In the beginning, I did not intend to listen.  On my word as a Mountie.  I felt it was improper and behavior unbecoming the uniform.  In my defense, the Constable showed a remarkable lack of common sense, allowing it to happen.   I dread to think of the results had the Inspector overheard.

It began quite innocently, I assure you.  Inspector Thatcher had instructed me to clean the filing room thoroughly, from top to bottom.  A visiting dignitary would be staying with us overnight, and while I didn't understand what they might be doing in our filing room, I complied, as always.  It was hot and thankless work, as are most of my tasks, with no windows and only one vent connected to Constable Fraser's office.

I have come to expect these sorts of requests from my Superiors, and I cannot complain, as it is due to my own failings my first week here.  It my first posting outside of the Motherland and to be with someone such as Constable Fraser, well, it was an honor.   I'm afraid that I made a poor showing, remarkable only for my clumsiness and sheer ineptitude. When the Mountie in me finally surfaced, the impression had been formed and they had moved on.  Constable Fraser tends to ignore me, politely of course, which affords me the opportunity to study him at my leisure.  The Inspector... well, I'm sure she's under pressure from her superiors.  She really is quite a good officer despite her attitude.

I mustn't complain though, my days are busy, filled with time-consuming tasks to minor for the others, but important just the same.  My job reviews, while unremarkable, are always complimentary, as I try to bring diligence and pride to each task I'm assigned.   More importantly, I'm able to work for, and occasionally with, my hero.  To see Constable Fraser in action is a breathtaking reward.  But, I digress.

As I previously indicated, I was under strict orders not to leave the filing room until my task was completed.  By late afternoon I was quite tired and thirsty.  I stopped for a few moments, to drink some lemon tea and refresh myself as best I could in the stuffy little room.  Perhaps I closed my eyes, but only for a moment, to cleanse my lids of the gritty dust that filled the air.

Forever to my dishonor, I napped.  I was quite surprised when Constable Fraser's door was slammed shut as Detective Vecchio made his entrance next door.   It was obviously very late.  Would that I have been alert and going about my task, they would have heard me and nothing untoward would have happened.

An idle ear tuned into Detective Vecchio, hearing and dismissing his rather petulant complaints about that dreadful green car and his family.  I daresay that he does not find Miss Francesca's attention to the Constable amusing. Not wanting to intrude, I resumed shuffling my papers, a quiet task, replaying in my head a Chopin piece I had recently heard.

During the symphony intermission, I realized that the noises coming from the vent overhead had changed.  Low murmurs and rather... throaty laughter had replaced talking. Admittedly, I should have made my presence known at that time, but I was overtaken by curiosity.  Constable Fraser had always seemed so humorless; hearing his quiet laughter, I was taken in by the mellow timbre of his voice and the obvious affection in it.  Even Detective Vecchio's voice had lost that familiar nasal whine.

There was the soft whisper of cloth and the unmistakable sound of a zipper being drawn.  Then a quiet jangle of hangers and a muttered remark about just having the Armani dry-cleaned.   A muted plea and the chuckled response halted my flight to the door.

"No, leave it on please.  I like how it smells, Ray."

"Eeew, Benny.  I'm all sweaty."

Unfortunately, I was unable to hear the rejoinder due to the loud thump of Detective Vecchio's weapon as he placed it on the desk.  Red-faced, I realized they were most likely discussing his undershirt.  I wanted to leave, but discovered that I couldn't just yet; my jodhpurs had tightened inappropriately at the thought of the warm male scent of the American.

So I stayed.

And I listened.

I heard the moist sound of Fraser's (for I cannot think of him as Constable in such a situation) mouth moving over his friend's - the low groans of delight and the slick sucking. Trembling on the edge of something so delicious, my belly throbbed in time with Vecchio's choked cries for more. My own nipples hardened under my uniform and I wanted so desperately to hold him, to gentle him, even as Fraser made him beg.

Endearments and vulgarities flowed from their mouths, things too tender to repeat, too lewd to resist, cocooning me in their passion.   My heart tripled its beat to match the furious slaps of pounding flesh and I had to bite my arm to keep my own scream silent at the apex.  Fraser made a most wondrous noise, deep in his chest, as he climaxed.   It reminded me of a bull elk, bellowing out challenges as he stands over his harem.

In the aftermath, I rested with them, head against a drawer. Eventually Vecchio's stomach roused them and they tidied up and left.  I wish that I could have seen their faces, taken with me the sight of what must been beautiful - eyes heavy lidded from passion, lips swollen and bruised.  To console myself, I entered Fraser's office, under the guise of delivering a file, and sat in his chair, breathing in the dissipating musk.  I could almost imagine the leather beneath me was still warm and the smudge at my elbow was a droplet of sweat from Vecchio. The urge to press my tongue to it was irresistible.

I went home shortly thereafter, my task unfinished, but I couldn't let the stain in my uniform sit. It was too unsightly. I scrawled my adventure in back of my journal, when I arrived home, lest I somehow forget.  That night I tossed to hot, erotic dreams, filled with hands and mouths and murmurs; awakening to find I had made an untidy mess of my sheets and I was alarmingly late for work.

I accepted the reprimand from Inspector Thatcher for leaving my job incomplete and spent the morning finishing up.  That was three weeks ago and here I am yet again, tucked into a corner of this airless little prison, my journal rapidly being filled with my tidy writing.  Heart beating with shameful delight, I wait to hear the Detective's footsteps on the stairs.

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Disclaimer: These characters belong to Alliance and the author makes no claims upon them - no copyright infrigement is intended. This story is for entertainment purposes only and there is no monetary gain.