I’m up to more than 4500 words on “Jamie Served” and don’t like the title, anymore. I’ve also worked out a second part to the story, where Jamie goes looking for Paul…and they compare notes to realize this is happening to certain men in both the UK and US. I’ve added another couple of characters, as well…
Not sure where this is going, yet…except more sex between them…but sometimes it’s best just to enjoy the ride…
This is my first draft of some slash fiction for the British side…and maybe…just maybe…part one of three…but we’ll see. (NOTE: I’ve realized I misspelled Jamie throughout the story so corrected it, but left this as is. Shows the process better…)
Jaime did not know
where he was or what had happened. One moment he was in the woods searching for
poachers; the next, he was lying in a room that was both dark and not dark.
Except it wasn’t a room; it was an open space whose walls were unseen in the
darkness. Except it wasn’t darkness; he could see light casting a vague glow
off his nose and cheeks. His first thought was, it’s like a massive auditorium
stretching hundreds of meters in every direction, so he was unable to see the
walls encompassing it. And he sensed he was not alone.
He was stretched
out on a bed…but it wasn’t a bed. There was nothing beneath him but
air…simple air holding him up. He knew he was still in his clothes — a
nicely fitted suit and tie, completely inappropriate for tramping through the
shrubs and sticks of a forest. But he’d had no choice.
The call came as
he was en route back to Wormley to meet some friends, and the caller had a
panicked tone of voice…at least, that’s what the call center said. Strange
lights whispering through the forest, with animals scattering away from it in
fear. Concern it might be a drug deal going down, or worse…poachers. Uniforms
were on their way but were at least ten minutes behind him, and since he was a
detective sergeant, they felt he was best to at least make contact with the
caller to begin the investigation. He’d agreed to do it because he didn’t feel
it would take too long, could hand it over to another DS soon as he arrived,
and he knew his friends would be understanding. The life of a cop, sort of thing. He made a hands-free call to
Erica to let her know he was running behind then turned down Midsoms Road to
He gave a soft chuckle. Erica was why he’d worn this particular suit. It was snug in all the right places, showing off his trim, well-formed torso and colt-like legs, though it was a bit snug around the derriere. He felt very male-model in it, and knew she would be impressed. Hoped she would be. They were meeting with another couple, married with a child en route, and he was hoping it meant she was seeing him as more than a boyfriend, now…but a possible bed partner and, if all went well, wife. He was ready to settle down, having this promotion and being just past thirty. Find a nice cottage in someplace similar to the Cotswold’s. Not too far from the police center and his superior. Base his new life from there.
Funny how he could
remember these thoughts. Could see himself arriving to the stated location. Picture
arriving to find no one about. No lights. No fresh tracks of car or foot. No
animals, either. The forest was still and ark, from the edge. He wondered if
he’d gone to the wrong side…but double-checking his GPS showed he was where
the center had said.
He’d decided to go
in a few meters, just to get a sense of the place. The brush was thick, no path
to follow. He didn’t want to go in too far because that would mess up his aren’t I hot suit…but something struck
him. The forest was completely silent. No sounds whatsoever. Totally still. Not
even the hint of a breeze rustle the tree branches. That was decidedly odd,
being this close to the Channel.
Then he saw a
glow, about a hundred meters to his right. Not that of a torch or lamp, just a
soft blue whispering through the darkness.
called. “Police. I’m Detective Sergeant — ”
And now he was in
this room with no idea how he’d got here or what was going on.
“Did I pass out?”
he wondered. “Am I dreaming?”
That had to be the
explanation — he’d been struck unconscious and was dreaming. That was the only
thing that could make sense.
He tried to sit
up…but he couldn’t move. Not his arms. Not his legs. Neither hands nor
fingers. Just his eyes. And he could speak. He thought. He was breathing well
enough…and let out a massive sigh. This only confirmed his belief he was
caught in a dream.
Then he felt
whispers of air around him, like the caressing of fingers…but nothing was
there. It traced over his face — his firm chin, his full lips, his bright open
eyes, a dark blue under thick lashes, the eyebrows he’d trimmed last night in
anticipation of his date, his thick curly hair cropped close to keep from
reminding people of a clown. He wasn’t movie-star gorgeous, but he knew his
face was well received by most young women. And it seemed like the nothing-air
was touching every inch of his visage.
Then it moved down
his neck, clean and well-shaved not an hour ago; he had issues with a light
five o’clock shadow, which Erica had once mentioned, and he wanted nothing that
might prevent kisses. He noticed the nothing-air fingers were also caressing
the back of his head and now were crossing the nape of his neck. Whatever it
was he was lying upon made no difference, the sensations merely displaced the
feeling of support momentarily as the caresses travelled across his shoulders
and down his back to his rear, the nothing-air in front pacing them as they
drew over his chest and reached under his suit coat the play with his nipples
and continued down his nice taut abs to his groin.
He moaned with
discomfort. “This isn’t real, Jaime,” he said. “It’s all a dream.”
certainly felt real. Especially when the nothing-air traced over his trousers
to fondle his crotch and grope his ass, slipping between his legs to almost
tickle the back of his balls and his hole before trailing down his thighs,
feeling all around his legs, and over his calves down to his feet.
But what was
worse? He felt the beginning of an erection. The whole situation had become so
sensuous and sensual and erotic, he was responding, and boy…was he glad he’d
worn his tight CK boxer briefs. Those might keep him from being too
“What is this?!”
he cried. Or did he merely think it? He couldn’t tell.
He tried to move, again, but still was kept immobile. He was floating in nothingness and he could not move. But this was not sensory deprivation. He could sense light and could feel himself being touched. He swallowed, fear starting to build in him.
And then he felt
his shoes being untied and removed!
what’re you doing?!”
caressed his soles and toes as they removed his socks. A new pair he’d worn
because all of his others had holes in them. Next, his suit coat was unbuttoned
and shifted off his shoulders.
you doing?! I’m a police officer! Stop!”
His tie was
loosened and pulled away around his collar, and the nothing-air slowly
unbuttoned his shirt. toying with the hair on his chest as it went.
himself to not panic. “It’s a dream, it’s a dream, it’s a dream, it’s a dream,
it’s a dream,” gasped from his lips. Or maybe he was just thinking it.
The problem was,
he could feel everything the nothing-air was doing. Each touch was like a
promise of more. Each caress was meant to lead him closer to his needs. He’d
been going through a dry spell and was more than hoping Erica would be his
partner for the evening instead of his right hand. But this? This?
When he’d been a
youth living with his grandmother…his Nan…after his mum and dad had left
him to follow their own bliss, he’d had what Nan called Wet Dreams, and she’d
told him they were completely natural, at his age.
“Both of your
uncles went through this,” she’d said, “as did your father. Nothing to be
Nan was always the
level-headed one on the family, not typically British in her understanding
about sexual needs. She’d been on a commune in Wales and traveled to Monterrey
in California and some place in the Himalayas, for spiritual peace, and still
carried that with her. Thinking of her helped calm him and let him focus on the
reality of the moment.
And what was that
reality? That this was not really happening except in his mind. So no matter
what else the nothing-air fingers did, it wasn’t real.
That helped when
the nothing-air pulled apart his shirt and slipped it down his immobile arms to
reveal his undershirt. Tight, white, just a bit see-through. His nipples barely
making a tent, against the cotton…until they were being fondled and flicked
and twisted through the fabric. He felt lightning fire into his groin and he
gasped in shock at how glorious that felt. How he didn’t want it to stop.
undershirt was torn in half, revealing his pumped up chest, fan of hair over
his pecs swirling down to his groin, and the nothing-air ran its caresses over
his abs and along his sides as the shirt’s remains were guided away.
He began to
breathe, heavy and fighting to keep in mind this wasn’t real But he was losing
the battle. The sensations brought on by the nothing-air were becoming too
demanding…too insistent…and his dick was growing, in response.
And still, he
could not move.
His belt was
unbuckled and pulled away.
He cried out then
forced himself to picture Erica doing it. She was lovely, round in all the
right places, peaches and cream skin under golden brown hair cut just right.
He’d been attracted to her the second he met her on a previous murder case.
She’d been a suspect, for a little while, but it was Barnaby who’d made the
suggestion, not him, so their beginning wasn’t tainted by that. He’d taken his
time getting to know her and let her know him, so using her to help make this
nightmare into something he could handle helped calm him more than anything
else had. If he was going to be mauled, sexually, at least it would be by
someone he wanted and not some random female.
His trousers were
undone and unzipped and pulled away from his hips and his ass and his crotch,
revealing he was pretty damn close to being ripe and ready to go. The
nothing-air played not only with his dick and balls, whispering around them and
over them and behind them and along them, but also kneaded his ass, squeezing
his cheeks like they were ripe melons. He didn’t have what others would call a
bubble-butt, but it was a nice size and fit him just right…and it seemed the
nothing-air agreed, for this went on for what seemed like a couple minutes.
He realized his
trousers had been maneuvered down his legs to his ankles, and more of the
nothing-air was caressing his thighs and calves, as if inspecting a prize
horse. His CKs followed, revealing an
erection he had often been proud of; not the biggest dick ever but well above
average. Not much foreskin to it, but it had done him well and none of the
girls he’d been with in the past had complained. He’d even caught a few lads in
the gym casting him glances of either envy or interest, or both. But now? Like
this? He felt like he was being violated.
The trousers were
removed, as were the CKs, and his legs pushed wider apart to allow even more of
the dreadful intimacy being forced upon him. He felt the nothing-air slip
between his cheeks and touch his hole and he screamed.
“No! Stop it! This
is rape! You can’t do this to me!”
He fought to
squirm away but his body would not move. He was breathing, fast and furious,
and he could look around and move his mouth to speak and knew his tits had
grown pointy and his dick was engorged and ready to be used, but everything
else remained still and useless.
began to grope him in earnest, now. Dancing over his nips, sending more
lightning to his balls. Caressing down the hair on his abs to his pubes like
they were rafting down a river. Grabbing his ass and pulling at it as if to see
whether it could be separated from his body. Fondling his dick and balls in a
way that seemed more like worship than sexual need. Drawing sensations down his
thighs and calves to add to the build of erotic need within him.
His dick was now
as hard as it had ever been, and he was whimpering at the incessant
manipulation of it…taking him almost over the edge but never quite.
“No, no, no,
no…” was all he could say, now. He knew his cries and screams and pleading
would do no good.
Then he saw a form
appear in the dark space above him, shining so bright he had to jam his eyes
closed. He opened them, a little, to watch the form draw closer and closer and
slowly reveal itself to be another man. Also naked. Darker hair. Lean build.
Tightly muscled with fans of hair over his body in all the places they should
be. Dark eyes under thick lashes. A two-day growth of beard on his strong chin,
surrounding full lips. And also an erection. His was not as large ass
Jaime’s…at least, as large as Jaime thought his own was. And it was obvious the
man was circumcised. His head was red and full and glistened with pre-cum, and
his circumcision scar gave his shaft a two-tone look.
Jaime was so taken
aback by it all, he forgot that he was still being caressed by the nothing-air
and thought, “I know him. From where?”
The man seemed to
know Jaime, as well. His expression was that of near-recognition. And
confusion. And fear. And Jaime was sure his own face reflected the exact same
thoughts. He noticed the hair on the man’s body was also shifting slightly, as
if it were also being caressed. Then it hit him.
“Joe?” he said.
expression grew startled then he said, “Yeah. Jaime, from down South.
Conference a couple years back, in London. What the hell’s going on?”
“You bloody tell
called out to investigate some lights in Gibbside. Caller said they
Jaime, then he felt the nothing-air slip up inside his anus and he cried out,
Same…” Jaime froze. Had to fight a panic building in him. “I…I’m dreaming
“No, I’m dreaming
you…or am I? Bloody fuckin’ hell, WHAT IS THIS?”
was becoming more insistent, pushing itself deeper into Jaime’s rectum. He
fought to keep from screaming. “Joe! What do you feel?”
fingers touching me and groping me, but nothing’s there.”
me…like me, but I can’t move and…and…HEY, WHO THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU?
WHY’RE YOU DOING THIS?”
Then Jaime realize
he wasn’t lying down; he was upright, as so was Joe. And they were closer
together. So close, their erections touched…and the nothing-air began
whispering over the both of them…fondling them, together…and it felt too
“STOP! STOP IT!”
Jaime cried. “This is rape.”
“Oh, Christ,” Joe
said, “they’re doing it, again.”
“There was another
cop — detective — guy named Paul — I knew him from a spell in Manchester
and…and…no, don’t make me do this!”
Jaime felt the
nothing-air grip his ankles and lift his legs up and up, even as the caresses
and the probing continued all over him. He screamed.
“NO! THIS IS RAPE!
THIS IS RAPE!”
“They don’t care!”
Joe cried. “They don’t follow our laws! Dammit, don’t make me, not again…”
“NO, I’VE NEVER
rested Jaime’s legs on Joe’s broad shoulders, his ass now completely
vulnerable, then he felt Joe’s erection press against his anus.
“Jaime, I’m sorry,
but I can’t stop ‘em…I can’t…”
“NO, NO, NO, NO,
Joe’s head pushed
into Jaime and he screamed in pain. It kept going in, slowly, slowly, filling
him deeper and deeper. He screamed more. Felt he was being torn in half. And
still he could not move to get away from it.
“I’m sorry, Jaime,
they’re pushing me in, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
In what seemed
like forever, Joe’s dick was in Jaime, up to the base. He could feel Joe’s pubs
against his skin. Then Joe began rocking in, deeper, and back and in and back
and in and back.
Jaime cried out.
Breathed harsh and fast. Felt the nothing-air groping him all over — pinching
his nips and caressing his thighs and fondling his balls and stroking his dick.
It went on and on and on…until Jaime felt the pain begin to diminish and his
dick grow harder and his balls more tender and his nips crazed to the touch and
he couldn’t believe it…he was liking it.
He was enjoying
being raped by a man he barely knew.
In and back and in
and back, over and over and over. Each thrust began to take him closer and
closer to nirvana…the sensual pleasures of it enveloping him and making him
lose all sense of time or reality and in and back and in and back, Joe’s dick
kept going and going and going until Jaime felt a rush start in the back of his
balls and race through every fiber of his being and join with the nothing-air’s
caresses to make him groan and howl and cry aloud and fire an ejaculation up
into the air, the lie of which he had never experienced. His cum leapt at least
a meter up into the nothing light and vanished. It did not splash back onto his
belly or chest or face. He fired, again, going just as far up and also
Then he felt Joe
explode inside of him. Fill him with his own cum. Grunt and whimper in both
pleasure and horror and joy and pain. He filled Jaime with more and more of his
cum…until he was a quivering mass and could not make coherent sounds.
Joe was finally
pulled away from Jaime, his dick now limp and dripping with semen. Jaime’s own
dick was lying back on his belly, looking very pleased with itself. Nothing
dribbled from it. In fact, the foreskin remained unseen. He hadn’t shriveled
up, yet, not like Joe.
Jaime found he was
able to move his head, now. And he watched Joe being taken away from him.
Joe cast him a
sorrowful glance as he said, “They made me do this to Paul, too. He did the
same as you. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,”
Joe heard him and
smiled. “That’s what Paul said. I’m still sorry.”
Then Joe was gone.
Jaime felt the
nothing-air still caressing him…fondling him…probing him…tits, balls,
dick, thighs, ass…but it was in a manner that almost seemed sweet and caring.
Which made no sense. Did whoever had done this to him think he’d been made love
to? Did they believe this was a proper sexual coupling? That he wanted it to
happen? He was sore as hell from being fucked…but he was also so damn mellow
and easy from having cum like he did, he didn’t care.
He had really
enjoyed being fucked by Joe. He’d not only gotten off on it, he wanted it,
again. He knew this time had been a vicious, cruel, painful, manipulative form
of rape…but the truth was…he also wanted it to happen, again. The
ejaculation at the end of it had overcome everything else. He felt like a
junkie who’d just had his first snort of coke and wanted more, just to regain
that high. It frightened him, but also put him at ease.
He felt his CKs
being slipped back on and up his legs. He felt the tight cotton surround his
ass and crotch, and felt the nothing-air adjust his dick so he was comfortable.
Next came his trousers, socks and shirt, followed by his shoes. He felt the tie
drape around his neck and the suit coat come on and —
He was lying in
the forest, two constables watching over him, one young and fit, the other
older and more concerned. The young one was on the phone.
“He’s coming ‘round,
sir,” the man said. “Yes, still need a medic. He looks pretty shaky.”
glanced the fit young constable over in a way that was more than appreciative
— he did fit that uniform very nicely, in every way, and his pale blond hair
suited his look — then made himself sit up.
“How long?” he
murmured, his voice shaky.
“We got here ‘bout
ten minutes, ago, sir,” said the older constable. “Saw your car and looked
around. Found you here. Undid your tie.”
Jaime nodded and
started to get up. The older man held him down.
“I’d stay put,
sir. That’s a nasty cut to your head.”
Jaime touched a
sore spot on his scalp and his fingers came away with blood on them. He sighed.
So it was all just a dream. He was sore from having fallen or been hit, he
wasn’t sure which, yet. But should he be aching all over? Even his ass?
Then he realized, his undershirt was gone. He always wore one. And his belt was nowhere to be seen. And he smiled, knowing it had really happened…and already knew what he planned to do.
Track down a fellow officer named Paul, in Manchester, if he’d been returned, as well…and..oh, compare notes. See if they could figure out why this happened. Then maybe he and Paul could go to Newcastle to meet with Joe, guide him away from his wife and kids for a weekend together…again, if he’d been returned…and introduce their rapist to the joys of being raped.
I’ve been trying to read other M/M authors’ work to get an idea of what’s sellable in the gay community…and they are such crap I can’t finish them. Even when the storyline is interesting, the writing is so stiff or arch or at such a high-school level when it comes to characterization and situation, I get angry I’ve wasted my time and money.
Of course, that might be my problem. I write books that are rough and tumble and have real people in them in situations that are not always nice, proper, correct, decent. In The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, my MC, Jake, accuses a teenage boy who just lost his last surviving relative of having helped kill the guy, blurting this out before knowing it for certain, nearly crushing the kid. What’s positive about that hateful moment is, once Jake realizes his error, he makes the kid part of his pack and protects him like he would his own child…to the extent of hiding the boy’s participation in another death.
And Curt, the ex-con MC in How To Rape a Straight Guy, helps kidnap and brutalize an undercover cop, nearly destroying the man’s emotional stability…but saves the man’s life even though it means he’ll return to prison. And Devlin, the MC of Underground Guy, nearly gets himself killed trying to protect a British cop he raped. And Eric, the MC of Bobby Carapisi, brings on the suicide of another man by refusing to let go of how he was raped and the cops did nothing about it, not realizing what he’s done until it’s too late, so spends the rest of the book making up for it.
Maybe I should write books like Nicholas Sparks, albeit M/M instead of bland BS, all sweet and goupy with someone dying at the end to bring about a “life-lesson.” Or fake SM in a M/M vein, like those indescribable Gray’s books.
Or fuck it — I write what I fucking want to write and that is all there is to it.