Extreme Measures (5/?)
Extreme Measures (5/?)
Title: Extreme Measures - Chapter Five
Part: 5 of ?
Season: Five - Post The End/Pre Fight the Future
Spoilers: Deep Throat, Tooms, Ascension, Apocrypha, Little Green Men, Memento Mori, Pine Bluff Variant, Folie a Deux, Patient X, The Red and The Black, The End, Fight the Future, any Alex Krycek episode
Rating: NC-17 most definitely
Pairing: Mulder/other, Mulder/Krycek
Warnings: This fic depicts extremely graphic m/m interaction, rape, non-consensual sex, violence and bad language. If any of these subjects offends you, if you are underage or the laws of your country prohibit you from reading such material, then go no further.
Summary: When interests converge, the Consortium goes to extreme and horrifying lengths to destroy Mulder.
Disclaimer: The characters Mulder, Krycek, Scully, Skinner, Cancer Man, Well Manicured Man etc are the properties of CC and other fortunate people. No infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Finally, Alex makes an appearance, replete with cussing and swearing, so be warned...
CHAPTER FIVE - Plans...
The sound of an open palm striking the desk was like the crack of a gunshot in the silent study. The old man stared hard at the report in his other hand, his fury growing. The fools. The utter, stupid fools. Raging silently now, mouth drawn into a tight grimace, the Englishman set down the file, the slick gears of his mind turning over.
Not only had his colleagues, in a pathetic display of self-interest, chosen to sacrifice one of the most important pawns in the dangerous game they played, but they had given him up to the creature that was Hans Brueller. The Englishman was all too aware of the perversions the animal inflicted on his conquests, only this time his victim would be Special Agent Fox Mulder.
It was obvious the Consortium intended to stall Mulder long enough to clear up the exposed project, but after? Would they permit Brueller's continued ownership *ad infinitum,* or return the Agent to the life he had known? Somehow, the Englishman suspected the former, for Mulder, without his memories, his brilliance, his very mind, was no threat, and yet could still be utilised.
The old man could raise an objection, could protest the autocratic handling of the situation, but it would be seen as so much vitriol, a face-saving rattling of sabres. Or he could take counter-measures. Nothing blatant or overt, nothing that the others might choose to take as an offensive against the Project. No, it would need to be simple, quiet and he had the perfect employee for such a delicate task.
The Englishman's narrowed gaze sought out the shadowy, leather-clad figure in the corner of the room. Watchful, wary, the man was staring out through a crack in the curtains, a marionette waiting only for the tug of invisible strings.
Or at least that was the impression Alex Krycek liked to create. The Englishman knew better. Alex was an unpredictable, ruthless predator, an unflinching assassin with the face of a guileless child. No, it would never do to forget how dangerous Alex could be, despite his angel-faced looks. Let others commit that folly and be all the wiser for it.
"I have a job for you, Alex," the Englishman said, and the green-eyed gaze flickered lazily over, a single, sable eyebrow raised in inquiry. "I need you to retrieve Agent Mulder."
There was very little surprise on Alex's face, and the older man supposed he might have read the report.
"What is it this time?"
Perhaps not. The words were said with such frustrated weariness, the Englishman almost smiled. Yes, Agent Mulder did have an unfortunate propensity for getting into difficulty.
"His memories have been taken," he replied, sliding the report over the desk, observing the casual, feline grace of the killer's stride as he approached. It seemed that losing an arm hadn't slowed Alex Krycek down at all. "He has been given to a man named Hans Brueller."
Now there was surprise in the voice. And a loathing recognition. No doubt his smoking associate would have mentioned the man on occasion to his subordinate, but perhaps there was more. Alex took the report in his gloved right hand, features carefully expressionless as he read.
"I want you to bring Agent Mulder to me," the Englishman continued. "Unharmed, if possible, though no doubt he has already been stretched under Brueller's care." He allowed a thin edge of distaste to creep into his tone at the thought of the probable rape.
Silence met his last remark, then, "Do you want me to kill the Dutchman?"
Although Alex had striven for a neutral tone, the older man sensed the undercurrent of dark, malevolent violence, a stillness of emotion that was belied by the fierce look in the green gaze. Alex Krycek unleashed was a devastating force, a Siberian wolf that would smile with sweet innocence as it went for the throat.
It had been this killer's instinct that had attracted Spender, had encouraged him to use and abuse the young man, until that usefulness finally, inevitably, fell short. His failed attempt on Alex's life had served only to nourish the volatile nature and had enabled the young man to become a difficult, potentially ruinous rogue agent.
The Englishman, in bringing the deadly assassin to his side, would not make the same mistake. He had witnessed the barbaric uses his chain-smoking colleague had put Alex to, but his own methods were an antithesis; subtle, meticulous, clean. Yet no less firm.
"This is very important, Alex," the older man said, with clipped, measured calm. "You are not to kill Brueller. Under any circumstances. He is too important to the Project."
Alex stared at him for a long moment, then lowered his eyes to the report, unbowed. The unspoken words, *Fuck the Project,* were loud in the silent room.
"I will not tolerate any mistakes on this Alex." The threat was implicit, the order clear.
If Alex Krycek chose to disobey, the past attempts on his life would appear amateurish, nothing compared to the icy wrath of his current employer. And then he would wish the Englishman had left him aboard the cargo ship and to the fate that awaited him in Russia. But if the assassin heard, he gave no sign, instead dropped the report disinterestedly back onto the desk.
"Find your chance and take it," the Englishman snapped.
Krycek nodded once, then strode purposefully from the room, orders received.
The Englishman steepled his fingers and once again considered the wisdom of sending Alex to recover the wilful Agent. There was a history of animosity between the two men, an antagonistic quality present even before the younger man had killed William Mulder. He knew it was due in part to both men's instabilities, their insecurities, matching each other passion for passion, the raw emotions blazing back and forth through some intrinsic, twisted bond.
He shook his head at the complexities of human nature and lowered his gaze to the report. The Consortium had destroyed many lives in their pursuit of the continuing lie, would destroy many more, men and women just as dedicated as Fox Mulder, just as honest and idealistic. But none so important.
For should the deceivers find that they themselves had been deceived, in breaking Mulder, the Consortium would take away any chance, any hope of survival for the world. Though perhaps that was no longer a concern for his associates. Self-preservation had always been paramount in their shadowy world, the survival of the elite, a select few taking priority over 5 billion other, less distinguished lives. It was that ideology that had bound the group of men together for fifty years, a laudable ambition to live beyond the approaching holocaust.
But he was old now and tired, if not quite finished, and, weary of such ugly contemplation, his mind turned instead to images of England, of his home and the happy, carefree laughter of his young grandchildren as they played.
Alex Krycek slid behind the wheel of the car, his expression cold and sinister. Behind the faade, his mind was in turmoil, a bad sign that he was losing it, fast.
He knew the fuckers were ruthless, but to send Mulder into that hell hole without his neurotic paranoia for protection, without the brilliant, incredible mind that had somehow always managed to be five steps ahead of the rest of the human race...
Alex slammed his palm against the wheel in frustration. Poor, crazy, beautiful Fox Mulder getting 'stretched' as the Brit had so delicately put it in his dry tones.
Raped, fucked, violated. Any way Alex wanted looked at it, it all amounted to the same thing. They couldn't kill Mulder, but they could destroy him, and there were many ways to break a man's spirit. Black memories of Alex's own floated briefly to the surface, before he quickly crushed them back down into the rest of the cesspool, to where the torment wouldn't distract him, get him killed. Throwing the gears with a barely restrained violence, he left the parking lot in a screech of tires and burnt rubber.
So maybe losing his memories was a blessing for Mulder, Alex mused as he drove. His sister's abduction had pretty much fucked the Agent up at the ripe old age of twelve. Then of course there was Alex's betrayal. He had aided in Scully's kidnapping, turning on Mulder so fast it must have made poor Foxy's head spin. And then, as if that wasn't quite enough, as if Alex hadn't yet pissed enough on the man who he had once called partner, he had gone to the Mulder residence to shoot dear old dad.
Of course, there was a different story in there somewhere, a picture of a tiny bathroom, a sad drunk seeking absolution as he reached for the gun Alex held, the sound of a shot. But whatever had happened that night, Alex had done them all a favour. The old man wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway and the confessional the son of a bitch had planned would have taken his son with him when he finally went.
Apparently, Mulder had never managed to see it that way, had instead used it as an excuse to beat the shit out of Alex at every opportunity. No 'Thank you Alex, for murdering my bastard father, the man who sold my sister for his safety'. Just hard fists and knees and elbows, an uncoordinated maelstrom that sought only to inflict as much pain as possible before rational thought, and Scully, could intervene. Heck, Red would probably have joined in if Mulder had let her. But no, wouldn't want to get those pretty little doctor's hands dirty on the lying scumbag that was Alex Krycek.
And while Mulder continued to happily kick the crap out of him at irregular intervals, Alex never fought back. Oh, he imagined all the ways he could so easily gain control of the situation; a twist here, a punch there, and Mulder would be the one on his back, hoping his assailant was too honest, too honourable to actually kill him. Mulder, for all his vaunted intuition, never had a fucking clue how dangerous Alex could be, would never realise how close he had come to death so many times.
Except maybe now he would, since that last time when Alex had managed to give Mulder a concussion with his own furniture before giving him the old man's information. It was just as well, because Alex had been pissed at having to give up the vaccine, pissed at the crack Mulder made about his missing arm and at his shitty attitude in general, and had Mulder fought back...well, the desire to pull the trigger had been strong. He'd even warned Mulder of that fact, before giving his 'way of the dinosaurs' spiel.
But the agent had just sat there with that ditzy, dumb-blond look his face took on when he was thinking, sucking it all in like a good cub scout, so Krycek had kissed him, then done something even more monumentally insane and handed over the gun.
In the few moments it had taken to get out of Mulder's apartment, Alex had expected a bullet in the back, serve his stupid ass right, but it hadn't happened. Fox Mulder, the man whose father Alex had killed, was letting him go.
Or maybe Mulder just had other things more important on his mind than shooting miscreant sewer rats. Like the fate of the entire planet.
Alex had waited in the shadows across the road after their confrontation and sure enough, Scully had shown up, regular as clockwork. He could swear the indomitable redhead possessed some kind of radar when it came to Mulder. But whatever had gone on in that apartment, they came out together, Mulder moving like a man on mission once more with that long, graceful stride of his, Scully his ever-present shadow.
Watching them drive off, Alex had felt a wicked thrill. Mulder's faith had been restored, not by Scully, his trusted, worthy partner, nor even by one of his shadowy, secret informants.
But by Alex the lying rat Krycek, murdering bastard that he was.
Driving through the dark city, Alex grinned at the memories of an encounter played time and again in his mind; the way Mulder had flinched at the kiss, the taste of his skin, the faint scent of that morning's aftershave.
Alex hated him, god how he despised the self-righteous asshole, but he'd never wanted to fuck Mulder as badly as he had then. So often had he had let Mulder hit him in the past, just to feel that warped connection, Mulder's hot, angry body beating against his, taking the pain for the other's pleasure, a twisted version of the fuck scene he envisaged.
And so now here he was, on his way to a place revisited only in nightmares, just to save Mulder's sorry, ungrateful ass yet again. But Alex knew a few things the Brit didn't, courtesy of his previous employer. Such as a way to give Mulder back his memories.
So it would come down to a choice; leave Mulder in his happy, ignorant fuck-toy state or give him back all the years of pain and torment in the form of his past. Whistling merrily through his teeth as he drove, Alex just couldn't seem to decide which would be more brutal.
The shimmering surface of the indoor pool was broken into a thousand, glittering shards by the swift, cutting movements of the swimmer. Long, lean and graceful, Fox was eating up laps with ease, pausing for the tuck, flip and push, before starting all over again.
Lazing on a recliner, Brueller took a sip of his iced tea as he observed his pet's activity. He had owned Fox for almost a month and still he couldn't seem to get enough. He had thought that some of the initial excitement would have worn off, the novelty somewhat lessened by the sex.
But while the stunning looks continued to please, the tight body to satiate and satisfy, it was the mind Brueller found compelling. Never could he have realised how addictive the sharp brilliance that was Fox Mulder could be. Post-coitus conversation had come of something of a pleasant surprise, pillow talk that stimulated and stirred. Fox's natural curiosity, combined with a frightening intuition, could exhaust even someone of Brueller's mental acuity.
Of course, there were times when neither man was capable of speech, their sweaty bodies still intimately entwined. Brueller especially loved to watch his Fox like that, dazed and dizzy, inarticulate or fucked completely senseless. It was those moments when the Dutchman believed he could see through to the real Fox Mulder, the one beneath the subjugated sex-slave, beneath even the tenacious, single-minded FBI Agent he had so recently been. He saw a man who yearned for, needed, an outlet for his passions, a human focus and Brueller was determined to find himself the sole recipient of that laser-like awareness.
Still, the Dutchman was a man driven by his appetites and his plaything was too great a temptation to forgo for long. Often, at the end of a long, frustrating business trip, he would find himself mounting an unwilling Fox with rough, unbridled desire, ignoring the other's pain as he entered him forcefully in a quick, perfunctory fuck, leaving Fox to find whatever release he could in the act. Afterwards, his reluctant, beautiful pet would be quiet and unresponsive, permitting his touch, but making no move towards mutual affection.
Increasingly, though, Fox had come to accept these unsolicited attentions, taking the brief coupling as nothing more than a requirement of his master's needs, and would relax enough for his owner not to have to force the issue, even gaining some pleasure for himself. As Brueller had promised, his pet had learned.
And there were other delights to sample beyond the quick, emotionless release. Fox seemed far happier to get down on his knees and suck his owner's cock to orgasm, rather than spread his legs for the same purpose. Unless, of course, Brueller was prepared to delay his own climax for a long, slow seduction. Then Fox was only too eager to open himself up to the mind-blowing experiences Brueller could offer. He was, Brueller mused, a slut at heart, and a surprisingly kinky one at that.
The Dutchman was drawn from his thoughts as the object of his ruminations emerged from the pool, sleek and dripping, water rolling off longs legs that went all the way up, to the curve of tight buttocks encased in trunks. Two decades his junior, Fox was the epitome of everything Brueller found attractive in a male; tall, athletic, aesthetically pleasing, young enough to be pleasurable, yet old enough to be interesting.
Brueller was given a breathless smile as Fox scrubbed at his hair with a towel, and knew the younger man had noted his erection beneath the robe, for very little escaped his Fox. Crossing to his master's side, Fox slowly bent to one knee, then the other and stroked a hand down the tented fabric. It was a tease Brueller could do without, but he appreciated the thought.
"For me Hans?" Fox asked, with a grin and a sly tilt of his head. "You shouldn't have."
His pet also had a sassy mouth on him, but Brueller loved to hear the gravelly voice speaking so seductively. He watched entranced as Fox slowly began to part his robe, fingers sliding down the waistband of his shorts, tugging them away from the filling flesh, reaching a hand inside...
"Meneer Brueller, you have a phone call."
Fox abruptly released him, leaving his organ throbbing and unsatisfied and Brueller snarled in frustration at the interruption.
"You asked to be notified immediately," Daniel continued, calmly, holding out the handset.
Brueller took a deep breath and glanced at Fox. There was a blush of mortification on the younger man's cheeks, and it took Brueller, who had little or no sense of modesty, a moment to work out why.
But if Fox expected Daniel to be shocked, he was going to be sorely disappointed. His manservant had seen far worse in his few years with Hans Brueller, and none of it had caused him to so much as blink. It made Brueller wonder what kind of life the man had known before he became the Dutchman's assistant.
His pet's discomfort aside, Brueller still had a phone call to receive. Taking the handset absently, he turned his attention to Fox, still kneeling at his side.
"We will finish this later, liefhebben," he murmured, pressing a finger to those priceless lips in silent promise.
Fox's eyes widened and he darted a glance at the hovering Daniel, then at his master, another pretty flush of shame staining his features.
Brueller smiled, quietly enjoying his pet's discomfort, then flipped open the handset, "Goedemorgen, Warren."
"And to you, my friend." The response was in English, the voice warm and cordial, genuine pleasure lacing the tone. "It has been too long since we last spoke."
"I agree. That is why I wish to arrange for a meeting."
"You know that I am ever your servant in such matters, Hans. Especially now that you have a new...distraction...to tempt me with."
Brueller couldn't stem his satisfied chuckle and he reached down to toy with Fox's hair. "You received the video then?"
There was a moment of silence, then, "You know that I did. It was...most stimulating. And very beautiful."
Fox was leaning catlike into his master's caresses, and he rested his dark, damp head against Brueller's thigh in an endearing gesture of affection. Brueller almost expected to hear the sound of contented purring. "I am glad you enjoyed it, Warren," he replied, absently.
The Dutchman wondered how his trusting pet would feel if he knew his master had recorded one of their more wilder sessions, then given the tape away for another to enjoy, all as part of a potential business deal. No doubt Fox would go into one of his sulks, giving his master the hurt look of reproach that even Brueller preferred to avoid.
And that was the exact reason why, as Brueller brought Fox to the dizzying precipice of ecstasy time and again, he had made no mention of the unblinking eye of the hidden camera. It was why he had encouraged the incoherent begging, the unrestrained cries of passion, the ultimate meshing of flesh and skin and heated fluids throughout that long, heaving night. Brueller himself had sat and watched the tape while Fox was on his morning run, and had to admit it was an incredible sight, more lurid than any pornographic movie, more scorching that any of his past encounters.
Though Brueller would have dearly liked to attribute that molten experience to his technique, skilfully using fingers, tongue, teeth and cock to create an unbearable tension and drive his bed mate insane, he knew that the sultry, shuddering, insatiable atmosphere had begun with Fox. When it came to sex, his pet was like a blank canvas on which Brueller could render a masterpiece, a pure, unadulterated painting of sensation and pleasure and lust.
"It is good that your taste, as always, remains exquisite," Warren was saying, clearly intrigued. "But don't let him tire you, at least not until we've had a chance to discuss business."
Ah, Warren could be such a liar, Brueller mused, under no illusions. After that tape, it was Fox he would want to see, to amuse himself with.
"In that case," Brueller replied, wryly, "it would be best if we were to meet sooner than later."
Warren laughed delightedly at that and Fox raised his head and looked up at his owner. Brueller stroked his face tenderly.
"This weekend, then, my friend," Warren suggested, gamely. "At your estate."
Perfect. "This weekend," Brueller echoed.
Wandering into the dining room, Fox slid into the chair right of Brueller's, which sat in customary place at the head of the table. He had cleaned up after his swim, washing away the overpowering, acrid scent of chlorine, and was now hungrily awaiting the appearance of food. He had worked up an appetite, but knew, since Brueller always insisted upon them eating together, that Daniel wouldn't begin to serve lunch until his employer appeared.
Fox idly reached out for a piece of fruit to lessen his gnawing hunger, then paused, hovering over a small, crystal dish full of sunflower seeds. On impulse, he picked one up and popped it into his mouth, splitting the shell with his teeth, then using his tongue to retrieve the flesh at the centre. The taste was grainy, earthy, yet strangely comforting. Intrigued, he spat out the split husks and took another seed.
As he ate, something lurked at the back of his mind, a peripheral memory that, when looked at directly, vanished. A blind-spot of some kind, recalled in nebulous form as he mindlessly ground the seeds in his mouth. There was a man in the memory, slowly echoing Fox's movements, the crunching noises relieving a great, unknown fear...
A hand grasping his shoulder shook Fox from his daze.
Brueller had, at some missed point, taken his place at the head of the table. "Fox?" he queried, a look of worry on his chiselled features.
Fox blinked, slowly, feeling disorientated, disjointed, as his mind tumbled back to the present. "Where...?" he began, confusedly, distantly aware that time had been passing without him.
Brueller reached over the table for the hand that had paused in mid-air, and deftly plucked the sunflower seed from the long fingers. "You were somewhere else," he informed the younger man, softly, putting the shell onto the table with a small pile of discarded husks.
"I was..." Fox paused for a moment. "Thinking."
"Remembering?" His master's voice was low, uninflected...dangerous.
"No...not really," Fox replied, with a shrug, looking away, then gasped as strong fingers dug into his jaw and firmly pulled his face back to Brueller's.
Frowning, his master searched his eyes intently, penetratingly, but was apparently content at what he found for the dark look left his face and Fox was released. Brueller raised a hand and signalled to Daniel to clear up the mess Fox had created, then deliberately took the half-filled bowl of seeds out of Fox's reach and handed them to the servant.
"Do not allow these in the house ever again," he ordered, grimly.
Fox opened his mouth to protest, feeling that he was close to something, to recalling something very important, but Brueller shushed him with a finger.
"I will not have you upset, Fox," he said, resolutely, brooking no argument. He turned to the pot of tea Daniel had delivered and poured himself a cup.
Fox gave him a look to indicate his displeasure, and Brueller gave a sigh of exasperation, putting down his drink. He reached out and cupped Fox's face, rubbing his thumb over one cheekbone.
"Do not pout, liefhebben," he chided. "I have something special planned. Something for the weekend."
Fox was instantly curious. "What?"
"A surprise," Brueller said, smiling at the frustration that appeared on Fox's face. "I will tell you Saturday."
Two more days, Fox pondered, reaching for the orange juice. Whatever surprise his master had planned, he hoped he would like it, but it was difficult to tell with Brueller. Still, he was growing increasingly bored with the mundane routine at the house, so whatever it was, it was bound to be diverting and that could only be a good thing.
The sunflower seed occurrence still intrigued him, a mystery that fairly begged to be investigated. And surely his master couldn't complain if Fox were to regain his memories. Rediscovering his past could only make him more stable and perhaps less susceptible to the terrible nightmares that plagued his sleep. Two nights ago he had awoken, shouting some nonsense about a shape-changing monster in the ventilation system. And before that, giant insects, invisible killers and even vampires.
Brueller had held him throughout each ordeal, calming him, whispering that he was safe, and for that more than anything, Fox was grateful to the older man. So instead of dismissing the unsettling thoughts he had awoken, he relegated the entire incident to the back of his mind for future reference.
The Dutchman was seated in his study in the large, office chair, his eyes closed, listening to his favourite Albinoni, an appropriate piece to match his mood. The desk before him had been cleared of any paperwork, a mildly irritating necessity that had to be completed before he began talks with Warren's people.
Brueller's eyes opened as he suddenly became aware of his pet's presence. Fox had wandered in at some point and Brueller drank in the sight of him, his beautiful length, the lost, little boy look. It always amazed the Dutchman how young his long-limbed pet could appear when he was musing on some difficult problem. He could recognise more easily now when Fox slipped into one of his fugues, could almost see the synapses firing faster than the speed of light.
Of course, it was nothing like the earlier incidence in the breakfast room, where he had come upon Fox crunching sunflower seeds with the mechanics of automaton, the personality behind the hazel eyes so withdrawn as to be almost invisible. Brueller had almost panicked at the thought that something as simple as seeds could turn his bright, vivacious pet into a catatonic husk. But Fox had come back to himself, had returned at his master's summons, and had eventually been distracted from the episode by a tantalising mystery that would tempt his naturally curious mind.
And Brueller had no doubt that it was his 'weekend surprise' that had so perplexed his Fox. Though it would appear his furtive plan to divert his pet's attentions was doing much more, for Fox at that moment resembled a dazed and dizzy piece, adorable, clueless and entirely fuckable. It reminded him that they still had business of their own to conclude.
Brueller lowered the volume of the music and beckoned Fox over, pulling the warm body onto his lap and into his arms. Fox squirmed slightly, embarrassed at the demeaning position, then froze as he felt the hard erection swelling up beneath. Brueller smiled into the side of his pet's throat, and spread his large thighs a little more.
"You have unfinished business to attend to, my little tease," he said, allowing a seductive timbre to creep into his tone, lips moving against the soft, vulnerable skin beneath.
To Brueller's surprise, Fox leaned back into the older man's arms and smiled, wetting his lips provocatively. Brueller couldn't resist and devoured what was so brazenly offered, crushing his mouth to Fox's, using his tongue to fully explore the sweet tastes inside. To the Dutchman's continued delight, Fox began to rub silkily against his master's body, never once taking his eyes from the other as his tongue taunted and teased Brueller's. Staring into the wide, hazel eyes, Brueller found himself caught, sucked into the incredible depths. *He's hypnotising me,* he thought, faintly. Mesmerising me.
The moment was broken when Fox pulled back, but before Brueller could protest, he had knelt between his master's spread thighs and released the large cock from its confines, stroking it to an aching hardness, lips parted in silent promise.
The hazel eyes were focused with such fervent intent on Brueller's erection, that the older man felt a jolt of pure lust shoot straight down his spine and sink its claws into his groin. It came in knowing that Fox Mulder was on his knees, willingly, wanting to pleasure his master with lips that could have been fashioned for no other duty, using all the resources of his excellent, fragmented mind to do just that.
And what a talented mouth he possessed! Fox began to use his sinuous tongue to explore the weeping tip of Brueller's cock, then, without warning, took it in deep, the gag reflex suppressed through familiarity. Brueller gasped and bucked, caught unawares. He was close already, and Fox had barely begun.
"Liefhebben," he commanded, breathlessly. "I want...to watch you....to watch...your eyes..."
Fox paused and looked up, both men's eyes locking in a magnetic instant. It was one of the most erotic moments Brueller had ever experienced, with Fox's lips engulfing his cock, an invisible tongue flicking at the length inside, and Fox's eyes fixated with a blazing intensity on his own.
As much as Brueller would give all his wealth to be able to live in that moment, it couldn't last. His orgasm, when it hit, felt as if it was being torn out of his very being, his testicles drawing up in painful intensity, Fox's mouth working in time to his pumping hips. The head of Brueller's cock exploded with such force he bucked and cried out, features locked in a rictus of ecstasy, gripping the sides of the chair with white-knuckled fingers as he rode on an unending, blinding wave, but didn't, couldn't close his eyes to Fox, to the only reality in his pleasure-filled universe.
Brueller came back to himself moments later, with a pleased, satisfied Fox cleaning him up with his tongue, a cat lapping cream, then groaned when long fingers slid his sensitised flesh back into his trousers. Lassitude was running like a drug through his veins as he gazed at Fox, unable to comprehend how the younger man could make him feel so virile. His little pet was, he realised, a tall, unaccountably beautiful, aphrodisiac.
The Dutchman gave Fox an affectionate smile. "That was exquisite, Fox," he said, happy to lavish praise where it was due. Especially if it encouraged his pet to take the initiative like that more often. "Very good."
Brueller passed the ball of his thumb over Fox's glistening lips, then bent to place a tender kiss there, tasting himself. He had simply been amusing himself when he had thought Fox might kill him with those lips, that talented mouth. Now he wondered if it might not be true.
END OF CHAPTER FIVE
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