Discovered in a Christmas card--Day 17
Dec. 16th, 2016 09:33 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dawnebeth.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
discoveredinaljRisking it All
By Dawnwind
*Don't forget there is information in the trailer at the end of this fic. Thanks!*
Doyle raced at top speed along the ledge, inches from the forty foot drop, very aware that a misstep could mean disaster. He was more afraid of the bomb with only seconds to detonate than the fall at this point.
He could see salvation, a mere jump of three feet—possibly four? From one rooftop to the next. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer, the throb so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear his own footsteps. He sucked in breath, his lungs barely had enough air to sustain him, the stitch in his side so sharp it could have been a knife wound, and launched himself off the edge.
Landing drove the remaining air from his chest, his whole body slamming into a hard surface. He’d made it!
“You’re dead, old son,” Bodie said with barely contained glee. He waved a stopwatch in front of Doyle’s dazed vision. “Bomb’s gone off, all civilians went up in the explosion and you’ve failed.”
“How--?” Doyle growled under his breath and heaved himself to sitting, glancing over his shoulder at the obstacle course Macklin had set up. The ledge wasn’t really forty feet up, only about a foot, and he’d landed in what had once been a pumped up air mattress but now had lost most of its cushion. Felt like he’d done a belly-flop into water. “I’ll be all bruised. You sure of the timing?” He grimaced, rubbing his aching ribs, finally able to draw in enough air. His head was clearing.
“S’pposed to finish the course in three minutes,” Bodie brandished the stop watch again. “Bested by Bodie superiority. I was two minutes fifty eight seconds. You were three minutes two seconds.” He poked a finger at Doyle’s nose. “On the nose, as it were.”
“Macklin should be forced to do his own courses,” Doyle groused, gaining his feet with quite a bit of groaning.
“You’ll be forced to do that one tomorrow.” Bodie leaned against the wall, watching as if he enjoyed the view.
“Shoot me now and put me out of me misery.” Doyle dropped his chin to his chest, still panting now and again. His head ached, his back was twisted like a pretzel and he hadn’t eaten in what felt like a fortnight. Difficult to reckon which he wanted more: food or sleep.
“You’re already dead. And as such,” Bodie tucked an arm around Doyle’s waist to pull him closer, “finished for the remainder of the afternoon.”
Doyle peered blearily around the warehouse. There was no-one about, not even Towser tidying up and resetting the fake bomb timers. “Where’d he go?”
“Macklin?” Bodie turned his head from side to side as if looking for him, as well. “To his local, I’d expect. Told him I’d lock up, turn out the lights.”
“What’d you pay him?” Doyle asked suspiciously. Macklin never left early. Certainly not before one of his victims had finished a course.
“You think I arranged this?” Bodie stared back at him wide-eyed. “He was done in after two days of putting us through our paces.”
“Bloody Cowley’s fault.” Doyle levelled a finger at Bodie. He’d do as a stand in for their superior. It was good to vent, no sense letting his fury fester inside. Not when he had a date with his pillow. “With my birthday coming up. Thinks I’ve slowed down, can’t hack the drill, getting on.”
“Ray,” Bodie said, fairly patiently.
“Well, I’d like to see him come back from a bullet—“ Doyle continued, taking a step towards the door.
Only to be reeled back by Bodie latching onto his sweaty shirt. “Ray!”
“Wot!” Doyle shouted, half the word going down Bodie’s throat when Bodie kissed him, hard.
That was what he’d needed. Melted the aches away. There was a new sales pitch: arousal, the ultimate painkiller. Doyle surged into Bodie, bowling them both over onto the partially deflated air mattress. His fall was padded by Bodie this time around.
Bodie hooked his ankle around Doyle’s legs, and in a move that he’d perfected in martial arts training, reversed their positions.
“What’re you playing at?” Doyle asked, staring up into his partner’s face. Clarity came a moment later, sussed from Bodie’s crafty expression.
“What do you think?” Bodie clasped both of Doyle’s wrists, pushing him firmly into the partially buoyant mattress. He shifted just enough to get his left knee up against Doyle’s crouch.
Bodie shoved it in really close. Doyle squirmed, and Bodie tightened his grip on Doyle’s wrists, the smile playing on his lips slow and devious.
So he wanted it kinky, then? That was why he’d bribed Macklin, no doubt whatsoever. “You gave him our tickets for the races at Kempton Park on Boxing Day!” Doyle accused, no longer resisting Bodie’s dominance.
“No.” Bodie sat back on his haunches, the mattress swaying with his movement.
Felt like they were in a dingy at sea. Doyle stared up at Bodie for a moment, waiting for the explanation, then tucked his chin to his breastbone, lowering his gaze. “Master,” he said softly, joy filling his chest. They hadn’t played in so long. Usually, the session was planned weeks in advance, only to be cancelled when an obbo went over long or they were suddenly sent on assignment. Bodie had never announced one so abruptly.
“Macklin has a hidden passion for opera,” Bodie said conversationally, releasing Doyle’s wrists only to unfasten his beaded Indian belt and pull it out from the loops. “Nothing gets his wee masochistic heart beating faster than front row seats for Puccini or Verde.”
This was such unexpected insight into Macklin that Doyle raised his head, looking into Bodie’s blue eyes. “How’d you know?”
“Never you mind my sources, guppy-mine.” Bodie’s crooked eyebrow went higher than usual as he unzipped and divested Doyle of his jeans and underpants.
Raising his hips to ease the jeans off, Doyle nearly lurched off the mattress. Bodie had to grab him around the knees and wait until the pitch and roll ceased.
“We’ll need a different playing field,” Bodie decided, scrambling off and pulling Doyle with him.
It felt decidedly odd to be standing there nearly starkers in the familiar converted warehouse Macklin used as a stage for his obstacle courses. Doyle had been in this place on numerous occasions; preparing for a brutal undercover op, recertifying after an injury, or finishing the yearly fitness tests. He looked around the room, seeing all the equipment with new awareness.
There were weights, ropes of all types, various ladders and partial walls used for climbing. All could be adapted for Bodie’s nefarious desires.
Doyle was more than happy to comply, although he knew he’d quite possibly be in pain and bruised afterwards. This time, he was starting with emerging bruises.
“Ah.” Bodie tapped his bottom lip, regarding Doyle’s naked lower half with what could only be described as hunger. “This looks like a much more solid foundation.”
He beckoned Doyle over to a vaulting horse with a bent finger. “Remove the shirt, and show us your assets, boy.”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Doyle answered, tugging his green shirt over his head.
“All depends on how I’m looking at it,” Bodie retorted, fetching a length of smooth white rope from a bin filled with them. “Arse over teakettle, quick like.”
“Tea time already?” Doyle quipped, bending over the horse. “Hoping to steam me up, are you?”
“Going to bring you to a boil.” Bodie chuckled, quickly tying Doyle’s legs to the struts of the vault. When he came around front to secure his arms, Bodie ran a gentle hand along the knobs of Doyle’s curved spine, ending with his fingers cradling the back of Doyle’s head. “Is this what you want?”
What a time to ask! When he was already bound, inverted, and ready for reaming. Still, Doyle appreciated Bodie’s consideration. There’d never been any question. He waited for these rare sessions like a child counting down the days until Christmas.
That it was two days before December 25th only added to the celebration. He could have his kink, and pressies, too.
“Master,” Doyle said with precise diction. There was nothing more to add.
“Raymond,” Bodie replied with joy in his voice. He bent to tie Doyle’s wrists to the front legs of the vault.
Doyle craned his face to see partner and got an eyeful of Bodie’s hair. He’d wanted to admire that well muscled body and possibly steal a kiss while Bodie was bent over, but Bodie was too quick for him.
“None of that,” Bodie admonished when he stood up.
Doyle stared at the tan flannel trousers and brown suede trainers in front of him and then lowered his head submissively. This was his place, and he knew his role. It wasn’t always easy having to wait—anticipate what might happen, but it gave him immense joy. Doing this in such a public location might be risky, but he was certain Bodie had taken the precautions seriously. It was his career, too.
That Bodie had planned ahead made this all the more special. Some might consider Doyle’s desire to be dominated unmanly, or even weak. That was because outsiders didn’t understand the strength necessary to give up control and submit.
“First, a bit of preparation,” Bodie said thoughtfully, walking around the vault.
From his upside down vantage point, Doyle could see more of Bodie when he was standing behind than previously. He could gaze at those long, trouser clad legs and the thick bulge at the groin without censure.
“What d’you have in mind?” Doyle asked recklessly. He wanted action, now.
“Seems to me that there’s bits hanging down—“ Bodie grabbed a handful of delicate Doyle flesh and squeezed.
“Bloody hell!” Doyle went up on his toes as much as his bonds allowed, enduring the pressure on his cock and balls without protesting—much. He breathed in raggedly as Bodie roughly massaged his genitals, pulling and twisting the malleable flesh. The exquisite torture sent his arousal into overdrive, even as his erection all but deflated.
“There we are,” Bodie purred, with a slightly evil cackle. He grabbed another length of white rope, winding it around Doyle’s cock and then around the scrotum, tying a jaunty bow tight up close to the perineum. He used both loops of the bow to separate the balls, drawing the sac out tightly.
Doyle moaned with delight. This was what he wanted—not that these sessions were primarily for his enjoyment. Bodie’s rules, Bodie’s pleasure first. Doyle’s was—well-- perhaps a result of Bodie’s actions, perhaps the goal. It was a fine line. He shifted his weight, his taut belly buffing on the well worn leather of the vault, and went up on his toes again. It was getting more difficult to take an unencumbered breath.
Bodie’s hand came down on his bare arse, just one. Bodie never beat him, and saved the love taps as warnings. “You’re meant to stay still, so I might admire the view whilst I work,” he said in a haughty voice.
The slap smarted and Doyle was sure he could feel a perfect imprint of Bodie’s hand on his left butt cheek. What would it be like to bear his master’s stripes, the swats from a belt or whip? Hurt like the Dickens, most like. Still, he’d wear whatever Bodie put on him with pride, even red welts.
“Ever considered a tattoo?” Bodie asked, tracing a finger along the thick ridge of the vein on the under side of Doyle’s cock.
“N-not there!” Doyle cried, his voice higher than it ought to be. The feather light touch sent waves of vibrations through his core, robbing him of all intelligence. Or maybe it was the blood rushing to his head. Despite the restraints subverting his erection, he couldn’t help thrusting toward Bodie’s hand. All that accomplished was frustration: he wasn’t hard enough to come and Bodie swiftly moved out of target range.
“I was thinking more here.” Bodie laughed, tapping the hairy flesh just under Doyle’s right buttocks, in the crease where it met the upper thigh. “You’d never be able to see it. A secret message, all my own.”
“Except for the tattoo artist,” Doyle snapped irritably. This was private, he wasn’t baring his arse for just anyone.
“Ah, but I have talents you aren’t aware of,” Bodie replied, scraping his nail around Doyle’s anus.
Jacked up without the ability to do anything to relieve his ache, Doyle roared. “Get on with it, will you?”
“You’re a demanding little git.”
Bodie walked away from Doyle’s inverted, limited view, returning without his trousers. From the way he turned and placed something on a small table, he’d apparently collected a few things Doyle wasn’t privy to see.
Which of course, made him crazy with curiosity. “Oi, pay attention to the sub, ‘ere,” he called out to get Bodie to turn around.
“All in due time, my good lamb,” Bodie soothed.
Doyle had to content himself with the intoxicating sight of Bodie’s naked legs and the occasional glimpse of his unrestricted cock and balls. His mouth watered to slurp down that candy stick and suck out all the goodness.
Then Bodie finally turned, coming up close behind Doyle. He could feel the nudge of Bodie’s warm, pulsing length brushing his anus, in an even more thrilling way than Bodie’s fingernail had. Oh, that Bodie would thrust that lance into Doyle’s hole, piercing his centre.
Something sharp and oddly cold poked slightly below and to the right of the target he’d hoped for. “What’re you meant to be doing?” Doyle demanded, his head beginning to pound from being upside down for so long. Should practice his headstands to get more accustomed to this position.
“A bit of art,” Bodie said in a most satisfied voice.
Except for the initial prick, it didn’t hurt at all, but there was a ticklish sort of movement. What…? Doyle tried to twitch away from the slight pressure and got another smack—not at all painful, but a warning—for his trouble.
“Keep still, you’ll ruin the design,” Bodie scolded, pushing gently on the lower curve of Doyle’s buttocks. “Nearly there.”
“You say that, and I’m not getting a bit of satisfaction,” Doyle complained, straining his eyes to focus on Bodie’s genitals since he couldn’t see much else. The thick cock was folded up against Bodie’s belly, that delicious friction of warm skin brushing Doyle’s arse was a turn on that he never wanted to turn off. Except, with his arms tied to the vaulting horse, he had no way of achieving that goal.
“There.” Bodie took a step back to admire his creation. “Very nice, if I do say so meself.”
“And you would,” Doyle said, well aware he was stepping far over the line. He’d never manage to be a patient, well behaved sub, even if they practised every week. Which he wished they would.
“Don’t know why I bother.” Bodie sighed, the long suffering Master. He took up a round tub of Vaseline, walking far enough back to allow Doyle’s appreciation before applying a thick dollop to his cock. “All for you, sunshine, not that you seem to give a fig.” He slid his fingers along the now glistening thickness, stroking the crown with a heavy groan.
“If I had a fig…” Doyle watched the show breathlessly. The longer he was inverted, the more his belly tightened and his chest hitched with the need to inhale without the leather saddle of the vault pressing into his torso. It didn’t hurt so much as increase all need for—he wasn’t quite sure at this point. He ached to be impaled on the long shaft Bodie was brandishing so carelessly. He moistened his lips, considering berating Bodie again. He knew his partner too well, that would only serve to delay the expected reaming even longer. “I’d give you one.”
“That’s the spirit.” Bodie nodded with a smile that lit up his eyes.
He moved in closer again until all Doyle could see were those two muscled legs. Bodie’s cock nudged his anus, sending tremors through his core. This was what he’d been longing for! There was pressure, a blunt end pushing into him, demanding entrance. Doyle hitched a deep breath as Bodie spread his buttocks cheeks and shoved forward.
As always, there was a moment of stillness, of will it fit? The strain on Doyle’s inner muscles was fearsome, cramp-y pain spiralling from his pelvis to his breastbone. He welcomed the burning ache, the way his entire being vibrated, knowing that once Bodie pushed past the tight sphincter, there would be immense bliss. It was just a matter of surviving the journey.
Thrusting deeper, Bodie was panting with the effort, his thighs quivering. His cock felt immense, filling Doyle to the utmost, and then—with that perfect jolt that seemed almost an afterthought but most certainly was not—he hit Doyle’s prostate.
Brilliant! Pleasure beyond imagining. Doyle cried out, pushing his palms against the vault’s legs, his toes against the cold cement, as if he could launch himself into space. This was what he’d been waiting for! This was why he submitted to his partner—perfection in the space of a heartbeat.
“That’s it, Ray, that’s it,” Bodie ground out, rutting relentlessly. His sharp pelvis bones pounded against Doyle’s upturned arse over and over again, propelling his penis ever deeper.
Doyle went limp, the vessel for his master’s gratification, still revelling in his own brief pleasure. He wouldn’t be allowed to come this session—of that, he was well aware. Didn’t matter. He’d got what he’d wanted, and more. The bruises from Bodie’s thrusts would be badges of honour, and Bodie would tend to him more lovingly than a groom on his honeymoon in the morning.
If he lasted that long. Bodie roared, and then shot his load, both hands vice-like around Doyle’s hips. He collapsed onto Doyle’s curved body, wrung dry.
There was only so long Doyle would tolerate being squashed, unable to do more than suck stray oxygen molecules into his lungs. “Oi, Moby Dick!” He wriggled his arse which only succeeded in loosening Bodie’s limp cock. Semen dripped down his buttocks.
“Is that any way to refer to your Master?” Bodie asked. His tone was gruff but Doyle could hear the amusement underneath.
Bodie pushed himself up to his feet, grabbing something from his out of view cache and wiped Doyle clean. “Come up slowly once I’ve released you,” he cautioned, untying the knots.
Doyle knew from experience that standing up too quickly dropped the blood pressure and he’d be out for the count. He fluttered his fingers to restore circulation, raising from the waist to lean against the smooth leather vault whilst Bodie untied his ankles. He felt beaten to a pulp and yet so relaxed and sated that all he wanted to do was sleep for twelve hours. Actually, that sounded grand—after a kiss from his Master.
“That hair.” Bodie chuckled, ruffling Doyle’s curls when he was under his own power again. “Stick your finger in a light socket, did you?”
“Lit me up from inside, you did. Put off sparks.” Doyle tucked in his chin, going for docile sub, smiling to himself.
“Angling for a kiss, aren’t you?” Bodie pressed Doyle against the vault once more, almost bending him backwards for the kiss.
Mouth full of Bodie’s tongue, Doyle sucked and kissed, thoroughly happy. His spine had been twisted like a pretzel today, but he didn’t care in the least. He loved it rough, loved that Bodie could take him to the edge and then deny him plenty. This was the game that got them through the worst of their obbos and still kept them sane.
“Getting cold in here,” Doyle said, leaning on the vault, one hip jutted out just the way Bodie liked. “May I have clothes?” Permission or not, he was going to don a jumper to keep the gooseflesh at bay.
“I’d pay good money to have that view the rest of the night.” Bodie tilted his head at the same angle as Doyle’s hip. He snatched Doyle’s shirt and jeans, leaving the underpants where they lay. “But Father Christmas might not leave me anything but coal.”
“You think Father Christmas will bring you anything?” Doyle snorted, slipping the shirt over his head. It was thin cotton, didn’t provide much warmth. And now that he was semi-dressed and upright, he was suddenly much more aware of the rope festooning his genitals. He hadn’t given them thought, not while Bodie’s was still on display, although far smaller than it had been at its zenith. “Been a good boy up until now, have you?”
“Never been a good boy,” Bodie hid his own assets from view, pulling on his trousers and a burgundy coloured jumper.
Doyle envied his woollies. He reached around to the back of his cock, fingers just grazing the rope.
“Leave it there,” Bodie said, shaking his forefinger like the head master at school reprimanding a student. “Until we’re at my place.”
“I can’t wear me jeans trussed up like this!” Doyle protested, about to add “they’re too tight,” but he stopped himself. That was exactly why Bodie wanted him going commando and bound.
Bodie gave him a cat-who-drank-the-cream grin and held out Doyle’s beaded belt, striped jumper and—oh, yes—his tartan scarf. “Fancy a pint and takeaway fish and chips?” he countered.
On a scale of one to ten, Doyle’s restrained genitals were at least a five for pain already. With his jeans zipped up, and Bodie’s fine, wide palm cupping Doyle’s groin under the table while they washed their vinegar-y chips down with ale, the number would be more like seven or eight.
“Yes, please,” he replied, struggling to get dressed. Just bending and raising a leg was interesting, trussed up as he was. Every step tugged at the ropes, sending zings and flashes of pain from his cock and balls. How long could he tolerate this before he was begging Bodie to untie him and wank him off?
Which was the point, wasn’t it?
It took every ounce of effort to smile genially instead of wincing at the sharp pain of shoving those swollen bits inside his already snug jeans and pull up the zip. Particularly with Bodie watching with the rapt attention he gave only to cricket and football matches.
“You enjoyin’ this?” Doyle sneered at him, using the jumper going over his head to hide a grimace as he twisted to yank the fabric down.
“Believe it, sunshine. Better than a panto.” Bodie grinned wolfishly and reached forward to cup Doyle’s groin, the denim moulded to him like a second skin. “Be like peeling a grape, later.”
His heart soaring, Doyle managed a grin. “When?”
“I’m a growing boy, need my sustenance.” Bodie collected the sections of rope, stashing them in a storage bin and tidied away all evidence of their session.
Finally warm in his jumper and tartan scarf, Doyle ran a hand over the leather vault. Macklin liked his operas, eh? The Ring Cycle by Wagner was comprised of four operas, generally presented over a few nights, and the longest was five and a haf hours. Surely the Royal Opera company would present a production soon, leaving this warehouse empty for a week? His bound goolies twitched enthusiastically at the idea.
“Ray?” Bodie called from the main door. “Counting sheep, are you?”
~~**~~
After the ingestion of two beers, a full portion of fried cod and thick chips, not to mention a few choccies from the Rose assortment Bodie pressed into his mouth, Doyle was about to burst out of his snug jeans. The less thought about his throbbing, painful cock and balls, the better. Climbing into the Capri was daunting since bringing his thighs together increased the sharp, pulsing pain exponentially.
The hour in the pub had been risky as hell and --Doyle had to admit— a kinky diversion, but the fun was over. He bloody hurt. He watched as Bodie started the car. How to manipulate him without bringing the session to a crashing halt? He’d loved having Bodie’s palm plastered over his groin the entire meal. Had felt—he hadn’t quite settled on the correct term; owned sounded wrong. Adored seemed too flowery, like those Mills and Boon novels Ann Holly used to read.
He’d felt right, there in plain view of the others in the pub, sitting with Bodie. Happy in an uncomplicated, festive sort of way. When a couple of particularly drunk patrons began singing The Twelve Days of Christmas, he and Bodie had joined in, warbling “Five gold rings!” louder than any of them.
Now, how to escape these ropes? He went for his old stand-by; sarky pique. “This’s gone on long enough…” he glanced at Bodie to judge the effect, “Master.”
Bodie’s eyes cut over to Doyle, as if fully aware he’d drawn out the kinky torture long enough. “Good thing we’re one street over from my place.”
Doyle inhaled mightily, forcing down the rampant need to rip off his jeans and liberate his flesh. “There’s a space by the kerb.” And, now that he’d thought of it, a dark alley adjacent to Bodie’s building, where the trash bins were stored.
“I can’t walk far—leave me off there?” he said, deepening his voice to a growl to add authority. Just because he was the subordinate didn’t mean he couldn’t make some of the decisions.
“Got plans?” Bodie asked lightly, stopping the car where Doyle’d indicated.
“Thought you did.” Doyle grinned, all teeth. He didn’t hop out of the car, not in his condition. Climbing out cautiously, he gritted his teeth at the friction of rope against abraded skin. Gave him new appreciation for the soft but firm clasp of Bodie’s hand when he’d cup and then slightly twist the scrotal sac, providing that delicious frisson of pain/pleasure.
It was barely eight pm, but this late in December, the air was cold, with the nip of frost. There were streetlights up and down the road, but the closest one was yards to the right. Darkness closed around him when Doyle stepped into the narrow passage between Bodie’s building and the closed grocery next door. This was a downscale area for CI5 to have housed one of its agents, but Bodie hadn’t questioned Cowley’s decision. The nearby pub was excellent.
Doyle trailed his fingertips against the rough brick wall, shivering in anticipation of being pushed up against it and taken. In the very back, where the alley abutted the rear of a shop on the next street over, was a flickering bulb above the door to the boiler room of Bodie’s building. The dying bulb gave feeble illumination, just enough to see Bodie, cast mostly in shadow, as he approached.
Doyle smiled to himself and went to his knees on the chilly pavement, biting his lip as the movement shifted his package painfully. Not much longer now.
Not much longer. It was his job to wait.
The anticipation was the best and the worst parts of the game. Each time, he couldn’t wait to come into his master’s hand, and yet was desperate to have it happen, all over again.
“Alone, are you?” Bodie asked in husky scouse. “Waiting for that special someone?” He threaded his fingers through Doyle’s curls.
“I’ve been…” Doyle hadn’t thought out what he was going to say, but the word came out, unbidden, “claimed.”
“Oh, yeah you have.” Bodie dragged him upwards by the handful of hair, pulling him into a kiss that shoved Doyle up against the coarse brick, just outside of the light’s perimeter.
The kiss could have knocked him back to his knees, Bodie’s rampant lust was so strong. Doyle might have laughed—he and Bodie were completely in tune—but kissing his master over and over, accepting the thrust of his tongue and the clash of his teeth, took all his control.
“Drop your trou, love,” Bodie whispered in his ear, nipping his lobe.
The pain was bright and sharp, and exactly right. Blindly seeking Bodie’s mouth once again, Doyle’s fingers scrabbled against his flies. Oh, God, he hurt and yet was so turned-on, he could have lit the Christmas tree in Bodie’s lounge. He almost tore the fabric of his jeans, yanking them down hard, over the bulk of his restrained genitals.
That alone almost brought him to climax. He was so bloody close.
Damn!
“You brilliant, exasperating git,” Bodie ground out, trailing kisses across Doyle’s chin to his shoulder. He bit Doyle on the jut of his collarbone and reached through his spread legs, snagging the end of the rope. One tug and the knot came loose, releasing Doyle’s penis in a single motion.
“Fuc—“ He didn’t even finish the exclamation, the orgasm slammed into him so fast and so hard he was sure he’d died. Second time he’d gone to heaven that night.
Sagging against the brick wall, Doyle would have fallen except for Bodie’s arms around him. He could feel the brick catching the wool of his jumper catching and scraping the small of his back, his arse. Nearly where Bodie had pricked him earlier.
“What—“ Doyle blinked. His head was swimming and all he wanted to do was take a kip. Where was that bleeding air mattress when he needed it?
“What?” Bodie repeated with a snicker, hugging Doyle tightly and running his palm over Doyle’s arse, down to the crease where his right buttocks met the thigh.
“What’d you--?” Doyle rested his cheek on Bodie’s firm shoulder. He should move. He should pull up his jeans. His arse was cold in the frigid air. But he liked it like this. The two of them, alone, in the shadows—as they often were as the Queen’s agents, or in private. He thought back to what Bodie had done when he was tied down. First a slight prick and then…a looping, slide of his—not finger, maybe a marker? Certainly not an actual tattoo. “What’d you write down there?” he asked.
“Was surprised when you said it--,” Bodie kissed him one last time and gently tucked Doyle’s tackle into his jeans, “when I walked up. As if you knew.”
“I said—“ Doyle concentrated and the word swam out of his addled wits. “Claimed.”
“Yeah. Claimed.” Bodie traced a finger along the now covered words. “And Loved just below.”
“You’re mine—“ Doyle grasped his hand, bringing it to his mouth. He bit Bodie’s knuckle, very lightly, but with intention. “And I’m yours. It’s perfect.”
“I’ve got whisky in.” Bodie inclined his head upward, towards his flat. “And liquor chocolates. Take your pick.” Hand in hand, they walked to the front of the building.
“I’ll take—“ Doyle pretended to consider the offer for all of thirty seconds, “another round with you, Master.” He’d collect a few more bruises in the morning, but they were early Christmas gifts. “Please.”
“That how it is, eh?” Bodie smiled, lazy and unaccountably beautiful, his blue eyes like beacons in the sudden light of the entry way. “I’ll consider your proposal.”
“And about that tattoo?” Doyle said, ducking his head slightly so that he could keep Bodie in view. He held open the door to could watch the bunch and clench of Bodie’s arse in his tan trousers. “I’d like to make it permanent.”
“You’re too boney to be Father Christmas,” Bodie laughed, elbowing him in the ribs. “but you’ve brought my pressie, all the same.”
“On Boxing Day, then?” Doyle said, gladly, anticipating wearing Bodie’s mark for all eternity. “Before the races.”
“Tally ho,” Bodie cried, cracking an invisible crop.
FIN
Title: Risking it All
Author: Dawnwind
Slash: Bodie/Doyle
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Disclaimer: No money was made, only love.
Notes: This portrays a consensual BDSM relationship. If this does not float your boat, please do not read.
By Dawnwind
*Don't forget there is information in the trailer at the end of this fic. Thanks!*
Doyle raced at top speed along the ledge, inches from the forty foot drop, very aware that a misstep could mean disaster. He was more afraid of the bomb with only seconds to detonate than the fall at this point.
He could see salvation, a mere jump of three feet—possibly four? From one rooftop to the next. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer, the throb so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear his own footsteps. He sucked in breath, his lungs barely had enough air to sustain him, the stitch in his side so sharp it could have been a knife wound, and launched himself off the edge.
Landing drove the remaining air from his chest, his whole body slamming into a hard surface. He’d made it!
“You’re dead, old son,” Bodie said with barely contained glee. He waved a stopwatch in front of Doyle’s dazed vision. “Bomb’s gone off, all civilians went up in the explosion and you’ve failed.”
“How--?” Doyle growled under his breath and heaved himself to sitting, glancing over his shoulder at the obstacle course Macklin had set up. The ledge wasn’t really forty feet up, only about a foot, and he’d landed in what had once been a pumped up air mattress but now had lost most of its cushion. Felt like he’d done a belly-flop into water. “I’ll be all bruised. You sure of the timing?” He grimaced, rubbing his aching ribs, finally able to draw in enough air. His head was clearing.
“S’pposed to finish the course in three minutes,” Bodie brandished the stop watch again. “Bested by Bodie superiority. I was two minutes fifty eight seconds. You were three minutes two seconds.” He poked a finger at Doyle’s nose. “On the nose, as it were.”
“Macklin should be forced to do his own courses,” Doyle groused, gaining his feet with quite a bit of groaning.
“You’ll be forced to do that one tomorrow.” Bodie leaned against the wall, watching as if he enjoyed the view.
“Shoot me now and put me out of me misery.” Doyle dropped his chin to his chest, still panting now and again. His head ached, his back was twisted like a pretzel and he hadn’t eaten in what felt like a fortnight. Difficult to reckon which he wanted more: food or sleep.
“You’re already dead. And as such,” Bodie tucked an arm around Doyle’s waist to pull him closer, “finished for the remainder of the afternoon.”
Doyle peered blearily around the warehouse. There was no-one about, not even Towser tidying up and resetting the fake bomb timers. “Where’d he go?”
“Macklin?” Bodie turned his head from side to side as if looking for him, as well. “To his local, I’d expect. Told him I’d lock up, turn out the lights.”
“What’d you pay him?” Doyle asked suspiciously. Macklin never left early. Certainly not before one of his victims had finished a course.
“You think I arranged this?” Bodie stared back at him wide-eyed. “He was done in after two days of putting us through our paces.”
“Bloody Cowley’s fault.” Doyle levelled a finger at Bodie. He’d do as a stand in for their superior. It was good to vent, no sense letting his fury fester inside. Not when he had a date with his pillow. “With my birthday coming up. Thinks I’ve slowed down, can’t hack the drill, getting on.”
“Ray,” Bodie said, fairly patiently.
“Well, I’d like to see him come back from a bullet—“ Doyle continued, taking a step towards the door.
Only to be reeled back by Bodie latching onto his sweaty shirt. “Ray!”
“Wot!” Doyle shouted, half the word going down Bodie’s throat when Bodie kissed him, hard.
That was what he’d needed. Melted the aches away. There was a new sales pitch: arousal, the ultimate painkiller. Doyle surged into Bodie, bowling them both over onto the partially deflated air mattress. His fall was padded by Bodie this time around.
Bodie hooked his ankle around Doyle’s legs, and in a move that he’d perfected in martial arts training, reversed their positions.
“What’re you playing at?” Doyle asked, staring up into his partner’s face. Clarity came a moment later, sussed from Bodie’s crafty expression.
“What do you think?” Bodie clasped both of Doyle’s wrists, pushing him firmly into the partially buoyant mattress. He shifted just enough to get his left knee up against Doyle’s crouch.
Bodie shoved it in really close. Doyle squirmed, and Bodie tightened his grip on Doyle’s wrists, the smile playing on his lips slow and devious.
So he wanted it kinky, then? That was why he’d bribed Macklin, no doubt whatsoever. “You gave him our tickets for the races at Kempton Park on Boxing Day!” Doyle accused, no longer resisting Bodie’s dominance.
“No.” Bodie sat back on his haunches, the mattress swaying with his movement.
Felt like they were in a dingy at sea. Doyle stared up at Bodie for a moment, waiting for the explanation, then tucked his chin to his breastbone, lowering his gaze. “Master,” he said softly, joy filling his chest. They hadn’t played in so long. Usually, the session was planned weeks in advance, only to be cancelled when an obbo went over long or they were suddenly sent on assignment. Bodie had never announced one so abruptly.
“Macklin has a hidden passion for opera,” Bodie said conversationally, releasing Doyle’s wrists only to unfasten his beaded Indian belt and pull it out from the loops. “Nothing gets his wee masochistic heart beating faster than front row seats for Puccini or Verde.”
This was such unexpected insight into Macklin that Doyle raised his head, looking into Bodie’s blue eyes. “How’d you know?”
“Never you mind my sources, guppy-mine.” Bodie’s crooked eyebrow went higher than usual as he unzipped and divested Doyle of his jeans and underpants.
Raising his hips to ease the jeans off, Doyle nearly lurched off the mattress. Bodie had to grab him around the knees and wait until the pitch and roll ceased.
“We’ll need a different playing field,” Bodie decided, scrambling off and pulling Doyle with him.
It felt decidedly odd to be standing there nearly starkers in the familiar converted warehouse Macklin used as a stage for his obstacle courses. Doyle had been in this place on numerous occasions; preparing for a brutal undercover op, recertifying after an injury, or finishing the yearly fitness tests. He looked around the room, seeing all the equipment with new awareness.
There were weights, ropes of all types, various ladders and partial walls used for climbing. All could be adapted for Bodie’s nefarious desires.
Doyle was more than happy to comply, although he knew he’d quite possibly be in pain and bruised afterwards. This time, he was starting with emerging bruises.
“Ah.” Bodie tapped his bottom lip, regarding Doyle’s naked lower half with what could only be described as hunger. “This looks like a much more solid foundation.”
He beckoned Doyle over to a vaulting horse with a bent finger. “Remove the shirt, and show us your assets, boy.”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Doyle answered, tugging his green shirt over his head.
“All depends on how I’m looking at it,” Bodie retorted, fetching a length of smooth white rope from a bin filled with them. “Arse over teakettle, quick like.”
“Tea time already?” Doyle quipped, bending over the horse. “Hoping to steam me up, are you?”
“Going to bring you to a boil.” Bodie chuckled, quickly tying Doyle’s legs to the struts of the vault. When he came around front to secure his arms, Bodie ran a gentle hand along the knobs of Doyle’s curved spine, ending with his fingers cradling the back of Doyle’s head. “Is this what you want?”
What a time to ask! When he was already bound, inverted, and ready for reaming. Still, Doyle appreciated Bodie’s consideration. There’d never been any question. He waited for these rare sessions like a child counting down the days until Christmas.
That it was two days before December 25th only added to the celebration. He could have his kink, and pressies, too.
“Master,” Doyle said with precise diction. There was nothing more to add.
“Raymond,” Bodie replied with joy in his voice. He bent to tie Doyle’s wrists to the front legs of the vault.
Doyle craned his face to see partner and got an eyeful of Bodie’s hair. He’d wanted to admire that well muscled body and possibly steal a kiss while Bodie was bent over, but Bodie was too quick for him.
“None of that,” Bodie admonished when he stood up.
Doyle stared at the tan flannel trousers and brown suede trainers in front of him and then lowered his head submissively. This was his place, and he knew his role. It wasn’t always easy having to wait—anticipate what might happen, but it gave him immense joy. Doing this in such a public location might be risky, but he was certain Bodie had taken the precautions seriously. It was his career, too.
That Bodie had planned ahead made this all the more special. Some might consider Doyle’s desire to be dominated unmanly, or even weak. That was because outsiders didn’t understand the strength necessary to give up control and submit.
“First, a bit of preparation,” Bodie said thoughtfully, walking around the vault.
From his upside down vantage point, Doyle could see more of Bodie when he was standing behind than previously. He could gaze at those long, trouser clad legs and the thick bulge at the groin without censure.
“What d’you have in mind?” Doyle asked recklessly. He wanted action, now.
“Seems to me that there’s bits hanging down—“ Bodie grabbed a handful of delicate Doyle flesh and squeezed.
“Bloody hell!” Doyle went up on his toes as much as his bonds allowed, enduring the pressure on his cock and balls without protesting—much. He breathed in raggedly as Bodie roughly massaged his genitals, pulling and twisting the malleable flesh. The exquisite torture sent his arousal into overdrive, even as his erection all but deflated.
“There we are,” Bodie purred, with a slightly evil cackle. He grabbed another length of white rope, winding it around Doyle’s cock and then around the scrotum, tying a jaunty bow tight up close to the perineum. He used both loops of the bow to separate the balls, drawing the sac out tightly.
Doyle moaned with delight. This was what he wanted—not that these sessions were primarily for his enjoyment. Bodie’s rules, Bodie’s pleasure first. Doyle’s was—well-- perhaps a result of Bodie’s actions, perhaps the goal. It was a fine line. He shifted his weight, his taut belly buffing on the well worn leather of the vault, and went up on his toes again. It was getting more difficult to take an unencumbered breath.
Bodie’s hand came down on his bare arse, just one. Bodie never beat him, and saved the love taps as warnings. “You’re meant to stay still, so I might admire the view whilst I work,” he said in a haughty voice.
The slap smarted and Doyle was sure he could feel a perfect imprint of Bodie’s hand on his left butt cheek. What would it be like to bear his master’s stripes, the swats from a belt or whip? Hurt like the Dickens, most like. Still, he’d wear whatever Bodie put on him with pride, even red welts.
“Ever considered a tattoo?” Bodie asked, tracing a finger along the thick ridge of the vein on the under side of Doyle’s cock.
“N-not there!” Doyle cried, his voice higher than it ought to be. The feather light touch sent waves of vibrations through his core, robbing him of all intelligence. Or maybe it was the blood rushing to his head. Despite the restraints subverting his erection, he couldn’t help thrusting toward Bodie’s hand. All that accomplished was frustration: he wasn’t hard enough to come and Bodie swiftly moved out of target range.
“I was thinking more here.” Bodie laughed, tapping the hairy flesh just under Doyle’s right buttocks, in the crease where it met the upper thigh. “You’d never be able to see it. A secret message, all my own.”
“Except for the tattoo artist,” Doyle snapped irritably. This was private, he wasn’t baring his arse for just anyone.
“Ah, but I have talents you aren’t aware of,” Bodie replied, scraping his nail around Doyle’s anus.
Jacked up without the ability to do anything to relieve his ache, Doyle roared. “Get on with it, will you?”
“You’re a demanding little git.”
Bodie walked away from Doyle’s inverted, limited view, returning without his trousers. From the way he turned and placed something on a small table, he’d apparently collected a few things Doyle wasn’t privy to see.
Which of course, made him crazy with curiosity. “Oi, pay attention to the sub, ‘ere,” he called out to get Bodie to turn around.
“All in due time, my good lamb,” Bodie soothed.
Doyle had to content himself with the intoxicating sight of Bodie’s naked legs and the occasional glimpse of his unrestricted cock and balls. His mouth watered to slurp down that candy stick and suck out all the goodness.
Then Bodie finally turned, coming up close behind Doyle. He could feel the nudge of Bodie’s warm, pulsing length brushing his anus, in an even more thrilling way than Bodie’s fingernail had. Oh, that Bodie would thrust that lance into Doyle’s hole, piercing his centre.
Something sharp and oddly cold poked slightly below and to the right of the target he’d hoped for. “What’re you meant to be doing?” Doyle demanded, his head beginning to pound from being upside down for so long. Should practice his headstands to get more accustomed to this position.
“A bit of art,” Bodie said in a most satisfied voice.
Except for the initial prick, it didn’t hurt at all, but there was a ticklish sort of movement. What…? Doyle tried to twitch away from the slight pressure and got another smack—not at all painful, but a warning—for his trouble.
“Keep still, you’ll ruin the design,” Bodie scolded, pushing gently on the lower curve of Doyle’s buttocks. “Nearly there.”
“You say that, and I’m not getting a bit of satisfaction,” Doyle complained, straining his eyes to focus on Bodie’s genitals since he couldn’t see much else. The thick cock was folded up against Bodie’s belly, that delicious friction of warm skin brushing Doyle’s arse was a turn on that he never wanted to turn off. Except, with his arms tied to the vaulting horse, he had no way of achieving that goal.
“There.” Bodie took a step back to admire his creation. “Very nice, if I do say so meself.”
“And you would,” Doyle said, well aware he was stepping far over the line. He’d never manage to be a patient, well behaved sub, even if they practised every week. Which he wished they would.
“Don’t know why I bother.” Bodie sighed, the long suffering Master. He took up a round tub of Vaseline, walking far enough back to allow Doyle’s appreciation before applying a thick dollop to his cock. “All for you, sunshine, not that you seem to give a fig.” He slid his fingers along the now glistening thickness, stroking the crown with a heavy groan.
“If I had a fig…” Doyle watched the show breathlessly. The longer he was inverted, the more his belly tightened and his chest hitched with the need to inhale without the leather saddle of the vault pressing into his torso. It didn’t hurt so much as increase all need for—he wasn’t quite sure at this point. He ached to be impaled on the long shaft Bodie was brandishing so carelessly. He moistened his lips, considering berating Bodie again. He knew his partner too well, that would only serve to delay the expected reaming even longer. “I’d give you one.”
“That’s the spirit.” Bodie nodded with a smile that lit up his eyes.
He moved in closer again until all Doyle could see were those two muscled legs. Bodie’s cock nudged his anus, sending tremors through his core. This was what he’d been longing for! There was pressure, a blunt end pushing into him, demanding entrance. Doyle hitched a deep breath as Bodie spread his buttocks cheeks and shoved forward.
As always, there was a moment of stillness, of will it fit? The strain on Doyle’s inner muscles was fearsome, cramp-y pain spiralling from his pelvis to his breastbone. He welcomed the burning ache, the way his entire being vibrated, knowing that once Bodie pushed past the tight sphincter, there would be immense bliss. It was just a matter of surviving the journey.
Thrusting deeper, Bodie was panting with the effort, his thighs quivering. His cock felt immense, filling Doyle to the utmost, and then—with that perfect jolt that seemed almost an afterthought but most certainly was not—he hit Doyle’s prostate.
Brilliant! Pleasure beyond imagining. Doyle cried out, pushing his palms against the vault’s legs, his toes against the cold cement, as if he could launch himself into space. This was what he’d been waiting for! This was why he submitted to his partner—perfection in the space of a heartbeat.
“That’s it, Ray, that’s it,” Bodie ground out, rutting relentlessly. His sharp pelvis bones pounded against Doyle’s upturned arse over and over again, propelling his penis ever deeper.
Doyle went limp, the vessel for his master’s gratification, still revelling in his own brief pleasure. He wouldn’t be allowed to come this session—of that, he was well aware. Didn’t matter. He’d got what he’d wanted, and more. The bruises from Bodie’s thrusts would be badges of honour, and Bodie would tend to him more lovingly than a groom on his honeymoon in the morning.
If he lasted that long. Bodie roared, and then shot his load, both hands vice-like around Doyle’s hips. He collapsed onto Doyle’s curved body, wrung dry.
There was only so long Doyle would tolerate being squashed, unable to do more than suck stray oxygen molecules into his lungs. “Oi, Moby Dick!” He wriggled his arse which only succeeded in loosening Bodie’s limp cock. Semen dripped down his buttocks.
“Is that any way to refer to your Master?” Bodie asked. His tone was gruff but Doyle could hear the amusement underneath.
Bodie pushed himself up to his feet, grabbing something from his out of view cache and wiped Doyle clean. “Come up slowly once I’ve released you,” he cautioned, untying the knots.
Doyle knew from experience that standing up too quickly dropped the blood pressure and he’d be out for the count. He fluttered his fingers to restore circulation, raising from the waist to lean against the smooth leather vault whilst Bodie untied his ankles. He felt beaten to a pulp and yet so relaxed and sated that all he wanted to do was sleep for twelve hours. Actually, that sounded grand—after a kiss from his Master.
“That hair.” Bodie chuckled, ruffling Doyle’s curls when he was under his own power again. “Stick your finger in a light socket, did you?”
“Lit me up from inside, you did. Put off sparks.” Doyle tucked in his chin, going for docile sub, smiling to himself.
“Angling for a kiss, aren’t you?” Bodie pressed Doyle against the vault once more, almost bending him backwards for the kiss.
Mouth full of Bodie’s tongue, Doyle sucked and kissed, thoroughly happy. His spine had been twisted like a pretzel today, but he didn’t care in the least. He loved it rough, loved that Bodie could take him to the edge and then deny him plenty. This was the game that got them through the worst of their obbos and still kept them sane.
“Getting cold in here,” Doyle said, leaning on the vault, one hip jutted out just the way Bodie liked. “May I have clothes?” Permission or not, he was going to don a jumper to keep the gooseflesh at bay.
“I’d pay good money to have that view the rest of the night.” Bodie tilted his head at the same angle as Doyle’s hip. He snatched Doyle’s shirt and jeans, leaving the underpants where they lay. “But Father Christmas might not leave me anything but coal.”
“You think Father Christmas will bring you anything?” Doyle snorted, slipping the shirt over his head. It was thin cotton, didn’t provide much warmth. And now that he was semi-dressed and upright, he was suddenly much more aware of the rope festooning his genitals. He hadn’t given them thought, not while Bodie’s was still on display, although far smaller than it had been at its zenith. “Been a good boy up until now, have you?”
“Never been a good boy,” Bodie hid his own assets from view, pulling on his trousers and a burgundy coloured jumper.
Doyle envied his woollies. He reached around to the back of his cock, fingers just grazing the rope.
“Leave it there,” Bodie said, shaking his forefinger like the head master at school reprimanding a student. “Until we’re at my place.”
“I can’t wear me jeans trussed up like this!” Doyle protested, about to add “they’re too tight,” but he stopped himself. That was exactly why Bodie wanted him going commando and bound.
Bodie gave him a cat-who-drank-the-cream grin and held out Doyle’s beaded belt, striped jumper and—oh, yes—his tartan scarf. “Fancy a pint and takeaway fish and chips?” he countered.
On a scale of one to ten, Doyle’s restrained genitals were at least a five for pain already. With his jeans zipped up, and Bodie’s fine, wide palm cupping Doyle’s groin under the table while they washed their vinegar-y chips down with ale, the number would be more like seven or eight.
“Yes, please,” he replied, struggling to get dressed. Just bending and raising a leg was interesting, trussed up as he was. Every step tugged at the ropes, sending zings and flashes of pain from his cock and balls. How long could he tolerate this before he was begging Bodie to untie him and wank him off?
Which was the point, wasn’t it?
It took every ounce of effort to smile genially instead of wincing at the sharp pain of shoving those swollen bits inside his already snug jeans and pull up the zip. Particularly with Bodie watching with the rapt attention he gave only to cricket and football matches.
“You enjoyin’ this?” Doyle sneered at him, using the jumper going over his head to hide a grimace as he twisted to yank the fabric down.
“Believe it, sunshine. Better than a panto.” Bodie grinned wolfishly and reached forward to cup Doyle’s groin, the denim moulded to him like a second skin. “Be like peeling a grape, later.”
His heart soaring, Doyle managed a grin. “When?”
“I’m a growing boy, need my sustenance.” Bodie collected the sections of rope, stashing them in a storage bin and tidied away all evidence of their session.
Finally warm in his jumper and tartan scarf, Doyle ran a hand over the leather vault. Macklin liked his operas, eh? The Ring Cycle by Wagner was comprised of four operas, generally presented over a few nights, and the longest was five and a haf hours. Surely the Royal Opera company would present a production soon, leaving this warehouse empty for a week? His bound goolies twitched enthusiastically at the idea.
“Ray?” Bodie called from the main door. “Counting sheep, are you?”
~~**~~
After the ingestion of two beers, a full portion of fried cod and thick chips, not to mention a few choccies from the Rose assortment Bodie pressed into his mouth, Doyle was about to burst out of his snug jeans. The less thought about his throbbing, painful cock and balls, the better. Climbing into the Capri was daunting since bringing his thighs together increased the sharp, pulsing pain exponentially.
The hour in the pub had been risky as hell and --Doyle had to admit— a kinky diversion, but the fun was over. He bloody hurt. He watched as Bodie started the car. How to manipulate him without bringing the session to a crashing halt? He’d loved having Bodie’s palm plastered over his groin the entire meal. Had felt—he hadn’t quite settled on the correct term; owned sounded wrong. Adored seemed too flowery, like those Mills and Boon novels Ann Holly used to read.
He’d felt right, there in plain view of the others in the pub, sitting with Bodie. Happy in an uncomplicated, festive sort of way. When a couple of particularly drunk patrons began singing The Twelve Days of Christmas, he and Bodie had joined in, warbling “Five gold rings!” louder than any of them.
Now, how to escape these ropes? He went for his old stand-by; sarky pique. “This’s gone on long enough…” he glanced at Bodie to judge the effect, “Master.”
Bodie’s eyes cut over to Doyle, as if fully aware he’d drawn out the kinky torture long enough. “Good thing we’re one street over from my place.”
Doyle inhaled mightily, forcing down the rampant need to rip off his jeans and liberate his flesh. “There’s a space by the kerb.” And, now that he’d thought of it, a dark alley adjacent to Bodie’s building, where the trash bins were stored.
“I can’t walk far—leave me off there?” he said, deepening his voice to a growl to add authority. Just because he was the subordinate didn’t mean he couldn’t make some of the decisions.
“Got plans?” Bodie asked lightly, stopping the car where Doyle’d indicated.
“Thought you did.” Doyle grinned, all teeth. He didn’t hop out of the car, not in his condition. Climbing out cautiously, he gritted his teeth at the friction of rope against abraded skin. Gave him new appreciation for the soft but firm clasp of Bodie’s hand when he’d cup and then slightly twist the scrotal sac, providing that delicious frisson of pain/pleasure.
It was barely eight pm, but this late in December, the air was cold, with the nip of frost. There were streetlights up and down the road, but the closest one was yards to the right. Darkness closed around him when Doyle stepped into the narrow passage between Bodie’s building and the closed grocery next door. This was a downscale area for CI5 to have housed one of its agents, but Bodie hadn’t questioned Cowley’s decision. The nearby pub was excellent.
Doyle trailed his fingertips against the rough brick wall, shivering in anticipation of being pushed up against it and taken. In the very back, where the alley abutted the rear of a shop on the next street over, was a flickering bulb above the door to the boiler room of Bodie’s building. The dying bulb gave feeble illumination, just enough to see Bodie, cast mostly in shadow, as he approached.
Doyle smiled to himself and went to his knees on the chilly pavement, biting his lip as the movement shifted his package painfully. Not much longer now.
Not much longer. It was his job to wait.
The anticipation was the best and the worst parts of the game. Each time, he couldn’t wait to come into his master’s hand, and yet was desperate to have it happen, all over again.
“Alone, are you?” Bodie asked in husky scouse. “Waiting for that special someone?” He threaded his fingers through Doyle’s curls.
“I’ve been…” Doyle hadn’t thought out what he was going to say, but the word came out, unbidden, “claimed.”
“Oh, yeah you have.” Bodie dragged him upwards by the handful of hair, pulling him into a kiss that shoved Doyle up against the coarse brick, just outside of the light’s perimeter.
The kiss could have knocked him back to his knees, Bodie’s rampant lust was so strong. Doyle might have laughed—he and Bodie were completely in tune—but kissing his master over and over, accepting the thrust of his tongue and the clash of his teeth, took all his control.
“Drop your trou, love,” Bodie whispered in his ear, nipping his lobe.
The pain was bright and sharp, and exactly right. Blindly seeking Bodie’s mouth once again, Doyle’s fingers scrabbled against his flies. Oh, God, he hurt and yet was so turned-on, he could have lit the Christmas tree in Bodie’s lounge. He almost tore the fabric of his jeans, yanking them down hard, over the bulk of his restrained genitals.
That alone almost brought him to climax. He was so bloody close.
Damn!
“You brilliant, exasperating git,” Bodie ground out, trailing kisses across Doyle’s chin to his shoulder. He bit Doyle on the jut of his collarbone and reached through his spread legs, snagging the end of the rope. One tug and the knot came loose, releasing Doyle’s penis in a single motion.
“Fuc—“ He didn’t even finish the exclamation, the orgasm slammed into him so fast and so hard he was sure he’d died. Second time he’d gone to heaven that night.
Sagging against the brick wall, Doyle would have fallen except for Bodie’s arms around him. He could feel the brick catching the wool of his jumper catching and scraping the small of his back, his arse. Nearly where Bodie had pricked him earlier.
“What—“ Doyle blinked. His head was swimming and all he wanted to do was take a kip. Where was that bleeding air mattress when he needed it?
“What?” Bodie repeated with a snicker, hugging Doyle tightly and running his palm over Doyle’s arse, down to the crease where his right buttocks met the thigh.
“What’d you--?” Doyle rested his cheek on Bodie’s firm shoulder. He should move. He should pull up his jeans. His arse was cold in the frigid air. But he liked it like this. The two of them, alone, in the shadows—as they often were as the Queen’s agents, or in private. He thought back to what Bodie had done when he was tied down. First a slight prick and then…a looping, slide of his—not finger, maybe a marker? Certainly not an actual tattoo. “What’d you write down there?” he asked.
“Was surprised when you said it--,” Bodie kissed him one last time and gently tucked Doyle’s tackle into his jeans, “when I walked up. As if you knew.”
“I said—“ Doyle concentrated and the word swam out of his addled wits. “Claimed.”
“Yeah. Claimed.” Bodie traced a finger along the now covered words. “And Loved just below.”
“You’re mine—“ Doyle grasped his hand, bringing it to his mouth. He bit Bodie’s knuckle, very lightly, but with intention. “And I’m yours. It’s perfect.”
“I’ve got whisky in.” Bodie inclined his head upward, towards his flat. “And liquor chocolates. Take your pick.” Hand in hand, they walked to the front of the building.
“I’ll take—“ Doyle pretended to consider the offer for all of thirty seconds, “another round with you, Master.” He’d collect a few more bruises in the morning, but they were early Christmas gifts. “Please.”
“That how it is, eh?” Bodie smiled, lazy and unaccountably beautiful, his blue eyes like beacons in the sudden light of the entry way. “I’ll consider your proposal.”
“And about that tattoo?” Doyle said, ducking his head slightly so that he could keep Bodie in view. He held open the door to could watch the bunch and clench of Bodie’s arse in his tan trousers. “I’d like to make it permanent.”
“You’re too boney to be Father Christmas,” Bodie laughed, elbowing him in the ribs. “but you’ve brought my pressie, all the same.”
“On Boxing Day, then?” Doyle said, gladly, anticipating wearing Bodie’s mark for all eternity. “Before the races.”
“Tally ho,” Bodie cried, cracking an invisible crop.
FIN
Title: Risking it All
Author: Dawnwind
Slash: Bodie/Doyle
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Disclaimer: No money was made, only love.
Notes: This portrays a consensual BDSM relationship. If this does not float your boat, please do not read.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-12-17 09:31 am (UTC)I'm going to read this over my coffee, but I need to make a mod request first! Could you please move your warning that there's a warning from outside the cut to being under the cut (and at the end)? I know it doesn't say what it's warning for, but the very act of saying "There's a warning!" tells people something of what happens in the story, so it also acts as a spoiler.
Feel free to say something like "Don't forget there's trailer information at the end of the story in this comm" outside the cut, but please not that there's a warning! People who read in this comm know that warnings at the end if they want them.
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2016-12-17 04:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-17 08:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-17 11:35 am (UTC)The lads must have been very good this year because they got exactly what they wanted for Christmas. :D
Happy festive season and thank you for the fun!
no subject
Date: 2016-12-17 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-17 11:00 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for posting!
no subject
Date: 2016-12-18 08:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-18 11:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-18 08:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-19 06:47 am (UTC)But that doesn't matter, I'm sure I'll enjoy your next story.
Thanks anyway (- also for the information).
Merry Christmas! :-)
no subject
Date: 2016-12-20 10:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-20 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-20 10:38 pm (UTC)Of course Doyle would be a snarky sub.
I'll bet Cowley never dreamed of that kind of training.
Date: 2016-12-21 01:19 am (UTC)lbc
RE: I'll bet Cowley never dreamed of that kind of training.
Date: 2016-12-21 06:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-31 07:17 pm (UTC)Naughty lads are nice! Thank you so much - I was grinning and chuckling the whole way through.
no subject
Date: 2017-01-01 04:30 pm (UTC)