Beta Central - One of Three by Rozel
Aug. 14th, 2012 10:54 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ci5hqSorry I'm late - I managed to come down with a cold yesterday, and in my busy-ness of sulking at it, everything just slipped my mind... I'm hoping that better late than never might apply here...
As far as I know, Rozel is interested in general comments and any kind of constructive criticism for the story. For those who've not played before, the idea is that Beta Central is a way of gathering all kinds of constructive editorial comments on a story, that might help make it better (obviously that's going to be subjective, and the final version may or may not take the suggestions into account - that's all up to the author). It's always useful to have another eye read a story for wee things we might have missed - a missing comma or mis-placed full-stop, sentences that read strangely, sentences that read brilliantly and we'd like more of, twists that might make something more realistic, or fantastical, or fascinating or homely... any comments at all are welcome! Our collective Beta Central has been beautifully and gently constructively critical in the past, so I'm sure it'll all go swimmingly this time too...
The story is beneath the cut - what do you think?!
ONE OF THREE
by Rozel
I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand on the door knob, as I caught sight of Ray Doyle, dripping wet and slightly steaming from a hot shower. His hair was almost straight and brushed his shoulders. The weight of the water and the steam from the changing room caused the curls to abandon their usual fight for survival on his head. He needs a haircut, I thought to myself.
He stood in the centre of the room surrounded by others from CI5; Murphy, tall and athletic, vigorously towelling his broad shoulders. Roberts was tying his shoes while Anson was already dressed and reaching for a foul smelling cigar. All were in various stages of undress, having cleaned up following an overnight stakeout. The conversation was loud and masculine, a sure sign the op had been dangerous and they were glad to be home without losing anyone.
I watched as Doyle dragged a towel across his head, rubbing the moisture away briskly. Soon the curls had returned, shiny and rebellious. I could almost smell the clean, freshly shampooed locks from where I was standing.
The towel, slung low across his hips, was in danger of falling open entirely. It wouldn’t have worried Doyle if it did. Clothed or naked he just accepted his body as it was. The effect it would have on me was an entirely different matter!
“Hey the old man said Betty was comin’ down here,” shouted Murph above the noise. “She’s bringing some photos for us to look at. See if we can identify those blokes on the roof.”
“You’d better get some clothes on then,” said Anson nodding towards Murphy. ” Don’t want to frighten the poor girl,”
A wet towel was lobbed across the room towards him. He grabbed it and returned the throw to Murphy.
“Nah, she fancies the golly, doesn’t she Doyle?” replied Murphy.
Doyle just shrugged his shoulders.
By now most of the agents were dressed, and the room was emptying. Anson pushed open the basement fire door at the far end of the room, ignoring the KEEP SHUT sign as usual.
“Time for a pint my boys,” he said grandly, walking out into the corridor. The pub was opposite the basement door - and such abuses of health and safety were regularly overlooked by the CI5 operatives. Murphy looked across at Doyle who was sitting quietly, running an electric shaver over his blue chin.
“Coming across for a pint later Ray?” he asked.
Doyle looked up.
“Yeah, I might. Need to finish off some paperwork first, and clean me gun. Bloody thing jammed again. I might let the armourer take a look. See you later.”
Doyle stood up and in one swift move took off his towel.
I moaned softly – he was jaw droppingly desirable.
He casually dried his torso, the chest hair springing back to life, and the silver chain he wore catching the light. The scars from the shooting were clearly visible, healed now, but their violent legacy a silvery, spidery scrawl on his skin.
His hands moved downwards, towelling his belly. He lifted a leg and placed his foot on the bench. I caught sight of his genitals, heavy and dark. Gently, he dried himself there before continuing down the raised leg.
I knew I shouldn’t look, but I was captured by the sight of him. The ache in my groin was palpable and I had to fight the desire to touch myself there, if only to ease the sweet pain. Oh Doyle, if only I could have you for a night. You’d never want anyone else but me. My thoughts were almost as uncontrollable as my body.
I looked back observing the private rituals of this strange man. He was applying some aftershave, an expensive brand from the smell wafting across. Citrus with a subtle tone of spice. Something I’d want to smell of after a night of unrestrained passion with him. Next came a quick spray of deodorant, and then he began to dress.
Only Doyle could make something as mundane as dressing look like an act of self love. He wriggled into a pair of jeans, tight fitting and moulding to his body. He smoothed his hands down his legs, easing out any wrinkles, before thrusting his feet into a pair of blue Kicker boots. He reached into a locker for a tee shirt, slowly pulling the garment over his head. Lastly, he donned a battered leather jacket. Now dressed, he leaned against the locker, one leg bent, hips pushed forward, while he checked his wallet, looking all the while like the good time waiting to be had by all. Especially me I thought.
I needed to get away. I couldn’t let him find me here, he’d soon guess I’d been looking and it was too risky a chance to take. Before I could move away, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs; quick, decisive footsteps.
“Ah there you are Bodie,” said Cowley. “I thought I’d drop these photos in. Save Betty a trip. See if anyone on the squad from last night recognises these faces. Let the boys have them will you?”
As far as I know, Rozel is interested in general comments and any kind of constructive criticism for the story. For those who've not played before, the idea is that Beta Central is a way of gathering all kinds of constructive editorial comments on a story, that might help make it better (obviously that's going to be subjective, and the final version may or may not take the suggestions into account - that's all up to the author). It's always useful to have another eye read a story for wee things we might have missed - a missing comma or mis-placed full-stop, sentences that read strangely, sentences that read brilliantly and we'd like more of, twists that might make something more realistic, or fantastical, or fascinating or homely... any comments at all are welcome! Our collective Beta Central has been beautifully and gently constructively critical in the past, so I'm sure it'll all go swimmingly this time too...
The story is beneath the cut - what do you think?!
ONE OF THREE
by Rozel
I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand on the door knob, as I caught sight of Ray Doyle, dripping wet and slightly steaming from a hot shower. His hair was almost straight and brushed his shoulders. The weight of the water and the steam from the changing room caused the curls to abandon their usual fight for survival on his head. He needs a haircut, I thought to myself.
He stood in the centre of the room surrounded by others from CI5; Murphy, tall and athletic, vigorously towelling his broad shoulders. Roberts was tying his shoes while Anson was already dressed and reaching for a foul smelling cigar. All were in various stages of undress, having cleaned up following an overnight stakeout. The conversation was loud and masculine, a sure sign the op had been dangerous and they were glad to be home without losing anyone.
I watched as Doyle dragged a towel across his head, rubbing the moisture away briskly. Soon the curls had returned, shiny and rebellious. I could almost smell the clean, freshly shampooed locks from where I was standing.
The towel, slung low across his hips, was in danger of falling open entirely. It wouldn’t have worried Doyle if it did. Clothed or naked he just accepted his body as it was. The effect it would have on me was an entirely different matter!
“Hey the old man said Betty was comin’ down here,” shouted Murph above the noise. “She’s bringing some photos for us to look at. See if we can identify those blokes on the roof.”
“You’d better get some clothes on then,” said Anson nodding towards Murphy. ” Don’t want to frighten the poor girl,”
A wet towel was lobbed across the room towards him. He grabbed it and returned the throw to Murphy.
“Nah, she fancies the golly, doesn’t she Doyle?” replied Murphy.
Doyle just shrugged his shoulders.
By now most of the agents were dressed, and the room was emptying. Anson pushed open the basement fire door at the far end of the room, ignoring the KEEP SHUT sign as usual.
“Time for a pint my boys,” he said grandly, walking out into the corridor. The pub was opposite the basement door - and such abuses of health and safety were regularly overlooked by the CI5 operatives. Murphy looked across at Doyle who was sitting quietly, running an electric shaver over his blue chin.
“Coming across for a pint later Ray?” he asked.
Doyle looked up.
“Yeah, I might. Need to finish off some paperwork first, and clean me gun. Bloody thing jammed again. I might let the armourer take a look. See you later.”
Doyle stood up and in one swift move took off his towel.
I moaned softly – he was jaw droppingly desirable.
He casually dried his torso, the chest hair springing back to life, and the silver chain he wore catching the light. The scars from the shooting were clearly visible, healed now, but their violent legacy a silvery, spidery scrawl on his skin.
His hands moved downwards, towelling his belly. He lifted a leg and placed his foot on the bench. I caught sight of his genitals, heavy and dark. Gently, he dried himself there before continuing down the raised leg.
I knew I shouldn’t look, but I was captured by the sight of him. The ache in my groin was palpable and I had to fight the desire to touch myself there, if only to ease the sweet pain. Oh Doyle, if only I could have you for a night. You’d never want anyone else but me. My thoughts were almost as uncontrollable as my body.
I looked back observing the private rituals of this strange man. He was applying some aftershave, an expensive brand from the smell wafting across. Citrus with a subtle tone of spice. Something I’d want to smell of after a night of unrestrained passion with him. Next came a quick spray of deodorant, and then he began to dress.
Only Doyle could make something as mundane as dressing look like an act of self love. He wriggled into a pair of jeans, tight fitting and moulding to his body. He smoothed his hands down his legs, easing out any wrinkles, before thrusting his feet into a pair of blue Kicker boots. He reached into a locker for a tee shirt, slowly pulling the garment over his head. Lastly, he donned a battered leather jacket. Now dressed, he leaned against the locker, one leg bent, hips pushed forward, while he checked his wallet, looking all the while like the good time waiting to be had by all. Especially me I thought.
I needed to get away. I couldn’t let him find me here, he’d soon guess I’d been looking and it was too risky a chance to take. Before I could move away, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs; quick, decisive footsteps.
“Ah there you are Bodie,” said Cowley. “I thought I’d drop these photos in. Save Betty a trip. See if anyone on the squad from last night recognises these faces. Let the boys have them will you?”
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Date: 2012-08-15 03:53 pm (UTC)That's interesting because that's exactly the type of writing I was thinking of, or perhaps a nineteenth century version of Bodie.