Under Lock and Key

by Silk

Part 7--NC-17

His quarters were small. Spartan. But they were clean and free of surveillance. One of the perks of being the right hand of God. Greg stifled an urge to laugh hysterically. In his world, God's name was George.

Hillinger began stripping off his clothes, suddenly wanting to get the whole thing over with. A well-muscled arm gripped him around the waist, pulling him into a tight embrace. "You didn't ask "May I?" now, did you?"

A fierce glint entered Hillinger's obsidian eyes. "Oh, sorry. You didn't tell me you were into the Master-Slave thing. Where would you like my sorry ass...Mas-ter?"

Jason grinned, his dark chocolate eyes sparkling like fresh champagne. "You'll do, Greggie, you'll do."

"Do what?"

"Whatever the Hell I say."

Greg snorted. He couldn't disagree with that.

Jason began pushing Hillinger's shirt open, tearing the buttons off when they would not cooperate with his suddenly awkward  fingers. When his bare shoulder was exposed, Jason lowered his mouth to Greg's skin and suckled, raising a welt there.

"Hey! No marks!"

"Shut up, Greg. You're mine now."

To say that Hillinger found Jason's possessiveness profoundly disturbing on any number of levels would be an understatement of the worst kind. Frowning at his would-be lover, Hillinger said, "I don't *belong* to anyone but myself, Jason."

That's where you're wrong, boy. You've always belonged to me. Jason pushed, none too gently, and Hillinger went sailing backwards to land with a soft thump on his bed.

"Fine," snarled Greg, unaware that his color had risen or that tears came, unbidden, to his eyes. "Fuck me then, you fucking heathen! Fuck me and get out!"

After slowly disrobing himself, Jason stood there, his slight, slender frame surprisingly muscular and well-toned. "I don't want to *rape* you, Greg."

"The Hell you don't!" Greg shouted. "Isn't that what you fucking hillbillies do?" he railed venomously.

Jason chuckled. "I don't hear no banjo music, boy. And this sure as Hell ain't Deliverance."

Jason gazed intently into Greg's wide black eyes, as if he were searching for something he was certain would be there. If he could only look hard enough.

A tear trickled down Greg's cheek, spilling its silvery burden as it traveled. A moment later, Jason's finger captured the drop. He touched the tip of his finger to his tongue and smiled at the taste. "I always wanted to taste you."

Covering the younger man's body with his, Jason seemed more than comfortable there. "You still want to fight with me?"

Greg shook his head mutely. Something about this whole scene confused him. His head was struggling valiantly to get in touch with his heart. Not to mention his dick.

"Good."

A second later, Jason touched his lips to Greg's, and the Oversight op jerked away, as if he were struck by lightning. "Christ!"

Jason blinked. "He's not here right now, Greg. Will I do?"

"Oh, my God!"

"You're not worried about that betrayal thing again, are you, Greg? Cause I told you...." Jason's voice faded away.

When he spoke again, the Southern drawl was gone. In its place was...something else.

"...I told you I wouldn't mind."

Oh, God. Greg drew in a shuddering breath. He had finally lost his mind. Because...in front of him...was either a damn good imitation of...or the real...amazingly alive...

Birkoff.

Part 8