Bodie opened his eyes slowly. His black lashes were spiked with the night's liquids. He stared at the white ceiling for a while. There were cracks in the paint. Fragmented dark lines running in all directions. There was no pattern that he could recognise. He slowly turned his head towards the windows. The heavy curtains blocked almost all the light, but a little was filtering through. The pale, ghostly luminescence that indicates the hours of dawn.
The silence outside was deafening.
Bodie's hair was sticky and plastered to his skull. The pillow smelt unpleasant, and his nostrils sent him the smell of sweat, strong and acrid.
He sighed, then moved slowly, putting his feet on the floor, reaching a sitting position on his side of the bed. He turned to cast a quick glance at the still form lying motionless near him.
Shit, his head was dizzy. Bodie got up, stifling a groan of pain. He moved stiffly around the bed, stopping to lean heavily on the wall.
He was sore. He looked back at the bed....
"Ray, it hurts."
"C'mon, Bodie. Guess."
He was lying on his belly, arms stretched upwards and wrists handcuffed to the metal bedpost. Doyle was kneeling between Bodie's parted legs. Bodie said something, but the words were muffled by the pillow crushed against his mouth. His teeth were clenched tightly on the soft cotton fabric. The fabric was drenched; he was salivating a lot. The taste of the fabric was sweet and slightly alcoholic. Or maybe that was the aftertaste in Bodie's mouth.
"Try again." Doyle's breath was ragged.
"Four..." Bodie said tentatively through his teeth. A little louder, this time.
"Good lad." Doyle's voice smiled his approval. Bodie could feel the heat of Doyle's eyes fixed on his back. Bodie could feel the heat of Doyle's body very close: sense how the man was sitting on his heels, his bony knees touching the inside of Bodie's thighs.
Keeping them well apart.
Doyle put his left hand on Bodie's left buttock. All the muscles on Bodie's back rippled convulsively.
"Keep still, sunshine. This is going to hurt," Doyle whispered fiercely, then he pushed his thumb inside Bodie's arsehole, sliding it near his other fingers, stretching the skin even wider. Bodie could hear nothing over the roaring of his own blood; he could only feel the burning, compulsive heat of his own tender flesh, dark red blood pulsing against Doyle's fingers through the thin veil of Bodie's skin.
Bodie bit the pillow in silence.
"Good...good," Doyle whispered to himself. "Can you feel it? Can you feel my fist?"
Bodie was stretched on the bed, like an arrow pointing against the wall. Still and passive, held by the handcuffs around his wrists. Still and passive, except for the white knuckles, the closed, trembling fists.
Doyle pressed his left hand on the soft flesh of Bodie's back, following the sweet, tempting curve. "You look good, mate. Damn good." Doyle's hand traced lazy circles on the arse clenched tight around his fist. "What do you feel?" he asked. "Tell me." He was panting softly, gently. Bodie could feel Doyle's cock, trembling twice, convulsively; a minimal, damp contact with the skin of his inner thigh. Bodie could feel it as it trembled and ached, in between them. Hard and needing.
"Tell me," Doyle repeated.
"I feel...full." Bodie's words came, in a low tone.
"Ah...." Doyle breathed in, sharply. "Full...yeah, you're pretty full, Bodie. You've got my fist up your arse. Is that full enough for you? Is it?"
Bodie tensed. He could almost imagine Doyle's gaze, studying him intently; and as he closed his eyes, Bodie could clearly see in his mind Doyle's right forearm, following the line of muscle under the tanned skin, the sinewy form tapering into the slender wrist, the wider palm, swallowed inside his own body. He was soft and warm, inside, now. Not like at the beginning....
...Bodie detached himself from the wall, and staggered, losing his balance. He avoided tumbling onto the floor, but his foot slid on something cold. Stumbling, he reached the door and grabbed the wooden frame for help. He managed to stand up again, and propped his head on the wooden surface. Sweat trickled down his temples and between his shoulder blades. He lowered his eyes to the object on the floor.
He remembered throwing them away, late in the night.
He headed to the bathroom, thirsty. The water tap screeched loudly when he turned it.
Doyle'd never got around to fixing it.
The water was almost painful in his throat, it was so dry. His lips were dry too. He licked them twice, pulling them together tightly. His eyes wandered around and he looked in the mirror. Dark blue eyes stared back at him for a while. A faraway engine roared in the distance. The city was waking up to a brand new day. Exactly like the previous one.
No, not exactly.
Bodie surveyed his body. He turned his wrists at face level, slowly turning them backward and forward. The swelling red marks would go away eventually. And so would the black-blue bruises. His chest was smooth, his belly soft. He twisted around to see his back. The bite marks on the back of his thighs were livid, the prints of Doyle's teeth sunk deep in his white flesh. There were lots of them. Bodie moved to the bog. He needed to pee; instead he found himself kneeling in front of the bog, his arms on either side of the white ceramic, retching endlessly.
Just how much did they have to drink last night?
He padded to the kitchen, leaving behind the stench of the bathroom. He didn't bother to pull the chain. He went directly to the fridge, opened it and pulled the ice tray out. He walked to the table, leaving the fridge door open. The bottles of scotch were scattered on the table, the bottles of beer on the floor near the sofa. A couple had rolled against the wall. There was a sickly looking slice of pizza left over on the table. Bodie couldn't remember the taste of it. He dismissed the mess and his fingers fumbled to take the ice cubes out of their container. Lumpish, he dropped both container and ice cubes on the floor. He stared at them, then bent down gradually to pick them up. The harsh pain stabbed viciously through his spine like a lightning bolt, from the small of his back to his neck and brain. He fell on his knees, the loud thump the only sound in the apartment. His hands searched blindly for a handful of ice cubes, then he sprawled on the floor and turned to lie on his left side. His naked body trembled; the floor was cold and hard. His hands clumsily applied the cubes onto the cleft of his arse. His right knee bent upward, and he pushed the ice as far into the hurting crevice as he could. His hand kept still, the ice slowly melting, dripping a cold path on his inner thighs....
..."I'm going to fuck you, Bodie." Doyle's breath in his ear was ticklish against the warm wetness of sweating.
Bodie was sweating all over.
Doyle's curls lingered a bit on the skin of Bodie's cheek. Then he was gone, again hidden from Bodie's sight, again positioned in between his legs.
"What d'you think, good idea, is it?" Doyle murmured against Bodie's back, his hands lazy on the broad shoulders. Doyle's fingertips indulged in a firm massage of the bunched muscles. Bodie twisted his wrists again, constricted by handcuffs. Again and again.
"Oh, Ray, c'mon..." he tried.
"You sound pleading. So desperate for it, then? Who would have thought?" Doyle chuckled softly, all intent on the vision of the powerful male body impotent on the bed.
"Yeah, yeah." Doyle went on all fours, palms and knees on either side of Bodie. Bodie's body stiffened. Doyle tongued him all along his spine, starting from the small of his back up to his shoulders, again and again.
Doyle's tongue was wet and hot. He licked him conscientiously, not missing a single inch of his skin.
"You taste so good. So good, Bodie," Doyle murmured, his lips soft on the curve of Bodie's arse. He sat back, his fingers grabbing Bodie's hips firmly and pulling him upwards.
"Lift it up for me, mate. Arse up, c'mon." His grip was already leaving signs on Bodie's skin, the blood fleeing from the pressure, probably leaving white marks around Doyle's fingers. Bodie obeyed. Doyle bent forward, tasting the blood on Bodie's arsehole, the raw, abused skin under his tongue. He lapped him thoroughly. Then he straightened on his knees, positioned the head of his cock and plunged inside in one forceful thrust. Bodie's yell was barely muffled by the pillow.
Doyle flashed his right hand forward and curled his long steely fingers around Bodie's neck, pushing his head down, keeping it still on the pillow.
"Hush. You'll wake the neighbours."
Bodie stayed still.
Doyle rested his weight on Bodie's thighs. He moved from side to side, adjusting. Bodie groaned.
"Want it, don't you? Oh, Bodie, you look wonderful. You should see it, my cock's so dark against your white arse...." Doyle pulled his cock free and plunged back inside in one smooth motion.
"You are a fine piece of machinery. But we don't need lubrication, do we?" He breathed softly, fascinated. Bodie's skin stretched more and more to accommodate Doyle's cock. Bodie felt a trickle of liquid--blood--sliding around Doyle's cock and disappearing beyond his balls, crushed against Bodie's.
"I'll make it better. You feel it, don't you? How could you not? You've got my cock shoved up your arse, Bodie. Got your arse full of me cock. Bet you like it. Bet you'd like any cock up your arse, wouldn't you? Might ask Murphy around and have a go at it, why not? You've seen him. He's got a cock like a horse's, huge and dark...you'd like it, I know you would, you'd open your legs like a cunt, just to have it up your arse...." Doyle was flying high on his own words, each word singled out and underlined by a powerful thrust, his cock driven and rammed in Bodie's arse faster and faster. His heart pumping madly as he was pumping madly inside Bodie, Doyle came with a strangled cry, grinding his teeth, spurting inside Bodie. Then he collapsed breathless at Bodie's side. His semen trickled slowly along Bodie's thighs, covering the same dark path of the blood.
"Ray? Free me, now?"
Doyle turned his head and looked at Bodie. They were stretched side by side, Doyle on his back, limp and satiated, Bodie on his belly. Bodie wriggled his fingers forcefully, driving Doyle's eyes to the handcuffs.
"Sure, sunshine." He smiled, his hand fumbling inside the first drawer of the bed nightstand, searching for the keys....
...Bodie came back.
Disoriented, he looked around himself. He was lying on Doyle's kitchen floor. He'd fainted. His eyes widened in recall, his sharp intake of breath loud in the room.
The light was stronger now, the kitchen's windows barely covered by the small, cheap curtains. The light filtered through, caught in the brownish glass of the bottles scattered around. More cars were passing outside, the traffic coming back to life, frantic ants back to work another day. Bodie struggled to his feet, holding onto the table. For a while, he stood still. A loud horn resonated outside and Bodie closed his eyes, lips drawn in a thin line. He moved, his feet heavy on the floor, walking back to the bedroom. His clothes were there.
Doyle was there.
He entered the silent bedroom. Here the curtains were heavier than the ones in the kitchen, still effectively blocking most of the day's light. Bodie moved around with the ease of knowledge and familiarity.
He went to collect his clothes from the floor. Grabbing his trousers, he had to disentangle his briefs from inside them.
He turned to consider Doyle's chest of drawers, walked towards them and opened one. Socks, T-shirts, underpants, all fresh and smooth. His fingers lingered on them. Then he bent to put on his own clothing, dirty from yesterday's long, tiring working hours. Another day spent cleaning the streets of the rubbish. Dirtying themselves in the process. He turned around and faced the bed.
Doyle's form was abandoned on the very edge of his side of the bed, one arm thrown aside, the hand dangling to the floor.
Bodie went to sit at the foot of the bed, not quite touching Doyle's feet.
The mattress sagged under his weight....
..."Here's the key," Doyle said.
His movements were slow, drowsy. He knelt near Bodie's head, on the pillows, and reached for the bedpost. He didn't need to turn on the light on the bedstand. He followed Bodie's forearm with his fingers until he reached his hands. The air in the room was still and heavy, flavoured with their smells, sweat and semen and tiredness.
He neatly inserted the small key in the dark keyhole at the full depth, turning it inside twice, activating the mechanism until a soft click was heard.
Easy when you know how.
Doyle opened the steel bracelets and freed Bodie's wrists, dropping the handcuffs on the pillows. They slipped down along the battered cotton, resting beside Bodie's dark head.
"Want to keep them?" he asked Bodie, with a small smile.
Bodie had turned on his back and was sitting still, holding and massaging his wrists. His knees were held tight against his chest. He fumbled behind his back to search for the handcuffs. He found them, held them tightly for a moment, then threw them away against the far wall.
In the darkness, Bodie knew Doyle couldn't make out his expression.
"I'll take care of you now," Doyle said, lying on his back. His breath wasn't steady yet.
The sheets rustled repeatedly, as Bodie fitted his body along Doyle's.
"Nice game, wasn't it?" Doyle asked in the silence after a while.
His voice reverberated on the four walls, creating an echo of its own, dying slowly without an answer.
"Bodie?" Doyle turned his head towards Bodie.
Bodie's left hand rested on Doyle's chest, gently. His fingers, still a little numb, played lazily with the curls there.
Doyle closed his eyes.
Bodie's hand followed his own path, inch by inch, caressing Doyle's skin, hesitating over his collarbone, then proceeding up towards his neck. When he reached it, the thumb and index fingers searched for the tender spots where Doyle's pulse was beating. A slower rhythm now, matched by that in Bodie's own fingertips, perfectly synchronised.
Gently, Bodie's fingers massaged Doyle's neck on the sensitive spots where his life was flowing....
...the mattress tilted further under Bodie's weight. Doyle rolled slowly near the edge of the bedside....
...Bodie's fingers pressed carefully into the tender skin in between the tendons of the neck....
...then Doyle's body rolled over and fell on the floor, a thud on the uncaring tiles....
...Bodie's fingertips dug in deeply, forcefully. Doyle's eyes snapped open, wide open in the dark....
...Bodie surveyed Doyle's unseemly form on the floor near the bed, legs limp and arms angled and twisted awkwardly....
...Doyle's mouth opened wide in search of air, emitting a brief, nasal whine. His hands were useless around Bodie's left wrist....
...Bodie kept still on the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his hands dangling loose at his wrists.
The body on the floor stared back at him.
Bodie stood up abruptly, circled carefully around Doyle's bare body, naked feet brushing against cold skin, and reached for the phone on the bedside table. He dialled the number, his index finger precisely inserted in the small round plastic circles, to form number after number, one after another, a cold hymn to communication.
There was a now-lively city outside the windows, as Bodie waited for the operator to answer.
The line rang loudly, echoing in dumb circles in his brain.
His hand gripping the handset against his ear, his eyes went back to Doyle. Bodie surveyed the dried trickle of whitish drool at the corner of Doyle's full mouth and the twin dark marks around his neck.
He had crushed Doyle's Adam's apple quite efficiently.
"Should've asked first, sunshine," he said softly to the corpse.
His voice was carried through the air by thin vibrations, like a virus spreading in the world.
Doyle's eyes were still, wide open, green pools staring expressionless at the dark cracks in the ceiling, scattered around like a spider's web dispersed by a sudden, wild rush of wind.
-- THE END --
Originally published in Roses and Lavender 3, Allamagoosa Press, October 1990