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John’s body had lapsed into a state he didn’t think possible. It was in complete contrast to his mind. His body lay still as though paralyzed . . . the only exception was his breathing which was shallow, controlled. His mind, however, raced, somersaulted. He hadn’t heard a sound from Luka, had no idea where he was. The cloth over his eyes was tight: he was aware that the light was on but he couldn’t make out any discernable shapes. His head ached, as did his balls, a continuous throbbing presence. He shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, which served only to remind him of the tension in his shoulders, in his arms. He wondered how long it was before his back, so susceptible to strain, would join in this melee of pain. He resisted the urge to groan, not wanting to draw attention to himself . . . if he couldn’t see Luka then Luka couldn’t see him . . . he wanted to laugh at the child-like logic . . . but he didn’t.

He wondered if anyone could see him through the window – the light was on but he didn’t know if the drapes were drawn (were there drapes? he asked himself), was Luka concerned if anyone could see him (were they overlooked?). He wanted to thrash around again to make it clear to anyone watching that he was here against his will . . . but he didn’t.

He wondered what time it was. What time did he get here? . . . about 6.30 after his shift . . . but what time was it now? . . . he had no idea. He didn’t know how long he was out for . . . he had seen night fall . . . before . . . when he could see . . . but how long ago was that? Would anyone miss him?

He tried to think clearly . . . Abby was gone . . . his grandmother didn’t expect him . . . The hospital . . . his next shift wasn’t until 5.00 p.m. tomorrow. They wouldn’t chase around looking for him . . . not to begin with. Weaver would just curse . . . Susan would be apologetic . . . saying something really important must have come up (strange how he could almost hear her voice in his head) . . . only Deb would worry . . . but she always worried . . . 18 – 24 hours perhaps . . .

Someone would then ring Luka . . . they knew he was coming here. What would Luka say? No, he didn’t call, why would he? Yes, he called, stayed for an hour and then left . . . or . . . ‘Sorry he can’t come to the phone right now he’s a bit tied up.’ He automatically suppressed the laugh that formed at the back of his throat, swallowed it. ‘Careful John,’ he thought ‘lets not get hysterical.’ But someone would call . . . eventually . . .

Brrp. Brrrrrp . . . . . . . . . . . . Brrp. Brrrrrp . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘What the . . . a phone . . . My cell phone!’ He hears Luka stir. ‘My phone was in my jacket . . . where’s my jacket.’ Luka must have taken it off of him. ‘Why didn’t I think about my phone. Damn.’ He hears Luka moving across the room, unsteady on his feet. He hears the rustle of material. ‘Shit.’ It’s the outside world . . . a chance of help. "Luka . . . let me answer it. It could be urgent." He sounded too desperate. The cell phone continued to ring . . . The shadow of Luka passes him . . . he hears the click of the light switch, what light there was vanishes, and then he hears the door softly closing . . .

He allowed himself a moment of panic, of dread. He pulled at his wrists, only to increase his pain. He thrashed his head to dislodge the cloth, only to rip the hairs on the nape of his neck. This isn’t happening . . . to feel this vulnerable, this scared, after so much had happened, after he had regained so much of his life . . . he wanted to call out, to shout . . . but he didn’t.

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Luka stared at the phone display - Abby. His face betrayed little emotion as he walked slowly across the room, the phone bleating in his hand. He looked at it one more time before dropping it into the fish tank.

Abby. He closes his eyes, tries to see her face. But it wasn’t her face . . . it’s always . . . He shut down the thought. Abby. Never knew what she wanted . . . wanted what she couldn’t have . . . so willing to play the victim . . . he had never known anyone so motivated by self-pity . . . except, of course, him, Carter. An _expression of contempt flashes across his face and then it is gone, replaced by the mask of weary indifference. ‘Carter can have you’ . . . his words. Well, they were well suited to one another. He thinks about them . . . together . . . their public displays of affection . . . that’s all they were . . . displays . . . an act . . . a deception.

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He is drained. Exhausted. Drunk. He turns off the TV, an automatic action. Turns off the light in the main room. He walks back to the bedroom, opens the door and enters. He doesn’t bother with the light. He removes his clothes, discards them on the floor. He moves to the bed, sees him there, illuminated dimly by the insipid streetlights. He doesn’t react, as though having John Carter tied to his bed was an everyday occurrence. With him lying there he can’t get between the covers . . . another annoyance . . . so he lies on top . . .

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The paralysis that pervaded John’s body now invaded his mind. He had heard Luka return to the bedroom . . . had heard him remove his clothes . . . had felt his attempts to lift the covers . . . and through it all he had been powerless to think, to speak. Feeling Luka’s weight on the bed he had tried to move out of his way but with his arms stretched wide he had no room to maneuver. He could feel Luka pressing against him . . . knowing that he was possibly naked . . .was he totally naked . . . Oh God . . .

Part of him, the intelligent, educated, trained, rational, part of him knew he should be talking, trying to negotiate his way out of this . . . what . . . what the fuck is this . . .?

"Luka. What are you doing? Luka. Get off. Get off of me." He struggles to find the words . . . the right words. He tried to invoke sympathy. "You’re hurting me."

"Shut up . . . Do you think I care about you. I don’t." His voice is apathetic, languid. His head droops, comes to rest on John’s chest. He hears John’s heart racing. He is mesmerized by the steady, rapid beat . . . it’s hypnotic . . . trance-like . . . like music. He places his hand over John’s heart, feels it beating through his shirt . . . how fragile it feels. He lowers his hand, tugs at John’s shirt, pulling it out of his pants. He slides his hand underneath, moves it up over his abdomen, up to his chest, and again, places it over his heart. Finally, it’s too much for John . . .

He bucks, writhes. "Get off. Get off. Get off." Luka, in brutal response, swings his full length over, on to John’s body . . . and John, once again, desists instantly, as though a switch has been flicked. Only his breathing is loud, rasping in the silence of the room.

Luka can see the confusion and panic in John’s face: he knows what he is feeling; his distress is palpable. It is his own emotions that confound him. ‘Why am I doing this? I know it is madness . . . but he is here . . . he has no right to be here. Why did he come? Of all people why him . . .? A beating heart . . . He is passive now . . . silent . . . still . . . yet I know I can make him react.’ He lowers his head closer to John’s . . .so close that he can feel his breath . . . John tries to move away but there is no where to go. Luka blows softly into his face . . . he squirms in disgust . . .

Luka is spellbound . . .he spreads out his weight . . . he has him pinned beneath him, his body pressing against him . . . he feels his panic. But he can do nothing. It makes him feel . . . powerful.

To be continued . . .
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