Rating: NC-17 – Graphic Consensual M/M Sex
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: Pilot, Home Invasion
Warnings/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~ 4000
Summary: Peter behaves like a brat, but Neal knows how to handle him.
Author’s Notes: The bolero is a 3/4 dance that originated in Spain in the late 18th century, a combination of the contradanza and the sevillana, invented in 1780. It is danced by either a soloist or a couple. It is in a moderately slow tempo and is performed to music which is sung and accompanied by castanets and guitars with lyrics of five to seven syllables in each of four lines per verse. It is in triple time and usually has a triplet on the second beat of each bar. Source – Wikipedia
“Go take a hot shower. You’ll get pneumonia.”
“Who are you, my mother?” Peter following Neal into his apartment, dripping icy, dirty water all over the place.
Peter was drenched from head to foot. An early November Nor’easter, which was only supposed to clip the eastern end of Long Island, dumped a record amount of rain, freezing rain, sleet and now snow across Manhattan, and the worst possible weather in which to get a flat tire. When the nice people at Ford roadside assistance said it would be three hours until a tow truck could get to them, Peter went ballistic and Neal disconnected the call before he said something he’d later regret. They waited for a half-hour, hoping that a passing police car or good Samaritan would stop, but the West Side Highway was nearly deserted. It was well past rush hour, and most people had been smart enough to stay home and out of the storm.
He insisted on changing the flat himself, and wouldn’t let Neal help him or even stand over him with an umbrella. Not that it would have made a difference, since the freezing rain was blowing sideways. What made it even worse was that the flat was on the driver’s side, and every one of the few passing cars and trucks showered him with frozen road wash. The heated seat and the hot blowing air in the car helped during the ride home, but now he was beginning to shiver uncontrollably.
“Peter, if you don’t get into the shower now, I’ll put you in it myself.”
“Neal, I’ve got a couple of inches and about twenty pounds on you - I don’t see that happening.”
“It’s all about the center of gravity. Get in the fucking shower NOW.”
“Okay, okay.” Peter conceded that Neal had a point. He WAS cold and the thought of nearly endless hot water was heavenly - but he was tired, aggravated, and well, he felt like behaving like a five year-old. And just to prove his point, Peter toed off his shoes, stripped and dropped his soaking wet clothes on the rug in Neal’s living room.
“Going to join me?”
Neal looked up from the fire he was lighting, and was apparently considering the effect of the cold on Peter’s anatomy. “No - you need to get warm, not have shower sex. But I’ll have a nice surprise for you when you get out.”
Peter stomped into the bathroom, and got into the shower. The overhead faucet the size of a dinner plate and the dozens of water jets built into the wall chased away the cold in a matter of minutes, but the experience was so sybaritic that he lingered and wondered what Neal’s nice surprise would be. Maybe something involving those new fur-lined leather cuffs they bought last week. Maybe Neal was in bed waiting to be locked up…
He wasn’t. Neal was standing in the doorway, wearing only a silk haori, similar to the one he had given to Peter the previous Christmas. The material matched his eyes and made them glow just a little bluer. He was holding a towel, opened and waiting to dry Peter off.
“I’m not a little boy. I can dry myself off.” Peter pouted, disappointed.
Neal looked him over, lingering on Peter’s burgeoning erection. “No, you certainly aren’t a little boy.”
Peter blushed.
He stood still as Neal dried him off, carefully, leaving no part of his body untouched - inside his elbows, between his thighs, the backs of his knees, the space between his balls and the base of his cock. The towel had been warmed, and standing in the heated bathroom, Peter felt like some decedent Roman general and Neal was his body slave. Body servant.
“Stop being so PC, Peter.”
Startled, he stared down at Neal - how did the man know what he was thinking?
On his knees in front of Peter, Neal smiled. “You’ve had this fantasy for a long time, haven’t you?”
The blush turned to a full-body flush and Peter felt himself grow hot enough to finish drying without any further assistance.
Peter was once again disappointed when Neal stood up and discarded the towel. He held out a hand to Peter and led him from the bathroom into the bedroom.
All the lights had been turned off, the fireplace, some candles and the snow-bright sky providing just enough illumination. Neal had taken comforter off the bed and folded the sheets all the way down. There was just one pillow left.
Peter looked at Neal, a little puzzled.
“Lay down on you stomach, and let me take care of you.” Peter just stood there; he didn’t want to be ‘taken care of.’ He wanted sex.
“Peter, please - just lay down. You’ll get everything you want.” Neal once again read his mind, or his face. Expecting Peter to follow, he turned around and picked up a stoppered glass bottle.
“I don’t want to smell like the perfume counter at Macy’s.”
Looking slightly aggravated, Neal handed Peter the bottle, and he took a cautious sniff. The contents had a clean, spicy fragrance, something he wouldn’t mind wearing on occasion. “Peter, are you this unbelievably difficult when Elizabeth is trying to seduce you?”
Peter smiled. “Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Caffrey?”
Completely ignoring the reference, he replied. “Yes, and I don’t seem to be doing such a good job of it.
“Oh, you’re doing just fine. I just wasn’t expecting this. Suddenly, in a more compliant frame of mind, Peter laid face down on the bed.
Light orchestral music filled the room - something early 20th century that Peter liked but didn’t recognize. It wasn’t quite relaxing, but it wasn’t disturbing either. It was...interesting and very Neal. Head turned and resting on the pillow, Peter closed his eyes and felt Neal’s warm, oil slicked hand stroke him from neck to shoulder, then down his right arm, gently pulling at the skin and muscles. The stroke was repeated several times, and then Neal began to work on Peter’s hand, gently kneading his palm and fingers. The caresses continued on his other shoulder, arm and hand. The touch was both soothing and erotic, and he couldn’t help but give a low moan. Peter thought he heard Neal laugh, just a little bit.
Neal went to work on his back, long, slow strokes working with the lines of muscle, the wings of his shoulder blades, his ribcage and finally the long column of his spine. Peter held his breath, waiting for Neal to reach his ass, but Neal just kept stroking down his back, his fingers now splayed to brush down his side. Peter suddenly realized, given the symmetry of the touch that he must be straddling him, but the massage was leaving him too languorous to push up against Neal.
The music playing in the background changed tempo, from a light, impressionistic melody to a more strident piece, and Neal’s strokes seemed to follow the measure.
At last, his fingers stroked over Peter’s buttocks, and the touch seemed strangely impersonal. He found it intensely exciting; Neal was playing into the fantasy of being his servant - his body slave. The slicked palms and fingers stroked the tight muscles, lingering a bit on the inside curve and at the very base of his spine. Neal’s thumbs parted his ass cheeks, slid down between them and circled his hole. He repeated this motion three or four more times, and Peter was so aroused that he started grinding his cock into the mattress.
Neal leaned over his body and whispered, “Stop that.” Peter did.
To Peter’s dismay, Neal abandoned his butt and moved onto his legs, stroking and caressing the long, lean muscles of his thighs and calves. When Neal ran his thumbs against the sole of his foot, Peter’s whole leg twitched.
“Ticklish?”
“No.” Peter was, but he wouldn’t give into it. Neal repeated the stroke got the same reaction.
“Okay, Peter, whatever you say.” Neal began on Peter’s other leg, but this time, avoided the sensitive spots.
Despite his massive erection digging into the bed, Peter was almost completely relaxed. The music had segued into something different, something that he recognized. Debussy’s Clair de Lune, and the lush romanticism seemed perfect as Neal swept his hands back up Peter’s thighs and over his buttocks again. Then, he felt something different, Neal’s lips and his ridiculously long eyelashes brushing against his tailbone. The sensation wasn’t exactly a kiss - he could feel Neal’s lips moving. Whatever he was doing, it felt good. Neal kept his lips against Peter’s skin, working up his spine and across his shoulders.
Peter felt the mattress shift as Neal straddled him again and felt the warmth of his naked body against his back. Neal was still pressing his lips against him. When he reached the curve of his neck, Peter was finally able to make out what Neal was doing with his mouth. Neal was whispering “I love you” into his skin, imprinting a verbal tattoo across his body.
Peter wasn’t sure if he actually replied with words or just thought them. “Love you too.”
As the music changed into something more modern and atonal, Neal sat up and moved off of Peter. He moaned a little at the loss of body heat.
“Roll over.”
“Don’ wanna move.” Peter was so relaxed, he was slurring his words.
“Peter, do you want to go to sleep?” Neal’s voice sounded bemused. Peter opened his eyes, and Neal’s face was inches from his own, his lips and cheeks shiny from the oil. He was smiling and those blue eyes were glowing.
“Mmmmm. I’m relaxed, not dead. Give me a hand.”
“Okay, old man.” As Neal reached over to help him, Peter pulled him onto the bed and rolled over on top of him.
“Old man? I’ll give you old man.” He ground his cock against Neal’s and hissed in his arousal. But he didn’t retain the dominant position for long. Neal twisted his body, checked himself against Peter’s hip and rolled them both over. Peter once again found himself underneath Neal, but this time on his back.
“That one's for free, Caffrey…you’ve turned my bones to jelly.”
Neal leaned back and Peter hissed again in pleasure as Neal sat back on his haunches, his ass rested against Peter’s cock. “Mmmm – not all your bones. Neal wiggled a bit, and his dick slide against Neal’s crack. Peter laughed, knowing where this was going.
For the third time that evening, Neal seemed to read his mind. “This” Neal reached back and caressed his cock. “Is not going where you think it’s going. Literally - and figuratively.”
Now, Peter was completely puzzled.
Neal ran his fingers down Peter’s chest, captured his nipples and tugged at them. Peter arched into the caress, and Neal pinched them, hard. Peter moaned. Neal leaned over Peter, rubbing his chin and cheek with his lips. “I’m not going to ‘cowboy up’ tonight - you are.” Neal caught Peter’s earlobe between his teeth and nipped it.
Peter inhaled sharply. In all the months they’d been together, this was the one act they hadn’t done. Peter had no objections. To the contrary, even BN - Before Neal, ass-play was a regular feature in the marital bed. On even nights, Peter worked his dick into El’s well-lubed ass with short, hard thrusts, fingers digging into her hips so hard the left bruises. After years of experimenting, they had found sodomy was most successful if she wore a plug for most of the day. On odd nights, El used a strap-on that was smaller than Peter’s own generously proportioned dick, first slicking it with lube before sliding it into his painstakingly stretched hole.
The music changed again, this time to one of the most famous works of the last century - Ravel’s Boléro. “Isn’t this a little clichéd, Neal?”
Neal reached for the remote on the nightstand and pressed the pause button. “It’s not a cliché, it’s a classic, and someone very close to me once said ‘classics never…’ ”
“… Go out of style.” Peter could recall the day, the hour and the minute that he said that to Neal. “You want me, you got me. But Neal, just go slowly… you're bigger than El’s strap-on.” Peter smiled and leered in the direction of Neal’s crotch. “A lot bigger.”
Neal bent down and gave him a long, filthy kiss, full of teeth and tongue and promise. “Let me get you ready.”
Peter raised himself up on his elbows and watched Neal get off the bed and retrieve something from inside the nightstand – a bottle of lube and two lengths of heavy satin covered rope. Neal said nothing, but the question was in his eyes. Mouth dry with excitement, Peter licked his lips and nodded in acquiescence. As Neal bound his wrists to the headboard, Peter idly wondered how his master-slave fantasy ended up with Neal tying him to the bed.
Peter appreciated Neal’s attention to detail as he tucked one of the discarded pillows under his shoulders to ensure his comfort. He spread his legs and Neal began to prepare him. For the next few minutes, there were no sounds in the apartment except the slick glide of Neal’s fingers and his own moans of pleasure. He took one, then two and finally three digits easily. When he though he’d come just from being fingered, Neal stopped and kissed him again, hard. Peter pushed back, capturing Neal’s pouty lower lip and biting down. Neal growled and pulled away.
Neal reached over and hit the play button on the remote, and the soft, repetitive beats of the snare drum and flute filled the room. “This is Ravel’s own scoring of Boléro - it’s 15 minutes and 50 seconds. Can you last that long?”
Peter took up the challenge. “Can you?”
“Tell you what - I won’t touch your cock. It’ll be just my dick inside you. And my voice. And the music.”
“You’re on.” Despite his bound hands and the vulnerability of his position, Peter felt completely in charge. “What do I get if I win?”
Neal grinned. “Oh, I’m sure I can think of something.” At that, Neal positioned himself against his hole and started to push into Peter.
Peter felt the delicious burn as the broad, shelving head of Neal’s cock began to work its way inside him, short thrusts made in time with the steady rhythm of the music. When the saxophone began its sleazy wailing, Peter’s ass was completely filled by Neal’s dick. The steady, ostinato rhythm and its unwavering tempo were matched by Neal’s thrusts into him. Neal gave a little extra push at the end of each measure
For all the times and all the ways that Peter was the top in their relationship, he accepted and relished that Neal was not a conventional bottom...anymore than he was a conventional thief. He could stage manage Peter to the point that Peter wondered how long he'd been working on it, how many nights he'd spent mapping out the best ways to do it and have it done to him. Tonight, he got his answer.
As he thrust into Peter, Neal kept up a steady monologue of dirty, filthy talk.
“I've been fantasizing about you since Venice. Do you remember Venice? That was the first time I saw you. Standing on the Rialto, the sun behind you – you looked like an archangel.”
Peter remember that day all too well – getting off of a ten-hour flight from JFK, only to be met by Interpol agents and carabinieri with the news that Neal had already stolen a set of sketches by Canaletto out of a private collection. It was a matter of chance that he spotted Neal on the Rialto Bridge, and his bad luck that Neal saw the uniformed carabinieri at the exact same moment. Peter would never forget the look on Neal’s face when he realized who Peter was. Neal had smiled like a boy on Christmas morning, saluted Peter and leaped off the bridge, landing on the roof of a passing vaporetto.
Peter jerked his hips up, trying to make contact between his stone hard dick and Neal’s belly. “I remember Venice, and Prague – you defenestrated there, you little shit - almost gave me a heart attack. And you did it again in New York.”
Neal leaned back, denying Peter that contact. “I saw the look on your face when I landed – you were too fucking proud for words.”
Peter refused to admit it, but he was.
Neal continued to screw him in time with the swelling music, the brass sounding like it was having an orgy with the strings. The pornography that came out of Neal’s mouth was the hottest thing Peter ever heard. “After that, I'd lie in bed and think about all the ways you were going to fuck me when you finally caught me. You'd bend me over the hood of your car, or take me against the bars of my cell, or you'd make me suck your dick after you put the handcuffs on. I'd gag and you'd come on my face. You’d grab my hair or my ears and lick your cum off and then tongue-fuck my mouth, until the only thing I could taste or smell was you.”
The timpani fought with the horns for the quarter measure. “I used to dream that you were corrupt, and I could get you to work with me. We’d fuck and steal and fuck our way across Europe. After a con, you’d screw me under the Pont Ivoire like I was a cheap putain, then we’d go back to our hotel and I’d give you a blow job in the shower.”
Peter didn’t know whether he should be insulted or not, but then decided it really didn’t matter. He was so aroused he could barely think.
"But sometimes, reality was as good as fantasy. When you finally arrested me, you were wearing that suit. I remember sitting in the back seat of your car, handcuffed. Our knees touched. You just looked at me...I didn't know what you were thinking, but I was so turned on. The least little sign from you and I would have gotten on my knees, used my teeth on your fly and sucked you. But all you did was breathe and so did I. We breathed together...do you remember that? Waiting for trial, I'd think that about that ride and our breathing together every night, in my cell. I'd stroke myself to that rhythm. I’d see you in court and get hard. I wonder if the jury saw it. During recess, I’d jerk off a quick one in a stall in the men’s room - the bailiff only inches away.”
Peter’s head was spinning, from the burn of his ass stretched around Neal’s cock, the pounding music and Neal’s words.
“In prison...I'd still fantasize about you.” Neal’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost as if he were talking to himself. “Those fantasies – they were less about fucking and more about ... you.” Peter tensed up, knowing what Neal was trying not to remember.
“When you caught me the second time, you were wearing that ugly blue suit again. I was so disappointed that you didn't frisk me. I got hard as a rock seeing you standing over me, with your hands on your hips and a smirk on your face. If you touched me, I would have come in my pants. When you visited me the week afterwards, I sat there with my cock aching. As you left, you patted my shoulder - three times. I was so aroused, I could barely walk back to my cell. I masturbated until I was raw.”
Peter worked hard not to come, Neal was slowly stroking in and out, hitting his prostate in time with the incessant repetitive downbeat of the music. Some part of his brain, detached from all sensation, was awed by Neal’s self-control. The music alone was building towards its climax, and even without Neal’s words or his hands, Peter was ready to explode.
Neal kept pounding into him, but instead of holding himself away from Peter, his penis buried in Peter’s ass their only point of contact, Neal stretched out over him, his arms holding onto the headboard, next to Peter’s bound hands. Peter could see that Neal was beginning to break too, his jaw was clenched tight, sweat was pouring down the sides of his face, making stars of his eyelashes. Peter strained against the ropes for the first time, not to take control, but to hold Neal close.
As Boléro came to its own debauched finish, the horns and strings and winds waging their salacious combat with the snare drum, Neal finally sent Peter over the edge.
“The first time I wanted to fuck you was the night you stayed here, when you came back from your basketball game, all sweaty and disgusting. I wanted to bend you over the couch, rip down your pants and fuck you with nothing more than my pre-cum and your crack sweat to slick you up. I wanted to see your cum vandalize that couch.”
At that, Peter came, and Neal followed him down into the darkness.
A few seconds or maybe minutes later, Peter opened his eyes. Neal was cupping his head in his hands, smoothing fingers and palms over his face. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
Peter winced as Neal withdrew. He would be sore tomorrow, and maybe even the next day, but that was good. Neal untied his wrists and eased his arms down. “Be right back.”
Peter noticed, with no small degree of satisfaction, that Neal was a little shaky, wobbling a bit as he walked to the bathroom. Neal came back with a towel and a wet washcloth. He cleaned Peter up and rubbed him down with the warmed towel, like he was a thoroughbred that just won the race. Peter slid back down the headboard, until he was nearly supine.
He closed his eyes as Neal walked around the room, blowing out the candles. He heard Neal replace the rest of the pillows and felt the gentle weight of the cotton sheet and then the down comforter drift over his exquisitely worn out body. Neal got into bed and Peter wrapped his arms around him. He sighed in satisfaction and whispered, “If I had known you were such a fucking incubus, I would have broken you out of prison myself and locked you in our basement.”
The playlist (all links go to iTunes):
Ravel – Ma Mère l’Oye (Mother Goose Suite)
Prokofiev - The Scythian Suite, Night (2nd Movement)
Debussy – Claire de Lune
Stravinsky – Firebird Suite, Finale
Ravel – Bolèro
Sweet.
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