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Toccata & Fugue in B Minor

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"You like winning, don't you? // Saves you from having to say the word 'please'."
-- 1.17 'The White House Pro-Am'



The first request is his. In bed, still new to each other. Sam and Toby: a relationship, or an affair, or an agreement that allows him liberty to press, for an unspecified number of days, his mouth, open, against Toby's mouth: wet and hot, full of the tautologies of desire. Amongst the oh gods and the yes theres, Toby suggests a different game.

You want me to do what? // Just humor me, Sam. // I feel like maybe I'd be at a disadvantage, Toby. // Not necessarily. // I don't know how -- // Sure you do. Just don't say 'please'. I don't like 'please'.


The next morning at the office Toby throws one of his Spaldeens at the new window that has opened in their party wall. This is 'come' or 'I want you' or 'I need you' or 'help me' or just 'I need another warm body in here with me'. These are the meanings that Sam has parsed so far, but when Toby flips the latch and the blinds when the door closes behind them, Sam gets the feeling that there is a new meaning coming. Toby sits on the edge of his desk, fiddling knowingly with the tail of his tie.


You're gonna need to let me go, Toby. I have work I should do? // It can wait. // Actually, it kinda can't, since I promised Leo a two page summary by four -- // Sam. // Oh, c'mon, Toby, please -- // Don't say please. I told you: I don't like please. // I can't believe -- // There are punishments. Will be. Later. // But not right now? // Come over here. // Toby, please -- // Come over here.

It hurts, intensely. His fingers were quick and cruel. Sam's left nipple, through his shirt and t-shirt, stings from the twist. Sam goes back to his office, trying to hide his erection.


In bed that night, a slow motion replay. Sam on his knees in front of the bed, watching his adverbs, asking for pleasure only in verbs, carefully driven to the point of no return.

Ask me. // My shirt ... // What about your shirt? // Take it off me, pl -- // Careful. (A tweak and an instant yelp of pain.) // Again. // Take my shirt off. (The shirt gone. His nipples rubbed through the t-shirt: a freebie.) // That's it? You don't want anything else? // Pants ... // I'm gonna need a verb. // Unzip my pants. // Uh huh. And? // Take my dick out. // Yes? // Touch me there.


Sam asks for every action and every touch until the words make him delirious. Toby does no more and no less than is asked for, after that first and only gift.

Tell me what you want. // Kiss me. // (One touch, light, to his lips.) // Harder? Suck on my bottom lip. // Is that it? You're easily satisfied, Sam, kinda pathetically easy to -- // I can't -- // Yes, you can. // Please, Toby. // No. I told you, no. Get up here. // Toby -- // Get up.

A slap, a lightning strike against his cheek. Sam presses his hand there and looks outraged, even as he gets harder.


Do you want me to hit you again, Sam? (His voice velvet-soft. Hands resting on his knees.) Ask me. // Hit me again, Toby. // Hit you? // Toby -- // Say it. // Slap my face. I want you to slap my face with the palm of your hand. // (His voice whispering -- ) good boy (-- makes Sam's cock jerk against his jeans.) // Yes -- Toby, yes. // Do you like that? Tell me you liked that. // I liked it. (It hurts. It hurts like hell. His lip feels swollen on the left side.) // Are you supposed to like your punishments? // Yes. // Yes? // No ... // Really? // I don't know ...


He takes pity on Sam, eventually, or loses interest; it isn't clear. Toby doesn't have the patience to dominate consciously; he expects submission, and Sam allows him the temporary illusion that it is given. They agreed this fiction a long time ago, but its reality is being constantly rewritten, with every argument and every victory on either side. Toby likes a good fight. He'd get bored with someone who was constantly rolling over.

Between his thighs, Toby smirks at him.

You like it down there? // No, Sam. Doesn't work like that. // Maybe I'll just slap you around a little anyway.


Little notes appear in his briefing books. Post-Its stuck on the inside covers. One day late in the same week a note flutters to the floor as Sam opens the book with half a mind on getting his office door shut properly and the other half on figuring out which phone message to call back first. The note is in black ink on yellow paper. Toby's block printing, more urgent -- more emotional -- than his script.

Come see me tonight. Be prepared to tell me exactly what you want -- or face the consequences. 'Please' is still not an acceptable word.


You're still playing this game? // You're mouth's gonna get you into trouble, Sam. // I kinda think it already did, Toby. // And yet ... you're still here. // Yeah. // Why? // You know why. // Why? // I want you. // Uh huh. // I want you to kiss me. I want you to touch me. We've been sitting in the Oval Office and I've wanted you to touch me. // Yeah. // I like it when you yell and scream at me. It means you need me. // Does it? // It means you need me out of everyone else. // Mmm, maybe. // It means you think of me, before everyone else.


His hands are quicker than Sam's eyes. Before Sam has blinked Toby has him face down on the bed with his slim wrists between Toby's big hands and Toby's weight centred on the small of his back. He shifts, or tries to. Tries to move, or wrestle, or fight him off. He can't. He can't breathe either. Panic swells in his chest, flooding his throat. He can't help but say --

Please! Toby, please -- // (A slap to the cheek that isn't pressed into the pillows. Then one more stinging his ass through his boxers.) I told you 'please' is not acceptable.


Let me up, fuck, Toby, let me up -- // No, not yet. (He is stroking Sam's hair, gentle, slow.) Breathe easy. Try not to panic. // Try not to panic?! What the hell, Toby! // Relax, Sam. (A light slap to his ass again.) This'll go easier if you relax.

Sam closes his eyes, tries to slow his breathing. He concentrates on Toby's hand in his hair, rather than the pain in his chest. He feels light-headed. It is not entirely unpleasant.

Better? // Yes. // Yes what? // Toby -- // Yes, what? // Yes. Thank you. // Better. I'm gonna let you up now. Get up now.


Sam sits up and all the blood rushes to his head. Toby, still fully dressed, sits on the edge of the bed, keeping his hands to himself. Sam gets to his feet and walks around the bed, trying not to think about how his heart is racing or fall over his own steps. He sits beside Toby.

Are you light-headed? (Soft voice. A whisper.) // Yes. // Are you in pain? // Yes. // Where? // My wrists hurt. My chest. // Are you hard? // ... yes. // Do you still want me? // Yes. // Tell me you want me. // I want you. // Say 'please'. // Please, Toby. Please.


There. Please. // Tell me. // Right there, just there over my hipbone. Oh god. // (He withdraws his hand.) Describe the sensation. // It tickles. It goes straight to my dick. Please, Toby. // You can do better than that, Sam. // It's ... it's almost painful. It's so sensitive. // Why is it sensitive? // Because you've kissed the skin. Rubbed it. Your beard hurts my skin. // But you like it? // Yes. // Tell me what you want. // Your mouth, just there. Fuck. I want your mouth. // (Silence, but for the scratches he thinks he hears -- Toby's beard against his own blank skin -- and his own breathing, frantic.)


Ask me. Beg me. (His voice scratches now. He needs to clear his throat.) // Please. // Tell me. // Please, Toby. (On his back, in the bed, completely naked, and Toby fully dressed but for rolled-up shirtsleeves and bare feet, his tie pooling in the centre of Sam's belly as his breath heaves in and out. As Toby moves the tail of the tie brushes against Sam's cock, and the touch is almost unbearable.) Please! God, Toby, please! // What? Tell me what. // Your mouth, oh god, please, your mouth ... oh! (His mouth is wet, hot, and merciless. Declarative, no tautologies now.)


(Toby's hands, one grasping the base of Sam's dick, and one lazily pinching first one of Sam's nipples, then the other. His mouth is lost now -- no more of that particular torture. Sam is holding his breath back, because he thinks that if he breathes normally, he will start sobbing just from the cascade of sensation. He lies there feeling like he's falling, plummeting, the only thing that can tether him the grasp of Toby's hand. He lies there, every nerve ending flooded and buzzing, throwing all his senses up against the barricade of his skin, saying) Please please please.


Tell me. // Please, Toby -- // Tell me what you want. // Please ... let me come, I need to come -- // Need to? // Want to. Please. Please, Toby. // You want to come? // Yes. // (Toby's mouth pressed against Sam's left thigh. A violent twitch in his cock and a tighter clamp of Toby's hand. His other hand strokes Sam's cheek and then slaps it lightly.) Yes? // Yes. (As Toby's fingers pinch a nipple again --) Please! // Yes? // Please ... // Say my name. // Toby, please, Toby ... // (His hand gone. His tongue licking under the head of Sam's cock, then his lips sucking and Sam is gone, falling, or --


-- Flying, his whole self hurtling forward into the dark warm place, into Toby's mouth, flooding it, losing everything, hips jerking over and over up against Toby's hands and mouth hitting his forearm his shoulder Tobys fingers stroking gentle his voice gentle whispering come for me sam sam sam and darkness covering over his head disappearing blackness behind his eyes and no more and more and and ...

(Toby is stroking his hair.) You, uh, you passed out a little there. // ... Yeah. // I'd apologize, but -- // (Laughing, a little hoarsely -- ) No, you wouldn't. // No, I wouldn't. // Toby -- // Shut up. (A kiss.) Shut up.