Maginot Line

A shallow ramp covers the three steps that lead from the pavement up to the door to Irwin's flat. Dakin waits, a little awkwardly, as Irwin manoeuvres the wheelchair inside, and watches him reach for a cane in the umbrella stand.

"I did tell you that I can walk," says Irwin, standing, and Dakin feels the blood rush to his cheeks. He's not accustomed to being so easily read, but then, Irwin always was a case apart.

There is the obligatory tour round the flat, both of them uncertain as to the proper protocol. Eighteen years cannot easily be made up in a single hour over drinks, after all, and the last time they saw each other it was under the wholly different circumstances of Hector's memorial service.

Afterward Dakin will remember the rooms as cool and airy: dark wood floors and white walls and curtains, with unexpected touches of green here and there. Neither historical nor modern, certainly not fashionable, but somehow perfectly suited to their occupant. The study holds an impressive collection of books as well as the inevitable computer, fax machine, and other technological paraphernalia, but it is the bedroom that Dakin half-dreads, half-anticipates.

Irwin sits on the edge of the bed, leaning his cane close by, and raises his eyebrows.

This is it, then, time to carry through with the terms of surrender. Except that there are none; nothing has been negotiated, he suddenly realizes. So competent at fighting his clients' battles, yet he has given himself up to this man without question or bargain. He stands near the doorway, irresolute.

"Do you do this often?" he hears himself say.

"Does it make a difference?"

It doesn't, of course. Dakin walks over to the bed and perches on it, perhaps a foot away from Irwin. He can't recall the last time he felt such a flutter of anticipation in his stomach.

"Perhaps the real question is whether you do this often. I seem to recall that you were not this way inclined, but perhaps that's changed?" Irwin's hand lifts, stretches out towards Dakin's leg, and hovers there until Dakin grasps it and brings their joined hands to rest on his thigh.

"I'm not a complete novice," he mutters, reluctant to confess that the single time he has been with another man was sixteen years ago.

"But not recently," Irwin guesses accurately. His fingers curl around Dakin's knee. "Come here."

They lie together, fully clothed although they have both kicked off their shoes, two grown men kissing in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. Irwin's tongue is quick; it darts into Dakin's mouth and teases him to respond.

He has grown hard almost without realizing it, his cock straining against layers of fabric to nudge Irwin's hip. An answering bulge presses back.

"Sir," he whispers, regressing to that peculiar longing to please that he had always felt around Irwin. "How do you want me?"

"Will you let me come inside you?" Irwin asks, his hand moving to grasp Dakin's arse through the fine expensive black wool of his trousers.

Dakin shivers and answers, "Yes."

Irwin sucks him off first, using mouth and hands to bring Dakin to a point where he can hardly remember his own name. Then, when Dakin is still drowsy in the aftermath of orgasm, Irwin takes him from behind, rolling a condom on and moving slowly, the lubricant cool at first but warming quickly as the conquest that had begun so long before is finally completed.

It is not until afterward, when Dakin notices Irwin's glasses set aside, that he realises that perhaps his surrender is a victory after all.