No Funny Business Pt. 02

-----Patrick------

I'm dozing against the wall in our prison when Lissa returns. Or perhaps I should say is returned. The door opens and they beckon to me, stony-faced, and I go to the ladder and catch her as they ease her down to me. She's naked, and heavier than I expect. Those sweet curves conceal hard muscle.

She's not completely unconscious, moaning as I carry her across the room and lay her on the cleanest patch of floor I can find. I hear the doorkeepers murmuring among themselves. Are they disapproving of Lissa's treatment? Or laying bets on her odds of survival?

I find out when one of them beckons me again and hands down a bucket of water, some clean rags, and a large ragged piece of cloth that looks like it was once a sheet. The clandestine way he looks over his shoulder makes me believe this is against orders. I nod my thanks. Then the door closes.

It's still night – the entire incident couldn't have taken more than two or three hours. But there's some light coming through the windows, and by its glow I can see the blood, the welts, and the bruising on her throat. My chest threatens to explode with some emotion that isn't quite sympathy or shared pain or anger but some weird combination of all three.

Instead of yelling or punching the wall, I take the water and the rags and start to wash away the blood. I'm no stranger to caring for the wounded – since I couldn't join the army, I volunteered as an orderly during the war. This is tame compared to the things I've seen – disemboweled men holding in their guts, faces burned black and bleeding from bombs, missing limbs, men with their lives pumping out from an opened artery.

But in the hospital they were anonymous. Not Lissa

I begin with the cut on her cheek, gently dabbing away blood from her chalk-white skin. A few of the wounds are still bleeding sluggishly, but most have stopped, which is good. I try to get her hair contained before it starts sticking to them. Beautiful, silky stuff, it hangs to just below her shoulders when she's standing. I tie it back awkwardly with a bit of rag.

I'm suddenly consumed by the memory of sitting behind her in some class, back when she kept her hair waist-length or longer. She had it in a long braid stretching down her spine, and I zoned out of the teacher's lecture and was mesmerized by the pattern, the way gold glints played among the red when she moved her head, her fingers as she smoothed back an escaped lock.

I could only have been 15 or 16 then, and I've long ago made peace with my feelings for Lissa and the fact that I will never marry. I can't take the chance that some innocent child will be born with my twisted leg. But seeing her again, like this... The old longing rises up and threatens to overwhelm me.

Her neck I can do nothing about. The bruises are still coming in, dark blue-purple and vivid against her skin. I mostly try to avoid them.

Arms. Only a few cuts here. At least he wasn't aiming at her face. I take the time to remove the dirt from her hands, even though the mostly dirt floor is going to replace it in a few minutes.

Her hands are small and strong, with nails bitten back to the quick. I find that oddly comforting. So much about Lissa has changed, but at least there's this bit of continuity.

I turn her over to clean the blood from her back. It's more difficult when I'm sitting, and I'm a little rougher than I would like. She remains motionless, though.

Her back has the worst damage. It's not totally raw, like some other whippings I've seen, but it's covered in welts and there's plenty of blood. I wince as I swipe the cloth down her spine as gently as possible. I hesitate when my hand arrives at her ass, but then continue, making a clean streak through the dirt and blood. Why get squeamish and modest now?

It's strange touching her like this. All the soldiers were male, of course, so I've never had cause to touch a woman so intimately. My cock is responding, which I suppose is inevitable though I would frankly rather it did not, given the context. Her skin feels so warm and so real somehow.

I run the cloth down her side, enjoying the curve of her hip flaring out from her waist. How many times have I looked at that contour and wanted to touch it, feel for myself the contrast between waist and hip? It is just as sweet as I thought it would be, a purely tactile pleasure, and I run my hand down her side again, indulging. Then I rinse out my cloth once more and move on to the other side of her back.

When it's time to clean her front, I run into a dilemma. If I turn her over, the newly cleaned wounds on her back will go straight into the dirt, and I have stupidly left the larger cloth that I could use to cover the ground just out of reach.

After some maneuvering, I end up with her basically sitting on my lap, head against my shoulder with my arm keeping her steady. The angle is awkward, but it works. I am cleaning her shoulder when I realize that her eyes are open and she is watching me.

"Welcome back," I say, successfully resisting the impulse to start like I have been caught doing something wrong. This is medical care, nothing more. I am struck again by the strangeness of it all. It seems only a few hours since I saw her for the first time in ten years, followed so quickly by the kidnapping. I haven't even had a chance to greet her, really.

"Thank you." She makes no move to get up. Good, at least, my touch hasn't totally freaked her out. Or else she's too worn out to move. "How long was I out?"

"Fifteen minutes, maybe? I'm not sure how long it took them to get you back here."

"How bad is the damage?"

"Not bad, really. Nothing that won't stop bleeding in a few minutes. You're going to be tender for a few days, though." I make myself assess her condition impartially, ignoring the anger at the unprovoked beating still swirling around my brain.

She tilts her head, testing the muscles in her neck, and touches the bruises delicately. "You worked in the hospital during the war, right? So you would know."

This makes me drop my eyes. How does she know that about me? "Yeah, I guess. I just did the grunt work, though."

"So if I'm not badly hurt, how come you look so tragic?" The question, delivered so frankly, startles me. If I answer it, I will be heading into dangerous territory. I settle for a non-answer.

"I'm just concentrating. This isn't as easy as it looks, you know."

She smiles, with a wince when she stretches the cut on her cheek. "Don't let me distract you." She closes her eyes again and leans back to allow me easier access.

I hesitate. With her fully conscious, the situation has changed. I'm suddenly terrified that she will feel my arousal and be disgusted by it. It seems... dishonorable, somehow. Like I'm taking advantage of her vulnerability.

But I really don't want to put her away from me. So I pick up the rag again and begin to wash her stomach.

She tenses and sighs when I touch a particularly large welt. I am fascinated by the way her body moves as she tightens her stomach muscles. But this is only contributing to my cock problem, so I focus on moving the cloth in slow even circles, studiously avoiding breast and bush.

Finally, I have to admit that her abdomen is clean. I move to start cleaning a cut near her knee, but she stops me.

"You missed a few." Her voice is a low murmur. I am tongue-tied. She smiles, with a laughing look in her eyes, and it occurs to me that she is enjoying my discomfort. This gives me courage somehow – because if this is a challenge, how can I not answer it – and I rinse the cloth and raise it to the gentle roundness of her breasts.

--------Lissa--------

I have to admire that unshakeable confidence. He barely paused when I woke up sitting on his lap like a two-bit stripper. So nonchalant, like he bathes his injured, naked school friends every day. How did he even maneuver me into this position with his bad leg?

His hand on my breast makes me want to groan aloud. I resist. Is he still just cleaning my wounds? A glance shows me that his face still wears the same serious look that I cannot interpret.

I was not expecting to respond so strongly to his touch, especially not so soon after. Maybe I'll just rest on his shoulder until I figure it out.

He moves to the other breast, and I can feel the cold water having its effects on my nipples. Already my pains are becoming background music to another desire. The beating, the strangling, waking up in such an intimate position... these things combine to make a perfect storm of lust in my mind. I cannot resist moving slightly to thrust my chest more strongly into his hand.

He pauses. Then resumes, this time with a confident massage-like motion, his other hand holding my back firmly. I am limp in his arms, head nestled into his shoulder. I can see his sandy hair tucked back behind his ears. I do not reach out and run my fingers through it.

I am weirdly paralyzed. I am not in the least inexperienced when it comes to sex, but I have never felt so vulnerable, like there was so much at stake.

Finally he looks me in the eyes and smiles that mischievous, knowing smile like we have just shared some joke and I know that this is the point of decision. So I pull him down to me and kiss those smug lips.

He seems utterly taken aback, not responding for a moment then fumbling with lips and tongue like a schoolboy. I have time to consider the possibility that I am his first before we find a rhythm and I am drawn further into the kiss.

This kiss... I have shared a lot of kisses before - in alleys, in bars with smoke curling from where our lips meet, furtively in bedrooms before we are distracted by other body parts. I have always considered them accessories to the main event. A prelude, something to get the blood moving. But Patrick treats a kiss as a whole world in itself, his hand stroking the back of my neck, utterly concentrated on where our bodies meet.

It is me who breaks away, gasping slightly. He instantly stiffens and drops his hands from me, and I start to see his lips form the words "I'm sorry." So of course I have to pull him back and bite his neck, gently, just where neck meets shoulder.

It is a spot that is exquisitely sensitive for me, and with him I am rewarded by a gasp and a different kind of stiffening. I continue, using the merest touches of lips, teeth, and breath on all the most sensitive areas of skin I can reach.

I am aware of the pain from my injuries, but it recedes into a pale glow, mixing with my arousal in ways that I still do not understand. It's like my whole body is lit by it. How is this pain so different from the ugly agony of the beating? The whip was a travesty, a violation, but this is sweet.

He touches me and I gasp. He moves more gently, probably afraid he is hurting me. Moth flutterings against my skin, down the welts on my back, produce an exquisite pattern of sensory input that makes me arch my back and sigh. He runs quiet fingers down my side, pausing at the curve of my hip.

"You'll tell me if you want me to stop," he breathes with a slight questioning tone. His fingers continue their dance.

"Yes," I whisper in return. "I'll tell you." Then I reach for his cock.

He lets out a genuine groan, and both of our heads involuntarily swivel to Ramit in his corner opposite. He gives every sign of being asleep, though I know better than to believe it.

My partner and I know each other too well, and he will not be the least perturbed by this. He probably expected it. I am surprised to find that I did not expect it. Patrick never so much as had a girlfriend in school. He was such a confident boy, though – there were rumors.

But now I find that apparently his sexuality has just been waiting for this opportunity to assert itself. The zipper of his pants is like to burst, and I run a finger down it, trusting in the vibrations of the metal. He shudders in answer.

His shirt is in the way. I move to unbutton it and suddenly his hand is there too. We meet in the middle on a strip of warm bare skin, and our hands clasp almost involuntarily. It is a strange new bit of intimacy for me.

But I want his shirt off, to feel his skin against me, and he obliges, leaning away for a moment to strip the sleeves from his arms.

It is warm down here. I can feel the salt moisture from his chest stinging my broken skin and I run my fingers down his body.

Down again to his pants, and now I am unbuttoning them and gently easing the zipper apart. He is rigid, back arched at my touch. I marvel again that this is possibly the first time he has known the hands of another person. It seems rude to ask just now, but I promise myself to get his story.

A few strokes of my hand and suddenly he is pushing it away with great urgency. I have time to be offended before he replaces my hand on his neck and moves his fingers between my legs. Ah, I understand his problem now. I am impressed by his self-denial.

Then I let out an involuntary moan and open my legs for him as his fingers hit the sweet spot.

I can tell now that he is inexperienced. He hesitates, searching but encouraged by my reaction. This is not an easy skill to learn, especially in the dark, so I cover his hand with mine and show him the way. His chest rises and falls more quickly, and mine is following suit.

I manipulate his hand like a puppet, and it is incredibly arousing. He gets the hang of what I want him to do, and soon I am only guiding him with the occasional touch and trying to keep from making too much noise. I cling to his shoulder like a little girl as he moves more quickly, and kiss him hard when I am about to cry out.

He reaches a crescendo... and stops just before I find my release. I growl and reach for him.

He looks confused and I grab his hand again, augmenting it with my own fingers and shortly I am riding a wave of glory, muscles pulsing and a long sigh escaping from my mouth. I hold his hand in me until the last shocks fade away and then open my eyes.

I am confronted by a new Patrick, someone I have never seen before who is inflamed with lust. His eyes shining, his face looking as if I have just given him some incredible gift, and a cock which seems to have grown yet again. I like this challenge, and my hand is moving before I will it.

It takes only three strokes before he cannot contain it any longer, and I watch his face ripple through the strange ecstasy of orgasm as if he were a stranger.

Then it is finished and he is the schoolboy I once knew, smiling that incredible smile. Except not the boy I knew, because he is kissing me again, slower, with elation on his lips. I can feel myself succumbing to exhaustion. Endorphins have sustained me this far, and they are running out.

Between us, we get me wrapped in a handy sheet to protect my skin from the dirt. He lies next to me and I do not object when he wraps an arm about me. Despite the uncertainty of our situation, I have not felt so safe or slept so easily since I was a child.