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P.W.P (proceed with permission)

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Looking back, that innocuous conversation from two weeks ago should have been a tip off.

They were alone in the lift, getting ready to go back to their respective hidey holes. The old machinery coughed and spattered its way down to ground level.

‘There’s quite a trouble maker in your bunch, from what I hear.’

Peter snorted. ‘Tarr, you mean.’

‘Yes. What do you make of him?’

‘Functional at best. Insufferable the rest of the time.’

Bill smiled that eye-crinkling smile of his. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be quite so harsh. There is a certain….generosity in him.’

Peter kept his expression neutral. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Haydon, we’ll have to agree to disagree then.’

‘With the right motivation, I think you’ll find him eager to please.’ Bill shielded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. ‘Night, Peter.’

 

 

That was as much foreshadowing as Peter got.

 

 

Still, nothing was going to prepare him for walking into what he assumed to be Bill’s study (‘Come on, a drink. It’s the weekend after all.’), and realizing he’s been led into the master bedroom instead.

And Ricki Tarr, out of all people, was already there. Albeit looking a bit tied up.

His wrists were secured to the bed posts (red velvet, not handcuffs. Peter noted with a lurch of his stomach). There was a make-shift gag too---a tie---stretched taut between Tarr’s full lips, dark with spit.

Peter, miraculously, didn’t trip over his own feet. The sharp hiss that escaped was entirely involuntary.

The bound man let out a noise from behind the tie, eyes going comically wide. He stayed put though; making no attempt to draw his knees up for some resemblance of modesty, Hell, Peter wasn’t sure if modesty existed in the same universe as Ricki Tarr.

A soft chuckle brought him out of his stupor.

‘Quite a sight, wouldn’t you say?’

Against his better judgement, Peter’s attention snapped back to Ricki: a drop of sweat dripped off his chiselled chin, winding downwards, until it gathered at the v between collarbones. The curve of Tarr’s throat deceptively vulnerable, veins jumping at the base.

He jerked his gaze away and promptly caught Tarr’s, who was watching him for real now, dark eyes swimming with mirth.

There was nothing but swirling noises in Peter’s ears, couldn’t quite locate his vocal cords either. The figure on the bed was distinctly male, naked, and practically served up on a platter with a parsley. The fact that, oh yes, he was also Ricki Bloody Tarr almost seemed like a minor complication.

Bill, having flopped down into one of those wing chairs, kicked his feet up---a king surveying his domain.

‘I know what we’ve agreed beforehand: nothing that leaves marks, no bodily fluids apart from the standard, the rest is up to me. Do you still stand by it?’

Peter was this close to blurt out his confusion, when he realized that the question wasn’t addressed to him at all. Tarr, however, seemed to have stopped breathing for a moment, then gave a short, jerky nod.

His knees gave out. Before he could make an utter fool of himself, Peter groped for the edge of the bed and sat down.

‘…what is all this?’

Bill crossed his ankles. ‘According to you, some of your subordinates do not respond well to discipline. I have it on good authority that Ricki certainly isn’t one of them.’

The hyperventilation was going to kick in any minute now, Peter was sure of that.

‘And Peter, really, it’s pretty easy to spot the signs.’ Bill tipped his chin, indicating Peter’s shirt: pale lavender today. ‘Toby is a complete mess. You, on the other hand, are just the right side of tasteful---’ He flashed a wolfish grin, ‘---or the wrong side.’

The clogs in Peter’s head went into overdrive; he could say no, and walk off. Nothing would happen here against anyone’s will. If this was to become a dirty secret, then it would be no less damning to any of them.

He should.

But it’s been a while since he did something out of sheer pleasure, a long while. Days at Brixton merging into one straight line, tedious and unceasing.

Plus, this was Tarr; brash, smart-mouthed, impulsive with a capital I. Exactly the sort you’d want silenced and compliant for once. God knows how much he wished that on a daily basis.

Admittedly this wasn’t what he had in mind.

‘So…’ Peter winced at the sound of his own voice, ‘…what do you want me to do?’

‘Whatever you would do when there is a willing, pretty boy in your bed.’ Bill shrugged. ‘Improvise, Peter.’

Peter inhaled, stood up, and lost the suit jacket.

 

 

 

There was a patch of baby soft skin on the underside of Tarr’s jaw, stubble free. Peter lingered there, fascinated, pressing down with one finger. The fact that Tarr let him, did nothing more than swallowing against the pressure, curled hot and cold around Peter’s bones.

His mouth followed, sucking and tasting the same spot. Tarr whined low in his throat, the vibration made Peter bite down harshly, forgetting about no marks.

Not that Ricki minded, judging from the way he arched up.

Peter glanced up to find Bill settling further into his seat. The first button of his slacks undone, belt lying on the side table. All in all, he looked remarkably put together, his gaze mild, polite even.

Tarr was practically panting now, rapid puffs of air through his nose. Peter could feel him; hips shifting not so subtly over Peter’s clothed backside, bare skin against soft wool. He spared a moment to appreciate the tensing of Tarr’s impressive shoulders. Drooping forward to lick along the hollow between tendons and muscle. The buttons on his waistcoat slid along Tarr’s flushed chest, who shivered at the coolness, pushing into it like a damn cat.

Their faces were inches apart. So close Peter could see the thin rim of Tarr’s irises, all pupils and liquid heat. He rubbed a thumb along the gag, testing.

‘You don’t want me to take this off?’

It was more a confirmation than a question, Bill hummed.

‘No. I like him like this for a while.’

Peter shook his head at Tarr, full of mock sympathy, and the other man glared right back. Peter pinched a nipple in retaliation, satisfied when Tarr bit down on his lower lip, eyes fluttering shut.

Bill chuckled, a low and dirty sound.

He took his sweet time to map out all that skin on offer: teeth catching the ridges in Tarr’s flat stomach, tongue tracing the trail of curly hair--- perhaps a shade darker than his own, slick with sweat already. All the while he ignored the angry red of Tarr’s cock; edging towards the target, dancing and circling, then gleefully skimmed away. When he rubbed a knuckle over the skin behind Tarr’s balls, hard, the man practically yelped through the gag. A dull thud followed, probably from Tarr banging his elbows against the headboard. Peter ran both hands up that tense belly, the creases at the top of Tarr’s trembling thighs, his bulging biceps, cooing as if gentling a wild beast.

‘That’s quite enough teasing, Peter,’ Bill interrupted, a note of hunger in his tone. ‘We don’t want to kill him just yet, do we?’

Bill always had this way of phrasing command like a request, steel beneath the placidity. Peter shrugged, shuffling down the bed. His body angled just so that the audience wouldn’t miss a thing, and fitted his mouth over the head.

It’s been months since he’d had a cock in his mouth, if not longer. The weight and feel alone could make him breathless with lust. Salt and musk and just a bite of bitterness, bursting across his tongue. Peter wanted as much of it as he could get. He slurped and suckled, swirling his tongue once before pulling away. Tarr made an abortive move to follow, hips lifting up, muffled curse tumbling out as he pulled on the restraints.

‘Manners, Ricki,’ Bill chided. Tarr collapsed back down on the bed, hands fisting the bands around his wrists.

Peter choked a little as he tried to swallow more, eyes stinging. He pulled back, wetting his lips before taking a deep breath and dived in. Tarr’s head was thrown back. All Peter could see was a hard stretch of tanned torso, ridges and grooves quaking with every shuddering breath.

A thick drop of slick was beading at the tip when he came up for air. Tarr all but whimpered, vibrating with the effort to stay still. Peter ducked down, caught the trail with his tongue and slid back up again, smearing it. Savoured the way Tarr started nosily shaking apart.

He wouldn’t mind finishing like this: one hand cupping the bulge in his trousers, drowning in the scent and taste of it all. Then something landed on the bed with a bounce. He flickered his eyes away from Tarr, spotting the pot of vaseline.

Well, who could have guessed. Bill Haydon, darling of the Circus, wanting to run the show.

He gave Tarr another long, firm lick before scrambling up to his knees. Dipped his hand into the pot.

‘Three fingers, he likes it rough.’

Peter swore softly, a jumble of languages. Bill tutted, ‘They taught you that at public school?’

Tarr answered with a rumbling, hitching laugh of his own.

 

 

 

The fit was snug, probably burnt a little. Tarr was breathing in that deliberately casual way Peter has come to know as self-preservation. He waited, twisting and rubbing until the other man relaxed the death grip on the headboard, his whole frame unfurling.

Fresh sweat poured out in rivulets, gathering at where Peter’s fingers were moving in and out of him, slicking the way. Before long Tarr’s body seemed to snap and crackle at every brush. Hips twitching, tiny wanton circles that he perhaps wasn’t even aware of. The wet pop when Peter withdrew his hand could probably make Smiley blush.

Tarr arched and twisted in abandon, in loss, glassy eyes staring up at him, unseeing.

Peter liked that, he liked that very much.Biting the inside of his cheek, he guided himself in, all the way to the hilt.

It was like being gripped by warm silk. Tarr’s body just gave, opening right up, eager and smooth. Peter had to grit his teeth to stay still, his lungs on fire. He needed a minute, just a minute to---

---to shut out the sound of skin moving over skin to his right. Bill laughed, voice deeper than Peter’d ever heard.

‘Such a gentleman.’

As if on cue, Tarr wriggled beneath him, getting impatient no doubt. Peter shifted his weight forward, bringing their bodies closer together. The smell of sweat and something spicy rising off in waves from Tarr, sharp in his nose.

The first thrust dragged his clothed torso across Tarr’s leaking dick, who threw his head back and clenched around Peter, wringing a groan out of him. The stifled sound echoed by Bill.

‘Faster, he won’t break.’

Peter’s palms almost slipped in the puddle of sweat at the back of Tarr’s knees. Drawing them up, he folded the man in half and started fucking him as hard as Bill asked, hips setting a brutal pace. Tarr’s surprisingly delicate ankles hooked over his shoulders, pressing down with each thrust. Peter wondered if he’d say please if he could, if he’d beg Peter to stop, to never stop.

Which would be almost, almost worth not having him gagged.

He leaned forward and clamped his teeth down on that familiar lower lip. The plump curve soft and swollen, as if they’d been kissing for hours. Tarr’s eyes were wide open the whole time, unblinking, a blur of shadows at the edge of Peter’s vision.

Peter was getting close, so close, the faint slap of flesh ringing in his ears. He let go of Tarr and clawed at the bed sheet, hips losing rhythm, stuttering…

‘Stop.’

Both men groaned in frustration, trembling uncontrollably. Tarr squeezed Peter's waist with his thighs, trying in vain to urge him on.

‘Get up. I want you to finish on his face.’

Bill’s words were barely audible, a hiss through clenched teeth. Peter took three calming breaths, detangled himself, then shakily scooted up the bed, knees on either side of Tarr’s chest.

He took himself in hand, squeezing and pulling. Tarr was gasping, warm wafts of air washing over the head of his cock. Pale lashes clumpy with sweat and tears and …

The sound Peter made was nearly pained, his vision greying out briefly. By the time he could see again, his cock give one last helpless twitch at the sight.

Tarr’s eyes were screwed shut. Splashes of white painting the side of his face, one or two drops landed right on his mouth, pearly against the bruised red.

A hand curled around his shoulder, warm and damp. ‘Undo the gag.’

Tarr gave a weak cough as the tie was removed. Peter watched his flushed face, eyes hazy with exhaustion. He almost missed it when Tarr jerked, panicked sounds torn out of him.

‘Shh---’ Bill murmured, placating. Peter desperately wanted to turn around and see what Haydon was doing. He would too, as soon as he got the command of his limbs back.

‘I…I can’t…’

Tarr croaked out, the first words to leave his mouth since the beginning of the evening. He sounded drugged, pitiful. Peter was half surprised that he could talk at all.

‘You can.’

Bill swiped a finger across the mess on Tarr’s face. Peter willed his neck to twist just enough to peer back---

The same finger was pushing inside Tarr. Peter thought about what Bill must be feeling; Tarr was looser from being freshly fucked, sticky with slick and sweat, still twitching, perhaps.

And he really should stop thinking altogether, he wasn’t 17 anymore.

Tarr was shaking his head. Still beyond articulation now he had his smart mouth back. Peter pressed a hand to his chest, the rapid beat of Tarr’s heart like a trapped bird, beating its wings inside the ribcage. Peter was almost afraid that it might give up, might suddenly go pop like a balloon.

Bill was barely moving his finger, just pressing and massaging from the inside. One elbow against the pillows, bent over the prone form of Tarr---the perfect portrait of a sweet, concerned colleague.

Tarr shifted his pleading eyes to Peter, gulping once. ‘Mr Guillam…’

Peter lapped a hot stripe up Tarr’s straining neck, all the way to his ear. ‘Yes, come on.’ He bit down on the tender flesh just as Tarr let out a strangled cry, hips undulating, all shame gone.

‘You’ll come just from this, won’t you?’ Peter smiled viciously, spitting out each syllable. ‘Baby.’

He felt warmth hitting his wrist. The bed shook with the force of Tarr’s near convulsion. For all he never stopped running his mouth a mile a minute, Tarr was eerily silent when he came, features frozen between shock and relief.

 

 

 

Ricki Tarr wouldn’t blush. Scalphunters had that trained right out of them. But he did stutter when Peter walked into the office a week later, wearing the same three piece suit. Bronze buttons gleamed like curious eyes at the far end of a corridor.