M/m discipline, spanking. If the fantasy of a discipline relationship
between consenting adult men offends you, so will this story.
ELIZABETH MARSHALL STORIES
Moz wondered sometimes if Neal realized how much he had changed since he'd begun his term of servitude with The Suit. It could be something in the water coolers in the FBI building, Moz thought, aware that it wouldn't be impossible that the government was using some sort of serotonin enhancing, mood altering drug to increase its employees' efficiency. It could even be something Mrs. Suit slipped into the goodies she sent Peter to work with and that Peter shared with his team. However, even Moz had to admit the latter possibility was unlikely. Mrs. Suit's naivete worried Moz slightly; it was fortunate her husband kept a close watch on her. Moz liked Mrs. Suit, but more importantly, Neal liked Mrs. Suit and Moz liked Neal. Moz knew that Neal considered himself responsible for Kate's death and that if anything happened to Mrs. Suit, Neal's much vaunted resiliency would be no help at all.
Alex woke up in her hotel room with the same alacrity she always did. She'd never been a deep sleeper and being able to snap back to consciousness quickly was a useful survival skill when you sometimes found yourself with as many enemies as friends. More, really–-Alex counted her friends on the fingers of one hand, with room to spare, and her enemies, or at least people she was wary of, made up the majority of contacts on her Blackberry.
She often thought of Moz and Neal in the early mornings. They'd woken up together more times than she remembered, Moz blinking like an owl exposed to the light, Neal's morning beard darkening the sharp lines of his beautiful face, her hair thick and tangled, last night's mascara smeared black around her eyes. She and Neal had shared a swig of whatever was left from the night before, both of them great believers at that age in the hair of the dog. Moz had never seemed to suffer from any after effects no matter how much he drank, or pretended to drink, the night before.
Alex and Neal had been street kids when they hooked up for the first time. Both of them were pretty and careful, willing to give quick blow jobs to anything that moved, but steering clear of the street's rougher elements. Moz had been suspicious of Neal at first, not responding to Neal's charm and good looks, worried about Neal's influence on his precious Alex, but he was quickly won over by Neal's wit and intelligence. Neal's androgynous beauty worked on Moz as it worked on many men. Moz had not considered himself gay; if you'd asked him then, he would have termed himself asexual. He fell under Neal's spell as surely as all the other men who had not seen themselves as open to Neal's charms.
Neal was still asleep. Usually an early riser, he found himself clinging to sleep these mornings, unwilling to awaken. It was in the morning that he missed Kate the most. Once he'd immersed himself in the day's activities, he was able to avoid thinking of her for hours at a time, but in the quiet moments at the day's beginning, his grief was as sharp as it had been the day of the explosion.
They had had to sedate him. Even as Peter had called for help, Neal had fought desperately to reach the still flaming plane. By the time help arrived, Peter had his arms wrapped around Neal, only his greater weight and sheer determination enabling him to hold Neal despite Neal's writhing. Neal hadn't quieted until the EMS technician gave him an injection of sedative and even as he went limp and was lowered to the portable stretcher, he cried out for Kate, again and again.
"His face, El." Peter had cried that night, too, and Elizabeth had cried with him.
"Oh, Peter," Elizabeth said sadly. "Poor Kate. Poor, poor, Neal. Why is he in custody? He didn't do anything."
"A plane exploded. He was about to leave on it," Peter said wearily. "It's going to take awhile before the dust settles. They'll have him in the infirmary tonight and probably for another day, if he's as destroyed as I think he is."
"Poor Neal," Elizabeth said. "I wish you could do something, Peter. It's bad enough he's lost his Kate. He shouldn't be alone."
"I know, El," Peter said. "My hands are tied. Damn it, El, why did he have to throw it all away like that? I don't understand him!"
"You do," Elizabeth said. "You know he hadn't decided yet. There was still a strong chance he'd have let the plane take off without him, you know that."
"I don't know anything," Peter said wearily. "Except that Kate's dead and there was no reason for that foolish, foolish girl to die like that. All she needed was some time, El, some time and someone to show her the right way. I know Neal thinks she was it for him, but he wasn't it for her, he never was. He was just one more man she let use her and who she used in turn. It's a goddamn waste."
She wasn't the innocent you think she was, Elizabeth thought to herself, but she held her tongue. Peter had had a soft spot for Kate. As evenhanded as he was with his assistants, be they male or female, Peter's innate chivalry still surfaced when confronted with a lost girl like Kate.
Elizabeth had her theories. Moz, she thought, had probably been consigned to some sort of special education warehouse. His expressed disdain for and secret pleasure in creature comforts spoke of a long history of deprivation. Moz had schooled himself not to want what he didn't have.
Kate was a throwaway child. She'd been out on the street long enough to know that she couldn't survive there without protection and she'd perfected the sexy, darling daughter persona that endeared her to older men, Peter among them. Peter had cared for Kate, cared enough for her to warn her away from Neal, cared enough to have gently turned aside her advances. Elizabeth thought that Kate had probably cared as much about Neal and Peter as it was possible for that damaged girl to care about anyone.
They tried, those two months, to make sure that Neal knew he wasn't forgotten. Elizabeth and Peter visited on different days. Peter had pulled in a few favors to get permission from the jail's officials for Elizabeth to visit, inventing a vague background for her as an employment counselor that sounded sufficiently upright for the jail's officials to be satisfied. They knew that Neal was of interest to the FBI and that though the wheels of the bureaucracy might turn slowly, they turned nonetheless.
"What am I going to do about Neal, El?" Peter lay back, one arm under his head, the other cuddling a serene and satisfied Elizabeth to his chest.
"Spank him?" Elizabeth suggested. She giggled.
"That'll work," Peter said glumly.
"I don't know, Peter, I think it might. You know I like to browse all that fanfiction and spanky fic stuff online, right? There's even some great stories about those XFiles guys, you know, Fox Mulder and his boss, Walter Skinner. And you know Peter, you're a lot better looking than Walter. Anyway, Neal's like Mulder in the way he looks to you for his cues, for where to go and how to act once he's there. A spanking, not a beating, nothing harsh, just a sharp heads up, that would be something Neal would understand and respond to. Just like Mulder in the stories." Elizabeth licked her lips. "And you could hug him afterward and I could feed him cookies."
"Mulder," Peter rolled his eyes. "Mulder is a fictional character. That show has caused more misconceptions about the Bureau than practically anything else out there. Come on, El, be serious."
"I am serious, Peter. Maybe not about XFiles fanfiction and spanky fic, but about the idea of some sort of discipline, of corporal punishment even. That's something I think that Neal will respond to."
Peter realized that Elizabeth really wasn't joking. "Tell me more," he said cautiously. She'd had too many flashes of insight for him not to at least listen.
"He'd have to agree, of course," Elizabeth said.
Peter groaned. So much for insight and outside the box ideas. "El, whatever else he is, Neal's not a masochist. I have a pretty good idea that he hates pain. This is not going to happen."
"Silly," Elizabeth said sweetly, "he's supposed to dislike pain. That's exactly why this will work. He'll agree because he never plans to do anything that's dangerous or that's going to aggravate you. He just does both because at the moment a situation occurs, he's not thinking about his safety or your peace of mind. You'll see. This is one of my better ideas."
"All right," Peter said, kissing her hair fondly. "You've been right too often for me to say you're wrong now. I just want to be on record as being...skeptical."
Elizabeth had gotten a catering gig for the Eulenspiegel Society's Board of Director's mid December holiday party. A smaller gathering than the group's annual holiday party for its membership at large, this gathering was being held in the upper east side apartment of Alan Dumont, the Board's chair.
The spacious pre-war apartment was beautiful. It occupied an entire floor of the Beaux Arts building, with views to four sides. She could see the park, the city's bridges, the East River and beyond. Downtown she could see the Empire State Building. The apartment retained all its original details, the moldings, the central rosettes in the ceiling, the hardwood parquet floors and the fine tiles in the kitchen. The kitchen appliances had been upgraded though to restaurant standard. Elizabeth sighed with pleasure and wondered once again how she had been lucky enough to score this job. The gentleman who'd hired her had been maddeningly vague about how he'd come by her company's name.
The walls were hung with paintings and small ceramic and bronze sculptures were carefully arranged on the built in bookcases. Elizabeth studied one intriguing pair of antique porcelain sculptures. She turned away, blushing, when she realized what they were actually of: one depicted a boy being spanked by his tutor, and the other showed a girl being spanked by her governess. They were entirely lifelike, down to the tears on the boy's cheeks and the blushed buttocks of the girl. Elizabeth had never seen figurines like these, but something told her they were worth a great deal and that they had been carefully selected.
"Sweet, aren't they?" a familiar voice said almost in her ear.
"Neal!" Elizabeth gave him a quick peck on the cheek, overjoyed to see him, before remembering where they were and what she'd been observed looking at.
"Meissen. Hard paste porcelain. There used to be a similar pair in the Wrightsman galleries at the Met. Worth about a million dollars," Neal said softly. "Don't worry, Elizabeth, I'm not interested in them. Much. Although I do wonder what Peter would make of them; you seem to like them. Ah, I'm being signaled. Good to see you." With a quick smile of goodbye, he turned and walked across the room.
Elizabeth wanted to see whose signal Neal had responded to, but her attention was diverted by a question from one of the temp bartenders about the whereabouts of the wine glasses and by the time she had sorted that issue out, the moment had passed and Neal was standing with a group of men and women, casually making conversation.
She wondered briefly if Peter knew where Neal was and then realized that he must, that if Neal hadn't asked for a longer leash, the tracker would have activated by now. But what had Neal told Peter as an excuse?
Neal had in fact laid the whole thing out for Peter weeks before.
"Peter?" Neal knocked on Peter's door. "Do you have a moment?"
"What's up?" Peter asked.
"A friend of mine is looking for a caterer for his holiday party. I'd like to recommend Elizabeth's company, but I'm not sure you'd approve. And I'm not sure she'd take the job if she knew I was involved."
"Explain why I wouldn't approve," Peter said. "We'll go from there."
"Have you ever heard of the Eulenspiegel Society?" Neal asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Don't look so surprised, Neal; I'm not as vanilla as you think. Kidding...some of their members have helped us out on occasion. It's a well known, well respected BDSM group, probably a little too concerned with rules for some of the edgier sorts, but certainly nothing that shocks me. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I have a friend, an old friend, who's on their board and he has an annual holiday party and I would like to suggest Elizabeth's company, but I wanted to run it by you first," Neal said.
Peter was surprised Neal had asked first. "Why so by the books on this one, Neal?" he asked.
Neal looked suitably abashed. "If he hires Elizabeth as the caterer, would you consider letting me go to the party? My friend wants me there and I'd keep an eye on things for you, make sure she's all right and all, and of course you'd have to lengthen my leash for a few hours–-"
"So let me get this straight. You want to make a deal with me: a business opportunity for my wife in exchange for a few hours off the reservation?" Peter looked directly at Neal.
"Well, I'll still recommend Elizabeth's company even if you say no," Neal said softly. "Just I hoped..."
"Yes. Fine. If she gets the gig, I'll get you a longer leash for the evening. Now go do something productive," Peter said grouchily. "And tell your friend that you deserve a spanking for your machinations."
Neal had turned to leave, but he froze at Peter's last sentence and licked his lips quickly and nervously, looking back to see if Peter was still watching him. He'd felt a hot jolt of something exciting flood down his spine and into his balls at Peter's final words, something he hadn't felt since the explosion and Kate's death. Neal knew he'd jerk off to the memory of that phrase later that night.
"You've done a lovely job," Alan Dumont complimented Elizabeth. "I'm so glad I took Neal's recommendation. Although of course our Neal always suggests only the best. We'll have to have you back another time. Neal!" He barely raised the level of his voice, but Elizabeth saw Neal turn toward the sound as if listening for it. "Come here."
"Goodbye, Elizabeth, and thank you for your usual beautiful job," Neal said. "And if you and Peter were ever to be interested in exploring another facet of your relationship, I'm sure our host could find you a pair of complimentary admission passes to the downtown club."
Elizabeth hoped she wasn't blushing. She had naturally looked up the Eulenspiegel Society online and was very aware what went on in its club. "Thank you anyway," she managed to say coolly, while wishing that Alan would follow up on the looks he was clearly giving Neal.
"You are an extremely naughty boy," she heard him say reprovingly as she walked away. "How much time did you say your keeper has granted you this evening? Another two hours? That should be sufficient for my purposes. Come along now and don't make a fuss. You know how this works."
Neal felt his cock filling and his entire body trembling in anticipation as he followed Alan into the back bedroom.
"How long since you've had a good spanking, Neal?" Alan asked softly.
"I don't know, sir. A long time," Neal admitted.
"It shows in your behavior. You were never this badly behaved when I was playing with you regularly. Come here." Alan beckoned to a spot in front of him. "Shoes off and stand still."
Neal stood motionless as Alan undid his clothing and pushed his pants and briefs down.
"Step out now, turn around." Alan took Neal across his knee. "You seem to have forgotten a lot of your lessons, Neal. I'm going to give you a brief reminder." He stroked Neal's buttocks gently, chuckling as Neal tensed and flinched in anticipation. "Ah, but you haven't forgotten everything, I see." He began with a series of light slaps, barely hard enough to leave a trace of palest pink in their wake.
Neal sighed and relaxed into the sensations. Now that he was there over Alan's lap, it was a wonderful feeling, a feeling of safety and peace. One part of his mind noted that the force of the spanks had increased, while the greater part of his mind responded only to the warmth flowing into his ass, the stiffening of his cock against Alan's thigh, the feeling of being once again where he belonged.
"Neal, drink this," Alan said softly, holding a glass of fruit juice to Neal's lips. He needed to get Neal reoriented and ready to go home. Neal had floated away during the spanking, his ass on pleasurable fire, his heart content with the strong bond of affection they shared. It was never going to be permanent, it was never meant to be permanent, but while they were together, it was damn good. "Come on, Neal, you need a little sugar, that's my boy."
"That...was..." Neal said dreamily. "Alan."
"You needed that badly," Alan said. "You shouldn't stay away so long, Neal. It doesn't have to be me, but you do need someone you trust to take you down like that now and again. It's good for you."
"I don't know," Neal said. "I trust you, Alan. I don't trust many people, you know that."
"I know, Neal," Alan said, stroking Neal's luxuriant dark hair back from his flawless face. "You need to work on that. There are people worth trusting, people who won't betray you. You just have to make good choices. I'm sorry about Kate."
"How did you know?" Neal asked.
"Oh, word gets around," Alan said vaguely. "I'm sorry, Neal, I know you truly cared for her."
Neal brushed roughly at his eyes with the back of his hand. The euphoric joy of a few moments ago had been replaced by a crushing feeling of depression. "I should go, Alan," Neal said, forcing a smile.
"I should see the rest of my company out anyway," Alan said. "Get your coat and come say goodbye before you leave."
Neal wandered into the emptying living room, feeling restless and empty. Without conscious thought, he backed up to the bookcase that held the pair of figurines that Elizabeth had admired earlier in the evening. A moment later he had his coat on and the shelves behind him were empty.
The following evening, Peter came home to find Elizabeth bemusedly studying a pair of pink and white frou frou sculptures that he assumed must have been a gift from someone. "Who gave you those, El? They're pretty, if not your usual taste."
"Pretty? Peter, did you look at them closely?" Elizabeth asked.
"Let me see," Peter said. "Huh. Spanking figurines? Is that someone's idea of a joke?"
"If it is, it's an expensive joke," Elizabeth said with a frown. "I saw these identical sculptures at the Eulenspiegel Society Board's party that I did last night. Neal told me they were worth a million dollars."
"Those little bits of fluff?" Peter asked in disbelief. "You're serious. You, what, admired them? And now you think Neal's stolen them for you. El, he's got more sense than that."
"Does he?" Elizabeth wondered out loud.
"If he took them, he's in trouble," Peter said. "And I think I know exactly what to do about that."
"When did you smuggle them in, Moz?" Alex asked.
"Last night. After Neal took the originals," Mozzie said glumly. "Again. He's got an unnatural attraction to them. The question is, what do we do? If The Suit finds out, Neal's going to be on his way back to prison so fast his head will spin. Especially if The Suit thinks that Neal set this whole thing up with the end in sight."
"Well, what he had you bring back are nice quality copies," Alex said. "As good as the pair the Met has, I'd say. Alan has an excellent eye, though, and there isn't a nice quality copy good enough to fool him."
"Do you think there's any chance they're...playing one of those games of theirs?" Moz asked without much hope. "Alan, if I remember right, liked Neal, almost as well as he liked beating him."
"Spanking," Alex corrected automatically. "Not beating, Moz. I know it's not your scene, but Neal needs it every once in awhile. And if Alan didn't like Neal, he would have shown these photos to his insurance adjuster and filed a police report, not contacted me."
"We seem to have some new decorations around the house, Neal," Peter said casually. "Some very nice little figurines. I don't think I have to describe them to you. Why, Neal, why on earth did you send them to Elizabeth? What goes on in that head of yours?"
"Do you like them then, Peter?" Neal winced at Peter's scowl. "I wasn't planning to take them, Peter, I swear. It was just at the end of the party, I was feeling, I don't know, and anyway, there they were. It was foolish, I know."
"Neal," Peter sighed. "I don't want to have to explain this to Hughes. You get Alex and Mozzie to make this right with Alan Dumont, you get the originals back where they belong–-or where you found them, don't tell me anything please–-and let Elizabeth have your homemade copies. She'd rather have something you made than a million dollars worth of gilded porcelain from the Meissen factory anyway. She's funny like that; the personal connection is important to her. Especially with you, Neal."
"If it would make Elizabeth happy," Neal said doubtfully.
"Do it," Peter said. "And then you and me are going to have a little private chat in your apartment."
"Give me your belt, Neal," Peter said.
Neal looked at Peter, puzzled. "My belt?" he asked, playing for time.
"Your belt." Peter held out his hand. "Now, Neal."
A half smile playing about his lips, Neal undid his buckle and slipped the supple Italian leather belt through its loops. He doubled it and extended it to Peter with a little bow. "Here you are."
Peter took the doubled belt by the buckle and free end, letting the loop dangle. "Turn and face the wall. Put your hands on it, that's it." Peter stepped in to Neal and before Neal had time to protest, put his left hand on the small of Neal's back, bracing him. "You've been asking for this for weeks, Neal. You push and you push and you push and nothing I say makes the slightest bit of difference the next time you want your own way. Well, there are consequences for that sort of behavior and this is one of them. I'm going to give you a dozen whacks with your belt and you're going to stand there and take them, do you understand me?"
"Peter, please, I don't think–"
"No, you don't think, that's exactly the problem. Well, after this you'll think twice. Be still now and take what you have coming." Peter brought the doubled belt back and brought it down, hard, across the seat of Neal's snug Italian suit pants. The fine fabric offered little protection and Peter heard Neal's sharp intake of breath. Steeling himself, Peter brought the belt down a second and third time.
"Peter, Peter, there's–" Neal protested, trying to turn around.
"Be quiet, stand still, and think about why I'm doing this," Peter said sharply. "I said stand still, Neal. I am going to finish this. Whether we do it like this or I turn you over my knee and take your pants down is up to you."
"You wouldn't–" Neal said in a voice full of disbelief.
"Try me," Peter said grimly. "Face front, stay still." He brought the belt down a fourth and a fifth time.
"No!" Neal protested. "Ow!"
"Six," Peter said. "Half done. Stay still, Neal!"
Neal twisted sideways and faced Peter. "No," he said calmly. "You'll have to turn me over your knee, I guess."
"Your choice, Neal," Peter said. He took Neal's arm and hustled him toward the couch. "Over you go."
"Wait, wait!" Neal protested, but he was already over Peter's lap. He could feel the warm, solid muscles of Peter's thighs beneath his hips.
Peter grasped the waistband of Neal's slacks. "Undo the zipper and button or you're going to have an expensive tailoring job."
"Wait, okay, I'm doing it, just wait a moment," Neal said, struggling to get his hand under him and to undo the fasteners. "Okay–"
One hard yank and Peter had Neal's pants and briefs down. His ass was reddened from the strapping he'd already gotten. Peter took a deep breath, centering himself. He wrapped the belt around his hand, shortening it, and brought it down hard.
"OW! Shit, Peter, that hurt, ow!" Neal cried out at the impact. The belt on bare flesh really, really stung. "Ow." Neal's protests became more hopeless as he realized that Peter wasn't stopping.
Three more, Peter thought to himself. He took a firm grip on Neal's flailing arm and pinned his hand to his back. "Deep breaths, Neal, we're almost done here."
"Ow." Neal tried to lose himself in the sensation and distance himself from the punishment, but it was impossible. This was Peter's lap he was turned over, this was Peter punishing him, this hurt. There was no pleasant oblivion to be found here. "I'll listen, Peter, I promise. I'll do what you want. Please, Peter, I'll be good."
One, two, three: Peter counted out the final strokes in his mind and then dropped the belt beside him on the couch. "I know you will. You're a good guy, Neal, you just have to learn to listen to me. You're all right, it's all over, you're okay now. Easy, Neal, I've got you."
Neal hadn't begun to cry until the whipping was over and Peter was rubbing his back encouragingly, but once the tears came, they didn't stop. It had hurt. Oh, he'd taken worse whippings as part of some kinky games, but those had been games and this was a very, very different experience. This was punishment and worse than the pain had been the certain knowledge that Peter was right and that he had this coming to him. "I'm sorry, Peter, I'm sorry."
"You need to listen to me. You can do this, Neal, but you need to keep me in the loop. I will always listen to you, Neal, and I will help you if I can, but I can't help you if you don't talk to me and I can't help you if you don't listen to me." Peter helped Neal stand up and handed him his belt. "Get dressed, Neal. Remember this. I won't hesitate to do it again, do you understand me?"
Neal sniffed hard, willing himself to stop crying. It didn't work as well as it should have. His light blue eyes met Peter's. "That hurt."
"It was supposed to," Peter said. "More importantly, it was supposed to make you think twice the next time." He touched Neal's cheek gently, smudging the still spilling tears. "Come on, Neal, buck up, you're all right now." He hesitated, his hand cupping Neal's chin, his thumb on Neal's perfect, perfect lips.
Neal pressed into the caress, tilting his head. He leaned in and brushed his lips across Peter's, watching Peter carefully. "I'm good, Peter."
Peter stepped back. He rubbed the back of his hand thoughtfully against his lips. "I don't think so, Neal," he said. "It wouldn't be right. Too high stakes for me."