Big Chicago

Big Chicago (part 26)…by Samayel


So many things. What a life to live. I barely have time to think. I used to have nothing but time to think. Now I train, and the thoughts still come, but I’m almost too tired to form them properly. Seven years of watching television in silence, absorbing only the tidbits of pop culture and news that fell my way by chance, keeping my thoughts to myself because it was safer than showing any nerve. That was my life. That was hell. This…now…is supposed to be heaven.

I just never imagined heaven involving so much exercise.

Along with lovely new ID cards and personal effects, I’ve had to memorize a separate personal history, drilled on the details until I can recite them like I believe them. Deacon Malloy only exists as an employee of the Phoenix Corporation, and will only come into play when I need him. And that isn’t all I’ve been up to lately.

Language programs. Harry’s computer has been my office for the last week, running me through upper level Spanish, French and Italian lessons, building up my outdated and little used reading skills for fast translation. It helps that I’m good at languages naturally, but six hours a day is enough to give me a headache…in any language!

Then there’s the exercise room, and Harry is a hard taskmaster. Snape may be one mean SOB, but Harry is half drill sergeant at heart. I run and work out until I can barely move in the morning, then I get my shower and breakfast. My butt has been healing fast, and the red and irritated area where I used to have a scar has faded a lot more in just a short while, but it still smarts when I sweat…and although I’ve often claimed that I would never do anything as common as perspire…when Harry puts me through the paces…I sweat like a nervous whore in church, and I can’t help it. I’m sure Doc Snape would approve…since this entire affair involves me being sore and miserable.

The goal is that, should anything bad happen, I should be ready to run at a moment’s notice, with Harry at my side, and not be useless baggage that needs looking after. Fuck, I even agreed to this, believing that about myself and wanting to change it, even while Harry protested that it wasn’t true, but I never imagined anything as specific as my whole body hurting while I flop into bed every night!

I’ve been to the ‘office’, too. I’ve seen where Harry’s crew works, and where I’ll be working very soon. The old warehouse it’s hidden in is just a façade, just like the building I live in now. Inside, it’s a fortress of hidden rooms and a maze of old, unused machinery. The elevator inside leads down to the basement level, where the real office is tucked away…along with a state of the art computer system that would make a university research facility blush with pride. The security is tight, and Harry already warned me about forgetting to use my pass card at each entrance. The protections outside are all non lethal, allowing them to quickly get rid of anyone knocked out by the gas canisters that discharge if you don’t use a pass card properly. Typically, bums and squatters wind up getting driven to a quiet place and dumped off, still sleeping, only to wake up with their memory muddled by the gas, unsure of what the hell just happened to them. Either way, nothing I’d want to tamper with.

There are reams of recordings stored by computer, including wiretapped conversations from around the world, and memos from the internal offices of security and intelligence gathering groups around the world. Sophisticated programs break the information down and separate critical issues and potentially valuable transmissions, which are only checked and verified by hand after being filtered through lots of software. This is where the translation work comes in. High speed, high pressure scanning of lots of documents, one after another, sometimes in multiple languages during the same day, since priority isn’t determined by language group. It isn’t French one day, German the next. It’s whatever looks important at the moment, and you might go through a dozen languages in a day. Well…if you’re Parvati or Hermione, or one of the other people who work at different hours of day or night. I only know a few of the Romance languages, so I’ll get a mix of those and English at first. I might have to broaden my knowledge of local dialects before I have real value, though.

In the meantime, while I’m still training, I’ve had to face one ugly little task that I hate above all others. If I didn’t love Harry, I would never do this. Some things are easy for some people. Like golf. Some like it, some don’t. This is one of those things I hate, but even I see the basic purpose behind me learning this kind of thing. It’s just that, deep in my heart, it really is something I never wanted to do.

I have to learn to shoot a gun.

Daddy tried to take me hunting a few times. Mostly for birds and small game. It was less about eating and more about hanging out with power players and bigwigs while you blow away anything with fur or feathers. I hated it. I always missed on purpose, because I never really wanted to be responsible for killing anything. Plus, they lugged the carcasses around like trophies, crowing about what a fine day it was, and all I remember was looking at the bloody corpse of something that had been flying or scurrying around that morning, and thinking that their eyes looked empty. That was my introduction to the concept of death. One day, something is alive, and then it isn’t, and nothing can change that. Maybe I don’t cope so well with existential angst, so I devoted my energy to pastimes that aren’t potentially fatal to anyone but me.

Until now.

It’s business. We might, theoretically, have to shoot our way out of here at some point, even though there are emergency tunnels that lead to vehicles in nearby buildings, as well as to the sewers. We could get out without a fight, if we really wanted to, but I wouldn’t always be here. What if I were alone at Harry’s and my place? If I were on the street and no one was handy to protect me? If Ron got hit and I was suddenly alone? I hate these thoughts, but they’re things I have to think about now. I don’t want to be without Harry, and I won’t break my word to Sir Albus. I signed on for this, and I’ll do what I have to do. Even if I hate it.

On the bright side, I did manage to pick the smallest, cutest, most effeminate model of pistol that was available, and even Ron sighed and shook his head when I picked it out of the weapons locker. I guess Harry prefers nine millimeter pistols, which are the standard issue for law enforcement, because it makes it hard to identify the user, and making the whole world a suspect makes his work easier. I’d never seen Ron take his pistol out of his holster until we used the target range for the first time. It’s like a goddamn cannon in his pocket. The fucking thing was a foot long if it was an inch, and next to the tiny, cute little thing I picked, it looks even more ridiculously big. All I could do was raise an eyebrow and ask, “Compensating much?”

His reply, chillingly enough, was, “No…not really. I just like knowing that, if I hit someone with this, just once, my problem with them is solved…permanently.”

I work with such fun people.

As it turns out, I’m not really that bad of a shot, and the recoil on this model is very mild, so my wrists can handle the slight kick when it fires without completely spoiling my aim. Not bad really. I don’t like the idea of ever using it, but I’m not required to carry it with me all the time. I have forged permits for it, all legal looking and backed up by Hermione’s ability to change the local records for such things. My records might be a little shady, but Mr. Deacon Malloy has never had so much as a parking ticket.

A little practice and…well…I might be able to hit a person with it from a distance of more than fifty feet…if I had time to aim carefully and the weather was clear. Not like Harry. He unloads a whole clip, one handed, into the target at the maximum range, looking distracted the whole fucking while. When the paper target finally reaches us, there’s only one hole. One big hole. An entire clip of bullets went just left of center, right where the heart would be, in a grouping less than two inches wide.

I have the coolest boyfriend ever. Scary…but cool.

Speaking of same, we were only parted for one day since my training started. This time, I know all the details. I was there while it was planned, but I was quiet and stayed in the background while Hermione ran computer models of the location and Harry chose his time and place for execution.

A day later, he was back in my arms, and a mafia don was dead, shot through the head, right through a ‘bulletproof’ windshield, by a single armor piercing round, while his limo left his guarded home. His relationship with contracting firms hired by the Enigma Corporation might never be fully known by the rest of the world, but other families will slowly get the picture. Every group approached to push forward on the downtown revitalization project is losing people fast, and when they back off and sever ties with Mr. Riddle, they suddenly stop losing people. The people who haven’t figured this out, the cheap dime store gangsters that don’t have the brains to plot a burglary, are busy killing each other in record numbers, blaming each other at random for the recent deaths. It’s chaos theory come to life in Chicago, and Harry is the butterfly that started the storm.

But today, none of that matters. Today is different. Today is special. This is Harry’s twenty-fifth birthday. He made mine the best birthday of my life so far, so how could I do any less for him? This won’t be a day of sit ups and push ups, of burning abs and tired legs. It won’t be spent firing rounds into targets, or memorizing my fake credentials and history for a name that never really existed. It won’t be spent in front of a computer screen until my eyeballs burn and my head aches from trying to turn French or Spanish or Italian into English on the fly. This day will be different from all the others, because most days, and it might sound shallow to say this, are about me…me…me! I like them that way, and Harry knows this about me, and loves me that way, so it’s all okay. But not today. Today is about Harry.

It isn’t yet six o’clock in the morning, and my head has been whirring all night. He’s always awake before me, but I woke early today. He’s had to push and prod to keep me moving this week, but today I have a motivation that is even stronger than any mere responsibility. Harry deserves a special day, as special as the one he gave me, and that’s what he will have.

But first…I have to find a way to get out from underneath his arm. I like his arm. It’s nice. Well muscled without unnecessary bulk. Very comforting when it’s curled around me at night. It’s just astonishing how perfectly I fit here, spooned into his chest. How could I resist wriggling my way back into his chest? I guess waking up at the same time wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

A moment like this can’t be purchased. It can only be absorbed. Right now I know how much I really have. This closeness…this warmth. You can’t get this in a store. Admittedly, shopping is a nice way to kill some time, and it certainly gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside…but not like this. I’m safer here than anywhere in the world. I have everything. I have Harry. All of him. More so than anyone else ever has, and in a way that transcends anything I’ve ever known. This isn’t just a special day for Harry. It’s just one of an endless string of special days for me, all made better because I can wake up here, like this, with him.

Also…I like the rather ferocious morning erection pressing into my backside right now. No complaints whatsoever. Makes me think a little more wriggling might be pleasurable, if not absolutely necessary. Also makes me think that, with a little contortionism, I could do away with the bikini briefs that are separating my bare ass from the hard cock I mean to make use of this morning.

Originally, I meant to make Harry breakfast before he woke up. I think he’ll like this better. Besides, I may know good food, but I’m a lousy cook. I know he’d love me just as much if I showed up with lame eggs, burnt toast and orange juice, but I think my new morning scenario is more of a win-win.

Mmmm. God, I’m like an alley cat in heat when I get like this! He’s still breathing those soft, even breaths just behind my ear, blissfully asleep, and all I can think of is how good it feels to rub back against that heat and stiffness inside his boxers. I haven’t even moved his arm, my briefs are shoved down to just above my knees, and the sensation of his boxer-wrapped dick rubbing between the cheeks of my ass is unbearable. It isn’t enough! I mean, it’s supposed to be about Harry today, but I’m kinda having more of a ‘me-centric’ moment here.

And it isn’t as difficult as you might imagine to slip boxers open one handed with my back turned. This may say some unflattering things about just how much experience I have in bed, but just call me goal-oriented and lets leave it at that, shall we?

That’s more like it. Bare flesh, wonderfully hot, rock hard and just incredible between the cheeks of my ass. I can feel every last little detail, right down to his pulse while it throbs behind me. When it brushes against me, you know perfectly well where, it makes the little hairs on the back of my neck rise with apprehension.

Damn. No way to reach lube without…wait. Unless…it isn’t like I haven’t done without anything but spit before, and under infinitely worse circumstances than this. Oh, how I envy what Harry’s about to wake up to…and soon. I can reach back with one hand fairly easily, and that’s enough. Enough to work a couple of fingers about, soak them again, and work some more. Let’s face it, I have experience on my side, and lots of it.

And then it’s time to bring that hand around again, and start slicking him. I can hear him stir a little while I wrap my hand around him, especially around the head. Even in his sleep he can feel that. I get a stubbly chin brushed against my neck, and it’s just the kind of thing that makes the need in me flare to life even more dramatically than before. A funny thing about being a bottom through and through. Your cock can be stone hard, and the idea of just grabbing hold of it and tugging away until you come just isn’t enough. You suddenly feel empty inside, and only one thing will make it better.

Feeling the tip of him against me, poised for entry while I shiver a little, makes my stomach flip and my pulse race. Makes my face hot and my head cloudy, because I can’t think of anything but what I want. What I need. What he can give. Nudging back, and it isn’t easy, because spit isn’t quite enough to make it quick, but I don’t care about a little discomfort right now. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I can feel it moving into me, closer and closer to making that emptiness go away. More, and then I can feel the difference. He’s waking. The arm tightens a little, then loosens. The breathing changes. He’s just a couple inches into me, and I can feel him shift a little.

“Mm…ss’ wh’? ‘ey? Hmmm. That’s…niiiccce. G’morning.”

He can’t see my smirk, but he ought to be able to feel it run right through me. I move my hips slowly, savoring the feel of him moving into me. Warm lips meet the nape of my neck, and I push back almost unconsciously, aware of the soft burn of friction, and not giving a damn.

“Happy…birthday, Harry. Love you.”

The lips pause, then caress again. “ Very happy. Kind of…getting that impression…plus some. Mmm. Love you too.”

And then he’s back at work on my neck, making me work my way onto him out of sheer desperate frustration, and even I get surprised by the little sounds I make when I get so worked up that I can’t control myself very well. He isn’t pushing hard, just letting me do as I please, at least until I slip a hand back and grab at his hip. Then I can feel him push in response, making the last inches sink in faster than before, making it hurt in a way that I need right now. The fabric of his boxers and the soft fur of his groin are close and tight up against me, and he’s moving slowly, inside of me, and the emptiness that made me so frantic a minute ago is forgotten in the space a few wild heartbeats, replaced by the conscious, palpable awareness of him all around me, in me, surrounding me completely.

There isn’t a lot of room for movement like this, but I don’t think I want anything wilder. I don’t want the staid, traditional in-out, on my back or on my knees routine. I want this. This exquisite closeness, every little movement something needy and precious. It isn’t hard to pull his arms around me, given that he relents and lets me do whatever I want. He reads my moods so well, takes charge or lets me do as I want, always depending on what I need or want at the moment. That’s why he’s really mine. That’s why this feels so good.

Little thrusts, my body flexing back against his, wrapped in him like a living blanket, meeting every push with my own hungry need. It’s like pressure building behind my eyes, making my breath short, making me hazy and confused and…God what his teeth do to my neck is enough to make anyone insane!

Time is nothing. It blurs and shifts and passes while I hover on the brink of satisfaction that won’t come easily because this isn’t one of my usual positions. My cock is aching, but when he tried to touch it I had just enough strength to pull his hand away and keep him wrapped around me. If my knees were any tighter together they’d be fused shut, and the prickly heat of perspiration and frustrated need is making me slick against the heat of his chest behind me. I can hear a lover’s whisper in my ears, and every word is like nectar.

When it comes, it’s because I’m as frantic as he is, grinding hard in search of something that needs to happen and happen soon. Pushing back against the short, hard thrusts he makes into me, mewling with a hunger that would make me ashamed if I could bother to care at a time like this. Bracing, but not really painful, because there’s comparatively little friction involved, and just a building pressure in me that moves through me, choking off thought and speech until my I can feel it pound through my groin in a rush.

“Ha…Har…ry….keep…I…mmm…nnngh…AAAHH! AH! AHHH!”

So I’m not exactly articulate at a moment like this. Hey, do you quote Shakespeare when a ten inch cock has been pumping the ever-loving fuck out of you for the better part of a half hour? I think not!

I can feel him let go a heartbeat later, tense and gasping, mouth clamped to my neck while he clenches his eyes and comes hard and well. Normally I’d taunt him by working my ass for every last drop, but the urgency is gone, spilling out of me in little droplets that roll down the side of my cock and onto my leg, and the maddening need has shifted to a drowsy lassitude that makes me want to just let him hold me for awhile. We both need a minute to recover, given that we barely woke, and I don’t want to move. I want him in me, like this, just awhile longer.

“Love you.” I do like hearing it, especially like this, even if I feel a little awkward with my briefs around my knees, his cock up my ass and come still trickling down my waist. I chuckle a little when he kisses me just behind the ear.

“I was sooo going to serve you breakfast in bed. At least…that was the plan.”

“No one complaining on this side of the bed. I like this plan just fine.”

Do I know my man or what? And the lips are busy just behind my ear again. No complaining here either.

“Now this…is the best…birthday…I’ve ever…had. Mmmm.”

I let his hand slip down finally, mostly because I’m too weak and shaky to dispute anything he wants at the moment, and also because what he wants is pretty agreeable to me, seeing as he just softly wrapped it around my flaccid cock, letting warm and calloused skin surround it, completely ignoring the stickiness of the moment. He doesn’t mind. I can tell by the way he keeps…keeps…oh! I can feel the difference when he starts stiffening again inside me!

It’s going to be a very long morning, and a very good birthday, and he hasn’t even opened his first present yet. Happy birthday, Harry. Breakfast can wait.

TBC!!!