Liebling, a From Eroica With Love romance by Sue Castle. Rated NC17 for
adult content. Set in 1984. No copyright infringement intended to Yasuko Aoike
or Princess Comics. Thanks to MG for opening my eyes, Barbara S. for the
German, and the fan-translators for teaching me to read right to left.
"... an entanglement of wire rope and a rose vine is a rather
sadistically wonderful combination ..." From Eroica with Love, story #4
Major Klaus Heinz Von Dem Eberbach stared grimly through the bars at the
garish silk walls and ridiculously over-decorated Persian carpets of his prison
and wondered how such a simple mission could have come to such a pass.
He didn't even have Eroica to blame. No. For that, he had Misha.
Secure in the knowledge that he was alone in the tent, Eberbach slumped
against the iron bars of his cage and closed his eyes. There was no way to
escape; his hands were secured behind his back, the cage was solidly
constructed and locked. For the moment, his best plan was to rest. Conserve his
strength. Wait for an opening. Unfortunately, such a plan left him no
diversion, and with nothing to occupy his busy mind, all he could do was think.
He had two choices. He could allow his thoughts to run, undisciplined,
in circles, caught like a rat in a maze. Or he could go over every step of his
failed mission, probing for any lesson that could be learned, any way the
failure could be salvaged. Not being one to allow himself any breakdown in
discipline even under circumstances of captivity and forced inactivity, he
closed his eyes and concentrated his thoughts.
The Chief was looking disgruntled. This could be a good sign. If he'd
been happy, Eberbach would have been wary.
"You've been appointed to the NATO combined unit going to
"When do I leave? With whom do I rendezvous?" Why are you so
angry? he thought but kept to himself.
"I didn't recommend you, you know," the Chief grumbled.
"The situation is delicate. They need someone who knows how to waltz
around diplomatic pitfalls. You barge through the middle of them like a
tank."
Eberbach would have smiled at the flattering comparison if he'd been the
smiling type. As it was, he barked, "Sir!" The Chief stopped
muttering long enough to hand him a file with the familiar red classified
striping down the side.
"It's all in here. Keep your eyes open, and watch your back."
Eberbach gave him a disbelieving look. When didn't he watch his back?
"I mean it. There are reports of experiments going on with Afghan
prisoners of war. Mind control experiments being run by the KGB. And there have
been sightings of an old enemy of yours."
Eberbach looked up from the sheets in the file he'd been scanning.
"The Bear Cub is in
"The Pope is Catholic?" the Chief responded rhetorically.
Eberbach nodded absently, absorbed once more in details of the mission.
"Major."
He responded to the unexpected seriousness in his superior officer's
voice by giving him his undivided attention. The round face was somber, and the
normally malicious eyes were thoughtful.
"You won't have your alphabets with you, this time. The Soviets
will only allow a certain number of investigators, all of high rank. The
Mujahideen are in the middle of a Jihad, a holy war, and any Westerner may well
be a target. The Soviets are intent on hiding what they're doing and won't
hesitate to commit a little murder and cover it up under the category of
'hostile fire'. You'll be surrounded by enemies, with little to no
back-up."
"Is there anything worth stealing?" Eberbach asked,
straight-faced. The Chief looked at him, confused.
"Not to the best of my knowledge."
"Then the only things I'll have to worry about are Muslim
extremists and KGB madmen. I'll be fine." The Chief gave him another
confused look. "No Eroica," he explained, then turned on his heel and
walked out of the office.
Two weeks later he'd had cause to re-evaluate that opinion.
He'd been paired with a French army officer, another NATO major with
less experience than he himself had and an annoyingly naive attitude toward
their Soviet hosts. The damned fool actually believed what he was told. Four
days into their tour of Soviet camps, Eberbach nearly strangled the idiot
Frenchman when he blithely waved off Eberbach's forceful suggestion that they
look into the tents behind the medical facility. Washing his hands of the fool,
Eberbach went off on his own to do a more thorough job of investigation.
He'd found precisely what he'd expected to find.
The stench of mass death hadn't been strong, so the sheer number of
bodies was a surprise. They were, for the most part, fresh, signs of violence
vivid on their flesh. Civilians, the majority, from the look of it, if anyone
living in an occupied country in the midst of fighting an invading army could
be considered civilian. Eyes stared blindly, mouths stretched open in silent
screams. Flies buzzed lazily over the dried streaks of blood on arms, legs,
torsos, dribbling from ears and noses and eye sockets. Whoever had tortured
them had been an expert. Sickening as it was, Eberbach held his composure,
forcing himself to get close enough to make out details.
There were women and children as well as young men, with a few old men
as well. Shaved patches on skulls and circular burns scattered along their
bodies showed where electrodes had been attached, and what appeared to be
cattle prods applied. Whatever they had known, they had paid dearly for the knowledge.
He leaned forward, respectfully closing the eyes of a child who could have been
no more than nine or ten at the time of his death. A voice behind him
interrupted his movement.
"Iron Klaus. What an unpleasant surprise."
The gravelly greeting caused him to swing on his heel, magnum in hand. Misha
the Bear Cub grinned toothily at him from the shadows at the back of the tent.
"I'm here on official UN business. Why are you here? To squeeze out
one more pound of flesh for your masters?"
Misha's grin became, if possible, wider. He didn't answer. Eberbach felt
the displacement of air an instant before impact, not time enough to escape the
cosh from the man who'd snuck up behind him. His last wavering sight was of the
Cub, bending over him, removing his credentials and shoving something thin and
hard into his jacket pocket.
When he'd regained consciousness, he was locked in a goat pen.
His captors didn't speak German. Or English. Or French, Dutch, Spanish,
Italian, any of the languages with which Klaus was fluent. He'd finally given
in and tried Russian. Apparently, his captors knew just enough Russian to
recognize the language, and peg anyone who spoke it as an enemy.
When he'd woken from that beating, he'd found himself locked in a
cage.
A man was lounging on a cushion, staring at him. Tall, a hundred ninety
three centimeters, eighty two kilos, short wavy dark brown hair and brown eyes,
dark complexion, closely trimmed beard, excellent physical condition. Air of
authority. Eberbach finished his automatic inventory and stared back, forcing
his dizziness and nausea to abate through sheer force of will. When he had
control of his balance and his stomach, he tried once more to communicate.
"My name is Major Klaus Von Dem Eberbach, with NATO Intelligence,
attached to the United Nations investigation team sent here to examine reported
human rights violations by the Soviet armed forces against the people of
Afghanistan-"
"Your name is Pyotr Sergeyevich Lopakhin, Spetznaz captain, third in
command of the experimentation camp near Kalat-us-Siraj from which my soldiers
took you, over the bodies of the men, women and children your men tortured to
death."
Eberbach stared into the dark, cold eyes of the Mujahideen commander. It
was obvious from his expression that the man believed every word he said. All
the major could do was shake his head in denial. From the folds of his linen
robe, the other man produced a leather wallet.
"Your papers."
"Not mine," Eberbach answered forcefully.
"At least meet your death with some dignity, Captain," the
commander sneered at him. Eberbach growled back.
"It's Major! Ich bin Deutscher, goddamnit. I was entrapped by an
enemy, a KGB operative. He wants you to kill me. Then he can claim that
the Mujahideen are responsible for the death of a UN representative!!"
The Afghan stared dispassionately at him. "We shall see. I have
sent word to your superiors. If you have value to them, I may ransom you."
A sliver of a smile curved his full lips. "Or I may send them your
lifeless body as a souvenir of freedom."
With uncanny grace, the rebel commander rose from the cushion and
disappeared out the front of the tent in a swirl of draperies. Eberbach watched
the flap fall closed over the doorway and cursed to himself in every language
he knew -- except Russian.
Three days passed, very slowly. The Mujahideen commander came in once,
to tell him with some satisfaction that his 'superiors' hadn't responded. He'd
tried telling the man that they weren't his superiors, that they
wouldn't respond, and that NATO had to be contacted, but the man simply stared
at him as if he was gibbering and left him alone in his cage.
Once a day, two men came to open the iron door. They led him behind the
tent and allowed him to relieve himself. One stayed just out of reach; the
other stood guard with a semiautomatic rifle aimed at his chest. It was
off-putting to say the least, but the thought of having to live in his own soil
convinced him to make the best use of his brief break. Unfortunately, the men,
thinking him to be Soviet special forces, were extremely vigilant, and no
opportunity for escape presented itself.
Twice a day a plate with bread and fruit was shoved through the bars,
and a skin-full of water. Once, he tried to use the plate as a weapon. It was
twenty four hours before he was fed again. Regretfully, he gave up on that idea
as well. His determination to escape never wavered, but his options were
narrowing by the day.
On the fifth day, he took his chance with the guards who fed him. The
plate was lowered through the bars, and before his guard could withdraw he
struck. Swiftly as a snake, Eberbach grabbed the guard's wrist and brought him
against the bars, free hand going for the throat. Regarding the second guard
fiercely over his captive's shoulder, he barked, "Let me out or I'll break
his neck!"
Unfortunately, these ones didn't speak English either. So he barked in
Russian. From behind him he heard the click of a trigger cocking, and threw
himself aside, losing hold of his captive as he did. The guard took a bullet in
the side of the neck, a shot that would have taken Eberbach directly between
the shoulder blades if he'd still been holding the man. Mayhem broke loose.
Guards swarmed into the tent, taking up the wounded man and bearing him
from the area. The door was opened and a multitude of hands dragged him out,
fists beating him down before he had the chance to fight back. He was simply
outnumbered. As he went down under the sea of angry soldiers, he cursed his
luck, which had been running nothing but bad since this mission had begun.
When he woke up again, he was back in the cage, stiff and bruised from
top to bottom, and his hands were shackled behind his back. It was a full day
before he was fed or allowed to relieve himself. He needed the full day before
he could actually move. His captors had been thorough.
On the eighth night of his captivity, assistance came from an unexpected
source. Well, at least he tried to help. As usual, nothing turned out
quite the way either of them had hoped.
A shadow moved across the floor of the tent. It paused at the bulk of
the commander, sleeping on a pile of rugs less than ten feet from Eberbach's
cage, then picked its way with silent caution over to the iron door. Eberbach
moved just as silently to greet it.
Bright, laughing blue eyes peered out at him from a pale face surrounded
by black cloth. Eroica! Eberbach managed not to exclaim out loud through sheer
force of will. The thief raised a finger to his lips and kissed it, warning
Eberbach to be quiet and flirting with him at the same time, the pervert.
Eberbach growled silently at him.
"I was in
A hand came over Eroica's shoulder, slamming the door shut again and
scaring both Eberbach and Eroica out of half a year's growth.
"AYEE!" Eroica screamed as two large hands grabbed hold of him
and threw him to the floor. Eberbach lashed out with his feet, trying to kick
the door back open and join the fray, but the latch had caught again, and the
commander locked it instantly, pocketing the key and turning his back on the
furiously cursing Eberbach.
Eroica scrambled to his feet and headed for the door flap. The commander
caught him before he got there, throwing him back to the floor and pinning him
down, flat on his back. Eberbach fumed from his cage, unable to help, unable to
do a damned thing but watch.
"Who are you and how did you get through my sentries?" the
commander demanded. Eroica stared at him, wild-eyed, uncomprehending.
"He doesn't speak Russian," Eberbach called out, in Russian.
"He's British," he added in English.
"English, actually," Eroica managed to gasp. The commander had
a knee in the middle of his chest, which was probably making it difficult to
catch his breath. "Dorian Red Gloria, Earl of Gloria, at your
service," he smiled sunnily up at the man holding him down.
The commander stared at him for a long moment. "My name is
Mahmud," he finally answered. "Why are you breaking a Spetznaz
bastard out of my camp and how did you get in?" The knee eased
fractionally.
"Spetznaz?" the Earl asked, bewildered. "I'm rescuing ...
ah, I was attempting to rescue a NATO Major. I don't know any Spetznaz."
Mahmud backhanded him. "More lies. You had time to coordinate
stories. I have proof." One hand tangled in the heavy golden curls,
lifting the Earl's head from the rug. The poor thief had a dazed look on his
face. Eberbach could relate.
"No," Eroica protested, hands fluttering uselessly. "No,
he's not Soviet, he's a Catholic."
Mahmud stopped in the process of hauling Eroica from the floor. He eyed
his captive intently, and an odd expression came across his face. "Tell me
why I should not have you shot immediately."
Eroica stared up at him, then did the strangest thing. He appeared to
melt over the Afghan's knee. Eberbach made an involuntary disgusted sound in
the back of his throat and wanted to close his eyes. But Eroica might well have
a plan, and he had to be alert to take advantage of it. He couldn't ignore what
was happening, no matter how much it turned his stomach.
The Earl was wrapping his long arms around the commander's shoulders
now, moving his body in a sinuous way, eyes huge, a slight smile on his mobile
mouth. His body language practically screamed 'Take me!' Mahmud was listening.
The commander was just as big a pervert as Eroica was. He buried both hands in
Eroica's mop of hair and proceeded to devour his mouth.
When they finally broke for air, Eroica nodded in Eberbach's direction
and asked huskily, "Must we do this in front of him? His watching makes me
... nervous."
"Then I will put out his eyes," Mahmud said calmly. Eroica
squeaked.
"No, no, no, that's alright, an audience is fine, darling, just
fine, no need for any maiming -" The stream of words was cut off as Mahmud
kissed him again, taking his mouth like a tank battalion taking a mountain. Not
that Eroica was protesting.
Eberbach stared, as morbidly fascinated as if he was watching an
accident on the autobahn, as Eroica seduced the Mujahideen commander. The small
part of his brain that wasn't screaming at him that even watching such sick,
perverted, twisted actions would damn him was busy telling him that one, he was
an atheist, and two, if there was a hell, he was already in it, so he might as
well remain vigilant and possibly learn something. His body was ignoring his
brain completely, and the slow surge of arousal he felt was so shameful he
completely denied it, even to himself.
Mahmud wasn't gentle, but he wasn't unnecessarily harsh, either. He
stripped Eroica with military efficiency that under other circumstances
Eberbach would have admired. Then he stripped himself and lowered his body over
Eroica until he was blanketing the man. They were a study in contrasts in the
shadowed darkness of the tent. Eroica's skin glowed in the low light, the hint
of golden hair along his body catching and reflecting what little light there
was, sweat coming up on his skin as he moved. Mahmud was honey gold skin and
jet black hair, several centimeters taller than Eroica, and quite a few kilos
heavier. They were stretched out with their sides to his cage, and he couldn't
have shut them out if he'd tried.
They were making sounds. Disturbing sounds.
Eberbach's stunned gaze traveled the length of the men moving against
one another. Mahmud had one hand still buried in Eroica's hair, the other
curving over a buttock, drawing their groins together. He caught glimpses of
their erections as they ground against one another, the light red rose of
Eroica a stark contrast to the deep blush brown of Mahmud.
Eroica's hands were drifting all along Mahmud's body, feathering along
his ribs, over his buttocks, ruffling his chest hair. One hand finally drifted
between them, gathering their erections in his long fingers. Their thrusting
became more frenzied, and the groans and grunts became needier as Eroica
climaxed. To Eberbach's vague surprise, Mahmud unclenched his hand from around
Eroica's buttock long enough to remove Eroica's hand from his still-rampant
erection.
He could smell them. It made his skin itch.
Then Mahmud moved, coming to his knees and shifting over Eroica's torso
until the tip of his wet penis tapped at Eroica's mouth. The thief, who'd been
sprawled in satiation after his orgasm, opened his eyes and looked up at
Mahmud.
"Take it," Mahmud ordered in a low voice. Eroica swallowed.
Eberbach's eyes followed the motion of his throat, then stared as those
kiss-swollen lips opened and Mahmud pushed his erection into Eroica's mouth.
The long white throat moved again, and again, in a practiced rhythm. Eberbach
realized he was swallowing in tandem with Eroica's movements and nearly gagged.
It took very little time before Mahmud was stiffening over Eroica's
body, shoving himself deeply into Eroica's mouth, and emptying down his throat.
Eroica had no choice in the matter of swallowing; it was that, or drown.
Droplets of milky fluid were seeping from the corners of his stretched mouth.
Mahmud was making tiny satisfied noises, rotating his hips under Eroica's
grasp. It was the filthiest thing Eberbach had ever seen.
He refused to admit even to himself that he was so hard he ached.
"You have your uses," Mahmud told Eroica, who smiled cheekily,
if unsteadily, up at him. "I won't kill you tonight." Withdrawing
from his position over Eroica's torso, he efficiently tied the thief's hands
behind him, tossed a rug over him, and lay down to fall into a sated slumber.
Eroica stared at him for a long time. Dawn was just beginning to spill into the
tent when he was satisfied that the commander was deeply asleep.
Then he made a graceful movement with his shoulders and pulled his
now-freed hands from behind him. He tossed a grin over to Eberbach along with a
sideways glance through his lashes. Whatever he saw on the major's face froze
him in his tracks. His eyes grew wide, and he swallowed, unconsciously licking
his lips, removing a trace of salty fluid that lingered there. Eberbach watched
the movement like a wolf following prey. The glistening blue eyes grew even wider.
Then Eroica shook off the strange paralysis with a shake of his curly head, and
glided over to the commander's clothing.
Two seconds of rummaging later, he headed directly to the cage, key ring
in hand.
"No!" Eberbach managed to warn, seeing Mahmud rise from the
rug like a striking tiger and advance on Eroica. Ducking instinctively, Eroica
tossed the ring toward Eberbach.
Mahmud's fist closed over it before it got to him.
"Verdammte Scheisse!" Eberbach growled.
"Shit!" Eroica agreed. Then Mahmud was on him.
The bigger man shook Eroica like a rag doll, blond hair flying around
his head, until Eroica was whimpering and unsteady on his feet.
"Thief!"
"Yes?" Eroica managed to ask, his voice shaky.
"Do you know what we do to thieves in my country?" Mahmud forced
Eroica to his knees and took the thief's right wrist, holding him tightly. With
his other hand, Mahmud drew a wickedly curving knife from his pile of clothes.
Eroica let out a sharp scream.
"Please!" His body was shaking as much as his voice.
"Please don't cut off my hand! I'm begging you!"
"If you cut off his hand you might as well cut out his heart,"
Eberbach roared into the noise of Eroica's pleas. Mahmud looked over at him.
"He can't help what he is. He's a magpie at heart; he sees something shiny
and must have it. If you take that from him you may as well take his
life."
Eroica looked from captor to captive. "Are you trying to help me or
get me killed, Darling?"
Eberbach ignored him, staring at Mahmud. The rage in the dark eyes
calmed a little, replaced by a calculating light. "Very well," he
said, looking down at Eroica. "I will not take your hand for stealing from
me. You shall have another chance. But know this. Your friend -" he nodded
toward Eberbach, "is your fealty. If you steal from me again, I will take his
hand."
Eroica let out an involuntary moan of denial, shaking his head frantically,
making an abortive effort to fling his body between the knife and the cage.
Mahmud threw the knife back onto his pile of clothing and grabbed a fistful of
curls, stopping the uncontrolled movement. "Please, please, no, don't hurt
him, please," Eroica cried.
Mahmud continued, his voice implacable. "Your actions will not go
unpunished." He jerked Eroica around by the scalp and arm, twisting his
hand up behind his back. Eroica cried out again, in pain. Dragging the thief
two feet away to one of the few pieces of furniture in the tent, a heavy wooden
hassock with a padded cushion, Mahmud threw Eroica face-first over it. With one
knee in the small of his back keeping him secured, Mahmud caught up a set of
manacles and chained Eroica's wrists to the far legs of the hassock.
Stepping to the side of the tent, Mahmud opened a small chest and
withdrew what looked like a miniature bullwhip from its depths. Eberbach
growled warning, low in his throat. Eroica, unable to see what was going on
behind him, squirmed and mewled protests. Mahmud stepped between his ankles and
kicked them far apart, leaving Eroica open and vulnerable to attack. Eberbach
tried to swallow, but there was something ... compelling ... about Eroica
spread out like that, something that made his mouth dry. Before he could work
out what it was, exactly, Mahmud's arm rose and fell.
The lash snapped across the tops of Eroica's thighs, leaving behind a
red welt with a thin line of blood across it. Eroica screamed in a combination
of pain and shock. His legs curled involuntarily against the side of the
hassock, attempting to escape the lash.
"No control," Mahmud said softly, then reached for another
length of chain. He pulled Eroica's legs straight and cuffed his ankles, a foot
or so of chain lying between them. Then he stepped onto the chain, holding
Eroica's body stretched taut with his own body weight.
"Scream, my lion cub," he whispered. The sound made the hair
on the back of Eberbach's neck stand up straight. Mahmud then proceeded to lay
a crosshatch pattern of welts across Eroica's creamy skin, from his shoulders
to the back of his knees.
Eroica did scream.
Eberbach wasn't aware that he'd moved, but somehow his face was pressed
into the bars. His mouth was open. He was screaming as well, screaming at
Mahmud to stop, to not hurt Dorian, how dare he, he was going to rip him apart.
He couldn't hear himself. All he could hear were Eroica's screams.
Mahmud ignored him to concentrate on what he was doing. What he was
doing was heartless and calculated. He would lay down several welts, then bend
over Eroica's shaking body and caress the heated skin, gentling the spasming
muscles and rubbing lightly over the bruises. Eroica's screams would strangle
in his throat until they were moans, and Eberbach was appalled to see that
Eroica's hips were moving of their own accord during these caresses. The thief
was aroused.
How on earth could he be aroused by this ... this barbarity? This deep,
sick perversity? Eberbach pressed tighter against the bars, eyes glued to the
scene in front of him. His face was hot, his breath coming in harsh pants.
His erection was harder than ever.
He was existing somewhere outside himself. His body's reactions were of
no concern, his mind's anger was immaterial. All that mattered was Eroica, and
what Mahmud was doing to him, and how Eroica was responding to it.
A kick to the chain between Eroica's ankles, and Mahmud spread the
captive's thighs as far apart as they would go. The latticework of welts was
concentrated on Eroica's buttocks and thighs now, the tip of the lash flicking
between his thighs, biting at the tender skin of his testicles, nipping at the
crease between his buttocks. Eroica was past the point of screaming, his voice
raw in his throat, moaning unceasingly. His hips were rocking hard against the
cushion of the hassock. His face was buried under the fall of his hair.
Eberbach wished he could see it. Wanted to see those eyes. Wanted to
drink those moans.
The action of his own hips mirrored Eroica's.
Mahmud finally threw the whip to one side and knelt behind Eroica, hands
gripping the reddened and bloody buttocks so tightly the flesh turned white
under the bruising. Eberbach had a glimpse of a reddened pucker of flesh and
Mahmud's rampant erection before his view was cut off by Mahmud's hips. Not
that he needed to see. The initial push tore a rusty scream from Eroica's
throat, and it was obvious by the thrusting action of Mahmud's pelvis precisely
what he was doing.
Even had it not been, the rhythmic jolts to Eroica's body and the grunts
exploding from both men would have made it obvious. Eroica's blood was
streaking onto Mahmud's skin, diluted by sweat from both bodies, lubricating
their movements. When Mahmud thrust in and yelled something incomprehensible in
Persian, Eroica moaned in unison and slammed his hips back into the cradle of
Mahmud's pelvis. Eberbach found himself gasping through his own orgasm.
The jolt of it shocked him back to himself.
He stumbled a few steps to the back of his cage, the bars almost
comforting against his shoulder blades. Then he slid down into a heap, his
knees giving out on him. He stared round-eyed as Mahmud pulled back from
Eroica, leaned down to place a shockingly tender kiss to one rounded shoulder,
drew an obscenely gentle hand down his quivering side, then threw a robe over
the bloodied back. Taking a deep breath, Mahmud silently dressed and walked out
of the tent.
Eberbach stared at Eroica. For the longest time, neither man moved. Then
one graceful hand unclenched from the fist it had been held in throughout the
attack, and with a flick of the wrist, Eroica tossed something into Eberbach's
cage. It landed with a jangling thud an inch from his boot.
The key ring.
Acting on instinct, Eberbach leaned forward to scoop up the keys, then
halted precipitously. "Scheisse," he grumbled. "Eroica? Can you
move?"
The golden head lifted and one hazy blue eye stared wildly in his
direction. Deciding he'd gotten as much help as he could expect from the Earl,
Eberbach turned his back, stretched his neck to look over his shoulder, and
scrabbled at the key ring with his manacled hands. An inordinate amount of time
was wasted as he picked it up, dropped it, tried incorrect keys, dropped it
again, and finally unlocked his shackles. Sending a silent prayer of thanks to
the God of his childhood, he snatched the key ring up and rushed to let himself
out.
Making no noise at all, eyes scanning for guards, he executed the
contingency escape plan he had worked out the first day of his captivity,
making allowances for his unexpected passenger. Grabbing up clothing, he
snapped the knots binding Eroica to the hassock and dressed him as if he was a
child. Eroica moved sluggishly, trying to help, not saying a word. Refusing to
meet Eberbach's eye.
It was just as well. Eberbach had no idea what to say to him. 'Thanks
for being a pervert that Afghan pervert liked enough to be taken in'? 'Thanks
for allowing yourself to be caught and sexually tortured so that you could
steal the key to get me out of that cage'? Not knowing how to say it, he said
nothing, and concentrated on escape.
Eroica lurched drunkenly once he was dressed, and Eberbach threw an
impatient arm around his back to drag him from the tent. A muffled gasp of pain
brought the current state of Eroica's back to the forefront of Eberbach's mind,
and he gasped a little himself. "Es tut mir leid. Ich will Sie nicht verletzen,"
he muttered, then took Eroica's arm and wrapped it tightly around his own
waist. "Hold on. This will hurt."
"Get it over with and let's get out of here," Eroica murmured
back to him, barely audibly.
Eberbach took him at his word and, ignoring the small involuntary sounds
of pain the thief made, they snuck out the side of the tent. In a moment, they
made their way through the confusion of the camp to the horses Eberbach had
seen from his brief tenure in the goat pen. Ducking behind them and dragging
Eroica along with him, he found a sturdy gelding near the back.
"Sorry," he said again, then placed a palm over Eroica's mouth
to stifle any possible noise. Hoisting himself onto the horse, he pulled Eroica
with him. The Earl moaned, the sound caught by Eberbach's hand. He then draped
Eroica on his stomach across Eberbach's knees. It was the only way the major
could think to hold the man without aggravating his injuries even further.
Keeping his head down, bending protectively over the Earl's body, he
picked the way out of the camp. To their great good fortune, the troops'
attention was caught by an outcry from the commander's tent. Their escape had
been noted. Taking advantage of the confusion, Eberbach dug his heels into the
horse's ribs and they headed for the hilly country behind the camp.
The adrenaline rush from the danger was a welcome distraction from the
smell of blood, semen and sweat, covering but not completely masking the scent
of roses from the body of the man jostling on his lap. He deliberately blanked
his mind of anything but the need to be hyper-alert to make a successful
escape. He hoped that Eroica had passed out. It would be less painful for the
thief.
Also, if that were so, he wouldn't have to explain his erection pressing
into Eroica's belly. He'd just as soon try to avoid such explanations, since he
didn't want to hear them himself.
Several hours later the horse was tiring, Eroica was waking up, and
Eberbach was lost. Estimating which direction he'd been taken when he was
unconscious, drawing on some place names his captors had dropped, he had placed
their location to be somewhere north of Jalalabad, east of the
As expected, their luck was rotten. The horse stumbled to a stop as
uniformed men stepped from the brush and aimed rifles at them.
"You must have at least nine lives, Iron Klaus," a much-hated
voice called out cheerfully.
"If you kill us here, Misha, the KGB won't be able to blame the
Mujahideen." He glared wearily down at his nemesis.
Whatever the mad Russian might have said in response was drowned out by
the utterly unexpected scream of war cries all around them. Eberbach reacted
instinctively again, kicking away from the rearing horse, wrapping his arms
around Eroica's waist and rolling them both away from the center of the
cross-fire.
The Soviet troops were yelling at one another and at the freedom
fighters who swooped down on them seemingly out of nowhere. Eberbach looked
around wildly for a gun, any sort of gun, but there were none within reach.
Ducking his head to avoid a ricochet, he curled himself around Eroica and kept
them both as covered as he could.
The firing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Eberbach risked a
glance, to see a Mujahideen commander he knew all too well glaring over a
raised rifle at an unarmed Misha the Cub, who was glaring right back at him.
Mahmud barked a question at Misha. Misha laughed. Luckily, it was in Russian,
so Eberbach could follow it.
"Is he yours? Or is he truly NATO?"
"What do you think?"
"We do not do the dirty work for those such as you!"
Eberbach had had quite enough. He bellowed, "I'm with the UN
delegation, goddamnit! I told you they wouldn't ransom me because I
don't belong to them!"
Three Afghan soldiers surrounded Misha, pushing him further away from
their commander. Mahmud lowered his rifle and walked over to where Eberbach was
curled protectively around Eroica.
Strangely enough, the thief still hadn't said a word. Eberbach snuck a
quick glance to make sure he was conscious. Eroica was staring at him, eyes
huge, face somber. Eberbach swallowed. Unwrapping his arms from around Eroica's
torso, he pulled himself upright. He would meet Mahmud face to face, not
sprawled at his feet like a supplicant.
Mahmud glared at him, fierce as a hawk, then stared down at Eroica, who
was lying on his side, arms wrapped around himself, clutching at the robe
draped around him. The commander took a deep breath and returned his glare to
Eberbach. "You, we don't need. Go back to your people. Tell them what you've
seen. Don't let the Soviet bastards catch you again." He gestured at
Eroica. "Him, I keep."
Deep inside Eberbach's gut, something gave with the stinging recoil of
snapped wire. His surroundings disappeared, and his vision narrowed to the
arrogant pervert who dared to claim Eroica. No longer aware of the dozen or so
rifles aimed at his head, or the few Soviet soldiers still alive who were
watching, or even Misha, chuckling lewdly in the background, he saw nothing,
heard nothing but the challenge in Mahmud's eyes and voice.
"The hell you will," he growled, shoving himself between them.
Several of the rifles trained on him were now cocked. He didn't even hear them.
"He's mine. Er gehört mir! You will not touch him, you will fucking well
keep your filthy hands off him. You will never hurt him again. No one will ever
hurt him again. He is MINE."
With each word, he'd gotten closer and closer, until he was screaming
the final words in Mahmud's face, ferocious in his claiming. Mahmud barked
something over his shoulder at the Mujahideen troops, and those who were
targeting Eberbach trained their rifles on the Soviets instead. Then Mahmud
swung at Eberbach.
The world snapped into place around the two of them, catching them in a
bubble of violent action and counter-action. The air sang around Eberbach as he
gave himself up to all the frustration and anger that had plagued him since his
capture, doubled with the need to avenge what had been done to Eroica.
The need to violently expunge his own reaction to what had happened to
Eroica.
Mahmud was bigger than Eberbach, and tough, and well trained. Eberbach
was insane with rage and the need to protect his property. It was an even
match.
For long moments, Eberbach was aware of nothing but his fists, impacting
flesh, of the creak of bone as punches landed on his own body. Of the taste of
blood on his tongue from a split lip, and the sting of sweat in his eyes. The
warmth of muscles moving in combat, and the fierce sweet joy of beating the
holy hell out of the man who'd tormented him, hurt his Eroica, and then had the
audacity to try to take Eroica away from him.
He didn't even feel the blows he took. He only stopped when a cold small
circle of metal was placed to his temple and a rough voice said, in broken
English, "Stop or die."
The red haze cleared from his vision and he saw Mahmud, unconscious
underneath him. One of the Mujahideen soldiers had a pistol to Eberbach's head.
He froze. Then he carefully removed his hands from their death grip around
Mahmud's throat and sat back on his heels.
The Mujahideen withdrew his pistol. "Commander said you live. Now
go."
Without a word, Eberbach turned from Mahmud. Reached out a hand to help
Eroica to his feet. Turned toward their horse, then swerved and headed for one
of the Soviet jeeps he could see beyond the brush.
Behind him, he heard Misha say, laughing, "So much for hating the
pervert, eh, Major? Yours, indeed." Then the sounds of scuffling and
gunshots. Eberbach glanced over his shoulder. The Soviets were fighting the
Mujahideen again, both with weapons and hand to hand. With any luck, Misha
wouldn't survive.
Not that he'd had any luck on this mission.
A tiny whimper brought him back to himself just as he was stuffing
Eroica into the passenger seat and climbing into the Jeep himself. Eroica was
squirming on the hard seat, but his obvious discomfort wasn't what caught
Eberbach's attention. It was the expression on his face.
Confusion. Disbelief.
Fear.
Directed at him, Eberbach. It confused him, in turn.
The sounds of fighting behind them intensified, and Eberbach shook his
head. He'd sort the Earl out later. First they had to get the hell away from
here.
"Get in the back and curl up on the seat. It won't be comfortable
but it will be more bearable than bouncing around on your butt." He jerked
a thumb in the direction of the back and Eroica hauled himself into the back
seat without another sound. Such silent obedience was unheard of, and Eberbach
spared a thought to wonder just how badly Eroica was hurt. Then he shelved that
thought for later consideration as well, and gunned the engine.
There was a squeak of protest from the back. Followed by another,
quieter one for each bump and hole they hit on the dirt track masquerading as a
road. Eberbach ignored them. If he'd paid attention to them he'd have had to
think about why the tiny sounds made his cheeks flush. And he wasn't about to
acknowledge that, either.
Less than an hour later they pulled into a UN camp. Vestiges of madness
were still clinging to Eberbach's brain, because when one of the soldiers
attempted to assist Eroica from the back of the Jeep, Eberbach snarled at him.
The soldier nearly tripped over his boots backing off. Eberbach pulled Eroica
from the seat, steadying him with one hand and pulling the robe closer around
him with the other.
"I'm Major Eberbach. I have important information on KGB activity
in the area. Take us to your commander immediately," he bellowed at the
top of his lungs. It had the usual effect of stopping all activity in the area
and sending underlings scurrying. Beside him, Eroica swayed. Eberbach slid his
arms under Eroica's knees and behind his shoulders, changing grip mid-lift to
lay the man over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. With all the weight on his
stomach, it would spare Eroica more pain on his abused back.
Burden settled comfortably, Eberbach marched past several gawking
soldiers toward the command and control tent. An orderly hurried to announce
him. The British colonel who greeted him looked nonplused. Eberbach didn't let
that stop him. He never let the stupefaction of his superiors interfere with
the execution of his duty.
The briefing was short, loud, and to the point. It covered all the
salient points of the dead Afghan civilians he'd found, Misha the Bear Cub's
treachery and Eberbach's subsequent imprisonment, included Eroica's victorious
attempt to free him, without referring to any sexual details whatsoever, and
ended with the combat between Mahmud's Mujahideen troops and the Soviet
detachment under the command of the KGB.
The British colonel's mouth eventually closed, but the befuddled look
never quite disappeared. Into the silence that had fallen at the end of his
report, Eberbach snapped, "Gut! We need a tent and medical supplies.
Immediately." The colonel's mouth began to open and Eberbach nodded
sideways at Eroica's still body, draped over his right shoulder. "He was
damaged in the rescue."
"Take him to the medics," the colonel tried to suggest.
"Nein! I will deal with him! Give us a tent and a medical
kit." Eberbach glared at the colonel. "Now." He took a deep
breath. "Sir," he added belatedly, in a voice barely a notch below
his normal bellow.
The colonel gave up and gave in. Ten minutes later Eberbach was lowering
Eroica onto a pile of blankets, taking great care not to hurt him further, now
that his duty was finished and he could take the time to take such care.
Antiseptic salve in hand, warm water and washing cloths beside him, he reached
over to peel the robe from Eroica's back.
The Earl recoiled, rolling away from him, gasping with pain.
"Eroica?" Eberbach leaned over him, one hand pinning his
shoulder to keep him still. "Dorian?" he asked, more gently.
Gradually, the tousled head lifted and he saw the miserable expression
on the finely drawn features. Eroica looked exhausted, with fine lines running
beside his mouth and etched at the corners of his eyes. The normal sparkling
blue was dimmed, cloudy with pain and confusion.
And fear.
It was still there.
Not understanding why now, of all times, Eroica should actually be
afraid of him, when he'd never been afraid of him in the past -- even when he should
have been -- Eberbach reached out tentatively.
Eroica flinched.
Eberbach froze.
"What do you want?" the Earl whispered, the sound a tortured
sibilance from his throat.
"To help you," Eberbach responded immediately. "I need to
clean your wounds, Eroica. If they become infected, you could become very
ill." He paused, staring down into the Earl's widening eyes. "You
could scar." His hand lowered of its own accord and traced the path of one
curl, falling across Eroica's face. "You should not be scarred. It's not
... suitable."
"Suitable?" Eroica asked. The fear was fading, but the normal
flirtation hadn't returned. There was only more confusion in his expression.
"Your skin ..." Eberbach's voice trailed off. "Silk
shouldn't be scarred." He had no idea where that had come from. But
now that the lock was off his tongue, it had a mind of its own, and he couldn't
stop the words from flowing off it short of biting it off. "You were not
meant to bleed. You're no soldier. You're a thief, a rogue, a chameleon, a
spirit. You were not meant to be scarred. Pain should not touch you." He
swallowed, his hand moving from tracing the curls to clenching in them, pulling
the proud head back against the blankets. "You responded when he hurt you.
You climaxed. When he fucked you."
"Not when he hurt me," Eroica whispered. "For you,
Darling. I did it for you. I love you."
Eberbach's fingers tightened in the thick mass of hair, and he watched
with a curiously detached air as Eroica arched under his fist. A muffled
whimper of pain as the thief's shoulders ground into the harsh wool brought a
matching gasp to his own lips. Then his head was moving, and his face was
buried against that long neck, his mouth open as his teeth worried at the
fine-grained skin and curved tendon.
The robe parted, and hands were working at the buttons of his uniform.
His, the Earl's, he didn't know, didn't care. A strong thigh insinuated itself
against his groin, rubbing, pressing, and he gasped again, biting down harder
on the soft skin.
His chest was bare, air currents hot against him, then Eroica's skin,
even hotter, and his belt was unbuckled, and his flies were undone. The world
tilted, and he was staring up, not down, and intense blue eyes were staring
down, not up. A fall of gold filtered the sunlight around the edges of his
vision.
Elegant hands that were stronger than they looked were cupping the back
of his skull, and a mouth that had laughed at him, flirted with him, told him
he was loved, took his own. He couldn't remember ever being kissed, not just
with this wave of passion, but at all, in his entire life. Couldn't remember the
rush of blood under his skin and the ripple of energy through his entire body.
Couldn't remember ever being overtaken and over-run and conquered without a
sign of a fight.
His feet were trapped, trouser legs entangled around his boots. His
hands were trapped, caught up in that web of golden hair. His hips were
trapped, as strong thighs captured him. His phallus was trapped, as hot flesh
enfolded him, a vise of butter-soft heat that wrung moans from them both. His
heart was trapped, as the fear and confusion in the blue eyes above him were
swamped with a light he had never allowed himself to see before.
God damn us both, he thought, as his mind exploded along with his body.
But you are mine. And I am yours.
When the world righted itself, he eased a nearly-unconscious Eroica from
atop him. Arranged him flat on his stomach. Washed and dressed his wounds,
lingering along the edges of the welts, dipping his head to trace the blood
with his tongue. His mind replayed the beating he'd given the Mujahideen commander,
and he wished for the thousandth time that it had been his blood spilled, not
Eroica's.
He leaned forward to kiss the exact spot on one rounded shoulder that
Mahmud had kissed. Ran his hand defiantly along the lean sides, repeatedly over
the soft skin at the flanks, gently over one rounded buttock. Reclaimed his
property.
"Liebling," he whispered as he wrapped them both in a clean
army blanket, and held the thief who'd taken his heart from him, without his
ever knowing he'd had one to be stolen.
Not that he'd ever call Eroica 'darling' when the man was awake to hear
it. That was the Earl's game, not his. He was gone, but not that far gone.
Never that far gone.
fin
"There's a ghastly romanticism in the blood of an iron man."
From Eroica with Love, #9 The Alaskan Front (yes, there are at least two
meanings buried in that quote)