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by any other namebecker & sarah

Inside the anomaly

She hadn’t even thought about it, not for a split-second: the predator had knocked Becker to the ground and sent his gun flying; Sarah had scooped up a length of four-by-four and dashed between them, yelling and jabbing her makeshift weapon in the thing’s face.

And that had been enough. Becker had used the diversion to scramble backwards and grab his gun, had shouted a warning; she had dropped; and he had dispatched the creature with a single burst of fire.

Then the pair had scurried back through the closing anomaly—bloody, bruised, but still very much alive.


Sarah sat in the cloakroom, struggling to zip up her boots. Her arms were like rubber, her sides ached, her bruises had bruises on them—

“You were spectacular out there,” said Becker, and the sudden sound of his voice made her jump. “There are men with two tours of Afghanistan under their belts who wouldn’t have had the balls to do what you did.”

She raised her head and looked at him, and what she saw in those deep, dark eyes sent a shaft of physical pleasure through her core, dispelling all her weariness in an instant.

And her body’s response must have been scrawled upon her face, because Becker added, quietly, “And all I want to do is take you back to my place, and fuck your brains out.”

“That’s romantic.”

She regretted the joke the moment it left her mouth.

There was a long, awkward silence.

Then he half shrugged, half bowed his head in apology, and turned to leave.

“No! Wait!” she said, catching his arm. “I’m sorry, Becker. I didn’t mean that how it sounded.” She smiled. “How far is your place?”

“About thirty minutes’ drive.”

“That far? Couldn’t we just—”

“I don’t want,”—he came closer, and bent towards her, lowering his voice—“I don’t want our first time to be in here, Sarah; not in this place.”

“Our first time?” Well, that was romantic. Sort of. She nodded. “Let’s go then.”

They stumbled through the door and—as his hands, working between their bodes, pushed her jeans down her hips—Becker kicked it shut.

Sarah leaned back, grasping his shoulders for support as he entered her quickly—his size already promising satisfaction—and she let him take the lead, thrusting into her, hard and deep. He was strong and focussed—just what she liked—and, as his rhythm grew more relentless and she felt the first signs of release stir within her, she slid her hands round the hard curves of his buttocks, pulled him closer, and let his heat and motion and the flexing of his steely muscles drive all coherent thought from her head—

“God,” he cried, “you’ll finish me off.”

But Sarah was much too close to care—and she suddenly cried out, her body bucking and twisting, her hands clenching hard.

He sank down upon her, his head coming to rest in the crook of her shoulder. “Now I know,” he murmured, “how an MP5 feels when someone rough pulls the trigger.”

Smiling, Sarah lifted a hand and stroked his hair. A delicious lethargy was filling her limbs, but Becker’s vigour had made her greedy for more. “You know,” she said, “despite your promise, my brains are still perfectly intact, still inside my head.”

She felt his lips curve against her cheek. “Christ, give me a moment or two…”

“Becker,” she said, suddenly curious, “what’s your first name?”

He did not move, but she was surprised to feel his body tense up. “It’s a family name,” he said. “It runs in the family.”

“What is it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“We’ve just made love.”

“It… It’s given to the eldest son—it’s always given to the eldest—since my great, great grandfather gave it to his eldest, the first Becker to attend Sandhurst…”

She felt him shrinking from her, physically and emotionally, and said, hastily, “If you don’t want to tell me, Becker, it’s OK—”

“Eugene,” he said. And, though his voice was muffled by her hair, there was no mistaking his embarrassment. “It’s Eugene. All right?”

She gathered him closer, nodding her head in silent sympathy. “It’s a nice name.”

“No it’s not.”

“Do you have a middle name?”


“Well…” she said, a grin spreading slowly across her face. “I think that I shall call you Becker. Captain Becker.”

He laughed out loud.

And her reward—delivered in full, soon after—changed her grin to a smile that lasted for the rest of the day.


NOTE Shortly after I wrote this story, one of the ladies at primeval_denial emailed ITV and asked them what Becker's mysterious first name really is. They answered...

Hilary :-)





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There was a debate raging at primeval_denial; this was my solution to the mystery of Captain Becker’s first name. (However, see the note at the end of the story).

By my calculations, Becker’s unfortunate great grandfather would have been born in about 1893, have attended the Royal Military College at Sandhurst around 1910, and have fought in World War I.

Thanks to Google, I can also tell you that the UK special forces’ submachine gun is an HK MP5.