Knee-deep in bohemian cachet
by Gail (gem225@hotmail.com)
A Perfect Murder
Steven Taylor/David Shaw
Rating: adult
Steven confronts David about Emily and chooses to take a different approach to dealing with his wife's lover.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, I'm making no money off of this story, and I don't intend any insult or infringement. And I'm really not hurting anyone. The movie treats them as badly, if not worse, in my opinion.
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 and spoilers: This is definitely m/m sex, coercion and close to, if not actually, rape. So please don't read this if you don't like either of those. It also has a few references to m/f sex. And this is an AU, since this incident would render the rest of the movie invalid. If you haven't seen the movie 'A Perfect Murder', it won't spoil too much for you, since this is fairly early on.
If anyone wants to fix blame, it can go right to the huge framed poster of this movie over my monitor. Michael Douglas' eyes staring down at you all day would get you thinking sex, too. And looking at Viggo Mortensen with his hands on Gwyneth Paltrow's hips and his lips going for her neck...well, let's say both of these men look like they've got sex, money, and power on their minds all the time. Just not always in that order.
Thanks to Katja, who watched this movie because I raved about it and encouraged me to write both the slashes; Mareen, who read this even though she hasn't; and Greg, who once again ended up reading about guys screwing each other over his morning coffee.
*****
Having Steven Taylor in my loft is not part of the plan.
Having beautiful Emily, his wife, there, though, definitely has been. I had her in my bed this afternoon, spread out and begging for more. And I know that he hasn't had her that way for a long time, long enough to give me my chance. I've been taking it for a while now. And loving it.
Taylor's walking around my loft, so smooth, so cool and calm and certain, looking at the paintings like they're just another thing he can buy if he wants, making his snide comments about how trashy and potent they are, like his praise means anything. He couldn't paint a straight line if he had to. I wonder if he really gives a damn about her. Maybe she's just part of the package, beautiful, elegant, something to take out to parties and fuck when he's in the mood. And something to ignore the rest of the time.
I love her. I really do. And I can keep her happy, as long as the money's there.
Oh, I love the money, too, and I never forget about it. But I give her what she wants. And it's not that hard. If he'd been smart enough to give her a few more compliments and kisses and asked about work and seemed like he really wanted to hear the answers, I would have been on to the next one.
But he didn't. And now he's here. And I'm thinking it's for more than just to check out the paintings. Maybe he's suspicious. I know Emily's worried about him coming here. I'd better start paying more attention to him, see what I can do to keep him thinking I'm just another artist she's met and maybe had a coffee with, but no more than that. He has to think that I'm no threat to him.
"See anything you like? They're all for sale."
He turns to study me, and I know I've shown too much hunger. None of the rich like hunger. They don't want to think about something that basic.
"I'm here to *see* what you've got, David." Well, that settles that. He's not buying. "To see if your work's worth recommending to my friends. If you're worth the time and energy it'll take to convince them I've found a new artist." And he gives me a thin smile before he turns back to the work.
I don't like that tone in his voice. It's too cool. Almost knowing. When I was in Soledad State Prison, or Berkeley, as I call it, I learned about tones like that. They always meant it was time to get ready to suck someone off, or get fucked.
I don't do that any more.
I need to get myself back under control. Steven Taylor's not into guys. And he doesn't know a damn thing about me and Emily. Or he wouldn't be here. He'd be talking to a lawyer about a divorce. Or to Emily about a vacation.
I'm safe. As long as I'm careful. And I'm always careful.
"I think some of my friends will be interested in your work," he says casually when he turns around this time, and I start breathing again. That will mean money. And I like money. "I'll be in touch with them. All right if I give them this number?"
"Great." I show him my humble-and-happy-artist smile, the one that got Emily wanting to help me, along with a few other talents I've honed over the years. But he's not getting those.
He frowns. "But it wouldn't hurt to have some cards to give out. These people," he half-smiles, "they're so unpredictable. Do you have any cards, David? Or should I tell people to get in touch with that gallery you and Emily love so?"
I don't want people going through the gallery. Then those vultures will have to have their piece of me. I give him a nod and go grab some of the cards with my number from over by the spare paint tubes. When I turn back around, he's right in front of me.
I didn't even sense him there. I really have to start paying more attention to this guy. He's smarter than I thought. Bad news, but I can handle him. I can handle anybody.
"Hey, Mr. Taylor, here you go." I hope this smile doesn't show how this is making me feel. He's crowding me. I want to hit him. Or get down on my knees. I hate it when those two responses collide.
He takes the cards and sticks them in his jacket. "Thank you, David." And he takes a step back, enough to get rid of the conflict, but I still can't get away. "I'll make sure these get around. Then maybe you can find some kind of decent place."
"This suits me fine." It's cheap, and no one gives a damn what I do.
He nods. "Yes. I can see why Emily likes coming here. Just that touch of Bohemia I've taken out of her life." His dark eyes are smiling, but I don't like what he just said. He shouldn't be thinking that.
"She's never been here, Mr. Taylor."
Before I can get away, he has me by the collar and belt and I'm shoved against the table, pinned there by his body. "Why do you keep lying, David?" His breath is hot against my face, and his face is all I can see, dark eyes boring into mine. "I know you're fucking Emily, and you know it, too. She was here today, probably even when I called. Isn't that right?"
"You've got it all wrong." I'm not going to admit anything.
"I've got pictures, David. Proof. I know just what I'm talking about."
All right, all right. Fuck. How the hell do I get out of this one? "Show me these pictures." He'd have to let me go, and I know where the gun is. That should get him out of here. Then I'll figure out what to do.
He laughs and pushes me back harder against the edge of the table. The hard wood's hurting me as it digs into my back, and my head's almost upside down and starting to pound from the blood rushing into it.
"And give you a chance? No, David. Or should I say Winston? Winston Lagrange. It suits you."
This has gone out of control. He knows my real name.
"Oh, yes, Winston, I know all about you."
"What do you want?" I'll say anything now, but he's a fool if he thinks I'm going to keep any promises he gets me to make.
The hand holding my belt presses against my crotch, but I don't know if that's on purpose. "You fucked Emily. Now I'm going to fuck you. I'm sure that a pretty boy like you had a lot of chances at Soledad to learn how to be good at it."
Shit. And the worst of it is I'm getting hard. And he has to know that.
"Feels to me like you learned a *whole* lot there, Winston." He's still got me pushed against the table, but that lower hand is feeling my cock through my jeans as his hip and the hand at my collar keep me in place. "Like how to enjoy the inevitable. Is that something you learned, Winston?"
I don't answer, and he squeezes my cock, his fingers hurting now. I bite back a moan.
"You're getting off easy, Winston. I have some information on what you did in Boca Raton." The tennis one. The one with the nice forehand and the fabulous mouth. And the beautiful bearer bonds. "The lady has a photo of the suspect. All the police need is the name. The real name. Then it's strike three, Winston. And that means fifteen years, with no chance of parole." His fingers tighten even more. "But I don't care about her. All I want is my payback. Now." He chuckles. "And I'll enjoy getting it."
I can't argue now. I don't have any damned choices. "Go ahead and rape me, then." I use the harsh word on purpose. Might be enough to make him think, give me a moment to get away from him.
It doesn't. "Nowhere to do it but the goddamn bed," he mutters and jerks me up, then around, pushing me over to my pulled-together bed. With sheets that still have Emily's scent on them. That's going to be interesting. "And you're going to be good for me, right, Winston? Because if I see anything, anything at all that looks funny, I'm going right to the police. Got it? And I'm betting you don't have the guts to shoot me with that gun you've probably got hidden somewhere. I think you'd lose your nerve. You're the kind of guy who fucks women over for their money, not a killer."
Shit. He's right. And hell, so he fucks me. How bad can that be? I have done it before.
He senses my surrender. "That's better. Now say it, Winston. Say you'll be good."
"I'll be good, Mr. Taylor." Sounds stupid to call him that, but I need him to know that I know what's going on. He is in charge here.
"You can call me Steven now, Winston. No need to be formal, considering I'm going to have my cock up your ass in a matter of minutes."
He shoves me face down on the bed. I sprawl there, trying to get my breath back. Getting turned on by him was not part of the plan, either. But the plan is all to hell and gone now.
He's stripping off his expensive suit jacket like an old t-shirt when I roll over, and drapes it over the same chair that Emily uses for her clothes when she's here. Insane. He looks at me after he's out of his shirt.
"Get the clothes off, Winston."
His voice is almost bored, but his eyes show he's really looking forward to this.
"You ever done this before?" I risk as I fumble with the button of my jeans.
He finishes yanking off his shoes and socks and shoves them under the chair. "I don't think that's your business, Winston."
"Hey, Steve, I don't want to get ripped open." I hear myself and shudder. Back in Soledad for sure, checking if a guy I haven't fucked yet needs to be led through the whole thing. God. And I'm still hard. I got truly fucked up in Soledad.
Soledad showed me just how much I liked any and all kinds of sex. Any way I could get it. And I got it a lot of ways there.
"You saying a man with your resume can't handle me?" He's got his cock out, and it's pointing right at me. He smiles. "Sure you can. You look like that's just what you want to do. Hell, maybe I shouldn't fuck you. You want it too much."
Rich fucking bastard. I glare at him as he works off his pants. Fucked if I get it and fucked if I don't.
"But I don't care if you want it, Winston. I want it. That's all that matters." The smoothness of his voice just doesn't go away, even when he's naked and hard and talking sex. And he is hard. He hasn't been getting any behind Emily's back.
Unless it's that the thought of fucking the guy who's been fucking his wife really turns him on.
And that wouldn't surprise me at all. He's jaded, been living the good life too long. I'm that walk on the wild side he's been envying Emily for having the courage to take.
All right, Steve. Let's get walking.
I strip off my shirt, then my jeans, and see his eyes find my erection. Yeah, Steve. Think about how that might feel in you. Might happen. You think you've got me, but I'm the one who's done this before. I'm pretty sure you're a virgin about guys. You're going to lose that cool edge at some point. And then we'll see who gets fucked then.
"So what do you want first?" Never hurts to ask.
He laughs and sits on the bed. "I'll show you, Winston."
And he grabs me by the hair and dives into my mouth with his tongue. Jesus. He's kissing me. And he's pretty good. I'm grinding up against him, all the responses I learned in that cell in Soledad, the showers, the other cells I got loaned out to when my guy decided he needed a favor done or gotten, coming right back to me.I know how to be a really good punk. I just don't want to do it. Especially not with him.
"Not bad, Winston," he murmurs when he's through. "But I'm sure you can do better." And he just sits there, smiling. Waiting.
He's waiting for me to kiss him. Come on, Steve. You want me, you do the work. That's the rule.
"Come on, Winston." His voice promises a lot more than any straight guy should be able to. "You kissed Emily. Now I want you to kiss me."
He's into this to humiliate me, I realize. He's going to keep bringing her up, bringing up anything that'll make me do what he wants. Maybe the best thing to do is to get down on my knees and take that cock into my mouth. That should shut him up. And he's a good size for sucking.
I decide to get on the floor, and his hands grab my balls before I've done anything much more than shift my weight. I howl with the shot of pain he gives me.
"Did I say to do that?" His voice is ice. "Trying to rush this, Winston? Decided you'd rather go back to jail?" His fingers release me when I shake my head. "Now get back here and try again."
I don't want to go there. There are too many opportunities for a man as smart as me out here. Time out of prison, a superfine thing. What it's all about. Along with the money to enjoy that time.
I swallow and ease back to my place beside him. And lean over to give him that kiss, complete with my best tongue work. He's not going to let me off with anything else.
"Much better." His eyes are gleaming. "I see what Emily liked about you. Very oral. Now you can get on your knees. That mouth of yours will do just fine," he pauses, "for now."
I want to go get a condom, but I remember how he hurt me the last time I did something he hadn't specifically ordered. So I go to the floor and tell myself that he's probably clean. Before I can take him in my mouth, he's holding a packet out to me.
"Put this on with your mouth, Winston," he says very softly as I rip it open, and I can't believe I'm blushing. I've been fucked by murderers without turning a hair, for god's sake, and this fucking investment banker is making me feel like some kind of desperate kid.
And he knows it, too. Steven Taylor has a talent for this, a natural pitcher. And he's enjoying every minute of it.
Can't say that I am. I want this to be over. I hate the way he's making me feel. I thought I was over being some guy's catcher.
Obviously not. It's all still there.
I lean over, the rolled-up latex between my lips, and work it over his erection. He lets out a little sigh, almost too low to hear, but I catch it. It gives me some hope. Sure, he's been in control so far, but I'm not forgetting how any guy gets weak in the knees when he's got a warm, wet, and talented mouth around his cock. Steve's in for a big surprise.
I'm going to be the best he's ever had.
But damned if he doesn't stay in control, even when I take both his balls in my mouth at the same time and work my tongue over them. Oh, he fucks my mouth, lets out sounds that I know mean he's loving it, but there's none of that 'about to blow' feeling about him. He'd grab me in a moment if I did something he didn't want.
Like going for his throat and turning this all around.
I'd like to do that. I want to fuck him now. He's made me go back to a place I don't like, and I want to get out of it and ram my cock up his ass and watch his face twist up in pain. I want to make him scream. Maybe even out of pleasure if I get a good enough ride out of his hole.
But I don't dare make that move. Not unless he gives me that opening.
He finally takes me by the hair and pulls me off. I had his shaft all the way in and I could feel that he was getting close to shooting. I was hoping he didn't know. Once he comes, he's *got* to lose that cool.
He knows that. He probably even knows that I'm watching for my chance. Steve's a smart guy. I forget sometimes that he didn't grow up a little rich kid. His father worked in the shipyards, welding plates together, bringing home new scars from the hot metal hitting his skin. And Steve, he didn't end up anywhere like that. Steve's not that different from me.
Steve's a survivor. And survivors always know how to go for the throat.
I wish mine wasn't so damned bare right now.
He yanks me up to the bed like I'm some kind of rag doll he can just position anyway he wants, and where he wants me is on my hands and knees. He keeps hold of my hair, keeps me in place as the fingers of his free hand stroke my cock, taking the precome and spreading it all over my shaft, even down over my balls. I'm moaning soon. I want to come. But I'm sure he's not going to let me. I thrust into his grip to check, and the next thing I feel is his hand yanking my hair. I probably lost a few strands that time.
"Don't get impatient, Winston. You'll come." His voice is so damned amused. "But I promised you a fucking. How long has it been since you had that, Winston? Too long, or not long enough?" His hand moves back to my ass, and I know what's coming. He keeps talking as he works in a finger. I can feel that he's got a glove on, lube too. He came here knowing he was going to do this. I fell right into his fucking trap. "I think it's been much too long for you. I think you like getting fucked in the ass."
"And what do you know about liking it up the ass, Steve? You been right where I am, maybe?"
That earns me another yank to the hair, but it was worth it. Yeah, Steve's got his weak spots. I'll remember that.
If I can. He's added another finger, and it slides right in. Steve's really good at this. I push back to get in more.
"Winston." He drawls out that damned name. "I knew I was right about you."
He keeps working those fingers into me, and I groan and wish I was flat on the bed, wish I could hump my cock into the blanket, let the rough wool get me off along with his fingers, but his hand in my hair is keeping me right up on my hands and knees, and I don't think telling him I *need* to get off is going to do any good. He's enjoying how I'm squirming now. I can tell by how his cock is poking into my leg.
And then his fingers are gone, and I'm whimpering. Damn Steve. He's making it so damned hard for me to do anything but give in. And that's just what I'm doing.
And then there's no need to whimper; there's something even bigger and better making its way in, and I can smell whatever Steve uses for aftershave or cologne or whatever rich guys put on, and it's all around me, making me dizzy. He's going into my ass, and his hand is pulling my head up, but I don't care, because he's right inside, filling me up, and oh, god, he's right; it's been too long. Too long. And he knows what he's doing, or he's got incredible luck, because he's hitting that spot that makes it all worth the pain that's always there after a hard fucking, and he's fucking me hard; he's fucking me; oh, god, Steve's fucking me, and I can feel him swell, hear him growl, and he's coming.
And he pulls out and keeps me in the same damned pose and I haven't come. I'm making sounds I've never heard myself make.
He's laughing, and it's at me.
"Want to come, Winston?"
He's still behind me. I can feel his body against my legs and ass, his sweat mixing with mine. I can't stop panting, can't stop whimpering, can't stop. Can't.
"If you want to come, you have to ask for it."
Beg, he means. But I have to come, I have to come, I have to.
"Please, Steve, let me come. Get me off. Please." God, I hate begging.
The bastard is laughing even louder now. "Sure thing, Winston. I'll get you off. Wouldn't want this to be an unpleasant experience for you, no, not at all."
I want to cuss him out, but his hand's back around my cock, no glove now, and he's working it just right, and I don't even care that he's still got that hand tangled in my hair or that my scalp's hurting from all the yanking or that the husband of the woman I've been trying to get to run away with me has just fucked me and gotten what he wants, because I'm getting what I want and it's so good, so good, so goddamn good.
I groan as I finally get off. And he eases me down on the bed and has a handkerchief out to wipe the come off my body. I'm surprised at that. Maybe Steve's really not as bad a guy as I thought. Maybe he's got all that dominant shit out of his system.
He gets up, and I drift off, I guess, because when I open my eyes, he's dressed and looks like he's done nothing more than have a long talk about currency rates or whatever the hell investment giants discuss over a drink or two after work.
His eyes move over me, and they're cool and calm. I can hear him talking to Emily about his visit here now. "Interesting work. I can see what you see in him, my dear. I'm considering one of his pieces." And she'll want to know which one. She knows all of my pieces. "Oh, I was thinking a commission. Something," his smile so cool, "special."
Yes, Steve would want something special. And he got it.
"Thank you for the tour, David." I'm surprised to hear him call me that. "And I'll be passing these cards around. I'm sure you'll be getting some calls. I'll be very positive about your work."
I push myself up. "Is that so?"
He looks surprised that I'm questioning him. "Why not? You'll need to find another source of income." He waits for me to ask, but I'm not going to. "After Emily hears about your taste for men," thin, evil smile, "she's not going to want you to touch her. I've already arranged for a friend of mine to say he picked you up in a bar and fucked you. I'll tell him everything he needs to know. Especially about that interesting tattoo you've got on your ass."
I told her I got drunk and reckless one night with some friends, but I got it in prison. A gift from my pitcher. Something to remember him by, he said as he watched the guy put it on.
He's holding the come-stained handkerchief, and I wonder if he's going to show her that, too.
"No, I wasn't planning to." I must have said that out loud. He smiles again. "I wanted a memento." He takes out a plastic bag and carefully put the handkerchief away. "You don't mind, do you?"
I don't say anything. Fuck. I'm screwed. And I don't have any energy to fight him.
"You take care, David."
And he's gone.
The End
Posted 8/9/00
The sequel, That lovely money
