preferred to take his meals alone in his study - much to the consternation of his devoted friends, Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight.
By 6:40, his dinner had been finished and cleared away. At 7 pm he despatched Lucas to fetch Childermass, who, when he arrived, closed and locked the door behind him. The precaution was not necessary. All of Mr Norrell's household knew not to interrupt the magician in his study, or not even Childermass would not be able to save them their employment.
At ten past 7 pm, Mr Norrell put down his quill, sighed, and declared himself ready to begin.
"Your wig, sir," reminded Childermass.
"What of my wig?"
Childermass smiled, a mere twist of the mouth. It was not a friendly smile. Mr Norrell's study was never over-burdened with candles, and in their flickering light Childermass looked almost like a stranger, dressed in shadows with his dark hair falling in tangles around his face. "I suspect it won't survive the ride."
"I don't see why not," said Mr Norrell, but took off his wig nonetheless, twisting it in his hand once or twice before Childermass rescued it and set it gently aside on the desk. He then took his master around the shoulders as if the two were old friends, led him to the armchair by the fireplace, and seated him down.
"Just as we discussed, then," said Mr Norrell.
"Of course, sir," said Childermass with mock servility, and unbuttoned the flap of his breeches.
Mr Norrell closed his eyes and turned his face away. He felt a weight move the armchair and caught a whiff of Childermass's scent, of sweat, horse and pipe-smoke. When momentarily he opened his eyes again, he found himself staring directly at a pink, long prick held loosely in Childermass's hand. The man had rested one knee on the arm of the chair while his other foot stood firmly on the floor and his breeches lay discarded on the floor.
Excitement mixed with queasiness in the pit of Mr Norrell's belly. He could feel cold sweat on his brow. He found himself averting his eyes again.
"Now, sir," said Childermass, "you know we only do it this way because it's what gets you going."
"Yes, I know. You need not lecture me on my own reasoning, or remind me of my own instructions. I am not that feeble yet!" Mr Norrell took a deep breath, put his hands delicately on Childermass's hips, and leaned down to kiss the head peeking out from the man's fist.
He gave it only a delicate peck at first. Then he opened his lips slightly and rubbed them on it. This stage always made him feel rather filthy and exposed, but it was a necessary part of the process and hardly the worst thing he'd endured in his quest to restore English magic. He glanced up at Childermass, whose expression so far seemed inscrutable – focused - those dark eyes poring into Norrell's very soul without a trace of mercy. The tension he felt twisted once more in the desired direction: He could feel heat begin to gather in his own cock; he could feel the texture of his small-clothes against his skin. So he opened his mouth more.
"That's right, sir," said Childermass as he rocked ever so slightly forward, slipping the head of his cock on Mr Norrell's tongue. "You do know what you're doing, don't you?"
So Mr Norrell sucked on that lovely, forbidden piece of flesh as if it was a boiled sweet, now soft, now hard. Childermass's hand left his cock to take a hold of the chair, so Norrell replaced it with his own, little one, rubbing the length lightly. Somewhere above him in the gloom, Childermass groaned. His erection was becoming quite serviceable.
"Put your finger up my arse," Childermass commanded. "Do it now, you little-- sir."
Norrell let the cock slide out of his mouth and replaced with one of his own fingers, impatiently sucking and licking it wet, and reached between Childermass's open legs to do as he was asked. He found Childermass tight (and thought about a cock burying there, someone else's, maybe Lucas's, did Childermass ever do it with Lucas?) but yielding, and worked his finger up. He was rewarded with a sound of approval, something between a growl and a hum. A large hand reached down to steady and direct his head (Mr Norrell had to concede the wisdom of setting aside his wig for the moment) back to its abandoned task. The cock breached his lips and continued on along his eager tongue until it reached his throat and breached that, too.
Mr Norrell's own cock was standing up by now, making a triangular irregularity in the loose front of his breeches. He reached down to hold it, just hold it, through the cloth, and had to let go again, lest it get too much, too soon. He grasped the arm of the chair instead, hard enough to scratch the fine satin of the upholstery. What had at first been tension had turned into delicious, hot flashes of pleasure; what had been mortification had turned into a frenzy of thoughts and desires chasing each other around his head. He attempted to command Childermass to do it harder, but as his mouth was full, all he managed was a pathetic jumble of sound.
Nonetheless it appeared he had been understood. Childermass released his throat only to thrust back in deeper once, then again, before allowing Norrell to gasp another mouthful of air. Saliva was dripping down his chin, and he brought his free hand up hand up to wipe it, but Childermass swatted it away and instead angled Norrell's head back up, opening his mouth even wider, and began to gently fuck his mouth again.
Norrell's body barely felt like his own. He had forgotten to move his finger, so Childermass reached behind himself, grabbed his hand and shoved it up against himself. He was now rocking between Norrell's mouth and his hand, gentleness quickly evaporating from his manner.
Norrell would not be able to take this much longer. He let go of the armchair and instead grabbed Childermass's buttock, squeezing the flesh as the big man ploughed into his mouth. His cock tasted bitter, now; ready to come. His pubes tickled Mr Norrell's nose. There – there. He rubbed inside Childermass with renewed energy. Come on, he thought. Come on or you'll ruin everything.
Childermass groaned, stiffened, and let go of Norrell's head to steady both hands on the back of the chair. A moment later Norrell could feel the first warm jet of cum splatter the back of his mouth. The second took him by surprise, and half of it ended up splashed on his cheek.
"Ch-Childermass!" he cried with a mix desperation and reprimand, his voice cracking from the ride his throat had taken. "Hand me a handkerchief. And thank you – I r-require nothing further from you at present."
"Someday you won't kick me out so easily, sir," murmured Childermass. The threat only made Norrell's predicament worse, so he was glad to see Childermass pull his breeches back on and quietly leave.
Mr Norrell pushed himself up and staggered back to his desk. He picked up and replaced his wig, though it ended up skewed on his head, and reached for the paper he had been writing on. His mind was reeling, unfocused - even reading the words was at first difficult. Fortunately he knew the form very well. He wiped his face with the handkerchief and recited the words of the spell, his mind somewhere else entirely, and his body hot and heavy with lust. His magic crackled in the air like a wild thing, making the candles splutter.
Along the coastline from Sunderland to Whitby, though nothing very much appeared disturbed, a series of unusual incidents occurred that night: A school of minnows parted under clear water as if dodging an invisible object; a British fishing boat veered off its intended course, thought he boatman could not tell you why, twisting strangely upon the waves; and another carrying a French spy ran aground in open water, leaving three men stranded in the dark and the cold, clinging to their piece of wood and sending up prayers for their wives and families.
At Hanover-square, Mr Norrell retired early.