"The Theremin's Protege Affair" Pt 1, Ch 3
-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
Illya did, in fact, have to pee, so they went to take care of this together, Napoleon holding Illya's cock when he went to relieve himself. This was not as awkward as it might have been, as both Napoleon and Illya had had to endure similar 'indignities' when injured in the field. Napoleon cleaned them both up after this, then led Illya back to the bedroom and sat him on the bed while he rummaged through his closets.
"I guess I'll start with the essentials," Napoleon said, moving to Illya's left, where his toy closet was. "And see what goes with that."
Illya felt something pressed into his hands, assessed first that it was of leather and second that it comprised something like a bag. Further exploration revealed strategically placed openings —two small ones over the ears, a mask shaped one, now covered with another piece of leather snapped into place over it that would be for eyes, one below that for the nose, and a larger one which could be zipped closed below that, for the mouth. The lacings up the back made its purpose crystal clear.
"The hood will allow you to be seen in public, but not identified," Napoleon explained, but Illya got it already, feeling his anxiety and anticipation rise in equal measures. To his credit, Illya did not balk even for a second at the leather harness Napoleon gave him to put on first. The straps went over his shoulders, crossed over his back and chest, and passed between his legs, where it included a component which enclosed and supported his genitals, and which kept his butt plug secure. Next Napoleon handed him a garment which seemed to be something like harem pants —silky and sheer and fairly voluminous— and an altogether ornamental vest, decorated with swirling patterns of braid-work that Illya could feel under his fingers.
Then there were sandals, flimsy and no doubt ridiculous looking, but fastening securely to his feet, Illya noticed. If he did have to run or do anything active they would stay on his feet and not flop around uselessly. In fact, Illya realized, the whole outfit was like that. Napoleon had promised him that he would keep Illya safe, and in this getup, as provocative as it was, Illya would still be able to render himself ready for action in a matter of seconds. The final touch left Illya profoundly grateful and chagrined that he had ever doubted his Top.
"This looks fairly decorative," Napoleon said, fastening the bejeweled ankle sheath just above Illya's left foot, "but the stiletto in there is no theater prop. You have to know that I'd never let you go out unarmed. You are a beauty, but a deadly one and I wouldn't want anyone seeing you to imagine otherwise."
Illya did not think that he would be risking another stroke to reach for his Top's face so that he could kiss it, and he was not mistaken. The kiss was sweet and lingering, and at its conclusion Napoleon told Illya to close his eyes, slipped the blindfold off and the leather hood on. Napoleon took a moment or two tugging it into place, then, after checking that Illya was comfortable and could breathe freely, pulled the laces tight and tied them.
"All right then," Napoleon said, dusting off his hands with satisfaction. "Stand up and let's have a look at you." Illya did as instructed, feeling the butt plug shift within him but held secure in the harness, and the silky fabric of the harem pants caressed his legs pleasantly.
"Turn around, please," Napoleon instructed next and Illya complied, confirming how securely the sandals clung to his feet. Napoleon gave an altogether pleased sigh.
"Every Top in the street who sees me with you on my leash today will know that I'm the luckiest Top in New York… and maybe the world."
Unaccustomed as he was to praise which did not come with an ulterior motive, it took a moment for the word 'leash' to register on Illya's consciousness, but the soft snick of the leash being fastened to his collar brought it home to him with a lurch. He'd never in his life been leashed before and the immediate associations that came to him were of being restrained, controlled and little better than caged. Feeling the actual tug of a leash on his collar now, however, and knowing whose hand held the other end, left Illya with a wholly different set of impressions instead.
Being his own man, a citizen of the world and an agent of UNCLE meant being subject to a host of duties, responsibilities and obligations. Illya felt these things no differently than anyone else, and therefore thought little of them, even when they weighed heavily upon him. Being on the end of Napoleon's leash, however, was like having every bit of that weight lifted away. The leash's very public declaration that he was not his own man ought to have felt debasing in the worst way, but instead it was freeing, beyond what Illya had words to express.
Something in his manner caught Napoleon's attention now, and Illya felt his hand on his shoulder, grasping it gently. "You okay?" he asked.
Illya nodded. "Yes, I am well," he replied. "Just... this is something new for me."
"Me too, tovarisch," Napoleon said warmly, stroking his arm. "But it's a good kind of new."
"Yes," Illya said, leaning close to his Top. "It is."
Good as it was, Illya felt himself become instantly hyper-aware of his surroundings the moment they left Napoleon's flat. There were tiny bells on his sandals which tinkled faintly as he walked down the corridor, a step or two behind his Top's left shoulder, and entered the elevator. Illya felt the drop as they began to descend.
"You haven't asked me what color your outfit is," Napoleon commented in the close silence.
"You will inform me if you wish me to know," Illya replied tranquilly. He could hear Napoleon make an approving noise in response and a moment later felt a kiss at the back of his neck.
"What a perfect wonder you are, my Illya," he said with a smile Illya could hear. "As if I could put you in anything but black. The pants are all black, and the vest is black too, but with a little bit of gold in the braid-work. Naturally, the leather is all black as well."
Illya was glad that Napoleon could not see the chagrin on his face, for he'd assumed that Napoleon would dress him in some ridiculously gaudy outfit, forgetting somehow that it was impossible for his Top to do anything in bad taste. The picture Illya had of himself now underwent a significant transformation, and suddenly Illya felt quite pleased with the image he must now present. He felt as if he were making some sort of grand entrance as the elevator came to a stop and the door opened.
Stepping out into the lobby, Illya took in the new scents of stale cigar smoke and whatever they used to clean the floors. He stayed at Napoleon's shoulder as they crossed this space and Illya knew just when the doorman opened the doors in front of them, partially because of the wave of sounds and smells from the street, and partially because of the doorman's stuttered greeting as they approached. It was Napoleon's name he spoke, stumbling over the words in surprise, but not Illya's, because he had no idea who Illya was, in spite of the fact that he opened the doors for Illya as often as he did for Napoleon. The freedom of this anonymity was heady.
"I would like people to know that you are not to speak with them," Napoleon said as they paused just outside the door, "and that they are not to speak to you, so I'm going to zip the mouth closed, but if you need to speak just touch the zipper there and I'll open it for you."
Illya nodded in compliance, then again when Napoleon asked if he could breathe well enough. Illya didn't mind it at all, feeling somehow even more protected with the whole of his face hidden. As they set out Napoleon reminded him of the steps leading down from their building and he continued to murmur quiet instructions and guidance as they made their way down the street. At first, Illya tried to picture the street and its shops in his mind's eye, guessing at their progress, but soon found this attempt to be futile. The smells and sounds around him served as a better indicator of their surroundings and focusing on these put him back in that moment by moment headspace.
He gradually became aware, catching the occasional remark or interrupted conversation, that people were noticing him, too. There was nothing unusual about a decoratively dressed sub being led down the street on a leash, but he, it was coming to dawn on Illya, was no ordinary decoratively dressed sub. Napoleon's praise was no mere flattery, for he was beautiful and deadly, and though others who saw him might look and lust and desire him for themselves, the leash made it clear that he was not to be had.
Illya found himself unconsciously adopting the upright and graceful posture he'd employed as a young gymnast, and remembered how he'd felt the eyes of the judges and spectators upon him in those days, and known himself to be among the best. He walked at Napoleon's side now with poise and dignity, the object of admiration for the whole street and enjoyed far more than he'd expected.
He was aware only in passing of their progress down the block, noting only when they stopped. First there was the greengrocers, where Napoleon always chatted up the proprietor's old mother in Italian, then the butchers -obvious by the smells and sounds of the cleaver striking the chopping block. The bakery where Napoleon claimed the best baguettes were to be gotten was evident half a block away by smell, though the tobacconist only became apparent once they had opened the door and stepped inside.
Here Napoleon bought a pack of Silk Cuts and a magazine —probably that men's fashion magazine which he refused to subscribe to, but bought every issue of, regardless. Well, Illya would have to admit now that Napoleon had no monopoly on vanity in their relationship.
They stopped to sit for a short rest and for Napoleon to smoke one of his Silk Cuts, in a small park, evident by the sound of trees rustling in the spring breeze, dogs barking, the clatter of pigeons' wings. Illya sat beside him on the bench, simply being an object of admiration for all who saw him.
"I'd like to stop at Korngold's and get a couple of their sandwiches for lunch," Napoleon said when he'd extinguished his cigarette, which Illya could identify from the unpleasant smoldering cigarette butt smell, "but I'm going to ask you to make a choice first. You can eat on your own, through the mask, at the deli, or we can get the sandwiches to go and we'll eat at home, but I'll feed you."
Oh the fiendishness of the man! Illya smiled wryly to himself as Napoleon unzipped his mouth to hear his answer. Did he value his independence so much that he would prefer to eat in public while wearing this hood? Alternatively, was he willing to admit that being fed by Napoleon's hand was not so bad… and possibly even quite pleasant? In the end there was no real question.
"Let us eat at home, please, Napoleon," he said, acquiescing. He would swear that he could actually feel the beam of Napoleon's grin as he bent to kiss Illya's mouth through the opening in the mask.
"Lunch at home it is," Napoleon said, preparing to zip Illya's mouth closed again. "Oh, what kind of sandwich would you like? I recommend a large lunch, as dinner will be late, after the, ah, 'main event' I have planned for this evening."
Illya nodded in understanding and requested a pastrami with Swiss on rye, knowing that Korngold's made all their deli sandwiches like a small mountain of meat and cheese. Napoleon zipped him closed then and soon brought them both to the deli where he ordered their sandwiches plus a pint of coleslaw and a couple of pieces of cheesecake.
The walk home seemed largely uneventful to Illya, though he had the sense of people passing him a bit closer than they ought on the busy sidewalk. Also, he thought he sensed a growing tension in Napoleon as they neared their own building. Hearing his Top heave a great sigh of relief as they entered the lobby confirmed his suspicions.
"Christ almighty!" Napoleon said as they waited for the elevator. "I thought I was going to have to deck somebody out there. You are way too tempting for some people to keep their hands off, evidently."
Illya's mouth was still zipped closed, so he only tilted his head up in an inquisitive manner, following his Top into the elevator when he heard it arrive.
"Apparently this city is full of people who do not get the basic concept that a leashed sub is not public property," Napoleon said heatedly. "No matter how tempting… and you are devastatingly tempting. That much I have to admit."
The flush of delight that Illya felt at being the object of such bad behavior was altogether new to him and altogether pleasant. Ordinarily he loathed being noticed, and did his utmost to be essentially invisible, part of the background. Of course, much of that had to do with his occupation, but it had long been his preference by nature, even before he had become a spy. He'd never considered how being anonymous might allow him to experiment in a little exhibitionism.
"And you," Napoleon commented as they left the elevator. "You enjoyed that way too much, didn't you?" Illya nodded, sure that Napoleon was aware of his chagrined smile under the mask.
"Well," Napoleon said after a moment, "I rather enjoyed being the man holding your leash… at first, anyhow."
Back in the apartment, Napoleon put away the shopping, then lead Illya into the bedroom to change him out of his 'street-wear'. He began by sitting behind Illya on the bed to unlace the hood and, still a little giddy with all the attention, Illya's curiosity got the better of him. He knew he was standing in front of a mirror, and thought that Napoleon, still behind him, would not notice if he disregarded, for a moment only, Napoleon's command to keep his eyes closed as he removed the hood and replaced it with the blindfold. Illya caught only the barest glimpse of his reflection, pale skin adorned with black silk and leather, before a hand was clapped over his eyes.
"Ah, ah!" Napoleon chided. "That'll be two more, I'm afraid. That brings you up to what… eight strokes?"
"Yes," answered Illya, shoulders slumped, his previous euphoria vanished. How he had not considered that Napoleon would also be looking in that mirror, Illya could not fathom, but he had no one to blame but himself.
"There, there," Napoleon comforted mildly as he replaced the blindfold and removed the rest of Illya's outfit. "I figured your curiosity would be your undoing sooner or later."
Divested finally of all his clothing save for the blindfold and the butt plug —still securely in place, Illya followed Napoleon back to the kitchen where he returned to the kneeling bench and waited for Napoleon to feed him his lunch. Feeling chastened from having been caught peeking, he meekly accepted the food Napoleon placed at his lips, be it a bite of sandwich, pickle, or coleslaw or a sip of mineral water to wash it down. The food was as delicious as always, however, and soon Illya became lost in the symphony of flavors playing on his tongue —as 'conducted' by his Top.
Bite by bite, he made his way through the entirety of the sandwich, two kosher dill pickle spears and a considerable amount of coleslaw. Sated and comfortably full, Illya hoped that Napoleon did not have anything particularly active in mind next. Of course, he did not.
"For our next… activity, I want you to be in the proper state of mind," Napoleon said once he'd cleared away the remains of lunch. "You'll be prepared for my pleasure, relaxed and compliant. So you'll begin with a nice, long bath —scented, of course."
This sounded perfectly fine to Illya. He was eager to wash away the dust and grime of the city streets, along with the odd bits of lunch which had escaped Napoleon's fingers, and the time spent relaxing in the tub would also give lunch time to settle properly. He followed Napoleon to the bathroom and sat on the toilet while his Top adjusted the water temperature and added various pleasant smelling things to it as it filled. Then he had Illya stand and bend over, so that he could remove the butt plug. Illya made no overt complaint, but he was actually sorry to feel it go.
"I want you clean inside and out," Napoleon said, applying a washcloth to Illya's nether parts. "You'll be filled again soon enough, have no fear." Napoleon had played with the plug a little before removing, so that Illya's cock had begun to harden, and this prospect made it come nearly to full attention. Napoleon chuckled and tormented him further, placing a little kiss on the head over the little barbell piercing Illya had there.
"I'm going to be working in the kitchen while you're in here and I mean for you to be here for a while," Napoleon explained as he helped Illya carefully into the tub. "So if it starts to get cold and you want to run a little more hot water you may. Only keep track and don't let it overflow. Also, no playing with my toys," and here he gently grasped Illya's erect cock, "and no falling asleep. This should be a meditative exercise, where you think about what it is to be my sub and about the nature of your own submission." Illya nodded, feeling his body adjust to the piping hot water Napoleon had run and basking in the comfort of it.
Napoleon hardly needed to have instructed Illya on the focus of his meditations, for as the room fell into silence after Napoleon's departure, his new submissive experiences were all Illya could think about. He had agreed to this exercise —this day-long 'practice' of what lay ahead for them in Russia— so that he would know how to 'behave' with his new Soviet masters. Things had very quickly descended… or perhaps ascended, however, into something fundamentally different and far more profound.
This was nothing to do with behavior, and everything to do with his very nature, the most private core of him. That creature was, at the moment, reveling in the silence and sensory deprivation of the bath, basking in the security of Napoleon's domination. Free of any other distractions, however, Illya's intellectual self was able to reflect upon the situation and analyze it, and he found he had a great deal to consider.
He knew now that he would not be able to merely behave submissively with the authorities into whose hands he would surrender himself soon. He must be that creature which Napoleon had introduced him to today… but that was not altogether a bad thing. The submissive within him, Illya recognized now, was also the survivor. It was the core of strength at his center which could endure nearly anything. He would need that in the weeks to come.
More than that, with Napoleon as his anchor, he would be able to endure even more. If he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Napoleon was his one true Top, then Napoleon became his reason for enduring and his psychological shelter for any torment or humiliation he might be subject to back in the Soviet Union. As he came to understand the beauty of this —the very real protection that Napoleon provided him, even thousands of miles away— Illya found his submissive self and his intellectual self united in their adoration of Napoleon Solo.
Feeling the water growing tepid around him, Illya pulled out the stopper, letting some of the water run out of the tub before refilling it with hot water. The wave of fresh warmth relaxed him further and he leaned back against the smooth porcelain. Napoleon's tub was an immense, claw-footed affair and he could stretch out in it and still have the water cover his knees and most of his chest. The heated water released more of the scents from the bath oils Napoleon had added as well as making Illya's skin feel silky smooth.
It was a shame Napoleon had forbidden him to play with himself, because that would feel quite lovely about now. That was not permitted, however, and the fact that Napoleon trusted him to follow his orders enough to leave his hands unbound was just another one of the countless strands that anchored him to his Top. Illya's sense of absolute security heightened as he recalled all the ways that Napoleon had controlled him, yet always saw to his safety.
Now, for instance, Illya knew that Napoleon had not bound his hands because of the possibility of drowning in the very full bath. Napoleon would never endanger him like that. He had not truly exposed Illya in any unseemly way when they'd gone out, and made sure that Illya would still be able to protect himself. Illya remembered the stiletto at his ankle with especial fondness. Napoleon would protect him and keep him safe, but also respected his strengths and that was a truly miraculous paradox.
Of course, Illya reflected, sinking a little deeper in the warm, lavender-scented water, all this must be something of an odyssey for Napoleon as well. He, like Illya, must be calling on instincts he'd never acted upon before. Was he now meditating as well, as he chopped vegetable for the minestrone Illya could smell faintly beyond his scented bath?
They'd always had this sort of synergy, Illya reflected, his breaths growing slower and deeper as he relaxed. From the very beginning they'd found themselves working in parallel, one's strength matching the other's weakness and vice versa. It was clear now to Illya, as it had been to Napoleon earlier that morning, that theirs was a bond that the Russians would never be able to break. Napoleon was his true 'home' as he himself was for Napoleon —Illya knew that now as certainly as he knew that the Earth revolved about the sun.
He and Napoleon revolved about each other, bound by a gravitic force that neither man nor government nor any other agency would be able to break. This was the image playing in Illya's mind as he drifted, fascinated and utterly serene, into unintended sleep.