DISCLAIMERS:  I don't own them. I'm not sure I'd even want to.
TITLE:        Dark Secret
AUTHOR:       Eleanor B
PAIRING:      Rod Skase/OMC
RATING:       NC-17. Sex, language
COMMENTS:     Umm, not sure what to say about this. I don't
              even like Boulton. Honest!

This is just fluff; you'd need an electron microscope to find
any trace of plot.

FEEDBACK:     Yes please To eleanorb@pavilion.co.uk
ARCHIVE:      I'd be flattered. It's not been beta read, so any
              mistakes are well and truly mine.

*****************
Dark Secret by Eleanor B.


26th December. 8:50pm

I flick the handset on. Just my luck, I was just about to skive
off for the
night.

"Boulton."

"You couldn't do us a favour could you, Sarge?" Reg sounds
slightly hysterical, as usual. He'd call out the army for a lost
cat.

"Yeah, alright Reg. What is it?"

"DC Skase' s car's broken down. He's at those shops on Toronto
Road. Could you pick him up in fifteen minutes."

I could pick him up now; I'm just round the corner. "Why fifteen
minutes?  I'm right at the end of my shift, you know."

"Says he's with an informant."

On Boxing Day? At nine o'clock at night! The ambitious little
sod just doesn't know when to give up, does he!

"OK." I cut Reg off before he can bore me to death with some
trivial fact about the number of car breakdowns suffered by
police officers on Boxing Day in Sunhill.

*******
Five minutes, that's all I've given him. Where the hell is he
anyway? I cruise once more round the block then get out of the
car. It'd be just my luck to find he's trodden in a puddle and
is so shocked at the damage to his suit he's had a heart attack.

Jesus it's quiet round here; even the Indian takeaway's shut.
Two more minutes then I'm off home, Rod Skase or no Rod Skase.

Hang on, perhaps I'll get something useful out of this trip
after all.  They're doing up the 'offie' at the end of the
arcade. Wonder if they've got a few spare bricks. I need a
couple to finish off that wall in the yard.

I'm just about to slip through the gap in their fence when I
hear Rod on the other side, deep in discussion with his snout it
sounds like. Well I don't want to scare him off. The Boss's very
keen we 'extend our contacts in the community'. I'll just wait.

I have a quick look through a gap in the fence. Just as I look
through Rod's contact turns into the light. Ah, I know this one.
Ricky - bugger it what's his other name? - Can't remember, it's
not important. One of the local rent boys, pretty, blonde, no
more than twenty. Must be working, he's wearing half Boots'
cosmetic counter on his face. Yeah I know it's fashionable for
blokes at the moment but Ricky has eyeliner as thick as
tramlines, plum stained lips and nails to match.

"So, what have you got for me, Ricky?"

"Nothin'. You know it's like the grave at Christmas."

"You sure?" I start, suddenly. There's a tone to Rod's voice
I've not heard before. Lower, if that's possible, with almost a
teasing edge to it. He's in the shadow so I can't see the
expression on his face.

"Well, maybe I could think of something. A late Christmas
pressie?" Odd, I can hear laughter in the boy's voice. I take a
second peak through the gap in the fence then look away quickly.
I didn't see that did I? I look back,  blush already starting.
Christ, there are times I hate being a redhead!

The boy's on his knees in front of Rod, his hands tracing
lightly on those strong wool covered thighs. He looks up, his
eyes bright with laughter,  made-up face alien in the sodium
glare of the street light. "You sure you didn't bring me a
present?" he asks. "

I don't need to be a Detective to see what he's getting at.

His fingers go to Rod's fly cupping the obvious bulge there. I
want to leave now, want to look away. But somehow I can't.
Skase's taking a hell of a risk, and on duty too.

I always wondered how he got his kicks. The office rumour mill's
always in full flow when it comes to him. Never mentions
girlfriends or anyone come to that. Polly Page's got a theory he
spends his spare time slumming it in biker bars. And, while her
fantasies might take in Rod Skase in jeans,  leather and
motorcycle boots I'm sure they wouldn't include this sort of
sordid transaction.

Sordid? Disgusting? Power trip? So why don't I look away, go
back to the car?

Jesus! Where's he been hiding that!

I feel like I'm blushing all over now. I shut my eyes, just for
a moment,  but the image is already burnt on the inside of my
eyelids. I can't help but look; who wouldn't? Should have
guessed really looking at the size of his hands and feet.

It's then I realise I'm standing in public street with my hand
on my fly - 'just making myself more comfortable officer.' I put
my hands in my pockets thinking I might nonchalantly wander back
to the car. But it's not as fucking easy as that, is it?

Rod's standing in the light now, arms stretched between two
scaffolding poles, hands gripping so tight his knuckles are
white. Does he know just how sexy that looks? I can see him now;
wearing nothing but an open white shirt, handcuffed there -
December's Man of the Month. Where the hell did that thought
come from? OK so I'm not that particular, but Rod? Well that's
a revelation.

The boy works him slowly at first, with both hands. It's all I
can do not to... well you know, ease the tension a little
myself. Especially as Ricky leans forward and starts using those
pouty plum coloured lips.

A sharp gasp slices through the cold night air. Me? No, I'm sure
it wasn't.  Rod's head falls back almost in slow motion exposing
his throat like some willing sacrifice. He bites his lower lip,
hard, like he's trying not to cry out again. But eventually he
gives in. "Harder! Faster!" How can a command sound so much like
a plea?

I can almost see the boy smile even with his mouth full. His
cheeks bowed in as he sucks.

Rod's breathing hard now, like he's chased a suspect over a mile
of rough ground. I can hear the blood hammering in his veins, in
my veins.

He moves, suddenly, head bowed forward, hair lank in his eyes.
Grips the boy's head, so hard his fingers leave tiny white
circles. Thrusts hard,  once, twice, then stills, tiny movements
of his hips, punctuated by screaming exhaled breaths.

He's still panting as he comes down, letting the boy's expert
hands tidy him up, smiling at the attention; especially when the
boy gently smoothes his hair. It's a slow lazy smile, utterly
devastating.

I lean heavily on the fence, one hand scrubbing at the sweat on
my face...and the rotten wood gives way...

===========

end