Dancing In The Dark  I have been on this list for about a month and have
completely enjoyed the postings. This is my first attempt at fan fiction
of any kind; I hope I don't oops in some major way. 

 Assume the usual disclaimers: Ben and Ray belong to Alliance legally, but
most truely to those of us who love them. 

 rating: Kinky m/m PWP? 

 Paloma Manchada 

 paloma46@hotmail.com 

 Dancing in the Dark 

 Firm hands guided him through the dark. Of course, he wasn't sure if it
was dark; the blindfold he wore effectively blocked any light. His hands
were secured before his body by handcuffs attached to a sturdy leather
belt which buckled behind his back. He felt disoriented and a bit
light-headed. 

 He was beginning to loose track of time. How long had this been going on?


 The evening had started with dinner at one of those elegant restaurants
with private booths and pricey entrees. The food was wonderful, the wine
expensive, the company scintillating. 

 He stumbled on a step up, jarring himself back to the moment. The hands
took a firmer grip on his arm, shoving him against the wall; a gruff voice
demanded that he pay attention to his feet. 

 The injustice of the accusation stung. "I can't see!" he blurted. 

 "Shut up!" A glancing slap on the back of his head bounced his head
against the wall. It didn't even hurt that much. It was the demeaning kind
of casual slap meted out to children sometimes - not meant to injure, just
to emphasize that they'd miessed up and backed by the implicit threat of
worse to come if the hitter felt it necessary. 

 His heart raced, he heard his own rapid, shallow breathing. This was
becoming scarier by the moment. Scary and yet, somehow incredibly
arousing. 

 The hands turned him away from the wall and headed him up the stairs he'd
strumbled over. They were back in the restaurant booth, laughing over
dessert. Kissing. Fingers in mouths sucking, teeth nibbling on necks,
hands inside clothing. The memory stirred something deep in both mind and
body. He never heard the little moan that escaped him. His captor smiled
in satisfaction. 

 He was pulled to an abrupt halt. A door opened in front of him. The hands
pushed him into a room. He heard the door close and latch. The hand was
back holding him firmly above the elbow. It guided him further into the
unseen space. A hand tapped him on the cheek. "Stand still." He was
suddenly alone, listening to footsteps retreating quickly. 

 What was happening? Panic crept closer. He felt unsteady on his feet,
almost as if the floor was moving beneath him. He tried to formulate a
plan to escape, but seemed unable to focus on anything long enough to . .
. what if he didn't return . . . what if he'd been abandoned here, alone
in the dark? 

 He did not hear his captor return to his side. The hands working the
buttons of his shirt were a complete surprise. Startled, he tried to pull
back. 

 "I told you to stand still!" His feet were swept from under him; he fell
heavily to his knees on a padded surface, gasping with shock. Strong hands
were on either side of his face. Insistent lips covered his own, imperious
tongue demanding entrance. His jaw relaxed, mouth opening to admit the
other, lost in the sensation. His cuffed hands clutched at his captor's
shirt, desperate to touch the silky flesh hidden beneath the material. 

 Suddenly the other pulled away from him. He swayed on his knees, bowed
over his hands, bereft. His captor walked around him considering. He
stopped behind the kneeling man. He ran his fingers through the thick
black hair, noting with satisfaction the shudder that ran through his
captive's body at the touch. He closed his fist in the hair and pulled
upward. "Where's that legendary Canadian posture?" 

 The kneeling man straightened his spine and held his head erect even
after his hair was released. His captor circled him again, struck by the
sight of the handsome, vulnerable man kneeling before him. His hair was
ruffled from the previous touch. The captor longed to reach out and smooth
it back from his forehead. His face was obscured by the blindfold, the
beautiful blue eyes hidden. Curiously, that only emphasized the sensuality
of his mouth, the quick flick of tongue tip as he nervously licked his dry
lips. His hands hung relaxed from the belt, the handcuffs clicking against
each other as he shifted his weight on his knees. Tension was evident in
the lines of his body revealed in the shadows of the shirt hanging loose,
in his shallow breathing. He had never seemed so beautiful. 

 All at once Ray could bear it no longer. He quickly unbuckled the belt,
then moved to kneel on the bedroll and tenderly embrace his lover. He
unlocked the handcuffs, kissing the marks they had left on Ben's wrists,
laving the tiny scrapes with his tongue. Vecchio gently removed the
blindfold, smoothing the ruffled hair as he had been longing to do. 

 He kissed the sensitive lips he'd been studying for so long, eager to see
him smile that smile again. 

 "Game's over, Benny." 

 Fraser blinked a little; he found this sudden sight to be almost as
unsettling as the darkness had been only moments before. He closed his
eyes to savor for another moment the information from his other senses
which had supported him through the game; the warmth of Ray's hands on his
body, the strength of his touch, the scent of the cologne he wore, the
sweet taste of his mouth. 

 Fraser opened his eyes to see the worry in Ray's expression. He smiled
his open, playful smile and was rewarded by Ray's relief. The mountie bore
him backward onto the bedroll. 

 "Oh, I don't think so, Ray." 

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