A Private Arrangement

 

As usual the car is at the kerb waiting for me as I get to the main door of the apartment block.  I swear I don't know how they do it.  I've never seen them drive up and I've never looked out of the window and seen them waiting ahead of time.  But whenever I open the door at the stated time they're there, to the second.  The driver gets out and opens the door for me and I get in.  They always send a Jaguar for me – a nice, opulent, comfortable Jag.  I guess I was surprised that it wasn't a Rolls Royce, or a Bentley even, seeing as they're loaded.  But now I've got to know them, I understand – that would be conspicuous and these people aren't conspicuous – they're discreet.  Very, very discreet.

I sit back in leather luxury and pour myself a good Scotch from the decanters beside me and watch the Paris traffic part as the car glides through the city.  No sudden turns, no hard braking, no long waits at traffic lights just a smooth transit.  I can't think of anything short of a riot would disturb the flow, and even then I think I'd hardly notice it.  I don't often get this kind of luxury, so it's a treat to sit back and revel in the scent of leather and the taste of expensive Scotch and look forward to the evening ahead.

We arrive at a large town-house surrounded by a small garden and a large wall.  By the tall wooden gates is the only sign advertising its existence – a brass plaque about the size of a credit card with the number forty-three on it.  That's it.  You either know about this place or you don't.  The gates open and we drive in.  At the front door, the driver stops and opens the car door for me.  I get out and go to the front door which opens, on cue, just as I get up to it.

Inside the house is a relic from the Belle Epoque, all dark wood and rich furnishings.  A lovely carved staircase dominates one wall.  A dark haired, middle-aged woman walks down it.  She's dressed in a cocktail dress from Chanel or whoever designs that stuff nowadays and she's groomed as only a Frenchwoman can be.  I always feel out of place here in such a high-class joint, even dressed in the best clothes Mac's ever given me for Christmas and birthdays, I'm always waiting to be thrown out.  After all it's not as if they don't know that I'm only a bar owner.  And Watcher, I'm sure they know that too.  But Madam is smiling, as always.

"Monsieur Dawson!  How pleasant to see you again!"  She holds out her slim, cool hand and I shake it.  And that's the check in procedure taken care of.  There's nothing as cheap and obvious as a desk or even an appointment book on show.  "We have the usual rooms for you.  Monsieur Pierson arrived a few minutes ago and is getting ready.  If you would like to go with Marc you can make your own preparations."  She extends her arm in the direction I should go.  The dark-clad attendant, who opened the front door for me, appears by my side and we go to where the lift is concealed behind just another door.  As it starts up I feel the old familiar tightening in the pit of my stomach – pre-show nerves.

The room I'm shown to is a snug bedroom, not huge, but big enough for comfort and there's a wood fire burning in the grate.  Marc helps me get undressed.  They don't have the aids here that I need to make life on my own possible, but what they lack in equipment they make up in manpower.  I used to hate that, but Marc assists me with the silent, calm-faced courtesy and attention I'm used to now.  I wouldn't be surprised if he trained as a nurse.  Preparation for me is simple. Take my clothes off.  Put on an ankle-length silk robe.

I'd only do this for Methos.  I owe my life to MacLeod several times over, but he's never seen me in my prostheses.  But Methos took care of me after Jacob Galati gatecrashed my execution.  When a guy's dug bullets out of you, bandaged you, fed you, washed you and wiped your ass for you, you kinda know he's not going to be freaked out by a set of false legs.  And I guess I can trace this back to those days.  He took care of me then.  Now I take care of him.

Marc opens the door into the adjoining room.  Curtain up.  Overture and beginners, please.

This is a much larger space, with plenty of chairs and couches scattered in it to give us as many options as we need.  It's lit by dozens of candles (Methos' preference) and I see the frame is there, as we requested. But I only glance at that because I want to concentrate on the main event – Methos.

And he's looking fine tonight.  As often as we've done this, he still has the power to take my breath away.  He's kneeling beside another attendant, naked apart from his favourite harness of thin leather straps joined with metal links.  A soft leather pouch holds his cock and balls in a hold that's as tight and revealing as any Lycra would be.  His ass is bare and I can see the base of a butt plug in place between the twin globes of his ass.  His arms are fastened behind his back at elbow and wrist showing the definition in his shoulders and collarbones.  He's strength and helplessness combined in one sexy package.  His head is lowered, looking at the ground and I put a hand under his chin forcing his head up so I can look at his face.  A little makeup, a bit of kohl around the eyes and some lip gloss maybe – nothing too much, subtle.  It makes him look sexier, sluttier.  He knows just how to turn me on.

"Very good," I say.  "But maybe something more."  I let go of his chin and he looks back at the floor again, as he should.  The other attendant holds out a tray and I consider its contents.  There are several options here – blind-folds, gags, more restraints, other attachments.  There's a pair of nipple clamps joined by a chain.  "Those," I say pointing to them.  "Put them on him."

I step back and Marc bends over Methos, pinching his nipples in a business-like way to get them erect so he can fasten the clamps on them.  Methos gasps at the handling and his cock stirs in the pouch.  I feel an answering jolt in my own groin; he looks so hot like that, bound and ready for pleasure.  My pleasure.

There's a chaise longue close by and Marc helps me lie down on it, arranging the robe over my hardening cock.  When I'm comfortable I sign for Marc and his colleague to go.  That just leaves Methos and me alone in the candle light.  I'm getting aroused just by the sight of him, but there's still that edgy feeling in my stomach.  I want this to be good for both of us, but I really want to give Methos what he needs here. 

Well, time to get on with the show.  Act One.

“Come over here."  I indicate a spot close to the couch.  He obediently comes and kneels beside me, managing to do it with bound hands and considerable grace.  He's a page of a BDSM porno mag come to life, and I could look at him for ever.  But what a waste that would be.  My cock is hard now and needs attention.  "Suck me off," I order.

At first all he does is lick his lips, a kind of foreplay for giving head that makes my erection twitch and my mouth go dry with anticipation.  I want him to touch me so much.  Of course my cock is still covered by the robe and he hasn't got use of his hands so there's a lot of delicious fumbling with his teeth and lips to get the silk moved away, which means I'm well on the path to orgasm before I feel even his breath on my dick.

Then he goes to work in earnest.  God, he's good at giving head.  For a long time the best I'd ever come across was a little whore in 'Nam in that brothel Cord pushed me into on that three-day pass we had.  She was the first and set the standard for the rest as far as I was concerned.  But Methos makes her seem like a fumbling amateur.  Maybe he was a sex-slave sometime or hell, maybe it's just because he's a guy, but he knows exactly what to do and how to do it.  He knows just the right combination of lip, tongue and teeth in little kitten-nips all over my balls and cock to get me achingly hard and leaking.  Then he keeps the torment up until I'm ready to beg him to start sucking.  When he does he gets everything right, the suction, the rhythm, the angle.  This is when it gets really good because I've got this pleasure building and building til everything's tingling, but there's also this anticipation because he does this fluttery thing with his tongue that can lift the scalp off my head.  So I'm on this kind of rack because I want this to go on forever but I really want that feeling at the end.  And the bastard knows it, because he keeps me there on the edge with every muscle straining with tension until I'm ready to beg him to keep it going and to finish it.  And then he does it and I'm bucking into his mouth, shouting with the feeling of release and shooting again and again into his mouth.

When I get my breath and my heart rate under control he's back kneeling beside the couch.  I guess things got a little frenzied back then because I see a splash of come missed his mouth, landed on his chest and is trickling towards a clamped nipple.  His eyes have a look of satisfaction and need in them.  He's hard now and his cock is straining against the pouch.  Giving head always turns him on, the little slut.

"Well, what are we going to do next?"  I'm teasing because he knows he doesn't get to decide.  He dutifully lowers his gaze to the floor.  I grab the chain linking the two nipple clamps and tug on it gently.  His breath hisses at that and his cock twitches.  I pull again and get the same result.  This could be a fun game.

"There are so many possibilities."  Tug.  "I could stick a ring-gag in your mouth, hang you from your heels from the ceiling while I fuck your mouth."  Tug.  "We could sit you as far as you could go on that eighteen-inch dildo and then get Marc to suck you off."  Tug.  "Think about how still you'd have to be when you came with that thing shoved up your ass."  Tug.  "Or maybe I could do nothing."  Tug.  "Just sit here and haul on these nipple clamps and not let you come at all."  Tug.

He's in trouble now.  He's biting his lips but he can't stop the little whimpers that escape when I pull the chain.  His erection is straining against the leather pouch containing it and his hips are making slight thrusts trying for some stimulation that'll lead to his relief.  I tug at the chain harder and this time he groans in his need.

I take up my walking stick that's propped against the couch and place the end on the ground between his legs, just under his ass.  "Come against this, then.  If you can."

He looks at me a little doubtfully, but I pull the chain again and it looks like he's willing to give anything a go.  He leans his hips forward and starts to rub his groin against the stick I'm holding against him.  It takes a few movements but then he finds the right angle and pressure and starts to thrust in earnest.  Sweat drips off him and he screws his eyes shut.  He's lost in it now.  Louder and louder moans are escaping from his lips as he lets the hunt for release and relief drive him on. 

I wait while his cries get throatier and higher in pitch before pulling hard on the clamps a final time.  That's it.  His head snaps back and he comes, groaning deep and long as the spasms take him.  He looks amazing when he comes.  I love the way he gives in to the pleasure.  I love the way I can watch the waves of it ride up his body.  I love the way I get to see his fine throat and his adam's apple bobbing as he tries to get enough air in.  Let's face it, I could watch Methos come all night.

He's coming down off the orgasm now.  His head comes forward and he starts to slow his breathing.  He's dripping with sweat and come (his and mine) and looks thoroughly debauched.  And the night is still young.

I move my cane away from his groin and Methos pulls himself back into a proper submissive posture.  Only the sheen of sweat over his skin that highlights his muscles in the candlelight and his slightly raised breathing rate show what he's just been through.  There's a small button carefully set into the carved back of the chaise longue.  I press it and immediately the door opens and Marc and the other attendant arrive.

I sometimes wonder what they think of us.  I mean here I am lying on a couch with my robe open, displaying everything for all to see, with a bound slave-boy kneeling beside me and we've both obviously just come.  But their faces betray nothing except a willingness to be of service.  I guess this is nothing fancy to them.  Hell, if I shoved a feather duster up my crack and started gobbling like a turkey I doubt it'd be the kinkiest thing they'd seen.

The thought puts a laugh in my voice as I instruct them to strip Methos and tie him to the frame.  He looks at me quizzically, not for the instructions, but for the tone and I just wink at him.

Time for Act Two.

The frame they're tying him to is a like a metal box frame.  Taller than Methos, wider side to side than it is front to back with a diagonal cross brace on the narrow side that has holes drilled in it at regular intervals.  They tie Methos to this with leather cuffs at his wrists and ankles so that he's spread-eagled and tilted forward with his back towards me.  Marc helps me up off the couch and I come to inspect the work.  The position means that his muscles are stretched taut under his skin and can't resist running a hand down his back to feel them.  But his ass isn't right. 

'Pull his knees further apart,' I tell them.  They run leather straps behind his knees and attach them to the diagonal bar.  When they pull them it forces his knees apart and that pulls his ass cheeks wider.  I wait until I can see the tell-tale tremor in his thigh muscles that he's reached his limit and then give them the OK.  They tie the straps off and, at another nod from me, leave the room as silently as they entered it.

Methos looks so beautiful so I stand to admire him for a while.  When he's naked you can see the strength in him that he keeps hidden from view.  He's all toned muscle and taut sinew under pale, smooth skin and when he's stretched like this you can see it all.  A trickle of sweat starts at his hairline and slides, glinting in the flickering candlelight, down the channel of his spine until it disappears into his shadowed crack.  All that strength, all that beauty bound and helpless before me.  Jeez, he turns me on like this.

There's a little table beside me with an assortment of toys on it, some soft, some hard.  I've teased his skin with sheepskin, flogged his cock and balls with a whip of silk strips, jerked him off with a glove of mohair, but tonight I feel like something a little harsher.  There's a glove of black leather which I pull it over my right hand before going to stand in front of him.  He looks up at me and there's such trust in his eyes I almost can't meet them.  It's a privilege that he lets me do this to him, with him.

I reach up to cup his face with my right hand and I rub my gloved thumb over his lower lip.  His eyes drift shut as he inhales the scent of the leather.  His nipples are still reddened from their time in the clamps and I move my hand down to rub one roughly.  Methos moves into the touch as his cock starts into life again.  I reach down and grasp it briefly in my hand.  It has a residue of his come on it, showing wet against the glove.  I hold it to his lips and smear a little of his own come on his lip.  His tongue comes out and he tastes himself before turning to lick at the glove.  I lean down and lick with him and for a few moments our tongues flicker together in a dance that tastes of leather, come and each other.  When I pull back, he's hard and so am I.

I move behind him again, keeping my gloved hand on him for as long as possible while I do so.  I trail my left hand down his spine from neck to ass and move my right hand round to hold his cock.  He has a butt plug in, of course.  When I hold the end and move it around his breath hisses at me and I can feel his cock jerk in my hand.  The plug is long, but thin with several ripples down its length and Methos groans deeply when I pull it slowly out.

The lube left from the butt plug is enough for me to spread over the head of my cock as I rub it back and forward in the gap between his widely spread cheeks.  It feels so good I keep at it for a while, pressing gradually harder against his slightly stretched opening.  Then I line up and slip in until I'm up to my balls in his ass.

And then I have to stop.  I have to rest against his back while I try and retain some kind of control.  Jeez, the whole point of the blow job is that I don't do this, don't come in his ass as soon as I'm in.  But he's so hot inside, so tight with his ass muscles rippling against my cock, that I'm hanging on by a thread here.  Jeez this feels so good, so good.  I think I said that out loud.  Maybe it's him relaxing against me, but the pressure subsides and I can breathe and think about moving without coming.

And that's the thing about this frame they built for us, when Tab A fits in Slot B, it fits.  I'm in to the hilt here and pushing on his prostate with no fumbling around.  I don’t know how they got the measurements but once I'm in, all I can go is deeper.  And they fixed up a bar I can hang on to so I can get the right leverage and thrust even without knees.  So I reach round again and grab his cock in my gloved hand, hang on to the bar with my left and start moving.

The toughest thing is trying to keep it slow, trying to take care of him and get him there before me when all I want to do is pound into him.  I'm moving my hand over his cock, rubbing the head with my leather-clad thumb trying to bring him off as fast as possible or I'm getting off before him.  I can hear the noises we're making, gasps and cries, but they're from far away.  All I'm really aware of is the tight heat I'm thrusting into and the way he makes me feel. 

Methos is shouting something and his body, tied as it is begins to buck beneath me.  He's coming, he's coming.  I can feel his ass muscles spasm round my cock and my head nearly comes off.  But it doesn't matter now.  I made him come and now I can give in.  I pack myself even further into him and push once, twice and then that's it.  I'm there.  The pleasure breaks over me and I can just shudder and shoot into him again and again and again.

When I come back to myself I'm resting my whole weight against Methos' broad (and sweaty) back with my cheek against his right shoulder blade.  I give it a little kiss, seeing as it's close and push myself off him and slide out of his ass.  Co-ordination is a bit of a problem so I hang on to the frame as I stagger round to where I can look at him.  He's hanging limp from his bonds with his head down. 

"You OK?"  I ask.  His head comes up; he looks as fucked out as I feel.  "Was that good?"  He just nods and lets his head drop again.

I think I envy him his shackles; I could do with some support myself at the moment.  I'm gasping like I've just run a four-minute mile.  But the endorphins are kicking in and I feel pretty good too.  I find one of those handy buttons and press it.  The two attendants reappear.  One of them is carrying an old-fashioned basin and pitcher of hot water, which he sets down on a cabinet beside the frame.

"Take care of him," I say, waving in Methos' direction as I stagger off to the bedroom with Marc hovering beside me.

In the room there's a similar basin of water which Marc uses to wash me down.  They have a unique soap here, scented with cinnamon and cloves I think.  It's soothing and it washes the scent and traces of the evening's activities from me.  When I'm dried, Marc helps me into bed and stacks my legs and my stick against the chest of drawers and makes sure that I have easy access to the button that will summon help should I need it.  Then he leaves without saying a word.

Final Act.

I hear the door in the other room close and I know that Methos and I are alone again.  "Come to bed, Methos," I call and hold the bedclothes up for him when he appears at the door.  He slips in beside me, rests his head on my shoulder and I hold him.  The mind-blowing orgasm was fantastic but holding Methos, sated and sleepy, in my arms like this gives it a close run.

Sleep claims him quickly.  I can tell from the way his breath feels against my chest.  I lie back in the firelight and warmth, and let sleep come for me too.  I know that when I wake, Methos will be gone.  That doesn’t matter.  This thing we do, this arrangement isn't for the day, it's something for the night, something for the shadows in both of us.  I've never asked him why he wants this.  But I think I can guess.  Methos lives his life on the edge, really.  How many decisions does he, and every immortal, make that are life and death?  And he's done this for five thousand years.  So, once in a while, I guess it'd be nice to give over that control to someone, to let them make the decisions.  And every so often, that's what Methos does, here with me.  Not that surprising, when you think about it. 

 

The End

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