Title: Ryan’s Tale: How It All Began
Author: P’al Kwai
E-Mail: isisbaast@aol.com
Ratings: 17+ for explicit m/m slash. If this offends you, please do not read.
Pairings: Horatio Caine/Ryan Wolfe
Spoilers: Season 7, CSI Miami
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. They belong to their respective creators.
Feedback: Welcomed and adored.
Miami, Florida, February 1, 2008
“Ryan.” His tone is low-pitched, but even so, the ring of authority in it is hard to miss. “Ryan, you need to relax.”
Eyes closed, teeth gritted, I try to obey, but the pain that racks my body says otherwise.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” I can hear the surprise in his voice.
“I. . . .” Words die in my throat. I have no excuses. Hastily I grab onto his upper arms.
Despite my misery, I don’t want him to stop. Having him here with me, in me, is something I’ve wanted for so long, but let me commence the story from the beginning; it started a couple of weeks ago:
January 18, 2008
Arms full of bags of take-out, I fumble for the doorbell, hands shaking with nervousness. I can see his Miami-Dade official police vehicle parked in the driveway. I’m not going to get a he’s-not-home reprieve.
It’s probably only moments, but it feels like hours before his front door opens. “Mr. Wolfe, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He eyes the numerous bags I’m carrying. “I hope that’s not. . . .”
“Food,” I interrupt. “And drink.” I try to hold up the bag that contains bottles of wine. Expensive wine, too expensive for my budget, but I’m so desperate to please. “Listen,” I begin, as he holds the door, so I can slip through. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I heard the news, that, that. . . .” Now I’m embarrassed, as I realize I’m admitting to office gossip.
Horatio lets the door swing shut, as he stares at me with his head tilted. “A very thoughtful gesture, Mr. Wolfe. I’m quite grateful.”
I heave a silent sigh, so unfailingly polite. For some time now, I’ve been hoping for Ryan instead of Mr. Wolfe. Eric is always Eric, never Mr. Delko, although he not only has the advantage of knowing and working with H for more years than I have, he also had the privilege of calling him brother-in-law.
And Calleigh, she is always addressed by. . .I think hard, trying to recall if H calls her by her first name, or is it Ms. Duquesne. Setting my bags down on the small kitchen table, I bump my elbow hard on a wooden kitchen chair. Resisting the urge to grab it, I curse to myself. Of all times, to become clumsy.
“So this is,” he pauses. “A celebratory occasion?”
“No, no,” I instantly protest, as I pull out the bottles of wine. “Commiseration.” The word no sooner leaves my lips, and I regret it. “I mean, uh, I heard about your son-Kyle choosing to stay with his mother, and uh, I just wanted to, to. . . .” I realize I’m babbling and that I sound like a fool. “Ah, got a corkscrew?” I hold up a wine bottle.
“Certainly.” Horatio steps over to his kitchen cabinets and instantly pulls one out. He’s organized, a trait I find commendable, which means I can add one more reason to admire him. “I’m flattered that you would take time after a long week of work to spend it with me.”
H always has a well-mannered response. Even with suspects, he’s never offensive or vulgar like so many other police officers in the interrogation rooms, but despite that he’s still just as intimidating.
It doesn’t take long before I comprehend that being with Horatio in a social situation is a lot harder than when I’m with him professionally. On the job it’s easy to loose oneself in the tasks that must be completed and the clues that must be found. Concentration on what needs to be done keeps me from having to focus too much on my interactions with a man, who I respect immensely, perhaps to a point of hero worship. So to ease my awkwardness, I find myself taking more and more swallows of wine, and it’s not until a couple hours have passed that I realize that I’ve polished off all of the wine with H perhaps imbibing in half a glass.
“Ah, perhaps,” I start, as I help throw away the take-out cartons, and clean up the couple of plates and silverware. “I should call a cab.” It’s never a good idea to pick up your car keys after gulping down a few bottles of wine in front of the man, who’s a lieutenant in the police force and your boss.
“Not necessary, Mr. Wolfe.” His back is to me, as he stacks the dishes in the sink. “I have an extra bed.”
“No, no!” I immediately object. “I didn’t come here to intrude or, or be a problem.”
“It’s no problem,” he assures me. “Come.” With a wave of the hand, he motions me to follow and leads me to a room, neatly made up with a double bed, dresser, and desk. With a pang it occurs to me that the room was set up with Kyle in mind. “The bathroom’s right next door, and I believe you’ll find a toothbrush still sealed in its box.”
“H, I. . . .” I’m at a loss to what to say. How many times since the day he hired me have I thanked this man?
“Not to worry.” Just briefly, so briefly he rests a hand on my shoulder. “Sleep it off, and tomorrow you can drive yourself home.”
I nod my head, as he exit’s the room and closes the door softly behind him.
**
January 19. 2008
Note to self, the combination of red wine, Chinese food, and nerves will make you sick. This thought passes through my mind, as I kneel in front of the toilet, emptying my stomach.
It’s about three in the morning, and I can only pray that H isn’t a light sleeper. Having him witness this humiliation after making a fool of myself by drinking too much would probably force me to transfer to the CSI night shift.
Another twenty minutes of praying to the porcelain god before I finally feel my stomach stop its rolling. I wait another five minutes just to be sure, and then the sound of a door has me jerking up in surprise and hitting my head hard on the bathroom sink. For a moment stars are the only thing I see, as dizziness overwhelms me, and I find myself collapsing onto the floor. I must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing I’m aware of is H bending over me.
“Ryan, Ryan, look at me.”
A hand holds the back of my head up, as I try to focus my vision.
“Ryan,” he repeats my name.
“H. . .I. . . .” I stop as another wave of dizziness washes over me. A towel is pressed up against my head, and I realize I’m bleeding.
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” H informs me, as he gently lowers my head back to the floor.
“No!” The faintness improves, as I grab a hold of his wrist in protest. “I’m okay. Just knocked myself silly for a moment.”
“Ryan, if you’re feeling better I won’t call a bus, but I do think we should go to the hospital and have you checked out. Better to be safe,” he replies, as he reaches up to rinse the bloody towel.
“No, no,” I object. “My insurance doesn’t begin until the first of next month, and I can’t afford to have a hospital bill hanging over my head. I’ve got too many debts as it is.” Most of them gambling losses, I say to myself.
After being fired last April, I found myself scraping along, working at a gun range to make ends meet. Unfortunately, the pay at the gun range wasn’t enough to make ends meet. It basically covered my gambling debts but not much else.
“Ryan,” H begins patiently, as he once again presses the towel against my head. “I don’t want you to worry about a hospital bill. I’ll take care of it for you if. . . .”
“No!” I sit up suddenly, attempting to prove that I’m okay but am immediately sorry, as I feel my head begin to swim.
“Easy, easy.” Again his hand cradles my head, as he looks at me with concern.
Moments pass, and my wooziness improves a bit. I become more aware of my surroundings and the man holding my head. Horatio’s slimness is deceptive, as I feel his hand gripe me tighter. He’s strong, and for a moment my mind wanders, wondering what kind of work-out he engages in, and when he finds the time.
Miami-Dade is the fourth largest urban area in the United States, which translates to a very busy police department. The CSI lab always has more work than any of us can handle, and H, being one of three supervisors, usually puts in a fifty to sixty hour week.
“I’m feeling a bit better now,” I venture hesitantly, not sure if I really do, or if it is just pure determination to not have him take me to the hospital.
His hand is carefully exploring my head, trying to discover what injuries I have sustained.
“Alright.” He finally satisfies himself that I don’t have any gigantic holes in my head, only a large cut and bruise that’s beginning to swell on my front hairline. “Can you stand?” He holds me firmly, as I slowly get up on wobbly legs.
“Okay, Ryan,” he says, as we make our way back to the bedroom. “What’s your full name, date of birth, and social security number?”
I endeavor to make my soggy brain work and am able to recite my full name, but get stuck on my birth date. The month and day fall out of my mouth, but somehow the year evades me.
“Nineteen. . .nineteen. . . .” I struggle to remember.
“It’s okay, pal,” he reassures me, as I am led to the bed, and helped in it. “It’s okay.”
Later on I realize that H was testing me, ascertaining whether I had suffered a concussion.
“Get some sleep.” He pulls the cover up and over me. “I’ll come check on you in a couple of hours.”
Closing my eyes, the room spins, and I breath shallowly, hoping another trip to the bathroom won’t be necessary. I feel him standing next to me, and despite my embarrassment his presence is comforting. I drift off to sleep and never hear him leave the room.
**
“Ryan, wake-up.”
I’m shook lightly, and I awake to see Alexx Woods, one of Miami-Dade’s medical examiners, sitting next to the bed.
“Hey, baby, how are you feeling?”
I grunt a greeting, as I fight to wake-up, senses groggy and slow to react.
“Can you sit up?” she asks, while studying me with a medical eye.
“Yeah, yeah.” My mouth finally works, as I struggle to an upright position.
“Okay, Ryan, can you tell me what happened last night?”
“I, I. . . .” I fumble for words, as I notice H standing a few feet away. He must have called Alexx to come check me out. “I hit my head on the sink.” I’m happy to discover that I am now somewhat coherent.
“Okay,” Alexx says with puzzlement, as she notes the location of my head wound. “And how did you hit your head on the sink?”
Taking a deep breath, I realize there’s no way out of giving them an explanation. “I was kneeling in front of the toilet. Too much wine.” I sneak a peek at H but his expression never changes. He always was a hard one to read. “A noise startled me, and I jerked up and hit my head.”
“Well now it’s making sense.” Alexx is satisfied. She got her explanation, and also determines that I’m in control of my faculties. She does her doctor thing, checking my eyes, my head, my coordination, and my strength. “Mild concussion,” she finally pronounces, as she gently cleans the cut on my head, and applies some steri-strips.
“Great.” I’m feeling more alert, although the pounding in my head feels like someone keeps hitting me with a sledge hammer. “Can I take anything for this headache?”
“I’ll give you a script.” She immediately reaches into her bag and pulls out a prescription pad.
“Okay, I’ll fill it on my way home, but can you write it for generic, since my insurance still hasn’t kicked in yet?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Alexx looks up from her prescription pad. “You’re not driving anywhere today. It’s a mild concussion, but still not something to take lightly. You need to take it easy today and have someone keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours.”
“He can stay here.” H steps up her and takes the script out of her hand.
“H. . . .” I’m miserably mortified, seems I’m going to continue imposing on him.
“Ryan, just rest and don’t worry,” he tells me. “I’ll fill your prescription and stop by your place for some clothes.”
“No, don’t,” I begin to protest. I really don’t want him seeing my current place of residence.
But Alexx forestalls any more objections. “Baby, you just need to lie down.” She gives me a gentle push on the shoulder. “Let Horatio take care of things for you, and by Monday you should be fine. Just make sure you come see me right away on Monday morning. I’ll check you out again.”
Defeated, I lie back down, and it occurs to me, as the pair exit the room, that even if I was one hundred percent, I still wouldn’t be a match for the combination of Horatio Caine and Alexx Woods.
**
Waking up some hours later, I’m relieved to find that my mind is clearer and the ache in my head has been downgraded from sledge hammer to claw hammer. Glancing around the room as I stumble out of bed, I’m shocked to see that all of my belongings are heaped around the room in neat piles.
“What the hell?” I say softly to myself, as I trip over a stack of text books. Opening the door, I step out in the hallway, intent on the bathroom. I immediately see Horatio, who is banging around in the kitchen. “H,” I call out, forgetful that the only article of clothing on my body is a pair of bikini underwear. “My stuff, what’s it doing here?”
He doesn’t turn around, but continues pouring something in a large pot. “Mr. Wolfee, glad to see you’re up and about.” Finishing his task, he finally turns to me. “I do want to speak to you, but first, why don’t you clean up. I have something to eat for us.”
His wording implies a helpful suggestion, but I know him. What he said to me is a clear order, and I can only obey. In record time, I’m showered, shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes. The pounding in my head has subsided even more, and I walk into the kitchen area feeling more in control, and determined that I would be returning to my own home this night.
“H,” I greet him, as he waves me toward the table, where a bowl of soup, and crackers are laid out.
“Eat,” he suggests/orders again, and of course, I immediately plop down in a chair and raise a soup spoon to my lips.
He serves himself a bowl but does not sit at the table with me, but eats standing, propped up against the kitchen sink. Later on, I find that that’s his usual habit, eating leaned up against the sink.
We eat in an uncomfortable silence, and even a mild concussion can’t stop me from being aware that H is angry, and that his anger is directed at me. A lump forms in my throat, making it harder to force food down, and several times I open my mouth to speak, but each time nothing comes out.
“Mr. Wolfe,” he finally breaks the silence. “You’ve consorted with a known felon, and despite your reinstatement, that fact has not been forgotten. So why are you now living in an acknowledged drug house?”
“Jeeze, H.” Relief flows through me because I realize that it’s only my current address that’s bothering him. “It’s nothing like that. I got kicked out of my last apartment because I couldn’t afford it anymore, and this place charges by the week, nominal security deposit, and I didn’t have to come up with first and last months’ rent. And,” I quickly continue. H is still not looking pleased. “The manager gives me a break on the rent. He feels that a cop living on the premise will help deter some of the, some of the. . . .”
He is now facing me, hands on hips. My explanation has not making him any happier.
“H.” I lean back in my chair. “I’m broke. I can’t afford. . . .”
“Mr. Wolfe, you’ve been back on the job for almost three months now, and you’re telling me that you don’t have enough money to put down on an apartment?”
“I’ve got a lot of debts,” I respond weakly.
“Gambling debts?”
“Yeah,” I admit the truth because I already know that lying to him will only make matters ten times worse. “But they’re old debts from before; I swear,” I say with desperation. “I’m not gambling anymore, but I can’t, can’t ignore what I owe because these people don’t take kindly to not being paid.”
He looks away for a moment; rage is emanating off him in waves. I swallow hard, wondering if I just lost my job again.
“I think,” he says after a few long moments. “That you will live here for a period. It will give you time to save for an apartment, an apartment that is not a known drug house, and I, I Mr. Wolfe, can satisfy myself that you are not gambling and associating with felons.”
“H, no!” I protest, but am immediately cut-off.
“Mr. Wolfe, that is my decision, you’ll either abide by it, or be shown the door again.”
**
January 21, 2008
Monday morning, and I am relieved to see that H has already left the house. I had spent Sunday, making some order with my possessions but did not completely unpack. I still wasn’t totally convinced that he could force me to live with him, and I planned to speak to my union rep as soon as possible.
I arrive early, my first stop, the morgue. I have to see Alexx before she puts an all-point bulletin out on me. She, like H, is bossy and expects that her orders be followed to the T. She gives me the all clear but warns me to not overdo it. Next, I race back to the office, leave a message for the union rep, and then throw myself into work. The last thing I need is for H to think that I’m slacking.
Myself, and all three of my co-workers are called to a double homicide, and we spend the morning examining the scene, collecting evidence, and snapping photos. H appears briefly, notes that everything is being taken care of in the proper manner and leaves. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved.
It’s early afternoon before we’re finally able to break for lunch, and I invite the gang for pizza, my treat. Since Saturday night, I had wrestled with the decision of telling them about my predicament and finally decided to air my troubles. I figure it’s better they hear it from me than the gossip mill.
I tell them the whole story, and their reactions are predictable. Calleigh and Natalia look sympathetic, and Eric looks contemptuously smug. As far as he concerned, this is just the result of my brown-nosing.
“So, “ I say. “Can H really do this? The union rep hasn’t gotten back to me yet, so I don’t know what their stance is on this.”
“I understand how you might find this an uncomfortable situation.” Calleigh is the first to speak.
“Might?” I look at her in astonishment. “I’m living with my boss.”
“Hey, buddy.” Now’s it’s Eric’s turn to put in his two-cents. “H is good guy. I don’t see what you’re in such a flap about.”
“I don’t dispute that he’s a good guy.” I stare straight at Eric. “But I’m living in his house! What if I clog the toilet? Break a dish? Leave the stove on?”
“Pft.” Eric shakes his head. “H isn’t petty; he’d understand an accident.”
“I, too think you’re making a lot out of nothing,” Calleigh speaks again. “So you live with him for a couple of months. It gives you time to save for an apartment, and H will be reassured that you’re behaving yourself. You’ll move out, and there won’t be anymore doubts about your conduct.”
Sighing, I lean back and glance over at Natalie, hoping that maybe she will see my point of view, but she says nothing, only stares at me with her large brown eyes. Picking up the bill, I study it for a moment before digging for my wallet.
“Let us get the tip,” Calleigh immediately offers, as she and the rest pull out dollar bills.
I drag myself out of the restaurant booth and head for the cashier. Eric and Calleigh walk out ahead of me, intent on each other. I watch them for a moment, wondering.
“Ryan.” Natalie taps me on the shoulder. “Ride with me back to the lab?”
“Sure.” I nod my head at her, while the cashier hands me my change. I wonder if she’s feeling bad about the sudden close camaraderie between Eric and Calleigh, since she had dated Eric for a while and perhaps still harbors feelings for him.
We say nothing until we’re both in the SUV and are driving back to the CSI offices.
“Listen, Ryan.” Natalia looks over at me. “I wanted to speak to you alone, you know without the other two.” She hesitates. “Their views on H may be slightly different than ours.”
Now I’m intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“Remember two years ago when the Feds came in and accused the lab of mishandling evidence and stealing money.”
“How can I forget. I was their number one suspect for the missing money, since I logged it into evidence. They also were nosing around about my keratitis.”
“As you know after they couldn’t find any misconduct, they pulled out of the investigation, and I was to go with them. They were going to place me in another lab as a mole. I didn’t want to be put in that position again; I really wanted to stay here. Well, guess who pulled strings and got me in as a CSI investigative trainee?”
“H.” I wasn’t surprised.
“Right, I had been a mole for the Feds. Who in the department would want me there after that? Not my colleagues, not the top brass, not even the Chief, but yet, H was able to make it happen.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, wondering where Natalia was going with this.
“Someone or someones at the top owe H, and he knows it and uses it to get what he wants.”
“Come on, Natalia.” I let out a laugh of disbelief. “Do you actually think H is blackmailing the Chief or Mayor, or whoever to get what he wants? And it sounds like you don‘t like him, even though he finagled your job here?”
“I know, I know.” Natalia nodded her head while slamming on the brakes. They were now stuck in a traffic jam caused by a three car accident. “Like Eric said, H is good guy. Hell, he even saved my life, when we were working the case about the video game, but he kind of scares me.”
“Scares you? Just because he has clout?”
“He’s ruthless,” she states adamantly. “He murdered that Antonio Riaz in Brazil.”
“You’ve been listening to office gossip again. We don’t know that that’s what he did in. . . .”
“Eric let it slip,” she interrupts. “I heard it straight from him.”
“Alright, alright.” For once I’m glad that Miami has terrible traffic problems because I’m finding this conversation both informative and fascinating, and the accident gives us more time to prolong it. “But Riaz was a murdering, drug dealing scumbag.”
“I agree.” Natalia turns to me briefly. “And maybe H had all the right in the world to kill him, but still, it proves my point; he’s a dangerous man. God, how many times has the man used deadly force? I’ve been loosely keeping track, and he’s killed more people than ten, twenty police officers put together.”
“But there’s never been any charges against him.”
“Right.” Natalia gives me a knowing look. “Because he has pull.”
“Jesus.” I run my hand through my hair. Natalia has given me a lot to think about.
“Anyway, my point is, do what Calleigh and Eric suggest, accept your fate, don’t fight it, and hopefully, like they say, you’ll be able to save for an apartment, and H will be reassured regarding your behavior.”
“So I shouldn’t take this to the union?”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t do anything that might land you on H’s bad side.”
**
February 1, 2008
“Tuna helper,” I announce to H as he comes through the door.
Two weeks have passed since I’ve moved into his house and taking my colleagues’ advice, I decided to make the best of it. The nature of our jobs keep both of us at work for long hours, so in reality our paths don’t cross much at home. When they do, I keep to my room, either watching TV, surfing the Internet, or doing a bit of studying. With the money I’m saving, I hope to enroll in school again and finish my master’s degree.
Now and then one of us actually cooks, and if the other is around, it’s understood that the meal is shared. Unfortunately, my culinary skills are limited to quick and easy meals, while H prefers fresh meats, fish and vegetables. His diet is disgustingly healthy, one reason why he stays thin.
“Very nice, Ryan.” He peers over my shoulder at the frying pan, which is filled with cheesy noodles and a couple of cans of tuna. Frowning he asks, “are you planning to serve any vegetables with that?”
“Vegetables?” I scratch my head, while checking the tuna helper box again. Nope, no packages of vegetables to add.
A quick smile crosses H’s face. “Let me add a few things to your dinner, but give me a minute.”
He leaves to change into casual clothes. At work, he’s always formal in a suit, but at home he prefers jeans and tees. He eventually ends up adding some fresh broccoli and a can of peas, and we eat dinner in a companionable silence with me at the table and him standing at the kitchen sink.
“Ryan,” he addresses me half-way through the meal. “I know I expressed my concern about you possibly gambling and associating with the wrong type of people, but I certainly didn’t mean for you to stop all social outings.”
Social outings? I’m not sure what he’s talking about. My face must have shown my bafflement because he doesn’t wait for a reply.
“Since you’ve lived here, I noticed you haven’t gone anywhere but work.” His tone is gentle.
“Oh, yeah. . . .” I clear my throat. “But it’s okay. I’m not currently seeing anyone, and the bar scene, well. . .but I might go and watch the Superbowl. . .uh hum.” I’m mortified, having to talk to H about my social ineptitudes.
“It’s a shame the Dolphins were such a disappointment this year,” he comments.
“Yeah, and of course, the Jaguars just couldn’t pull it off against the Patriots.” Football is certainly an easier and safer topic than listing off the reasons why I never go out.
H nods in agreement, as he begins to clean up. Quickly finishing what’s left on my plate, curiosity gets the best of me.
“What about you, H? Are you currently seeing anyone?” I figure quid pro quo, he asked me about my current situation, I could ask about his.
“No.” He shakes his head but unfortunately doesn’t elaborate.
“Still in mourning over Marisol?” As soon as the question is asked, I regret it. This is one of the moments when I wish I could rip the tongue right out of my mouth.
“I will always mourn for her,” he says. “But I know that life must go on.”
The man is clever; he knows how to answer a question without giving any information.
“Right.” I decide that I’ve pushed my luck far enough and keep my mouth shut while we clean up dinner. Afterward I retire to my bedroom, but tonight is different. Television, the Internet, my collection of computer games just don’t hold my interest. I pace the floor, restless. I feel drawn to seek H’s company.
Gathering up my courage, I leave the safety of bedroom and find H in the living room, working on paperwork.
“Don’t you ever take a break?” I ask attempting to keep the tone between us light and friendly.
“Ryan.” He sets his paperwork down on the coffee table, while removing his reading glasses. “What can I do for you?”
“H, I just wanted to, to. . . .” I desperately grope for a good reason for seeking him out. “I just wanted to tell you that this whole arrangement.” I draw circles in the air. “Of us, of you having me live here. Well, I wasn’t happy about it at first, thought you were a little high-handed about it, but now I kind of see. . .ahem,” I stop to gather my thoughts, since I realize that I’m not expressing myself well. “Well, I see that it really is to my advantage, and that I’m grateful, more than grateful for everything you’ve done for me, and. . .ahem.” I clear my throat.
“My pleasure.” He leans forward. “You do understand that another reason I wanted you out of that rooming house was I feared for your safety. Once or twice a week our department is called there. You say that the manager was glad to have a police officer in-house, thought it would deter the other residents from criminal activity, but in reality your badge and gun would have only make you a target for most everyone who lived there.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I agree, while dropping myself next to him on the couch. “I get it. Anyway, H,” I pause, scratching my head. “I really would like to to. . . .” I’m stumped. I think I want to offer him something, but I’m not sure what it is.
“What is it that you want to tell me, Ryan?”
He looks at me so intently, with such interest, that in that moment I realize that it isn’t just hero worship, or trying-to-score-points-with-the-boss that has motivated me to constantly seek his approval. It’s something else. Without thinking, I lean over and press my lips to his, and then hold my breath, images of having to look for a place to live this very night and/or being fired float across my vision.
H freezes with surprise, then quickly regains his composure. “Are you sure this is what you want, Ryan?”
The yes is barely out of my mouth, when my head is grabbed and I’m being kissed hard, bruisingly hard with lips, teeth, and tongue. The room spins, and I feel like all my breath is being sucked out of me.
He finally lets go, but it is only to issue a curt order. “Take your clothes off.” He’s firmly in control, like always.
I do as he says and within moments I being propelled in his bedroom, while he strips off his tee shirt and undoes his belt. “Lie down.”
I get as far as seating myself on the bed, when I hesitate. Suddenly, everything is moving too fast. I need to time to think, to comprehend what’s happening, but I’m given no time. I was the one, who opened this door, and it could no longer be closed.
Pushing me down on my back, H straddles me, while reaching in his nightstand. Grabbing a tube of lubrication, he pours it on his hand and then strokes himself.
“Do I need to use a condom?” he asks, eyeing me carefully. “I would prefer not to.”
I shake my head and mange to say in a weak voice, “no, I’m clean, haven’t even been with anyone for some time now.”
He nods, as he shoves my legs apart. “You have nothing to worry about from me either.” He pours lube on his fingers and then proceeds to rub it first on my anal ring and then inside of me.
I jump at its coldness, while squirming. I never had anyone, except a doctor touch me there, and I wasn’t sure if I was more embarrassed or uncomfortable as his fingers plunged in to explore and stretch.
“H,” I start to protest, but he’s already lining himself up and thrusting in. Pain shoots through me, and I go tense.
“Ryan.“ he says. “You need to relax.”
Eyes closed, teeth gritted, I try to obey, but the agony that racks my body says otherwise.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” I can hear the surprise in his voice.
“I. . . .” Words die in my throat. I have no excuses. Hastily I grab onto his upper arms. “No, but don’t. . .don’t. . . .”
“Okay, buddy, just try and relax. Ryan, look at me.”
I open my eyes and stare at him, as he looks down at his penis, whose tip is trying to penetrate me. “I want you to concentrate on your inner muscles and push against me.” His voice is soft and calm, as he gives me directions.
I obey, and it’s a relief to push, my body working to expel its invader. But to my surprise the more I push, the more he’s able to slide in. He takes his time and does it slow, and eventually the initial shock passes, replaced by extreme discomfort.
“Okay, Ryan, hang on; it will get better,” he assures me, as he reaches down to fondle and caress.
Now desire and discomfort are flowing through me, and the two warring sensations have me groaning with pain and pleasure. I’ve never felt anything like it. H works me over good, so good that I’m begging for release, now hardly mindful of the cock that’s uncomfortably inside of me. He brings me close several times, but right before climax, he squeezes the base, and I’m left panting, my hips heaving upward. It occurs to me that he’s quite an expert at this; he’s been with other men before.
“Okay, Ryan.” He grabs my hand and moves it onto my cock. “Bring yourself off.”
I’m so desperate that only a few strokes are needed, and I’m coming hard. Semen flies, my ass contracts, and I can now feel H rapidly thrusting in and out. He’s kept himself in control for long enough. As my orgasm recedes, I feel my anal ring spasm around him, and he pushes all the way in, his cock jerking, and suddenly I feel a warm wetness spreading inside of me.
Seconds pass, and the only sound in the room is heavy breathing. H gradually pulls out and falls down alongside of me. At that moment I am unable to move, as I lie there, my respiration slowing. I fall into a light sleep and am slightly aware of H getting up to retrieve a wet hand-towel from the bathroom. He gently cleans both of us up, and then slides into bed and curls himself around me. I briefly wake to hear him whisper in my ear:
“I apologize if I hurt you, but trust me, it will be better for you next time.”
****
Finis