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Norrell had thought it was a spell for increasing intelligence and knowledge. It had been cast on a carter, and left him a Homeric scholar. It had been cast on a milliner, and left him with a burning passion for mathematics. It had been cast on a footman, and made him run out of doors in search of the nearest library he might index. If it could do that to such unpromising materials, what might it not do for him?
He should really have paused to think whether the new abilities were the slightest use to them, and what it signified that there was no increase in the faculties they already exercised.
What it did increase was singularly useless to him. It gave him a hot, itchy, restless ache that eventually resolved into…a feeling in parts of the body he was trying not to think about, along with an interest in most of the men he met and what they might do to those parts of his body.
About the only stroke of luck about the whole business, Norrell considered, was his lack of affinity for the company of women. When the misapplied spell stuck fast to him, it did not seem to make him approach women. Not in any way comprehensible to the women, or to anyone else.
When he was in the company of a woman, he merely made an excuse and went off to be on his own. Then he wrote sonnets, to Mrs Strange’s left ear, say, and to Lady Pole’s eyebrows. He could then simply throw the poetry on the fire and forget about it (it was, as anybody who had ever met Mr Norrell would have guessed, very bad, very dull poetry). If he’d had to approach two married women, he would probably have been called out by one or both of the concerned husbands.
Things got a good deal worse when he was in the company of men, both because he was more likely to be in the company of men, and because his own tastes ran in more of a masculine direction.
The only person who knew what an idiotic fool he’d made of himself was Childermass, which at least gave him the chance for some practical advice. The first thing Childermass suggested was to cast a spell to conceal his erection. It was, of course, useful. The men he met over the course of the day might not realise what he wanted. Unfortunately, concealment did nothing whatsoever to ease the strain of wanting so much. Modern fashions didn’t do much to conceal the set of a nicely-turned thigh, for example, and sometimes he just wished he could push a man’s legs apart, undo his clothes, and kneel down and go for what he wanted with his tongue. It wouldn’t exactly be inconspicuous. The horror of what it would mean in, say, the House, where even politicians were beginning to look attractive to him by now, would have chilled his blood if anything were capable of cooling it in this state.
“Sir Walter, I think we need to discuss our sea defences,” he tried, clumsily handing him a drink so that their fingers brushed together, and starting to discuss magic, interrupting his favourite subject with unusual parenthetical comments about did Sir Walter realise he looked very well in that colour, for example. He felt slightly hurt when Sir Walter hustled him briskly out of the conversation and out-of-doors as politicians knew so well how to do. It took him right back to how socially-inadequate he’d felt on arriving in London and finding London would have none of him.
He was too terrified to even speak to Sir Walter’s intimidating—and beautiful—butler, who seemed punctilious enough that Norrell would have offended him a dozen different ways even in his right mind.
And in the street, he discovered even Vinculus was beginning to look attractive; he gave the ‘magician’ a few hot looks in passing in the street, and if he wasn’t careful, the other man might see what he was after.
He told Childermass all that in the evening, and about how lonely and desperate he felt, and would Childermass come to bed and give him what he needed? Childermass refused to do anything while he was not in his right mind, “You’ll only regret it when you’re yourself again, sir,” but when Norrell practically begged him, offered him a back massage. It felt wonderful, if insufficient. He kept panting and squirming because it didn’t relieve his rather urgent need, and Childermass told him to go on, use his hand, have a quiet little rub and then he could sleep. Distinctly embarrassed and annoyed that his servant was telling him to masturbate, he almost ignored it, but the ache was driving him mad by this time, so he quickly slipped a hand in front and brought himself off. He couldn’t keep awake after that.
The next day he tried approaching Jonathan Strange, which considering he wouldn’t have found him unattractive even before this curse took hold of him, was a bit of a risk. He was getting used to having to have his mind shout DON’T PAW HIM, YOU IDIOT! just in order to get through the day, but he seemed to even like Mr Strange’s odd style of dress at the moment, and had taken to stroking Mr Strange’s violently-coloured waistcoat to “admire the fabric”, although what he really wanted to do was take all their clothes off and see how those long legs felt wrapped round him…a little shocked, he remembered that Mr Strange was a married man, and he himself ought to be at least respectable enough to respect that. He wondered if he could cast a glamour that made himself look exactly like Mrs Strange, when she was out of the way, and then he could…maybe if Mr Strange was excited he wouldn’t notice his ‘wife’ was missing (or gaining) a few important parts? No! What was this spell doing to his sense of morality? He was nearly sure he used to have one.
Childermass had stopped allowing him occasional drinks to relax. When he’d come to London, Childermass had positively encouraged that, but at the moment it would be too dangerous. When he came back all hot and bothered from seeing Jonathan Strange, though, Childermass did allow him a few glasses of wine just to comfort him. This was a miscalculation: a drunk, happy, rather grope-y Norrell wandered into the other room and used a spell to summon the Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair, mainly thinking how attractive that odd, gravelly voice was, and what a fine pair of thighs he had. Of course, the moment he had summoned him, he remembered how horrifying it was to try to match wits with the fairy, even when he was in his right mind, and just sat down and felt shaky, while the fairy (frighteningly angry) explained that Mr Norrell was far too plain and too unskilled to attract his attention as either a magician or a Christian pet, and asked whether he would like to open another bargain, and what might he offer? Things might have gone quite a lot worse for Mr Norrell if Childermass hadn’t happened to open the door, and effected a dismissal by blowing the candles out.
He just lay on the bed and shook, and asked Childermass to please hold him. Childermass took him in his arms while he explained what a fool he’d been and how dangerous it was to approach a fairy in such a manner, and as soon as he felt better, he started pleading for Childermass to do something, make him feel good, but Childermass would only go so far as to massage his back (and diplomatically not mention that Norrell was frigging himself hard enough to make the bed shake).
The next day, Lascelles came over. An unexpected mud-puddle on exiting a carriage had offended his boots, even splashed his socks, so he gave them to Childermass to be cleaned, and Childermass said sullenly that he would find the appropriate servant for such a task. If only Lascelles didn’t have such pretty feet! Norrell wanted to sit in the chair opposite, and just enjoy having the naked feet in his lap, sometimes fondling them and making Lascelles sigh, and sometimes rubbing them against his poor eager cock. He had to remind himself quite firmly that even if he’d never heard of such a perversion, it would be far from inconspicuous or hard to construe, and Lascelles was definitely not to be trusted, with anything. Norrell gave a rather longing look to Childermass, who had come back with the boots, and was a little shocked to find that Childermass was glaring at him; well, glaring at both of them. He nearly whimpered with lust, thinking of both of them in contention for him, maybe he could take them in succession—or at once. He had to give himself a severe mental talking-to to remind himself that Lascelles’ misleading physical charms were joined to such marked unpleasantness and untrustworthiness that he’d sooner approach an angry serpent. Childermass certainly had every right to look askance at Lascelles for wanting him to lose a position for which he was excellently suited, just because he wanted Childermass to be brought low.
He found himself being rather apologetic that evening. “You do realise, Childermass, I can’t help it, at the moment? And I don’t really like Lascelles?”
“Why, how can that be, sir? When you called him your ‘friend’ only last week?” But Childermass’s mouth was twitching into a smile, one of the more fond and patient sorts of his smiles (Norrell didn’t like to contemplate how unusual it was for him to actually be familiar enough with anybody to know how he smiled in different moods).
“He is useful to English Magic,” said Norrell repressively, “but he has a regrettable character.”
“And nice feet, apparently,” said Childermass, grinning.
“I hope he didn’t notice what I was thinking,” said Norrell. Lascelles really was very untrustworthy with anything like personal secrets, and Norrell shuddered to think what he’d have done with this one. Norrell was fairly certain he would have preferred to use it for leverage rather than mutual pleasure. If Lascelles even had a concept of mutual pleasure: Norrell had seen him look at Childermass, and it sometimes seemed he’d have preferred to make use of someone unwilling, with either his body or a whip.
“I could see it because I know the spell you’re subject to, and I know you quite well, sir,” said Childermass. “You’d have taken me instead, I could see that.”
Norrell moaned faintly, and muttered something about “or as well, one at each end.” He felt somewhat ashamed of his indiscriminate feelings, but as usual, at least he felt he could let go a bit in front of Childermass, because Childermass knew the worst already.
“Want me to do your back?” said Childermass, which was evidently as far as he would go, and Norrell sighed and shivered and took his clothes off. He was beginning to associate the scent and feel of the massage oil with at least some sexual relief by now, and got nicely into the swing of a fantasy where Lascelles had fucked his mouth unmercifully and left him wrecked, while Childermass came to comfort him afterwards, when he couldn’t hold off the need to come any longer and had to reach his hand in front and finish off.
Childermass gave him a handkerchief to clean up with.
On the next day, Vinculus, with the instincts of a tomcat, came in through the window: “I know what you want, little magician. I could smell it on you, like a queen-cat on heat.” One would have thought that finally getting himself satisfied would be wonderfully uncomplicated, but it had both of them snarling and cursing under their breath. At which point, Childermass came up to the bed (from where he had been leaning against the wall quite unnoticed) and explained that for sodomy as opposed to fucking, lubrication was necessary (and handed them some oil; obviously he had decided they were quite beyond common-sense, which might have been correct by that time). Vinculus oiled them both, with slightly shaking hands, since Norrell couldn’t really manage anything but begging and using his hands to spread himself as far open as he could get. It hurt at first—not enough to stop him, once it was lubricated—and then it felt better than any thing, especially when Vinculus slowed down and let his stroke just drag somewhere inside him that sent him up in flames. After rubbing him inside and making him moan for a while, Vinculus slid almost all the way out, then rammed him with a full, balls-deep thrust. Norrell felt so full—splitting him in half—how dare such a poor excuse for a magician do anything so well?—and came furiously, with a choked-off scream.
It was just as well for Vinculus he had finished at the same moment, because as soon as Norrell wasn’t so much under the spell, he snarled and swore and kicked until Vinculus was out of the bed (really, Vinculus had been quite right about the queen-cat bit).
“Childermass—Childermass!—Get this piece of yellow-curtain street rubbish out of here!”
Vinculus could only just manage to protest that Norrell had known very well what he wanted a minute ago, and he was mad—cracked—gone in the head—and then Vinculus was off out of the door, pausing only to steal a pair of Mr Norrell’s best stockings, apparently in order to at least get something from the encounter.
But that left Norrell with a severe problem. He’d been expecting that when he finally satisfied the terms of the spell by managing sexual congress with somebody willing, it would all be over. Instead, when Childermass came back in, he spread himself out again and said, “Please?” because the itch was settling on him again.
Childermass looked worried, as well. “I thought when you did it, you’d get back to normal. And I’ve got too much pride to settle for a buttered bun.”
Norrell didn’t like to think that this was now his ‘normal’. “I just want…someone I l-like to touch me,” he said rather pathetically. “I want to have someone I don’t want to scrape off my skin with a blunt knife because they touched me.”
Childermass lay down beside him. “What a time to discover I don’t give a d—n about pride,” he said. “Because I’m prepared to mount you, still wet from another man, and give you what you want. If there’s any oil left, you little harlot,” he suggested, less seriously.
Norrell moaned a little. He noticed that, ‘wet’ or not, Childermass was preparing him quite as carefully as if he hadn’t been recently-used, and that relaxed him wonderfully, which was just as well because Childermass was rather…better-equipped than Vinculus.
Childermass stopped sliding his fingers inside Norrell when Norrell got too worked-up to be able to count the fingers aloud, and started to rub his prick between Norrell’s buttocks.
“Go on!” groaned Norrell.
“I’ve got to make sure you’re quite ready.” said Childermass.
“Somewhere past ‘ready’ and approaching ‘about to kill you if you stop’!” said Norrell, and sucked in a gasping breath as Childermass finally went in. Oh, it felt marvellous when he wasn’t quite ready to orgasm at the first hard stroke, because he could feel every thrust, get a nice rhythm up, and the way Childermass was rubbing him inside was close to making him come without taking him over the edge.
In a moment’s pause, Norrell sighed, “So much…better…than a back-massage.”
Childermass grunted, and kept working in him.
“You know what I’ve been wanting all week?” said Norrell.
Childermass grunted enquiringly, and didn’t stop.
“Not to have to do it myself,” said Norrell. “I’m getting tired of my own hand.”
Childermass said, “I’ve got to do all the work, then,” not as if he minded, and reached for Norrell’s prick.
Norrell had the noisiest and most thorough come he’d had since the entire business had started, because let alone how good that big hand felt on him, the pleasure of knowing he was allowed—was accepted—cut straight through him and left him in a drenched, shaking heap.
Childermass followed him down, managed a couple more shuddery thrusts and finished off inside him.
“All right?” said Childermass.
“Mm,” said Norrell, meaning, “Oh yes.”
Childermass cleaned them off, after a while, and they slept close and warm.
The next day, to his relief, Mr Norrell talked to Mrs Strange and Lady Pole, freed from the tyranny of sonneteering, and had brief conversations with Sir Walter, Sir Walter’s butler, Mr Strange and Lascelles, freed from the tyranny of lechery.
He was quite surprised when Childermass looked at him across the room and he immediately started thinking about it again.
When he got home that evening, Childermass asked him how he was feeling.
“Well, it depends,” said Norrell. “I’ve stopped feeling that way…except about you.”
“It’s a useful coincidence, sir” said Childermass. “I’d hate it if you’d gone off it just as I’d got interested.”
“Well, as you know, my mind is above such things,” said Norrell mock-loftily, “but I’m sure I could manage a polite interest…” he added, stroking Childermass’s thigh, and Childermass said, “You? Polite?” and chased him up to bed.