Damn he's beautiful, what did I do to deserve one so perfect? Perfection is an interesting concept, in theory it is what we want, yet no one is happy being described as perfect. He isn't really, no one is, but physically it would be hard to beat him - in my eyes. He lies there on my floor, relaxed, and happy, he even smiles in his sleep. The sheet I permitted him, he kicked off almost immediately, so now he lies there, beside my bed, naked.

Corn-coloured, tousled hair resting on the pillow, frames his handsome face, a face that looks so much younger in repose. Broad shoulders and strong arms tanned honey gold by hours of work in the sun. That lean torso, with its washboard stomach, so flat and hard, with just the hint of a valley that runs down from his navel to his groin. There I find the most perfect of cocks, nestling in a golden halo. Perfectly - there's that word again - proportioned, smooth and unblemished. My cock is too big, I know it's odd, even unheard of for a man to say that, but it is, not so much the length, which is long, but the width, which is - if I say so my self - prodigious. More than a few potential lovers, male and female, have been put off or even scared away once they've seen it, but not him.

It's odd now to look back to how this all got started. It was Buck who brought us together, even if he didn't know it. I guess we all knew that Buck was, how shall I say this, 'managing' Chris, had been for years, taking the heat for us, because he thought we couldn't or wouldn't understand where the rage that was directed at us was really coming from. He was covering up for him as well; I hadn't realised that Chris was still going on full-out benders until that night. Buck was undercover, deep undercover, when Chris called him; he was drunk, he was alone and he was maudlin. What could Buck do? If he went to Chris, he would blow his cover, endanger his and Ezra's life and waste months of careful work, not just ours either, but the FBI's and the DEA's as well. So he called me, I have a degree in psychology after all and I'm strong enough to hold Chris down, if I need to. Aside from Buck, who's a lot stronger than he looks, only Nathan and I can do that. That wonderful whipcord slim frame of my lover's is as hard as iron and strong as steel.

I found him in a bar, just where Buck said he'd be, and dragged him out - he didn't come willingly, but the owner was happy to see the back of him - and took him home. Where I ended up staying the whole weekend, and we talked. We talked a lot, while he was still drunk he was uninhibited and most revealing and I was able to use that information and insight once he was sober.

Chris, I discovered, had some serious survivor's guilt issues; he needed to be punished, so he drank, to punish himself for not having been there to save them. I suspect the reason Buck, for all his natural empathy, couldn't help him with this, is because he too suffers from a degree of guilt over Adam and Sarah's deaths. And while Chris was doing very well at punishing himself, he wasn't so good at rewarding himself when he deserved it. Reward was often a drink - the same as punishment, the two merged into one. Chris seemed to feel we had achieved something that weekend and he wanted to continue, so I saw him each night that week. I can't tell you when I realised that Chris' need for reward and punishment and my own needs were compatible. But the evening we had been talking long into the night in front of the fire and he casually lay his head on my thigh and stoked a finger lazily up my calf, almost made me sure. The next day was Friday, so I suggested that since I was going to be at the ranch most of the weekend, perhaps I should stay over. His ready agreement was encouraging.

That weekend I settled in the spare room and planned to test my theory. I 'arranged' for him to see me - by 'accident' - naked and fully aroused and then gauged his reactions. I wasn't disappointed; he was turned on, seriously turned on. He didn't turn away, he didn't stammer and stutter out an apology, he didn't avert his eyes.

No, Chris Larabee just stood and stared and then he said, "Shit, Josiah, you're beautiful."

Now I have had some reactions in my time, 'Oh my God!', 'Wow!', 'Shit!', 'No way!' and on one memorable occasion in Saigon - 'Come here and take me, big boy!', but never has anyone called me or my enormous cock beautiful. Have to say that was a shock, a nice one, but a shock. So we took it from there. We are not in love, not like I suspect Buck and Ezra are, we aren't going to start up a 24/7 relationship. They, however, may and that is going to cause us problems, but we are Team Seven, we'll work it out. No, Chris and I love each other, but we are not in love - God, if that isn't paperback psychology, I don't know what is! Chris loved Sarah, truly, madly, deeply - as they say - and I don't think he could ever truly love another. And me? Well, let's just say I have my own emotional hang-ups about love and 'marriage' and I'm too old and too set in my ways to go changing them now. But I have needs and he has needs and our needs dovetail so perfectly, it's almost spiritual.

Chris needs to be punished and if I don't do it, he'll punish himself. Sure he could go into therapy to try and 'cure' himself. It might work, it might not, and it would cost him a small fortune and probably screw him up so badly in the process he would no longer be 'bad ass Larabee, the meanest agent in the west' as JD calls him. Or I can punish him safely, in a safe controlled environment. And as well as punish, I can reward, we all need rewards. If a take-down or a court case goes well - he gets a reward. If he doesn't chew up anyone for no reason, if he doesn't terrify some underling just because he can, for a whole week - he gets a reward.

Yesterday, Thursday night, what we call a 'school night', some old navy buddies of his came to town. I told him I'd drive him to the bar and stay at the ranch; he could get a cab home. No later than one and not so drunk he couldn't drive to work the next day, that's what we agreed. At three the cab pulled up and he all but falls out of it. I spent a lovely hour with him in the bathroom, most of the time he had his head in the toilet bowl. And come Friday morning, he wasn't any use to man nor beast. It is a shame, because I had a wonderful weekend planned. Chris is, at heart, a sensualist. I've found an excellent web site, well, to be honest, Buck gave me the URL, and I have purchased a number of toys, including a fur glove. Oh, we were going to have fun with that glove this weekend, but no, he needs

punishment. I don't beat him or spank him, not that I haven't thought about it, but so far he's never pushed me that far. What I do is withdraw privileges, like me, and my bed. I gave him the options of the floor beside me or the small bed in the den, he chose the floor. He's hoping I'll weaken and give him a little bit of me. He knows he won't get to play and he sure as hell isn't getting the fuck he wants so much. But my resolve may falter, I might let him blow me, maybe on Sunday night, if he's very, very good.

Damn, and I wanted him this weekend, wanted to see him writhe under my soft gloved hand, wanted to see him panting, eyes dilated with wanton lust as he spread his legs for me, open and inviting and at my mercy. Oh well, another weekend, if he's earns it.