Slave Verse 2, Chapter 1: Caution Signs
(Banner by DancingDragon3)
Sylar smiled, cautiously. In a way, this was as exhilarating as having Peter as a slave. Now he had him as a partner. It was like handling a venomous snake, never knowing if you might annoy it and get fatally bitten. He bent to kiss Peter again, brushing his lips rather than forcing him to take him like he had nearly every other time they’d kissed. Peter matched him, eyes open and watching the whole time. Sylar finally couldn’t take the intense gaze. He shut his eyes and melded his mouth with Peter’s, harder, and let his hands slide down over the other man’s back.
When they broke, they were both breathing harder. Peter was mostly erect - his nudity making his condition obvious. “You know what I want?” Peter breathed.
“No, what?” Sylar answered in kind, expected a revelation of a sexual nature.
“Solid food.”
Sylar blinked at him and straightened a little. Peter smiled teasingly. “You want me, right?”
“Yes,” Sylar said hesitantly.
“Good,” Peter said. “You’ll get me… if you’ll get me food.” He smiled and it looked innocent and guileless and completely out of place.
Sylar smiled a little and kissed Peter again, a little more forcefully. For now, Peter responded, but when he started to push him back on the bed, Peter twisted to one side, his body tensing. Sylar eyed him, still so close they were touching, both men frozen in place as they worked out the new balance of power between them. Sylar asked without moving, “What if I just take what I want?”
Peter’s smile lit up his face, crinkling around his eyes. “I don’t think you can.” Sylar shifted his weight slightly and suddenly Peter was solicitous again so fast it made Sylar blink. “Hey, hey,” Peter crooned, touching Sylar soothingly with both hands along his arms. “All I want is something to eat. Please, master. That’s all. I’ll let you fuck me however you want. I’ll make you happy. I’ll take it right from your lips if you’ll let me. I’m just so hungry. I haven’t had anything solid to eat in days.” He scooted up inside Sylar’s arms and kissed the point of his chin, then his lower lip.
Sylar swallowed and leaned down a little so Peter could carry on more easily. Peter took the hint, begging energetically of him. When it had gone on long enough to salve Sylar’s ego, he said, “What if I say no?”
Peter sunk back slowly, watching him, a distant, disappointed expression stealing across his face. He scooted backwards onto the bed. “What position do you want me in?” His voice was neutral, betraying neither anger nor sadness, but utterly devoid of enthusiasm.
Sylar looked away, feeling shamed even though he knew Peter was shamelessly manipulating him. After all, if Peter really wanted something to eat, he could just go invisible, teleport wherever and help himself. “I didn’t say I would say no.”
Peter took that as a ‘yes’ and bounded off the bed, circling to him and hugging him unabashed. “Thank you, master! Thank you!”
“Stop it,” Sylar grumbled. The act was a little overdone.
Peter grabbed one of his hands and pulled him along after him to the kitchen. “Come on!” He was acting like a child, but it was done so freely that it seemed real, almost like the real him shining through. Once in the kitchen, Peter turned to Sylar and said, “Okay, so is this one of those places where you can put in an order for food and groceries and stuff and they go out and get it, right, like a hotel?”
“Like a luxury apartment, which is what this is, yes,” Sylar allowed.
“Okay. This is what I want.” Peter snatched the notepad from under the vid-phone and made a quick list. “There. And the chicken alfredo I want prepared, like at a restaurant.”
“They have one on the second floor,” Sylar mumbled, looking at the list. It was simple - milk, cream, a fruit tray, yogurt, steak, ice cream, chocolate syrup, and chicken alfredo.
“You should pick a dinner for yourself,” Peter said, dropping to his knees in front of Sylar. “Something prepared.” He started unfastening his slacks.
“What are you doing?” Sylar stood blinking down at him, holding the list in one hand and grabbing the top of his pants with the other.
“That’s the vid-phone, right?”
Sylar looked at the wall-mounted device right in front of him. “Uh… yes.”
“Good. Make the call.” Peter tugged Sylar’s pants out of his hand and shoved them down around his knees. He hooked his fingers in the elastic of his underwear. “Call.”
“Um,” Sylar said. Peter was grinning up at him, slowly pulling down his underwear an inch at a time.
Peter stopped about halfway and rubbed his face against Sylar’s groin, still covered by cotton fabric. “Mmm. If you don’t call, I’ll have to find something else to do with my time.” He turned and started mouthing the tip of Sylar’s cock through the cloth.
The feeling shot through Sylar like a jolt. “Oh! Um. Yes. Calling. Now.” He looked down at Peter. “Right now? Can’t you just wait until I’m done?”
Peter chuckled huskily. “You’re going to be done before you finish that call.”
“Are…? What?”
“Call.” Peter pulled his underwear down and sucked Sylar’s dick into his mouth, making Sylar grab the counter with both hands. Then Peter froze and nothing happened. He looked down at his lover, who pointed at the vid-phone.
“Of course,” Sylar said, almost panting. He dialed the simple extension for client services.
A cheery, familiar face answered, “Good morning, Mr. Grey. What can I help you with today?”
Sylar realized he should have turned off the vid function, even though Peter was safely below the pickup zone. He still could. He could feel Peter’s mouth hot around his member though, massaging it to hardness. He could do this. He could last. He put the list on the counter in front of him. “I need to have lunch delivered -oh!- and,” he panted as Peter was suddenly really getting into it. Sylar shifted his hips, leaning forward towards the phone. What was I saying? Oh yeah. “Groceries. I have a list.”
“Of course, sir.” She sounded a little confused. Peter bobbed on him aggressively, but when he waited too long, the motion stopped abruptly and Peter tightened his grip almost painfully around the base of Sylar’s cock. “Sir?” the receptionist asked as Sylar grimaced.
“Ow!”
“Sir? Are you alright?”
“Yes, damnit, I’m fine.” He looked down at Peter, who teasingly flicked the side of his shaft with his tongue, but did nothing else.
At this point, apparently the receptionist clued because her voice changed a little from cheery to ‘let’s get this over with’. “You said you had a grocery list.”
His head snapped back up. “Yes, I do.” And Peter began again. “Ug… Milk, cream, and… uh…” He was breathing harder, trying to suppress the urge to push forward into Peter’s mouth in rhythmic, but obvious motions.
“Sir?”
“What?” he snapped.
“2%, whole, skim or chocolate?”
“What?” He looked up at her from where his gaze had fallen downward.
The receptionist had a tight, polite smile on her face. “The milk, sir. 2%, whole, skim or chocolate?”
“Uh, I don’t care. Oh, um, whole, I guess.” Peter had finally slowed down a little, not that it was a big help. “A fruit tray… Ooooh.”
“I need a size for the milk.” Her voice was dry.
“What?”
“Do you want to call back later, sir?”
“No! No. He won’t… never mind. Christ, I don’t know. A gallon.”
“Very good, sir. And the cream - half and half or whipping cream?”
Peter shifted and held up three fingers, high enough it was in the vid phone’s viewing zone. Sylar froze. It wasn’t like she hadn’t caught on quite a while ago, but still… and what did three fingers mean, anyway? “Whipping cream,” the receptionist said. “Yes, sir.” Sylar’s head snapped back to looking at her. Yeah, I suppose that was a W. Her expression was amused now. Why is it when Peter does something everyone thinks it’s sweet and cool and just fine, but when I’m doing it, it’s evil and rude and twisted?
Sylar didn’t say anything, except a muffled “Oof” when Peter stopped again, pulling off and putting his head against the cabinet behind him. The receptionist saved him by asking, “Fruit tray for two, four, six or more?”
“Four,” Sylar said, relaxing a little. Peter pumped steadily at his well-slicked member, staring up at him adoringly. Sylar tore his eyes away.
“Tropical fruit, seasonal, or traditional?”
“I really have no idea…” Sylar said weakly. What he had no idea about was how he was going to manage to avoid coming by the end of this. It had been such a simple list. Why were there two or three questions about every item?
The receptionist said, “I’ll send up traditional. If you don’t like it, you can return it.”
“Thank you,” he said, infinitely grateful. Peter was back to using his mouth. Sylar didn’t think he was going to make it.
“Was that all?”
“Yes.” Peter bit him. “OW! No! No. No, it wasn’t. Um.. yogurt and steak and…” Peter sucked him hard and rubbed his tongue vigorously over where his teeth had marked him. “Oh my God…”
“Sir? Sir? Wait. What kind of yogurt?”
“Plain!” He bit his lip, giving it up and beginning to rock his hips to match Peter’s ministrations. “Two servings, whatever the hell that is!”
“Very good, sir. And the steak? What cut?”
“Top sir… um, ribeye. Twelve ounces.” Peter dug his fingernails into the exposed skin of his butt cheeks. “Ow! Damnit! I don’t know… Two of them. No, four. No… yeah. Four.”
“Four twelve ounce ribeyes. Was there anything else?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
“Sir?”
“Ice cream. Vanilla. One… whatever. Quart, half gallon, I don’t care. Ohh, that is so good…”
“Anything else, sir?” He couldn’t tell if the receptionist was amused or annoyed. He didn’t care, either. His eyes were screwed up shut as he was approaching his peak. He was sure he was giving her a show, but he just couldn’t stop.
“Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh, oh… oh!” Peter racked his nails down his thigh. “Oh my God. Yeah. Chocolate syrup. That’s… Oh my God! Ah!” He came. He spoke weakly, “That was it. I think so. That was it. I made it.”
Peter pulled off, snorted and stood up, pushing Sylar out of the way. He leaned forward, showing off his chest and folding his arms, making it sort of obvious that he was naked without actually showing anything off. He reached up and brushed his hair back out of his face, smiling gorgeously, making an instant connection. The receptionist’s mouth fell open slightly and her eyes widened. Peter said, “We also need some chicken alfredo with standard sides from the restaurant and… oh, get some meatloaf for buster here. How long will that take to deliver?”
“Oh,” she said breathily, admiring Peter’s form. He leaned forward and shifted his hips back and forth, swaying. “Oh… just thirty minutes, sir!”
“Thank you,” he said, and gave her a small smile that obviously affected her. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” His smile widened to a conspiratorial grin and she giggled. He pressed the button to end the call and turned to Sylar, who hung limply against the nearby counter, leaning with his back to it and propped up on his elbows.
“So,” Peter said. “We have thirty minutes.”
Next Chapter: game-byrd.livejournal.com/3405.html