Turnbull cheese challenge by china_shop
F/K, about 1000 words. Thanks and hugs to secret_garden and sprat for beta.
A Whey From Home
Fraser hung his tunic on a hanger in the closet. Then he removed his boots and socks, lined them up by the door, and sat with a sigh on the quilted bedspread. The carved relief grapevine on the wooden headboard dug uncomfortably into his back. His bare feet stretched out before him. Clarissa Claremont’s Bed and Breakfast was clean and competently managed, he acknowledged to himself, trying to be fair, but its fussy combination of potpourri, religious iconography, and bilious green-patterned carpeting made his eyes water. He thanked his stars that Diefenbaker, who could be relied upon to complain about poor aesthetics for hours on end, had elected to stay home.
Fraser reached for the phone and dialed. The electronic brrp brrp was indecently cheerful, and continued far too long. Finally he heard the click-click and habitual whine of the answering machine. “Vecchio,” said Ray’s voice. “Leave a message.”
“Ray,” said Fraser. “I’m sorry to say I won’t be able to keep our date to go to the Illinois State Vintage Car Museum on Saturday.”
There was a loud clatter-“Fraser? Frase? Hang on a sec.”-and the resonant thwack of a thin wooden object repeatedly smacking against an electronic appliance. The answering machine’s whine ceased, and Ray’s voice came on the line, warming Fraser to the bone. “Ha! I knew you’d find an excuse, Frase. Cough it up. You got a sudden unexplained can’t-be-denied urge to iron your suspenders?”
“That’s hardly fair, Ray.” Fraser bit back a smile and carefully injected the requisite note of reproach into his reply. “After all, you accompanied me to the display of seaweed-related native art last month. And if nothing else, the car museum would have given us a chance to spend time together-”
Ray groaned. “Yeah, it’s been like forever, Fraser. Where’ve you been? Pulling double paperwork shifts in triplicate? You didn’t even answer your phone yesterday.”
“Ah, well, that’s why I’m calling.” Fraser paused and stared at his feet. “I’m in Canada.”
“You’re what?!” Ray said, then continued on before Fraser had a chance to respond. “You’re coming back, right? Tell me you haven’t suddenly gone AWOL on my ass.”
Fraser’s free hand, which had been resting on his stomach, slid a little lower. “Trust me, Ray, if I were to go anything on your delectable ass, it would not-”
“Delectable?” Ray snorted
“Yes, Ray. If I were to go anything on your delectable ass, it would not be AWOL. Have I given you any reason to think I’d willingly leave you?”
“Not since I started putting my dirty socks in the hamper,” Ray conceded. “Yeah, okay, okay. I’m guessing this is official Mountie business then. D’you need backup? Say the word.”
“I’m not in any immediate danger,” Fraser said truthfully, half-wishing he was, so that Ray would fly to his side.
“You sure? Okay.” Ray sounded reluctant. “How long’re you gonna be away?”
“I really can’t say,” Fraser told him, distractedly. His mind teemed with vivid memories of the taste of Ray’s mouth, of the kinesthetic pleasure of nibbling on Ray’s ear. “As per Inspector Thatcher’s instructions, I’ve traced Monsieur Jean-Raoul Chartreuse to Newfoundland, but he refuses to see me. Apparently his Roquefort is at a very delicate stage of development and the slightest upset could wreak havoc.”
“Wait a minute. Hold your horses. Heigh-ho Silver.” Indignation colored Ray’s voice. “Are you telling me Thatcher sent you to Canada to talk to a cheesemaker?”
Erotic mental pictures swept aside, Fraser sighed and rubbed his eyes. “All I know is that Turnbull has always been overly partial to a variety of dairy products. Perhaps I left Inspector Thatcher too much in his company, or perhaps I’m being punished for some oversight of duty. I’m not entirely clear. Regardless, I’m currently in Nova Scotia, trying to make an appointment to visit an 86 year old retired gorgonzola specialist.”
Ray’s voice was muffled. “Say what you like, Frase, I think Thatcher’s onto us. She’s trying to separate us before we-”
“Before we what, Ray?” Fraser asked, though he knew exactly what Ray was implying. “And onto us how?”
“You know what I mean,” Ray told him. “I’m not gonna spell it out for you.”
“More’s the pity.” The words came out deeper, rougher than Fraser had intended. He abruptly changed the subject. “You must see that it would be a gross abuse of her authority for Inspector Thatcher to send me haring across two American states and four Canadian provinces at the taxpayers’s expense on a wild goose chase for cheese merely to thwart my private life.”
“You say what you like, Frase,” Ray repeated stubbornly, “but I know women. That chick’s into abuse. I think it creams her panties. She’s got twisted authority coming out the whazoo.”
Fraser contemplated that verdict for a long moment. “I miss you very much, Ray,” he concluded finally.
“Yeah,” said Ray. “Me too. And when you get back-” He hesitated, and lowered his voice. “When you get back, we are gonna do it till our dicks drop off from exhaustion, you got that? I am sick to tears of this formal courtship dating thing, Frase. We are grown consenting horny adults, and I want-” Another hesitation.
Fraser’s pulse beat sharply at the base of his throat. “What?” he said, sounding strangled to his own ears. “What do you want, Ray?”
“I want you to fuck me till I can’t see in a straight line. Let Thatcher and her stinky mozzarella try and stop that, and I’ll kick her up the Consulate flagpole. We’ll see if anyone salutes her then.”
“Ray!” Fraser’s hand inched even lower.
“You down with that?”
“More to the point, Ray, I’m up for it. Remarkably so, as a matter of interest.”
Ray’s groan made Fraser shiver with desire. “When’s the next flight?” Ray asked, hoarsely. “I’m on it. I’m coming to get you.”
“I’ll be home soon, Ray.”
“Promise?”
“Soon.”
END
A Whey From Home
Fraser hung his tunic on a hanger in the closet. Then he removed his boots and socks, lined them up by the door, and sat with a sigh on the quilted bedspread. The carved relief grapevine on the wooden headboard dug uncomfortably into his back. His bare feet stretched out before him. Clarissa Claremont’s Bed and Breakfast was clean and competently managed, he acknowledged to himself, trying to be fair, but its fussy combination of potpourri, religious iconography, and bilious green-patterned carpeting made his eyes water. He thanked his stars that Diefenbaker, who could be relied upon to complain about poor aesthetics for hours on end, had elected to stay home.
Fraser reached for the phone and dialed. The electronic brrp brrp was indecently cheerful, and continued far too long. Finally he heard the click-click and habitual whine of the answering machine. “Vecchio,” said Ray’s voice. “Leave a message.”
“Ray,” said Fraser. “I’m sorry to say I won’t be able to keep our date to go to the Illinois State Vintage Car Museum on Saturday.”
There was a loud clatter-“Fraser? Frase? Hang on a sec.”-and the resonant thwack of a thin wooden object repeatedly smacking against an electronic appliance. The answering machine’s whine ceased, and Ray’s voice came on the line, warming Fraser to the bone. “Ha! I knew you’d find an excuse, Frase. Cough it up. You got a sudden unexplained can’t-be-denied urge to iron your suspenders?”
“That’s hardly fair, Ray.” Fraser bit back a smile and carefully injected the requisite note of reproach into his reply. “After all, you accompanied me to the display of seaweed-related native art last month. And if nothing else, the car museum would have given us a chance to spend time together-”
Ray groaned. “Yeah, it’s been like forever, Fraser. Where’ve you been? Pulling double paperwork shifts in triplicate? You didn’t even answer your phone yesterday.”
“Ah, well, that’s why I’m calling.” Fraser paused and stared at his feet. “I’m in Canada.”
“You’re what?!” Ray said, then continued on before Fraser had a chance to respond. “You’re coming back, right? Tell me you haven’t suddenly gone AWOL on my ass.”
Fraser’s free hand, which had been resting on his stomach, slid a little lower. “Trust me, Ray, if I were to go anything on your delectable ass, it would not-”
“Delectable?” Ray snorted
“Yes, Ray. If I were to go anything on your delectable ass, it would not be AWOL. Have I given you any reason to think I’d willingly leave you?”
“Not since I started putting my dirty socks in the hamper,” Ray conceded. “Yeah, okay, okay. I’m guessing this is official Mountie business then. D’you need backup? Say the word.”
“I’m not in any immediate danger,” Fraser said truthfully, half-wishing he was, so that Ray would fly to his side.
“You sure? Okay.” Ray sounded reluctant. “How long’re you gonna be away?”
“I really can’t say,” Fraser told him, distractedly. His mind teemed with vivid memories of the taste of Ray’s mouth, of the kinesthetic pleasure of nibbling on Ray’s ear. “As per Inspector Thatcher’s instructions, I’ve traced Monsieur Jean-Raoul Chartreuse to Newfoundland, but he refuses to see me. Apparently his Roquefort is at a very delicate stage of development and the slightest upset could wreak havoc.”
“Wait a minute. Hold your horses. Heigh-ho Silver.” Indignation colored Ray’s voice. “Are you telling me Thatcher sent you to Canada to talk to a cheesemaker?”
Erotic mental pictures swept aside, Fraser sighed and rubbed his eyes. “All I know is that Turnbull has always been overly partial to a variety of dairy products. Perhaps I left Inspector Thatcher too much in his company, or perhaps I’m being punished for some oversight of duty. I’m not entirely clear. Regardless, I’m currently in Nova Scotia, trying to make an appointment to visit an 86 year old retired gorgonzola specialist.”
Ray’s voice was muffled. “Say what you like, Frase, I think Thatcher’s onto us. She’s trying to separate us before we-”
“Before we what, Ray?” Fraser asked, though he knew exactly what Ray was implying. “And onto us how?”
“You know what I mean,” Ray told him. “I’m not gonna spell it out for you.”
“More’s the pity.” The words came out deeper, rougher than Fraser had intended. He abruptly changed the subject. “You must see that it would be a gross abuse of her authority for Inspector Thatcher to send me haring across two American states and four Canadian provinces at the taxpayers’s expense on a wild goose chase for cheese merely to thwart my private life.”
“You say what you like, Frase,” Ray repeated stubbornly, “but I know women. That chick’s into abuse. I think it creams her panties. She’s got twisted authority coming out the whazoo.”
Fraser contemplated that verdict for a long moment. “I miss you very much, Ray,” he concluded finally.
“Yeah,” said Ray. “Me too. And when you get back-” He hesitated, and lowered his voice. “When you get back, we are gonna do it till our dicks drop off from exhaustion, you got that? I am sick to tears of this formal courtship dating thing, Frase. We are grown consenting horny adults, and I want-” Another hesitation.
Fraser’s pulse beat sharply at the base of his throat. “What?” he said, sounding strangled to his own ears. “What do you want, Ray?”
“I want you to fuck me till I can’t see in a straight line. Let Thatcher and her stinky mozzarella try and stop that, and I’ll kick her up the Consulate flagpole. We’ll see if anyone salutes her then.”
“Ray!” Fraser’s hand inched even lower.
“You down with that?”
“More to the point, Ray, I’m up for it. Remarkably so, as a matter of interest.”
Ray’s groan made Fraser shiver with desire. “When’s the next flight?” Ray asked, hoarsely. “I’m on it. I’m coming to get you.”
“I’ll be home soon, Ray.”
“Promise?”
“Soon.”
END