From: The Emu Date: Thu, 6 Aug 1998 12:35:55 +-1000 Subject: RestStop (1/1) I did not write this. Please send comments to Margie at the eddress below. 8^- ---------- File Size: 14K Rating: NC-17 Category: Slash Spoilers: None Keywords: Skinner/ Other Slash Summary: Skinner gets more than he bargained for in a NJ rest stop AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you just groove on odd sex, this may be for you, otherwise, I wouldn't read this. Some may interpret this as a rape story, but I don't. I was gonna write this under a pseudo, but the hell with it. You can post comments to me if you'd like at margie@mtgpa.mt.lucent.com "RestStop" It was supposed to be routine. It was anything but routine. Looking for an FBI informant in a pack of gay men swarming around a New Jersey rest stop on the Garden State Parkway. John Blake wanted Skinner to prove he could be trusted. Said he had something worthwhile to travel up to the Garden State for. Skinner had had a long, tiring week and a road trip seemed like a good way to unwind. Until he found out more about where he was supposed to meet Blake. Skinner tried to beg off, but Blake asserted Skinner was the only one he would talk to. That, coupled with the information Blake had access to; the whereabouts of the men who ran a kiddie porn ring; stirred Skinner's conscious enough for him to arrange the meeting. Gay men. As if New Jersey wasn't bad enough. What is it about these places and gays, anyway? Men, coming and going. It went beyond just some bad joke...it was a fact of life. Skinner stretched out his legs in the cramped quarters of the rental's driver's seat. The surveillance photo he held of the man he'd previously only spoke to on the phone was innocuous, at best. Obscure. It could be a hundred men. He looked around. It could be that man. He straightened up and got a clearer view by adjusting his glasses and rolling down the car window. It was John Blake. For a moment...for a nanosecond, Skinner doubted he could handle this. Meet this man, alone. Even in casual dress, Skinner knew he stood too tall, too broad--too bald--not to be noticed in this place. Skinner also knew he'd eschewed back up because it intimidated him, even embarrassed him, to be seen in this rest stop. He unfolded himself from the Dodge, adjusting his black khakis around his sleepy legs. His quarry was just ahead, having paused to speak to a group of men leaning near a newspaper vending machine. They seemed to be sharing something like a joke. Something like a come-on. Something like an opening line. Skinner grimaced, walked towards the bright lights, and wished he could stop for a cup of coffee, but was too...what? nervous? anxious? to sway from his path. He wanted to meet Blake, shake him up, and get what he needed from him. And then get the hell out of New Jersey. Skinner passed the group, hoping his stiff demeanor and lack of cologne would keep the noise down. It worked. They seemed to move away. Maybe they thought he was too straight for them. He didn't dwell on it. The mark moved left and Skinner was relieved to see he had headed in the direction of the men's room. It was going to be easy. The men's room was out-of-the-way, and hopefully, not crowded. Skinner paused, quickly looking around. He took in as much as he could of the coffee shop and the snack bar, both of which were covered in lounging men. If he had time to notice, he would have registered the eyes that tried to find his. If he had time to notice, his face would have flushed with the open appraisals of his body, his ass, his long legs. Something like a buzz hit his ears but he couldn't stop for it. He was too jumpy about getting out of there to give it much time. He cut left, too, and headed for the opening to the men's room, trying not to look over his shoulder. ++++++++++++++++++ >From the moment the closing door hit him in the ass, he knew it. Things weren't right. The long, echo-y row of stainless steel stalls stretched out in front of him, and the whole place felt odd; empty, deserted. Yet there was an undercurrent of movement he sensed more than saw. "Blake?" he asked, his voice as tentative as his movements. Funny about the stall doors.something funny about the doors. Strange how they were all uniformly closed over. He passed the first one with his hand moving towards the handle of his weapon. The second door swung out, hard, taking him by surprise, as the first door behind him opened out wide, too, trapping him in between. All wrong, he thought before flashes of bodies hit him at the same time as a blindfold, and strong, obviously male hands pushed him down the row of stalls until he felt his back hit some unyielding wall. He grappled against the grasping hands. Sounds around him...they sounded oddly like magnets on metal. "Don't scream," came a voice, followed by a giggle, followed by a pressure near his chest. "Put that back in his holster, you idiot, or it'll go off or something," came a second voice in some bizarre stage whisper. He felt a slight sting at his throat, and then the slight chill of liquid under his skin. "Just a little," a voice rasped. "Just relax." He struggled, and his hands were forced up, and restrained in a way he could only guess at. Feet kicked his legs back. More restraints, maybe handcuffs, maybe straps. Whatever, Skinner couldn't move. Then there were hands on him, running over him, around him. The restraints on his wrists were effective. Too effective. He tried to will himself free, against the flow of the medication that was rapidly making him drift beside, and outside, himself. He was still there, but the drug was making his whole body hum. A mouth was close to his. He could sense the heat of strange skin. "I'd kiss you but I don't want to humiliate you," the giggly one said. "Remind me to send you a thank you card," he said thickly. Then a laugh, low, near his ear. Then a tongue near his cheek, teeth on his jawline. He tried to pull back but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere. As hands began to tug at his belt, he tried to keep together, to judge how many men there were around him, should he get out...no...no...when he got free. Not if. He wouldn't pause at warning them. He'd just shoot their fucking heads off. "Zipper pull," the giggly voice whispered. He cringed and moved backward into the wall behind him, wanting the particles to disconnect and take him away. His pants were being stripped off almost gently, hands caressing his legs as the cloth slid down, and the chill of the men's room air moved around his legs. "You bastards!" he hissed before a hand covered his mouth-caressed it really, fingertips over his lips, forming along his throat. Disgusted, he tried to turn away, feeling his stomach tighten and pull in. His head spun and he tried to swallow back against the steely cold tide of sudden fear as he heard a sharp ripping sound and tape was applied quickly across his mouth. "Hush, hush, my sweet." The voice came from below his waist. It was all that entered his head as he felt hands cupping his cock through his briefs. "Come to papa." His briefs joined his pants around his ankles. The drug was working inside him, even as he felt hands working over him. Hands massaging his legs, the curves of his ass, but, oddly, not his cock. He willed it down. He willed it quiet. "We're not here to hurt you. We're here to...play." He tried to think away from where he was, from what restrained him so he could keep some sense of focus, some sense of reality. Maybe grabbing onto something unfeasible, something not pleasant. To his meeting with Scully earlier that day, and her tongue-on-her molar look that ticked him off so quickly. The look that made him feel like his head was in a vice. Not enough to subdue his response to a tentative lick; a soft, moist tongue on his balls. He kept his throat tight, tried to bite his lip through the tape. "Come out and play," the now-familiar voice sing-songed. The tongue shifted up to his shaft. Light, and soft, like a butterfly wing, it moved along his glans, and down. "You are so beautiful...you taste so...delicious." He felt his penis and balls being raised and someone took the flesh underneath in their mouth, sucking slightly, using their teeth first under his testicles, then around the heavy sacs, and back up to his twitching member. He drew in a ragged breath through the tape across his mouth, and shook his head. "It's OK to like this," urged the voice from below his waist. His body was responding to this clever, careful seduction. He wanted it to be rougher, more forceful; something his mind and his body could fully object to. But his mental image of what should be happening was in sharp contrast to the gentle touches of his unknown assailant. His semi-erection was an easy mark, and he was taken wholly into a stranger's mouth. It was unnerving. It had never happened like this before. The expert lips, the tongue darting out, sliding over his skin, knowing just how much pressure to apply, knowing just how to suckle him. Any resistance at that moment seemed futile. And his body chose that moment to betray him, springing fully erect inside the stranger's eager mouth. There was some small noise, some sound like triumph. He felt fingers near his ass, applying something moist between his cheeks, massaging, caressing, teasing. Invading. Shoving his hips back against the wall wasn't enough. The fingers were still there, and then they were inside him. He groaned against the tape. The fingers were moving in and out, and the mouth was working his cock again. No one spoke, he couldn't even hear breathing. Maybe they were hoping he'd forget where he was. Maybe they were hoping he'd forget they were men. Something...maybe the drug...kicked in, and as the earnest mouth moved over his flesh, hands squeezing his balls with a steady rhythm, he could feel his climax beginning to build. His mind tightened in denial, but his lower body was waging a whole different war. He was at the mercy of the fingers as they moved slowly, separating him, parting him, in time with the suckling of his cock, coming in contact with every nerve ending in his being. And when the willing fingers skimmed his prostate, he thought he'd go mad at the deep, intense, sexual response the touching elicited. The pressure on his wrists loosened, but he was too close to acknowledge it. He had lost his control. Shameless and ashamed, he bucked his hips, the hands and mouth too skilled, the invasion crossing over into pleasure, teeth sinking lightly into his thighs, hands over his chest, like mid-wives witnessing a birth, willing him to come, as if that completion would give them all pleasure. There was a crescendo now in the room, he could feel it. Smell it. And he went with it, soft whispers in and around his head. "Come for me baby, come for me, yeah, that's right, come for me..." The mouth moved faster, sucking, stroking. One more touch, one more brushing of his prostate, and he exploded. His mind and his body let go entirely, and he came into this mouth that was willing to take all of his cum, and he convulsed until he couldn't breathe. Suddenly, it was over. He was finished, and the hands and mouth seemed to vaporize, disappear, to that same magnet-on-metal sound, and more stealthy sounds of whispers. "Hurry up before the shit wears off." One final time he was to hear the voice. "Thanks for the memories, AD Skinner." Something was stuffed into his jacket pocket. Blake. It brought it all back. He reached for his blindfold before he registered that he could reach, and whipped it off. It was all gone- everything. There was just a flash of someone exiting the men's room; a soft-colored shirt disappearing around a corner. As he ripped the tape from his mouth, he wanted to move, to make chase. To beat the bastards to a bloody pulp. Except when he looked and saw he was still naked from the waist down. He pulled on his pants. This act, once so simple, was almost painful now. He didn't have time to think, because there was a shuffling at the door. He ducked into a stall, and tried to collect himself. He had to get the hell out of there before it all hit him. He had everything; his weapon, his clothing, his badge. And whatever the hell Blake had stuffed in his pocket. Nothing had been taken. Nothing on the outside of him, anyway. When the shuffling faded, he stumbled out of the stall, and staggered across the floor as the debilitating affects of the drug began to wear off. By the time he made it whole to the bathroom's entrance, the coffee shop and snack bar were hopping. His cheeks flushed at the stares he felt on him. The bridge of his pride was burning beneath him. He kept his mind above everything, kept his mind without focus and got out the door and beelined for the rental, with something like a bad taste in his mouth. By the time he hit the Dodge's front seat he couldn't breathe. Couldn't stop shaking. The worst part was that he had given in. To the mouth. To the tongue. He closed his eyes against the tide of images and pulled out what Blake had stuffed into his pocket. Blinking his eyes rapidly to focus, he saw that it was all there-names, dates, website locations. But he would have to doctor it before turning it in. Across the bottom, Blake had scrawled, "The Truth will set you free." Skinner pretended not to consider that phrase and all its implications. And was still pretending three days later when he gave his report to his superiors. And would continue to pretend, even after the small brown, unmarked envelope full of Polaroids showed up in his mail at the Viva Towers, as this was the most convenient, the most comfortable. The most safe. 5 6