Jesus, this is really getting to me.

Obbos are usually boring as hell, so you never turn down a chance of catching anything more... interesting going on in any other windows nearby. And this could definitely be classed as interesting.

Can't fault CI5 equipment... power zooms...

... and speaking of equipment, that guy's hung like a horse. He's just standing there wanking, for all the world (or those with the right technology) to see. Almost as though he knows, or he's hoping, that there's somebody out there to admire the performance.

Have to admit that I know that feeling myself. Wouldn't ever admit as much, though.

Dammit, I've got a hard-on and a half - if that's possible - and in these jeans it's killing me.

A little touch wouldn't hurt, either.

No. Musn't. Not even with Bodie sleeping like the dead over there.

He's always going on about me jeans doing permanent damage to me family jewels because I wear 'em tight and at this moment damage is definitely becoming a possibility.

Yeah, I'll just undo the zip.

Much better.

Just a little touch.

No.

Yes.

Mmmm.

I mean there's nothing wrong with a wank... And as for the job, what are the odds that after - what - 48 hours here, something's going to happen in the next ten minutes?

He's got a good body, whoever he is. Got to give him that. Not that I go for men's bodies. Never did - just a bit of a turn on, watching him enjoying himself like that.

Damn zip. Getting in the way a bit. Just slide me jeans down a bit.

You've got to hand it to him (oh, good one): he's making a right old meal of it.

Oh, even better. He's got a bird there. Wandering in, starkers, and standing there watching him. Daft sod... why the hell keep up the DIY when she's there?

Ah, good lad. That's right, let her do the hard work.

God. Toys as well. Oh, missus, you randy little cow you. And she really does like that inside her. Pretty realistic for a bit of plastic, too.

That's it, love, tease the tip of his cock. He'll like that.

Yeah... like... that. Anybody'd think you could see me, eh?

Wonder how Maria would take to this sort of stuff? I mean she's reasonably adventurous when it comes to positions. Wonder if she has a vibrator?

Would be quite good if they moved on a little now.

Oh, they are. Or rather she is. She's kneeling in front of him, but they've turned around a bit. Most obliging. She's quite the artist too by the looks of it, teasing his balls like that as she sucks. Quite the pro.

My fingers are starting to get sticky. Not half as sticky as they'll be before long, at this rate...

Really should stop, particularly as Bodie's awake. I know he is. Don't know how, but I do.

Oh, sod it. He doesn't know I know and besides, I'm too far gone to stop now. He wouldn't dare call me on it anyway, right?

Nice. What they're doing and what I'm doing.

They're taking it all nice and slow, I must say.

Slower than me, in fact, or rather than my own hand.

Blimey. Oh, she likes that. Mind, what bird in her right mind doesn't enjoy a good hard finger fuck and she's certainly having a ball by the way she's wiggling her arse. He's doing a good job on the 'making sure she's happy' angle, must say. Paying plenty of attention to her clit. Never fails, that.

She's really into this by the way she's tossing her head around. Wish I could get the sound... effects... and I'm...

No. Can hold it a bit longer. Mind over matter and all that.

Wish I'd got a towel. Yeah, I'll get one as they're taking a break, heading for the bed. Can't miss that part.

There, that was quick. And Bodie's still pretending he's fast asleep. Good.

So where have they got to?

The guy's lying on his back, and he's still rock hard. Not the only one, mate.

Tiny sounds behind me. If I'm not mistaken Bodie's getting into the spirit of things too. Ever so discreetly. Randy sod. Getting turned on watching me getting turned on.

Ah, right. Time for her on top. He's throwing his head back. She's got her hands on his balls. And she's rising and falling. Can see her sliding up and down his cock, all wet... and by the looks of it he's... about to...

And he's... not the... only one.

Phew.

*
Always been handy, being able to pretend you're asleep when you're not. I dunno what Doyle's up to but he's fidgeting.

What the...

Ah. Don't think it's just a case of making room in his... oh no. Definitely not.

What are you looking at in that building opposite, my lad?

Well, if you want a wank, have a wank. Just make sure you tell me which room's the interesting one when it's my turn.

Some hope, considering I ended up with evenings as part of my off-watch hours. Damn.

No, I'm not going to watch. Either Doyle having a bit of fun with his right hand or getting up and sharing the binoculars. Much as, if I'm honest with myself, I rather like watching stuff - and this must be good if it's getting him quite this hot and bothered.

Getting me quite... interested meself, but more a question of imagining what he's seeing than admiring his technique.

Seen plenty of lads bringing themselves off in the army, of course: question of coming across a guy behind a tree or something. I'd leave 'em to it and find my own bit of space to do likewise if it gave me ideas. Some of the guys liked to watch others do it, though. Or they'd even do it together.

Weird. Would never go for that although I've always enjoyed watching a man and woman fuck during the odd obbo, or even while I was waiting for my turn in a crappy brothel, getting as turned on as Doyle's doing now.

Really must stop watching him. He'd probably be embarrassed if he knew. Wouldn't he?

Even found some little prat peering at me once when I was communing with my right hand, somewhere or other. Africa, I think. And hell yes, I was embarrassed. I grabbed him and gave him a kick in the arse.

Oh my, Raymond. He's really into it now. Seen him in the showers, of course. But not quite... like that. Pretty well hung, really.

Had a girlfriend once who swore that men's cocks were in proportion to their feet, and Doyle's got big feet. Mind, it doesn't always hold true. I've got smaller feet but I'm sure mine's just...

Mine's just fine. And stirring. Definitely requiring discreet attention now.

Biggest I ever saw, when I come to think of it, was on a guy in my regiment who didn't stop at the wanking. Caught 'im with his trousers down and his cock... up. As in 'up one of the other lads'. That, if I'm honest, was more interesting than watching people wank. That sort of horrified fascination sort of thing - seeing people doing something and wondering what the hell they get out of it. Like... I dunno... ballet dancing. Ironing.

Wanking is normal, though. I conclude. Everybody does it. Screwing another bloke... isn't, though. Simple as that. Although I've got to admit the two I watched enjoyed it plenty.

Ah. Panting going on over there. Dammit, I wish I could see what he's seeing. Just have to lie back and let my imagination wander.

Yeah, like when you've got a bird panting for it and all warm and wet in there. Hot. Tight. Mirrors are good for that, so you can see your cock doing its stuff...

Good thing I'm in the sleeping bag, and it's fairly dark over here. Doyle's really stepping up the action now and I'm not exactly slowing down meself.

Suppose the lad must be fairly good in bed, really. I know he's had plenty recently from all the 'I've been laid' grins - and I bet that fiery bitch he's going out with must be good. Wonder how he takes her? Wouldn't mind watching that at all.

Ooops. What's he...

Ah. Towel.

Wish I'd got one but with a bit of luck me spare T-shirt... Yep. Managed to reach for that very discreetly. Doyle's got his attention back on other things now anyway and if I'm not wrong he's about to...

Right again.

There you go, sunshine. Feel better for that? Me, I'm still busy with my own lewd thoughts. Mixture of images now, really. More thoughts of Doyle and Maria. Making a night of it with... whatsername. The one with the mirror on the ceiling.

Ah, Doyle's packed the jewels away and I'm...

... nearly...

There.

Also a happier man now.

Night, sunshine. And ta for the idea.

*
Second room to the left, he said. And grinned when he rolled over and went to sleep, or pretended to. Didn't admit just exactly how excited it made him last night, randy little toad, but I'm in no doubt about that.

Keep wondering if he knew I'd been watching. Something in his eyes made me think he did.

Surely not. Wouldn't be a bit of an exhibitionist, our Ray. Would he?

Nothing happening across the road. Damn.

Did check the names on the door during a break, ran a few names when I got a chance, and it's a hooker's place all right. Or rather call girl. Classy end of the market.

Bored. Hungry.

Slightly randy as well, because I was really hoping...

Car arriving. Bloody bus goes past so all I see is the door closing. Typical. Well somebody's there at least. Let the show begin, folks.

Ah.

Oh. Naked guy. So where's the blonde?

Jesus Chris. Another guy. Another fucking guy.

Surely not. And 'fucking guy' seems to be highly appropriate because...

Well, well. Lots of fondling. Is that what got Doyle so turned on? Nah, can't be. He said something about 'big boobs', didn't he?

Somebody else. Woman. Ah, now Raymond me boy, if it's a threesome you were watching, no wonder...

Two guys and a woman, though... bit unsatisfactory. One guy and two women, now, I can recommend most highly. Never actually did it with two men and just one bird.

Now that's interesting. Nothing like cutting straight to the action here. Girl on her knees and Guy A straight inside her. Wham.

Getting things stirring here, that. Suitably equipped too, thanks to the towel. Be prepared, right?

Must say the one watching's a big lad in every sense of the word. And getting himself pretty worked up as he watches. Guy A is watching him over the girl's shoulder. Seems fascinated.

Weird. Mind, Bodie, do remember you were watching Doyle at it last night.

Wonder what it would be like to share a bird with Ray?

Well, we could skip the 'fondling each other bit', for a start.

Yeah. Have to set ground rules if we ever did. Randy little sod that he is I'd put nothing past him. For all I know he could be into orgies or... just about anything.

Ahhhh... now that is definitely most watchable. She's sucking Guy B now. Girl sandwich.

That's right, ladies and gents. Take it to the bed... can still see over there pretty well.

Oh my. Oh my oh my. Towel time as this is definitely hot. She's on top of A and... enjoying herself and... B is....

Very kinky. Another sort of sandwich, that.

Tried it with a woman myself, of course. Who was it that liked that so much? Candy? Sandy? Something that rhymed with randy anyway. Mandy, maybe? She didn't like it enormously for some reason, although I certainly did.

Supposed at the time it must be the same if you're doing another man, although the idea of another man up my arse - no thanks.

These two definitely look like a couple of poofters. And if they're going to...

Dammit, they are. This time it's the girl who's watching and although the blokes are only snogging and rubbing against each other so far I have the feeling...

Guy B is about to get royally fucked, judging by all the K-Y being slathered around. I'm half watching that and half-watching the girl, who's got a vibrator now and oh boy, does she know how to use it. What a view.

She's enjoying a view of her own, mind.

Ah. Funny, never thought of two poofters at the snogging like that. Suppose I imagined it was doggy fashion and quick and dirty.

It's the girl who's turning me on, though. Definitely.

Are they going to fuck face to face? Must play hell with your knees. Ah, no, they're shifting around.

Now what are they...

Didn't think of one bloke on the other's lap either... but she's definitely having fun sucking the one on top. Or rather the one on the bottom if you consider that he's sitting on that bloody great...

Suddenly, I remind myself that I shouldn't be enjoying this bit. I can even hear me Mum's voice in me head saying 'that's revolting'.

They don't seem to find it disgusting, mind. Can it really be a turn-on for two men?

For a second or two, I take my own hand away as though I ought to be shocked at myself but then the girl moves away and gets down beside them beside them, caressing two pairs of balls. Now that is sexy.

My hand drifts back to where it was, and as she closes her fingers around the top guy's shaft and he climaxes long and hard, I know I'm not far behind.

Here we go...

Jesus.

*
That was... interesting, watching Bodie perform last night. Looks like he gets off on watching, but then an opportunity like that isn't to be missed.

Good thing I know how to look like I'm asleep.

I'm far better at it than he is. The pretending-to-sleep bit at least. Probably the discreet wanking as well, although I wasn't in the mood for it again just then, mainly because I already brought meself off in the loo earlier.

Heaven forbid something was actually happening two doors down at the house we're keeping an eye on.

Nah, he'd have said. Think Cowley's given up on it anyway.

Wonder why he went off the boil for a minute or two, though?

Maybe the guy's short and fat and hairy and can't get it up? Maybe the kinky stuff put him off, if she brought out the toys? Maybe that offends his macho image. Seem to think he once told me, when he was less than sober, that he likes his sex unadulterated and that there's enough variation without needing accessories.

Didn't exactly tell me he even watching another bloke wank as a spectator sport though, did he? Mind, I didn't admit that although I'm as straight as he is, I might be a bit more open to the fancy stuff and showing off.

Wouldn't do gay sex, although I've let a couple of queers at art school watch me wank. Particularly since they paid me to do it, after a class I'd been modelling for. Strictly on a 'don't touch' basis, it was, but how could I refuse when they were so openly admiring of my equipment, eh? Certainly got 'em going, and by the time I'd... finished the show, they were definitely all set to screw each other through the posing couch.

Refused their offers to let me join in, though. Decided it really didn't turn me on, however open-minded I am. Besides, I was on my way to have some fun of my own, with... whatever her name was. If I'm right, I was pretty inspired that night. Might even have been the first time I had a bird up the arse. Yeah, think it was. Didn't her friend join in at some point as well?

I'm hardly against threesomes or even foursomes when there's birds involved, I must say. Definitely not.

Wonder what Bodie thinks about 'em? Maria probably wouldn't like it, as she was pretty scathing about some friend of hers who got into one. Shame, really.

Dunno if I should ask Bodie, although he never ceases to surprise me.

Tired now.

Should sleep, but I keep thinking of that time with - yeah - Kim and... the other one with really big boobs. Was nice, that. Certainly gave 'em a memorable time even if I do say it myself. Can remember Kim now, all round-eyed, watching me deal with her mate and playing with herself. Or her mate getting me to lick Kim while she sat on me.

Mmmm. Down, boy.

Even enjoyed watching them fuck each other senseless. Hands and dildos all over the place. Nothing tasteless about that, but then I'm a guy.

No kidding.

Maybe women get off on watching two men?

Dunno. Don't care. Must get some sleep. Just wanted to make sure Bodie was enjoying the show.

Yeah, better just turn over and leave him to it, then forget about it. Besides, it's not the sort of stuff I could talk to Bodie about.

Can just imagine it. Me casually, out of the blue, telling him I can get off on being watched. During sex, that is. No bloody way.

Not bloke-talk at all, that.

If I'm honest, though, knowing Bodie was soaking it up seeing me watch the other two was...

Exciting. Yeah. Although I'm pretty sure he was doing a good job imagining what I was seeing rather than just getting turned on by me. Let's face it, he doesn't want to fuck me any more than I want to fuck him, unless I've been reading him wrong for the past couple of years.

Thing is, though, I do like the idea of him watching me perform. Properly. With a highly talented female partner rather than just a quick and dirty solo. Was thinking about that from the moment I realised he was only pretending to be asleep.

Hmmm. Remember letting another guy from art school - not one of the queers - watch me fuck... whatever her name was. Don't know who was the most excited in the end, to be honest, although it was probably me. Getting off from her being good and him just lying there, watching. Stroking her. Licking her. All while I was inside her, in one position or another. Course, I let him have her as well, but even then I could see him watching me lying there playing with meself.

Wouldn't let him touch me of course, only her, but he didn't seem to mind. Closest he got was to slide a hand under my balls when I took her from behind and I was too far gone to stop him at the time. He apologised afterwards, mind, and I said it didn't matter. It didn't. Know where my tastes lie.

God, that was quite a night. Or was it a weekend? All I remember is that it was good.

Sleep. Must sleep. Last night here, thank god.

*
Weird sort of day. Doyle kept disappearing. Things are winding down anyway.

Wonder if Cowley found it weird that I said I'd pop back to this flat as I'd lost a cufflink? First thing that came to mind, but he didn't react, just told me to take the keys and to do it on my own time. Can't think he'd have noticed I wasn't wearing a shirt, anyway.

And as for the binoculars, just happened to leave 'em in the car boot.

So come on, love. Where are you?

Who's she got there tonight? Preferably not another couple of bloody fairies. And heaven forbid she'll damn well take a night off. That would be just my luck.

Doyle asked me, all nonchalant, if I'd seen any "fun" last night, as he put it. In his favour, he'd reorganised our shifts to make sure I'd been there at the right time, without giving too many details - preferred it to come as a nice surprise, he said. That was the kind, sharing side of my beloved partner coming out - which it does once in a blue moon when he's not playing the fiery, temperamental little prat.

Stupid sod that I am, I made some throwaway comment about a threesome in there and left it at that.

What sort, he'd asked, trying not to seem too interested.

I told him, but without going into any detail. I can do nonchalant too. That just got me one of those lewd grins of his.

The light's on, at least.

Yes! She's there, by the window. Not exactly over-dressed either.

Car pulling up. Only one person in it, which is good so far.

Doyle!

He must be coming here for another grandstand view, the little sod. Although he hasn't got the keys.

No. He can't be...

Christ. He's going in there for some first-hand experience. With her. Jesus Christ Almighty.

God, should I be doing this? What if he ever found out?

Shit... he doesn't need to find out. He already knows. Me car's parked just down the road.

He knows. He knows because I also told him I'd be popping back for my... cufflink. And he'd winked. He'd known damn fine that I was coming here for a whole lot more than that, and when I'd be there.

Little sod. Randy, exhibitionist, sex-mad little sod.

Then a terrible thought hits me. All it needs is another bloke to turn up, like last night. Don't tell me he's into that.

Nah, he wouldn't pay double, would he? For a number three of either sex? No. Besides, from what little he said, what he saw wasn't a threesome. He'd have mentioned something if it had been, wouldn't he?

I rack my brains, trying to remember whether I gave any more details about what I'd seen other than that there were three of 'em, but I'm sure I restricted to myself to something like 'quite a performance.'

It'll be all right, then. Just Doyle showing off. Typical.

And exciting. I admit it.

Ah. She's out of sight. Must have gone to let him in.

A thought strikes me. What the fuck are we going to say about this? Afterwards?

We're blokes. We don't need to say anything. Not even if there's another bloke involved, although it's looking less and less like there is.

Can't really leave now. Might put him off his stride if he's set this up for both of us.

And as for stride, I'm already getting into mine, judging by the state of my cock. Just the thought of this is...

No, mustn't go too fast.

Can't believe this. He never ceases to amaze me.

Right, so the door's locked, the binoculars are safely on the tripod... and my trousers and underpants are off. Might as well do it properly.

Can't believe I'm doing this. Well... my mind can't. Part of my anatomy certainly can.

That didn't take him long. He's wandering into the bedroom, naked as the day he was born. And there's no jeans that spoil the effect this time. That's one very aroused Ray Doyle indeed.

She's peeling off that nglige, or whatever it's called, and he's grinning. Can't blame him.

His head tips back as she walks up to him and slides her fingers down his chest. And further. Oh yes, he likes that. Then she bends over him.

He likes that a lot, and I can't say I'd be complaining either if my cock was inside her mouth.

Much more of this and I'll be over the edge before they're really got started.

Control. We need control here, Bodie my lad.

What's she got there? Ah. Oh. And she's stroking his balls, raising her leg as he teases her with it. Dammit, he's even turning her towards the window slightly and I can see...

Oh, she's enjoying that. And he's kissing her tits, sliding the vibrator deeper. Oh yes... might not be a great fan of toys, usually, but this is fairly... nice. Still hope they'll cut to the action soon.

She's fondling him. Cupping his balls. Nibbling at his neck.

C'mon, Ray. Fuck her. Now.

You'd think he'd heard me. And oh God, he's worked that out as well. He's going to do her from behind. Both of them standing sideways so I can see him...

Whoa. Got to last...

He's bending her over a chair and...

Oh yes. Yes. Jesus, Ray... go for it, my lad.

He is, and his staying power - I admit grudgingly - is nearly as good as my own.

Can't wait, that much longer though, sunshine. Sorry. The sight of him fingering her, sliding in and out slowly...

God. That was a big one. Real leg-trembler that was, and thank goodness for the towel. Phew.

Heart's still going like a bloody sledgehammer as I watch Doyle pull her closer. She's tensing, shuddering... then Doyle slides out of her and goes out of the room.

What's on the menu now? She isn't getting dressed, just lying there on the bed, her own finger still stroking where Doyle's just been.

Getting my breath back a bit now. Wondering if I could manage a replay if they do.

The telephone nearly stops me heart beating altogether.

I'll ignore it. Has to be Cowley, and he'll use the R/T if I don't answer. Then he won't know I'm still here. I can just imagine it, telling him I'm leaning on the window frame recovering from a wank, thank you sir. Inspired by 4.5 and...

Shut up. Why doesn't it shut up?

Fine, it's a wrong number. I pick it up just for the sake of peace.

It's Doyle.

Can't find words.

Do I want...

No, says my head and my good sense.

Yes, says my voice. I'll be right over.

*
Well, he didn't refuse, and Gemma's all for it: she'd already said so but after that first climax of hers she seems even more enthusiastic. Mind, I did tell her she came highly recommended by a mate of mine, and she giggled. Asked if we - my own mate and I - were also lovers.

I said no. Well, obviously. Although I'm getting a bit nervous now. What if Bodie...

Nah. The whole idea is for him to watch, and have her if he likes. Could live with that, and the idea of watching Bodie fuck isn't completely unattractive either.

Besides, I've burned me boats now. Definitely. We'll just have to set a few ground rules.

I drape a towel round me hips when I let him in, and come out with the do's and don'ts. Right off. So there's no doubt about the matter. We can watch each other, but it's strictly 'look at don't touch'.

Absolutely, Bodie nods, seeming to relax slightly. I push him in the general direction of the bedroom and suggest he gets more comfortable.

I do know that Bodie's not a great one for stripping off, or at least he's not comfortable swanning around the locker room naked as some of us - myself included - are. Well, we'll see.

He comes out, predictably enough, with a towel around his waist. I do the introductions and slide mine off, rather pleased that I'm still at half-mast. Gemma offers him a drink and he takes it, and doesn't refuse when she beckons him over to the bed.

He's not talking much, but he is managing to keep an air of being in control of the situation... and she's loving it. Nice girl, this one. Not to mention talented. Did ask her about her preferences and she seems fairly open to say the least.

Right. Time to get things moving. I climb onto the bed, my whisky still in one hand, and grin. Gemma removes the wisp of silk that's covering next to nothing, and pulls my hand to her crotch.

Bodie can't help it. Lets out the tiniest of moans.

I've already seen how much she enjoys being fingered, so I start there, casually stroking myself as I do it. Apparently she rather likes watching men who are open enough to wank in front of her, and I'm hoping it'll stir Bodie into action. The towel isn't disguising much anyway.

She licks her lips, looking over at him, and pulls him a bit closer. This bed is a huge thing anyway, and he slides over a bit, allowing himself to slide a tentative hand over her thigh.

Yes, she likes that. Bodie lets his fingers creep up, over her hips, towards her tits and she smiles. I realise his eyes are solidly fixed on my fingers... and on my cock.

She asks him to take the towel off, aware of the hold she has over him, and Bodie simply reaches down and pulls it off. He's extremely hard. And if I'm not wrong, desperate to do something about it.

In the end, she simply takes his other hand and settles it gently over his balls. He doesn't protest, and moans again as she closes his fingers around them, kneading gently.

What would he like, she asks gently? To watch or to play first?

Watch. Bodie's mouth forms the word, and I'm immensely grateful.

How I avoided coming when I was inside her earlier I really don't know, and I'll have to be damn careful now or it'll be over way too fast. I turn around and settle over her, swirling a tongue over her clit, keeping beyond her own grasp at least for now.

Oh, she loves that. I've still got two fingers up inside her, moving them in and out slowly, making tiny clicking sounds.

Bodie has given in now. He's grasping his cock and is absolutely transfixed. Gemma shudders and climaxes, her muscles spasming around me. I slide up beside her and bring her down gently, stroking her breasts.

She's nicely relaxed, smiling over at Bodie who looks a bit cheated, but I whisper that there's more to come. Gemma nods, and once again takes his spare hand, bringing it to where my lips have just been. Bodie strokes the wetness almost reverently and shudders slightly as she slides a hand under his balls again.

When she asks him to kneel and face her, he reacts swiftly - I think he knows what's coming. And I have to say I'm not complaining at the sight of her tongue twirling around his slit. Particularly when she suggests that I might like to...

I kneel behind her and catch Bodie's eyes, wild with lust as he grips her hair, biting his lip. She takes him deeper as I thrust into her, and his hips buck. Neither of us is going to last long, I know that, although I try to take it slowly, moving in time with her lips gliding up and down his shaft.

Then Bodie mutters something incoherent about wanting to see me in her, and the raw need in his voice stops me in my tracks. We shift around, my cock slick with her and Bodie's equally so with her saliva, and I take up the rhythm again, not afraid to look sideways and see Bodie pumping himself hard.

I flood into her, yelling, and see Bodie, tight-lipped in concentration. He's on the brink, I think...

I slump back onto the pillows, drained, wondering if Gemma's going to finish him off with her mouth or...

... no. She's letting him pull her onto his lap, sinking down onto him, rising and falling until his face screws up and he yells. Louder than me.

Minutes later, we're all lying there in a sticky heap. Bodie's running his fingers through her hair.

And looking at me. Calling me a randy little toad, although there's no edge to his voice. He looks as deliciously sated as I feel.

*
We doze a little, all of us. Doyle was coherent long enough to tell me that this is normally Gemma's night off, so there's no hurry.

Typical of the little bastard. Bet he got special rates, as well.

Very, very attractive bird though, this. Almost makes me think it's worth paying the price for it all, although of course Doyle is. His idea, wasn't it?

Right now, he's stirring slightly, as she's just clambered over me saying she's just going to fetch something.

Oh, very nice service. She's got a damp flannel and is using it to great effect around Doyle's balls. She'll get to me in a minute, she says. Good.

Might have known it. Doyle's cock is already responding. And it's not the only one. If I get to choose, I'd rather like to see her on top of him this time...

Lovely. She's got another flannel for me and it's nice. Warm and just rough enough...

Keep thinking about fucking her just after Doyle came inside her. All the wetness in her - his and hers - really turned me on. Not that watching Doyle slide in and out of her wasn't pretty bloody hot as well. Think he got a kick out of that himself - me seeing it all.

Oh yes. She's leaning over Doyle to get to me, and he's already running his hand up the inside of her leg. Clever stuff, Gemma... she's certainly getting a kick out of caressing us both at once. Doyle's got his eyes closed, lapping it up.

And what's that she's got? K-Y jelly?

Jesus. I'm fully awake now.

Would we like something adventurous?

Not sure who nods first, but neither of seems to know who's expected to do what. Or rather where. She hands it to Doyle.

Have they planned this? Dunno. Do I care? No.

Doyle reaches out for it, lazily, as she climbs between us again and whispers for him to prepare her. I watch over her shoulder as he starts slicking himself, running a well-coated finger up her cleft at the same time.

Well, Bodie my lad. You saw it done last night, so act casual. Or as casual as you can get when you're about to take part in a girl sandwich. She's making sure I'm not left out of the preparation process, either. Not that I need it, to be honest.

Bliss, this. Couldn't get any better unless you added a mirror on the ceiling so I could see us both doing her.

God, yes. Pillows under my hips. And she's straddling me. Breasts pressed tightly against me. I can see Doyle with his fingers inside her arse, concentrating. Then... I'm in her.

Doyle's still probing her gently, and oh Jesus Christ I can feel his fingers in her. So weird, but not half as weird as it's going to be when he...

... enters her. Which he does. Very, very slowly.

Somehow, I think he feel as strange about this as I do - he's watching me so intently.

It's like... it's like fucking both of them. And it should feel wrong.

It doesn't, that's the problem.

It feels...

No, this is ridiculous. But as Doyle shifts, I gasp and so does he. Doyle moves, very gently. Keeps on looking at me. We stay like that for bit, Doyle thrusting very slowly and me feeling him deep inside her, his cock rubbing against my own inside its own sheath. I daren't move or I won't be able to hold it. Know I won't. Bite my lip.

Gemma looks at me with a tiny frown, then a slow smile. Says would we mind a slight change?

Doyle pulls out slowly, and she climbs off me, caressing me thoughtfully. Then she turns round to look at Doyle, who's sitting back on his heels. His cock's still erect, and he's looking at mine.

Both of us are breathing hard. The temptation to bring myself off is huge. Because if I don't, I'll be reaching over and...

Doyle's hand is hovering, too. Touching his erection and sliding a finger up and down it, his mouth slightly open as I lick my own lips.

Gemma stands by the bed, watching us watch each other.

She smiles at me, in particular. Murmurs that two men caressing each other during a threesome doesn't mean we're queer, and she's not suggesting we go the 'whole way', as she puts it, but it can be quite nice. When you're in the mood, that is.

I notice that neither of us insist we're not in the mood, nor refer to the ground rules Doyle mentioned and I agreed to.

I must look like a rabbit in headlights all the same.

Doyle also looks startled, but neither of us have lost one iota of our erection.

So what about if she gets out a little toy and we just try touching each other? A little mutual stroking while we watch her? Because if she's honest, that really, really turns her on. And if we don't like it... we can always concentrate on ourselves. That's all right too.

I swallow. She takes one of Doyle's hands and one of mine and places them on each other's bellies.

GOD.

Doyle's touching me. Only with his fingertip, just circling my glans. Should have jumped up and pushed him away, except...

I'm vaguely aware of Gemma hauling out the false penis, but far more interested in the real one. Doyle's.

Can I? Dare I?

What the hell are we going to say about this afterwards?

He's reading my mind. It's just a one-off, he says. For fun. And for Gemma. And it doesn't hurt, does it?

It most certainly doesn't. He knows exactly the way to...

Well he would, wouldn't he? He's a man. Had hands-on experience with his own cock so he knows just how. And his head's tipped back slightly and the little bastard's busy with himself. With the other hand.

Can't have that. Definitely not, greedy little bastard.

I'm reaching out my hand to swat his fingers away.

And who are you kidding, Bodie? Is that why the fingers of your right hand are suddenly curled around his cock and the left hand's straying up his thigh?

Doyle grips me tighter, pumping me.

Somehow, we've shuffled closer, and then Doyle slings one slim leg over mine, meaning that... well, meaning that we're rather close together.

Understatement.

When his cock brushes mine, I try to tell myself that the jolt of need is just... well... because...

Sod it. This, if ever, is the time to throw it all to the winds.

Goodbye, normal world. Bodie's turned gay.

He's pushing both our cocks together now. Rubbing his head against my chest, which is... also... very...

Don't Ray. Don't.

Please...

Don't stop.

He's all over me. Can feel his balls sliding against mine.

Driving me crazy. Crazy... and he's shuddering, jerking... and there's hotness spilling over my fingers.

He cries out...

... and so do I as I spill over his belly, but he's still slowly rubbing me, bringing me down.

And then we lie there.

What the fuck have we done?

Doyle looks as confused as I feel when I manage to focus on him. Starts trying to say something, but it's Gemma who intervenes. Tells us it was beautiful.

Doyle groans, but a sort of shagged out groan not an irritated with himself groan. Gemma runs her hand through his hair and kisses him on the cheek. Then leans over and does the same to me.

What's she saying? We all have inclinations like that? No we bloody don't. I am not - not - going to believe that. Not even if Doyle's still lying with his leg still over mine and the clear evidence that we climaxed - both of us - lingering stickily.

Oh, he would decide to say that, wouldn't he? That I look well-fucked. I mutter something about 'heat of the moment' and trying not to remember how it felt. He flips over onto his back, smiling happily. I have the horrible feeling I'm smiling myself.

Gemma offers us all whisky and I gulp mine down fast. Very fast. She snuggles into the crook of Doyle's arm and starts saying that a lot of men are pretty surprised but not many of them hesitate once they get started.

Is this one of her party tricks then, I ask rather sharply? Did she plan this with Doyle?

She stiffens immediately. No, it wasn't planned. She reminds me that she didn't force anybody to do anything. And that we could both have stopped and had her again instead. Speaking of which... would either of us...?

Doyle grins lazily. Tells her he thinks he could oblige with a little stimulation, and that he's sure I won't mind watching even if I can't get it up again. Cheeky sod, I tell him.

She lets him play with her a little, first with the vibrator and then he slides easily into her from behind once he's completely hard again, which doesn't take long.

When she suggests I slide under her straddled legs for a better view, I can't refuse.

*
Bodie's playing with her clit as I take her, and he's erect again.

Don't think I'll come, although... twice was already pretty good going and that climax courtesy of Bodie... bloody hell.

Randy bastard. He's got hold of himself again as well. Moaning away like a pair of old bellows.

His fingers brush my balls as well as her entrance. Not accidentally, either. And it's... nice. Surprisingly erotic, just like it was when he brought me off. Who'd have thought that once he'd got going Bodie would be this liberated..

It was just one of those things, though. Crazy things you only do when...

Godgodgod that feels good. Both being in her and... Bodie... getting even more daring now and stroking me, squeezing me, fingers straying to the base of my cock as I withdraw a little.

She wants me in her backside, she says. Likes it. Would that please Bodie?

It would, he whispers breathlessly as she kneels with her back to me and goes down on all fours.

It pleases me, too, and she's still nice and slick from last time. It's so tight... like a bloke's would be, of course.

God... can't be thinking that. Don't fancy it with a bloke. Although at this moment I'm so bloody fired up I can't help thinking that I wouldn't even care who I was doing.

Bodie's still fondling us both, lying with his head almost between her legs. She's telling him it's wonderful and I can feel his fingers up inside her.

C'mon Gemma, I tell her. Let go...

Bodie's telling me to let go.

God yes. She's there and she's clenching me and I'm so nearly... and Bodie ups the ante a bit. He's making little staccato noises of pleasure, although whether it's directed at me or he's just having fun, I dunno. Don't care. Coming again, jerkily, feeling his hand, her arse both gripping me.

Gemma and I collapse on the bed. Bodie's still hugely erect and looking a little cheated, but Gemma, trooper that she is, starts to finish him off with a skilful hand. I slide down on the other side of him, tired as I am, and cup his balls at the same time, watching him whimper. He climaxes with a bitten off moan, arching off the bed.

And then we're in another sticky, exhausted heap.

*
Bodie, I realise when we all get our breath back, is looking extremely surprised and pleased and not at all embarrassed, until he looks over at me.

Bloody hell, he says.

Exactly, I nod.

Weird, he adds as though he feels he should.

Gemma chuckles, and asks if we'd like to use the shower. Separately or together.

I say together as Bodie says separately. Not sure why I do. Then we look at each other, grin, and I say separately as Bodie says together.

Daft, this. Considering we've just brought each other off it's hardly the moment to get all prudish.

In the end, we go in there together and end up doing each other's backs. I keep my eyes away when Bodie soaps his jewels. Well, most of the time. He does the same - also most of the time.

Bodie turns the water off, finally, and we pick up the towels.

And that's that.

In fact, that's exactly what Bodie says as we start to get dressed. That's that. And he's hungry.

Funnily enough, so am I. Could eat a horse, I tell him.

So we leave. Give Gemma a kiss on the way out. Bodie whistles as he heads for his car and suggests we meet at the local.

I call him back, wondering for a second or two if I should say anything.

As he so often does, Bodie reads my mind. Just grins and winks. I nod and grin back, and open my own car door.

That, as he said. Was that.

I think.

*
Doyle's driving me crazy.

Well, he always does that. Always has. So there's nothing new there, and we're still producing results for our Beloved Leader and getting to drink his Scotch now and again.

No, it's because of the Looks he gives me occasionally. The Looks with the capital L. Only brief ones, but I know he's thinking about that night with Gemma.

Course, we can't talk about it. Didn't even that same night. Went and had a few beers, and studiously avoided the subject. Continued to do so the following week. Bragged a bit about the birds we'd pulled. Doyle's still sort of with Maria, but she's off abroad somewhere, and he says being faithful isn't part of the arrangement.

Should file all we did that night as 'stuff you do at our age, in our jobs, and when the opportunity arises', I decide. And I have. Forgotten it.

Haven't I?

Nearly. Let's be honest.

And I suppose Doyle has as well, or I thought so until I caught the first of Those Looks. The first of them was one day when I did the usual teasing about how tight his jeans were. And then he got a hard-on.

I pretended I hadn't noticed and told myself he was probably thinking about Maria. Or Gemma. Until the Look, that was. A weird sort of look that could have been embarrassment or...

Idiot, Bodie.

Not going to think about either Looks or hard-ons tonight, anyway. I mean, I'm just going over to his place to watch the footie. Drink a couple of beers. Nothing we haven't done dozens of times before.

Must say I'm not quite sure why I've had a couple of good stiff Scotches before I set off, though. Stupid that, really. If I drink much more I'll be over the limit and have to get a taxi or stay over. Done that plenty of times as well - woken up on his settee with a thundering great hangover. I just don't think it would be a good idea to do it tonight, just in case.

Just in case what?

Oh, shit.

I'll just have to act normal. I mean... I am normal. And so's Doyle. That was perfectly clear from those ground rules we set with Gemma.

Except we broke them.

*
What the hell am I expecting from tonight anyway? It'll be beer and footie. And footie and beer. And I am going to treat Bodie's crotch as a visual no-go zone.

Shouldn't have worn these jeans, either. Just that I particularly like 'em, even if they're a bit... snug. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I know Bodie can never resist a dig about just how snug they are.

Doorbell. Bodie with beer and a slightly peculiar smile.

Good idea. Serious drinking time. No work tomorrow. Decent match.

See? Nothing to it. Footie is fascinating.

The ref's a bloody wanker, I say to Bodie without thinking. His eyes widen a bit, but we bury that and keep on watching.

And drinking.

When the beer's over, we hit the whisky. Arsenal wins, although I think I missed the goal altogether.

And then, dammit, the adverts come on and there's this blonde that looks a bit like Gemma. Flogging holidays, as it happens, but I suddenly find myself watching the ceiling. Because it's either looking at that or... something else.

Bodie mutters something about getting back and I roll my eyes. Point to the settee.

He says it might not be a good idea, in a voice that's aiming for casual.

He could be right. But I'm going to call him on it. If we're going to go through the whole clichd thing about this being the time to talk about 'it', this is the perfect moment in the scenario to do so.

I suggest it might be sensible to ask ourselves what we were playing at the other week. Nothing like putting the ball into somebody else's court, of course. He can either say we were idiots or - which would amaze me - admit he was hugely turned on by it all.

Bodie sucks in a deep, deep breath and says we were idiots. Weren't we? he adds. It didn't mean anything, did it?

Now, do I agree that it didn't mean a thing and close the topic once and for all, or...?

In the end, I don't say anything. Don't even nod or shake my head. Despite the vestiges of reason telling me to at least go and phone a taxi.

Bodie's eyes are on me - and my jeans. So I can either tell a lie and he'll know it'll be one, or tell the truth and probably send him running. From being snug, the denim is constricting parts that should not be constricted. Of all the bloody times to get an erection.

Bodie, damn him, says nothing either. He shifts a bit, as though he's having the same problem but those cords of his are loose so I can't be sure.

In the end, he tells me I'm a prat and he's not much better. I ask him what made him so bloody sanctimonious, and add that he didn't need asking twice to cross that road and get his trousers down, and that's what started it all.

He tells me to stop it, but baggy trousers or not I can see what he's feeling from his eyes.

So we're prats, I agree. And yes, I'll stop it if he can tell me, truthfully, that he's not turned on.

He actually turns his head away at that.

I get angry then. Tell him I at least expected honestly, and that at least I'd had the guts to broach the subject.

Bodie whips his head back round and tells me that honesty might not be the best policy in this particular situation. What do I want? Another mutual wanking session?

Is that what he wants, I shoot back. Personally, I add, trying to ignore the way my jeans are squeezing me, I think that's probably exactly what he wants.

For a brief moment, he parries that by telling me I'm stupid to wear stuff so tight and then gets to his feet.

I say, bitterly, that I suppose he's going, coward that he is. And challenge him once again to deny that he's turned on. Although the cord jeans might be hiding what he's feeling better than my jeans can, his face tells a different story, I add snippishly.

The word 'coward' acts like a red rag to a bull. Bodie takes two steps and looms over me, saying he'd realised a lot about me but not that I was a prick tease.

I stand up and reach out to thump him one for that. Trained reactions and all that, but I've got too much alcohol - and lust - in me to make it very convincing. Bodie grabs my fist before I can do any damage, but staggers slightly, meaning he presses up against me.

He gasps. I gasp.

He's furious. Absolutely bloody furious. And as hard as a rock.

It's all my fault, he says. All of it.

Sure it is, I agree. I had to force him to touch me. At gunpoint. And he hated it.

Bodie angry is impressive. Bodie turned on as he is now is... equally so. I stand my ground. Neither of us budge.

So go, I say. Go and wank at home. Just make sure that he thinks about fucking a woman and not me. And I'll do the same, ta.

He pushes me back onto the settee, and I expect to see the sneer. Instead, he damn well crashes down on top of me, wrestling me. I tell him to get the fuck off... and mean it. Sort of.

The trouble is, it turns us on even more. We're hurling insults at each other, but Bodie's hand starts tugging at my zip. The sound he makes when he succeeds is something between triumph and need, and I'm so bloody relieved that the constricting fabric's no longer giving me grief I just lie here like a damned guppy for a second or two.

Then I'm the one that manages a sneer. Ask him if he intends to leave it at that, then?

He pauses. Starts to get up. Says he hopes I'm satisfied.

And is he, I ask? Satisfied? Pull the other one.

I think I've blown it, because he's on his feet now. And... Christ. Opening his own zip.

Satisfied, he says, comes when we've got this out of our system once and for all. Get 'em off, he adds roughly, pointing at me jeans.

Who does he think he is? Calling the shots? I tell him I'm nobody's submissive. He says that him getting 'em off me is also fine, and he grabs at the waistband, yanking at them until I'm lying there with me cock in the air and unable to move, legs imprisoned. Meaning I have to kick 'em off while he get his own trousers and underpants off at the speed of light.

I think the fact that I wasn't wearing underpants just stoked his fires a bit more. Not much point in going all coy and telling him I often do, off duty. Even on duty now and then. The birds like it... and so does Bodie if this is anything to go by.

God, I want him but I'm damn well not going to make it easy for him. Or do I want him, or do I just want sex?

Hell, I know I want sex and I also know he does too, which simplifies (or complicates) the matter rather.

Suppose he wants to be on top as well, I say as he stands over me again and then regret it, suddenly scared that he's going for the whole hog. Going to do me there and then. My mouth dries as he says being on top is precisely the intention.

When he starts to straddle me, I fight him again. Or until our cocks brush and we stare at each other. Then, suddenly, he grabs me close, leg hooked over mine just as I tried it at Gemma's, and shoves a hand between us, grasping roughly.

Rough is fine. I'm desperate for it and so is he. We thrust against each other, trying to get the friction.

It only lasts for seconds. Bodie comes first, the hot wetness of it surprising me but not enough to make me stop rubbing against him, and I join him, grateful he didn't just let go and slide off me. We're both breathing like we've been on one of Macklin's little fun runs.

Oh God, Bodie says. Am I all right?

Now that's the last thing I expected.

I nod. And apologise, which seems to be the last thing he expected. He says it takes two, and we chuckle.

We just lie there after that. I think we're both torn between wanting to do the 'that's that' thing and talk about it.

It's damned uncomfortable, this, I point out. And I'm knackered. Had he better have a kip on the settee?

Bodie grimaces as I get up, and I realise that the damned thing is streaked with semen and basically a mess. Not terribly aesthetic that, let alone sticky. Sticky, I think distractedly, seems to be something of a theme in all this.

Look, I tell him. It's late. How about going to bed and talking in the morning?

I expect him to say not bloody likely, but he just gives me a brief nod. He looks at the settee and sighs. Bodie likes his comforts.

I jerk my head over to the bedroom, and tell him that having just done what we did there's not much point in standing on ceremony.

We traipse into the bedroom like zombies and climb in, still sticky. Then turn on our sides and both play the 'pretending to sleep' game.

*
Why did he apologise? Stupid sod.

And why am I in his bed? Why, why, why?

Bloody alcohol. But we do need to talk about this...

... in the morning. Because I have to sleep. Have to...

... and wake up sometime later, shock hitting me like a sledgehammer when I remember last night.

Fuck.

Well yes, we did. Or rather no, we didn't, technically. At least that, but at one point I was so bloody angry I thought about it. Considered taking him up the arse to show him once and for all that this was madness.

But I couldn't hurt Doyle. No. Even as I was pushing him around I knew I couldn't... although I did start thinking of his arse.

Jesus, at this moment I could wring Gemma's neck - that or explore that arse a bit more. Not sure which is more tempting. .

Doyle's stirring, flipping over onto his back.

How in the name of hell could I have sex with the skinny little bastard, I try to convince myself? He's not attractive. Not like that. Well, with the exception of his cock and his...

Stop thinking about his arse. Revolting.

No, not revolting. Just... fascinating. Like his body in general, feeling him so damned turned on, wanting to feel him come...

It has to be a friendship thing. Brothers in arms, and all that.

Right.

So what are we going to say during this excruciatingly embarrassing 'discussion' planned for any time soon, I wonder.

It was a mistake. Curiosity satisfied and back to normal. That would work. Definitely.

Except my curiosity isn't satis...

Stop it, Bodie. And for Christ's sake, Doyle, this is not the moment to kick the covers down and turn over so I can see...

Don't wake up. Not now. I'm getting another hard-on seeing yours.

And what if his own reaction isn't just the early-morning stuff? Which, of course mine is. Isn't it?

Better go home, really But can't until we've talked.

Need a wash at the very least. Yeah. Just go quietly to the shower...

No, Ray. Don't open your eyes. And get your bloody hand off your balls, you sex-mad little fart. Please. You're only pretending to be asleep as well, you bastard. Stop shuffling closer. Not fair...

I say his name, firmly, and he opens one eye and grins. Lasciviously. There's no other word for it, although I'm not sure how to spell it.

I swallow, and one traitorous hand - mine - reaches out and strays down his chest.

Last and final round, then, I tell myself, throwing all good intentions to the winds. Why not?

Except this time it's different. Probably because we're not fighting. We're exploring.

Doyle looks like a... a what? A randy little bugger. I tell him so.

And I'm not, he asks as his fingers slide up my inner thighs?

I try to take my hand away from where it's heading - meaning well south of his chest by now.

No, says good sense. We musn't do this.

Yes, says my cock. I rather think we've passed the point of no return here.

Doyle, for Christ's sake, bends over me. He's going to...

His lips are dynamite. There's no other word for it.

I lie there and moan, and my traitorous mouth starts babbling at him not to stop. So he doesn't and before long - in fact after a ridiculously short time - I realise if he doesn't move I'm going to...

I do. Warn him somewhere among the oaths that slide out as it grips me.

He doesn't flinch. Takes every drop.

He's not expecting a return favour, he says casually but it's hard to miss the fact that he's still aroused. Then he half-grins and simply flips onto his back and starts jerking himself off with swift, efficient strokes.

*
I don't know what made me do that. I have no bloody idea. Sucking a cock was, shall we say, definitely not on my personal menu. One moment I was thinking 'time for a cold shower' and the next I was doing... that. And all the time Bodie was running rough fingers down my back.

It shouldn't have been erotic, but it was. Just as it was to hear him blabbing and muttering and saying 'oh, fuck'.

Fucking, now, wasn't an option. Definitely not. Although right now I wouldn't say no to having Gemma to slide into.

I meant it when I said Bodie didn't have to reciprocate. He'll probably be extremely relieved, although if he helps me out a bit I wouldn't complain either.

Jesus, can't expect that but nor am I capable of cold showers or simply ignoring what my cock's demanding. Well, not much choice then. He can either watch, or ignore it, or leave.

He watches for a bit: after all, he likes that. I half-close my eyes, mainly because this is most... pleasant... but also because if he thinks I'm not looking at him I'll get to see how he's reacting.

His head's cocked on one side as I slow the rhythm a bit, caressing the glans and rubbing the drop of semen around it. He stretches out a tentative hand, and it hovers there for a second or two. Then I yelp as his fingers drift up to my balls and cup them as I cupped his at Gemma's. After that, it doesn't take long and I start to quiver, knowing I'm about to...

... and then he swats my hand away and his mouth...

Unbelievable. You'd think the guy's been sucking cocks all his life. Hot, wet, tongue swirling. Want this to last but no bloody chance. He squeezes my arse as I shoot into him.

God almighty.

I'm still nowhere near getting my breath back when he mutters something about fair being fair, but then he stands up abruptly, heads for the shower, and firmly closes the door. He's also picked his clothes up on the way.

When he comes out, I've pulled my jeans on as well, and sit there waiting for the onslaught. Which doesn't come.

Bodie just shakes his head, staring at me. Tells me he doesn't know what the hell we're playing at.

Well, that was predictable, mate. My sentiments exactly.

He goes onto say we're way too curious for our own good. And he never knew what semen tasted like but doesn't think he could acquire a taste for it, ta even though it does solve the problem of things getting sticky.

That makes me laugh, and suddenly he's laughing with me. In fact he adds that we're a pair of idiots and that we seem to have satisfied a bit more curiosity. Which, of course, is all it is, right?

Naturally, I tell him. I mean, it's not as though we'd... well... we'd take it any further. Heaven forbid.

Precisely, Bodie assures me. So that was that, he adds casually. Definitely, this time.

Definitely, I told him as I put the kettle on. And no, no worries about the stain on the settee. I'll give it a wipe and throw a rug over it, I say. Consider it as being a rather unforgettable moment but not one to be repeated.

*
We're fine about... "it" now. Definitely. We both carry on screwing birds and boasting about it, and I'm fully convinced it's all behind us. We even manage a few footie and beer nights and Doyle kips on my settee on one occasion rather than get done for drunk driving. We don't touch each other, just as we've avoided any sort of physical contact, including a slap on the shoulder when we've saved the world or something.

His only reference to those encounters is that he blew me a cheeky kiss as I went towards the bedroom, leaving him in the living room.

OK, so I confess I needed to wank that night, but I did it quietly, assisted by several tissues. And while I did it, I thought of women. Most of the time, anyway.

So it's obviously over. We're mates. We're straight, or at least as straight as anybody ever is, whatever Freud or Jung or whoever it was said about all of us having bisexual tendencies. Been reading that up, see. Only because the librarian's pretty, of course, and I had to leaf through something. Glad she didn't see me doing so, because she turned out pretty good in bed.

Doyle's odd today, though. It's partly because of the case we've just finished: I'm sure of that. Both of us nearly found ourselves pushing up daisies this time, and we'd both had our share of thinking this was the Big One where one of us went to the other's funeral, or the Cow rolled up to a joint ceremony.

We're still here, though. Drinking at Doyle's as though booze has gone out of fashion. Doyle's got his serious face on as we do a bit of a post-mortem.

Then I blow it by saying it's the sort of night when a good fuck would be pretty relaxing round about now. Typical case of an alcohol-fuelled stray comment that I'd like to pick up and stuff back in my mouth.

Doyle just grimaces. Says nothing and takes a long swig of his whisky. I say I'd better go, and he just shrugs. Then says something pretty biting about why don't I just go and have a mindless screw with some poor bloody woman I'll have forgotten about in the morning.

I should ignore that, but I don't. Tell him he's done that often enough himself. Mindless fucking for the sake of it. A bit like him and me and what we did, I say unpleasantly and wish I could pick that up again as well.

Was it mindless, he says thoughtfully? Yeah, maybe. Although we didn't fuck, did we. And there's a difference.

Doyle kills me when he's being reasonable and miserable and too bloody philosophical for his own good.

Yes, I agree. There's a difference. I suppose so, anyway, I add.

Right, he says, glancing over at his settee and the rug covering the stains.

I mentally kick myself for staring at him, remembering what we did do. And the thing is, I want to do it again.

He looks just slightly tipsy, sprawled there with his legs over the chair arm. And, of course, his jewels are in full evidence. I think every female member of CI5 must be able to tell which way he dresses.

Except at this moment, which side is immaterial because his cock's definitely at half-mast already and my hands are itching to let it loose, feel his long fingers on mine.

This is the moment my big mouth chooses to pass on my recently acquired knowledge about innate bisexuality in everybody. Well, it's either that or cut straight to the action.

Doyle's response, more biting than I expect, is to tell me that if this is a come-on, I can forget it. I retort that considering what's going on between his legs, he's a fine one to talk.

Doyle growls at me to stop it, but I don't. I taunt him a bit more and he gets harder. And angrier.

The trouble is, he says, there's only one thing we haven't done, and that's to fuck. And he's not going to do that. And if I'm thinking of pouncing on him again, he'll thump me.

That hurts. I tell him he didn't exactly fight me when I did. Not to mention the fact that he's bloody well provoking, lying like that.

Doyle shrugs. Shifts slightly, probably because he's definitely uncomfortable inside the jeans now. Is he provoking? I don't know. I don't even know if he knows.

He doesn't want to fuck, he repeats miserably. Not as in really fuck. And neither do I, right?

I hesitate, because to be honest I don't know. Or rather I would like to be inside him, yes, and the shock of realising it nearly takes my breath away.

He keeps on looking at me, waiting for an answer, which I'm not going to give him. Can't quite imagine myself telling him the truth, nor adding that I'd be quite happy to screw him, but not the other way around, ta.

In the end, I just glare at him. Tell him that he has no idea what I want, thanks, and probably won't admit what he wants.

Sex, he says coldly. That's what I want, so why don't I go and pull and leave him alone. Man or woman, whichever. Maybe I'll find somebody quite happy for him to experiment with a bit more. He's gone as far as he's going, and that was probably too much. What he wants isn't my business right now, but for starters it doesn't involve my cock up his arse.

I get up calmly and walk out of the door. It's either that or...

Or what?

*
My temper is not my best feature. Just because I can't always control it doesn't mean I don't realise it.

So he's gone. Good.

And I'm still randy as hell. Bad.

Sure, I was tempted. Very, very tempted. I know damn well it wouldn't have taken much to give him the come-on and we'd have set each other alight again, without it having to go as far as actually fucking.

So he's been reading up on it all, has he? The joys of gay sex and all this Freud stuff? Well, he's not the only one. Well, I didn't go and read - didn't need to. Just had a couple of pints with an old mate and asked a few questions. Pretended it was for a case, although I'm not sure David believed me.

Came home half-fascinated and half-revolted. Must admit it gave me a few fantasies as well, picturing a few of the variations he's discussed as naturally as some people would compare wholewheat and plain white sliced.

If I'm honest, I even pictured myself doing Bodie. Slathering lube on myself and doing all the preparation stuff and then seeing him on his hands and knees, begging for it. Then I told myself he'd just knock my teeth out.

Would it be the same as with a woman? In some ways it would, sure, but - well - women don't have cocks.

Full marks for detection, Constable Doyle. You'll go far.

Then I also started thinking that if I did him, it would be only fair if he did me. That was a bit less tempting, I must say. I mean, Bodie's well endowed to say the least and the thought of him shoving his cock into me... even with all the preparation stuff... no thanks.

God, I'm randier than ever now. Been playing with myself ever since Bodie left. Angry as I was, I'm still half-hard. Better push me jeans down and make a job of it.

As I do, I catch sight of what's on the mantelpiece and remember David going on about the joys of dildos, cucumbers and candles. And the use of oil, butter and spit if there's no lube handy. Ugh. The whole idea just doesn't do it for me, and it's downright off-putting.

No. One definite conclusion is that I definitely don't want anything up my own arse.

That being said, I'm not that put off that I don't still need to finish what I've started. My mind slides off to memories of Gemma, and the threesome, and it doesn't take long. The images are a sort of weird kaleidoscope involving both Bodie and Gemma, I'll admit, but what the hell. If I'm honest, and whether this makes me a secret poofter or not, I've realised that I don't mind who's sharing the experience as long as it doesn't involve my arse being invaded.

Have to stop mucking around with Bodie, though. Definitely. Could wreck the way we work together, and it's only curiosity for him, as well. And if we did continue, the whole question of penetration would be bound to come up. Can't see Bodie simply offering himself up and not expecting to swap places - not in a million years.

And, I conclude, pushing away visions of Bodie lying there on my settee, naked, there are plenty of women around, including Maria. Must give her a call tomorrow.

*
I'm crazy. But that's nothing new.

Mind, this will go up there along with a few other escapades in my past as things I did on the spur of the moment.

It's Doyle's fault. Course it is. He's sure to be thinking I'd never really pull a bloke.

Not going to think about that now, though, as I have more important issues in hand.

Oh, that's funny, really... considering what I do, literally, have in hand. As in a large, very hard cock. Because I did pull a bloke.

When I started walking down the street away from Doyle's, I was half-hoping he'd call me back. He didn't. So I decided to take his advice and go and find a willing bed partner.

Sure, I also thought about simply going home and communing with my right hand but I was so... so what? So angry, frustrated and confused I found myself heading elsewhere. I knew damn well where to find gay bars: there's been more than one case where we've needed to know where they are, and we've even been in a few. Didn't really do more than sneer at the time, but that was... before.

The one I chose was discreet, as these things go. Once I got there, I ordered a pint, and squashed down the increasing urge to cut and run. Told myself I'd just suss the place out and assure myself that this wasn't my scene at all. Still time to find a woman.

Even when the second guy came up to me, I was still doing aloof - at least until I realised he was pleasant looking and didn't look like a poofter. The first guy... well... ugh.

This one didn't even sound queer, but he soon put me straight there. Didn't exactly beat about the bush, either. Was I up for it?

Instead of saying anything, I probably looked like a total prat for a minute or two until I decided that if I can handle anything from ticking bombs to arseholes - er - idiots (let's leave the arseholes out of this just for now) with machine guns, I could handle this.

I might be, I told him superciliously, heart going like a sledgehammer. As long as I was the one at the business end.

That made him laugh. Not a dirty laugh like Doyle's, but a fairly genuine laugh all the same. That suited him fine, apparently. He was quite happy to bottom.

Bottom, as a verb, sounded odd, but let's say the sense didn't escape me. And I'd got this far, so why not?

Caution being my middle name (or as far as some things are concerned), I told him my name was Giles, although I'm not sure where I got that one from. Even decided that if in the unlikely event that anybody'd recognised me in the bar I could pass it off as something I was doing for a job. Wouldn't be the first time we'd called on hookers to get information, now would it?

Not that this guy's a hooker. He's said so. Asked me if I was. I think my immediate 'no bloody way' set him right on that.

So here we are, at his place. It's small, tidy, and not exactly fussy-frilly. Not that interior decorating was uppermost in my mind, since the old ticker was reaching 4th gear by the time we got out of the taxi. At least he didn't paw me on the way here, although there was something in his eyes...

Blue eyes. Nothing like Doyle's. Neither is his hair, which is straight and sandy and short.

That's not important either, is it? I'm not that desperate that I'm going to grab the first lookalike I see.

I was damned if I was going to admit it was my first time, either. In fact I was extraordinarily matter-of-fact when I suggested we should maybe get lube and towels ready, and he was equally so when he produced them. He was even matter-of-fact about taking his clothes off, which he did fairly rapidly.

I tried damned hard not to show I was nervous, although my lack of arousal probably proved I was. He was pretty good about that, though, and suggested we took a drink to bed and took it from there. Which is where we are now.

He gets nervous too, he says, once he's made his move. He adds that he only goes trawling every so often when he's too frustrated with playing straight, at work and with his friends.

I tell him that's exactly my own situation, and think I sound convincing. I mean, I am straight. This is just a one-off, although he doesn't need to know that. Curiosity. Proving something. Persuading myself that I won't like it but I'll sure as hell go through with it.

Steven - that's his name, apparently, although it could be as false as mine - starts talking about some of the idiots he's met in gay bars. He's a natural mimic, and his imitations finally make me chuckle. Not that I'm completely at ease sitting there starkers, on a strange guy's bed. When he first touched me, I shivered. He took it as anticipation, although I think it was as much fear as anything else.

He has long fingers. A bit like...

No. He simply has long fingers. And a long cock and long feet. Not the only man to have 'em, and he was extremely skilled at putting his hands to use. Not pushy, either. And hey presto, there I am fondling his arse. Mind, the way he's stroking me, licking me....

Jesus, this is bloody good.

He suggests I choose how to take him once we're both most definitely ready to move on, which is extremely courteous. I lie and say I'm happy any way, and what does he like best?

Anything at all, he says, chucking the bloody ball back into my court. With the exception of bondage and stuff, which aren't his scene.

Remembering the guys that had started that famous threesome, I murmur something about having him on my lap, which wins me a delighted grin.

Preparing him is... odd. Very odd. There is no way in hell I want him to guess I've never had a man up the arse, so I apply myself to it carefully. Thought it might revolt me, but it doesn't. I mean, it's just like preparing a woman for the old backdoor stuff, like with Candy or Mandy or whoever I tried it with before. Think I'm being convincing, and besides, he's obviously enjoying the whole thing judging by the way he's reacting, and he's giving my now highly-interested cock some very skilful attention at the same time.

So here we are, with me exploring him as he carefully coats me in lube. Then he straddles me.

What the fuck am I doing?

Well, Bodie, you're about to have anal sex with a man, and even if your head's having a few problems with it now we've got to the nitty-gritty, your body's not exactly complaining, now is it?

Fortunately, Steve's the one handling the how fast and how deep stuff, and although it's tight it's not long before I'm deep inside him. He rises and falls a bit and I'm sitting there, dry-mouthed, as I see him impaled on me.

And the hell of it is, it's fantastic. Way, way better than it ever was with Candy. This guy's a virtuoso, and he gasps as we start moving together as though we've been doing it forever. I vaguely remember reading something about men and prostate glands and how if you get the angle right...

Steve cries out, suddenly, but in pleasure more than anything else and I ask if I've hit the spot. He assures me that I certainly damn well have and more of the same would be bloody marvellous.

I do my best. Christ, I'm in him deep and he's moving faster now, telling me it's wonderful.

I do rake up the necessary courtesy to reach round and add a little extra stimulation to his cock, although he's shuddering, squeezing me, and warning me he's already close. He's not the only one, I manage to say and in fact I climax before he does, but only just.

He wipes his own balls, and grins at me, lying on my back like a beached whale. Says thank you. Suggests I stay for a few hours' kip.

So I do, and fuck him again before I go. I wake up around dawn with a hard-on, and a few minutes later he's on his hands and knees, urging me on. It's fast and rough, and leaves me with rubbery legs as I stagger into his shower. He makes to join me but I say I'm in a hurry... it suddenly hits me that he might want to start kissing or something, and I don't fancy that.

I say I'll call him and that it's difficult for him to contact me. He's still matter-of-fact, which is good. Even says I was dynamite and I find myself telling him he was pretty bloody good himself.

Whether I have any intention to repeat it all is something I daren't think about as I go home, shower and change. Last night, I'd been sure I wouldn't. Now I'm a bit less sure.

I'm late arriving at work, and have trouble meeting Doyle's eyes.

Then I decide it's none of his business who I sleep with. But he doesn't ask, and I don't volunteer anything. After that, the day goes as well as any day that involves paperwork ever does.

It strikes me a couple of times that I might have done something bloody stupid. It strikes me about a thousand times that either I've been a hypocrite all my life or that bisexuality is, after all, some nasty catching thing like some people say.

It scares me, too, although I think I disguise it. And I call Philippa, in full view of Doyle, and arrange an evening out. We meet and spend a few happy hours in bed from time to time. No strings. I suppose I could have called her last night, although she prefers me to call her at work rather than at home when her husband might answer.

Bingo. The husband's away, and she'd be delighted to see me. She'll even cook me dinner. Fleetingly, I wonder if Steven cooks, then decide that's immaterial. I shan't be calling him. Can't afford the risk.

I wonder if Pippa enjoys a little experimentation? Now there's an idea. The only hurdle there is raking up enough courage to buy some K-Y jelly on the way home.

*
Bodie's jumpy and trying to disguise it. Does he think I don't know him that well?

Fine, so let him be jumpy. At least he doesn't bring up the topic of last night, which is a good thing. Can't help wondering if he got what he wanted, but I'm damned if I'll ask. I'm pretty glad he called Philippa, really. Good sign, that.

In fact, we struggle through paperwork for another couple of days and act almost normally, although things are a bit cooler than usual. I start thinking it'll pass and that it really is over now. I see Maria on the Wednesday. We fuck, or start to. Then we have an argument because I ask her to suck me and she won't. And no, anal sex is out of the question, thanks and would I please stop fondling her bum like that?

In the end I give in and take her normally, which is OK although I think she realises I'm a bit disappointed. She says she'll call me the following day, and doesn't.

Then I get a call from David, of the infamous gang of queers. They're having a bit of an impromptu party, apparently. Even got a few girls going, so if I feel like picking up a few beers along the way...

I say no at first, because I'm brooding about tomorrow's court case. I keep thinking about those kids blowing themselves up, and doing the usual guilt stuff - even though Bodie and Cowley picked up on it and played their usual roles, as in Cowley was gruff but reassuring in his own inimitable way, and Bodie told me I'm an over-sensitive idiot.

Then I suppose I forgot about it, or pushed it to the back of my mind, given the fact I've been acting like a bloody adolescent and letting sex become as important as the damned job.

Idiot.

I brood a bit more after work that night, half-wishing I could call Bodie but that probably wouldn't be wise. God alone knows what could happen if I'm feeling miserable and up for a bit of comfort. Then I'd end up brooding even more, about sex and the job.

But no, he's probably with Philippa, who is apparently an absolute raver.

If I stay here, I'll probably start making tracks in the carpet, so the best thing - as frequently recommended by Bodie himself - is to take my mind off it all. As in 'party'.

I call David and tell him I've changed my mind.

I arrive at his place with two six packs and what I fondly imagine is an open mind. I've been to a couple of their bashes before, and usually left before too much happens, or at least beyond a bit of snogging in various combinations which I don't join in unless it's with a bird. I once took one of the girls upstairs for a quickie, but even then wondered if she wasn't just having a change from lesbian stuff as she'd been fairly touchy-feely with another bird after that.

David's already pissed, I notice as I find a bit of settee beside - thankfully - a woman. So far, there's not much action going on, just loud music and a bit of weed being passed around. Molly - that's the bird - isn't bad. Conversation's a bit lacking but there's plenty of cleavage showing. She's definitely interested in me, as well. Asks me if I'm straight.

I tell her I am. This prompts her to start getting a bit more interested still, as in ever-so-casually stroking my thigh. Nice. The lights get a bit dimmer, and my own hand starts wandering. She's not wearing panties, it turns out. And deftly undoes my zip as we start snogging. Nicer still. We're upstairs within minutes, David giving me an amused wink.

Oh, she's good. Or rather willing. I pay special attention to her breasts, almost as if to reassure myself that I like my sexual partners to have 'em. She lets me pull her onto my lap, my fingers straying over her arse briefly but I'm not exactly equipped for all that and can't exactly nip downstairs and ask if anybody's got any lube. Although I'm quite sure they do.

She's soon tossing her head and moaning as I bring her off for a second time (courtesy being my middle name) and I come soon afterwards, deep inside her.

I doze for a bit, and she's gone when I wake up. I lie there, deciding it's time I got up and went home. Then I see the door open and David's there, hand in hand with his usual partner. Can't remember his name, but Jesus he's got a hard-on. Both of them have. Jeans open, fingers straying. God, they're hot for it.

I start to say I'll go, and David chuckles, telling me that if ever there's a time to find out about gay sex first hand, this is it. They don't mind.

I'm only wearing a shirt, and my traitorous cock is already showing distinct interest. David's polite enough not to mention that, at least. Mind, he's rather occupied.

I've moved off the bed, and start heading for the door but end up stopping as I pick up my jeans. Rather than put them on, I end up standing by the door and admiring the size of Dave's mate's equipment.

This really is purely out of curiosity, I insist to myself. I'll go in a minute.

Ben - I remember his name now - shoots me a grin as he pulls off David's jeans and his own, and starts stroking him. Ben's a big guy all over, in fact. Broad-shouldered, white skinned...

David moans, lapping it up, and before long is sliding a lube-coated finger into Ben's arse, and then another, while Ben almost reverently coats his lover's cock.

My own cock starts to ooze. My heartbeat's going wild.

I should go. Now.

By the time David's flipped his lover over and entered him, I'm sitting in an armchair, working on myself and glued to what they're doing. I need to try not to come too fast because seeing Dave plunging in and out and then coming with a roar before flopping back on the bed is... definitely quite....

Ben chuckles, looking over at me, and says the poor bastard was a bit needy. And considering he was pissed, it was pretty good going. Mind, he adds, it looks like he'll have to finish himself off by the looks of Dave, who is lying there looking sated but drunker than ever. Or would I like to oblige? Looks as though I'm pretty much up for it, he adds.

Up, I certainly am. I was a hair's breadth away from coming when Dave did and only saved myself by finding the strength of will to take my hand away. Have to go to the bathroom because I need to finish off myself, but I really couldn't...shouldn't... mustn't...

I start to shake my head. David, chuckling tipsily, says it'd save him the trouble and what are mates for? Ben's willing, I'm obviously panting for it...

No. Really, no. What if one of them wants to do me?

Suit yourself, Ben says, looking a bit disappointed. Dave mutters something about me being straight, more's the pity.

I'll go. I get to my feet, trying to drag my eyes away as I watch Ben's square, competent hands on himself, and then let my eyes stray to his arse, moist and very much in evidence as he lies there, legs splayed.

Then my legs carry me over there and I'm on top of him, then inside him with one long, hard thrust as he obligingly pulls his knees up, eyes lighting up with pleasure. My balls slap against him as I repeat the movement, and he grunts appreciatively. Then he suggests I take him from behind, harder, deeper, and in a few rapid movements we're joined again and he's urging me on. Not that I need much urging.

David murmurs approvingly, hand caressing my backside. As excited as I am, this makes me toss an angry glare over my shoulder. He stops but I hardly break the rhythm. Don't think I could if I tried, to be honest. I go at him hard, the lube and David's semen inside him easing my way. I reach round, grasp Ben's erection, and slam into him, over and over.

I'm fucking a man. And I'm going to come. Soon. Too soon, dammit...

Ben tenses, yells that he's coming but I'm pouring into him even before he's finished, the clenching around my cock sending me over the edge. I think I'm yelling as well.

Jesus.

I pull out, panting and collapse onto the bed, speechless. Ben absently pats my rump as he rolls onto his back again. David's grinning at me. Nice, he says. Sorry if he offended me. I just have a highly fuckable arse myself, that's all. Not that he could get it up for me if he tried at this moment.

I mutter something about not really being into all this. Definitely a one-off and my arse isn't up for takers. Just that the alcohol...

Not to worry, David assures me, although knowing him he'll have realised I hadn't even been drinking. But thanks anyway. I'm one hell of a sexy guy whether I make a habit of it or not. Ben nods agreement to this, and tells me he could find me another partner sometime? Or would I be interested next time they're up for a bit of variety?

No, I shake my head. Just got carried away. Then I feel a bit guilty and tell them it was fun anyway, but you could maybe say my research was all finished. Ben looks puzzled, and David chuckles, shifting over closer to his lover. Oh, and am I going to his new exhibition next week?

I say of course I am, because I always do and he's a mate as well as... as well as somebody whose lover I've just shagged. He grins and tells me it's brilliant and he's brilliant, and I nod absently.

I'm so shaky it takes me longer than I'd like to get my clothes on and mutter some sort of goodbye. I'm out of the house within seconds once I'm dressed, though.

Very much aware of the dampness in my groin and the musky smell I drive home and spend a long, long time in the shower.

It was research, I assure myself. As in finding out how it might have been with Bodie, if I'm honest, or at least if Bodie suddenly offered up his arse to me - which is hardly likely. Not that I ever intend finding out even if he did suddenly find a taste for the 'submissive' bit - I mean you'd have to have that sort of tendency, right?

No, I'm not even getting involved with anything of the kind again, even if I have to admit it was one hell of a turn-on. I've taken it to the end of my curiosity, got a bloody kick out of it, and can now file it all away. Back to boobs, my lad. With Bodie as a mate, although that's going to take a bit of working on as we're still a bit awkward with each other.

Then, me being me, I start to worry about the following day's court case again.

*
I like Steve. I told him when I called that it was just to say thanks although I'm not even sure I believed that myself, and he didn't come out with any sort of a come-on. Even when I got here we were both cool, drank beers, and didn't jump on each other. A bit like I could do with Doyle once upon a time. Pre-Gemma, that is.

We talk easily - first about tennis, which we both play and I saw his racquet propped up. Then about beer and football and other stuff. He's a doctor, I find out... somehow I didn't expect that.

He's the one who makes a casual comment about how hard it is to be gay, and I find myself nodding, then end up admitting I'm more the type who swings both ways myself. It's still all very casual.

He just nods at that, and asks me - cool as you please - if that's why I always like to top. Equally cool, I say yes, probably. Then, surprised at myself, I ask if this whole prostate stuff's all it's cracked up to be.

Steve then treats me to a fairly clinical description of it all, and watches me carefully. He adds that he had trouble believing it himself until he'd actually been fucked, but since then he's been, as he says ruefully, all too fond of it. Not that he doesn't mind things being the other way round either, but I'd been fairly categorical about my choices.

I chuckle. Realise I'm getting an erection just thinking about that night, which is over a week ago now.

Look, Steve says, it doesn't matter. We really don't have to take turns, although he does hope we might end the evening in bed. Take a couple of beers, see how it pans out. And he's not expecting a major love affair or anything although he was really pleased I called.

I suggest we have an early night, then, and he grins. Even as I say it I regret it a bit after all the good intentions, but like I said, he's a nice guy and I'm not sure whether my intentions were good anyway if I'm really honest with myself. He turns me on, and doesn't turn it into a bloody fight like Doyle did. So it'll be fine. We're just... mates who fuck, right? Just like Doyle and I are mates who don't. Or rather not any more.

Although - and this is getting complicated - I don't know whether I wanted to fuck Doyle because I feel something sexual about him as well as liking him as a person, or whether I simply wanted to fuck. On present form, I think he's an excellent partner and a bloody good mate who I also want - wanted - to fuck, but if I'd somehow persuaded him to go that far I think I'd have regretted it. The friendship means more than that, and it's quite enough for one of us to go around having an illegal and potentially career-ending fling.

That's that settled, then. I can quite happily fuck Steve without things getting too complicated, and stay mates with Doyle into the bargain. Perfect arrangement, as long as I'm careful.

I'm still basking in the fact that I've sorted all this out in my own mind, so when Steve starts to kiss me, it really shocks me. I recoil and get another of those rueful grins and another apology from him, so we relax for a bit and just concentrate on undressing each other, bit by bit. Quite the slow build-up, this is, and I get one hell of a kick of playing with his nipples and watching him get harder as I do it. I even go down on him for a bit, which makes him pant and let loose a few oaths. Not wanting it over too quickly, I get my head up as he bends forward, and we end up grinning at each other, mouths almost touching quite by accident. And I'm the one who initiates the kiss this time because he looks like a big, happy, excited, sexy kid.

We just brush lips at first, testing, and very gradually I want more, opening my mouth and letting him dart his tongue in. Before long, we're snogging like a couple of adolescents, our arms around each other, chests touching.

By the time we break apart, we're both hot for it, and he presses the lube into my hand, squeezing some out and reaching for me. Only minutes later I'm deep inside him, revelling in it. He's on his hands and knees this time - his choice because he says he wants me to really do him. Which, by God, is no hardship. I buck against him hard, and the climax comes all too fast but it's huge and sweet and he's close himself.

To my irritation, I know I'm already drooping but I finish him off with my hand, which is fine too judging by the way he comes. This time I'm the one who wipes us both off, and we lie back, sipping beer. At one point he manages to get his elbow on the K-Y tube, which reacts predictably and suddenly we're both smeared in the stuff.

Pity to waste it, he jokes, looking at his fingers.

Definitely, I murmur, sliding my hand into his cleft. He's still pretty relaxed down there as I probe carefully, wondering aloud where on earth the prostate is. He gives me a verbal road map, and moans as I find my way.

My curiosity will be the death of me. I swear it will. I can't put it into words, but take his fingers from their current pastime of stroking my balls and place them a little further back. He asks if I'm sure, and I manage a nod. Then croak out that maybe not all the way... just to show me...

He understands, but he's taking his bloody time about it and not actually doing anything. As in he's just slowly circling around, running his fingers over my arse and... my arsehole while his other hand's continuing to keep my cock - hard again - happy.

It's... sexy. He lets me continue caressing his balls, and murmurs daft stuff about how fantastic my body is. It sounds unbelievably trite and crappy but on the other hand I find myself admiring his own assets as well, out loud.

It'll be all right for me to do him again, he says after things get pretty intense (meaning urgent) again. If I'm gentle, that is - too much of what we did before in a single evening could get pretty uncomfortable. Or we can just go for hands... mouths...

Or he could fuck me, I find myself saying. Properly, that is. Not just the stuff with fingers. Or at least if he really does like that as well.

Of course he does, he grins, eyes widening. Am I sure? He's realised I've never bottomed, he says quietly. So if I'm serious, he'll be gentle. If I change my mind, I can say. Any time.

I tell him gentle would be just fine. Now. Straight away.

He's very gentle as he kisses me yet again, and a little of the tension eases. I want it.

I, Bodie, want to be fucked.

Christ.

After a while, I mumble at him to get on with it or I really will end up fucking him senseless again... I mean I've got a grandstand view of him like this and he's not what you'd call uninterested in the whole idea.

The bastard goes down on me, once he's told me to shut up and relax. That's very nice. And his finger's finally - finally - come to rest and is pushing, gently.

Weirdly enough it's... not unpleasant. No, definitely not unpleasant but very, very weird all the same. A bit uncomfortable when he gets a second finger in.

Then... wham. Like... well... like nothing I've felt before, but I'd like to feel again. I think that's what I babble to him. He obliges, eventually getting his head up and watching me.

I tell him to do it, do me, and he shakes his head slowly. I need more preparation, apparently. He even hits me with a few more medical-type details about tearing and the fact that I might have the urge to crap. This is a bit off-putting to say the least, but my body's still craving it - that craving you always feel when you're just about to actually fuck, wanting to actually get your cock inside... something. Once, I'd have said inside a woman, but having been intimately acquainted with a man that's no longer quite relevant.

Steve chuckles faintly when, still frustrated with the slowness, I start begging for more again. So will he please get on with it now? Every stroke's making me shudder, and from the way it feels he's got three fingers in me, which can't be that much smaller than his cock, can it? He's got a slim, long one (and I can't believe I'm actually admiring that, but I am). Probably not as well hung as Doyle...

... no, I'm not going to think of Doyle. Definitely not.

Apparently, says Mr Lecturer, hands and knees are definitely good for the prostate stuff but side-by-side and face-to-face are pretty good too. Me on his lap wouldn't be a good idea in case I wasn't able to take it as gently as I should and got a bit over-enthusiastic...

Will he just fucking do it, I ask, getting onto my hands and knees. We'll worry about some of the finer points and kama-sutra stuff another time.

He does it. Very, very carefully. I howl, because that feeling's there again, and what with that and his hand doing extremely good things to my cock it's over well before I want it to be. Steve isn't far behind, either, and he's chuckling as he pulls out. Tells me I'm a natural.

I stiffen at that, not sure that I like the idea at all, but his smile's infectious as he pulls me down beside me for a little more snogging.

This isn't a love affair, is it, I think vaguely? No, can't be. Although it's a bit more than just the sex, really. Maybe the snogging was a bad idea. Doyle would hate...

Sod that for a game of conkers. This isn't Doyle and I'm rather glad it isn't. Having a teacher is really quite handy, and I'm obviously a fast learner. With Doyle, we'd probably have ended up hurting each other out of lust and inexperience.

I am not going to think of Doyle. Not when I've got an extremely sexy guy lying naked beside me, sending little after-shivers through me as his tongue darts in and out of my mouth.

It's quite surreal watching telly and drinking beer and leaving off now and then for a touch or a cuddle. I could, I think as I find myself sliding off to sleep, get used to this.

I wake up in the morning feeling just slightly tender but definitely well fucked. In fact I'm definitely up for a replay of the prostate-stroking stuff (mine) until Dr. Steve advises against it and offers me his slightly more experienced arse, as he puts it, for my pleasure. I discover that the side-to-side stuff's not bad either, as much pleasure ensues and having to go to work is a bloody nuisance.

When I get there, I also discover Doyle in a distinctly gloomy sort of mood, mostly prompted by the damned court case we have to roll up at, I expect, but he looks knackered as well.

When prompted, he says he's been to a party and didn't sleep much. And yes, ta, it was fun.

Nice birds, I ask casually?

Warm and willing, he says shortly.

Good.

I don't concentrate on it all as much as I should. I do, however, manage to make a halfway intelligent comment on the verdict although I'm far more interested in the fact that we get the rest of the day off. Doyle decides to sulk a bit more, and I don't push it too much as I rather fancy a little R&R spent doing whatever I fancy rather than any soul-searching. Then maybe I'll see if Steve fancies a pint or two or a game of tennis tonight... and... well... the rest. I promised to call him today at some point anyway.

While I'm at it, I'll buy a paper and see what's on at the cinema: apparently he's into all-action stuff rather than the arty-farty stuff Doyle tends to go for. Another point in Steve's favour. Must ask him if he likes cricket.

When my bleeper goes off I'm mildly irritated. An intrusion at Doyle's place? Silly bastard's probably gone shopping and not bothered with the locks. He definitely looked as though his mind was all over the place earlier.

I'll kill the little bastard for this, I really will. Shinning up fire escapes isn't...

Oh, Christ.

*
Feel a bit more human today. Still up with the fairies a bit and still having weird dreams, but definitely more like myself - except for the fact I've got two dirty great holes in me and I strongly suspect that without half the pharmaceutical industry in me veins I'd be yelling blue murder. Just had another dose, in fact. Brand new bag hung up on the IV. God bless the taxpayers and the National Health, because it was starting to hurt again.

Still embarrassed, as well, for getting everybody upset and for being sloppy. Jesus, if they knew why I was only half with it when I walked out of my place and forgot about the locks, I'd be out on my ear. No more private rooms and the whole squad being kind and sympathetic, just a one-way ticket out of there.

I can just see it now, once I'm required to explain a few things.

"Well, see, first I was knackered and a bit low, so I went to a party to try and forget about some of the sordid stuff at work. You know - stuff I'm supposed to be able to cope with. While I was there, I just happened to fuck a guy and was a bit mixed up that, too, so I wasn't really thinking straight. In fact I've been acting like a hormone-ridden teenager with his mind way too much on sex - and where he stands with it with reference to his partner - for a while lately, rather than a CI5 agent. So all in all, what with one thing or another, I got a bit forgetful about things such as security. Sorry about that."

Right.

And even if I'd been mixed up about some bird or other rather than doing stuff that Cowley and half the squad (if not more) would probably find as disgusting as Mary Whitehouse does, the old man would still - will still, once he's decided I'm past the 'be nice to Doyle' stage - have my balls for the locks stuff anyway. Even if I plead it was the guilt about the blown-up kids, which I presume I'll have to, it'll only get me a few sessions with Kate Bloody Ross.

Yippee.

She's even worse than Bodie, who's already given me hell about it after all. Yesterday, in fact. And I did remorse rather well if I say it myself, and then pleaded tired.

The tiredness was real, to be honest although I used it as an excuse to shut him up, but so was the remorse. Not disputing that. I was stupid: a disgrace to the squad or at the very least a waste of the training we had drummed into us. Lock your doors. Don't take risks. Training is expensive. Replacements don't grow on the nearest tree.

The mea culpa maxima bit and heaping my head with ashes is obviously the only way to play it, I conclude, once Cowley's back to his normal self. Definitely.

I'm rather proud of myself for coming up with a little coherent thought here.

That is the right phrase, innit? Mea culpa? Might impress Cowley like Bodie does with his bits of poetry. Never could stand poetry, ever since we had to learn bits of it as school. As for Latin, they didn't even let me loose on that. Just remember a few bits that some pseudo-intellectual bird used to spout occasionally.

Nec plus ultra. That was another one - think she said that after sex. Well, naturally, me being God's gift to the female sex it was quite appropriate. Female sex, I remind myself.

Bet she was into poetry as well. Very snooty, she was. Even more so than Ann, which might seem hard but on reflection, she definitely was. Ann was snooty but a bit of a tramp on the quiet, unlike...

What was her name? Can't remember.

Fuzzy brain, sod it but it hurts less again. The latest cocktail of goodies are all whooshing around my system rather nicely, ta.

Do remember bits of poetry, though. Drugs (sorry, medication) are (sorry, is) rather weird like that. You forget who you last shagged but remember something from school.

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,

Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,

With a cargo of ivory,

And apes and peacocks,

Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

What's a quinquireme?

Something you row, dummy. As in a ship. Boat. Whatever. Quite sure I asked at the time, but I've forgotten. Something that goes from A to B on water, and that will have to do for now.

Probably did know once, courtesy of Mrs.... Mrs Whatsits. The one we all thought was a nutter for trying to get kids like me to read that sort of stuff. Silly old bat was sure I'd never learn it by heart, either, but she was wrong. Got a good memory, me. Put it to use for telephone numbers, names, these days...

Sort of drifting along on images of Ben's arse all mixed up with John Masefield now. Funny, doesn't make me feel randy though. Randy seems off the menu which I suppose isn't too surprising.

Just keep thinking of it in with a sort of weird fascination: Fucking him. Wanting it. Climaxing. Then running. Then feeling completely screwed up.

No, stop it.

Not enjoying thinking about this right now. Too... complicated. Let's go somewhere else.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,

Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,

With a cargo of diamonds,

Emeralds, amethysts,

Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dammit, can't remember the last verse. Remember it was the only one where I knew what most of the words meant... unlike moidores. What the hell are moidores when they're at home, eh?

Have to ask Bodie.

*
I'm concentrating on acting normal. Telling the shrinks I'm just fine, ta. Telling Bodie and Cowley and Murphy and all the rest of 'em the same. Bodie's being a real mate. Not doing the syrupy stuff or going all fussy, or at least doing his best not to play mother hen too much. He's even got the doc talking to Macklin about how they're going to torture me back to top form. Lucky me, eh?

He says it'll be good for me to get out and about, which is true.

Bored with this place. I think Bodie is as well if he's honest, although I expect he's got a whole bloody harem of nurses in here lined up. In fact he was all dressed up in the 'knock 'em dead' stuff the other night and said he was on his way out. Didn't come up with any details but he probably doesn't want to make me jealous of his social life considering that apart from visitors, the highlight of my day right now is being allowed to watch telly after ten. Quietly, so's the old geezer next door doesn't complain.

Thinking about 'out and about' reminds me that I'd promised to give David a call but can't remember when his exhibition was now. Time's gone a bit blurred, but if I'm right I've missed it.

I get him on the phone, provided in my room as part of the frills, and apologise. No, can't really pop round for a jar or two as I'm a bit laid up. Yep, hospital for a few days. No, he doesn't need to visit, really...

He comes anyway, and I'd wondered how the hell he found out where I was because I'd purposely not told him, much as I'm short of company. When I demand to know, he admits that Ben's a copper.

This is a bit of a surprise (understatement), because I've always been vague about where I work and who for with David considering he was pretty hot on peace marches not long ago, but apparently he and Ben had figured what I did a while back. Ben, he says, has persuaded him that the police aren't all sadistic bastards.

Good, I say. But that still didn't explain how he'd found me.

Ah, David informs me. Ben did some rather clever stuff there after I'd called: cheerfully calling Central and saying some of me old mates wanted to cheer me up. Considering he was in the force and gave his name, they didn't just deny my existence like they'd normally have done, and told him where I was.

That probably means Ben deserves a promotion to CID. Or even CI5, I muse aloud. Smart lad.

CI5, eh? David grins. Not quite his scene, ta, although they certainly provide all the mod cons in hospital rooms at least. Probably a better career move than painting out of love and illustrating kids' books to make ends meet, he adds wryly. Can I imagine how boring it is to draw cutesy kiddies and kites? Or clowns? Or mice in frocks?

I suggest that drawing clowns, at present, seems like an extremely good alternative to running around getting shot at. This just makes him laugh. He says I'd better stick to the heroics unless me painting's improved since we were at college together. Cheeky bastard, even if he's right.

To my amazement, he's also brought me a picture, and I get a bit worried as I start to tear off the wrapping in case it's what you might call 'controversial': he gets into pretty realistic stuff at times as well as more the more abstract ones I prefer. Realistic as in female genitals portrayed down the last hair or male nudes or heaven knows what.

Phew. It's some sort of colour composition that's really quite nice. All soothing blues and greens. He thought it would be more appropriate than something more avant-garde.

Well yeah, I grin, studying it with almost childish delight. I've always been a sucker for presents, and David's one hell of an artist whether it's this or mice dressed in frocks.

He props it up by the bed and studies me thoughtfully. Asks me what exactly happened to me, as somehow this looks a bit more than a few days' worth in here. Did I actually get shot then?

Yeah, I admit.

Who by? Where?

By a Chinese bird. Chest and shoulder, I say. Nosy sod, he is and not exactly observant either. Or did he think I was wearing bandages up here for a bullet in me leg?

Not funny, he says. And that bad? The way I'd been talking about it he'd though it must be just a cracked rib or two.

Be back in shape eventually, I say defensively.

He still looks so shocked I find myself trying to cheer him up: he's always worn his heart on his sleeve.

What would he do if Ben was shot by some half-witted teenager on crack, he adds quietly? It doesn't bear thinking about. They might be a bit... well, a bit liberal about sex sometimes, but they're still nuts about each other, David adds. The very thought of him being hurt...

I pat him on the arm, sorry for the poor bugger.

This, of course, is the point Bodie chooses to make an entrance, and he looks surprised to see my visitor, let alone me getting physical with him. David, let's say, is not exactly masculine in looks or dress. I'm not saying he's overtly gay or goes around in frills, but if I know Bodie like I think I do he'll suss him immediately and either clam up or be cutting.

To his credit, he clams up.

In fact, he dumps a couple of books on my bed and hardly says a word. I introduce Bodie as my partner at work and David as a mate from art school days, to which Bodie says, with that supercilious expression of his, that he'd never have guessed. He admires the painting politely, tells me to behave myself, and makes a quick exit.

David looks as me as he goes out, and cocks his head to one side. Mutters something about my working partner not being very talkative, but being a great-looking guy. I roll my eyes at him and tell him that Ben would be jealous, and he grins affectionately.

*
It takes Bodie a few days to refer to the whole thing. I've been expecting it, so it's hardly a surprise. Yes, I tell him airily, David's gay. Is that a problem?

No, Bodie says. Course it isn't. Not his affair at all.

Absolutely, I say.

This, of course, is the ideal moment to reassure him that Dave's a mate and nothing more. The fact that I don't is probably because I'm feeling stroppy after my first encounter with the torturer they call a physiotherapist here, and Bodie's too bloody nosy by half.

Bodie looks me straight in the eye and isn't even side tracked by me changing the subject and asking him if he remembers the last verse of the 'Cargoes' poem, which I've been meaning to ask him.

He doesn't answer but gets up and stared at the much-admired painting, still propped up in my room.

So he's just a mate, Bodie asks eventually.

Why, I ask him. Is he jealous or something? This sounds snappy rather than a joke, but dammit, I'm ill.

Or maybe I really want to know.

Of course he's not jealous, Bodie snaps back. I can screw, or be screwed by, London's entire population, male or female, if I like.

Ouch. Well, I deserved that, and it's not that different from what I said to him a while back, is it. When I told him to go and pull a bloke or a bird.

The thing is, Bodie suddenly looks miserable rather than spoiling for a fight. I almost relent and tell him that there is no way in hell I'd fuck Dave, or any other man...

... until I remember Ben, and the fact that I most definitely did fuck him, and the night before some Chinese bimbo shot me.

So I clam up too.

Bodie then quotes the last damned verse of the poem, Shakespearean accent included.

Smug bastard.

Then he looks at me in the eye, and hesitates a bit. Glances at the picture again. Tells me I'm bloody lucky to be around to see it.

I know, I nod and finally take pity on him. As for the artist, I say, Dave's a mate, no more.

Oh, Bodie says, with what looks like relief. Really?

Really, I tell him. What does he take me for?

Bodie rakes up a strange sort of grin as he leaves.

*
Bodie visits regularly all the time I'm in, and is still in 'mate and working partner' mode although we're a bit awkward with each other after the "Cargoes" visit at times, I think. Our conversation tends to be restricted to work gossip and motorbikes, which is definitely safer than personal stuff.

It doesn't stop me looking at him and wondering what he's up to now and then, though, particularly after Ruth came in and made some sort of comment about Bodie being pretty smitten by his latest conquest. He certainly looks fairly contented: he's got that sort of faintly smug aura he develops when he's reached cruising rhythm with somebody rather than being at the 'chasing' stage.

I try not to pry but give in and ask during one visit. Bodie just admits he's getting plenty, taps his nose, and changes the subject.

Ruth's said that Bodie isn't saying much about her, whoever she is, which is unlike him. I made some sort of comment about expecting she'll be the blond, leggy, pea-brained type which got me the usual lecture about putting all blondes in the same basket. I suggested Ruth burned her bra, which didn't make me too popular, I think: she hasn't been since.

Funny, really. I once used to seriously consider bedding Ruth, or at least trying. It was a sort of ongoing challenge, really, because she was probably the last approachable of all the women at CI5, or at least as far as sex was concerned.

Sex, I have to admit, is on my mind a lot, but not in the way it usually is. I seem to have lost interest in it, which is worrying. Or rather it should be worrying, shouldn't it?

I keep telling myself it'll come back, but by the time they're making noises about letting me go home I also expect to start admiring what's under crisp uniforms again, but don't.

*
Steve gasps out 'yes. Bodie', swears a little as he climaxes, and I up the ante a bit and soon join him. Then he pulls out and slumps down beside me.

I'm absolutely knackered now. Mind, I was knackered before, if I'm honest, considering Cowley's had me up in Manchester for a couple of days, running around like a blue-arsed fly.

It was still good, though. Good to be welcomed back with a good meal and a fuck, there's no doubt about that.

The fuck came first, I muse as we both lie there, still breathing hard. Or rather the first one: that was the aperitif whereas this one is the nightcap.

I'd spent half the drive back down here thinking about it, glad Steve had sorted his shifts so we could do the whole reunion thing, and I hadn't been the only one who was excited judging by the fact we were snogging before I'd got both feet inside the door, undressed about halfway through the hallway and on his settee going at it like rabbits only seconds later.

Nothing like finding your lover's already done a little preparation work, I'd teased him, not referring to the smells from the kitchen. Steve had just chuckled as I'd thrust into the well-lubricated arse and told him I hoped the meal would be half as appetising.

Not sure where Steve and I are going, really. What I do know is that the sex is unbelievable but I like him for more than that. He's let me talk about Doyle on the rare occasions I've managed to see him between work and hospital visits, and I've rambled on a bit about the job and a few of the downsides of it all, such as getting shot.

I'd even admitted I cared about my daft bugger of a partner the first time I'd gone round to Steve's after the shooting, but I'd also made sure I added 'but not like that' as casually as possible.

Then we'd made long, slow, comfort-type love, which wasn't easy after a fair spell of abstinence, and it was so good I'd said, spontaneously, that I didn't intend to go trawling for the foreseeable future.

Blimey, I'd thought. what's coming over me and do I mean it? Bodie and monogamous are not words that are frequently associated, to put it mildly.

Well, I'd try - both to mean it and not let myself be led astray.

As declarations of love - no, not love - commitment go, it was maybe a bit weak, but it got me a dimpled grin and a reassurance that monogamy seemed like a plan.

For the last few weeks, I've kept my part of the bargain and if the urgency tonight is anything to go by, so has he.

And now Doyle's getting better rapidly, I'm trying to pay Steve back for his patience, quite apart from ringing the changes a little. Sometimes it's still gentle, but at others it's a little rougher, like tonight or that day I called in on him at the hospital and we ended up in some sort of linen cupboard, trousers around our ankles and me slamming into him like there was no tomorrow.

Quite the little raver, our Steve, when he gets half a chance. That was a little dangerous, I'd said as he slipped his white jacket back on.

No, he grinned. He was careful - he'd told one of the nurses I was a mate come to have a moan about his wife.

As I lie basking in the afterglow, as I think the saying goes, I find myself expecting that by now Doyle's got half the female staff of the hospital lined up for once he gets out. Well, I hope he has. I still keep wondering about David, though. Can't help it. Surely Doyle wasn't lying, was he? No, Doyle's not like that. Not a liar.

I'm still thinking about it as Steve passes me a brandy, and he cocks his head to one side. He looks a bit thoughtful too, come to think of it, so rather than doing any bean spilling I pull him over beside me and ask if he's snogged any nurses lately. Apparently that was all part of the 'I'm straight' front, he'd once admitted. He did it now and then in a clinical sort of way but decided to change all that and say he had a jealous lover, and besides, the professional ethics...

Exactly, I nod knowingly but without thinking. Not a good idea to bed people you work with.

Did I ever bed Doyle, he says suddenly as though he's reading my mind about that particular subject? Or think about it?

The question takes my breath away.

I pause longer than I should, and then shake my head and decide on making a few omissions.

I tell him we once had a threesome with a bird and fondled a bit, miss out the fact that we did a bit more than fondle after that, and then say that Doyle's definitely not into gay sex. And no, we never had a relationship. And yes, the monogamy bit still stands.

Good, Steve says, climbing back into bed with me. He'd just had the feeling that - well - there'd been something between the two of us. Maybe he'd just got the wrong impression from the way I'd talked about him.

No, I say. There wasn't anything apart from the briefest of flings. We just both liked sex, and it was one of those things that happened. I was the one who liked men, not Doyle.

What I don't add is that I suppose I have Doyle to thank for realising just how much I liked men.

I start drifting off to sleep, reaching out to put the brandy glass down and taking in the figure lying beside me as I do. He's already out to the world, long fingers on my hip.

For a brief moment, I let myself think about other long fingers, another slim, lanky body. Another long, hard cock.

And then I mentally shake myself and force myself to think of Doyle happily enjoying more than blanket baths even as I speak. Or, a tiny voice suggests, fucking David, Mr Submissive Bottom, for the hell of it.

Now I can't sleep, because it disturbs me and shouldn't.

Idiot.

Fortunately, the ability to force my mind to stop and get shuteye when my body demands it starts to work after a while. That, and thoughts of waking Steve up and some nice - or even rough - monogamous sex when we wake up do the trick.

I dream of threesomes, but this time it involves three men. No prizes for which. It's faded now, although I do remember Steve getting stroppy when I said it was my turn with Doyle and me telling him not to be jealous.

I wake up with a hard-on and look at the clock with contempt. Not long afterwards, we head for the shower and I find myself taking an extremely randy, soapy Steve against the wall, telling myself that being late for work and probably getting a bollocking from Cowley is almost worth it. I also try not to remember too many details of that dream and of wanting so badly to fuck Doyle through the mattress as I feel myself coming.

I'm with Steve now, I remind myself sharply. Doyle's out of the picture.

*
Kate Ross is a bloody pain. I've told her so regularly during her visits, and she just snorts.

As a matter of fact, though, she's also one heck of a smart woman and - much as I hate to admit it - I've been getting to like her dry sense of humour.

I just can't help thinking about all the rather sexist jokes Bodie and I have flung at her now and then and often feel a bit guilty.

At least she can't read minds.

Today, she asks me if it's good to be home and I nod enthusiastically, trying not to look at the newly cleaned carpet where half my blood ended up.

She then proceeds to get me talking about the weirdness of being here, prods me about nightmares (less of 'em now, ta) and my thoughts about getting back into shape (can't wait but am shit scared) and seems to be satisfied.

She uncrosses slim legs in sheer nylons, which is usually the sign that the day's session is over.

Yes, good legs. I suppose, really, I really should bring on a few sexist comments or she'll think I'm still off sex. Which, dammit, is true. The most embarrassing of all our little chats, in fact, was the one a few weeks ago when she warned me I was bound to be uninterested for a while and not to worry about it. I'd just nodded and said that there wasn't a lot that could keep a good man down for long.

How long's a while, though? I'd quite like to ask but there's spilling your guts and spilling your guts.

Am I still off sex, she asks out of the blue. Or at least haven't had the opportunity to test the water properly as I'm only just home?

Shit. She does read minds after all. And although it seems like a throwaway, last comment, I know her too well for that. She's trying to be casual, and by rights I should react similarly and insist I just can't wait to throw her on the bed and am having trouble keeping my hands off her. Or maybe tell her I've had every nurse in the wing for more than just blanket baths.

Instead, I have the horrible feeling I blush, and I just sit staring at her.

Not to worry, she says, interpreting the silence with her usual talent. It really is normal, and it will come back - possibly when the right moment presents itself. I shouldn't push it...

Then why did she ask, I snap.

Because when it does happen, I might get nervous, or my partner might, she says coolly. Either of us might worry about my heartbeat, orgasms, getting in synch, so I should be prepared. She's been looking into