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NOTE: This story was written for the Zodiac Challenge – Virgo. “Kinky” challenge. It definitely has kink and a flashback to an unusual pairing – Methos/Joe. There is also no mention of the Autumnal Equinox – so don’t bother looking. I think it is NC-17 even if I did fast forward one sex scene (it wasn’t kink.)
JOE’S GOOD WITH SECRETS
I got up, showered, brushed my teeth, drank a beer – big mistake, the order should have been reversed – and Duncan MacLeod was still sleeping. Passed out might have been a better description. Spent. I’d seen him shot, after several quickenings – hell. I’d seen him dead -- and he hadn’t looked this bad. If this is the way he reacts every time he has sex, it is a wonder he is still alive. Some immortal should have realized it, sent over a hot number for him to screw, maybe watched, and when he was finished taken his head. Kalas, for instance, surely would have known. Or Amanda. The wench must really love him. Still, perhaps this was something extraordinary; after all, he’d been with me.
I sit on the side of the bed and run my hand along his broad back, narrow waist, and perfect ass. He has the archetypical warrior’s body. He could have masqueraded as Hercules or even Ares. He stirs slightly and opens one eye. He has the frightened look on his face. I know that he is thinking that this can’t be real, and if it is . . .
“Good to see you’re back, MacLeod.” I say with my usual acerbic tone.
“What happened, Methos?” As if he doesn’t know.
“What do you think happened?”
“What I think happened is frightening. What did we do?”
I pause for a few seconds and contemplate my answer.
“It’s called fucking – in its crudest most generic sense.” I study his facial expression. My explanation does not sit well with him. “Would you prefer a technical scientific term or perhaps a euphemism?”
“How drunk was I?”
“Nope, MacLeod, that excuse isn’t going to work this time. You knew what you were doing. Maybe the more probative question was ‘How horny were you?’”
“Methos . . .
“MacLeod . . .”
I watch his face. Expressions changed as if suggested by an Academy Award winning director. He is either reliving the events of last night or trying to forget them. Maybe both.
“You realize, that we can’t do that again.”
“Why not, you certainly seemed to enjoy it.”
“That I did.” He sighs. I’ve never heard him sigh before.
“So . . . why not?”
“Joe.”
“Joe?”
“He’s my watcher. He keeps chronicles. He’d never understand.”
I shake my head and stare off into the distance.
* * * * *
Thirteen years earlier.
Adam Pierson usually avoided Don Saltzer’s Watchers’ dinners. It wasn’t simply that Don’s wife was not a good cook, because she did know and frequently used interesting caterers; but more because of a constant fear that he might say something in casual conversation that might cause others to suspect his true identity. Methos was not yet comfortable in his Adam Pierson persona – that would take at least five or more years.
Tonight he had no choice. Don was entertaining a Watcher
from the
Joe Dawson was a tall, handsome man in his late thirties. He still carried with him the presence of a United States Marine, sporting short-cut, thick, dark hair -- showing the first flecks of silver and white, a strong upper body, and impossible to fathom --unless you had been told -- two artificial legs. He walked with a cane and gave the impression of a man who’d twisted his knee playing soccer or American football.
Don had introduced them, given them a bottle of scotch, and gone off to tend to other business. Adam and Joe started talking and drinking and the evening had flown by. Adam had never been to Seacouver and Joe loved to talk about history. Both seemed to enjoy the sound of their own voices and a contest ensued as to who could out quip the other. It was not surprising that they left together; the same route led both to Adam’s flat and the pension where Joe was staying.
Adam had feared that he would walk too fast, but Joe had managed to keep up. He was amazed at the man’s physical stamina. Now he stood and prepared to take leave of him on the sidewalk wishing that he did not have a third floor walk-up so that he could invite him in for a drink.
“I’d invite you up to my flat, but . . . “
“Wondering why you hadn’t?”
“It’s on the third floor.”
“So.”
“That’s four flights of stairs. Tall ones, too. Sometimes even I don’t want to climb up there.”
“I can handle it, Pierson, that is if you have a bottle of scotch up there. Not worth it if all you have is beer.”
“Got scotch, good stuff, too.”
“I wonder how a graduate student defines‘good stuff.’”
“What I serve to Don and my somewhat infrequent dates.”
“OK, if you serve it to dates, it has to be good.” Joe snarled and walked toward to the door.
Adam fumbled with the key and held the door open.
“Run along. This may take a while. Have the scotch poured. Neat. When I get there.”
* * * * * *
Adam kicked off his Fisherman-style sandals and headed to the kitchen to look for a clean glass. He opened a beer and took a slug from the bottle. He wondered about the man with no legs making it up the stairs. There definitely were other places, much easier to get to, for them to have gotten another drink. Why did he want to take him to his place? He certainly had not read any interest on Dawson’s part indicating more than a desire to drink and talk. That could have been done in a bar or on a park bench.
By the time Dawson arrived, Adam had finished his beer. The scotch was sitting at a side table near a large easy chair, which he had designated for his guest, and he’d pulled a wooden chair over toward an overstuffed ottoman. He reminded himself not to ask Dawson to sit down with a crass comment like “get a load off your feet.”
Joe arrived with a satisfied smile on his face. He didn’t seem winded.
“You weren’t kidding about those stairs.”
“I don’t kid about things like that, Joe. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. I can see why you don’t have to go to the health club.”
“Europeans are used to it. I’m sure some federation hands out awards medals in stair climbing.”
“Where’s the scotch?” Joe knew what was important.
Adam pointed to the chair and Joe sat down with a grateful smile. He closed his eyes and downed the drink in one gulp. Maybe it had been too much of a strain. Adam retrieved the bottle to keep close at hand, and grabbed himself another beer.
A quiet, chummy conversation about nothing in particular was interrupted when Adam casually placed his bare feet on the ottoman. It was an innocent and unconscious act. He leaned back on the rear legs of his chair, stretched up his arms and legs, and fanned his toes. Joe’s eyes suddenly locked on his feet and for a few seconds he seemed unable to speak.
“I’m sitting in YOUR chair, Pierson.”
“Well, since I only have one . . . comfortable one . . . I’ve got . . . no this is fine.”
“It’s not fine. You sit here. I don’t mind a wooden one.”
“You’re my guest. Whatever you want.”
“If I told you what I wanted.” Dawson’s voice was low and tentative, a side of him Adam had never seen. He had no idea what was about to happen.
“What?” A dumb question.
“Tell you what, Pierson. I’ll give you the chair, if you let me . . . no I can’t . . .”
“What?” Even dumber the second time.
“I want to touch you feet. Feel your toes. Do you
know, I haven’t felt toes since my niece was a baby. I used to sit with
her on my lap and play with her toes.” The far away look on Joe’s face
when he talked about the baby worried Adam.
Dawson ran his hand along to top of Adam’s foot. He traced the prominent vein that ran from the ankle toward what might be called the ring toe. Adam remembered when he had worn rings on his toes at a time when he worked for an Arabian sheik and sometimes at night sought favors . . . damn it why was he thinking of sex – that was definitely not going to happen that night – at least, he had thought, until Joe left. Perhaps it was because this handsome dark-haired man was fondling his foot? He took a draw from his beer and closed his eyes. His thoughts went somewhere else, perhaps because he knew it would embarrass Joe if he tried to speak or even make eye contact.
“You have beautiful feet, Adam. Large ones, too. You know what they say about the size of a man’s feet?” Adam knew. It was true. He wondered why Joe cared. “I always tried to take care of my feet when I was in Nam. Jungle rot would get you if you weren’t careful. Those canvas boots helped some, but cotton socks were the best. Clean socks. I tried to wash them every night. Fat lot of good it did me.”
Suddenly Adam began to worry. An immortal’s feet did not develop calluses and corns. His toes were exceptionally straight and tipped with perfect nails that several of his wives had wanted to highlight with polish. Would Joe question this? Would he even notice? Did he really just kiss his arch? The man had a kink that wasn’t easily suspected by strangers, that was for sure. Adam had two choices, he could tell Joe to stop, or he could fan his toes again and egg him on. He opted for the second.
He smiled as Joe ran kisses up the length of his foot and then slowly began to lick the top of his toes. His probing tongue filled the gaps between them spreading them a part. He began licking each one along its length as if he was urging it to grow longer and fuller. Something was growing that way, but it sure wasn’t his toes. He swore this ex-Marine was performing cunnilingus on his toes.
Suddenly it changed to fellatio. Dawson had taken his big toe in his mouth. He ran his teeth roughly along the toe while continuing to lick and beginning to suck. Adam opened his eyes to see that Joe had closed his; the man was somewhere else, probably thinking of an experience totally unrelated to Adam Pierson. Adam took a deep breath and watched quietly as Joe continued. There was no mistaking the shudder that ran through Joe’s body just before he took the toe from his mouth and lowered Adam’s foot slowly to his lap. He sat silent for a few minutes before he spoke.
“Now that . . . was embarrassing. I’m sorry Adam. I must have had a lot more scotch than I thought. I can’t begin to apologize.” Joe fumbled for his cane that had fallen next to his chair, and when he couldn’t reach it, tried to stand using the arms of the chair. There was no mistaking the wet spot on the front of his khaki pants.
“It’s OK, Joe.”
“It’s not OK. I . . . I . . . damn it Adam. I have no idea what to say.”
“How about, let’s adjourn to the bedroom.” Adam said with a wink.
“What? I’m not . . . gay.”
“I’m not saying that you are, Joe. All I am saying is that if you enjoyed the feeling you got passively using my body, just you wait to see what I can do when I decide to go active.”
* * * * *
Joe had sat on the edge of his bed and lifted his artificial legs. Adam reached down, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. He started to pull off the pants by tugging at the cuffs when he wondered if the shoes came off.
“Shoes are real. So are the socks. Not too stylish though. I find slip-on ankle boots work best.”
Adam removed the boots. He stared at the narrow plastic feet. The toes were molded tightly together. He suspected he knew what had fascinated Joe. He didn’t stop, he pulled off the khaki’s and tried not to stare at the prosthetics attached to the man he was about to bed.
“They’re held on by suction. Pull them off. Couple more layers . . . “ Adam realized that there were socks over the stumps, which were still warm and slightly sweaty from the climb on the stairs. Something told him that right now a hug, or maybe a kiss would be a welcome sign. So he moved forward, not bothering to remove the somewhat unattractive print boxers Joe was wearing. Obviously the man had not planned on getting laid that night.
He watched a look of panic fill Joe’s face as he dropped to his knees. Perhaps Joe was expecting him to begin with oral sex and from his expression he was not ready. When Adam moved his head closer, it became more apparent that he was just equalizing his height with the seated man. He placed his large hand on the back of Joe’s head, quietly bristling his freshly cut hair, and pulled him close for a kiss. He realized that Joe had not expected this either and it took a few seconds for him to recognize that Adam was orchestrating a seduction. He didn’t break from Joe’s mouth until the man had allowed him to enter him with his tongue and had begun to kiss him back.
“Wow, you’re a good kisser.” Joe said almost surprised.
“What did you expect?” Adam said sarcastically.
“Don’t know? Don’t kiss a lot of men.” Joe lowered his head and looked down. Adam couldn’t tell if he was looking at his erection or his own.
“Lie back and relax. Let me get undressed, and a few . . . “ Adam realized from the look on Joe’s face that one he was not relaxed, and two, he may have gone too far with expectations when he started thinking about lube and condoms. “. . . candles. Do you want another drink?”
“Please. “ Joe watched as he walked across the room, pulling off his sweater and dropping his jeans. Adam was wearing a pair of black Italian nylon underpants. He had expected to get laid tonight, but not immediately after the dinner at Don’s. “Make it a double, in fact, fill the glass.”
“Sure thing. Maybe I should join you.”
* * * *
Joe had propped himself up with pillows and pulled the sheet up over his thighs. Adam sat on the edge of the bed as they both drank their scotches. He was in no hurry. It would be even better if Joe was relaxed and he didn’t have to worry about being excited.
He ran his hands under the edge of the sheet and rubbed his thighs. Slowly he pulled the sheet back and in the dim light looked more closely at Joe’s legs. He knew this made Joe uncomfortable and bit his lip to avoid making some comment about modern surgery, but the last amputation he had seen belonged to a pirate who had had his leg removed with a cutlass. The skin on Joe’s leg was thick with scars and calluses; but Adam cupped the end gently, stroking it with his hands with the tenderness Joe had used on his feet.
“You used to like that, didn’t you? Someone running a hand along the inside of your thigh. Someone stroking gently. Wishing they would move up, but content for the time being just to have a strong hand on you strong thigh.” Adam Pierson was not a stranger to seduction.
Joe moaned softly and closed his eyes. Adam nudged Joe toward the center of the bed to give him room to lie beside him. Quietly he grabbed the waistband of the boxers and pulled them down. He was somewhat shocked by the size of the cock he found inside.
“You had big feet, too, didn’t you Joe?” He said with a slight chuckle.
Joe didn’t answer. He sighed as Adam took his cock into his mouth. Adam was surprised that a man who had recently cum was hard so quickly. Obviously, Joe was excited. Even a slight trepidation on his part would have slowed the tumescence. He savored the work of modern surgery the produced the rough, dry head of a cut cock with the convenient ridge around which a man could run his tongue. He felt Joe shudder as the worked his magic on his body. Dawson was about to cum again, this time in Adam’s mouth.
* * * *
Adam sidled up the bed and lay beside Dawson. He was unsure if he should take him in his arms and kiss and cuddle. Women liked that. Some men did, too, but others just wanted you to go away. Most French men liked to smoke. He hoped Dawson didn’t. Fortunately his jacket was in the living room . . . so even if he had wanted. , , , Adam watched carefully and looked for a clue. It wasn’t coming.
“I don’t reciprocate.” Dawson had gone serious.
“I thought THIS WAS reciprocation. For what you did earlier.”
“What, cum in my pants like a schoolboy? I said I was fucking sorry.”
“No need to be sorry, Joe. That was you and your passion. Never apologize for what you are.”
He could tell by the look on Joe’s face that he wasn’t believing him. Adam was not used to being sincere, especially in bed.
“When you let your Marine guard down and showed me your needs and desires, I really wanted to . . . I wanted you . . . “
“Warts and all. I’ve heard that before, Pierson. You’re not that original. How stupid do you think I am to fall for that line?”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say . . . and it ISN’T a line, Joe. If I were just using a line, it would be a lot better, I assure you. How young . . . or unsophisticated . . . do you think I am?”
“Touché”
They both laughed. It was a stupid Watcher joke. Now was the time for another kiss. Joe was ready and responded with passion. Adam wasn’t sure if that meant that he wanted to go further or call it a night.
“I don’t want to make you go down those stairs tonight. So if you want to stay here, you can have my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
“You don’t have a couch, Pierson.”
“Oops, another bad line. Caught me again. I have to be careful with you, Dawson, don’t I?”
Dawson reached up and pulled him into another kiss, running his hand’s down his body and over his nylon incased ass.
“Like my bum, do you Joe? Does that mean?”
“Doesn’t mean a thing. Other than you have a nice ass. I’ve never gone further than this?”
“Never.”
“Never when I had anything to say about it.”
‘Ouch’ Adam though. ‘Another sensitive point.’ Sex with Joe had become a minefield . .. “Oh my god I am glad I didn’t say what I just thought.’
“We don’t HAVE to do anything, except sleep, if that’s what you want. Except. . . “ He took Joe’s hand and placed it on his nylon encased erection. “I may need to do something about this.”
“I told you I didn’t . . “
“Would you mind if I did myself here, or do you want me to adjourn to the bathroom?” Adam watched Joe’s face as he pulled off his underwear and rubbed them over his hard cock. Joe’s eyes were glued to Adam’s cock and looked as if they were about to pop out of his head.
“Are there any other options?” Joe asked quietly.
“I never thought you’d ask.” Adam’s smile was huge.
“Why not. I’ve already made a fool of myself. I always . . .”
“Shush. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m very gentle and very thorough . . . and very horny.”
“Please use a condom.”
“I will, Joe, don’t worry.”
* * * * *
An unthinking Adam had rolled over and gone to sleep. It was a few hours later when Joe awakened him with a poke and explained that without his legs it was difficult to get up to go to the bathroom. Adam helped him slip on the legs and watched as he walked across the room. Without his clothes the full extent of the physical effort necessary to walk became apparent. Walking for him was like running. Climbing the stairs had to have been like scaling a good-sized mountain. When he got back to the bed he reached down and put his boxers back on before climbing on the bed with his legs still attached.
“Can you sleep like that?”
“When I have to.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I get up early.”
“So do I.”
“I may want to leave.”
“Without a good-bye kiss. You do leave a note, I hope.”
“Adam, we have to talk.”
“We’ll talk in the morning.”
“There won’t be a morning. This can never happen again.”
“Gods, was I that bad? I’m sorry.”
“You were great. It’s just that I’m a Watcher.”
“And Watchers don’t get . . . “ Suddenly Adam realized what he was about to say and shuddered. “I’m a Watcher, too.”
“Yes, but I’m moving to the West Coast of the United States. To watch Duncan MacLeod. Remember. That’s a half a world away. There’s no future for us Adam. It would be easier if we just forgot what happened tonight. Pretend it never happened. Keep our relationship professional.”
He reached out and pulled Dawson toward him. “Get this straight, Joe. I’m not going to forget. I’m not going to pretend it never happened. Something happened, and it was good. But if you don’t want it to happen again, that’s fine. I understand. I’ll keep it our secret.”
“I’m a watcher. I’m good at secrets.” “Believe me, Joe, I am, too.”
* * * * * *
“What makes you think Joe wouldn’t understand?” Methos asked.
“It’s just that he’s so straight. So heterosexual. A boy scout.”
“Are we talking about Joe Dawson here . . . or Duncan MacLeod?”
“Both . . . Maybe.”
I leaned over and kissed him hard on those thick, full lips --so hard that for a few minutes they were blood-filled and bruised. Until that immortal healing kicked in again. He still seemed uneasy and unsure.
“I can’t tell you how to deal with Duncan MacLeod, Mac. That’s your job. But let me assure you that nothing – absolutely nothing – we did here tonight will shock – or offend --Joe Dawson. You can’t use him for an excuse. And it won’t show up in any of his chronicles, either. Joe’s good with secrets. ”
“How . . . do you know.”
“Not going to get anything out of me, MacLeod. I am a Watcher.” I flashed my tattoo at him and turned my arm and gave him the finger.
He laughed, arose, grabbed me and pulled me back to the bed. I was not about to tell my secret, but I’m definitely willing to let him try to fuck it out of me.
McJude August 25, 2004
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