Apologies also to Diane Duane and Peter Morwood. My Romulan is based upon their Rihannsu.
Also, many thanks to all who first read this and gave it the thumbs up. You know who you are!

The Terran (1)

They suggested that I start a personal log. I have said very little since arriving and, needing the comfort of words filling a page, decided to write this journal. It's a peculiar desire in our age of extreme ease and instant gratification, but I refuse to record this vocally. Listening to my own voice has been unbearable since that awful moment. I forever hear my last words to her.

I'm not certain what good this will do and the despairing part of me knows nothing can really help. But I suppose there's something to be said for eventually putting it all down, eventually letting it all out. I think that if I walk around with all of this inside, what little is left of Timothy Lang will gradually be dissolved bit by bit.

The staff here is made up of many of the Federation's races but I have the most contact with the Vulcan members of staff. They are a peculiar lot. Even if they find what I have to say here totally beyond their comprehension -- or even worse, totally offensive -- I know I'll see no judgement in their eyes. I think I should be happy that I ended up in this particular Federation penitentiary circling this remote, alien star, with Vulcans as my keepers. It's a silly prejudice Terrans have about Vulcans, that somehow they are "better" than we are, never mind how many times they have shown they can be just as "human" as we. I think we want to see them as some sort of idealisation of the Terran race.

No matter. 

So, you see, it's easier for me to talk about the present than what happened a few short months ago. Already, that past life seems as if it belongs to someone else. The intensity, the break-neck speed, the insanity and pain; it all seems to have evaporated under this relentless foreign sun. My dreams, my fears, my nightmares have all been seared out of me, replaced by this stillness I do not recognise. I understand that I am waiting, like a Terran afternoon locked in deep summer and dead quiet with a violent storm's approach.


The Romulan (1)

Perversely, when I speak my native tongue, even without the aid of their universal translator, I am understood. They do not see my unwillingness to respond to them, my lack of cooperation, as defiance. There is no offence where none is taken and I want to hate them for this maxim. I want to hate them for the simpering servility it implies, never mind that it seems to give them an inner strength. Always their eyes are carefully expressionless, accepting my most unacceptable behaviour without reaction.

I grow weary of it.

When I arrived, they asked what name I was given. I only smiled at them. My Romulan physiology had not yet started restoring itself and I hoped wildly that the sight of a Vulcan face coldly smiling would rattle them and I waited to see their disapproval. There was nothing. I gave them nothing. They continue to call me Sirik and it's a name as good as any so far from my home.

They have said that if I do not desire it, no one will hear this log. I believe them. But I made it clear that their actions were of no concern to me. I do this for myself, to hear the sound of Rihannsu, to be certain I do not forget, to contemplate the extent of my failure.

In a moment of sheer folly, I believed I would be successful. Even as I felt consciousness slipping away, I *knew* the Changeling would die. The slaughter at the Omarion Nebula would be avenged. My mother, my brothers could find some small comfort in the vacuum of their graves. Interfering, Cardassian *verruul*! Of all aboard Deep Space Nine, the Cardassian should have understood my actions. Blood must not run through Cardassian veins for if it did, he would have joined me in watching the Founder, who calls himself Odo, die.

Sisko was true to his word. All attempts by my government to retrieve me came to naught. It was as I expected. As I told the Changeling, escape was never a certainty in my plan. But now, I am here: he is there and my mother's ghost visits me still.


Timothy Lang (2)

I don't know how the days pass. I can't tell you what I have done, aside from take my meals, take what walks around these extensive grounds I can, sit quietly and clear my mind for I dare not think. And so, one day becomes so like another. I am not pressed to find hobbies, interests, nor to begin studies I have always wanted to do. I am not pressed to speak to the Healer who comes each afternoon and sits beside me. She always asks permission softly, almost too softly for my Terran hearing to catch. Then, her long fingers find the contact points of my face and for only seconds, I am not alone. I have learned, scary though it is, this is not a very deep meld at all. It is only the most surface of scans and her eyes, like midnight, drink me in when she severs our contact. The gods only know what these sessions tell her. I don't ask and she doesn't volunteer any information.

So odd that these few Vulcans would choose to exile themselves from their home planet and work here amongst us illogical, emotional offworlders. For me, they are the living example of the good of the many outweighing the needs of the few. For the good of the Federation, they come here amongst us, seeking to banish our personal demons. We are all light-years from our homes, thrown together in the futile hope that we poor tormented ones can eventually find some peace. 

Because I can't do anything else, I watch the other residents. People watching is a skill I learned from her. My Sarah (There! I've written her name) could sit for hours watching people, watching everything around her, making observations that would sometimes find their way into bits of her unfinished tales. Would these faces here interest her? This installation is high security but contains only those deemed not a danger to other residents. Not confidence inspiring for I wonder to whom they *would* be a danger. Me, I am only a danger to myself.

One of my fellow residents is a Vulcan. Funny to see him here amongst this crowd. It is almost impossible to put together, Vulcan and criminal. But I do not think I am really a criminal and I wonder if I delude myself in this. After all, Sarah *is* dead. 

But this Vulcan, he is not like other Vulcans. I have seen that deadly smile he uses so well. Thank the gods for our few Vulcan staff members: any other race would be turned to stone by it. I can't help the tremors that pass through me when I see it and I know what he's thinking. In some way I do not understand, it is alluring and I begin to think about moths and flames.

He keeps himself to himself and I can identify with this need. I can't help wondering what his story is. Everyone else here seems to have sorted themselves into groups. Even if these groups are unstable, changing almost hourly, every other resident has exhibited the desire for company. Like any other society, they arrange themselves into those on top and those near or on the bottom. Some amount of struggle - though not particularly violent - is inevitable.

The two of us keep our distance and watch this ancient aspect of humanoid behaviour unfold. We are only mildly interested.

Have I found a kindred spirit? If I have, how ever do I approach him?

Sirik (2)

The dreams are strong. They come to me with an immediacy more real than these walls that surround me, this heat that oppresses me. They say the world of my ancestors, Vulcan, is very like this hell of a world. Perhaps. It would explain our endurance and our tenacity.

That I am stronger than these nightmares is all that preserves my sanity. She no longer speaks, my mother's ghost, but stares through me with those eyes that see nothing living. My brothers grow faint, as if she were sucking out of them whatever spirit power they still have. The stubbornness she always had in abundance in life stays with her in death.

As if I could forget. As if every day my eyes open again is not a curse.

They leave me be here. A healer comes daily. I do not want her near me. They may keep their mind touch -- for all their protestations that nothing is altered, nothing is taken. They want to "cure" me, to "help" me. I do not listen to their lies.

Here in this place, it is possible to be alone. I need not interact with this alien population if I do not wish. So benevolent, so like the Federation. Everything designed to make life here as easy for the incarcerated as possible. This is not punishment. This is rehabilitation. But what of those like me who do not desire this? I will never be convinced to give up my quest. The Founder must die.
*****

The Andorian was looking for a fight. He was begging for one. I do not know how we were separated and I confess that we were evenly matched. What they lack in strength is compensated for in daring and cunning. He fought with a violent frenzy to match my own and it amazed me to discover, once my fury had passed, that it was a Terran male who held me.

With a strength I could not believe, he pushed me to one side and sat me down. From a nearby replicator he procured water and watched closely as I drank it in one gulp. The Andorian's cohorts, under the urging of our warders, had ushered him out of my sight and I felt a modicum of calm. I turned to this human.

He flushed under my gaze and, betraying no thoughts nor feelings, I stared into his eyes until he lowered them. He shifted from one foot to the other foot and did not speak. When I handed him the empty glass, he took it, brushing my fingers as he did. 

Terrans. So many of them are like children, their thoughts and their needs on display for all to see. Appallingly lacking in discipline; too willing to give.

Right now, I find that I am more than willing to take.

I waited for him to speak and slowly began to realise that he was not going to say a word. He looked at me then, held my gaze, surprised, but without fear and I saw the realisation hit him. I smiled. He had believed me to be Vulcan.

I shifted over, making room for him beside me. Perhaps I was testing him. He did not hesitate. As if his legs refused to hold him up a second longer, he collapsed beside me. But then, he flushed again, as if uncertain what to do now that he was so close to me. Feeling no such confusion, I moved closer to him, seeking to crowd around him.  Language is only one way, perhaps the poorest, to establish a connection.

Only for an instant did I think he would bolt from me. Then, his eyes closed and he leaned towards me, seeking my shoulder. My arms seemed to know that this human should be pressed tightly to me: I was hardly aware of having moved to embrace him.

Soft light brown skin. He is not as dark as our darkest races. But from what I know about Terrans, I guessed one of his parents to be from his planet's darker people, the other from lighter stock. I could feel that wiry strength that had desperately held me in my anger. His abundant curly hair was soft against my cheek and as I closed my eyes, I saw his light brown eyes and how they had looked at me. It was the appearance of one of the warders that brought me back to myself with a start and it was most disconcerting to admit to clinging to my human as a half drowned man clings to any piece of floating debris.

Timothy Lang (3)

He's Romulan. How did I never see it? Romulan. Just thinking about it makes my blood turn to ice water and all body functions stop. But it isn't fear exactly. I look at him and I am unafraid, though I know I should be terrified. If thought is possible, it is only to think of the next time those extraordinarily strong arms will hold me; to speculate when I'll next be so close to him, I feel the rapid beat of his heart in his side. His hands are hot, like his Vulcan cousins', like his ancestors', like this world.

This state of mind is familiar and unwanted. Whatever could I have been thinking, allowing him to get so close to me? I don't have a choice. Just as I could only watch as Sarah and I raced towards the chasm yawning before us, I see this Romulan and can only wonder how I will pick up my pieces once the inevitable occurs.
*****

My oasis is about two miles or so from our habitat. This hot, little world is uninhabited, except for us and the few small creatures that can survive the paucity of water and the heat. Within reason, we are allowed our freedom and, after a time, I began to make use of this. I stumbled upon this spot one afternoon as I drove myself as hard as I dare in this inhospitable climate. It's enough of a hike away from the main facility to discourage most of the others from making the journey. I began to visit my secret spot more often after the incident with the Romulan.

No. I mustn't call him the Romulan -- as if he means nothing to me. Sirik is how he's known here and he has not told even me his proper name. It doesn't matter. If he had told me no name at all, everything would still be as it is now. My life is his and I know now that his is mine. I wonder if he let's himself ponder exactly what this means? How, in this place of so little hope, we have found each other; given each other tiny bits of comfort; looked at each other and not needed words.

So like how it was with Sarah. But I have been trying not to think about that and perhaps this is why I was driven to strike out into this barren wilderness, as if running could stop the panic and the terror.

This morning, Sirik was there. I didn't see him at first, lying in the shade, moving his long hands through the small pool there and seemingly mesmerised by the ripples he made. My heart stopped when I caught sight of him and only for an instant, I felt vaguely violated.

He looked up and I waited for that smile he reserves for me. But it did not appear. He just stared at me with those eyes like starless night and alarm bells sounded in my head. I ignored them and took advantage of the fact that Sirik lay on his stomach, hands before him in the cool water. I began to rub his back, my mind looking on in horror as my body took complete control. I imagined my need flowing from the centre of my being, down my arms, to my hands and through my fingers. Were the Romulans like their Vulcan cousins? I vaguely wondered. Could Sirik feel this overwhelming desire for him burning through me as intense as this angry white dwarf sun scorching these white sands?

When he moved, it was the pounce of a great cat upon its oblivious prey. Reason fleetingly returned and I was under him, my shirt up and his mouth on my chest. His arousal pressed into mine and as all thought left me, I slipped my hands under his shirt, desperate to feel that hot skin next to mine. Leisurely, he lapped at each nipple, sometimes his tongue pressing hard against me, sometimes the softest of touches. He murmured in that lyrical language of his and then bit me, causing me to wrap my legs about him, throw my head back and moan into the empty expanse around us.

He smiled at me then. Quickly I was divested of my shirt. Everything else soon followed. He watched me closely as he stripped himself, enjoying my reaction as more and more of his lean body was revealed to me. When he was naked, I pulled him to me, unafraid to use all the strength I possessed. 

His exquisite ears; one came within my reach and I nuzzled him there, felt him responding to my humming as I thoroughly explored the creases and curves with my tongue. He sighed, held me closer, his embrace knocking the air from my lungs until some small part of him that did not burn remembered my Terran limitations. My hand seemed to move of its own accord, reaching between us to fondle his tight scrotum before tracing his hard, thick cock. He thrust once or twice into my hand and then turned slightly from me to fumble for his sack.

I could not help the whimper that escaped me as I watched his slick hand stroke his cock again and again, a predatory glitter in his eyes. He flipped me to my stomach effortlessly, pulling me gently but firmly to my knees as long, slick fingers found the opening to my body.

Now, now, my heart pounded and I felt him rock into me, slowly but insistently. I was filled completely by him, pushed back desperately to meet his rhythmic thrusts. Thighs to buttocks, gasping with the effort to obtain maximum pleasure, his thrusts reached that spot deep inside me and when a hot hand wrapped itself around my aching member, I was finished. My seed shot out across the sand and my scream shattered the silent morning.

I came to my senses on my back, Sirik's talented mouth around my cock. My brain could barely process what was happening, even as my body began to respond to his sucking and lapping. Despite having come just a short while ago, that lovely cock of his was hardening. I watched him, how his head rose and fell between my legs, ran my fingers through his very black hair, then felt that familiar tingling as my second orgasm suddenly began to build. It tore through me every bit as intense as the first and my last coherent thought was wonder that I would be capable of maintaining this pace he set.

He took me on my back, my legs on his shoulders.

I was incapable of movement or speech and deliciously sore when we were through. He smiled at me gently as he washed and dressed me. Protected from the worse of the midday sun, we dozed in each others' arms, content to let the hot hours of the day roll over us.
**********

His thrashing woke me. The grimace on his handsome face made my heart beat double time. I held my breath and watched, mesmerised as the hoarse murmuring rose in pitch, his hands came up and beat the empty air as if warding off deadly enemies.

A rough shout and he bolted upright, eyes wide and breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked at me and for a second, did not know me.

I thought my heart would burst from my chest. I gave him water from the pool. His eyes closed briefly as he drank, sighed deeply and then was his self again. I cradled him, holding him as tightly as I could. He allowed it. Then, to my astonishment, he spoke to me in perfect Standard.

- Do you know the Omarion Nebula? -

It seemed to me at that moment that all time completely stopped. It took enormous effort to merely nod my head, hoping Sirik would continue even though I knew how this story would end.

His voice was totally devoid of all emotion as I came to understand the depths of his grief; Mnhei'sahe, the Ruling Passion, that now ruled his life. Terrans have no word to describe it. Words like "obsession" and "revenge" are inadequate and lack the subtly implied sense of justice, of balance in the Ruling Passion.

How could I not understand? The thing that squeezed my heart was that I understood all too well. After he fell silent, as I noted the small, hot sun beginning its descent, I replied to his trust with a trust of my own. I began to talk about Sarah and realised that what bound Sirik and me together was not our passion, but our pain.
**********

Sirik (3)

At last I know Timothy's story.

I had been following him to his oasis for some time, watching him until I knew I had to return to the compound before the heat finished me. That he would venture out to the very limit of his endurance increased his appeal a hundredfold. I began to realise that I had chosen well.

On those days when I followed Timothy, upon returning to the compound, I tried not to reveal how uneasy it made me to see the warders watching me walk out of the desert. As if they knew my secret, knew my intentions almost before I did. I returned their questioning gazes, unwilling to quake before their intrusiveness.

His spot was perfect. The opportunity to take him was perfectly presented. It never occurred to me for a second that I would not have him. I watched him approach, my lust growing with every footfall that brought him closer. He had been surprised to see me and his surprise was coloured by another emotion - disbelief at my audacity.

He changed before my eyes. A lust to match my own overtook him. I allowed him just enough time to touch me, felt his desire growing. Then, I took him. I gave him only a taste of what is to come, watched him swoon, wondered about the wisdom of unleashing all that I am, then knew that Timothy is one of the few beings in the galaxy who can hold my beast. 

I can scarcely believe that I fell asleep. This speaks volumes for the comfort of his arms, that I had no thought of the dream and so, to wake screaming frightened me as much as it seemed to terrify him. When I saw him keep his head, even when I did not know him, I knew it was time to share my burden.

Afterwards, he shared his and I think the two of us would have sat as we were for days and nights, if we could, as ghosts from our past surrounded us and held us together. Thoughts of curfew violations and the revoking of privileges spurred us on. We made it back to the compound only just in time with hardly a minute to spare. 

Sarah. The look in his eyes is like a knife in my heart when he speaks her name. He cannot understand her death. But for me, it is easily apparent that she had no choice. I watched as he went back to the beginning, back to their first meeting on that planet that received recognition only because of its location in disputed space. Both Cardassia and the Federation claimed this region of space and Sarah was just one of many caught in the middle of the titanic clash.

So soft, his face was as he wondered aloud why she even looked at him twice. Brilliant and beautiful, what could she see in a vagabond from earth who could not even make the smallest decision about his life? Why had she chosen him?

I held my peace. He is not ready to know the answer to that question. 

He whispered to me, as if we stood in a crowded hall and what he had to say were for my ears alone. His distress was apparent only in the way he absentmindedly fingered the sleeves of my shirt, as he tried to release what that life on the border of Federation/Cardassian space had meant. Having wandered from Earth, to its moon, out to Mars, never finding the one thing that would complete him, he eventually found himself thousands of light years away from that other, aimless life.

She admitted him into her world. He says she was his sanctuary, a place he could exist where the concerns of everyday life could not touch him. Strange to hear this desire actually given voice, as if duty and responsibility mean nothing. Perhaps to Terrans, these things *are* unimportant. Timothy was happy. Sarah, modestly successful with her writing, had a small following across the Federation. Their world was calm and restful and Timothy maintains that her best works are from this time.

He did not permit himself to think of the long term, he tells me. Living day to day with her was enough, an experience he never thought to have. But a foreboding seized me as he remembered these idyllic days. The two of them lived in their own cocoon, Timothy wrapped up in Sarah's bohemian life style. Perhaps for a time he could refuse to find his place in his society but eventually, that path can only lead to disaster.

Then, the Cardassians came.

She could not believe that the Federation -- that *Starfleet* would do nothing as the Cardassians arrived, making promises everyone knew would not be kept. Sarah published no new books, could not even compose a sentence that gave her real pleasure. Could barely think coherently, Timothy remembered. Over night, as if someone had flipped a switch, she became a different person. Nothing was as important as driving out the Cardassians.

And so, the writer, who knew nothing about a life of war, became a terrorist.

When Timothy threatened to leave her, she calmly agreed that he should. When he pleaded with her to come with him, she calmly explained why that was not possible. When the Maquis were hunted by Starfleet Intelligence as well as the Obsidian Order, Sarah merely added another enemy to the list and though Timothy's despair grew, still he could not leave her.

There was safe house after safe house, hideouts on moons, on planets regularly buffeted by ion storms. There was time spent hiding in the Badlands.  More times than he could count or even remember, he waited as she completed each new mission, wondering as he watched her go if he were seeing her for the last time. His eyes, such a peculiar shade of brown, grew misty as he travelled back to that time and once again tasted that fear. He never wanted to know all the details of her work with the Maquis, or just what her place in the organisation was. But it was inevitable that he'd become involved in their dealings, however small that involvement. He could never say no to Sarah. He began to pray for sudden death when it came -- cut down with a whine of Cardassian phaser fire. No torture in a Cardassian prison.

I did not know whether to be relieved or disgusted when I felt a twinge of old, hard to suppress instincts. Locked inside this man was information that could be useful to the Tal Shiar -- had the Tal Shiar been in any condition to receive it. Not long ago, the prospect of unlocking this particular puzzle and plucking the information I wanted would have been exhilarating. But I looked at my Terran, how fragile he looked at that precise moment. Whatever secrets he chose to keep would remain his. 

It was inevitable that comrades would be captured or killed. What amazed him was that it took so long to touch Sarah. She would turn to him for comfort then, losing herself in the physical only to press her face against him and sob uncontrollably when they both were spent.

I could only hold myself very still as his whispering floated up and away into the vast skies above us. He turned to me, a blankness on his face that stopped my breath.

-If I had refused to make love to her unless she came away with me, would she still be alive?-

The ending, when it came, was swift and not from the Cardassians as Timothy had feared.

The Maquis had been destroyed. There was no leadership to speak of, only fragments of cells whose surviving members desperately tried to lose themselves throughout Federation space. Timothy and Sarah should have disappeared like water sucked into these desert sands. Having somehow arranged passage on an old Terran freighter, the pair were headed back into the heart of the alpha quadrant, confident that the anonymity of billions of humanoids would swallow them. They could not know the state of the vessel that carried them, though it should have been obvious from the fare the captain had charged. 

They suffered a nearly total systems failure. In the chaos that followed, Timothy never found out the cause of so catastrophic an event. A rescue was needed and quickly. It was a Starfleet vessel that responded. The crippled craft's flight plan was easily deduced. Since it had been in the vicinity of the Badlands, a check was done on the ship, the captain and the two passengers on board. As if it were yesterday, Timothy remembered how his heart slammed against his ribcage and when the Starfleet captain decided to question them, he knew places in a Federation penitentiary awaited them all.

Through it all, she was silent at his side. He could not understand the expression on her face, in her eyes. 

As they received warning of imminent transport, something cool and metallic was slipped into one of his hands. There was no time to remind her of the weapons screen all Starfleet vessels possessed to varying degrees. He was unsurprised to find a forcefield around the pad as they materialised and panicked as he realise he held a long, thin blade. Its twin was in Sarah's hand. Her eyes sought his as she drew it across her own throat.

-Oh no. Oh, gods. I can't... I can't... don't leave me....-

When he moaned these words, I knew they were the last words he said to her. I knew also that for Timothy, no time had passed. He would stand on that transporter pad forever, watching the life leave Sarah's body. He ground his palms into his eyes and told me that she seemed to take an eternity to fall. When she did, everything stopped.
**********

Timothy Lang (4)

My days here appear to be numbered.

I don't know what made me realise that the Healer knows. It should not surprise me that she does. However, I am petrified, absolutely petrified, that they will separate us. We have been discreet, more for Sirik's sake than mine. The face he presents to them is the face of the loner, the one aloof who doesn't need anyone or anything. I am always surprised at any small gesture of affection he occasionally displays in public. I am certain the other residents realise I am his because they keep their distance. As for our keepers, how could they not know?

Does he see it? Does he realise? I think he does. But he won't show them that it concerns him. After so short a time, I can sometimes see so clearly how his mind works. Don't let them think they have some hold, some power, over you. Though there is so *much* I don't really understand about him, I know that this particular thing is true. He is a master at indifference, at hiding behind his sense of superiority. It frightens me sometimes because even the suspicion that he might not care for me as I care for him makes me want to die.

The Healer believes I'm improving. In typical Vulcan fashion, merely stating her observation as if there were no satisfaction to be gained for either of us in the knowledge, she informed me of this fact. She told me my case is being reviewed and that she can no longer see any logical reason for me to be here. I suspect that now that I can face the recent past, Starfleet Intelligence has decided that anything I might know about the Maquis is inconsequential.

I looked into the Healer's dark eyes and we both understood the truth of my improvement, who is responsible for it, and this truth remained unspoken between us. My thoughts of Sarah had long been deeply buried, memories I never wanted to face again. Now I carried them very near the surface of my mind, able to remember our good times, her hard work, her genius. The pain of her death is still so immediate, but every minute with Sirik, engulfed by his strength, lessens the despair.

If she sees my improvement, does she also see that I am the closest I have been, since the *good* days with Sarah, to happiness and contentment? She doesn't understand, I think. She doesn't see that if I am released, or transferred to some facility closer to civilisation, if I'm separated from him, I can't say what I might do.

I could only think of leaving here under one condition and I think I've always known that that condition will never be met. To ask Sirik to forget about his quest, I might as well expect night not to follow day. But if I didn't try to convince him, how would I live with myself? Gods. Does he love me enough to contemplate giving up Mnhei'sahe? Do I love him so little that I could even ask this of him?

He would not follow me to the oasis. I wanted to hit him, to pound him into the ground for his refusal. I looked into his eyes and I knew he could see what I desperately wanted. He knew I wanted to talk to him, that I needed his assurances more than anything. He just looked at me, his face unreadable and shook his head.

Only a few were in the garden with us to witness my humiliation. Quicker than thought I raised a fist to strike him. In a heartbeat, he had dodged my punch and seized my wrists, his grip like steel bands. He pushed me back until I came up hard against one of the nearby trees. The more I struggled, the tighter his grip became until I stood as still as I could and saw the triumph in his eyes. I hated the moment he realised how aroused I'd become. He pressed himself against me, covering me completely with his strong, lean body, squeezing my wrists when I tried to twist in protest. He murmured in Rihannsu words I understood by now and covered my mouth with his. 

His hot tongue explored my mouth, stole my breath, took the very words I would have said to him. He drew back then, stopping before I could cross that point of no return. When he saw my eyes flicker to our small audience, he smiled that predator's smile and released my bruised wrists. I was hardly aware of running my hands up and down his sides, pausing slightly over his rapidly beating heart. In Rihannsu, he commanded me to follow him and started away from the knowing eyes that marked our departure. He led me deeper into the lush and silent garden.

Whatever he wanted I knew I would do.
**********

Sirik (4)

He followed me without a word, his anger long since given way to his need. There was no protest as I pushed him into the thick grass, claimed his mouth and pushed his trousers down. I wrapped my hand around his cock, already hard, his juices leaking from the tip. I was driven beyond reason by his smell and was only vaguely aware being divested of my clothing.

He gasped at the contact. But I did not pause to savour the sensation. Quick as anything, I took him into my mouth and moaned my pleasure when he indicated that I should shift so that he could do the same.

If only we had hours, days, eternity to lie just so - my nose against his balls, the scent of him filling me; my cock stroked by his tongue, expertly sucked, reaching the back of his throat. Impossibly, his cock grew even harder in my mouth, twitched as if something alive in its own right. I was suddenly released from the warm wetness of his mouth as Timothy's orgasm seized him. He pressed his face against the inside of my thigh as he tightened his hold on me as if on life itself and thrust uncontrollably into my mouth. I sucked him hard and grasped his buttocks, vaguely aware that my fingers would leave deep bruises there. Only when he slumped against me did I release him to nuzzle and lick his penis and scrotum. 

My need was great, the only thing in the universe at that moment. I positioned Timothy on his knees and elbows, eliciting a low moan that seemed to come from the depths of him. I could not resist running my hands over his backside before parting his cheeks carefully. I trailed my tongue over each, delighted in his whimpers and laughed quietly as he pushed back slightly against my mouth, desperate for my tongue to find the centre of him. When it did, he gave a small cry and tried to thrust back. Relishing his most intimate taste, I held him still and took my time, though my leaking cock would not long be ignored. I felt Timothy's surrender as my tongue breached his tight muscle and the pleasure washed over him.

I could no longer wait. My saliva was the only lubricant we had, my tongue his only preparation. He grunted when he felt the tip of my penis against him. Again I gripped him and pushed, slowly but without stopping, not to be deterred in my quest for his tight heat. Buried inside him, my balls against him, I pushed him into the grass and lay still atop him, allowing him to grow used to the feel of me. When I felt him wiggle, I started to thrust, slowly, rhythmically, murmuring my love in between tonguing the small exotic ear easily within my reach. He hummed as he met my thrusts, eyes squeezed shut with the ecstasy of it all and I drank in his expression, sped up, wanted all of him so desperately, wanted to hold him here like this forever. My orgasm blazed out of nowhere and consumed us both.

I stroked his flanks, damp beneath me and kissed him and again and again as I softened within him. His tears came then, escaping though his eyes were tightly shut.

It is difficult for me too. Perhaps he realised then. But our parting is inevitable. Nothing the two of us do or say will stop from happening what must happen. I can only love him, leave my mark on him, make it so he will never forget our loving and our passion; make it so that every other being he takes to himself is a shadow of that for which he truly yearns. While he wanders throughout the quadrant, his heart and soul will be on this dessert world with me: he will never forget where I am.
 
Our fingers were entwined and I tightened my grasp before pulling out of him. Timothy sobbed with the loss and I soon held him in my arms allowing his grief to swallow us both. I did know what he would ask of me. I cannot expect him to understand. In time, he would learn what it means to ask me to forego Mnhei'sahe. But time is the very thing we do not have right now.

We dressed slowly, pulling on clothing that had barely survived its removal, that made us just barely presentable and I reflected that he was as good as taken from me already. It had cost nothing to risk discovery in the depths of the central garden.  Too soon I shall have to be content with just memories of his look, his feel, his taste and smell; the quiet strength of him submitting to me. It is that strength which bends but does not break that I need - that perhaps Sarah also needed. One day I will make certain he knows the truth of what he has to give.
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