"The Theremin's Protege Affair" Pt 1, Ch 2
-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin
Genre: slash, h/c, BDSM, A/U: BDSM Universe (Origionally created by Xanthe )
Warnings: m/m sex; explicit BDSM ==>THIS CHAPTER!!<==; gratuitous insertion of classic newspaper comics.
Rating: adult, aka NC-17
Beta: The highly precise and efficient spikesgirl58 Thanks!
Length: 3 parts. 1st part (4 chapters) ~19,000 words. Parts 2 & 3 probably similar.
Summary: The disappearance of a KGB scientist spurs Illya's -probably permanent- recall to the Soviet Union, but both he and Napoleon come to conclude that a dissolution of their partnership is not acceptable to either of them. There is only one way for Illya to be allowed to return from the USSR, and it requires Napoleon to undertake great personal risk. Other, more subtle risks will be required of Illya, and though they will be allowed to work together, it will be under such conditions that it may work a profound change in each of them and in their relationship. A sequel to The Top to Bottom to Switch Affair, this story will make considerably more sence if you read that first.
Chapter 1 and Index
The Theremin's Protege Affair
Part One: The Other Shoe
The week before Illya had to leave was spent tying up loose ends —which involved an astonishing amount of paperwork— closing up Illya's flat, which Napoleon found particularly painful, and improving Napoleon's Russian, which was serviceable, but little more than that. It was not equal to the confounding amount of paperwork involved in making his claim for Illya, which was naturally all in Russian and which the term 'kafkaesque' didn't even begin to cover.
Illya's aid in translating and then explaining what was required (and correcting Napoleon's mistakes in filling them out) was invaluable and the whole business left Napoleon wondering how he would be able to manage any part of his job now, without his partner at his side. This was part of the reasoning he used in explaining to Master Waverly why he was requesting a leave of absence for an unknown date and for an unknown period of time, during which he would be visiting the Soviet Union.
Waverly was not pleased, but even he could see that refusing would only cost him another agent.
"Not to question your loyalty to our organization," he said unhappily, "but your actions mean that UNCLE is risking not one but two of its top agents now."
"Surely you realize, sir," Napoleon countered, "that the Soviets are never going to let Illya return to UNCLE, but if this plan works then we won't be losing any agents at all."
"If, Mr. Solo," Waverly warned. "Only if."
"It's always 'if' sir," Napoleon replied, daring. "We're in the 'if' business, but Illya and I, we're your best chance of turning that 'if' into a reality."
Master Waverly granted his request in the end and even put UNCLE's various resources at his disposal, in the hopes of improving his chances of success. Much of Napoleon's time, in the days that followed, were therefore spent reading the volumes of files the research department turned up regarding the Soviet challenge system.
All of these activities guaranteed that Napoleon's and Illya's last week together flew by with dismaying rapidity. The Friday before Illya's Monday morning departure was so busy that they worked through dinner and stayed late at UNCLE, departing at last through empty, darkened corridors. Napoleon did not miss how Illya was taking in what might be his last sight of the UNCLE facilities he'd come to know as his second home over the last several years. He remained silent and pensive as Napoleon drove them both home, and Napoleon gave him his space.
"You know," Illya broke his silence at last as they pulled into the parking garage under their apartment building. "You are going to have to… make an impression when you appear at the challenge hearing. You must appear to be the most domineering, Alpha Top in the Room. There will likely be members of the Command Staff, possibly even the Polit-bureau, there —men who are accustomed to intimidating everyone in their presence."
"I figured," Napoleon said as he pulled the car into its space and shut off the ignition. "I believe I know how to make an impression." The words might have been self confident as always, but Napoleon's tone was meant to let Illya know he understood the seriousness of the issue. Illya nodded in reply, but his expression darkened as he remained unmoving in the passenger seat, evidently wrestling with something.
"I, on the other hand," he continued after a spell, "must appear as nothing less than the most deferential, loyal and obedient submissive possible. And I must retain this demeanor without slip-up as long as I am there. It must not be seen as an 'act' in any way."
Now Napoleon nodded silently, making no move yet to leave the silent, darkened space of the parked car. "Same holds true for me," he said after a moment. "Though you'll have to maintain it somewhat longer." Illya's nod was barely discernible, but Napoleon did not miss it. He had a feeling that they both knew where this conversation was leading, in a roundabout way, but as the Top, for the interim at least, it fell to Napoleon to carry it to the next step.
"Where are you sleeping tonight?" he asked eventually, aware that he was already shifting into his role.
"I… thought I'd sleep in my flat," Illya answered, but Napoleon could see the wheels turning even as he answered, already figuring out where this was going. "They haven't taken the furniture out yet."
"So you were planning on sleeping on your bare mattress," Napoleon said, shaking his head. "No, I don't think so. You're going to sleep with me, the next three nights, and tomorrow…" Napoleon could feel his resolve firming, the Alpha Top coming to the fore. "Tomorrow, we're going to spend the whole day getting into the right frame of mind."
"Yes," said Illya, sounding resolved, but not particularly submissive. "That is probably for the best. I won't fight you on this." In the darkened car Napoleon could hear but not see Illya's wry smile.
"You say so now," Napoleon replied, exiting the car at last, "but if you don't end up resenting the hell out of me several times tomorrow, then I won't be doing my job."
It was late, so the two of them did little more than share a brief nightcap and head to bed, though Napoleon insisted that Illya sleep naked beside him in the bed. Already Napoleon's manner of addressing Illya had changed, from suggesting to ordering, though in a casual, entitled manner, rather than domineering. The non-submissive Illya would have bristled after only a few minutes of such treatment, and Illya did bristle at first, internally, but he recognised what Napoleon was doing and modified his own behavior accordingly.
This alone would hardly be sufficient, Illya knew, neither tomorrow nor while under the watchful eye of his Soviet masters. He had a hard, slow transition ahead of him, and he knew full well that Napoleon was right. He would resent the hell out of Napoleon, mainly during the first part of the day, however. As an incentive, Illya reminded himself that as soon as he let himself become submerged in his sub space, he would find everything Napoleon did with and to him to be enjoyable.
This was nothing more than an article of faith, however, and difficult to hold onto in the moment. Even when Napoleon had insisted that Illya come to bed naked, all he had thought was how inconvenient and humiliating it would be. He'd actually hesitated just a fraction of a second, but Napoleon had seen it, and the look that had passed between then in that split second told Illya everything about what Napoleon would and wouldn't tolerate. Illya would not hesitate again without consequences.
Strictly speaking, Illya's promise that he would not fight had been a complete lie and he knew it. The fight would be internal, but he would be fighting nonetheless, and Napoleon would not fail to notice. Now Illya berated himself, which was also pointless, for having spoken less than the truth and for having balked, almost, at his Top's entirely reasonable request that he remain unclothed in his bed.
There was nothing particularly unpleasant about lying naked in bed next to Napoleon, enclosed in the warmth of his arms. Napoleon's tee shirt and boxers were soft and comfortable against his own naked skin, as were the bedclothes —Napoleon never bought anything but the best. He should be falling into an unencumbered sleep, basking in the luxury of Napoleon's bed, but instead here he was see-sawing between resentment and guilt —yet another thing he could berate himself about.
"Go to sleep, Illya," came Napoleon's sleepy voice from out of the dark. "It's late, but not too late for a spanking."
Illya apologized with a sigh, schooling himself to focus on the moment and not his anxieties. The mattress was comfortable, the various textures against his skin soft and pleasant and Napoleon's arm over his waist heavy and constraining, in the best way possible. It was when Illya realized that this last comfort would be unavailable to him in only three days' time that he found his focus at last. This he would cherish with all his heart, and hold it there for as long as he lived. He slept, at last, with this focus and slept very well indeed.
He awoke in a much better frame of mind, luxuriating in the warmth and comforts of the bed and his bedmate. Still only half awake, he snuggled instinctively closer to Napoleon's enclosing presence, and felt the arm that enclosed him tighten in its embrace. Eyes still closed, Illya felt the soft press of lips at the back of his neck, and now Napoleon's hand began to wander, caressing as well as restraining. Illya could not but respond, letting a little sighing moan escape.
A sleepy and yet decidedly aroused chuckle came in answer, and Napoleon's exploring hand began to explore somewhat more purposefully. It did not merely brush over his nipples, but tweaked them each gently —enough to ramp up Illya's arousal so that when Napoleon's hand moved further south it found his cock already hardening. Illya's first and natural instinct, however, was to still himself against the desire to writhe wantonly against his Top, and to silence the moans forming in his throat.
"I don't know who you think you're hiding from," came Napoleon's voice in his ear, rough with sleep and desire, "but it certainly isn't me. No hiding, Illyushka. You're mine. Give me everything." He punctuated this statement with a slight squeeze to Illya's cock and Illya gave up a brief sobbing groan in response, helpless to do otherwise.
"That's more like it," Napoleon said, rolling onto his back and hauling Illya up to lie on top of him. The hardness of Napoleon's cock, now lying pressed against Illya's own, was readily apparent, and Illya didn't even try to stop himself from thrusting against it. Napoleon thrust right back, lifting his hips so that Illya's legs opened and fell to either side of him.
With a lustful growl, Napoleon took hold of Illya's face to kiss him, possessive and impassioned. Illya drank it all in, welcoming the wet heat and plundering tongue battling with his own. The kiss broke off when Napoleon's hands wandered down to take hold of Illya's buttocks, grinding their cocks together more firmly still so that both of them gasped at the sensation.
"As pleasant as this is," Napoleon said when he'd recovered his voice. "I believe I'd like to start my day with a blow job. I suspect you can manage that, yes?"
Illya literally had to bite his tongue to stop the sarcastic reply which formed naturally on his lips at Napoleon's question. Of course, he had almost certainly framed his request in the most provocative way possible, and the fact that Illya acted promptly to fulfill his Top's request without a word did not cover his fleeting smirk.
"That's one," Napoleon said calmly. "I'll let you know 'one what' after my blow job. And you know, of course, that you're not to come without my express permission."
"Of course not," Illya said, trying for obedient, or at least, not sarcastic.
"You're going to have to do better than that, Illya," Napoleon chided.
Illya sighed and pulled himself upright, still straddling Napoleon's thighs. "I will," he said, sincerely earnest now. "I promise, Napoleon."
His Top nodded, evidently pleased. "Close your eyes now," he said. "Keep them closed until I say otherwise."
"All right," Illya said, complying immediately but with an uneasy swallow just the same. Given the last exchange he didn't dare do anything else, but Illya both dreaded and loved being blindfolded.
A gentle touch on his thigh told him that Napoleon understood. "Tell me your safeword," he said, commanding yet gentle.
"Brezhnev," Illya replied. "I will continue to use Brezhnev."
"Excellent," Napoleon said. "Carry on, then."
Centering himself, Illya focused on the touch, sounds, and smells around him. Sitting astride his lover, it was easy to find his hips and slide his boxers down them, and an altogether appealing task to find Napoleon's cock by touch and smell.
"Ah, my Illyushka," Napoleon sighed as Illya's lips brushed his shaft. There were fingers in Illya's hair now, caressing at times, tugging at others. Illya hummed with pleasure, absorbing the taste and texture of Napoleon's sex. Deprived of one sense, he feasted on the others.
Napoleon groaned loudly when Illya finally took the hard length into his mouth, slowly swallowing it down to the root. Napoleon's fingers in his hair were clutching now, almost painfully, but Illya welcomed the additional sensation, moaning softly around the cock filling his mouth.
Illya didn't miss his vision at all now and quickly lost himself in his task. Starting slowly, he drew back from Napoleon's cock, then lowered himself, taking it all in again, then drawing away once more. With a musician's perfect sense of timing, he could stretch this 'accelerando' out for as long as he wished… or as long as his Top wished. Illya stopped at the gentle touch on his face, lifting his mouth away and waiting to hear what his Top wanted.
"Now…" Napoleon began a little breathlessly. "Now, hands behind your back. Let me do the work."
"As you wish," Illya said, eyes still obediently closed, even as he felt another little lurch of desirous dread. He moved back down Napoleon's legs a bit to put himself at a more comfortable angle and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he leaned forward once more to lower his mouth over Napoleon's erect cock. He had very little control now… but then that was the idea, wasn't it?
Napoleon's hands were back in his hair, stroking affectionately as he began to thrust gently into Illya's mouth. "That's perfect," he murmured. "You're perfect, my Illyushka, just taking it… taking my cock…"
And there was a certain serenity to just taking it, Illya knew and was coming to discover once again. He could let everything else go, trust Napoleon, and know that he would always be safe. He could open his throat and let Napoleon use him, take pleasure from him, and love him. Nothing could be more freeing; nothing else held such serenity and such arousal... and Illya had to remember that he wasn't allowed to come.
He could have, easily, without laying so much as a finger on himself. He could feel himself growing closer, but his Top's pleasure and instructions had to come first. Focusing on Napoleon alone, he pushed his own desire and needs into the background. He must be only a vessel and when Napoleon's climax came, a share of it would be his as well. That moment was drawing near; the harshness of Napoleon's breaths and the accelerating tempo of his thrusts into Illya's mouth were clear indicators. Illya moaned with desire at the salty taste of his Top's release, and felt it as his own.
He remained with his mouth over Napoleon's softening cock, however, until a nudge on his shoulder gave him permission to withdraw. Eyes still closed, hands still locked behind his back, Illya let himself be drawn into his Top's arms, opened to his plundering kiss and basked in the tranquility of his submission. This had been easy, however, and Illya felt sure that his tasks would become more difficult as the day went on.
"Perfectly lovely, as always, my Illushka," Napoleon said at last. "Now for a shower and breakfast, and then we'll discuss the rest of the day. Illya nodded, but already he was feeling some of his tranquility seep away. Contemplating what the rest of the day might bring left him uncertain and anxious. He was sure that Napoleon was aware of it, but he guided Illya through their shower without saying another word about it, with the exception of letting Illya know that he'd have the convenience of an actual blindfold once they were done with the shower. Illya knew better than to ask him if he'd be wearing it all day.
Once they were showered, and Napoleon dressed (Illya remained unclothed —save for the blindfold and his collar— and he knew better than to ask about that too) Napoleon had Illya settle himself on a kneeling bench in the kitchen while he cooked breakfast. The simple mundanity of it was comforting and the sounds of Napoleon cooking, the easily identifiable smells of bacon, butter, eggs, and toast made the activities as clear to Illya as if he had his eyes open.
By the time Napoleon had laid the single place setting, and moved Illya's kneeling bench to in front of the table, Illya had a good idea that he was going to be fed his breakfast. It was a common enough practice between Tops and subs, but Illya had never had any relationship with a Top that went beyond a couple of evenings of play. He'd always thought it a little ridiculous, but now he began to see the profound psychological effect it could have. He wanted to fight it —hated the idea that he could be willingly made so helpless— but could do nothing to object short of ripping the blindfold off and bailing on the whole exercise.
Instead he compliantly accepted the forkfuls of eggs and bites of bacon and buttered toast that were pressed to his lips. It was in every way the same food he would have eaten for breakfast himself, and he was hungry, but every bite seemed a blow against his very autonomy.
"You think I don't know how hard this is for you, Illushka?" Napoleon asked, gently caressing his cheek between bites. "I know it's hard and you're doing very well, but you're still fighting. I can see it in the way you're holding your body." When Napoleon laid a hand on Illya's shoulder, massaging the muscles there briefly, Illya, too could feel how tensely he was holding them. He sighed and slumped a little.
"I know you're trying," Napoleon said. "But that's not going to be good enough. Don't try, Illya; just be."
Illya's initial reaction to this advice was a wave of seething resentment, but it passed in a moment and, in its passing, left a remnant of sense. Don't react; don't resent; don't anticipate; just be. Could he do that? Well, since he was going to have to, he'd better learn how.
Could he forget what it meant that someone else was giving him the sustaining nourishment he needed, bite by bite, simply accept that he was getting what he needed and that it was even fairly tasty, and leave it at that? Heaving a sigh, Illya willed the tension from his body and in the same breath narrowed his thoughts to the simple moment-by-moment reality. It was, indeed, easier to lose himself in the soft crunch and buttery flavor of the toast Napoleon fed him, without the use of his eyes. There was much to contemplate in the harmony of the flavors of the eggs, pepper, and bacon alone.
There was enough to sustain him, too. Napoleon knew his appetite, and frequently chided him like a Jewish (or Italian) grandmother about how he was too thin. He fed Illya till he was full, but not too full, then wiped his mouth when he was done and left him kneeling while he went to wash the dishes. Left to his own thoughts, Illya enjoyed the lingering flavors of breakfast on his tongue, and the pleasant domestic sounds of Napoleon doing the washing up. After a bit he asked Illya to come help dry, which he was happy to do. It was an absorbing task without his vision, but one he was entirely capable of doing.
All of this was engaging enough that Illya quite forgot his anxiety about what else was to come in the day, but it all came back when they finished in the kitchen and Napoleon lead him to the sofa to explain what was next. They'd barely sat down, however, when Napoleon made a thoughtful noise and stood again. A moment later Illya heard the sound of Napoleon rummaging in some drawer, and then he was sitting at Illya's side again.
"It didn't bother me when you were Topping me," he said. "And when I Topped you previously, I figured I could just ignore it, but I can't do that anymore." There was the subtle yet unmistakable sound of tape being dispensed and a second later a slight pressure against his collar, over the spot where the enameled emblem of the Soviet Union was fastened.
"You're mine, and I won't see another Top's, or another State's claim on you," Napoleon continued. "I won't endanger you by removing your collar, though you have no idea how much I want to, but this electric tape covers the emblem nicely, and if I don't look too hard, it blends right in with your collar. I'll take the tape off when we go out, because I know better than to think you —and we— aren't being watched, but I won't have it when we're in private."
The fierce possessiveness in Napoleon's voice touched something primordial deep in Illya's psyche. It made him want to fall at Napoleon's feet and worship him, but then the bit about 'going out' registered itself on Illya's consciousness, and all the submissive tranquility he'd attained over the last few hours shattered like glass.
"Going out?" he sputtered, sitting up straight, eyes wide open behind the blindfold.
Napoleon's first response was a deep sigh and Illya could tell he was shaking his head in dismay. "That's two," he said. "That's strokes with a cane I'm counting, in case you're curious."
"But…!" Illya begged, aware that he was just making things worse but unable to stop himself. "I can't… You can't…"
"Hush now, Illyushka," Napoleon's hand on his shoulder was heavy, pressing him back down into the sofa, and also calming. "Take a moment to think about it. You know I'm not going to endanger your health by making you go out naked, though you may not like what I give you to wear. You also know that I would never allow you to be identified in a… compromising situation. We're both still UNCLE agents and have to work within certain restrictions. That's not going to change."
The simple sense of Napoleon's argument, and his calm, implacable tone relaxed Illya to some degree, though he remained deeply unhappy with the prospect of going out in public. He nodded unhappily.
"What you've forgotten here," Napoleon's voice was more admonishing now. "And what's going to cost you three more strokes, is that you're supposed to be trusting me, to take care of you, protect you, and keep you safe. We will be going out, but you will be completely safe. You're going to have to trust me on that."
"Yes, Napoleon," Illya answered, truly contrite now. He did trust Napoleon with his life, with his heart, and with his submission, but that latter was going to be harder than it seemed. "I… I am sorry."
"Sshh," Napoleon said, leaning forward to kiss his forehead tenderly. "There's no need to be sorry. I'm asking you… really pushing you, into situations that are well beyond anything you've ever done, or wanted to do before, and you still have your safeword, Illya. You need to use it if it's really too much."
"You know that's a luxury I won't have back in Russia," Illya said, downcast.
"No," Napoleon answered, "but we aren't there yet. All you need to think about is what's going on at the moment. You leave all the rest to me."
Illya nodded, letting go a heavy sigh. "I knew that this would be difficult, but I did not realize just how difficult it would be."
"I had a feeling," Napoleon said. "But I have no doubts that you'll get there in the end. Everything you need is in here," he laid a hand over Illya's heart. "You just need to find it." He leaned in closer then, to kiss Illya on the mouth, and it was as if he was breathing serenity directly into Illya's soul. He drank it up until Napoleon gradually ended the kiss, his hand gently caressing Illya's face.
"Now," he said calmly. "I'm going to sit here and read the paper while you kneel here beside me, and if you're very good, I'll read you the funnies."
Compliantly, Illya slipped down to kneel at his Top's feet and after a moment or two began to feel himself grow comfortable in the position. He relaxed and leaned against Napoleon's legs, coming eventually to lay his head on his knees. He sighed with honest pleasure when Napoleon began to run his fingers through Illya's hair, caressing him absently as he read. Any thoughts of how demeaning this might look were quickly extinguished by the soul-deep sense of peace that settled upon him. Illya had never in his life imagined, kneeling here in contented submission, that he would ever find any pleasure in an act like this, but it was something more profound than pleasure that he felt now.
The passage of time became irrelevant as Illya found himself contentedly immersed in the sounds of the ticking clock and Napoleon making little commentary hums and clucks as he made his way through the paper. Napoleon's touch, gently stroking his hair or caressing an ear kept him in that moment, safe and protected.
"I can't tell you," Napoleon said, laying down the paper eventually, "how sweet it is to have you here like this. I've never had this with anyone before, Illya, never wanted it… didn't ever think I'd ever do anything like this with you… and it's better than I ever imagined."
"I… would have to say the same," Illya murmured, still relaxed against Napoleon's leg.
He felt Napoleon's posture change then, and the fingers in his hair became possessive. "We're going to do this, Illya," he said. "There's no way anyone's taking you from away me now. Not after this."
"No," Illya echoed, thrilling at the dark ferocity in his Top's voice. "Not after this."
"I'm going to fuck you now," Napoleon said, lifting Illya by the shoulders to kiss him hard. Strangely, none of this seemed sudden or unexpected to Illya, but he could feel himself growing hard almost instantly. Napoleon stood and pressed something —ah ha, a small tube of lube— into his hand.
"I need to get something from the other room," Napoleon said. "Prepare yourself."
Illya found himself momentarily stunned at just how hot that was, and how very hard he suddenly was, but he complied with his Top's instructions. He was kneeling on the sofa, thighs spread wide and two well lubed fingers up his ass when he heard Napoleon approach again.
"Jesus Mary and Joseph…" he heard Napoleon said, a trifle unsteady. "That's… there should be laws against anything that hot."
"Just following instructions," Illya said, not the least bit smug.
"That's six," Napoleon growled and there was the sound of a belt being opened, trousers unzipped.
"What!?" Illya cried as his fingers were removed. Then there were grasping hands on his hips and then he was impaled, filled and claimed by Napoleon's cock.
Illya threw back his head and shouted, an animal noise of lust and surrender, and Napoleon held him still, letting Illya's body become accustomed to his presence until it seemed like an intrusion no longer. Then Napoleon began thrusting, deep and hard. Within moments, Illya's very breaths came to be dictated by the driving rhythm of Napoleon's thrusts. He let his head fall onto the back of the sofa, giddy in the freedom of letting Napoleon use him.
"Remember," Napoleon commanded, voice harsh with arousal and exertion. "No coming!"
Illya's groan was one of mixed frustration and ecstasy in his submission. He was Napoleon's. He came at Napoleon's pleasure alone, not his. Illya's pleasure belonged to Napoleon, along with every other part of him.
But Illya was allowed to partake in his Top's pleasure. When he felt Napoleon's thrusts become faster and more urgent, heard him cry out, "Oh… fuck, Illya!" in his climax, Illya knew that completion was his to share in, and so he did and groaned aloud with the pure bliss of it.
"Jesus… Jesus Illya," Napoleon was murmuring as they both caught their breaths, feeling their heartbeats gradually begin to slow. "God in heaven, you have no idea…" he said, reaching up to stroke Illya's hair and then straightening, not pulling himself from Illya's body yet.
"Don't be so sure," Illya mumbled, pleasure saturated. "Only please do not give me another stroke for that."
"Not for that, no," said Napoleon, a fond smile evident in his tone. He leaned over Illya to kiss him on the shoulder, then pulled back, letting himself slip out. Before Illya had even a moment to miss the comforting sensation of fullness, something else came to fill him, cool and smooth and not too uncomfortable when Napoleon asked Illya to stand.
"I know how much you like having me inside you," Napoleon said, drawing him close to kiss him deeply, then pulling his head down to rest on Napoleon's shoulder. "So now you'll have me there all day."
All day? Illya was still hard, and just thinking about Napoleon's cum trapped inside him with this butt plug made him harder.
"I can see you like that idea," Napoleon said with a chuckle. "You'll like sitting down even more; Come on, sit next to me on the sofa and I'll read you the funnies, like I promised. You were definitely, very good."
The fact that Napoleon actually knew which comics Illya took interest in was just one more thing, along with the warmth of Napoleon's body where Illya leaned up against it, Napoleon's strong arm around his shoulders, and the gentle, arousing pressure of the butt plug inside him. With attention to detail and some dramatic flair, Napoleon recounted the antics of Beetle Bailey, Alley Oop, Linus and Lucy. He knew somehow that Illya had long ago lost interest in the ins and outs of life on Gasoline Alley, but had somehow gotten reluctantly drawn into the adventures of Mark Trail. He actually cracked Illya up with his description of the latest prank pulled by The Katzenjammer Kids, and surprised Illya with a few of the more interesting facts from Ripley's Believe It Or Not.
"You sure you haven't missed your calling?" Illya asked when Napoleon finally laid the paper down.
"Alas, the world of entertainment and comedy must do without me," Napoleon said, "as I have chosen to answer a higher calling. At the moment, however, I fear its nature's call I'm needing to answer at the moment. What about you?"
On to Chapter 3