The Smoky Rose Affair
The beautiful woman with the chestnut hair and hazel eyes withdrew a needle from Napoleon's arm, and kissed his neck. "This will stimulate your libido to an unbearable degree," she told him. "And the only one who will help ease your suffering is me." She kissed him again. He turned away from her as best he could, bound to the chair as he was. Seeing Illya's face over her shoulder he grinned, despite his uneasiness about the unknown chemical now circulating through his bloodstream. Illya was rolling his eyes and curling his lip into an expression of utmost disdain. The woman smiled.
"Laugh now, darling," she whispered. "Within the hour you'll begging for relief, and willing to do or say anything to obtain it."
After she left Napoleon looked at Illya. "Does she really expect..." he began, and Illya shrugged. He was also bound to a chair, but for all the notice she had taken of him he might not have been there at all.
"She's seen too many cheesy TV shows," he said. "But I don't like the way you look, Napoleon. How do you feel?"
"Horny," Napoleon said, and laughed. "But I don't expect to die from it—or to start spilling secrets either." He was horny. His cock was already pushing against his zipper, and his heart rate had picked up considerably.
"Why does she want that information anyway?" Illya demanded. "It's not even classified A3 anymore. A good Google search would probably turn it up."
"Not the point."
"I know." They were quiet for a while, then Napoleon shifted in his seat. Currents of desire were coursing through him, centering in his loins, throbbing and pulsing there, twisting his testicles into a knot. It hurt. It hurt a lot, and the pain increased with every moment, every breath. He told himself it was ridiculous to consider this torture, but it was. He was sweating, and shaking, and the pain kept getting worse.
"Maybe if you think about it hard enough," Illya said doubtfully, "you could—you know, on your own."
"I don't think so," he began and then the woman entered again. She came over to him and opened his pants, drew his straining organ out. He had thought that the least touch would make him come, make him explode. But it was too light, and only heightened his torment. He stole a look at Illya, but his partner's expression was unreadable. Napoleon supposed Illya was trying to think of a plan. He hoped so, anyway, because his own thought processes... she straightened, smiled.
"Ready to talk now Napoleon?"
He wanted to give a cutting answer, but the only thing keeping him from groaning aloud were his tightly clenched jaws. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction, he wouldn't... but then she touched him again and he did groan. She smiled.
"Not too much longer," she said with evident satisfaction, and then she left. Napoleon had squeezed his eyes shut at his outburst and he kept them that way, not wanting to see the look on Illya's face. He was no longer the least disposed to find humor in this situation. He wouldn't talk, of course, he'd stood up to far worse than this, but it hurt. It more than hurt, it was worse than pain, it was... he heard some rustling noises from Illya's direction, then a thump and a strange dragging sound. He forced himself to look and Illya wasn't in sight. Where—then the back of a chair filled his vision, and there was a warm wet tugging at his groin. Before he could register what was happening Illya's mouth, his tongue, the insistent sucking brought immediate and total relief.
It was over too quickly for him to make a sound. And then Illya was hitching himself back to his original position, chair and all, to the accompaniment of more scrapes and thumps. Napoleon gasped, and gasped again. It was a few minutes before he could speak.
"She'll know it was you—there's no one else here. So they'll take you away, and I won't know what's happening to you. Then when we escape we'll have to find each other first, and you know that always takes more time, Illya—what were you thinking? And thank you," he added with heartfelt sincerity. Illya smiled at him, and there was a curious tenderness in his eyes.
"She won't know. You're already recovering, for one thing."
He was. Even as he watched it his organ stiffened again, the level of discomfort growing. He forced himself to look away. "And the other thing?"
"You air dry nicely."
Napoleon laughed, a short, painful sound but still a real laugh. "I suppose so . But still..."
They were quiet again. The pain was cresting, worse than before, when the woman returned. She seemed disappointed to find him still uninclined to be cooperative, but his cock bobbed and swayed, weeping a little as if pleading on its own, which made her smile. Maybe it was pleading with Illya, Napoleon thought, and had to repress a snicker. It was all so absurd. The woman stroked him, teased him, blew on it and it responded, straining towards her. She looked at him, licked her lips, raised her eyebrows. He shook his head, and her face hardened. It aged her. "I may be a little longer this time," she said tightly. "You'll really wish you'd spoken now." Her high heels click clacked her indignation as she strode out the door, and without intending to Napoleon looked at Illya.
Illya shook his head, and then the door opened again. She leaned in and, quite without his own volition, his cock leapt in welcome. She laughed, looking more confident. "I'll be back, you cute little darlin'," she told it. "You'd better convince your stubborn owner. It can get a lot worse than this."
Somehow Napoleon didn't doubt her. "Can I die from this?" he asked when she left again because right now it really felt as if he might. But then Illya managed to heave himself forward again, landing on his knees, awkwardly hobbling to Napoleon. "You don't have to..." Napoleon began, then had to lock his teeth together to keep from screaming aloud.
"This," Illya said after he had regained his position, then he stopped. They both watched with fascination while Napoleon's cock grew again.
"Oh." Illya forced himself to look away. "Is ridiculous. You know. The captured spy in bondage. The mystery drug. The beautiful corrupt woman."
"The helpful partner."
"Yes. It's like a secret agent porno movie."
"Maybe it is."
"It isn't. But that would be one way for us to go out. An unforeseen end to our careers. We're not even field agents anymore, Napoleon. It's been years. We're not supposed to be here at all."
"This whole thing is insane. But if it is a movie, you need a new name. Illya Kuryakin just doesn't shout porn star to me. What is it, your first pet and the street you lived on as a child?"
"You're starting to show the effects of prolonged blood deprivation to the brain. It's not a movie, I said. Plus I had no pets, nor did we live on a street. How are you feeling?"
"It hurts a hell of a lot but she's due in pretty soon, isn't she? We'd better wait..." the door opened and a short squat man hurried in, followed by the glamorous brunette.
"What are you trying to prove with this ridiculous charade, June?' he snapped. He looked at Napoleon in disbelief. Napoleon looked back at him. He felt at a decided disadvantage sitting there with his pants down and his penis at full erection. To make matters worse, he knew this man. He managed a rather sickly grin.
"Napoleon Solo—and me without a camera." He laughed and Illya snorted. Roberts turned and made him a half bow.
"Illya Kuryakin too. You mean to tell me June has both of you and is wasting everyone's time with this sex drug and tired information?" He spun to face her, all semblance of good humor gone. "New York is humming like a hornet's nest, because Solo and Kuryakin have forgotten more secrets than you'll ever dream of knowing, and now they're missing! Our conference is in three days! How are we supposed to get the delegates off by plane with every major airport on high alert looking for these two? These aren't the old days anymore, you silly bitch. We have to work together." He strode over to the intercom on the wall. "Release Solo and Kuryakin at once. Knock them out first to gain us some time."
"Now wait a minute," Napoleon began, but two orderlies came in with needles. He felt the sting of the first, and the last thing he saw was them advancing on Illya with the second before he passed out.
They sat side by side in their shared office, pondering the issue of their reports. "We have to tell them," Napoleon said finally. "Much as I'd rather not..."
"I know." Illya looked up from his keyboard. "I just want to be sure we're on the same page. What are you going to say about the drug?"
"I'll describe the effects—from my admittedly subjective viewpoint, of course. Maybe they can figure out some sort of antidote."
"Do you think we'll need one? It didn't work, after all."
"Yes. I mean no. I mean—I still can't picture myself turning traitor because of something like that but it hurt, Illya. It hurt like hell."
"I saw that."
"And it was just getting worse. I—" he grinned sheepishly. "I was worried it was going to explode."
"I thought you said you wouldn't have been able to do that on your own."
"Not like that. Explode. Literally. Like my balls were going to rupture from the pressure."
Illya frowned. "I don't think..."
"Sure. Sure it couldn't. But I wouldn't have believed it then, and even now part of me isn't so sure." He patted his organ consolingly. "And that was with your helpful assistance. How I would have felt without it—" he shuddered. "So we have to tell them."
"Are you having fun arguing with yourself? Because I have already agreed with you. Of course we have to tell them."
"None of this is fun, Illya. I'm sorry you had to—felt you had to do that."
"I didn't mind."
"That's very kind of you to say, but..."
"I didn't mind, Napoleon. It was you. I'd do anything for you." He said that very simply, and Napoleon turned from his own desk.
"I'd do anything for you, too."
"But even so, giving a man head—yuck."
"Yuck?" Illya lifted an eyebrow.
"Well, yes. I mean—wasn't it?"
"It's not as if it were my first time." He didn't look at Napoleon as he said that, but when Napoleon dropped his coffee mug, spilling coffee and sending shards of broken crockery across the floor, he did look. "Napoleon?"
"Get me a rag," Napoleon said, dropping to his knees. He landed awkwardly and swore, picked up a piece of broken mug, cut his palm and swore again.
"Let me get this cleaned up first." He did, meticulously, picking up every piece, mopping up every drop of liquid, running a damp paper towel over the floor to be sure he'd gotten it all. Illya waited patiently, still typing away at his report. Napoleon threw the paper towel away. "Maybe I'd better get a mop."
"You could do that," Illya agreed. "And if you prefer, I could arrange not to be here when you get back."
"What makes you think I'd prefer that?"
"Your rather melodramatic reaction. I thought you knew all about me. Before I joined UNCLE. KGB lure. Honey trap. It's in my file."
"I know. I just never wanted to think about it."
"So very distasteful, I know," Illya agreed, and something in his voice made Napoleon look at him sharply.
"No. That's not it at all."
"Your age, when all that happened—you were so young, and you didn't want to do it..."
"What makes you say that?"
"You've never done it since. With anyone. Ever."
"Well then." Napoleon pulled his chair closer to Illya's. "It makes me angry, and a little sick—you were a child, when it started up."
"I was never a child, Napoleon. I graduated to adulthood in one fell swoop. And if all they wanted was my mouth, I counted myself fortunate."
"Even so, doing that for me—it couldn't have brought back pleasant memories."
"I never once thought of it—of them. It was you. It was my choice, and it was you. I didn't think about the past until you just now brought it up."
"It's all right. It's sweet, that you're angry on my behalf."
"I am not sweet."
Illya laughed softly. "All right. Kind?"
"I suppose that's better than sweet. So you weren't repulsed by it—by my—you know. By me? Coming in your mouth?" He forced the words out because it was ridiculous, all this hemming and hawing.
"Well, good." He was relieved. "I was very grateful."
"You're welcome. I've finished my report. Want to read it?"
"I'll probably want to copy it." He looked it over and set to work, changing the perspective, the point of view, keeping the timeline. "It's bound to get out."
"Do you mind?"
"Not really, no. If it were someone else I would—in fact, now that you've brought it up, if it were someone else I'd probably be fairly traumatized. Not so anybody would notice, but inside I would be. I would have thought about the past, and be trying to bury those memories again."
"But since it wasn't someone else? No trauma?"
"No." Illya smiled at him. "It was just you and me, after all."
"Just you and me," Napoleon echoed, and smiled back. "I'll turn these in. They're going to poke and prod me and stick me with needles for a few hours. Want to get something to eat afterwards? My treat."
"I'd love to. I'm starving."
"Why aren't I surprised?" Napoleon said. "I'll swing back here and pick you up. We'll go to the Villa Rosa."
"I'm—not traumatized, certainly, but having a little trouble dealing with this."
"Are you?" Illya had started out the door, but he turned back at that. "Even though it was just you and me?"
"Don't be. It's just that it was—it was..."
"Great." He flushed hotly under Illya's interested gaze. "It was amazing. It was—it was the best oral sex—the best sex—I've ever had. I had no idea you were so—so skillful."
"Thank you," Illya said dryly. "But I think it had more to do with the drug than with me. There was hardly time to get fancy."
"You think so? You think it was the drug?"
"I don't know."
"Well, trust me, Napoleon. I didn't do anything extraordinary. You have undoubtedly had better from your talented lady friends. Certainly ones that lasted longer."
Napoleon had to laugh. "That's true. But I thought maybe..."
"Well, maybe it was you." He was flushing again, he could feel it. "I mean—because I trust you. And—and I care about you—more than I do about any of them. My lady friends. I thought maybe that was what made it different. Made it better."
"Oh." Illya stood in the doorway, frowning. "I think it is much more likely that it was the drug, Napoleon. I mean—you really needed it."
"Yes I did." He remembered that moment when Illya's mouth had closed on his aching cock, and the way the orgasm had ripped through him. And the way Illya had accepted it, sucking and swallowing, managing to convey tenderness and compassion and—he sighed, feeling bereft.
"My suggestion is that you call one of your most gifted ladies, and lead the evening in that direction. That should tell you something."
"But it can't tell me if it was you. You—and the way I feel about you."
"And what way is that?" Illya sounded genuinely curious and Napoleon rose, crossed the room. He stood close to Illya, so close that Illya had to tip his head back to look up at him. For a long time their eyes held. Illya's were so blue—Napoleon felt dizzy, as if he were falling down, into clear water. Or was he falling up, into the sky?
"I don't know," he answered finally. "I think—I think I don't know anything. About myself. Or about you. How do you feel about me?"
There was another pause. Then Illya lowered his eyes, and Napoleon found himself contemplating the length of his eyelashes, and the way the light was caught in that blond hair, sparkling in it, making him want to touch it, put both hands in it and... he flushed. "I'll tell you what," Illya said finally. "You get a date. Take her out to dinner tonight instead of me. I'll pick up pizza on my way home. Go on many dates. Get blow jobs from them all, if you like. Take as long as you need. Then if you're still..." he hesitated. "Troubled," he said finally, "let me know. We'll talk again."
"Well—here." He handed Illya a twenty dollar bill. "I promised you dinner would be on me."
"All right." Illya pocketed the twenty. Then he sent Napoleon an ambiguous look, slanted up through his lashes. "Twenty dollars is pretty cheap for the best oral sex of your life."
"I thought you said that was the drug."
"So I did. Goodnight, Napoleon."
"Goodnight, Illya. Thank you again."
"Glad to have been of service," Illya said, which sounded ambiguous too. Then he left. Napoleon stood staring at the door for a long time before he turned back to his desk, picked up the phone and called Angela.
Illya opened his apartment door and stepped aside so Napoleon could come in. It had been three weeks since their last conversation. In the interim Napoleon had dated widely, as Illya was well aware. He had revisited old flames and met, wooed and won several new ones. Illya had watched this flurry of activity with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, it was obvious what Napoleon was doing. He was seeking the level of expertise that had led to what he had called the best sex of his life. He was experimenting, as it were, to eliminate the variable of professionalism.
Knowing this didn't make it any easier to wait it out. Illya wasn't even sure what he was waiting for. The next step? Assuming there was a next step. At any point Napoleon could find what he was looking for in some woman, and abandon the experiment.
But what if he didn't find it? What would he do then?
He would come back. Illya knew it absolutely. Napoleon would come to him. He would want to repeat the experience. He would be persuasive. He would...
Illya shivered. He had seen Napoleon in pursuit before. He didn't have a chance. He might as well admit that right now. He wouldn't tell Napoleon no. He would go along with the experiment because it was Napoleon, and it would be wonderful. Napoleon would see to that. It had never been wonderful for him before, and now it would be. How could he pass that up? He wouldn't. He would say yes. As for what might—or might not—come of it, he would just have to trust Napoleon. So he had watched Napoleon date, and waited.
Now here Napoleon was. Illya closed and locked the door, sliding the bolt across, fastening the chain. Every gesture, however ordinary, seemed invested with significance—with sexuality. He was locking them in. The fact that he always locked them in, that locks and security systems were a part of their lives, seemed irrelevant. The bolt made a soft, sliding sound, then latched decisively. The chain rattled gently. Illya swallowed, then turned.
Napoleon was so close! Illya almost jumped, barely controlled it and lifted an eyebrow instead. "May I help you?"
"It isn't the same," Napoleon said and the sudden burst of raw emotion startled Illya, because it was so atypical. Napoleon was always smooth, and polished in his amours. In fact—Illya looked him up and down. His hair was rumpled, his tie askew. No trace, now, of the impeccably clad, suavely smiling charmer. Instead Napoleon was positively haggard. "What the hell is going on? It's not the same. It's nowhere near as good, plus I feel like crap afterwards. The thing about that is I always felt like crap afterwards, and never recognized it until you. Until afterwards, there you were. So now what? What does all that mean?"
"You think it was the drug?" Napoleon turned away, paced over to the kitchen. Without asking, he rummaged in Illya's cupboard, found a bottle of unopened Scotch. "You drink this?" he asked, waving it in Illya's direction.
"No. It was my Christmas grab bag gift three years ago."
"I was going to be surprised—again. Mind if I have some?"
"Be my guest. Do you think it will help?"
"No." He set it down with a thump. "I don't. You're right."
"If it was the drug, there is nothing you can do about it. After a while the memory will fade, and your normal sexual pattern will once again satisfy."
"If it's the drug. But what if it isn't? What if—what if it was you? Me and you, I mean? What if..."
"Would you like a repeat performance? Is that what you're saying?"
"I don't want a performance at all. I want—you, Illya. I want you—I want us." He reached out, closed both hands on Illya's shoulders, drew him in. Illya went with it, feeling oddly boneless, as if Napoleon's touch had taken all his strength. It was good, and his body arched into it. This would be wonderful, and he trusted Napoleon. He did. He expected Napoleon to kiss him now, but Napoleon only touched his face, hands shaking. Nothing could have told his state of mind more clearly than those hands, because Napoleon didn't shake. Napoleon was always... then Napoleon did kiss him. He kissed Illya softly, slowly, coaxing, teasing, offering a glimpse of unimagined pleasure, pleading and promising.
Illya melted. It was wonderful, he'd been right and all he wanted now was for it to continue. But Napoleon drew back, and kicked off his shoes.
There was a lull while they undressed. Napoleon finished first and watched Illya, the hunger stark on his face. But there was no trace of that in his next kiss. It was gentle and sweet, nuzzling and sucking, tongues entwined in a mating dance of their own. It was as if Napoleon weren't hungry at all, although Illya knew what he'd seen. He understood that Napoleon wanted this time, out of all those other times, to be different. To be good for him. For him. No one had ever cared in the least how it was for him. But Napoleon—Napoleon wanted it to be wonderful, too. Illya smiled at the thought, and Napoleon smiled with him. That ended the kiss and then there they were, naked, smiling at one another.
"Just you and me," Napoleon whispered and Illya nodded. "And I know what I want to do," Napoleon went on, voice husky now, the hunger showing again. "I want to do for you what you did for me. That's what I want."
"You do? But you said..."
"I know what I said. I'm sorry. I—" he lowered his voice. "I've dreamed about it. About doing it to you. And you know what happens when I have that dream?"
Napoleon whispered in his ear. Illya blinked. "You do?"
"Yes. Illya—I want to do it. Please let me do it."
What was he arguing about? Here was Napoleon, practically begging him for permission to—without another word Illya went over to the bed. Lying down, he closed his eyes and felt the bed dip as Napoleon sat on the edge. Illya could feel his bare skin, all along the length of him as Napoleon lay down on his side, propped himself up on one elbow so his breath was hot there and the scent of him was hot too, sharp and musky.
"How beautiful you are," Napoleon said and his voice was thick, incredibly arousing. It was taking everything Illya had to remain still because he would not make the first move, would not force this on Napoleon... then Napoleon's mouth closed around him.
Ecstasy. It was ecstasy. Illya's head fell back, his hips moved forward. Napoleon responded enthusiastically and Illya cried out in bliss. His eyes opened wide, and he could see Napoleon's body, the faint arch of his hip, the swell of his buttocks, the darkness at the center of him. Illya reached for it, found it straining towards him as if recognizing a friend. He kissed it in greeting, right on the tip, then drew it in.
It seemed an eternity that they grappled together, hands gripping hips, arms closing tight, fingers digging into skin, incoherent cries and groans muffled in flesh. When it ended, in a blur of passion and release and tenderness, both lay panting on the bed.
Napoleon turned, tucked himself up against Illya's back and Illya turned too, into the embrace, pressing his face into the warmth of Napoleon's throat, feeling Napoleon's hands slide down his sides, cup his buttocks, give them a squeeze then move back up again to hold him close.
"It was you," he said into Illya's hair and Illya sighed. "Not the drug at all. I was right. It was just you."
"And you," Illya whispered, and lifted his face to accept Napoleon's kiss. Their lips clung, then parted.
"It was us," Napoleon said, and Illya nodded. "Illya Kuryakin—I want nothing more than to be your partner for the rest of our lives. Do you think that could be arranged?"
"If I were your only partner."
"Well, that goes without saying." He kissed Illya's nose. "The one and only, now and forever."
"Now and forever," Illya echoed and smiled. Napoleon smiled too.
"And by the way," he whispered, beginning to lay a trail of kisses along Illya's shoulder. "You can call me Smoky Rose."
"What?" Illya laughed because Napoleon's eyes were dancing, something ridiculous was coming and how wonderful this was. How wonderful—"Smoky Rose? Why would I call you that?"
"My first dog was Smoky, and we lived on Rose Terrace. Smoky Rose. My porn star name."
"Your... Illya laughed again, and Napoleon laughed too. They laughed together for a few moments then Napoleon kissed him. He kissed Illya deeply, and Illya kissed him back. They were pressed close, so close that Illya could feel Napoleon still shaking with mirth, and so was he. Their silent laughter blended as their bodies did, lifting them high then letting them drift down, together still. Together forever.