Warning - this story contains details of sexual activity.  If you are 
under the age of 18, go away!

Nick/LaCroix

------------------------------------

The Question 
 
by Ophelia5 
 
 
        The office door slammed open and LaCroix looked up from 
the ledger on the desk with a frown of annoyance.  No one would 
DARE--
        Ahhhh, no one but his errant son.  Nicholas stood framed in 
the doorway of the Raven office.  The thunder and boom of the 
music, the clatter of glasses, and the seemingly eternal sounds of 
the youthful and ageless enjoying their own company provided a 
suitable backdrop for his obvious mood.  It was not the frown on 
Nicholas' face, nor the folded arms that set LaCroix on his guard--
those were merely physical displays of the frustration and 
annoyance that positively emanated from the other vampire, a force 
of feeling so powerful as to nearly be palpable.
        LaCroix lowered his head for a moment, knowing that any 
sign of amusement on his part would only exacerbate the situation.  
He allowed the smile to linger for only a brief second, thinking of 
how the club regulars would have known enough to scramble out 
of Nicholas' way.  As for the newcomers, the mortals or vampires 
who might stupidly consider Nicholas a challenge . . . he made a 
mental note of finding out how many free drinks this mood would 
cost him.
        "LaCroix--?"  
        The tone seemed threatening.
        "Close the door," he answered evenly.  Adding a slight sigh of 
annoyance for effect, LaCroix carefully marked his place in the 
ledger and upended the heavy board cover of the book, letting the 
pages fall closed with a 'thump.'  Only then did he look up and 
gesture to a seat before his desk.  "To what do I owe the pleasure of 
THIS visit?  Have you lost track of another mortal felon?"
        Nicholas' frown turned into a scowl, which deepened as he 
seated himself in the hard plastic chair.  It was there specifically to 
elicit such a reaction; the low, uncomfortable seat and awkwardly 
located metal arms placed the seated person at a definite 
psychological disadvantage.   LaCroix had learned long ago  to 
maneuver every variable of every situation to his advantage . . . 
whenever possible, of course.  That he was now using this 'modern' 
science against his former pupil was yet another touch of delicious 
irony that almost brought a smile to his lips.
        ALMOST.  He kept his expression blank as he moved 
languidly around to the front of the desk, just quickly enough to 
keep Nicholas from rising and seeking another accommodation.  
LaCroix leaned against the edge of the desk, folded his arms, and 
waited.
        "Couldn't you afford better chairs?" asked Nicholas, partially 
rising and then seating himself again, trying to find a comfortable 
position and failing miserably.
        "Business hasn't been as brisk as it might be--one economizes 
where one can."
        Nicholas shrugged--small talk and they both knew it.  He 
shifted uncomfortably in the chair again.
        LaCroix let his own blank expression slip, mirroring the 
other's scowl.  "If you've a reason for interrupting me, Nicholas, be 
quick about it.  If not, I have pressing matters to attend to."  He 
lowered a hand and tapped on the cover of the green ledger with 
his fingernails, the rhythmic clicking again unsettling Nicholas.
        My, my, SOMEONE was on pins and needles this evening.
        "What do you WANT from me?" snapped Nicholas.    
        "What do I want . . . from you?"  LaCroix turned the question 
over in his mind, watching Nicholas shift his gaze away to the 
desk, to the floor, to the ceiling--anywhere, but not to meet his 
eyes.  "I think you must be mistaken--I didn't summon you.  You 
came here of your own volition."
        He didn't bother to add the thoughts that piled on behind it--
that Nicholas was often so wrapped within his own concerns that 
he often couldn't see past them to those of anyone else.  Janette had 
been his confidante and companion these past two years and it 
seemed that even she had grown weary of  his favorite's self-
involved attentions.  She had said before she had left that Nicholas 
only called her when HE needed her; rare enough when the 
situation might be reversed and she was never certain that he 
would have the time or attention enough to see to her wants and 
desires.  He'd wondered what might happen when Janette had gone, 
if Nicholas would form a similar bond with him, return to a less 
antagonistic relationship out of necessity . . . which is precisely 
what had happened.  Without Janette, there was no where else for 
Nicholas to turn for information, for a feeling of family when he 
became lonely, for . . . .
        "Perhaps," said LaCroix softly, "I should ask what you want 
of ME?"
        Nicholas started, then averted his gaze again--ah, that brave 
and foolish one had no idea why he'd come here.  And if he did, it 
was so buried within the deep darkness of himself that he'd 
traveled here by instinct, led by need and habit and memory when 
conscious sense failed.
        When Nicholas began to rise from the chair, muttering, "I 
don't know--I must be mad--I'll go--" LaCroix walked behind him 
and placed a hand on his right shoulder, pushing him back into the 
seat.  "No.  Stay.  You've taken my time--the least you can do is to 
give me a moment of your own.  I have a question for you."

*****

        Nick relaxed, in as much as he could in that hell-begotten 
chair--the thought that LaCroix had money enough to buy a 
stadium worth of comfortable chairs and yet had chosen this one 
confounded him.  The brief pressure of LaCroix's hand on his 
shoulder had been warning enough--he'd wasted the vampire's time 
and now he had to pay the piper.
        And for what?  
        It had been a lousy week.  He'd snapped at Tracy a half dozen 
times and she'd started snapping back.  He'd knocked over a jar of 
somebody's something-or-other and Nat had banned him from the 
morgue until his temper improved.  Even Reese had handed him a 
pre-signed vacation request slip with tomorrow's date filled in.  It 
was just the kind of week that would send him to the Raven at the 
first opportunity.  
        A year or more ago it would have been just to talk, to listen to 
her laugh at him and make him feel foolish and silly for being so 
worked up, to let off a little steam, to remind him of other times 
and places.  And then, in the not-so-distant past, to feed other 
hungers.  As things got more serious with Nat, he found himself 
turning to Janette--with her he could let off more than a little 
steam.  Nobody took it seriously.  Nobody got hurt.  Nobody died.
        It had gotten to be a habit.  He'd stormed out of the station and 
into the Caddie and the car had come here on its own.  He was 
through the door and up to the bar before he'd remembered that 
Janette wasn't here anymore, that it wasn't the same place.  LaCroix 
was to blame for that.  LaCroix had to be responsible for that, 
because it sure as hell wasn't HIS fault.  He'd pushed aside the staff 
when they'd realized where he was headed, slammed open the 
office door--
        And there was LaCroix, working on a business ledger, pencil 
in hand, calculator on the desk, barely looking up at the 
interruption.
        He felt like a fool.  But then how was that different from a 
hundred other times he'd faced LaCroix?  This time at least, he 
consoled himself, there wouldn't be any bloodshed.  LaCroix's 
pride hadn't been insulted.  No lives would be lost.
        A question.  
        Okay.  He could handle a question.  Then he'd head back to 
the Caddie, park it in a 'no-tow' zone, and fly as far and as fast as 
he could, leaving just enough of a margin of safety to get back 
before dawn.  And even if he didn't, what did it matter--he had the 
night off tomorrow.  Maybe he'd just head to Quebec.  Maybe even 
try to pick up Janette's trail.  If she'd gone to ground with 
Aristotle's help, he could spend years of fruitless searching; 
without Aristotle's help, it could still take him months to find her.  
It would be something to do.  Something to take his mind off 
things.  She'd be mad as hell when he found her, but that wouldn't 
last long.  It never did.
        LaCroix was watching him.  He looked down at the floor, 
trying to keep from meeting those too-sharp eyes.  LaCroix would 
know what he was thinking.  It wasn't just the bond between them--
something more.  Something, perhaps, from the old days, when the 
man had led armies, had been able to take the measure of his 
command in a glance and know who would fail him . . . and who 
would not.  Nick had seen that glance thousands of times, had 
heard the pronouncements, and every time LaCroix had been right, 
from king to merchant, from commoner to beggar.
        "What?" he mumbled, hoping for a quick, easy answer so he 
could get out of this room.  It was hot in here and this chair was--
        "Why did you drive Janette away?"
        The question startled him enough so that he met LaCroix's 
eyes--grey-blue and serious.  Those eyes peered through him as if 
he were glass--the burning sensation in the center of his chest 
proved it.  He couldn't answer until he looked away again, down at 
the floor.  "I--I DIDN'T.  Did she . . . did she tell you that, before 
she left?"
        "Janette has told me many things, over time."
        Nick swallowed, but fought the temptation to look up.  
Instead, he slumped down in the chair and clasped his hands 
together, intertwining his fingers.  "What sort of things?"
        "About herself.  About you.  About the two of you, together."  
He could hear the smile in LaCroix's voice.  "I know quite a bit 
about the two of you, together."
        That flame in his chest burned a little brighter, a little hotter.  
"Janette would never have said anything to you about us."
        "Perhaps I didn't give her any choice?"
        "She wouldn't betray me."
        LaCroix moved behind him again, the hand pressing down on 
his left shoulder, pushing him back into the chair--he hadn't even 
realized he'd begun to rise--then LaCroix began to circle him, 
walking slowly as he spoke.  "She's left you, Nicholas.  She's done 
so before.  She'll do so again.  You know the reason."
        "What reason?"
        "She wasn't what you wanted."
        "No."  Nick shook his head, fighting to keep his gaze fixed on 
his hands, but it strayed to the dark trouser legs that passed before 
him every few minutes.  "If it's Nat, that had nothing to do with--"
        "Please!  Give her credit!  Janette has never felt threatened by 
any of your mortal infatuations.  They're over so quickly, after all.  
A decade at the most before you must move on or they grow too 
old, or they pass into dust . . . Janette knows that."
        "Then what--?"
        "Think, Nicholas.  Think about what it was like between the 
two of you.  How many have known such a grand passion, even 
amongst ourselves?"
        Nick did think . . . and smiled at the memories.  LaCroix was 
right in that.  He could remember the first time he and Janette had 
made love, after he'd been reborn in blood.  She'd given freely of 
herself in all ways and it hadn't been enough.  He'd found himself 
wanting more and more and more and she'd been as eager to taste 
him, to know every inch of him, inside and out.  There were parts 
of herself that she'd kept from him--he'd known that at the time--
and he'd kept his own secrets, but what touched one could not help 
but touch the other.
        He unclenched his hands, fingertips rubbing against one 
another, remembering the touch of her flesh, taking in a breath at 
the memory of her scent, his mouth watering at the hunger for the 
all-too-familiar taste of her blood . . . and yet . . . .
        "You began to tire of one another," said LaCroix gently.  "We 
all do at some point.  We reinvent things, make things more 
interesting.  Make them new.  Novelty is the greatest gift, when 
one is faced with eternity.  Perhaps she spoke of that, to me.  Of 
becoming someone else.  Of how you pretended to be someone 
else.  How you pretended to be . . . me."
        It WAS too warm in this place--Nick felt his cheeks flush, 
knowing that LaCroix's eagle gaze would see the almost 
imperceptible change in color.  It couldn't be because he was 
ashamed of that, of their games of pretend.
        "Whose idea was it, that you pretend to be me when you were 
with her?"
        The voice was soft, not at all accusatory, yet Nick felt he was 
at the center of an inquisition.  He shifted in the chair, wanting to 
be anywhere but where he was.  "Mine," he admitted.  "It was 
Janette's idea to pretend.  But my idea to . . . to be . . . ."
        "Me?"
        "You.  Her master."  He looked up, a brief flicker, but the 
intensity of that gaze drove him back within himself.  Nick stared 
at the front of the desk, at the chrome and wood, modern and 
artfully designed.  It seemed a far cry from the past, when he and 
Janette had played their game.
        "You did a passable impersonation, I assume."
        The smile flickered on his lips before he could stop it.  "She 
thought so.  At least, that's what she told me."
        And what other things she had told him!  Never about her 
times with LaCroix, she'd not spoken of that, but had let him guess.  
They played out every mood, every nuance of what might have 
been between the two, between Janette and her master before 
Nick's arrival, and after.  He could be harsh and cruel, cold and 
calculating, gentle and amusing, indulgent to a fault or strict 
beyond endurance.  He'd found himself studying LaCroix and 
making the role his own, every phrase and gesture letter perfect.  
He'd played at being her master and she'd had let him.  She'd 
wanted to please him.
        Nick shifted in his chair and, with a grimace, decided that 
Janette had managed at least that much, if the memory of their 
antics together was enough to make him hard.  The inflexible, 
plastic, molded seat had passed from uncomfortable to sheer 
torture.  There was no way to hide his arousal from LaCroix, no 
way to ease his tension short of excusing himself and making a 
quick dash to the men's room.
        But LaCroix seemed to take no notice of his problem--or if he 
had, wasn't making an issue of it.  As LaCroix continued to circle 
the chair, Nick felt the steely gazed fixed on him at all times.  That 
did little to ease his discomfort.
        "Your bout of play-acting would have paled after a time.  And 
then, what was there to do but . . . to switch roles?"
        He swallowed again, fighting the urge to look up as LaCroix 
circled him.  Nick wrapped his fingers around the plastic armrests 
until he heard them begin to shudder and crack beneath the 
pressure, but then his fingers slipped.  His hands were sweating--he 
could smell the faintest trace of blood.  Or, that could very well be 
from his arousal.
        "Did you switch roles?" asked LaCroix.  
        His voice was soft, containing a note of curiosity, but no hint 
of threat.  It was a reasonable voice asking what sounded to be a 
reasonable question.
        It only served to set Nick's teeth even more on edge than 
before.  "Yes," he barked.  "She must have told you that.  You 
know it."
        "Perhaps I do."  No hint at all that he'd even taken notice of 
Nick's defiant tone.  "Perhaps I know what steps you would have 
tried.  A candle at first--but too soft or brittle.  Even with the chill 
of our bodies, through friction and passion it would be . . . difficult.  
Or inconvenient should it snap at an inappropriate time."
        Nick winced, desperately wanting to sink through the floor at 
the memories LaCroix's words brought back to him.  If nothing 
else, the sense of humiliation temporarily served to ease his 
difficulty with the unrelenting plastic seat beneath him.
        "What other options could there be?"  LaCroix's voice 
hesitated, his tone holding a hint of speculation that lasted through 
the brief pause.  "Leather, of course--they knew how to work 
leather back then.  Sadly, much of that art's been lost.  It would 
have to be stiff . . . a wooden core, perhaps?"
        Closing his eyes, Nick remembered gazing up at Janette, her 
face stern.  LaCroix was right--leather had been just the thing, soft 
and pliable on the exterior.  The internal core had been hardwood 
fitted with metal rings along the length for texture.  The harness 
Janette had worn at her pubis had been a masterpiece--simple 
straps that held the thing steady, in the proper place.  She had 
frowned, raised an eyebrow in that way that LaCroix had, and 
waited expectantly.
        It had been make believe, but it had been real in its own way.  
He'd curled his lips around the tip, sucked on it, took the length 
into his mouth at times of his own volition, and at others as she 
forced it upon him.  Stiff and thick and solid and not real but real 
enough for that.  And if he missed the pulse of the veins from 
within the real thing, the heady texture and scent, that taste . . . it 
was only play, after all.  Only play.
        "But surely that wouldn't be enough?" asked LaCroix, his 
voice still soft, a vocal caress.  "Even with Janette's weight behind 
it, it wouldn't serve.  Not enough control.  There would have to be 
another option, another answer . . . ."
        One of the plastic armrests snapped and fell to the floor--
starting Nick from his memories.  He almost looked up, but caught 
himself in time.  What had seemed so pleasant the moment before 
became uncomfortable--he could feel the press of his shaft against 
the front of his trousers, could smell the ooze leaking from the tip 
that stained his briefs beneath them.  And this damnable chair!
        "What other answer could there be?" asked LaCroix.
        Nick's throat felt dry.  He turned his head, gazing at the door.  
The wooden door.  Solid, firm, dependable wood.  Salvation.
        "Perhaps a broom handle--?"
        "A shovel handle," said Nick softly, the answer drawn from 
him almost beyond his own will.
        "Really, Nicholas, you flatter me."
        There was a smile in the tone, but he was beyond that.  
Another leather covering was created, with a tip to fit the end of 
the shovel handle, locked in place with metal rings throughout so 
that it couldn't slip.  Coated with his own spit, as he worshipped it, 
Janette holding it between her legs, or with tallow or oil or 
whatever was at hand--her own juices if he'd bothered to service 
her before their play got serious.  Then she would order him onto 
all fours, head low to the ground.
        A shudder ran through him at the memory, the warm leather 
tip pressing against him.  He had not indulged in this sort of play in 
his mortal days--unthinkable for a crusading knight who had a care 
for his soul and the laws of the church.  But for the damned, or 
those near enough, yet another method of sinning, another hellish 
combination of pleasure and pain.
        And there WAS pain, each time it was tried anew.  Having 
fed, he would heal before the next day and the newly virginal flesh 
would have to be forced again, would have to be stretched and 
ripped and sundered.  In the early days between them, when 
LaCroix had first introduced him to this game and he'd not yet 
begun to strain against the fetters of his master's will that kept him 
from his freedom, the combination of dread and excitement could 
make him dizzy, faint beyond care, reckless in hunting and feeding.
        The initial push of his master against him on better nights was 
a slow, inexorable entry accentuated by pants and grunts and gasps 
from them both.  Fingers petted his sweat-slick back, his flanks, 
wrapped around his shaft and pleasured him throughout the initial 
pain of it.  He took joy from the glory of it, the newness, the 
sensation, of hearing sounds drawn from his master and knowing 
that his own body wrenched out those noises, the tightness, the 
virginity of it returning after he fed, when he healed.  It meant the 
pain, but he could endure it for the sounds, for the pleasure it gave 
his master, for the satisfaction and sigh of contentment that would 
follow the exertion and release.  To lie in LaCroix's arms and know 
that he had given that of himself . . . it was enough.
        On other nights, when things were not so well between them, 
when he would have done anything to please his master from fear 
of his anger or when he would have died rather than submit--the 
pleasure did not come so easily.  Less a sharing than a taking, a 
forceful, rapid entry that would inflame his guts with fire.  Always 
he thought to contain his screams, to show that he would not 
submit his will and more often than not they would escape him.  It 
would be over in time and only that allowed him to endure the 
angry thrusts, knowing that a sudden cessation, the shuddering 
flesh pressed against and within his own, the cold release within 
him . . . it would be done.  If there was strength enough in his limbs 
he would scurry away into the darkness, to bear his wounds in 
silence, sometimes to relieve his own unfilled tension.  If not, he 
might lie there in the darkness, spent in pain.  And sometimes 
hands would soothe and caress him--never apologize, but ease him.  
And sometimes not and he would be abandoned, left alone to 
consider and repent his disobedient folly.
        With Janette it began as the first, the easy, slow entry, the care 
and consideration, the filling of him, the release not within, but 
without.  But even that was not enough over time and he would 
find himself shouting at her, cursing her to take him harder, to put 
her weight behind it, to make her angry enough to vent her rage 
upon him . . . and still her rage, formidable as it might be, was only 
a pale shadow when compared with the one of memory.  But then, 
it had only been play, of course.
        Only play.
        Nick's breath was ragged and he knew it.  His eyes were half 
closed to hide the glint of green and gold.  He held the palms of his 
hands flat against his groin, as if entreating his shaft to behave . . . 
and yet the pressure only enflamed his desire further.
        "And when," asked LaCroix, "did you begin to forget 
Janette?"
        His master had moved closer, his breath brushing past Nick's 
ear as he spoke, as he circled--but not circling now, contenting 
himself to pace behind the chair.  Nick prayed the hand would not 
rest on his shoulder again, would not TOUCH him, for if it did . . . 
.
        He dared not to think the unthinkable.
        "That was why she left you before, wasn't it?  Your wants 
came before hers, eclipsed hers.  She ceased to be a partner to you.  
She was a tool, a surrogate.  She could give you a pretense of what 
you wanted, but only that.  What was there in it for her?  And so, 
she left you.  Now, she's left you again."
        Nick closed his eyes, wanting to cry and yet not wanting to 
show his weakness.  "I didn't mean--" he said weakly, his voice 
more air than substance.  "It was too soon.  There should have been 
more time between us, FOR us . . . ."
        "And yet you pushed the matter to the fore, again."  LaCroix 
clicked his tongue against his teeth is disapproval.  "Janette 
deserves better than that, Nicholas.  She has ALWAYS deserved 
better than that."
        Enough of the chair!  Nick rose to his feet and kicked it away.  
He turned to face LaCroix, daring to meet his master's gaze.  "She 
LEFT me!"
        "Because you did not want her.  Not as she wanted you," said 
LaCroix quickly, before he could protest.  "There were times when 
you found joy and comfort in one another, but as your own selves.  
Not through games.  Not through pretense."
        "How could SHE know what I do or don't want when--?"
        "When you, yourself, do not?"  LaCroix's lips curled into a 
faint smile.  "Because she loves you.  She knows your heart better 
than you do.  She can see what you will not admit to yourself.  She 
couldn't stay and watch you lie to yourself--if she told you, you 
would only ignore her or push her away on your own, deny the 
truth.  So . . . she left."
        His anger began to wane as LaCroix's words pierced the veil 
of desire.  He felt cold inside, hollow, knowing that he had, indeed, 
pushed Janette away.  She had left because to stay would only 
mean hurt for her, would have only caused her to hate him.
        The emotion drained from him, leaving Nick standing in the 
center of the room, fists clenched, eyes locked with LaCroix's.  
Finally, he lowered his gaze and walked over to the chair, righting 
it as a matter of course, but it came apart in his hands.  "Sorry 
about the chair--I'll have it replaced.  I'd better go."
        "Where?  To your coroner-friend?  Go to her now, Nicholas, 
and you'll tear her apart."
        LaCroix's hand dropped onto his shoulder as he straightened, 
sending a shiver through him.  His heart stilled at the touch . . . and 
yet, despite the fear, a jolt of electricity seemed to shoot directly to 
his groin.  He shivered again, but the hand did not leave his 
shoulder, fingers bearing only the faintest pressure on the sweat-
drenched shirt plastered to his undershirt and back.
        His throat seemed too dry and hot to speak, but he forced out 
the words.  "I have to go."
        "And I asked you, where?"  The hand turned him to face 
LaCroix, but he wouldn't look up.  "I doubt you'll find the relief 
you seek on your own--it may satisfy you for the moment, perhaps, 
but it will only delay the inevitable.  Go out there--" LaCroix's 
hand raised, pointing to the door, "and you'll only add to your 
troubles.  Find a nameless mortal soul on which to expend your 
desires.  It may work . . . but you'll kill them and that will lead to 
other things.  Find a vampire willing to share your bed and you 
won't kill them, but you're not in any position to behave in such a 
cavalier fashion, are you, Nicholas?  You're in no condition to 
control your blood-memories, your mind lies too close to the 
surface.  A police detective would be subject to blackmail on 
mortal terms and there are always the Enforcers with which to 
contend."
        With all of this blunt news, his erection should be softening, 
but the thought of danger, of mortal peril, seemed to merely 
increase the desire within him.  LaCroix was right--he could find 
his release elsewhere.  Better to go home and satisfy himself as 
best he could.  He could live with the frustration.  He was used to it 
by now.  It was better than staying.  He couldn't stay.
        Could he?
        The hand returned, touched his chin, raised his head so that 
his gaze met that of his master.   "I ask you again, Nicholas," said 
LaCroix softly.  "What do you want of me?  You need only ask."
        Nick felt his lips curl into a sharp smile.  "And let YOU 
blackmail me?  Terms to be set later?"
        "No.  No conditions."  LaCroix's eyes were clear, his lips 
drawn into a line that neither approved nor disapproved.  "You 
want this.  You need this.  All you need to do is ask."
        The smile faded as he realized that LaCroix was being honest 
with him--this wouldn't be used against him later.  No strings, no 
debts, no loose ends.  Much as he sought any hint of dissembling, 
any sign of a hidden agenda, he found nothing . . . nothing but a 
willingness to do as he asked.
        It frightened him, to realize that.  Some part of his weariness, 
his annoyance, faded.  And still . . . .  "Just this time?  It won't be 
mentioned again?  I'm not giving up.  I'm not going to be the 
vampire you want me to be.  Not for this."
        He wasn't certain what he expected to see in those ancient 
gray eyes--anger, perhaps?  It did not appear.  Nor was there 
sympathy.      
        There WAS a faint, bitter smile.  "I learned long ago that I 
could not force you to my will through this--to my cost.  It's what's 
brought you to this point.  This time or any other time, you need 
only ask, Nicholas."
        It should have been the easiest part of it, the asking.  A single 
word.  To have to ask at all was galling.  And yet it would be easier 
than having to live with the guilt of a mortal death, the possibility 
of some vampire using what he gained to destroy his mortal or 
immortal existence, or even the day-to-day frustration that had 
been building within him since Janette's departure.
        "Please?" asked Nick, his voice barely audible.
        The word was not so difficult as all that.  There was a pause 
and he wondered if LaCroix would make him spell out what he 
needed, what he wanted, syllable after syllable, to discomfort him, 
to make him pay for this.
        Instead, LaCroix placed a hand on his shoulder and drew him 
into his arms, embracing him.  It was odd, after so long, and yet 
comforting.  Nick felt his throat tighten when those arms encircled 
him.  He thought might place his head on LaCroix's shoulder and 
cry.  But as their groins rubbed together, even separated by layers 
of clothing, desire flared within him again.  His breath escaped in a 
rush of air that became a groan.
        LaCroix's hands rose to his shoulders, pushing him back a 
step.  When Nick swallowed, worried that NOW he would be 
rejected, LaCroix touched a finger to Nick's lips, then gestured 
toward the door that led to his chambers.  Relief at not having been 
turned away almost made his knees weak, but Nick followed 
LaCroix's lead.  He crossed the room, entering as LaCroix held the 
door open, then paused.
        He'd been here often enough when Janette had owned the 
club, but not since LaCroix had taken over.  This room, like the 
rest of the club, had not escaped his master's personal attention.  
The collection of furniture was eclectic--ranging from post-modern 
futuristic pieces of soaring chrome to stolid antiques of dark maple.  
The bed was large, square rather than rectangular, and was covered 
with a number of blankets and cushions which gave the appearance 
of casual, artful arrangements.  The headboard was a combination 
of sleek black and chrome, matching the end of the bed and 
seemed to be bolted into the wall.
        "Does everything meet with your approval?" asked LaCroix.
        Nick noted the closing of the door--a soft thump without any 
click of a lock.  He offered a shy smile to LaCroix, letting him 
know that he appreciated the gesture.  How odd to take LaCroix on 
his word for anything!
        "It's not my taste, but it suits you."
        "Thank you."  LaCroix walked to an alcove beside the door 
and opened a chrome-gridded door to a cabinet.  He withdrew a 
bottle, then paused for a moment as he selected a second.  "Do we 
have time for the niceties, do you think?"  He placed the bottles on 
the cabinet ledge as he reached for two wine glasses, then glanced 
over at Nick, a long, slow, appraising glance that moved from head 
to toe and back again, pausing each time in a significant place.  
"No.  I think not," he decided, abandoning the glasses and grasping 
the bottles instead.
        Still shivering from the glance, Nick took the bottle offered to 
him, pulled out the cork with dread, but then realized the scent was 
bovine, rather than human.   He raised the bottle toward LaCroix as 
if in a toast, then tilted it back and began to drink.  He hadn't 
realized his hands were shaking until he'd finished the second 
swallow . . . they'd become steadier.  The blood flowed through 
him like a tonic.  As he'd anticipated, it only worsened the pressure 
at his groin.
        "Shall we?" asked LaCroix, setting his own bottle back on the 
cabinet ledge.
        Nick turned and placed his bottle atop what looked to be a 
Georgian end table--better not to get the bottles mixed up.  He took 
his time, still wondering how long this would be allowed to go on 
before LaCroix put a stop to it.  Any relief, at this point, would be a 
blessing.
        When he'd turned back, he found LaCroix had pulled a sturdy, 
high-backed wooden chair from the wall.  "I might as well make 
myself comfortable," said LaCroix, in answer to his curious glance.  
Then he raised an eyebrow and pointed to the floor in front of 
himself.
        Nick's heart thumped once in his chest.  On his way across the 
room, he slipped off his shoes.  The carpeting was thick, deep, soft 
beneath his feet.  Once he reached LaCroix, he dropped to his 
knees.
        LaCroix's hand reached over to cup his chin, turning his gaze 
upward.  "Is this what you want from me, Nicholas?"
        "Yes," he whispered, feeling another shiver run through him.
        "As long as we are agreed."  Then LaCroix folded his arms 
across his chest.
        The socks and shoes were first.  Nick's fingers fumbled with 
the reptile skin belt and the buckle--the fact that his senses were 
heightened by the strength of his lust did little to help.  The cold, 
smooth metal of the buckle, the texture of the hide . . . he might 
have come right there if he'd not been able to summon some 
restraint from within.  Once the belt was undone, then the trousers 
followed, revealing LaCroix's pale, slim legs.  His briefs were 
black, of course, and Nick was careful as he slid them down over 
the, by now, semi-hard cock.
        He was startled, for as he reached for LaCroix, his master 
seated himself in the large chair.  Nick watched as his master 
casually slung each of his legs over the curved and padded arms of 
the chair, leaving his groin and testicles in full view and easily 
accessible.  Nick hesitated, proceeding only when LaCroix raised 
his eyebrow, as if questioning his diligence.
        How long had it been since he had served his master in this 
fashion?  And how long before that was there not fear or force 
included in the mix?  To do so now, of his own will, to satisfy his 
own wants, seemed the height of lunacy and yet here he was.  How 
odd to heft the weight and length of LaCroix's cock in his hands, to 
reach beneath and cup the testicles, to plant the faintest of kisses 
upon the sheath . . . and yet here they both were.
        Taking the tip into his mouth, he rolled the foreskin back with 
his tongue.  Holding it lightly between his tongue and his front 
teeth, he sealed his lips around it.  Creating a small vacuum, Nick 
breathed through his mouth, a faint breath of air running along the 
head and upper shaft.  It was a trick that had never failed to please 
in the past and, from the shudder that he felt rumble through 
LaCroix's body, was still viable.  A whisper, a breath, then a 
plunge down the length of the shaft.  Relaxing the muscles at the 
back of his jaw, he took the length of the cock within his mouth, 
sucking on the way in and on the way out again.  His left hand 
guided the cock while his right explored the testicles, stroking, 
lightly scratching, measuring, cupping and squeezing them.
        When Nick looked up, he saw that LaCroix's eyes were 
closed, his face lifted as if he were catching the rays of the sun.  In 
the faint light he seemed so pale and unmoving as to be a statue . . . 
. until he opened his eyes and glared down at Nick for having 
paused in his work.
        He grinned, shrugged in apology and set to his task again, 
LaCroix's shaft growing thicker and firmer with his attentions.  He 
abandoned it only for a moment, leaning forward to tongue the 
testicles and suck them into his mouth once or twice before 
returning to the cock.  The head had grown purple by this time, the 
veins along the width more prominent.  There was life here, some 
faint warmth and an earthy scent of arousal that could not hide the 
blood that coursed beneath the flesh.  Again, it was a matter of will 
not to sink his fangs into flesh, before the thing was well and truly 
done.  To distract himself, he lavished more attention on the shaft 
that he might have and it was not long before he felt LaCroix's 
hand drop to his hair, grasping it to get his attention.
        Nick released the cock from his mouth, slid his hand around 
the length of it forcefully, and was rewarded when LaCroix 
reached with his other hand and removed Nick's grip from his 
shaft.  LaCroix's eyes were gold and green, deep and hungry.  As 
Nick scooted back, he swung his legs down from either of the 
armrests, his cock bouncing up against his flat stomach, stiff and 
proud.  LaCroix rose to his feet and stared down at Nick, his hand 
moving to his cock, cupping it, as if presenting it for Nick's 
inspection.
        His voice was a hoarse, harsh whisper.  "Is THIS what you 
want from me, Nicholas?"
        Nick felt his sphincter tighten, the sight of the cock before 
him and the sound of his master's voice making his own cock strain 
painfully against his trousers.  "Yes," he said.  "Oh . . . yes."
        "Then prepare yourself for me."
        He was uncertain in that moment, for there was no indication 
from LaCroix as to his intent.  The vampire was aroused--he saw 
the tips of LaCroix's fangs when he'd spoken, but there was nothing 
to indicate whether this encounter would be slow and seductive or 
harsh and punishing.  Nick opened his mouth to ask, then licked 
his lips . . . if faced with a choice, he would be stymied.  Better to 
let LaCroix make the decision for them both.
        He'd paused too long--LaCroix stared down at him, an 
eyebrow raised.  "Nicholas?"
        The thought of being denied or rejected spurred him into 
action.  He stripped off his shirt without thinking, then struggled 
with his own belt.  His trousers unzipped and he scooted them 
down his legs, his socks going with them.  Only his briefs 
remained and he was more careful with those, his erection straining 
against them.  When they were removed, he groaned at the 
freedom, his solid shaft moving as if it were glad to be free of the 
enforced confinement.  He was about to turn onto all fours when he 
felt LaCroix's hand slap lightly against his flank.
        His heart moved into his throat--NOW would he be turned 
away?  But as he settled onto the carpet on his bare ass, he saw 
LaCroix flip over the heavy wooden chair.  Then LaCroix stepped 
forward and offered him a hand up.
        Nick took the offered hand and was pulled to his feet.  
Confused, he allowed LaCroix to position him between the rear 
legs of the over-turned chair.  LaCroix pushed lightly on his back 
and he was eased face down against a cushion that padded the 
wood.  He almost bolted when he felt LaCroix's fingers touch his 
cock and balls, but the pressure of LaCroix's hand on his back 
stilled him.  His cock and balls had been slipped through a padded 
opening in the wood and he felt a soft strap pull tightly around 
them from the other side--the pressure was almost unbearable 
against his swollen cock.
        There were hand grips at the sides of the chair--he found them 
easily.  Nick found his feet being  eased into padded slots as well.  
He took a deep breath and allowed himself to relax.  Turning his 
head sideways, he watched LaCroix remove his own shirt.
        Seeing his interest, LaCroix walked over to him and leaned 
forward, a hand lightly massaging Nick's right buttock.  
"Comfortable?"
        After a moment's hesitation, Nick was able to nod, realizing 
that he was, actually, quite comfortable.  Not that he trusted his 
voice to exit as anything but a squeak.
        "Good.  I'd purchased this some time ago in hopes that you'd 
come to your senses, eventually.  Now, relax."
        LaCroix disappeared from view.  Nick took slow, even 
breaths and gazed at the picture on the wall to his right--it was a 
Mondrian in black, white, and red.  He'd never seen it before.  It 
fact, he was pretty certain the art world was equally ignorant of its 
existence.
        He shivered when he felt LaCroix's hand massaging his 
buttocks and the muscles of his lower back.  "Relax," whispered 
LaCroix's voice.  "Relax, my Nicholas.  You know this well.  The 
pain is brief.  Very brief." 
        He tensed at the first sign of pressure against his sphincter, 
then recognized the intruder for what it was--a spit-moistened 
finger.  It caressed him, easing its way in and out until the muscles 
were stretched and relaxed enough for there to be no real 
opposition.  A second finger entered beside the first.  Nick gripped 
the padded holds of the overturned chair and began to fidget.  The 
third finger was maddening--until the trio slipped against his 
prostate.  
        His spine stiffened at the jolt that shot through him--blood or 
no blood, he would have found his release right then and there if 
his shaft had not been confined by the strap on the other side of the 
chair.  His fingers scrabbled at the wooded sides of the chair in an 
effort to free it, but the opening was too far down--he couldn't 
reach.  Distantly, he realized that he'd begun to whimper in 
frustration and was ashamed for it.
        "Sssh!" said LaCroix, those skilled hands stroking his back 
and thighs again . . . even reaching below to pet his swollen shaft.  
"It's all right, Nicholas.  We're ready now.  Relax.  Relax."
        The pressure this time was no simple finger.  The muscles 
protested at first, a searing pain rushing through him.  It faded as 
the shaft began a long, slow progress through him.  Inch by inch it 
seemed to fill him.  At some point he fell forward onto the 
padding, panting, and yet still it entered him.  Seconds dragged on . 
. . and then he knew that LaCroix had entered him as fully as he 
could, feeling the tickle of pubic hair and the slap of testicles 
against his own flesh.
        The feeling was . . . beyond definition.  He wanted to cry and 
shout with joy, but contented himself with a sigh and a groan.  The 
outward motion was just as slow and stirred up the pain of the 
stretched sphincter and bowls again, but there was also a soft and 
steady pleasure in the movement that drowned out the sullen pain.  
As LaCroix pulled out he tried to follow and found that he 
couldn't--his position in the chair, particularly his cock and balls 
imprisoned through the hole, prevented him from moving or 
participating in any way.
        By the time he had discovered this, LaCroix was pushing into 
him again, slowly and steadily.  Closing his eyes, he contented 
himself with enjoying the feeling of it, then the slow abandonment 
of LaCroix's shaft that left him feeling empty.  The slow pace was 
luxurious and maddening--he groaned in frustration.  Elation 
would soon follow as LaCroix made an effort to press along his 
prostate, which would send jolts through his limbs and leave him 
exhausted, seeing stars.
        LaCroix picked up his pace.  Nick heard him muttering 
soothing sounds--they had no meaning but washed over him, 
relaxing him even as his body continued to tense.  He could feel 
LaCroix quickening, the thread that bound them through blood 
singing with impending release and he felt a surge of dread.  
Would LaCroix leave him tied and unable to find his own release?  
Would LaCroix not allow his bite?
        There were things happening that he did not understand--a 
hand around his genitals, then sudden freedom for them.  LaCroix's 
weight was on Nick's back as he began to move sharply and deeply 
inside him.  LaCroix's wrist was before his mouth . . . .
        The call of the blood was too strong to resist.  Through a red-
gold haze, Nick grabbed the offered wrist and bit, then howled into 
the flesh, blood running into his mouth.  He felt his cock surge 
with fire, then begin to spurt.  Within him, he felt LaCroix also 
achieve his release at the moment fangs sunk into his shoulder.
        And then . . . bliss.  The ecstasy of blood and flesh, mingled 
together in such a way that there was a sensation of floating, of 
being suspended in utter nirvana.  There was no sound or shape to 
this paradise, just a feeling of contentment, of satiation, of well-
being.
        A whisper slipped over his senses . . . "Is this what you 
wanted, Nicholas?"
        "Yes," he answered, not knowing whether he spoke in his 
voice or his mind or through the thread that bound them through 
the blood.  "Oh . . . yes.  That's EXACTLY what I wanted."

*****

        It had been far too long for Nicholas--that he had collapsed 
like a ragdoll when it was over and fell almost immediately into a 
deep sleep only confirmed his suspicion.  LaCroix had thrown on 
his robe, lifted Nicholas from the chair and into the bed, sponged 
off his weary protégé and tucked him in.
        There were general chores to be cared for--straightening the 
chair and placing it aside, cleaning the rug when Nicholas had 
enthusiastically spilled his seed, seeming to have opted for distance 
AND accuracy.  Only after these were done and LaCroix had 
showered did he return to the bed chamber.  He poured the blood 
wine into a glass and stood across the room, watching Nicholas as 
he slept.  For a moment, he toyed with the idea of calling Dr. 
Lambert or Nicholas' partner, Tracy, to ask either one to drop by 
and pick up their sleepy comrade who had 'over-indulged,' but 
decided that the brief moment of discomfiture wouldn't be worth 
the cost.
        This was worth far more.  To stand here and know that 
Nicholas had come to him of his own will, had ASKED, and had 
found release in the asking . . . there was little worth the success of 
this moment.  How was he to guess that Janette's departure at this 
juncture in their lives would have led to this, when it had so 
disturbed him at the time.
        He sipped at his wine and watched Nicholas, thinking back of 
the evening Janette had left.  Yes, she'd blamed Nicholas' quest for 
mortality and how it had infected her, but he had sensed that there 
was more to it.  He had not guessed it all at the time.  He had 
thought that he alone had chosen to use Janette as a surrogate, that 
she would pretend to be Nicholas, as she had in the past, so that he 
might find his own release.  And now to discover that Nicholas had 
used her the same way?  How alone she must have felt!  It was a 
wonder that she had not left them sooner.  It could only be because 
she had loved each of them, was bound to each of them so tightly 
that she could not see them hurt.
        When she returned--because she would, she always did--it 
would be different.  Nicholas' guilt was often inconvenient, but this 
time LaCroix knew that he could use it to mask his own culpability 
in their little drama.  If he suggested that they should both worship 
at Janette's alter, give her the time and attention and satisfaction 
that she deserved, Nicholas would no doubt leap at the chance . . . 
and over-compensate, as was his way.  But he did not think that 
Janette would mind.
        Finishing the glass of wine, he set it and the bottle aside, then 
changed.  It was near dawn and better that he find other 
accommodations for the day--if Nicholas was to feel free enough to 
return to him when he was wanted, it would be better to give him 
the room he seemed to require.  There was be no hint of blackmail, 
or pressure, or debt.  He did not plan on driving his son away for 
the sake of petty amusement . . . not this time.
        And yet, as LaCroix paused at the bedchamber door and 
looked back at the sleeping Nicholas, he could not help but smile.  
Perhaps a note.  He'd let Janette off the hook for what he'd 
surmised, what he'd intimated that he'd told her, when in truth she'd 
never told him anything of the sort.  Just to save Janette that 
awkwardness when next she and Nicholas encountered one 
another.  
        As for himself, a day alone in one of his other safe places 
would not be too much amiss.  He had a lot of thinking to do and 
having Nicholas' blood so fresh with memories of Janette, he'd be a 
fool not to take advantage of the information.  Who know how 
much time he had in which to prepare?
        She might not enter their lives again for a month or a year or a 
decade, but when Janette returned, LaCroix would make sure that 
he knew exactly what SHE wanted.

*******

Comments always gratefully accepted.
With flowers - Ophelia5@aol.com