by Fiona Glass
Ten minutes later, Jim was relaxing in a hot bath, reclining against Simon's broad chest and cradled in Simon's arms and legs. The sweat of a four hour hike had been washed off, the warmth had permeated his aching, frozen bones and he was pleasantly falling asleep. He knew he should be furious about being dragged to the top of a mountain in atrocious weather for no good reason, but right now, he was too tired to care. Besides, Simon had lathered his hands and was rubbing Radox-scented suds up and down his arms and onto his chest, and his body at least began to think of different things. “Mmm, feels good,” he mumbled, splashing water onto Simon's brown thigh, and slithered a little deeper into the suds. His own extremities were no longer the colour of woad and he'd stopped shivering some time ago; now he could feel the lassitude of exhaustion creeping along his nerves. He should really get himself clean and dry and stumble off to bed, but Simon's fingers had found a nipple and tweaked it, and in spite of his weariness, his cock began to fill, rising like a periscope from beneath the foam.
"So what were these guys doing?” Simon whispered into his ear. “You said they weren't asleep."
Vague images flashed before Jim's eyes—the tangled feet and legs, the meshing bearded faces, the rearing back. “This,” he said and twisted his head until he could see Simon's mouth. Homing in, he kissed him on the lips and opened his own in blatant invitation of Simon's tongue. When his lover obliged, he sucked on the invading flesh as though it was Simon's cock, and was rewarded with a deep groan. Beneath the bathwater, he felt the nudge of something blunt and hard against his butt, something that was growing the more he sucked. He thought of the men in the hut again, and the fantasy he'd had that it wasn't two strangers, but Simon and him. Well, the bath wasn't a bunk but it would have to do. He released the tongue long enough to growl, “In me. Now!” and wriggled his arse to emphasise the point.
Simon didn't need telling twice. His fingers found Jim's hole, but tiredness and hot water had already worked their magic of relaxation. Jim felt a finger enter him, then it was withdrawn and, with much splashing and grunting, Simon manhandled him into position until his arse was lined up with his lover's crotch. Simon's arms wrapped tightly round his chest, holding him down, and with a sudden surge of his hips, Simon thrust hard into him, impaling him in one swift urgent move. It felt like he was splitting in two, but the heat and pressure and possession felt so good. Jim cried aloud, and pushed his own hips back in response, grinding down on the invading cock.
"Christ, that's hot,” Simon panted in his ear, face so close, he could see the steam of his lover's breath.
"The water, or me?” he managed to pant back, still thrusting up and down.
"Both,” Simon said, and moved one hand to hold his hip, snaring him in place like a rabbit in a trap.
Jim rather lost control after that. Simon pounded into him so hard that water sloshed over the rim of the bath, and the air was full of flying spray and steam. He yelled, and yelled again, neck tendons straining as he swung his head first one way then the other, then finally flung it back until it rested on Simon's chest. Small shudders began to run through him, starting with his feet and hands and moving up his limbs until he was a thrashing windmill of arms and legs. Behind him, Simon was gasping for breath; what little he could see of his face was all open mouth and staring eyes. Grabbing the side of the bath with both hands he clung on for dear life, forced himself downwards one last time and came, spurting his juice all the way to the taps. By the sound of it, the extra pressure was too much for Simon to bear. With a series of small yelps, he thrust a couple more times, and Jim felt his arse fill with Simon's seed. And they both collapsed in a foamy, sated puddle in each others’ arms.
Finally Jim felt the water start to cool. Left to himself, he wasn't sure he could move, but Simon was making vague efforts to get them both out as well, and with one pulling and the other pushing from behind they finally clambered out onto the bath mat.
"Wow,” Simon said, handing Jim a towel. “Going out on call obviously agrees with you. I've never known you that hot before."
Jim grinned and began slowly towelling himself dry. What with the long hike and the manic sex, he was completely exhausted and his limbs would hardly do as they were told, but he felt good. Warm, safe at home, and good. He managed to twitch an eyebrow at his lover. “You didn't see what those two blokes were up to. It kind of fired my imagination."
"Not to mention your blood. So the false alarm doesn't bother you then?"
"I wouldn't want to do it as a regular thing but no, just this once, I guess not. We've been in the same boat ourselves—mad for each other but with no place to go. Although we're not married."
"Except to each other,” Simon said, and kissed him on the end of his nose. “It's six o'clock; we've got two hours before we have to be at work. Breakfast, or bed?"
"Bed,” said Jim. “If I don't lie down soon, I'll fall down."
"Yeah, come on then, let's get you all tucked up.” And before he knew it, he was back under the blankets and duvets, head nicely pillowed on Simon's arm, and Simon's furry chest warming his back. He'd have to be up again in a couple of hours and getting to work in this weather would be fun, but until then, it could snow itself into the arctic for all he cared. He had all the warmth he needed right here with him in bed.
CROSSED WIRES
by
Fiona Glass
Reuben Duncan was grumbling. First he groused about the state of the canteen coffee. Then he started on his overtime payments—or lack of them. By the time he'd got onto the perils of cigarettes, even the squad's regular smokers had decided enough was enough and stalked out, slamming the door behind them. Which left Eddie weathering the storm as usual.
"Job not going well?” he said gently, knowing from past experience that sympathy worked wonders when Reuben was in one of his moods.
Reuben snorted, took a swig of the much-maligned coffee, screwed his face up and tipped the rest down the sink. “Well? It's not going at all. Four days I've spent in that place, four sodding days, and what've I got to show for it? Absolutely bloody nothing. I'm beginning to think there's nothing there to find. And I never want to see a phone again."
Eddie sucked in his cheeks, suppressing the bubble of laughter that threatened to erupt. Wouldn't do to set his partner off again, but mischief won over caution. “So, erm, who are you today, then? Rampant Reuben? The squad's Siren of Sex?"
"Pack it in, Eddie."
"Okay, keep yer hair on, there's no need to take it out on me. Besides, you've got to admit it's funny, the thought of you as a telephone sex-line operator."
Reuben rubbed a hand through his hair and scowled. “Nothing funny about it, mate; not when you have to listen to the blokes on the other end. There's some right nutters out there."
"Tell me about it.” Eddie knew all about nutters from his own undercover work. “Weren't you getting friendly with that young chap? Dan?"
"Jim. Yeah. Well, he's spoken to me a couple of times, which is more than I can say about the rest. It's not exactly progress, though. Pretty much the only thing he's told me is that he's got this hunk of a boyfriend at home.” He rubbed a finger down the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Says the bloke's tall, dark and handsome. Don't think I stand much of a chance against that."
Privately, Eddie disagreed; in his books, Reuben Duncan could hold his own against the best-looking men in the world. He couldn't say so though, without it sounding odd. “Never stopped you before. Keep trying, you'll get through to him eventually."
"Hope you're right, mate,” Reuben said, reaching for his jacket. “Because the boss wants that porn racket tracked down no matter what, and if I have to stay there much longer, I'll go bananas."
"Keep at it, Reuben.” Eddie dropped the banter. “Snuff's a revolting business at the best of times. But when it's young lads..."
"I know. And three of them had links to that blasted chatline, either as callers or staff. There's got to be something to find."
* * * *
"What colour undies are you wearing?” a panting voice enquired.
Mind your own fucking business ... Swallowing the retort that sprang to mind, Reuben remembered to keep his voice low and sexy as he replied, “Green, gorgeous, just the same as me eyes."
"Oooooh...” Judging by the ecstatic squeal, his latest client had climaxed on the spot; at any rate, the line went dead. Reuben glanced at his watch and heaved a sigh of relief. Just one more call and it would be lunchtime—thank God. He'd already taken fourteen calls, and it was making his hair hurt having to be nice to so many weirdoes. Especially when all he really wanted to do was yell ‘get a life’ at the lot of them. Glaring at the receiver as though it had given him an electric shock, he stabbed his finger at the ‘next’ button and prepared for the worst.
"Hey, you're quite good at this, you know,” a voice said over his shoulder. “Anyone who can listen to old Jerry for more than ten minutes without screaming blue murder gets full marks in my book. You should think about making a permanent career out of it."
He swung round, but his scowl faded in the face of two twinkling brown eyes and an infectious grin.
"Hello, Jim. Christ, no,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting in sympathy. “Two months is more than enough for me, just till I save up for that art course. Anyway, shouldn't you be working?"
"Nope. Got in early for once, so I've already put my four hours in. Chelsea says I can go to lunch. Wanna come for a sandwich?"
Reuben could hardly believe his luck. “Yeah, okay. Be with you in a minute; this one's been burning the wires for the last ten minutes, so I better deal with it.” He flipped a switch, physically and mentally, chanting the dreadful sing-song professional spiel they all had to use. “Hi there, you've just called the Chelsea Chatline. My name is Reuben and I'm here to help you any way I can..."
* * * *
"How long have you been at this lark then?” he asked twenty minutes later, sitting with his elbows on the café table and chewing the crust off a large chicken sandwich.
His companion paused to lick mayonnaise off his fingers with a long mobile tongue, in a way calculated to get almost any man's pulse racing if they liked that sort of thing—which Reuben Duncan did. He watched, mesmerised for a moment, before pulling himself together in time to hear the back half of Jim's reply. “...Three years now. Never thought I'd stick it out this long, but what the heck—the pay's pretty good. And there's plenty worse jobs out there. I could be a security guard like Ned and end up with flat feet."
Reuben pricked his ears up. After six days with no results, any scraps of information about Chelsea's employees were like morning dew in the desert. “Is that your boyfriend? Doesn't he mind you working the phones?"
"Yes, and yes, probably. Except he doesn't know. I haven't dared tell him yet."
"Bloody hell! After three years?"
Jim shrugged. “He's got a puritan streak—and a funny temper. Suppose I've just never plucked up the courage. Anyway, that's more than enough about me. What about you? Art school, you said?"
Reuben neatly fielded the questions using his prepared cover, and hid his relief in his sandwich. After the best part of a week being ignored by his new colleagues, he'd finally made contact with the one operative who'd been there the longest, according to the records. If anybody knew what was going on behind the scenes at the Chelsea Chatline, it ought to be Jim Montrose; although Reuben hoped that was as far as it went. The lad seemed much too nice to be involved in anything as sick as snuff; although he was enough of a professional to know that appearances could be deceptive.
* * * *
His next report to Eddie was more positive. “I made some progress at last. I got talking to young Jim and he's starting to gossip about the other employees. And I've got my eye on Ms. Chelsea. She's just obsessed enough to be doing something stupid."
Eddie forked noodles into his mouth and answered through the mush. “Thought you said she treated that company like a pet poodle. Wouldn't have thought she'd have risked dragging it into anything unsavoury."
"She might, if it made enough money. Anyway, it's just a hunch. I've had a sneak through all her paperwork and there's not so much as a comma out of place. If she is involved, she's hiding it well."
"What about the rest of ‘em? Any likely candidates?"
"We-e-ll ... some of them are weird. Almost as bad as the customers. Middle-aged types in tweed with a couple of pet Labradors, and then they're working on a sex line. But there's no law against being odd."
"Just as well—you'd be in jail for starters,” Eddie said, ducking the inevitable cushion. “Hey, watch it. You'll get sweet and sour sauce on my sofa and it's new."
"Thought it looked a bit swish. You won the lottery?"
"Nah. The boss finally signed my overtime chits. Been sitting on his desk for four months so they'd added up to quite a bit."
"He did what? How d'you manage to swing that, you jammy bastard? Don't suppose he did mine while he was at it?"
"Don't be silly, Reuben. You know he never does yours."
"Yeah. Must owe me a least a grand by now, the tight-fisted old sod.” Reuben stabbed savagely at his last curried shrimp. He could do with the extra, but their boss had a thing about overtime payments in general and Reuben's overtime payments in particular. He couldn't see himself being paid this side of Doomsday.
"There is one chap who gives me the creeps,” he said suddenly, breaking his own chain of thought. “He's called Nigel, and he's the only bloke working there who looks like he gets off on some of the calls. Keeps himself to himself, doesn't really mix with the rest of us. I'm probably just being bigoted, but I might try shaking him and see what falls out."
"Good idea. Let me know how you get on.” Eddie tidied up the empty plates. “Sorry, but I'm going to have to throw you out. I've got Janie coming over later."
"Okay, I know when I'm not wanted. I'll give you the next update on Friday night. Assuming I've got anything to report. God! I hate these long, slow cases."
"Just be glad your life isn't at stake for once. Anyway, I've just realised I can't make Friday; I'm stuck on the night shift. It'll have to be Saturday. Two-ish, to give me a chance to wake up."
"Okay. See you then. Enjoy burning the midnight oil,” Reuben said with a grin, knowing how much his partner hated working nights. Sure enough, Eddie gave him a shove that propelled him through the open front door and down all three flights of stairs. “Oi, steady on, you berk,” he yelled, but the door had already closed. No doubt Eddie was making preparations for the arrival of Janie, whoever she was.
* * * *
On Friday, during Reuben's morning coffee break, Nigel deigned to notice him. “Oh hullo there. Don't remember seeing you before.” The words were accompanied by a nasty leer and an emphasis on the word ‘you’ that made Reuben's toes curl.
"My name's Reuben. I've been working here a couple of weeks now,” he replied, shaking the limply proffered hand and forcing himself not to wipe the resultant sweat off on the seat of his pants.
"Well, Reuben, what's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this? Ha ha."
Reuben found a grin from somewhere near his socks. “I'm just earning enough to go to art college,” he explained. “I need some extra cash to pay the fees."
"So you won't be with us for long then? I shall have to work fast if I want to catch you, then! Ha ha."
"Ha ha,” Reuben agreed politely. Left to himself, he'd have put as much space as possible between himself and this creep, but work came first. “Perhaps we could go for a drink?” he suggested, and had to hide the shudder when Nigel's hand clamped down on his shoulder and squeezed.
"Oh yes. That would be lovely. Not tonight, I'm afraid—previous engagements, you understand. But Monday perhaps? I shall look forward to it all weekend.” He leered again and wandered off, and Reuben thought rudely that he was probably on his way to the gents to jerk off. He blew a sigh of relief into the dregs of his coffee, partly
at having made contact, and partly at having got away again unmolested. But would that still be the case come Monday?
Jim spotted the encounter, and invited him out to lunch again. “Thought you might need a bit of ‘TLC',” he said with a grin. “Nobody gets away from Nigel with their virtue intact. Did he try and grope you?"
"He squeezed my shoulder."
"You're lucky. He always goes for a feel with me. Bum, chest, groin—you name it. Makes me sick."
"Oh gawd. I've said I'll go for a drink with him on Monday."
"You what? Christ, you shouldn't have done that; he'll probably get you down a dark alley somewhere and try to rape you. Although something tells me you can look after yourself,” Jim added with a knowing look. “You've got good muscles for your size. D'you work out a lot?"
"A bit. Used to do some martial arts, and teach the local kids to box. I run, too."
"Well, well. Quite the active type, aren't you? Hey, why don't you stop over at my place for the weekend? I've always had a thing about fit men, and it'll help take your mind off Nigel."
Reuben nearly choked on his cheese. “Won't Ned have something to say about that?"
"Shouldn't think so, he's working nights. What he doesn't know won't hurt him,” Jim said cheerfully.
Privately, the cavalier attitude sickened Reuben; the tendency towards promiscuity was his least favourite aspect of gay culture. Why have a steady boyfriend at all if you were going to cheat on him the moment his back was turned? But because this was work, he swallowed his principles and agreed.
* * * *
"So Ned doesn't live with you then?” He was prowling round the living room of Jim's bachelor pad—a smart apartment in a smart block in a very smart area of town—and wondering how the hell the lad could afford it on the moderate salary the chatline paid.
"No, he's got his own place south of the river. I don't think he's really the moving-in type. Here, I made you a coffee."
"Ta.” He took the mug, blew steam off it and continued to wander about. “Nice place,” he added, eyeing the sleek sofas, glass-topped tables and floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows looking out over the river far below.
