Fic: The Devil You Know (9/25)
Jan. 28th, 2014 07:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
citrinesunsetTitle: The Devil You Know
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairing: Neal/Peter, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Neal/Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth, references to Neal/Kate
Rating: Explicit
Contains: Non-con, dub-con, institutionalized slavery, spanking, humiliation, dark!Peter, dark!Elizabeth, sex, rimming
Word count: 5000 this part. About 122k total.
Summary: After being convicted of bond forgery, Neal is sentenced to four years of slavery. But he isn't prepared to be purchased by Peter Burke. Or for what Peter has in store for him.
Notes: See Chapter 1 for details.
The next day, Peter knocked on Neal's bedroom door after coming home from work. Before Neal could respond, Peter opened the door and stuck his head in.
"Taking it easy?"
"Elizabeth said I could have some free time."
"You can have more free time after dinner. Come down to the master bedroom. I've got something for you. Oh, and bring your plugs and lube."
That didn't bode well at all. Neal had hoped that Peter was done with the plugs for a while. Reluctantly, Neal set aside the drawing he was working on, collected the plugs and lube from the closet, and followed Peter downstairs.
"What is it?" he asked as Peter led him into the master bedroom.
"Since you're still having some trouble accepting the plugs, I got you something to help with your training."
Something that resembled a large bridle was laid out on the bed. Neal surmised that the leather straps were supposed to go around his body somehow.
Peter picked it up. "This is a harness. It'll hold the plug inside your ass."
Neal raised his eyebrows. "And we need all those straps for that?"
"It's very secure. Now come on—take off your pants so we can try it out."
Neal wordlessly stripped from the waist down. Peter allowed him to keep his t-shirt on. Even though it was one of Peter's cast-offs, fitting large on Neal, it provided little modesty.
Peter guided him onto the bed on his hands and knees. Neal looked over his shoulder and watched as Peter attached a plug to the harness. At least it was a small one.
"I don't know why this is necessary," Neal said. "I've been trying to be good."
"You didn't try very hard the other day."
"But you already punished me for that."
Peter murmured and rubbed Neal's ass. "This isn't a punishment. I told you—I just think we need to work on your training. Nobody said training was fun."
Neal hung his head. He heard Peter open the bottle of lube, and he expected to feel Peter's fingers at his hole. Instead, Peter guided Neal's feet though the loops of the harness and, a moment later, Neal felt the slick tip of the plug against his ass. He jerked away.
"Shouldn't you prepare me first?" As the question left his mouth, he hated it. He was asking Peter to finger him.
Peter put a hand on his lower back to steady him. "I'm using the smallest plug, and it's lubed. You don't need preparation for this."
Neal wasn't convinced. But Peter was right—the plug went in easily.
"Great," Peter said. "Sit up so we can finish getting the harness on."
Neal slowly rose up on his knees. The plug shifted inside him. Though it was small, it was still long enough to rub against his prostate when he moved.
Peter walked around to Neal's front and lifted his cock and balls. He started to guide them through a shiny stainless steel ring attached to the leather straps.
Neal's eyes widened. "What are you doing? It won't fit through there."
"It will. Relax."
Peter had a gentle but solid grip on Neal's cock and balls, and Neal didn't dare try to break free. To his surprise, the metal ring was large enough to fit. He reached down to fiddle with it, and found that it was loose enough that he could get free from it without much trouble.
Peter swatted his hands away. "Leave it be." He tightened the straps around Neal's hips and buckled them.
The leather dug into Neal's skin. One strap went around his hips, and the other ran between his legs and pressed uncomfortably between his cheeks. That was the one that kept the plug embedded in his ass.
"Peter," he said, his voice strained, "come on—I know I haven't done anything to deserve this."
The harness was like something out of Stylish Slave magazine—not the sort of thing Neal had expected to face, considering Peter's distinct lack of style.
"I told you. It's not a punishment. I thought you could use a harness, and now you have one. Come on, is it really that bad? The website said this model is comfortable enough for long-term use."
"Long-term?"
"Sure. I wouldn't leave the plug in you for more than a couple hours, but the harness can be worn all day, even under your clothes. See this ring?" He pointed to a small D-ring attached to the top of the harness. "This is how they leash slaves who like to put up a fight. It's safer to pull them by the waist than the neck."
Neal didn't like any of this.
"You're not actually going to make me wear this, are you?" He hoped Peter didn't intend to make the harness a part of the dinner party.
"We're just giving it a try. If you really don't like it, you won't have to wear it. As long as you behave, that is."
Great. Another punishment for Peter's arsenal.
"Before we take it off," Peter continued, "I want to run through some obedience exercises with you. The more you cooperate, the sooner the harness will come off."
"What kind of exercises?"
"Slave postures. Stuff I'm sure you learned about when you were trained. Stand up."
Neal rolled his eyes and climbed off the bed. He faced Peter.
Peter snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. "Kneel."
"What?"
"Kneel. On the floor."
"Oh, I thought you said 'Neal.' You know, my name."
Peter sighed. "Just get down on the floor."
Neal slowly knelt down. It would've been easier if Peter hadn't insisted on using the plug. He knelt like they had taught him at the processing center: back straight, head down, hands clasped in front of him.
Peter nodded. "Good. Now relax."
Neal let his shoulders slump and lowered his ass toward the floor. Normally, he would have rested it on his heels. But with the plug inside him, he opted not to.
He awaited further instruction, but it wasn't forthcoming. Peter crossed his arms and was silent. After a minute, Neal fought the urge to squirm. He wanted to ask Peter when he intended to issue a new order, but he'd been taught that slaves weren't supposed to speak freely when they were kneeling. That was probably why Peter was making him do this.
At last, Peter said, "All right, now I want you to show me submission. I'm sure you know what to do."
Someone had once decided that kneeling wasn't enough to make slaves truly feel submissive. Neal would've liked to know who it was.
He glared at Peter, and then leaned forward. He pressed his chest against the floor, folded his arms under his head, and lifted his ass in the air.
He couldn't see Peter, but heard his footsteps coming closer.
"Spread your legs more," Peter said.
Neal gritted his teeth and obeyed. This was one of the most undignified positions he'd ever been in, and he'd had to assume it all too often during his training. It was like some sort of perverse yoga for slaves.
He felt Peter's hand on his ass, and jerked. Peter squeezed Neal's ass cheek in a gentle but possessive manner.
Peter made Neal keep the position for a good minute before giving him permission to stand.
Patting Neal on the back, he said, "Good job. Now, let's get the harness off."
While Peter unbuckled the straps, Neal said, "I still don't see the point. You're not going to make me do this while Hughes is here, are you?"
"The point is to give you some practice in following orders. As for making it a habit, you know El and I aren't very formal. But when we have guests, you'll have to sit or kneel on the floor unless we tell you otherwise."
Neal didn't complain. The more agreeable he was, the sooner Peter would get over this obedience kick.
* * *
"Listen, this isn't a formal dinner, but stick around in case we need anything. Hughes and his wife want to see you, but they can look at you from a distance. It's probably best that you don't eat at the table with us. You can eat at the counter."
Peter was issuing instructions while Neal worked at the stove, trying to finish dinner before Hughes and his wife arrived. Neal bristled at being told he couldn't eat at the table, but he didn't argue. He'd been to enough dinners to know that slaves didn't sit at the table with guests.
Ordinarily, he would have taken it as a challenge. But he remembered the last spanking he'd gotten and thought better of it. Besides, at least Peter wasn't making him sit on the floor.
"And I mean it: Be on your best behavior tonight or you'll be sorry."
Elizabeth came into the kitchen, then, and said, "Oh, Hon, I think you've made your point. I'm sure Neal won't disappoint us."
She had just gotten out of the shower, and her hair was freshly blow-dried. Neal was glad that he'd had a chance to shower and dress earlier—he didn't have much time before the guests arrived. Neal hadn't been told to dress up, but he'd chosen to wear one of his best shirts anyway.
He was making chicken parmesan and seasoned potatoes. Elizabeth had helped with some of the preparations—she took too much pride in her cooking to give all the responsibility to Neal—but since she'd left to get ready, Neal had been on his own.
Neal was just finishing the potatoes when the doorbell rang. Peter and Elizabeth went together to answer it, and Neal heard them greet Hughes and his wife.
"It's great to see you, Melissa," he heard Elizabeth say. "It's been too long."
"I know," an unfamiliar female voice said. "It's been almost a year, hasn't it?"
They lingered in the living room for a few minutes, and Neal strained his ear to pick up fragments of small talk. Eventually, Peter and Elizabeth led the guests into the dining room. Neal casually looked over his shoulder as they entered. The woman who must have been Hughes' wife, Melissa, towered over everyone in her high heels. She laughed loudly at something Elizabeth said, and then took a seat at the table beside her husband. Elizabeth was carrying a bottle of wine—a gift, apparently.
"Neal," Peter said, "are those potatoes done yet?"
"They are now," he said, switching off the burner.
"Great. Why don't you greet our guests, and then get some plates for us?"
Neal turned around and flashed his most winsome smile. Nodding at Hughes, he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you again, sir." Then, nodding at Melissa, he added, "And to meet your lovely wife."
Hughes murmured suspiciously in response, but Melissa returned Neal's smile in a way that suggested she liked friendly slaves.
Neal knew he wouldn't be allowed to have much interaction with them. Peter had made it clear that if he had his way, Neal would stay out of sight, out of mind. He filled five plates with food, delivered four of them to the table, and then retreated to the kitchen island to eat his own dinner.
"Oh, this looks wonderful," Melissa said.
"Neal deserves most of the credit," Elizabeth said, proudly. "It's his recipe. I thought I'd give him a chance to impress us."
Neal smiled, happy to receive some credit for his hard work.
He watched longingly as Elizabeth opened the bottle of wine and poured four glasses. He hoped she would put the bottle on the counter when she was finished, but she left it on the table. It would take more nerve than he was willing to show to go over there and pour himself a glass.
He hoped, at the very least, that he might pick up on some interesting conversation.
"So," Peter said, "I heard Matheson was promoted over in Violent Crimes."
"He was," Hughes said. "It was official on Monday."
"It's great news. He deserves it."
Neal poked at his food. He didn't know who Matheson was, and he didn't think he cared. When the topic finally changed, Hughes and Melissa asked Elizabeth about her work.
Neal got to hear about this sort of stuff every night. He'd hoped for some interesting gossip.
"So," Melissa said, "do you guys have any plans for Thanksgiving?"
"Oh," Elizabeth said, "we're going to try to go to my sister's. It's only a couple hours away."
Hughes pointed his forked in Neal's direction. "What are you going to do with him?"
Both Peter and Elizabeth paused. They glanced at each other. Finally, Peter shrugged and said, "Take him with us, I suppose. I don't imagine he'll cause too much trouble."
This was the first Neal had heard about Thanksgiving at a sister's house.
Hughes raised his eyebrows. "You sure you want the hassle? There are places you can board slaves, you know. I'm sure they can even keep Caffrey secure."
"Oh, I don't doubt it. But I think it'd be less trouble to just take him along."
The remainder of the dinner seemed to last forever. Neal finished his food, but he knew he wasn't allowed to leave the kitchen while the others were still eating. There was nothing to but lean on the counter and wait for them to finish. They didn't seem to be in any hurry.
Neal thought back to all those slave-served dinners he'd been to, and wondered if the slaves always got this bored.
Once they finally finished their food, Elizabeth got up and went to the refrigerator to get the strawberry cheesecake she'd purchased earlier.
"I can do that," Neal said, half looking for something to do and half hoping to help himself to a piece of cheesecake.
"It's okay. I've got it."
Great. Now he was missing out on the wine and the dessert.
At last, when they'd finished dessert, they mutually put their napkins on the table. At the sound of the chair sliding back, Neal stood up straight.
They made their way toward the living room without acknowledging him. Only Elizabeth paused, looked back, and said, "If you could take care of the dishes, that'd be great."
That was just fine with Neal. It wasn't like he was in a hurry to join them.
Slowly, he collected the dishes from the table. He scraped the plates and loaded the dishwasher, taking his time in hopes that the guests would be leaving soon.
Elizabeth had put the rest of the cheesecake back in the refrigerator. Now that they weren't watching, he got it out and cut himself a generous piece. Peter would call it gluttonous, and say that desserts were a reward. But what Peter didn't see wouldn't bother him.
Neal took a bite and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. When he opened them again, he saw the bottle of wine that was still on the table.
Casually, he walked over to the table. He could see the others out of the corner of his eye, but they didn't pay him any attention. He casually picked up the bottle and walked back out of sight.
He held the bottle in the light and studied the label. It wasn't a bad wine. Not what he was used to, but not poor quality, either.
Neal missed wine. He rarely had it these days. He blamed Peter's slave training books—they all said it was a bad idea to let slaves have alcohol. Elizabeth let him help her taste wine sometimes, for events. That was nice, but not the same as having a nice glass over dinner. Peter and Elizabeth didn't even drink wine that often. They mainly indulged on what Elizabeth referred to as "date nights" and what Peter called "Neal-free evenings." On those occasions, Neal was banished to his room early.
He cocked his head to make sure he didn't hear anyone coming, and then, feeling safe, got a clean wineglass from the cupboard. He uncorked the bottle and poured himself a glass.
Suddenly, he was feeling better about Hughes. One could tell a lot about a man from his taste in wine, and Hughes' taste was simple but classic. Or perhaps his wife had picked it out.
He continued to hear laughter and conversation coming from the living room. Evidently, no one had any intention of calling it a night yet. Neal tried to mimic the sounds of work in order to keep Peter and Elizabeth from wondering what he was doing. He turned on the faucet and let the water run for a minute, and then made a show of opening and closing cupboards.
He finished his first glass of wine and poured himself a second.
Neal didn't measure how much he drank, exactly. When the dishwasher was done, he dragged out the task of drying and putting away the dishes, and he kept his glass filled and close by.
He hummed to himself while he put away the clean plates. His face felt flushed and he could taste the pleasant tartness of the wine on his tongue.
He was idly drying the silverware when he heard approaching footsteps and the sound of Elizabeth's voice. He immediately picked up his pace, trying to look busier than he was.
Elizabeth came into the kitchen with Melissa on her heels. Elizabeth walked over to the counter and touched one of the drawer handles. "This is what I was telling you about. I changed all the hardware in here this summer. It's not much, but I think it updates the room."
Melissa walked over to get a closer look. "Oh, those are gorgeous. Very classic."
"Thank you. I thought they were perfect when I found them." She looked up at Neal, then, as though she'd just noticed him. "You're still doing the dishes? I didn't think there were that many."
"I'm almost done," Neal said.
Elizabeth's gaze focused on something behind him, and Neal realized, belatedly, that she'd noticed the wineglass. He should have though to conceal it.
"Neal," she said, softly, "have you been drinking?" She picked up the bottle of wine. Her eyes widened. "Oh my God! It's so light! How much have you had?"
"I just thought I'd give it a try."
"Well, I'm sure you knew we wouldn't approve. What did Peter tell you about being on your best behavior?"
Neal was about to plead his case when Melissa snorted. She covered her mouth and shook with silent laughter.
Elizabeth turned to her. She looked puzzled, but said, "I'm so sorry he drank your wine."
Melissa waved a hand. "No, no, don't be. I'm sorry. It's just...sweet. You can't blame him for wanting to have some fun. Just look at him—he looks so harmless."
Neal grinned.
"Oh," Elizabeth said, "trust me; he looks a lot more innocent than he is."
Melissa cleared her throat and touched Elizabeth's arm. "Well, could you do me a favor and not say anything about this in front of Reese? I think he was hoping Neal would put me off the idea of buying a slave of our own."
Elizabeth lowered her voice. "Peter said you guys were considering a slave. Reese isn't crazy about it?"
Neal went back to drying silverware, glad the heat was off him for the moment.
"He doesn't like the idea of having a criminal in the house. And I don't think he trusts me to handle the training. He thinks I'm not firm enough. Remember that Shih Tzu we adopted? He blames me for how badly-behaved she is. It's not my fault that dog is demonic."
"Just give him some time to think about it. Peter was more determined to get Neal than I was, but we had plenty of time to talk about it before he was actually sentenced. And now I have no doubt we made the right choice. It's been great having Neal around."
Melissa hesitantly reached out. Her fingers barely touched Neal's arm.
"Well, he's certainly handsome. I wouldn't mind having him around."
A wary look crossed Elizabeth's face, and Neal wondered if Melissa meant to feel him up. He couldn't say he minded if she did—she was pretty, and he preferred her flattery to getting chewed out over the wine.
But before he could find out what she had in mind, Peter called out from the living room.
"Hey, Neal? Stop whatever you’re doing and come here for a minute."
Elizabeth’s eyes widened and she looked over her shoulder. "I think Neal’s a little busy, Hon. Can I get you something?"
"No, I just need Neal. Whatever he’s doing can wait."
Elizabeth turned to Neal and clicked her tongue. "They'll smell the wine on your breath."
Neal smiled. "Don’t worry—I’ve got this." Looking at Melissa he said, "And don't worry. I'll make a good impression."
He set aside the dish towel he was holding and went into the living room. Hughes was sitting on the sofa, and Peter was in the armchair across from him. As Neal approached, Peter caught his elbow and tugged. Obediently, Neal sank to his knees and ignored the discomfort of the hard floor.
"We want your opinion on something," Peter said.
Behind him, he heard Elizabeth and Melissa reenter the room. Melissa took a seat next to her husband, holding a fresh glass of wine.
Hughes reached for a leather briefcase that was sitting at his feet. He retrieved a file folder and laid it open on the table. There was a series of documents sealed in plastic bags.
"The signature on this contract may have been forged. The other documents all have verified signatures. Peter said you’d take a look and give us your thoughts. Is the signature a forgery?"
Neal looked up at Hughes. "What’s in it for me if I tell you?"
Peter flicked him on the ear. "Neal...."
Hughes held up a hand. "No, it’s all right. If you tell me, and you’re right, there might be a reward for you. Unofficially, of course. And only if it’s okay with your owners."
He didn't elaborate any further, but Neal figured the reward had to be better than old clothes. Satisfied, he studied the documents in front of him. After only a minute, he looked up again and said, "It’s a forgery."
Hughes frowned. "Are you sure? Because our handwriting expert says otherwise."
"There's a hesitation mark on the 'M.' Your expert is wrong. And if you didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be asking for my opinion."
"Neal...." Peter said again, digging his fingers into Neal’s shoulder. "What's gotten into you?"
"You’re being very blunt for a slave," Hughes said, "but you’re correct. We wouldn’t have asked you if we didn’t have our suspicions." Turning to Peter, he said, "If we can prove he’s right, it'll be a big break in the case."
"Always glad to be of use," Neal said with a smile. "I live to make my master proud."
He couldn't imagine why Peter shot him a dirty look. This was the sort of stuff they wanted to hear, wasn't it? Maybe he'd tried too hard.
Clearing his throat, Peter said, "Don't you have some cleaning up to do in the kitchen?"
Before Neal could answer, Elizabeth spoke up. "Neal finished the dishes. He's had a long day—why don't we send him upstairs?"
Neal wasn't done yet. He still had some silverware to dry. But evidently Elizabeth didn't care. If she and Peter wanted to finish the job themselves, that was fine by him.
Peter readily agreed with Elizabeth, and a few minutes later, Neal was in the quiet of his room. He toed off his shoes and lay flat on the bed.
It was perhaps forty-five minutes later when his bedroom door opened and Peter came in. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at Neal, who had an arm draped across his forehead. Neal stared back at Peter through heavy-lidded eyes.
They looked at each other for several seconds. Then Peter said, "I hope you have a hangover tomorrow."
"Elizabeth told you? Of course she did. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not drunk."
Peter raised his eyebrows.
"All right, a little buzzed, maybe. Not enough for a hangover."
Peter didn't respond. Neal squirmed. He didn't like it when he couldn't read Peter. He was starting to get the feeling that he might have to sleep with a sore ass tonight.
"You're not going to punish me for a little wine, are you? I didn't disobey you. You never said I couldn't have any. And Hughes was impressed."
"He was. Thankfully, he cares more about closing that case than your attitude. No, I think you came out even tonight. So no punishment. But no home spa day, either."
"I can live with that."
Neal turned onto his side. Peter came closer and sat on the edge of the bed.
"He didn't want to be impressed, you know," Neal said. "He wanted to turn his wife off the idea of slaves."
Peter chuckled. "Oh, I know. But he appreciates intelligence, and I think we showed him some of yours." He paused and added. "It was my idea to have you look over the contract. Thought you might be able to see something our expert missed. And I thought you'd like the chance to show off."
Well, Peter certainly knew him.
"I am right, you know."
"With any luck, we'll prove it. Now get some sleep. And if you're hung over tomorrow, don't expect any sympathy."
* * *
A few days later, Peter came home from work in high spirits. Neal was at the dining room table correcting four-hundred menu cards for Elizabeth, putting little stickers that said "Beef bourguignon" over the words "Beef Bolognese"
When Peter gave him a cheerful greeting, Neal said, "Careful. Elizabeth's in a bad mood. Someone made a mistake on these menus, and now they all have to be corrected by tomorrow."
Elizabeth had expressed distaste at the thought of correcting them with labels but, well, printing new menus would cost the client hundreds of dollars and require too much time. Having a slave spend an afternoon sticking labels on the existing ones cost close to nothing.
Peter's arrival offered a welcome break. Neal's fingers needed a rest.
"Well," Peter said, "I have some good news. You know that contract we had you look at? You were right." He slapped Neal's knee. "It's a fake."
"I know it is. So, you guys have a good case."
"Very good. The fresh look at the contract gave us the excuse we needed to do a little more digging. And—" he reached into his pocket "—Hughes wanted me to give you this."
He handed Neal a crumpled up bill. Neal straightened it out and frowned.
"Seriously? Hughes gave me ten dollars?"
Peter snatched the bill back. "No, he gave me ten dollars to put toward a treat for you. Neither of us are stupid enough to let you have money."
Neal huffed. "Wow, the possibilities are endless. Do I want to know how much you guys pay the handwriting expert who got it wrong?"
"Oh, come on. You made yourself look good, and you're being rewarded for it. You need to learn to be appreciative."
"I made you look good. Shouldn't you be matching Hughes' reward, at least?"
Peter shrugged. "Yeah, all right, fair enough. I'll throw a ten in, too. What do you want?"
Neal thought carefully. There was no shortage of things he wanted, and he knew this was a rare chance. He wanted to take advantage of it, but he also knew that getting too ambitious with his request might risk Peter's generosity. Finally, he said, "Some art supplies would be nice. Maybe some pencils and a sketchpad."
"All right. You think you can find stuff you like for twenty dollars?"
"Well, you know, quality is important...."
"And I thought the great Neal Caffrey wouldn't need a lot of fancy tools. I'm sure some of those great masters you've forged didn't have their pick of the best art supplies."
Neal cocked his head. "Come on. I never ask you for anything."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah? What do you call that list you put on the refrigerator?"
"Those are essentials. You told me to keep a list of things I need."
"Like hair gel?"
"What can I say? Elizabeth likes my hair. Before you bought me, they said maintaining my appearance was important."
"I'm sure they did. All right, thirty dollars. That's the limit. We can go shopping tomorrow."
Neal sensed Peter wouldn't go any higher than that. At least he knew now that Peter had some weakness for bargaining.
The next day, true to his promise, Peter took Neal to an art supply store and let him pick out some items. In the end, the total crept up to thirty-seven, but Peter merely shook his head and forked over the cash.
When they got home, Neal took his new art supplies upstairs. He knew he'd made the right choice—now it would be much easier to keep himself occupied when he wasn't doing chores.
He was also amazed at how good it was to have something that felt like it belonged to him. The bedroom and the too-big shirts hanging in the closet never felt like his. He had to remind himself that the pencils and sketchpad weren't actually his, either. It was dangerous to get attached to anything the Burkes gave him.
He had a shoebox under his bed where he kept all the worthless things he snatched from around the house: fliers from Elizabeth's events, paperclips and rubber bands from the junk drawer, newspaper clippings. Neal prided himself on his tastes, but these days, it was enough to have something. Anything.
Still, he didn't peg Peter and Elizabeth as the type to take back presents on a whim. He felt mostly safe in enjoying his new art supplies. It was a badly-needed treat.
Chapter 10
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairing: Neal/Peter, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal, Neal/Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth, references to Neal/Kate
Rating: Explicit
Contains: Non-con, dub-con, institutionalized slavery, spanking, humiliation, dark!Peter, dark!Elizabeth, sex, rimming
Word count: 5000 this part. About 122k total.
Summary: After being convicted of bond forgery, Neal is sentenced to four years of slavery. But he isn't prepared to be purchased by Peter Burke. Or for what Peter has in store for him.
Notes: See Chapter 1 for details.
The next day, Peter knocked on Neal's bedroom door after coming home from work. Before Neal could respond, Peter opened the door and stuck his head in.
"Taking it easy?"
"Elizabeth said I could have some free time."
"You can have more free time after dinner. Come down to the master bedroom. I've got something for you. Oh, and bring your plugs and lube."
That didn't bode well at all. Neal had hoped that Peter was done with the plugs for a while. Reluctantly, Neal set aside the drawing he was working on, collected the plugs and lube from the closet, and followed Peter downstairs.
"What is it?" he asked as Peter led him into the master bedroom.
"Since you're still having some trouble accepting the plugs, I got you something to help with your training."
Something that resembled a large bridle was laid out on the bed. Neal surmised that the leather straps were supposed to go around his body somehow.
Peter picked it up. "This is a harness. It'll hold the plug inside your ass."
Neal raised his eyebrows. "And we need all those straps for that?"
"It's very secure. Now come on—take off your pants so we can try it out."
Neal wordlessly stripped from the waist down. Peter allowed him to keep his t-shirt on. Even though it was one of Peter's cast-offs, fitting large on Neal, it provided little modesty.
Peter guided him onto the bed on his hands and knees. Neal looked over his shoulder and watched as Peter attached a plug to the harness. At least it was a small one.
"I don't know why this is necessary," Neal said. "I've been trying to be good."
"You didn't try very hard the other day."
"But you already punished me for that."
Peter murmured and rubbed Neal's ass. "This isn't a punishment. I told you—I just think we need to work on your training. Nobody said training was fun."
Neal hung his head. He heard Peter open the bottle of lube, and he expected to feel Peter's fingers at his hole. Instead, Peter guided Neal's feet though the loops of the harness and, a moment later, Neal felt the slick tip of the plug against his ass. He jerked away.
"Shouldn't you prepare me first?" As the question left his mouth, he hated it. He was asking Peter to finger him.
Peter put a hand on his lower back to steady him. "I'm using the smallest plug, and it's lubed. You don't need preparation for this."
Neal wasn't convinced. But Peter was right—the plug went in easily.
"Great," Peter said. "Sit up so we can finish getting the harness on."
Neal slowly rose up on his knees. The plug shifted inside him. Though it was small, it was still long enough to rub against his prostate when he moved.
Peter walked around to Neal's front and lifted his cock and balls. He started to guide them through a shiny stainless steel ring attached to the leather straps.
Neal's eyes widened. "What are you doing? It won't fit through there."
"It will. Relax."
Peter had a gentle but solid grip on Neal's cock and balls, and Neal didn't dare try to break free. To his surprise, the metal ring was large enough to fit. He reached down to fiddle with it, and found that it was loose enough that he could get free from it without much trouble.
Peter swatted his hands away. "Leave it be." He tightened the straps around Neal's hips and buckled them.
The leather dug into Neal's skin. One strap went around his hips, and the other ran between his legs and pressed uncomfortably between his cheeks. That was the one that kept the plug embedded in his ass.
"Peter," he said, his voice strained, "come on—I know I haven't done anything to deserve this."
The harness was like something out of Stylish Slave magazine—not the sort of thing Neal had expected to face, considering Peter's distinct lack of style.
"I told you. It's not a punishment. I thought you could use a harness, and now you have one. Come on, is it really that bad? The website said this model is comfortable enough for long-term use."
"Long-term?"
"Sure. I wouldn't leave the plug in you for more than a couple hours, but the harness can be worn all day, even under your clothes. See this ring?" He pointed to a small D-ring attached to the top of the harness. "This is how they leash slaves who like to put up a fight. It's safer to pull them by the waist than the neck."
Neal didn't like any of this.
"You're not actually going to make me wear this, are you?" He hoped Peter didn't intend to make the harness a part of the dinner party.
"We're just giving it a try. If you really don't like it, you won't have to wear it. As long as you behave, that is."
Great. Another punishment for Peter's arsenal.
"Before we take it off," Peter continued, "I want to run through some obedience exercises with you. The more you cooperate, the sooner the harness will come off."
"What kind of exercises?"
"Slave postures. Stuff I'm sure you learned about when you were trained. Stand up."
Neal rolled his eyes and climbed off the bed. He faced Peter.
Peter snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. "Kneel."
"What?"
"Kneel. On the floor."
"Oh, I thought you said 'Neal.' You know, my name."
Peter sighed. "Just get down on the floor."
Neal slowly knelt down. It would've been easier if Peter hadn't insisted on using the plug. He knelt like they had taught him at the processing center: back straight, head down, hands clasped in front of him.
Peter nodded. "Good. Now relax."
Neal let his shoulders slump and lowered his ass toward the floor. Normally, he would have rested it on his heels. But with the plug inside him, he opted not to.
He awaited further instruction, but it wasn't forthcoming. Peter crossed his arms and was silent. After a minute, Neal fought the urge to squirm. He wanted to ask Peter when he intended to issue a new order, but he'd been taught that slaves weren't supposed to speak freely when they were kneeling. That was probably why Peter was making him do this.
At last, Peter said, "All right, now I want you to show me submission. I'm sure you know what to do."
Someone had once decided that kneeling wasn't enough to make slaves truly feel submissive. Neal would've liked to know who it was.
He glared at Peter, and then leaned forward. He pressed his chest against the floor, folded his arms under his head, and lifted his ass in the air.
He couldn't see Peter, but heard his footsteps coming closer.
"Spread your legs more," Peter said.
Neal gritted his teeth and obeyed. This was one of the most undignified positions he'd ever been in, and he'd had to assume it all too often during his training. It was like some sort of perverse yoga for slaves.
He felt Peter's hand on his ass, and jerked. Peter squeezed Neal's ass cheek in a gentle but possessive manner.
Peter made Neal keep the position for a good minute before giving him permission to stand.
Patting Neal on the back, he said, "Good job. Now, let's get the harness off."
While Peter unbuckled the straps, Neal said, "I still don't see the point. You're not going to make me do this while Hughes is here, are you?"
"The point is to give you some practice in following orders. As for making it a habit, you know El and I aren't very formal. But when we have guests, you'll have to sit or kneel on the floor unless we tell you otherwise."
Neal didn't complain. The more agreeable he was, the sooner Peter would get over this obedience kick.
"Listen, this isn't a formal dinner, but stick around in case we need anything. Hughes and his wife want to see you, but they can look at you from a distance. It's probably best that you don't eat at the table with us. You can eat at the counter."
Peter was issuing instructions while Neal worked at the stove, trying to finish dinner before Hughes and his wife arrived. Neal bristled at being told he couldn't eat at the table, but he didn't argue. He'd been to enough dinners to know that slaves didn't sit at the table with guests.
Ordinarily, he would have taken it as a challenge. But he remembered the last spanking he'd gotten and thought better of it. Besides, at least Peter wasn't making him sit on the floor.
"And I mean it: Be on your best behavior tonight or you'll be sorry."
Elizabeth came into the kitchen, then, and said, "Oh, Hon, I think you've made your point. I'm sure Neal won't disappoint us."
She had just gotten out of the shower, and her hair was freshly blow-dried. Neal was glad that he'd had a chance to shower and dress earlier—he didn't have much time before the guests arrived. Neal hadn't been told to dress up, but he'd chosen to wear one of his best shirts anyway.
He was making chicken parmesan and seasoned potatoes. Elizabeth had helped with some of the preparations—she took too much pride in her cooking to give all the responsibility to Neal—but since she'd left to get ready, Neal had been on his own.
Neal was just finishing the potatoes when the doorbell rang. Peter and Elizabeth went together to answer it, and Neal heard them greet Hughes and his wife.
"It's great to see you, Melissa," he heard Elizabeth say. "It's been too long."
"I know," an unfamiliar female voice said. "It's been almost a year, hasn't it?"
They lingered in the living room for a few minutes, and Neal strained his ear to pick up fragments of small talk. Eventually, Peter and Elizabeth led the guests into the dining room. Neal casually looked over his shoulder as they entered. The woman who must have been Hughes' wife, Melissa, towered over everyone in her high heels. She laughed loudly at something Elizabeth said, and then took a seat at the table beside her husband. Elizabeth was carrying a bottle of wine—a gift, apparently.
"Neal," Peter said, "are those potatoes done yet?"
"They are now," he said, switching off the burner.
"Great. Why don't you greet our guests, and then get some plates for us?"
Neal turned around and flashed his most winsome smile. Nodding at Hughes, he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you again, sir." Then, nodding at Melissa, he added, "And to meet your lovely wife."
Hughes murmured suspiciously in response, but Melissa returned Neal's smile in a way that suggested she liked friendly slaves.
Neal knew he wouldn't be allowed to have much interaction with them. Peter had made it clear that if he had his way, Neal would stay out of sight, out of mind. He filled five plates with food, delivered four of them to the table, and then retreated to the kitchen island to eat his own dinner.
"Oh, this looks wonderful," Melissa said.
"Neal deserves most of the credit," Elizabeth said, proudly. "It's his recipe. I thought I'd give him a chance to impress us."
Neal smiled, happy to receive some credit for his hard work.
He watched longingly as Elizabeth opened the bottle of wine and poured four glasses. He hoped she would put the bottle on the counter when she was finished, but she left it on the table. It would take more nerve than he was willing to show to go over there and pour himself a glass.
He hoped, at the very least, that he might pick up on some interesting conversation.
"So," Peter said, "I heard Matheson was promoted over in Violent Crimes."
"He was," Hughes said. "It was official on Monday."
"It's great news. He deserves it."
Neal poked at his food. He didn't know who Matheson was, and he didn't think he cared. When the topic finally changed, Hughes and Melissa asked Elizabeth about her work.
Neal got to hear about this sort of stuff every night. He'd hoped for some interesting gossip.
"So," Melissa said, "do you guys have any plans for Thanksgiving?"
"Oh," Elizabeth said, "we're going to try to go to my sister's. It's only a couple hours away."
Hughes pointed his forked in Neal's direction. "What are you going to do with him?"
Both Peter and Elizabeth paused. They glanced at each other. Finally, Peter shrugged and said, "Take him with us, I suppose. I don't imagine he'll cause too much trouble."
This was the first Neal had heard about Thanksgiving at a sister's house.
Hughes raised his eyebrows. "You sure you want the hassle? There are places you can board slaves, you know. I'm sure they can even keep Caffrey secure."
"Oh, I don't doubt it. But I think it'd be less trouble to just take him along."
The remainder of the dinner seemed to last forever. Neal finished his food, but he knew he wasn't allowed to leave the kitchen while the others were still eating. There was nothing to but lean on the counter and wait for them to finish. They didn't seem to be in any hurry.
Neal thought back to all those slave-served dinners he'd been to, and wondered if the slaves always got this bored.
Once they finally finished their food, Elizabeth got up and went to the refrigerator to get the strawberry cheesecake she'd purchased earlier.
"I can do that," Neal said, half looking for something to do and half hoping to help himself to a piece of cheesecake.
"It's okay. I've got it."
Great. Now he was missing out on the wine and the dessert.
At last, when they'd finished dessert, they mutually put their napkins on the table. At the sound of the chair sliding back, Neal stood up straight.
They made their way toward the living room without acknowledging him. Only Elizabeth paused, looked back, and said, "If you could take care of the dishes, that'd be great."
That was just fine with Neal. It wasn't like he was in a hurry to join them.
Slowly, he collected the dishes from the table. He scraped the plates and loaded the dishwasher, taking his time in hopes that the guests would be leaving soon.
Elizabeth had put the rest of the cheesecake back in the refrigerator. Now that they weren't watching, he got it out and cut himself a generous piece. Peter would call it gluttonous, and say that desserts were a reward. But what Peter didn't see wouldn't bother him.
Neal took a bite and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. When he opened them again, he saw the bottle of wine that was still on the table.
Casually, he walked over to the table. He could see the others out of the corner of his eye, but they didn't pay him any attention. He casually picked up the bottle and walked back out of sight.
He held the bottle in the light and studied the label. It wasn't a bad wine. Not what he was used to, but not poor quality, either.
Neal missed wine. He rarely had it these days. He blamed Peter's slave training books—they all said it was a bad idea to let slaves have alcohol. Elizabeth let him help her taste wine sometimes, for events. That was nice, but not the same as having a nice glass over dinner. Peter and Elizabeth didn't even drink wine that often. They mainly indulged on what Elizabeth referred to as "date nights" and what Peter called "Neal-free evenings." On those occasions, Neal was banished to his room early.
He cocked his head to make sure he didn't hear anyone coming, and then, feeling safe, got a clean wineglass from the cupboard. He uncorked the bottle and poured himself a glass.
Suddenly, he was feeling better about Hughes. One could tell a lot about a man from his taste in wine, and Hughes' taste was simple but classic. Or perhaps his wife had picked it out.
He continued to hear laughter and conversation coming from the living room. Evidently, no one had any intention of calling it a night yet. Neal tried to mimic the sounds of work in order to keep Peter and Elizabeth from wondering what he was doing. He turned on the faucet and let the water run for a minute, and then made a show of opening and closing cupboards.
He finished his first glass of wine and poured himself a second.
Neal didn't measure how much he drank, exactly. When the dishwasher was done, he dragged out the task of drying and putting away the dishes, and he kept his glass filled and close by.
He hummed to himself while he put away the clean plates. His face felt flushed and he could taste the pleasant tartness of the wine on his tongue.
He was idly drying the silverware when he heard approaching footsteps and the sound of Elizabeth's voice. He immediately picked up his pace, trying to look busier than he was.
Elizabeth came into the kitchen with Melissa on her heels. Elizabeth walked over to the counter and touched one of the drawer handles. "This is what I was telling you about. I changed all the hardware in here this summer. It's not much, but I think it updates the room."
Melissa walked over to get a closer look. "Oh, those are gorgeous. Very classic."
"Thank you. I thought they were perfect when I found them." She looked up at Neal, then, as though she'd just noticed him. "You're still doing the dishes? I didn't think there were that many."
"I'm almost done," Neal said.
Elizabeth's gaze focused on something behind him, and Neal realized, belatedly, that she'd noticed the wineglass. He should have though to conceal it.
"Neal," she said, softly, "have you been drinking?" She picked up the bottle of wine. Her eyes widened. "Oh my God! It's so light! How much have you had?"
"I just thought I'd give it a try."
"Well, I'm sure you knew we wouldn't approve. What did Peter tell you about being on your best behavior?"
Neal was about to plead his case when Melissa snorted. She covered her mouth and shook with silent laughter.
Elizabeth turned to her. She looked puzzled, but said, "I'm so sorry he drank your wine."
Melissa waved a hand. "No, no, don't be. I'm sorry. It's just...sweet. You can't blame him for wanting to have some fun. Just look at him—he looks so harmless."
Neal grinned.
"Oh," Elizabeth said, "trust me; he looks a lot more innocent than he is."
Melissa cleared her throat and touched Elizabeth's arm. "Well, could you do me a favor and not say anything about this in front of Reese? I think he was hoping Neal would put me off the idea of buying a slave of our own."
Elizabeth lowered her voice. "Peter said you guys were considering a slave. Reese isn't crazy about it?"
Neal went back to drying silverware, glad the heat was off him for the moment.
"He doesn't like the idea of having a criminal in the house. And I don't think he trusts me to handle the training. He thinks I'm not firm enough. Remember that Shih Tzu we adopted? He blames me for how badly-behaved she is. It's not my fault that dog is demonic."
"Just give him some time to think about it. Peter was more determined to get Neal than I was, but we had plenty of time to talk about it before he was actually sentenced. And now I have no doubt we made the right choice. It's been great having Neal around."
Melissa hesitantly reached out. Her fingers barely touched Neal's arm.
"Well, he's certainly handsome. I wouldn't mind having him around."
A wary look crossed Elizabeth's face, and Neal wondered if Melissa meant to feel him up. He couldn't say he minded if she did—she was pretty, and he preferred her flattery to getting chewed out over the wine.
But before he could find out what she had in mind, Peter called out from the living room.
"Hey, Neal? Stop whatever you’re doing and come here for a minute."
Elizabeth’s eyes widened and she looked over her shoulder. "I think Neal’s a little busy, Hon. Can I get you something?"
"No, I just need Neal. Whatever he’s doing can wait."
Elizabeth turned to Neal and clicked her tongue. "They'll smell the wine on your breath."
Neal smiled. "Don’t worry—I’ve got this." Looking at Melissa he said, "And don't worry. I'll make a good impression."
He set aside the dish towel he was holding and went into the living room. Hughes was sitting on the sofa, and Peter was in the armchair across from him. As Neal approached, Peter caught his elbow and tugged. Obediently, Neal sank to his knees and ignored the discomfort of the hard floor.
"We want your opinion on something," Peter said.
Behind him, he heard Elizabeth and Melissa reenter the room. Melissa took a seat next to her husband, holding a fresh glass of wine.
Hughes reached for a leather briefcase that was sitting at his feet. He retrieved a file folder and laid it open on the table. There was a series of documents sealed in plastic bags.
"The signature on this contract may have been forged. The other documents all have verified signatures. Peter said you’d take a look and give us your thoughts. Is the signature a forgery?"
Neal looked up at Hughes. "What’s in it for me if I tell you?"
Peter flicked him on the ear. "Neal...."
Hughes held up a hand. "No, it’s all right. If you tell me, and you’re right, there might be a reward for you. Unofficially, of course. And only if it’s okay with your owners."
He didn't elaborate any further, but Neal figured the reward had to be better than old clothes. Satisfied, he studied the documents in front of him. After only a minute, he looked up again and said, "It’s a forgery."
Hughes frowned. "Are you sure? Because our handwriting expert says otherwise."
"There's a hesitation mark on the 'M.' Your expert is wrong. And if you didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be asking for my opinion."
"Neal...." Peter said again, digging his fingers into Neal’s shoulder. "What's gotten into you?"
"You’re being very blunt for a slave," Hughes said, "but you’re correct. We wouldn’t have asked you if we didn’t have our suspicions." Turning to Peter, he said, "If we can prove he’s right, it'll be a big break in the case."
"Always glad to be of use," Neal said with a smile. "I live to make my master proud."
He couldn't imagine why Peter shot him a dirty look. This was the sort of stuff they wanted to hear, wasn't it? Maybe he'd tried too hard.
Clearing his throat, Peter said, "Don't you have some cleaning up to do in the kitchen?"
Before Neal could answer, Elizabeth spoke up. "Neal finished the dishes. He's had a long day—why don't we send him upstairs?"
Neal wasn't done yet. He still had some silverware to dry. But evidently Elizabeth didn't care. If she and Peter wanted to finish the job themselves, that was fine by him.
Peter readily agreed with Elizabeth, and a few minutes later, Neal was in the quiet of his room. He toed off his shoes and lay flat on the bed.
It was perhaps forty-five minutes later when his bedroom door opened and Peter came in. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at Neal, who had an arm draped across his forehead. Neal stared back at Peter through heavy-lidded eyes.
They looked at each other for several seconds. Then Peter said, "I hope you have a hangover tomorrow."
"Elizabeth told you? Of course she did. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not drunk."
Peter raised his eyebrows.
"All right, a little buzzed, maybe. Not enough for a hangover."
Peter didn't respond. Neal squirmed. He didn't like it when he couldn't read Peter. He was starting to get the feeling that he might have to sleep with a sore ass tonight.
"You're not going to punish me for a little wine, are you? I didn't disobey you. You never said I couldn't have any. And Hughes was impressed."
"He was. Thankfully, he cares more about closing that case than your attitude. No, I think you came out even tonight. So no punishment. But no home spa day, either."
"I can live with that."
Neal turned onto his side. Peter came closer and sat on the edge of the bed.
"He didn't want to be impressed, you know," Neal said. "He wanted to turn his wife off the idea of slaves."
Peter chuckled. "Oh, I know. But he appreciates intelligence, and I think we showed him some of yours." He paused and added. "It was my idea to have you look over the contract. Thought you might be able to see something our expert missed. And I thought you'd like the chance to show off."
Well, Peter certainly knew him.
"I am right, you know."
"With any luck, we'll prove it. Now get some sleep. And if you're hung over tomorrow, don't expect any sympathy."
A few days later, Peter came home from work in high spirits. Neal was at the dining room table correcting four-hundred menu cards for Elizabeth, putting little stickers that said "Beef bourguignon" over the words "Beef Bolognese"
When Peter gave him a cheerful greeting, Neal said, "Careful. Elizabeth's in a bad mood. Someone made a mistake on these menus, and now they all have to be corrected by tomorrow."
Elizabeth had expressed distaste at the thought of correcting them with labels but, well, printing new menus would cost the client hundreds of dollars and require too much time. Having a slave spend an afternoon sticking labels on the existing ones cost close to nothing.
Peter's arrival offered a welcome break. Neal's fingers needed a rest.
"Well," Peter said, "I have some good news. You know that contract we had you look at? You were right." He slapped Neal's knee. "It's a fake."
"I know it is. So, you guys have a good case."
"Very good. The fresh look at the contract gave us the excuse we needed to do a little more digging. And—" he reached into his pocket "—Hughes wanted me to give you this."
He handed Neal a crumpled up bill. Neal straightened it out and frowned.
"Seriously? Hughes gave me ten dollars?"
Peter snatched the bill back. "No, he gave me ten dollars to put toward a treat for you. Neither of us are stupid enough to let you have money."
Neal huffed. "Wow, the possibilities are endless. Do I want to know how much you guys pay the handwriting expert who got it wrong?"
"Oh, come on. You made yourself look good, and you're being rewarded for it. You need to learn to be appreciative."
"I made you look good. Shouldn't you be matching Hughes' reward, at least?"
Peter shrugged. "Yeah, all right, fair enough. I'll throw a ten in, too. What do you want?"
Neal thought carefully. There was no shortage of things he wanted, and he knew this was a rare chance. He wanted to take advantage of it, but he also knew that getting too ambitious with his request might risk Peter's generosity. Finally, he said, "Some art supplies would be nice. Maybe some pencils and a sketchpad."
"All right. You think you can find stuff you like for twenty dollars?"
"Well, you know, quality is important...."
"And I thought the great Neal Caffrey wouldn't need a lot of fancy tools. I'm sure some of those great masters you've forged didn't have their pick of the best art supplies."
Neal cocked his head. "Come on. I never ask you for anything."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah? What do you call that list you put on the refrigerator?"
"Those are essentials. You told me to keep a list of things I need."
"Like hair gel?"
"What can I say? Elizabeth likes my hair. Before you bought me, they said maintaining my appearance was important."
"I'm sure they did. All right, thirty dollars. That's the limit. We can go shopping tomorrow."
Neal sensed Peter wouldn't go any higher than that. At least he knew now that Peter had some weakness for bargaining.
The next day, true to his promise, Peter took Neal to an art supply store and let him pick out some items. In the end, the total crept up to thirty-seven, but Peter merely shook his head and forked over the cash.
When they got home, Neal took his new art supplies upstairs. He knew he'd made the right choice—now it would be much easier to keep himself occupied when he wasn't doing chores.
He was also amazed at how good it was to have something that felt like it belonged to him. The bedroom and the too-big shirts hanging in the closet never felt like his. He had to remind himself that the pencils and sketchpad weren't actually his, either. It was dangerous to get attached to anything the Burkes gave him.
He had a shoebox under his bed where he kept all the worthless things he snatched from around the house: fliers from Elizabeth's events, paperclips and rubber bands from the junk drawer, newspaper clippings. Neal prided himself on his tastes, but these days, it was enough to have something. Anything.
Still, he didn't peg Peter and Elizabeth as the type to take back presents on a whim. He felt mostly safe in enjoying his new art supplies. It was a badly-needed treat.
Chapter 10
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Date: 2014-02-02 08:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-02-03 03:59 am (UTC)