This is a sequel to One Of These Days. Fraser tries to come to terms with the fact that he enjoys "taking control" of Ray... even as he is compelled to do so again.
Thanks again to Maxine for beta-ing.
I hadn't expected to come away with an understanding of what I'd done. Or why Ray liked it. But, I'm surprised to find that I did... to an extent.
And he is right. It is as much the fact that I love to submit to his caresses, that I love the fact that he makes me his, as it is the sheer pleasure, that I respond to.
So why should he be any different? Of course he'd similarly like to submit.
The difference isn't him, of course. It's me.
He's sleeping now, head pillowed on his outstretched arm. Mouth open, snoring.
I imagine things about me irritate him far more than things about him irritate me. But that is all right.
Consensual. The word conjures up erotic thoughts... I think merely because the word 'sensual' is within it. But, since Ray didn't register any displeasure, any protest, didn't say "no", didn't fight... did, in fact, appear to enjoy it quite a lot, it was, in fact, consensual.
It will take some time for me to wrap my brain around that, as Ray says.
And yet there is no denying it: I do love when Ray is demonstrative. Aggressive. Affectionate. Seductive. Purely wanton and uninhibited. It is a delight. When he just ...takes liberties with me and makes my body sing.
But... I'm not sure I can be that way. Even if he needs me to be. To a certain extent, I can. But it depends how much... "force" he prefers me to use.
"Perversion" and "sin" are not the concepts that come to mind when I contemplate the way Ray makes me feel. And value systems are relative, of course. And yet it's the often unbalanced opinions of the external group -- "society" -- that worry me. I have, I suppose, internalized some views, despite my endeavours to remain self-sufficient down to my own moral code.
And I suppose it is hypocrisy, to a certain extent. Despite my inner resolve, I do occasionally worry whether I am perverse or sinful. But more than that, I worry that I will be thought of as perverted and sinful if the things I do with Ray are ever discovered by others.
There must be some way I can loosen the invisible inner bonds that constrain me, constrain my thoughts... that make me feel guilt for what, according to Ray, was merely a tit-for-tat exchange he enjoyed very much.
In truth, I suppose I feel less guilty now. I still feel twinges. But all things considered, I feel a good deal less worried that I'm some kind of deviant.
Most of the time.
It is peculiar to make one's own reality, rather than accept the "reality" of the surrounding environment. Yet I have, for all my inability to conform and assimilate, recently discovered the advantages of having always been an outsider. I have no inherent need to make this area of my life conform to the external value system; any more than I have had a need to make any other area of my life conform to said value system.
I shall ponder this until sleep takes me to where Ray is.
* * *
As usual, I am awake before he is. This is typical. Ray says he likes to sleep. I don't understand how anyone can "enjoy" something of which they aren't conscious, but he says he likes it. I tend to think that what he really enjoys is the time spent before retiring, and the time spent "wallowing", as he says, after awakening... but it is a fine point, and splitting hairs over something so minor is not necessary.
It's much more fun to gently coax him out of bed. For all his crabbing, and grouchiness, he's actually quite good-natured in the mornings.
Perhaps it's just that he's generally good-natured. That must be it.
"Fraser, what the hell are you starin' at me for?" he says, eyes half-open -- open enough to see that I have been sitting in the chair behind my desk watching him.
"Waiting for you to wake up, Ray," I tell him. I stand and get the coffee I made for him -- black, two lumps of sugar -- and walk to the bed and hand it to him.
"You're the most incredibly cool, wonderful, caring freak I ever met, Frase," he tells me, accepting the coffee and snuggling back down under the covers until almost nothing sticks out except his hair and the hand holding the coffee cup.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." The coffee disappears under the covers and I hear the slurping sound of Ray sipping it. He sighs. "Perfect. Frase, you're amazing. What the hell did I do to deserve you?" comes the muffled voice. More slurping sounds.
"I'm not sure, Ray. But I do ask myself the same thing about you," I answer.
He peeks his head out of the blankets and sheet and smiles. For some reason, there is nothing else that quite lightens my heart the way Ray's smile does. Especially when it's impish and mischievous the way that it is now.
"I am pretty good, aren't I?" he says, blue eyes flashing merrily. "Don't answer that."
"As you wish."
"Frase, ya gotta stop treatin' me so good. I'm gonna get spoiled. And start takin' you for granted."
"Oh, somehow I doubt that," I say to him. But I don't mention why I doubt it.
"Ya gotta do somethin' to keep me on my toes, ya know."
"Don't I already?" I prod him.
"Good point. You and them five syllable words... I gotta practically read the dictionary at work ta keep up with you."
"Ah."
He sits up now. I know he's naked under the blankets and were it not for the fact that Turnbull will be arriving in less than an hour, I would join him in bed again. Tousled hair the colour of dirty wheat goes this way and that in tufts on his head.
"Don't you make fun of my hair. You know my morning hair isn't good," he threatens darkly, but a smile is unmistakable at the corners of the mouth that again sips from the coffee mug.
"I haven't said a word about your hair, Ray," I reply mildly. He grins wolfishly, a smile Dief appreciates from the floor, and raises his head to bark at.
Some mornings -- such as this -- I can not believe my good fortune. I had never expected -- never dared to hope -- that I might again know love after the disastrous turn my life took when Victoria entered it a second time. But. Here it is. With Ray. And I don't deserve it and it may all end tomorrow, and I was afraid to let it happen, to let it get to me again. But as foolish as I may have been in love before... it would have been more foolish to let this chance with Ray pass. I think I am the happiest I have ever been and not every bump in the road has meant disaster; I have come to learn that.
This one won't either.
I just have to keep my wheels under me over this patch of road.
* * *
It is thankfully the end of the day and I am on my way to the 27th to meet with Ray as we usually do. Diefenbaker is fond of this particular route so we've taken it again.
Once in the precinct, however, my good humour slowly drains from me as I see the scene at Francesca's computer.
Ray is seated close to Detective "Jimmy" Patterson, reviewing case files. The two of them have drawn their chairs up next to each other. And, to be fair, to Francesca, who is typing away at some search or other, looking over for comment or direction from Ray and Patterson.
The young detective says something humorous, apparently, because both Francesca and Ray break into smiles and brief laughter.
How can I be so easily threatened? He's barely a man. I'm sure he's been a great advantage to the force -- how else would he have achieved the status of detective so young -- but he does have an air of being "wet behind the ears", as the saying goes. Except for one thing: he appears to be rather... charming. Some air of confidence and perhaps arrogance gives him a charm that masks his uncertainty about his professional abilities.
I don't know how I know this but perhaps it can work to my advantage.
For heaven's sake. I don't need to work anything to my advantage. Ray is mine. Is not interested in young Detective Patterson. He told me so. And I believe him.
But still I can not make myself step into the squad room, and can only watch from the windows of the doorway. I can hardly believe my need to muster up courage to enter the room -- it is absurd, I know it is absurd. And yet I require a few moments to centre myself.
I walk into the squad room.
"Fraser!" Blessedly, Ray is the first to see me and say hello. I try to convey my thanks with a warm smile.
"Hi, Frayzh," Francesca adds.
"Hello, Ray, Francesca. How goes it?"
"It goes great, Frase," Ray says, smiling and standing. "Frase, I don't know if you've met--"
"Detective Patterson," the young man says, standing also. "But call me Jimmy." He sticks out his hand and I grip it briefly.
"Jimmy," I say.
"Yeah, everybody calls me that." he smiles. And sits again. Right next to Ray.
"Frase, gimme a few minutes. I'm helping Jimmy here look up some stuff on some perps. They might be connected to that snitch Siracusa -- remember him? So we're trying to see how thin the connections are and decide whether or not it's worth putting the pressure on Siracusa to find out more."
"Ah. Well, I'll just wait by your desk."
"Nah, c'mon... pull up a chair," he smiles over at me. "You could probably help, you and that encyclopaedia of a brain you got."
"As you wish," I say a bit stiffly. Huey's desk is nearby, but unoccupied. I take the wheeled chair from it and wheel it over to their small group.
Before I can get there, though, Diefenbaker has wormed his way underfoot and poked his nose up on Ray's thigh.
"Hey, Dief, how's it going. No coffee for you, you know Fraser hates when ya get all zippy on caffeine," he says down to Dief, but he levels his gaze at me. His eyes are sparkling with ...something. An alertness. Something more than mischief and less than malice.
"Nice Husky," Patterson says.
"Oh, he's not a Husky," I explain with some satisfaction, anticipating the fright my next words may effect in him. "He's a wolf."
"No way," the young detective says, backing slowly away.
"Oh, Jimmy, he's harmless, trust me. But good at tracking people and things," Ray assures him.
By clapping a hand on Jimmy's shoulder.
"You sure?" the young man says doubtfully. "I dunno..."
"Sure I'm sure. But one thing ya gotta remember... never show fear to these animals. They can tell and they'll take advantage of it," Ray says, leaning in to emphasize his point. If not to emphasize his point, I can't imagine why else he is leaning so close to Jimmy's face.
"So, like, what should I do? I don't wan' him thinkin' I'm afraid 'o him..."
"You can bribe him. With junk food," Ray says, squeezing Jimmy's shoulder one last time. He shoots a pointed glance my way, but I can't interpret it.
"Hey, it says here this Anselmo guy knows the Torelli brothers, besides knowing Siracusa," Francesca says, reading from her screen.
"Oh, yeah?" Both detectives exclaim simultaneously, and lean forward.
I don't lean forward. I can only watch as Patterson's hand brushes Ray's thigh, just above his knee, before closing the file in his lap.
Their thighs are alongside each others'.
That white hot feeling is back again. It's not just a temperature... it's a colour. I can't see myself without a mirror, but I have a feeling if I could, I'd be paler than usual. And yet I feel suddenly alert and hypervigilant... not faint.
Patterson squeezes in front of Ray to get a better look at the computer monitor's screen. And Ray leans over on the back of Patterson's chair. As if to get a better view between Francesca's and Jimmy's heads.
But that doesn't require putting his hand on Patterson's shoulder.
I must witness this again and again until Ray and I finally escape the 27th precinct.
* * *
"Frase, what is up with you? You're real quiet. I'm missing that babble you usually give me after work about how your day went," Ray says to me in the GTO on our way to his apartment.
I shake my head. I can hardly speak. I am furious. But, of everyone I am furious with -- and, I keep telling myself, for no good reason -- I am most furious with myself for getting that sinking feeling upon seeing Ray with Patterson... and for my mood sinking deeper with each casual touch between the two of them.
"Frase?"
"It's nothing, Ray," I say.
Dief barks. There are times I wish he would shut up. I suppose I should be thankful that Ray can't understand a word Dief says, though.
"Oh, no, it's not nothin'... not if Dief says it's not nothin'," Ray jokes, but there is an edge to his voice.
"Diefenbaker isn't a mind reader, Ray," I intone stiffly.
"Yeah, well, he didn't like the way you said that... for some reason, at any rate."
"He dislikes many things about me. We have a healthy disrespect for each other's flaws," I reply, trying to keep my temper in check. I would like to not have an outburst at all. But if I must burst out with something, I would much rather it occur in Ray's apartment, not in his car on the street.
"Hey, Frase, don't forget... you get to pick what you want to eat tonight," Ray says, sliding over just slightly... slight enough to squeeze and stroke my thigh with the hand not driving.
That, of course, does it. I rapidly become erect and my resolve to speak up about this Patterson boy rapidly dissipates in a reaction inversely proportional to my increasing arousal.
"Ray," I say. "How long until we're at your home?"
"Not long, Frase," he says. He seems to look at me slyly through his peripheral vision while he ostensibly keeps his eyes on the road.
"Make it faster," I grit. I don't know if I am angry or lustful. I can't quite tell. Both, apparently.
"All right..." Ray whispers, with one last squeeze of my thigh.
He barely has opened the door when I march him in, remove the keys from the door, shut it behind us, and lock it. My unreasonable reaction from before has resurfaced, despite the fact that we are at his house tonight, and I did not avoid him nor petulantly insist on being let off alone at the Consulate.
"Fraser, what the--" is all he has the chance to get out before my mouth is over his and brutal. I put his keys in my pocket and open his jacket, still roughly probing his mouth. Ray, I can't help it. I must.
I back him up against the door and thrust a leg between his, feeling the hardening of his organ alongside my already-erect one. Yes.
"Fraser--" he says when I pause to breathe. But that is all he gets out.
His blue eyes are flashing when my hand descends over his mouth.
I release his mouth and push the jacket off his shoulders, but not completely off him. His arms are now trapped in the jacket sleeves. I press against him, pinning his arms behind him and against his front door.
"Fraser--" His third attempt at speech which I cut off with my mouth. Now that his arms are trapped behind him, I can untuck his shirts, and unbutton and unzip his pants. I concentrate on freeing his erection from his pants and briefs and possessing his mouth. Yes. Mine.
Now, with his hands trapped in his jacket, pinned behind him against his door, I can take better advantage of the situation. His cock is hot and pulsing in my hands and his tongue offers only a token resistance. There is something I must do and can barely put into words. I can see it, can see myself doing it, can see Ray submitting.
I feel around his waist, along his belt, while I kiss him, and find them.
One of the things Stella left Ray was their brass bed. He confessed to hating that fact initially, it being worse and more depressing sleeping in the bed where they'd slept for so many years than it would have been sleeping alone in a new, strange bed purchased after they split up the furniture.
But that brass bed has uses that perhaps Ray had not considered. At least, not with Stella.
Having found what I was looking for, I remove them from his belt and pocket them for the moment. I take him by the arm -- still imprisoned in his coat sleeves behind his back -- and pull him away from the door. I push him ahead of me into the living room, down the hall, into his bedroom.
"Fraser, ya wanna--"
"No, Ray, I don't."
"You don't even know what I was gonna say, Frase. I was gonna say--"
"It doesn't matter what you say, Ray," I am shocked to hear myself reply. "Turn around," I tell him, an unnecessary and pointless command since I turn him roughly around to face me. I quickly remove his tangled jacket from his arms. I carefully put his shoulder holster on the night stand with the gun still holstered in it, after pushing it off his shoulders and arms. I roughly remove his shirts over his head, shove his jeans down to his knees, and push him onto the bed where he falls backward and lies mostly flat, feet hanging off the edge of the bed.
But the blaze in his eyes is pure challenge. He kicks off his shoes, the only thing I have actually let him do on his own since we walked in the door.
"You're pissed about Patterson, aren't you?" he says with a rather smug tone, lifting his head.
"If I am, I am doing nothing about it that you haven't asked me to do," I reply, justifying and rationalizing already. I grab his nearest wrist and yank him bodily up to the head of the bed by that arm. From my pocket I pull his handcuffs.
"Ow! Oh, yeah? You think I asked for this?" he says, feisty, as I cuff his wrist and put the other cuff on one of the brass bars at the bed head.
"Yes, Ray," I reply. "As a matter of fact, you did ask for this. But, even if you hadn't, I would still think your behaviour this late afternoon and early evening was simply asking for it. Period."
He looks so vulnerable, looking up at me, barely clad, slender, one arm over his head, cuffed to the brass. The expanse of tawny skin from his spiky hair to his partially open briefs is achingly beautiful. His dark, hard cock is exposed, sticking out of his briefs, but not enough that his testicles are visible. His jeans are bunched at his knees and even if he could get up from the bed, he'd have to get out of the jeans before he could effectively run. I don't know why all this passes through my mind in scant seconds while I look down at him.
"Izzat so," he says, sounding suddenly much more thoughtful. Now that he is at least somewhat restrained, I take the time to remove my Serge. I open the collar and he smiles, laying his head back down. His free hand goes to his cock, circling it loosely, and he starts to stroke himself loosely.
"I love that Velcro sound, Frase. If I wasn't hard, it'd get me hard in less than a second," he says while I make short work of all the buttons on my tunic. It makes no difference if I drop it on the floor, since I have to take it to the cleaners anyway.
"That, I doubt," I reply. "However, you do tend to have a certain predictable response to some things."
"So do you," Ray replies.
I ignore that and peel down my suspenders and open my riding pants. I lean down, remove his hand from his cock, and yank it up over his head to the other. With a tiny key on Ray's key ring, I open the cuff around the brass bar and pull the handcuffs around it, closing the open cuff on Ray's free wrist. And lock it tight. He can not bring either of his wrists down; they're securely locked in his own handcuffs, which are hooked around the bar in the head of his brass bed. His keys I throw on the nightstand next to his bed.
In scant moments, he can't speak again anyway, because his mouth is completely occupied with mine. And when it isn't, when my mouth is on his chest or nipples, I cover his mouth with my hand. The thought briefly occurs to me that one of his rarely-worn ties might serve as a gag.
"If I say 'stop', will you stop?" he whispers to me, after I've removed his briefs and jeans and thrown them on the floor. My hands are on his hips and I am leaning over his pelvis when he speaks.
It penetrates the fog in my brain just long enough for me to think, I am not really forcing him, if he isn't fighting me. The inequality of his nakedness and my clothing -- pants open, shirts untucked, but everything still on -- strikes me and then sinks like a stone in the dark pool of all my other roiling thoughts.
"Yes," I say thickly. "But if I gag you, you can't say 'stop', can you?" Some part of my brain is definitely, as Ray would say, unhinged, for me to entertain the thought of doing that -- gagging him -- to prevent him from voicing a protest.
"No, s'pose I couldn't. I could scream, though."
"No one would hear you but Dief. And he's my wolf, not yours."
"You're really outta control, aren't you," he says with satisfaction.
"I am, and you had best shut your mouth, Ray Kowalski, unless you'd like to be gagging on something other than one of your ties."
"What makes you think I wouldn't?" he whispers. But he is not smiling and the seriousness with which he says it frightens me because I know now what I'd like to do.
But first things first. My hands were on his hips for a reason.
He screams hoarsely when I pull his erection into my mouth quickly, with tight suction, and over my teeth.
"Ah, ah, ah, Fraser, oh..." he cries and the sound is a drug to me; it only makes me want to hear him cry out more.
Soon he is crying out again, but slightly differently. Cries and moans of pleasure and need. It strikes me that a gag would defeat that purpose. It is with dark pleasure that I listen to the effect of my mouth on him. My own throbbing arousal is aching and while I am roughly working him over with my mouth I decide that it's time to release myself from the riding pants.
I suddenly release his organ from my mouth and it slaps back against his stomach, which jerks. I can see every rib of his, his sternum, his sharp slender hip bones. Standing up from the bed, I strip my Henley shirt and undershirt off and drop them. I quickly untie my boot laces and loosen the first several loops. I have to sit to remove the boots, but I've been doing this for so many, many years, I make short work of it. On my feet again, I strip down my pants and step out of them. I don't know how much time has passed. Hunger is a dull ache in my stomach. It must have flared at some point that I didn't notice and then subsided, for the moment.
Now when I climb back onto him, it is with my knees on either side of his arms and my face over his pelvis. I lower my hips and touch the head of my penis to his lips. And just as quickly pull it away. A thin string of pre-ejaculate stretches between his lips and the head. It has suddenly occurred to me that he could grievously injure me if he wanted to, at this point. I am, so to speak, putting my head in the lion's jaw.
"Ray... if you don't want this, I won't do it," I whisper, shutting my eyes momentarily.
"I want it," he whispers back, and I feel the ticklish breath of his words on my cock.
"Open your mouth, then," I ask him. He does, wide, and I sink into it as far as I can. The angle isn't very good but he helpfully tilts his head back and then the angle feels very good. And I realize I could suffocate him thrusting so far into his throat. I pull out.
"I'm sorry, Ray, I didn't mean to--"
"It's okay, Frase. Do it again. I can take it," he urges.
"All right..." I plunge my erection back past his lips, as far in as I can go, feeling the hot breath from his nostrils on my testicles.
I try to get into a rhythm where there is a breathing space for him. He catches the rhythm and then there are no choking gasps except at the withdrawal stroke.
Having found the rhythm, I am not sure how long I can go on without inevitably orgasming in his mouth. But in the meantime, now what little of my conscious brain is left can concentrate on pleasuring him. And I, unlike him, have my hands free to assist my mouth.
Soon enough his mouth isn't merely providing stimulation from its caresses, but the vibrations from his moans -- except when I've thrust in completely and he can't speak or breathe -- are further arousing me. My excitement climbs another notch but I continue to concentrate my mouth on his cock. The slightly salty taste of his pre-ejaculate is on my tongue and I encircle his testicles with one hand. If they can't tighten up against his body, he can't ejaculate.
I briefly lick the fingertips on my free hand and then press them to his anus. He bucks beneath me, moans doubling in volume, and teeth graze my own organ on the upstroke. But he regains control. Only to lose it again when I penetrate him with first one and then two fingers. It isn't until I feel him loosening around them that I realize I may not have used enough saliva. He is whimpering now, a begging sound.
It is something I could listen to for hours, I realize.
I do not let him orgasm. I pull on his testicles slightly; he twitches and moans, but still he sucks, still I suck, and still I manually penetrate him. All of our rhythms are now getting out of sync with each other. It is as if we will rattle apart before we explode.
Abruptly I decide it's time and pull out of his mouth.
"Fraser, Fraser, oh God, ya gotta let me come, let me come, please, Frase..." Now his internal monologue can be heard.
"Yes, yes, Ray, soon," I soothe. I withdraw my fingers from his rear and stop sucking him, but don't let go of his testicles until he seems to have subsided into a highly aroused but not as volatile state.
"Fraser, Fraser, Fraser..." he whispers repeatedly.
I finally release his testicles and turn around so that I can lie alongside him.
The kiss is feverish and he strains against the handcuffs, trying to get closer to me. He hooks his legs around mine and holds me to him that way. I pull him to me and crush him against me, kissing him hard.
"So good, so good," he croons when my mouth moves down his jaw to his neck. I nip and bite at the side of his neck until his croons become incoherent whispers.
Then, in a flash, I abandon his side and slip from the grip of his thighs. I approach again from between his legs and push them up. Everything is exposed now, the hot, small opening, his testicles, tightened in the scrotum. I pause to lick and mouth his testicles and then slide my mouth down the spongy flesh between them and his anus. His moans increase as I lick at the opening and wet it. Then I move up again, holding his legs up and apart with my shoulders. I place the head of my cock at his opening with my right hand. With my left I move his testicles up out of the way. The resistance of his legs holds me up; my entire weight rests on them.
"Oh, yeah, yeah, Frase, do it to me, give it to me, please," he moans.
At this moment I wonder what that might sound like, coming around a gag. For some reason the fact that I'm wondering that doesn't alarm or surprise me. And then I plunge into him, hard. Two fingers are not exactly the same as the width of my organ and the hoarse cry that bursts from his throat isn't entirely pleasure.
And yet not a word of complaint, not a protest, not a cry for me to stop.
So I don't and commence a deep and fast rhythm. He does not protest. Doesn't say a word. Probably because he is moaning continuously.
I release his testicles so that I can stroke him while I thrust in and out of him.
I get the rhythm between my hand and my pelvis matched.
His eyes are squeezed shut tight. Sweat runs from his temples and I see the vein pulsing in one of them. He looks so beautiful. I feel his anus open wider and twitch around my plunging organ. He is close. I double the pace of my strokes in and out of his ass, grunting most indecorously.
"Fraser, Fraser, uh, uh, I'm gonna, I'm gonna come," he half-screams. "Oh, God, I'm, I'm--"
And I feel his orgasm start, the tight spasms around my cock, so tight a few of them hurt, but despite -- or because of? -- that, I feel the liquid inevitability begin inside me. He utters a long, wrenching and breathless moan while he repeatedly clenches around me. His semen spatters his chest through my stroking hand. And then I am shaking and jerking and moaning as I begin to spurt. The spasms are long, timeless, jet after jet of semen, into the twitching hole between his slim and lovely buttocks. I am so exhausted and drained after the last spurt that I collapse on top of him, his legs spreading out to my upper arms, on either side of my shoulders. I am still pressed up against him. He is still bent double.
"Fraser. Frase. Hey, Frase?" I hear his voice coming to me as from a great distance.
"Yes, Ray," I reply hoarsely.
"You... I think ya passed out there for a minute. Blacked out or somethin'. You kinda like weren't responding."
"I wasn't?" I reply, dazed.
"No... at least, you weren't answering. You were kinda a dead weight on me there for a few," he says quietly.
"Terribly sorry, Ray," I say, rolling off him and letting his legs come down.
"Oh, my God. I am gonna be so sore tomorrow."
"I'm sorry." Now it seems there will be no shortage of things for me to apologize for. "I didn't realize until I had already... already widened you that I had probably not wet my fingers enough..."
"Huh? Oh, you mean-- Oh, that wasn't what I meant about bein' sore. I meant my hamstrings. Christ, Frase, I never knew I was so flexible. Now I know -- thanks ta you."
"Oh." I am spent, exhausted. "I guess... I guess that's good."
"Absolutely," he replies. "Oh, man. That was fantastic. Incredible. Frase, you are just an animal. I never knew. I mean, I'm so glad... but I wish I'd known before. I'd-a been egging you on to this a lot sooner." His voice has that smiling tone again.
"Ya gonna order the food, or ya gonna unlock me here and let me?" he asks. He's so reasonable. In the aftermath, I can't think reasonably, much less act reasonably as regards myself or anyone else.
"I... I'll unlock you," I say. I lean over the edge of the bed and get the keys off the night stand and then roll over so I can unlock his handcuffs.
"Oh, oh, wow. Yikes." His wrists are ringed in red.
"Ray... I'm... I'm sorry. I... I had no idea they would--"
"Hey, Frase, not a problem. I'm sure they'll be fine." He rubs them, though. So I take his nearest hand and rub the wrist below it. The angry red chafe marks don't look like they'll be fine. I've marked him. Marked him with my violent passion.
"Fraser. Stop. They'll be okay. We gotta order some food, I'm starved. Aren't you hungry?"
"I guess." I can barely see. My vision swims. I lay back, completely flat, on my back and close my eyes.
"Heh. You came pretty good, too, huh?" he asks.
"Apparently. I feel as if I ejaculated my brain."
He laughs. "That's a good one! I gotta remember that. 'I feel like I ejaculated my brain'. You crack me up, Frase. Let me get the menus. Or you got a preference tonight? Pizza or Chinese?"
"Chinese," I think I say.
"Hong Min's it is," he replies. "I'll get the usual for us. Sweet and sour pork for me, Mongolian Beef for you."
He leans over for a quick kiss for me, and then crawls over me, naked, to get out of bed and go to the phone. He is back in a few minutes, climbing back over me, cordless phone and menu in hand.
"Yeah, I'd like to order some food for delivery," I hear. And then
I hear nothing more.
Verushka wonders what you thought of this.