NC-17? Yup, you heard moo. This is waaaaay more explicit than The Moo has ever been, (or is likely to be in the near future, come to that). Body parts get named, folks. Okay, okay, the tongue is still in the cheek somewhat.
Now. Jean-ee-shore is another lady who know her own mind. Sez Jean: Ben’s name is Ben or Benton, not Benny
She goes on to ask for a comedy in which:
1. Ben and Meg must attend a function (of your choice) out of town. The organizer doesn't realize the Inspector is female and the Constable is male, thus putting them in the same room of a very small hotel/ B&B whatever.
2. Meg realizes she has a very handsome Constable (whom she knows well) in her room and decides: "What the hell?"
3. Ben lets his libido get unleashed and wants to carry things further with Meg. He is ready and then, whoops! performance anxiety!!
Well now, it just so happens that Jean’s last year’s fic ended with Benton and Margaret arranging their first official date, but not having gone on it yet. Turnbull was, sort of, the cupid here. So, I think I’ll take a little bit of license with Jean’s point one and have this ficlet pick up from the last one. "Meggy and Benny Get Their Heads Shrunk" was written before I knew Jean abhors the moniker "Benny". That ficlet is here on the Birthday Page.
That older fic does have another sequel, Julia’s birthday ficlet of 2002, but that one has nothing to do with F/T shipping. It is psychological stuff. Warning: child molestation and rape discussed, non-graphic, non-erotic. That ficlet is also here on the Birthday Page as "The Real He Became A Mountie".
Turnbull noticed, with justifiable pride, that his attempt to hasten the bonding between his colleague and his boss seemed to be a success. But it was a modified success. As far as he could observe, they were still not sleeping together.
Of course, neither would have taken him into their confidence about the nature of their relationship, but Turnbull was able to pick up the increase in sexual tension that pervaded the Consulate. He felt sure that if that tension were being relieved in the usual way, he would be able to feel it in the air.
And he was right. After a couple of months of dating, both Benton and Margaret were taking a lot of cold showers and warm baths, respectively, each trying in his/her own way to take the edge off. Sadly, ablution was a poor substitute for consummation and they both were getting edgier and edgier.
There was nothing more in the therapy department that he could do. According to the invoices he received from Dr. Tung, Margaret had not returned after the first session. Benton went back three more times after the initial session, and then he, too, stopped visiting the psychiatrist. If Turnbull wanted to continue pushing them together he would need to try a different approach.
Opportunity for that different approach came when Margaret accepted an invitation for a three-day retreat in Kingston, Ontario for herself and one staff member. She suggested at first that Turnbull take the opportunity to go. She really was going to a lot of trouble to keep things chaste between herself and her deputy, it seemed. But Turnbull would not be turned from his path, even though it meant forgoing a week in Kingston. He pleaded some commitment to a friend and Margaret bought it.
Such was Turnbull’s skill at playing the mindless dolt that Benton suspected nothing when Turnbull offered to make the reservations at the facility. Benton was reluctant to let him, fearing his imbecilic assistant would gum up the works, but Turnbull put on his best eager puppy expression and begged for a chance to take on this huge responsibility. Benton, as Turnbull planned, hadn’t the heart to refuse.
It was a popular retreat, with RCMP officers arriving from all over. Mounties in civvies milled around the reception area and jostled for places in line at the sign-in desk. The program called for arrival on a Sunday night, with seminars to begin first thing after breakfast Monday.
Benton, true to type, let everyone else register first before he presented himself at the registration desk. Thatcher was busy shmoozing and made the mistake of not ordering him to go forward earlier.
Finally Benton approached the registration desk and announced that Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser were ready to go to their rooms. Constable Tryon consulted her list. "I’ve put you and your wife in room four-twenty-nine but I’m afraid I have no reservation for anybody by the name of Thatcher."
"My wife?" Benton repeated, confused.
Constable Tryon showed him her listing. Every name on it but two was crossed off neatly with a penciled line. "See, everyone else has signed in, Constable. I only have two names left: Margaret Fraser and Benton Fraser." She reached under her desk and brought out a file folder. After flipping through bits of e-mail printouts, she found the one she wanted. "Here it is, a message from your office confirming the registration of Inspector Margaret Fraser and Constable Benton Fraser. Your office specifically asked for married couple accommodations. It’s right here. I've assigned you a room with a nice big bed for two.
"One bed? Surely there's some mistake."
She extended the printout to Benton. He perused it and noted that it did indeed come from Turnbull’s e-mail address at the Consulate. Benton adopted his best air of sweet reasonability, a technique that usually got him his way, and turned his most boyish smile in the direction of Constable Tryon.
"You’re quite right, the e-mail is very clear. But I’m afraid there has been some mistake. The Inspector and I would very much appreciate separate rooms, if you could possibly see your way clear to . . ."
Constable Tryon just happened to have a lot of experience with people trying to manipulate her, and she wasn’t having any of this. "There are no other rooms, Constable. I’m afraid the two of you will have to make do. Here are your keys."
"But, we’re not married," Benton protested, at a loss.
"Then I guess you two are going to enjoy this retreat a whole lot more than you thought you would, aren’t you?"
"But . . ."
"Look, I have to close this desk now. You two are the last registrants and I was supposed to be off-duty an hour ago."
"But . . ."
She flipped her file folder closed, stashed it back in a box under her desk, took the last set of room keys from the rack beside her and extended them in Benton’s direction.
"Have a pleasant evening," she pronounced with finality. Then she stood up and strode away.
"Oh dear," breathed Fraser.
To Benton's relief, Margaret didn't waste time berating him. She ordered him to find some housekeeping staff and demand an extra cot be put into the room. But this was a government facility, not a commercial hotel, and it was too late in the evening for anybody to be around to help him. He trudged back to the reception area, recalling the eerie words he had once heard "Be careful what you wish for, you might get it".
One of the things he wanted most in the world was to spend the night alone in a bed with Margaret, but his gut told him he would not be spending this night as he spent those nights with her in his imagination.
Margaret read his failure in his hangdog posture as he walked back along the corridor towards her. Damn! It was hard enough not to throw herself at him when he brought her home after each date. She felt like a silly high school girl when she kissed him and then closed her apartment door on him. But she figured it had to be that way. She didn't want to be involved, trapped. Once she let Benton into her bed, he'd be fixed into her life, that much she knew. She had to keep him at arm's length.
She was thinking those very words, "arm's length" as he watched him approach. The word "arms" stuck in her mind and she fell into gazing at his amazingly sculptured arms, swinging limply by his side. Limp now, but when in the midst of action they tensed up, became hard and . . . stop! Stop!
Letting him sleep in the same bed with her, how would she ever be able to control herself?
Benton placed himself in front of her, standing at attention, although the stance was incongruous since he was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved polo-shirt.
Margaret forced her attention away from his arms and went into boss-mode. "Well?"
"I'm sorry, sir." He cleared his throat and having no high collar around his throat to tug at, he rubbed his neck instead. "We appear to be stuck."
She expelled a bothered breath. They were indeed stuck and she'd only look foolish if she made any fuss about it. The adult thing to do would be to accept the situation gracefully. "Very well, let's go. We'll just have to sort this out with somebody in the morning." She snatched the keys from his hand, turned and marched resolutely off towards the elevators.
Benton trotted along behind. "I could sleep on the floor, sir. I really don't mind." He was thinking he'd never be able to stay in the same bed with her without becoming aroused, so the safest option would be to sleep on the floor. Then, at least, if he couldn't control his body she wouldn't notice it.
Margaret gave the elevator button a decisive punch. "Nonsense. We paid for beds for two. If you sleep on the floor it would be a misuse of government money." Mentally she kicked herself, since that statement made no real sense.
Benton began to feel a little more comfortable, seeing that she wasn't going to flog him immediately. Which, it seemed to him, was only fair since the mix-up hadn't been his fault. That Turnbull, he was so inept it was hard to believe sometimes that he wasn't doing it on purpose. The Mountie tried a little bit of good humour to release some tension.
"Perhaps the government won't find out, sir. Pierre Trudeau DID say the state had no business in the bedrooms of the nation."
She couldn't resist smiling, especially when she saw his boyish half-smile as he said this.
"Except this is a federal facility, so I guess technically these are government bedrooms," she quipped back.
The elevator arrived and it was Margaret that led the way as they rode up to the fourth floor and found their room. She had kept possession of the keys herself, of course.
She opened the door of the room. Benton craned his neck to look inside, hoping against hope that there had been a mistake and he would see bunk beds. His eyes fell on a king-sized bed with a frilly white lace canopy. For the second time that evening he said "Oh dear".
"Government bedrooms aren't what they used to be when I was in training," Margaret observed.
We're not kids, Margaret thought, as she changed into flannel pajamas while Benton donned his long johns in the bathroom. No reason to feel embarrassed. We can handle this, she thought.
She did feel foolish, though, letting herself be seen in such sleepwear, but she really hadn't been expecting to share a room Benton. She chided herself. It was silly to be modest about being in jammies together. Benton would have as much of his skin covered as he had in his uniform and she would have much more of her skin covered than when she was dressed for the office.
She'd seen Benton in his long johns before, so that should be no big deal. Of course they did have a way of moving along with his body, clinging to his dangling. . .
She cut the thought short. None of that, Meg, she told herself. You've decided not to have sex with him because you don't need the entanglement. No dangle. No entangle. Be strong, girl. Make conversation. Stay cool.
"You know, Fraser, I never really saw the point of a canopy on a bed. I mean, what purpose does it serve? In a tropical climate, okay, I guess you could hang a mosquito net from it. But here?"
They called each other "Margaret" and "Benton" only when out on dates. By calling him "Fraser" she made it clear they were still to consider themselves on-duty. She would do what she could to reduce temptation.
"I would imagine it's to give an air of romance, sir." Benton immediately turned away from her so she wouldn't see him wince at the stupidity of his last statement. With his back to her he didn't see her grimace at the same time.
I'm not going to make it through the night, they each thought, simultaneously.
The bed was large enough that they could lie without touching each other. Benton had offered to disassemble the canopy and re-arrange everything to create a lacy curtain down the middle of the bed between them. Margaret vetoed that as being too extreme. So each RCMP officer lay on his/her own side of the bed resolving to move as little as possible so as not to touch the other inadvertently. Benton found himself stretched rigidly out on his back and realized that he was lying at attention.
Then his stomach began to make small gurgling sounds. The gurgling increased and grew into definite grumbling noises. This time his "oh dear" sounded only in his own head. For the last several weeks his digestive system had been reacting badly to the daily stress the other parts of his body were under. He' d been using the upstairs bathrooms at the Consulate so that the Inspector would not detect the smells. A day of traveling and unfamiliar food hadn't helped and now he felt a pressure in his bowels that bode ill.
Benton jumped up from the bed, muttering an automatic "Excuse me, sir" and made a mad dash for the bathroom. He managed to get his long johns opened and himself onto the toilet just before disaster struck.
Margaret hadn't been able to sleep either. Benton seemed to be staying quite a long time in the bathroom, she noted. Men, she thought with disgust. Unbidden, she formed a mental picture of what Benton was doing and her genitals began to throb. She imagined his cock growing larger and larger until, in her mind's eye, that member took on unrealistic proportions. The throbbing grew and her own hand ached to reach down and bring herself some relief. But she didn't dare. He might come out of the bathroom at any moment. His eyes were probably sharp enough to figure out what she was doing, even in the dark under the covers, before she would have a chance to move her hand away. Or, worse, he might detect an odour. So she endured the throbbing and waited.
Meanwhile, Benton had olfactory concerns of his own. He knew he would die of humiliation if Margaret smelled the air of the bathroom. But he had taken precautions and he was proud of his own foresight. While she had been unpacking, before they had gotten undressed, he had placed a book of matches in the corner of the bathroom counter. After flushing the toilet first, he reached for these matches and lit first one and then another to absorb the stench.
This tried and true technique worked like a charm, but Benton still suffered from a bit of residual panic. He sat holding the still-hot stems of two matches in his hand. The logical place to dispose of them, it seemed to him, was in water. Benton dropped the matches between his legs so that they would fall into the toilet. But in his haste he let them fall onto the very part of him that Margaret was at that moment fantasizing about.
He let out a yelp at the sudden pain.
Margaret started at the sound. She figured Benton must have handled himself a little too roughly and hurt himself. Men. No self-control.
They weren't able to get the room assignment changed the next day. The facility was full and the rooms already arranged male with male and female with female, except for designated couples. There was no shortage of women willing to trade places with Margaret nor men willing to trade places with Benton but that would have been even worse than the present situation. There was no alternative but to spend the next three nights together.
All through the next day's meetings, instead of paying attention to lectures and discussions, Margaret kept running her abbreviated session with the psychiatrist through her mind. She had been so insistent that she didn't want to get involved, didn't want her life plans interfered with. Dr. Tung, even in the short time she had allowed him, had led her to realize that she was afraid of being trapped, although she had denied it at the time.
Around three o'clock in the afternoon, while someone was droning on about something she cared nothing about, she made up her mind. No more dishonesty. No more hiding her feelings from herself or from Benton. She would have him and not feel guilty or obliged. He was a grown man. If he wanted more commitment than she was able to offer, he'd have to deal with it himself.
Benton would NOT have to lock himself in the bathroom tonight, she decided.
Benton took the precaution of not eating during the day and drinking nothing but plain tea. When they turned in for the night he was reasonably confident that his digestive system would behave itself. His penis still stung from the burning it had received last night, but a little bit of wild cucumber salve every few hours worked wonders.
It was unlike Benton to let his mind drift from seminar material, but this was a special occasion. He sat thinking that if he had to damage himself at all, this was probably the best possible time for it to happen. Margaret had set the tone for their relationship during this trip. Whether because of fear, the discipline of the service or deeply ingrained courtesy, the thought of trying to change her chosen direction didn't even occur to him in his musings.
How could he possibly cope if she wanted to make love and he was incapacitated, he wondered. All right, he knew how he might cope; there were other ways he could give her pleasure. But, old-fashioned soul that he was, he looked forward to their first coupling, if she ever allowed it to happen, to take place in the traditional manner.
Now that Benton had accepted that the rest of the trip would be platonic, he was a little more confident as he climbed into his own side of the bed that night. Oddly, Margaret was not stretched out on the far side of the bed, as she had been the night before. She was in the middle of the bed, turned on her side, leaning up on an elbow and watching him as he pulled back his own side of the covers.
"Benton." she said softly.
He paused in the act of turning the bedclothes and looked up, startled. The word itself was significant. She'd called him "Benton", not "Constable" or "Fraser". Although the word was an invitation, he dropped the sheet back in place and stood up straight, as though waiting for orders.
It wasn't the move Margaret had in mind. Nor had she expected to have to give him clearer instructions. Surely he couldn't misunderstand her tone. She repeated his name, drawing the word out slowly with an unmistakable meaning behind it.
He cleared his throat.
"Are you going to get into bed?" she continued, keeping her eyes fixed on him while jerking her head slightly to one side, in the direction of his designated pillow.
"Well, I . . . " he stammered.
This led Margaret to face a problem she had never had to deal with - how to get a man INTO bed. It had never been as issue before; all she ever had to do was stop saying no, and the rest followed. She tried being coy.
"Benton, I don't bite," she began, and then to make sure that her meaning was absolutely clear she said, "unless you ask me to."
Benton's mind swam and he blurted out the first thing that popped into his muddled head, "You've ended that sentence with a preposition, sir."
She wasn't expecting even the least bit of resistance, let alone being called "sir". What was the matter with that man? He was always a perfect gentleman, never forcing himself upon her. She'd assumed until this moment that it was gallantry. Was there actually something wrong with him? Worse, horrible thought, was there something wrong with her?
She patted his pillow and gave him a look that she hoped he would take as encouragement. He sat down on the bed, carefully perched near the edge. She patted the pillow harder. He lifted his feet and swung them around until he was arranged as she was, up on one arm. In this position they faced each other.
You could have said Benton's mind was racing if his thoughts were in fact all aligned and going in the same direction. But this was not the case. Words and feelings darted about all different ways in his head and fell all over one another in his confusion. She wanted him. She hadn't before and but on this one night, she did. He wanted her. He always had, but on this one night he doubted if he'd be physically able. What was he to do? Explain the situation? That humiliation would make last night's risk of embarrassment pale in comparison.
Meanwhile Margaret was still wondering what the matter was. She'd have to increase the stakes. With one hand she reached out for his wrist and with the other she undid the top button of her pajama top. Go easy, he seems to be scared, she told herself. She put his hand on the skin between her two breasts. Direct, but not threatening, she decided.
To Benton the move was clear enough. To resist at this point would be outright disobedience. He wanted her so badly, maybe it would be all right after all. He'd made several applications of salve during the day so perhaps he was all healed. He moved his hand slightly to his right and cupped her breast. His index finger found the nipple and moved back and forth, stroking it.
Without thinking, Margaret gave out a little snort, as if to say "finally". The sound took Benton aback. It wasn't a sound of pleasure. He drew his hand away. With annoyance she snatched it back and planted it back on her breast. Was there ever a man so annoying?
Benton resumed his caressing of her breast. Margaret leaned back, overtaken by sharp jolts of pleasure. He leaned with her, covering her body with his, and started kissing her face. Not her only lips but all the different parts of her face: eyes, nose, cheeks, lips, chin. His grasp on her breast was harder now, a desperate squeezing.
Yes, this was what she wanted. She wrapped her arms around him. First she ran her hands over his back, then down to his butt. Finally she reached for his cock, wanting to feel the reality of what she had been thinking of last night, Benton – huge and hard. Reaching between his legs she was distracted from her pleasure by a sense of puzzlement. Where was it, anyway? She felt around some more and finally her hand came to rest on a small, soft lump of flesh.
He needed her help, she decided. This had happened to her with other men but she hadn't expected it from Benton. No matter, she could cope. At the size it was now, she could easily take his whole cock in her hand, which is what she did.
The pressure of her hand hit the burned spot. Benton yelped. He jumped away and sat on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, rocking forwards and back.
This had never happened to Margaret before and she had no clue what to do. She was about to ask him if he was all right, but stopped. He was clearly not all right. She waited until his rocking stopped and he just sat there, breathing hard. It seemed safe to approach him at this point so she touched his shoulder.
"Benton? Did I do something wrong?" In fact she couldn't think of anything she possibly could have done wrong but it was worth the inquiry. Every man she had ever made love to had been raised well below the sixtieth parallel. Maybe there was something about northern preferences she didn't know.
"No, everything's fine," he gasped, obviously not fine but also obviously not wanting to pursue it. Margaret's mood was already broken.
"Can I get you anything?" That seemed safe enough to ask.
"NO!" he groaned, and then added politely, "Thank you." Benton got up and headed towards the bathroom. "If you'll excuse me," he said, formally.
"I don't have much choice," Margaret muttered to herself as she did up the pajama top button, and flopped down on her pillow.
That night and the next day provided enough time for additional healing. Twenty-four hours later Benton felt confident that he could resume what had been aborted the night before. All day long, when he should have been paying attention to seminars, he thought about the night to come. The stirrings in his lap as he thought gave him hope that he'd be physically up to the task this time. Perhaps, in retrospect, it was better they had not done anything the night before. He'd been taken by surprise, with no opportunity to take precautions.
Yes, proper preparation was important and he resolved to be ready this time.
That night it was Benton that waited in bed first, while she changed in the bathroom. It would be better to say he waited ON bed, lounging on top of the covers wearing not his usual long johns but a pair of boxer shorts instead. There was no doubt that he was trying for a repeat of last night's attempt.
Margaret was willing, but cautious. She settled in beside him, close enough for him to initiate the process. This he did, repeating the order of operations of the night before. Margaret's searching hand grasped a cock, which, while not quite up to her unrealistic imaginings of two nights ago, was definitely ready for the task at hand. He eased the pajama bottoms off her, pausing for a moment to fold them neatly and place them at the foot of the bed. Then he slid his boxer's off and placed them on top of her pajama bottoms. (Perhaps an unconscious move to put their clothes in the same position they would soon be in themselves? Alas, we'll never know.) After that he moved on top of her, poised in position to proceed.
Then, he stopped. He lifted his head and stared straight ahead, remembering something. "Oh dear, I almost forgot," he said and rolled off her. To Margaret's utter astonishment, he sat up and opened the drawer of the night table beside his bed. He turned to her and noticed her displeased expression "You wouldn't want to do this without taking precautions?" he protested.
Her displeasure gave way to appreciation at once. She hadn't told him she was on the pill and she couldn't imagine him having any disease. This was the considerate Benton she adored so much. "It's not necessary," she assured him.
"I want you to be fully protected, Margaret," he began with his back still turned to her. Then, turning around towards her on the bed he held out a sheet of ordinary paper.
Margaret gaped. Things were definitely different in the north. But then, it seemed he wasn't going to use it in any way she suspected because he put the paper in her hand and she saw there was writing on it.
"You can't be too careful these days," Benton told her, "and you ARE my superior officer. I want you to be assured that under no circumstances would I bring any charges of sexual harassment no matter what we do together. I've written and signed this waiver for you to keep on file." He looked at her hopefully, waiting for her to express her gratitude.
"A waiver," she repeated, dully. "You've written me a waiver." Her romantic mood evaporated immediately and she shoved the paper back into his hand. "File it yourself, Constable,’ she said, icily, "and you can guess just WHERE you can file it."
She reached over for her pajama bottoms and slid them on. "Get into uniform." she ordered as she went on to do up the buttons of her pajama top.
"But sir, there is no uniform I'm aware of for . . . "
"I mean get dressed for sleeping. We're going to sleep." She insisted.
"But, sir, there's no prescribed outfit for sleeping. At least none of which I'm aware," he qualified.
"Your long johns, Fraser. Get into them. Now." She barked out her orders then flipped over onto her side, facing away from him, and ignored him for the rest of the night.
The baseball anology – three strikes, you're out – dominated Margaret’s mind throughout the next day. Their flights back to Chicago would be at dinnertime after the last afternoon session tomorrow, leaving them one more night together in that giant romantic bed. Tonight, if she were going to bag him, she’d have to be more patient. She couldn’t just give up if something went wrong.
Intellectually, she knew she could just as easily invite him to her apartment when they got home, but this was beginning to feel like a matter of honour. And besides, once home in a familiar environment she might lose her nerve. She was determined to have sex with Benton Fraser that very night in that charming, lacy bed or kill him in the attempt.
In contrast to his superior’s dogged determination, Fraser was in a state of confusion. Twice he had been given the opportunity to make love to Margaret and twice things had gone horribly wrong, through no fault of his own, as far as he was concerned. All through the day his tension built up until he was one solid ball of fear by bedtime. Would she even want to bother trying? If she did want to bother, would Murphy’s Law prove true once again?
They still had only one room-key and the superior officer still retained possession of it, so at bedtime he knocked on the door. It took several minutes before the door opened, but the sound of the running shower told Fraser why. Finally, Margaret came to the door, soaking wet, wrapped in a towel. “I wasn’t expecting you until later," she explained, as though she needed to give some explanation.
He came in and crossed to the side of the room that corresponded to “his” side of the bed. While she watched, he opened a bureau drawer and withdrew his long underwear.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing those tonight. I don’t intend to let you get cold.”
Benton dropped the underwear back into the drawer. There was no doubt of Margaret’s intentions. He recalled the words of Robert Heinlein in his novel “Stranger In A Strange Land”. “When a lady’s gonna, she’s gonna. The only thing a man can do is co-operate with the inevitable.” It occurred to Benton that Heinlein had been proven wrong twice so far. For all that Benton had tried to co-operate, the inevitable hadn’t been inevitable at all. The prospect of disappointing his lady another time was dampening the poor Mountie’s libido.
Margaret moved over to the bed and climbed into it. Only when she was covered up to the shoulders by a sheet did she remove the wet towel and toss it to the floor. The sheet clung to the places where she was still damp. It was a well-calculated move on Margaret’s part since she had guessed, correctly, that Benton would find this more alluring than seeing her actually naked.
It was a good beginning. Heartened somewhat, Benton prepared to join her. The shoes and socks came off first. Then he undid and removed his shirt. When clothed, there was nothing remarkable about Benton’s Fraser’s shoulders, but his sleeveless undershirt accentuated them, and drew further attention to his astounding arms. Forgetting her resolution to be patient, Margaret climbed out of the sheet and across the bed to grab hold of his arms. She pulled him onto the bed. Unfortunately he bent down just at that moment to take off his pants, and she caught him off balance. He fell onto the bed with his jeans still hanging just below his hips.
“Um, sorry,” he muttered, without being sure to whom or to what he was really apologizing. Was it to Margaret, for being inept, to the bed for falling on top of it or to the jeans for leaving them in an undignified position? Whatever the case, he regained his composure, stood up and continued disrobing, but with such great caution that Margaret could no longer find the actions sexy.
Once all his clothing was safely off, he got under the sheet with her. It was the first time they had been totally unclothed together and both now felt more naked than nude. Benton started easy, with kissing. The kiss slowly grew in intensity, their mouths opening slowly and then tongues moved tentatively into each others’ mouth like two cautious spelunkers in unfamiliar caves. Their naked arms and chest pressed together, but Benton was still not becoming aroused. Too much could go wrong. He was scared.
Paying attention to her breasts seemed the safest way to escalate the situation. He withdrew his tongue from her mouth and moved it slowly down over her chin, along her throat, around one shoulder blade and down to her left breast.
Margaret let out a small moan of pleasure, which was a good sign, he figured. He attached his lips to her nipple, alternately pressing and sucking, and found her moaning and sighing getting louder and more frequent. Good, nothing wrong so far. What was very wrong, although he was not yet conscious of the problem, was that he was too worried about what might happen next for his lower body to respond in any way to what his mouth was doing.
Suddenly Margaret reared up, pushed him onto his back, and began her own exploration of his chest, running her tongue all around the smooth skin, there being not a single hair there to impede its journey. She gently bit and worried at each nipple for a short while. He clasped her soft rear end in his hands as she did these things but still his family’s most treasured jewel remained nestled in its case.
Margaret refrained from grabbing hold of his cock, as she had done the last two times, but she couldn’t help looking at it to see if anything of interest was transpiring. His dejected member hung flabbily to one side, looking pathetic. Benton glanced down in dismay. He didn’t have to DO anything wrong, it seemed, for things to still GO wrong. He eased himself up onto his elbows and met her eyes. Determined to be patient, she only smiled encouragement at him.
“Don’t worry about it,” she told him, “We’re not in any hurry. Just relax.”
Benton’s cock was, unfortunately, the only part of him obeying that order. Margaret decided to bring out the big guns, so to speak. She moved down lower and took him in her mouth. She subjected him to a treatment that had left every other man she had ever slept with screaming, but it was still to no avail. After about ten minutes she took her mouth away and they both sat up.
For a few minutes they sat in silence. Then Benton turned over and buried his face in his pillow, so abject was his humiliation. She gave his bare back a few encouraging pats.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure something out.”
He only lay there, wishing the rest of him was as dead as his dick seemed to be.
Margaret had an inspiration. “Turn over, I have an idea,” she told him. He obeyed, what was there to lose?
She swung around on the huge bed until she was at ninety degrees to his unco-operative groin. She rolled over to lie on her back. Resting one foot against his belly, she used the other to gently caress his balls, and then tickled his cock with her toes. She played with him with her foot for a time then brought the other foot into action, rolling his cock between the balls of her feet. She’d had a boyfriend once who had a foot fetish and this had never failed to drive him totally mad.
It was worth a try, but not worth much more than that. Benton was more puzzled than anything else and she had to abandon this phase of the project. Once again, they both sat up.
“It’s the stress. I think you’re just too tense, Benton.” Margaret decided. “How about flipping over on your front and I’ll loosen you up with a nice massage?”
But Benton felt there was only so much of this degradation he could bear. He’d only experienced this problem once before, on the night when Francesca Vecchio had tried to get him to perform only hours after he had been thrashed by Zuko’s goons. On that occasion he had been in terrible physical pain from his beating and felt no humiliation at all over his predicament.
Tonight was different. Margaret was probably right, he decided. He was simply too stressed to get his act together. He was ready to call it a night. If she still wanted him when they got home, she knew where to find him.
“No, thank you,” he told her. “I think I’ve had enough for one night.” He got out of bed and walked over to the bureau to retrieve his sleepwear. He had no self-consciousness left at this point. He just held the long johns in front of him and prepared to step in.
Margaret was not going to be daunted. She’d invested too much mental and physical energy in this project to let him off now. “Freeze!” she commanded.
Benton froze, his right foot poised in the air. He kept his balance on his left foot and stood perched like a crane.
“Put those away and haul your ass over here. Now!”
Benton shrugged and complied. He put the clothes back in the drawer, came over and sat back down on the bed.
“Is there some reason you’re not standing at attention, Constable?” She rumbled.
In reply, he rose, still stark naked, and stood at attention before her.
“I’ve invested too much time and energy into this project to allow you mess it up, is that clear?”
Benton took a deep breath. Apart from their lack of clothing, this kind of interaction was comfortingly familiar. “Yes, sir,” he responded.
“Good. I’d like to see some co-operation here, Fraser. I’m not going to have men under my command showing weakness.”
Yes, things were beginning to feel very familiar to him now. His tension began to melt away as he listened to her berate him.
“We’re going to continue this operation until we reach a successful conclusion. I will not tolerate any further . . .” Benton’s nether regions started to grow warmer and more alive as she continued. He began to twitch and his reluctant mini-Mountie began slowly to stand up and take notice.
Margaret couldn’t help but notice as well, since he was standing exposed right in front of her. I guess I’m on to something here, she decided. My mistake was to be nice to him. He needs to be ordered around. It seemed to make sense. From their first meeting she’d been domineering and he’d been obedient. Changing the pattern only seemed to be confusing him. Well, that was easily remedied.
Just to make sure of the effect, she ordered him to stay where he was while she went and got dressed, but only the top half. They’d both brought their red serge just in case so she put on her tunic, but only her tunic and sat back down on the bed. She resumed her tongue-lashing. It wasn’t long before his entire body was standing at rigid attention, including the part that had been slack until then.
“That’s better,” she announced. “Carry on with your assignment, Constable.”
He did so, with a vigour that left both of them exhausted. When all was done, they lay in each other’s arms resting after the physical and mental exertions of the evening.
“Constable, you’re amazing,” she whispered to him from her snuggly position in the crook of his arm.
“Thank you kindly,” he answered, with a gentle kiss to the top of her head.
“Thank you kindly, WHAT?” she responded with mock anger.
He chuckled, “Thank you kindly, SIR.”