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Riding the Edge
by shalott

Salazar liked knives. About a hundred of them on his walls, mounted on plaques, hanging in sheaths; long and narrow, wide with swooping useless curves, some long enough to be called swords.

The desk didn't match. Small, delicate, 17th century French. Pristine, it'd cost Salazar about $150 K of hard-earned drug money. Now no dealer would have given more than $10 K for it. You could look at that desk and read every major move in his life in the last ten years. The gouges where he got angry, the spirals he cut during big planning sessions, the long shallow slashes where he'd gotten distracted and dropped the knife he was flipping.

The dark splotch where he'd pinned Jorge Manseda's head to the desk with a twelve-inch custom job from Spain made out of high-carbon steel folded ten times, like a Japanese blade.

Jack had seen that one, held it actually. Salazar showed it off a lot. Today, though, he was playing with a curved antique dagger. Persian, he'd said. Jack was more concerned about where it was, since he couldn't see it while he was spread out over the desk. His hands were cuffed to the front drawers, and his ankles to the back legs. His back was hurting like a motherfucker and they'd only locked him up five minutes ago.

"I'm glad we're here together now, Jack," Salazar said. "Ever since we met over that business in Panama City, I said to myself, here's a good man, a man whose loyalty would be worth having. A man who doesn't fear death, a man with intelligence."

"Yeah, flattering as that is, Ramon, you think we could get on with this?" The sweat felt cold on his forehead. It was going to start rolling into his eyes in a minute. He'd done a lot of crazy things in his life. At least one of them had to be crazier than this.

"It's harder than you expected, isn't it?" Salazar kept walking around behind him. Jack counted his footsteps and turns to distract himself. "That's the key, you understand? Not knowing when or where or what will come, that's what breaks a man. And I have to break you before I can really trust you, Jack."

God, this was fucking stupid, handing himself over for this. Game plan the only thing keeping him from jerking on the cuffs. The trick was all in when to fake the break. Long enough to impress, short enough to give him some leeway if Salazar decided to keep going. Jack had enough intel on the process to know Salazar didn't maim his people in this little ritual, but he also didn't mind doing some long-term damage. Spending six weeks in bed healing up wasn't on Jack's agenda.

The first cut made him jump. Just a scratch, low on the thigh. He didn't even twitch at the second one, another shallow cut along the right buttock. The trickle of blood itched, worse than the pain. Salazar rubbed his hand over the cuts, smearing the blood and making them sting.

The next slice ran along his ribcage, still barely deeper than a paper cut. A quick jab right after, a hot painful stab in the meat of the left thigh. "Fuck," he said, letting some anger and bravado into it. "If you still want me carrying the shipment to Sandoval next week, you better fucking make sure I can walk."

"Ah, you're right, I'm wasting time." Salazar came around the desk and crouched down, facing Jack. "I already know pain isn't going to break you."

And that was the last thing he'd been expecting to hear. Someone back at central hadn't done their fucking homework, and if he made it out of this alive he'd kick their asses to hell for it.

Salazar smiled at his expression. "Yes, you see, I understand you, Jack. I'd have to do too much damage. You wouldn't be much use after." He stroked a line down the side of Jack's face with the tip of the knife, so lightly it didn't even break the skin. "I know, you were planning to fake it," he said. "But that's no good here, Jack. I need to bust you wide open." He put the knife down and took Jack's face in both hands. "I need you to be helpless before me," he said, still in that too-gentle tone. "And if I can't get you there, you're going to die here, Jack. And neither of us wants that."

He was breathing too fast, and he knew it. Pulse going up, vision going blurry, fight-or-flight and he couldn't do either. Give him something to smash down, he told himself. Say something. Say something now, you fucking moron. "Take your best shot, you son of a bitch," he said. He sounded hoarse to his own ears.

It was good enough. Salazar patted his face again and stood up. He walked back around. Drawers sliding, glass clattering, the strike of a match. Cannabis by the smell, with cinnamon and vanilla thrown in, like a stoner baking apple pie. Smoke not thick enough to get high on, not yet anyway.

He jerked when the oil hit his back right between the shoulders, expecting pain. But it wasn't actually scalding, just hot enough so he noticed it sliding everywhere, dripping off his sides, along his spine, over his ass and down his thighs. Salazar's hands set down right in the small of his back and pressed in hard. The hard knot in his lower back loosened as Salazar started working him over, slow circular strokes. The relief was so intense it was almost erotic.

It was pretty obvious where Salazar was going, but Jack almost didn't believe it. The guy had a wife and three kids and a string of girlfriends. If he tried this shit with most of his men, they'd try to kill him the second he let them up. Had Salazar figured Jack was queer because he hadn't been fucking around?

Didn't matter, he told himself. What mattered was Salazar had to believe this was going to break him, or he was a dead man. Jack put tension into his voice. "Y'know, Ramon, if this is what gets your rocks off, you could pay someone for it."

"I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't value you so highly, Jack," Salazar said. "But you're worth the effort." Two fingers, slick, pressing hard. Jack held them out as long as he could. He didn't have to fake the gasp when they got past him. One hand still in the small of his back, pressing him down against the table, the other one fucking him slow and easy.

"You sick son of a bitch, get the fuck off me!" He thrashed as much as the cuffs would let him. Salazar just rode it out, kept the fingers all the way in until he stopped. Then they slid out, and Jack tightened up, waiting for the first thrust.

"Oh, Jesus," he said, involuntarily, jerking back to meet the hot, wet-- fuck, Salazar was licking him, putting his tongue in-- A full-body shudder rocked him. Again, a slow spiral around his hole, and Salazar was taking his time, little random flicks of tongue across, just dipping in. "Fuck," he said, breathing hard, resting his head agains the desk. "Oh, fuck."

Salazar laughed and backed away. Jack breathed through his open mouth, fingers curling uselessly around the desk drawers. Wet streaks on his ass cold in the open air. He felt exposed. Salazar was doing something. Weird, flicking kind of sound, and he didn't get it until Salazar came around the front with the syringe in his hand.

"Wait a second," he said, panting.

Salazar crouched down, grinning at him. "Trust me, Jack, you're going to like this."

The needle was so tiny he didn't feel it going in, even looking right at it. Salazar squeezed down and pulled the syringe out. A tiny drop of blood welling up, little red bead on his skin. Jack watched it, counting seconds, trying not to panic. The rush hit him before he reached a count of ten. Skin warm all over, his whole body relaxing, going soft. Blurry. Like dreaming about sex, half awake in a bed in the sun, hand on his dick without really thinking about it, that kind of slow feverish heat.

Hands on his hips, cock riding against his ass, slick head painting streaks on his skin. The actual fuck didn't hurt at all, Salazar got in almost without trying. Easier than Jack had expected it to be. Arms and legs just melting against the desk, and Salazar's dick pumping in and out, going deeper each stroke, thick smothering waves of pleasure. He felt sick to his stomach and so turned on he was having a hard time seeing. Never had it this good, that was the worst fucking part, and his face was dripping wet, sweat and tears together.

"Come on, Jack," Salazar said, raspy in his ear, hot breath traveling straight down his spine. "Come on." Licked the back of his neck, rubbed his hip, so close to his cock Jack could feel the heat of his fingers.

"Oh fuck, no," he said. Voice cracking like glass, dick riding against the smooth marble top of the desk, vision washing out like he'd stared at bright lights too long, belly slick and wet and he was still coming, dick pumping while Salazar kept fucking him.

His stomach was cramping hard. He threw up over the edge of the desk. Salazar finished up without stopping. When he pulled out, it felt like half Jack's guts were going with him. Jack heard himself sobbing like it was from a distance, bile in his mouth and still shaking. The cuffs came off. He was glad to let Salazar gather him up, hold him. Felt good to have arms around him.

"There, Jack. It's all over," Salazar murmured, stroking his head. "You're in." He rubbed Jack's shoulder one last time and stood up, leaving Jack leaning against the side of the desk. "Come downstairs when you're done cleaning up."

He left the room. Jack shuddered sick with laughter and covered his face with both hands, swallowing tears and doubled over. The rush was gone, but a warm glow lingered. His stomach was easing up. The blood had already dried. No broken bones, no serious injuries. He was fine. He was in with Salazar.

Mission accomplished.

= End

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