Some missing scenes from A dish best served cold, from Palmer's pov
by Gail
JAG
Clark Palmer/Page Martinez (Susan Latimer)
Rating: adult
Disclaimer: Clark Palmer isn't mine, but I wish he were. And I know nothing really about computers and chat rooms and the CIA or much else. Just had to write this. All other characters portrayed herein are mine.
Please do not archive this story without asking me first. It's more than likely that I'll agree, but I want to know where my stories are.
Warnings: some talk about revenge and evilness and abuse-to-come.
It makes no sense to read this without having read A dish best served cold, really.
This starts after the meeting that didn't happen. It's some scenes that I needed to write to be able to keep going with the main story, which needed to be from Page's pov. But I promised Alexandra and Mandy that I'd put these up, so I am.
*****
Clark Palmer didn't let himself slam the car door, even though everything in him screamed for some kind of violence and release. Emotion was uncontrolled, unsafe. In his world, everything was channeled and controlled, kept under firm discipline, the discipline he'd gotten from his years in boarding school, the military, and finally, the Defense Security Division. The thought of the DSD made him smile, although faintly. That was the place he belonged, the place he could be useful, make a difference, the place he was valued and his talents approved of and admired and cultivated. His home and friends and family.
And he'd just managed to screw up something his 'family' had entrusted to him. His smile faded again as he stood by the car. He made himself shut the door with all the calmness he could muster, then shook his head again. He didn't know how it had gone wrong, but now was not the time to get into it. He had something else to do now, pretty Susan waiting for him up in his room. He just needed a little time before he went up to her. Maybe a drink at the bar would make enough of a break so he'd have some enthusiasm for her. She deserved that. Such a beautiful woman, and he'd finally gotten her where he wanted her. Or almost there. He'd do that next.
The thought of her moaning as he thrust into her gave him another, darker smile. Miss Latimer was going to regret having made him wait to have her, and he was going to enjoy every minute of that lesson. She was going to give him what he wanted, and he was going to keep her right on the edge of what she was going to need. Or not. It might be more interesting to get her off, let her find out just how good he was, and then make her wait for more. Yes, a drink would definitely help him figure this out. Something was going to go right. Tomorrow he'd need to talk with his contact, figure out why their informant hadn't shown, but he knew Casey. He'd want to spend all night going over this, and he wasn't going to do that. Not with Susan waiting for him.
He was whistling as he got near the front desk, the picture of a man who had everything planned, when the desk clerk hailed him. "Mr. Palmer?"
Palmer stopped. "Yes?"
"Your messages, sir."
"Thank you." Palmer took the stack of messages, scanning them for one from the informant, and finding nothing. At the bottom there was an envelope, which he tore open.
"Did you want your key now?"
He looked up. "No, thank you." He glanced back down at the card. Susan's handwriting. This had to be more bad news.
*Dear Clark, I'm sorry. I can't do this after all. It was a mistake. I love my boyfriend, and even though I know he'll never know about you if we did make love, I'd always know. Please forgive me for leaving. I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to find out what it would be like without him, and I found out. I wish you only the best, always. Susan.*
So that's why his key was at the desk. He drew a long breath. No drink at the bar now.
"I will take my key," he said, mustering all the calmness and pleasantness he could. It wasn't going to help to yell at the man. He wouldn't know anything. "Oh, would you know when this card was left?"
"No, sir, I just came on duty, but I'll find out."
"Please do. And let me know. I'll be in my room." He could go up there. No one else was going to be there. So Miss Susan was running around on her boyfriend, trying to figure out if he was good enough. He hoped the man was. Damn. Things really weren't going right now.
*****
Clark stared out the window of his room, his glass forgotten in his hand. She was gone. After everything she'd said, things he was sure she'd meant, she'd run back to some guy who'd let her go off by herself in the first place. What kind of idiot did that with a woman like Susan? And when had she decided that sleeping with him was a mistake? She'd wanted him when he left. That he was certain of. There was no reason for her to lie about it. He grimaced. If he'd known the meeting wasn't going to come off, he would have stayed there and taken her right to bed. Then there wouldn't be any of this 'mistake' crap. She'd be too happy. And then if she wanted to go back to her boyfriend, well, he wasn't in any position to stop her. He wasn't in any position to have a relationship with any woman. He knew that. That was life in his line of work. But he'd been planning to take a day or two after the meeting, and Susan had told him she was there for a week. They could have had fun together. He thought they would have.
He shook his head. Get that shit out of your head, he ordered himself. She's gone. It's over. Next. He lifted the glass. The water was warm now, but he didn't care. It was something to do.
The phone rang. "Yes?"
"Mr. Palmer, I have that information you wanted. The card was left at the desk at three-fifteen."
"You're sure of that?"
"Yes, Mr. Palmer. It was just before the man's break."
"Thank you very much." He replaced the receiver, his face hardening. So little Miss Susan had left right after he had. This wasn't right at all. And that right before a meeting that had never happened. Too many coincidences for his liking.
He finished his water and stood. He wasn't getting anywhere tonight. Time for a shower, then sleep. The pieces needed time to fall into place, and maybe they weren't related. One of the problems with being DSD was feeling like everything that happened was directed at him. And it wasn't. He knew better than that.
He reached into his pockets to empty them out, when he brushed against something in his left pocket. It was almost too faint to register, but then pulling his hand out, it was there again. Something metal in the fabric. He stripped off his pants and explored the pocket carefully. When he got the metal out, he smiled grimly. A micro-transmitter. Whoever put it there knew what they were doing. Lucky for him he'd learned about these. He held it up to the light. No clue on the plant there, but it was one he knew how to deactivate. He flicked it off with his fingernail. That had not been there this morning, so there was only one person who could have put it there during the day. Susan Latimer. That probably wasn't even her name. It all made sense now. No one but Casey knew he was seeing Mikhail Kreskov, and Casey had just as much to lose as he did if the meeting didn't happen. And Casey didn't know where he was staying. Palmer had made sure of that. No, it had to be Susan. That bitch. So someone knew he knew where Kreskov was, and that someone had put sweet little Susan right in his path so that they could use him to find the fugitive agent.
Susan was an agent, not a cute thing on vacation. And there was no boyfriend. She'd done her job, and gone to get her pay. A smile spread across his face he knew was malicious. Oh, he hoped she got a lot of money, because she was going to pay for what she'd done to him. He was going to find Susan, or whatever her name was, and then he was going to find some kind of hell to put her through. No one interfered in his missions. Not even a pretty dark-haired girl who kissed like a wet dream. Not even that.
He grimaced. He'd thought she liked him. He'd let himself relax around her, laugh with her, tease her, look forward to seeing her. He'd even thought about ways to stay in touch with her so that he could get to know her better, if he still wanted to once they'd had sex, even though he knew it would be insane to think that could happen. But this hadn't been about him. This was about work. Susan Latimer was just another person who'd used him, and he hadn't had a clue. He was supposed to be a trained agent, an intelligent man, and he'd been fooled by this woman. Had given a damn about her. She could have stayed a little longer, given him that much. But then she'd had her instructions, and leaving him hanging had to be part of them. Damn her. She was going to pay for this. He poured himself a shot of whiskey. No one hurt Clark Palmer without paying for it. He drank down the whiskey, then stripped for his shower. He'd dream of her, of how she'd beg him to stop, how she'd cry, how she'd say how sorry she was, promise to do anything he wanted. He had to find out what mattered to her, what frightened her, what really got to her. But first he had to find out who she was, and who she was working for. And that could be just about anyone.
*****
He flew back to Washington the next day. His contact had confirmed that Mikhail had vanished, but promised to find him. Clark wasn't that convinced, but it was irrelevant now. Someone else was going to have to take up the trail and reestablish contact, if contact was possible at all. He'd been spotted, so it damned well couldn't be him.
He made his report before his superior, who made it clear how angry he was that they'd been cut off from this source, and assigned him to another case to assist, as well as telling him it was time for him to do his rotation at the DSD training center, and assigning him one that was twice as long as usual. Clark had expected no less. He was going to have to recover from this disaster.
On that note, he went to see a friend who was a wizard with computers. Rick was happy to see him.
"What did you need, Clark? Info on your new assignment? Got it right here." He held out a folder to Clark, who stowed it under his arm.
"It's a personal matter, Rick." Clark kept his voice quiet. "You've heard about my last assignment."
"Yeah." Rick grimaced. "Someone got to the guy first? Hey, it happens."
"Not to me." Clark's voice was tight and angry. "I want to find out who did this. And I know they've got Harrison and Thomas on it. I don't care. They're looking for Kreskov. I want the agent who got me."
"They decided that wasn't a fruitful line of inquiry, Clark." Rick shut the door of his office casually, something Clark appreciated. He didn't really want anyone else hearing this conversation, one reason he'd waited until lunchtime to have it. "All they had was the name and your description."
"I have a picture." Clark fished it out of his shirt pocket.
"You should turn this in."
"I did." Clark's voice was flat. "They told me they'd look into it. But we both know they won't. Come on, Rick. I'll owe you."
It took a minute, but Rick nodded. "Come back after six. It'll be deserted then, just the night crew, and they'll be busy with system maintenance for the first hour or so." Rick handed back the picture. "Think about what kind of criteria you want to use for the search."
"Thanks. I will." He knew he was asking his friend to take a risk, but it was necessary. And he'd take the blame if it came down to that. Hell, he couldn't get much lower at this point.
*****
"She has to be a foreign agent, Rick." It was six-twenty, and the two men were back in Rick's office, the door closed again. They had a bottle of scotch out on the desk to make it look like they were sharing an after-hours drink. Some agents did that, not wanting to take any chance of the wrong people hearing their reminiscences, and the DSD tolerated it, as long as it was after hours. Rick was drinking coffee, and Clark had a coke. No one was going to intrude. "It's the only thing that makes any sense."
Rick picked up the picture. "Then let's run her through the database."
"Search on the features. Anything else could be altered. Try the name if you want."
Rick was shaking his head. "No, no. Waste of time."
He scanned the photo into the computer and started the process of telling the system what to pay attention to and what to ignore. Clark made himself lean back against the back of his chair and look away from the screen. Rick was good at what he did, very good. He didn't need an amateur interfering.
"O.K., let's see what we get." Rick hit the Enter key as Clark leaned forward. The screen came back with an answer in a few moments. No match. "Don't worry, that's only from," Rick checked, "the north European one. We've split the world up into areas, since there are so many agents."
Clark managed a faint smile. "I'm sure sweet Susan will show up."
"You really want her, don't you?" Rick's voice was soft. "I never thought I'd see the day a woman got to you."
"I'd rather not talk about that part of it, Rick." He knew his tone was too sharp, but he couldn't help it.
"All right. I'm sorry, but Clark, if she is an agent, you've got to be careful. And how are you going to get the bosses to approve it?"
"Easy. I'm going to the Center for a long while, and there, all I have to do is say it's a 'training exercise.' I won't get the resources I'd like, but I've heard they've upgraded a lot there. I can do enough."
"Damn." Rick peered at the screen. "Nothing. You're sure she's a foreign agent?"
"Who else would be after Kreskov?" Clark drew in a sharp breath. "Of course. Check the CIA."
"You called it." Rick had started typing as soon as Clark spoke. "CIA. You're lucky I wrote these programs. I don't know if anyone else would have been able to find her. She's seriously hidden."
"Of course she is." Clark took a long look at the screen. "They hide their best. Can't have anyone find out they've got someone who can do what she can, and believe me, she does it well." His smile was predatory. "It's going to be a real challenge getting to this one. Listen, can you get me a printout?" That was Clark's acknowledge that he wouldn't be able to get the information on his own, and Rick took it that way.
"Sure." He hit a few buttons on his computer, and the printer hummed. "You want the personal stuff, too?"
"Especially the personal stuff. I'm going to know Miss, oh, excuse me, Ms., Page Martinez, as well as if I were in her skin with her. And then I'll find the way to drive her right out it."
"You need anything, you let me know."
Clark smiled and stood. "Rick, thanks. But you're better off out of it. You've been a great help. Go home and have the evening you deserve." He headed to the door.
"Clark." He turned around at the sound of his name. "Be really careful. CIA, they're fuckers. You can't trust them. You make one wrong step, you're toast."
"I won't trust them, and I won't make that step, Rick. But thanks for giving a damn." Neither of them said what was obvious, that this wasn't something they'd talk about to anyone else, ever. "I'll let you know what goes down."
"I'll be waiting."
*****
I'm the one who's waiting now, thought Clark Palmer a few weeks later. He'd managed to get his superiors to agree that it would be a good time to see if there was anyone in the CIA who needed money, sex, drugs, anything they could use to get information out of them. He'd presented it as something totally unrelated to his disaster, and they'd taken it that way. Obviously no one had bothered to take any time to do what he and Rick had, and he was glad of that. He'd gone through the sidelong looks any DSD agents got when something went wrong, smiled, done the scut work, laughed at the veiled jokes, noted all the agents who seemed most pleased by them for later retribution. He was fed up with all the shit, but he could take it a while longer. He needed someone who had a beef against the CIA, against women as agents. Or someone who felt pretty Page had gotten something they should have. He wanted to go to Rick, have him search, but he couldn't. If Rick got caught, he'd get caught, too, and he couldn't get caught at this. He'd have to use his own computer skills and hope they were good enough.
He logged onto a chat site that was for CIA agents. It was supposed to be inaccessible to anyone who wasn't one of them, but he'd gotten around that one easily. He had his ghost identity ready and listening for any kind of dissatisfaction. He'd already found one person they could use, and made the contact. A druggie, not too reliable, but then he'd leave that to the experts on that. He just hadn't bothered to make the report yet. So he'd done what he'd set out to for the DSD. Now he needed his link to Page. Beautiful, treacherous Page. His smile turned grim at the thought of her. He was so damned tempted to shadow her himself, but he needed more first. Like detachment, and inside information. There wasn't enough in her file, and what had to be out there was locked up somewhere. He needed someone to get it for him. He couldn't chance being caught in the CIA system. That could start a major war with them, and the word had gone down that policy was to let them think the DSD was just another agency, no competition. For now.
Someone was chatting about women in the Company, as they called it. *It's something else with the women in. What does everybody else think? Better, or worse?*
*It's cheapening us. They use sex to get information. What, do they pick them for their looks and how good they are at faking it?*
Clark smiled. This was a fairly common topic. All he had to do is lurk and let the program he'd bought do its work. He typed in the screen name of the man who was bitching about women. It was supposed to link to the connection of the specified name and trace it back to the origin, then get out of that computer the name of the owner and the location, but detach if the computer was good enough to detect it. He'd be safe.
In a matter of moments a window opened and flashed information. Scott Kendall. He fed that name into another program. When he got the results, his eyes lit up. Scott Kendall was in the very same section as Page Martinez. Beautiful. And he had some serious debts. If one way didn't work, the other might. Maybe he was just there to smoke sexist agents out, but the debts? Clark laughed to himself. The man needed money. And money was something he could get his hands on. He had a good budget for this assignment.
*****
The next day, Clark made a point of being at one of Scott Kendall's favorite after-work hangouts. The man showed up at seven and sat at the bar. Clark moved up to stand next to him.
"Hey, you look wiped." He put as much sympathy in his voice as he could manage.
Kendall glanced over at him. "I'm not interested in guys."
"Good. Neither am I." Clark kept his tone civil. "But I'd like to talk to someone with a brain. You got one?"
Kendall jerked, then grinned ruefully. "Sorry. Just that I get that a lot."
Clark shrugged. "Me, too." He motioned to the bartender. "Another for me and my friend here." The bartender set up two shots and beers and plunked them in front of the men. Clark already had the money out. "Come on. It's too damned noisy here."
"You got that right." Kendall followed Clark to a table as Clark decided which tack to take next. He'd planned everything out, but he always had options.
*****
Scott Kendall was amazingly receptive. If Clark hadn't done some research and known his current assignment, he would have been very suspicious. But he was sure the man meant it. He was very drunk, after all, and was intent on getting drunker. Clark was glad he'd brought a good amount of cash. He needed it.
"There's this one bitch I work with." Kendall gulped the rest of his shot, and Clark passed him his. He was fine with the beer. "God, she is such a fine piece. And I got her to bed, once. Then it's all, 'oh, Scott, we're working together. We can't compromise the integrity of the Company.'" He scowled. "So why the fuck did she climb between the sheets?"
"Sounds like a real winner," Clark murmured. "What's this precious thing's name?" He was pretty sure he knew, but it was the right question to ask.
"Ms. Page Martinez."
Clark smiled to himself. Now to keep Kendall talking, and wait until the right time to press.
*****
That right time came about a week later, over shots and beer, again. Scott was going on about the Company, Page, and his bills, when Clark decided to act.
"Scott, you talk about this woman a lot. Why don't you just let it go?"
"Can't." Scott stared down into his shot, then drained it. "She got to me." His laugh was bitter. "Hell of a thing for a guy to admit, isn't it?"
"No, I know how it goes. How would you like to get her?"
Kendall gave him a sharp look. "You're not CIA. FBI, or DSD?"
Clark shrugged and gave him a half-smile. "DSD. Come on, Scott, you knew that when I offered the first drink."
The other man smiled. "Of course. I wanted to know what you wanted."
"I want Page Martinez."
"What's your reason?"
"Did you hear about the Kreskov case, Scott?"
Scott's eyes widened. "Were you the guy she fucked over? I wasn't on the case, but I heard about it."
So Page was boasting about what she'd put him through. **Enjoy it, baby. I'm coming for you.** He put his anger aside. This was more important. If he could take the taunting of his own, he could deal with the fact that there were other people talking about it. "I didn't even get one night, Scott. She any good?"
"Incredible." Scott set the empty shot glass down. "You want revenge."
It wasn't any use lying to the man. "Help me take her down, and I'll guarantee you'll be in the clear. And that she comes back a changed woman. Maybe even one who can't cut it in the Company any more."
"What do you need?" And with that, Clark knew he had his man. Scott might not know it, might think he was still safe, but it was over. One word to the CIA about this conversation, and Scott would be out on his ass. And Clark wouldn't hesitate to give that word. Didn't they teach them anything? Scott was the DSD's now.
"Her psych file," Clark said very softly. "I want to know every single dirty detail about her. Can you get it?"
"It'll take money."
Clark smiled to himself. Of course it would. Scott Kendall needed money. He had the access, Clark knew that much already. "I can get that. But can you get me a copy? Say, tomorrow."
"Sure. What's it worth to you?"
"Name a price."
Oh, he'd pay anything Kendall wanted. But it damned well better be the real deal. He'd heard about CIA psych files. They had the agents in for hours, under drugs sometimes, talking about their pasts, their hopes, dreams, lusts, loves - all the things he wanted to know. And they got information from other sources, too. If he could get his hands on Page's psych file, he'd get into her head. Enough, that is, until he got her into his hands.
*****
Clark settled into the one comfortable chair in his apartment. It was an anonymous kind of place, but then he didn't spend that much time there. He'd left more of himself in his office. But he had bought the chair, and liked it. Something about its softness attracted him. "Good thing we don't do the psych thing in the DSD," he said aloud and picked up the file. Page's file. Scott had wanted a lot of money, but it hadn't been a problem to get it to him. He had his own sources along with what he could siphon out of DSD. And it was for the good of the Division, too, he thought. Let CIA think they could get away with taking down a DSD operation? Let an agent like Page Martinez poke around without any kind of payback? Not in Clark's world. Page Martinez was just the symptom, but he couldn't do anything bigger without a lot of backing, and he didn't have that.
But she was the symptom he wanted. He flipped open the file. The first page had nothing, as did the second page, but when he hit the third, he laughed. Oh, perfect. Page Martinez had been gang-raped when she was sixteen, and the gang had gotten clean away with it. They had a deal with the local police, who had decided that their cooperation was more important than some teenager who'd probably led them on. And Page was still angry about it. And, his eyes gleamed, afraid. He read the notes avidly.
*I can still hear them taunting me. Come on, bitch, spread those legs. Work those hips. Open your mouth, Manny wants some too. They all worked me over. No, they all fucked me. Let's get the goddamned terms right. There's no running away from this one.*
Clark whistled. So she was a fighter. But he already knew that. He flipped the page when he saw that the rest of it was notes by the interviewing psychologists. He wasn't interested in anyone else's take on her, not yet. He wanted to make up his own mind about Page Martinez.
*The worst of it was when one of them decided on a new game, the third guy, I think. He got the others to hold my arms and legs, since I wouldn't stop trying to get away, then got down on his knees and started licking me. He was so gentle, so tender, and so damned good that I got wet. And he just kept going, working me, making me like it, until I came all over him. After that, I couldn't fight at all. I didn't want to. They all fucked me again, pounding into me, and I was moaning and begging for more. I even knew I didn't want them, but my body didn't care, and my mind wasn't strong enough. I gave in. Did you hear me? I gave into them. No wonder the damned police wouldn't do anything. They knew I'd liked it. I didn't tell them, though, but I'll bet the guys did.*
Clark Palmer shut the file and smiled. **So the worst part was liking it, Page? And begging for more?** Good. He was going to just the place to recreate her little encounter. The Defense Security Division's training center. With young men who only get to study all day and night, their only release the firing range. He'd ask to have a small seminar in addition to his other duties. The DSD never said no if you asked for more. And he'd handpick those men. And they'd help him show darling Page about begging.
He put the file in his safe, then started planning more seriously. He needed to learn what drugs would put a woman in the most suggestible and passionate frame of mind, information about rape, and, most importantly, more about Page. It was time to pump Scott Kendall for every single detail of his time with her. And time to pick out a face and shadow her himself. He only had a couple of weeks before he was scheduled to go to the training center. And he had to set up Page's capture before he left. Scott Kendall was proving to be a real help, but he wanted to make sure the man didn't get any stupid ideas.
*****
"I just got the news on her next assignment," Scott announced the next night over beer. Thank god, the man had cut back. Maybe having something worthwhile to do for a change was being good for him. Scott fished out a piece of paper and gave it to Clark, and Clark scanned it.
"Marcos Saretta. A major drug lord in South America. And she's one of the infiltrating agents?"
"Better. The only agent."
"That is better."
"And I'm the one who's got the point duty." Scott leaned forward. "I go with her, I get her reports, I pass the news back."
"So you've got the control." Clark smiled back. He'd been hoping for something like this. "This is great news, Scott. When do you two leave?"
"Not for another month and a half."
"No, that's perfect," Clark assured him. "I need some time to get things ready at my end." Clark hadn't told Scott anything about Page's history or what he was planning for her. The man didn't need to know. "I'll be in touch. An e-mail with the usual name and code."
Scott lifted his glass. "To Page's downfall."
Clark clinked his against it. "Yes. And to revenge."
*****
Clark Palmer swallowed the last of his water and checked the time. Two AM, and he had an appointment at seven to see Scott Kendall for coffee. He found that seeing the CIA agent regularly helped make sure the man wasn't getting any stupid ideas. Time for some sleep. He put the computer on its night programs, monitoring Page's electronic activities, not that she probably was going to have any now, and activated the security that kept anyone from taking it over and knowing what he was doing. He didn't take avoidable risks, one of the reasons he was still alive.
He stood and headed to his bedroom, with a stop at the bathroom first to wash up. He splashed water on his face after he brushed his teeth, then dried and stared at the features in the mirror. He had to start eating better, he noted with a clinical detachment. One meal a day, at best, along with coffee all through the day and into the night and the occasional candy bar, was not keeping him in good enough shape. He was losing weight and color, along with muscle tone. At least at the DSD training center he'd have meals made for him, and he'd be able to tailor them to his specifications, if he wanted. No more need to go out for food and take time away from the hunt for Page and the planning of her downfall.
He went on to his bedroom and took off his clothes. Page Martinez, his treacherous bitch. He smiled as he thought about her. Beautiful, strong, and soon to be his. With no one to save her, no one to turn to, nothing but what he gave her.
The city outside his window caught his eyes, and he stared. Page was out there, asleep and alone. He knew that. It would be so easy to go over to her apartment, take her in her bed, get a quick and savage revenge. But then he'd have to scramble to cover it up and risk his career for a woman. Not that he hadn't considered it, every night he knew she was in D.C. But he had to wait, had to plan. It had to go the way he wanted it, under his conditions, his control.
He'd seen her again, of course, and often. He'd shadowed her at her favorite bars, watched her talk up all kinds of men and seen them take her home, away from him once again. It fueled his anger and his lust. Once she'd even smiled at him, gestured to the seat beside her. His disguise was good enough that he knew it wasn't because he reminded her of himself. He'd almost gone to her and that promise of a drink and another chance to her bed. But that wasn't part of the plan, and the plan was everything. Instead he'd smiled back and held up his left hand, showing the wedding ring there. She shrugged, mouthed 'I'm sorry' back, and sent over a beer. He'd faded into the background and watched her scan for another candidate. It gave him an almost-burning pleasure when she gave up the hunt sooner than usual and left on her own. It was a victory for him, he'd thought for a moment, then laughed at himself. His victories would come, were coming.
He flipped down the sheet and got into bed. The light was still on, and his eyes found what they did every night, the picture of Page smiling, her hair falling around her face. He'd taken it of her from a distance, and she was smiling at another man, but right then he could pretend it was for him. Weakness, but he had it under control. He felt his erection poke the sheet, and reached down to take it in his hand. He wasn't going to sleep until he came, until he dreamed of Page under him, her hands reaching out to clutch his back, her hips thrusting up, her muscles tightening around his cock. And her cries filling his ears, her cries begging him to keep going. Her cries for him. He stroked faster and faster, pulling the hard flesh in a way that would normally have been painful, until he groaned and spurted semen over his hand. He managed to keep it off the sheet and grabbed a handful of tissues to wipe himself off. Now he could sleep, sleep and dream of her.
"It could have been so good," he whispered to her picture. "You don't know what you missed out on." Her picture simply smiled back, and finally he sighed and put out the light. Good thing he didn't need much sleep, because he sure wasn't getting it. He was going to have to do better at the training center.
The End of these scenes
Posted April 2002 or earlier
