A Hard Mountie Lesson
© July, 2000 Misha
http://www.madstop.org/misha/
The characters, alas, are not mine. This was not created for
profit, more's the pity.
Rated NC-17 for m/m sex, intimations
of m/f interaction
Some idiot tried to post hetsmut to Bindlestitch. There wasn't
even any good sex in it. And so I, from the kindness of my heart,
decided that it made a lovely template for a slash parody of
such thing. Turnbull/Fraser, if you really must know, although
Thatcher crept in with her whips and chains. Email me <misha@drizzle.com> if
you want to see the hetsmut upon which this was based.
A Hard Mountie Lesson
Part the Only
by 'American' Misha
He was a few inches shorter than me, a full six feet in his stockinged feet, not that he would wear anything but regulation boots polished with a truly edible neat's-foot oil. He was amazingly proportioned, a physique worthy of Michelangelo himself. His hair was a pelt of soft brown, his eyes the bright blue of an arctic summer sky, and his fair skin, what little I have seen from stolen glances that inevitably led to breakage of the object nearest me, was the pale color of cream drizzled over ripe peaches. He had full lips that were often touching, licking things unspeakable, yet looked positively edible. His posture was impeccable, and no matter how long he stood at guard duty, he always seemed as fresh as an Alberta breeze. His name was Benton Fraser, Mountie, gentleman, superior. And he was my superior. In all things but one.
My name, such as it is, is Renfield Turnbull. I've been called attractive, but usually when I'm chained spread-eagle over a desk. My hair is fair, my eyes light, and I have been called many things, but intelligent doesn't even make the top fifty. My main claim to fame is not my body, but my willingness to bend over said desk and take it up the ass like a real man.
I am a Mountie.
Admittedly, I have not always been a towering inferno of red-clad lust. It started when I was twelve, when I was caught playing with myself and was told I would go blind. I needed glasses by the time I hit thirteen, but as I reached fourteen and neared my full height, I was able to find others willing to assist me in my pleasures. By fifteen I had my eyesight back, and by sixteen, they passed buttons around my high school: 'Laid by the Bull.'
I received the highest merits at the Depot, in my chosen field of expertise, and those in the know understand that the crossed rifles on my tunic are really crossed dildos. It is a point of pride that the entire staff of the Chicago consulate has earned these honors. You see, Canada knows what to export.
When my phone buzzed, I rather expected it to be yet another annoying American who'd been trying to reach the massage parlor that happened to have a phone number only a single digit different from the Consulate's. Instead of some asthmatic American, it was the harsh tones of my boss, Inspector Thatcher, informing me that she would be out of town for a week. Her voice straightened my spine, and made me think immediately of the cat-o-nine-tails she had in her bottom drawer, just for 'Bad Little Mounties'.
"Turnbull. My office, if you please. We have some final details to go over."
There was no response but to immediately come to her summons. Or at least become hard, hang up the phone with a crisp 'Yes, Ma'am.' and walk carefully to her door. I obey the Inspector in all things, and while some might think it sexual harassment, the fools have never truly submitted themselves to a superior like Inspector Thatcher.
I have had the pleasure of working under the Inspector for a full year now, and while not every moment was that of exquisite, screaming pleasure, there were enough of those moments to content me with their recollection and anticipation during the long hours of guard duty. This however, was the first time she'd taken more than a day or two off at a time, and the first time she'd need to hand me off to another officer to supervise.
I knocked on her door, and entered at her brusque, 'Come!' The association I usually had with the command send a shiver down my spine. The Inspector missed the movement, her head bent over something on her desk, but the hawk-like eyes of Constable Fraser did not, and his knowledge of my reaction did nothing to dismiss the growing sense of anticipation in my belly. And lower.
The Inspector was seated at her desk, the last few papers requisite to the transferal of command resting in front of her. The flag, the glory of Canada, framed Constable Fraser, where he stood at parade rest to one side of her desk. I dragged my eyes away from him to a point a foot above the Inspector's head.
She let me wait while she scrawled her signature, the only truly messy thing about her, on the papers, and stacked them neatly in the exact center of the desk.She scrawled slowly, I noticed, and my body settled of its own accord into the ready state of arousal the Inspector had trained into me. I could almost feel each scratch of the pen across my body, and when she spoke, I almost jumped.
"Well, Turnbull." She said, not unkindly, though her voice rang with command. "It's been a year since you've had another superior."
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. "Yes, Inspector." I clamped down on the growing hope and anticipation. Would she yield control to her pet sub? Would Constable Fraser take my leash?
"And you've had no complaints?"
"Why, no, Inspector!" Well, besides the size of the dildos she sometimes used. One of her favorites always seemed a bit on the small side for me. She did always warm them nicely, though, and her choice in lubes was superb.
She nodded and her next comment snapped my attention back to the matter at hand. "Well, I hope you have no complaints with Constable Fraser." I risked a sideways glance at the man, and his eyes bored into mine for a brief second before I dropped my gaze before him. "He hasn't really had the chance to command, not really, and I hope you'll be patient with him as he gets used to the... ropes."
The Inspector smiled as she drawled out the last word, and if anything, Constable Fraser's eyes grew even more predatory. I could feel a light sweat breaking out at the back of my neck, and even as I pushed fantastical images from my mind, my cock took them as promises, and jumped to action.
The Inspector's smile became a true grin, and she stepped behind the desk to hand Fraser a small gold key. "This is the key to my private stock. Use him well."
She may have left then, or hours later. I do not think either of us noticed, and indeed, it did not matter. Constable Fraser did not ask me of my previous history, he merely gestured towards the desk. I suspected later that he may have had a look at my files, especially the ones with full-motion video.
I obeyed the gesture. I stripped off my tunic quickly, perhaps a little sloppily, and leaned over the desk. It is a stretch, even for a man of my height, but the feel of the solid wood beneath me is priceless. Only when my tunic was a crumpled mass on the floor, and my suspenders and pants were brushing my toes, did he move any more than that one gesture.
He circled the desk, dropping a light caress to my knuckles on the edge, my ass on the other side, and a light stroke down my spine. "Very good, Turnbull," he murmured, then turned from me and unlocked the small cabinet behind the desk.
My cock knew what followed, and the scent of maple lube, and the cool touch of Constable Fraser's fingers on my ass only ratcheted up my arousal. I squirmed onto his slick fingers, only to receive a sharp slap for my trouble. I grinned and pressed my sweating forehead against the desk blotter. If he thought that was a deterrent...
The spanking ended only when his cock lodged fully inside me. His fingers gripped my hips, and after only a few jerky introductory thrusts, he was riding me like a bucking bronco. Or maybe a bucking moose - I wasn't that familiar with his history, and perhaps a different animal is a more appropriate simile. My brain short-circuited before I reject more than the noble beaver.
Instead, I was firmly grounded in my body, to the trickle of sweat down my back, the firm press of Constable Fraser's fingers into my hips, the sharp edge of the desk beneath me. And yet, each thrust took me into a higher place, to that plane where I was merely floating on top of the desk, and when he came inside me, it was almost a disappointment, because I knew that that last thrust would take me spiraling down...
I landed with a thump as Constable Fraser's sweat-soaked chest met my back. He pressed his naked flesh to mine, a sweat-inducing encounter in and of itself, for a long moment. He slowly licked the curve of my shoulder blade as we both lay there, then slowly pulled out, leaving me a sprawled, panting mess.
"Well, that was quite satisfactory, Turnbull."
My face was tucked into my shoulder, and so I grinned to myself at the slight waver in his voice. Only another Mountie might have caught it. "Thank you, sir." He was new at this, after all.
"I think I will find you quite... useful to me, and the Consulate, of course, in the coming week." I quite agreed. If I could stare openly at him, I might not find quite so many things around me nearly as breakable.
And of course I would have the greatest enjoyment breaking him in. "Thank you sir."
"And perhaps after... ?"
We would be (technically) back at a level of parity. And perhaps then I could get a taste of Constable Fraser's shoulder blades. "Of course, sir."
Of course.
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