The BLTS Archive - Push by Tatterdemallion (samanthawagley@yahoo.com) --- Disclaimer: Not mine. --- It was time for more. Sick anticipation filled him and he wished he could feel happier about something he wanted so badly. Instead, he rolled it up and set it aside in a close corner of his mind. After all, he wouldn't really be able to satisfy it until later, once patients had been attended to and research pored over for another day. But still, it was really out now. He had come to an unintentional decision, as he always did, and there was no use, no healthy reason to try and push it back into some part of his psyche any further than he just had. It was out of that closed, black lacquered cabinet he visualized in his mind and wasn't going back in until it had been satisfied. He sent the standard message to Garak, requesting a private fitting, and went about his day. He walked to the infirmary like normal, feeling a quiet hum of anticipation wash over him that made him crackle inwardly and hypersensitive to all the energy around him. Now, it was patient and evenly-spread throughout his body. Later, as he walked to Garak's it would have a finer point, sharpened by the wait into an impatient expectation that Garak would enjoy dipping his chiding fingers into. So, anticipation dissolved into a thrum of purposeful patience, distantly rolling in and out on the edges of his mind. He bit his lip as he studied patient charts. Absently ran his fingers over console edges as he diligently noted the symptoms of an Avellian viral infection for future research. He ignored the possible associations that could be raised by blood spilling from a compound fracture in the leg of an unfortunate engineer whose anti-grav had malfunctioned at an inopportune time. And he refused to be inappropriately hypnotized by the gleam of his own surgical instruments. That was for other tools and other times. A chime and his shift ended. His mouth went dry and his arms took on a decidedly alarming lightness that could have been pleasant under other circumstances. He walked to Garak's quarters feeling a feral restlessness intertwined with his sickness and anticipation, one pulling the other back, one subduing the other until it arose again in a twisting tumultuous swirl of confusion and fatalism. He came to the door and prepared to enter the code. He had once asked why he was given a code to Garak's door for this purpose; it seemed not something to be done in a relationship such as theirs, one painted in obvious tones of submission and control. Garak had told him that he wanted him to be as complicit as possible in his own capitulation and pain. He thought Garak probably derived some sick pleasure from the fact that he willingly, even purposefully walked into his own den of destruction. He had his own key that no one else needed to provide, that no one else had to take responsibility for. He was complicit. He listed towards the keypad, suddenly weak from this reaffirmation of what he was caught up in, and felt like crying from the intense mixture of shame and desire twisting and expanding inside him. He slowly keyed each numeral into the pad and let the conflict recede from his face, straightened his shoulders, and pulled the expectancy back into focus. A dim gloom hung in the air of the quarters, nearly everything covered in soft clinging darkness. The furniture, the floor, obscured personal objects all almost seemed a shadowy landscape of hills and vales that he had by chance ventured into. Bashir could see Garak where he sat in an austerely graceful chair looking out a window, one leg casually slung over the other and his skin silvered by the pale starlight filtering through. He turned only his head, but Bashir could see the implacability etched into his features and a subtle flush trembled its way over his body as he waited for directions. Garak kept his eyes hooded and flicked one gloved hand indicating Bashir was to come and stand by him at the port. Bashir silently walked to him and stood, eyes averted from the soft light. Garak looked so cold sitting beside him, skin in shades of gray and eyes glittering as brightly as the stars, but relaxed. The only warmth was in the dark blue suit he was wearing. Bashir supposed he was really in his element here, reveling in a type of comfort from a situation Bashir could only elicit tension, fear, and depraved excitement from. An object began to take shape as Bashir let his eyes follow the starlight. A whip in Garak's other hand, small and short with dark strands and small silver beads. It was nestled in his lap and blending with the darkly outlined silhouettes of Garak's figure. It looked soft, except for the beads. "Take them off, and kneel beside me," came Garak's voice, sudden but hushed, eyes still staring out the port. Bashir immediately complied, fingers modestly tugging to peel away layers, shrugging out of his clothes with sinuous silence. He didn't look at Garak, but he could feel him watching him. He put his clothes in a neat pile a few paces from the chair and walked back, feeling warm shivers begin to radiate from the base of his spine. His eyes ghosted over Garak's, direct where they connected, but empty of anything but the dark appeal to draw closer, to begin. He went down on his hands and knees beside the chair, letting his head go all the way to the soft carpet of the floor, nuzzling it with his forehead and the side of his face. Now that he was in the game it didn't matter anymore. All of his conflict and negative tension had fallen away. Every misgiving, every shame, every faltering melted away when it was time to push. Bashir felt one velvet-covered hand stroke down the middle of his spine; he closed his eyes, rolled his hips slightly and arched into it. He relaxed and tensed, relaxed and tensed, breathed in and out, moving with every stroke of the hand as it traversed each vertebra, further and further afield from the middle each time until it was palming the back of his hand and barely ghosting to that very sensitive edge. Garak came down beside him on the carpeted floor, kneeling but still aloof; the chair a distant shape in Bashir's lulled perception. His whole back was warm and vibrating. Light, sensitive strokes began to appear in diverse places – over his shoulder blades, the dip in his back, the edge of his hair. Bashir sighed as Garak's fingers lightly traced the line across his shoulders. With his eyes half-lidded and a knowing sensation of movement he perceived Garak's right hand draw back. The bite of the silver beads was both blunt and sharp, some of them most likely lightly barbed and mingling with the tiny, unmarred globes. Bashir shuddered from the sudden sensation switch and rode out his first grunt of pain with mouth and eyes tightly shut. Still, pleasure flexed itself inside him, answering the pain with open arms and sending a sudden pulse into his half-hard penis. Garak sighed, a satisfied exhale tinged with perverse edges of pleasure, but by no means an indication of conclusion. The whip came down again, harder and sharper this time, making Bashir gasp shallowly in surprise and excitement. Cool, blunt implements met the dull, hot throb that was building in his back, followed by tiny sharp stings in fast flicks, licking along his spine and shoulders, then gentle slip-slides in slow swirls, teasing and delaying until the next volley of unexpected sensation. Garak was so good at manipulating his tools – one simple, small, beaded whip teasing out so many facets of pleasurepain was admirable. Bashir gasped and panted through it all, swallowing the louder, more vocal noises back down the great hollow inside him that was growing larger as he opened himself fully to what Garak was doing for him. He held his downward position, forehead to the floor, as the whip bit and caressed him. A detached but happy part of him was noting each mark, predicting which places would bruise, which would throb for days, which needed only a little more help to break through the skin. He could feel Garak beside him, with him, closer now, almost gliding his hips along Bashir's side. The whip receded with a final caress and the hand returned to his skin, velvet like sandpaper over his aching back and down into his short hair, grasping and pulling Bashir's head back, painfully arching his neck. Garak set the whip aside, barely in Bashir's peripheral vision and leaned over him with one satisfied hand braced against the floor and the other still in his hair. His lips pressed a gentle kiss against the human's ear and Bashir shivered from the delicious warmth, the intimacy, his eyes opening and closing on a slow, dazed blink. "Are you warmed up enough?" the Cardassian whispered. Bashir shivered again and swallowed around his dry mouth and numb tongue. "Are you ready for me to take off the gloves?" Garak continued, bringing his eyes around to stare into Bashir's, a condescending but distant challenge there in their brilliancy. Bashir whispered, "Yes," through barely wet lips and pushed the Cardassian with his eyes again, daring him to do things, with his thinly veiled insolence, his counterfeit doubt in the Cardassian's abilities. Garak held his gaze and raised him higher, onto his knees, the hand from his hair beneath his chin now, and backhanded him across the cheek. Garak let go and Bashir fell onto his back and lay there a moment. A tiny split began to bleed on his inner cheek, where flesh had met teeth. His tongue gently lapped at the tender area and withdrew. It was only a prelude, and a bluntly reduced one at that, compared to the sharp delicacy with which Bashir knew the rest of the night's pain would proceed. "Get on the bed," Garak commanded, voice whisper soft but cold, sharp as ice forming on a window pane, patterned tendrils assured of their path. Bashir got up and slowly walked to the bed, a secret and pain relishing smile curving his lips. He climbed onto the bed and crawled to its center, his firmly erect penis brushing against his thighs in a sweet, breathless ache rivaling the one in his back, and turned to watch Garak follow him, as he intently peeled off each velvet glove. --- The End