Title:                        In The Interim
Author pseudonym:             Panda
Rating:                       NC-17, angst, implied S & M
Pairing:                      Loxton / Other (Loxton / Quinnan)
Status:                       Complete, second in unfinished series
Chronology:                   Late 1998
Disclaimers:                  Characters mentioned belong to Thames
                              Television / Pearson.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
These things I should keep to myself
But I feel somehow strangely compelled
        "Sinner" - Neil Finn
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


===========
In The Interim
===========


// The first time, without a doubt, is the worst.  Reality,
as you thought you knew it, ceases to exist and you
momentarily feel as though you are inhabiting a void.
Slowly, a seemingly endless range of emotions emerge through
the fog in your mind.  All as weighted as the other.  Shock,
anger, humiliation, helplessness are but few.  All relevant
whilst simultaneously being irrelevant.

You're trapped, you know it and there is absolutely nothing
you can do about it.

You honestly don't know how to react.  You also wonder why
you didn't see this coming.  Did you miss something?  Has
your judgement let you down?  Does he look at you and see a
kindred spirit or does he simply not care?  Perhaps it is a
case of this being how he gets off and seeing as you are now
in no position to argue, then so be it.

Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly had nothing
on it.

You struggle to control your breathing in order to retain
that all important semblance of control.  As your breathing
recovers the irony is not lost on you that you have never
played the part of the 'fly' in your life.  Again, your mind
screams at you - how the fuck did you get yourself into this
mess?  A quieter, more traitorous part of your psyche
whispers an answer that you don't want to hear but can't
quash.  It tells you that you have no-one to blame but
yourself...  For everything.

You don't bother trying to escape.  You, of all people, know
how difficult it is to get out of cuffs.  Besides, you find
it preferable to concentrate on the pain in your wrists than
think about the increasingly burning sensation on your
backside.  A clinical, detached  part of you takes the time
out to wonder what exactly it is about spanking that gets him
so hot and bothered.  The whole concept leaves you cold, in
fact, sexual gratification through giving or receiving pain
has never been your thing.

Yet, here you are, cuffed, spread-eagled on some strangers'
bed, having the soft flesh of your butt cheeks whacked off
with a glorified table-tennis bat.  Truly, you think
incredulously,  wonders will never cease...

Things had been running along smoothly.  Meet in a pub, get
chatted up, go back to his place for the want of something
better to do, make small talk, strip and start to get it on.
All incredibly normal and mundane.  Suddenly, without any
form of warning, you are pushed flat on your stomach on the
bed with an oh-so-familiar silver hand cuff dangling from
your wrist.  Before your mind can really register what is
happening, your wrist is attached to the wrought iron bed
head.   The other quickly follows suit.

You open your mouth to complain and as if on cue a gag gets
wrapped around your mouth.  You're so stunned by this
peculiar development that getting your ankles tied to the
other end of the bed is a breeze for him.

You realise dimly as you study the ugly black and white duvet
under you that he has done this before.  Another part of you
momentarily admires the ease and skill he showed as he
rendered you helpless.  If only nicking people had always
been this simple...

The fear you initially feel is unlike any that you have ever
known.  Lying naked and vulnerable on the bed of someone who
basically boils down to being not much better than a complete
stranger is entirely different to anything you have ever
experienced before.  You've been at the wrong end of guns in
the past and you find that you are nearly viewing those times
favourably in comparison.  At least you felt as though you
were in charge then.

You wonder, as you lie there open to any sort of abuse that
he may care to inflict on you, whether you'd say anything if
you weren't gagged.  The idea of begging is so foreign to you
that you doubt it.  Voicing displeasure however is something
you normally have no qualms about.  Still, you doubt you'd
even complain, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing
that he'd succeeded in unnerving you.

He grunts and mutters inane crudities as he goes about his
business.  Interspersed with these are a few sickening
superlatives that you suppose are supposed to make you feel
better.  Apparently you are his 'beautiful one' and that he'd
'never hurt you'.  You'd laugh at the latter if you didn't
think the gag would cause you to choke.

Eventually, just as you seriously begin to think that he
isn't going to be happy until you have no skin left on your
butt, he stops and gets off the bed.  His sudden departure
causes a renewal of momentary panic.  Visions of whips, hot
wax, nipple-clamps and other things you have never had a
desire to encounter flash into your mind.

When he returns to the bed you are so tense that you can see
the veins in your arms clearly through the taut flesh.  You
gradually begin to relax slightly as it becomes obvious that
the only things touching you are his hands.  His hands that
are now rubbing some sort of cool lotion onto your sensitive
skin.

The inanities coming out of his mouth  are now predominantly
reassuring ones.

"Let me take away the pain, my pretty one."

The only opinion you are capable of forming in response to
this is that you'd like to see him try...  The pain in your
head is unreachable.  It's not a head-ache so much as a dull
realisation of how far backwards you've crawled since
returning to this dismal city of your childhood.  A
realisation that you know will linger for long after the
results of the spanking have gone.

The next thing you are aware of horrifies you...

The erection that had deflated the minute you felt the cold
metal of the cuffs is staging a remarkable recovery.  You
know that this is in direct response to the sensation of his
lotion covered hands smoothing gently over your cheeks but
you are still a little disgusted.  You feel as though your
cock has betrayed you.  By hardening it causes you to lose
any evidence of this not being your scene, of this being a
major turn-off...

He, of course, notices this ultimate betrayal of your blood
and flesh and comments triumphantly that he knew you'd enjoy
it.  Listening to his words and looking down at your
increasingly erect cock makes you begin to doubt yourself...
But only for a split second.

You tell yourself that your cock is only responding to the
slick feeling of the lotion sliding down your cleft.  Lotion
that is being followed by his thumbs gently pulling you wide.
Sex, that's all it now is.  Pure and simple sex and the
reason you got into this mess in the first place.

A pillow is grabbed in order to be placed under your chest
and like a bitch in heat you ignore the pain in your arms and
raise yourself off the bed to accommodate it.  You even
wriggle a little wantonly in the hope that he will hurry up.

The sound of a condom wrapper being torn apart and the
accompanying sound of the rubber being rolled on is like
music to your ears.  You are so wet from the lotion that he
slips into you easily.  Even though this is what you think
you wanted, the sound of his grunting and the slap of his
balls against you as he thrusts in and out equates to the
feeling of an icy cold hand squeezing your heart.  The entire
action is so loveless that for a moment you let your mind
wander to happier times before quickly quashing the memory.
You then angrily berate yourself for tarnishing precious
memories by bringing them up in such a sordid situation.

He reaches around and grabs your cock in his fist once he is
satisfied with the punishing rhythm he is setting. None-too-
gently he yanks on it in counter rhythm to his thrusts.  This
proves all too much for your over-heated body and stressed
out mind and you quickly come.  You are more than a little
glad when he follows suit and climaxes with a loud guttural
cry.

Pulling out, he reiterates his pleasure by slapping your
lower back like you are a rodeo horse and you slump limply on
the bed.  The pain in your arms is now incredible and all but
obliterates the discomfort in other areas of your body.

Thankfully the act of climaxing seems to have satisfied him
and he starts releasing you by untying your ankles.  For the
first time you are thankful for the gag as it means there is
no chance of him hearing your relieved sigh.  You lie still
until both wrists are free and then, without letting him
touch you again, pull the gag free and jump off the bed.

Ignoring the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm you as a
result of finally being free, you start to angrily question
him.  What the fuck did he think he was doing tying you up
and spanking you like that?

He shows no surprise at your reaction and merely grins
blandly at you.  His gaze lingers on your replete cock for a
moment before leaning back on the bed and running his fingers
through your spilt seed.  "You seemed to enjoy it," is the
only thing he has to say.

You have no rebuttal to this.  The white fluid mocking you
and leaving indisputable proof that your cock at least
enjoyed it.  A sense of shame washes over you.  You've never
felt so useless in your entire life.

Grabbing your clothes, you hurriedly pull them on as he makes
an attempt to appease you but only succeeds in furthering
your misery and self-disgust.

"I would've stopped if you'd shown any discomfort, but you
took it all so stoically that I just assumed you were used to
it."

Again you have no rebuttal to this.  By those few words he
has proven to you that this is entire sorry mess is your
fault.  You believe what he said as you know it to be true.
You didn't make any move to stop him, just took it...

Just took it because whilst it came as surprise, deep down
you feel that you may have deserved it.  Deserved it for
fucking your life up.  Deserved it for leaving behind in a
fit of pique all of the things that made you happy...

Dressed, you stare at him numbly.   The anger has dissipated
and all you feel is drained.  He asks whether he'll see you
again and whilst the word 'no' forms in your mind you can't
get it to translate over to your mouth.  You shrug
noncommittally and grabbing your jacket, walk out of the
room.

Once outside your legs begin to feel like jelly and you feel
as though you may fall down.  You want to lean on his fence
to recover but can see him watching you through the window.
Taking a deep breath, you persevere and make it to the car.
In a foolish act of bravado, you throw yourself into the car
seat and nearly jump through the roof when the pain shoots up
your spine.

Finally you arrive home and in the classic reaction of a rape
victim, have an incredibly long shower.  Not that you were
raped.  You know that, it's just a part of you feels that you
were.  The same part of you that is wallowing in self pity.
You realise that you could have put a halt to it all.  The
man was not an ogre, he simply thought you were enjoying it.

It is not as though you gave him any reason to think
otherwise...

That night, and for the following nights, you go to sleep on
your stomach.

The second time was unexpected.

You go to a different bar and he is there.  Like a lemming to
a cliff you gravitate towards him.  He is pleased to see you
and you end up back at his place again.  He offers not to
play any games this time, to do whatever you like, but you
don't care and tell him that whatever he wants to do is fine
with you.  The words come out of your mouth before you can
stop them.

The truth is, you don't care either.  Why self-flagellate
when there is someone who is willing to do it for you?

The third time he introduces the belt.

You still hate the pain but your cock continues its betrayal
of you and for all intensive purposes, you appear to enjoy
it.

The fourth time he asks whether you'd like to punish him.

In response, you can only stare at him as though he had just
suggested streaking across the pitch at Old Trafford during a
home game.  He looks disappointed at your refusal but doesn't
push the issue.

The fifth time you realise that you don't even know his
surname or what he does for a living.

The sixth time he declares his love for you.

You don't see him again.

Not to worry though, there are a lot more like him out there...
//

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I look at the words on the screen in front of me and try to
combat the all too familiar feeling of disgust that seems to
have taken up residence in the pit of my stomach.  It's bad
enough that it's the truth without seeing my failures written
down.  I don't even know why I wrote it although I can hazard
a guess.  Boredom coupled with an inane desire to confess my
sins and seeing as I don't believe in religion, confessing to
a computer seemed as good an idea as any.

I'm about to delete everything from the screen when something
stops me and I hit save.  Password protecting the current sad
state of my life with my old number - '363'.  I'm not sure
why I do this.  It's not like I have any desire to show
anyone what I've written.  Although, a dim murmur from deep
within me whispers quite truthfully that should the occasion
ever arise, it would be easier to let someone read your life
then have to tell them yourself...

There's only one person I would ever admit any of this to and
I doubt very much that I will ever see him again.

This thought, whilst not new, depresses me and leaning my
elbows on the desk, I bury my head in my hands.  All the time
trying to ignore that as per usual, I have no-one to blame
for this state of affair but myself.

Looking up at the blank computer screen I am suddenly hit by
an overwhelming urge to try and get it out of my system once
and for all.  To exorcise the demons from my back...  I
realise, as I start to type, that the idea is futile but at
the same time hope that it might help.

Besides, it's not like I am have anything better to do this
evening...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~

//  Dave,

Um...

Hello...

Fuck.  I don't know how or where to start, so I'm just going
to go for it.  Okay?

How's things?  I seriously hope that things are fabulous.
That you've never been happy.  That you've met a wonderful
man that treats you like you should be treated and not
someone that wouldn't know a good thing if it bit them on the
...

Yeah, well, lets not go there.  Sore subject.  Literally.

Please tell me that is the case - that you are happy and in
love...

It wouldn't do if both of us were as miserable as I am.
That's right.  You read it here first.  I'm miserable.  I'm
so miserable in fact that I reckon at times I could give
Norman Bates a run for his money.

I miss you.  Pure, simple and true.

What's it been now?  Twelve months, yeah?  Twelve months
since... since I did what, quite frankly, turned out to be the
worst decision (if you can even call it that - flight of
twisted fantasy probably suits it better...) of my life.

Leaving Sun Hill, leaving the job, leaving you...

And I miss all of those things.  For fucks sake, there are
even times when I miss Reg Hollis...  Although, if you were to
ever tell anyone this you do of course realise that I would
have to kill you...

Or at the very least tickle you until you apologised...

So, anyway, how's things?

I suppose there'd be a number of new coppers that I wouldn't
even know at Sun Hill now.  Perhaps one of them is your
lover...  I can't really see you with someone who isn't in the
job.  They're the only ones that understand...

Don't ask about my (and I use the word incredibly loosely
here...) lovers.  Trust me.  You don't want to know.  Hey, to
tell you the truth, *I* don't even want to know most of the
time...

I no longer even attempt to daydream or replay pleasant
memories as they pinch, scratch, bite and invade my body.  I
simply convince myself that I don't care.  Or I deserve it.
I'm beginning to think I will now forever associate sex with
switching off... floating in a void.

I...

I took you for granted.

I know that now.  (What's that stupid proverb?  Ah, that's
right - shutting the gate after the horse has bolted...)  Never
admitted how much you meant to me...  I'd apologise for that
but I know that it's too late.  I couldn't even admit it to
myself at the time, so how could I ever admit it to you?

I'm not even sure if you realise just how special you were to
me.  Then again, why should you?  I never made a point of
telling you.  And, lets face it, I was never overly receptive
when you told me that you loved me...

But...  I can tell you now that I believed you.  Always
believed you but could never respond in kind.

Why?

I don't honestly know.  The most likely reason being that I
was frightened that it may change things between us...

Stupid and pathetic.  Only now do I realise...

The story of my life.

Allow me to try and demonstrate how much you meant to me.
Remember how I always stayed (except, of course, for that
last night - but I don't want to go there...)?  Yeah?  You
seemed so surprised that I was still there.  Well, let me
tell you now that you were probably less surprised than I
was...

You see, you're the only person I would ever stay the night
with.  Anyone else I'd get up and silently slip away, not
wanting to see them in the morning.  If they were in my bed I
would still make a point of getting up and getting dressed
before they woke.  Why?  Because I predominantly didn't want
to know about it.  A mutual purpose had been served and I
never felt any need to be more part of it.

Whatever.  It doesn't really matter.

With you, it was different.  Right from the start.  The first
night, I woke and felt so warm and content that I had to
force myself to get up in order to do my usual trick of
leaving.  Once standing on the floor though, I felt like I'd
lost a part of me...  The feeling was so strange that I'd never
felt anything like it.  Somehow, it just seemed like the
right, no, the only thing to do was to get back into bed.  So
I did and immediately felt as though I was whole again.
Lying next to you, I entwined my fingers in your chest hair
and quickly fell asleep.

I never thought of getting up and leaving you again.  Never.
Well, until the last time...  But that doesn't count.  Surely
you can see that.  It had been hard enough for me to come
back in the first place without having to deal with the
morning as well...

Anyway, that's the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the
truth, your honour...

Sorry if it sounds soppy and romantic.  I don't know how else
to put it.

Sorry, also if none of this sounds like me.  I've changed.
Twelve months out of uniform and I'm bordering on a wreck.
It's just that I was so accustomed to wearing one uniform or
another that I'm finding it hard to adjust without one to
hide behind.  The suits I wear now just aren't the same.  In
case you are interested, I work for an insurance company.
(Don't laugh, you'd be surprised how easy it is for an ex-cop
to get people to purchase home and contents cover.  If in
doubt, start going on about crime statistics and they are
putty in your hands...)

Incidentally, I'm not drunk.  Not in the slightest.  Although
sometimes I wish I could just turn to drink to drive the
worthlessness out of my life as opposed to...

A masochistic, traitorous part of my psyche seems to crave
the abuse.  It assists in negating any sort of worth that I
delude myself capable of attaining.

No.  You don't need to know about that.

I'm sorry.  So sorry.  Just forget everything I've said.
Just forget me.

I'll survive.  I have to.

All I hope is that you are happy.  That, along with the hope
that I haven't hurt you is all I want.

Have a wonderful life, Dave.

All my ...  //

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

My fingers hover over the keyboard but I can't do it.  Can't
finish the letter.  Can't throw the last clump of dirt over
the coffin of my sorrow.

I tell myself futilely  that the tears in my eyes are from
spending too long in front of the computer screen...

Christ I'm a mess.  I haven't been this down for a long time
and I berate myself for playing up to it.

I stare blankly at the screen for what feels like an eternity
before jabbing my finger with such force into the off switch
that for a moment I feel as though I may have broken it.  The
screen goes dark immediately as does the room.  I've been
sitting here for so long that night has well and truly fallen
outside.

I decide to go to bed as I can't stand the thought of being
awake any longer.  As I get up from the desk and go to walk
out of the room my gaze lingers momentarily on the printer...

What would've happened if I'd actually printed and sent that
letter?

I suppose I'll never know.

~end~