nightfever2
Night Fever
It was hot. England had no business being this hot, and if England was going to be this hot, the back streets of Birmingham were high on Bodie's list of places not to be.
He resisted the urge to turn over, it was just as hot no matter how he lay and the rugs, or
whatever the hell they were, wrinkled like hell if he moved.
He heard footsteps overhead. Holdsworth stretching his legs. Probably doing callisthenics bent over the binoculars; very conscientious lad, Holdsworth. No discernible sense of humour but very conscientious.
The sweat was pooling in the small of his back and he wondered what his chances were of getting the silly old bag to let him have a bath in her flat. All this time washing in a tiny sink had soured more than his disposition.
Normally he rather liked the heat, a couple of days at the seaside or on the river, nothing
better. The Maureen Sullivan School of Dance was not, in his view, an adequate substitute. Six days they'd been here, six days with nothing to do but watch and wait for something to happen -- which it probably wouldn't. There was one thing you could say for British neo-nazis, they never did anything much worth watching. He'd bet Murphy a tenner that German bloke wouldn't show up and it looked like he was going to collect.
He spread his arms away from his body, missing the fan Doyle had claimed as soon as he
came off watch. Damn, he thought he'd been so clever when he'd bagged the couch in the little back room, leaving Doyle and Holdsworth to bunk in the studio place next door. That was before they'd found out that as soon as they opened the window, the slightest breath of wind filled the room with dust from the yard. And that was before the old bag lent them a couple of mattresses and the sheets and stuff. Kid's mattresses, with cowboys and indians on them. No sign of kids now; wonder what happened.
He gave up trying to get comfortable. No point, he wasn't trying to sleep. He was waiting. In a quarter of an hour it'd be light enough, light enough for him to see Doyle reflected in the long wall mirror, see him from all sides, even if he turned away. See him doubled and redoubled by the mirror on the opposite wall, an infinity of sleeping Doyles.
Why the hell did Ray never sleep naked, like normal people? The breeze from the fan was stirring the curls on his chest, bringing his nipples up like little knots beneath the skin. Did he know what he looked like in those shorts? Was it a deliberate attempt to entice? Or
was it just Doyle being Doyle? At ease in his skin, not knowing, or worse knowing and not caring.
He thrust the thought aside and looked over at his partner, tilting his head to try and vary the angle. There was something familiar about all this, been nagging at him for days, something about the heat and the way Doyle was lying there, splayed on rumpled cotton.
And then he remembered.
Sheila, Capetown 1968. Sheila the doctor from the Mission hospital upcountry somewhere. Sheila who took his pulse to see when he'd be ready for more. Sheila who liked handcuff games .... Not that there had been anything submissive about her. Oh no, there had never been any doubt about who had been in charge in that relationship. She gave the orders and he did what she said; and he had learned a hell of a lot in the process. Most of what he knew about pleasing women had come from those nights in the little villa by the sea, bent over her naked body, working for her pleasure according to her instructions.
Pure pleasure for both of them, without responsibility or guilt. He'd accused her once of just wanting someone else to do all the work. She had smiled and held out her wrists and said, "Can you think of a better reason?"
He glanced over at the mattress, watching the rise and fall of Doyle's chest, the tiny shivers that rippled over his skin when the air from the fan swung back over him.
Oh to have Doyle like that, all stretched out and held ready. He shifted uneasily on the
couch, realising too late the stupidity of the turn his thoughts had taken, the evidence firming and lengthening in the groove between hip and thigh.
He put down a hand and squeezed, just once, and it felt impossibly good. He'd been on the simmer for days now, living in these bare, almost empty rooms, watching Doyle waking and sleeping. Watching him in the early mornings as he stretched and swayed in the grave formalities of the Tai Chi, his face intent, perfectly balanced within himself; watching him wash in the little sink, watching him bent over the camera or the card table. Watching, always watching.
Ah to hell with it. Somewhere, deep inside, Bodie gave in. It was too hot for self-control, too hot for second thoughts and he told himself if he could have nothing else, he could at least have this. Doyle was asleep, it was almost dawn, the graveyard watch when men slept deep.
He kicked the cover down to his ankles and took hold of himself, settling back onto the
couch. He pulled gently but firmly a couple of times, encouraging his erection to fill out. Oh yeah, that felt good.
Right, Doyle sitting, looking up at him as he stood at the end of the mattress, that expression on his face, the one Bodie had seen on half a dozen double dates, the "you want me and you can have me" look.
Then he lies back, gracefully uncurling himself, throwing his arms over his head and smiling up at the man standing over him who is bending down now, fastening those thin elegant wrists with the -- no, not handcuffs, too close to every day -- with rope, yeah, rope, tied to ... to ring bolts in the floor. Yeah, that'd work.
And all the time he's smiling, because he wants this, perhaps even more than you do.
The head of his cock was wet now and he spread the moisture with his thumb, breath hissing between his teeth. Going to have to be careful, going to have to take this slow.
He 's still wearing the shorts, so kneel beside him in the floor and unzip them, slowly, tooth by tooth. Watch him push up with his hips. He's got nothing on underneath -- what a naughty boy. That's it, pull on the little tag, see him inside, all that darkly-muscled flesh, growing all the time. Take it carefully, don't want to injure anything.
There, undone at last. And he's kicking with his feet, wriggling to help them off and he's naked at last. Not Changing Room naked, or even Hospital naked, but naked like a lover. He's lying there, all exposed and ready and he doesn't care about anything but you and what you're going to do for him.
He pushed back into the flimsy foam that covered the couch, moving his hips, keeping his hand still, letting his body's movement provide the friction. Moving slow and easy, no point in hurrying, got a long way to go yet.
Tie his ankles? Yeah, why not? A couple more ring bolts and some more rope. Leave a bit more play though this time -- room for a little creative writhing.
Straddle him, over his hips, feel his cock trapped between his belly and your arse and up under your balls. Feel him try and thrust up, but he can't quite get his feet flat enough to push.
Spread your hands over his chest, two wide V-shapes spanning his ribcage. Feel the jerky breathing and the tickle of hair on the soft flesh between your finger and thumb as you smooth upwards.
He pinched his own nipples, hard. Feeling the shock of it run down his body, sharp as
lightning. It left a trail of warmth behind which did not fade but grew as he let his hands slide back down over his chest, his belly and on down, ruffling the thick hair until he could hold himself again.
Move up his chest, feeling the cock beneath you spring free as you do. He's lifting his head now, opening his mouth, waiting for it, wanting it, and there. Oh, yeah there into that wide, warm, wet mouth. Feel him lash the head with his tongue, feel him straining his head forward to take more and deeper ....
NO! He snatched his hands away to lie, stock still. He hardly dared breathe. Shit, he was close. Nearly lost it and they'd barely got to the good stuff yet. He glanced over at the sleeping Doyle and had to look away hurriedly. It was getting light and the faint outline of Doyle's reflection was appearing in the mirror.
He breathed in deliberate rhythm until he had calmed down a little and, arms still beside him, not touching himself, he began again.
Right, no more sucking, too dangerous. Besides, it wasn't like Doyle to keep quiet this long. Better tape his mouth. Oh yeah. Black gaffer tape and the wide green eyes over it, still taunting him, still urging him on.
Turn round, kneel on the floor beside him again. Watch him twist and turn in the ropes, offering, demanding. One hand on his thigh, a firm grip and then sliding upwards, coarse hair and then you have his balls in your hand. A strange muffled whimper from beneath the tape.
He's thrashing about now, straining at the ropes. Not to get free, no you know better that that, just to test his strength against them, just to know he has to take what's coming.
Bend your head and take a deep breath. Fill your head and lungs with him, salt and soap and sweat and concentrated essence of Ray Doyle. Feel your mouth fill with water.
He's stopped moving now, trying to hold himself still, waiting. Make him look at you, make him meet your eyes as you put your fingers in your mouth, just a couple of them, make him watch as you suck on them.
He starts to tremble, muscles rippling beneath the skin.
Bend your head again, slide the hand under his balls, he's pressing up, making room for you. His head has begun to thrash on the pillow and you can feel the movement of the mattress against your knuckles as you inch your way inside him. Just one finger, feeling him clench around you.
You're not moving quickly, oh no, slowly, slowly does it, and when he closes his eyes to concentrate, you swallow him down to the root. It's been a long time but you still remember how, still remember the taste, the thrust against the roof of your mouth, how to slide it backwards and down. Your nose is pressed against his skin and every sense is full of him.
And oh he wants to come, he wants it worse than he's ever wanted anything, and any other time and place he would have by now. But not here, not now; here and now you control and he comes when you say so.
Oh, hell, that does it. No more fancy stuff, cut to the chase.
He grabbed hold of himself and began to move, hard and sure, not fast yet but it wouldn't be long now.
You're kneeling beside him again. Grab the pillow from the floor and shove it under his hips, raise him up those few necessary inches, don't touch what he so badly wants you to touch.
He's not sure, he does and doesn't want this. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away.
You're kneeling over him.
His eyes fly open.
One hand behind you to steady him and you're easing back. Anywhere else this would hurt like hell, but here it doesn't hurt at all. No that's not right, it hurts, it hurts enough, just enough, salt in the plain, a dash of lemon in the sweetness, the spark in the night's blackness.
Sit back, sit down, rise and fall, see his eyes widen and fill, feel him, feel him deep. Your head falls back, your mouth opens, your heart is monstrous in your chest, feel the press and climb of him, rise and fall, and oh you have him now, you have him, all of him.
There.
And there.
And there.
The familiar surge and pulse against his fingers, the stretch and wrack and clench.
Then down.
He dropped back onto the couch, one hand still cradling his balls, comforting, the other
slowly rubbing his belly in gentle circles.
Oh that was good. Over too soon though, serve him right for starting when he was already worked up. Start earlier next time, string it out a bit. And leave the tape out, would have been nice to kiss him.
He was feeling sleepy now, the brief cool of dawn a relief. He opened his eyes. Time to see to cleaning up. It was getting light and he turned his head, wanting to see Doyle one more time, a partial, insubstantial sharing.
Doyle,s head was turned away, the curls silvering in the pale light, so Bodie looked past him, straining his neck to see into the mirror, wanting to see that sleeping face.
The mirror Doyle looked back at him, eyes wide and brilliant. Awake, unmistakably,
damnably awake.
Ice-cold shock and then his skin crawled, embarrassed through to his bones. A wild protest at his own stupidity wailed at the back of his mind and he tried desperately to remember. Had he said anything? Had his lips moved in his name? There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, no point in trying to hide, nothing he could do but hope like hell that Doyle didn't realise. He opened his mouth to say something, anything to break the silence.
Doyle put his finger to his lips. His face in the mirror was calm and he looked back at Bodie, meeting his eyes, and there was nothing withheld.
Then, slowly and deliberately, he moved his hands towards the fastening of his shorts.
THE END
