Lost	  The Due South Fiction Archive Entry	  Home

 Quicksearch
 Search Engine
 Random Story

 Upload Story

      	  Lost 
 by Queue  

 Disclaimer: Depending on your comfort level where noncon/BDSM are
concerned, this may skirt the edges thereof. YMMV.

 Story Notes: Written October 2004 for aerye, who requested Ray/Ray:
"Something where the two of them have been working, working, working and
suddenly both are free at the same time on the same night. Sex ensues.
Push that NC-17, baby! Also, I like it when Kowalski begs to be fucked."
This is what I wound up writing. 

 

 I hear Vecchio's knock on the door--yeah, I know his fucking knock--and
swear, even though I'm almost too tired to form words. Shit. What's he
doing here this time of night on his own? Nice manners, Vecchio. Call
first, why don't you? At least pretend to give a shit about my day, or my
mood, or that I might be beyond tired from three straight days of
twenty-hour shifts and not sleeping well the other four because this
murder was a seriously ugly one and a kid to boot, and that I might not
want to see you anywhere near my apartment until I can get my head
together a little. 

 Shyeah. Not likely. This is Vecchio we're talking about, after all.

 He knocks again--pounds, more like--and I know I'm gonna have to let him
in or risk another letter from my nutjob landlady. 

 "Shit, Vecchio, all right already. Try not to knock the damn door down,
my landlady's on my case enough as it is and I don't need you making more
trouble for me." 

 I twist open the top two locks, which is all I got to before the week
from hell caught up to me and I had to sit down on the chair in the hall
and just breathe for a minute, and put my hand out to open the door. But
Vecchio, goddamn him, doesn't give me the chance: he's got it open and is
through it before I can take more than a step away from him, and he knocks
me against the wall with an arm across my throat and his hips grinding up
against mine, kicking the door closed behind him with one booted foot as
he goes. Thank God for small mercies. Whatever we're about to do here, I
don't think I want the neighbors watching it.

 "Yeah, you do, Kowalski." I look a question at him, and he rolls his eyes
and bares his teeth at me. "You do need me making more trouble for you. Or
I need it, which is the same thing in my book. I have had a bad, bad
fucking day, and you are gonna take my mind off it. Make me feel good,
Kowalski. Now." 

 He doesn't even ask, and I swear that pisses me off almost as much as it
makes my cock, mindless traitor that it is, harden more by the second
under his hand, which is pressing and rubbing me roughly through my jeans.
The jeans are old and comfortable and usually loose, thank God, or the
friction of the denim against my cockhead would be making me climb the
walls by now. Instead it just burns a little, along with feeling so damn
good, and I love that lick of pain a lot more than I'd feel safe having
Vecchio know about.

 Shit. Shit. He got to me again. 

 Every time this happens I swear it's a one-off, a single-time thing, a
fucking mistake, and every time it happens I know I'm lying to myself. And
really, this is just exactly what I need tonight, is more proof I'm
desperate for it, for him: his manicured hands stripping my cock until I'm
leaking all over the place and seconds from coming, and then leaving me
right at the fucking edge; his fingers pinching my nipples and then his
mouth dipping down lightning-quick to bite them hard until I try to scream
and can't get the breath; his fingers again, shoving into me, two and then
three and then four. Sometimes that's about getting me open for him, and
every once in a while it's about hitting my prostate each time he pushes
his fingers deep inside, so that I come before I can even find the words
to ask him not to stop. Mostly it's about how fast he can get me to let
him in there, to stretch me and impale me and make me thrust myself onto
his fingers again and again, like it's not enough that he's the next best
thing to fisting me, he's gonna make me do all the work because I want it
so bad I can't stop myself. Mostly it's about him showing me, one more
time, that he owns my ass.

 I don't like Vecchio. I come pretty close to hating him, actually. But
that doesn't do a thing to stop me from wanting him to fuck me through the
floor, to push me way past what I think I can take, to make me beg him for
it - BEG him, which I hate but he makes me do, every goddamned time, with
his mouth and his fingers and his thick cock and the way he keeps me
hanging -- and then for him to give it to me and give it to me and give it
to me until I'm so far gone I can't even remember what it was like when he
wasn't sunk inches deep inside me, burning hot from the outside in, hips
jammed so tight against me I can't move unless he lets me. He does that to
me and I never want him to let me go, and I'm afraid he won't.

 When it comes down to it, that's exactly why I don't like him; that's it
right there. After all these years of undercover work, it's hard enough
for me to remember who I am at the best of times, hard for me to keep my
feet on the straight-arrow path I'm trying to walk. And these nights with
Vecchio knock my feet the fuck out from under me to the point that never
mind the path, I can't even see which way is up. I don't know who I am
when I'm with him. I only know my ass is his, and my cock, and my hands
and my mouth and my nipples and whatever else he wants from me, and
nothing matters but what we do to one another and how much I feel it the
next day in my aching muscles and the bruises just barely hidden by my
clothes.

 I just hope he sticks with my body, that's what I'm thinking now as I
sink to my knees in front of him under the insistent pressure of his hands
in my hair. Because Vecchio may look like a cop, but that's
window-dressing, it's habit. He's about nothing these days but sex and
power and getting what he wants - he's a black hole, a dark star - and if
one night he asks me for what's left of my soul, there's a good chance
I'll hand it to him, just like that, just so he'll fuck me one more time.

 And then I'll be lost for good. 1

  
  

End Lost by Queue 

Author and story notes above.  

Please post a comment on this story.