It must have been Kit’s round, earnest vowels that had the old
man smiling, crooked teeth overlapping, glowing dull yellow in
the cool night of the cantina. “Si, si,” he said, reaching back to the
shelf and snatching a bottle and cloudy glass, and then “No, no, es gratis,” waving impatiently when
Kit set a veinte-Lempira note on the worn plywood bar. Felix rattled off another fast round of
Honduran syllables, and if Kit had little hope of deciphering them, he could guess well enough that
it was gratitude.
Though really, Kit had worked no more diligently this afternoon than most men had done.
Maybe less.
Free, he’d said, and so Kit responded, “Muchas gracias, Felix” trying his best to trill that ‘r’,
choking it, as usual, but getting another face-splitting grin in response. Kit settled onto the stool,
cold metal, and leaned into the bar. Bright yellow paint peeled from its corners, the gold and red of
a faded Cerveza Imperial ad knocked at his knees.
The rum was good, smoky and sharp, stripping the dry sting from his throat and spreading
warmth in his belly. Kit rubbed the back of his neck. Exhausted. Sunburnt. Aching to his fingers and
toes, with mud cemented onto his skin by crystallized sweat…and his shoulder hurt like a son-of-abitch.
They’d gotten everyone out, though. Nobody dead—if you didn’t count cattle and goats—only
scared half to death, cowering in homes consumed by dirt and rubble.
“Lot of hell for such a baby shake.”
Kit slid his gaze right, to the man settling onto the stool beside him. One of the doctors at the
clinic—and fuck if Kit could remember his name. West, maybe. Or Weiss. Dr. Weiss. Hot-shit good
A naked man lies on a
medical examination table
with his legs in stirrups. Two
men in white lab coats and
surgical masks stand over
him. The man on the table
orally services one of men
while the other gives him a
rectal exam.
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looks, tight body and blue eyes, but an asshole, as far as Kit could tell, prick of a Boston candy-ass.
He’d made no secret of what he thought about a redneck like Kit.
“Was a magnitude four,” Kit drawled, letting insolence saturate his tone. “Doesn’t take but a gnat
sneeze to set loose a destabilized slope.”
“Salva Vida,” the man said—accent impeccable, of course—and as Felix popped the cap from the
bottle, “Destabilized?”
Kit nodded. “Deforestation, overgrazing, bad soil practices…” He waved his right arm impatiently
and then hissed at the pain that produced. “You know…the reason I’m here, Doctor Weiss,” thinking
dickhead.
“Ah,” the man said, “afraid I’ve had my hands full with blood, not mud—not much time today to
speculate on the cause of it all.” He raised his beer in a greeting. “And that’s Wesley, not Weiss. But
please, call me Lars. Chris, right? Agronomist?”
“Land-use management,” Kit corrected, “and it’s Kit,” knowing from the guess that Lars had
picked up his name from an official file somewhere. Nosy fuck. And disingenuous; Kit’d been seeing
the snarky looks since arriving last summer—last time not even four hours ago, in fact. Kit turned
back to his drink, content to shut the man out. What the hell did he want, anyway, getting all slick
and friendly all of a sudden? Like cozying up with a rattler. One hard day didn’t make them buddies
any more than the Peace Corps tag did.
“Do something to your shoulder?”
Kit glanced sidelong to find Lars squinting at him in the dim light. Cocking his eyebrows in lieu of
a shrug, Kit said, “Pulled something. Digging the Garcias out of their home.”
“You should let me take a look at it.”
Surprised, Kit turned to peer at Lars—expecting a joke of some sort. Because, hell, it’d been
hurting when he’d brought Manolito to the clinic. And Lars had known it, because Kit hadn’t been
able to suppress a curse when he’d put the boy down. The head doctor—Saenz—had glared over at
Kit, then rattled something off to Lars, far too fast for Kit to interpret, especially as tired as he’d
been. Lars had simply shrugged.
Now Kit saw the exhaustion. Lines feathering out from Lars’s eyes, accented by dust and grime.
Stains on his rumpled shirt, sweat and dirt and—Kit supposed the smear on his collar was blood.
Only thing in place was his hair, glittering blond in the low light. Kind of difficult to muss up a do
that was only a millimeter long.
The day had been hard on everyone. But when Kit met Lars’s eyes, they were at once both tired
and keen, a pale hazel, bright with something…no, not derision, not with the way his gaze dropped
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and then rose, pointedly, smile barely quirking his lips. Kit knew the look well, having answered a
few through alcohol and sweat funks, in bars in Corpus, San Antonio…Tegus, only last month.
Well, hell.
Guess when the body needs an outlet, all discrimination flies out the window.
“Hey, ow!” Right. So flinching away from Lars’s reach hadn’t been such a clever move, and now
Kit couldn’t tell if Lars was scowling or laughing.
“Clinic is closed, but I can open it up for the night.”
Was it Kit’s imagination, or did Lars seem to be proposing more than a bandage? “Be fine by
morning,” Kit muttered, still suspicious. He held his palm to the area, though. Protectively. Feeling
the heat of injury, pressing a little.
“I seriously doubt it.”
Kit’s yelp must’ve woken up old Felix, because he’d pried his rheumy eyes from the telenovela,
and now he hobbled towards them, spitting out a string of syllables at Lars, too fast for Kit to catch
more than the occasional phrase. That, and the hand gesturing towards Kit, then east—towards the
clinical building. And Lars, the self-satisfied yank, keeping up just fine, rapid-fire Spanish, waving
hands back, and grinning all the while.
Felix turned to Kit, finally, fluttered his hand towards Kit’s shoulder. Said, “You. Go. Médico,
doctor.” Then he poured another two fingers of rum into Kit’s glass. Kit had hardly begun the first.
“See. The old man agrees.” Standing, Lars said, “Come on. I can give you something for it—” His
tone dropped into the richness of a promise of sin, “—allow you to concentrate on something
besides pain.”
“It’s just a pull,” Kit said, but slowly now. He tongued his bottom lip, more sure now of just what
Lars had in mind, and beginning to think, why the hell not? He stood. It had been a hell of a day—a
good blow and a painkiller, and he’d sleep like the dead.
Lars raised Kit’s rum glass. “This your first?” He took a sip from it. Forward bastard, but Kit
found himself responding, because it had always been a love-hate thing with him—arrogant men
who pushed ruthlessly into his space. “No drugs if you’ve been drinking.”
“Yeah. Only had a couple of swallows.” Resenting them for their condescension, turning on when
they got him in their sexual crosshairs, telling him to bend and how far. Fucked up, he knew, but
whatever. It was a sex thing, so he went with it, kept it the hell away from the rest of his life. Get laid
tonight, avoid the fucker hereafter so he never got the chance to play the dick. “You showed up right
after I did.”
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“Good.” Lars set the glass down and took hold of Kit’s elbow, sending a shiver up his arm.
“Vámonos.”
They left, with Kit reflecting that likely as not, Felix would pour the rum back in the bottle. Waste
not, want not. Which, Kit decided, was okay.
#
The night was quiet, not a soul on these back roads. Tired people tucked into their homes,
thankful, no doubt, for families left intact. It was pleasant—the dry season air turned dusty and
cool. A light breeze whipped Kit’s overlong curls into his eyes and cleared the air of the chaos and
fear that had so permeated the day. The smell of burning trash draped the town, faint—so much a
part of the place that Kit hardly ever noticed it anymore.
“You spending Christmas here?”
Kit grunted, “Yep,” not for a minute believing that Lars gave much of a shit. “You?”
“Tour ends day after tomorrow. Be home in three days.”
Good for you. Kit was glad to spend the holidays here, where the aloneness meant he’d chosen to
be, no pitying looks, no explanations. He’d grown righteously sick of those.
The moon was just past half full, and high in the sky. The rattle of dry grass and the chirping of
insects speckled the silence. Tinsel draped from windows, eaves and porches, reflecting the pale
light in greens, golds and reds. The nine-day pre-Christmas ritual of Las Posadas would begin
tomorrow—children and nativity, traipsing from door to door, hunting for the inn that would take
them in and make them a home. Thank God no deaths had come today to mar it.
“You do kink?”
Nearly stumbling, Kit stopped and brought his gaze around to see a slow smirk spread on the
face of his companion. Slowly, choosing his words carefully, Kit said, “Depends.” Keeping his voice
low. “Maybe.”
Lars gripped Kit’s nape, holding him still, and pressed a thumb to his throat. “So aloof,” he said.
“I’d like to dislodge that stick up your ass.” Lars tucked his nose close, until hot breath tickled Kit’s
ear, and in a voice gone to gravel, said, “perhaps a hard fuck would do it.”
A bolt of heat shot through Kit’s groin—no hiding that primal reaction. Lightheaded, he berated
himself, think. “No injuries,” he said, and was pleased that his voice came out controlled and precise.
“No bruising or breaking skin. No scat.” Remembering that Lars was a doctor, he added in a rush,
“no enemas, either.”
Lars huffed a low laugh and unhanded Kit. “Nothing near so extreme.” He flecked a piece of
drying mud from the shoulder of Kit’s tee and cocked a grin. “Not on a first date, in any case.”
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#
The clinic was a long, squat building—cinder block walls painted a turquoise blue. Yellow light
leaked between the slats of a barred window near the back.
“You said it was closed.”
“We are.” Lars said, sliding his key into the deadbolt. “Raf’s doing paperwork, I expect.”
Raf. Dr. Saenz, Kit realized, the thought dampening his anticipation considerably. The senior
doctor. A beautiful man, refined and suave, with a nearly aristocratic demeanor. Broad-shouldered
and narrow-hipped, with chiseled cheekbones and the lips of an angel, like some sort of Latino god
cut of marble—and just as cold. Kit had crossed his path before, and there was always that haughty
detachment. Nothing like this afternoon, though, the way he’d scraped that icy glare up Kit’s frame,
his expression demanding to know just why Kit was fouling his clinic. Maricón, that look had spit.
Kit had seen enough of those looks for ten lifetimes, so he’d handed Manolito off and high-tailed it
the hell out of there.
Because he didn’t need to take that crap from anyone, anymore. Because he had more selfrespect
than that. Because…shit. Because despite the disdain in that look, it’d made Kit’s dick stand
up and take note, and that was just all kinds of fucked up. And the bastard was here? Then Kit, by
God, wasn’t. “My shoulder is fine.”
“Oh, shut up. Christ.” Lars grabbed him by the elbow—the good one—and shoved him forward.
“Come on, we’ll use one of the examination rooms.”
Lars led him past the tiny reception area into a short corridor. Left into a tiled hallway, then
through one of two adjacent doors. At the flick of a switch, stark fluorescent light washed over
walls, metal cabinets, and laminate counters, all white. Blinking into the sterile glare, Kit took it in,
impressed by the meticulous order. No sign of this afternoon’s chaos—all the surfaces pristine, the
countless boxes of sundries neatly arranged, swab jars full. A faint smell of disinfectant lingered in
the air, the only hint that the room hadn’t been sitting like this since the Precambrian.
“Sit,” Lars directed, thrusting his chin towards the examination table.
Kit did, trying in vain to keep the tissue sheet from crackling. He watched wordlessly as Lars
slipped on a fresh lab coat.
“Remove your shirt.”
Easier said than done. Kit lifted the right side of his shirt with his left arm, gingerly, and winced
as he began to raise the hurt one.
“No, not like that. Here.” Lars nudged Kit. “This one first,” he said, and then helped to pull the
shirt over Kit’s head. “I could cut it off.” Presumably meaning the shirt. Not the arm.
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“The hell you say. Cut it, you die.” Tool, Austin ’97, a concert he remembered as much for the
biker he’d found himself next to as for the haze of music and dope. The night had ended well. “This
is one of my favorite shirts.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Fuck you,” Kit said, voice muffled by fabric, and then “Ow!” It was a ratty shirt, yeah, and he
wore it too often, but damn. Damn.
“Relax,” Lars said, pulling the tee free. He prodded Kit’s shoulder, and Kit bit his lower lip to stay
silent. “How did it happen?”
“Was a block keeping Manolito trapped.” Kit hissed as Lars raised his arm. “Not so heavy, but I
was tired. Got careless and wrenched it.”
“Feel anything give?”
“No. Didn’t even know I’d done it at first…” Kit thought back. “…‘til I picked him up to bring him
here.”
Lars asked a few more questions, specific-like, and had him do a couple of tasks, flexing muscles,
moving his arm this way, lifting it that way. Kind of like a drunk test. Hurt, but not too bad, until,
“You’re fine,” Lars pronounced.
“I knew that.”
“Uh-huh. Just take it easy a few days.” Tearing open an alcohol swab while holding a syringe
between fingers, Lars said, “This’ll take the worst of the pain away.”
“Will it make me stupid?” Kit leaned away dubiously, more than a little suspicious of what
constituted ‘kink’ for this asshole.
“No. Christ. Just a painkiller. Stop being a pain in the ass.”
The alcohol felt cool on his sun-pinked arm, then, “Ow!” Now they both hurt. Kit sat still, holding
his shoulder protectively, and watched as Lars opened one of the wall cabinets and extracted a
couple rolls of bandaging. “Don’t need that,” Kit said. No cuts, no scrapes, no bleeding.
Lars raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if pleading for patience. “I’m going to immobilize your arm.
Less it moves, the better. Here. Up.” Using a long roll, Lars wrapped the bandaging around Kit’s hurt
shoulder and arm, then across his chest and under the left armpit. Across again, a couple of times,
until Kit’s upper arm was effectively strapped to his chest. “That’ll do,” Lars said, snipping the end
and fastening it.
“I can move it.”
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“Good for you. Don’t. Once the Toradol kicks in—” He checked his watch. “—should be pretty
quickly—you won’t feel any pain, but that doesn’t mean the shoulder’s not injured. Got it? Be
careful.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Lay back.” Lars cranked up the back of the table and Kit leaned back into it. “Feet up. Come on.”
Kit did as he said, nonplussed, just following directions. Lars raised the rail on his left side, then
pulled something out of his coat pocket—a thick black band, Kit saw—lined up Kit’s good arm and
strapped it to the rail.
“What the fuck?” Kit jerked at his arm, ignoring the twinge of pain. “Hey!”
“Uh-uh.” Lars pressed a palm to Kit’s chest, pushing him back. “Calm down or you’ll hurt
yourself.”
Kit lay back, breath coming fast, mind racing, trying to decide, danger or not? “Why are you tying
that one down?” Stupid question, stupid, but his tongue just sort of rattled it off, full of shock and
innocence.
“It’s been one hell of a day.” Lars withdrew two latex gloves from a box on the counter and began
pulling them on. “We could stand to blow off some steam, don’t you think?” He snapped the wrist of
one glove and grinned. “I know I could.”
Despite himself, Kit responded, viscerally, prick thickening—especially when Lars’s fingers
trailed across the bare skin of his abdomen, the latex touch at once impersonal and intrusive. Even
so…Kit flicked eyes anxiously towards the door. “Dr. Saenz…” …was still back there. Jesus.
“That bother you?” Lars unbuttoned Kit’s jeans, prompting a jerk of hips that was both nervous
reaction and plea.
“Just don’t want that asshole—“
“Don’t bullshit me.” Lars barked a laugh. “Christ. I don’t know which of you is worse.” Toying
with the line of hair below Kit’s navel, he said, “I was watching you, you know…in the waiting room
today, when you thought no one was looking. Your inner submissive, on full display. Thought you
were going to fall on your knees right there, in front of the entire clinic.”
Heat rushed into Kit’s face. Lars was fucking with him, right? Except that he could just imagine it,
because he knew he got that way. And he’d seen it in clubs, the way a man’s entire posture could
change when a dominant walked in the door. But there was no way Kit had done that. Not here. Not
to a man he knew nothing about. “I was not…”
“Oh, please.” Lars rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like his meat in your mouth.”
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Kit pulled at the bond at his wrist. Not seriously, just feeling as if he had to register some
resistance.
Lars ran a gloved hand along Kit’s chest. “Not that I’m blaming you,” he said. With a finger, he
parted the bandaging and opened a slit so that Kit’s left nipple peeked out. He flicked at it, bringing
it to stiff attention. He couldn’t know how strongly that affected Kit. “You’d have to be dead to not
appreciate Raf’s…assets.”
“I wouldn’t know about those.”
“Anyway. You don’t need to worry; he’s in back. And I’ve latched the door. You’ll just have to
keep a lid on the screams.” Lars pinched his nipple, hard, and Kit accompanied his responding curse
with a thrust of his hips. Couldn’t help it. There was a direct line from his nipples to his cock. Lars
smiled, said, “You like being fucked?”
Oh. Dizzy. The question, bald of all pretense, knocked the last bit of sense from Kit. He nodded,
stupidly.
“Good. We’re well suited then,” Lars said, and proceeded to remove Kit’s boots and socks. “—for
tonight, anyway.”
Yeah, fuck you, too. But Kit swallowed that back. At least the snide comment brought him back
closer to the ground. He tilted his hips upwards as Lars pulled his mud-streaked denims down over
his hips.
“You like this.” Lars draped Kit’s jeans with his t-shirt and then gestured towards Kit’s bound
wrists. “Restraint. I’ll make it good. Here, up.” He’d pulled out stirrups at the edge of the table. There
were ankle socks pulled over the ends, edged in pink, and now he guided Kit’s heels into them. Kit
shivered as Lars bound them there with winding straps—nervous…with anticipation, with what
was quickly becoming a powerful need. Feeling exposed now, and vaguely humiliated for that, for
bellying up to yet another man. Pathetic, spat the voice of his old man.
“Scoot forward. Carefully. There, yes. Good.” Once again, Lars disappeared behind Kit. This time,
Kit didn’t even attempt to watch him, and Lars was back in no time, with more bindings that he
used to keep Kit’s thighs pulled apart.
The slide of a drawer, and Kit looked between his legs to see Lars fumbling beneath the exam
table. Lars straightened, and Kit felt the familiar chill of lubricant along his crack. A tap at his pucker
requested entrance, and Kit closed his eyes as a finger breached him, gloved and cool.
Very clinical, the way Lars opened him up, slathering him well with lube. Kit bit his lip, keeping
his moan low, not ready to beg, not just yet.
Lars pulled back, peeled his glove off, and slapped Kit on the ass. “Be right back.”
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Then he walked out, leaving the door—like Kit’s legs, like his mouth—wide open.
#
Kit wasn’t alone for more than a few minutes—time he spent talking himself down. He’s going
for condoms, that’s all, fucking with you, it’s part of the game. His breathing had just begun to slow
again when he heard footsteps, coming off the carpet and onto the linoleum-tiled hall.
It wasn’t only the scuff of running shoes, though. There was also the click of hard heels, nearly in
tandem, and Kit froze, blood running like ice. No way. His head swam, distorting the sounds of
approach, “…thirty milligrams of Toradol, but I’d like for you to take a look—“
And sure fucking enough, they entered side-by-side, white-jacketed torturers, a vision of hell on
a dose of brown acid.
Except for the fact that immediately, the newcomer stiffened, eyes snapping wide. And Kit…well,
a last jerk, an, “Oh fuck!”, and then his tongue cemented itself to the roof of his mouth. Speechless,
and unaccountably terrified, like a beam-blinded buck. Dick limp, just like that, no life left at all.
What the hell had he ever done to deserve this?
That gaze, as black and cool as ever, jerked from Kit’s stare, and raked once over the display
before him. Never before in his life had Kit wanted to wail…
The corner of Saenz’s mouth quirked upwards. “Oh, my.” The lilt of his accent, cultured
Honduran, seemed incongruous just now. “What have we here?”
The ridicule in the comment snapped Kit back to himself. He jerked at his bonds—wrist, legs—
and struggled to sit up. “Let me up! What the hell—?”
In two strides, Saenz crossed the room and pressed a warm palm to Kit’s chest. “Shh, mango.
You’ll aggravate the injury.” Gloves in his hand, like they’d appeared there, and he slipped them on,
then prodded the shoulder a bit. “How is this, now—better? Any pain?”
Kit stared, feeling cowed all of a sudden, and not a little bit bemused. “No. No pain…”
“Good, good.” Saenz soothed. “We do want our hero comfortable.”
Kit winced, stung by the obvious mockery, though he knew he should stand outside it.
To Lars, Saenz said, “Any other injuries?”
“I don’t know.” A quick glance showed Lars smirking. “Thought you might want to check him
over yourself.”
Oh, fuck. An embarrassing squeak escaped Kit. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he leaned his head
back and let a whoosh of air escape. Trying his damndest to shut it all out.
“Señor McGregor.” A tentative brush of fingers traced a line across his clavicle. “Look at me.”
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Hard, that voice, insistent, but nonetheless gentle. Kit examined it briefly but found none of the
derision he felt sure had to be there. Only a faint rolling of the first ‘r’ in his name stood out. He
opened his eyes, bracing for the familiar contempt in that flat gaze…except, he saw hunger, hot and
greedy, and suddenly, Kit was unsure…had the gaze changed?—or had it always been this?
“What will it be, Señor McGregor? Do you feel you need further examination?”
Kit sucked in a breath. Heat curled in his belly, reawakening the beast. Saenz noticed, of course
he would, and the smile that broke through his absolute focus was tinged with amusement. Kit’s
mouth went dry. No, he wasn’t dreaming this, and he was having a damned hard time escaping
those eyes, from seeing how they devoured him. And he realized he wanted them to. Fuck. Like the
spider and the fly.
“Or shall we go home? Pretend this never happened?”
Those fingers, tracing a pattern along his thigh now, sending tiny charges through Kit’s skin,
raising gooseflesh.
“Ah. You tempt me, mi diablillo, to tell you what you want. But a temporary pleasure is not worth
my license.” Kit found himself shaking his head, hypnotically agreeing with Saenz, and Saenz
pressed, “Do you consent?”
Kit licked his lips. Nodded.
Saenz slapped Kit’s thigh, demanded, “Dime!”
Tell me. A fiery blush powered down through Kit’s neck and across his chest, but he said, “I
consent.”
Silence. Saenz watched him, expectation clear in his eyes. Lars, too, though Kit was aware of him
only peripherally, a ghost at his feet.
“Please.” Voice so small. He cleared his throat. “I want…this. The examination.” Jesus. What the
hell is wrong with me?
“Good.” Saenz patted Kit’s thigh, then to Lars, said, “Proceed.”
Gloved hands tugged at Kit’s balls, just this side of painful, kneading a little. Another grasped his
cock, that was Saenz, and Kit watched avidly, connecting that pleasure to the fist, the arm, the dark
eyes, those sensual lips. It didn’t take much for Kit to harden.
Kit was a leaker, and he was demonstrating that now, with copious precum that latex-sheathed
fingers slicked down his shaft. A thumbnail dug into the slit and Kit jerked, groaning, the sensation
just a little too much, but so good in that. Saenz fisted him—tightly—and Kit squirmed, reptile brain
vying for freedom even though he really had no desire for it now.
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“Be still,” Saenz commanded, and his grip on Kit loosened. “You struggle, I send you home.” Kit
understood then, that despite the scene, despite the swamp of testosterone and lust in the room,
that Saenz could no more stop being a doctor than Kit could stop being Texan. Kit was not to risk
injury. He fell back, confining his struggles to his hips and his mind, finding the sensations more
intense for all that.
Lars spread his thighs wide. Fingers tapped again at his sphincter, then impaled him. Two—or
was it three?—right off and Kit hissed. In pain, but the burn was good, long sought, hell yes. Use me.
“There we are, that’s good,” Lars purred. His office voice, Kit knew, and thank Christ Lars’s tour
was up, or Kit would gladly die rather than come into this clinic for treatment again.
On the heels of that thought came a sensation so intense it was damn close to painful. Kit
squawked, jerked his pelvis, and Lars’s palm came down on him, covering his prick in a polymer
grasp.
“Don’t move,” Lars said, “You’re sensitive. I’ll ease up a bit…”
Lars twisted his fingers, studying Kit intently, and Kit groaned, head falling back, dick beginning
to throb. “Oh, jeeezus,” he said, and twisted, trying to get away, to get closer, just, oh yeah…right
there, that felt good.
He glanced up to see Saenz watching avidly, one hand gripping the hair at Kit’s nape, the ball of
the other pressing at his fly. “Healthy?” he asked Lars.
“I’ll say.”
The hand at Saenz’s crotch returned to touch Kit, feathering up his body in what was becoming a
familiar stroke. This time, he stopped at the exposed nipple, gave it a couple of flicks, and then
twisted. Hard.
When Kit yelped, Saenz jerked his head back and slapped the hand over his mouth. “Shh,” he
said, then pushed his fingers into Kit’s mouth, over his tongue, until nails tickled the back of Kit’s
throat and Kit gagged.
Lars chuckled. “Our boy likes that, Raf.”
Indeed. Kit flushed, humiliated, but even that fed him, knowing that Lars knew, could feel every
response, every pulse of Kit’s cock in the cloak of his palm. Saenz’s eyes sparkled, and when Kit
moaned at the renewed assault on his prostate, he said, “Suck.”
Kit did, the bitter of his own leakage a layer over the synthetic taste of the gloves. But he sucked,
hollowing his cheeks, running his tongue between fingers, inviting them to fuck him. Eager to please
the dark eyes, yearning to reach that space where ego was so consumed that shame ceased to have
meaning.
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Lars’s fingers disappeared from Kit’s ass, and something larger replaced them, blunt and cold.
Kit grunted around Saenz’s hand as the object penetrated him roughly, not nearly enough lube, but
Christ, yes, please, and did they keep it in the freezer? His moan pitched too high now, not at all like a
man, even that pride stripped from him. Like an animal, pitiful and primal…yessss.
His hips strained upwards, cock desperate for a touch, but there was nothing there now, just air.
The probe, dildo, prong—whatever the fuck it was—attacked his gland with a relentless cool
pressure while his aching prick danced, painting streaks of clear fluid across the flat of his abs.
Saenz withdrew his hand from Kit’s mouth, then dragged a thumb across his stomach, gathering
up a glob of the mess there. Another prod sent Kit soaring and another cry of “Fuck!” burst from his
lungs.
“Silencio!” Saenz hissed, then, lower, “Do I need to gag you?”
All self-respect gone now, and feeling very much the imp Saenz had named him, Kit nodded, and
said hoarsely, “Fuck me,” before turning his head and opening his mouth wide.
It took Saenz all of a second to cotton on, then his fingers flew to his fly, unzipped, and the head
of his cock popped free. Fat and livid, the tip peeking out from a partially retracted foreskin—Saenz
gave it a single stroke, from balls to crown, and Kit watched as a pearlescent drop gathered at the
tip.
Kit reached, and Saenz helped, pushing a pillow beneath him so they met at a level. Sucking him
in, Kit pushed the foreskin back with his tongue, gratified to hear the groan that produced. Licking,
prodding at the slit, sucking again, nice, God yes, but it wasn’t what Kit wanted, not just now, so he
made a production of going all passive—lips slack, head falling back into Saenz’s palm.
To find that indeed, this man was a god, omniscient and wise. “Ah,” Saenz said, and smiled. “Your
neck is tired, no? We can work around that.” Then he gripped Kit’s curls in a tight fist and shoved in.
Yes. Falling into heaven. Fuck me. Saenz set the rhythm, and Kit sucked for all he was worth,
reveling in the power that controlled him, the pull on his head, timed to meet the thrust of cock in
his mouth. And the smell, God, Kit’s nose filled with the redolence of a long day’s sweat and musk,
ripening, the faint remnants of the morning’s cologne a mist over male.
Was too much. The hard, unforgiving solidity of the probe, milking him like a stud animal. While
a cold bastard of a man used his mouth without mercy. Kit gagged again and came, choking, in a
ready stream of seed that flowed smoothly out of his slit and over his abdomen. An amazing sort of
release, deep and ball-relieving, but ultimately unsatisfying, his prick still waving a needy, wanton
dance, hard as ever.
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“Fuck, that’s hot,” Kit heard, in Yankee vowels, but he was too busy catching his breath to do
much more than register the words.
Closing his eyes, Kit drew Saenz back in. Heard the approving hiss and relaxed, determined to
taste as much of the man as he could. Frustrated—wishing he could swallow it to the root, wishing
he could train himself on this man.
Kit heard the tear of foil, then felt the harsh suck of the dildo/probe being removed, leaving his
hole gaping, open and ready. Only for a moment though, then warm flesh entered him, hard,
stretching him further. A ripple of pleasure coursed through Kit. He wished he could watch, have a
bird’s eye view of getting fucked from both ends. So lewd, so filthy and base, and there was no way
he’d ever get this lucky again. Gloved fingers threaded through his hair, gripping him tight as skin
dragged over his tongue, just shy of the reflex rejection. Balls slapping at his ass in a syncopated
rhythm, fast and frantic. His own dick bouncing, skin stretched tight, in a hedonistic beat.
With a stiffening of his body, Saenz started to come. Balls pulled high and tight, he pulled out,
gave himself another quick jerk, then grunted as the first volley spattered Kit’s cheek. Another hot
splash over his brow and down his nose. Kit moved to catch the next lob on his tongue, capturing
what he could, hoping Saenz understood that next time, Kit wanted to let that thick salty fire slide
down his throat.
Next time…? Who the hell was he kidding?
He was still tasting Saenz, the faint acridness, the sweet, rolling it over his tongue, when he
heard a low growl and felt hands yanking brutally at his thighs. A slam against his ass, an incoherent
curse, and Lars came.
#
The moments that followed were like crashing too early from a high. Still unrelieved—in a literal
sense—but he knew how this went; it was over, and reality began to settle like a ton weight.
Lars pulled out, stripped the condom, tied a knot in it, then dropped it into a biowaste container.
He slapped Kit’s ass. “Good fuck, tight hole. You should give it a shot before you leave, Raf.”
Saenz waved him away. “Ándale. Get some sleep. I’ll take care of el diablillo.”
“I won’t argue.” Already buttoned back up, Lars looked no more disheveled than he had at the
cantina. He quirked that asshole smirk again. “You two have fun.”
“Cabrón,” Saenz breathed once Lars had left. But he was grinning. He drew a thumb—ungloved
now—across the semen splash on Kit’s cheek.
Kit flushed—the shame much more real now, knowing that the men were through with him. This
was when the fun stopped. A slow rage began to stir within him. Familiar enough, and in the end,
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he’d quash it down—same way he always did, turning his ‘I don’t give a shit’ face to the world.
Except this time, Kit hadn’t even come with any dignity; they’d just gotten him out of the way early.
Using him. Hot, yeah. Fucking volcanic. Even so, once the fog lifted, it fucked with him.
“Tan bello.”
Kit glanced up to catch Saenz’s gaze, still dark, still devouring. Beautiful?
“Did it…cómo se dice…did it ‘hit the spot?’”
“Yeah,” Kit said, weakly. Suspicious of niceties.
Saenz bent down and gave Kit’s nose a delicate lick, tasting himself. Like a cat. “Christopher,
yes?”
“Kit.” What was this man on about now?
“Kit,” Saenz repeated. Then kissed him. A warm, sensual, afterglow kind of kiss, tongue exploring
with a lazy sort of passion. And of course, Kit let him in, even returning the action, however
tentatively. How could he not?—Kit wasn’t immune to these gestures. Tasting the man—the flavor
of a hard day, mints, and maybe some bourbon behind that.
Saenz pulled back, and Kit, feeling powerfully out of his element, reached for what might pass as
normal conversation—considering that he was strapped to a table, cum spattered and worn. “And
you’re Raf.” Okay, a little defiance in there.
Saenz made a sour face, seeming to shudder faintly. Then he recovered his poise and smiled. He
touched Kit’s lower lip with a finger. “Tonight, I am Dr. Saenz, no?” He trailed that finger over Kit’s
chin, down his throat, then traced the line of his collarbone. “Maybe tomorrow…over dinner,
perhaps?…then, I am Rafael.” He tapped a finger on Kit’s breast. “But not Raf, dios mio, no. Stupid
name.”
Kit couldn’t help but smile at that. But. Dinner…?
“You are so sexy. I think Lars brought you here for me.”
“Me?” Kit felt his pulse begin to race. He wanted up. Wanted to pace. Leave, maybe. This was too
weird. “Lars? Why would he—?”
“I have asked him about you.” Rafael met Kit’s eyes, seemed to search for something in them. “I
watch you. When you work. At village meetings, when you talk with the ranchers. You are smart.
Kind. You respect los paisanos. I find that sexy. But today—” He shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve been rude
in my ogling. This afternoon when you glared at me, I thought surely I stood no chance at all.”
“I…” Kit stuttered. Still captured by the eyes. Kit glared? “…I liked…this.” He gave a jerk of his
arm, the uninjured one. “Can you let me go now?”
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“¿Estás seguro?” Rafael cocked an eyebrow at the restraint that Kit was trying. “I was thinking
that you hadn’t come properly yet.” He toyed with Kit’s nipple, pinching until Kit hissed. “Perhaps
we should try again?”
Kit bit his lip, didn’t answer in words, but his dick answered for him.
Rafael laughed. “So sweet, so open and honest.” He moved between Kit’s legs, bent over to kiss
his stomach, trailed his tongue to the patch of hair just above Kit’s cock. Kit heard the rip of another
foil, below the table edge.
man smiling, crooked teeth overlapping, glowing dull yellow in
the cool night of the cantina. “Si, si,” he said, reaching back to the
shelf and snatching a bottle and cloudy glass, and then “No, no, es gratis,” waving impatiently when
Kit set a veinte-Lempira note on the worn plywood bar. Felix rattled off another fast round of
Honduran syllables, and if Kit had little hope of deciphering them, he could guess well enough that
it was gratitude.
Though really, Kit had worked no more diligently this afternoon than most men had done.
Maybe less.
Free, he’d said, and so Kit responded, “Muchas gracias, Felix” trying his best to trill that ‘r’,
choking it, as usual, but getting another face-splitting grin in response. Kit settled onto the stool,
cold metal, and leaned into the bar. Bright yellow paint peeled from its corners, the gold and red of
a faded Cerveza Imperial ad knocked at his knees.
The rum was good, smoky and sharp, stripping the dry sting from his throat and spreading
warmth in his belly. Kit rubbed the back of his neck. Exhausted. Sunburnt. Aching to his fingers and
toes, with mud cemented onto his skin by crystallized sweat…and his shoulder hurt like a son-of-abitch.
They’d gotten everyone out, though. Nobody dead—if you didn’t count cattle and goats—only
scared half to death, cowering in homes consumed by dirt and rubble.
“Lot of hell for such a baby shake.”
Kit slid his gaze right, to the man settling onto the stool beside him. One of the doctors at the
clinic—and fuck if Kit could remember his name. West, maybe. Or Weiss. Dr. Weiss. Hot-shit good
A naked man lies on a
medical examination table
with his legs in stirrups. Two
men in white lab coats and
surgical masks stand over
him. The man on the table
orally services one of men
while the other gives him a
rectal exam.
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looks, tight body and blue eyes, but an asshole, as far as Kit could tell, prick of a Boston candy-ass.
He’d made no secret of what he thought about a redneck like Kit.
“Was a magnitude four,” Kit drawled, letting insolence saturate his tone. “Doesn’t take but a gnat
sneeze to set loose a destabilized slope.”
“Salva Vida,” the man said—accent impeccable, of course—and as Felix popped the cap from the
bottle, “Destabilized?”
Kit nodded. “Deforestation, overgrazing, bad soil practices…” He waved his right arm impatiently
and then hissed at the pain that produced. “You know…the reason I’m here, Doctor Weiss,” thinking
dickhead.
“Ah,” the man said, “afraid I’ve had my hands full with blood, not mud—not much time today to
speculate on the cause of it all.” He raised his beer in a greeting. “And that’s Wesley, not Weiss. But
please, call me Lars. Chris, right? Agronomist?”
“Land-use management,” Kit corrected, “and it’s Kit,” knowing from the guess that Lars had
picked up his name from an official file somewhere. Nosy fuck. And disingenuous; Kit’d been seeing
the snarky looks since arriving last summer—last time not even four hours ago, in fact. Kit turned
back to his drink, content to shut the man out. What the hell did he want, anyway, getting all slick
and friendly all of a sudden? Like cozying up with a rattler. One hard day didn’t make them buddies
any more than the Peace Corps tag did.
“Do something to your shoulder?”
Kit glanced sidelong to find Lars squinting at him in the dim light. Cocking his eyebrows in lieu of
a shrug, Kit said, “Pulled something. Digging the Garcias out of their home.”
“You should let me take a look at it.”
Surprised, Kit turned to peer at Lars—expecting a joke of some sort. Because, hell, it’d been
hurting when he’d brought Manolito to the clinic. And Lars had known it, because Kit hadn’t been
able to suppress a curse when he’d put the boy down. The head doctor—Saenz—had glared over at
Kit, then rattled something off to Lars, far too fast for Kit to interpret, especially as tired as he’d
been. Lars had simply shrugged.
Now Kit saw the exhaustion. Lines feathering out from Lars’s eyes, accented by dust and grime.
Stains on his rumpled shirt, sweat and dirt and—Kit supposed the smear on his collar was blood.
Only thing in place was his hair, glittering blond in the low light. Kind of difficult to muss up a do
that was only a millimeter long.
The day had been hard on everyone. But when Kit met Lars’s eyes, they were at once both tired
and keen, a pale hazel, bright with something…no, not derision, not with the way his gaze dropped
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and then rose, pointedly, smile barely quirking his lips. Kit knew the look well, having answered a
few through alcohol and sweat funks, in bars in Corpus, San Antonio…Tegus, only last month.
Well, hell.
Guess when the body needs an outlet, all discrimination flies out the window.
“Hey, ow!” Right. So flinching away from Lars’s reach hadn’t been such a clever move, and now
Kit couldn’t tell if Lars was scowling or laughing.
“Clinic is closed, but I can open it up for the night.”
Was it Kit’s imagination, or did Lars seem to be proposing more than a bandage? “Be fine by
morning,” Kit muttered, still suspicious. He held his palm to the area, though. Protectively. Feeling
the heat of injury, pressing a little.
“I seriously doubt it.”
Kit’s yelp must’ve woken up old Felix, because he’d pried his rheumy eyes from the telenovela,
and now he hobbled towards them, spitting out a string of syllables at Lars, too fast for Kit to catch
more than the occasional phrase. That, and the hand gesturing towards Kit, then east—towards the
clinical building. And Lars, the self-satisfied yank, keeping up just fine, rapid-fire Spanish, waving
hands back, and grinning all the while.
Felix turned to Kit, finally, fluttered his hand towards Kit’s shoulder. Said, “You. Go. Médico,
doctor.” Then he poured another two fingers of rum into Kit’s glass. Kit had hardly begun the first.
“See. The old man agrees.” Standing, Lars said, “Come on. I can give you something for it—” His
tone dropped into the richness of a promise of sin, “—allow you to concentrate on something
besides pain.”
“It’s just a pull,” Kit said, but slowly now. He tongued his bottom lip, more sure now of just what
Lars had in mind, and beginning to think, why the hell not? He stood. It had been a hell of a day—a
good blow and a painkiller, and he’d sleep like the dead.
Lars raised Kit’s rum glass. “This your first?” He took a sip from it. Forward bastard, but Kit
found himself responding, because it had always been a love-hate thing with him—arrogant men
who pushed ruthlessly into his space. “No drugs if you’ve been drinking.”
“Yeah. Only had a couple of swallows.” Resenting them for their condescension, turning on when
they got him in their sexual crosshairs, telling him to bend and how far. Fucked up, he knew, but
whatever. It was a sex thing, so he went with it, kept it the hell away from the rest of his life. Get laid
tonight, avoid the fucker hereafter so he never got the chance to play the dick. “You showed up right
after I did.”
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“Good.” Lars set the glass down and took hold of Kit’s elbow, sending a shiver up his arm.
“Vámonos.”
They left, with Kit reflecting that likely as not, Felix would pour the rum back in the bottle. Waste
not, want not. Which, Kit decided, was okay.
#
The night was quiet, not a soul on these back roads. Tired people tucked into their homes,
thankful, no doubt, for families left intact. It was pleasant—the dry season air turned dusty and
cool. A light breeze whipped Kit’s overlong curls into his eyes and cleared the air of the chaos and
fear that had so permeated the day. The smell of burning trash draped the town, faint—so much a
part of the place that Kit hardly ever noticed it anymore.
“You spending Christmas here?”
Kit grunted, “Yep,” not for a minute believing that Lars gave much of a shit. “You?”
“Tour ends day after tomorrow. Be home in three days.”
Good for you. Kit was glad to spend the holidays here, where the aloneness meant he’d chosen to
be, no pitying looks, no explanations. He’d grown righteously sick of those.
The moon was just past half full, and high in the sky. The rattle of dry grass and the chirping of
insects speckled the silence. Tinsel draped from windows, eaves and porches, reflecting the pale
light in greens, golds and reds. The nine-day pre-Christmas ritual of Las Posadas would begin
tomorrow—children and nativity, traipsing from door to door, hunting for the inn that would take
them in and make them a home. Thank God no deaths had come today to mar it.
“You do kink?”
Nearly stumbling, Kit stopped and brought his gaze around to see a slow smirk spread on the
face of his companion. Slowly, choosing his words carefully, Kit said, “Depends.” Keeping his voice
low. “Maybe.”
Lars gripped Kit’s nape, holding him still, and pressed a thumb to his throat. “So aloof,” he said.
“I’d like to dislodge that stick up your ass.” Lars tucked his nose close, until hot breath tickled Kit’s
ear, and in a voice gone to gravel, said, “perhaps a hard fuck would do it.”
A bolt of heat shot through Kit’s groin—no hiding that primal reaction. Lightheaded, he berated
himself, think. “No injuries,” he said, and was pleased that his voice came out controlled and precise.
“No bruising or breaking skin. No scat.” Remembering that Lars was a doctor, he added in a rush,
“no enemas, either.”
Lars huffed a low laugh and unhanded Kit. “Nothing near so extreme.” He flecked a piece of
drying mud from the shoulder of Kit’s tee and cocked a grin. “Not on a first date, in any case.”
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#
The clinic was a long, squat building—cinder block walls painted a turquoise blue. Yellow light
leaked between the slats of a barred window near the back.
“You said it was closed.”
“We are.” Lars said, sliding his key into the deadbolt. “Raf’s doing paperwork, I expect.”
Raf. Dr. Saenz, Kit realized, the thought dampening his anticipation considerably. The senior
doctor. A beautiful man, refined and suave, with a nearly aristocratic demeanor. Broad-shouldered
and narrow-hipped, with chiseled cheekbones and the lips of an angel, like some sort of Latino god
cut of marble—and just as cold. Kit had crossed his path before, and there was always that haughty
detachment. Nothing like this afternoon, though, the way he’d scraped that icy glare up Kit’s frame,
his expression demanding to know just why Kit was fouling his clinic. Maricón, that look had spit.
Kit had seen enough of those looks for ten lifetimes, so he’d handed Manolito off and high-tailed it
the hell out of there.
Because he didn’t need to take that crap from anyone, anymore. Because he had more selfrespect
than that. Because…shit. Because despite the disdain in that look, it’d made Kit’s dick stand
up and take note, and that was just all kinds of fucked up. And the bastard was here? Then Kit, by
God, wasn’t. “My shoulder is fine.”
“Oh, shut up. Christ.” Lars grabbed him by the elbow—the good one—and shoved him forward.
“Come on, we’ll use one of the examination rooms.”
Lars led him past the tiny reception area into a short corridor. Left into a tiled hallway, then
through one of two adjacent doors. At the flick of a switch, stark fluorescent light washed over
walls, metal cabinets, and laminate counters, all white. Blinking into the sterile glare, Kit took it in,
impressed by the meticulous order. No sign of this afternoon’s chaos—all the surfaces pristine, the
countless boxes of sundries neatly arranged, swab jars full. A faint smell of disinfectant lingered in
the air, the only hint that the room hadn’t been sitting like this since the Precambrian.
“Sit,” Lars directed, thrusting his chin towards the examination table.
Kit did, trying in vain to keep the tissue sheet from crackling. He watched wordlessly as Lars
slipped on a fresh lab coat.
“Remove your shirt.”
Easier said than done. Kit lifted the right side of his shirt with his left arm, gingerly, and winced
as he began to raise the hurt one.
“No, not like that. Here.” Lars nudged Kit. “This one first,” he said, and then helped to pull the
shirt over Kit’s head. “I could cut it off.” Presumably meaning the shirt. Not the arm.
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“The hell you say. Cut it, you die.” Tool, Austin ’97, a concert he remembered as much for the
biker he’d found himself next to as for the haze of music and dope. The night had ended well. “This
is one of my favorite shirts.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Fuck you,” Kit said, voice muffled by fabric, and then “Ow!” It was a ratty shirt, yeah, and he
wore it too often, but damn. Damn.
“Relax,” Lars said, pulling the tee free. He prodded Kit’s shoulder, and Kit bit his lower lip to stay
silent. “How did it happen?”
“Was a block keeping Manolito trapped.” Kit hissed as Lars raised his arm. “Not so heavy, but I
was tired. Got careless and wrenched it.”
“Feel anything give?”
“No. Didn’t even know I’d done it at first…” Kit thought back. “…‘til I picked him up to bring him
here.”
Lars asked a few more questions, specific-like, and had him do a couple of tasks, flexing muscles,
moving his arm this way, lifting it that way. Kind of like a drunk test. Hurt, but not too bad, until,
“You’re fine,” Lars pronounced.
“I knew that.”
“Uh-huh. Just take it easy a few days.” Tearing open an alcohol swab while holding a syringe
between fingers, Lars said, “This’ll take the worst of the pain away.”
“Will it make me stupid?” Kit leaned away dubiously, more than a little suspicious of what
constituted ‘kink’ for this asshole.
“No. Christ. Just a painkiller. Stop being a pain in the ass.”
The alcohol felt cool on his sun-pinked arm, then, “Ow!” Now they both hurt. Kit sat still, holding
his shoulder protectively, and watched as Lars opened one of the wall cabinets and extracted a
couple rolls of bandaging. “Don’t need that,” Kit said. No cuts, no scrapes, no bleeding.
Lars raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if pleading for patience. “I’m going to immobilize your arm.
Less it moves, the better. Here. Up.” Using a long roll, Lars wrapped the bandaging around Kit’s hurt
shoulder and arm, then across his chest and under the left armpit. Across again, a couple of times,
until Kit’s upper arm was effectively strapped to his chest. “That’ll do,” Lars said, snipping the end
and fastening it.
“I can move it.”
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“Good for you. Don’t. Once the Toradol kicks in—” He checked his watch. “—should be pretty
quickly—you won’t feel any pain, but that doesn’t mean the shoulder’s not injured. Got it? Be
careful.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Lay back.” Lars cranked up the back of the table and Kit leaned back into it. “Feet up. Come on.”
Kit did as he said, nonplussed, just following directions. Lars raised the rail on his left side, then
pulled something out of his coat pocket—a thick black band, Kit saw—lined up Kit’s good arm and
strapped it to the rail.
“What the fuck?” Kit jerked at his arm, ignoring the twinge of pain. “Hey!”
“Uh-uh.” Lars pressed a palm to Kit’s chest, pushing him back. “Calm down or you’ll hurt
yourself.”
Kit lay back, breath coming fast, mind racing, trying to decide, danger or not? “Why are you tying
that one down?” Stupid question, stupid, but his tongue just sort of rattled it off, full of shock and
innocence.
“It’s been one hell of a day.” Lars withdrew two latex gloves from a box on the counter and began
pulling them on. “We could stand to blow off some steam, don’t you think?” He snapped the wrist of
one glove and grinned. “I know I could.”
Despite himself, Kit responded, viscerally, prick thickening—especially when Lars’s fingers
trailed across the bare skin of his abdomen, the latex touch at once impersonal and intrusive. Even
so…Kit flicked eyes anxiously towards the door. “Dr. Saenz…” …was still back there. Jesus.
“That bother you?” Lars unbuttoned Kit’s jeans, prompting a jerk of hips that was both nervous
reaction and plea.
“Just don’t want that asshole—“
“Don’t bullshit me.” Lars barked a laugh. “Christ. I don’t know which of you is worse.” Toying
with the line of hair below Kit’s navel, he said, “I was watching you, you know…in the waiting room
today, when you thought no one was looking. Your inner submissive, on full display. Thought you
were going to fall on your knees right there, in front of the entire clinic.”
Heat rushed into Kit’s face. Lars was fucking with him, right? Except that he could just imagine it,
because he knew he got that way. And he’d seen it in clubs, the way a man’s entire posture could
change when a dominant walked in the door. But there was no way Kit had done that. Not here. Not
to a man he knew nothing about. “I was not…”
“Oh, please.” Lars rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like his meat in your mouth.”
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Kit pulled at the bond at his wrist. Not seriously, just feeling as if he had to register some
resistance.
Lars ran a gloved hand along Kit’s chest. “Not that I’m blaming you,” he said. With a finger, he
parted the bandaging and opened a slit so that Kit’s left nipple peeked out. He flicked at it, bringing
it to stiff attention. He couldn’t know how strongly that affected Kit. “You’d have to be dead to not
appreciate Raf’s…assets.”
“I wouldn’t know about those.”
“Anyway. You don’t need to worry; he’s in back. And I’ve latched the door. You’ll just have to
keep a lid on the screams.” Lars pinched his nipple, hard, and Kit accompanied his responding curse
with a thrust of his hips. Couldn’t help it. There was a direct line from his nipples to his cock. Lars
smiled, said, “You like being fucked?”
Oh. Dizzy. The question, bald of all pretense, knocked the last bit of sense from Kit. He nodded,
stupidly.
“Good. We’re well suited then,” Lars said, and proceeded to remove Kit’s boots and socks. “—for
tonight, anyway.”
Yeah, fuck you, too. But Kit swallowed that back. At least the snide comment brought him back
closer to the ground. He tilted his hips upwards as Lars pulled his mud-streaked denims down over
his hips.
“You like this.” Lars draped Kit’s jeans with his t-shirt and then gestured towards Kit’s bound
wrists. “Restraint. I’ll make it good. Here, up.” He’d pulled out stirrups at the edge of the table. There
were ankle socks pulled over the ends, edged in pink, and now he guided Kit’s heels into them. Kit
shivered as Lars bound them there with winding straps—nervous…with anticipation, with what
was quickly becoming a powerful need. Feeling exposed now, and vaguely humiliated for that, for
bellying up to yet another man. Pathetic, spat the voice of his old man.
“Scoot forward. Carefully. There, yes. Good.” Once again, Lars disappeared behind Kit. This time,
Kit didn’t even attempt to watch him, and Lars was back in no time, with more bindings that he
used to keep Kit’s thighs pulled apart.
The slide of a drawer, and Kit looked between his legs to see Lars fumbling beneath the exam
table. Lars straightened, and Kit felt the familiar chill of lubricant along his crack. A tap at his pucker
requested entrance, and Kit closed his eyes as a finger breached him, gloved and cool.
Very clinical, the way Lars opened him up, slathering him well with lube. Kit bit his lip, keeping
his moan low, not ready to beg, not just yet.
Lars pulled back, peeled his glove off, and slapped Kit on the ass. “Be right back.”
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Then he walked out, leaving the door—like Kit’s legs, like his mouth—wide open.
#
Kit wasn’t alone for more than a few minutes—time he spent talking himself down. He’s going
for condoms, that’s all, fucking with you, it’s part of the game. His breathing had just begun to slow
again when he heard footsteps, coming off the carpet and onto the linoleum-tiled hall.
It wasn’t only the scuff of running shoes, though. There was also the click of hard heels, nearly in
tandem, and Kit froze, blood running like ice. No way. His head swam, distorting the sounds of
approach, “…thirty milligrams of Toradol, but I’d like for you to take a look—“
And sure fucking enough, they entered side-by-side, white-jacketed torturers, a vision of hell on
a dose of brown acid.
Except for the fact that immediately, the newcomer stiffened, eyes snapping wide. And Kit…well,
a last jerk, an, “Oh fuck!”, and then his tongue cemented itself to the roof of his mouth. Speechless,
and unaccountably terrified, like a beam-blinded buck. Dick limp, just like that, no life left at all.
What the hell had he ever done to deserve this?
That gaze, as black and cool as ever, jerked from Kit’s stare, and raked once over the display
before him. Never before in his life had Kit wanted to wail…
The corner of Saenz’s mouth quirked upwards. “Oh, my.” The lilt of his accent, cultured
Honduran, seemed incongruous just now. “What have we here?”
The ridicule in the comment snapped Kit back to himself. He jerked at his bonds—wrist, legs—
and struggled to sit up. “Let me up! What the hell—?”
In two strides, Saenz crossed the room and pressed a warm palm to Kit’s chest. “Shh, mango.
You’ll aggravate the injury.” Gloves in his hand, like they’d appeared there, and he slipped them on,
then prodded the shoulder a bit. “How is this, now—better? Any pain?”
Kit stared, feeling cowed all of a sudden, and not a little bit bemused. “No. No pain…”
“Good, good.” Saenz soothed. “We do want our hero comfortable.”
Kit winced, stung by the obvious mockery, though he knew he should stand outside it.
To Lars, Saenz said, “Any other injuries?”
“I don’t know.” A quick glance showed Lars smirking. “Thought you might want to check him
over yourself.”
Oh, fuck. An embarrassing squeak escaped Kit. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he leaned his head
back and let a whoosh of air escape. Trying his damndest to shut it all out.
“Señor McGregor.” A tentative brush of fingers traced a line across his clavicle. “Look at me.”
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Hard, that voice, insistent, but nonetheless gentle. Kit examined it briefly but found none of the
derision he felt sure had to be there. Only a faint rolling of the first ‘r’ in his name stood out. He
opened his eyes, bracing for the familiar contempt in that flat gaze…except, he saw hunger, hot and
greedy, and suddenly, Kit was unsure…had the gaze changed?—or had it always been this?
“What will it be, Señor McGregor? Do you feel you need further examination?”
Kit sucked in a breath. Heat curled in his belly, reawakening the beast. Saenz noticed, of course
he would, and the smile that broke through his absolute focus was tinged with amusement. Kit’s
mouth went dry. No, he wasn’t dreaming this, and he was having a damned hard time escaping
those eyes, from seeing how they devoured him. And he realized he wanted them to. Fuck. Like the
spider and the fly.
“Or shall we go home? Pretend this never happened?”
Those fingers, tracing a pattern along his thigh now, sending tiny charges through Kit’s skin,
raising gooseflesh.
“Ah. You tempt me, mi diablillo, to tell you what you want. But a temporary pleasure is not worth
my license.” Kit found himself shaking his head, hypnotically agreeing with Saenz, and Saenz
pressed, “Do you consent?”
Kit licked his lips. Nodded.
Saenz slapped Kit’s thigh, demanded, “Dime!”
Tell me. A fiery blush powered down through Kit’s neck and across his chest, but he said, “I
consent.”
Silence. Saenz watched him, expectation clear in his eyes. Lars, too, though Kit was aware of him
only peripherally, a ghost at his feet.
“Please.” Voice so small. He cleared his throat. “I want…this. The examination.” Jesus. What the
hell is wrong with me?
“Good.” Saenz patted Kit’s thigh, then to Lars, said, “Proceed.”
Gloved hands tugged at Kit’s balls, just this side of painful, kneading a little. Another grasped his
cock, that was Saenz, and Kit watched avidly, connecting that pleasure to the fist, the arm, the dark
eyes, those sensual lips. It didn’t take much for Kit to harden.
Kit was a leaker, and he was demonstrating that now, with copious precum that latex-sheathed
fingers slicked down his shaft. A thumbnail dug into the slit and Kit jerked, groaning, the sensation
just a little too much, but so good in that. Saenz fisted him—tightly—and Kit squirmed, reptile brain
vying for freedom even though he really had no desire for it now.
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“Be still,” Saenz commanded, and his grip on Kit loosened. “You struggle, I send you home.” Kit
understood then, that despite the scene, despite the swamp of testosterone and lust in the room,
that Saenz could no more stop being a doctor than Kit could stop being Texan. Kit was not to risk
injury. He fell back, confining his struggles to his hips and his mind, finding the sensations more
intense for all that.
Lars spread his thighs wide. Fingers tapped again at his sphincter, then impaled him. Two—or
was it three?—right off and Kit hissed. In pain, but the burn was good, long sought, hell yes. Use me.
“There we are, that’s good,” Lars purred. His office voice, Kit knew, and thank Christ Lars’s tour
was up, or Kit would gladly die rather than come into this clinic for treatment again.
On the heels of that thought came a sensation so intense it was damn close to painful. Kit
squawked, jerked his pelvis, and Lars’s palm came down on him, covering his prick in a polymer
grasp.
“Don’t move,” Lars said, “You’re sensitive. I’ll ease up a bit…”
Lars twisted his fingers, studying Kit intently, and Kit groaned, head falling back, dick beginning
to throb. “Oh, jeeezus,” he said, and twisted, trying to get away, to get closer, just, oh yeah…right
there, that felt good.
He glanced up to see Saenz watching avidly, one hand gripping the hair at Kit’s nape, the ball of
the other pressing at his fly. “Healthy?” he asked Lars.
“I’ll say.”
The hand at Saenz’s crotch returned to touch Kit, feathering up his body in what was becoming a
familiar stroke. This time, he stopped at the exposed nipple, gave it a couple of flicks, and then
twisted. Hard.
When Kit yelped, Saenz jerked his head back and slapped the hand over his mouth. “Shh,” he
said, then pushed his fingers into Kit’s mouth, over his tongue, until nails tickled the back of Kit’s
throat and Kit gagged.
Lars chuckled. “Our boy likes that, Raf.”
Indeed. Kit flushed, humiliated, but even that fed him, knowing that Lars knew, could feel every
response, every pulse of Kit’s cock in the cloak of his palm. Saenz’s eyes sparkled, and when Kit
moaned at the renewed assault on his prostate, he said, “Suck.”
Kit did, the bitter of his own leakage a layer over the synthetic taste of the gloves. But he sucked,
hollowing his cheeks, running his tongue between fingers, inviting them to fuck him. Eager to please
the dark eyes, yearning to reach that space where ego was so consumed that shame ceased to have
meaning.
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Lars’s fingers disappeared from Kit’s ass, and something larger replaced them, blunt and cold.
Kit grunted around Saenz’s hand as the object penetrated him roughly, not nearly enough lube, but
Christ, yes, please, and did they keep it in the freezer? His moan pitched too high now, not at all like a
man, even that pride stripped from him. Like an animal, pitiful and primal…yessss.
His hips strained upwards, cock desperate for a touch, but there was nothing there now, just air.
The probe, dildo, prong—whatever the fuck it was—attacked his gland with a relentless cool
pressure while his aching prick danced, painting streaks of clear fluid across the flat of his abs.
Saenz withdrew his hand from Kit’s mouth, then dragged a thumb across his stomach, gathering
up a glob of the mess there. Another prod sent Kit soaring and another cry of “Fuck!” burst from his
lungs.
“Silencio!” Saenz hissed, then, lower, “Do I need to gag you?”
All self-respect gone now, and feeling very much the imp Saenz had named him, Kit nodded, and
said hoarsely, “Fuck me,” before turning his head and opening his mouth wide.
It took Saenz all of a second to cotton on, then his fingers flew to his fly, unzipped, and the head
of his cock popped free. Fat and livid, the tip peeking out from a partially retracted foreskin—Saenz
gave it a single stroke, from balls to crown, and Kit watched as a pearlescent drop gathered at the
tip.
Kit reached, and Saenz helped, pushing a pillow beneath him so they met at a level. Sucking him
in, Kit pushed the foreskin back with his tongue, gratified to hear the groan that produced. Licking,
prodding at the slit, sucking again, nice, God yes, but it wasn’t what Kit wanted, not just now, so he
made a production of going all passive—lips slack, head falling back into Saenz’s palm.
To find that indeed, this man was a god, omniscient and wise. “Ah,” Saenz said, and smiled. “Your
neck is tired, no? We can work around that.” Then he gripped Kit’s curls in a tight fist and shoved in.
Yes. Falling into heaven. Fuck me. Saenz set the rhythm, and Kit sucked for all he was worth,
reveling in the power that controlled him, the pull on his head, timed to meet the thrust of cock in
his mouth. And the smell, God, Kit’s nose filled with the redolence of a long day’s sweat and musk,
ripening, the faint remnants of the morning’s cologne a mist over male.
Was too much. The hard, unforgiving solidity of the probe, milking him like a stud animal. While
a cold bastard of a man used his mouth without mercy. Kit gagged again and came, choking, in a
ready stream of seed that flowed smoothly out of his slit and over his abdomen. An amazing sort of
release, deep and ball-relieving, but ultimately unsatisfying, his prick still waving a needy, wanton
dance, hard as ever.
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“Fuck, that’s hot,” Kit heard, in Yankee vowels, but he was too busy catching his breath to do
much more than register the words.
Closing his eyes, Kit drew Saenz back in. Heard the approving hiss and relaxed, determined to
taste as much of the man as he could. Frustrated—wishing he could swallow it to the root, wishing
he could train himself on this man.
Kit heard the tear of foil, then felt the harsh suck of the dildo/probe being removed, leaving his
hole gaping, open and ready. Only for a moment though, then warm flesh entered him, hard,
stretching him further. A ripple of pleasure coursed through Kit. He wished he could watch, have a
bird’s eye view of getting fucked from both ends. So lewd, so filthy and base, and there was no way
he’d ever get this lucky again. Gloved fingers threaded through his hair, gripping him tight as skin
dragged over his tongue, just shy of the reflex rejection. Balls slapping at his ass in a syncopated
rhythm, fast and frantic. His own dick bouncing, skin stretched tight, in a hedonistic beat.
With a stiffening of his body, Saenz started to come. Balls pulled high and tight, he pulled out,
gave himself another quick jerk, then grunted as the first volley spattered Kit’s cheek. Another hot
splash over his brow and down his nose. Kit moved to catch the next lob on his tongue, capturing
what he could, hoping Saenz understood that next time, Kit wanted to let that thick salty fire slide
down his throat.
Next time…? Who the hell was he kidding?
He was still tasting Saenz, the faint acridness, the sweet, rolling it over his tongue, when he
heard a low growl and felt hands yanking brutally at his thighs. A slam against his ass, an incoherent
curse, and Lars came.
#
The moments that followed were like crashing too early from a high. Still unrelieved—in a literal
sense—but he knew how this went; it was over, and reality began to settle like a ton weight.
Lars pulled out, stripped the condom, tied a knot in it, then dropped it into a biowaste container.
He slapped Kit’s ass. “Good fuck, tight hole. You should give it a shot before you leave, Raf.”
Saenz waved him away. “Ándale. Get some sleep. I’ll take care of el diablillo.”
“I won’t argue.” Already buttoned back up, Lars looked no more disheveled than he had at the
cantina. He quirked that asshole smirk again. “You two have fun.”
“Cabrón,” Saenz breathed once Lars had left. But he was grinning. He drew a thumb—ungloved
now—across the semen splash on Kit’s cheek.
Kit flushed—the shame much more real now, knowing that the men were through with him. This
was when the fun stopped. A slow rage began to stir within him. Familiar enough, and in the end,
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he’d quash it down—same way he always did, turning his ‘I don’t give a shit’ face to the world.
Except this time, Kit hadn’t even come with any dignity; they’d just gotten him out of the way early.
Using him. Hot, yeah. Fucking volcanic. Even so, once the fog lifted, it fucked with him.
“Tan bello.”
Kit glanced up to catch Saenz’s gaze, still dark, still devouring. Beautiful?
“Did it…cómo se dice…did it ‘hit the spot?’”
“Yeah,” Kit said, weakly. Suspicious of niceties.
Saenz bent down and gave Kit’s nose a delicate lick, tasting himself. Like a cat. “Christopher,
yes?”
“Kit.” What was this man on about now?
“Kit,” Saenz repeated. Then kissed him. A warm, sensual, afterglow kind of kiss, tongue exploring
with a lazy sort of passion. And of course, Kit let him in, even returning the action, however
tentatively. How could he not?—Kit wasn’t immune to these gestures. Tasting the man—the flavor
of a hard day, mints, and maybe some bourbon behind that.
Saenz pulled back, and Kit, feeling powerfully out of his element, reached for what might pass as
normal conversation—considering that he was strapped to a table, cum spattered and worn. “And
you’re Raf.” Okay, a little defiance in there.
Saenz made a sour face, seeming to shudder faintly. Then he recovered his poise and smiled. He
touched Kit’s lower lip with a finger. “Tonight, I am Dr. Saenz, no?” He trailed that finger over Kit’s
chin, down his throat, then traced the line of his collarbone. “Maybe tomorrow…over dinner,
perhaps?…then, I am Rafael.” He tapped a finger on Kit’s breast. “But not Raf, dios mio, no. Stupid
name.”
Kit couldn’t help but smile at that. But. Dinner…?
“You are so sexy. I think Lars brought you here for me.”
“Me?” Kit felt his pulse begin to race. He wanted up. Wanted to pace. Leave, maybe. This was too
weird. “Lars? Why would he—?”
“I have asked him about you.” Rafael met Kit’s eyes, seemed to search for something in them. “I
watch you. When you work. At village meetings, when you talk with the ranchers. You are smart.
Kind. You respect los paisanos. I find that sexy. But today—” He shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve been rude
in my ogling. This afternoon when you glared at me, I thought surely I stood no chance at all.”
“I…” Kit stuttered. Still captured by the eyes. Kit glared? “…I liked…this.” He gave a jerk of his
arm, the uninjured one. “Can you let me go now?”
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“¿Estás seguro?” Rafael cocked an eyebrow at the restraint that Kit was trying. “I was thinking
that you hadn’t come properly yet.” He toyed with Kit’s nipple, pinching until Kit hissed. “Perhaps
we should try again?”
Kit bit his lip, didn’t answer in words, but his dick answered for him.
Rafael laughed. “So sweet, so open and honest.” He moved between Kit’s legs, bent over to kiss
his stomach, trailed his tongue to the patch of hair just above Kit’s cock. Kit heard the rip of another
foil, below the table edge.
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