From: eleanorb@pavilion.co.uk DISCLAIMERS: Not mine. Wouldn't even know what to do with themLyrics pinched shamelessly from Pete Townshend and Paul Weller – sorry fellas. TITLE: Rogue Trader AUTHOR: Eleanor B PAIRING: Carver/OMC RATING: NC-17 for m/m sex L V TIMELINE: Follows maybe three months after 'A Class Act' (Aired late 93 in the UK, repeated recently) FEEDBACK: eleanorb@pavilion.co.uk COMMENTS: The fic just spun out from all that body language and eye contact. Health Warning - please don't try this at home. However hard you try, The Jam are just not conducive to any type of sexual activity Not beta read - An 'All My Own Fault Production' *************************** Rogue Trader by Eleanor B The Barcelona Club. It's not the sort of place he'd normally come. Too many East End wide boys, for starters. The sort that'd flog their own grannies if they thought they could make a bob or two. But it's got its advantages. It's large, anonymous. The sort of club where no one asks your name if you don't volunteer it first. And that's just what he needs, somewhere he can lose himself, somewhere where the risk is less and the company more civilised than in those sordid encounters at Canley Fields. //Sordid?// That's a first, admitting it to himself. Go on like that and he'll be starting to look for someone to settle down with. //Bugger that for a game of soldiers! // Tonight the club's packed, so packed he can feel the heat of the man next to him soaking through his hipbone. He doesn't look. He's far too busy concentrating on the attractive redhead flirting over his glass. A redhead who's already promising the Earth, much in the way…no he won't go there, too many bitter memories. A redhead who on second or third glance reminds him too much of someone else to really hold his interest. He breaks the contact, looks away with a bored expression. It's enough. Out of the corner of his eye he watches the man move on. He turns to stub out his cigarette, contemplates the nicotine stains on his fingers; stains that have got worse over the last few weeks. A nudge to his shoulder at the crowded bar and he looks up, finally meeting the eyes of the man next to him Familiar blue eyes, set in a warmly tanned face capped with a shock of sun-bleached hair. Tie at half-mast, as if he's just come from work. He'd racked his brain for days trying to think who the toe-rag reminded him of. Finally it'd been Suzi who'd put him out of his misery, Malcolm McDowell, she'd said. Much younger of course, and the boy has a soft edge to him, around the lips especially, a decadence the actor can't match. But the resemblance is pretty strong. He wonders idly when Suzi had seen Clockwork Orange? It doesn't seem like her kind of movie. Just goes to show you never can tell. Just like this really. He holds the other's gaze just for a moment making sure he's not mistaken. Eddie Thompson. Small time drug user, black music aficionado, stockbroker slumming it amongst the riffraff. Thinks about speaking, waits instead. He knows Eddie won't be able to resist some smart comment. "Well, Mr Carver! I didn't expect to see you in a place like this." The tone's sarcastic, the comment more in the expression than the words. He gives as good as he got. "Wouldn't have thought it was your scene either, not exactly the dub and dope crowd is it?" There's something about the arrogant little sod that really gets his back up. He can feel it starting; a tension in the pit of his stomach, resentment at all the other man represents. He breathes out slowly, trying to let it go, succeeds only in holding it at bay. Thompson tips his head a little, shrugging; acknowledging the truth of the matter. He seems a little less smug here. Out of his depth? Jim wonders. If he is, he seems to be treading water pretty easily. "Well you did say I like the risk. Aw, come on. No 'hard' feelings?" His face lights in a sly grin as he rakes his eyes up and down Jim's body. Jim reacts in spite of himself, letting more than half a smile show at the double meaning. "Well…" Taking a calculated sip at his drink, "maybe..." he lets his eyes make that same leisurely trip over the other man's body. This is a pick-up bar after all, no harm in trying, all part of the game. And, besides, Thompson's a lot more 'acceptable' than any other offer he's had all evening. Eddie takes the drink from Jim's hand. Takes one sip before it's snatched back. "Get your own." "You buying?" The crush at the bar pushes them closer together. The brush of their fingers a promise…maybe. Jim sighs, gives in, figures he'll have to if he wants anything else out of this evening. "Only the drink." He signals to the barman. "I don't come cheap, you know." The words whisper in his ear. "Now why doesn't that surprise me?" A small voice in his head tells him how dangerous this is but he pushes it aside. It's not as if his life has been full of excitement lately. //A policeman's lot is not a happy one…right? // Two drinks later - both of which he's paid for - //No wonder the bloke's loaded if he never stands a round. // and he can feel the soft stroke of fingers on his hip. Fingers that have slyly untucked a little of his shirt and slid under the warm, green cotton to caress the pale skin beneath. //More front than bloody Harrods. // "Hey, cut that out. Not here!" Sterner than he intended. Thompson infuriates him. Cocky little sod, needs to be taken down a peg or two, not that he thinks he'll get the chance. "Where then?" Jim conceals his surprise. Thompson's really up for it. He'd thought…hoped it was more…guessed it was just a game to the over-confident stockbroker. They stand for a moment, eye to eye, a breath apart, Eddie's hand draped loosely over his shoulder. Decision time. //This is stupid! More than stupid. Fucking suicidal! // A glimpse of red hair across the room and he can hear Galloway's familiar voice in his head - 'Don't be a prat, Carver.' Ignores it in a way he never could if it'd really been Roy speaking. And while he's thinking, wrestling with his conscience, Eddie takes the initiative. "My car's downstairs." And that's all it takes. Well, that and the smug look, that says 'you 'aven't got the bottle.' They're away from the bar and into the car park before he can even think about changing his mind. From: eleanorb@pavilion.co.uk The car's a classic, a sky blue 1974 MGB GTV8 in perfect nick. //Matches his eyes. // Anger rises in him now. Anger? Envy? Jealousy - that someone a couple of years younger than him, or so the custody record said, //And when did you study it so carefully? // …could have enough money to buy it while he manages with a clapped out, ten year old, Vauxhall which marks him down as Mr Underachiever. The rest of his alcohol fuelled good mood drains away like water down a sink. Aggression and resentment bubbling up in its place. He shoves Eddie against the wall, hard, harder than he intended. Holds him trapped for a moment, years of police training proving more than useful. The moment spins out into minutes as he assaults the soft lips leaving Eddie's mouth swollen and bruised. Thompson fights for a second, guessing it's what it'll take to keep Carver interested, and then surrenders. He lives for moments like this, it's like the dealing room floor, one wrong move and it all falls flat or blows up in your face. Trick is to take the chance, play it cool. Best trick of all is to get what you want without the other guy knowing about it. Jim takes the keys from Eddie's trouser pocket, a rough grope, not accidental, arousing them both. He's sure he's going to regret this before the night's out. But for now…well it's like Him all over again. Bastard would always push and push till he did something rash; something he'd end up having to apologise for later. Like and not like. Eddie's more patronising than He could ever manage; a lazy self-assuredness, which manages to both inflame and infuriate. Eddie's more of a challenge. And this time there are no emotional ties, no need for apologies. "I'll drive." Eddie shrugs, takes a chance. Puts every ounce of arrogance he posses into a few words. "I've always wanted a chauffeur." >From the dark expression that crosses Carver's face he knows he's pushed the right buttons. The tape deck starts with the ignition. The last few chords of some Stones track fade away as Jim pulls out of the car park. It slides into The Who's 'My Generation' a song he's always loved. As exciting, now as the first time he heard it. "I've moved, got a place off Waltham Road. You know?" Jim takes a right turn; fingers tapping on the steering wheel in time to Keith Moon's drumming. It's tempting, to dump his passenger take the car to the coast, Brighton, The Who's spiritual home. // Why don't you all f-f-fade away// But the blonde sprawled next to him is even more of a temptation. Though whether it's to screw him into the ground or beat him to a pulp it's still too early to say. //Talking 'bout my generation…// "I know. Tell me when we get close." 'Don't say another word' his unspoken command. He lets the music flow through him like petrol, igniting a flame that starts somewhere in the small of his back and burns up through his fingertips. The vocal fades in his head leaving only the pounding rhythm section in counterpoint to his heartbeat. A couple of minutes later, they're halfway there, and the track changes. A live version of The Jam's 'Beat Surrender'; lyrics more than appropriate. Harder, punkier than the original. It reminds him of his youth, dark sweaty clubs, the heady buzz of speed, skin and sex and the thrill of keeping it all secret. He puts his foot down. Fifty's far too fast for the narrow road but by now he's wired enough that he doesn't give a shit. // All the things that I care about (are packed into one punch) All the things that I'm not sure about (are sorted out at once) // He reaches for the tape box, the car weaving drunkenly across the road, expecting it to be some commercial collection with a crap title like 'Teenage Rebellion' instead it has nothing but the words Black Butterflies written in thick marker pen. // And as it was in the beginning, so shall it be in the end That bullshit is bullshit, it just goes by different names// Tossing it back he glances across at Eddie. Pale and wide-eyed, the younger man has his hand braced on the dash. Jim reaches over, touches the shaking fingers in an 'nearly' caress then, laughing, lets the back of the MG swing out on a wide corner. They miss a row of parked cars by inches and he's exhilarated to hear the small gasp of fear from his passenger. The voice in his head has changed now, encouraging and inflaming him. Convincing him that whatever they do tonight Eddie deserves it, that the little wanker has it coming. "Left, up there, just before the white Transit, careful, it's narrow." They pull into a mews full of tiny, but ridiculously expensive cottages. //Typical! // "The open garage at the end." Jim slides the car into the narrow space, as smooth as Paul Weller's voice. The familiar chords of 'London Calling' blast out just as Jim switches off the ignition. He's totally fired up now, ready for anything. He can feel it, the prickly pain of excitement in his shoulders, the catch in his breath. An adrenaline rush that brings his cock up hard against the heavy material of his jeans. He scratches a single fingertip over the hardness, making the rest of his body shiver in anticipation. Waiting, not wanting to wait. The automatic door slides down, trapping them in darkness for a heartbeat before a light above the door flickers on. Behind the music in his head he can hear Eddie talking. He sounds nervous, babbling on just like he did at the station. "I had to move. You didn't exactly make it easy for me you know. There were people who'd 've had my guts for garters - as me old mum used to say." Jim steps round to the front of the car. "Shut up, Eddie!" He follows one push against the firm chest with another, forcing the younger man back against the door. Eddie grins, in spite of himself, rashly, as it turns out, takes another chance. "Did you bring the handcuffs, officer?" He dares Jim to take it further, takes a step forward as if he's going to walk away. The smug comment breaks Jim's control, reminding him why he went along with this in the first place. "No, but I'm sure I can improvise." With that he reacts suddenly, trapping Eddie's wrists hard behind his back, slamming his face against the coarse brickwork. And there he is, already one step over that line drawn in the sand of his good intentions. There's a nagging feeling, more than that, that he could start to enjoy this. It'd be so easy, blood and pain, a quick route to pleasure. But that isn't what he wants, is it? He wants what? Something subtler than pure physical revenge, something…he takes a deep breath, and another, concentrates on staying in control. //Years of fucking practice at that. // And wonders for the hundredth time what it'd be like, just to let go to give in to the anger, the resentment. Close, too close, just once, behind some seedy club in Camden, some posh bloke whose name he didn't even know. He'd been lucky. 'Someone' had covered for him, told him, angrily, to be more careful the next time, but covered for him all the same. Eddie realises he's pushed too far, too fast, waits, ignores the aching pain in his trapped wrists the best he can. It's not the first time for him, his own fault picking up these unstable 'barrow-boy' types. But Carver's brighter than most, when it comes down to it he's got his job to think of after all. He'd expected 'hard and fast', a simple fuck without complications. But now? //Well that's the price you pay for sailing close to the wind, old son. // He's so caught up in his own feelings that he almost misses the slight relaxation in Carver's body, almost. But he's soon able to ease his hands free and puts them to better use, turning, touching lightly, taking his time, guessing his submission will be what's needed. "Get your clothes off." He thinks about resisting, the masochistic streak in him almost demands he try. But that's just playing with fire and even he's not that stupid. Jim watches, leaning against the wall, left hand gently touching himself, right holding a hastily lit cigarette, neither enough to calm him or to stir his body further. Eddie spins it out, walking the edge again as much as he dares, but trying not to make it too obvious. Ends up on his knees on the concrete floor. Excitement zinging through him. Only then, after he's been made to wait, does the older man finally approach him. Eddie's skin's the colour of honey, all over. You don't get a tan like that on the beach at Southend. Jim grins, presses his advantage, and brings the lighted tip of the cigarette up close to Eddie's cheek. So close he can feel the heat, smell the tobacco. Eddie does what's expected of him, not that he'd choose any other way, backs down, flinching away "No…" For a moment he thinks Carver still might do it. Mistakes the laugh at his cowardice for something different. Lets out a deep sigh of relief as it's stubbed out against the wall instead. Buries his mouth in the hot denim, fingers working shakily on the stiff zip. And afterwards, when they've both got their breath back, Jim picks up the discarded tie and follows Eddie upstairs. From: eleanorb@pavilion.co.uk Upstairs, he knots the tie across Eddie's eyes. Leaves him blind, relying only on sound and smell. Eddie doesn't resist. All he can hear is his own accelerated breathing. To his heightened senses the room already smells of sweat and lust. This is better than coke or speed, better than the dealing room just before closure. He's getting more of a charge out of this than he ever expected. Carver's unpredictable enough to keep him on his toes, to keep him scared and excited at the same time. In the moonlit bedroom Jim can see the marks beginning to form, dark fingerprint bruises blooming on Eddie's wrists and upper arms. He touches them again, persistent pressure just enough for Eddie to feel it, no harder. And there's a kind of pleasure in the pain. A soft whimper and the boy tips his head back, wet swollen lips parted. And finally, after what seems like hours Jim starts to speak; a hard angry tone. Well it starts that way but soon sinks to a harsh conspiratorial whisper. Dirty, arousing, the rough London accent stronger, deliberately working class, emphasising the difference between them. Exposing the role reversal. Making it clear who has the power. "I imagine you've tried just about everything, right? Women, men, drink, drugs. What's left Eddie? Getting jaded are we? I'm sure you wouldn't have been happy with a quick blow job round the back of the club tonight. Not your style is it." Carver's big warm hands start a slow journey across his chest. Sharp nails on his nipples, bringing them to hard points. A mix of hard caresses and feather-light teasing touches down across his stomach. And then the breathy words in his ear, so close he can smell the cigarettes, the whiskey on the older man's breath. He shifts, wanting, needing to be kissed, possessed, already willing to give anything that's asked. But he doesn't get what he wants, just more words. "Looking for something else? Something a bit more kinky? Bondage? " Eddie winces at the sudden, sharp pain in his already bruised wrists. Hears the other man laugh at his distress. S&M? Watersports? Fisting? Any of that appeal Eddie?" And in spite of, //because of? // his vulnerability, his nakedness, Eddie's more turned on than he has been in years. Christ, he's such a slut. A few words, an improvised blindfold. Carver's right, he must be jaded if this is what it takes. Then the hands on him are harder, more purposeful, over his arse, down his thighs and round to cup under his balls. Teeth catching the gold hoop in his ear, tugging, then moving down to his neck, sharp nips, drawing blood. He twists his head, wanting more; the possession of a kiss. "Please…" Eddie's voice shaky with need. "Please, what? Bet that's not a word you use very often is it, 'mate'. You're used to getting what you want. I'm sure it's easy for you. All you have to do is flash a bit of cash around and you can have anything you want." The hands are on him again, weaving as much a spell as the words. "You know what I wanted. That day you left the station. I wanted to get a couple of mates, pick you up. Not official you understand, just between you and me. Take you to a place I know. Off the manor; out of the way. " He pauses and Eddie hears the harsh rasp of a zip, the flop of clothing across a chair. "An empty warehouse down by the river. No one'd hear you scream down there. Or if they did they wouldn't report it. You know the sort of place? And then what? What do you think? I think maybe we'd slap you around a little bit, not hard, wouldn't want to damage that pretty face would we." The words are followed by a sharp slap across his buttocks, then another and a third across his hip as Carver moves round him. He tenses, waits for the blow, the punch he knows will come. The room's silent, all he can hear is his own panting breath. It seems to go on forever, fearful if he relaxes then the blow will come sooner. Instead the hands on him are strong, caressing, the persistent whisper echoing in his ears, mocking. He's never been so hard in his life. Right there, right on the edge of release, so fucking close…and the hands leave him and the words start again. "But, it wouldn't take much would it; you're not the hard man you pretend to be, are you? You'd cave in pretty quickly, be begging me to stop. And then what? Then I'd send the others away, have a little fun with you. Unless, of course, you'd prefer them to stay. You like an audience, Eddie? No, I don't think so. This would just be between you and me." There's a pause, as if Jim's waiting for a question…or an answer. "How? On your knees in the dirt, you might like that too much. Over the bonnet of your fancy car?" Naked now, Jim presses against him, bending him forward, hands caressing his balls, cock pressed hard into the cleft of his arse. And he knows what's coming, spreads himself, it's almost a relief to feel the fingers on his face, in his mouth. Soon, soon now, he promises his overheated, stressed body. Soon. He can taste the nicotine on Carver's fingers, sharp, bitterest just there, under the nail. Concentrates on the taste, on getting them as wet as possible. Then they're gone and there's just one long finger pressing into him. There're no words now; none needed since he's given himself so completely. The world condenses down to the fingertip scraping over his prostate and the hand playing with his balls. As the second finger enters him it's all too much and he shudders, comes, spurting high and hard across the polished wooden floor. His cock throbbing without ever being touched. The hands on him are gentler now, helping him onto the bed, stroking, wet fingers replaced with cool gel smoothed into his body. He's still floating, relaxed, high as Jim slides into him. Jim keeps it slow, intense, his anger bled out in the words. His only need now to keep it going a little longer, to keep control, his victory. It feels so good, the room fading to black around them as he thrusts smooth and hard into the body under him. And over it all, in his head, he can still hear Bruce Foxton's bass as the world explodes bright behind his eyes. //Succumb to the beat surrender. // ******************************