The Helena of Troy Affair

by Cord Smithee

© 2004

As far as I know, these characters belong to Norman Felton and some massive media empire. Any monies should be directed to those people, not me. This story contains unusual sexual situations.

The bathroom was tiled in cream from floor to ceiling, accentuating that everything else, but the towels and bath mat and shower curtains, was gold plated. Not so much tastefully stating as shouting 'money', Napoleon noted.

Six months previously Professor Anegmi had visited Demetri Tarakis seeking private funding so as to build a prototype of his revolutionary new encoding transmitter. The Greek had not backed the project—Thrush was ultimately responsible for Anegmi getting funds—but he had ended up with the prototype: through blackmailing the professor.

On discovering that Anegmi had played them false, Thrush took the only action they deemed proper—an execution—which brought the whole affair to UNCLE's attention and which made the prototype tucked away somewhere in Tarakis's home—more a palatial underground warren with a sundeck than a conventional villa—a unique survival of Anegmi's work.

Waverly had sent Napoleon and Illya, posing as potential business associates—arms dealers—to locate and safeguard the prototype, so that the delays involved in storming a fortress like Tarakis's villa didn't prevent a successful retrieval.

Unfortunately things had not gone entirely to plan.

Napoleon took a deep breath and stepped into the shower behind his partner. If they were going to play this cover out they might as well get started. Much more fun than standing, trying to decide whether Illya was genuinely irritated by their situation or acting.

The spray was warm, almost too hot for comfort, but Illya always liked to make steam. And it would keep them from being overheard.

"Bugs everywhere, and cameras." Napoleon picked the soap from its dish and started taking care of his partner's back.

"We know Tarakis likes to—observe—his business associates' habits." A bite of annoyance in Illya's comment, even though Napoleon worked on his shoulders, his spine—

"From multiple angles, it seems." Napoleon let his hands wander down to cup his partner's muscled buttocks. They clenched tight and Illya arched his back. "Tovarisch."

"If you had not batted your eyelashes at the wrong woman—again," Illya muttered under his breath. Napoleon leaned in, lips brushing his Russian's ear, lathering his own chest against the well-soaped back.

"I didn't, she did," he corrected, enfolding his partner and running the bar of soap in a straight line from collar bone to navel, with his right hand, following the trail, in circles, with his left.

"Probably grit in her eye." Napoleon's hand fell lower, and encountered something he had not expected.

"Illya, you were the one who rushed in with the rescue plan." And who must have known the consequences, was far too smart not to know, but then—

"Tarakis was going to emasculate you and kill you," he hissed. "At that point pretending we were lovers, and that it was some amusing misunderstanding, appeared to be the only option left to me which did not involve a more permanent loss of masculine pride."

Hard-knotted shoulder blades rolled against Napoleon's pecs. Shrugging him off?

"But—" Napoleon faltered. It wasn't as if sex would be shocking or new to either of them. Only the evidence he had misjudged the situation, and Illya, was hanging against his partner's thigh. Quite the opposite of hard.

Pushing down wild fears—the least palatable of which was Illya no longer wanting him—Napoleon tried not to panic. They had to go through with it—for the mission, and because if they didn't Tarakis would literally have their balls. Only Illya was, for some reason, not ready, willing, or able.

And here he was, erection nestled in the crack of his partner's buttocks, more excited by the thought of being watched than he could possibly tell Illya. Now.

"Illya?" He could not move away: he was fairly certain there were no cameras in the bathroom, but not certain enough to gamble their lives.

"I am sorry, Napoleon." An apology growled softly to the tiles as Illya bowed his head.

The panic roared up, nothing to do with the mission or Tarakis, but stark fear that Illya would reject him. For now—forever. He tried to stumble into speech, but managed only a few disjointed syllables which didn't even make the semblance of a word.

"I thought it would be different, that I could forget somehow..."

"Illya." His partner's chest was heaving: deep breaths to counter panic. Dangerous in the spray of the shower. Napoleon felt him sway, and hugged tight. Illya did not panic, or lose control.

"They will be watching, Napoleon." His partner remembered to keep his voice low, but his accent was strong. "I have been watched enough in my life. And recorded. Only... I have never said this before, and I would never have said it, but I stopped being able to forget, and then I could not do, and when, despite their sympathetic help, I could not return to my former duties... I cannot, Napoleon. I cannot... and it is not different just because it is you and not some innocent I am..."

"Seducing." Napoleon supplied the word before his partner could. Turned him, pressed him back against the shower wall and blocked any further words by covering Illya's lips with his own.

Performance anxiety—who knew someone so expert at everything he did could fall prey to stage fright.

Napoleon broke the kiss, moved Illya under the spray and rinsed him as he stood—shaking despite the heat of the water.

"Napoleon. It will not work."

"Illya, my friend, you are not the one doing the seducing," Napoleon comforted. "If all else fails—and I am doing this at great risk to my reputation as a practiced seducer—you can lie back and think of Mother Russia while we fake it." He grinned, cutting-off the water, and keeping Illya from saying anything he wasn't happy to have overheard. "Or not. It'd make a change to have everything my wicked way for once."

Relief, and thankfulness, and a spark of indignation. Practice as he might, Illya's face was never quite the blank he would wish. Napoleon hugged close again, hiding his own exaltation against his partner's neck.

"Your wicked way is far too Sunday school for my tastes," his Russian managed, and Napoleon drew back, because now it was safe to be grinning.

"I'll cover you," he said, reaching outside the shower cubicle for a towel.

Some days he wished the cameras weren't fixed. There was a degree of zoom, but the artist in his soul cried out for the ability to pan and tilt. The camera feeds were all being taped, and with some artistic splicing he could usually produce video a cut above normal surveillance footage, but he had no usable shots of what was happening in the shower. No view better than what the peripheral vision of camera three saw through the open bathroom doorway.

Tarakis was only interested in what happened on the bed, of course. Certainly the man would not spring for more expensive cameras when these provided a high enough quality for his, all too practical, purposes.

Thankfully the man would not be haunting the monitor room, sniggering and drooling, tonight. Helena had been naughty, cutting out one of the girls whose job it was to seduce guests, and—although the guest in question had brought his own, surprise, bed-partner—Tarakis would want to reinforce his authority over her. Which was why Helena had been naughty at all: without doubt she was enjoying the punishment she'd provoked.

And he was enjoying the prospect of something a little—different—and without juvenile commentary. It was probably an unhealthy curiosity—prurient—but an endless parade of far from perfect men screwing the same girls was becoming less stimulating than it had been when he had first started this job.

Camera three showed movement.
He scribbled date and time references in a notebook he kept beside the control deck. It was much easier to jot down the best shots as they happened rather than waste too much time later, while editing, searching through reams of tape.

Camera two—a passionate clinch in the doorway.
The pair of them wrapped in a bath sheet, the slightly taller, dark-haired man holding the blond into a kiss.

Checking the other monitors, he noted that camera four showed a little more of the passionate intensity on the man's face. Of course the taller, broader shouldered, would be the 'man'.

Not that the way the blond interceded to rescue his partner from Tarakis had been particularly effeminate. But then their business was hardly one which encouraged a softer, gentler side. Presumably he had learned to conceal his desire to be dominated.

The man pulled away from his partner and the towel—cut to camera two again.

"Don't get cold." He closed the bath sheet back over the other, denying any cameras the same view they secretly stole of him, as he crossed to the main light switch, turning them off. Adjust light sensitivity.

The man's dick already defied gravity—zoom on three—a darker head, neatly collared, angling up from high tight balls. Camera four with the perfect full frontal—from dark budded nipples the eye was drawn down over the slightly slack belly, still tighter than most he saw, and on to the dense, coarse hair that framed the root of his upraised dick, which bounced lightly in counterpoint to a brisk stride.

The blond moved slowly to the bed—camera three—his expression serious, almost somber. He raised the sheets—cut to camera one—slipped his shoulder from the towel and—camera two—let it fall—camera four?—as he slid under the covers. Nothing on any of them. He would check the tapes but he was certain. And the blond was like a dancer: every movement controlled and graceful. All he had seen was a well-muscled chest and leg. No money shot. But he had time—from the state of the dark-haired guy's dick they weren't going to be sleeping yet.

None of the cameras caught so much as a glimpse of the blond as the man joined him under the sheets. Not that he was lusting to see another man's dick, mark you, but he felt mildly aggrieved the cameras were failing him. He had thought they were positioned well enough to catch anything happening on or near the bed.

"You warm enough, Vanya?"

The rich, honeyed teasing oozed into his headphones. Camera two for the reaction.

"Still a little chilly, Leo." And still very serious.

A boyish grin from Leo, short neatly-styled hair damply tousled and enhancing the look of mischief.

"Maybe I can warm you up." Camera one caught more of his face as he covered Vanya's lips. Teasing. Vanya responding, opening to him, slipping obediently down the bed, shoulders no longer propped against the headboard.

Camera five—the overhead—full zoom to catch the brush of dark-hair against Leo's neck, as he works the mouth beneath him, shoulder muscles bunching and releasing.

Left hand reaching down and between them, Vanya's head rocking back crown pushing deep into the pillow. A groan escaping the kiss, pain in the pleasure. The kiss broken, as Leo's lips moved on to Vanya's left ear, whispering—"We have all night, tovarisch. I want to prove I've learned a few tricks since Sunday school."

"But can you raise the dead?"

Leo didn't answer, dragged a pillow from under Vanya's head. Pushed it between them. "Hug it. Tight." Then he rose up, and straddled both the blond and the pillow he held.

Camera five—erect penis against white pillow case.

Vanya raised his head from the single pillow remaining, almost eye to eye with Leo's dick. "I could take care of that for you."

"I have it in hand." Leo gripped himself, closing a loose fist around the shaft, easing the foreskin very slowly back and forth. His neck arched, his shoulders rolled. Camera two for the come hitting Vanya's face? "Don't want to get too far ahead of you, boy."

"You're such a gentleman."

He looked again, realized that the very slow stroking was not about Leo bringing himself off, but bringing himself down. The man stopped once the head was no longer straining upwards and the veins in the shaft not standing proud.

"Do I applaud?" A raised eyebrow—caught on camera three at zoom.

"If you're happy and you know it?"

"Unfortunately not. But I may stamp my pretty little feet."

Leo laughed, and then sobered. He kissed Vanya again, briefly.

"Maybe I can curl your toes," he said. "Hug the pillow, tovarisch." Leo started to duck under the sheet, then paused, and slipped out of the bed instead. Camera two—a glimpse of pillow. Leo moved to the foot of the bed, pulled the bedspread and blankets into neat folds on the floor and released the top sheet, folding that towards Vanya. Then he knelt on the bed by the blond's feet. Intercut from cameras two and one.

Leo paused again, then grinned and reached down, uncovering one of his shoes, aligned neatly with his partner's. He hooked it up, and teased free the string.

"Leo... you are making me feel very chilly again." Vanya said.

"Trust me, neither of us want to get tied up in the sheets tonight." Leo sat back on his heels and hung the shoestring around his neck, knotting it loosely. Auto-erotic asphyxiation? Or perhaps not so much of the 'auto' and that's why Vanya seems nervous?

The blond nodded—on camera three—and offered the man a small smile. Leo beamed—camera one—then bent over Vanya's feet, catching up the big toes, and rubbing them. Working in pairs along the toes of each foot, Leo then ran his finger down the sole of the left. Vanya flinched, but Leo caught his ankle and gently pulled his leg straight again.

"A little stoicism, tovarisch." The man ran his thumbs in small circles from toes to instep, repeated the slow massage on the right foot, and then dipped lower and sucked on first one big toe, then shifted his attention to the other.

Cameras one and two
—he was surprised to find his toes clenched in his Converse all-stars. For the first time the high-top canvas shoes felt too tight.

While he sucked, Leo's hands ringed Vanya's ankle and pushed gently up to the calf, then his fingers drew spirals in the clenched muscles until the blond groaned.

Camera five caught the blissful expression on Vanya's face as he hugged the pillow tight. Cameras three and two—Leo moving to mirror those caresses on the blond's right leg. Then he dropped butterfly kisses on Vanya's knees.

Reaching high under the sheet with his left hand, Leo started to peck his way up the blond's thighs; Vanya opening his legs to offer more tender flesh, his eyes clenching shut.


The dark-haired head had vanished under the sheet, and neither camera three nor four could follow. Four would if the sheet shifted a little more. He kept his fingers crossed.

Leo's ass swayed slightly as he worked. Zoom on five—catching a shiver of pleasure. Four—showing that his dick was straining again.

Sucking another man's dick. He thought about it while he watched. Unzipped his fly, because the constriction had become a little too much to be pleasurable.

"Leo," Vanya gritted, head thrown back against the pillow. "You could finish off there and then fuck me."

Leo stopped moving and drew back, emerging from under the sheet to stare at Vanya. "I want a photograph of you, just like this," he said, soberly.

"Like this?" Vanya's eyes were open, his face a question. Leo was fast: one knee between Vanya's spread legs, one hand to the left of the blond's waist, his weight shifting to his right hand on the pillow beside Vanya's head.

"Tousled. Sexy. Hot. Trusting." Leo dropped a kiss on his lover's face after each word. "I want a picture. Pictures. Of you. Before. During. After."

"I tell you to fuck me and—" Leo cut off what Vanya was saying with a deeper kiss. Vanya let go of the pillow, put his hands on Leo's shoulders and pushed him away. Which improved the view. Camera one—the honest passion on Leo's face.

"Vanya, I wouldn't dream of it," Leo said. "I like that you want me to, but I am a gentleman—relax—it's your turn to pitch."

They took turns? Something of a surprise. And yet, given the way Leo had been indulging Vanya, perhaps it made more sense than not.

"And what would you do with these pictures?" Vanya questioned, and—on camera one—Leo grinned. "You are living very dangerously, my friend."

"Or movies. No! Video recordings. So we can sit and watch you fuck me." Leo's voice was a purr. "Over and over again."

Vanya frowned thoughtfully. "That isn't funny."

"Not funny at all. Us. Watching ourselves... spying on ourselves. Seeing our relationship from a different angle."

Vanya snorted. "If that was such a good idea bedrooms would come equipped with ceiling mirrors."

"Ah, but most men are not as easy on the eye as you, tovarisch." Warm dark rum. Honey. Cream. "They don't move with the same grace and power and control. And I am usually far too—engrossed—to enjoy what I could see, let alone what I couldn't."

Camera three—Leo letting the weight of his lower body press down, between Vanya's legs.
A slow seductive flexion of his hips against Vanya's, crushing the pillow between them.

"Wouldn't you like to watch me, Vanya? Watch us, coming together, moving as one." He rested his weight a moment, lips brushing his lover's ear. "Imagine if we were taping this. Now. Imagine us watching. Later. Having it to keep. Ours to view, again and again."

"Yes," Vanya hissed. "A comfort in old age."

"I do believe you're starting to see things my way." Leo resumed his slow screw of the pillow, faltering when Vanya pulled himself up to a kiss.

Camera one—his hands locked in Leo's hair, elbows bent.
Leo's hand was busy under sheet and pillow.

"I should have known what would cause a rush of blood to your head," he whispered, pulling the shoestring from round his neck. "And now to make sure."

He waited: wondering what use it would be put to, as Leo pulled aside the sheet and revealed Vanya's dick. At last, he'd been wondering if he'd ever get so much as a glimpse. Zoom on camera one and four.

Uncircumcised. It stood, foreskin still not quite revealing the entire head, a contrast to Leo's clear-cut arousal. And Leo deftly wrapped the shoestring around the root, pulling it firmly, and grinning as he tied the ends off. With a neat bow.

"Leo?" Vanya propped himself up on his elbows.


"It's tight, and restricting the flow of blood."

"That's what it's supposed to do, tovarisch. I think my patience deserves a reward." Leo shuffled back a little more, and bowed his head.

"A reward..." Vanya was looking at the bow—camera four—and his lover's face beyond.

"A very long slow screw, one that doesn't stop just because you lose your enthusiasm."

Camera one—the wickedly teasing grin on Leo's face just before the tip of his tongue touched the head of Vanya's dick.
He watched Leo take it into his mouth, watched Leo's lips push the loose foreskin down, and drag it back, dark head bobbing up and down, ass swaying. A gentle humming sound from Leo, and Vanya throwing back his head, arching taut, and calling out wordlessly. The blond reached for Leo's head, caught his fingers in dark hair, and then let go.

He knew the urge, to grab and hold and fuck. Camera five—the agony on Vanya's face, as he threw his head back again, and let Leo control the pace. Camera two—Vanya's hand grabbing at the sheets, and holding on for dear life.

"Leo, if you keep this up, I am about to disappoint you." Leo did not pause in his work, not even as Vanya's hips lifted from the bed in a spasm of uncontrolled thrusts. "Oh... Nn... Le...oh."

And Leo grabbed him before he could fall back against his pillow, held him and kissed him. Mouth filling with the taste of himself. His own dick had pushed through his opened fly.

"Leo," Vanya broke the kiss to object, as Leo pushed the hand that had reached for the bow away. "It is tight and I'm done."

He glanced away from the screens, briefly—

"My turn."

—just long enough to pull the box of Kleenex closer—

"I would have thought you had noticed, my friend, I could not hold back."

"And now we've got that out of the way."

—and take a couple out.

"I begin to see." Vanya's expression—camera four—a smile that was somehow thoughtful, and indignant, and still lustful.

"You're incredibly slow on the uptake for once, my smart Russian friend." Leo had rolled onto his back the pillow he had been so friendly towards under his hips, legs spread. "I'm waiting..."

Vanya stretched extravagantly, eyed his partner, and then moved into position.

He didn't know where to look. Camera two—Vanya, guiding his dick to the target. Camera five—the head of Vanya's dick nestling in the crack of Leo's ass. Camera four—Leo's legs held over Vanya's arms. Camera three—Vanya's thigh muscles straining, his hips pushing forward. Camera one—Leo's head pushing back against the pillows.

He wrapped his handful of tissues around his dick and slowly began to stroke himself. Matching time to Vanya's thrusts as the blond fucked Leo. It occurred to him that he wasn't certain he'd locked the door, but he didn't falter or look away from the screens.

Vanya thrusting, burying everything but the shoestring into Leo's ass, slow and stroking, fast and hard. Teasing Leo, his expression changing stroke by stroke. Pleasure, and concentration, and passion, and glimpses of something softer and sweeter and—

Leo's eyes open, then closed, then open. Engrossed. No more teasing grins, no smile. Serious delight.

He came, when Leo did, but Vanya kept on going, thrusting harder and deeper, Leo urging him on, until he fell into waiting arms.

And a kiss.

He wished, as he wiped himself clean, that he could have shared the kiss. Then he turned from the monitors, and decided not to wait until morning to create his masterpiece.

It had been surprisingly easy to find Tarakis's video vaults. The man also kept valuable like the encrypting transmitter behind the same steel doors. So unfortunately, when the vault's self-destruct was triggered the prototype of Professor Anegmi's machine was destroyed, along with any evidence of wrongdoing on Tarakis's part.

Frowning darkly at their failure, Illya had mumbled about how much time they had wasted convincing Tarakis they were both genuine and harmless. Wasted! 'Apparently the wicked can also work miracles,' he had whispered when Napoleon unwound the shoestring. Then they had catnapped contentedly until shortly before the optimum time for the assault.

Illya had maintained a chilly silence about the past night, and spy cameras, and raising the dead.

"All the tapes were in the vault and mixing studio next door, so everything is gone," Napoleon said, his assurance winning the slightest lightening of his partner's frown.

Until a dapper and very good-looking young man approached them escorted by two UNCLE agents, one carrying a large canvas bag.

"I'm Alexi. I thought, perhaps, you could use someone to testify against Mr Tarakis," he offered. Napoleon thought he looked rather too innocent, given Tarakis's empire was built on blackmail, to contribute any key testimony.

"And you'd do this because?" Illya growled, for want of a better target.

"Because I never wanted to be involved with blackmail, or murder."

"We need something a little more than the word of one man," Napoleon said, before Illya could.

The young man hesitated. "I have a private collection of the tapes, copies of the ones I made that I was really proud of." He looked from Illya's renewed anger to use those big innocent eyes on Napoleon. "You understand? For private use?" He turned, ignoring his keepers, and dug in the bag. Napoleon nodded to the agent holding it, but made sure they were all watching every move the young man made as he retrieved—a video tape box.

"You were amazing. And I think," he said quietly, putting it into Illya's hands, "that you'll be quite pleased with this."

Napoleon was familiar with the look in his partner's eyes. One that said he very much wanted to find a reason for the young man to vanish from existence. And then Illya looked down at the tape box with even greater venom.

"It's the only copy," Alexi said.

"The only one?" Taking it quickly into his own custody, Napoleon smiled at the young man. Who smiled back—possibly far too knowingly.

"I knew you'd understand, Leo, I just love to watch."

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