Disclaimer: I'm a little tired of the disclaiming thing when it comes to due South. I've done my fair share in raising the characters and so have other fangirls. They are just as much ours now as they are anybody else's, I'd say.

Story Notes: This story was a response to the Paint Challenge on ds-flashfiction

I have a talent. Mr. Burns has been telling me this for six Thursday evenings in a row, and he doesn't seem to want to be just polite. Mr. Burns is not a polite man. To be honest, he is often downright rude, derogating his other pupils, telling them that what they are doing is "All wrong. Wrong. Have a look at Renfield's work, and try to let it seep into your thick skulls what it takes to create true art." I'm not convinced that this approach is helpful in enhancing the artistic skills of my peers.

It's nice to have a talent, though. It is rewarding in and of itself, and it has an ulterior benefit: gaining recognition by others. Being a good painter provides me with Mr. Burns's appraisal and with the respect of my classmates, but it also changes the manner in which I am perceived at the consulate.

Inspector Thatcher is quite pleased with the pencil portrait I draw of her. It is only a sketch - I attempted to make it while she wasn't looking, afraid she wouldn't approve, but she catches me. And she is fairly enthusiastic about the result.

"You have a talent, Turnbull," she assesses, sounding truly amazed. She takes the drawing from me, assuming apparently that it is a gift.

Her new knowledge about me earns me her respect and leads to a remarkable change in the way she treats me. Admiration and even affection are terms that justifiably could be applied to her demeanour. It's quite a shock, in fact.

Constable Fraser notices of course (Constable Fraser is a very perceptive man.) "Is the inspector, um, bothering you in any way, Turnbull?" he inquires one afternoon.

I assure him that she isn't, but he doesn't seem convinced, so I confide in him about my talent - rather proudly, I have to confess. I show him some of the drawings I secretly made. He is quite impressed, which pleases me more than the alteration in Inspector Thatcher's conduct.

Her admiration doesn't render her less demanding, by the way. A few days after she has caught me drawing her portrait she places an order for a `real painting'. Inquiry teaches me that to her a real painting is a portrait in oil on canvas. Dear Lord. I might be talented, but I have no experience whatsoever with materials other than pencil, charcoal, pastels and paper.

I consult Mr. Burns, who appears to be delighted. "Seems to me that you need some private lessons, Renfield," he says. "Can't let a lady down who recognizes a talent like yours."

As of that evening I receive private lessons after art class on Thursdays. Mr. Burns acquaints me with several different materials and techniques, and my talent in handling them does not cease to amaze him. Or myself. It's quite exhilarating.

I do feel a little guilty about my joy, however. This has nothing to do with the inspector, who doesn't seem to mind at all. On the contrary, she applauds me for practicing my artistic skills. I'm afraid she's under the impression that I'm with glee about the prospect of soon painting her portrait.

My feelings of contrite involve Constable Fraser. I'm very much aware that he is hard pressed to keep up a cheerful appearance these days. I know the cause, it's Detective Kowalski. Or to be more precise, it's the detective agreement with his ex-wife's suggestion that they "try again".

It renders the constable lonely, as he is now suddenly bereft of his partner's company after working hours. It also renders him a man whose hopes are shattered.

Constable Fraser's infatuation with Detective Kowalski is not a secret to me, and neither is the fact that until recently he cherished hope his feelings would be returned someday.

It's easy to understand how he came to this surmise. Liaising with his two American partners for several years has taught him that he is a man worth to be held dear. Moreover, Detective Kowalski wears his emotions on the outside. His smiles and winks at the constable, his frequent affectionate touches ... Were I subject to them I might fall to my knees and kiss his hands - hadn't my heart been taken the day I arrived in Chicago and never returned.

I worry about the constable. Inquiring whether he is all right and if I can do anything for him becomes one of my daily habits. He responds "yes" or "no" depending on the question in question, and adds "Thank you kindly for your concern, Turnbull" to either reply.

Inspector Thatcher appears oblivious to the constable's misery. She has other priorities, the highest of which seems to be my painting her portrait. She's becoming impatient, expressing her clear dismay with the slow progress of my artistic training.

I notify Mr. Burns. He smiles and informs me that I'm "almost ready". Before we concentrate on oil and canvas, he wants to show me something else, however. "You'll love it," he promises.

And I do. When after class he demonstrates to me the technique of aquarelle I'm mesmerized by the delicacy of the process of applying the paint. I'm captivated by the fragility of the result on the surface, and enthralled by the transparency and the clarity of the colours.

The brush must be used in a manner to allure the paint into taking shape on the paper. It has to be done with careful caresses and great concentration, as flaws cannot be redeemed. It's intimate. It's exhilarating.

When I have finished the portrait of the Teddy bear sitting on the table in front of me I turn to Mr. Burns, thrilled to have captured the animal in its full endearment. "My, sir, aquarelle is cer-"

He prevents me from finishing my sentence by pressing his lips on mine.

It's a shock. It's most confusing. I never have been kissed on the mouth. I never thought that it would ever happen. I did fantasize about it (I'm very fond of romantic books and movies) but none of my fantasies featured Mr. Burns. His breath doesn't smell pleasant - he's a heavy smoker - and I do not respond to his kiss.

As he pulls back he instantly apologizes.

I feel for him. Mr. Burns is a nice man - at least to me he is - and a good teacher. I'm just not attracted to him. I assure him that I will not hold the kiss against him, that I will continue to attend his classes as well as his private lessons. He seems relieved and pleased, and suggests that next week we concentrate on oil and canvas. Then he asks me to call him Keith in the future.

***

I find that I can't forget the kiss. It's instrumental in enhancing my fantasies; I simply alter the identity of the person who bestows it upon me.

It also has a disturbing effect.

I never longed before. I was quite content with my fantasies; the certainty that they never would become real was oddly reassuring to me. Now I feel as though Mr. Burns's kiss has bridged the gap between fantasy and reality. Another person - even if it is Mr. Burns - has been capable of feeling the desire to kiss me and act upon it. Perhaps the one who captured my heart can be as well.

I know I mustn't think these thoughts as they only will lead to disappointment and heartache, but I can't seem to help myself.

Constable Fraser inquires after the progress of my artistic training. I inform him that things are going rather well and that I recently painted the portrait of a Teddy bear in aquarelle. (Dear Lord, why do I even feel the need to tell him this?)

He nods. "Aquarelle is a beautiful form of art. I find the work of Thomas Girtin and Kosta Hakman quite captivating."

I'm about to confess that these names are unfamiliar to me, when he says, "Painting a picture of a Teddy bear will prove to be a very useful exercise in painting the inspector's portrait, I'm sure. Although I cannot imagine her being as cuddly as a stuffed animal." Then he smiles.

My heart starts to race. His smile is directed at me. (For Heaven's sakes, Renfield, don't flatter yourself, the part of my brain that still is able to think castigates me. You are by no means capable of telling dalliance apart from making polite conversation, certainly not where he is concerned.)

"No, sir, I suppose you're right," I say, as composed as I can muster. I'm afraid I only manage to sound rather meek, however.

He couldn't have been flirting with me, I think as he leaves the lobby. He's still in pain over Detective Kowalski.

***

On Thursday, Mr. Burns - Keith. I have to remember to call him Keith as he requested me. It's the least I can do after I rejected him - acquaints his pupils with the technique of painting nudes. He has brought a model, a fair-haired, slender boy of about twenty, called Philip.

I have no difficulty drawing his nude in charcoal - technically or emotionally. My heart rate may increase a little when I draw his genitals, but even then I remain composed. Obviously, I do not allow myself to imagine somebody else posing for me.

Mr. Burns - Keith - is quite pleased with the way my drawing turns out, and so is Philip. When he has dressed himself he asks me out for a drink, an invitation Keith sharply declines on my behalf. The boy shrugs and smiles, handing me a piece of paper with his telephone number.

Despite my lack of interest I stare at his back when he's leaving. His offer too, has the effect of narrowing the gap between my dreams and reality. Dear Lord.

I concentrate hard on Keith's instructions when he introduces me to oil and canvas. At eleven o'clock he lends me a complete set of painting supplies and declares that I safely can invite my senior officer to pose for her portrait; I will not embarrass her - or myself - with the result.

Inspector Thatcher is delighted with the news. She insists that we start immediately, and I comply with some hesitation, torn between the wish to obey my superior and the need to perform my duties.

I choose a conference room with good light, cautiously instruct the inspector on how to sit, and make a sketch.

She is not a professional model and she frequently needs breaks. I believe she's a tad disappointed at the lack of speed in the production of her portrait.

At one o'clock, when Constable Fraser knocks and enters and informs us that lunch is served, she is exhausted. "We'll leave it at this, for now, Turnbull," she says. "We'll continue on Monday."

"Certainly, sir," I supply. Then I hold my breath.

The constable has come over and is standing very close to me now. Looking at my proceedings he says, "I believe this is excellent, Turnbull. I very much would like to see your aquarelles someday."

"Thank you, sir," I pronounce with great difficulty. I'm afraid my cheeks turn three shades deeper red than the color of my serge.

After lunch, when I return to my daily routine, I find that I can't stop wondering about the constable. He doesn't seem by far as depressed as he was before.

When I bring him his tea, I can't control the urge to ask. "You seem much better than you previously were, sir," I blurt out. "May I inquire after the reason?"

Dear Lord, I never knew that I was capable of such impertinence.

He stares at me - he must think me very rude - then says, "I can't seem to find a valid argument against it, Turnbull."

I'm relieved that he isn't offended, and it therefore takes me completely off guard when he adds, "It is Detective Kowalski."

It's a tremendous shock to me. I'm jealous. The fact that I'm jealous is perhaps even more unsettling than the reason for it. I have never been jealous before. Jealousy I believe implies the beholder's dissatisfaction with his or her current situation. I always have been content with what was given me, and it allowed me to live a quiet and comfortable life. Now this is over.

Constable Fraser is watching me, apparently awaiting my response. "I'm...I'm very happy for the two of you, sir," I manage to say, feeling doubly uncomfortable because of my blatant lie.

He frowns. "If I gave you reason to assume that Detective Kowalski and I did commence a love affair then I apologize, Turnbull," he says. "As we did not. Detective and Attorney Kowalski currently are undertaking an endeavour to reconcile, and from what I hear with reasonable success."

I'm actually reeling from relief. Then I realize how heartless this is. "I'm sorry, sir," I pronounce.

He shots me a surprised smile that makes my toes curl. "Don't. There is no need." He smiles again - it causes me to hold my breath this time. "I am more resilient than you appear to give me credit for, Turnbull," he says. "I achieved quite some progress in overcoming my initial despair about Detective Kowalski's decision to attempt to reunite with his ex-wife, and he has been very supportive of my endeavours. That is the reason for my lightened mood."

"I'm very pleased to hear that, sir." I almost choke on the words. Hope was an unfamiliar emotion until recently. Now there is too much of it for me to cope with. I leave the constable's office as soon as I can without appearing rude.

The following sixty hours constitute the worst weekend of my life. I used to like weekends. They provided me with the opportunity to dream without having to fear the risk of being caught in the act. On Saturdays and Sundays I experienced the most wonderful romance. That it was a figment of my imagination didn't stop me from enjoying it tremendously. Now I find that my fantasies no longer gratify me. On the contrary, they cause me pain. I miss him. I miss him beyond imagination. Dear Lord, what has become of me?

***

On Monday Constable Fraser greets me in a buoyant manner. "Good morning Turnbull, how was your weekend?"

He isn't misled by my "Quite pleasant, sir, thank you kindly, and how was yours?" He frowns. "Is anything wrong, Turnbull?"

I deny that there is and he doesn't ask any further, but I can see that he isn't convinced. He changes the subject however, nodding at the wooden box I'm carrying and voicing his curiosity about its content.

"I have bought some aquarelle materials," I explain to him.

I did. It was my only pleasant experience of last weekend.

"Obviously, I will not be using them during working hours," I haste myself to add. "I just brought them with me because I like to have them close." Good Lord, I sound positively deranged.

"I quite understand, Turnbull," the constable says.

I stare at him. He does?

Before I can voice my surprise, Inspector Thatcher summons me to come to the conference room and resume the painting of her portrait.

She poses for me with renewed energy. She is more aware of what it takes to create a painting and doesn't express her disappointment about the slow pace of my progress as overtly as she did last Friday. During one of her breaks she informs me that she resolved to put her finished portrait next to the Queen's in the lobby. I stare at her. This woman certainly doesn't lack self-esteem.

At some point Constable Fraser enters the room to notify the inspector that someone wishes to speak to her on the telephone. When she leaves, he approaches me and after a look at my easel he says, "You truly have a remarkable talent, Turnbull."

I'm about to express my gratitude for his compliment, fearing the words will come out muffled because of the lump in my throat (he is standing so close) when he says quietly, "Would you be inclined to paint my portrait sometime? In aquarelle?"

I am absolutely panic-stricken. My system reacts to his request as though it were an offer of intimacy.

It makes no sense at all. By painting Inspector Thatcher's portrait I became familiar with her features and the bone structure underneath, with the shape of her lips and the color of her eyes. It doesn't mean anything to me. The way I feel about her hasn't changed. I esteem her highly - as I did before. She's my superior officer, an intelligent and capable woman of reasonable beauty.

If Constable Fraser would pose for me, I would be able to look at him - study him - without having to conceal that I did. I also would be rendered completely incapable of doing anything else, including painting his portrait. I am certain that it will be impossible for me to grant his request.

When I find my voice, I decline.

"Oh," he says softly. "I...understand. You have an obligation towards the inspector, of course, and you have your regular duties to perform as well." He straightens his back. "Well, I wish you a productive morning, Turnbull. I'll notify you and Inspector Thatcher when lunch will be served."

Looking at him leaving, I'm horrified at my conduct. I rejected him. Good Lord, I must be insane.

"Sir!" I call after him, and he turns. "I apologize. I'd be delighted to paint your portrait."

"Thank you, Turnbull." He smiles at me, genuinely pleased. My subsequent physical reaction is highly uncalled for.

Dear Lord.

***

Despite my nervousness about the prospect of painting Constable Fraser's picture, the inspector's portrait steadily progresses. I think her satisfaction can be explained just as much by the fact that soon she doesn't have to pose anymore as it can be by the result of my artistic endeavours.

With every shred of courage I can muster I inform the constable that if it is convenient to him I will be able to paint his portrait on Friday after working hours.

"That's wonderful, Turnbull," he declares. "Thank you kindly."

On Thursday evening I attend art class. My peers resume working on drawing Philip's nude. As I already have finished my picture of him, Mr. Burns - Keith - suggests that I perpetuate the boy in aquarelle this time.

I follow his advice. The process is a delight and the result isn't at all bad if I may say so myself, even if I have some difficulty concentrating because Philip is ... well, he is constantly leering at me, I'm afraid.

After class, when he has dressed, he approaches me. I'm sitting in the corner of the room, waiting for my private lesson to begin. Keith is still engaged in explaining the basic rules of applying shadow to Ms. Wilson.

"You didn't call," Philip says.

"No. I...I have been busy." As much as this is not a lie, I do feel guilty about the remark because it isn't the reason I didn't call him.

He shots me a look. "Yeah, right. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

He narrows his eyes. "Girlfriend?"

"No."

"Someone you're interested in?"

"I...ah...yes." I feel utterly uncomfortable at the sudden notion that there is indeed someone I am `interested in'. I never would have phrased it like this before. My fantasies made me feel gratified, not interested. Interest is related to desire, to want. Interest is real and so much wilder than a dream. It is greatly unnerving.

Philip is looking at me, apparently expecting me to elaborate. When I don't, he asks, "Have you told him?"

"No, I haven't. I don't imagine him to be interested," I reply truthfully.

"Why on earth not?"

I'm about to enumerate a catalogue of reasons, but his stare stops me.

"Guy must be insane," he states. I'm not entirely certain he doesn't mean me.

He gives me a leer. "Well, my loss anyway. See you later, handsome."

He swings his hips as he turns and walks away with a confident bounce in his step. I don't think he is all too disappointed.

***

Inspector Thatcher's portrait is almost finished. I find that I have difficulty to concentrate on completing it. In a couple of hours I will be painting the constable's picture instead of the inspector's. He will be sitting no more than a few feet away from me and expose himself to my inquisitive looks. My brush will caress his shapes on the paper as though it were my hands touching his body.

Dear Lord, I mustn't indulge in this vision. I have to restrain myself to prevent spoiling Inspector Thatcher's portrait, and I must maintain my sobriety in order not to make an idiot of myself later this day.

When Constable Fraser announces that lunch is served, I thank Inspector Thatcher for her patience in posing for me, and inform her that I will be able to finish her portrait without her assistance. She looks quite relieved.

During the afternoon I cannot concentrate on my duties. The clock in the lobby ticks away the seconds to five o'clock with ear numbing loudness and far too much speed.

The inspector leaves at ten past five. The constable holds the door for her and wishes her a pleasant weekend. Then he turns and walks over to stand at my desk.

I force myself to put down my forms and look up.

"Have you finished your duties, Turnbull?" he asks.

I reply in the affirmative. It isn't true, but it won't do to tell him.

"Are you ready to paint my picture?"

Again I respond affirmatively. Once more, it is as far from the truth as it could possibly be.

He frowns. Dear Lord, can he see through me?

Attempting to show some enthusiasm, I say, "I'm certain the serge will look magnificent in aquarelle, sir." And I quickly add, "And so will you, of course."

He shakes his head. "I'd rather you didn't picture me as a Mountie, Turnbull. I would prefer it if you'd paint me as a man," he says.

I understand his wish. Even though he considers being a Mountie a calling, a state of being rather than merely a profession, he feels he's more than that. And I'm all too aware that he is. Picturing him as a man will be even more impossible for me than painting him as a Mountie, but I am not in the position to decline his request.

"Well, then...you'd have to change clothes, I'm afraid, sir."

"Yes, I could change," he says quietly. "Or I could just undress."

The blood stops running through my veins, indecisive whether to fiercely rush to my face or to completely abandon it. I'm only capable of breathing again when I realize that I must have misheard.

But I haven't.

"You have painted a nude before, haven't you, Turnbull?" he inquires.

"Yes," I whisper.

"Good." He nods. "Then I'd like to suggest that you collect your painting supplies and we meet in the conference room."

He turns and walks away without waiting for my response.

For my protest. I should have protested against his highly indecent proposal, but my mouth and throat are very dry and I can't seem to move my tongue.

I do as he tells me. With some delay because my joints are feeling stiff and my movements are subsequently restrained I gather my requisites. My training with the RCMP taught me to react to stressful situations with an almost automatic display of obedience to authority. My behaviour is exactly what could be expected of a Mountie, really.

On the way to the conference room I do breathing exercises, and as I knock on the door and hear his "Yes, Turnbull, enter" I brace myself for his sight.

He has taken off his clothes and is sitting on the same chair Inspector Thatcher occupied during her posing sessions. His posture forestalls his genitals to be visible. Thank God.

I concentrate hard on closing myself off from the notion that it's him, that he's naked, and close, and meant for me to study.

Without looking at him I prepare my easel and palette. When I start painting I'm intensely focused on the paper in front of me. Him I only see from my peripheral vision.

I find that I can't paint his portrait. If I would look at him, truly look at him as is required for a painter to do, I know I would fall apart. I dab my brush in paint and move it across the paper, creating a nude which, as I realize, is almost an exact copy of the one I painted yesterday.

"Turnbull?"

I cannot not look up without appearing rude, therefore I try to look through him instead of at him.

"Is anything the matter, Turnbull?"

I attempt to deny that there is, but only an unarticulated sound escapes me.

And then he rises. I lower my eyes the second I see that he's moving.

He stands by my side and I freeze, focusing on the ledge of the easel. I'm terrified by the closeness of his nudity - I'm certain that I can feel the heat of his body radiating from him, even at more than a foot distance - and I pray to God that I will be able to remain frozen, because if I'd thaw I fear I might violate him.

"It's a beautiful picture," he says, "but it isn't me." There is a strange edge in his voice as he inquires, "Who is it?"

"Philip," I whisper.

"Who is Philip?"

I close my eyes for a moment, swallow and say, "He's one of Mr. Burns's models. Mr. Burns is my art instructor."

"I see." The edge is gone. His voice sounds soft, alluring, terrifying, when he says, "Renfield, look at me. Look at me, Renfield."

I feel that there is no way for me not to comply. I turn my head and look up, trying to focus directly on his face and failing woefully.

One glance suffices to interrupt the rhythm of my hammering heart and to tell me that none of my fantasies ever did him remotely justice. The shape of his torso, the smoothness of his alabaster skin are instantly burnt on my retina. I am absolutely convinced that he is the most beautiful creature that ever walked on earth.

"Renfield."

He touches my shoulder and I rise, feeling as though by some strange magnetism he is pulling me to my feet.

"Kiss me."

I know this cannot be real. I must be asleep and dreaming. The notion provides me with the courage to comply and press my lips to his.

It's not a dream. I can feel - not imagine - his lips on mine, his tongue pressing against my teeth to request access. I open my mouth and I feel a hot rush of ... something washing over me as he slides inside.

He turns me into liquid. It is spilling from my eyes. I never experienced anything like this. I don't think I can take much more, yet I feel I would die if this ever stopped. I find myself whispering "Bentonbentonbentonbenton" into his mouth.

"It's all right, Renfield. Everything is all right," he murmurs.

I am clinging onto him, he is holding me tightly. Through the fabric of my tunic and jodhpurs I feel his erected penis against mine. Oh God.

"Make love to me," he says.

"Yes."

"I'll get dressed."

For a second I think that I must have misheard what he offered a moment ago, but he says, "And then you can take me home with you."

I wait for him in the lobby, and I barely can suppress a giggle at the magnitude of my disappointment of seeing his exquisite beauty covered again as he joins me.

I drive us home in silence, nervous and afraid to break the spell.

I enter the apartment after him and close the door. "Would you like some tea?"

"No," he says simply. "I want you."

When I do not respond - his words and the look in his eyes render me incapable of doing so - he quietly adds, "Urgently."

I take him to the bedroom where he starts to alternatingly kiss and undress me. I'm at the same time scared and impatient, craving the feeling of his hands on my bare skin.

It renders me passive.

"Wake up, Renfield," he summons me gently. "Take off your boots."

I comply, sitting on the edge of the bed, woefully distracted by the sight of him undressing. He is so beautiful, and close, and - dear God - available. When he has finished taking off his clothes, I haven't even touched my boots.

He kneels and unlaces them for me. "Lie down," he says.

When I do he takes them off, and as I lift my hips at his stare he pulls down my jodhpurs, and my briefs, and my socks.

I feel quite vulnerable, lying on my back, naked and erect, while he is standing above me.

Then he smiles, and stretches on top of me.

He kisses me. I wrap my arms around his back, feeling our bodies touch everywhere. His penis slides against mine, and I know that if I surrender to this...this exquisite friction, only two or three more of his thrusts are required to make me orgasm.

I hold back. I find that I want to participate more actively. I want ... well, I want to be the direct cause of his completion; I want to bestow it upon him.

I tighten my grip and turn him on his back. He opens his eyes and smiles surprised.

I sit up straight, looking down on him. My hand trails across his chest and abdomen, his hip, his thigh. I don't think it will ever cease to amaze me how beautiful he is.

I'm aware that he's watching my movements, but it doesn't keep me from cupping his scrotum and the base of his slightly slick member. I lift his penis a little as I bend down to take it into my mouth.

He gasps, but doesn't protest, so I assume that it is a good sign.

I start to suck gently. I have read about fellatio, both fiction and non-fiction material. In theory I know what to do, and what the subsequent experience will be for the one on the receiving end of my endeavour.

I apply this knowledge to the shaft of his penis, the glans, the corona, the frenulum, and to his scrotum. I'm greatly stimulated by the sounds I evoke. I never did something as exciting as this. When he tenses and shoots the first spurt of semen into my mouth, blood rushes towards my penis so fiercely that it is almost painful. I cannot but smile as I swallow the last drops and let him go, however.

I have a second talent.

"Renfield." He pulls me into his arms to kiss me. I vaguely wonder what it would be like to taste my ejaculate on his tongue. "God, you are..."

He doesn't finish his sentence, but starts to press soft, slow, moist kisses everywhere on my skin. It feels wonderful. The notion that he is doing this to me brings tears to my eyes.

"Do you have vegetable oil?"

For a moment I'm stupefied at this non sequitur. Then I realize that it isn't one.

Oh. Oh God.

"I don't have any protection," I say thickly.

"I think that we only need a lubricant, as neither of us has had many sexual encounters before." He smiles. "Although your skill in performing fellatio easily could have misled me."

Holding my nervous gaze, he wraps his hand around my penis and squeezes at the base. If he just would stroke me for a short while we wouldn't need the vegetable oil.

He misinterprets my nervousness. Very sincerely he says, "I would never suggest this if I thought it would jeopardize your health, Renfield."

I go and get the oil, not feeling remotely as convinced that this is good idea as he seems to be.

The content of the bottle is very liquid. Using it will severely soil the bedding, I fear. I decide also to take a bowl with me, hoping that dipping my finger in oil before applying it will cause me to spill less of the liquid than pouring it into the palm of my hand would do.

I feel a flare of embarrassment and fear at the image of me "applying" the oil, and at the subsequent picture of the reason why. I never have done this. I read about anal intercourse just as I read about fellatio. I fantasized about it as well. My fantasies always featured me at the receiving end of the penetration, however. I'm afraid I will not know what to do, how to do it, how not to hurt him.

I dread the walk back to the bedroom.

The sight of him lying on my bed, smiling at me as I enter, instantly redeems the considerable softening of my penis caused by previous frightful thoughts.

"Ah," he says. "You brought a bowl. Good thinking."

How can he be so confident?

I realize that I mustn't allow myself to ponder the question at this particular moment. Instead I concentrate on screwing the lid off the bottle and pouring some oil into the vessel. I know my stare is flustered as I look at him. He nods and shifts on the bed, lifting his legs and spreading them, positioning himself.

For me. Oh God.

He nods again. I wet my middle-finger with oil and rub it around his anus. He sighs. It sounds as though it is a sigh of comfort and content. How can he be so relaxed, being intimately exposed like this? To me?

"Go on," he says. "Please."

I apply more oil until the outside of his entrance is very slick. I can easily - almost accidentally - slip the first phalanx of my finger inside his opening.

He moans. I stop and bite my lip, awaiting his protest, his accusation of my violating him. But he says "Renfield" and "yes" and "more" and "please."

I comply, wetting my finger several times, pressing it deeper inside each time, coating his rectum with oil.

At some point I can feel his prostate. I rub it gently and he whimpers, but there is no visible reaction of his genitals. Caused by the dim haze of my arousal I feel a distinct disappointment at this. (My reading materials told me about the delights of prostate massage. And I have tried it myself for confirmation). Then I understand that his orgasm was too recent for him to respond to the touch.

"More," he says.

Fingers. He needs more fingers, I realize.

I insert two, then tree, circling them deep inside him. He feels slick and silky and enticing.

"Now," he says with authority.

I cannot resist authority. I never could, and now I find I no longer wish to. My embarrassment and fear have melted away into a hot puddle of want to be inside him.

I slather my penis with oil without any care for the bed linen. He lifts his legs higher and spreads them wider in order to accommodate me. He nods. There is some resistance as I press the glans of my penis inside his rectum. I stop, waiting for his sign before I proceed and slowly slide all the way in.

He nods again, and I start thrusting and ... God, it feels ... he feels ... I never thought I would ever experience something like this. I blindly seek his mouth and he indulges me to claim him, to penetrate his mouth as I'm penetrating his sphincter.

Oh God, Benton.

As my orgasm builds and washes over and through my body, I barely can prevent myself from weeping at the notion of what he has given me.

When I withdraw I instantly nestle myself into his arms. He holds me for a very long time.

***

I awake because my left arm is asleep when dawn has barely broken. The nigritude symbolizes my mood perfectly. Last night seems very far away. It's like a dream, even though the presence of the one with whom I shared is very real; the weight of his head is blocking the flow of blood to my arm.

He stayed for dinner. I was expecting that he would leave afterwards - growing more nervous every minute he didn't make preparations.

"Do you want me to go home, Renfield?" he inquired.

"No!" I said instantly. His departure was the last thing I desired. I wanted to take him to my bedroom and keep him in the confined space of my bed, my arms, for eternity. I knew it was a wildly unrealistic wish, though.

"Good," he said. "Then I'd very much like to stay the night."

We soon went to bed and made love in the luxury of time and earlier gratification.

It was wonderful. His unwavering concentration on me, his kisses, his strokes, the weight of his body on mine were a gift unbeknownst to me.

They also were poison to my peace of mind.

Last night was a night like I never thought I would experience, and now that I have I dread its end, as I know it will feel like a terrible loss to me. Once given what I never thought I would have - what I never missed - I only want more of it. But in a few hours he will leave my bed, and our tryst will be a memory, more real perhaps than a fantasy but - unlike a reverie - also tainted with sorrow.

I try to move my arm without waking him - and fail.

"Good morning," he murmers. "What time is it?"

"Early," I reply. "My arm is asleep."

"Oh, I'm sorry." He lifts his head and begins to rub my arm, starting the blood to flow again, causing rather unpleasant tingles.

When my arm is awake, apparently so is he. I can see him smile at me in the dim light of the morning before he turns to painting me with kisses.

I am determined not to give in to the feeling his caresses invoke - doing so will only lead to more heartache when he leaves - but I lose the battle. I find I wrap myself around him, clinging onto him as though he were my life line. I buck my hips in response to his thrusts and I answer the claim of his mouth on mine with equal abandon. I am lost in him.

When something wet trickles along my temple I regain consciousness. This is too much. I mustn't display my need for him so openly. It will repulse him; cause him to regret our tryst.

I'm aware that our encounter is going to end some time soon. I'll have to cope with that (and I will, I tell myself) but I can't bear the thought of him regretting what we shared.

I unwrap myself from him, taking my arms from his back, stretching my legs on the mattress, closing my mouth.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

I cannot confide in him about my fear; doing so will turn it into a self-fulfilling prophesy. "I can't...please...I cannot..." I utter incoherently.

He looks at me. "Renfield, please don't be afraid that you're asking too much," he says. "You can have anything you want from me. I promise you."

I'm on the verge of tears. He isn't telling a deliberate lie, he just has no idea what he's talking about, no clue of the full magnitude of my desire. He can't possibly understand what he's promising me, and I mustn't tell him.

"I love you," he says. There is a solemn expression on his face, as though he believes what he is saying.

Oh God.

He holds my gaze; it fills my eyes with tears.

"I love you," he repeats.

"Why?" I say thickly.

"I love who you are," he replies. "I love the feelings you invoke in me. I love who I am when I am with you." He smiles. "You bring out the best in me. I love you, Renfield."

I seize his mouth in a fierce kiss, the only response I know to this declaration. He lets me take him, willingly surrendering to my attack. After a while the kissing slows down, and then I stop it.

I'm still panting from the effort and the oxygen deprivation, tracing the shape of the lips I just assaulted when a thought occurs to me.

"What about Detective Kowalski?"

He frowns. "My interest in Detective Kowalski no longer exceeds the feelings of a partner and friend," he says, his tone indicating that as far as he is concerned discussion ends here.

I am stubborn, though. Sometimes my obstinacy is beyond my control.

"Not long ago, you were in love with him," I press on.

He nods. "Indeed I was. I recovered, however. Not in the last place thanks to Ray's support."

My mood darkens. How can he genuinely love me if no more than two months ago he was in love with somebody else?

It's a horrible feeling to doubt his love. Distrusting him feels even worse.

But I can't seem to help myself. What if...?

"What if Detective Kowalski's attempt to reconcile with his ex-wife doesn't lead to success?"

"There's very little chance of that outcome occurring, I believe," he says. "From what I hear, their mutual endeavours are quite fruitful."

I am not reassured. "But what if they fail?"

There is a fair amount of exasperation in his voice when he says, "Well, even if Detective and Attorney Kowalski will not manage to resolve their differences, this is highly unlikely to cause a dramatic change in Ray's sexual preference."

Perhaps it is. But still I'm not convinced that anybody whose heart is free will not yearn to give it to Benton Fraser.

"And even if he miraculously would become inclined to homosexuality, it doesn't imply that he would fall in love with me," he continues.

This is not in any way a helpful phrase. It's obvious to me that any man of homosexual inclination is destined to fall in love with Benton Fraser upon meeting him. As was I.

His soft biting of my nipple cannot lift my gloom.

He looks at me. "If Ray Kowalski fell in love with me I'd be very sorry for him, because my affections are very much otherwise engaged." He pauses, then adds sternly, "As you should have come to realize by now."

He kisses me, slowly building the pressure of his lips on mine, stroking me with his tongue. I yield to the kiss, but not completely. I feel that the problem represented by Detective Kowalski still isn't fully resolved.

They are an ideal pair (save for the mismatch of their proclivities). Before yesterday, my feelings for my fellow officer could not prevent me from regarding Benton Fraser and Ray Kowalski as the epitome of the romantic adage that opposites attract. I fantasized about them together. I did. Now I find it difficult to cope with the thought of being second choice (a couple of weeks ago I would have reeled from the notion to be any choice at all).

He breaks the kiss. "Renfield, listen to me. You are not my second choice. Well, technically you are," he interrupts himself (he is, after all, a Mountie, and he likes to be precise - and chronically correct) "for I was in love with Ray Kowalski before I came to love you."

He looks at me, and I concentrate on the words he is saying, attempting not to be consumed by jealousy as he continues.

"He was so different from anyone I had known before; the complete opposite of me. I was mesmerized, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. I was blinded, infatuated. I don't think my feelings constituted a healthy foundation for a long term love affaire, even had he been interested in commencing one with me."

He doesn't sound wistful at all, I notice with surprise.

"To provide a reliable base for a relationship, my affections would have had to be reshaped into something resembling what I feel for you." He smiles. "I am not blind to you, my love. I haven't put you on a pedestal. I love you. Opposites may attract, but so do similarities. Haven't you noticed?"

It's obvious that he is referring to us, to him and me. And even though part of my brain frantically starts to run a petition against this ludicrous idea, I can see what he means. He is an infinitely better person than I am, but we are similar. Character traits I haven't sufficiently developed have fully matured in him. Qualities that are too present in me he has brought in perfect balance with others within his system. They are the same characteristics, however. We are similar.

The notion still surprises me, but I find it does so in a rather pleasant way. It brings us closer together.

"Remember, my love," he says, "Ray Kowalski is no more my Achilles' heel than Philip is yours."

This is meant as a final reassurance perhaps, but I hear an edge in his voice that I recognize.

"Are you jealous?" I ask.

"Yes, I'm afraid so." He sighs. "Good Lord, Renfield, you haven't begun to see so much as a glimpse of my possessiveness."

I move my hands from his back over his shoulder blades to his upper arms. "I love you," I say. It is the truth. It is also what I believe he needs to hear.

He smiles. "Thank you. I love you too."

We resume kissing. I feel no despair, no doubt, just joy. It is amazing to note that part of me already must have begun to understand that he loves me. That Benton Fraser loves me.

When he breaks the kiss I feel aroused, happy, and aware of my love for him, and his for me, with every nerve in my body.

"You know," he says, "I think that later today I'd like to take you to the consulate and allow you to redeem yesterday's pitiful attempt to paint my nude in aquarelle. But first," he kisses me once, close-mouthed, "I want to see about my own talent a as painter." He turns his head and I follow his gaze to the bottle of vegetable oil on the night table. "I'm particularly curious about my skill in applying oil to ..." His voice trails off. I know he does it on purpose. "No, not to canvas ... and preferably not to linen either, but ..." He looks at me, going for innocent, and failing. "Well, the bottom line is that I'd like to request your permission to paint an invisible oil painting inside you, Renfield."

He gives me a ... well, a pointed look, so to speak, and I can feel my rectum tighten in anticipation when I answer, "It is wholeheartedly granted you, Benton."

END