Dear Readers:

The following story has risqué subject matter and will probably not suit everyone who reads it. Although not a true definition of the lifestyle, this does contain some Dominant/submissive themes that may make some people uncomfortable, as well as some bondage, S&M, and other non-traditional sexual acts. It is a very strongly M-rated story for adults only. It is a story worth telling; next story is much more traditional "KricketWilliams" style. If you feel you need to wait this one out, I understand.

That being said, I feel I have done my best to write this with the same amount of love and passion I believe is trademark with Morgan and Garcia. I hope to be able to take you along on this experimental ride...for my millionth word on FF.

Sincerely yours,
Kricket


It was that time of year again, nearly the end of winter, ushering in the start of spring all around Quantico. Children were off for break, getting ready to return to school at the end of the Easter holiday. People were starting their yard work and trying to get to last minute vacation plans in before everyone had to go back to the daily grind. The weather was starting to get warmer in the daytime, but it was still frosty enough in the evenings that a scarf was welcome comfort.

It had been a day just like this when he'd lost his dad. He'd been so excited, ready to go back to school and see his friends, like most nine year olds in the Chicago area. His mom had taken him to get his hair cut, had taken him shopping for new shoes because his feet had been growing yet again, and had taken him out to lunch afterward, a rare treat in his family. Although he'd miss spring break, he'd been psyched, pumped, and thrilled to be going back.

That night, his dad had decided to walk with him to the corner convenience store to get some candy bars for lunch bags. His mother, a hippie health food fanatic, hadn't bought any chocolates for her kids' lunches. Derek and his two sisters had begged their father for treats, and—soft-hearted chocoholic he had been—he'd gone on the trip with his son.

Less than an hour later, his dad had lain bleeding to death on the floor of the Heights Superettte. Derek had fallen to his knees to reach him. Bill Morgan hadn't said a word, a look of shock and disbelief on his face as he stared up at his only son. A moment later, he'd closed his eyes for the last time in his life.

Derek had remained on the floor, holding his dad like a toddler would hold their mother's leg. He'd held him after the police arrived, after the paramedics and coroner had arrived, and long after his father had turned an icy, nonviable temperature. Even now, years later, Derek still thought about how wrong that had seemed. He'd been such a warm man for such a cold death.

Losing someone so vital and important in his life had made Derek vulnerable to exploitation. Subconsciously, he'd searched for a surrogate father…and found the devil incarnate instead.

A predator who had preyed on the young and vulnerable, Carl Buford had eased his way into being an important and loved person in Derek's life and then took advantage of that love and trust by molesting him. It had been something in his life he'd never talked about, his deepest shame and darkest secret, until he'd been forced to face his demons.

He'd been able to confront Buford, had been able to regain his strength, his pride, and his manhood by bringing him down and keeping other children safe. He'd cried when he'd finally had justice—the first time he'd cried since his father died.

He wasn't a macabre person, fixated on death. He wasn't emo, wearing nothing but black and feeling miserable all the time. Most of the time, he'd successfully put this all behind him, joked and flirted with the ladies, had an enviable life.

But not this time of year.

He'd reached the entrance of The Palace Spa and Retreat and opened the door. A spacious foyer, beautifully decorated and with civilly appropriate music playing, greeted him. He'd been coming here for years, ever since he was a marine in the DC area. The familiar room raised tingles on his spine and caused a rush of excitement.

A large, mahogany desk was in the center of the room, a diminutive secretary sitting at the helm. Her features were almost pixie-like, pointed and nearly shimmeringly pale, like she should have wings.

"Hello, sir," the tiny, redheaded receptionist said, smiling at him. He liked that red hair of hers; it reminded him of Garcia when she'd dyed her hair that shade. "Name, please?"

"Morgan."

The smile faded just slightly from her face as she scanned the date book and found where Derek was slotted. She looked up at him, a mix of curiosity, interest, and a touch of fear all mingled in her expression. That didn't surprise him; he was used to that here.

"If you'll take a seat, she'll come to get you," she murmured, gesturing to the large leather sofas in the left side seating room.

Derek walked into the other room and took a seat, reaching for a magazine. A redhead graced the cover of the magazine, too, and he thought of Garcia again.

Penelope.

He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift to the beautiful, curvy goddess he loved so very much. Originally, he had been attracted to her, lusted after her like any man with a brain would. He'd flirted with her, intent on making her the flavor of the month for January, 2004, and showing her a really great time.

But that all changed.

He found himself needing to talk to her, wanting far more than he'd ever wanted from a simple fuck. She was unlike anyone he'd ever known—quirky, funky, amazing. She was a breath of fresh air and light, an angelic oasis in the midst of murders and rapists he hunted. She made him smile when he didn't think he would ever smile again and loved him when he felt completely unlovable and incapable of feeling.

Derek didn't trust easily, didn't love easily, but he couldn't stop himself from falling head over heels with her.

He snorted in self-disgust. She was taken. She was his friend. She'd chosen someone else, which was a very intelligent choice. It didn't matter that he felt like she owned his soul, that she was everything he'd ever wanted, more than he'd ever needed or deserved. She was not his. She would never be his.

And that was a good thing.

Derek knew that if he turned on the charm, if he tried to woo her away from her long time boyfriend, he probably could do it. He'd thought about it more times than he could count, and he had to remind himself often not to carry his outward affections toward her too far. He'd come close to kissing her—caressing her face, tilting her chin—many times, but he always drew back at the last moment.

He knew better. He was not meant for her. He wasn't meant for anybody.

Luckily, the rest of the team didn't seem to think that how they acted with each other was odd, and he was able to steal a few moments with her. They'd never know how much he truly wanted her...all of her—body, mind, and spirit. They'd never know…and Penelope wouldn't know, either.

Heaving a sigh, Derek tossed the magazine aside.

"Derek."

He looked up in the direction of the voice where another woman was standing. Without another word, he stood and went to her side. He followed her down the long, arched marble hallway. He could hear the echo of her stilettos tapping on the ground, sounding around them as they made it farther and farther away from the reception area.

They reached a door to the left; the woman pushed it open and then smiled without warmth at him. "This is your room. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No."

He didn't say anything else—he wasn't there for conversation. Wisely, she turned, the clicking of her heels on the marble fading quickly as she hurried away.

Derek entered the room and sat down on the dark table in the center of the room. He closed his eyes and felt that tingle of excitement again, followed by a strange peace. He knew why he was there; he longed for it. Others wouldn't understand—he didn't expect them to, and he didn't care if they did or not.

Derek stripped naked and stretched his long, lean body face down on the center of the leather table. There were handholds on the end, but he didn't need that. Restraints were not necessary for him. He'd come here for this; no one was forcing him.

Medically, he understood. With certain physical pain, endorphins are released, mimicking a drug like Heroin. It was a boxer's high, the reason people liked to be spanked or have their hair pulled during rough sex.

That was only part of it for him, though. He got off on it sometimes, that was for certain, but he needed it for more than that. At this time, more than ever, he craved it. It gave him something nothing else could.

He closed his eyes, turning his head to the side, away from the door. He didn't need to see her; it didn't matter what she looked like or what she wore. In a few moments, he would be blissfully numb, and the anguish he felt inside would be decreased. With each lash, each stroke, he'd come closer to ecstasy.

He'd be free: free from the hurt of his father, free from Buford's touch, free from the death and twisted sickness around him…and free of longing for someone he could never have. He'd have the one thing he needed more than anything else...

Release.

As he heard the door click open, he began to prepare himself. However, just before it began, he realized yet again he'd made the right choice in being permanently alone. It was the way things needed to be, for his sanity and hers.

She would never understand this.