em>Thursday, 7:48 p.m.</em>

As Dave and Karl enter the mansion's reception room, Karl's dark brows draw down further than usual. "What is going on in here?"

The noisy tumble of arms and legs appears, on closer inspection, to belong to Elijah, Dominic and Orlando flailing their way grunting, cursing and giggling across the reception room carpet until they come to a forced stop, having bumped into Viggo's shins where he sits observing happily in the big leather wing chair. The tumble's momentum has halted, but the squirming and the noise continue unabated.

Dave persists, "Oi, you lot! We can hear you all the way upstairs. What's this all about?" He looks expectantly at Viggo, who makes a game attempt at an innocent shrug.

Elijah dimples at Karl past Dom's shoulder. "We're trying to get into Orlando's pants!"

"Can't blame 'em for that, eh?" Eric agrees, sauntering up behind Dave.

"Orlando," Elijah grunts accusingly, as he's rolled back and beneath Dominic, "has a cookie, and he won't share!"

"Oatmeal," Viggo adds helpfully. "With chocolate chips."

"Hidden it in his pants, he has," a struggling Dom growls, digging his fingers into the waistband of Orlando's trousers and causing a fresh rush of rolling giggles.

Eric clucks, "For heaven's sake, it's all crumbs by now, why bother?"

"Principle of the thing!" Dom insists, backed up by a fervent nod from Elijah, who at the moment is too squished on the bottom of the pile to say anything.

At this point a separate movement catches Dave's eye, and he glances at Viggo, who grins smugly and waves the cookie in question at him. Dave snorts a laugh. Dom catches sight of Viggo's secret and launches himself, followed quickly by an outraged Elijah, into Viggo's lap, and the last thing Dave registers before the chair topples over backward beneath all three of them is Viggo's eyes, gone saucer wide with surprise and horror.

Flung backward from Viggo's outstretched hand, the much sought after cookie rolls on-edge into a corner and falls over, scattering a little slide of crumbs and a chip.

Dom crawls determinedly toward it over Viggo's prone body.

"Ook!" grunts Viggo from below. "If you could not lean on my solar plexus, I'd &#151; gah, Jesus 'Lij, watch where you put your knees!"

"Cookie!" cries Elijah, lunging for Dom and wrestling him to the carpet, still half on top of Viggo.

"Gkkkk!" muffles Viggo, flailing like an overturned tortoise.

"Hey, that's my crotch!" Elijah yelps. His blue eyes take on a thoughtful look, and he seems to forget about Dom. "On second thought... "

Abandoned as the main target, Orlando is holding his sides, weeping with laughter, and looking less and less like Errol Flynn with each passing moment.

"I am <em>not</em> giving you a spontaneous blowjob, Elijah!" Viggo insists loudly from between Elijah's knees.

"But you're right there!"

"Who's gettin' a blowjob?" Dominic wants to know, suddenly forgetting about the recently coveted cookie.

Viggo bellows frantically, "Nobody! Get off of me!"

Orlando coughs and gasps for breath and appears alarmingly as though he might laugh himself inside out if something isn't done.

Eric wades in, a benevolent bar-room bouncer, to pull Elijah and Dominic off of Viggo, one wriggling novice per large fist. "Here now, that's enough! You're gonna break Orlando, you keep this up, and I can't have that."

Orlando rolls into the front of the sofa and props himself up against it, sniffling and red-faced, mahogany hair stuck out at all angles. "Oh lord," he wheezes, grinning hugely, "I can't believe you two are that gullible!"

Dom makes a vulgar comment regarding Orlando's ancestry and attempts a swipe in his general direction, but is thwarted by Eric's heavy arm about his chest. Eric hands Elijah off to Karl and hauls Dominic up over one great shoulder, carrying him out the door and up the stairs while Dom rants as a man robbed of what is rightfully his.

Karl takes Elijah by the ear and leads him after, protesting all the way that the whole episode is completely Orlando's fault, except for the part that is Viggo's.

Dave stands over Viggo as he lies sprawled on the floor, one ankle still crooked over the front of the chair. "You need a keeper."

Viggo snickers up at him. "I was on time. Where were you?"

Orlando hoots and collapses sideways, giggling.

Dave eyes him sternly. "You're not helping."

"Sorry," Orlando says unconvincingly and sits up again, glancing about the room. "Where did my cookie land? D'you suppose it's exceeded the five-second rule?"

<hr>

<em>Thirteen minutes later</em>

Viggo kneels in his birthday suit on the floor of Dave's room, trying very hard to appear contrite, while Dave retrieves his chosen tools for the evening from the big armoire. The scene of Viggo struggling on the floor beneath Dom and Elijah in full rampage keeps replaying itself in his mind, and he finally hides his face inside the armoire and allows himself a quiet chuckle, just to let it out, so that he can concentrate.

He schools himself into his Dominant Face and turns to Viggo. This is a scene Dave hadn't necessarily intended for tonight. The night they discussed their list of things to Not Do, Viggo mentioned that he would be nervous about ordinary rope, but that he wants to try a scene involving rope at some point. Dave has his theories about Viggo's wariness, none of which are pleasant, but as Viggo has rapidly made friends, and in general neatly settled into the life of the mansion, Dave decides that tonight they might give it a try. He'll keep it simple, watch Viggo carefully, and see how it goes.

"Move over to the floor at the foot of the bed, young hooligan."

Viggo obediently shuffles over on his knees, and Dave stands next to him, his fists full of white cotton rope, and two other items. He shows Viggo the rope, watches his pupils widen, narrow, widen again, hears the drawn breath. "We can do something else," Dave suggests calmly, "if this is a problem."

Viggo presses his lips together, and shakes his head. Dave is proud of him for not taking the out. "You know what a plug is for," he says. "If you don't want to, let me know. We can forget about that tonight. You know I won't mind."

Viggo shakes his head again, eyeing the gleaming glass plug. "I believe," he says quietly, "that I'd enjoy that part, Sir." He meets Dave's eyes. "I really would."

It's exactly what he hoped he'd hear, and Dave lets out his breath, smiling, "Stout lad. Kneel forward, then. Raise that lovely backside high."

Viggo rests his forehead against the triangle of his fingers and thumbs on the floor, obediently raising his hips and exposing himself for Dave's convenience.

Dave sets the rope aside on the bed, pops the lube, and slicks the heavy glass item in his hand. "The plug isn't a big one," he reassures. "You should be able to take it easily. Just the same, I'll go slowly."

He can hear Viggo swallow, "Yes, sir."

Dave circles well-lubed fingertips against Viggo's body, persuading, cajoling, but not to be denied. "Relax, Viggo, you're too tight all over. Take a slow breath... let it go... there's a good boy... " There. Dave watches the firelight play over Viggo's back, watches the tension ease out of him as he slides into sub-space.

Dave presses the tip of the plug against the tender opening to Viggo's body and pushes slowly, but steadily, caressing his back, his buttocks. "Breathe out, Viggo, nice and slow... sorry if it's a bit cool." He watches the sleek glass plug smoothly disappear into Viggo's body and soothes, "Lovely, Viggo, that's perfect. Sting?"

"A little," Viggo's muffled voice rises from the floor. "But it's okay, Sir."

"Kneel up, then," and Dave smiles as the candle light rolls warmly over Viggo's shoulders while he shifts position, shimmying a bit and making a face at the feel and weight of the plug inside him.

"Tell me if something pinches or is too tight," Dave instructs. "Otherwise, not a peep, you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," Viggo replies. He breathes in slowly, eyes forward, gaze lost in the amber darkness.

"Lay your forearms along one another like you did when we turned you into a caterpillar, but put them behind your back." Dave binds Viggo's forearms from elbow to elbow in snug, even wraps of white cotton rope. Vig enjoyed playing caterpillar, and Dave hopes the reminder will comfort him.

"Kneel up straight. Spread your knees." Dave wraps a double length of rope about Viggo's waist, then downward around Viggo's balls, forcing a mild stretch, and back up again to loop both ends of the rope tight against Viggo's body at the base of his cock behind his balls. Dave ties off the rope here. Viggo is shaking. He makes a small noise, but bites it back.

"Knees together." Dave pulls a last length of rope from the bed and hobbles Viggo's ankles, giving him slack in between to allow movement. He straddles Viggo's bound calves, snugs up tight behind him and wraps his arms around him, down low. He caresses Viggo's balls, gently stroking the deep pink skin, stretched taught below the grip of the rope, and then upward, the satin skin of Viggo's cock bowstrung beneath his fingertips, hot blood pulsing beneath. Viggo moans softly and leans back into him. Dave's fingers trail through the soft fur of Viggo's belly, circle his navel, flatten and brush upward to his chest, thumb his nipples, and rest there, absorbing Viggo's body heat, feeling the beat of his heart, fast but steady. Dave nuzzles into the side of Viggo's neck.

Viggo's head tilts backward, rests against Dave's shoulder, and Dave gently caresses the warm, vulnerable skin of Viggo's bared throat, the sharp bend of his Adam's apple. He can hear now the way Viggo's shallow breaths match the quick rhythm of his heart. Beautiful boy... Dave's right hand drifts downward again, spends a few indulgent moments lightly circling the warm, moist tip of Viggo's straining cock, and he hasn't the heart to reprimand when Viggo makes small, wishful sounds deep in his chest. He's settling, getting used to the rope as a good thing, rather than something to be feared. Dave closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath, savoring Viggo's warm scent, smiles at the hint of turpentine. He dabbles in the soft crispness of Viggo's chest hair beneath the flat of his hand. There, now. Dave pulls back, helps Viggo steady himself, and rises.

"Turn toward the edge of the bed, " he instructs quietly. He sits on the edge, and leans over to brush a few strands of dark sandy hair from Viggo's face as he shuffles to his right, watching him sway slightly in the soft, amber light, waiting. Just waiting, watching Dave with darkened grey eyes.

Dave spreads his own knees, gestures toward the button-fly of his bluejeans. "Open the fly with your teeth."

Viggo leans in, tongue first, toying with the first steel button, exploring. By luck Dave is wearing his rattiest jeans tonight, the ones with the ruined knees and the indecent worn spots under his back pockets, and the buttons are not difficult to open. He watches Viggo work, appreciating his focus, his determination, and trying to be patient as his own body responds to the sight and the feel of Viggo's mouth working diligently.

Finally Viggo succeeds in unfastening all five buttons, and he looks up at Dave expectantly. Dave smiles and strokes his head. "Well done." He shifts a little to wrestle his jeans lower to allow his cock the necessary room. Now that Dave is freed from the confines, Viggo watches him intently and waits for the next order. "Take me in your mouth," Dave tells him. "Halfway. No further."

Viggo obeys as instructed, his mouth warm. His tongue flickers, and probes once, out of curiosity, then stops. Dave smirks at him. "Go ahead. You know you want to."

Viggo's grey eyes close lazily as he suckles and investigates the feel and taste of Dave's cock, his tongue probing, sucking at the salt. The pleasure of it runs all the way up into Dave's chest, and he closes his eyes, resting one hand lightly on Viggo's head, softly carding his hair. So good... Jesus, it's good... <em>Need to stop. Need to stop now.</em> "That's enough, Viggo. That's fine. Pull away. Eyes down." That Viggo obeys with a tiny frown of regret Dave takes as a good sign. He's none too happy about aborting either, but right now continuing this to its pleasant conclusion is not part of the plan.

Dave takes a moment to settle his blood, shucks his jeans easily, and walks a few careful steps toward one corner of the room behind Viggo to finish undressing. He throws his clothes onto the chair in the corner, and returns to stand behind his boy. Dave goes down on one knee and unties Viggo's ankles. "Stand up. Here." Dave helps Viggo to his feet. "Bend forward all the way. Spread your legs. Watch your tender bits against the bed, there's a good boy."

Dave fetches two pillows and puts them beneath Viggo's chest. He caresses Viggo's bottom, stroking it lovingly. Viggo makes a soft, thoughtful sound as Dave removes the glass plug, his fingers opening and closing slowly while Dave lavishes him with fresh lubricant. Dave takes a deep breath as he slicks himself thoroughly, enjoying the sight of Viggo ready and waiting in front of him. He smiles at Viggo's fingers, twiddling now with anticipation. They've both known this moment would come. It was just a question of when. Dave is suddenly nervous, and he laughs silently at himself. It feels good, this sort of nervousness, and that Viggo has left fear behind and moved straight on to eagerness is absolutely the best part of it.

Dave strokes Viggo's lower back, between his shoulders, along the stark muscles of his spine, presses smoothly into him. He enjoys the warm glide, leans forward over Viggo, riding slowly, easily, taking his time. He can hear Viggo's even breaths, small moans of pleasure accenting the rhythm. "Our first time, this way," Dave murmurs against Viggo's shoulder. "You feel wonderful."

Viggo's eyes are closed, and his only answer is a dreamy smile and a low, even moan of agreement.

Dave supports himself on one arm, caressing Viggo with the other hand, running his touch over slickening skin of waist and ribs. He lets his head droop, his eyes closed in concentration and pleasure. The hard barrier of Viggo's bound arms presses against his ribs, and Dave tries not to lean too hard on the man beneath him. Viggo feels so good around him, beneath him, and he's making low, steady noises, somewhere between a moan and a hum, his voice shifting downward as Dave's rhythm increases; steady, strong, and by the time Dave is snarling silently from the tension building low in his belly, tightening in his lower back, Viggo is breathing hard and growling into the mattress, and squirming in frustration. Dave bites lightly at Viggo's shoulder blade, reaches around, and springs the knotted rope between Viggo's legs. He strokes him hard once, twice, and then Viggo's laughing sharply and biting back a shout of release into a deep, satisfied groan as Dave thrusts hard and true and allows himself his own cry of satisfaction, muffled by the warm skin of Viggo's back.

Dave hovers over Viggo for a moment, just breathing and watching as a trickle of sweat eases its way along a crease in Viggo's neck and down onto the coverlet. He nuzzles the sweaty dark hair at the back of Viggo's head. "You okay?" His voice sounds frazzled, and he doesn't care.

Viggo is chuckling, in a dazed sort of way, and Dave takes that as a sign of success.

He presses his forehead to Viggo's shoulder. "You did beautifully, Viggo. Start to finish, you did beautifully!"

"Turkey," Viggo giggles.

"What?" Dave rises, shifts his balance, and rubs at Viggo's sweaty backside.

"'m still trussed like a turkey," Viggo reminds him.

Dave pulls out the knots at Viggo's wrists, unwraps his arms, and they clamber up to flop down on the mattress together. He kicks at the coverlet, trying to straighten out a wrinkle under his hip bone.

Viggo turns, messes with the pillows and makes himself a nest from which to regard Dave. He smiles, eyelids drooping sleepily. "You feel good. Really good, when you were having me." He says, "I was frightened at the beginning, but now I feel fantastic. I feel strong. Tired, but at the same time strong. That's weird."

"That's good, is what that is. It's what we're after." Dave decides to take the risk. He pushes at Viggo's hair, making a doomed attempt at getting it to stay out of Viggo's eyes. "Will you tell me why the rope bothered you, when the tape didn't?"

Viggo's gaze drops and he chews his lower lip for a moment, then avers, "Let's just say that for some people rapelling nylon takes on a whole new use."

"That doesn't tell me much. It just worries me more."

"I'm not afraid of it now," Viggo asserts. "That's the important thing." He grins, "You just tied my dangly bits in half a mile of cotton clothesline, and I liked it."

"I did," Dave agrees, and thinking about the smile on Viggo's face now is definitely better than worrying about all the nasty things a guy can do to another guy with nylon safety rope, though he's pretty sure that concept will come back to haunt him later.

"Am I officially a kinky perv now?"

"You get the 'favored visitor' package to Bondage Land. I'm not sure if you're ready to settle in and become a native, just yet."

Dave watches with some amusement and a large yawn while Viggo considers this. "You don't think I could handle the whole nine yards?"

"I think you could handle it. I just don't think you'd come back for it, and you'd likely spend way too much time wondering what the hell you'd been thinking, and just how sick did it make you to have tried it in the first place. Which would be a shame and a mistake. Honestly, Vig, you're not half as cracked as you think you are. Twice as bent as most other people probably realize though, that's a fact."

Viggo grins like a kid who'd just earned a gold star, and Dave reconsiders, reminding himself that so far Viggo tends to surprise him, and that sometimes turning out to be dead wrong is a wonderful thing.

<hr>

<strong>Friday evening, 7:59</strong>

Dave is discussing the evening's possible activities with a rather distracted-seeming Sean in the mansion's receiving room when Karl dashes in, a whirlwind of dark hair and intense hazel eyes.

"Oi, Daisy, have you seen that bucket of marbles I loaned..." Karl spots Sean in the big wing chair and stops short. "Oh." He winces. "Sorry Dave."

Dave shoots him a tight-lipped smile.

Karl bites at a red-bow lip.

"Your marbles are probably where you left them, in Harry's room." <em>Dear God, he's lost his marbles. I can't stand it.</em> "He's here tonight, but he's with a client, so watch out."

Karl scuffs at the floor for a moment, an incongruous gesture from a man with shoulders as broad as that. "Thanks, mate."

As Karl makes what could only be described as his escape Dave turns to Sean, who regards him with a barely concealed smile. Dave attempts to look frightening, but sitting in the cozy receiving room with Orlando snuggling up next to a nervous young police officer here for his first session with Liv it's a bit difficult. He scowls at the smirking Yorkshireman. "You're already late for tonight's session, young man, don't push."

Sean makes a poor attempt at appearing cowed. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Dave points upward and barks, "Get your pretty backside upstairs and strip it! Wait for me on your knees! Chop chop!"

Sean darts toward the hallway and as Dave rises to follow at a more dignified pace he notices the police officer staring at him with a waxen expression. Orlando shoots Dave a 'well now see what you've done' glare and attempts to distract the young fellow with the exciting story of the day Craig lost his dog at the beach, and ended up dating the extremely helpful lifeguard.

Ahead of him Dave hears Sean pounding up the stairs, and wonders where the devil he gets all that energy. <em>Respectable curator my Aunt Emily's left eyebrow. Hell on wheels, more like.</em> Between that and Karl's blunder... he suspects strongly that he is going to have to wing it with Sean tonight a bit more than he'd intended.

Sean is waiting for Dave by the time he arrives at his room. He kneels on the carpet next to the bed, suitably naked, head bowed, and looking every bit as warmly edible as usual. Dave raises an eyebrow. "Your toes are wriggling. Why are your toes wriggling, Sean?"

"Sorry, Sir." Sean does not sound particularly sorry, but he stops his toes from wriggling.

Dave sits at the edge of the bed. "Spit it out, Sean."

Sean grins where he kneels. "Daisy?"

Dave sighs. "It's a nickname. Not for your use. Forget about it."

Sean snickers. Dave watches his bare shoulders twitch with laughter. "Not possible, Sir."

"Refusal, Sean?" Dave's voice drops, takes an edge.

Sean looks up at him with a cheeky grin, as though he hasn't heard the warning in Dave's voice, which Dave knows quite well he has. "Honestly, <em>Daisy?</em>"

Begging for trouble, Sean is. Might as well have taken out an advertisement in the local newspaper. Well then. If trouble is what Sean wants, Dave can give it to him.

"It's been an awfully long time since you had a proper spanking, hasn't it Sean." Dave eyes his novice coolly. He watches the three possible answers flit behind Sean's eyes: yes, no, and...

"Whatever you say, Sir," Sean replies evenly, green eyes gleaming in the low light.

Such a lovely, stubborn boy. But there's something wrong behind his eyes, in the tension in his shoulders, something that tells Dave Sean isn't being cheeky just for the hell of it. There's a reason here, though even Sean himself might not have worked out why he's pushing.

Dave stands over Sean and jerks a thumb toward the bed. "Stand at the foot of the bed. Bend over and rest your chest on the mattress. Arms toward the headboard." A simple spanking shouldn't do Sean any harm, and it might shake that mysterious something loose. Spankings &#151; hand-spankings in particular &#151; can be cathartic. This has worked for Dave before. He watches as Sean obeys, his own expression as close to an exasperated headmaster's as he can get it.

"Head down, Sean. Feet shoulder width. More." Dave opens the big armoire, catches sight of Sean behind him in the angle of the full-length mirror standing nearby. He turns to study Sean for a moment in the room's soft light, Sean sprawled forward on the bed, his bare backside raised, stance wide. Dave allows himself an appreciative smile, enjoys the feel of his own blood stirring. He pulls out a pair of light weight leather fingerless gloves, lube, and a plug from the armoire and returns to his waiting subject.

Sean lies still, arms obediently outstretched, his forehead resting on the dusky blue coverlet. Even in the soft light of the candles Dave notices the faint tremble of his body. "Hold still. This is a fair-sized plug, Sean. It will sting." Sean is aware of the implication here. Sean has done his homework, and he's helped Dave wash such equipment before. He understands their basic purpose. Dave sees him shiver, watches his hands open and close slowly against the duvet. One foot inches just a little further out, widening Sean's stance by just that much; all evidence, if not the answer. He wonders if Sean realizes what he's just done.

Dave slicks Sean liberally, and then the black silicone plug. Under other circumstances he would move more slowly, take his time to coax and ease, but that's not what he and Sean are after tonight. "Loosen up, Sean. This is going in. You can make it easy or difficult."

Sean mutters a curse into the mattress, and Dave presses the plug slowly in. Sean makes a pained grunt, hisses at the girth. The sounds of Sean's discomfort, and the sight of the large plug emphasizing Sean's entrance coalesce warmly between Dave's legs. He feels a pang of guilt for that, then reminds himself that pain is what Sean's asked for.

He settles one hand over Sean's left flank, feels the tremors beneath, watches the rise and fall of Sean's torso as he breathes. "Do you know exactly to what I'm referring when I talk about a spanking, Sean?"

"No, Sir."

"There are so many possibilities. You're aware of that much. Yet you acquiesce without specification."

"Yes, Sir." Sean is already beginning to sweat beneath Dave's touch.

"There's your basic no-frills spanking, for which I use my hands," Dave says, slowly rubbing one hand over Sean's back and buttocks. "Or I could paddle you. Lots of options there. I could strap you. Strapping is not on your Never Do That List. D'you remember, we left that off to talk about later? Well. It's later, isn't it. I can imagine a nice, heavy leather strap lashing across your sweet backside." Dave adds with a certain hunger in his voice, "I can hear the crack of it against your arse. Mercy, wouldn't the welts from that look fine on your skin! Never thought about options other than hand-spanking, did you, young Sean? You should be more careful when you agree to be struck."

Sean swallows. He's shaking like an aspen. "Yes, Sir."

"Your choice."

"If you can dish it out I can take it, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

Strewth. Ian never mentioned Sean being a masochist, and Dave hasn't read him that way. Still doesn't. <em>Into the dark we go, then.</em> Dave pats him lightly. "We'll try hands for your first time." He caresses the smooth skin beneath his palms, then reaches for the gloves. "I'll be wearing gloves while I spank you, Sean. Just because you're asking for pain doesn't mean I should have to suffer, now does it?"

"No &#151;"

"Don't answer, Sean. I already know the answer."

Dave takes a step back merely to admire the view; the soft curves of Sean's waiting backside, and what Sean refers to so practically as his breezy bits between his spread legs, pressed downward by the foot of the bed. Dave will have to be careful, considering their proximity, but better control is one advantage of a hand-spanking. He takes a slow breath in the anticipatory silence, then deliberately breaks it by loudly cracking all of his knuckles.

Sean whispers what might be a curse, and closes his eyes. Dave rests his hands on Sean's rump. Sean twitches slightly at the touch. Dave caresses softly at first, then decides to forego some of the usual preliminaries. Tonight they're not doing this just for fun. It'll be good, Dave hopes, but something serious needs to happen tonight. He shifts off to the side. "Get ready for it."

Sean nods silently.

Dave strikes smartly, the blow making a sharp, satisfying noise in the quiet of the room. Sean flinches, but Dave knows that this is more from the noise than the blow. He gives Sean another, sees how well he takes it, and begins to increase the intensity. Sean's backside quickly becomes warm and rosy beneath Dave's sharp touch. He breathes heavily through his mouth, but rather than continue to flinch away Sean has begun to push back against Dave's hands as he strikes. Sean lets out a small moan when Dave strikes him a particularly smart blow &#151; not a yelp, but a moan. Dave's eyes narrow as he evaluates the sound, watching Sean's body language. He offers the same strength in his next blow, and is rewarded with an appreciative groan, a soft curse, and the sight of Sean's hands gripping and pulling at the duvet. Dave strikes him harder, putting his shoulder into it, watching and listening as Sean moans and writhes, the roll of his shoulders, the pressing back of his hips a wealth of information. Want. Need. Now. What Dave wants to know is <em>why</em>.

By now Dave's hands are hot and sore, even through the thin leather, but the sight of Sean arching his spine, torquing his shoulders, all the signs of him spiraling toward an unexpected ecstasy that Dave understands so well; hearing him groan and swear, the muscle ache in Dave's shoulders and the sweat of the effort is of no great matter. Dave shifts his tack, biting at Sean's hot skin, dragging his teeth over the places he's struck hardest, making Sean snarl and cry out. There's a yearning edge to the sound, and a wet spot on the coverlet at the foot of the bed, there where the tip of Sean's cock rubs. Dave reaches between Sean's legs and rolls his balls in one gloved hand, trails his hand up through Sean's cleft, taps at the base of the plug. He kneels forward on the bed and growls into the sweating skin between Sean's shoulders, "You want a good reaming on top of a nice little beating, don't you &#151; you'll take everything I want to give you tonight. You were ready for me to strap you earlier, knowing I'd fuck you afterwards."

Sean's response is a hard-edged moan into the mattress, wordless and heavy with a need that goes straight to Dave's belly. The surge of lust is tainted by a quick twinge of regret. Weeks ago, when he'd first thought about what the first time for Sean and him might be, he had imagined something gentler, something thoughtful and unhurried, but that isn't what Sean needs tonight. Dave strikes Sean smartly, twice on each hot, rosy buttock, making him squirm and grunt, hips twitching, working for friction.

Dave removes the plug from Sean's body gently enough, but otherwise doesn't bother with niceties; doesn't take off his gloves or his jeans, but merely unbuttons them below the top button, slicks himself, and plunges in, hard and deep, breathing in Sean's yelp. The denim is harsh against the hot skin of Sean's backside, and Dave grips the hard curves of his hip bones with bruising fingers as he pushes, shoves, allows himself to enjoy the way Sean's body feels, the heat of him, the way he writhes, open-mouthed and moaning, struggling to process how good it is to be spanked hot, fucked hard and rubbed raw. Dave could tell him all about that, but he won't, because Sean's a smart boy, and he'll either ask or work it out for himself, later. Dave pulls partially out, slaps Sean's backside, feeling the sting of the impact through the glove. He shoves in, pulls out, slaps him again, and Sean's yells and groans sound an awful lot like begging for more. Dave gives him what he wants, feels himself nearing the edge, so close just from the noise Sean's making, entirely aside from the slick heat of him and how hard he's shoving himself back onto Dave's cock. The way Sean's knees are braced against the end of the bed he'll have bruises by morning.

Dave can see Sean's eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide, gasping for air, given up on trying to process the conflicting sensations and instead letting it all carry him along. Dave braces himself, pulling Sean's hips toward him, thrusting relentlessly, grimacing at the effort of holding himself back until he hears Sean's rising cries, and at that Dave gives himself permission, and past the rush of his own release Dave can feel Sean's body clenching and jerking while Sean screams into the mattress, and it's all bloody <em>brilliant</em>.

Dave allows himself a few steadying breaths before he pulls himself away. Sean silently crawls further onto the bed while Dave quickly undresses and climbs up after him. He frowns. "Sean... "

Sean is sobbing and cursing, hands over the back of his head. He curls his knees toward his chest, trying fiercely to control himself.

Dave shakes off encroaching fatigue. "Sean, did I hurt you?" Rotten all the way through, if he's damaged such a fine boy, and a friend, dammit, their first time fucking, no matter how intense they both wanted it to be.

Sean shakes his head as Dave snugs in behind him, embracing. Dave can hear him now, muttering, "Shit shit shit shit, I can't... "

"Can't what, Sean?" He nuzzles into the back of Sean's neck. Maybe they can finally get down to the point of all of this.

"No, no, I'm all right." The howl of a lost hound refrains at the back of his words.

"Liar."

Sean rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes, takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Leave it. Jesus, me here cryin' like a girl." He laces his fingers with Dave's. "It's nowt, only foolishness. Forget it."

Dave presses his face against the damp heat of Sean's neck. "No."

"Dave, don't. I don't &#151; "

"Bloody Northerner," Dave chastises, "rather be beaten that just speak his mind. Don't think. Talk."

A long, defeated breath shivers out. Sean starts, stops, starts again. "It's just... Ah, crap, it's all that 'beautiful Sean' shite. All of my adult life it seems, people call me beautiful or handsome all the time, go on about it, but they don't even know me, and I don't see it. I'm just me. I mean I know I'm not a gargoyle or summat, I clean up pretty good, sure, but it's just me in the end, and I never turn out to be good enough. Happens every time."

Dave's chest feels suddenly tight. Is this a backlash from last week? Did he push too hard? "Sean, last session... everything that happened in front of the other fellows, was that embarrassing for you?"

"No, it weren't that," Sean insists. "Lord knows we've all had our kit out in the locker room, it weren't that, it just... It made me think is all, and I've been thinkin' on it all week and it come out tonight, I suppose." He explains bitterly, "I can't help but doubt if I'll ever fit anybody. I'm always so fuckin' <em>handsome</em>, or <em>dashing</em>, but that kind of shite's never enough over the long run, now is it."

Dave rubs his toes over the arch of Sean's foot, pulling him closer yet. "You're plenty, from where I am."

"Bit biased, that."

"A little. No less true."

Dave lets moments pass, senses Sean gathering words. "So many days I'm not sure I've got another go in me." He groans miserably, turns into the coverlet. "God, I need it, but I'm so tired of needin' it!"

"What's 'it'?"

"Nah. Don't make me say it, Dave. Sorry, never mind, I never meant to come in here and go all confessional like."

Dave only smiles and reaches up with their laced hands to trace a wet track across Sean's cheek. "Confession is good for the soul," he assures kindly.

Sean comes very close to what might be a smile. "It's just... I keep wonderin' why my accent doesn't give me away right from the start. I can do posh as well as anybody when I want to, but I don't, and I haven't a clue how on earth anyone could listen to me talk day after day and think me anythin' other than what I am &#151; a Yorkshire boy. A north'n bastard. Rolling hills, steel mills, and rough edges."

"And not a damned thing wrong with that," Dave champions. "All the most interesting people I know are considered offbeat in some way or another. What the hell sort of color is beige, anyway? Sucks the life right out of red, if you think about it."

Sean twists to look at him curiously. "What?"

"Beige is a politically correct color; used too often in order to give no offense to anybody," Dave explains huffily. "I find beige offensive in its ambivalence. I mean for heaven's sake, look who you're talking to. All sorts of us wonderful weirdos out there for a discerning fella to choose from."

Sean offers Dave a little smile. "Funny, there's this daft bloke I met at the art museum. Nattering on about cherubs. Rather sweet he is, in a peculiar sort of way. Didn't even flinch when I yelled. 'Course I weren't yelling at <em>him</em>..."

Yelled? Bloke? Dave feels his Unwelcome Occurrence Alarm go off uncomfortably. "And, ah, who &#151; "

"Doesn't matter anyway," Sean mourns quietly. "I never turn out to be what they think I am. Shit, that deep-down cold feelin' I get all over when I realize I've failed the test again. Sick of it, I am."

Dave brushes Sean's hair out of his face, pulls upward at his shoulders. Sean comes willingly, snuggles close up beneath Dave's chin, warm and resting over his chest. Dave rests one arm about Sean's shoulders, threading his fingers gently through his damp hair. "If you could have someone just as you like," Dave ventures, "what sort of person would that be? What do <em>you</em> want, Sean?"

Sean gives a small, wry laugh. "Someone who wants just what I am will do fine."

"Perhaps what you need," Dave pitches, "is someone who likes surprises."

"Is that what I am then, a surprise?"

Dave traces Sean's ear. "The best kind."

Sean is quiet for a little while, the fingers of one hand trailing idly over Dave's shoulder. Dave feels the smile before he hears the tiny chuckle. "Why does Karl call you Daisy?"

"Impertinent thing!" Dave scolds. "That has nothing to do with what I've just said! Here I am, pouring out useful advice &#151; "

"It's got everything to do with what you just said."

"If you understand that, then you don't actually need for me to explain."

"Bollocks," Sean grumps.

"You're not the same person you were a few weeks ago," Dave encourages.

Sean snorts. "I'm a re-model project, then."

"No," Dave corrects fondly. "You're a restoration."

Sean wriggles about to rest his chin on Dave's sternum and stares at him a bit cross-eyed, this close up. "M'newly restored arse feels all hot."

Dave beams at him. "Marvelous, isn't it?"

<hr>

<strong>2:17 a.m.</strong>

Viggo sits up, straightens his blankets, punches at his pillow, flops down with a restless grunt. His brain refuses to shut off, and his stomach won't settle. He hates this. He tries to blame the dog barking five blocks away, or the way the breeze rustles the big ash tree next door, but he knows neither of these is the problem.

Viggo can call on the blood of Viking ancestors to glare out through his eyes, turn them cold and hard as winter ice. He can make the sharp, Nordic angles of his face seem harsh, forbidding, imply a latent threat in the lean strength that v's from his shoulders to his waist, drop his friendly growl into a rough, low register that hints of bared fangs and little conscience. He's done just that tonight &#151; again &#151; intimidated the neighbors across the street and two houses down to quit blasting their car stereos as the vehicles sat in front of their house while they and their friends loitered at the curb and threw beer cans into the street. They're older than most of the students around here. They should know better, and shutting them up shouldn't be left to some nineteen-year-old kid a gazillion miles from Iowa, trying to catch a little rest before midterms. So Viggo puts on his disguise and steps in.

The racket is gone now. The neighborhood rests, as much as it ever does, and as always Viggo is left feeling hollow and anxious, never proud and flush with victory. He can, if pushed to that, take it as well as give it, but the whole angry action/reaction/reaction of it always tastes sour at the last, leaves him shaking and miserable. Viggo entertains a sudden vivid, and faintly heartbreaking fantasy of Sean standing behind him, there in the street, his solid presence cutting the argument short; of Sean staying here to ease the shakes out of Viggo's belly and his hands. He rubs at his eyes, gets up and goes downstairs to make himself some mint and chamomile tea. It won't help, but it's better than lying here in the dark and wishing for what he doesn't have.

<hr>

Sean sits in the big chair on his patio, sipping at a broad-hipped glass of fine brandy. Nearby Mycroft rumbles and rolls onto his other side, Ophelia looking on disappointedly as her pillow rolls away. She sighs and moves gracefully up onto the chaise longue. Sean inhales the soft scent of the brandy, lets the taste of it drift down the back of his throat. The owl that keeps lookout in the big Monterey pine back in the north corner of Sean's yard shifts and screeches into the darkness before launching itself into the night on silent grey wings. Sean watches it ghost over the yard and disappear into the stars. He smiles, the memory of the last part of the evening playing over in his head.

When he and Dave emerged from their bath they were greeted by music coming from downstairs, and upon investigation discovered most of the mansion's crew and novices dipping and swinging one another to the sound of Louis Armstrong singing that he's crazy 'bout his baby, and his baby's crazy 'bout him. The hour was late, and any paying clients had gone home, leaving only the mansion's crew behind, and Sean.

Sean grins contentedly into his brandy. Elijah was easier to twirl, because he's short. Liv was easier to dip, because she's tall. When Eric rested his big hands on Orlando's narrow waist to bring the two of them circling sedately down the center of the main hallway, the great, grinning chunk of Australian outback was nothing short of grace and precision. If only, Sean thinks, Dave had the first clue as to how Karl looked at him while they twirled and swung to Louis's "Keepin' Out of Mischief Now." But Sean supposes that's none of his business.

Sean gives a little sigh, and rolls the brandy on his tongue. One of tonight's songs plays over in his mind, and in defiance of past experience he lets his fantasy run, allowing just for a little while the possibility of clear grey eyes and a benignly offbeat smile, the lean warmth of a strong body in Sean's arms, and slow dancing in the living room...

<em>Hold me close and hold me fast The magic spell you cast This is la vie en rose. When you kiss me Heaven sighs And though I close my eyes I see la vie en rose. When you press me to your heart I'm in a world apart A world where roses bloom And when you speak angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs. Give your heart and soul to me And life will always be La vie en rose...</em>

It's a vision soft and sweet, and not at all like Sean, but no one has to know how carefully he keeps it. He closes his eyes and lets it play again.

<hr>

<strong>Saturday, 9:15 a.m.</strong>

Ian holds the telephone to his ear while he's rinsing the breakfast dishes. "David, my boy! What brings you into the land of the living this early on a Saturday morning? Obviously not the fine surf."

"Panic," Dave admits. "There's been an Unwelcome Occurrence!"

"Has there really?" Ian responds mildly. Frederick has insinuated himself between Ian's ankles, and he reminds himself to step carefully. "Give me the details, then. How deep is the horror?"

"Last night Sean said he'd met some 'daft bloke' at the art museum."

Ian adjusts the telephone with a wet hand and takes the kettle off the stove as it boils. "By 'met,' you infer attraction, possible fraternization?"

Dave lets out a slow breath. "He said he was sweet. How many sweet, daft blokes who like cherubs do we know?"

"I chair the art department at a university campus on the middle coast of California. How many daft blokes do I <em>not</em> know?"

"Ian... "

"Sorry. What exactly brought on this admission of having met our mysterious bloke?"

"We were talking about how unnatural it is to be normal, I made a derogatory comment about beige, and he said I sounded like some daft bloke he'd met at the art museum. Ring any bells?"

"Half a dozen." Ian rummages for a particular tea in his cupboard. "Pity we're not talking about Viggo, here. Him I can keep an eye on. Sean is another matter." He chuckles suddenly.

Dave demands, "What, what?"

Ian sips carefully at the hot tea, trying not to make slurping noises over the phone connection. "I was merely thinking that your comment does sound a bit like something Viggo might say. I believe he's beginning to affect you, David. But really, what are the odds, eh?"