Obligatory Warning: the following story contains same-sex relationships, voyeurism & mental-rape-by-technicality, masturbation, some domination references, and various conjugations of the "F-word". If these things offend you, don't read the damned story. If, after reading this warning, you read the story anyway, and are offended, too fraggin' bad. A Race Through Darker Places A story in the 'Latitude' universe set during 'A Race Through Dark Places' by Galenn Bester was coming to Babylon 5 to hunt unregistered telepaths, and there was no way anyone could stop him. Garibaldi suppressed a shudder, knowing that by the law Bester was right, and as an officer of the law *he* was expected to help... _How do you explain to your CO that you're scared shitless of what this guy could do to you?_ he thought, heading for Sheridan's office. _Bester's a little tiny guy -- can't even use one of his hands -- but he's a P-12 and I can't keep him out of my head..._ He was distracted during the morning briefing and fled immediately afterward before Sheridan could ask him why. With other matters keeping Sheridan occupied for a while, Garibaldi figured he had at least a slight reprieve. He walked to his own office, fully planning to prepare for Bester's arrival and a hunt of innocent people who wanted nothing more to be free of PsiCorps' influence. Instead, however, he found himself sitting and worrying. He could always hint to Sheridan about what Harriman Gray, the military liaison telepath, had learned regarding Bester, but he had *no* idea how Sheridan felt about alternate lifestyles. How could he risk even starting to explain his deeper fears, when for all he knew, Sheridan might gladly hand him over? There wasn't enough time to sound Sheridan out, so the only thing he could do at that point was keep his worries to himself, and pray that Bester didn't bring anything up... During the entire first meeting between the command staff and Bester, Garibaldi felt shivers running up and down his spine, the hairs all over his body standing up in ticklish, shivery waves. He tried to sit still and not draw attention, but more than once he saw Bester's dark glance sweep his way. Once, although he couldn't swear to it, and really *didn't* want to know, he thought he saw Bester smile slightly. The shivers continued with renewed intensity... That meeting went as well as could be expected, and Garibaldi was extremely relieved when it was over. He had his own suspicions about the underground railroad and wanted to check out some of the leads *without* Bester's assistance... He was more than a little surprised when following up on those leads yielded nothing. Ivanova's dislike of PsiCorps was almost a matter of record -- she had nearly resigned rather than be scanned, and her feelings had led to quite a bit of friction between her and their licensed commercial telepath, Talia Winters. Garibaldi had fully expected her to be the one running the network, hiding in plain sight. And he was wrong. After the discussion with Ivanova, he settled into one of the booths in Earhart's and considered his next move. It couldn't be just anyone -- had to be someone with enough access to the records and station logs to be able to keep people from noticing the extra traffic. Someone with enough access to keep discrepancies in passenger quantities from being noticed by anyone not particularly looking for that kind of thing. That meant security, command staff, or a *very* smart hacker... As he sat and thought, he missed the short, black-clad figure watching him intently through a window... Bester leaned against the corridor wall, watching Garibaldi intently. The security chief spent a while talking with Commander Ivanova, and then went off on his own. Obviously, the most likely suspect was not the guilty party -- interesting. That made the situation a little more of a mystery, but he had faith in Garibaldi's persistence. The man *would* find whoever was running the underground railroad -- it was a matter of pride with someone like him. He turned his attention to watching Garibaldi and studying him. The man seemed a lot less confident than he had the last time they had met. The face he projected was the same -- bluster, abrasiveness, cynicism all used as a defense to keep the world from getting in -- but inside there was such pain and fear, and a deep loneliness... _How useful,_ Bester thought, probing gently at the loneliness. _Ah, Mr. Garibaldi, you feel betrayed and abandoned, do you?_ he thought as he felt Garibaldi pull everything even further inwards. He carefully slid deeper into Garibaldi's mind, slowly, so as to not rouse his already considerable suspicion. The source of his loneliness was obvious: Sinclair's reassignment to Minbar. Poor Garibaldi probably hadn't had a good fucking since he left -- unless there was something *else* in John Sheridan's file that they'd managed to miss... But no, Bester realized, Garibaldi didn't completely trust Sheridan either, although *why* was hidden a little too deep -- pushing that far would probably alert him; especially as he *had* been scanned, and deeply, too, not all that long ago. _Now,_ Bester thought, _why was that?_ The mental fingerprints were those of Talia Winters, and it seemed to be tied to the loss of confidence. Something to do with... _Oh Jack, you little devil. No wonder you've been such a smug bastard in your messages..._ Bester smiled darkly and withdrew most of the way from Garibaldi's mind, then thought, _So, Michael, which one hurts you more: knowing your own right hand betrayed you, or losing your lover to the aliens?_ He felt Garibaldi sigh, fatalistically accepting the fact that he was in for another lonely night. _Ah, but that doesn't have to be,_ Bester thought, a dark smile twisting his lips as he felt Garibaldi's longing. And then Garibaldi was standing and heading for the door. Bester kept the link intact but maintained only the slightest contact, and walked nonchalantly away down the corridor. It would not do for Garibaldi to see him there -- the man was too suspicious, and his defenses would be far too high if he actually knew he was being observed... On the way back to the crew quarters, Garibaldi ran into one of his men, officer Lou Welch. From the files Bester had studied, he knew Garibaldi and Welch were friends. He wondered just how close that friendship was, and found out when he felt Garibaldi *almost* ask Lou to his quarters. Fear held the words back, and Garibaldi merely told Lou he would see him in the morning. Bester nearly laughed as Garibaldi mentally berated himself for his cowardice -- apparently the man knew Welch wanted him, but just couldn't bring himself to trust any of his people that much. _Oh, Michael, your paranoia will drive you mad if you let it,_ Bester thought with a chuckle. _You *really* should learn to relax..._ Soon, Garibaldi was in his quarters, door locked and even the security override set. Bester chuckled when he realized it was an attempt to keep *him* out. He smiled and readied himself for bed, stripping off the black uniform and gloves, and sliding underneath the soft sheets. _You'll have to try much harder than that to keep *me* out, Mr. Garibaldi..._ In his mind's eye, he watched Garibaldi strip, tossing his clothes carelessly across the back of a chair. Then Garibaldi reached for his pajama bottoms, pulled them on, then heaved an annoyed sigh and tugged them off again, leaving them puddled at his bedside. Then he opened the nightstand drawer and drew out a tube of cream, squeezed some onto his fingertips and started massaging it into the healing scar on his lower back. Bester grimaced at the ugly scar, thinking how bad it must have looked when it was fresh. Burns could be intensely unpleasant things, Bester reflected, absently massaging his left hand. Bester noticed a gradual change in Garibaldi's reactions. Instead of massaging the cream in to speed the scar's healing he was absently stroking the scar, letting the sensations wash over him. Balancing right on the edge between stimulation and irritation, he groaned and used the other hand to rub his cock through his shorts. _Ah, yes, I thought so,_ Bester thought, dipping deeper into Garibaldi's mind again. _So, Michael, what do you fantasize about when you masturbate?_ At the moment, however, Garibaldi wasn't fantasizing about anything, just concentrating on trying to increase the pleasure. He paused in mid-stroke to pull his shorts down, flinging them off the bed to join the pajama bottoms. Then he picked up the tube of cream and peered at the label. With a shrug he squeezed more into one hand, then capped the tube and dropped it onto the nightstand. "Lights, low," he instructed, then as the computer dimmed the lights Bester realized Garibaldi was coating the first two fingers of his right hand with the cream. Bester smiled, sensing the hunger flaring in Garibaldi, feeling the desperate longing beginning to consume him. Garibaldi lay down, carefully tugging the comforter up with his left hand and then sliding both hands under the covers, his left encircling his erection and gliding up and down the shaft, the cream keeping the friction at a comfortable level. Bester sighed with Garibaldi, but then smiled darkly as he felt the hunger only increase as Garibaldi pulled on his cock. Garibaldi heaved another sigh and shifted, reached around behind himself with his right hand and fingered his own anus. A groan then, and a tremendous surge of lust and hunger, and somewhere behind it all the desperate wish that Jeffrey Sinclair were there to do it for him. There to plunge strong fingers deep into him, push him down on the bed beneath his strong body, beautiful hard cock ready to spear him, fill him, own him... Garibaldi stroked his cock cruelly, fucked himself with his fingers until his wrist hurt, and then, groaning, rolled onto one side and hiked up his hips, straining for a better angle. Bester moaned softly as the sensations washed over him, thought, _Time to invest in a big dildo, Michael..._ An image -- Bester couldn't tell if it was fantasy or memory -- flashed across Garibaldi's mind: Sinclair, standing there looking down at Garibaldi. He licked his lips and in his most commanding tone, ordered, "Do yourself, Michael. I want to watch." Garibaldi moaned hotly and jammed his fingers deeper, reaching for his prostate. "Ohgod, Jeff," he panted, the hand pumping his cock moving harder and faster as the pleasure began to take him. He held onto the image of Sinclair, strong, commanding, ordering him to perform for him, and moaned louder when the idea sent a rush of arousal through him. Bester could sense the hunger and lust, and the shame that twined around it. And, he realized, it was the shame that sparked the hotter fire now raging through Garibaldi. Something... Something-- And then Garibaldi was screaming his release, savagely pumping himself and impaling himself until he had milked every drop of cum from his abused cock, while the Sinclair in his mind smiled approvingly at his performance. "God," Garibaldi breathed, pulling his fingers free and massaging his aching wrist. "I gotta stop doing this..." Bester drew back, letting Garibaldi drift into sleep, while his own mind raced. Yes, Garibaldi wanted Sinclair. More than anything, he wanted -- *needed* Sinclair. Without him, he wasn't complete. However, there was a part of Garibaldi, those darker desires and shadowed thoughts most people desperately refuse to acknowledge, that wanted something more... The shame that sparked Garibaldi's arousal had been just the start of it. Here was a man -- a big, strong man -- who wanted so badly to be mastered, ruled...conquered. He wanted to be conquered by his lover, a man who would never do the things Garibaldi's hidden desires craved (or at least Garibaldi felt he wouldn't, and so was afraid to ask), and that was the root of the shame. Then there was the rest of it; dark, shadowed, buried so deeply Bester didn't think Garibaldi was even aware of it. Because Garibaldi believed Sinclair would never do all the things he secretly wanted, part of him hungered for someone who *would*... Much as he would like to give Garibaldi exactly what he wanted, Bester knew the physical aspect of it was important to Garibaldi, and he just wasn't big or strong enough -- physically -- to manhandle Garibaldi the way he wanted. He smiled darkly and stretched luxuriously, rubbing a hand up his belly and across his chest, lightly brushing his nipples. Garibaldi's pleasure still lingered in his mind and body, and arousal quickly flared as he thought about that tall, powerful body submitting to him. _Garibaldi doesn't know what he's missing,_ he decided, _but then, Normals always seem to have such simple pleasures... Sooner or later, Michael, you will learn that there's so much more than just being physically mastered..._ Bester took his organ in hand, hissed as he squeezed and pumped it. One of these days, he would show Garibaldi how much more intense it could be if he were helpless -- pinned not by a strong body but by someone's thoughts -- a slave, forced to submit to his master's mind... The image of Garibaldi kneeling, arching in orgasm only when Bester finally allowed him to, seared itself into his mind. He cried out as his own orgasm shook him, knowing with unerring certainty that one of these days he *would* have Garibaldi, begging him for the pleasure that only a telepath could give... --==**==-- (continued in part 2) Babylon 5 is (c) 1996 PTEN and Babylonian Productions. This story is not intended to infringe on these copyrights. 'A Race Through Darker Places' is (c) 1996 Galenn.