by Jules Jones
“Grateful for your rescue? How grateful?”
“No.” He should let go, should pull away. But he wasn’t sure he could even stand up without help now.
Hands pressed on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees. He could feel body heat in front of his face. He opened his eyes and saw what he expected to see -- a cock. And felt a sudden rush of bile to his mouth. “I’ll be sick.”
“Not your sort of thing, is it? Amazing how many want it when they think they’re going to be on top, and then change their minds. I suppose you’d have been the same given half a chance.”
He tried to fight down the dizziness and looked up. Hallucination or not, the man was in front of him and looking fairly determined. Though there was no attempt to force him to take the man’s cock now that he was on his knees. “No, I’ll really be sick. Seasick. And concussion.”
The man stared at him for a moment; then his expression changed to concern, and he knelt down in front of Martin. “What happened?”
“Bumped my head coming into the cave.” God, his speech was slurred now. It had taken a little while for the effects to set in, but he was very definitely concussed. “Here.” He tried to point to where he’d hit his head.
“He’s putting it on,” the man behind him said.
“No, I don’t think he is,” the first one said. He touched Martin’s temple. Martin flinched, but the touch was gentler than he’d expected after their initial aggression. It didn’t hurt. All he felt was a light touch on his skin and a strange buzzing in his head that must be an effect of the concussion.
“He’s hurt, Patrick. Go and see if he’s got a torch in the boat; I can’t see whether there’s any surface damage.” The man smiled at Martin, and there was only gentle humour in it, no threat. “All right, payment can wait.”
“Really can’t ...”
“Shhh, it’s all right. We didn’t realise you were hurt, or we wouldn’t have pushed you like that.” Nothing but concern in the man’s face now, the aggression stripped away. He put his arms around Martin again. “Try to stay awake for a few minutes; we need to check how bad it is.”
Martin let himself sag into the man’s embrace and closed his eyes again. He was in no shape to try to get away, and no longer felt any need to. “Wish I could. Couple of pretty lads like you, and I’m too fucking sick to fuck,” he muttered. “Though if I wasn’t sick, I bet you wouldn’t be here.” Something in the back of his mind still said that they couldn’t really be here, that he was more badly injured than he’d realised and this was some sort of fever dream.
He felt the man stiffen slightly and realised that he’d said it out loud. Realised what he’d said out loud and was astonished at himself. He wasn’t one for making passes at strangers, and certainly not strangers who’d been pretty damned sure of themselves in making a pass at him.
Aggressive, yes, but concerned for him when they’d realised he was hurt. At least, this one was. He’d dropped all interest in dominance games as soon as he’d seen that Martin was genuinely hurt. Martin wasn’t so dazed that he couldn’t understand his own reaction to that. The contrast with Barry’s behaviour was only too stark. It just reinforced his theory that this was a dream, that these two men were something from his subconscious mind, a projection of what he wanted.
“You do like men, then?”
“Mmm.” He rested his head against the man’s chest. “Still feel sick. Think it’s seasickness as well, though.”
“That must have been a rough ride at the end.”
“Don’t want to think about it.”
He heard a quiet chuckle, then, “No, I don’t suppose you do.”
“Found the torch, George,” he heard the other man say. Patrick, George had called him. “And the bastard’s got more chocolate in this cupboard!”
“Leave it,” George snapped. “That will be part of his emergency supplies, and he might just need it if the storm lasts long. Forget your stomach for once; you don’t need it.”
“But how often do we get choc--”
“Patrick!” George’s voice was a whipcrack.
Martin jumped and winced. George’s arms tightened around him again. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to shout in your ear.”
“There’s some food left from lunch,” Martin said. “And tea.” If he was concussed, he shouldn’t be eating or drinking, just in case. But cold and dehydration were a more immediate worry than any chance of undergoing surgery in the near future. And he felt cold now, even with George holding him.
“All right,” George soothed. Then more loudly, “Bring his lunch box and the tea flask.”
“Was doing that.”
“You are cold,” George said to him. “Look, I’m going to let go long enough to get that blanket.”
He would have nodded, but remembered in time. Instead he just opened his eyes. It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. “Don’t feel as sick,” he reported.
“Good. The seasickness is probably wearing off.” George released him, picked up the blanket, and wrapped it around him.
He hadn’t been all that cold, not yet, but the warmth of the blanket around him felt good. So did George’s arms around him, holding him steady. He risked looking around and found that a few minutes of being on dry land had made a big difference in how ill he felt. “Who are you?”
“You haven’t guessed?” George asked.
“If he hasn’t realised, then it’s no wonder you scared him when you came on to him, George.” Patrick crouched down in front of him and handed him a cup of tea. “Here, it’s still hot.”
He took the cup and found the tea still warm enough to be comforting. The nausea had receded enough that he could sip slowly at the sweet, warm drink. After a few mouthfuls, he tried again. “Where did you come from?” If they had a way out of this cave that didn’t involve going on the open water, he should take advantage of it.
“We brought you here,” George said. Someone stroked Martin’s head, very gently. “I thought you realised that. I’m sorry. You said we were the best date you’d had in ages, so I assumed you’d still feel the same way. That’s why we thought you were just playing hard to get.”
Martin looked out across the water in the cave. Definitely no dolphins. And he didn’t believe that they’d have just abandoned him, not after the trouble they’d gone to in getting him to shelter.
Even through his dizziness, he understood why his subconscious had insisted that the men couldn’t be real. There was only one way for them to be here. “Now I know I’m hallucinating. I’m sitting here talking to figments of my imagination, because I’m too fucking out of it to tell the difference between dreams and reality.”
“We’re what you dream of?” George asked.
“Yes,” he said with utter honesty.
Not one but two handsome men, men who wanted him but were prepared to wait, men who were dominant but secure enough to put his needs first. Conjured up by his imagination from the company he’d kept this last week, the company he’d already recognised as better for him than Barry had been.
“I wish Barry was like you,” he added, then winced inwardly as he heard himself. He sounded drunk, slurred speech and self-pity. It was embarrassing even if his only audience was a figment of his imagination.
“Barry?”
“Boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Very, very ex, bastard.”
“Dump you?” Patrick asked.
“No.” He’d have been less angry if that had been Barry’s reaction. “Told me he was quite willing to carry on, as long as I didn’t carry on about him being married.” It spilled out of him now, the remaining anger and hurt that Simon hadn’t managed to bleed off, that the holiday had soothed for a little while but not removed. “I find out that I’m his mistress, and he turns around and tells me that he’s willing to let me carry on as long as I’m properly discreet! As if I should be grateful!” And then there was the last, most bitter thing, because it showed just what Barry was -- a selfish bastard concerned only with himself.
“He thinks that because I’m a sub I’ll tolerate being treated like dirt out of bed.”
“So you told him where to go.” George cuddled him. “Any regrets?”
The anger surging through him overrode the nausea, and he sat upright to look straight into George’s eyes. “Only that I ever got involved with him in the first place. And that you’re only my subconscious telling me what it is I thought I’d found in him -- a dom with manners.” He wanted to be controlled, yes. Even treated roughly sometimes. But only by someone who understood that it was with his permission, that he was not simply a convenient toy. “Barry never understood that it’s about partnership.”
Then the fit of passion drained, leaving him exhausted. He slumped down again.
“You need to rest,” George said. “Lie down.”
“Shouldn’t. Need to stay alert.”
“We’ll look after you.”
He let himself be persuaded to lie down, a warm body either side of him, the blanket over him. Even if he was still hallucinating, he was reasonably sure that he hadn’t imagined getting out of the boat and bringing the blanket with him, so he should be warm enough. And so long as he was warm enough in reality, he was content to enjoy the dream. It felt good to rest his head on George’s shoulder, put his arm across that broad chest. At least this dream was pleasant. “Pity I’m going home tomorrow. Even if this was real, it’s only a week’s holiday, and I won’t be able to get back here even for a weekend break for a while.”
“We’ll wait for you to come back,” George said. “You never did tell us your name, you know.”
“Martin.” And then he fell asleep.
He was woken by loud whistling. It didn’t sound like his alarm clock, and he was disorientated for a few seconds. Then he remembered that he was disorientated, and why.
For a moment Martin wondered if it had all been just a strange dream, but as the last of the sleepiness faded away, he looked around and saw the cave. That part at least was real.
He still felt fuzzy, but reality was back as it should be. He was alone under the blanket, and the dolphins were in the water, trying to attract his attention. He sat up so that they could see he was all right, and looked around for his clothes. They were spread out alongside him. Still damp when he touched them, but he was warm and dry now. He could put up with wearing damp clothes for as long as it took to get back to the jetty.
The water was calm and flat, and judging by the light coming through the cave entrance it was very late afternoon, but a clear sky again. He checked his watch. The dolphins must have let him sleep right through high tide, waiting for the tide to drop again so they could take him safely through the low entrance. This time he’d duck before they got to the barrier.
He dressed quickly, shivering as the damp patches touched his skin, and stuffed the blanket back in its bag. The tarp he wrapped over his shoulders as a sort of cloak, taking advantage of the remains of his body heat on it. He picked up the lunch things and made his way back to the boat.
He hadn’t dreamed the steps cut into the rock shelf. They made getting back into the boat without getting wet again a lot easier. The dolphins swam over to him, and he tossed them the towlines. And then they were off, another chariot ride for him. Though this one was much smoother than the first, to his great relief.
Martin wondered how far the dolphins would take him. To the nearest beach with access to a path would be the most sensible thing for them, though he didn’t fancy the long walk home. But they kept going when they reached the first such place. It was going to be a long and tiring swim for them, and he was grateful that they were willing to go to that much effort for him. His bribery and corruption efforts had paid off, although Simon certainly couldn’t have had this in mind when he’d suggested bribing them to stay around.
Simon. Simon was due back by now; he’d be worried. Martin pulled out his phone. There was still no reception, but a brief flicker of one bar suggested that he might be able to make a call soon.
He kept an eye on the phone while keeping a watch for any boats or walkers he could hail for help. Eventually the flicker turned into a low but steady signal strength, and he tried Simon’s number.
“Martin!” The relief in Simon’s voice was obvious. “Where are you?”
“I got caught by a thunderstorm. Long story, but I’m coming in now.”
“What’s wrong with you? You sound drunk.”
“Concussion.”
“Shit!” A pause, then, “Can you manage, or shall I call the Coast Guard?”
“I think I’ll be all right. I’m just offshore, so all I have to do is follow it along until I get home.” He was reluctant to call out the emergency services if he didn’t really need them; others might be in greater need. But just in case, “If I don’t get back within ...” He guessed. “... half an hour, and you can’t raise me, call them. I headed west this morning, and I’m coming back now, but I’m not sure exactly how far away I am.”
“All right. But I’m going to call you every ten minutes, and if I don’t get an answer, I’m calling them.”
Martin hung up, relieved that someone knew where he was, but wondering if he’d made a mistake in turning down the Coast Guard. No. If the dolphins got too tired, he could always phone Simon back. There was nothing more he could do now to be useful other than to sit still and not rock the boat.
Simon was waiting for him at the jetty. It was obvious when Simon realised what was powering the boat -- his jaw dropped as he stared at them.
The dolphins let the lines go just as the boat came up to the jetty, leaving Martin and Simon to deal with getting the boat safely in. They swung around to swim up to the side of the boat away from the jetty, looking at Simon. By now Martin had some feel for their expressions, and he got the impression they weren’t really certain of Simon’s intentions. “It’s all right; he’s my friend.”
One whistled sharply at him.
“Just a friend,” he said, then wondered why he’d said it. Obviously he hadn’t quite shaken off the effects of that strange dream.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They don’t know you, and they’ve been looking after me all afternoon.” He took Simon’s hand and scrambled up onto the jetty, then turned back to the dolphins. “Thank you.”
Simon looked at the dolphins, then at him. “They understand you?”
“That much at least.”
“You’re bloody lucky. What happened?”
“Storm blew up and the engine cut out. Those two towed me into a cave for shelter, but I banged my head. I’ve been out of it for a while.”
“Ye gods.” Simon touched his temple, making him flinch. “Casualty department for you, my lad.” Simon looked back at the dolphins. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing him home.” In a lower tone, he said to Martin, “I feel an idiot, but if they can understand simple English, they deserve it.”
Both dolphins whistled, then turned away to the open sea. Martin watched them go until he could no longer see them. Would they still be here the next time he came down? Would they remember him?
He was going to miss them.
“Come on,” Simon said. “Time for you to get checked over.” Martin suffered himself to be led to the car and apologised for not being there to meet Simon at the station.
“No trouble,” Simon said. “I just got a taxi when I couldn’t get hold of you by phone. It was only when you were late coming in that I started to worry. So, what did happen to you?”
He told Simon about it, and then he told the doctor at the hospital. But not all about it. Just that he’d had hallucinations. He was pronounced concussed but fit to be let loose.
“Not the happy break I’d hoped to give you,” Simon said at the train station the next day.
Martin thought about the week he’d had and shook his head. “I had a good time, Simon. I’d have enjoyed it even without those two. And they were worth a fright and a bang on the head.”
“I’ll get that blo
ody engine fixed.” Simon grinned at him. “And you are not going out by yourself again until I’ve given you a crash course in maintenance. Next time you might not be so lucky.”
“It could be a couple of months before I can get down again,” Martin warned. There was a new contract waiting for him when he got home, and he’d be lucky to see much of his own house for the next month, let alone anyone else’s.
The guard blew his whistle and started slamming shut the last few carriage doors.
“And if you’ve got a new boyfriend, bring him with you!” Simon shouted as the train started to pull away.
Fat chance. But at least it would be from lack of opportunity to find one, rather than from depression. As Martin settled down into his seat, he brought an image of Barry into his mind and knew that he was cured. Figment of his imagination George might have been, but George had shown him what he wanted and that Barry wasn’t it. He had a right to expect better than that, and he was willing to wait for it if necessary.
Chapter Four
Martin was two days late starting on the new contract and was still slightly fuzzy even then. He was glad that he was working for a client he already knew well -- it might have been embarrassing, even harmful to his reputation, to have been so obviously dozy in front of someone who didn’t know what he was normally like. At least Doug just sighed and said, “Idiot. Stay in the office for the next couple of days; I don’t want you falling off any heights.” But working hard to catch up on a deadline job didn’t leave him much time or energy for socialising.
That didn’t worry him. What did worry him was a lack of inclination to look for a new man, and the reason why.
He’d expected that peculiar dream to fade along with the other effects of the concussion, but instead it had persisted. Not only had it persisted, but it was clear and coherent rather than fragmented, as if it was a real memory.
And it was too damned detailed. And internally consistent. The only thing in it that didn’t make sense when he looked at it in broad daylight was the men’s claim that they were the dolphins, changed into human shape. If you accepted that, then all the rest of it hung together. There was none of the weird nonsense that seemed obvious and natural during a dream but dissolved into strange shadows as soon as you woke.