Fraser is fucking me.

Fraser is fucking me hard.

Fraser is pounding into me, over and over again, eyes screwed shut and head thrown back and the tendons in his forearms standing out with the tension. I can see his arms, bracing him, giving him the leverage he needs to hammer into me like this.

I can't see my arms, because they're stretched way up over my head. Thank God for the headboard, right, we got the kind you can get a handhold on when you need one, but I concentrate on relaxing my fingers--which takes some doing, since about every two seconds or so I get seriously distracted by Fraser's cock ramming deep into my ass--and even when I get them unclenched from around the wood my arms are still stretched up there, keeping me right there in place for him.

About then I figure out that I'm fucking cuffed to the bed, shackled there with something that involves chains, sure, but it's not my cuffs or Fraser's, because it's got enough padding that I can pull against it, hard--and I do, and the strain in my shoulders says it's not the first time--without cutting into my wrists. Jesus. Been wanting Fraser to do this to me, but he has some kind of hang-up about it we've only just started hashing out, some control thing, doesn't want to hurt me, whatever, we'll get to the bottom of it eventually. Or maybe we have gotten to the bottom of it. Because, you know, me in chains would seem to suggest that we've solved that problem. And hey, three cheers for problem-solving, because this? I like this. I could get used to this. But...

Well, okay, it looks like I can't help him on the leverage thing either, I notice then. Because he's got my legs--shit--over his shoulders, the backs of my thighs and calves pressed against his belly and chest and wet with his sweat and my own, and I got nothing to brace myself against, nothing whatsoever except for Fraser himself. It's all him, all this force and power and incredible driven single-minded need, and I'm just lying there, taking it, breathing when I remember to--when I can--in the middle of this thing Fraser's got going on here between my ass and his cock. This is something else we don't do all that often--not the fucking, we're down with that, but Fraser worries about my back more than I do, I swear to God, and even though I know I'm good for it (haven't tucked in on the floor in a long time, as Fraser should know), he doesn't want to put any more strain on it than we have to, so the whole fuck-Ray-with-his-legs-up thing doesn't happen all that often. Which I'll have to fix, because this is also working for me just fine, thanks.

And it's obviously working for Fraser, too, which I can tell because...

Jesus. Because Benton Fraser? Is fucking me into the next room.

Damn, this feels good. A lot of the time when we do this I'm so close to coming by the time we get to this point that I don't get a chance to really feel what it's like when Fraser's fucking me, because I'm so totally focused on my cock. Which, you know, not so much right now, and I'm wondering about that, I really am, despite the pounding I'm taking. So I look down at myself briefly, when I can focus between Fraser's thrusts. And hey, what do you know, at some point in there it looks like I already came.

Huh. When did that happen, and where the fuck was I at the time?

But it explains a lot, actually. No wonder I got more than half a brain cell working here. No wonder I can see all this, can concentrate on all this the way I usually can't when Fraser is fucking me, because usually I'm so into it that it's all I can do to remember his name, let alone mine. Not this time, though. This time I can feel him, every inch of him, every time--the head of his cock against my prostate and the base of it stretching me wide open and the rest of it reaming my ass like there's no tomorrow. Hell, like tomorrow isn't even on his horizon.

If I could figure out a way to growl and scream at the same time, I'd be doing it.

And no wonder Fraser's got his eyes closed and his head back and is slamming into my ass for all he's worth. This is Fraser time, man. This is Fraser just going for it, like we both know he can but he usually doesn't, being as how the perfect-Mountie part of him is pretty much bone-deep and even in bed he's usually all thank-you-kindly and oh-Ray-I-insist and whatever else. Right now, though, Mr. Perfect Mountie is somewhere up north, like, roofing the cabin or cataloguing lichen or whatever. And all that's left here is Fraser--is Ben--fucking me as hard as he possibly can and then some, chasing his own pleasure hell bent for leather and using my ass to do it.

Damn. I love this. I love it.

Looks like I'm in this for the duration--I am, like, the ride in this scenario, Fraser's favorite spot in the fun park, and if I was any more happy about that I'd be coming again. But hey, I'll have my shot again, so to speak. Right now--well, like I said, right now is Fraser time. Fraser's time. Yeah it is.

So I hang on to the cuffs (man, those things are soft as hell and more than a little scary at the same time, which is ungodly hot, I have to say), and I just relax myself into it. Fraser wants me, Fraser has me. Whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. And if that's right now, in chains, with his cock so far up my ass I can't remember when he wasn't there--well, I can live with that.

And Fraser, he just keeps going, hips pistoning into me like he's whatsit, mechanized, grunting and groaning every time his balls hit my ass, over and over and over and over again, like he's beyond it now, like it's completely beyond his control. From his face I'd think he's hurting, except I know him and I know better and I know he's feeling no pain, is way past pain, is way out there. He is into it, like nothing else, ever. And I'm just there, watching, loving him, riding it out. He wants a ride? Fine with me: I can be his ride. Hell, I am his ride.

I got no idea how long this goes on, and I don't care, I'm there, I'm there for it. Finally, though, even Fraser's got nothing left, and he gives it up. He's all the way into me as deep as he can get and deeper, his head so far back all I can see is his throat, his hips jerking short and sharp, out of control, coming hard enough to shake both of us and rattle the chains around my wrists, long enough that I finally start to worry a little ... and then he's done, finally, and he just fucking collapses, like his arms won't hold him up no matter how much he wishes they would. Which, hey, if I'd been working that hard my arms would probably feel the same way, especially if I'd also come that hard, so I can sympathize, really. It's a little tough to breathe, but I love the weight of his body on me, I love that he's so out of it he can't even remember how to spell polite, can't remember what polite even is.

Which is totally appropriate right now, because that was, like, the least polite ass-fucking in the history of the modern world, and if he'll do that to me again, he can be as rude as he can bring himself to be any time he wants.

A trickle of sweat--don't know if it's mine or his, we're both wet all over now, which what else would you expect from good old-fashioned sloppy sex--runs into my eyes and I shake my head to clear them...

"...Ray. Ray. RAY. Are you all right, Ray?"

I shake my head again, harder, and I can smell bad airport coffee and it's obvious Fraser's been trying to get my attention for a while now. Wait. Airport coffee and a Fraser who can actually form words. Whoa. Okay. Where are we again?

I take a look at what's around us, and it's the Starbucks outside the Northwest gates, we're sitting at one of those stupid uncomfortable tall tables where even people with legs as long as mine and Fraser's look like they're dangling from the chairs like spiders, and I'm hard as a rock and fully clothed and Fraser's got an eyebrow raised and his arms crossed and. And.

What the fuck?

Once more with the head-shaking, which makes me a little dizzy on account of my brain is not really getting the oxygen it's used to, what with my cock so hard against the fly of my jeans that I'm probably gonna be able to read the logo from the buttons on it when I get home. Home. Oh. Right. Okay. I shift on the stool and, yeah, definitely not sore like I'd be if Fraser'd just reamed my ass like that. Too bad. I take a swallow of the coffee in front of me, which is cold but beats the shit out of no coffee, so what the hell.

"Fraser. Sorry. I was-- um. Day-dreaming."

The other eyebrow goes up. "Oh, yes?"

"Um. Yeah. Right." Great. Smooth much, Kowalski? "Yeah--I'm kind of tired. Didn't sleep all that well last night."

I'm not sure Fraser's completely buying this, but he lets himself get distracted into worrying about me, which is what I was shooting for. "I'm sorry to hear that, Ray. I hope you'll seize the opportunity presented by my absence to, er, catch up on your sleep, perhaps with the judicious assistance of an over-the-counter remedy for insomnia." There goes the thumb over the eyebrow. Heh. Even now, after all this time, all we've been through, it tickles me that he still gets shy in public.

Oh. Absence. Right. "Sure, Frase. I promise. Remind me when you get back, huh?"

He looks a little ticked at my memory, which is standard operating procedure with the two of us, so I guess the snow job's complete. "Friday, Ray. 3:37 pm, on Northwest 1524. I change planes in Detroit."

"Right, yeah, of course you do, Northwest doesn't fly anywhere direct if they can take you through the fucking Motor City on the way. Okay, so I'll be here to pick you up, look for me."

"Ray, your shift won't be over. I'm perfectly capable of taking a cab."

A cab, my ass. "A cab, my ass. Give me a break, Fraser. I'll be here."

"Language, Ray." He pauses, and I can see him decide not to fight me on this one. "Thank you. I'll look forward to seeing you. I will... I'll miss you, Ray."

"Me too, Frase." The announcement lady shouts a flight number over the intercom, and Fraser picks up his Stetson and shoulders his pack and gets to his feet in pretty much all the same movement, which I don't know how he does that but I love it, I really do. "I'll see you Friday."

"Yes, Ray. I'll see you then. I'll call you when I get to the hotel tonight."

I can't wait. "Good. I'll be home around, like, seven."

He pulls me off the stool and hugs me once, hard, full-body, then turns and walks away, pack over his shoulder, Stetson on his head, looking all put together and complete in himself.

But I'm watching him, and I know better.

I walk off in the other direction, back to the Goat and our house and Dief and something in the microwave for dinner.

And the laptop. I've got some cuffs to buy. 1