DISCLAIMER:  Not mine thank God, wouldn't know what to do with him

TITLE:       Le Roi Soleil
AUTHOR:      not saying nuffin' till my solicitor gets 'ere
PAIRING:     Mike Jarvis and.
RATING:      NC-17.

COMMENTS:    Remember we were talking "bargepoles"?
             To paraphrase the Sacred Cowboys:
               When I see the word Jarvis I/
               reach for the safety catch/
               on my gun.
             Yeah.
             But I've been  :: grits teeth :: nice to the boy.
             Three words: Claire. Provoked. Me.

FEEDBACK:    In plain brown envelopes to bessie@goldweb.com.au


===========
Le Roi Soleil
by kel
===========


Early afternoon, early summer.

The others are out, doing whatever they do, and Mike Jarvis is alone in the
house.

Michael sits in front of the computer, in a little white bedroom.  A hard,
hard chair beneath him, a soft, soft bed behind him, and heat, such heat,
pressing in on all sides.  A heat that cossets, comforts, disquiets; gold
and stifling, like the musty ghosts of long-gone lovers.

He can feel the sweat rolling down his back, little rivulets tickling their
way down over the muscular curves of his shoulderblades, whispering their
way down his chest.  His white, short-sleeved shirt hangs open, half-tucked
into the waistband of his shorts.  He resists the urge to rip it out, let
it hang.  The fine hairs clothing the backs of his arms, his thighs, seem
almost alive in the gently moving air.

The door of an old mahogany wardrobe, propped indolently against one
too-bare wall, swings open, creaking in the breeze.  An elegant full-length
mirror on the back holds an image, a goldenwhite bear of a man, tall, lean,
a symphony of hard thigh and soft white cloth; bathed in sunlight in a
white, white room.  The darkened heartwood of the door frames the image,
harshening the contrasts, forcing any watching eye to focus on the darker
gold of his hair, the shadowed blue of his eyes, the steady, gentle
undulation of his chest as he breathes, harsh and deep, harsh and deep.

A warm and sudden gust, stronger, ripples the curtains in this little room,
and the inner drape, some light and chancy thing, billows out to fall
softly over the door.  Another, and it starts to fall back, but brushes to
a halt, caught, held by some darkly hidden splinter.

Michael  leans back, a little, and the image shifts and changes, identity
vanishing behind a soft and serendipitous haze of gently trapped white
lace.  Beautiful.  Unknown.  Provocative.

Michael's left hand, resting by the keyboard, is tensed, unmoving.  He's
deliberately not allowing it to leave the surface of the desk, deliberately
not letting it curve down and over, tangle itself gently in the dark gold,
dark damp curls around his hardening nipples.  Not letting it move down,
slowly, not letting it trace sweet soft spirals down the hardness of his
belly, over and down the pale restriction of his clothing.  Not letting his
palm settle warm and firm over the thickening shaft of his cock, not
letting his fingertips slide over the softer flesh beneath, or settle,
stroking, at the seam.

The man in the mirror has no such reservations.

The man in the mirror brings both hands down, muscular torso tightening,
flinching as they pass, and slides his hips forward to meet their tender,
warm caresses.  Spreads his thighs, a little, fans his fingers out and lets
them rest on the micromillimetre of skin beyond the white.  Lets his palms
come to rest on either side of the growing ridge beneath the white, presses
a ripple from the balls of his thumbs to the tips and back again, a gentle,
lateral undulation that hardens him further, brings soft sounds from
somewhere deep inside as the mirrorman moves his hips in time, keeps his
fingers pressing hard and still and down.

Michael watches as he begins a slow circling motion, leg muscles tensing,
rippling from shadow to light and back as his body braces, almost lifting
from the chair, arching and returning; imagines the seam of his too-tight
shorts rubbing hard against his heavy balls, rasping against the softness
of his perineum.  His head is thrown back, his face invisible; sweat-beaded
throat and bitten lower lip teasing into view and out again in rhythm with
the movement of his hands and hips.

His ragged, indrawn breathing mingles with the distant, constant buzzing of
crickets outside; low, sensual, nonpercussive.  Hypnotic.

Michael's desire smoulders, flames as the mirrorman begins to coax himself
afire, a symmetry of hands exploring in time with his gentle, tight
thrusts.  Burns harsh and hard as he watches elegant hands running roughly,
harshly, from thigh to buttock to waist, and back, squeezing, stroking,
kneading.  Elegant hands slippery in the sweat that coats him, catching the
light and gleaming goldenwet; hands tugging shirt-tails free and leaving
scarlet trails of nails scraped hard against his skin, mirrorman alive with
glowing trails from throat to abdomen.  Burns hard and high as symmetry is
broken, soft sounds soft no more as one hand tugs gently at the
perspiration-darkened hair, twists at the darker nubs hidden deep among the
curls; the other hooks harshly into cotton and pulls out and hard and down,
pulls once, twice, again until mirrorman is free, exposed, and falling
back, the dark leather stark against his soft white flesh.

He cannot hear the crickets now.

The man in the mirror sinks gratefully into the chair's welcoming embrace,
raises his legs and tears down, down and still down again; kicks his shorts
away with graceful, violent urgency.  Hooks thighs spread wide and
trembling over the dark wood of the armrests; lets one slick hand dive and
clasp, hard, fingers closing at last around himself, fingers dewed with
sweat; lets the other graze his body, pinching, holding, stroking at will.
Mirrorman's head falls forward, briefly, as he rolls the tender skin back
just a little, just a little further, his broad, gentle thumb circling in
the wetness underneath, hypnotising Michael as it traces an elliptical
path, a path of pressing harder here and softer there, the dark slit
opening, closing as his fingers move on the sensitive folds of the
undershaft.

Mirrorman's eyes, heavy-lidded, fiery beneath a dampened, darkening fringe,
flash briefly, long lashes descending as he throws back his head and
strokes a slickened thumb slow along his lower lip, along and in, its prior
place taken by another fevered hand shaped to grip and stroke in ungentle
contrast with the darting of his tongue.  He rocks, gently, in his chair,
moaning at the dark and salty taste of his own desire, sensitised and
burning in a thousand ways.

Michael draws in ragged, wilding breaths as mirrorman reaches out for
something hidden, innocuous and incongruous beside the keyboard.  As he
uncaps, squeezes, soothes furious and trembling skin with something clear
and cool, and closes his eyes, almost.  Closes his eyes, almost, as the
chair turns, a little, brings a flushed face sliding from hiding, unviewed,
unveiled.  As he lets one hot hand return to duty with piston-hard
relentlessness, lets the other drop down, drop further.  Slides one long,
strong finger deep inside himself, slowly, then faster; fucks himself,
fucks himself hard and unquietly, moaning and moving, lost between finger
and fist, oblivious.

Low, low sounds, urgent and dark, fill the room; sounds of beauty and
filth, of encouragement, incitement; the sounds of senses screaming, on
fire, himself golden and hard and on fire, the centre of everything.
Radiating, rippling, golden heart of the world, no breath, no thought, no
time until he opens his eyes, fully, meets Michael's eyes and comes, hard,
violently, thick white desire little-arcing in the sunlight, falling out of
sight, slowing and brimming over golden hands and hair, sticky, stark
against the dark leather kissing his skin.

Lips wet, body soaked and trembling, they stay, the mirrorman and Michael;
stay as still as they can, as long as they can; exhausted, dazed, spent.
As hands slide out and still, as breathing slows, as heaves and shudders
quiet and the sound of crickets fills the room once more.

And the darkwood splinter bows, and the summer breeze reclaims its veil;
and with gentle, awkward movements, the eyesbowedhiding mirrorman and
Michael take their leave.

==== © bessie ===