Bangkok Butterfly
A little bit more of my multi-parter Bangkok Butterfly. For shanmara.
Part 2
Angel was headed for the mountains. Spike knew it for certain. It would be easy to slip into Laos from there, then make a run for the next CIA hotspot, Vietnam, before the Communists caught up with him. Spike couldn’t quite believed it when he’d found the papers tuck in an inside pocket of Angel’s suit coat.
He’d been searching for a cigarette while Angel was having a shower, going through the closets and the dresser drawers, frantic for his nicotine fix. Their affair was going hot and heavy by then, but this was the first time they had ever come to Angel’s digs, a posh pile called Chiyman House. And Spike couldn’t deny he was doing a bit of snooping while he hunted for a fag.
The suite was clean and high-ceiling, the paddle fans whooshing the air around in the weighted midday heat, cooling the sweat on Spike’s face. The furniture was bamboo with lots of yellow and green cushions. Sprawled across the torn up bed, where they’d fucked in gasping desperation, Spike kicked his thin cotton pants to the floor. Angel hadn’t given him time to take them off. They were still tangled around one leg, and he flicked them away impatiently, his body wanting no encumbrances. He was a nudist at heart.
Spike lifted his head from the pillow to survey his surroundings. His arsehole ached pleasurably from the rough reaming he’d taken. He was nothing but melted bone, too brimful of enjoyment to get up, not wanting the feeling to trickle away like the warm wet pumped high in his back passage would if he righted himself. He stretched languidly, eyes roaming. As the blood that had churned up his cock finally headed back to his brain, his habitual craving returned with a vengeance. He would kill for a smoke.
Learning that Angel was a spook stunned Spike. At first. Then he’d tipped over into uncontrollable giggles. Nah. That couldn’t be right. It had to be a mistake. Not his bear of an American. The bloke who couldn’t hide anything from Spike, not even his preference in hair products.
After a few seconds that crept by in weird slow motion, what Spike held in his hands began to sink in. He felt the first stirring of panic. Stuffing the incriminating evidence back where he found it, he returned hurriedly to the bed. Just in time. The shower shut off with a clank of pipes, not that different from what Spike was used to hearing at his own bedsitter in the poorer part of town. Appeared in Bangkok, rusty pipes were universal. Fuck. He was thinking about plumbing when he might be murdered in the next few minutes for what he’d just found out.
His head barely hit the pillow as the bathroom door swung open. Angel stepped into the room, his long, sleekly muscled body gleaming wetly. Bars of sunlight, filtering through the partially closed blinds, stripped his pallid skin with licks of honey. His head was covered by the towel he was using to rub briskly at his dripping hair. Biceps flexed, belly stretched flat with the motion, he looked edible.
Spike marveled that he could be turned on and scared shitless all at the same time. He closed his eyes quickly, playing ‘dead’. Bare feet padded a soft approached. He swallowed the gasp that threatened as a big hand trailed over his sticky groin, Spike thanked his stars that he was a damn good actor. Had to be in his profession. He snuffled and rolled away, pretending to wake, blinking up at the face smiling down at him.
“Cat nap?”
Angel had about a twelve hour head start. It wasn’t a big lead, but considering the tosser was in perfect physical condition, it was enough to keep him out of reach. Spike took good care of himself. Still, whoring used a different set of muscles than being a covert pillock did.
The rain and the mud dragged at Spike until he ached everywhere at once. His thighs and calves were screaming blue blazes. They weren’t used to the kind of physical effort climbing demanded, even if it was a gradual uphill slope that looked fairly easy from the bottom. When he found Angel, he was going to beat him senseless, then never let go of him again-even if it meant they were handcuffed together for bloody life. Spike had been in plenty of fights. More kicking and head butting than punching, but he’d done that too. If he wanted it badly enough, he always won.
Ahead, he could just make out the hunched form of his guide, his rifle sweeping restlessly from side to side. The man was nervous. He had a right to be. There were bandits in these mountains who would kill you for a used postage stamp. Spike supposed he should have hired two or three more locals. He didn’t fancy taking on bandits or those Commie bastards alone. But he didn’t have the dosh for more than Jing or Chang or whatever the fuck his name was. The whole thing was a bloody basket of snakes.
Spike had known somewhere deep in his belly that Angel, the sodding bastard, was going to run and leave him behind.
Angel had come stumbling in one night with a bullet wound in his shoulder. It had blown the whole bloody business wide open. He confessed the Commies were onto him, led by some mysterious ponce he’d only heard about, a shadow agent name of Pulkin. The poof had escaped by the skin of his teeth. Spike wanted to hide him. There were people he knew, places to go where inquires would fall on deaf ears. He bound up the wound with tender hands, then berated Angel at the top of his lungs for the sodding prat he was.
“You bone-headed wanker. Who gave you permission to go get yourself plugged full of holes? I’ve known for weeks you were some kind of clueless spook. You’re about as sneaky as an elephant in a tutu. But never thought you’d let them use you for target practice. Stupid, buggering twat!”
“Jesus. Calm down. It’s under control. I got away, slipped their tail. I’d never lead them to you, Spike. You know that. I’ll just lay low, until things cool off. You’re safe. I promise.”
“Sod off. S’not me I’m worried about, fool. S’you. Bloody fucking hell, Angel! Look at you. Leaking all over my fancy digs.”Angel’s eyebrow lifted. Spike felt the knot in his gut loosen a little. The beginnings of a small tugged at the corners of his lips. “Semi-fancy digs,” he qualified, Angel laughing at him.
The fight ended with a shag, as all their fights did. Spike took the high ground, not wanting Angel to put any strain on his shoulder. Prick hard in his arse, the injured man spread out beneath him in humble surrender, Spike humped single-mindedly for his release. Stretch wide open around the heft of the big man’s prick, he tipped his head back, eyes clenched, forcing away all thoughts of Angel getting himself dead. When he blew, it was Vesuvius shooting lava the color of new milk over everything. Angel’s gusher followed, a burning fullness in his backside that tipped Spike over into a satiated puddle of melted toffee limbs.
As good as it was, one shag couldn’t mend what was wrong. They argued about it viciously for days. Angel wouldn’t be moved. He was taking too many chances, and Spike gave him a bollocking for it at every turn. Angel thought he finally had Spike placated by fucking him long and slow, night after night, in the damp sheets of his bed, the overhead fans breathing a blessed cool on their sweat-slick bodies. It was hard to fight when all you really wanted to do was roll in each other’s arms, cock to cock.
Angel promised to keep a low profile. He had an assignment, he assured Spike, find Pulkin and feed him to the dogs, and he wasn’t ready to give up on it yet. Spike pretended to be cosseted out of his premonition. But he waited warily for what he knew was coming. It didn’t take him completely by surprise, therefore, when Angel didn’t show up for their rendevous at a small restaurant they’d been frequenting for afternoon noshes.
The disappearance was about two weeks after the gunshot incident. Spike went through a pack of smokes sitting there, watching his fingers holding the thin, lighted stick of tobacco. A slim-hipped little waitress hovered nearby, offering him iced tea at intervals. He slugged it back like it was Johnny Walker, his jaw ticking tightly at every swallow. He’d finally pushed back his chair, leaving a small roll of bills on the table to cover his tab. It was time to give Angel’s rooms a thorough toss and see what fell out. Once he knew which way the berk was headed, he would have to move fast.
TBC
Part 2
Angel was headed for the mountains. Spike knew it for certain. It would be easy to slip into Laos from there, then make a run for the next CIA hotspot, Vietnam, before the Communists caught up with him. Spike couldn’t quite believed it when he’d found the papers tuck in an inside pocket of Angel’s suit coat.
He’d been searching for a cigarette while Angel was having a shower, going through the closets and the dresser drawers, frantic for his nicotine fix. Their affair was going hot and heavy by then, but this was the first time they had ever come to Angel’s digs, a posh pile called Chiyman House. And Spike couldn’t deny he was doing a bit of snooping while he hunted for a fag.
The suite was clean and high-ceiling, the paddle fans whooshing the air around in the weighted midday heat, cooling the sweat on Spike’s face. The furniture was bamboo with lots of yellow and green cushions. Sprawled across the torn up bed, where they’d fucked in gasping desperation, Spike kicked his thin cotton pants to the floor. Angel hadn’t given him time to take them off. They were still tangled around one leg, and he flicked them away impatiently, his body wanting no encumbrances. He was a nudist at heart.
Spike lifted his head from the pillow to survey his surroundings. His arsehole ached pleasurably from the rough reaming he’d taken. He was nothing but melted bone, too brimful of enjoyment to get up, not wanting the feeling to trickle away like the warm wet pumped high in his back passage would if he righted himself. He stretched languidly, eyes roaming. As the blood that had churned up his cock finally headed back to his brain, his habitual craving returned with a vengeance. He would kill for a smoke.
Learning that Angel was a spook stunned Spike. At first. Then he’d tipped over into uncontrollable giggles. Nah. That couldn’t be right. It had to be a mistake. Not his bear of an American. The bloke who couldn’t hide anything from Spike, not even his preference in hair products.
After a few seconds that crept by in weird slow motion, what Spike held in his hands began to sink in. He felt the first stirring of panic. Stuffing the incriminating evidence back where he found it, he returned hurriedly to the bed. Just in time. The shower shut off with a clank of pipes, not that different from what Spike was used to hearing at his own bedsitter in the poorer part of town. Appeared in Bangkok, rusty pipes were universal. Fuck. He was thinking about plumbing when he might be murdered in the next few minutes for what he’d just found out.
His head barely hit the pillow as the bathroom door swung open. Angel stepped into the room, his long, sleekly muscled body gleaming wetly. Bars of sunlight, filtering through the partially closed blinds, stripped his pallid skin with licks of honey. His head was covered by the towel he was using to rub briskly at his dripping hair. Biceps flexed, belly stretched flat with the motion, he looked edible.
Spike marveled that he could be turned on and scared shitless all at the same time. He closed his eyes quickly, playing ‘dead’. Bare feet padded a soft approached. He swallowed the gasp that threatened as a big hand trailed over his sticky groin, Spike thanked his stars that he was a damn good actor. Had to be in his profession. He snuffled and rolled away, pretending to wake, blinking up at the face smiling down at him.
“Cat nap?”
Angel had about a twelve hour head start. It wasn’t a big lead, but considering the tosser was in perfect physical condition, it was enough to keep him out of reach. Spike took good care of himself. Still, whoring used a different set of muscles than being a covert pillock did.
The rain and the mud dragged at Spike until he ached everywhere at once. His thighs and calves were screaming blue blazes. They weren’t used to the kind of physical effort climbing demanded, even if it was a gradual uphill slope that looked fairly easy from the bottom. When he found Angel, he was going to beat him senseless, then never let go of him again-even if it meant they were handcuffed together for bloody life. Spike had been in plenty of fights. More kicking and head butting than punching, but he’d done that too. If he wanted it badly enough, he always won.
Ahead, he could just make out the hunched form of his guide, his rifle sweeping restlessly from side to side. The man was nervous. He had a right to be. There were bandits in these mountains who would kill you for a used postage stamp. Spike supposed he should have hired two or three more locals. He didn’t fancy taking on bandits or those Commie bastards alone. But he didn’t have the dosh for more than Jing or Chang or whatever the fuck his name was. The whole thing was a bloody basket of snakes.
Spike had known somewhere deep in his belly that Angel, the sodding bastard, was going to run and leave him behind.
Angel had come stumbling in one night with a bullet wound in his shoulder. It had blown the whole bloody business wide open. He confessed the Commies were onto him, led by some mysterious ponce he’d only heard about, a shadow agent name of Pulkin. The poof had escaped by the skin of his teeth. Spike wanted to hide him. There were people he knew, places to go where inquires would fall on deaf ears. He bound up the wound with tender hands, then berated Angel at the top of his lungs for the sodding prat he was.
“You bone-headed wanker. Who gave you permission to go get yourself plugged full of holes? I’ve known for weeks you were some kind of clueless spook. You’re about as sneaky as an elephant in a tutu. But never thought you’d let them use you for target practice. Stupid, buggering twat!”
“Jesus. Calm down. It’s under control. I got away, slipped their tail. I’d never lead them to you, Spike. You know that. I’ll just lay low, until things cool off. You’re safe. I promise.”
“Sod off. S’not me I’m worried about, fool. S’you. Bloody fucking hell, Angel! Look at you. Leaking all over my fancy digs.”Angel’s eyebrow lifted. Spike felt the knot in his gut loosen a little. The beginnings of a small tugged at the corners of his lips. “Semi-fancy digs,” he qualified, Angel laughing at him.
The fight ended with a shag, as all their fights did. Spike took the high ground, not wanting Angel to put any strain on his shoulder. Prick hard in his arse, the injured man spread out beneath him in humble surrender, Spike humped single-mindedly for his release. Stretch wide open around the heft of the big man’s prick, he tipped his head back, eyes clenched, forcing away all thoughts of Angel getting himself dead. When he blew, it was Vesuvius shooting lava the color of new milk over everything. Angel’s gusher followed, a burning fullness in his backside that tipped Spike over into a satiated puddle of melted toffee limbs.
As good as it was, one shag couldn’t mend what was wrong. They argued about it viciously for days. Angel wouldn’t be moved. He was taking too many chances, and Spike gave him a bollocking for it at every turn. Angel thought he finally had Spike placated by fucking him long and slow, night after night, in the damp sheets of his bed, the overhead fans breathing a blessed cool on their sweat-slick bodies. It was hard to fight when all you really wanted to do was roll in each other’s arms, cock to cock.
Angel promised to keep a low profile. He had an assignment, he assured Spike, find Pulkin and feed him to the dogs, and he wasn’t ready to give up on it yet. Spike pretended to be cosseted out of his premonition. But he waited warily for what he knew was coming. It didn’t take him completely by surprise, therefore, when Angel didn’t show up for their rendevous at a small restaurant they’d been frequenting for afternoon noshes.
The disappearance was about two weeks after the gunshot incident. Spike went through a pack of smokes sitting there, watching his fingers holding the thin, lighted stick of tobacco. A slim-hipped little waitress hovered nearby, offering him iced tea at intervals. He slugged it back like it was Johnny Walker, his jaw ticking tightly at every swallow. He’d finally pushed back his chair, leaving a small roll of bills on the table to cover his tab. It was time to give Angel’s rooms a thorough toss and see what fell out. Once he knew which way the berk was headed, he would have to move fast.
TBC