h

The moment I saw him, I wanted him. Badly. He'd just arrived at the facility, and was busy introducing himself. People seemed glad to make his acquaintance; Baxter - our resident Brazilian jiu-jitsu instructor - slapped him on the back, and head honcho Milton kept shaking his hand like it was the lever on some human slot machine. Looking at the suit and tie, I suppose I took him to be one of the trainers. Which he was, in a way.

Not the place to fall in love.

When I saw the newcomer out on the mat the following day, I was confused to see him doing some pretty light training - no combat, just drills - while the rest of us were being decimated by coach Baxter's over-enthusiastic assistant.

What was up with the guy? Injury, or merely a desire for preferential treatment?

Baxter himself supervised the stranger for a while, before taking time out to come stomp on us instead. I concentrated on remaining relatively whole and not incurring his wrath - successfully, since I'm good at martial arts stuff, particularly Brazilian jiu-jitsu. It caught on so much faster in the States then it ever did here in the UK, so I'd had plenty of time to roll around, make mistakes, learn from them. The other guys hadn't been quite so lucky, and it showed big-time.

Between all the upas and kimuras, montadas and americanas, I found myself glancing across the gym, watching the dark and handsome stranger's powerful physique at work, and once again wondering why he wasn't training with us. 'Enough with drilling already. Let's see a little action over here.' It was the over-enthusiastic assistant, Marlow, talking louder than he needed to. He always did it, and I always wondered why. I even thought he might be hard of hearing at one point until someone leaked his psych tests, the ones that revealed his ingrained inferiority complex - and concomitant desire to keep it under wraps.

k

What is it they say? Big fear equals big mouth; it's as simple as that. I really should have guessed as much...

'No, thanks,' said the new guy now. His tone was quiet, but his eyes were dark, forbidding.

Marlow paid no attention. 'You need to work on your guard. Your submissions are weak -'

'I was practicing sweeps -'

'Your submissions are weak,' repeated Marlow, and this time I really did wonder if he was deaf. He laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of Stéphane, the French guy in the stranger's guard. 'If this had been a real assailant, you'd be dead by now.'

'He's not a real assailant. He's my training partner. If you can't understand the difference between -'

The heavy hand twitched; pushed Stéphane to the side. 'Just shut up and roll, pretty boy.'

It was those last two words that sealed Marlow's fate; of that I have no doubt. The eyes of the stranger had turned to obsidian, hard and black and deathly cold. He lay back on the mat, his hands behind his head, large feet spread wide apart, long legs open and defenseless.

'Take me,' he said.

Marlow attacked, falling into his guard like a man possessed. By this time, the combatants' tense exchange had drawn an audience, everyone stopping to watch, to speculate - and to bet on the outcome, discreetly or otherwise. I kept expecting Baxter to step in, break things up, bawl us all out for stalling during class. It didn't happen. The man kept his distance. He was hooked, just like the rest of us, realizing that the outcome could make or break the new guy's status.

d

The battle was fierce and, for me, uncomfortably arousing. I tried not to focus on the stranger's chest as his jacket came open; I tried not to stare when he pulled Marlow's head down onto it, next to his nipple; I did everything I could to ignore the noises they made, their rough grunts and groans as they tussled for dominance, for mastery of the other's body. When it's just me and another guy fighting, containing my carnal urges is easy; far too much is going on for me to entertain any thoughts other than those related to scoring points or gaining a quick submission. I can keep my libido in check. I can stay the need not just to mount, but to screw.

My libido was not in check anymore; watching them grapple was too much like pornography. Within minutes I was fully erect, my hard-on pressing insistently against the fabric of my gi pants, mercifully disguised by the skirt of my kimono.

By way of distraction, I attempted to focus, not on the warring opponents, but on their techniques - anything to lessen the aching in my balls, the bloodrush to my swollen member. Marlow was still caught in the guard, his hips thrust hard against his adversary's as he attempted a cross choke, his right arm snaking forward, but reaching too far, stretching too much -

The newcomer caught the invading arm amd pulled it towards him, bringing Marlow's hot, panting mouth so close to his own that the two seemed on the verge of kissing. Marlow twisted violently away, clearly aware of how close he was to being shoulder locked. But it was the wrong way, and the stranger had his back in moments, both hooks in.

He wasted no time in going for the choke.

Marlow's blue eyes went wide with fear. He tried to wriggle out of danger, but there was nowhere for him to go; the stranger had him utterly immobilised, his substantial forearm pressed fast against the soft yielding tissue of Marlow's throat, both feet planted firmly in his captive's groin, sliding provocatively over his genitals: once, twice, three times...

The larger man made a sound I'd never heard before, something between total bliss and abject humilatiation. He bridged upwards, groaning, and suddenly all I wanted was to be him, to feel what he was feeling, to make the noises he was making, to be caught and free and trapped and safe all at once.

As if to acknowledge my unspoken thoughts, the newcomer smiled, tightening his grip still further. 'That's it,' I heard him whisper. 'That's right. Don't try to fight it. Don't try to struggle. Just sleep. Sleep...'

Marlow's eyes squeezed shut; he tapped, provoking a collective cheer me and the other guys. We'd all of us run into Marlow's bad side at one time or another, we'd all of us wanted to do what the newcomer was doing right now - deal out a little justice, even up the score a bit.

The tables were turned, and it made us feel good. Really good.

Marlow tapped again, more urgently, his right hand beating out an insistent rhythm on his antagonist's upper thigh.

'That's enough,' said Baxter, moving towards them. 'I think you've more than proven your point. Let him go -'

The stranger nodded. Smiled beatifically, the smile of an angel, of a devil. And kept right on going. The next couple of minutes are kind of a blur. Marlow yelped, puppy fashion, then collapsed in the newcomer's embrace, his large body limp, his head sinking slowly against the other man's chest. Seeing him like that, so totally submissive, so utterly helpless, pushed my arousal level past the point of endurance. I shuddered, feeling precum spurt into my gi pants. Baxter rushed forwards, yanking the unconscious assistant away from his opponent, simultaneously dispensing first aid and vitriol in equal measure.

k

The rest of the group closed in around them, unwilling to see their entertainment end so soon. Aware of the growing damp patch at the front of my BJJ trousers, I saw an opportunity to make my exit and took it, heading for the changing area and the welcome, evidence erasing utility of the showers.

What it wouldn't erase, though, what it couldn't erase, was the fleeting expression I caught on the newcomer's face as I made my way past him where he sat on the mat, inches away from a groggy, just-resuscitated Marlow.

It was pleasure. Sheer pleasure.

Come lunch, the mystery of the stranger's identity was finally solved, and proved to be a whole lot more interesting than the meal: grayish roasted meat of unknown origin, potatoes that were not mashed for once but simply tasteless, and a similarly unidentifiable green vegetable. The Brits on the course ploughed their way through it. Stéphane, the French guy, rolled his eyes as he always did, and I found myself laughing.

'Think of it as part of the survival training,' I told him. 'If you can take this, live ants'll be a cinch.'

The others didn't particularly like my sense of humor, so I decided to change the subject, waving my fork towards the table where the newcomer was sitting, still sexy, still intoxicating, still infuriating, still perfect.

'Who's he?'

Stéphane shook his head. 'Monsieur Choke-Choke? I don't know. Some guy who's getting over an injury, I think.'

'He didn't act very injured this morning. Why's he here?'

'To help us on the paperwork before he gets fit and goes back into the field. Ex-MI6, apparently. Mandella or something.'

'Mondello? Curtis Mondello?' Donnelly, without a doubt the quietest of the group, looked up. 'Heard of him.'

This was logical, because Donnelly's ex-MI6 as well. I probed a little further, hungry still for more information.

'Know him, do you?'

'Nah. Just vaguely heard he'd joined CI5. He was in Berlin and Bosnia, and I was in the Middle East.'

Well, that was my curiosity sated. I decided to leave it at that, determined to ignore the magnetic, mesmeric effect the new guy was having on me, vowing not to let myself get sucked in, committed to staying away from temptation.

d

What didn't help was the fact I started to like Curtis the moment we came into contact. I wasn't the world's greatest expert on intelligence analysis, and I'm still not, as I've always been more in the front line of things. But he made it interesting. Curtis was a fascinating guy, and talked about intelligence sensibly. I liked picking his brains, and he seemed happy to let me. Now and again, we'd sit together at one of the mealtime food-torture sessions and wrangle over a problem. I started to look forward to seeing the glint of amusement in the brown-black eyes when I made an absolute balls of something. Or the approval when I - once in a while - got something right.

We never discussed what had happened with Marlow; something told me that the subject was out of bounds. Besides, I was still trying to rid myself of the image of the two of them in each other's arms, antipathy like passion flowing red hot between them, the sweat on their bodies anointing their unholy union, and then the conquest, Marlow sleeping soundly in the marriage bed of Curtis' lap, swathed in white cotton and the scent of his musk -

The problem was, I also started to be increasingly aware that I was watching him and admiring him. He had an easy grace, and I'd been seeing him slowly get fitter, day by day. Hell, the man was attractive. More than that, I wanted him.

But I didn't like men. Not any more.

The two weeks of induction disappeared fast, and the end was approaching. We were all nervous, including the constantly laid-back Stéphane. At first, he'd been happy to go for a drink and some more or less acceptable bar food in the next village once or twice, but had now decided to stay in his room during the evenings and sweat blood over the intricacies of world anti-terrorist forces.

I was pretty well up on that, although the SEALS don't see it quite in the same hierarchical order as the Brits. But then I'm adaptable. We're Colonials, they're the center of the earth, and once you've got that figured, you're fine.
Frustrated and irritated with the latest apology for an evening meal, and reluctant to tramp down two miles of country lanes for warm beer alone, I decided to be the model student and go over the case reports for the following day.

'Hi, Keel. Still at it?'

I looked up and saw him in loose-fitting jiu-jitsu trousers, hair tousled, torso bare, and had to swallow.

'Yeah. But getting there.' He had a scar, I noticed. It was angry, recent looking, and located next to his heart, just under the breastbone. Must be the famous injury, I surmised. 'Isn't a little late for rolling?'

He grinned. 'Of course. But gi pants make for good pajamas. Got much work left?'

'Too much. Paper pushing isn't my thing.'

'Uh-huh. Takes time. I feel a bit like that about Baxter's extremely novel approach to grappling - learn or die trying.'

'You look like you're doing okay,' I said stupidly, thus giving away the fact I'd been monitoring the progress of his recovery. Luckily, he seemed to take it as astute observation or something, as he didn't look shocked. 'I am. Should be back in the field once I'm finished with you lot and seen you head off into the sunset with the CI5 tattoo on your asses.' 'That rather depends on whether I make it.' 'You'll make it,' he said quietly. I waited for him to elaborate. He didn't. Instead, he changed subject. 'You're with SEALS, right?'

k

'Uh-huh.' Now it was my turn to elaborate, but my mind had gone blank, lust and nervousness finally getting the better of me, making my heart race, my cock pulse, my balls ache. I wanted him so badly, but I couldn't say it, shouldn't say it. Because he might reject me, and then -

Curtis frowned, half-turned to go. 'Well, I'll leave you to it then.'

'Sure.' I was disappointed, and hoped he couldn't see it, then told myself not to be so goddamned stupid. This guy was bound to be as straight as I'd thought I was until ten days previously.

Before he left, though, he bent over the desk to look at what I was doing. His body smelled of some sort of spicy deodorant or something, and it sparked off an immediate reaction - one that I squashed mercilessly. He straightened, and put a hand on my shoulder. That just made things worse. I think I probably flinched, because it didn't last more than a second. Then he suggested I get some sleep, and disappeared.

Sleep? He had to be joking. I wanted the CI5 tattoo, or whatever indelible stamp Malone was going to make on my future. It was just that I wanted Curtis, too. I lay in bed and imagined him, naked but for those baggy white BJJ trousers, holding me, pinning me, locking me, choking me, just as he had Marlow; the more I tried to put it out of my mind, the more vivid the images became. In the end there was only one solution, but even as I felt the climax shake me I could still smell him, still see those dark eyes looking at me.

Oh, hell.

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