The Mercenary and the Prisoner
"I will ask you one final time. Who are you and why are you here?"
Renowned as a ruthless, sadistic killer over five continents, he suspected he must be scaring the prisoner to death. But such did not appear to be the case. The perfectly formed, sensual mouth remained obstinately shut, the piercing green eyes warred proudly and defiantly with his own. In other words the prisoner remained silent...
It was an interesting situation. This tousle-haired creature certainly didn't lack courage. The mercenary had been interrogating him for all of four minutes and hadn't yet made any progress. The man didn't even look scared of him.
The mercenary turned away, considering, pouting slightly in concentration, the harsh lines of his unbelievably handsome, expressionless face menacing in the dim light.
The usual two choices were open to him. Torture or persuasion? Which was it to be? There was normally more pleasure to be gained from torture, but in this case he wasn't sure.
He paced the tent for a minute or two, hoping to get the prisoner's nerves on edge, displaying his solid, if slightly overweight physique to its full advantage, then advanced on his charge again, who was standing leaning against a tent pole, one foot crossed neatly over the other, watching is captor unconcernedly.
The mercenary took up a position only inches from the prisoner's face, threatening him with his overpowering physical strength, and glared at the smaller man from underneath the thick curtain of his dark lashes, making sure the prisoner got the full benefit of the lecherous flash of his midnight blue eyes. If that didn't get to him nothing would, he thought smugly. It had never failed before. But he was peeved to discover it didn't work this time. The prisoner merely lifted is firm little chin and continued to stare right back at him.
Discomfited, the mercenary hitched his machine gun more securely to his shoulder in stunned and offended silence. My God, how could the little fool resist the air of menace the mercenary knew he possessed? To say nothing of his great beauty. No one ever had before.
God, but it was hot tonight. He wiped the heavy sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand with fastidious care, shaking the droplets from his wringing wet hand to the ground where they glittered for an instant on the parched earth before sizzling and evaporating in the broiling heat.
Bloody Africa! He was damned if he'd do another job here. Next time it'd be the Arctic, or no deal...
His nostrils flared appreciatively as the sweet, exotic scent of the prisoner wafted in his direction. It seemed to consist mainly of a mixture of a certain shampoo, the brand name of which escaped him for the moment, and vegetarian curry... and it was intoxicating... Yes, definitely persuasion rather than torture with this one. He'd enjoy taming this little wildcat.
He turned to his second in command, who was the only other occupant of the tent - a fifteen stone pugnacious little sod called Harry he'd once picked up on The old Kent Road. Well, as long as they were 'real men' and tough, he didn't much care what they looked like.... paratroopers and chunky marines were is favourites, but he wasn't choosy, and said arrogantly, "untie him and then get lost."
Harry did as he was told, eyes passing from one to the other suspiciously. He was jealous, but he was also loyal. That was the main reason the mercenary kept him on.
The prisoner flexed his wrists, grimacing just a little more than was necessary, as circulation returned to his cramped hands. A glint of silver at his wrist caught the mercenary's eye as it glittered in the fading light.
Very arty, he thought to himself optimistically, noticing the silver at the man's throat too. Wears jewellery, eh? Might be in with a chance here...
They were alone at last.
The mercenary moved quickly, catching hold of the slim wrist on the pretext of inspecting the bracelet, but really so he could test the feel of the longer, artistic-fingered hand in his own rather larger one. Very nice it felt too.
"Let go of me, you vicious, brutal bastard!" the prisoner cried, with typical over-reaction, pulling his hand away, "get your kicks from violence, do you?" eyes shooting angry green sparks at him.
How does he do that? the mercenary thought, amazed, watching the sparks dart to the ground and slowly disintegrate.
"Don't be so touchy," he countered mildly, raising an eyebrow disdainfully, black/blue eyes widening sexily (he liked his victims to show a bit of spirit), "only wanted to have a look at the bracelet. Worth anything, is it?" as he forced his hold on the reluctant hand again, studying the bracelet.
"Not much," the prisoner conceded moodily, "saw me comin'. Didn't find out till I got it home, it's only silver-plated. See... s'goin' black already... there...and there..."
There mercenary couldn't have cared less about that. The savage law of the jungle ruled his heart, and he had no sympathy for the man's gullibility. He dropped the wrist, losing interest, eyes lingering on the man's throat instead. It was not the silver chain resting there that fascinated him, so much as the fine tufts of downyish brown hair which the prisoner's partly unbuttoned shirt displayed.
Bet he wears his shirt open on purpose to show it off, the mercenary thought, filled with primeval jealousy, eyes narrowing suspiciously, trying not to think about his own smooth, hairless chest, well hidden now beneath his sweat stained battle fatigues.
His lack of chest hair was his biggest hang-up (well, one of them, but the others were unmentionable, even in the savage jungle). Ever since he realised he was never going to sprout any of his own, he'd had an obsession with men who possessed it in abundance, like this moody little tyke, with his thick, chestnut curls and his huge, angry green eyes.
But maddening as this latest prisoner was turning out to be, the mercenary realised he wanted him. In fact he was determined to have him before the night was out.
Trust, he thought cannily, that's what'll work with this one. The gentle approach...
He decided to change his tactics. Fixing the smaller man with his sexiest smile (the one that always worked on Harry) he put down his machine gun and the thirteen grenades which dangled from is ammunition belt, tossing casually one by one onto the floor in the corner of the tent, then sauntered over to the camp bed and sat down on it.
"Like a drink?" he invited casually, lounging back.
The green eyes flashed warily, but there were no sparks this time, and after a moment, the prisoner shrugged and moved to join him with feline grace.
"Scotch?" the mercenary enquired mildly, reaching for the bottle.
"I don't drink," the prisoner replied, lifting his chin, a definite glint of superiority shining in his eyes.
Oh God, the mercenary thought chastened.
"...but I'll have a coffee, that is if it's decaffeinated," the prisoner was saying, looking expectantly at the coffee pot simmering on the primus stove.
The mercenary hid his dismay. "Of course," he said, smiling sweetly, as he moved to the stove.
He took a swig of Scotch as he handed the can of coffee to the prisoner, returning to his side on the camp bed, leaning back, watching the smaller man from beneath hooded eyes, determined as ever, to give nothing of his true feelings away.
Two seconds later the prisoner had taken a generous mouthful of coffee and spat it straight out again onto the ground, almost choking. "It's got sugar in it!" he protested violently.
"So sorry, but you didn't say," the mercenary countered with precise politeness, "there's no coffee left in the pot I'm afraid, but I can boil some fresh water..."
The prisoner waved him back down again. "Never mind," he said, sulking, "tastes like dishwater anyway, and you lied. It's not decaffeinated! Probably be ill tomorrow. Years since I've had caffeine."
"Don't even know what the word means," the mercenary said, still in that tone of menacing sweetness, "and I didn't bring my dictionary with me."
He lounged back, allowing one extremely hot, damp, camouflaged leg to make casual contact with the prisoner's slim, yet well muscled thigh. Remembering the man's reaction when he'd grabbed hold of his hand, he tensed, half expecting an instant rebuttal of his subtle advance, and was surprised when the lean leg next to his suddenly reciprocated, pressing against his own rather more well-endowed thigh.
He pressed closer...
The shadows were lengthening outside the tent, as the evening drew on. The monotonous cacophony of the crickets had begun, mingled with the primitive insistent rhythm of the native tom tom drums in the distance, which heralded the start of the traditional Night of Rape and Pillage. (This took place regularly twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays - today being Friday.)
The atmosphere was tense and electric, the very air seeming to pulsate with the erotic lust everyone associates with African jungles.
As to the tension mounted the mercenary mentally tracked a trickle of sweat which was dribbling down his back, shivering as it reached the end of its journey and soaked into the waistband of his pants.
"God, but it's hot in here," the prisoner said suddenly, his voice husky, foot tapping unconsciously to the rhythm of drums, "mind if I take my shirt off?"
"Be my guest," the mercenary said, trying to hide the spark of unbridled lust which he knew had darkened his beautiful blue eyes to black.
The prisoner unselfconsciously unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it free of his tight jeans. He took it off and screwed it into a loose ball, wiping his damp chest with it. It was a deliberately provocative, erotic gesture. The mercenary felt primeval urges begin to move within him.
"Hairy little bugger, aren't you?" he commented enviously, mesmerised.
"Am I? Never really thought about it," the prisoner replied nonchalantly.
The mercenary didn't believe a word of it... nevertheless he knew it was time to make his move. He couldn't wait any longer. For one thing his leg was going to sleep and he needed some alternative form of physical contact. For another he could see the prisoner's whole body, not just his foot, was moving reflexively now to the pulsating rhythm of the tom tom drums.
"I want you," he said confidently, but still holding a part of himself back, ready for the rejection he always feared he'd get, but never had so far, "how about it?"
The prisoner showed no surprise, but the wary look was back in his eyes. "What do I get out of it?" he asked, green eyes flashing like jade in the fading light.
"How much do you want?" the mercenary asked, aggrieved, "contrary to popular belief, we mercenaries aren't rolling in it, you know."
"Not money, you primeval Neanderthal!" the green-eyed tempter retaliated, "if I let you have your wicked way with me do I get my freedom?"
"Maybe...maybe not..." the mercenary stalled cleverly, making the prisoner he wasn't as stupid as he sometimes appeared. Nevertheless, he was set at that precise moment wondering what a Neanderthal was, and wishing desperately that he had bought his Collins pocket dictionary with him.
"I'll have t think about it," he went on coolly, "depends how co-operative you are, and how I feel afterwards," as he curled a single, shining chestnut ringlet around his finger.
"That's not fair!" the prisoner protested.
"It's the only deal you're gonna get," the mercenary informed him in his toughest voice, tightening his hold on the wayward curl, pulling on it, bringing tears to the other man's eyes, who cried easily anyway, and hated to have either is hair or his leg pulled.
But seeing that the limpid pools of green were filling with moisture at his torture, a microcosm of tenderness filtered through the mercenary's unbelievably tough exterior. God, the green-eyed little devil was so appealing, perched there on the camp bed, curls bouncing, chest heaving, knees trembling to the rhythm of the drums.
Unable to resist any longer, the mercenary viciously stripped off his damp, jungle-stained uniform, practically tearing it apart with his bare hands in his eagerness.
He pounced on the smaller man, falling heavily on top of him, the camp bed creaking under their joint weight. Winded, the prisoner gasped in pain, and the mercenary considerately shifted position, allowing him to take a few hurried breaths of recovery before he resumed is onslaught, undoing the skintight jeans and sliding tem down the slim legs into a crumpled heap on the floor.
Their damp bodies met and locked together, thrashing wildly, as the rhythm of the distant tom toms quickened and intensified. The mercenary's hands slid over his prey everywhere and nowhere at the same time, moving moistly from one new, surprising and unexpected discovery to the next ...
Then madness overtook them both, the crickets and drums drowning their cries of ecstasy as they strove for sweaty completion.
"You never did tell me," the mercenary whispered softly, stroking the damp, chestnut curls.
"Who you are and why you are here," the mercenary asked languorously, breathing heavily down one exquisite ear.
"Never give up, do you?" the prisoner sighed, disgruntled.
"Never. Last night should have been proof of that," the mercenary said slyly, getting a final dig in.
"Do you have to be so unkind?" the prisoner protested, trying unsuccessfully to break free of the mercenary's vise-like grip, "why'd you have to mention that?"
"Just to prove the point..." the mercenary informed him lazily, "now..." as is fingers tickled obsessively over the matted chest hair, which he had systematically twirled into several little upright peaks during the course of the torrid lovemaking, "who are you and why are you here?"
The perfectly formed, sensual mouth remained obstinately shut, the piercing green eyes warred proudly and defiantly with his own. In other words the prisoner remained silent...
God, not again, the mercenary thought despairingly, don't think I can stand it...
-- THE END --