Fandom/Genre: Due South, PWP
Pairing/Rating: Fraser/omc, no pants
Warning: Mild kink
Notes: For the porn battle.Â Someday there may be a much longer, plottier version of this story.
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The Barber of Moose Jaw
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On my first day assigned to the RCMP substation in the Fleet district, southwest of Caribou and Main, I passed by a barber shop from which I saw a constable emerge in conversation with a steel-haired gentleman. A barber, I thought, his profession evidenced by his white apron. “Good morning,” I greeted, and though he answered I didn’t hear it, so startled I was by the directness of his gaze.
I soon learned that Mr. James had been a constable in his youth. My direct superior patronized his establishment, as did several other officers. In my eagerness to fit in, I went for a shave the next morning.
Small talk passed over me as I stretched back in the chair– Gretsky’s new record, and the young lady in Records who had cast her eyes upon the Sergeant, and the rumor that a series of murders in the Fleet district might have some connection. Some of it, at least, should have held my interest, yet I failed to add my voice to the convivial exchanges of my fellow officers. From the moment that Mr. James laid the razor against my throat, my mouth went dry. I felt heat rush to my face and an alarming arrhythmia in my thorax. Tachycardia? Influenza? Did I need a doctor? Strangely, I breathed no word of my dilemma, turning my head meekly as Mr. James shaved one side of my face and then the other. I trembled, remembering how he had looked me in the eye, and focused my gaze on his hands, his strong shoulders.
I came back every day for a week. On Friday evening I saw Mr. James on the other side of an Italian restaurant, Figaro’s, dining with a man. Saturday morning, I thought he seemed different, voluble, perhaps nervous.
On Sunday morning, his hand slipped. Afterward, during church services, I caught myself brushing my fingers against my jaw where his fingers had touched for that brief moment. Over supper I was still remembering it.
I went back to the shop after nightfall.
I meant to– confront him, or to confess, I didn’t know. I couldn’t even put words to what was happening as he led me to sit in the chair, only night and Mr. James and straight razor.
I closed my eyes, smelling the shaving cream on my cheeks, tobacco on his breath as he lifted the razor along the underside of my chin. I felt myself straining to rise in the chair in obedience to that delicate, dangerous pressure, though his hands were steady, steady… I opened my eyes and felt my breath escape. His eyes appeared unusually large. Shadowed. With a last scrape he drew the razor away, rinsing it in the tumbler.
I shook my head. Was he moving slowly, or were my perceptions growing distorted? I ran my tongue along the inside of my lower lip. Mr. James stopped moving. He looked away from me, reaching again, this time to bring a towel to my face and pat my cheeks.
My eyes closed, opened, closed– soft, unsteady breath– open mouth and open eyes and turning my face to press lightly into the towel. “Oh Lord,” he said, and I blinked at him desperately. His mouth seemed rather close.
He brought the razor up, but I couldn’t hold still. I slid my hand up my own thigh and pressed, ball of thumb where I ached the most. I tried to explain. “Please,” I said. “Please.”
He shuttered the windows. “Do it,” he whispered.
I loosened my Sam Browne, fumbled open a few buttons on my tunic, unfastened my uniform pants– when I finally gripped myself, I felt a rush of gratitude for his permission. He didn’t tell me to let my trousers down so that he could see, but as I caressed myself the tip of my penis peeked out. I looked up at him, licking my lip.
He leaned against the chair. I felt my hair brush his torso. Flash of razor– I noticed that his hands had begun to tremble. I stretched my neck and ran my tongue along the dull edge of the blade.
He used strong language.
I heard something clatter on the floor. His mouth pressed against mine, hard tongue invading. Another hand joined mine on my erection. Then I rose, pressing my body to his and backing him up a step or two before he pressed both palms down on my shoulders.
I sank to the floor, looking up. “What do you… what do you want?”
Mr. James wiped a smear of shaving cream off my jaw. “Open your mouth.”
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All feedback welcomed with a glad cry.