Disclaimers: As much as I wish otherwise, Benton Fraser & Ray Kowalski
belong to Alliance. *sigh*
I had so many requests for a sequel to "Snoop" (already!)
that I couldn't resist. Plus it was just begging to be written. Warning: Rated NC17 for boys with boys
and boys with toys. Some people might consider this to be mildly
"kinky." I don't. To me kink involves nonconsensuality, pain,
and humiliation. None of those things will ever appear in my work.
But just thought I'd warn the more sensitive souls. Thanks
to LaT and Judy for beta. --Kellie
"Do you find
he still doesn't believe he had the nerve, or the insanity, to actually
ask Fraser that, especially in front of three total strangers, Ray is
still inwardly ecstatic over the reply he'd gotten to his question.
"Yes, very much
loves those words, and the patent honesty with which they were said.
He takes them out to look at them every so often, carefully not looking
at the frame in which they rested, the frame which could, if examined
too closely, negate some of their startling power. Fraser. Benton Fraser
thinks he's attractive. Every time he thinks it, it sends a shiver of
dangerous and distracting delight through him. Fraser, perfect, beautiful
Fraser thinks his scrawny self is attractive. And he should SO
not be dwelling on that. It's bad enough that since the day Fraser had
walked into the 27th and looked at him through bewildered
(and okay, slightly suspicious) blue-gray eyes his fantasies have suddenly
taken a 180-degree shift from his ex-wife and the occasional Penthouse
Pet or Playgirl centerfold, to a certain Mountie.
sincerely hopes that he's mastered enough acting skill on his various
undercover gigs that Fraser has no idea just how often Ray looks at him
and imagines him buck naked and doing things that would no doubt bring
a serge-scarlet blush to those pale cheeks. He knows it's crazy, but
since when is sexual attraction logical? Never, in his experience.
It just . . . is. And boy is it. From the very first moment
he'd heard "Ray!" and turned around to be stunned slack-jawed
by the man calling his name, he's had the downest, dirtiest thoughts
about Constable Benton Fraser and what he wants to do with him, or to
have done to himself by him.
only took a week for his newfound infatuation to go from a low-grade
simmer to the point where he'd gone online, found a place that sold .
. . toys, and actually bought one. Along with a how-to book,
because for all that he's always found the random guy attractive enough
to fantasize about, his fantasies had never gone that far until
now. It's always just been touching and kissing, maybe a handjob, and
if he's really going all out, maybe a little sucking. Of course after
getting the toy and more importantly the book, he'd had to go back online
to order the lube. Duh. He should have figured that would be necessary.
But then again it wasn't like he should know because he's never done
it with a guy and chicks kind of provide their own. Heh, at least he
already had rubbers. And now he'll actually get to use them before they
expire, 'cause they sure aren't getting used the regular way.
distracted for a moment by thoughts of getting to use them with Fraser,
or. . . oh, jeez. . . of Fraser using them on the toy, with him. . .
uh oh. He has to close his eyes, and bite his lip for control. Unless
he wants to come before he even gets started, he'd better not even think
about thinking about that. As he rips open one of the packets, he imagines
rolling that thin, slick film down over a beautifully erect, uncut Benton
Fraser cock. Yeah, he knows it's uncut. He peeked when they were at
the urinal. Discreetly. Yes, he knows what that word means, and how
to do it. Guys learn in grade school how to check out another guy's
equipment without making it obvious. And why the hell is he defending
himself to himself anyway?
to his fantasy . . . rolling the condom down over Fraser's cock, and
then smoothing a lube-covered hand over it, like. . . this. Yeah. Damn,
he likes this thing, well okay, maybe hot pink hadn't been a great choice
but a toy should look like a toy, right? But no matter what it looks
like, it feels. . . real. Amazingly real. He closes his eyes so he's
not distracted by the color, and so he can visualize Fraser more clearly.
Yeah. Dark curls, pale skin, darkly flushed, maybe pink wasn't such
a bad choice after all. He squeezes, very gently. Firm, resilient,
mmmyeah. Imagines the arch, the catch in the breath. Maybe that tongue
thing he does, moistening that mouth that haunts his dreams.
in his mental picture, he imagines Fraser reaching out to touch him,
drops his other hand to his groin, strokes himself, slowly, trying not
to rush it, but once he gets started, it's so hard not to just go for
it. But he wants, needs, more. A newly-discovered need, deep, and insistent.
Shifts a knee up, slides slick fingers down and back, strokes, shivering
in expectation. Not his own fingers, Fraser's. Benton's. Ben's. Thinking
that name is like a forbidden thing, like saying 'fuck' in church. Ben.
Taboo. Erotic. Ben's hand on his hip, shifting him onto his side, moving
into place behind him. He's trembling a little, anticipation alive in
his veins. Now.
He's thrown out of the fantasy a little as he pushes, breath hissing
over teeth, instinctive resistance. No, just relax. Remember? Push
into-against, and . . . yield. Yeah. Slow, sweet stretch, strange fullness.
Fuck, so good, yeah. The first time he'd done this, the first thirty
seconds (seemed like longer) had been spent wondering why the hell anyone
would ever do this, but then it was like something inside him just
opened up, and it slid in, and he wondered why the hell everyone didn't
do this all the time. Why hadn't anyone ever told him how good it felt?
He felt cheated. Could've been doing this for years.
To the base. Yeah. In his mind, he feels the crush of dark curls there,
rough, but soft against his ass. Shudder, a little quiver of almost-coming
licking at his nerve endings. Ohgod. Yeah there. Just there. Fucking
there. He rolls onto his back, feeling Ben beneath him, broad,
strong chest under his back, smooth, flat belly beneath his hips. Splays
his thighs out to make room for Ben's between them, arches upward, feeling
hands on his chest, fingers tugging at his hardened nipples. Hips buck,
up, down, hard, hard enough to feel the soft-full weight of balls against
his perineum (cool word, Fraser word, never knew that's what it
was, until he got the book). Better, inside, a rush of perfect sensation.
Oh yeah. Yeah. Tosses his head against the smooth curve of pillow/shoulder
me," he moans (quiet, don't disturb the neighbors). "God,
Ben. Fuck me."
Hips moving, slow, glide, like dancing. Feel the slide inside him.
Heat rushing through his skin, making him sweat and shiver. Slide, glide,
back, forth, up, down, yes oh yes. Feels it starting, so deep, never
knew how deep it could start. He goes still for a minute, completely
still, until the sensation fades a little. Doesn't want it to happen
too fast. No, wants it slow, wants it to last. There. Okay. Back
motion, a kind of circling, stirring. The slide inside is easier every
second, all resistance gone, he's just open, and surrendered and filled
up. Rocks gently, feeling the butt of blunt tip inside him.
Amazing. His belly feels cool where he's leaked on it, and a current
of air touches that wetness. He puts his fingers there, strokes the
slick skin, pushes down against the flat plane just above the damp tangle
of pubic curls, pushes hard. If he pushes hard enough, can he feel Ben
there, inside him? No, but it feels good, so good. Starts to rock again,
hands fanned out on his thighs. His hands/Ben's hands, guiding him,
me," he whispers. "Please." A plea, a demand. Touch
me outside, and in. Need touch. So hard, full, full to the brim. Inside.
Out. He knows he could come, just like this, without ever being touched,
but wants touch, craves it. One hand moves to his hip, holding hard,
one curves around his aching cock. Warm, broad palm (narrow, long-fingered
but pretending), sturdy, strong, almost rough, squeezing stroking. He
arches into the touch, falls back, into the filling weight, again, again,
again, slide stroke full fill poetry in his body, in every nerve, starting
again, starting deep. Harder. Deeper. Harder.
buck of hips, hand clenching on his cock. "God! Ohgod! Ben!"
Hits like an explosion. He's tapped into a well of sensation at pressure,
pumping it through him, out of him in thick, sweet spurts. Stars behind
his closed eyelids, quasars, pulsars, spilling energy into the void of
his need, filling it, filling him. Filling him. So full. That's what
he does, what Ben does. Fills him. Ful-fills him. . . don't go there.
Minutes pass. Boneless
sprawl, breathing starts to even out. He's wet, sweat, and semen on
his skin. He skims a thumb across a puddle, brings it to his mouth,
sucks. Salty-sweet, stings his tongue strangely. A shiver racks him
as he images what it would be like to taste Ben this way. Wants to.
Needs to. No. Not need. Can't be need. Can't put that on Ben. It's
bad enough he's using him like this, would be worse to let it slip.
He sighs. It's just want. Lots of want. Keep it here, hidden away
where it can't be seen, or heard, or felt, except by him. It's not so
bad. He can do this, keep it separate.
again. He's starting to ache a little. This is the only bad part.
The part where he can't pretend any more, can't make it Ben any more.
Not Ben; Fraser, he corrects himself. Fraser. Don't slip, Ray. Don't
slip. Fraser. He shifts his hips, twists, and he's free with a soft
inhale of breath. Hates this part. Wants to be held. Wants to go to
sleep with arms around him, bodies tangled, sweaty. He snorts derisively
at himself. Fuckin' hearts and flowers, Ray Kowalski. Yeah, that's
him. Too damned romantic for his own good.
clock-radio clicks on, telling him he's out of time. He sits up, stripping
the condom off his erstwhile lover, and heads for the bathroom to shower
and dress. Face another day of wanting, and only, sort-of, having.
That's more than he's had in a while though, so it's better than it could
be. And it's pretty good, really. Fraser likes him. That's clear.
Hell, even the damned wolf likes him. Maybe as lunch, maybe as a buddy,
hard to tell, but it's like. And there's still that ambiguous hope inside
"Do you find
very much so."
He smiles at his reflection
in the mirror, a little smug.
* * * finis * * *
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