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“Constable Turnbull?!”
Turnbull snapped out of his reverie and stood up from his desk at attention. “Yes, sir!”
“Please,
Constable, attempt to
focus.”
“Of course, sir,” he said. He really did try to concentrate on Inspector Thatcher’s voice as she listed his duties for the day. Unfortunately, he only made it to list item number three – polish the floor in the entry hall – before he was back in his daydream again.
This time, he was down on all fours, sniffing Constable Fraser’s leather boots. Fraser’s hand was on the back of his neck, stroking, petting him like a cherished animal. He dared to look up briefly, drinking in the sight of the bare-chested man holding the leather riding crop, who gazed down in surprise. ‘Ooh, you shouldn’t have done that, Renfield,’ Fraser said in a deep husky voice. ‘You know you can’t look at me until we’re done.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Turnbull said against Fraser’s boot, trying to stifle the grin. If he laughed, Fraser would just punish him harder later. Maybe it would be worth it, though, if Fraser would use that flogger. The black one with all the --
“Turnbull! Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, sir! Clean the washroom and the kitchen; polish the floor in the entry hall; write the Director of Trade and Commerce a thank you note; organize the Garrett files; and make your lunch: two slices of cantaloupe and a Caesar salad. Sir!”
Thatcher looked at him with suspicion. “Fine, Turnbull. I shall return in ninety minutes.”
“Very good, sir.” Thatcher turned on her heel and marched out. As the front door clicked shut, Turnbull relaxed, then collapsed into his desk chair.
Turnbull couldn’t believe himself today. He needed to get these thoughts out of his head, or he’d be in serious trouble when Thatcher returned. He sighed and stood up, retrieved his cleaning supplies from the closet, and set to work.
He was down on his knees, engrossed in shining the entry hall floor – and fantasizing about being strapped to his desk being vigorously flogged by Fraser – when the front door opened and Constable Fraser entered, followed by his partner, Detective Vecchio. Turnbull felt his face burn bright red as he scrambled to stand at attention, but Fraser hardly noticed. With a curt nod in his general direction and a clipped, “Constable,” Fraser walked past him; Ray didn’t even acknowledge his presence. They continued into Fraser’s office, speaking intently about a case they were working on, and shut the door.
Relaxing again with a heavy sigh, Turnbull returned to his floor-polishing. He could still feel the heat in his face, and in his mind that turned into the heat of arousal, because now that Fraser was done punishing him, he was caressing Turnbull’s body. They were both sweaty and red-faced, and Fraser was kissing each and every one of the marks he had made on Turnbull’s skin. Turnbull loved this time after, when Fraser was his most caring and attentive, when the intensity had passed and they were just there, present, together in each other’s arms. And then Fraser kissed him, a deep, soul-searching kiss, testing him, to see how he was, making sure he was still okay. Turnbull felt his manhood respond, savoring the feeling of Fraser’s weight on him as he unstrapped Turnbull’s wrists. And then Fraser stretched fully on top of him, moving in such a way as to create a delicious pressure against Turnbull’s groin --
“Yo, Turnbull!”
Ray was standing over him, looking at him curiously. Turnbull got rapidly to his feet and looked into the man’s puzzled face. “Yes, sir?”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes indeed, Detective. Why do you ask?”
“Well, for one thing, I’ve been calling you for five minutes.”
“Uh--”
“And for another, you’ve been polishing that same spot on the floor since we came in.”
“Oh. Um, I was just...thinking about something else.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Hey listen, can you pull that Thompson file? Fraser thinks there might be a connection to this unsolved case I’m working on.”
“Certainly. Right now?”
Ray laughed. “Well, yeah, or as soon as you’re done polishing a hole in the floor.”
“Of course. I’ll be right there, sir.”
Ray turned and walked down the hallway and into Fraser’s office, as Turnbull went into the file room and began the search, trying to still his rapid heartbeat. He searched through boxes and filing cabinets with shaking hands, not daring to even think of his superior, lest his mind wander dangerously again. At last Turnbull located the folder and pulled it from the drawer, when he heard a low voice from the doorway: ‘You know, I did notice you, Rennie.’
Turnbull stiffened. He heard the man move closer, and the voice was directly behind his ear. ‘How could I not? You down there on all fours...now that’s something you notice.’ A hand reached out and touched his shoulder, caressing gently. The man knelt down behind Turnbull, running the hand down his back and sending shivers down his spine. Strong hands grasped his hips and spun him around. Turnbull smiled as he looked down at Ray’s upturned face, and reached out to caress his cheek. Oh, the sight of Ray kneeling before him - Ray’s blue eyes looking up at him with adoration, and his spiky hair that would be wonderful to grab onto in the throes of passion, and his stubbly cheeks that would create a delightful friction on bare skin. Turnbull rejoiced inwardly. *He noticed me! I knew it.*
‘Just tell me what to do, Rennie,’ Ray whispered.
Turnbull was silent for a long moment, his heart caught in his throat. Then a slow smile spread across his face. He found his voice and said, ‘I want you to lick my boot, Ray.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Ray grinned, and immediately bent down to comply. Turnbull closed his eyes and tilted his head back, feeling a huge surge of power as the man obeyed his order --
“Today, Turnbull?!” came Ray’s exasperated voice from the hall.
“Yes, sir,” Turnbull mumbled, and shook his head to clear it. He grabbed the Thompson file and closed the drawer, smoothing his hair and taking a deep breath, before following Ray back to Fraser’s office.
THE
END
Yes,
Sir Notes