by Ellison Wonderland
Even at last year's price—well, the year before that if he's
honest—the little bottle of liquid heaven costs more of his Agency
salary than he cares to think about. A small price to pay for
smelling like God—or so he imagines. Which is why Victor Mansfield
is currently done up in army cammos and black face paint, hiding out
on his own balcony.
Someone is stealing his cologne.
Vic started marking the bottle a month ago, when he first noticed
that he was going through it faster than usual. The blonde is happy
to see him twice in as many weeks. She charges him less than usual,
and Vic rewards her with a wink. Reminds him of when he was a cop and
got free donuts from that cute redheaded boy on 59th. A little of the
swagger has gone, and a lot of the confidence, but Vic still smells
like a million bucks. That's what the redhead used to say, when he
gave Vic blowjobs out the back.
At first, he thinks maybe he's been overdoing it. Dabs a little less
on his throat and chest and waits to see if anyone notices. The level
in the bottle continues to drop at the same rate, no matter how
sparing he is, and people have started to sniff the air around him.
Mac is subtle about it. Just the slightest flaring of his nostrils,
followed by a big, cheesy grin. Okay. Maybe not so subtle. The
Director is even less so, stroking his face and neck with her riding
crop and then lifting it to her nose to inhale his scent.
Vic wonders what she smells, what she thinks. He's sure it has
nothing to do with the person that he really is.
And then the thief gets cheeky. Vic comes home from work one night
and all he wants to do is collapse in the living room and watch TV,
popping a beer from the fridge and drinking it down in long,
satisfying gulps. He notices something right away when he goes into
his room to strip off, peeling away the dirt and blood-stained layers
of another day at the office. It's gone. The son of a bitch has taken
the whole damn bottle. So Vic lets a grim smile scorch his bedroom
mirror, and then he's dressed in jeans and on his way to the men's
emporium. Three times in a month. The blonde is going to cream her
jeans. The perp is going to be very very sorry.
It takes a while to stake out your own apartment. You have to arrange
little traps in the living room and bedroom. Not to mention the star
attraction, an innocent-looking bottle on his bedroom dresser,
guarded more heavily than the gold at Fort Knox. It's either that or
start sniffing people. He could back Mac up against the wall of the
briefing room. Scent his neck. Taste his throat. See if he can smell
himself on Mac's body. Or maybe it's Li Ann, silent and deadly,
breaking into his apartment to steal a piece of his personal space.
The director doesn't need to sneak around—she can walk in and take
anything of his, any time she wants to. Vic can't stop her. But she
might do it stealthily anyway, just to confuse him, keep him guessing.
They all like fucking with his head. Vic has decided that it's time
to fuck back.
The gun is probably over-kill. He feels like blowing the head off
whoever is doing this to him. Moving the bottle by an inch on the
dresser. Topping it up with colored water. Once, he suspects that
it'd been topped up with urine. Vic may not use the gun but it feels
good to have it in his hand. He knows that his reaction is not
entirely sane but he just doesn't care.
The smells of a big city fill his nostrils while he waits. It's cold
on the balcony but his anger keeps him hot. He knows that the perp
will be by soon. Patterns are hard to break, even if the perp isn't
aware of them.
Vic is wondering about why his life has come to this when a stunning
blow drops him to the balcony floor. The last thing he remembers is a
bright flash of pain, radiating from the back of his head like the
Second Coming.
"Hold the elevator," calls Vic.
The Agency corridors are empty, as they always are whenever Vic or
his team is around. Sometimes, he wonders if there is a secret access
system behind the walls. Employees quietly crawling behind the wooden
panels, making like spiders as they scuttle about their business,
safely out of sight of decent folk.
What does that make him?
He knows he saw someone getting in the elevator and they'd better
hold it for him.
Crap. Nathan.
The librarian smiles anxiously. Vic doesn't think he's seen Nathan
outside of his library, except for the day he sped past the guy on a
street corner, faithfully waiting in his raincoat and holding out a
melon as an offering to the gods. That had been really fucking funny.
Vic had laughed so hard he'd almost let the bad guys get away.
Maybe it's Nathan.
Nah. He wouldn't have the balls to scale Vic's apartment wall and
whack him on the back of the head with a blunt object. On the other
hand, the weapon could have been a melon. He'd been taken out by
weirder things since joining the Agency circus, and Vic's a believer
in poetic justice.
"Where were you last night?" Vic asks casually, stabbing at the
button. He wants sub-level 6. One level down from the library.
Vic fills the tense silence with possible answers in his head. Nathan
was at a gay bar, being banged by a bear in leathers. Or was he at
the Star Trek convention, dressed up as a character that Nathan can't
tell isn't real? Nah. Nathan was online. He wouldn't be anywhere else.
"Home. I wasŠ" The squeak trailed off.
Vic fingers something in his pocket. Nathan looks the type to have
read The Hobbit.
The bright, burnished walls of the elevator reflect Vic's feral
smile. "What have I got in my pocketses?"
Nathan makes a sound that humans shouldn't be capable of. Dogs can
probably hear it. Vic feels a rush of shame, to be tormenting this
pathetic creature.
"This is your floor."
He holds the door for Nathan, trying to inject some kindness into his
eyes. Part of him wants to pull back and let it slide home quicker.
Thank god the Agency elevators are fail-safe. Nathan scurries away so
fast that he could scuttle for the Olympics.
As the elevator door clangs shut, Vic notices a scent hanging in the
air. It's his cologne.
Fuck.
He'll know soon enough, which one of his "friends" is playing this
game with him. When he came to last night, he'd been put to bed with
an ice pack wrapped around his sore head. He thinks he might have
come around even earlier and seen the perp. There's a vague memory of
a conversation and a—a kiss? The lightest brush of lips on his
forehead. Like his mother used to do before she realised he was demon
spawn.
Double fuck. It could be his mother. Nah. How could 300 pounds be
hauled up to his balcony on a cold Vancouver night?
Sublevel 6 is home to the Agency labs. The techs are used to seeing
Vic and analysing things for him. He's the only one on the team with
experience of physical evidence and the stories it can tell.
He takes the sample from his pocket. Nicked by one of his traps, the
perp has left him a nice fat drop of blood.
"What's this?" asks the tech. Jamie, he thinks her name is. He deals
with her a lot but he can't remember her name. People don't seem that
real to him any more. He knows that he should be worried about that.
At the moment, it seems more important to find out who's been
stealing his cologne. Vic has his priorities.
"Can you check this blood sample against Agency records? It's an
internal sample. I just need to know whose veins it's from." Veins
that will soon be letting out a lot more, if Vic has anything to say
about it. He fingers the bruise on the back of his head and waits.
It only takes a few minutes. The techs are very efficient and
everything is filed in triplicate and in electronic form, and all
eminently searchable.
"Oh yes," says Jamie. Or is it Janet? "This blood type is rare. We
only have one person who's a match for this."
She gives him the name.
Vic smiles a slow, satisfied smile.
So now he knows.
"Hold the elevator."
Mac slides through the closing doors with his inimitable style.
"Hey Vic."
Rage builds, red like the dawn of a supernova. Vic lets his eyes
knife Mac in the chest.
Mac stiffens, shrinking back against the elevator walls, looking like
a caged animal in the tightly enclosed space. There's a look of guilt
and defiance to him that Vic should have seen weeks ago. He looks
like he's gonna run and never stop. Vic knows what to do about that.
"Somebody paid me a visit last night," says Vic, his angry gaze more
eloquent than his tongue could ever hope to be. He palms his bruise
again, rubbing softly. Mac follows his movements, a cautious mask
dropping into place. Mac knows how to spin this. Maybe he won't run
after all. Vic doesn't plan to let him do either.
"And here's me thinking you don't have a social life," quips Mac. He
probably thinks that Vic can't see him stabbing at the elevator
buttons behind his back.
"Yes."
What have I got in my pocketses?
Mac's eyes are huge when Vic pulls his gun. The shot is loud in the
confines of the elevator. The bullet rips through the control panel
with a shower of sparks. There's no ricochet, but Mac looks pretty
fucking funny when he dives to the floor.
Vic is on him a second later, both of them crashing into the wall as
the elevator grinds to a halt. Without its ancient creaking, there's
nothing to mask the sounds of panting. Vic has his arms around Mac,
crushing the air out of him, pinning him to the floor.
"Just tell me why," he breathes in Mac's ear. It's like a caress,
lifting Mac's hair. Vic has never been so angry in his life and he
doesn't know why. He wants to hurt Mac, to shoot come like bullets up
his ass.
Fuck. Where did that come from?
He gives an experimental rub against Mac's tight ass. He gets a
whimper in answer that stirs the blood in his cock.
Mac knows how to fight back. He's pinned in Vic's arms because that's
where he wants to be.
Right. Never in a million years.
"You've been helping yourself to something of mine," says Vic, his
voice low and liquid. "Now I'm gonna take something of yours."
His hand invades the cleft of Mac's ass, pushing the expensive
material of his pants in deep. Mac whimpers again. Not such a smart
mouth now, with Vic's fingers pressing cotton inside him.
"I'm gonna fuck you raw," he promises. Vic never breaks a promise.
"Fuck off, Mansfield," croaks Mac, finding his voice at last.
Vic rolls them over so that Mac is on top of him, their nipples
rubbing against each other through a thin layer of cotton. Both men
are erect. Vic is amazed. He isn't sure whether this is something he
wants. He knows that it's something he never expected.
"You like the way I smell, Mac? Is that what this is all about?"
Transferring both of Mac's wrists to one strong hand, Vic starts to
unbutton his shirt. Mac's cock leaps against his. He can feel it. Mac
is so turned on by this shit that he's spasming in his pants. Vic
swallows a laugh. Trapped in an elevator, buried under tons of
concrete and earth, he feels on top of the world. The wildness of
this swing in what he's feeling should frighten him but it doesn't.
He decides to go with it, and fuck Mac a new asshole.
Mac's nose is buried in his throat like a heat seeking missile. It
rubs against his sensitive flesh. Vic feels the wetness of soft
licks. Mac is sniffing him, kissing his throat, grinding against his
body. Mac wants this, alright. And so does Vic.
He rolls them over again, pinning Mac to the floor, scrabbling at his
belt and zipper. Mac groans, squirming with desperation, pushing his
ass back against Vic's tented jeans. It's harder to get Mac's pants
down like that.
"Keep still," he growls in Mac's ear, biting him lightly.
Mac goes limp in his arms, as if Vic has turned a switch off. This is
the first time that Mac has ever done what he's told. The
possibilities are endless.
Pants don't last long against Vic's determination. He hears them rip
a little. He plans to do the same thing to Mac's insides. The exposed
ass is creamy, firm, beautiful. Hungrily, Vic palms Mac's buttocks
apart and spits. It's the only lubrication that Mac's going to get.
Vic doesn't care if it hurts. He wants it to hurt.
Vic's cock springs free, hard and ready, when he lowers his zip. He's
not gonna take his pants off. Mac's gonna get it hard and get it now.
The only skin he needs is already bare.
"Fuck," screams Mac, as Vic pushes himself inside in one long, slow
thrust. Sweat breaks out on both their bodies. Vic can feel it
trickling down his sides, staining his white shirt. The elevator
reeks with the scents of arousal.
"Still like the way I smell?" Vic grinds into Mac, pushing as hard as
he can, filling Mac with his cock. It's hard, fast, desperate. He
gnaws at Mac's neck and shoulders, marking him with his teeth.
Pounding into him. Fucking him through the elevator floor. Giving him
a burn in his knees to match the one in his tight, hot ass.
"Take it, Ramsey," he says, fucking as hard as he can.
Mac looks wanton, splayed under him, pushing back to meet him thrust
for thrust.
"Harder. Is that the best you can do? Do it harder."
Mac is begging for it. Vic gives him what he wants.
The relentless pounding is getting Vic close to the edge. He's been
near that edge for days now. Maybe weeks. He wants to come. Badly.
Maybe then, he won't fall off. Forever falling. Mac will catch him.
"I want to feel you come," says Mac, stroking himself now. Vic hasn't
even seen his cock. It's been hard, fast and dirty. Perfect.
"I'm gonna blow your tonsils out, Ramsey," grunts Vic, pushing deep
inside and feeling his rage finally burn away, dissolved by the white
hot heat of orgasm. He continues to ride Mac, fucking him hard, while
they unload months of aggression, one in Mac's velvety insides, the
other on the elevator floor. It's like Vic can feel himself coming in
every part of his body. He's never had it so intense. So fucking
beautiful.
Vic collapses on Mac at last, pressing him flat on the floor,
nuzzling his neck. He can smell sex and cologne. Mac is covered in it.
The emergency phone doesn't work. There's nowhere to go. It's like
the morning after, when your date has locked you in the bedroom and
handcuffed you to the bed. There's no way to get out of having The
Conversation.
"So," says Mac, sitting propped up against the elevator wall, "seen
any good movies lately?"
He's leaning awkwardly, trying not to put too much pressure on his
ass. Vic wants to snicker but knows that it might get his face
punched. He wonders if there will be time for a blowjob before
someone gets the elevator working again. He doesn't regret the bullet
that has trapped them here. Not yet. His body is still glowing and he
hasn't felt so rested, so satisfied, for over a year. And if he's
lucky, he can get away with just tuning Mac out and giving him an
occasional grunt to make it sound like he's listening.
Vic turns the concept of peace over in his mind. Contentment. Both
had seemed alien when he got out of bed this morning. Now, he's not
so sure. Mac is saying something. He really should be listening. It
can't be that simple, can it? One good fuck and all his problems are
solved? Well, apart from being trapped in an elevator with a talker.
He wonders if Mac wants to wrestle. They could get naked, slide their
sweaty bodies all over each other, and he could fuck Mac again. Or
Mac could fuck him. Whatever. He just doesn't want to let this
feeling go yet, and it's already slipping away.
"Šand that's how I ended up with the Tangs."
Oh god. Mac is telling the story of his life. Someone make it stop.
There's a silence. Mac seems to be waiting for something.
"Right," says Vic, noncommittally.
"So you understand?"
Vic doesn't think he's seen Mac this hopeful since—well, ever.
"Yes. I understand."
Vic feels like a shit. He knows he shouldn't blow Mac off like this.
But really, he just wants to blow him.
"D'ya wanna blowjob?"
Mac looks offended. He won't meet Vic's eyes. Instead, he seems to be
staring over Vic's shoulder atŠ
Oh crap. Security camera. They're everywhere.
Mac's wondering why he's laughing. The director will have gotten a
good eyeful of Mac's ass, spread wide by Vic before he took him. But
since Vic only unzipped and plunged right in, she won't have seen a
single inch more of Vic than she has before. All the camera will have
seen is his jeans-clad ass, flexing and relaxing as he pounded Mac a
new one.
"Now we're even for this," says Vic, rubbing the back of his sore
head.
Mac is really fucked off. Just as well he's unarmed.
"You think I'm the one that hit you." Mac sounds bitter, the hope
leached out of him. "You were already flaked out on the balcony when
I arrived. I wouldn't knock you unconscious, Vic. Not even for this."
A small crystal bottle emerges from Mac's pocket. The bright,
artificial light in the elevator picks out the highlights. It almost
shines in Mac's tightly clenched hand.
Is Mac to be believed? The man is a born liar, better at it than the
pope.
"I got you in to bed." No irony there. "You seemed alright, not
concussed or anything, maybe a bit vaguer than usual."
"You got me some ice," says Vic, remembering. The shadow of a kiss,
pressed to his forehead like he were the most precious thing in the
world.
"Yeah."
Mac tries the emergency phone again, as though he is suddenly anxious
to get away. Vic's come is leaking out of his ass. Vic can see the
damp patch when Mac turns around, shouting into the receiver as if
that might make it work.
Vic wants to be moving, doing something. He climbs up the wall to the
camera and checks it. Laughter bubbles out of him again. He's been
laughing a lot in the last hour. Feels like more than in the whole of
the previous year.
"It's broken."
He slides back down to join Mac on the floor. "They're gonna know
anyway. It stinks in here."
Mac's smiling again. "No they won't."
Before Vic can stop him, Mac drops the bottle of cologne on the
elevator floor. It splashes them when it shatters, a month's worth of
scent saturating them. Leaving them gagging.
"You couldn't fucking wait till they got us out of here?" screams
Vic, pushing Mac hard up against the wall. The punch surprises him
when it comes, a sneak blow to the solar plexus that drops him to the
ground, retching. The cologne is even stronger down there. It would
be enough to turn his guts, if they weren't already mangled.
"Shit." It's all he can manage.
Mac is smirking down at him like he's won something. His hand grips
Vic, hauling him up again, steadying him by clasping his neck. Their
lips are only inches apart. Mac's got him where he wants him, and Vic
knows that he's expected to kiss Mac now. He bites him instead,
gnawing at his bottom lip savagely. Mac just laughs, swallowing Vic's
frustrated curses by gluing their mouths together. It's a gentle
kiss, and more forgiving than Vic thinks he deserves. He responds by
thrusting his tongue in Mac's mouth. He doesn't want to be forgiven.
Mac enjoys it anyway, pushing back with his tongue. It feels
intimate, almost more so than when he had his cock inside Mac. Crazy
or not, he wants to do it again.
When the elevator car lurches downwards, Vic is thrown on top of Mac
and they slide backwards into the wall. They hit it hard enough to
knock the breath out of them, even if their lips weren't already
suffocating each other. That's when the doors slide open. Vic doesn't
think that the men in overalls can see what they're doing, crammed
against the back wall. He gives Mac a last little nip, before pulling
away.
"About fucking time," he snaps. "We've been stuck in there for hours."
The repair men are bewildered. "It's only been fifty minutes," says
the biggest one, getting in Vic's face about it, before pulling back
suddenly.
"Fuck," he snorts. "What's that smell?"
"Oh that," says Mac, smirking. "That's just Victor's cologne."
Vic laughs. It feels good to do it. "You wanna go get a beer?"
"Shower first," says Mac. "Gotta wash this stuff off, after we
accidentally—er—spilled it."
Vic doesn't like the thought of Mac washing his scent off. He finds
that he's gripping Mac's arm. Tightly.
"You two smell like a coupla French whores."
"Yeah, right," mutters Vic. Like this asshole has ever been to
France. He propels Mac towards the stairwell with a light touch to
his back. "We'll take the stairs."
Mac isn't easy to move. "I'm gonna shower first," he maintains.
"No you're not," growls Vic, getting in Mac's space, crowding him up
against the stairwell door. He thinks he might be seconds away from
another punch in his abused guts. The cologne lingers in the air,
even this far from the elevator doors. Both things turn him on.
"Please," he whispers. "Please, Mac."
Mac gives him a tight grin. It carries them both into the stairwell
and out onto the street far above.
Vic may never find out who whacked him on the head on his balcony
that night. But one thing he knows for certain. Whenever he gets in
an elevator, he will always get hard.
ome men think that it's manly to stink. Victor Mansfield has never
been one of them. That's why he's cultivated the blonde at the men's
emporium. Stalking his way through the mincers and the uptight
executives, Victor always gets his cologne from the same shelf and at
the same price. He knows that the price has gone up several times
since he first started buying the stuff. But the blonde just gives
him the same coy leer and rings it up at last year's figure, as
though she has a hope in hell of ever sleeping with him. Vic gives
her his crooked little smile every time. It seems to work for both of
them.
