Missing Scene

GPD Series    First Night

It's quiet here.

It was quiet there, but this is a different quiet. Benign sounds filter into this room. The whoosh of a car, the faded echo of a foghorn, feet trudging up the stairs. The sounds of people having places to go, jobs to do, homes to return to.

At the Correction Center, all I heard, besides curt orders barked over my head, besides the sounds I made, was the clanging, the slamming, the quiet whoosh of doors closing, shutting me in, shutting me away.

There it seemed as if the world had stopped turning, caught in an endless time loop, waiting for me to get it right. Now the sounds I hear through the walls of Sentinel Ellison's home correct that misconception. It wasn't the world that had ceased to exist.

Other people were living their lives; having dates and going to jobs. "I'm going to bed now, honey, don't stay up too late", dogs being played with and kids bringing home report cards and spaghetti sauce being stirred and books being read-as-as-as I was being corrected.

Now time has resumed its normal course. I'm lying on a bed, in a room, while a sentinel sleeps upstairs.

My Sentinel.

There were exactly two ways out of the Center. Bond with a sentinel or die. Against all odds, I got door number one. Ellison's wishing I'd gotten door number two, and I can't blame him.

I mean, consider. He needs me. Needs me to keep him sane, to be his back up, to know what to do and to do it right.

Every time. Get it right or get him killed.

I'm now Detective Jim Ellison's guide, claimed and marked by a dark sentinel. And God help me, he's untrained. Raw power coupled with total vulnerability, with me chosen to guide him.

All I know about guiding is what Alex and GPD beat into me and none of that was about actually guiding. The GDP think they teach empaths how to be a guide, but they don't. I'm not sure you can be "taught" to guide. But you can be trained to submit. Eventually pain overrides resistance, and your body, out of self-preservation, ignores the mind screaming "NO!", takes over and does what it must to survive.

Down at this hand signal, on your belly when this one is made, now up and to the side, now back, lower your eyes, shut up, speak, come. Hell, a dog can be trained to do that part. I bite back the laugh that wants to spill out. Pet Barnes. If the shoe fits….

I take a ragged breath, knowing any sound will alarm the sentinel sleeping upstairs. It's too soon to know which sound would anger him more, laughing or crying and I really don't want to find out tonight. I'll learn soon enough.

"Come here, pet," I crawl to Alex. To atone for the sin of falling behind in the airport yesterday, I am on my knees for the day.

I approach her with my head down and when I am at her side, I wait.

She puts her finger between the leather collar and my throat and pulls up, her long nail cutting into my neck. Her eyes are a lovely green shot through with brown and filled right now with a lethal combination of anger and lust.

"You're such a naughty thing, pet. You know how worried I get when you aren't right where I can see and touch you. What am I going to do with such willfulness? How can I make you learn? You know how precious you are to me…." She's using exactly the tone and pitch of voice one uses with a dog, her voice lilting up, making every statement a question. She removes her hand and licks my blood off her finger.

"Are you going to be a good pet now? Are you going to make me happy? Because I want to be happy, pet. I hate it when I'm angry with you and have to punish you. You know that, don't you? You know how much I hate to correct you?" (Correct you, correct you, correct you….)

Her voice fills my head and I put my hands over my ears. Pet, my pet, my precious, naughty pet….I scream, "Noooo!"

I sit up, horrified, and wait to hear heavy steps on the stairs.



Slowly I sink back down.

I'm not a pet. I'm not.

Yes, of course you were. Face it.

Pet, slave, punching bag, sex toy….on your knees, open your mouth, suck me off….

… not much of a resume to bring to my new position.

The adrenaline released when I thought I had screamed out loud is fading now and the shakes are starting to build. Turning toward the wall, I pull my knees up tightly and try to hold still.

No, not much of a resume. And it was Detective Jim Ellison's lousy luck that he won me in the great "who-gets-stuck-with-the-filthy-rogue-guide lottery".

Who's idea was it anyway, to throw us together? Are they nuts? Incompetent? Do they hate Jim Ellison?

I felt his disappointment, his dismay with me while I was in the hospital.

Disappointment, hell.

Dismay, that's putting it mildly. I could read his horror at having me as his guide as if it was spelled out in neon. And who can blame the guy? He's stuck with a smelly, dirty, scruffy, guide whom he'll be forever dependent upon.

Jim Ellison is a private man. You don't have to be an empath to figure that out. Just one look at his place told me he was a man who liked control, liked things simple, needed space. And now he's had me tossed into his tidy and contained existence. Literally.

Life sucks, and not just for those of us on the bottom.

Why me? I mean, come on, this *so* does not make sense. Ellison's an upfront kinda guy. He deserves a proper guide-a real guide. Someone who's been training all their life to do this, who knows this shit backwards and forward. Someone Ellison could proudly introduce as his guide.

And I'm well aware that that is not me. I fall under the category of rogue guide with all the corollary definitions. Degenerate. Whore. Slut.

Those words roll through my mind like a tsunami and sweeps me in a rush of memory back to Wilson's room. With the wet bar and the plush sofas and the camera set in the corner, red light blinking as it recorded the special training sessions.

Training sessions. Wilson could say that with a straight face as he was unzipping his pants. It was rape, mostly. And that was bad enough. But then he found a drug that made me respond. And that was infinitely worse.

Wilson loved watching the tape he made of me being fucked. Even more, he loved making me watch get fucked. He kept his hand fisted in my hair, his finger on the button that connected to the wire he'd attached to my right nipple. When I tried to close my eyes or look away, he pressed it.

Hell, sometimes even when I wasn't looking away, he pressed it. He liked it when I screamed and jerked around in his hands, like a fish trying to regain water. My begging him to stop seemed to please him, and eventually I learned to stay silent, though I never was able to control the spasms.

No good, no good. I gottta stop remembering, gotta get on top of this. I try to push the memories away, but there's so little to take their place. The pain from the last rape and beating is thrumming through my body. I have no strength left with which to beat the memories back.

On the tape I'm naked and unleashed, on my knees. He knows he doesn't need it now. I'm cooperating. Hell, I'm participating. Wilson's in front, Danvers and Gleason are in back.

"Open your mouth whore."

I do it, my mouth eager. Wilson holds my head steady as he shoves his dick in my face and Danvers kneels behind me and begins to pump my cock, which is already hard, thanks to the dope in my system.

At this point the drugs had reached my bloodstream and I felt a surge of need so powerful it all but causes me to orgasm. Wilson takes his dick out and I moan. I feel sick with shame, watching the tape. There was some mercy in the drug. It makes you do unspeakable things, but then it also makes you forget. Wilson didn't have that same mercy. He made me watch, made me remember.

"Ah,ah,ah, not so fast, guide. Beg for it. Come on, ask me to fuck your face." There I am, straining forward, trying to recapture his hard cock with my mouth.

Behind me, the hand on my penis is diabolical, pushing me to the brink, then squeezing hard and stopping the release, only to begin again. Danvers mutters a litany of filthy encouragement in my ear, telling me what I am, who I am, what I'm good for, what I was meant for.

"Please." My voice on the tape is a whisper, and I remember how I had to force that word out.

"Louder, guide."

"Please." It was little more than a croak, but I meant it. You could see on the tape how much I meant it.

"Is that how you address me, guide?"

The hand has stopped jerking me off and is now caressing me, fondling my balls. On the tape, I gasp, my eyes wide. Gleason had plunged his lubed finger up my ass. The sensation was electric, I don't know why. The drug, I suppose. Everything they did made me want more. I push back on the finger, trying desperately to shove it in deeper, to make it hit the spot so I can let go.

The laughter cuts in and out, other hands touch and move me, but all my attention is on the one finger deep inside me.

"Guide?" Wilson lifts my head up by pulling on my hair. I'd forgotten to answer him. How do I address him? My mind is so filled with sensation and need, I can't remember. Mister? Guard? Master?


This was the point on the tape where I always shut my eyes, damn the shock. But Wilson is patient, pressing the button, watching me flail about, waiting for me to open my eyes and when I don't, pressing the button again. Eventually my body asserts its dominion, tired of the pain, and my eyes stay open and stare at what I am, at what I am capable of.

My mouth is open, and my tongue plays across my bottom lip. "Please, Guard Wil-wilson, fuck my mouth."

Wilson's cock is huge and so engorged it's purple. I don't want it anywhere near me and I'm frantic to get my lips around it, to suck on it, to have it fill my mouth.

Stepping close, he lifts his cock up and says, "Kiss it."

I do, eagerly, pressing my lips along the side of it, then kissing the crown.

"Lick it."

No hesitation, I lick it, the voice screaming no in my head having no power to slow me down, no power to stop me from getting what I need. I try drawing it in, the need to have the gaping holes in me filled so enormous, I fear I will drown in it and be forever swept away. I need that dick in my mouth and one up my ass to anchor me and keep me afloat.

Wilson teases me, his cock bobbing up and down, eluding my lips. The finger up my ass turns into two, my moans grow, the laughter grows. And all I know is need.

Gleason, behind, positions his cock to enter me and speaks for the first time.

"So you want to get fucked, guide?"

On the tape I nod my head up and down enthusiastically.

"Out loud, bitch."

"Yes. Yes, please."

"What a cunt." The fingers were back, tantalizing me with the promise of being filled, of hunger being fed, of the possibility, if only for a fraction of a second, of leaving my body and being someplace else.

"Please. Fuck me, now, up the ass, hard, please do me, let me come, please fuck…" I'm babbling and pleading as Wilson strokes my hair.

Wilson loves this part of the tape. He would pause it here, at the part where my mouth is hanging open and I'm pleading for them to fuck me. "Look at yourself, guide."

He yanks my hair hard to get my full attention. "I said, look at yourself. Look how hard you're trying to suck me off. You really are one insatiable little bitch in heat, aren't you?"

When I don't answer, (I never answer), he yanks on my hair again, forcing my head up and down, forcing me to acknowledge the truth on that tape.

They fuck me and I moan and beg through all of it. They come, one in my mouth, one after another up my ass, with shouts of triumph, leaving me high and dry and hard.

On the tape, I stay on my knees, like a well-trained guide, while all I want to do was collapse. I want to curl up and jerk myself off, but I stay on my hands and knees, panting, waiting. Danvers comes in front of me and lifts my head and I carefully clean him, licking his limp dick until all traces are gone.

The drug has peaked and the shaking that always came as it left my body, starts in earnest.

They walk away and there is the sound of glasses clinking, liquor being poured. They came back and Wilson and Gleason sit down on the couch, while Danvers takes the chair. They'd gotten dressed, their uniforms crisp and neat.

Wilson shoves his foot out and pushes me and I fall on my side, glad to be lying down.

"Jerk yourself off, guide."

I don't need to be coaxed. Shutting my eyes, I wrap my hand around my throbbing hard-on.

"Keep them eyes open, guide and look at me. I want you to watch me watching you."

I do as I'm told, afraid he'll make me stop if I don't and pump quickly, trying to be efficient.

"Stop, guide."

I don't want to stop, don't think I can stop, but I force my hand to still.

"Gerry, get that dildo and lube it up. Let's make this good for him."

I wait, trembling from cold and longing, from tension and the sickness in my stomach.

Gerry Danvers comes back and kneels down next to me. I don't wait to be told, but open my knees and lift my ass in the air. It slides in, smooth and rigid, stretching me with its unyielding hardness and I squirm, my hand going back to my cock. But I don't touch it, I wait, wait for permission.

"Guide, use that dildo, give yourself a party." Danvers and Wilson sit back and sip their scotch and watch me as I work myself over, straining to find release. When I come, sperm spews out as if it has been dammed up since puberty and leaves me drained, unable to move, one hand on the dildo up my ass and the other around my limp cock.

There's more on the tape, me finally getting up, cleaning up my mess, being put back into the leash. A very special training session, Wilson declares.

Burrowing under the covers, I pull the pillow over my head. It's childish, I know. The memory is on the inside, not something I can lock out. Wilson said the drug couldn't make me do anything I didn't want to do. That it simply allowed my real nature to emerge.

And this is who they gave to the Cop of The Year as a guide. What the hell did he do in a past life to incur such god-awful karma? For that matter, what did I do?

I am *so* not the kind of person someone like Jim Ellison would want to bring home to meet the family.

Not that he will. Bring me home to meet his family.

My body reacts to that thought by starting to shake. Pulling the covers closer, I tense my muscles, trying to stop it, but can't. My body knows too much.

He'll leave me at the hostel when he sees his family. Or goes on vacation. Or has a date. Or needs a break from his pathetic basket case of a guide.

The memory of being at the hospital is still fresh. There I am, cowering on the floor like a total loony. There's Jim trying to coax me back into bed. There's the nurse standing in the doorway watching, a smirk on her face, well aware of my history. Paints quite the picture, doesn't it?

My bag is next to the bed and I run my hands along the top. I never thought to have it back. I never thought I'd have anything back. He even says I'll be allowed to go back to the University. That he will allow me to finish.

That was a dream I stopped having a long time ago. And now it's back, he brought it back. I'm not going to plan on it. Things change and maybe that decision was an impulsive one made out of pity for the thing that quaked in the corner. Best not to count on it.

Jim got a raw deal, but now it's the only deal and I'm going to do everything I can to be the guide he needs- and maybe become the guide he wants.