If you would prefer to read this story on Livejournal, it can be found at:
pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+vicecollar (replacing 'dot' and 'slash' with their equivalent symbols.)
o o o
Title: Vice Collar
Author: Amory Puck (pucktheplayer on LJ)
Pairings: Peter/Neal, Peter/El, eventual Peter/Neal/El
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: slash, dub-con, non-con, slavery, graphic sex, childhood sexual abuse
Word Count: 7,190 (this part—WIP)
o o o
A Letter From the Author
(Feel free to scroll down if you have no idea who the heck I am or when I left the fandom and just want to read the dang fic!)
Greetings, old friends.
Don't worry, this letter is not included in the chapter word count. ;P It has been almost 16 months on the dot since I last updated this fanfic in August of 2013. I know that most of you thought that it was dead forever, and I admit that I did as well. The truth is, I suffered through a very painful online incident that year, a mishap which left me so stressed and unhinged that I needed anxiety medication to keep from spending my evenings in tears. Note that I am not saying that here to get a lot of 'oh you poor thing!' comments. In fact, the incident ended up being *good* for me in the long run, as it helped me recognize deeper problems within myself. The simple fact that the words of some random people on the Internet could rattle me so badly that my life in the real world started to shatter made me realize that there was a pretty deep problem inside of me that needed fixing. I wanted to be liked so much that when I received what felt like hate instead, I simply couldn't take it.
Even though I didn't know the people from Adam (beyond their place within the fandom, anyway) a few words managed to slice right through my heart and leave me bleeding for months. It became apparent to everyone around me that I was giving unknown people on the Internet WAY too much power over my life, and that I needed to take some time away to create a life outside of fandom, a place where people would judge me on *all* of me, instead of on a handful of kinky stories and an avatar. I just didn't realize it yet. After the incident I tried to continue to participate in fandom, but I could not even watch White Collar anymore, because the show I once loved brought back nothing but bad memories that left me depressed and very, very anxious—as in wringing my hands, screaming into my pillow anxious. The people who hurt me were all I could think of, twenty-four seven, even though they had blocked me immediately after writing to me and I had no way to contact them at all. That was when I realized I had to cut myself off completely until I got it together. I don't blame the people who hurt me for this—they were merely expressing their opinion, and I am sure they had no idea that their words would cut me so deeply. If they had, I know they would not have said them, because to my knowledge they are good people Thankfully, life "on the outside" has been quite good to me. I am now teaching special needs children in a low income school (an interesting experience!), riding horses, SCUBA diving, mermaiding, volunteering, and spending time with family and friends. I no longer look to the internet for my identity at all. In fact, I am rarely online. My school is actually what brought me back here. Where I work, my students (who are intellectually disabled) do not take the state standardized tests, so I had a couple of days to sit around at school doing basically nothing. I ran out of books to read on my Kindle halfway through Tuesday, and I decided to sit down and read through some of my old fanfic. Let's just say that I was less than pleased when I hit Chapter 24 of Vice Collar and it ended out of nowhere! Over the past year and a half I have had many people ask me to finish this fanfic, and I decided to give it a go. I do not know if there is really any interest in it beyond the handful of people who contacted me since I have not been a major part of the White Collar fanfic in so very long, but I decided to continue it for my own pleasure, as well as the pleasure of anyone else who likes reading h/c slave!fic with the promise of a happy ending. Thank you to everyone who has ever read or reviewed this fanfic, and I apologize for how long it has been since I updated—and also for how many freaking typos it has! I will have to set aside some time one day and go through it, fixing the typos. I was in such a rush to get out chapters back in the day that I did not always edit them well. Hopefully you will enjoy this chapter just as much as the others. It's nice to be back. Love to you all. Kisskiss,
Amory Puck
o o o
Chapter 25: Lights, Camera, Action
"You. Sit there," El said, pointing at the armchair across from the couch, then shook her head when Peter made a move in that direction. "Not you. Him." She nodded toward Neal, who was still hovering on the stairs, in all his butt naked glory. Under any other circumstances the fact that his man parts were hanging limp between his legs for all the world to see might have made her blush, but right now she was all business.
"And you, husband of mine. Bend over the couch."
Peter's eyebrows shot up, his face a cartoon of disbelief. He pointed toward himself, and she gave him a sharp nod.
"That's right, you. And drop your pants before you do it. I'll be right back."
With those words El marched toward the kitchen without another look, as if there was no doubt in her mind that her boys would do exactly as she said. In reality, she was pretty sure they'd still be exactly where she left when she returned, but it didn't matter. They'd be doing what she said soon enough.
She pulled open a drawer, rooting through it as she looked for the most appropriate instrument for this little scene. Spatula? Too stiff. Wooden spoon? Too heavy. Egg beater? Nah, wrong kind of beating. And there it was—the perfect tool.
Her favorite vegetable strainer, ready to serve up a single helping of carrots or broccoli or (in this case) whoop ass, whichever she decided to cook up that day.
El took a deep breath, doing her best to center herself and steady her emotions. Right now she had to set her feelings about the little… situation… she'd walked into aside and focus on the real issue at hand: Mending Peter and Neal's completely fucked up relationship.
She turned on her heel and made her way back into the little living where—surprise, surprise—Neal was still hovering uncertainly on the stairs as Peter stared at the couch with something akin to horror.
El put her hands on her hips, glaring at her boys. "Funny, I thought I gave you gentlemen some instructions. Something about Neal and a chair, Peter and a couch…" She frowned, forehead crinkling up as she feigned deep thought. "But I must have been mistaken, because if I had then surely the two of you wouldn't still be standing here, staring at me with your jaws on the floor."
Peter took a step toward her, holding out his arms to her. "Please, El," he said, eyes filling with tears, "I am so sorry. Please forgive me."
"There will be no forgiving right now," El responded primly. "Pants on the floor. Ass over the couch. Now!"
Peter flinched at the harsh command, and El almost felt sorry for her husband… Almost. She had, after all, just walked in on him getting a hand job from their house slave without her permission. What *would* Miss Manners have to say?
"El, I don't know what this is about," Peter said, looking embarrassed, "but I really think we ought to sit down and talk about this."
"The only one I want sitting is *him,*" El said, pointing her Kitchen Aid tool of torture in Neal's general direction. "As for you, I suggest you unbutton those nasty, wet jeans of yours and get them down around your ankles before I decide to shove this thing where the sun doesn't shine and direct you into the position myself."
"Ms. El, please," Neal said, creeping down the stairs like a frightened cat, one careful step at a time. "I swear, it was all my fault—"
"Because everything is always your fault, right honey?" El said. "Well, not tonight. In fact, if I hear you say it was your fault one more time, I'm going to shove this thing down your throat." She waved the spoon threateningly. Well, as threateningly as a spoon could be waved.
Neal's straightened up and his patented con job smile appeared on his face, though it did look a little stiffer than usual. "Okay Ms. El," he crooned as he made his way toward the chair she had assigned him, holding his hands out in the international sign of surrender. "Whatever you say."
At least one of her boys knew how to deal with an angry woman.
Not that El was *really* angry, of course. Was she? Hell, she wasn't sure *what* she was, actually—she was feeling kind of numb—but she was clear on one thing. If someone didn't take control of this situation then this little snowball of miscommunication would soon expand into an avalanche, burying both her boys, and that was simply unacceptable.
Once Neal was perched nervously on the edge of his chair, hands surreptitiously covering his private parts, El turned her attention back to Peter, who was still standing in front of her with a look of confusion on his face and jeans still firmly in place.
"Peter," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "I asked you to remove your pants and bend over the couch. Please do so."
Peter first looked right, and then left, like maybe he expected a reality show host to burst out of nowhere and scream "you've been punked!" Unfortunately for them all, this was no game. No, the events of tonight were most definitely real. One hundred perfect cold, harsh reality.
"Elizabeth," Peter said, face turning a deep shade of red as sweat began to bead on his forehead, "what are you doing?"
"What do you think I'm doing?" El replied in a snippy tone. "I'm asking you to bend over the couch. It's really not all that complicated." She raised an eyebrow pointedly, and her hubby began to shift his weight from foot to foot, wringing his hands nervously.
"Okay," he said, faking a laugh, "I get it. Very funny. A good joke. But could we please sit down and talk about this now?"
"A good joke?" El questioned, hands on her hips. "Are you saying that you think our marriage is a joke?"
"What?" Peter said, obviously panicked. "No! Of course not! Our marriage is most definitely not a joke!"
"Then bend over the couch," El retorted, and this time Peter actually turned to look at the couch, huffing lightly.
"You *really* want me to bend over the couch?"
"And drop your pants," she said, tapping the strainer lightly against her hand. "You've been a very bad boy, Peter, and you deserve to be punished."
If El had thought Peter was red before, now he was giving Elmo a run for his money.
"I am not going to do that," he said through gritted teeth. "And don't talk to me like I'm a little boy."
A little boy, or a *slave*.
"You're a boy if I say you're a boy," she said, stepping toward her hubby until their upper bodies brushed against one another. "You have two choices," she said, lifting up on her tippy toes so she could meet his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was cold, despite the fact that being this close to her husband always warmed her up, this time being no exception. "I'm giving you a choice, Peter. You can either drop your pants and bend over that couch, or you can dial up the lawyer and ask him to start filing the divorce papers."
Peter's eyes flashed with fear, and guilt flooded El's heart, but she didn't allow it to show on her face. This was for Peter's own good. For all their good. Someone had to take control of this situation or somebody was going to get hurt. Not that every single one of them hadn't already been hurt, but El had a feeling that if something didn't change soon then there was a lot more pain on the horizon, and it was approaching at full speed, guns locked and loaded.
"I-I…" Peter glanced back at the couch again, swallowing hard. "I can't."
"What do you mean you can't?" Neal spoke up suddenly, sounding shocked. "You love her more than anything in the world, and you can't bend over a damn couch for her?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Master, but you're out of your mind."
El hid a smile. You had to love a romantic.
Peter's eyes narrowed at the slave. "You don't understand."
"I may be a slave, but I'm not stupid," Neal shot back. "I would do anything for *my* wife." He paused. "I mean, if I was allowed to have a wife."
"Thank you for your support, Neal," El said, holding the veggie strainer out to him. "This is for you."
Neal's eyes locked on it, and his shoulders slumped, a defeated look coming over his features. "Of course, Mistress El," he said in a low voice. "I am happy to take my punishment."
"Oh you're not taking the punishment," El said.
Neal blinked, brow furrowing up. "Okay… Then why do I need that?"
El flashed a bright smile. "Because you're going to be giving it."
o o o
Neal stared at the metal spoon in disbelief, a sick feeling rising in his gut. Ms. El couldn't mean what he thought she'd meant. He must have misheard, misunderstood, misinterpreted, *mis-something*.
"I'm sorry, Mistress," he said in a shaky voice, "but I don't understand."
"There isn't much to understand," El said, still holding out the spoon. "Peter has been bad. You are going to punish Peter."
Neal's gut twisted and his heart started to pound. Ms. El wanted him to beat his master? This was even more insane than Master risking his marriage over one little spanking. "I-I'm sorry, but I can't do that, Ms. El," he said, feeling a little lightheaded. "He's my master. I can't hit my master."
"I'm your mistress," she replied in a logical tone. Because this was all so very logical. "And I'm his wife, which is basically the same thing as being his mistress, if we're honest. So he is going to drop his pants and bend over that couch, while you are going to take this strainer and whack the shit out of him. Comprende?"
Neal stared at her in disbelief. What was this, some kind of twisted revenge for pleasuring her husband? Forcing him to hit Peter so that Peter could turn around and beat him again, but for real this time? Like he had pummled that bed? Or maybe a way to get him arrested? Force him to attack a freeman so he would be sent back to prison? Surely that wasn't it. It couldn't be. Could it?
Neal would never have thought such cruel machinations to be possible of Ms. El, but then she wouldn't be the first freeperson he had underestimated. Nor the first freeperson who had betrayed him.
But then, really, he had been the one who betrayed her, hadn't he? In fact, she had been nothing but kind to him, giving him a towel and keeping his secrets and offering to swoop in and save him from the hat stealer at the push of a button. Yet he had repaid her by seducing her beloved husband, using his fuckling wiles to trap Peter, forcing the man to break his vows to the woman he loved just so Neal could feel a little more secure in his place.
What kind of fucked up slave was he?
Neal held back a sob as he stepped forward and gingerly accepted the spoon from El, staring down at the utensil like it was his worst nightmare. And, technically, it was.
"Peter, if you love me then you will do as I say." El's soft voice broke Neal out of his maudlin thoughts, and he looked up, eyes widening in astonishment as he saw tears shining in his master's eyes, fists clenched in obvious frustration. Why in the world was Peter crying? Was he really that afraid of a stupid little spoon? It wouldn't even hurt that bad.
"Elizabeth," Peter said in a hoarse voice, a look of shame on his face, "I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't. You know how big my stupid ego is. I'm sorry, but I just can't."
"Master, I don't think this is a good time for joking," Neal said, as if that wasn't obvious.
Peter turned to look him in the eye. "It's no joke, Neal. I can't do this. It goes against everything I believe in. Relationships are supposed to be about equality and friendship and love. Not revenge and punishment and humiliation."
Neal's mouth dropped open. Surely Peter wasn't going to lose his wife over one stupid little whipping? Not even a whipping. Barely more than a spanking. Ms. El was pretty much the perfect woman… Would he really give that up? She had all the looks of Kate plus the brains of Mozzie—minus the insanity— and the sympathy of… of… actually, he had never met anyone as sympathetic as Ms. El. Surely Peter wasn't going to choose his *ego* over El.
"So what you did a few minutes ago, the way you went behind my back and touched a slave who couldn't say no if he wanted to… That was equality, Peter? That was your definition equality and friendship and love?" El's gaze didn't waver as Peter flushed and crossed his arms, hugging his chest protectively.
"No," he said, tears still threatening to spill over. "No, absolutely not."
"Then do it, Peter," El whispered in a voice as soft as it was commanding. It was the kind of voice that made Neal want to drop to his knees and quiver at a person's feet. Damn, he had never met a mistress who was so, well, *masterly* before.
Peter's jaw clenched, adam's apple bobbing as he eyed his wife, his body stiff with tension.
"Master," Neal whispered, glancing back and forth between Peter and El. He could not be the one responsible for destroying their marriage. He really couldn't be. "Just do it. Please. It's no big deal."
Peter shook his head rapidly, as if trying to clear it, then ran his big, sweaty hands through his hair, leaving it a spiky mess. Sweat stains were starting to show at his pits and, if Neal wasn't mistaken, it looked at though his knees were literally shaking.
"Please, El, let's just sit down and—"
"Bend over, Peter! RIGHT NOW!"
Neal and his master both leapt into the air at the shout, staring at El in disbelief. Neal had never even imagined Ms. El raising her voice like that. It didn't even seem possible that such fury could come from that cheerful self. It was so out of character that it was almost unbelievable. In fact, it was unbelievable.
Ms. El had overplayed the con.
Neal's eyes narrowed as his mind began to turn. This wasn't Ms. El, standing here in front of them. It was somebody else, a character she'd made up in her mind. However, she obviously hadn't put the kind of work into it that Neal did, because her cover was blown, to him at least. Peter… not so much. He was still standing there with a look of terror on his face. But Neal wasn't fooled, not anymore. Ms. El was up to something, hopefully something that *didn't* end in the filing of divorce papers, and Neal could either call her bluff or play along.
As if Neal would ever pass on a good con job.
While El's out of character actions had set off alarms all over Neal's con artist brain, it looked like they were just enough to startle Peter into action, making Neal wonder for an instant how well the man actually knew his wife. His master lumbered slowly over to the couch and, with a look of pain on his face, bent over the arm. It was more than a little awkward, that big body bent over the slim couch, but Neal had seen worse positions. Had been in them, actually.
El shook her head, painting a look of disappointment on her face. "I said take off your pants first."
Peter pushed himself up abruptly, eyes narrowing. "I am not taking my damn pants off."
"Then I guess you don't love me." The words were flippant, but the look on El's face was not. She was dead serious. Or was acting dead serious, anyway. Hopefully Neal's instincts were right, because if they weren't then Peter's marriage was about to go down the drain over the stupidest things Neal could imagine.
Peter wasn't moving, and Neal shook his head in disbelief. Master had better hope this was a con job. All this over one stupid spanking? It was Ms. El, for God's sake! If it had been Mistress Kate, Neal would have bent over in a second.
They stood there for a long time, eyes locked together, and just when Neal thought Ms. El was going to drop the con and run—possibly for real—Peter dropped his head, letting out a deep sigh.
"Alright," he whispered. "I'll do it, okay? I'll do it for you."
o o o
Peter's face burned as he fumbled with the button on his jeans, a task that suddenly seemed much more difficult than it had when Neal slim body was draped over his lap. He hadn't felt this humiliated since his first day at the Academy, when he'd been singled out by one of his superiors and forced to strip down to his underpants and do a hundred pushups in front of the other candidates. He'd been scrawny back then, pushing nothing but paper, and had stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the brawny jocks that made up most of his class. He remembered their laughter, their snide remarks, their crude innuendos like it was yesterday.
'Tighty Whitey,' they'd all called him, or 'Peter Privates'—at least until he started kicking their asses in pretty much everything and had been assigned as trainee head of their class. Then they'd had no choice but to call him 'sir.' After that horrible year he had sworn to himself that no one—no one—would ever put him down like that again. He had rights as a human being, and he wasn't going to let anyone violate them. Except El wasn't those idiots cadets. She was his wife who he loved, and who he'd betrayed.
He deserved this. He really did.
Peter slid his zipper down slowly, feeling sick to his stomach at the mere idea of actually dropping his pants and bending over that damn couch. He knew it was stupid—there was no one here to see other than his wife and his goddamn slave—but he couldn't help it. The act was just plain degrading, no matter how many people saw it. The essence of dehumanization—forced to bend over a couch like a naughty schoolboy. But what else could he do? It should have been an easy choice—a lost wife or a bruised ego. You hardly needed to think about it. And yet he did.
Talk about a swollen head.
Peter swallowed hard and pushed down his jeans, pausing for a moment before dropping his plaid boxers, too. His cock hung limply between his legs, and he couldn't help but try and cover himself with his hands. It was horrible, being exposed like this. How the hell did slaves deal with this?
"Now go lean over the couch."
Peter nodded and began to shuffle toward the couch, the jeans around his ankles effectively hobbling him. He snuck a glance at Neal, wondering if the slave was silently laughing at him. He had to be. The great and powerful Peter Burke, FBI agent extraordinaire, bent over a couch by a woman half his size. He'd be laughing, if he was Neal.
Peter bent over slowly, biting his lip as he tried to find a comfortable position. There really wasn't one to be found—he was too tall for this—and finally he just gave up, letting his upper arms sink into the couch and his ass jut up at an awkward angle.
"Good boy," El said, making Peter's cheeks burn. He wasn't a 'boy,' dammit. He was a man. "Now Neal. Come stand here behind him."
Peter didn't really want to look at his slave, didn't want the see the derision in the other man's eyes, but he couldn't stop himself, craning his neck then furrowing his brow at what he saw. It definitely wasn't laughter. In fact, 'terror' might have been a better definition for Neal's wide eyes and pale face.
"I can't, Ms. El," Neal said in a hoarse voice, clutching the spoon El had given him to his bare chest. "Please don't make me. Please don't."
"It's okay, Neal," Peter said, surprising himself with the words. "Just do it."
Neal stared down at him, shaking his head over and over again. His eyes had begun to shine, and Peter had a feeling that the man was about to burst into tears, though he didn't have a clue why. Peter was the one stuck in this humiliating position, pants around his fucking ankles, waiting to be spanked by the slave who he'd chased for three straight years.
"Neal, don't you think he deserves it?" El asked softly, and Neal shook his head, though his face didn't look so very certain.
"After what happened tonight, you don't think he deserves this?" she prodded, and Neal finally looked up, face serious.
"He's my master, Ms. El."
"Right." El took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, a thoughtful look on her face. "Okay, let's pretend for a moment. Let's pretend that Peter isn't your master, that he's just a slave, okay?" El reached out, brushing Neal's curls. "Let's say that *you're* the master."
"But I can't be—"
El held up a hand, and Neal fell silent. "Neal… You had intimate relations with my husband. Behind my back. Don't you think that you owe me a few minutes of role playing, at the very least?" She caught his eye, raising an eyebrow at him. He stared at her and then gave a small, sharp nod.
"Yes, Ms. El," he said quietly. "At the very, *very* least."
El smiled. "That's a good boy. Now, like I was saying… let's pretend that you're the master, and Peter is the slave."
Neal made a small noise of distress, and El moved toward him.
"Okay, okay," she murmured, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close to her. "You're not the master… You're another slave. How about that? A slave higher up in the household, like Ian is to Toby. Can you handle that?" Neal didn't respond, and she gave him a soft nudge. "Neal, can you handle that?"
Neal looked at her for a long time before responding in a soft voice, "Yes, Ms. El. I can handle that."
"Good. Now, let's pretend that you've just walked in on him with some other freeman, without your permission. You don't entirely blame him—after all, he's only a slave and he can't really say no—but, at the same time, he knows that he is supposed to go to his master before servicing other people. Do you think this," she gestured in Peter's general direction, "is a fair punishment? And please, be honest. As if you were talking about a fellow slave."
Neal ran a hand nervously through his hair, licking his lips, before answering. "Yes, Ms. El. This is an appropriate punishment. A forgiving punishment, even."
Another smile bloomed on El's face. "So if Peter was a slave, and it was your job to punish him, would you have any trouble doing so?"
Neal took a deep breath, letting it out in a whoosh, eyes locking on Peter's face. "No, Mistress, I wouldn't have any trouble punishing him."
"You would just hit him with that," El pointed at the strainer, "and then be done with it."
"That's right," Neal replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared down at the instrument in his hand.
"And how long would it take you?"
"Five minutes, perhaps? No more than that."
El nodded. "And then it would be done, finished, over."
"Yes, Mistress," Neal said.
"Alright, then. That's what I want you to do. You are the, I don't know… the alpha slave? And Peter is the slave in your household who's misbehaved. Now go punish him."
Neal visibly shivered. "I don't… I can't… Oh, God." He buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking, and suddenly Peter's ego didn't feel so big anymore. So what if he was bent over a goddamn couch with his pants hanging around his ankles? It had been his choice to cheat and, technically, his choice to do as his wife said when she ordered him to bend over. He *could* have walked out of the room if he wanted to, marriage be damned. He hadn't stayed because he had to—he'd stayed because he wanted to keep his wife. Neal, on the other hand… Neal had no choices at all.
"It's okay, Neal," Peter said in a soothing voice. "You have my permission. I want you to, okay? In fact, it's an order. I saw today how you took charge of the Toby situation. Do the same thing to me."
Neal's brow furrowed, and Peter could practically see his mind whirring. Was it a trap? Was it a trick? Would Master reward him? Punish him? Love him? Hurt him?
"No tricks, Neal," he said firmly. "Just do what my wife says."
There was a long silence and, for a moment, Peter thought Neal was actually going to refuse, direct order be damned, but then he whispered, "Okay," and moved toward the couch, standing behind Peter.
"Just another slave, Neal," Peter said gently, all the pain and the humiliation having trickled away as he watched Neal trying to be strong as he fought his years of twisted training. "Go ahead and—Shit!"
Peter clenched his teeth as the unexpected blow landed on his ass. Wow, who would have thought that a veggie strainer could sting like that?
He grunted a little as the next blow landed, but he was ready for the third and didn't even flinch. Honestly, once the original shock of it was over, it wasn't that big of a deal. Neal obviously wasn't hitting him very hard, and it seemed like his butt got more numb with each strike anyway.
Four… Five… Six… Seven… Eight…
Hell, this didn't even hurt as much as the paddling his frat brothers had given him his freshman year.
"Ten," Neal said in a surprisingly calm voice as he suddenly appeared back in Peter's view. The scared, uncertain boy from a moment before was gone, and a man stood before him, a resolute look on his face. He dropped down to his knees and reached out, cupping Peter's cheek with his hands as he directed their faces together, foreheads touching.
"No shame on you," Neal said, repeating the strangely ritualistic phrase Peter had heard Ian say to Neal back in the kitchen. It was obvious it had some serious meaning behind it, at least to a slave, but Peter wasn't sure how to respond.
"Um, thank you?" Peter said, hoping that was an acceptable reponse. Apparently it wasn't a total slave faux pas, because Neal gave him a soft smile.
"And that, my dears," El said, the fire gone from her eyes and a cheerful smile pasted on her face, "is a wrap." She moved across the room and pulled her camera phone off the top of the TV, chuckling as she held it up for all to see. "I think we have an Academy Award winner on out hands."
o o o
"Just sit down, Master," Neal said through gritted teeth as Peter glared at his wife, a less than amused look on his face.
"You filmed us. You seriously filmed us? Why the hell would you do that?"
"I will tell why you once you *sit down*," Ms. El said for what had to be the fiftieth time. "Here you go, Neal." She handed him a brightly colored afghan, which he gratefully wrapped around his naked body as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the couch. The whole sitting on furniture thing was actually really nice. He sure was going to miss it when he went back to prison, which is where he was fairly sure he was headed. He *had* whacked the shit out of his master, after all.
"Fine," Peter snapped as he dropped down on the sofa next to Neal, arms crossed over his chest, the look on his face reminiscent of a pouty child's. He smelt like sweat and sex and anger—you know, if anger was actually a smell.
Neal inched away from him as subtly as possible, though he was pretty sure he was off his master's radar for at least the few minutes—Peter's glare of death was reserved entirely for his wife right now.
Ms. El was fiddling with the TV, hooking up her phone to it, and a moment later Peter's red face erupted on the small screen, making Peter groan and cover his face, his big shoulders hunched miserably.
On screen, his hoarse voice whispered, "Please, honey, I—" El held out the remote, hitting a button, and the TV went mute.
"We don't need sound," she said when Neal shot her a curious look. "I just want you two to watch each other for a few minutes. Then we'll delete it, okay? It will be as if it had never existed."
Peter's fists clenched in his lap, but unsurprisingly he didn't argue. After all, Ms. El had some pretty serious shit hanging over his head, thanks to Neal and his whorish escapades. Talk about a terrible night. First he got caught jacking off his master by said master's wife, then he had to beat the same master with a freaking spoon, and now he had to sit next to him and relive every moment.
"So tell me, Neal, what do you see?" El's voice was all brisk and professional, like a damn psychiatrist.
Neal rubbed tiredly at his forehead as he watched the screen. "I don't know, Mistress," he said, sighing. "An angry master?" Hopefully she would be happy with that.
"Angry?" She pursed her lips. "I don't see much anger there, Neal. Look harder."
Neal licked his lips, focusing in on his master.
"Shame," he said quietly. "Master is ashamed. He is—" Neal paused halfway through the sentence, shaking his head. No, that wasn't the right word, either. Slaves felt shame when they'd done wrong, and no doubt Peter was ashamed of the things that Neal had tricked him into doing, but shame didn't quite describe the figure on the screen before him. Hell, if it had been Neal, called out like Peter by the woman he loved, the shame would have completely overwhelmed him, and he would have been desperate to do as Mistress said. He would have been begging to take his punishment, to be forgiven of his sins, but obviously Master wasn't wired in the same way.
Neal's eyes narrowed as he studied Peter's sweaty red face, his clenched fists, his shaking shoulders… Everything about the man screamed one word. It felt foreign to Neal, at least in this situation, but somehow he knew it was right. More than shame, more than fear, more than guilt, Master felt…
"Humiliation. Master is… humiliated."
o o o
"Humiliation. Master is… humiliated."
Peter didn't understand the shock in Neal's voice. The way the boy spoke, it was as if he'd had some giant epiphany, angels singing down from the clouds, that sort of thing. But about what? Of *course* Peter had been humiliated. What else did you feel when someone yanked down your pants and bent you over a couch?
"Thank you, Neal. Now, what do you see, Peter?" El asked, and he jerked his attention back to the TV. Video Neal was now standing behind him, spoon raised in the air, a unusually confident look on his face. It was the same exact look that had left Peter wanting to smack the boy in the face only a few hours ago; the same exact look Neal had when he'd threatened to kill a little boy's beloved toy. But now that Peter thought about it, the look wasn't foreign to him. In fact, he'd seen it in many a time before, in the mirror. It was the look he wore before he took down bad guys and saved innocent people from unwarranted pain. It was the look of a man who knew he was doing the right thing.
"He thinks it's right," Peter whispered, eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him. "He's happy to hit me. The slave. Me. Whatever. He thinks that he's helping me. He thinks he's doing a good thing. Beating a bad slave… It's easy for him, because he thinks it's right. He thinks it means he cares. He really, truly thinks it means he cares."
o o o
El gave her husband a soft smile as she settled down on the couch next to him, wrapping her arms around his stiff body. "Yes," she said quietly. "He does. And if he finds it easy to punish a bad slave…"
"Then he thinks that it's easy for me to punish a bad slave," Peter finished, voice barely above a whisper. "Because I'm the sort of man who does what's right. And punishing slaves is right. So if I don't punish a bad slave, then it means I don't care about him. Because if I cared about him, I would do what's right." Tears were shining in her honey's eyes.
"Do you understand now, Neal?" El asked, leaning forward so she could see the slave around Peter's body. He was clinging to the afghan she'd given him like a life line, eyes locked on the floor. "You think it's easy for him, because it would be easy for you. It *is* easy for you, if it's another slave. But it's not. It's not easy for him, not like it would be for you. And just like you think that punishing a slave is easy for Peter, he thinks that taking punishment is humiliating for you. Not shameful. Not deserved. Humiliating. Really, truly humiliating"
Neal looked over sharply at Peter, blue eyes narrowing. "You really think that?"
"Of course he does," El said with a shrug. "Because it's how he would feel if he were in your place." She gestured toward the television. "The evidence is in—you said so yourself."
Neal shook his head, looking confused. "But… there's a difference between humiliation and punishment. It's not humiliating to be punished, not if you did something you shouldn't have. That's the definition of punishment. It's a consequence."
"But the owner's manual said, right there in black and white, that humiliation and degradation were acceptable forms of punishment," Peter protested, eyes going dark. El wondered idly what other messed up things he'd found in that manual. She'd have to glance over it sometime. It was, after all, pretty much an overview of what Neal's entire life had been up until now.
Neal's mouth opened and shut, then he shook his head again. "Master… whacking someone's ass with a serving spoon is not humiliation. There are plenty of ways to punish a slave through humiliation, but a spanking is not one of them. Spanking is black punishment, like any sort of physical punishment. Humiliation is white punishment. It's psychological."
"And bending over a couch to be whacked with a spoon is humiliating!" Peter said, cheeks reddening at even the memory. "Call it what color you want—it's degrading."
Neal sat back, looking like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "Oh God, Master," he said, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "You are such a freeman. Trust me when I say that there is not a single slave out there who considers an innocent spanking to be white punishment."
"Fine then," Peter snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. "What *would* be white punishment then?"
Neal sighed, sinking down lower on the couch. "Do you really want me to answer that, Master?" he asked in a soft voice.
"Yes," Peter said, pushing El's arms away so that he could lean closer to Neal. "Yes, I want to know. I need to know, because if I don't know, then I might cross that line someday. And I never, ever want to cross that line."
Neal looked over at him, his usually shining blue eyes dulled. "Then I take it you won't be happy if I tell you that you already have?"
Peter's whole body went tense. "Excuse me?" he said, words tight.
Neal shrugged. "I'm not saying you meant to. In fact, I'm pretty sure you didn't mean to at all. But every time you told me how much I deserved to be in that prison doing the things I did…. Every time you reminded me that I could go back any day… That was white punishment at its best. Humiliation and terror, all balled up into a few little words." He shuddered visibly. "Bend me over the damn couch, put me on my knees, fuck me in public—I don't really care. But please, please, please don't tell me I deserved that, because it hurts so much more than any fist." He sniffled and lowered his face, probably to try and hide the tears shining in his eyes.
"No," Peter said, shaking his head. "You can't say that. You can't say that it doesn't hurt, because I've seen the look in your eyes, Neal. I've seen how you look at me when you're on your knees. You *do* care. It's not easy for you."
Neal took a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh as he glared over at Peter. "Fine, okay, I admit it. Sometimes my ego gets a little puffed up and I get all sassy and shit. I've spent so much time playing above my station that sometimes I get annoyed when masters put me in my place. But that stuff… it's not truly humiliating, not like it would be to, well, I guess to you." His eyes flickered to the television set then back to Peter, an annoyed look blooming on his face. "There's a difference between humility and humiliation, Master. Putting me on my knees reminds me that I am supposed to be humble—something we all know I suck at. But it's not humiliating, not like—" He cut off in mid-sentence, pausing to take another deep breath before continuing. "Not like some of that's been done to me." The words fell flat, and El knew they weren't the ones he'd intended to speak.
Apparently her husband agreed, because he said, "Not like what, Neal?"
Neal turned his face away, shaking his head, and Peter reached out, gently touching his arm.
"Please, Neal, tell me. Not like what?"
Neal sniffled again, then ran an arm harshly across his eyes, wiping away the army of tears threatening to fall. "Not like anything."
"Neal," Peter said, voice rising, "like what?"
"Like getting fucked in a slave depository by a man your master despises, making it clear to half the slaves in the building that you are such cheap stock your master doesn't even consider it worth the effort to scribble half a sentence to protect your ass from getting fucked by everybody and their cousin Bob, too!" Neal's eyes flashed with anger, then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he dropped his gaze back to the ground, staring at it like it held the answers to the universe. "That's humiliating," he whispered, so low that it was barely audible, his voice cracking on the words. "That's what humiliation is."
"Oh God, Neal," Peter whispered, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Neal's shoulders, pulling him close against him. For a moment Neal stiffened, gaze jerking over to El, but she just smiled and he relaxed into the embrace, body going limp. "I'm so sorry, buddy. I never meant… I didn't know… Hell that's no excuse. I should have known. That's my duty as your master." He kissed the top of Neal's head. "I am so sorry."
"I'm sorry too," Neal whispered, craning his neck to stare up at Peter. "I forced you into being a master. You never wanted that. Everything that's happened? It's my fault. Your boss tried to warn me, but I didn't lisetn. I should never have offered myself to you."
"Don't say that," Peter said gruffly, running a hand through the other man's curls. "Don't *ever* say that to me again, because I wouldn't trade having you here for anything. That's an order. I'm the one who should be sorry. I made so many assumptions…" He shook his head, a glazed look coming over him. "All these years in Vice Collar, and I didn't have a clue. I thought I was getting away from what I knew, but in reality I was just hiding from what I didn't know—because I didn't *want* to know. And when you came along, I had two choices. I could pretend you were something you're not and keep my blinders on, or I could see you for what you are and see the world for it is. I made the wrong choice, and you were the one who took the fall. I am most definitely the one who should be sorry. Not you."
"I think," El said softly, drawing both of their attention to her, "that maybe this would be a good time to start over. For real this time, completely, from scratch, as if tomorrow is Neal's very first day in this house. What do you boys think?"
Peter bit his lip, guilt washing over his face as he looked at her. "But I betrayed you."
"No," Neal protested, pushing himself away from Peter. "It was me. I tricked him. It was my fault. *I* was the one who betrayed you."
El held up a hand, silencing them both. "It wasn't any one person's fault. So many things that led up to what happened, but I am willing to start over if you are. This time, though, we'll do it right. Everyone will know where they stand." She gave Neal a soft smile. "Everyone will know their place. Are we all okay with that?"
"Yes," Peter said hoarsely, reaching out to pull her into his arms. "God, yes." A tear ran down his face and he buried his face in her chest. She stroked his back, looking over his shoulder at the bruised, exhausted boy huddled on the other end of the couch.
"Neal?"
The slave gave her a shaky smile, and while it was a ghost of his usual million watt grin, at least it was something. "I'm up for it if you are, Ms. El."
"Then it's settled. Starting tomorrow, it's a slavemaster reboot."