Disclaimers: Not mine. I'm only borrowing and will put them back on the shelf once through. Boys doing horrible, painful, kinky sex things to each other, so don't say you weren't warned.

A little more than a snippet, not quite a story, definitely a PWP.

An offering to Latonya, but all the blame for this one falls to me.

Questions, comments, complaints, should be directed to your nearest customer service rep at magik@socket.net

Shadows

Barbara J. Webb

This is not me. Who is this man, shackled to a wall, head hanging bowed, knees weak with something that could be pain or pleasure, fear or hope, lust or desperation? It cannot be me. I am not like this; I am the strong one, the infallible one, Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I do not flinch, do not tremble, do not bend or break, do not shrink from the threat of another's power over me.

This is not him. He does not command, does not demand, is not cruel. Does not hurt me. I am the one who brings pain, causes pain, all unknowing. Blind because I chose to be, wrapped in the armor of my own self-congratulatory perfection. He is the one who follows, bends, is sometimes vulnerable and in need of protection. Who is this man standing over me, calling forth my cries with the simplest flick of a wrist and the explosive sound of the dozens of tiny leather strands striking my skin?

This is not us. Not partners, not lovers. No sharing here, no compromise, no affection, no warmth. Who are these people, no smiles for each other, one finding pain in the other's pleasure and the other finding pleasure in the first's pain?

Three, four, five. I count the strikes. How many this time? Six, seven. I'm not even certain whether I'm speaking aloud or simply counting to myself. It hurts; of course, it hurts. Endorphin, Adrenalin, arousal - all powerful forces, but they cannot take away the pain. This man - this stranger who stares at me through the eyes of someone I love - will not let me have that. There is no rhythm, no direction, no consistency in the strikes, no chance for me to brace, prepare, relax.

Who is the man needing to cause this hurt? Who is the man needing to be hurt so badly? It cannot be us.

Nine, ten. Sweat darkens his hair, makes it fall flat against his head, glistens on his arms, his chest, beads across his flat stomach just above the line of his jeans. Almost as driving a madness as the pain is the desire to run my tongue along his shoulders, his chest, lick the sweat where it slides across golden skin. But I cannot take, cannot have, bound doubly by chains within and without. The physical chains only reinforce the knowledge that I do not act on such desires, do not inflict my needs on others, do not reach out and take no matter how badly I want.

And when I have....

Eleven. How many blows to cleanse a soul? How many hundreds to drive away the ghosts of Victoria, of Gerard, of Ray Vecchio, Francesca, and all the others whom I have wronged? Who is the man who has caused so much pain? It cannot be me.

And yet I stand here. Twelve. Thirteen. Slower now. His arm tires. Fourteen, and the leather strands of the flogger do not pull back from the strike, instead dragging along my burning skin. Who is this man watching my face so intently? Who's is the face that reveals the pain of the lash, the electric pleasure of the supple leather that slides spider-light across my shoulders. It cannot be me, Benton Fraser, inscrutable, controlled...wrapped so coldly within his superiority. Untouchable.

Who is this man who has touched me?

Fifteen. A flick across one nipple, a sharper bite into the other. He leans in so close, and I can smell him, his sweat, his desire, the coffee he drinks, the gum he chews, the sharp scent of his hair gel. Even with my eyes closed, with every other sense taken from me, I would know him by these smells. I do not meet his eyes. Who is the man so willing to play beta - for this moment - to this feral golden alpha?

Sixteen. Striking the erection that has not flagged through all the blows. Who am I, so desperate for this touch, so glad for the support of the chains around my wrists as my knees threaten to buckle?

Feathery touches as the strands stroke, caress, flirt with the engorged flesh. My eyes flicker up to his; there is the briefest brush of our gazes. I plead, but there is no answer, no release. Only the light teases of the dancing leather tips.

And his arm pulls back again. Seventeen. Eighteen. Hard, throbbing blows that do not sting, rather settle into my skin heavily and stay there, not fading, a thudding compression of skin and muscle. Nineteen. These are blows that will leave bruises, marks I will wear for days as not-so-gentle reminder of these shadow-men who come to visit when Ray and I let our attention waver.

I expect twenty, but it does not come. The leather strokes once again, this time over my shoulder, down my back, brushing tantalizingly just above my right buttock. Without first asking my permission, my body presses forward, fighting against the chains that hold it, trying to get to the man who brings both purgatory and salvation. Now comes twenty, slicing across my chest, the sudden sharpness of it driving me back with more power than his lesser physical strength ever could.

Who are we?

The whip turns in his hand, and now the heavy, smooth rounded end of it runs down my neck. A hand, clever, graceful, runs down my chest, tracing the lines of welts that show up so easily on my pale flesh, touches as lightly as dangling strands. There is still no softness on his face, no trace of the man I know, and in my eyes I suspect there is no trace of the man he knows. Who are these people who dance this dance together?

The rounded handle presses against my lips, and I kiss it, run my tongue around it, suck it into my mouth as far as he will allow. It tastes of leather, oil, and laquer. A faint stinging of soap. I close my eyes, focus all my attention on pleasuring this unliving object, fully aware of how much pleasure watching this action brings to my shadow-Ray.

Who is the man moaning when the toy is pulled from his mouth? Can that really be Benton Fraser? A conundrum, whether it is more difficult for Benton Fraser to know he is that man, or for that man to know he is that Constable. Neither like to think about the other very much, to acknowledge each other. Both wonder sometimes if there are similarly two Ray's twisting back and forth within the man who stands before them.

The shiny black leather, cool with my saliva, slick with something else, runs up the inside of my thigh. What else can I do but rut my hips forward try to find some release for this agony? The end presses against the entrance to my body, hesitates, teases.

Now I must find his eyes, hold them, search within them. "Ray...please...."

Who is the man calling out hoarsely at the feel of the thick leather phallus pressing into him, dragging against his chains, fighting for breath against the power of the orgasm rushing through him? Who is the man clinging to the chains that are the only thing holding his body upright? Who is the man turning his face away from the small, knowing smile on the lips of the man willing to be lover to both Mountie and masochist, saint and sinner, pride and penitence?

How can that man be me?