The Professionals Circuit Archive - Deadly Nightshade       Deadly
Nightshade

 

by Gloria Lancaster

  
 *A "Professionals" fantasy*

It caught at his guts like a hunger, like the desperate hunger of a junkie
for his fix. Each time he'd give in, telling himself this was the last
time, knowing it was not even as he said so, as he promised anything to a
God he only believed in when he wanted something--he'd reform, he'd join
Amnesty International (the things he could tell them). But God never
answered in any case, or if He did it was just to make the hunger worse
than before.

He was watched sometimes too, by eyes that saw too much and knew too much
and he feared that knowledge more than any God. For he was a strong man,
mentally and physically, capable of great endurance and resistance. So his
surrender, when it came, was a terrible thing.

Sometimes he would read a newspaper account of some dreary little suburban
Ripper, who "had seemed such a nice man" but had turned out to have
sixteen dismembered corpses in plastic bags under the stairs. The murderer
had confessed easily, claiming he couldn't help himself, the craving was
too strong. He knew how that felt, he couldn't help himself either. It
sickened him, tore his soul to shreds with what he was, what he wanted.
But the hunger remained.

He could tell when it was beginning. A faint stirring of interest, often
no more than a "what if?". The rich and welcoming sound of a man's
laughter somewhere in the far corners of a pub, the sight of a hard fine
body swinging down the escalators at Tottenham Court Road, or sometimes,
all it took was a turn of the head, to look at the man who stood beside
him, to see himself reflected in the wide, all-seeing blue.

And he would try, oh how he tried, to assuage the demon. He would train
harder, drive for hours, try to loose himself in his work. But the lion
growled round in the dark that ringed the campfire and it did not go away
no matter what he did, only grew hungrier as the night grew darker, and
demanded blood with an appetite that would not, ever, be denied.

It was tonight, the fever had pitched here and now, eight o'clock, a damp
evening in late May and if he didn't do it, right now, he would burst into
flames.

He dressed with discreet care. He drove into the City, its empty serenity
unexpected and beautiful. The majesties of St Mary Axe, Leadenhall and
Lombardy, temples built to that great God Mammon in the days of Empire and
Conquest, withdrawn and magnificent in the grey town dusk. He drove on
towards the lights on the Embankment, busy with crowds of people out to
dinner or just gawking at the floodlit bulk of the riverside Ministries.

He swung the car up into the Strand, down and round Nelson then through a
maze of rat run one-ways to a multi-storey car park that he knew and had
used before. He walked briskly and doubled back twice out of sheer habit
to make sure he wasn't being followed.

He felt jumpy. He'd not done this for a while and saw shapes in every
doorway, betrayal in every shadow. Suicide, to do this here, on his own
doorstep. Take some leave, you cock led cunt, slip off to Copenhagen, even
Amsterdam, somewhere you could get away with it: not here, open to every
glance, every encounter. A career in ruins, life in shreds, honour gone.
Bodie would kill him--he bit the inside of his mouth so hard it bled. He
would not think about that. He would do anything else, but he would not
think about that.

He reached a doorway, unmarked by neon or any sign. The only clue was a
small notice above the intercom--"Sonnez". So he did and at once the
intercom cleared it's electronic throat.

"Yes," inquired a distant voice. He said the open sesame formula and the
door emitted a low buzz and he shouldered his way inside.

His money and overcoat were taken from him with tender concern. The man at
the desk knew him from previous visits but gave no sign of recognition.
The steps that led down to the club were thickly carpeted and very steep.
He descended carefully then paused in the doorway at the bottom to let his
eyes get accustomed to the darkness. He smelled amyl nitrate and Paco
Rabane in about equal measure.

The floor show was in progress, athletic and uncomfortable looking
positions that showed of the attributes of the "dancers". He crossed to
the bar and ordered a beer. He looked around. Busy as always: men looking
or being looked at, familiar hunger reflected on all their faces. He felt
his own stomach twitch with it, an acute bodily need, as if for air or
light, nothing so facile as just 'sex'. He turned to the bar again and
studied his overpriced beer as if it were the most interesting thing he'd
ever seen.

Peripherally he was aware of a body approaching and standing beside him.
The body stood close enough not to be misunderstood. Ray froze, feeling it
begin, feeling it uncoil within his guts. He kept his eyes downwards on
the beer, he must wait to be spoken to as was only proper.

"Hello," the man said and Ray turned to look at him and saw the face he
did not dare imagine even in his dreams.

Ray just stared, feeling a passion fill him like lightening. His throat
grew tight with hatred, fierce disgust and longing. As swiftly, the
lightening faded and he was calm again and ready for the ending of his
world. He had a brief flash of images: the resignation thrown on the desk,
Cowley baffled and hurt, Ray proud and defiant; Le Beau Geste.

He tried to be glad the pretending was over. But he would have given
anything if it had been anyone but Bodie to expose him. That--hurt.

Seconds passed like centuries and Ray waited, knowing the storm was coming
closer, he could almost hear the thunder in the air around him. But Bodie
just looked at him, at him and then through him. He smiled, a smile kind
and cruel all at once, a smile of knowledge, or power.

Bodie motioned and led the way over to a table and pulled Ray's chair back
for him with unstudied and out of place politeness.

"What are you going to do?" Ray asked at last, after taking a much needed
drink.

Bodie smiled and with slow strength reached out to take him by the back of
the neck and to hold him, so. "Don't you know?" he replied.

Ray's skin seethed then settled into a deep cold. Bodie wanted to play did
he, get his moneys worth before he shopped him? Ray half wished he had
taken that step, long ago now, when he had guessed Bodie would not
be--averse--to a turn around the dance floor with another man. When he had
stood half a chance.

"You're going to tell, then probably leave me alone with a loaded revolver
and the 'you know what to do old man for the sake of the regiment'
routine. Aren't you, sergeant?" The last word was loaded with many things.
Bodie's arm moved down around his shoulders and his hand touched Ray's
cheek gently then withdrew.

"I have what you need. I think you have what I need," his voice soft and
warm, tinged with his faintest most attractive accent. It's music had been
sweet to Ray before.

Ray sat stiffly upright on his chair, frozen through and did not try to
keep the scorn from his face.

"Yesterday, when that thug went for you Ray, who was there to stop him?
Who saved you then, who always saves you? Who catches you when you fall?"

Ray knew more than just one moment rested on this now, he could almost
feel his whole life turn around him: a crossroads, and later you look back
and say, then, if only I had done it, then it would all have been so
different, then I would have....

Bodie's arm came around his waist and Ray could not help but notice it's
strength, it's warm power. Hell, but heaven too. He should resist, shrug
away, but his skin was not fooled and his skin ached for this touch,
yearned for it. He must have it, just once maybe, but he would have
it--and cart ropes wouldn't hold him.

The hand crept to the back of his neck again and tugged him forward just a
little, just enough. Lips touched his lips, lips that were warm and
promising, and he gave eager, ready kisses.

"I have a place for you. Your car?"

"Parked nearby sir, shall I follow you?" He'd said it. The word that
locked him into his role, the mask assumed or maybe, just maybe, the mask
finally laid aside. He'd said it. To Bodie. Of all people.

His mouth felt ravished at shaping the sound. He shivered and his stomach
shifted as if he'd just eaten something sour. He'd said it. And meant it.

Bodie stood and Ray allowed himself to notice how tall and fine he looked.
Bodie tended Ray out of the club, standing aside for Ray to proceed him up
the steps, retrieved and held his coat for him, opened the door and then
walked by his side along the gutter, all as if Ray were some lady he was
escorting. Silly, yet oddly reassuring and deeply exciting. It made Ray
feel small, treasured somehow, dependent upon Bodie and his power.

Bodie's car waited for him at the exit of the multi-storey. He saw Bodie
lift a hand in a commanding gesture, then the powerful car swung away
through the traffic.

He followed it easily. They took the Tower Bridge route, romantic in this
twilight with the bulk of HMS Belfast on their right, out across the River
then all the left turns down into Kent, onwards, into the night.

His hand drifted to the cloth of his trousers, then upwards to touch his
own nipples. His body hummed sweetly.

In sheer self defence he switched on the radio, listened to the news, then
drifted to some cassette recordings he kept. Bodie took the turning he had
half expected. They had been here before, briefly.

Bodie had a girlfriend with him that day and Ray had dropped them off at
the cottage. He'd not liked that girlfriend, a fake-auburn headed bint
with one eye bigger than the other and a remarkable bosom. Bodie was a
simple soul really; animal, vegetable or mineral, he liked something to
grab on to.

So no change there then.

Expensive country this--Bodie has some very shady funds tucked away
somewhere, he knew. The house was solitary, small and obviously old. Ray
parked and got out of the car and waited.

The smells of the night garden were all around him, old English scents,
dew and herbs and dark growing things. He breathed deeply, chilled by the
coolness and expelled the London smoke. He felt cleansed, calmed by the
scents. Bodie--now the Master--approached and stood looking at him
appraisingly.

"Did you touch yourself?" he asked with faint humour.

"I stroked myself sir, and touched my nipples but that was all." Ray
replied promptly and truthfully.

The Master took the honesty and led the way. At the front door he got out
his key. Ray watched the hand slide inside the cloth of his jacket, the
pull of the fabric across his chest. Ray licked his lips.

"This is our barrier," the Master said simply, slipping the key into the
lock, and Ray understood at once and spoke his limits.

"That is acceptable. Very well, come in," and he waved the way. Ray paused
as the door was locked and bolted behind them and lamps were lit. A
beautiful room, tasteful and expensively furnished, over-warm from the
central heating. He noticed a solitary vase filled with waxy green leaves
and white flowering things like lilies, heavy and potent in their purity.

"What are they?" he asked, wanting to fill the silence, nervous and
skittish all at once.

"Quick and raving death," the Master explained very seriously.
"Belladonna." He was standing behind Ray now and Ray could feel the cool
rush of breath upon his neck. He shivered, from fear and from other
things.

"Someone walked over your grave?" a soft voice asked then the Master
walked over to the promising door. Ray did not reply, dumb, his eyes
speaking for him, and the Master understood.

The cellar then, warm and dark and welcoming as the womb. The hunger was a
banshee wail in him now, howling through his mind and body like an arctic
wind; a kiss scorched through the ice and before the laser touch, Ray
melted at once, into blood and tears, into an exquisite possession and
fullness; he gorged himself on this feast, wept and cried out and at last
was freed from his hunger.

It grew around him, he felt himself hollow with lightness, his blood no
more than air, no more than water, so thin the inner fire burned through.
What they had been dissolved, disappeared only to reform as something new,
only Ray and his Master remained, the Master he had always wanted, always
dreaded.

Skilled too this Master, with a wonderful, evil skill that tore screams
from Ray's soul even as he succumbed. Bonds, tight enough to mark but not
break his skin. The lash, thin leather with a wicked flex, was applied
superbly in a rain of criss-cross blows delivered with care, with
judgment. Another kiss then, reward when his cum flowed from nothing more
than the touch of the lash.

His mouth was commanded open, his very sobs taken from him as he was
touched at last, touched intimately by his Master, petted and praised,
finally loved; the love he had longed for from the first stroke, the love
he had earned, the love he now deserved.

Ray was released and allowed to rest a little, tumbled and breathless upon
the floor at his Master's feet. His hands stroked his own arse and he
thrilled again at the memory of that lovely hot stroke of leather.

Gentle and implacable, he was raised up. He moved at once to his Master
and begged to be allowed to stay upon his knees, to worship his Master's
cock with his mouth. An impersonal touch brushed away the tears that
clogged his eyelashes and with patient sufferance he was allowed to touch,
to lick and suck. Only once did his Master have to instruct him, even that
one comment caused shame--this was his gift and his reward, surely his
gratitude should give him skill. His Master should never have to ask for
anything. He would give all, everything he had, the best he had. His
Master was tolerant and accepting, but Ray knew it was not enough, never
could be.

He felt a glory in his life. Torn by shame for too long, the black
absolution of this womb like cellar poured sweet balm into his wounds. His
Master spoke again, demanding a graceful and delicate response and Ray
served joyfully, with humble pride. His efforts were accepted with patient
consideration. Another command was given, darker, lit with sombre power
yet Ray offered it as gladly, as eagerly. He was allowed to drink from his
Master's body and he exulted.

The Master burned with pleasure at this possession. He had guessed almost
at once just what this one would need. He had seen that hunger before, on
other faces, but never as beautiful as now. The weight of such a
possession was no burden, not to one as strong as he.

The Master grew tender towards the end and carried Ray at last and let Ray
kiss him before he allowed him to sleep. A long and lovely night; when the
future intruded, they would find a path through it and the path would lead
back here, back to the welcoming dark.

Neither spoke. Words were unnecessary, indeed for Ray, they were
forbidden. Their lives outside the dark were governed by other rules and
their inner bonding was only hinted at by their deeper rapport, their
subtle understanding. Discretion was more than a second nature to such as
they.

The rules gave Ray a structure, a welcome security he had not known
before. Sometimes, afterwards, he would beg for permission to speak and
sometimes, afterwards, it would be granted. He felt soft then, newly
emerged from the fire and the dark and he tried to put this into words,
haltingly. The Master was always so patient with him at these times, like
an indulgent parent with a wayward but beloved child. But the Master knew
that words were useless after all, what lay between them was, by its very
nature, silent.

Once, something dreadful happened. A shadow that claimed to be reality
returned to cloud him and Ray left the dark fire behind, to seek a
different life.

Had he loved her, the Master asked later, Ann, so fair and clean?

Ray cried his misery and repentance into the dark cellar. His punishment
was very severe and he was not allowed to serve in any but the most basic
ways and his Master's cum was withheld from him for many days. But it was
no less than he deserved, he screamed, no less than he deserved.

The Master forgave him at last, and Ray rejoiced. He had learned his
lesson, he promised fervently, he had learned it very well--his Master
indulged him sometimes but the hand that held him, so, was one of iron,
and he would not forget.

-- THE END --

*Originally published in *Red Roses 1: Because Roses Have Thorns*, Red
Rose Press, 1994*

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