Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"So, you finally caught him, eh?”

Peter’s eyes flicker over his newest collar.

The corners of Neal’s mouth are pulled down by the gag Peter just fitted him with. He’s kneeling properly on the cement with his hands cuffed behind him, but the look in his eyes is pure murder.

Well, he’s allowed to be sore at the loss of his freedom, Peter guesses.

“Looks like I did,” he says, patting Jones on the shoulder.

He approaches the bound man carefully. “Neal, I’m going to put this blindfold over your eyes now,” Peter warns him.

Neal grunts, trying to say something, his expression inquiring. When he lifts his chin it’s clear this is a request for his gag to be removed.

“Sorry, buddy, but I think we need to keep that in your mouth for now. I know how fast-talking you can be.”

Neal gurgles, the most distinct noise he can make at present. He’s still trying to figure out his angle, but he's not going to find one.

He’s twitching as Peter takes the thickest blindfold out of the collaring kit and wraps it carefully around his head, covering his eyes completely. “Neal Caffrey, you’re charged with the crimes of art theft, fraud, and evading arrest,” recites Peter. This is a big moment for him. The pursuit of this collar has cost him everything – three years of his life, his marriage, his career. “The penalty for these crimes is involuntary servitude. I claim your service by right of my position as an agent of the FBI.”

Neal makes a sound of surprise, his spine stiffening. That’s right, you artful dodger, thinks Peter fondly. Didn’t think I’d be taking ownership of you personally, did you?

“Jones, you're my witness,” says Peter. The junior agent nods solemnly.

"Okay, Neal, I’m going to put on your collar and leash, and then we’ll get you plugged so we can get out of here, okay?"

Neal is inarticulately protesting behind his gag, but it’s too late for that; Jones takes a firm hold of his hair to pull his head back. Peter swallows at the image of Neal’s throat, bared for him. Supplicating.

"Hand me the black one. No, the thicker one." It contains a GPS tracking chip linked to Peter's phone.

Peter doesn’t hesitate: he slides the leather around Neal's delicate throat, buckling it tight - not tight enough to choke him, but enough that Neal won’t forget he’s wearing it. The leash hangs down the front like a businessman's tie.

“Beautiful,” Peter whispers. He's trussed a lot of slaves in his time, but this one is special; this one is all his.

Neal just whines.

“Alright, let’s get your pants and underwear down,” says Peter, still in the same soothing tone. “This is the last step, and then we’ll get moving. Be good for me.”

Neal is still trying to talk, but everything comes out garbled. Peter thinks he’s going to keep him muzzled for at least a month. The only times his mouth will be free is when he’s eating from Peter’s fingers, or sweetly swallowing down his Master’s cock.

Neal needs to learn how to listen and obey.

He fights as he’s stripped, Jones holding his shoulders to keep him on his knees with his hands bound behind him. Peter works his pants off anyway and nudges him forward, his pale buttocks exposed.

“Here we go,” Peter murmurs, pouring out a little oil from the kit, ignoring the muffled moans of protest. “Shh, shh.” 

He parts Neal's cheeks, taking in the shy, dusky place that belongs to him now. "Relax for me," he says, massaging in the oil, rubbing one finger around the clenching little hole. "I'm not going to hurt you, okay?"

Neal whimpers, biting on his gag, but Peter isn’t worried; the material was designed to withstand worse.

“Don’t fight me,” he warns, quickly slicking his middle finger. "Just relax."

Neal startles anyway as the tip nudges into him. His muscles clamp down around it, so tight and warm that Peter’s hard in his trousers already.

They both groan when Peter's finger slides all the way in.

"That's it," says Peter soothingly, dropping the vial into his pocket for later.

He’ll have his slave in every way, of course; deep in his pretty mouth, here in this quivering hole, all over his face and his back and his buttocks. A man as beautiful as Neal can’t expect to waste his service on hard labor.

Neal will be so much better behaved when he has Peter’s cock up his ass every morning. God he’s going to look amazing, helpless and furious as he takes it and takes it and takes it. But Peter isn’t cruel, he’ll take care of Neal too. He’ll protect him and keep him out of trouble, teach him right from wrong.

He rummages for the sterile training plug in the kit.

Neal is squirming, still trying to escape although Jones has the end of the leash wrapped around his fist. Clint just gives a tug, forcing Neal's chin up.

"Alright, here comes the plug," says Peter calmly, lining it up with the wet rim of Neal's hole, held open by Peter's finger.

Neal makes a wretched sound, obviously trying to keep quiet and failing.

"Hush. This'll make it easier later," Peter reminds him. Plus, everybody knows that a slave with a full rectum is more obedient. “Just relax."

Despite his objections, Neal's body is flexible and welcoming. He's been well oiled and stretched, and he opens easily for the narrow end of the plug.  Peter rubs his back, pushing at it with his fingers, down to the thicker end that strains his hole. “I know, it goes nice and deep, doesn’t it? You won’t forget that’s in there.”

Stripped of all his elegance for once, Neal issues a loud, unattractive "Ungh " as the head of the plug pops in.

“That’s it,” says Peter, getting it seated properly. The base is designed to be visible, and Peter tugs Neal to his feet to check. Neal shuffles with his pants and underwear still bound around his ankles.

Yes, there's the black base of it, peeking between Neal’s cheeks. His perfect little butt is still clenching around the intrusion, trying to adjust to the new sensation.

“That’s great,” says Peter, patting him gently. Neal huffs. A thin line of drool has leaked down his chin; Peter wipes it away with his shirt sleeve. "Is this hurting you?” Neal squirms when Peter slides two fingers into his mouth to check the fit of the gag, but Peter has a good grip on his hair to hold him still. It’s the newer model from the kit, a thick band of fabric that sits tight across the tongue - excellent suppression, and prevents spitting too, but not the most comfortable. 

"I know, you don’t like this,” Peter soothes, tugging on the straps. “But you have to be properly trussed in public, don’t you?”

Neal slumps.

"Jones, help me get him in the van."

They walk him to the car that way: leashed, hands bound, bare-assed, with his mouth full and his eyes covered. He shuffles, hobbled by his pants and the unfamiliar pressure of the plug. “You’re doing well,” Peter tells him calmly, one hand possessively on his lower back.

He looks so beautiful like this.

They get him chained in the van, facing the wall with his wrists locked to his ankles. He bleats every time they go over a bump.

"Just for a little while, buddy," Peter promises, patting his foot below the cuff. The endearment slips out accidentally. It’s fairly common for house slaves to be treated as beloved pets over time, and Peter doesn't kid himself; Neal's going to be spoiled rotten.

-

The claiming benches are set up in the middle of Times Square, so the cameras can project the action on the giant screens. Peter keeps his hand on Neal’s head, stroking his soft hair above the blindfold, as Jones pulls up to the check-in station.

“We’ve got a newly captured slave for claiming,” Jones says calmly, showing the guard his badge and warrant. “This is his owner, Peter Burke.”

The guard waves them forward, looking bored. Nobody challenges Peter’s right to claim the prisoner.

“Alright,” Peter murmurs when they’ve parked, unlocking the chains holding Neal on his knees, but not letting him up immediately. He unties the knot at the back of the blindfold (Neal’s face can’t be obscured for the cameras) and pulls it free.

Neal grunts, tossing his head. Peter enjoys the sight of his handsome face distorted by the gag. But he sighs at the barely concealed panic in Neal’s eyes. “I know, I know, this is nobody’s favorite part. But we get through this, we get to go home, okay?”

Neal shakes his head firmly.

“Look, kid, you get caught, you do your time. I captured you fair and square, and now you have to deal with the consequences. I’m not trying to humiliate you but the law calls for public claiming, and the law is the law. So let’s go get it over with, okay?”

Neal is still objecting but he can't resist when Jones tugs him out of the van by his leash. He moans piteously as he's hauled out into the sunlight, his long, lean, naked body exposed to a hundred unsympathetic eyes.

A squealing female slave is already bent over the bench, taking it from behind from her fat, indifferent owner (some masters use the stocks as punishment). There are other slaves hanging around, probably waiting to be sold. Most are subdued, trussed and plugged with tape over their mouths.

"It's your turn next," says Jones quietly.

"Alright, Neal," says Peter. "I'm going to walk you over there and we'll get you buckled down. Then your job is to relax as much as possible, so I don't hurt you. Have you ever taken it this way before? Up the ass, I mean?"

Neal hesitates, considering defiance. Then he shakes his head no.

"Never?" Peter is privately pleased, but he keeps his tone neutral. He slides a hand back to touch Neal's plug. "Have you played with yourself back here?"

A pause – then Neal nods reluctantly.       

"That’s good," says Peter, telling himself it's insane to be jealous of Neal’s own fingers. "That’s good, so you know it can be enjoyable. I want it to feel good."

"Burke," says the guard, appearing out of nowhere. "They're ready for you." He uses a digital camera to take a close-up picture of Neal's face, then steps back and takes a whole-body shot. Neal can't cover his genitals, with his hands cuffed behind him, and Peter takes a good look: his dick is small for a man his size, at least when it's soft, but his wrinkled scrotum are full and heavy. He's lightly furred, not even as hairy as Peter.

“Step out of your shoes,” Peter coaxes, helping him kick free of his pants and underwear. There’s a slave hobble in the kit, but Peter elects not to use it. Neal is humbled enough.

"Here we go." Peter leads him on the end of his leash to the center of the square. Neal still walking funny from the plug, which Peter finds kind of adorable. The usual tourists in the Square are watching, but Neal is staring only at a projection of his own gagged, imploring face on the giant electronic billboard, the thick black collar locked around his throat. His cheeks are pink.

The bench itself is of relatively simple construction: the prisoner kneels on a cushion, bends over the padded platform, and is strapped down securely for claiming. Apparently the London benches feature a real pillory, and Peter enjoys the mental image of Neal, helpless with his head and wrists trapped between the wooden boards. Maybe next time.

"On your knees," says Peter calmly.

Neal hesitates long enough that he thinks he won’t do it, which means the guards will have to come over with the crop. But finally, slowly, he assumes the position, moving awkwardly with his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Thank you," says Peter, guiding him to bend over with a hand on the back of his neck, gently pressing him down until his cheek is flattened by the padded surface.

"There’s straps for your thighs, but I think you’d rather spread wide for me all on your own, huh?"

Another long delay, then Neal's legs slide slowly apart.

"That's my boy," says Peter, stroking his back, long soothing passes over the bumps of his spine. He fastens the waist strap first, cinching it tight enough that Neal huffs in complaint.

"Shush," says Peter. With his belly pinned against the bench, Neal's buttocks are automatically raised, presenting themselves to Peter. He takes a long moment to appreciate the sight of the pink little anus, swollen around the plug.

Peter holds him down with one hand between his shoulder-blades, and with the other hand unlocks the cuffs so he can lift Neal's wrists one by one into the leather restraints at the other end of the block. He buckles each one down securely, knowing that Neal will try to fight.

It stretches his body out like an offering.

He looks like a marble carving, every limb taut, all lightly-muscled and slender. Peter is reminded of the depictions of Andromeda chained for the sea monster (ironic, since Neal is believed to have stolen the Rodin from the Musée du Luxembourg).

I guess that makes me the monster, thinks Peter whimsically.

He reaches the vial of oil in his pocket and opens the front of his pants. He doesn't need to expose himself to the camera - this isn't his punishment - so he slicks himself quickly, perfunctorily. Then he reaches between Neal's legs and strokes him too, down where his dick is pressed against the padded edge of the bench. Peter knows he'll be rubbed up against the cushion with every stroke, and he doesn't want Neal to chafe. Neal twitches in his hand.

"Relax," Peter reminds him. While he's got Neal bent over like this, he's tempted to redden his backside with a good sound spanking, but he refrains (for now). He pats Neal's thigh instead, leaving an oily handprint, and tugs out the plug with the other hand. 

Neal makes damp, muffled sounds around the fabric in his mouth. Peter thinks it might be his name, but the words are indistinct, unintelligible; Neal can’t control his lips with the gag pulling them back.

"Neal Caffrey," says Peter quietly, for their ears only; "I claim you as my own." He lines his wet dick up with Neal's puffy hole, and slides himself in before Neal can clench up.

Neal's stifled howl is musical.

God - he's scorching hot inside, his inner muscles working Peter's dick like a mouth, fighting the invasion. He's pulling on his wrist restraints, as if there's anywhere to go, his thighs spread wide by Peter's bulk, hips held down by the waist strap. Peter reaches up to force his head back down on the bench, reminding Neal to take it quietly. "Good boy," he soothes.

Neal is panting around his gag, blue eyes wide and wet. Peter knows this because he's watching on the jumbotron. Neal's pale, naked body is displayed on the other side of the split screen.

He starts up a nice brisk rhythm, his thighs slapping hard against Neal's plush rump on every stroke. Neal is jolted helplessly under him, moaning now, his hands forming fists every time Peter hits his prostate. Peter tries to make it good for him, although it doesn't really matter. What matters is that Neal gets the message: he's been captured, tried, and sentenced. This is his place now. This is what he's good for. 

It's been a while for Peter, since Elizabeth left him, and he's afraid he won't be able to last as long as he wants to. Neal's ass is like the tightest pussy he can imagine, and the little sounds he makes as he's fucked - plus the obscene squelching of his sloppy hole - are pushing Peter higher and higher.

All around them, bored tourists are shopping, complaining about the price of theatre tickets, hailing taxis. And all of them know that Neal Caffrey aka Nick Halden aka James Bonds officially belongs to him.

Neal stops fighting, evidentially realizing he's got nothing left to lose. He goes limp in his chains, just letting himself be rocked him with the force of Peter's thrusts. This is what Peter wants, what he's been waiting for. He speeds up, hissing under his breath, feasting on the sight of the smooth backside, spread open and stuffed with his cock ...

He comes, pressing harder into Neal to make him take every drop. Neal whines but accepts it quietly. Peter rubs his sides in reassurance until he's spent, then pulls out reluctantly. He reaches down and takes hold of Neal's dick, giving it a good, solid squeeze.

Neal sputters and Peter feels the wetness of his release.

"Good boy," says Peter, "I'm going to free your wrists, but stay still for me. That's right, there you go. Now the strap. No no, stay still, let me check you out. Hands behind your back."

No blood, just a little sore looking. Peter takes the opportunity to slide the plug back in, ignoring Neal's strangled complaint. He snaps on the cuffs before guiding him upright.

"Are you sore?" asks Peter, rubbing Neal’s lower back, his hands drifting down to his bare buttocks. Neal tenses and tries to pull away, but Peter stops him with a finger hooked under his collar and a gentle tug. "Yes or no, Neal."

Grudgingly, Neal nods once.

"Thank you for letting me know." Peter presses a kiss to Neal's cheek. Pointedly he turns his face away, but Peter just laughs and ruffles his hair.

He understands that it will be a while before Neal will willingly kiss him. The humiliation of being claimed is a shock that kick-starts the process, but ultimately slaves need to be broken in slowly. The trick is consistent, positive reinforcement.

"Let's go home, and you can soak in a nice hot bath, okay?"

Peter has a proper set of restraints at home too, but he doesn't mention that. Neal won’t have use of his hands until he trusts Peter to take care of everything for him. He won’t have his mouth free until he’s lost the habit of speaking.

"You’re going to like living with me," promises Peter, picking up the end of the leash. "I like to think I’m tough, but fair. I promise, I'll give you a fair shake." 

Neal grunts. Peter is sure his mind is spinning, already trying to think of his next move.

Let the games begin.

"Congratulations on your new slave, sir," says the guard, as they head back towards Jones and the car and home. "May you use him in good health."

Chapter Text

Neal is standing in the middle of the FBI offices.

All around him, people in suits are filing papers or talking quietly on the phone. The mail guy swings by with his cart, barely glancing over.

Neal shifts, trying to take the pressure off of his arms.

He’s hanging by his wrists from a long chain, balancing on the balls of his feet, and his shoulders are beginning to get sore.

Jones walks by where he's strung up on display, shaking his head. "Oh Neal," he says sadly. "You just can't keep out of trouble, can you?"

Neal can’t answer, of course – he has one of Peter’s leather gloves wadded up in his mouth.

His cotton briefs are around his knees, exhibiting the bright red stripes across his buttocks. They're the effects of his latest punishment, three strokes of the cane to his bare backside.

Worst of all, in this position, everyone can see Peter’s cum dribbling down his thighs.

It’s starting to itch.

"Alright, Neal. Are you ready to apologize?”

Peter is standing behind him, no doubt examining Neal's welted rear.

Two fingers slide under his collar, checking the fit, as he always does.

The collar, Neal has discovered – much to his detriment – is not just a symbol of ownership with an embedded GPS tracker. It’s also hooked in to an electronic perimeter. Approaching the barrier gives Neal a mild warning buzz; crossing it sends a punitive jolt of electricity.

Neal only had to experience losing control of his bladder in public once to learn his lesson.

Peter's other hand strokes down his back and ends up cupping his throbbing ass. Neal groans, squirming.

"Looks like I’ve made a mess of you," says Peter quietly. Warm fingers spread his cheeks. "You’re all swollen here, and I’m leaking out of you."

A tug on his collar pulls his head up. Like this, he’s eye level with Hughes’ secretary, who’s watching with amusement.

Everyone in the office knows Neal.

Peter presses one finger in where Neal is slack and loose.

Neal moans through the leather, trying futilely to clench, but the digit slides easily into his twitching hole.

"I think you need your plug in," says Peter, gently stretching Neal's sore channel. "And I bet you'd like to lie down for a while, hmm?"

Neal would like that last one, very much.

"What do you say, are you ready to behave?"

Neal shifts his weight, trying to decide. One foot. The other. He really does ache all over. Finally he nods.

“Ah-ah,” says Peter. “Answer out loud.”

Neal flushes. He knows that trying to talk while gagged will be humiliating; he’ll sound ridiculous.

“Now, Neal.”

“Mmph,” he manages. The thick wad in his mouth restricts his tongue. “Mmm.”

It comes out incredibly loud in the quiet office, echoing off the glass walls and the high ceilings.

“Good boy.”

Peter walks to the wall and does something with the rope and pulley system that keeps Neal suspended (it’s amazing how quickly he rigged a set of restraints in every room of his home and workplace).

Neal feels his arms being lowered. It hurts, and he groans, muffled by leather.

“Shh, there we go,” says Peter, rubbing the feeling back into his sore muscles as Neal, knowing his place, sinks reluctantly to his knees.

“Hands behind you, now. Cross your wrists.” Neal does as he's told. He doesn’t bother to resist as Peter binds them neatly at the small of his back.

“Alright, give this to me,” says Peter, lifting his chin up and tugging his glove out of Neal’s mouth.

Neal breathes a sigh of relief, working his aching jaw. 

“I’m going to need a new pair,” Peter tsks, examining the toothmarks on his glove. But his voice is fond, and his warm hand absentmindedly massages Neal’s cheek.

He takes a bottle of water off his desk and cracks it open.

Neal pointedly turns his face away.

"Stop that. I know you’re thirsty." Peter takes a hold of Neal’s hair – not hard enough to hurt, unless Neal jerks – and guides his head up, setting the rim of the bottle back into position against his lips, tipping just a little into his mouth.

Neal grunts, not wanting it, but Peter patiently coaxes one swallow down his throat, and finally Neal relents and starts to drink.

"Little sips," Peter reminds him.

When Neal has had enough Peter sets the water down. "Now. What do you have to say?”

Neal clears his throat.

“I’m sorry I almost escaped," he rasps. "Again.”

He doesn’t bother trying to sound particularly sincere. It was a damn good plan, this time; he’d gotten pretty close. Closer than last time, anyway.

Peter narrows his eyes. “Wanna try that one more time?”

Neal knows it's stupid, but he just can't help himself. “You're right," he agrees. "I’m really only sorry that I got caught."

Peter sighs. “Sounds like somebody hasn’t earned the use of his mouth yet, after all."

He reaches into his desk drawer and rummages around until he comes out with a hated collection of black leather straps.

Neal starts to sweat; he can't stand the muzzle, and Peter knows it. “Please – I don’t need that,” he says. “I’ll be good, I won’t say anything else."

“I know you won’t, because you’ll have your mouth properly occupied. Now, open nicely for me."

Neal groans and tries to turn his face away, but Peter is there in front of him, sliding his thumb between Neal’s lips.

“Come on, Neal. Open nice and wide."

Neal knows he doesn’t have much of a choice. It’s going in his mouth one way or another – Peter has horrendous patience. Reluctantly Neal parts his lips.

"Wider, Neal. That’s it. Mm, I know, you don’t like this. Don’t fight me.”

The muzzle is made up of a thick plastic plug that fills Neal's mouth, and a black leather harness to hold it in place. Eventually Neal has to let Peter slide the insert between his teeth, smooth and round. A thick strap under his jaw keeps his mouth closed around it.

Neal knows Peter uses insertion gags because he wants Neal to fuss less about sucking his dick. It’s working, too. Neal finds himself suckling absentmindedly, using the sensation to soothe himself.

Peter smoothes the leather panel down to seal over his lips. "There," he says. "That’s not so bad, is it?"

"Ng," says Neal. He thinks he would do anything to get it out of his mouth.

Then the other straps are being buckled securely behind his head, one attaching to his collar at the nape of his neck, the other at the crown of his head.

“Thank you for taking that so nicely,” says Peter.  

Neal makes a plaintive sound as Peter tugs on the straps. The muzzle does weird things to him. He’s self-conscious about being bridled like an animal, but having the plug in his mouth also makes him feel like a child with a pacifier.

At least it doesn’t make him drool, he thinks. It’s better than the ring gag Peter sometimes makes him wear; try running errands when everyone can see right down your throat.

Neal still has his pride.

“Okay. On your feet, let’s take a walk.”

"Mmm,” Neal protests – he doesn’t want the whole office to see him muzzled. The sound barely escapes; his mouth is full, sealed, and he can’t even move his jaw.

“I know,” says Peter, patting his backside. “But I think you need to wear it today.”

Neal finds himself guided up off his knees. He's helped to step out of his boxers, which are left bunched up in the middle of the floor. Then warm, strong hands are solid on the back of Neal’s neck, urging him forward.

Peter checks the bonds on his wrists, sliding his finger under the fabric to make sure Neal’s circulation isn’t being cut off.

He clips the leash on, tugging Neal’s head up so everyone can see, and leads him up the stairs into Peter’s office.

Muzzled, naked, with his wrists bound and the pressure of the collar around his neck, Neal feels – utterly mastered. All that’s missing is the familiar nudge of the plug that Peter usually makes him wear – his ass feels oddly empty without it.

People watch them walk by, shaking their heads affectionately at Neal. He can't look away.

He keeps walking.

“You did very well today, Neal,” says Peter quietly, steering Neal into his office. He closes the door behind them.

His expectations must be pretty low, if Neal – who has tried to escape twice this week already – can exceed them. But Neal doesn’t want to think about that now. He sucks lazily on the insert in his mouth, steadying himself as Peter leads him to the couch in the corner.

Worn out from his punishment, Neal goes quietly onto his belly on the sofa and doesn’t start to fuss until Peter draws his ankles up. Then he squawks, trying to squirm.

“Hush,” says Peter, gently pressing his face down in the pillows.

A few loops of rope and Neal’s immobilized – thighs spread wide, knees bent, ankles crossed and trussed to the bonds around his wrists. Hogtied. Peter gave him enough slack to lie flat, but not too much.

Peter has explained that this position gives slaves a sense of security, like a straightjacket – arms and legs nice and snug, nothing to fight against but the cage of their own limbs. Neal can tug at the ropes until he exhausts himself, but he'll never get any closer to free.

He hears Peter walk around behind him.

“Relax,” Peter murmurs. “I’m just going to clean you up.” He takes a warm washcloth and gently blots it over Neal’s thighs, then carefully into the crevasse between his buttocks, then over his lower back. Neal can barely move.

“Let’s get your plug in now,” says Peter.

He takes his time, working lube into Neal's sore hole. Neal makes soft noises into his gag, all the sound that he's capable of now, as he's carefully stretched and prepared.

It finally slides into him, and Neal whimpers a little, ashamed of the sound as soon as it escapes.

“Shshsh,” says Peter, rubbing his back. “Just take it, nice and quiet. There's nothing you can do, is there? Just got to take it like a good boy.”

The feeling of being full again - mouth and ass - secretly comes as a bit of a relief. Although privately maybe Neal wishes it was a warm, thick cock inside of him instead of some impersonal piece of plastic.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Peter tells him. “You're being so good for me, aren't you?”

The truth is, lately taking Peter's cock makes Neal feel … grounded, maybe, like Peter is pushing all the badness out of him. There's no room for Neal's self-destructive nature, no room for the trouble he always causes, no room even for his own warped priorities as long as he's full up of Peter's cock.

“Is it too big?” Peter asks.

The plug is not too big. Neal shakes his head no.

“Good,” says Peter.

Neal still hasn’t figured out Peter’s game here. If he wanted a partner, Peter is handsome enough to attract one. If he just wanted a pretty, helpless slave, he’s rich enough to buy a better one. But for some reason, he’s chosen Neal.

Neal is not easy. He’s not cooperative. He's not good.

“I think you’re tired,” says Peter, studying Neal’s face. “Are you tired, Neal?”

Neal is tired – exhausted. He nods.

Peter seems genuinely excited to have Neal working with him at the FBI, he’s obviously proud when Neal makes even the smallest contribution, he’s thrilled when Neal makes a friend or solves a case. When he punishes Neal, he never seems to enjoy it – he acts as if he’s trying to do this for Neal, like he’s trying to help him in some way that doesn’t make any sense.

Sometimes, God help him, Neal almost thinks he actually likes Peter, actually wants to please him and impress him. 

"Are you alright, Neal?" asks Peter quietly. "Take a moment. You're alright, you're fine, shshsh. Okay?" His hands are soothing on Neal's bare back and shoulders.

Neal realizes that there are tears sliding slowly out of the corners of his eyes. It doesn’t take Peter long to notice either, and in the next second he’s crooning, rolling him on to his side so that he can lift Neal’s head into his lap. Neal doesn’t struggle against the restraints now. It doesn’t matter.

"You're all right. Breathe slowly for me. Good boy."

Neal shudders under Peter's hands and tries to calm down. Peter's heavy palm on the back of his neck feels more reassuring then he wants to admit.

"Easy, Neal. Easy." 

Anyone could come in and see him here like this, with is face buried in Peter’s lap and Peter’s fingers in his hair. Somehow it’s not the punishment that embarrasses Neal anymore – he doesn’t have much body shame left, at this point – but the tenderness.

He’s afraid that someone will see how desperate he is for Peter’s praise and affection. Neal isn’t a pet or a child, he’s a man. 

He's stopped crying now. Peter slides his palm over Neal’s eyes, pressing them closed.  “Shh, you’re alright. Try to rest, okay? Just try to rest.”

Peter checks his gag, pulls it tight. He strokes Neal’s hair. Neal is drifting. Peter’s hands feel so good.

In the morning, he’ll bring Neal into the office. He’ll put him on his knees, leashed to his desk, and give him a new puzzle to solve. Neal will feel good at something besides graft and theft.

At lunch, Peter might offer his cock, not forcing it unless Neal accepts. He’ll let Neal suckle delicately on the soft head before he slides it down Neal’s throat, stroking his head and coaxing him to breathe, to swallow. He won’t let Neal choke.

When it’s over, he’ll hold Neal’s face, buried in the smooth hair of his groin. He’ll go soft in Neal’s mouth and he’ll hold tight to the black collar.

He’ll tell him over and over what a good job he did, what a good slave he is. What a good man he’s slowly becoming.

Chapter Text

Peter keeps his hand on the back of Neal’s neck as Clint pulls the car around. His fingers rest on the thick collar, tight against the hollow of his throat.

Neal is naked and trembling, still nicely gagged, with the plug buried in his well-used ass and his wrists bound behind him. But Peter wants him as helpless as possible, until he learns that everything he wants comes from his owner.

The first thing he needs to do is get Neal buckled into a hood.

Luckily there's one in the kit, a black leather number that should restrict a few more of his senses. Peter moves quickly, knowing he’ll need the advantage of surprise.

Coming up from behind is easiest.

The hood is soft over Neal’s head, but fits tightly over his face when Peter fastens the back.

Neal fights it as best he can, shaking his head and grunting, but with his arms still bound behind his back, a good hand under his chin is enough to hold him still.

“Stop fussing,” says Peter firmly.

He aligns the opening with Neal’s nose and mouth, making sure his breathing won’t be restricted. A soft, wide strap buckles over his eyes, pressing them closed and rendering perfect darkness.

“That’s it,” says Peter, attaching the back of the hood to Neal's collar.

A second buckle tight over his mouth ensures his silence. He's still gagged underneath, but the hood presses firm against his parted lips, muffling his burbled protests.

"That wasn't so bad, was it," Peter says. He runs his hand over the smooth curve of Neal’s back and down to his backside, enjoying the desperate, barely audible sounds he’s making.

He admires how depersonalized Neal looks, with his handsome face obscured; he has a lean, beautiful body, but without the pretty blue eyes and the cocky smirk, he's just another well-trussed slave. It gives Peter hope - even if doesn't know how to tame the man himself, he does know exactly what to do with that round, high ass, and what belongs around those fragile wrists and that slender neck.

That's the moment Clint pulls around in the van. "Is he ready to go?"

Neal shakes his head frantically, moaning. Peter sighs. "He's ready," he says, "Help me get him loaded up."

It takes both of them to get Neal strapped down on the bench seat; he fights them every step of the way, disoriented and overwhelmed, every sensation magnified by the hood.

“Stop, Neal,” says Peter, pressing his head down to the padded bench and hooking him carefully into the seat restraints. "Nobody's going to hurt you. Just behave."

Finally they get him lying on his side, sparing his sore ass. The ride will be good for Neal, thinks Peter, slamming the door. He'll have time to fully appreciate his situation – naked, blindfolded, penetrated. Owned.

Clint clears his throat as Peter climbs up into the passenger seat. "Hey, so, this is from all of us at the office,” says Clint, shyly handing over a nicely-wrapped box. “Even the boss put money in. A little slavewarming gift.”

Flattered, Peter opens the box. Inside is an old 1950’s training manual, an original edition. The Weight of the Collar, it’s called. The cover is a line drawing of a leashed, bound slave, his shaved head dropped humbly down.

As a member of law enforcement, Peter has obviously received some training in the proper treatment of convicts, but he has to admit he’s impressed by the gift. First editions like this are valuable.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it. “I can’t believe you were so sure I’d catch him!”

Clint claps him on the shoulder. “Hey, you’ve always gotten your man in the end, and we could tell this one was special for you.”

Peter shakes his hand, touched.

Clint pulls out into traffic and it’s silent except for Neal’s muffled grunts. Peter bets he's wondering what the gift was – wants to know if it’s worth stealing, more likely – but he doesn't enlighten him.

He flips through the pages as Clint drives. The book is dated, with hand drawn illustrations a male slave being trained. In one drawing he’s bent over a table, holding his buttocks open to demonstrate the proper insertion of the anal hook; in another he’s restrained at the wrists and ankles like a branded calf, about to receive an enema. Here, a diagram correctly locates his prostate and the inner and outer sphincters. In each simple line drawing the slave is expressionless, face and body shaved smooth.

For the first week, slaves should be kept naked and exposed constantly, until they learn that their bodies belong entirely to their owners. Dicks, cunts and anuses should be continually on display and frequently stimulated.

The hand-drawn illustration features the naked slave calmly accepting a huge dildo pushed into his mouth, with his backside angled to demonstrate another one entering his hole. The caption reads, For best results, mouth and anus are penetrated equally (for female slaves, the cunt is left empty while the mouth and anus are filled). Penetration of the mouth amplifies the sensation in the anus, ensuring that a slave knows they are properly owned, and often renders a disobedient slave more compliant.

The slave in the picture, who looks nothing like Neal, does indeed look compliant.

“This is really great, Clint,” says Peter. “Thanks again.”

Traffic is light, and it seems like no time passes (for Peter, anyway) until they’re pulling up in front of Peter’s house. They unload Neal, whose furious yelling is strangled and somewhat comical.

“Good luck with that,” says Clint, grinning. He shakes Peter’s hand, then tips his hat to an oblivious Neal and drives away.

“Come along, Neal,” says Peter. “Let’s get you inside.”

The most important thing is to get him sequestered with only Peter for company. He won’t be seeing anybody else for weeks.

Neal responds by trying to slam his shoulder into Peter’s gut, clearly hoping that he will catch Peter off-balance and knock him over. It’s not much of an escape plan so much as a show of defiance, but Peter accepts it for what it is.

He gets a good grip of Neal’s leash, right close to the collar where it connects, and pulls Neal forward, making him bend awkwardly. Neal struggles to keep upright. It must be bewildering, not being able to see.

“I was going to offer you a long soak in the tub, but it seems you want to get right down to it,” says Peter calmly. He’s not going to do Neal the honor of sounding annoyed. “Let’s go.”

“Why Peter, is that a new slave?”

It’s John, Peter’s seventy-year-old neighbor, who approaches with his newspaper folded under his arm. They’ve become good friends since Elizabeth moved out.

“Yes, this is Neal. I captured him this morning and just claimed him publically. I’m sorry, he’s misbehaving at the moment – he'll need a lot of training.”

“He’s got a lovely body,” says his neighbor approvingly. “Nice little cock and balls, and so smooth between his legs!”

Neal shudders, and Peter smiles, knowing what his neighbor is trying to do. “Thank you,” he says gravely. “His asshole feels amazing too, so warm and tight inside.”

“Well, you go on and get him in the house, but I hope you’ll have a slavewarming party when you get him properly trained. We’d all enjoy getting to know him, I’m sure.”

Some slave owners share their slaves; Peter already knows he won’t, he’s too possessive for that. Maybe he could be persuaded to share Neal’s mouth, but not his ass. That being said, he appreciates the sentiment, and Neal would certainly look good on display, naked and chained - maybe by his wrists to the ceiling fan? - with their hands all over him, curious, assessing, covetous ...

“I’ll consider it,” he says, ignoring Neal’s indignant squawk.

John slaps his back in congratulations, and Peter leads Neal by his leash towards the house, enjoying the muffled little noises he makes that barely escape his gag.

"Almost home now," he says.

As he unlocks the door to drag Neal inside, Peter is struck all over again by the silence and emptiness of the house. Elizabeth took even the dog with her when she moved out.

Now that he’s got a new slave to take care of, maybe the house can feel more like a home again.

If he did throw a slavewarming party, he could invite Elizabeth, maybe. It’s time they mended fences. She’d enjoy pushing Neal’s face between her legs, holding him there until he made her come.

But Neal might enjoy that too – better to save it for a treat.

"This way, buddy."

He leads Neal to the first floor guest room, which he thankfully already outfitted completely: they’ve been closing in on Neal for weeks.

Still, as he pulls Neal to the bed, Peter reflects that he’ll need to order a lot more supplies now. Neal deserves only the highest quality accessories, and Peter will spare no expense.

Neal is grunting and pulling against his bonds as Peter guides him to lie back; not being able to see anything is kicking his imagination into overdrive, causing him to panic. It sounds like he’s screaming into his gag.

Peter shushes him, pressing his head to the pillow. He puts a hand on his cheek through the hood. “It’s alright, Neal. I’m just getting you spread out for me, okay? I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to get a good look at you, that’s all. Shsh, good boy, that’s it, just like that. I’m going to get you into some proper restraints now.”

Neal is making soft, garbled sounds that are muffled by the hood, shaking his head emphatically. Peter has to smile – faceless, it looks a little ridiculous.

Rolling him onto his side, Peter unhooks the cuffs but swaps them immediately for the manacles that are attached to the bed. Then he slowly draws the chains tight, lifting Neal’s bound hands together above his head. The books all say this is the best position for new slaves – restraining the limbs away from the body apparently makes the subject feel more exposed and vulnerable.

“Good,” says Peter, fastening off the now short length of chain. “Now, spread your legs, please.”

Neal doesn’t spread voluntarily (Peter doesn’t expect him to, not yet) but his resistance is feeble when Peter hooks his arms under his knees and spreads them wide. He knows Neal is distracted by the sensation of his own helplessness, the hood gagging and blinding him. Which is what Peter’s counting on.

He’ll soon learn who takes care of him.

He gently presses Neal’s thighs apart, deliberately ignoring his soft cock. Neal tenses and then relents, letting himself be spread wide. “Good,” says Peter. One of the reasons Peter likes this position is that it will cure Neal of any body shame he still possesses; after a few days on full display, he’ll soon get used to being seen this way.

He guides Neal’s knees into the leather cuffs of the spreader bar. Neal shifts uncomfortably, trying to press his thighs together, but the restraints don’t allow him enough slack. He can’t hide the vulnerable crevasse where he’s owned.

Peter enjoys the knowledge that his ejaculate is still plugged up there.

He parts Neal’s cheeks, ignoring his gagged complaints, and examines the tender opening of his body. It’s reddened around the plug, and Neal flinches when Peter touches him there, letting out a muffled whine, squirming like he’s been impaled.

“Shh,” says Peter, stroking Neal’s perineum to hear his breath hitch.

He uncaps the little bottle in his pocket, adding more lube around the reddened rim of Neal's anus. Neal falls silent as he massages it in.

He could almost fuck him like this, Peter notes absently.

He wonders how long he’ll have to keep Neal restrained for sex; will he ever see Neal drop to his knees and willingly offer himself up ?

“Relax your backside,” he says, easing one finger up alongside the plug to get the lube in deep. Neal may be sore, but he’s taken more than this today, and he’ll soon learn that it’s Peter’s call what happens to him here. “Stop thrashing, Neal. Deep breath, and let it out. Good boy.”

He withdraws and quickly wipes his hand on a towel. “You look amazing like this,” he says quietly.

It’s true; Neal’s naked, exposed body - long and smooth and lightly muscled – is perfect. He’s got a little of his own ejaculate marring his belly, but other than that he’s flawless.

Peter can’t believe that it all belongs to him.

“Alright, Neal, I’d like to take that hood off,” says Peter. “Let’s see if you can behave.”

He lifts the front of Neal’s hood and peels it away from his mouth. Neal's lips are chapped around the cloth; Peter frowns. He'll have to replace the spit-damp gag with something dry as soon as he can.

Luckily, Peter has bought every device on the market for oral suppression. Ring gags to press between Neal’s shiny lips, pecker gags to slide down his throat, bit gags and panel gags and a black leather muzzle that will keep his entire head constrained. Not that Peter even needs the equipment – he can make a stuff gag out of a pair of boxers, in a pinch. Neal would look beautiful like that, fuming around his mouthful … and there’s plenty of good old fashioned tape in the house.

Peter rubs his thumb over Neal’s parted lips. “I’d like to take that out for you, and give you a sip of water,” he says. “But I’ve got something here that would have to go right back in after. What do you say?”

Neal doesn’t answer, trying to turn his face away.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Peter lifts his head in one hand, untying the knot buried in Neal’s hair and then tugging the rag out from between his teeth. “Easy, now. No, don’t try to talk. Just have a drink.”

Peter has the water bottle off the bedside table. He tips it to Neal’s lips, raising his head higher so he won’t choke. Some of it dribbles out, but he thinks he succeeds at forcing a few sips in. He can see Neal is thinking about spitting it out, so he covers his mouth with a hand until Neal admits defeat and swallows. That earns him another trickle and more soothing praise.

“Thank you,” says Peter. “Good job. Now ...” He picks up the ball gag off the table. It's a nice big one. Getting it in his slave’s mouth will be no easy task.

He slides his thumb between Neal’s teeth and pries his jaw open wide, trying to press the ball between his lips, forcing it in when Neal resists.

Neal can’t help a whine that comes out as a muffled hum as it slips in, sealing him up tight like a cork in a bottle. “Shh,” says Peter, fastening the back, tugging on the corners to make sure it’s tight. “This looks beautiful on you.”

He pulls off the rest of the hood, enjoying the sight of Neal’s face with metal rings framing his lips. His big eyes are wide and startled by the feeling of his mouth stretched open, the intrusion of the ball pressed against his tongue …

“Mmm,” manages Neal. “Nuh muhmm, nmm.”

His hair is rumpled, sticking out everywhere; Peter smoothes it back.

“I know, you can’t spit that out,” Peter counsels him, stroking his cheek. “It’s locked in there nice and tight, isn't it, and it’s going to stay in until I feel like you can behave without it.”

“Murghph!”

“Shh. No more from that smart mouth. I know you’re very clever, but that doesn’t matter anymore. Your job now is to do as I say, that’s all.”

He trails his fingers down Neal’s throat, over his collar and into the V of his collarbones. So smooth.

He knows his touch shouldn’t be so reverent, but he can’t help himself. He wishes he could press their mouths together, wishes Neal would kiss him back if he tried, although he knows it’s impossible.

“Keep your jaw relaxed around the ball, so you don’t get sore,” he recommends.

He continues his inspection downwards, over Neal’s flat chest, giving a gentle pinch to his pink nipples. Neal is quivering finely and Peter wants to draw him into his arms and comfort him. He’s never worked with a slave as sensitive as Neal is.

His ribs are shaped perfectly for Peter’s fingers.

He rubs Neal’s flat belly until the shivers ease off. Then he continues down, over the beautiful notch of his hip bones and down to the soft hair of his groin.

With one hand he strokes Neal's thigh, and with the other he reaches up to cup his soft, perfect little dick. Neal garbles through his gag, eyes locked on Peter.

Peter takes it nice and slow, giving Neal lots of time to really feel it – his helplessness, wrists locked tightly down, legs spread wide and unable to close. His stuffed-full mouth and the relentless intrusion in his ass. And Peter’s firm, steady fingers on his dick, coaxing him to hardness, gently teasing it out of him. There’s nothing he can do to stop it.

He hardens slowly under the attention, twitching and jerking in Peter’s hand. He’s a grower, Peter notices; he’s almost average size when he’s erect.

It’s clear that he wants to appear to remain indifferent, above it all – Peter can see him biting his gag, trying to muffle the undignified whines bubbling out of his throat, and he can tell from the tension in Neal’s beautiful arms and legs that he’s trying to hold himself still. But he can’t keep himself from reacting to Peter’s touch.

Peter reaches down to rub around his asshole, tweaking the end of the plug to make sure he’s feeling it. He wants to make sure Neal learns to associate the feeling of the thick pressure in his ass with pleasure.

Just when Neal is so hard he’s almost shaking, moments away from coming all over himself, Peter draws back and lets Neal uselessly fight his instinct to push up into the empty air, his body needing to finish what he started. He’s mouthing at his gag, making unintelligible sounds.

“Alright, Neal. You’re going to stay here and think about how much more you would have enjoyed soaking in a warm tub, if you’d behaved when we got out of the van.”

Peter pats his shoulder and leaves him tied up and exposed like that, although he pauses to take a few pictures first.

He texts one to Elizabeth.

Then he leaves the room, because he’s pretty sure that Neal can take any punishment, except being ignored.

Peter takes a seat out in the hall, enjoying Neal’s stifled noises of frustration, and continues reading the book the office got him.

In the beginning, slaves should have no options other than obedience. Do not put them in a position to fail. Remember, a well controlled slave feels secure!

In the illustration the slave is collared and leashed, on his knees with his arms bound behind him. A jaunty striped scarf is tied over his eyes and his mouth is held open by a spider gag, ready to service his master.

Peter wonders if Neal feels sufficiently secure, bound as tightly as he is. Maybe he should have left the hood on longer. He resolves to learn some good rope skills.

He knows slaves require a lot of attention, just like any relationship. He realizes now that he didn’t give Elizabeth enough of what she needed, and he doesn’t want to make the same mistake with Neal.

He reads through the whole chapter.

Remember to keep a new slave off balance as much as possible! Consider arbitrary requests or standards with lavish rewards, so slaves learn that their comprehension is not necessary for obedience. Frequent humiliation is a great way to remind the slave that they are no longer in control.

Peter is surprised to find how much of the book is still relevant.

Whenever possible, a new slave should be made to participate in their enslavement by choosing between options presented by the master (for example, anal or oral sodomy, punishment via paddle or cane, ejaculate swallowed vs worn on the body).

After an hour the alarm Peter set on his phone sounds, and Peter sets the book aside and goes back in. Neal has his eyes closed and he might be asleep, but Peter suspects he’s not. Perhaps he’s meditating. His erection has faded to about half mast, and he’s pulled his knees up in an effort to get more comfortable. With the spreader bar in place, it only has the effect of displaying his plugged asshole.

“C’mon, Neal, I know you’re not asleep,” says Peter. (When it’s actually time for bed, Neal will sleep with his ankle cuffed to the bedpost on a long chain. Peter has already invested in a quality set of soft sleep restraints, including a vented ball gag that won’t obstruct his breathing during the night).

He pulls Neal’s ankles down to the end of the bed and unbuckles the spreader, enjoying his soft sounds of gratification at the change of positions. Peter doesn’t want him to get stiff from holding the same position too long.

He gets Neal’s ankles trussed together, then massages his legs while Neal duly pretends not to enjoy it. Then, with one hand on his hip and one on his shoulder, he gets him flipped over on his belly before Neal can protest, the chains on his wrists twisting to accommodate.

Peter can’t resist taking a few more photos like this; Neal’s smooth buttocks, the pale backs of his thighs. He pulls his cheeks apart to capture his stuffed hole. Lifts his head by the hair to get some of his gagged, mortified face.

“Gorgeous,” he promises.

He goes to the desk drawer, aware of Neal’s eyes on him, and draws out another set of leather straps and a long, skinny toy with a flared base.

Neal whines softly as his legs are secured together at the knees and thighs with the leather straps. Peter makes sure not to pull them too tight – Neal can’t exactly speak up if his circulation is cut off.

Then he coats the toy carefully with lube and comes back to the bed.

Peter has to sit on Neal’s legs to pin him down – this maneuver is not suggested in the book, perhaps because Neal keeps trying to buck his body and wallop him in the balls. Peter perseveres, holding him open to gently extract his plug. Neal’s body surrenders it reluctantly, clinging to the thickest part like he can’t bear to let it go.

Peter doesn’t leave him empty for long, immediately sliding in the new toy. It’s thinner but goes much deeper. He’s rewarded by the sight of Neal’s shiny, reddened hole contracting around the new source of penetration, milking it the way he will someday learn to milk Peter’s cock.

“Hush,” he soothes the man bawling beneath him. “I’ll climb off you if you promise not to kick me again.”

It was a good decision to keep Neal face-up first, he thinks. Lying face-down bound and naked will feel even more vulnerable, but now he’s used to being exposed and knows how to breathe around his gag. He’s less likely to hyperventilate.

He crawls off safely, resisting the urge to take another photo; in this position, Neal’s ripe apple backside is helpless and exposed.

“You need this beaten every night,” says Peter, rubbing his buttocks. “I’ll buy you a paddle, and after you’ve taken it nicely you can enjoy my dick in your sore asshole.”

Neal makes a soft sound of disagreement, the best defiance he can manage. Peter really needs to get his cock into that lush mouth.

He turns the vibrator on high and watches Neal caterpillar across the mattress. His bound legs are pressing him tighter around the vibe; Peter bets his whole body is humming. He lets him squirm for a while, then hauls him down by his ankles and hooks them to the end of the bedframe with a short chain.

Neal shudders, stretched-out and helpless, stripped down like an exposed nerve. He convulses as he comes, groaning nonsense into his gag.

“That’s it,” says Peter, patting his rear. “Good job. Let’s have another one, hmm?” He leaves the vibrator on, watching Neal writhe on it, overstimulated.

He wants to do everything for him. Brush his teeth, his hair. Clean his ass with a clyster, rubbing his back while he takes the warm water. Fit his mouth down there and lick him, fingers him until he comes.

At the moment it seems that Neal can’t come again, although his cock is leaking clear fluid all over the mattress.

“Alright, Neal,” says Peter, sitting down on a relatively clean portion of the bed. Neal is trying futilely not to roll in his own mess, but it’s getting everywhere anyway, smeared over his belly and thighs. “You’ve got two choices. You can get stay here with that thing buzzing inside you for another hour while I go read, and then I’ll come back and have your ass again. OR, you can get down on your hands and knees, right now, and offer me your mouth, and then you can soak in the tub when you’re done. Those are your options. And if you don’t choose, I’m setting the timer for two hours, and then I'll repeat the offer."

He waits patiently while this sinks in. He knows Neal’s considering how sore his asshole is; weighing that against the distaste of a having a cock in his mouth.

But Neal is smart; he’s not going to tough it out just for foolish pride. He’s going to try to play any hand that’s dealt him.

“Okay Neal, where do you want it - in your ass, or your mouth?”

Neal is silent, and Peter actually thinks he won’t choose. But then he drops his head. “Mmn,” he says.

“Ass?”

“Mmm!”

“Mouth?”

Neal grunts and whines, tormented. Finally he nods slowly.

“I wanted your ass,” Peter lies. “Say please.” He considers recording this, but decides it’s too much. Next time.

Neal hangs his head, working his jaw around the ball in his mouth. Peter waits him out. “Mmngh,” says Neal. His cheeks are red.

“I don't know ... you’ll swallow all my come?”

Neal nods as best he can.

“Ok, good boy. Since you asked so nicely, you can have it in your mouth.”

Peter unhooks Neal from the bed and gets him on his hands and knees on the hardwood floor. It’s awkward with Neal’s wrists and legs bound, but Peter doesn’t offer to free them. He wants the position to speak for itself. He unbuckles his pants and shoves them down, letting Neal get a good look at what he’s dealing with. Then he takes Neal by the collar and drags him in closer.

The vibrator buzzes on in the background.

He unbuckles the gag, and Neal drools as he pulls it out of his mouth. Neal wants to speak, but Peter rudely nudges the red tip of his cock in instead.

He doesn’t expect a lot of finesse, although he’s sure Neal is exceptional at anything he sets his mind to. Right now he’s satisfied that Neal is passively accepting the dick in his mouth, keeping his bound hands down and his eyes attentive on Peter’s face. He’s obviously trying to get a read on the situation, understand Peter so he can learn out how to play him.

Peter slides himself in deeper and watches Neal’s eyes flutter closed.

It’s an uncomfortable thing, Peter’s sure, sucking dick. But oh, god, how gorgeous Neal looks with his mouth full of cock. It’s obvious he’s done this before – a man with a face that pretty doesn’t grow up in the criminal underworld without learning some skills.

Peter cradles his skull with one hand, guiding him, feeling tender. He wants to make sure he finishes before Neal’s knees or jaw start to hurt too badly. With his other hand he strokes Neal’s hair as he rocks gently in and out of his throat, listening to his soft, wet sounds. Whenever he chokes a little – stuttered, muffled groans – Peter gives him plenty of praise and time to recover. When Peter is close (more from the visual of Neal’s strained, beautiful face than the quality of the fellatio) he pulls back so the head of his dick is pressing against Neal’s tongue, so he’ll taste it properly. He wishes he could come all over his face but they’ll save that for later

Neal whimpers in protest as his mouth fills up with semen. Peter combs his fingers through Neal’s hair, having observed how well the younger man responds to that, and doesn’t let him pull back. “Good boy, good job Neal, you took that beautifully,” he murmurs soothingly. When he pulls out, he’s sure to cover Neal’s mouth with his hand.

“Say, ‘thank you,’ Neal,” says Peter, stroking his hair back. “Say it, and I’ll let you up.”

“Mng-umng,” says Neal, eyes pleading. But it’s too late; Peter can feel him swallow under his hand, and Neal moans as the load slides down his throat to his stomach.

“Thank you, Neal,” says Peter gently, in return. He leans forward and kisses Neal’s forehead, ashamed of himself as soon as he does it.

“Alright, I think you’ve had a long day already and you’ve earned that bath. Open your mouth, I’m going to put your leash in.” Neal delicately parts his lips to accept it the leather strap that Peter tucks in there; just a little reminder that nobody is asking him to speak right now. He checks the ties on Neal’s wrists and finally turns off the vibrator, leaving it in. Then he removes all the leg restraints and helps him to his feet.

He pulls him by his collar into the bathroom, where he has a huge bathtub. Elizabeth loved a long soak.

“Down on your knees, on the rug,” says Peter. He runs the hot water and adds scented bath oils to relax them both.

When the tub is full and steaming enticingly, Peter opens The Weight of the Collar and sets it on the floor in front of Neal, who is watching the water. Peter knows how dirty he feels, with both of their dried cum down his front and his own saliva on his chin.

“Alright, Neal. Read these lines, and I’ll let you soak in the tub. Or if you’d rather keep quiet, I can soak myself while you watch.”

It’s obvious Neal is thinking about refusing. But he knows by now not to test Peter’s resolve.

“Go ahead, Neal,” says Peter, tugging the leash out from between Neal’s reddened lips.

Neal clears his throat. “Can you please take this thing out of my ass,” he rasps.

“No, you need to keep that in,” said Peter, rubbing his back. “It’s good for you to wear it, deep inside you. Now, read your lines and you can get in the tub.”

Neal licks his lips. His eyes dart to the page, then to Peter’s face, assessing. He looks down again. Peter knows Neal loves luxury and comfort. And the bath looks so good.

“I love my Master’s cock in my mouth,” He reads softly, without emotion.

“Good. Next.”

“My – my holes needs to be fucked every day.”

“Watch yourself in the mirror, Neal,” says Peter quietly. The book was pretty clear on the necessity of this ritual, even though both of find the lines themselves kind of cheesy.

Neal stares at his own face. “I offer my slutty hole to my Master.”

“Sit on your heels, hands relaxed,” Peter prompts. “This isn’t a punishment, Neal. This is to help you remember your position in this household, and what you’re here for.”

Neal reluctantly struggles into position with his wrists bound. Peter doesn’t offer to help. He watches without a word as Neal slowly spreads his legs to balance himself.

“I love the feeling of my Master’s cock in my ass.”

“Finish up, and you can get in and soak,” says Peter. The book is explicit that the entire section must be read aloud from start to finish.

“My pleasure comes from your pleasure,” Neal whispers. “My body is yours, because I belong to you.”

“Again,” says Peter. Neal knows which line he means.

“I belong to you.”

Peter knows Neal doesn’t mean it – he’s just sore and tired and wants that bath. Neal thinks it’s all stupid and doesn’t believe a word of it.

Not yet.

“Again.”

Chapter Text

Strong hands brush the hair out of Neal’s face. He hums in pleasure, turning into the touch.

Peter has him jacketed, his arms crossed over his own chest and buckled in place. It makes Neal feel like a baby tucked in a tight swaddle, barely able to move. He’s been flat on his back since Peter fastened on the eye mask and tucked the vented ball gag into his mouth.

“Good morning, Neal. Did you sleep okay?”

Neal nods. “Mmng.” Funny, in the beginning he’d barely been able to sleep like this. Now he’s out almost as soon as Peter hits the lights.

"It’s time to get up,” Peter warns, lifting the sheet from his naked body. "Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of time this morning."

Neal wrinkles his nose at the chill breeze but only hums as Peter unlocks the ankle cuffs and guides his legs up, bent at the knee. He unbuckles the crotch strap of the jacket, exposing Neal’s trussed-up cock and balls.

“Alright, let’s get this plug out, first.” Peter slides a hand under Neal's buttocks and, with Neal's help, lifts his hips up to slide the pillow underneath. Neal always sleeps with a plug in now.

Neal lets himself be positioned, licking at his gag.

A warm hand on his thigh. "Deep breath, now." Peter tugs the plug out slowly, letting Neal feel every inch. It’s ribbed, and each ridge jolts Neal deep inside. He manages a stifled, pathetic groan until it finally pulls free.

“Drama queen.” Peter slips a finger in. "Huh. You've still got all my spunk in here from last night."

As if Neal hadn’t noticed. It’s a strange thing, carrying someone's emission tucked up inside you – it’s not the kind of thing you forget.

He hears the click of a cameraphone between his legs and knows that Peter is updating their Instagram account. Neal has almost a million followers now.

"Let's get you over," says Peter, rolling him over onto his belly. Neal slurps around his gag, trying not to drool down his chin and into the pillow. He knows from experience that his face will be mashed into it before long.

“Good,” says Peter, pushing his thighs apart and spreading his cheeks wide. “Good boy, Neal.” Sure enough, as the hot nose of Peter's dick slides into his stretched-out hole, a hand slides under his collar, forcing his face down into the pillow. "That's it," says Peter, sliding all the way home.

It's a brisk, business-like fuck; Peter's hips slapping loudly against Neal's buttocks. Neal knows he won't be allowed to come, not this early in the day, so he doesn't try to do anything but suck on his gag and let himself be used.

He feels Peter’s nose against the back of his neck, right above the collar, nuzzling into his hair. He relaxes, letting Peter’s weight press him flat, pretending not to notice the little kisses that Peter plants just below his ear. Then Peter comes, jerking inside Neal's body and filling him back up with warm seed.

“Good boy,” says Peter, finally letting him breathe. He withdraws slowly with a wet slurp before parting Neal's cheeks to check his work. “Such a good, quiet boy for me this morning.”

It’s true that Neal still fusses sometimes about taking a fresh load in his ass every morning, even though Peter's damn book says it's necessary.

"Alright, no time to waste this morning," says Peter, releasing the bindings around the base of Neal's dick. "We need to run a quick errand before work." He comes to the head of the bed and unstraps the sleep mask, keeping his hand cupped over Neal’s eyes for a moment so he can adjust to the light. When he removes his hand he snaps another quick shot of Neal’s sleep-rumbled, dozy face, lips stretched around his gag. He better use the right filter this time.

“Pretty boy,” says Peter fondly. "Sit up for me, now."

He slides a hand around the back of Neal’s neck, under his hair, just above his collar, and eases him up. Neal lets the full weight of his skull loll in Peter's palm. When he's sitting Peter presses his head down, chin to his chest, to unhook the back of the jacket. Then he unbuckles the long sleeves keeping Neal's arms pinned in place. Finally he unsnaps the back of Neal's gag and draws it slowly, glistening with saliva, out from between his lips.

"Don't try to talk," he reminds him, tapping Neal’s chin. As if Neal would forget; when he speaks out of turn he can expect to have a washcloth stuffed in his mouth (or dirty underwear, his own or Peter’s - or on one memorable occasion, a sweaty sock) and carelessly secured with an ugly strip of duct tape.

Peter tips his head up, examining his expression, then bends forward to kiss his forehead. Neal knows he flushes.

"Alright, you've got twenty minutes to be ready to go out the door,” says Peter, checking his watch. “Hop to it. We’ll stop for breakfast on the way.”

Neal walks naked to the bathroom, aware of Peter's eyes on his ass. He knows better than to close the door behind him. He feels Peter’s gaze as he pisses and brushes his teeth.

“C’mon, Neal, get the lead out.”

Neal turns on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up, ignoring the bag and nozzle hanging innocently from the shower head - it’s not squeaky-clean Sunday yet. When the water is ready, he steps under the spray.

Some days Peter scrubs him by hand, while Neal is chained to the hook in the wall. Peter always takes his time and makes sure Neal feels good, rubbing his sore shoulders or his calves in the hot water. But lately they've been so busy in the mornings, with a constant stream of cases.

Neal scrubs himself perfunctorily, pushing a soapy finger into his hole to clean himself out. He bends over, holding himself open, letting the water rush between his cheeks. Sometimes Peter takes him like this, braced against the tiles. His cock twitches.

"Ten minute warning," calls Peter from the other room.

Neal turns off the water and steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He takes a comb from the table and returns to the bedroom, where Peter has been putting away the night restraints, sterilizing the gag and the plug. Laid out on the bed is a collection of new accessories - a soft tan leather slave hobble, a heavy chrome butt plug, and a bridle bit with a tongue restraining spike. Peter has been shopping again.

For whatever reason, the thought of him carefully selecting these items – considering his comfort, choosing flattering colors, inspecting the quality of each and discarding those that were not good enough – makes Neal feel warm. It's a point of pride that Peter only buys him expensive gear. Peter, who buys the cheap supermarket brand of everything for himself, but comes home every week with Neal's preferred organic produce, and professional-quality paintbrushes, and fedoras that match his collar.

"Let’s try these out, hmm?" Peter suggests.

Neal, still toweling off his hair, stands stoically as Peter buckles him into the new hobble, his ankles looped with leather but not bound closely together. He'll be able to walk sedately but he’ll fall if he tries to run.

“That looks great on you,” says Peter, checking the fit. He takes the towel from Neal and gathers his wrists loosely behind his back. They’re bound with soft silk strips, which Peter prefers because they’re less likely to chafe. Then he finishes toweling Neal’s hair and combs it out for him. He doesn’t leave it as effortlessly rumpled as Neal would, but he tries.

"Alright, open up now, Neal,” he instructs, picking up the rubber bit gag.

Shortly after his capture Peter used to dress him in an elaborate headpiece with an attachment like this. If he worked at it, he could ease the bit out of his mouth; but then it rubbed wetly against his lips all day, nudging to get back inside until finally he opened his mouth and accepted it again. He suspects it was another piece of training equipment.

For weeks it was the gags he fought most, long after he was docile about lifting his hips to offer his backside, submitting without protest to the cuffs and collar, even accepting his face pressed down into Peter’s crotch. The gag meant that his opinion wasn’t valued – not as Peter slid into his stretched, well-slicked ass, not as Peter guided his chin up to rub the sticky crown of his dick against Neal’s held-open lips, not as Peter strapped him down to the bed and rubbed his chest until he fell asleep.

“C’mon, sport,” says Peter, guiding his head up. “You know you need this. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

Neal closes his eyes, grounding himself, flexing his bound hands anxiously. He flashes back to the day he was captured, when Peter forced him to his knees at gunpoint. Kneeling there, defeated, as Peter took a firm hold of his hair, pulling his head back, his mouth open, to tuck that first cheap fabric gag inside. His head forced down, the tug of it as it was tied off in the back, silencing him. He remembers trying to talk and being humiliated about the ugly animal sounds he could make, all stuffed up like that.

But it’s always been his mouth that gets him into trouble. Neal just can’t help himself. He opens his mouth and the lies come pouring out, every time. It’s only when Peter seals him up that Neal can finally behave.

Slowly he opens up.

“That’s it,” says Peter, easing the heavy piece carefully between Neal’s meekly parted lips. He pulls it tighter in the back, tugging it deeper between Neal’s teeth. Neal moans a little, just to hear the helplessness of the sound, his lips pulled back around the bit like a horse in a bridle.

“That's my boy,” says Peter, patting his cheek before moving back to fuss with the buckles.

Then it’s over, and he’s filled up – captured again, controlled, owned. 

“There you go,” says Peter affectionately, stroking his head. “My good pony, aren’t you? I should hook you up to a wagon just like this, making you draw a load of hay through the downtown at rush hour. Would you like that? Everyone would enjoy watching your naked backside being whipped if you baulked.”

Neal whines softly.

He always had such fierce pride, as a sensitive, high-strung kid – he could never bear to be mocked or laughed at. But Peter makes his utter humiliation so unbearably erotic. Peter strips him down and exposes him to a thousand judging, indifferent eyes: bound, penetrated, helpless. And then Peter claims him again so proudly.

He doesn't understand where this deep vein of his submissiveness comes from. He suspects Peter has lovingly mined it out of him, digging open his flesh until it was been brought up into the light.

"Alright, Neal, over the bed," says Peter, checking his watch. “Let’s get you plugged up and ready for the day, okay?”

Neal doesn't fight him, bending over the mattress, awkward with his wrists trapped behind him.

Peter reaches for something in a side drawer. “Alright, deep breath, relax your anus,” he reminds him, lining up.

Neal rolls his eyes – like he hasn’t learned that by now, having had his ass reamed every which way from Sunday –

He cuts off with a moan as Peter presses the cold, unforgiving plug into his twitching little hole. It's a lot bigger than he usually wears for daytime. "Easy, shshsh, you can take it." Peter steadies and soothes him, rubbing his buttocks, and Neal gives himself over to the comfort as the plug sinks in.

"Good job," says Peter, tugging him up by his collar and turning to the dresser to pick out his outfit. Usually he spends a long time selecting Neal's clothes; he's bought him a whole wardrobe of designer suits. But today he only pulls out a pair of small black tear-away track shorts.

Neal steps into them, knowing it means he'll be walking around mostly naked in the middle of Manhattan. You can see the shape of everything underneath.

"That's my boy." Peter clips the leash to the front of the collar – not the reins at least, thank God - and pushes him towards the door. Neal tries to stall, wanting to let his erection fade before he has to face the world, but Peter gives Neal’s plugged ass a slap.

"Let's go, Neal. Lots to do today."

---

Neal knows how to kneel in the car with his head bowed, keeping his balance with his thighs, ready in case Peter decides he wants his cock sucked at a red light. Of course he also keeps track of where they’re going, memorizing every turn. 

So he’s not surprised when they pull up to the NYC slave exchange - but he's not expecting Peter to pull up in front and park.

“Here we are,” says Peter cheerfully, getting out onto the crowded sidewalk.

Neal knows how to walk nicely on his leash, after all this time, but Peter still gives it a tug to keep his head up, letting everyone see his pretty gagged face. “This way.”

Neal is used to being this way in public by now. He accepts the gaze of passer-bys; some pitying, looking at the heavy black bar across his mouth - some envious of Peter for owning such a luxury good - a few glances of straight-up sexual appraisal. Most people politely look away, or at least try to be subtle as they check out his ass.

The slave exchange is a massive edifice in the heart of New York, used for processing as well as auctioning criminals. Neal doesn’t know what on earth they’re doing here, but he knows he isn’t going to like it. He almost drags his feet, except Peter is half a step ahead of him, striding confidently right up to the front door, and if Neal doesn’t keep up he may choke. Peter walks them right up the marble stairs.

“Keep up,” he says, giving the leash another tug as they enter through the sliding glass doors. Neal finds himself entering a place that most slaves avoid with everything they can.

“May I help you, sir?” The man at the entry desk has close-cropped hair and a metal collar around his neck.

“I’m Peter Burke … I called ahead?”

Neal doesn't like anything he's hearing. He doesn't know why they're here and he doesn't know when Peter planned this out.

“Of course, sir. You'll go through security straight ahead, and then you can take your slave down the hallway on your right.”

Another tug, and they’re off. The right galley turns out to feature newly-captured slaves, according to the warning signs over the door. Neal's mind is spinning. But Peter steers them to two bored-looking guards and hands over Neal's papers.

The guard pulls on a pair of rubber gloves. “You’re clear for the metal detector, sir, but we’ll need to check your slave manually.”

“Is that really necessary?” says Peter, frowning.

“Need to check for contraband,” says the first guard. He takes out a flashlight and clicks it on, taking Neal by the jaw. “Open wide.”

Neal tries to comply, somewhat hindered by the bit in his mouth.

“We’ll ask you to remove the plug and bend him over the table,” says the second guard, bored. “Need to check his rectal canal.”

“I just fucked him,” says Peter. “There’s nothing up there.”

But Neal is already assuming the position, indifferent and ready to leave. He endures a well-slave exam every six months; he’s used to the feeling of gloved fingers probing in his mouth or his asshole.

The first guard hooks two fingers over his gag and tugs his jaw open wide, shining the light inside. “Lift your tongue.” Neal hums. He knows he’s drooling, which he hates. His shorts are pushed down and hands slide impersonally over his ass, tugging his cheeks apart while Peter’s familiar, careful touch extracts the plug, patting his buttocks when he’s done. Neal can feel his anus clenching around nothing and whines, embarrassed.

“Now, that’s how a well used hole should look,” comments the guard appreciatively. “You should see the little tightasses that come through here, whining over a finger up the butt. This one looks like he could take a fist without blinking, just like a cow at the vet, you know?”

Peter pats his cheek. “He’s my good little pony today, actually.”

The guard spreads Neal's cheeks wide, visually inspecting his hole, before he slides two fingers up. Neal grunts, trying to relax as uncaring fingers feel around inside him.

It reminds him of the first time he tried to escape; he was caught in a stop-and-frisk; cuffed, bent over a car, fingers up his ass, moaning pathetically through the nasty rag they’d stuffed into his mouth - until Peter showed up with his badge and cleared everything up.

“He sure takes it nicely," says the guard, pressing a little deeper. Neal groans, but knows better than to tense up. He focuses on Peter’s hands soothing his forehead.

“It took me long enough to train him. He had to be paddled just about every time in the beginning.”

“How often does he get it now?”

“Oh, still almost every day. But I just warm up his bottom so he can listen better and pay attention,” explains Peter, tugging gently at Neal's hair. “If I go too long without it, I find that his attention starts to wander.” That damn book!

“Well, I’m sure he needs it,” says the guard stoutly.

“These days I really only give him a good one before his Sunday bowel cleanse, so he’ll take that without fussing. I will say he minds his manners better when his rear end is sore.”

It’s true that after Neal has been brought to tears he’ll barely resist being guided down on all fours, his buttocks spread for the nozzle – will even reach back and hold himself open if Peter tells him to. But Peter is always sweet to him during it, rubs his belly and his buttocks and his thighs, kisses his tearstained cheeks and his pliant mouth.

"Neal responds beautifully to punishment and praise, but that’s not enough on its own. You have to constantly engage his mind as well."

The fingers in his mouth are extracted with a wet slurp that paints saliva over Neal’s lips. “He’s good here.” The guard pushes his head down and tightens the buckle at the back of his gag, pulling on Neal’s jaw. Neal grimaces but knows better than to complain; Peter will fix it for him later.

The fingers in his ass are still feeling around up there. “Nothing here either," says the second guard. The other nods and signs something on his clipboard. Then he hands the plug to Peter. "Alright, cavity search was good, you’re clear to proceed.”

Warm, ungloved fingers rubbed around the outside of his stretched-out hole. Neal whimpers, straightening up. God, he loves having the outside of his hole played with - stroked or petted. Or licked.

"Shh, Neal, keep your legs open nice and wide," murmurs Peter in his ear. "Let them see you."

He knows the guard's eyes are fixed either between his legs, where his cock is twitching, or on his face, which must be flushed from embarrassment and arousal.

If only he could pinch his lips shut he could swallow back his moans, but his gag doesn’t allow that - they can all hear the soft, needy noises he's making. They all know how much he loves being taken this way, with Peter’s quiet voice in his ear.

The plug sinks easily back into place, filling him up.

“Thank you, officers.” His shorts are pulled up. Peter’s hand drifts down to Neal’s lower back, rubs soothingly.

Peter leads them through the main door and into the holding room. He moves past the display rows, where the bargain slaves are priced to move. Most of them are attached to the floor by leashes too short to let them off of their knees. Some of them are bound in contorted positions, their mouths held open with metal rings, lips pulled apart and pinned wide. They moan softly, watching Peter with hungry, assessing eyes.

He tugs Neal on, his eye on a naked blonde woman with massive breasts. Is he here to rent a female? He is straight, after all, as fond as he is of fucking Neal’s ass. Or ... it is legal to breed slaves, although the offspring are free. But Peter doesn't linger.

They walk past a loading dock where limp bodies are being unpacked from a van like sacks of flour. Newly apprehended slaves are generally tazed into submission so they can be trussed for transport; stripped naked, their limp limbs taped together, rags in their mouths, eyes covered.

This is where Neal would have ended up if it wasn’t for Peter claiming him. He would have been just like these poor bastards.

“Agent Burke?” a man in a cheap government suit approaches. “I’m the administrator here at the NYSE. You called about a recent arrival?”

Peter shakes his hand. “That’s right.”

"Right this way." They walk together through the warehouse.

As they start to stir the newly captured slaves are lifted onto examination tables and strapped down, naked and spread-eagled. Neal averts his eyes as best he can.

“After each slave had been thoroughly cleaned, they’ll be fitted with their plugs, which along with the slave cuffs and a cheap plastic collar came with the purchase of a new slave,” says the administrator, in the tone of a tour guide. "They'll be ready for auction in a few days."

Sure enough, a little further on the slaves strapped to the tables are awake. They’re watching helplessly as the prep team moves down the line, examining and documenting each unfortunate criminal, inspecting their genitals, and finally sliding a thick tube into their ass. Each of them groans and sobs as one by one they’re penetrated by the rubber nozzle, their bowels flushed while the others watch and wait their turn.

“These are our fresh apprehensions,” the administrator explains. “But you’re here to see last week's batch. They're through here."

“Keep up, Neal,” says Peter, tugging him on.

In the next room the slaves stand leashed together, naked and draped in chains, mouths sealed with tape. Each of them is moaning and grunting, their eyes rolling in fear, watching the administrator move past. All of them, male and female, have thick plugs in their asses, just like Neal's. They squirm and shift, trying to find comfortable positions with the intrusion. Neal knows they won’t find it – not until they learn to relax and accept it.

The administrator leads the way through a side door into a small glass room with a row of chairs. "Here we are," he says, way too cheerfully. 

“On your knees, Neal,” orders Peter lightly. Neal obeys, his heart pounding. Peter and the administrator both sit. 

“Alright, send him in,” says the administrator, speaking into a radio.

The slave they drag in is dirty, his blond hair matted, face bruised. Neal sits up straighter on his knees. The boy – although fully grown, there is something boyish about his slender frame, and that's the way Neal finds himself thinking of the slave - is naked, pulled forward by the chains on his wrists, a rag stuffed in his mouth. He’s grunting and shouting violently through his gag, squirming in his restraints, but it’s useless.

Neal can remember fighting like that – the defiance, the determination to get away, to be his own man. It seems almost alien now.

“That’s the one,” says Peter, stroking Neal’s hair. “Let me see him.”

The squalling boy is dragged closer. His wrists are pinned down by the guards, and Peter lifts his face with a finger under his chin. “Pretty little thing,” he notes, stroking the boy’s cheek which puffs out around the fabric in his mouth, and ignoring his indignant protests.

Peter peels his lips back to check his teeth, running a thumb over his gums. Counting them, thinks Neal.

"Neal, you remember that clever ponzi scheme we broke last week," says Peter absentmindedly. "It may sound hard to believe, but this baby boy is the mastermind."

Oh great, just Peter’s type. Neal huffs. He thought he was special, that Peter cared about him - not just rehabilitating white collar criminals.

“You want to inspect him?” offers a guard.

“Yes, please.”

The guard acts quickly, holding the cloth clamped firmly over the writhing boy’s nose and mouth, immune to his muffled screaming until finally the drug overwhelms him and the poor thing slumps, senseless, into the guard’s arms.

“Alright, we’ll get him on the table for you,” says the guard, easily hefting the pale body.

“Great.”

In a few minutes the unconscious boy is strapped down with his legs open, his cock and balls trussed up out of the way. He has a huge plug jutting out of his stretched, shiny asshole. Neal shivers. He remembers how that feels, being exposed like that to the room. At least only Peter ever saw him in this position.

"He’s got the pecker in," says the administrator, prying the slave’s jaws apart so that Peter can see the long, dark cylinder wedged in his mouth. "We find that it keeps him quiet the best."

Neal knows why. The profundity of being penetrated – the way Peter’s cock bullies its way into Neal’s body, stretching him and making room for itself it belongs there - is lodged deep in his psyche.

"He needs to train on an open mouth gag, then," says Peter. "These insertables can make a slave feel more secure, almost like a pacifier. The vulnerability of having his jaws open will help him get into the right headspace."

Neal's last hope - that they're here to get some final information on the case - is dying. Peter doesn't need to measure the boy's delicate ribs to close a ponzi scheme. He doesn't need to test the softness of the boy's skin, pinch his nipples like a woman's, stroke his hair out of his eyes like that to check the color. 

"Great dick," notes Peter, reaching out a hand to trace it. The slave yelps and moans, drooling. He’s already coming to.

Neal realizes that Peter could trade Neal for a newer model, this pretty boy with the quivering thighs, who’s much younger than Neal, and still needs to be broken in (and Peter does love the training). He could leave Neal here, just another piece of merchandise on display.

“I think he’s perfect,” says Peter happily. “What do you think, Neal? For El’s birthday? She likes a hard luck case. I was thinking I’d have him delivered.”

Neal closes his eyes. The slave is for Elizabeth, not Peter. He's not being replaced, or even supplemented. Peter only wants him.

He pushes his head into his master's lap, needing to be petted. God, he loves Peter’s strong, steady hands, so unbelievably gentle when they need to be. There’s been so many scrapes he’s gotten himself into, and Peter always shows up to the rescue just in time, holding Neal together with these loving hands, whispering praise in his ear, pressing kisses to his temple, checking his collar. Neal’s home and his stability and the center of his world.

They sign the papers and leave together, Neal still dizzy with relief. The guard checks Neal over one last time on the way out.

"He’s a fine slave," he says, feeling Neal’s arms and shoulders. "You know, we could get you a fine price for one so handsome and well trained."

Peter pats Neal’s butt. "Never," he says. “He’s stuck with me for life.”

This is both literally true – Neal was denied any opportunity for parole after his second escape attempt – and also the best news he's ever heard.

Neal pushes his body in a long line against Peter as they walk out, unable to speak to express his joy. Peter pulls his head down to his shoulder to kiss his hair. "Did you really think I could ever get rid of you?" he asks. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

Neal makes an inquiring sound and Peter laughs. "Haven’t you already figured out how much I love you?”

Well, he has now. And even though it's entirely mutual, he has every intention of using it to his own best advantage. He's got a few consecutive life sentences to figure out how.

/