And After

Blair hesitated by the door, glancing back at the uncomfortably shifting captain. "Look, Simon," he said quietly, "If you're in pain, I can help. There's no point you just toughing it out because you're worried about some macho bullshit."

Banks glared ferociously, but Blair refused to back down.

"All right. what is it?"

Blair was back in in a flash. He pushed the door shut, and flipped the lock, then pulled the blinds closed.

"What the hell?"

"You aren't going to be able to apply it to yourself--"

"You grossly underestimate my willingness to try," Simon growled.

Blair nodded, "I'm sure you'd feel a lot better if you got this stuff all over your chinos and that nice leather seat," he glanced significantly at the department issued chair. "I wonder how much one of them is to repair..."

"Okay, okay, get on with it." Simon shifted uneasily in his chair.

"You'll have to stand up, sir," Blair said, rummaging through his backpack. He shoved his glasses further up his nose, in a gesture that oddly, reassured the aching captain. Somehow made the whole thing seem more... reasonable. More professional. After all, wasn't the man meant to be some sort of shaman, or witchdoctor or something?

"Take your pants off, yeah, and the boxers too," the soft voice instructed. Simon obeyed, absently, flinching as the soft cloth dragged like sandpaper over the bright welts scarring his backside.

"They weren't kidding were they," Blair murmured, hissing sympathetically.

For a moment, Simon dragged himself into reality, and stared menacingly at his most junior detective, no mean feat for a man clad in only a tie and his shirt. Blair met his gaze hardily, and held up the pot of lotion.

"Ready?"

"I don't know why I let myself in for these things--" Simon half growled.

"You can lie on the couch, or bend over the back of your chair, or hold onto the desk - whatever's easiest," Blair instructed.

Simon sighed, there never was any point in wondering how these things happened, he told himself, it was just the Sandburg zone. He leaned forward onto his desk, propped up on stiffly held arms.

"I'm just going to --" Blair flipped Simon's shirt tails up out the way, and swore under his breath as they promptly slid down again.

"They're fine where they are, Sandburg," Simon snapped, suddenly aware of his exposed ass.

"This stuff will stain."

Simon drew in a calming breath. "Then you can wash it out."

"It would be much easier if you just took it off. And I would be able to see what I'm doing.."

"The shirt stays, Sandburg, " the tall captain snapped. "Live with it."

"Fine, fine," Blair lifted his hands in surrender. He dunked two fingers in the greenish stuff and worked it between his hands for a few seconds, until the pungent smell started to lift into the air. He smiled, this stuff had settled every bump and bruise of his child hood, had eased the scars of his cuts and grazes, and, if you listened to Naomi, significantly contributed to his karma, longevity, and ability to bullshit. He grinned slightly, and gently ran a finger over the first welt. The skin was raised in a long purpled stripe, ridged in the centre where the whip had met, and puffy and soft around where the abused tissues had swollen.

He shook his head, "Wrong, wrong, really bad...never thought... shouldn't be allowed... poor old Simon, eh..." he murmured as he smoothed the ointment in. There were at least ten or twelve stripes there, and he slid a hand under Simon's shirt to press gently on the small of his back.

"Lean further over, I can reach... that's better." He began to press gently with both hands, keeping away from the welts, just soothing the cream into the heated flesh between, rubbing and massaging, applying the lotion with a liberal hand.

Simon groaned. The stuff was cool going on, bliss on his skin, and the square hands working it in were careful and kind, leaving warmth of a different sort behind them. He groaned again, and then gasped as Blair's slick thumbs pressed into his cheeks, moving in firm circles, closer and closer together, until his heart was in his throat, his blood pounding in his ears too hard to hear, and the thumbs touched each other just above his asshole, and he whimpered, and the thumbs pressed *down*.

He stopped breathing.

"All right? All right?" Blair hummed softly, "You're okay, this is okay, this is fine, you all right? Simon, you okay?"

With a gulp he gasped in air that somehow seemed to have dried out unexpectedly, and those thumbs, he'd noticed those thumbs and fingers, long and squared off, strong and pressing in-- inwards, and he whimpered again, surprising the hell out of himself. He could just move, just step -- ah, that was good -- step away, and oh god, what about the door... anyone could come in, and --

"Door's locked, Simon," Blair said a smile in his voice, "Remember?"

"Wha'? Min' reader--?"

Blair just smiled, and didn't mention the panted whimpers carrying fragments of the big man's thought processes. He pressed in a little deeper, and shifted uncomfortably in his jeans. He was gong to have to do something about that soon. But first...

Simon was startled by the sudden cooling sensation on his asshole. It took him longer to figure it out than it took Blair to work the tip of his index finger rapidly in and out of Simon's asshole, loosening him, tugging and probing gently but determinedly. Simon's back arched, his shoulders and butt pushed up and out, into the intruder, driving the blunt finger deeper than either expected, and Simon's whole body jerked and he moaned. Another hand wrapped around his mouth hastily.

"Shhh. Hush." The long finger pressed deeper, worked the lubricant around a little then eased out slowly, only to plunge in again, forcing a wail from the black man. "Shh, you'll make them wonder what's going on in here." He worked Simon's hole harder, until there was a bit of give in the tense muscle. A moment away, more lube, and two fingers were jammed into Banks' backside, the hands over his mouth clamping tight, as Blair whispered, "just think what they must be imagining out there... maybe they're standing by the glass, trying to see in, steaming the glass with their ragged breaths, desperate to know what's happening"

Simon jerked and bit at the broad hand, his cock twitching hard at Blair's voyeuristic suggestions. The fingers moved faster, and he barely noticed a third one. His fingers were gripping the edge of his desk desperately, and he was moving with Blair, away as he withdrew, back as the fingers plunged in, making every stroke longer.

"Mmmph mm!"

What? What do you want?"

"Do me," he panted hoarsely as Blair lifted his hand away fractionally.

"Okay," he replied equably. "Can you keep quiet?" he whispered, quiet and unexpectedly close to Simon's ear. Simon jolted, then moaned helplessly, Blair's naked chest was pressed against his back, only the thin cotton of his shirt keeping them apart. More than that, he was slowly waking to the meaning of the hot, hard flesh pressing into his upper thigh, even as the three fingers stretching him pulled out, only far enough to rub luxuriously back and forth over his opening. he jerked backwards, trying to catch one in him, relieve the emptiness that was far, far worse than the fullness.

"Come on, Simon, can you keep quiet? tell me or I won't fuck you!" Blair whispered intensely. For an answer he dropped his upper body to the desk, and buried his face in the crook of his elbow. He pressed his mouth into his upper arm, grabbing the muscle with his teeth to try to remind himself to keep quiet.

"Well done," Blair laughed quietly, approvingly, and the blunt prick was abruptly pressed just inside him, pulling him outside himself until his whole world was coiled around the cock sliding up into his ass.

He lifted his face and gasped for air as Blair came to a rest on him, springy curls hot and sweaty against his ass, and then a long slow withdrawal, a threat of emptiness, and he almost panicked, not leaving, not now, don't leave, and it was in again, sliding with steady power deep into his body, and he was begging, he would beg, except his mouth was full of his own arm, and he couldn't remember why but it had to stay, or it wouldn't go on, and it --oh yes -- it had to go on -- deeper, please, more -- Blair -- Blair -- Blair... *God* --

He came back to himself slumped over his desk, seated in his well cushioned chair, a faint memory of being dressed, too limp and spent to do it himself; of a deep open-mouthed kiss, pressing him deep into the chair, until he flinched at the pressure on his much abused bottom.

And of a voice murmuring, "Now your ass has *really* got something to complain about...", and laughing; gently, not unkindly, as the door clicked closed behind it. Oddly enough, the sting of the welts was completely gone...

Page last updated 18/09/2004.