Fic: The Devil You Know (15/25)
Feb. 6th, 2014 08:59 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: 4300 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.
A few days later, New York had its first real snow of the winter. Both Peter and Elizabeth decided to try to work from home, and as soon as Neal got up, Peter handed him an old pair of snow boots.
"C'mon," Peter said, "let's get the front walk shoveled."
"Are those your boots? We don't wear the same size."
"Just give 'em a try," Peter said with a grin. "You only need them for a little bit."
The boots were tight, but they were wearable. Soon, Neal was also wearing one of Peter's old coats, Peter's old hat and gloves, and Elizabeth's scarf.
Peter was remarkably chipper for a man who had to shovel his front walk. Perhaps knowing he had a slave to help him raised his spirits, or perhaps he'd never lost his childhood appreciation for snow.
Peter took the big shovel and worked on the path leading to the sidewalk, while Neal took a smaller one and worked on the front steps.
After fifteen minutes, Neal was starting to get winded. He set his shovel down and leaned against the railing.
"What?" Peter asked. He lifted a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "Getting tired? Guess you didn't have to use as many muscles for breaking into museums."
"Allegedly," Neal said. "I don't think I've done any shoveling since I was a teenager."
"Huh," Peter said, as though this information was genuinely interesting.
Neal took a deep breath of the crisp winter air and returned to work. He looked up and down the street, and had to admit that snow at least looked nice. It was still clean and unmarred.
A minute later, Peter said, "Not a whole lot of information about when you were younger. In fact, it's like you didn't exist before you turned eighteen."
"And finding out I used to shovel snow is a big breakthrough?"
"I just can't help but be curious. I mean, we don't even have any record of a high school diploma."
"You wouldn't. I didn't graduate."
Peter gave him an inquisitive look, and Neal shrugged.
"I wasn't the scholarly type."
He could tell Peter wanted more details, but Neal liked having a few secrets. Peter knew enough about him. And there was too much about his past that he didn't want to get into.
When they'd gotten the front path mostly cleared, Elizabeth poked her head out the front door and said, "When you guys finish, I've got some hot cocoa for you."
The warm house was inviting. Neal didn't realize how cold his nose had gotten until he was back inside. He and Peter took off their boots and left them by the door. Satchmo came over and sniffed at a chunk of snow that was still stuck to one of the boots.
Neal's feet were cold and clammy. After Elizabeth handed him his cocoa, he sat down on the living room floor and rubbed his feet with his free hand. He wiggled this frozen toes to bring some life back to them. When the numbness began to fade, they ached from being cramped in Peter's boots.
"The insulation isn't great in those old boots," Peter said. "We'll have to invest in a new pair for you."
Peter may not have cared about how ridiculous Neal looked in his cast-offs, but at least he cared about the practical aspects.
Elizabeth joined them in the living room with her own mug of cocoa.
"So," Elizabeth said, "you bring anything interesting home?" She nodded at the files Peter had stacked on the coffee table.
"Oh, you know how it is. No new leads on that Met case, but I want to look over some witness statements again. And I have to look at these mortgage fraud cases came up."
"Well, I know you'll find a lead. Maybe Neal can help."
"Yeah, maybe."
After she finished her cocoa, Elizabeth went upstairs to work on her laptop from the comfort of bed. Peter turned on a basketball game on TV and opened the file on top of the stack.
He hadn't solicited Neal's help, so Neal assumed he was off the clock for the moment. He went upstairs to get his sketchbook and pencils.
Since his arrival at the Burkes' house, he'd spent a lot of his free time alone in his room. He was finally starting to get lonely. As much as he savored some peace and quiet, there was a fine line between solitude and isolation. He brought his sketchbook down to the living room. He started to sit on the floor when Peter looked up.
"Hey, why don't you join me?"
Neal hid his surprise and sat beside Peter on the sofa. The finger-shaped bruises on Neal's hips were fading to a jaundiced yellow, and now the only lingering aftereffect of being fucked was Peter's unusual friendliness toward him. He didn't get mad yesterday morning when Neal finished the coffee before Peter was done, and he even let Neal turn on an opera performance on PBS the other night. Well, for a half hour, at least.
He wondered if part of Peter felt guilty. More likely, he was just a good mood from getting what he wanted. He hated to think that Peter believed he'd "won." Peter was insufferable when he did. But it put him in a good mood.
While Peter watched the game and studied the file on his lap (how Peter managed to multitask was a mystery), Neal did his best to block out the game. He started to sketch. He was working on a rough replica of a drawing by Degas that he'd always admired.
Eventually, he realized that Peter was watching him, but he ignored it.
"You know," Peter said after a while, "you should draw more of your own stuff. You're not bad."
Neal kept sketching, ignoring him at first. Then he froze. "You've gone through my sketchbook?"
"I've taken a couple peeks."
Of course he had. Neal was abstractly aware that he shouldn't consider any of his sketches private. That was why he never sketched Mozzie or Alex, or anyone else Peter didn't already know about.
Still, it was nice to maintain the illusion of privacy.
"Anyway," Peter said, "I'm just saying—forgery got you into this whole mess in the first place. Maybe you should focus your talent on something else."
"I wouldn't mind focusing my talent on painting," he said hopefully.
Peter smirked. "I'm sure you wouldn't. Too bad paint is expensive."
Neal didn't respond. He roughly turned to a blank page. If his Degas wasn't appreciated here, he'd work on it later in peace.
He thought for a moment, and then began to sketch a portrait of Peter. His subject was sitting right next to him, after all.
It wasn't until a commercial came on that Peter noticed what Neal was drawing.
"Hey," he said, smiling, "that's not bad. How do you draw so fast, anyway?"
"Just takes practice."
"I'm sure it's very useful for a forger."
"Alleged."
He added some finishing touches to the portrait and set his pencil aside. He gently tore the page out of his sketchbook and handed it Peter. "Here, you want it?"
Peter raised his eyebrows. "You sure? You don't want to keep it?"
Right, like Neal was going to hang it up on his bedroom wall.
"No, I want you to have it."
Peter took it with a smile and set it aside. "Thank you. I'll hang onto it. Never had anyone draw my portrait before."
Neal hadn't expected Peter to treat it like some sort of gift. But maybe it would make Peter more inclined to give Neal what he wanted the next time he asked.
Neal set his sketching supplies on the coffee table and sat back. Peter took the opportunity to put an arm around his shoulders.
"By the way, how have you been feeling?" he asked. "I didn't wear you out too much last weekend, did I?"
"My ass is fine, thank you."
Peter rubbed his back with a hypnotic circular motion. If he heard the terseness in Neal's voice, he chose to ignore it. "Good to hear. I know it was an intense night for you. I thought maybe it was a little much for you to take in."
Neal didn't respond. What did Peter want from him? Reassurance?
"But you really got into it," Peter said with a grin, "didn't you?"
"Last I heard, you only wanted to hear enthusiasm from me. So I guess you already know the answer to that."
"Oh, you know what I meant by that. I did try to make it good for you—didn't think you'd come that easily, though. That was impressive."
"Beginner's luck," he muttered.
"But," Peter said, his smile fading, "we have to be realistic. Of course, it's for the best if you like it. But it's still your job. Sometimes you're not going to be into it, but it has to be done, just like your other chores. I love my job, but do you think I feel like looking at these files today? No, I'd rather focus on the game. But you don't see me complaining about it, do you?"
"Come on, Peter, it's not the same," Neal said.
"Close enough."
Neal was pretty sure Peter would feel differently if he was the slave. Then again, Peter liked to believe in his precious philosophy about justice so much that maybe he'd accept enslavement. Maybe he'd actually be the model slave he kept pushing Neal to be. Neal doubted it, but it was possible.
Peter gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Remember, just because you're a slave doesn't mean you don't have any control over how these next few years go. Your attitude is going to make a big difference."
Neal could do without the pep talk, but he didn't say anything. Peter removed his arm from around his shoulders and gave him a nudge.
"Hey," Peter said, "you want to look at these files with me? I could use your thoughts."
Neal angled his body toward Peter. Peter handed him the top file, and Neal flipped it open.
A small part of him wondered if it was wrong to help Peter. After all, if he helped Peter solve the case, it might lead to some other criminals suffering the same fate Neal had been given. But Neal was low on sympathy for anyone outside his own small circle. It wasn't like most criminals gave a crap about him.
Still, he had to respect someone who could pull off a job at the Met.
He went over the files with Peter until after lunch, and worked on the laundry and cleaning until dinner.
That night, when he was in his room, he lay in bed and looked at the closet door. He deliberated for a few minutes, and listened for any sounds out in the hall. He could just hear the faucet running in the bathtub downstairs. Elizabeth must have decided to take a bath before bed.
Slowly, and with more trepidation than enthusiasm, Neal got up and walked over to the closet. He opened the door and got out the box of plugs and the bottle of lube.
He'd resisted this, but Neal always did his research. When it came down to it, this was no different. It was just another skill he could learn and perfect. And part of him was curious.
Peter would never have to know.
Neal sat on the bed and opened the box. After a moment of deliberation, he picked out the second to largest plug. It wasn't as long as Peter's dick, but it was almost as wide. If Peter had been the one handling the plugs, Neal would have argued with the selection. But it was easier to be at the mercy of his own hand.
He lay back on the bed and took off his pajama bottoms. Slowly, he spread his legs and bent his knees. He spread some lube on a couple fingers and reached between his legs. He felt around and pushed his index finger into his hole. His ass was warm and tight around it, but there was little resistance. When there was no pain, he pressed in more. When he crooked his finger, he found a raised spot that must have been his prostate. Deciding to experiment, he slid his finger in and out.
After a minute, he added another finger. His ass stretched uncomfortably to accommodate it, and Neal winced. He took a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax.
Fingering himself was more hypnotic than arousing. He found himself transfixed by the slickness and tightness of his ass. Nevertheless, the persistent pressure on his prostate made his cock start to swell.
He kept it up until his fingers tired. Slowly, he removed them. He lubed up the plug and positioned the tip against his hole. Before he could change his mind, he pushed it in.
The plug was thicker than his fingers. When the widest point breached him, he didn't think his ass could stretch any more. But he'd gotten himself lubed and relaxed, and that was all he needed. He guided the plug in carefully and slowly, and after a minute it was fully-seated.
He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. When Peter used a plug on him, sometimes he would tease it in and out of his hole. But mostly, he would make Neal wear it while giving a blow job.
This plug felt too big to twist or thrust, but Neal gave it a try. Thanks to the lube, it moved smoothly. He pressed down on the base of the plug, pushing the plug against his prostate.
It felt...rather good.
It had never occurred to Neal that part of the problem was Peter's technique. But the plug felt much better when it was in Neal's control. When Peter used the plugs or fingered Neal, he always moved a little too fast.
Still, Neal didn't want to overdo it. After a minute, he eased the plug out of his ass and set it aside.
Now, he could focus on his erection.
He squirted a little lube on his palm and started jerking his cock. Like many of his masturbation sessions, it seemed frustrating and futile. He was torn between the physical desire for an orgasm and the claustrophobic reality of where he was. He tried to hone in on thoughts of Kate, but his memories of her were like a moving target. He worked his dick quickly, wanting to come before the mood left him entirely.
Physical effort almost always yielded a result. After what felt like an eternity, Neal squeezed his eyes shut and felt the come shoot onto his stomach. His softening cock was tender from the furious stroking, and Neal knew he'd be taking a break for a couple days.
He lay on the bed for a minute to catch his breath. Then, he got up and pulled his pajama bottoms on. Taking the plug with him, he ventured out into the hall. He peered over the bannister. The bathroom door was open, and the light was off. Elizabeth was done with her bath. Neal sprinted downstairs and into the bathroom before either she or Peter could intercept him.
He washed off the plug and then cleaned himself up. He grabbed a few squares of toilet paper to wipe off the residual lube.
The plugs weren't so bad. Maybe he would try it again. He just had to make sure Peter didn't notice, or he would be unbearably smug.
* * *
With Christmas approaching, Elizabeth was booked with parties. Neal wished he could help her with the planning, but by this point, everything had already been ordered.
But the following Monday, Elizabeth started to take Neal with her to her office in Manhattan. Neal made a token effort of hiding his enthusiasm, but it must have shown through. During the drive into Manhattan, Elizabeth glanced over at him and smiled.
"If I knew this would be such a big deal for you, I would've started taking you to work sooner."
Neal didn't try to deny it. The Burkes' house was perfectly comfortable, but being confined to such a small space had started getting old a long time ago. Just being in Manhattan made him feel more alive.
"Why didn't you?" he asked her. "You must have known I have some experience with parties."
Elizabeth shrugged. "Before we bought you, Peter and I agreed to wait and see. We didn't think he'd be using you with his work, and Peter was concerned that being near my clients might be tempting for you. But if he's going to enlist your help with his job, you can help me pick out caviar."
When they arrived, Neal stood to the side while Elizabeth unlocked the door.
"Is it just us today?" he asked.
"Mm-hm. My assistant isn't working today. It should be quiet. I've got some clients coming at one to talk about wedding plans."
After he put on a pot of coffee, Elizabeth put him to work tracking orders. That kept him busy until almost eleven, and then he discovered that there wasn't a lot for him to do.
"Just hang tight," Elizabeth said with a sympathetic smile. "I'm sure I'll have some work for you in a bit."
Neal slipped into the back room and entertained himself by looking at the boxes of caviar, wine, and champagne that Elizabeth had back there. Another box contained two hundred white linen napkins. He took one out and rubbed the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger before carefully folding it back up in the box.
When he'd looked at all the boxes, he wandered back out into the main part of the office. There were a sofa and chairs by the front door, and on the coffee table was a selection of magazines. Neal sat on the sofa and shifted through the magazines, looking for something to entertain himself with.
There were several wedding and food magazines. Neal flipped through a few of them before setting them aside. Toward the bottom of the pile, he came across a copy of Master & Slave magazine.
He held it up for Elizabeth to see. Raising his eyebrows, he said, "Interesting choice of reading material."
She was sitting at a desk several feet away, writing an e-mail. Looking over her shoulder, she said, "A lot of my clients are slave owners. And sometimes there are good articles about parties."
The cover boasted headlines such as "Tips and Tricks for Traveling with Slaves" and "Over 20 pages of the latest collar designs!"
It was a thick, glossy magazine, the type that Peter would probably disapprove of. Peter had little tolerance for mixing luxury and slavery. Neal flipped through the pages of designer collars with limited interest. The collars were as close to luxurious as collars could be. Some were adorned with diamonds as well as equipped with the latest state-of-the-art GPS tracking chips, and Neal suspected they cost more than the Burkes' wedding rings combined. Still, a collar was a collar, and even precious stones couldn't make Neal see them as anything but restrictive.
He read the travel article with more interest, in hopes that it would discuss international travel. But it only said what he already knew: taking a slave out of the country was difficult, and required authorization. Instead, the article made recommendations about leaving slaves at home or in a kennel.
Neal wasn't surprised. Technically, the government retained rights over all slaves that were sold. And the DOJ was unwilling to risk letting its felons out of the country, no matter how much wealthy slave owners wanted to bring their personal servants with them on vacation. The official reason was that there was too much risk of slaves being abducted and sold on the black market. In reality, everyone knew the bigger risk was a slave seeking sanctuary in a non-slave country.
Neal had thought about it. It was hard not to. If he couldn't get his collar off, he could find a way for Mozzie to impersonate his master. Once he got overseas, he could find a way to escape for good.
But getting the collar off would probably be easier.
Regardless, it was all intellectual. He never stopped daydreaming of escape, but he believed less and less that it would ever happen.
The magazine also contained a bonus booklet titled "101 Holiday Gift Ideas for Slaves." Glancing at it, Neal quickly realized that the ideas were for gifts from slaves to their masters.
Neal had no idea if he was expected to give the Burkes anything for Christmas. It wasn't as though he could go out and buy them anything. He looked at the ideas in the booklet, but too many of them involved giving massages or manicures.
He supposed he could always just cook them a nice dessert.
His reading was interrupted when Elizabeth said, "Neal, would you mind doing me a favor?"
Neal set the magazine down. "What do you need?"
She picked up her purse and pulled out her wallet. She got a twenty dollar bill.
"There's a bakery at the end of the block. Can you run down there and buy some cookies? I want to have some for my clients. It might encourage them to try that bakery when it comes time for cake tasting."
Neal got up and tried not to look too interested by what she was proposing. He'd never been allowed to handle money, let alone unaccompanied.
"No problem," he said.
"How about a dozen? I'm thinking four chocolate chip, four sugar, and four red velvet. They have the best red velvet-flavored cookies."
She handed Neal the money and he put it in his pocket.
"Got it. Be right back."
"Tell Mary I sent you. And oh, make sure to get a receipt."
She said it casually, but Neal knew what she meant: she would double-check the amount he spent. If it had been Peter, Neal would have said something about the lack of trust. But this was Elizabeth, and he wanted to be a good sport.
He'd been getting tired, but as he walked down the street, he had a burst of renewed energy. The cold wind certainly helped jolt him awake.
When he entered the bakery, there was only one other customer ahead of him. When the man left, Neal walked up to the register. The woman behind the counter, whose nametag said 'Mary,' gave him a smile.
Returning the smile, he said, "Hi, Elizabeth Burke sent me. She'd like some cookies."
"Oh, of course. What will it be?"
Neal recited the order, and Mary went over to the glass case where the cookies were arranged on plates. There was a door behind the counter that led to the kitchen, and in the window, Neal could see a young woman with a slave collar using a mixer.
"You must be Elizabeth's new slave," Mary said. "She mentioned you the last time she was in here."
From her cheerful tone, Neal assumed Elizabeth had said good things.
"That would be me," Neal said. "I'm just helping out today."
"Well, I'm sure she appreciates it."
Neal paid for the cookies, and before he could request one, Mary gave him a receipt along with the change.
Neal didn't rush the walk back to Elizabeth's office. The only thing that kept him from dawdling was the hope that this excursion would lead to other, longer ones in the future. Taking too long wouldn't endear him to Elizabeth.
When he returned, Elizabeth had gotten out a tray for the cookies.
"Do you mind laying them out on the coffee table?" she said.
As he began to arrange the cookies on the tray, he watched Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. She put the change and receipt in her purse without double-checking the amount. He wondered if she would count it later.
At one o'clock, Elizabeth's clients arrived. So he could stick around and listen, Neal made himself look busy by straightening up Elizabeth's desk. When he grew bored with the meeting, and ran out of pretexts to stick around, he retreated into the back room until he heard the clients leaving.
When he emerged, Elizabeth was putting the remaining cookies in a plastic bag. When she saw him, she smiled and offered him one.
Neal chose one of the red velvet cookies. After swallowing down a bite, he said, "Should I plan on coming here tomorrow?"
"Actually, I was thinking of leaving you home tomorrow so you can take care of some housework. On Wednesday, you'll go to work with Peter."
Neal received this news with some ambivalence. He'd enjoyed coming to work with Elizabeth, and had hoped this new duty would spare him from some of the chores he usually had to do. And as much as he looked forward to going back to the FBI, he suspected it would be much less relaxed than today was.
She must have noticed something in his expression, because she said, "I'm not even coming down here tomorrow, myself. I have to check out some venues with a client, and there isn't much you could do. But I'm having some invitations shipped to the house tomorrow, and it'll be a big help to have you home to receive them."
It was obvious she was just trying to make him feel better, but he appreciated it.
They only stayed another half hour before heading home. On the way back, Elizabeth stopped for coffee and let Neal choose whatever he wanted.
Chapter 16
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: 4300 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.
A few days later, New York had its first real snow of the winter. Both Peter and Elizabeth decided to try to work from home, and as soon as Neal got up, Peter handed him an old pair of snow boots.
"C'mon," Peter said, "let's get the front walk shoveled."
"Are those your boots? We don't wear the same size."
"Just give 'em a try," Peter said with a grin. "You only need them for a little bit."
The boots were tight, but they were wearable. Soon, Neal was also wearing one of Peter's old coats, Peter's old hat and gloves, and Elizabeth's scarf.
Peter was remarkably chipper for a man who had to shovel his front walk. Perhaps knowing he had a slave to help him raised his spirits, or perhaps he'd never lost his childhood appreciation for snow.
Peter took the big shovel and worked on the path leading to the sidewalk, while Neal took a smaller one and worked on the front steps.
After fifteen minutes, Neal was starting to get winded. He set his shovel down and leaned against the railing.
"What?" Peter asked. He lifted a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "Getting tired? Guess you didn't have to use as many muscles for breaking into museums."
"Allegedly," Neal said. "I don't think I've done any shoveling since I was a teenager."
"Huh," Peter said, as though this information was genuinely interesting.
Neal took a deep breath of the crisp winter air and returned to work. He looked up and down the street, and had to admit that snow at least looked nice. It was still clean and unmarred.
A minute later, Peter said, "Not a whole lot of information about when you were younger. In fact, it's like you didn't exist before you turned eighteen."
"And finding out I used to shovel snow is a big breakthrough?"
"I just can't help but be curious. I mean, we don't even have any record of a high school diploma."
"You wouldn't. I didn't graduate."
Peter gave him an inquisitive look, and Neal shrugged.
"I wasn't the scholarly type."
He could tell Peter wanted more details, but Neal liked having a few secrets. Peter knew enough about him. And there was too much about his past that he didn't want to get into.
When they'd gotten the front path mostly cleared, Elizabeth poked her head out the front door and said, "When you guys finish, I've got some hot cocoa for you."
The warm house was inviting. Neal didn't realize how cold his nose had gotten until he was back inside. He and Peter took off their boots and left them by the door. Satchmo came over and sniffed at a chunk of snow that was still stuck to one of the boots.
Neal's feet were cold and clammy. After Elizabeth handed him his cocoa, he sat down on the living room floor and rubbed his feet with his free hand. He wiggled this frozen toes to bring some life back to them. When the numbness began to fade, they ached from being cramped in Peter's boots.
"The insulation isn't great in those old boots," Peter said. "We'll have to invest in a new pair for you."
Peter may not have cared about how ridiculous Neal looked in his cast-offs, but at least he cared about the practical aspects.
Elizabeth joined them in the living room with her own mug of cocoa.
"So," Elizabeth said, "you bring anything interesting home?" She nodded at the files Peter had stacked on the coffee table.
"Oh, you know how it is. No new leads on that Met case, but I want to look over some witness statements again. And I have to look at these mortgage fraud cases came up."
"Well, I know you'll find a lead. Maybe Neal can help."
"Yeah, maybe."
After she finished her cocoa, Elizabeth went upstairs to work on her laptop from the comfort of bed. Peter turned on a basketball game on TV and opened the file on top of the stack.
He hadn't solicited Neal's help, so Neal assumed he was off the clock for the moment. He went upstairs to get his sketchbook and pencils.
Since his arrival at the Burkes' house, he'd spent a lot of his free time alone in his room. He was finally starting to get lonely. As much as he savored some peace and quiet, there was a fine line between solitude and isolation. He brought his sketchbook down to the living room. He started to sit on the floor when Peter looked up.
"Hey, why don't you join me?"
Neal hid his surprise and sat beside Peter on the sofa. The finger-shaped bruises on Neal's hips were fading to a jaundiced yellow, and now the only lingering aftereffect of being fucked was Peter's unusual friendliness toward him. He didn't get mad yesterday morning when Neal finished the coffee before Peter was done, and he even let Neal turn on an opera performance on PBS the other night. Well, for a half hour, at least.
He wondered if part of Peter felt guilty. More likely, he was just a good mood from getting what he wanted. He hated to think that Peter believed he'd "won." Peter was insufferable when he did. But it put him in a good mood.
While Peter watched the game and studied the file on his lap (how Peter managed to multitask was a mystery), Neal did his best to block out the game. He started to sketch. He was working on a rough replica of a drawing by Degas that he'd always admired.
Eventually, he realized that Peter was watching him, but he ignored it.
"You know," Peter said after a while, "you should draw more of your own stuff. You're not bad."
Neal kept sketching, ignoring him at first. Then he froze. "You've gone through my sketchbook?"
"I've taken a couple peeks."
Of course he had. Neal was abstractly aware that he shouldn't consider any of his sketches private. That was why he never sketched Mozzie or Alex, or anyone else Peter didn't already know about.
Still, it was nice to maintain the illusion of privacy.
"Anyway," Peter said, "I'm just saying—forgery got you into this whole mess in the first place. Maybe you should focus your talent on something else."
"I wouldn't mind focusing my talent on painting," he said hopefully.
Peter smirked. "I'm sure you wouldn't. Too bad paint is expensive."
Neal didn't respond. He roughly turned to a blank page. If his Degas wasn't appreciated here, he'd work on it later in peace.
He thought for a moment, and then began to sketch a portrait of Peter. His subject was sitting right next to him, after all.
It wasn't until a commercial came on that Peter noticed what Neal was drawing.
"Hey," he said, smiling, "that's not bad. How do you draw so fast, anyway?"
"Just takes practice."
"I'm sure it's very useful for a forger."
"Alleged."
He added some finishing touches to the portrait and set his pencil aside. He gently tore the page out of his sketchbook and handed it Peter. "Here, you want it?"
Peter raised his eyebrows. "You sure? You don't want to keep it?"
Right, like Neal was going to hang it up on his bedroom wall.
"No, I want you to have it."
Peter took it with a smile and set it aside. "Thank you. I'll hang onto it. Never had anyone draw my portrait before."
Neal hadn't expected Peter to treat it like some sort of gift. But maybe it would make Peter more inclined to give Neal what he wanted the next time he asked.
Neal set his sketching supplies on the coffee table and sat back. Peter took the opportunity to put an arm around his shoulders.
"By the way, how have you been feeling?" he asked. "I didn't wear you out too much last weekend, did I?"
"My ass is fine, thank you."
Peter rubbed his back with a hypnotic circular motion. If he heard the terseness in Neal's voice, he chose to ignore it. "Good to hear. I know it was an intense night for you. I thought maybe it was a little much for you to take in."
Neal didn't respond. What did Peter want from him? Reassurance?
"But you really got into it," Peter said with a grin, "didn't you?"
"Last I heard, you only wanted to hear enthusiasm from me. So I guess you already know the answer to that."
"Oh, you know what I meant by that. I did try to make it good for you—didn't think you'd come that easily, though. That was impressive."
"Beginner's luck," he muttered.
"But," Peter said, his smile fading, "we have to be realistic. Of course, it's for the best if you like it. But it's still your job. Sometimes you're not going to be into it, but it has to be done, just like your other chores. I love my job, but do you think I feel like looking at these files today? No, I'd rather focus on the game. But you don't see me complaining about it, do you?"
"Come on, Peter, it's not the same," Neal said.
"Close enough."
Neal was pretty sure Peter would feel differently if he was the slave. Then again, Peter liked to believe in his precious philosophy about justice so much that maybe he'd accept enslavement. Maybe he'd actually be the model slave he kept pushing Neal to be. Neal doubted it, but it was possible.
Peter gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Remember, just because you're a slave doesn't mean you don't have any control over how these next few years go. Your attitude is going to make a big difference."
Neal could do without the pep talk, but he didn't say anything. Peter removed his arm from around his shoulders and gave him a nudge.
"Hey," Peter said, "you want to look at these files with me? I could use your thoughts."
Neal angled his body toward Peter. Peter handed him the top file, and Neal flipped it open.
A small part of him wondered if it was wrong to help Peter. After all, if he helped Peter solve the case, it might lead to some other criminals suffering the same fate Neal had been given. But Neal was low on sympathy for anyone outside his own small circle. It wasn't like most criminals gave a crap about him.
Still, he had to respect someone who could pull off a job at the Met.
He went over the files with Peter until after lunch, and worked on the laundry and cleaning until dinner.
That night, when he was in his room, he lay in bed and looked at the closet door. He deliberated for a few minutes, and listened for any sounds out in the hall. He could just hear the faucet running in the bathtub downstairs. Elizabeth must have decided to take a bath before bed.
Slowly, and with more trepidation than enthusiasm, Neal got up and walked over to the closet. He opened the door and got out the box of plugs and the bottle of lube.
He'd resisted this, but Neal always did his research. When it came down to it, this was no different. It was just another skill he could learn and perfect. And part of him was curious.
Peter would never have to know.
Neal sat on the bed and opened the box. After a moment of deliberation, he picked out the second to largest plug. It wasn't as long as Peter's dick, but it was almost as wide. If Peter had been the one handling the plugs, Neal would have argued with the selection. But it was easier to be at the mercy of his own hand.
He lay back on the bed and took off his pajama bottoms. Slowly, he spread his legs and bent his knees. He spread some lube on a couple fingers and reached between his legs. He felt around and pushed his index finger into his hole. His ass was warm and tight around it, but there was little resistance. When there was no pain, he pressed in more. When he crooked his finger, he found a raised spot that must have been his prostate. Deciding to experiment, he slid his finger in and out.
After a minute, he added another finger. His ass stretched uncomfortably to accommodate it, and Neal winced. He took a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax.
Fingering himself was more hypnotic than arousing. He found himself transfixed by the slickness and tightness of his ass. Nevertheless, the persistent pressure on his prostate made his cock start to swell.
He kept it up until his fingers tired. Slowly, he removed them. He lubed up the plug and positioned the tip against his hole. Before he could change his mind, he pushed it in.
The plug was thicker than his fingers. When the widest point breached him, he didn't think his ass could stretch any more. But he'd gotten himself lubed and relaxed, and that was all he needed. He guided the plug in carefully and slowly, and after a minute it was fully-seated.
He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. When Peter used a plug on him, sometimes he would tease it in and out of his hole. But mostly, he would make Neal wear it while giving a blow job.
This plug felt too big to twist or thrust, but Neal gave it a try. Thanks to the lube, it moved smoothly. He pressed down on the base of the plug, pushing the plug against his prostate.
It felt...rather good.
It had never occurred to Neal that part of the problem was Peter's technique. But the plug felt much better when it was in Neal's control. When Peter used the plugs or fingered Neal, he always moved a little too fast.
Still, Neal didn't want to overdo it. After a minute, he eased the plug out of his ass and set it aside.
Now, he could focus on his erection.
He squirted a little lube on his palm and started jerking his cock. Like many of his masturbation sessions, it seemed frustrating and futile. He was torn between the physical desire for an orgasm and the claustrophobic reality of where he was. He tried to hone in on thoughts of Kate, but his memories of her were like a moving target. He worked his dick quickly, wanting to come before the mood left him entirely.
Physical effort almost always yielded a result. After what felt like an eternity, Neal squeezed his eyes shut and felt the come shoot onto his stomach. His softening cock was tender from the furious stroking, and Neal knew he'd be taking a break for a couple days.
He lay on the bed for a minute to catch his breath. Then, he got up and pulled his pajama bottoms on. Taking the plug with him, he ventured out into the hall. He peered over the bannister. The bathroom door was open, and the light was off. Elizabeth was done with her bath. Neal sprinted downstairs and into the bathroom before either she or Peter could intercept him.
He washed off the plug and then cleaned himself up. He grabbed a few squares of toilet paper to wipe off the residual lube.
The plugs weren't so bad. Maybe he would try it again. He just had to make sure Peter didn't notice, or he would be unbearably smug.
With Christmas approaching, Elizabeth was booked with parties. Neal wished he could help her with the planning, but by this point, everything had already been ordered.
But the following Monday, Elizabeth started to take Neal with her to her office in Manhattan. Neal made a token effort of hiding his enthusiasm, but it must have shown through. During the drive into Manhattan, Elizabeth glanced over at him and smiled.
"If I knew this would be such a big deal for you, I would've started taking you to work sooner."
Neal didn't try to deny it. The Burkes' house was perfectly comfortable, but being confined to such a small space had started getting old a long time ago. Just being in Manhattan made him feel more alive.
"Why didn't you?" he asked her. "You must have known I have some experience with parties."
Elizabeth shrugged. "Before we bought you, Peter and I agreed to wait and see. We didn't think he'd be using you with his work, and Peter was concerned that being near my clients might be tempting for you. But if he's going to enlist your help with his job, you can help me pick out caviar."
When they arrived, Neal stood to the side while Elizabeth unlocked the door.
"Is it just us today?" he asked.
"Mm-hm. My assistant isn't working today. It should be quiet. I've got some clients coming at one to talk about wedding plans."
After he put on a pot of coffee, Elizabeth put him to work tracking orders. That kept him busy until almost eleven, and then he discovered that there wasn't a lot for him to do.
"Just hang tight," Elizabeth said with a sympathetic smile. "I'm sure I'll have some work for you in a bit."
Neal slipped into the back room and entertained himself by looking at the boxes of caviar, wine, and champagne that Elizabeth had back there. Another box contained two hundred white linen napkins. He took one out and rubbed the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger before carefully folding it back up in the box.
When he'd looked at all the boxes, he wandered back out into the main part of the office. There were a sofa and chairs by the front door, and on the coffee table was a selection of magazines. Neal sat on the sofa and shifted through the magazines, looking for something to entertain himself with.
There were several wedding and food magazines. Neal flipped through a few of them before setting them aside. Toward the bottom of the pile, he came across a copy of Master & Slave magazine.
He held it up for Elizabeth to see. Raising his eyebrows, he said, "Interesting choice of reading material."
She was sitting at a desk several feet away, writing an e-mail. Looking over her shoulder, she said, "A lot of my clients are slave owners. And sometimes there are good articles about parties."
The cover boasted headlines such as "Tips and Tricks for Traveling with Slaves" and "Over 20 pages of the latest collar designs!"
It was a thick, glossy magazine, the type that Peter would probably disapprove of. Peter had little tolerance for mixing luxury and slavery. Neal flipped through the pages of designer collars with limited interest. The collars were as close to luxurious as collars could be. Some were adorned with diamonds as well as equipped with the latest state-of-the-art GPS tracking chips, and Neal suspected they cost more than the Burkes' wedding rings combined. Still, a collar was a collar, and even precious stones couldn't make Neal see them as anything but restrictive.
He read the travel article with more interest, in hopes that it would discuss international travel. But it only said what he already knew: taking a slave out of the country was difficult, and required authorization. Instead, the article made recommendations about leaving slaves at home or in a kennel.
Neal wasn't surprised. Technically, the government retained rights over all slaves that were sold. And the DOJ was unwilling to risk letting its felons out of the country, no matter how much wealthy slave owners wanted to bring their personal servants with them on vacation. The official reason was that there was too much risk of slaves being abducted and sold on the black market. In reality, everyone knew the bigger risk was a slave seeking sanctuary in a non-slave country.
Neal had thought about it. It was hard not to. If he couldn't get his collar off, he could find a way for Mozzie to impersonate his master. Once he got overseas, he could find a way to escape for good.
But getting the collar off would probably be easier.
Regardless, it was all intellectual. He never stopped daydreaming of escape, but he believed less and less that it would ever happen.
The magazine also contained a bonus booklet titled "101 Holiday Gift Ideas for Slaves." Glancing at it, Neal quickly realized that the ideas were for gifts from slaves to their masters.
Neal had no idea if he was expected to give the Burkes anything for Christmas. It wasn't as though he could go out and buy them anything. He looked at the ideas in the booklet, but too many of them involved giving massages or manicures.
He supposed he could always just cook them a nice dessert.
His reading was interrupted when Elizabeth said, "Neal, would you mind doing me a favor?"
Neal set the magazine down. "What do you need?"
She picked up her purse and pulled out her wallet. She got a twenty dollar bill.
"There's a bakery at the end of the block. Can you run down there and buy some cookies? I want to have some for my clients. It might encourage them to try that bakery when it comes time for cake tasting."
Neal got up and tried not to look too interested by what she was proposing. He'd never been allowed to handle money, let alone unaccompanied.
"No problem," he said.
"How about a dozen? I'm thinking four chocolate chip, four sugar, and four red velvet. They have the best red velvet-flavored cookies."
She handed Neal the money and he put it in his pocket.
"Got it. Be right back."
"Tell Mary I sent you. And oh, make sure to get a receipt."
She said it casually, but Neal knew what she meant: she would double-check the amount he spent. If it had been Peter, Neal would have said something about the lack of trust. But this was Elizabeth, and he wanted to be a good sport.
He'd been getting tired, but as he walked down the street, he had a burst of renewed energy. The cold wind certainly helped jolt him awake.
When he entered the bakery, there was only one other customer ahead of him. When the man left, Neal walked up to the register. The woman behind the counter, whose nametag said 'Mary,' gave him a smile.
Returning the smile, he said, "Hi, Elizabeth Burke sent me. She'd like some cookies."
"Oh, of course. What will it be?"
Neal recited the order, and Mary went over to the glass case where the cookies were arranged on plates. There was a door behind the counter that led to the kitchen, and in the window, Neal could see a young woman with a slave collar using a mixer.
"You must be Elizabeth's new slave," Mary said. "She mentioned you the last time she was in here."
From her cheerful tone, Neal assumed Elizabeth had said good things.
"That would be me," Neal said. "I'm just helping out today."
"Well, I'm sure she appreciates it."
Neal paid for the cookies, and before he could request one, Mary gave him a receipt along with the change.
Neal didn't rush the walk back to Elizabeth's office. The only thing that kept him from dawdling was the hope that this excursion would lead to other, longer ones in the future. Taking too long wouldn't endear him to Elizabeth.
When he returned, Elizabeth had gotten out a tray for the cookies.
"Do you mind laying them out on the coffee table?" she said.
As he began to arrange the cookies on the tray, he watched Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. She put the change and receipt in her purse without double-checking the amount. He wondered if she would count it later.
At one o'clock, Elizabeth's clients arrived. So he could stick around and listen, Neal made himself look busy by straightening up Elizabeth's desk. When he grew bored with the meeting, and ran out of pretexts to stick around, he retreated into the back room until he heard the clients leaving.
When he emerged, Elizabeth was putting the remaining cookies in a plastic bag. When she saw him, she smiled and offered him one.
Neal chose one of the red velvet cookies. After swallowing down a bite, he said, "Should I plan on coming here tomorrow?"
"Actually, I was thinking of leaving you home tomorrow so you can take care of some housework. On Wednesday, you'll go to work with Peter."
Neal received this news with some ambivalence. He'd enjoyed coming to work with Elizabeth, and had hoped this new duty would spare him from some of the chores he usually had to do. And as much as he looked forward to going back to the FBI, he suspected it would be much less relaxed than today was.
She must have noticed something in his expression, because she said, "I'm not even coming down here tomorrow, myself. I have to check out some venues with a client, and there isn't much you could do. But I'm having some invitations shipped to the house tomorrow, and it'll be a big help to have you home to receive them."
It was obvious she was just trying to make him feel better, but he appreciated it.
They only stayed another half hour before heading home. On the way back, Elizabeth stopped for coffee and let Neal choose whatever he wanted.
Chapter 16
