The Professionals Circuit Archive - Getting Right Down to It	    
Getting Right Down to It

 

by Shoshanna

  
 *With help from Jed.

Written for a theme zine in which every story had to include the phrase
"right down to the belt." 
 With fond apologies to Fanny Adams, Jane of Australia, Lily, and all
other writers of pagan-magical B/D...including myself.*

******

"Um...you sure about this?" Bodie was not used to feeling ill-at-ease, and
regarded his partner, the cause of his discomfort, with wariness.

Doyle, busily hauling items of an astonishing variety from loaded shopping
bags to dump them haphazardly on Bodie's coffee table, scarcely looked up.
"Course I'm sure. Keep telling you I'm a witch, don't I? An' you know
witches have powers. 'S what makes us witches. An' you want this as much
as I do, right? Well, then!" He flourished something in his right hand;
peering cautiously, Bodie identified it as a bottle of Scotch. Things were
looking up.

And right down again, as the whiskey was followed by an unmarked pint jar
of something red and viscous. Bodie gulped and vowed not to ask after the
stray cat Doyle had been feeding. Doyle opened the jar, dipped a finger in
and licked it clean. "Mmm. Right down to the wire, but it's not gone sour
yet. Here," and he dipped the finger again and offered it to Bodie.

Commanding his belt to hold his stomach down, Bodie sucked it in.

Raspberry puree.

By now, Doyle had finished emptying the bags he had brought, leaving them
crumpled on the floor and Bodie's living room littered with, among other
things, candles, jars of liquid, bottles of liquid (Bodie quite liked the
look of some of them) and, of all things, a brazier. One of the
unidentifiables turned out to be a stick of incense, which Doyle lit
before turning to his partner.

"Okay. Strip."

"What, right down?" Bodie reflexively checked that the shades were drawn.

"Nah, to the belt." Doyle grinned sideways. "The rest comes later."

Bodie began unbuttoning his shirt. "Um... look, Doyle--I mean, I've got
nothing against a bit of kinky sex and all that, but are you sure...?"

Slender fingers pushed his own aside. "Look, Bodie," Doyle said, working
much faster that Bodie had been, "you wanna make sure we stay together,
right? That one of us doesn't go down, an' leave the other one alone,
alive? Well, I can do it. I can tie us together, make sure it doesn't
happen."

"So can I," muttered Bodie, who had known for almost a year what he would
do in such a case. Doyle had pulled his partner's shirt off and was making
quick work of his own. "But I didn't expect some kind of religious rite.
You sure you got this down?"

Green eyes glared at him. "I've never done it before, if that's what you
mean. But yes, I've 'got it down.' All right?"

"Can I have a drink?" Bodie asked meekly, then cut his eyes toward the
scotch when Doyle didn't immediately catch on.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Go ahead," he added when Bodie hesitated in reaching for
the bottle. While his partner drank, Doyle busied himself lighting the
candles; their sweet smell mingled with the clove-like scent of the
incense. "Just a few more things to do--" he was across the room, turning
off the lights, until the candles and the evening twilight through the
shades were the only source of light in the room-- "and then we'll be
ready--" a handful of something that glinted silver was carefully arranged
on the carpet in no pattern Bodie could discern-- "to begin."

"What shall I do?" asked Bodie, who was feeling much better for having
downed a good belt.

"Get down. Right." Doyle pulled his partner until they sat cross-legged on
the carpet, facing each other. He reached up to the table for the jar of
berry juice and set it beside them.

"We have to mark each other as ours," he explained. "Use the juice and a
finger; draw something on me. Something that has meaning to you, something
that will make me yours. I'll do the same to you."

"Draw?" echoed Bodie, confused and somewhat embarrassed. "You're the one
who went to art school, mate."

"Then write something." Doyle was already dipping his right forefinger in
the jar, considering Bodie's chest for all the world like da Vinci sizing
up a new canvas. At least, Bodie hoped that that was the right metaphor.
He wasn't ready for Picasso.

"What?"

"Anything that has meaning for you. Write down to the belt; cover my chest
and both arms. We'll take turns on the backs." Bodie abruptly discovered
that the juice was cold, as Doyle's finger swept across him from nipple to
puckering nipple.

All right. He thought a moment, resolutely not wondering what the bizarre
design taking shape on his chest was meant to be, and dipped a finger in
the jar. Carefully, as Doyle held his left arm out and steady for him, he
wrote his name--his full name--from shoulder to wrist. Turning the
proffered arm slightly, he rewet his finger and wrote "Raymond Doyle"
along its underside. Then he wrote his initials on the back of Ray's hand,
and Ray's on top of them. More juice went to inscribe the word "Bodie"
arching from nipple to nipple, his finger tangling in crinkly chest hair.

He was enjoying himself. He tattooed Doyle from collarbone to navel with
their names, belted him round about with "William Raymond Andrew Doyle
Philip Bodie Bodie Bodie," and managed to think only occasionally of the
bright red berry pulp from Doyle's own efforts dripping onto the waistband
of his slacks. And his carpet.

Doyle, having accidentally smeared a design on Bodie's cheek, leaned
forward to lick off the offending smudge. Bodie adroitly turned his head,
and the ceremony entered a new phase as their mouths met. Doyle tasted of
raspberries, and every time Bodie touched him he blurred their names
together. He liked the symbolism of that.

"Okay," Doyle said, breathless, after some time of kissing. "Let's get
down to the rite."

"You mean we haven't started yet?"

"Not quite." Doyle gave a lewd grin, and Bodie found a raspberry handprint
on the crotch of his trousers. He'd never be able to face his dry cleaner.
"Lie down. Right," and Doyle pulled Bodie on top of him, full length on
the carpet.

Bodie began licking his way down Doyle's chest, tasting sweat and
raspberries, nuzzling at the hair that twisted around his tongue. So soft,
he thought, and silky...like down, right to the belt...

He was pulled around, head to toe with his partner; fingers were at his
waistband, and he set himself to Doyle's, worrying at it with lips and
teeth and the hand that wasn't teasing the other man's nipples. "Ray," he
mumbled, then let the buckle out of his mouth and tried again. "Ray, we've
done this plenty of times. Not that I don't like it, but what makes it
special this time? Where's the magic?"

"You're downright suspicious, mate," Doyle responded absently, prodding
with interest at the partially freed swelling before him. "Shh. Let's get
down to it."

"Down to what?"

"Belt up, Bodie."

Abashed and somewhat hurt, Bodie obediently pulled away and began
rebuckling himself. Doyle shoved his hands aside. "No, you idiot. Belt up,
trousers down." Bodie was about to protest the practical impossibility of
this when speech became impossible as his cock was sucked into warm, wet
heaven. He bucked and grabbed at Doyle's buttocks, pressing his face into
his lover's crotch.

"Downright evil, you are," he managed to gasp after a moment.

"No way. Strictly white witchcraft here." Doyle let go for a moment, and
then Bodie discovered what one of the other mysterious jars contained, as
an oiled finger slipped into his ass. He trembled helplessly and moaned.

Then the hands and mouth drew away, and after a moment the white light
faded from behind his eyelids. "Down, boy." Doyle's voice held amusement.
"If we're gonna get right down to it, seems to me this rite needs some
other things taken down--like my pants, right?" Teeth nipped lightly at
Bodie's testicles. "Take the hint, partner."

Nothing loath, Bodie pulled trousers and belt right down and away, lifted
underpants and slid them aside, and drew a swath of berry juice the length
of Doyle's erection, and then promptly licked it off. Doyle's sharp
indrawn breath was quite satisfactory.

Mouth to cock and cock to mouth they lay, sucking greedily at each other;
unable to reach the jar of oil Bodie found that raspberry puree made a
perfectly acceptable substitute, and he finger-fucked Doyle until his
hands began to tremble with the onslaught of orgasm. Doyle's finger drove
right up inside him; his other arm belted Bodie's waist and Bodie
stiffened and came, mouth opening in a great cry that almost lost him
Doyle's first hot pulse; then he swallowed the spurting cock again and
nursed at it through the spasms that racked them both.

Eventually, the knotted muscles in his legs relaxed, and he let Doyle's
limp cock fall from his mouth. Doyle's heaving breath blew across his
stomach, and they were both sticky with illegible raspberry hieroglyphs.

"Is that it, then?" he murmured. "Are we linked?"

Doyle began to tremble. Alarmed, Bodie sat up and looked at him, then
realized with dawning apprehension that Doyle was laughing. Muffled at
first, one hand over his mouth; the chuckling leaked out, growing louder
and louder until he was helpless with mirth, curled on the floor clutching
his stomach and choking on the hysterics. Tears leaked from his eyes, and
Bodie stared at him malevolently.

"Christ, Bodie," he managed eventually, and almost cracked up again.
"Christ, you'll believe anything, won't you?" Correctly reading Bodie's
expression as an intent to do murder, he scrambled to his knees,
red-splotched arms extended in defense. Trying vainly to stifle the
giggles that still burst from him, he hurriedly went on, "No, really,
Bodie, I didn't mean any harm, I just--would you believe I'm kinky for
raspberries? No, but--I wanted to--it was the drawing on you, and you
writing on me, and--" He wiped the tears from his eyes, leaving a red
trail that made it look as though he were weeping blood. Bodie approved
the image.

"Bodie, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make fun of you--at least, not all
the time--and... well, I wanted to do it. This. All this. I didn't think
you'd let me, otherwise." Panting, he lowered his hands and watched
Bodie's face.

Bodie had by now decided that murder was too good for him. Doyle would
pay, he'd see to that. But for now, with his own image in tatters, Bodie
had only one thing left to do. And with all the self-composure he could
muster, Bodie did it.

Quite calmly, and with a grand disregard for the carpet, Bodie lifted the
jar of raspberry puree and upended it over his partner's head, drenching
him in a bright red, sticky deluge. Right down to his feet.

-- THE END --

*1990*

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