kindkit: Two naked men having sex in the grass (Fandomless: Men in a field)
[personal profile] kindkit
My third [community profile] kink_bingo fic.

Title: Damned, Elusive
Fandom: Colditz
Pairing: Palmer/OMC
Rating: Mature
Kink: Anonymity
Word count: 975
Content notes: No standard notes apply.
Summary: Palmer meets a man. Twice.
Author's notes: This is set in the late 1930s. You don't need to have seen Colditz; Palmer is a character who only appears in one episode, and you can learn a little more about him (and see a screencap) here if you're curious.

The most loathsome part of speech day, apart from the speeches, is meeting parents. If Orringham were a better or at least more established school, it would be merely dull. But these boys' fathers went to grammar school, if they went to school at all. They and their wives are uncertain how to strike the right tone. They ask implicitly for reassurance, or boast about their sons, or fall silent, and in any case stand like half-unwelcome visitors on what they imagine to be the doorstep of the ruling class.

"And this," the Headmaster is saying to yet another couple with the nervous gleam of new money shining from her jewellery and his shoes, "is our English master, Mr. Palmer."

An automatic How do you do? catches in Palmer's throat when at last he properly looks at them. When he looks at the man, the father of a boy Palmer teaches. The man has turned ghastly pale under his well-oiled brown curls.

Palmer remembers the feel of those curls between his clenching fingers.


The usual sulphurous reek of piss and damp, and a tall man dawdling at the urinal with his prick out. Palmer looks first at the prick (clean-looking, no hint of chancres, soft but a little plump with excitement) and then at the rest of him (well-built, fortyish, strong masculine face, an expression of eager uncertainty).

"Come on," Palmer says. The man follows him into a cubicle and presses his hot, juniper-tasting mouth to Palmer's. "No, don't kiss me, just - " He takes the prick into his hand and feels it stiffen. Desperate for it, Palmer thinks. He doesn't do this often. The man tugs at Palmer's flies with a haste that's half lust and half fear, and reaches inside, stroking.

After a minute they're both hard, their breathing loud as they lean together. Taking a chance, Palmer says, "Suck me." The man hesitates but then crouches, careful of his good suit in this filthy place, letting Palmer steady him with a hand on his shoulder. Without preliminaries he takes Palmer's prick into his wet mouth. It's clumsy--the man can't decide what to do with his tongue, and saliva runs down into Palmer's pubic hair--but it's still a tight soft heat, and the man doesn't pull away when Palmer holds his head and sets the rhythm himself.

Soon he's close, tempted for a few strokes to come off in the man's mouth and see how he reacts. But if Palmer's is really the first prick he's ever sucked, that might put him off doing it again, which would be a shame. Willing mouths aren't as easy to find as willing arses. Palmer draws his hips back and tilts the man's face up to look at him. "Do you want to fuck me?"

"Christ." It's the first thing the man's said. He's got a deep voice and a hint of West Country, overlaid with middle-class aspirations, in his accent. "Christ, yes."

Palmer turns for him, finishes unbuttoning, and hears a faint wet slurp as the man slicks himself. Heat settles against his backside, and his buttocks are parted. "You ready?" the man asks.


With a low anticipatory moan, the man slides into him, strongly but not too forcefully, not too fast. This, he's done before. He fucks steadily in deep rolling thrusts that soon have Palmer biting his own forearm to keep quiet. Then the man tenses, speeds up, one arm circling Palmer's hip and working his prick, sending him quickly to the edge and over into the brief ecstasy of orgasm. The man keeps thrusting, pushing towards his own satisfaction, and it's just turning uncomfortable for Palmer when the rhythm breaks into sharp jerks, the man groans, and it's over.

"That was good," Palmer says as they're doing up their trousers. Stupid thing to say--his semen's dripping down the cubicle wall, of course it was good--but something in the man's red face and the boyish fall of sweaty hair over his eyes makes Palmer want to praise him. The man smiles, his mouth opens, but before he can speak, Palmer leaves the cubicle. There's another man at the urinal now, prick half-erect and fingers twitching around his flies, who gives Palmer a furtive, envious look as Palmer walks to the door.


The man's face has turned from pale to red, as red as it was then, and his eyes--dark, Palmer notices with the odd acuity of fear, and long-lashed--are wide with panic. Luckily, his pretty wife is being flirted with by the headmaster and doesn't notice.

"How do you do?" Palmer manages at last. His voice has somehow found a good approximation of neutral everyday politeness, of normality. All the experience of a lifetime's concealment goes into it, and his terror sluices off of him in a shivery rush. What has he got to fear from this man, with no less to lose than himself? We're all as afraid of each other as we are of the police, he thinks. It's damn stupid.

He holds out his hand and watches the man gather himself together enough to shake it. He's even better looking by daylight. I wonder if he'd meet me in the changing rooms for ten minutes? Palmer laughs aloud at the idea. He's giddy at having got away with something, with everything, with having had this man and so many others all in secret, in defiance, like a queer Scarlet Pimpernel. He's an outlaw with a harmless face, a wolf in schoolmaster's clothing.

The headmaster must have made one of his dreadful gallant quips, because the wife suddenly laughs too, and then they're all four laughing. But only Palmer sees the joke written into the fabric of the world. Some part of him, he knows, will never stop laughing at it.


kindkit: A late-Victorian futuristic zeppelin. (Default)

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