Title: Novice Chronicles: 6/15:  Some Kind of Understanding
Author:  Brigantine
e-mail: gidgetpup@netzero.com
Pairing: Vig/Bean/Dave
Rating:  NC-17
Warnings: AU, bondage, blatant hedonism
Disclaimer: Not happening.  Didn't happen.  Won't happen
Summary:  Viggo gets bugged.  Sean gets sticky and thinks about things he'd rather not.  

###############################

Author's Note:  If this were real life I expect the folks at the mansion would be seeing a 
lot more condom use, but I just didn't wanna.  Just so you know.  

And I owe Half Elf Lost for the rum sauce idea. 

********************************

Thursday, 8:07 p.m.:

"Hang in there," Dave encourages, wrapping the black tape carefully.  "I remember," he 
tells Viggo as he works, "that when Marton played this game with me, the word 
'caterpillar' came up several times."  He gives Viggo a sideways smile and says, "I can 
look back and have a nice chuckle about it, now.  Hold very still."

Dave wraps Viggo's hips and buttocks, working the non-adhesive tape at angles in order 
to get the coverage he desires while leaving certain portions of Viggo's anatomy 
unbound.  "Arch your back toward me."  

Viggo braces himself as well as he can, pressing down with hips and shoulders, and 
shortly his torso is well wrapped, including his arms bound across his chest, up to a few 
inches above his nipples, just shy of his shoulders.  Here Dave stops, cuts off the tape, 
and tucks in the end.

"Give it a wiggle."

Viggo squirms in his bonds, but Dave has done his work well, and Viggo finds little give.

Dave nods in satisfaction and wraps several circuits of tape across Viggo's eyes, thorough 
as always, but careful not to wrap too tightly.  "That feel okay?  No creepy 
claustrophobic sensations about to send you lunging onto the floor in a panic?"

Viggo nods blindly, chuckling, "Yes, Sir.  I mean no Sir, no panicking."

Dave pushes away that sandy forelock that keeps brushing down over Viggo's forehead.  
Finally he smiles resignedly and lets it be.  He settles back on his heels near Viggo's hips 
and surveys his handiwork.  Viggo lies blind and quiet on the bed, wrapped neatly from 
ankles to shoulders in length upon length of smooth black tape. The glow of sconces and 
candles warm Viggo's throat and shoulders, cast his collar bones into bright ridges and 
umber shadows, pick out in rose gold the sharp angles of his face.  Viggo's exposed cock 
and his balls lie darkly pink and vulnerable against the sleek blackness of the tape, and he 
makes a small noise of nervous appreciation when Dave caresses him gently. 

*"Mr. Haggerty!"*

Dave frowns.  What the hell?

"Mr. Haggerty!"  That's Miranda's voice out in the hallway.  The sound of running feet 
nears, rattling the old floorboards.  "We don't have to use the wooden paddle!  Mr. 
Haggerty, you've forgotten your trousers!"

The running feet pass by Dave's room, pounding down the stairs.  "Mr. Haggerty, 
dammit, get back here and put on your trousers!  There are laws regarding this sort of 
thing, even in Saint Arquette!  *Orlando--!*"

Miranda's voice is muffled as she and Mr. Haggerty near the ground floor, and Dave 
envisions Orlando as the last line of defense, bravely flinging his slender frame at the 
larger and swiftly escaping form of Miranda's inadequately attired client.

Viggo snickers.

"Bugger," Dave huffs. "Now I've forgotten where I left off."

Viggo laughs outright.

Dave reprimands him half-heartedly.  "That's enough, you!  Oh yes.  I have business with 
this, here..."  He gently grips Viggo's cock, lightly stroking the dry, satin skin, and smiles 
as Viggo lets out a slow breath and tries to arch his hips up into Dave's hand.  Caterpillar 
ahoy.

Dave reaches back for the little tube on the mattress near him.  He applies a generous 
amount of lubricant to the palm of his hand, warms it briefly, and grips Viggo firmly.  He 
strokes downward with one hand, then follows with the other.  Viggo grunts softly and 
bites his lip, hips pushing upward awkwardly.  Dave repeats his strokes, one hand 
following the other continually, always downward, his thumbs stroking briefly each time 
he reaches the slickening tip of Viggo's cock.  He watches Viggo's face; watches him 
flush and sweat, hears the harshness of his breath, knows when he's close... and here 
Dave stops.  Viggo gulps, presses his lips together, breathing hard through his nose.

Dave reaches for the small metal nail file lying on the coverlet near the lubricant.  He 
presses the pointed end of the nail file just firmly enough against Viggo's hot, flushed 
skin and draws it slowly down the underside.  Viggo grits his teeth unhappily and 
squirms, and Viggo's cock, which Dave had recently pleasured so nicely, indicates its 
unhappiness at the new stimulation by withdrawing from the game.  

"Not so quick," Dave taunts.  He adds more lubricant, caresses Viggo to a new 
enthusiasm, and begins his rhythm again of grasping fingers and stroking thumbs, 
continuing until Viggo is slick and he is writhing against the force of the binding tape but 
getting nowhere; until he is grimacing and his cheeks are flushed, and he is so close... and 
Dave stops.

He reaches for the nail file.

Viggo growls in frustration and discomfort.

Dave adds more lubricant, and begins the game again.  When Viggo is groaning and 
bucking against the restraints, making the sleek black tape creak where it overlaps, his 
forehead slick with sweat, and release so near... Dave's hands stop.

Viggo whimpers.

Dave reaches for the nail file, presses it to Viggo's reddened skin, draws it precisely 
down.

Viggo tries wriggle away.  He curses--at least Dave assumes it's a curse, as Viggo has 
spat it out in Spanish.

"If you're going to be vulgar," Dave scolds, "I may just end this now and leave you here 
to cool off."

Viggo comes *that* close to a sob, but nods acquiescence.

"Patience," Dave soothes, and he starts the firm, quick rhythm of knowing hands once 
again, Viggo's skin hypersensitive now.  Viggo gasps and bucks at the contact, though 
Dave can see in his face that he's trying to hold back, expecting to be denied at the last 
moment.  Dave's hands coax and pleasure, stroking him to the edge in spite of himself.  
He watches Viggo's face, recognizing the moment when he's about to fall.

Viggo climaxes loudly and copiously and twists on the bed, cocoon of black tape and all, 
quickly shifting into helpless, grateful noises and finally lapsing into a series of deep, 
slow breaths.

Flush with a sense of accomplishment Dave surveys the evidence splattered over the tape, 
the coverlet and his own hands.  Prosaic, some might judge, but proof of a job well done, 
even if he says so himself.  He quickly towels his hands dry of lubricant and other things, 
then ruffles Viggo's hair.  "Well done, Viggo," he croons.  "Well done!  Here we go, 
now."  He carefully unwinds the tape from Viggo's head.

He grins as Viggo blinks up at him.  "So how'd you like it?"

Viggo regards him with wide grey eyes and gulps, "Guh."




Dave feels the tension in Viggo's shoulders.  At some point between being unwrapped, 
and then tidying up the room, and finally settling into the big claw foot tub for a warm 
bath Viggo has gone quiet, and now Dave can't seem to unknot the tension in his 
shoulders.  He leans in, speaking quietly against his friend's ear.

"You've something on your mind, Viggo, and I can tell from here it's heavy.  Want to 
share the weight?"

Viggo takes a thoughtful breath, letting it out slowly.  "It's just... well.  Just feeling sort of 
weird, I dunno, suddenly a little melancholy.  It's okay."

Dave rubs the arch of his foot along the side of Viggo's calf, wraps his arms about 
Viggo's chest.  "Horse puckey."

Viggo gives a little bark of a laugh.  "'Horse puckey'?  Who says that?"

"Don't digress.  Tell me all your deep dark secrets--unless you've got somebody locked 
up in your basement, in which case you might want to just skip me and go straight to the 
authorities for a proper unburdening."  He gives Viggo a sharp squeeze.

"I just..." Viggo shakes his head.  "Lately I've been thinking, is all."

"Mmm," Dave agrees.  "Always very dangerous.  Better confess everything!"

Moments pass while Viggo stares at the bath bubbles, and finally he says quietly, "I can't 
ignore the loneliness anymore.  I've tried.  After the last disaster I promised myself, no 
more lovers.  A loss perhaps, but a resignation infinitely preferable to the anger and the 
crushing despair."  He pauses, and Dave feels a small tremor go through him.  "It hurts 
more each time someone tells me that they just aren't capable of meeting my needs, as 
though that's supposed to explain everything, when it explains nothing, and I don't...  I 
don't want that pain anymore.  Wondering what the hell I did wrong.  Jesus Dave, there 
isn't even an argument.  They just tell me we want different things and then they leave, 
and I don't even get an explanation of what 'different things' is supposed to mean.  So I 
tell myself, y'know, screw it, who needs it?"

Viggo shrugs.  "That each morning when I wake to a bed with no one else in it I feel a 
little bit colder inside I've done my best to ignore, but I can't seem to keep up my own 
pretense."  He rests his hands over the backs of Dave's.  "I'm afraid to take another 
chance, afraid not to.  I'm stuck."

"Which is why you're here," Dave reminds him gently.

"Yeah.  Yeah.  Ian knows me too well."

Dave chuckles darkly.  "Ian understands a lot of things awfully well.  The FBI should be 
so lucky."

Viggo flashes a smirk at the bath bubbles, rubs idly at Dave's knuckles.

"Something I've learned while I've been involved in all of this," Dave tells him, "is that 
people often find that they're a lot stronger than they think.  Also that they've spent most 
of their lives short-changing themselves.  What do you want, Viggo?  From a partner, I 
mean.  Have you ever really thought about it?"

"Someone who doesn't mind that I make messes and have almost no concept of time.  
Someone kind.  Someone willing to make room, I suppose."  Viggo shakes his head.  "I 
don't know about turning love into a grocery list."

"Point taken," Dave agrees, "but sometimes it's important to know what you need."

"Do you believe there's a particular person out there for everyone?"

Dave rests his chin on Viggo's damp shoulder.  "Imagine if Hamlet had just stuck with 
Horatio, all the suffering that could have been avoided.  Or here… let me see if I can 
remember... 'If she be a traitor, why so am I.  We still have slept together, rose in an 
instant, learned, played, eat together, and whereso'er we went, like Juno's swans still we 
went coupled and inseparable.'  There, I think I've got it right.  One of my favorite bits."

Viggo tilts his head curiously.  "'As You Like It'?"

"Ian would be proud!  Celia and Rosalind.  Friends through thick and thin."

"I don't think Celia and Rosalind were lovers."

"Nor were Hamlet and Horatio, more's the pity, but you see what I'm getting at."

"Find a guy who's willing to run off into the forest with me?"

Dave snickers into the side of Viggo's neck.  "In a way, yes.  Celia and Rosalind loved 
each other as friends right from the start.  There's the beginning.  If Hamlet hadn't been so 
distracted by what he thought everybody expected of him, he might have run off to the 
New World--or maybe France--with Horatio and lived happily ever after.  You never 
know when or if you'll meet the right person," Dave says, "but you need to realize first of 
all that you're willing to want him when it happens."

Viggo sighs heavily and leans back into Dave.  "Even if the very thought scares me 
shitless?"

Dave smiles and rubs at the calluses on Viggo's index finger.  "Especially then."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday, 7:13 p.m.:

"...and of course everyone's got their preferences and their dislikes," Dave tells Sean.  
"You've got your happy masochists who love a good flogging, but hate being bound, 
whereas you've got folks who love being tied up and molested all over the map, but when 
it comes to pain, they'd rather not."

"I've got an entire new reference library at home that I have to hide whenever my other 
friends come to visit.  Thank God my mum's still in England!"

Dave laughs, "Tell me you've rented bondage porn as part of your research, and I'll know 
you've fallen right into the deep end!"

"Oh."  Sean smirks.  "Splash, then."

Dave and Sean are sitting together on the bed, fooling around generally with buckles and 
quick clips and snap hooks and long leash lines of supple leather when someone knocks 
at Dave's door, and he hollers at them to come in.  The curtain that safeguards the door 
has not been drawn, and Karl steps directly into the room.  He looks from Dave to Sean, 
then back to Dave, nodding at Sean.  "He's not bare-arsed."

"You disappointed?"  Dave waggles an eyebrow.

"A bit, yeah."

Sean blushes and concentrates very hard on the thick leather manacle he's practicing 
buckling smoothly shut.

"I'm showing him some stuff, that's all."  Dave throws a knowing grin at Sean.  "For now, 
anyway."

"Ehm... d'you think you could shift your plans a bit?"  Karl bounces almost 
imperceptibly.

"What are you on about?  Spill."

"Got the new toy this afternoon."

Dave's eyes light up.  "You little ripper!  Where is it?"

Karl grins like a kid with a new skateboard and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.  "In the 
Pit.  In the kitchen."  He's watching Sean when he asks Dave the question.  "Ya wanna 
give 'er a go?"

Dave turns to Sean.  "Up for a change of plans?"

Sean regards Karl warily.  "Wasn't countin' on any shrieking for mercy tonight, if it's all 
the same."

Karl's eyes glitter, but he raises his right hand.  "Swear."  He gives Sean a smile of pure 
wickedness.  "Unless you find that's how you choose to express yourself."

Dave is already bailing off the bed and motioning for Sean to follow.  "Come on, the Pit's 
upstairs."  He takes Sean by the hand, leading him out.  "This'll be huge!"

Karl beams.

As he follows them down the hallway toward the stairs to the third floor Sean inquires,  
"Why do you call it the Pit?"

"Because we made it," Dave explains, "exclusively for our own entertainment, just the 
masters and novices."

Karl adds, as they ascend the stairs, "We thought about calling it the Den, short for Den 
of Iniquity, but it just didn't have the right ring to it.  Crikey, Dave, even under track 
pants your boy's got a lovely bum!"

"Keep your naughty hands off my boy," Dave warns.

"But Dave, it's just so…"  Karl makes grasping gestures with his fingers.

Dave pushes Sean, laughing, up the stairs ahead of him.  He scolds Karl.  "Pervert."

"Greedy."

"As you can see, we have entirely dispensed with any formality--or for that matter, 
rational thought--this evening," Dave comments.

Sean grins.  "I'll just go ahead and brace meself then, shall I?"

The third floor does not extend to the mansion's entire footprint, but sits on the back half 
of the second floor.  The Pit takes up the entirety of this.  The old mansion was restored 
as faithfully here as everywhere else, as far as its bones go, but there the late Craftsman 
identity ends, and the nineteen-seventies have taken over.

It looks like a college dorm room has exploded.  To the left of the door is a sprawl of 
beanbags in garish colors resting on a swath of thick, blue shag carpeting.  The walls are 
gold.  A 'Dark Side of the Moon' poster hangs on the wall above a gigantic television.  
Windows take up much of the wall space, and plants in macramé hangers dangle in front 
of them.  A poster for a Jethro Tull concert and another from Led Zeppelin's 'Stairway to 
Heaven' album add to the era.  

The kitchen area is raised, overlooking the television and bean bag pit; dark wood 
cabinetry, an avocado green oven, a bright yellow smiley face cookie jar, a large wall 
clock featuring a picture of the Swedish Chef from the Muppet Show... and the 
monstrosity that is Karl's new toy, where the kitchen table ought to be.  Dave nearly runs 
into Sean when he comes to a dead stop, glaring suspiciously at Elijah, and Eric, and 
Dom.

Sean gapes at the thing in the middle of the linoleum.  "What the hell is that?"

Karl bounces on his toes.  "Ain't she a beaut?"

Dave can't help laughing, first at the look on Sean's face, then at Karl's expression of pure 
glee, mid-bounce.

Elijah sits grinning at the foot of the contraption, swinging his legs.  "This thing," he 
enthuses, "is so fuckin' cool!"

He launches himself off the edge of the device and begins skittering around the new 
appliance like a hyperactive salesman.  "Lookit this!"  He reaches low on the shining new 
toy, clanks a couple of levers, and flips up a pair of steel-framed leg rests.  "See, now you 
don't always have to bend your knees with all your leg weight balanced on your heels.  
And they can do *this!*"  He maneuvers the leg rests together, then wide apart.  Elijah 
fairly vibrates in his enthusiasm.  "Tell me that's not the coolest!"

Sean raises an eyebrow.  "You make it sound like an Austin Healey.  Karl, how do you 
get somethin' like this, anyway?"  

"Bit of honest barter with a couple of machinist friends of mine," Karl explains.  "They 
do special things for me, and in turn I do special things to them."

"Jealous as hell, I am," Eric admits, though of which part of the bargain is unclear.

Sean points beneath the gleaming contraption of chrome steel and black nylon webbing.  
"Why is Dom layin' down towels?  Is that to soak up somebody's blood?"

Dominic snorts, grey eyes laughing.  "What, are you a virgin, think we're gonna sacrifice 
you to the bondage gods?"

"Me?"  Sean rolls his eyes dramatically.  "Oh, but of course!  And which bondage gods 
would that be?"

"Larry, Moe, Curly..."

Dave interrupts Sean and Dom snickering at each other.  "Have you ever wondered," he 
asks, "what it would be like to be nibbled to bits by piranha?"

"No, can't say I have."  Sean licks his upper lip and smirks,  "But we're going to pretend 
tonight, aren't we."

Dave yodels merrily, "Naked, naked, naked!"

Sean is a step ahead of him, already pulling up the hem of his t-shirt.  He's blushing from 
his bellybutton to his hairline, and declares righteously, "I hope you're all bloody 
delighted by the view of tonight's risen moon," which he then displays to his enthusiastic 
and vocal audience.  "Oi, no gropin'!  And who said, 'Yow, baby!'?"

As Elijah hops down from his perch, Karl helps Sean situate himself so that the thick 
webbing supports him comfortably.  "Feel alright?"

"It's not bad," Sean tells him.  "Weird, but not uncomfortable."

Eric grins and fastens neoprene straps around each of Sean's ankles.

By the time Eric and Karl have finished, Sean is buckled in thoroughly, his arms raised 
just above his head and snugly bound to the top edge of the steel frame, palms up.

Karl peers down at Sean.  "Anything too tight?"

Sean twiddles fingers and toes, testing the restraints.  "I'm okay."

Dave hands Karl a tall, orange ceramic pitcher.  "Still nice and warm."  He realizes that 
he's started to imitate Karl by bouncing on his toes.  He really has been looking forward 
to this.  His only concern, lurking about in the back of his head, is that being slung into a 
group situation, even as informally as this, and with people he knows, might be too much 
for Sean.  So far, however, he seems to be enjoying himself.

Elijah and Dom fidget, watching eagerly as Karl hovers the orange pitcher above Sean's 
belly.  "Ready?"

"No screaming?"

"Not the bad kind," Karl leers.

"Right, then."

Karl pours a slender stream of thick, fragrant liquid slowly onto Sean's pale skin, tipping 
the pitcher up sharply as the liquid puddles and begins to drip down Sean's sides.  "Go," 
he commands, and Elijah and Dom fall on Sean like a pair of starving hyenas, licking and 
slurping.  

Sean laughs and squirms under the onslaught. "What the hell?  Gah!  Hey!  Is that rum?"

"My special butter rum sauce," Eric informs him proudly.

"More," Dom and Elijah demand in unison.  Their happy faces gleam stickily in the 
kitchen light.

Karl frowns. "We need more mouths, if this going to work properly."

"We do," Eric agrees hungrily.

"Right-ho," Dave beams amiably down at his lovely, flushed, sticky boy.  "But first we 
flip the coin."

Eric digs into the front pocket of his jeans.  "Heads Elijah, tails Dom."

"'Heads Elijah, tails Dom' what?" Sean wants to know.

The quarter flips over and again, glinting in the air, and lands neatly on Eric's broad palm.  
"Elijah."

Elijah whoops, blue eyes shining.

"Bugger," Dom complains.

"Pouring," Karl announces, and a generous amount of warm butter rum sauce trails 
quickly from Sean's collarbones, down his already gleaming torso to his hips and over his 
thighs.  He gives a cry of surprise and pleasure as five mouths attack the sweet confection 
of his skin.  Tongues lick into the dip of his collarbones, the shallow scoop between his 
pectorals, probe the small bowl of his navel.  Wet, eager mouths skate the hollows of his 
hips, delve the insides of his thighs, until Sean is squirming against the straps and half 
breathless, and Eric stands and brushes the back of his hand across his own reddened lips 
and declares, "David, your boy is delicious!"

"I believe it's time," Dave declares.  He makes for the freezer and begins rummaging.  
He's suddenly tempted to rub his hands together and laugh evilly, like Snidely Whiplash, 
but manages to squash the urge in the interest of not freaking out Sean completely.

Elijah stands at the foot of The Machine, waiting impatiently as Eric and Karl adjust the 
steel leg frames so that Sean's legs are pushed further apart and further back.

"I'd ask what the hell's going on," Sean growls, "if I thought I'd get an answer."

Between his knees, Elijah reassures, "Don't worry," and flashes him a grin, but doesn't 
elaborate.

Dave has got what he needs and approaches from the blind spot of Sean's left shoulder.  
"Remember that bit about bracing yourself?"  He drops a scoop of vanilla ice cream onto 
Sean's warm and undefended private parts.

"*Fuckfuck!*" Sean yelps and struggles as Dave adds a slosh of butter rum sauce 
followed by a generous helping of whipped cream.

Karl orders, "Go!" and Elijah dives for Sean's crotch, slurping at the whipped cream and 
biting at the ice cream, nudging it with his nose as it threatens to slide off into the crease 
of Sean's left thigh.

Sean curses fiercely, growling, "G'dammit, 'Lij hurry the fuck up, it's freezin'!"

Elijah swoops gleefully, licking and mouthing at the thick drips of rum sauce, whipped 
cream, and ice cream that melt over Sean's skin, trailing into all the creases and curves of 
him, and at last run down into the cleft of Sean's bottom.

Sean gasps and squirms at the feel of Elijah's tongue lapping and probing, slicking his 
way back up again to devour the sweet rum and vanilla, and then Sean takes a sharp, 
wide-eyed breath as Elijah's warm tongue penetrates the cold wash of just-melted ice-
cream and wriggles into the opening of Sean's foreskin, probing quickly into the sensitive 
slit of Sean's cock.  Elijah pulls the foreskin into his mouth and worries it a little with his 
teeth, licking at the soft, protective folds and tugging gently until Sean is biting back a 
pleasured groan and Elijah's left with no more slack to hold onto.  He grins, laps up what 
little remains of the cold ice cream on Sean's lengthening cock and takes it into his 
mouth.

"Nngod," Sean grunts.

Dave curves his hand over Sean's eyes, resting it lightly there, feeling the quick flutter of 
Sean's eyelashes against his palm and fingers, and watching Sean's mouth open in deep 
breaths of pleasure as he writhes against the steel frame.

Elijah runs sticky hands up the backs of Sean's thighs and down again together to cradle 
and caress Sean's balls.  He rubs his thumbs lightly against the sweetened pucker just 
below.  It isn't long before Sean is cursing breathlessly, fighting the restraints, and then 
he stutters and bites his lip, a low groan rising to a sharp yell, and his hips lever up off the 
webbing, and Elijah smiles, and swallows and lets him wetly loose, pausing to lick up a 
small puddle of ice cream and sauce just there to the right.

Dave uncovers Sean's eyes, leaving him blinking and half-dazed, and brushes his cheek.  
"You alright, Sean?"

"Jesus," Sean mutters.

Elijah wipes a dribble of whipped cream from his chin.  "Am I fuckin' good at this, or 
what?"

"I think you melted me," Sean admits shakily.

"You're okay, though?"  Elijah hovers, resting one warm, sticky hand lightly on Sean's 
belly.

"Yeah," Sean grins crookedly up at him.  "Yeah, m'alright, lad.  Sweet Christ, you don't 
waste your time makin' a poor job of it, do you?"

Dom makes a face.  "We'll never hear the end of it, now."

"Twat," Elijah teases. 

"Cocksucker."

"Idiot, we've just established that."  A kind of wrestling, boxing, insulting match ensues, 
Dominic and Elijah dodging about the kitchen as each tries to get one up on the other, 
while Dave and Karl unbuckle Sean from The Machine.  "You.  Were.  Fucking 
fantastic," Karl congratulates.  He's beaming like a maniac, and Dave hardly dares 
imagine what sort of new, wonderfully twisted scenes are brewing behind Karl's eyes.  
Sometimes, with Karl, it's better not to know.

Sean giggles tiredly, sits up on the edge, and accepts a warm, wet towel from a grinning 
Eric, who nearly topples him with a friendly slap to his back.  "Hey," Sean asks, "is there 
any more of that stuff left?"

Eric laughs, "What, you want to pour it on one of the children, see if it'll distract 'em 
enough to shut 'em up?"

"Wouldn't waste it like that.  I just never got to taste it meself."  Sean rubs futilely at the 
drying stickiness over his belly.

"Tilt your head back, mate."

Sean tilts his face upwards and opens his mouth for Eric to dribble a small amount from 
the orange pitcher onto Sean's tongue.  Sean savors it thoughtfully.  "That's wonderfully 
good!  No wonder I was so popular."

"I am a man of many talents," Eric smiles.

"Trust me," Dom grunts, rolling against the refrigerator as Elijah tries to get him into a 
headlock.  "He really is."

Karl pulls the two novices apart and orders Elijah to start helping to clean up.

"Better get off this thing," Dave advises Sean.  "Or you may find yourself glued down."

Sean states the obvious as he scrambles free. "I need a bath."  He bends over, kneeling 
down and crawling half beneath the dripping contraption to help Dom pick up syrup-
soaked towels from the floor.

"Oh lord," Karl groans, staring at Sean's bare backside as he crouches on the floor.  
"Dave, get him far, far away, or I won't be held responsible!"  He tosses a large red towel 
across the room at Dave.

Sean straightens enough to peer over the edge of The Machine.  "What's that?"

Dave laughs, gathering up Sean's clothes and handing him the towel.  "Come on, sweet 
cheeks.  Wrap that around your modesty, and let's get you out of the danger zone!"

A nice bath, Dave thinks as he leads Sean out of the Pit, will be just the thing.  A nice 
long, hot bath for his deserving boy, and for Dave too, of course.  Sean is a very, very 
sticky boy, and he should have help washing up.  Anyway, they've got things to talk 
about.  Being bound buck naked and brought to climax in front of a group of friends is a 
new thing for Sean--an important new thing, and Dave wants to be sure he's had as good 
a time as Dave did, watching him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

9:35 p.m.:

Viggo's living room is more of a mess than usual.  He spent much of last night 
rummaging through his bedroom and his studio.  Today he had a class to teach and a 
couple of hours in his office at school which, as often happens, turned into most of the 
day spent happily tutoring half a dozen of his students, and helping them with whatever 
projects they've been working on.  He's still got wood stain embedded in the creases of 
his right hand.  He's not overly concerned.

This evening he spent turning his living room pretty much upside down looking for what 
he couldn't find last night, but now he's got it, and he's lying absorbed in it on his messy 
floor, propped up on his elbows.  Marilyn has curled up in the hollow of his back, and 
Jim snoozes with his nose pointed at Viggo's book, gently breathing on the pages.  The 
language is four centuries old, so it's something of a challenge, especially the period 
slang, but he's got good footnotes and plenty of patience, and nowhere he needs to be 
tomorrow.

*Chapter 1.3,* Viggo reads, *Enter Celia and Rosalind.

Celia: Why, cousin, why Rosalind!  Cupid have mercy!  Not a word?

Rosalind: Not one to throw at a dog.

Celia: No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at 
me.  Come, lame me with reasons....*

~~~~~~~~~~~~

1:16 a.m.:

Sean stands in the middle of his back yard under a three-quarter moon.  He's wandered 
restlessly throughout the house trying to settle his mind, but all he's achieved is to keep 
Mycroft and Ophelia awake.  Now they both stand at the French doors leading from the 
darkened kitchen to the patio, watching him with wrinkled brows while the warm breath 
from their noses steams up the glass.

His house is dark, and Sean's back yard is screened from his neighbors, so that only the 
stars and the moon light his way.  The early morning is chill, but Sean stands naked 
beneath the indigo canopy of stars.  He's never been prudish about his body, but neither 
has he ever considered himself an exhibitionist; yet tonight he not only stripped before an 
appreciative audience, but good Christ, he *came,* writhing and screaming, right in front 
of God and everybody, and though it was a lark at the time, trying to sort out how he 
feels about it all now is more than puzzling.  Still, that's not really what's got him 
standing starkers in the starlight in his back yard. 

Time and again lovers have run their hands over his bare skin, telling him how 
handsome, how beautiful he is, but while he always, and still, craves the touch, the praise 
lately makes him uncomfortable, as though he has learned to sense the ending in it.  Sean 
looks down at his naked body, at the way his skin gleams, as though he has become 
something surreal by night.  He knows what lies beneath.  He can imagine the wode blue 
swirls and lines of the iron age heathen, the hot red blood running just below the surface, 
and just now he can't reconcile the expectations of former lovers with what he knows he 
is.  That, he supposes, has been the trouble all along.  He wonders why they always seem 
to wait until he's allowed himself to start believing something good and forever might 
happen before they make it clear that they've been disappointed.


--tbc--