Author's Website: http://www.dementia.org/~jacquez/writing/fanfic.html

Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: title and beta by the incomparable Basingstoke, and thanks to Raven for a needed reality check.

Story Notes:

He came in from a run to the store, leaving Diefenbaker to cool his heels outside the apartment door. In his tiny kitchen, he found Victoria filing her nails into the sink. "I brought you these," he said, holding out the peach roses like a child with a fistful of pretty weeds. They were shot through with red. She smiled at him, her perfect teeth flashing white in the shade of the apartment.

"Thank you, Ben," she said, and didn't stop filing. He laid the roses next to the sink, watching her.

The rapid movement of the emery board caught his eye, and he leaned against the counter to watch her. She kept her nails short and clean; he remembered that when he'd held her fingers in his mouth years ago, the nails had been just barely long enough for him to feel the edge of them.

She kept them shorter now, too short to cut his tongue if he pulled them into his mouth and licked along the edge.

The rasp of the board against her fingers slowed and stopped. She smiled at him. "You have a thing for hands, Ben?"

"Your hands," he said, and she put down the emery board and reached up and kissed him.

"Come to bed," she said, and he murmured her name into her mouth and lifted her so that her legs were wound around his waist. She was wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, and he slipped one hand beneath her and two fingers into her, and then they were laughing and tumbling onto the bed.

"Victoria," he said, stretching her out beneath him, and lowered his mouth to meet his fingers: slick fragile skin against his tongue, the ridge of bone beneath, the taste of musk. He could still taste latex, faintly, from last night.

She gasped, and he drew back, looking at the flush on her cheekbones. He slid a hand underneath the shirt, and her stomach quivered at his touch.

"What do you want?" he asked, and she inhaled sharply.

"I have an idea," she said, and pulled him down to her. She kissed behind his ear ran one hand down his back to the crease of his buttocks. She whispered, "Has anyone ever been inside you?" He shook his head "no" and she slipped a finger into the crease, sliding it down to brush over his anus. "I want to be inside you," she said, and rolled them over before he could think of what to say in reply.

She sat up, straddling his waist, and smiled at him. "Stay there, Ben." He nodded and she got up and fetched her shoulder bag, removing a slim three-pair pack of latex gloves from it.

He watched the sway of her hips as she went to the cabinet where he kept a first-aid kit. "What are you looking for?" he asked, curious.

She smiled over her shoulder at him and turned back to the cabinet, through which she rummaged until she found a bottle of mineral oil. She returned to the bed and placed the oil on his foot locker. He stroked the soft skin of her hip, feeling the jut of bone beneath the flesh. She pulled one of the gloves onto her left hand before kneeling next to him on the bed and kissing his lips, his nipple, his navel, the inside of his thigh.

He closed his eyes when she lowered her mouth over his cock. Her mouth was wet and warm, and he rocked into it, into her, tangling the fingers of one hand into her hair. She pressed her oily, latex-covered fingers behind his balls, and he shivered, raising one leg and touching his foot to her side. He could feel her ribs moving as she breathed.

"What are you going to--" he said, cutting off his own words as she pressed more firmly, her finger breaching the entrance to his body.

She slid her mouth off of him and smiled. "I said I wanted to be inside you," she said. "Feel that?" She licked his cock with quick flickers of her tongue.

He trembled, squeezing his eyes tight, focused on the feel of that finger inside him, the startling sensation of scratching an itch he hadn't known he had. It had hurt for an instant, and his stomach clenched as he thought of how he deserved any pain she dealt him, and how until now she had been a gentle lover.

She kissed his inner thigh and circled her finger against the muscles of his anus. "Roll over," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his skin before she pulled away, pulled back, pulled out.

He rolled.

She wrapped an arm around his waist and tugged him upwards until he was on all fours, knees spread. He braced his hands on the bed and held still.

"Breathe, Ben," she whispered, and laid one hand flat in the small of his back. He breathed, long and slow, in through his nose and out through his mouth. She slid two fingers inside of him, pressing down on his back when his head came up, when he tensed and jerked at the feel of her inside him. "You have to relax," she murmured, her lips warm against him. She leaned over and bit gently at his hipbone. "Just relax."

He nodded and lowered his head, his breath coming short and fast.

She moved her fingers in and out, and he spread his knees wider and dug his fingers into the sheets. His skin was flushed and sweat slid down his shoulders and his upper arms to the softskinned hollows of his elbows. The flush he could feel on his skin could have been from either pleasure or shame, but he preferred not to think about it too closely. Pleasure, he told himself.

When she slid the third finger inside, he whimpered. She nipped the back of his thigh, leaving a red mark and the faintest impression of teeth on his skin, which she soothed with soft strokes of her tongue. She pressed inward, and he gasped, jerking away and then pressing back.

"No one told you, hey, Ben?" she whispered, and he could feel her smile against his skin.

"No," he said. "No."

The smile grew, her lips pressed into him, and then she bit him again, harder. He felt the skin break, felt the sting of blood in the wounds. The pain jolted him, helped him focus on the feel of her fingers.

He felt more oil against his skin and then inside him, sliding from her fingers into him.

"Victoria," he said, "Victoria, what on earth--"

"Ssh, relax," she said, rubbing gently at the muscles of his sphincter, coaxing them to relax and open further. "Just trust me."

His wide-spread thighs were trembling by the time she leaned up over him and kissed him underneath his right shoulderblade. "Do you trust me?" she said, and he pressed his chin down against his chest and didn't answer. Yes, he wanted to say. Or no.

He couldn't bring himself to open his mouth and find out which.

"Breathe, Ben," she said, and he took a deep breath and steadied his legs. She held still until his breathing, too, had steadied, and then she withdrew her fingers from his body and stripped off her glove. She replaced it with a fresh one, and slicked her latex-covered hand to the wrist with mineral oil.

His body opened easily to her returning hand, up to the large lower joint of her thumb. She pressed firmly against the muscle at the rim, holding him still with a hand on his shoulder. "Breathe," she said again, and when he exhaled she pushed the rest of the way into his ass.

He cried out at the bright flare of pain, welcoming it, and she flexed her fingers slightly inside him. Her free hand, also slick and oily and soft, traced circles over his shoulderblades, kneading at the muscles there until he felt himself relax enough for her to move her hand. He tried to cling to the pain, but it faded. "You OK, Ben?" she asked, and he shook his head. "It gets better," she said. "I promise."

She twisted her wrist, slid in a little further, brushed against the prostate with the heel of her hand. He shuddered, not wanting the pleasure, reaching back into the memory of the deserved pain. She pressed on his shoulders until he folded his arms and lowered his head to rest on them. "Stay there," she said, and used her knees to spread his further apart so that she could reach between his thighs to stroke his cock.

He thrust forward into her hand, and back onto her other hand, his breathing once again short and hard, his eyes closed. "Come for me, Ben," she whispered. "Come on, Ben, come for me--"

His muscles seized, his cock twitched, and he spilled over her hand and his stomach and the bed. He was silent as he came, but tears slid from beneath his closed eyelids. This isn't supposed to be, he thought. This isn't supposed to feel good.

She eased her hand out of his body and leaned forward to kiss the tears away. He rolled to his side and let her.

After a moment, she moved away, stripped off her glove with a snap, cleaned the semen from him with a soft towel. He opened his eyes and watched her move around his apartment, wiping off the bottle of mineral oil and replacing it in the cabinet, disposing of the gloves, washing her hands.

She picked up the roses, peach streaked with red, and smiled at them. "You don't have anything to put them in," she said, and he shook his head. "They'll die," she said, and her face was sad.

"They're cut," he answered, his voice soft and raspy, as though he'd been screaming. "They're already dead."

She put them down and came back to bed, letting him gather her in against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and held on tightly, his face still damp. She ran her fingers over his chest and smiled up at him, her perfect teeth brilliant as snow in the darkness.

The End.