Out of the Dark, Chapter fourteen, Parts One and Two
I think I really have to repost the two parts of this chapter together to make the scene intelligible, especially because of the flash-backs ; tell me if I should delete my previous entry.
Fandom: The Professionals
Author: Francis Kerst
Genre: Slash
Pairing: Bodie/Cowley
Rating: Mature
Warning: Mutually non consensual!
Archiving: Anywhere
Summary: Is this a dream?
When he awoke, hours later, Cowley was in his bed and Rover was licking his hand. The dog shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be there. But there he was: sweaty, heart pounding, mind confused. He couldn't figure how he had made it to the bedroom, much less how he had undressed. He was naked, tangled in a shambles of entwined blankets and smelly sheets. His head ached, his leg ached, his back concurred. He groaned and Rover whined in a high pitched wail.
“Gerrof!” he croaked feebly, waving at the dog, “out!” and amazingly the dog obeyed.
Disentangling himself took time and cost him his last reserve of strength. He felt drained. For a while he remained completely motionless, trying to recover his wits. All he could gather were snatches of blurry images, fleeting but sharp sensations, snippets of dreams that worryingly looked like memories. Staying aware was hard enough, he had no wish to remember, didn't want to think, wouldn't dare to guess. Sleep was promise of oblivion and oblivion was peace. It was hardly dawn. He surrendered.
First he had sunk in a dumb, heavy sleep but, at times, when he emerged from his slumber for a few minutes, he recalled more acutely episodes of the dream he had earlier in the night. Some parts were painfully clear, others remained hazy.
Where he was then, it was not dawn but dusk. A full moon poured a pallid light on the surroundings. He was walking at a brisk pace along the winding path that led from the seaport to the old town. It was odd not to feel any pain in his leg. The streets he crossed, normally so lively and busy at night, were deserted and silent and all he could see were high grey walls with slit-like windows and the iron shutters of closed shops. Not a passer-by, not a car, not even a prowling cat. As if a curfew had fallen on the city. He didn't know why. All he knew was that he had to get in touch with a man at the “Sailor's Home”, who could provide him with a vital information. Or so he had been told by his contact in a bar earlier in the day. His mind was focused on that single aim: getting to the place, finding a man who knew another man. Which was the traitor. Who had killed his partner. None had a name.
Soon he was at the door, ringing the antique lion-head shaped knocker. An old man came, whose face looked familiar though he couldn't remember where and when he had ever met him. He let him in wordlessly and headed to a dim corridor, not checking whether he was followed. When the man turned round to face him, he recognized Bart.
“Bart! You here? Where's Angus?”
“In the sitting room. He was expecting you.”
They entered a vast room, poorly lit by candles, where broad velvet sofas of a lurid crimson were occupied by odd couples: young men in prim white garb with older men in dark suits. They were absorbed in their private conversations and didn't seem to notice the newcomers. Finely crafted copper incense burners hanging here and there filled the air with their fragrant fumes. It was stifling and made his head spin. He let himself drop into a free armchair, feeling queasy. He shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, Angus was sitting in front of him and, standing by his side, like an ominous black shadow, an unknown man, tall and lean, with a dour face. He wasn't introduced to him by his name but there was no doubt in his mind: he was the one he was meant to meet there, the informer, the go-between.
He asked awkward questions, not getting answers other than evasive and polite, the meaningless small talk. Angus didn't help. After the stranger's departure he just said: “ Yes. He knows everything but everything has a price.”
“I'll pay.”
“Later.” It was infuriating. Angus patted him on the shoulder. “You look sick and you're tired. You cannot leave now because of the curfew. We have spare rooms here, lots of them.”
Upstairs they passed several empty rooms. Angus vanished in one of them. Slightly abashed, he opened the door of a bedroom nearby and shut it again in haste. In the bed there were two naked men: one was the dark stranger, the other a young lad with short black hair, broad shoulders and exquisitely curved pale buttocks.
This felt strangely familiar. He knew this young man, he was certain, though his face was resting on the other man's chest and all he could see was his bare backside and his hair. He had watched, lived, a similar scene a long time ago, where? Maybe here, in this brothel, maybe as a customer; this idea filled him with shame. But how sweet and delectable it should be to lie in that bed with a male companion of that age and beauty, so wantonly spread across his chest and belly!
The blend of lust and guilt makes the most inebriating of beverages, he found out. He felt light-headed and dizzy. Becoming more and more confused he wandered in a maze of corridors and empty rooms, climbing up and down stairways and steps, to eventually find himself back at his starting point.
And then the lights went out. A door opened. There was a cold draft and the flooring creaked. A rush in the dark. He was surrounded. A dagger hit him in the back. He screamed: «Bodie!»
&&&&&&&
« Bodie !»
There was a moment of floating uncertainty. It lasted, a long while.
« Bodie ? »
« Just call me Andrew. »
The young stranger was looking at him amicably. He was alone. « Don't move. »
Skilled hands searched him gently. He felt no pain. Strange. « I was stabbed. »
« There is no blood . » The hands were moving across his shoulder-blades and collarbones. « Just a big bruise. » The young man whistled softly. « The blade must have slid on your holster. »
He didn't remember carrying a gun. « Those men ... »
« They are gone . Thank my associate for that.
The tall, dour faced man, the boy's bed companion, the man who knew everything ; friend or foe ? Angus would know. Where was Angus now ?
He tried to get up but fell back, in utter impotence.
Wordlessly, the other man lifted him in his arms and carried him in a nearby bedroom. It was dark, cool and quiet. Somewhere a dog was barking. He sank again.
&&&&&&&&&&&&
Now he was in a bed and a dog was still barking somewhere. A strong, warm body was lying along his own, pressing heavily against his left side, an arm slung over his chest. Naked. They were both naked. It felt nice. It felt wonderful.
Yet something was very odd. He mumbled « What is this place ? »
The young stranger shifted his position, raising himself a bit to look at him from above. « your bedroom. »
He recalled dim corridors, a fight in the dark. « So, what am I doing here ? »
«You passed out; I brought you here.»
But where is 'here'? This was worrying. « Who are you ? »
«You know who I am ».
« No I don't. Only the other man ; and not even his name. »
« I don't understand ».
« You rescued me from the muggers, didn't you ? »
« You're not making sense. Shut up ! » And he kissed him.
He shut his eyes and enjoyed the kiss, although less than the groping that came with it. When he opened them again, it was - definitely - Bodie.
Too late for thinking twice. Blood was running fast in his veins, of its own free will, rushing down to its goal of flesh with purpose and finality.
If only his mind could be as focused. It was as if his brain had been disconnected, consciousness diluted in a cloud of scattered sensations. But something rooted deep in him was yearning to be back in control; a request the other man seemed not to be willing to grant: his every gesture was knowing, deft, and meant to give pleasure but didn't leave any room for sharing. He was performing a well-practised part, playing on his nerves, with all too much effectiveness. It would be so easy to surrender and just yield to the offered delights...
No ! Arching his back, he reared up and pushed forward, breaking the embrace. The man let go and laughed : « You want it rough ? Fine with me. » And he toppled him down, back on the bed, covering him with the whole length of his body and rubbing against him with too much force to be pleasurable. He was held tight and hard, as in a vise-like grip. There was little he could do in his state of drunken debilitation. Or so he told himself, only half-deluded. For a while anger and shame fought with lust. Anger won. He snapped: “Get off me, man!”
As suddenly as he had started, the young miscreant stopped, still laughing. « You don't like it rough that much, eh ? » And he kissed him again. Softly.
This time he responded with gusto, grabbing the other firmly by the shoulders and deepening the kiss. Seconds lengthened into minutes. Gasping for air, the lad loosened his hold, enough to give him some freedom of movement. He slipped out of the lock, rolled over and reversed the position.
And then, in a blink, the rules of the game changed; now he was the man in charge; he was the one who called the shots, making love to a responsive but surprisingly pliant partner. Which was squirming and babbling happily, like the kid he still was.
He was now fully hard, heart-pounding wildly, acutely aware of their two bodies squeezed together and melting in the same scalding mortar. So, this is how it feels to be young again, strong again, whole again?
It wasn't true, couldn't be real: it had to be a dream, the most vivid, the most voluptuous of all the sex-driven dreams he ever had in his mostly celibate, severely repressed life.
Whatever. He didn't want to wake up, he didn't want to know anything but the rush of blood in his veins, the feel of his nerve-endings swelling up from second to second, and the fierce expectancy of a brain-blowing climax.
When it occurred there was no question left to ask.The loss of consciousness was near complete. Hardly a hint of an afterglow throb. And from it, he drifted to a deep dreamless slumber .
Everything was dark, cool and quiet again.
I hope it will be rightly formatted this time. I humbly apologize for the terrible delays between each installment; my mind is desperately blank most of the time, though almost everything was planned since the beginning, but only as the broadest picture (the story line). I still hope for some comments, since it's the first real sex scene I ever wrote.
What happens in this part may look confusing but still less than it is in Cowley's mind! There are two flask-backs and the second is inserted in the first one. Some details of Cowley's dream are taken from a back story I cannot disclose here.