For John this was a torment that he had never known before. Never had he felt so powerless. The escalation of events astounded him, sent his mind reeling. Being restrained was bad . . . being blindfolded was bad . . . but having Luka on top of him . . . pressing in to him . . . this was intolerable. He wondered how much worse it was going to get before . . . before what? He could smell the alcohol on Luka’s breath and it made him feel nauseous . . . knowing his face was so close to his. He swallowed hard, tried to take a deep breath . . . and failed. Luka was so heavy on his chest, so constricting . . . he couldn’t breathe. John fought the panic, suppressed the fear that Luka was going to suffocate him . . . he heaved his chest and tried to get him to shift . . .
. . . and he did. Luka raised himself up, pulled up his legs into a kneeling position and allowed John to regain control of his breathing. The relief he felt was cut short as Luka was now straddled over his groin and the concentrated pressure on his already aching balls was painful. He groaned, feeling sick, hit by another wave of nausea. He swallowed hard, biting down on the feeling, not wanting to give in to it.
"What’s the matter . . . ummm? I hurt you." John didn’t answer not trusting the tone of Luka’s voice. Luka moved a hand to John’s balls, caressed them through the material of his pants. John took a deep breath and held it . . . waited for the pain that was surely going to follow . . .
. . it didn’t come. Luka slowly moved his hand up, slid it under John’s shirt, moved it on to his stomach. John flinched at the coldness, contracted the muscles in his abdomen. To Luka his skin felt warm . . . smooth . . . then he found the scars. The contrast was striking. He probed gently, his fingers tracing their outline, feeling the damage. "Does this hurt?" he asked.
John turned his head in Luka’s direction. He didn’t answer. He realized he was still holding his breath . . . let it out . . . slowly . . . breathed in . . . aware that his muscles were trembling as he tried to keep them taut. Luka pressed his hand firmly into his skin. "Talk to me."
Again he flinched. "No . . . it doesn’t hurt."
Luka continued to trail his fingers along the scars following their path. "I remember that day . . . you could have died. Why didn’t you die?"
"I was lucky I guess," he answered, trying to keep his voice flat, free of any irony.
"I helped to save you."
John wanted to say ‘you did your job, that’s what you were supposed to do’ but he didn’t. "I know."
"Are you grateful . . . that you are alive . . . do you thank God everyday for sparing you?"
John was surprised by the question and was stuck for something to say. He tried to think of something that would be helpful, non-confrontational, but found he couldn’t lie. "I don’t think about God much . . . I guess I’m not . . . very religious."
"But does God think about you . . . will he look favorably upon you . . . when you are judged?"
John tried to quell his frustration. He was glad that Luka was talking but he was wary, uncomfortable with this line of questioning. He didn’t know if he believed in God or not and didn’t want to discuss it now. He turned it back on Luka. "How will he judge you?"
The fingers stopped moving and John, by instinct, held his breath. "I’ve already been judged," Luka said softly.
Luka closed his eyes, shutting down his senses . . . shut out the sight, the sound . . . the feel of him. Then he too is hit by a wave of nausea . . . everything swirling in blackness . . . he’s going to throw up. He opened his eyes . . . tried to stop his head from spinning . . . concentrated hard to focus, to keep his senses in balance . . . and failed.
He leapt from the bed, rushed from the bedroom into the bathroom made it to the toilet. Sinking to his knees he vomited, gave up all that he had to give. Afterwards he collapsed backwards onto the floor and lay there staring at the ceiling . . . John Carter is a vague memory . . . a disturbance in his life . . . He closed his eyes.
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He suddenly felt unbearably cold. He rolled over onto his stomach, pulled himself up onto his knees, slowly stood trying to keep the pounding in his head to a minimum. He turned on the light and reeled as it penetrated his eyes. He grabbed the robe from the bathroom door and pulled it on, pulled it tight around him. He splashed water onto his face to clear his head, drank the water to cleanse his mouth.
He knows that there is something he must deal with . . . something he cannot ignore.
He walked slowly back to the bedroom . . .
He switched on the light and the sight of what he’s done instantly repulses him. So disturbing is the image that he has to grab hold of the doorframe to stop himself from falling. He closed his eyes, shut out the sight. When he opens them again there is no change. He took deep breaths to calm himself and cautiously moved towards the bed. He saw John tense . . . his breathing change . . . and he is . . . ashamed . . . that he could alter his breathing just by his presence . . .
. . and yet . . .
He knows that this is madness . . . that this is not who he is . . . sometimes he was filled with a rage that blinded him . . . that he hit out . . . but . . . this is not who he is . . .
. . and yet . . .
He moved closer to the bed and noted John tense again. He is filled by strange conflicting emotions . . . something elusive that he has not experienced before . . . but he is in control now . . . knows what he has to do . . .
He sat on the edge of the bed conscious of his heart pounding in his chest. He reached forward, moved his hands towards John’s head . . . was shocked as John flinched, moved his head away. He closed his eyes, licked his lips, aware that his mouth is dry. He opened his eyes forced his hands to John’s head, forced John’s head to one side and removed the blindfold.
To John the light, after so many hours of darkness, was blinding, painful. He screwed his eyes shut, opened them . . . tried to focus . . . it took him a while and then he focused on Luka. Luka stares back . . . but he cannot take it.
"Don’t look at me." His voice is shaky: however much he wants to show that he is in control his voice betrays him.
John looked at him uncertainly . . . did he mean it? Part of John wanted to brazen it out, confront him, reason with him in to releasing him . . . if he could only see that Luka was wavering, consumed by shame and guilt. He hesitated . . . deferred. He looked away.
A strange feeling crept over Luka, something invidious. Carter in the workplace was never this compliant . . . this yielding. Luka remembered the times when Carter had disobeyed him . . . him, his senior . . . remembered his condescension, his arrogance. He also remembered his accusations over Abby, that he liked her ‘vulnerable’. Then he remembered his feelings as he had John Carter pinned beneath him . . . feeling his fear . . . his panic. Coldness stirred in the pit of his stomach: who was vulnerable now? "Look at me."
John was once again bewildered: ‘look at me . . . don’t look at me . . . what the fuck is that about’. John looked at him . . .
. . and Luka is overwhelmed by thoughts too intangible to understand . .
But . . . this is not who he is . . . he wanted to hurt him, wanted to punish him for being who he was . . . but he couldn’t do it. He leaned over John, crushing his chest, and fumbled at the knotted tie on his wrist, freeing it. John, caught off guard by this sudden change of events, looked on numbly as Luka moved about the room pulling out drawers, spilling their contents onto the floor . . . rushing as though on a mission that he had no time to fulfill.
John held his breath . . . Luka was going to do it . . . he was going to let him go. ‘Oh God . . . what if he can’t find the key?’ . . . and then Luka was back . . . kneeling on the bed, inserting the key into the lock. John was frozen . . . he looked on as Luka fumbled and cursed . . . he lay there watching, not breathing . . . and then it was open . . .
Luka grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him up and John struggled to keep up with him not being able to think or act for himself . . . and then he was propelled forward with Luka shouting at him "Get out. Get out. Getoutgetougetoutgetout." It was almost a scream, a continuous stream of words numbing his senses. Luka dragged him to the door, opened it and threw him out . . . threw him with such force that he hit the wall opposite and collapsed against it. The door was slammed shut, the noise reverberating in his ears.
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John picked himself up off of the floor. He was so filled with relief that his ordeal was over that he felt a form of elation, euphoria . . . like a new found high from some unknown drug. He fled down the stairs of Luka’s apartment building, virtually flying round each floor, until he hit street level. He fought with the outer door, rushed out and kept running, filling his lungs with air. He ran as fast and as far as he could without stopping not caring which way he went or where he was going.
Finally whatever it was that fuelled him was depleted, consumed. He slowed to a walk as his feeling of relief ebbed away to be replaced by a new, raw emotion . . . that of anger . . . rage. He remembered how he had felt . . . the helplessness . . . never had he felt like that . . . not as a child . . . not since . . . He suddenly felt sick . . . he stopped, doubled over . . . but refused to give into it.
"Bastard. Bastard," he called out, his anger climbing to higher and higher levels. Luka had made him feel weak . . . had terrified him . . . He would go to the police. Have him arrested . . . kidnap . . . assault that’s what it was.
He walked on getting more and more agitated no longer soothed by the mere fact of being free. He paced the streets like a lunatic . . . dressed only in shirt and pants oblivious to the cold . . . the fire from his anger enough to protect him. It was only the occasional passerby, some late night reveler that looked at him oddly this man with the haunted look in his eyes pacing relentlessly, muttering to himself.
****************************************************************
John Carter wasn’t alone in his torment. Luka Kovac was absorbed in his own relentless march as he paced up and down his apartment, the confined space making him seem like some caged wild animal. Every now and then he would break from his path and spiral into a chair where he would groan and wrap his arms around himself as though in search of comfort. Then, unable to settle, he would stand and continue his pacing.
He didn’t understand what had happened here. Had he meant to hurt him . . . would he have hurt him more than he had? Could he . . .? He felt sick at the thought, not taking any comfort from the fact that he hadn’t actually done it.
He froze, startled by the sound of a heavy hand thumping at his door. The police . . . it had to be . . . he had given Carter the power to destroy him . . . and he had taken it . . . why wouldn’t he? He slowly made his way to the door, touched it knowing that his fate was on the other side. Part of him didn’t want to answer it . . . willed them to go away . . . that he could hide in here . . .
He opened the door . . .
****************************************************************
John Carter was standing at his door . . . alone. Luka was stunned . . . this wasn’t what he was expecting. Nor did he expect the punch to his face that split his lip, spattering blood on to his robe. It was a punch that contained all of John’s anger and rage. Luka staggered backwards into his apartment barely managing to stay on his feet and John followed him in kicking the door shut behind him.
John hit him again this time splitting his cheek . . . and again . . . but this time in the stomach. Luka doubled over and fell to his knees. John grabbed hold of his robe and pushed him backwards and as he went down he went down with him so he was now straddling his chest.
For the second time that night John finally ran out of whatever it was that fuelled him and once he was past the blinding rush of adrenaline he realized that Luka was not defending himself. He just lay beneath him, eyes closed, not moving . . . still . . . so still it was disturbing. John stared at him, the sound of blood pounding in his ears. Luka opened his eyes, looked at him . . . "Feel better?"
John was incensed. He grabbed Luka by the hair, pulled his head up and then banged it down onto the rug. Luka winced as his head came down . . . and smiled.
John stared at him in disbelief. "You’re insane."
Luka could see how agitated and upset John was which, he had to concede, was understandable. But this was in complete contrast to his own emotions. Despite the pain, he felt elated . . . experiencing the same high that John had experienced . . . the one that comes with absolute relief. The fact that John had come back to exact his own revenge . . . that he hadn’t gone to the police. He knew that he could be in some police station somewhere answering awkward questions.
John, disconcerted by the fact that Luka wouldn’t defend himself and fearing that he would do something he would seriously regret, stood up and backed away from him . . . walked into the bedroom. He saw the handcuffs and the key. He unlocked the cuff from the bed frame and marched back to Luka who was now sitting up on the floor nursing his face. He knelt down behind him pulled one of Luka’s arms back and slapped one cuff onto his wrist. He pulled his other arm back and cuffed it. Luka didn’t try to stop him. He sighed and smiled as though humoring a small child. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of someone else knocking on his door. He looked up at John: perhaps he had gone to the police.
A woman’s voice called through the door. "Dr. Kovac? Dr. Kovac . . . is everything okay?"
John marched to the door and shouted through it. "Everything’s just fine."
The voice came back, uncertainly "Dr. Kovac . . .?
John looked back at Luka "He’s busy right now."
"Who are you?" The voice was persistent.
John had no time for this, "None of your business . . . now . . . fuck off."
Luka looked at him and frowned, shook his head. "There is no need to be so rude. She’s a very nice lady," he said softly.
"I’m sure she is." He walked back into the living room and stood in front of him, cocked his head to one side. "Perhaps I should have told her to call the police . . . have you arrested"
Luka stared back at him, met his eyes. "Probably a good thing that you didn’t . . . if the police come now what will they find? Me . . . bleeding . . . bruised," he started laughing, " . . . handcuffed."
"I’ll tell them what happened . . . don’t worry." He stared at Luka, saw the blood on his face, his swollen lip, the blood on his robe. He added, "It’s my word against yours . . . who are they likely to believe."
Luka could see how his words had affected him. "You no doubt."
John nodded his head vigorously. "That’s ri . . ."
Further knocking at the door interrupted him. A man’s voice. "Mr. Ko . . . what’s his name again?" A woman’s voice in the background answered, "It’s Kovac." The man’s voice continued. "Mr. Kovac . . . I’m the building supervisor . . . is everything okay?"
John’s eyes flew from Luka to the door and back again. Luka’s smile became that much broader. He struggled to his feet, awkward as it was with his hands handcuffed behind his back, and made his way over to John. Talking softly he asked, "What should I do? Call for help." He distorted his features into a semblance of suffering and whispered "Oh God . . . someone help me. Please, he’s going to kill me."
Luka circled around him and then, keeping his face to him, slowly walked backwards to the door. John could only watch frozen to the spot. He flinched visibly as the hammering on the door continued.
"Mr. . . . Kovac . . . are you there?" There was the sound of keys.
John was aware of his heart pounding in his chest, of the coldness creeping over him. This was ridiculous he wasn’t the one at fault here . . .
"I’m here." Luka shouted through the door. The woman’s voice in the background shouted out "That’s him."
"Is everything okay . . . only I’ve had a complaint . . . from the woman in the apartment below you . . ." Again the voice in the background spoke "I wasn’t complaining . . . I’m concerned."
Luka, still not taking his eyes off John, thought for a moment. "I’m sorry I disturbed her," he saw John exhale sharply. "I was moving some furniture about."
"At two in the morning?" the voice asked doubtfully.
"It won’t happen again." After a long pause he said, "Goodnight."
Luka walked back into the living room still eyeing John. When he reached him he turned round and held out his hands behind him. "Can you take these off? They really are quite uncomfortable."
John looked at the handcuffs blankly. "Fuck you," he said softly.
Luka sighed, turned round to face him. "Look . . . I’m . . ." he started to say.
John closed his eyes. He wanted to hit him . . . to wipe that smug, conceited grin from his face. He opened his eyes and reached forward grabbing Luka by the balls. Luka tried to pull away but the firm grip that John had told him it was best not to move. Luka held his breath.
Their eyes locked. John wanted to hurt him so much, as much as he had done . . . he looked down at his hand, he wanted to squeeze it tight, wanted to see his knuckles turn white as he crushed his manhood . . .
. . . he couldn’t do it. He just stood there inanely with his hand gripping Luka’s balls. Luka stared at him . . . understood . . . that he was incapable of doing it . . . he could see how bewildered he was . . . that the roller coaster of emotions that he had experienced had finally taken their toll. He didn’t even feel worried by the fact that John still had hold of his balls. He experienced a fleeting echo of the feelings he had felt before . . . that, even with his hands handcuffed behind his back, he was somehow in control. "Look at me," he whispered gently . . . and John did . . . he looked into Luka’s eyes . . . knew for certain how ineffectual he was.
John slowly loosened his grip . . . but he didn’t let go. He gently squeezed and where before his hand had felt threatening it now became tender, almost . . . loving. He gently caressed Luka’s balls rolling them around in his hand. John looked into Luka’s eyes saw the look of confusion. Luka was dumbfounded. This had never entered his mind . . . he looked into John’s face . . . saw how earnest he looked . . . how eager to please . . .
John slowly moved his hand up, took hold of Luka’s flaccid cock. He wrapped his hand around it, squeezed it, clenching and unclenching his fingers, gripping harder, more firmly, again and again. It grew hard in his hand. He relaxed his grip, moved his long fingers up and down its length, exploring it sensuously . . . he pulled back the foreskin exposing its delicate head . . . rubbed small circles into the sensitive glans with his thumb as his fingers continued to grip the shaft. Again he looked in to Luka’s face, saw him giving into the sensations as he caressed him, stroked him, manipulated him.
"I’ll get the key," John whispered huskily, as though barely able to find his voice. Luka looked at him uncertainly . . . he didn’t want him to leave, to break the contact . . . but he wanted his hands free. John broke away . . . went into the bedroom.
He emerged moments later holding the key to the handcuffs . . . and something else . . . his jacket. He locked eyes with Luka . . . walked casually to the fish tank and dropped the key in to it. With a smile on his face he walked past him to the front door, opened it and walked out, slamming it shut behind him.
Luka stood there open-mouthed, looked down at his rapidly wilting cock. He numbly walked to the couch and slumped down into it, crushing his hands behind him. The full nature of his predicament gradually dawned as he stared ruefully at the fish tank.
"Fuck."
To be continued . . .
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n