Ties That Bind [Mature Audiences]
Feb. 26th, 2014 08:25 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuNapoleon teaches April a lesson in assertiveness. Het, and a little sexy but not too much.
Ties That Bind
Somewhere in the Caribbean. Early November, 1967.
The seaside cottage was nestled on the edge of a rainforest, far from even the trickle of off-season tourists. Everything about it was perfect: tropical breezes and private beaches. Eighty-degree days and seventy-degree nights. And best of all, no cars, no people, no disturbances from the outside world — not even a telephone.
Island hideaways don’t come much better than this, April Dancer reflected as she stood on the cottage’s covered veranda. But then, Napoleon really needed a vacation, if only this short one. The month before, he’d been falsely accused and brutally interrogated by one of their own people. More recently, he’d been stalked by a madman and mauled by the madman’s leopard. The autumn had been rough one, to say the least.
April waved to her friend and called out his name, as Napoleon emerged naked from the surf, slicking back his wet hair with both hands. Her voice caught him by surprise. His head snapped up and for an instant, she saw him tense. She waved again, and this time, his face broke into a wide grin and he waved in return, obviously pleased to see her.
She watched as he retrieved his shoulder holster, lying on the sand just beyond the waterline, and slung it carelessly over one shoulder. He walked up the beach toward her, at an easy lope. Behind him, the setting sun was melting into the bay, like a dollop of hot butter.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” April said when he was close enough to hear. She found a towel draped over the railing of the veranda and passed it to him.
“Not at all,” Napoleon replied, smiling. “To what do I owe the honor?”
He patted himself dry, and then slung the towel casually around his waist. It was more a gesture of gentlemanly good manners than true modesty, since they’d already slept together over a half dozen times during the past year.
“Well, the Old Man sent me to Puerto del Cielo, to check up on President Delgado —.”
“Anything wrong down there?” Napoleon asked, suddenly concerned. He knew Delgado personally.
“Not really. It seems the El Supremo cultists are still causing trouble, but they’re not organized enough to pose a significant threat to the new government. It was the usual diplomatic call: you know, look around, pay my respects to the president and his wife, write a routine assessment report. I’m not due back in New York until Monday, so I thought I’d make a small detour to see you. Do you mind?”
It was a silly question, and April realized that as soon as she asked it. Instead of answering, he gathered her into his arms. He’d acquired a deep tan over the past week that appeared even darker in the failing light, and he’d allowed his beard to grow. April ran her knuckles along his bristling cheek and offered him a playful kiss.
“Feeling lonely, huh?” she said.
“Not anymore.” He pulled her close, and wrapped his arms around her so tightly it made her gasp. They began to kiss again with undisguised, untempered passion.
It was always like this when they came together, far from the curious eyes of their colleagues in U.N.C.L.E. He could never be anything to her — never a husband or a boyfriend or even a proper lover. What they had, what existed between them, was indefinable. It had no name in any language, and therefore, no conventions or conditions, no obligations or rules. April liked that. When she went to bed with Napoleon, it was all improvisation and they met each other purely on their own terms.
She kissed him deep and open-mouthed, entwining herself around him, wanting to climb his body. He reached under her skirt, lifted her by the thighs and set her down on the veranda railing. She kept her knees locked against his hipbones, her face in his hair as he opened her blouse. He smelled of sand and seawater and something else that was uniquely him. When he undid her bra and cupped her breasts in the hollows of his hands, her skin came alive to his touch.
“When was the last time you made love?” Napoleon murmured between kisses.
“In August, in Tokyo. With you, remember?”
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Still, she knew what he was thinking — that she should be bolder, freer, more aggressive in seeking her own gratification — though he would never embarrass her by saying so aloud. And maybe he was right. Suddenly, two months did seem like a small eternity.
April drew him nearer and moaned through her teeth as he nuzzled her throat. Napoleon chuckled.
“I can see we’re going to have to make up for some lost time,” he said.
***
Of course, to say that her friend had an active sex life was like saying that Babe Ruth played baseball or Lindbergh flew planes. Solo’s fondness for women —or weakness, depending upon your point of view — was legendary, a fact of life at New York Headquarters, as permanent and immutable as Channel D or Waverly’s pipe. Everyone, from the Old Man on down to the file clerks, knew about it, joked about it, even exploited it to their own purposes.
As far as April was concerned, however, an appetite for sex, even a pronounced one, was hardly noteworthy. Most men wanted — or thought they wanted— more sex than they received. What set Napoleon apart from the rest of the pack was his exuberance, his sense of high drama, and from a perspective of romance, his continuing ability to deliver the goods.
If he was constantly in demand for a date or a tryst, April knew why. Contrary to the usual cliché, Napoleon was more of a giver than a user, and he usually returned as good as he got. He was one of those rare men who actually knew — and cared to know — when his partner was satisfied. If the woman tried to fake it, he took it personally.
For those who were sexually unresponsive for whatever reason, this last point was less a marvelous boon than a petty tyranny. And though Napoleon never divulged what went on behind closed doors — not ever — April always knew which of her female colleagues were uncommonly cool between the sheets, because Napoleon discreetly avoided taking them to bed again.
For April herself, managing her friend was never a problem. Ever since that night at the country inn, a year ago this month, he’d been her sweet secret, a respectful but always willing accomplice. What she needed, he was only too ready to provide, offering her a bountiful source of erotic pleasure that prudence and propriety prevented her from seeking elsewhere.
It was all so easy. Too easy. Even now, the wonderfully voluptuous atmosphere of the cottage — the kisses and caresses, the cheerfully rumpled sheets, the candles flickering in the evening breeze — seemed an embarrassment of riches. She was self-consciously aware of how effortlessly he romanced her, excited her, gauged her responses, anticipating her desires and taking care of them.
And tonight, for some reason, it all began to nag at her.
“Something wrong?” Napoleon asked from somewhere between her knees.
“No,” April sighed, wishing he hadn’t noticed. But of course he would, she told herself.
He broke off the lovemaking and crawled beside her. She saw the concern in his eyes, highlighted in the glow of the candlelight, and silently reproached herself for not managing her emotions more diligently.
“Everything’s fine, Napoleon. Perfect, even.”
She reached for him and kissed him deeply, a gesture of reassurance and perhaps, apology. She sighed again. “You always seem to know what I need, even before I do.”
Solo grinned, the concern melting into relief. “And that’s bad?”
“No, not exactly. But sometimes, it seems too smooth. Too proficient, too in control, know what I mean?”
The confused expression on his face said he was trying. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to jab you with an elbow from time to time, or give you an occasional poke in the eye?”
April chuckled aloud, in spite of herself and kissed him again. This was so complicated, so difficult too explain. It wasn’t simply a matter of exchanging positions. He’d often encouraged her to be on top. It had more to do with responsibility, with taking the initiative, and she told him so.
“But I enjoy making love to you,” Napoleon said, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.
“But don’t you see? That’s the point. Listen to what you’re saying: you’re making love to me. You do it to me.”
“April my darling, I’m lying in bed, naked, with a beautiful, desirable woman. If I didn’t want to do something to you, there’d certainly be a problem all right — with me.”
“Well, maybe you should try to be a little less, umm, active.”
Napoleon ran a hand through his hair and laughed ruefully. “That might be difficult. I don’t think I have that much willpower.”
“Then maybe I’ll just have to tie you down,” April teased him.
“If that’s what you want, then maybe you should.”
The suggestion caught her off-guard. Did she really want that?
She looked at him, less scandalized than genuinely surprised. He sounded half-serious. Civilians might toy with such games, but for enforcement agents, it was almost too painfully close to reality. When they were either strung up or tied down, terrible things usually followed. Indeed, in the past, Napoleon had confided to her that it had taken him years to learn to still the panic that rose from his heart whenever he was restrained or confined.
“Go ahead if you want,” he repeated simply, almost nonchalantly. He lay flat on his back next to her. “Do it.”
He was daring her, April realized, and if she refused it, she’d probably never live it down.
“All right,” she agreed. She retrieved her scarf and used it to bind his right wrist to the bed frame, then borrowed one of his ties for the other. She expected him to put up at least a mock struggle — maybe even to change his mind — but he surrendered docily without any fuss.
After making an elaborate show of testing the knots, April sat back on her heels with her knees between his thighs and admired her handiwork.
“Now what?” she asked.
“I’d say that was up to you.”
It is, isn’t it? she thought, growing accustomed to the idea. The fact that Napoleon had no attachments to any other woman always allowed April to entertain the fiction that, for a few hours anyway, he belonged solely to her. Now, at this moment, she possessed him in a very real sense of the word. Not only did she hold his erection in her hands, but she held his life in them, too. It struck her that she was now responsible not only for their mutual satisfaction, but also for their mutual safety. And if she, herself, had suddenly felt inclined to put a bullet through his brain, he’d be helpless to stop her.
She ran her hands up his flanks, feeling the muscles tense and relax.
My God, to think that he trusts me this much! she told herself as she leaned down to kiss him. And with that realization, she felt such an intense surge of emotion, that the passion it became fueled the kiss and the rest of the night.
***
Even the next day, April still couldn’t believe that he’d allowed himself to be placed in such a vulnerable position. She sat on the beach in the early morning sun, remembering the hunger and heat of the evening, what they’d done and how she’d enjoyed it. As usual, Napoleon preferred not discussing any of it. He wanted to take a swim before breakfast, but he could see that April was determined to talk, so eventually, he relented. He sat down next to her in the sand.
“I liked getting control,” she admitted to him.
“You don’t get control, darling, you take it. Remember that.”
“All right, then, I liked taking the responsibility. I felt confident, autonomous...” She groped for the proper word.
“You felt powerful,” Napoleon said softly. When she demurred, he added, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I wanted you to feel that. It was important that you did.”
She waited while he lit a cigarette. He went on: “There’s nothing wrong with a little aggression when it’s channeled properly and used creatively. Now maybe you’ll understand why so many of your male colleagues think that self-confidence in bed translates to success in the field.”
“But it’s not the same thing,” April protested.
“No, not exactly, but there’s a relationship.” He took a deep drag. “It’s been my experience that women generally shy away from power, from competition. They’d rather talk things out. But when you’re working in this business, there’s often no time for vacillation or compromise. You can’t second-guess yourself, and it’s hard to negotiate with a bullet.”
“But you yielded to me last night.”
Fleetingly, she recalled how he looked when she straddled him — eyes closed, back arched, straining against the bonds, the veins standing out in his arms.
Napoleon leaned back on his elbows, considering. “There’s a time to yield and a time to fight back, and it’s important to know which is which. A man can’t really understand one without the other.”
April drew a pattern in the sand with one bare toe and studied it. “But I’m not a man,” she reminded him. “I couldn’t live like you do. On the other hand, I can’t go on living alone like Illya either.”
She shook her head in frustration. “For you guys, it’s either win or lose, top or bottom, all or nothing. I guess I’ll just have to find my own way for myself.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Napoleon said, through a crooked grin. “You did pretty well last night.”
“Oh yeah?”
Napoleon shrugged. “I can’t complain.”
“Well, I suppose one should try everything once, don’t you?”
There was a pause. Napoleon cocked an eyebrow slyly. “And what makes you think I’ve done that only once?”
Before she could reply, he tossed the cigarette away and was on his feet, ready to race her out to the reef. They swam all morning and made love again all afternoon, and April left to catch her plane before she found an opportunity to bring up the subject again.
Ties That Bind
Somewhere in the Caribbean. Early November, 1967.
The seaside cottage was nestled on the edge of a rainforest, far from even the trickle of off-season tourists. Everything about it was perfect: tropical breezes and private beaches. Eighty-degree days and seventy-degree nights. And best of all, no cars, no people, no disturbances from the outside world — not even a telephone.
Island hideaways don’t come much better than this, April Dancer reflected as she stood on the cottage’s covered veranda. But then, Napoleon really needed a vacation, if only this short one. The month before, he’d been falsely accused and brutally interrogated by one of their own people. More recently, he’d been stalked by a madman and mauled by the madman’s leopard. The autumn had been rough one, to say the least.
April waved to her friend and called out his name, as Napoleon emerged naked from the surf, slicking back his wet hair with both hands. Her voice caught him by surprise. His head snapped up and for an instant, she saw him tense. She waved again, and this time, his face broke into a wide grin and he waved in return, obviously pleased to see her.
She watched as he retrieved his shoulder holster, lying on the sand just beyond the waterline, and slung it carelessly over one shoulder. He walked up the beach toward her, at an easy lope. Behind him, the setting sun was melting into the bay, like a dollop of hot butter.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” April said when he was close enough to hear. She found a towel draped over the railing of the veranda and passed it to him.
“Not at all,” Napoleon replied, smiling. “To what do I owe the honor?”
He patted himself dry, and then slung the towel casually around his waist. It was more a gesture of gentlemanly good manners than true modesty, since they’d already slept together over a half dozen times during the past year.
“Well, the Old Man sent me to Puerto del Cielo, to check up on President Delgado —.”
“Anything wrong down there?” Napoleon asked, suddenly concerned. He knew Delgado personally.
“Not really. It seems the El Supremo cultists are still causing trouble, but they’re not organized enough to pose a significant threat to the new government. It was the usual diplomatic call: you know, look around, pay my respects to the president and his wife, write a routine assessment report. I’m not due back in New York until Monday, so I thought I’d make a small detour to see you. Do you mind?”
It was a silly question, and April realized that as soon as she asked it. Instead of answering, he gathered her into his arms. He’d acquired a deep tan over the past week that appeared even darker in the failing light, and he’d allowed his beard to grow. April ran her knuckles along his bristling cheek and offered him a playful kiss.
“Feeling lonely, huh?” she said.
“Not anymore.” He pulled her close, and wrapped his arms around her so tightly it made her gasp. They began to kiss again with undisguised, untempered passion.
It was always like this when they came together, far from the curious eyes of their colleagues in U.N.C.L.E. He could never be anything to her — never a husband or a boyfriend or even a proper lover. What they had, what existed between them, was indefinable. It had no name in any language, and therefore, no conventions or conditions, no obligations or rules. April liked that. When she went to bed with Napoleon, it was all improvisation and they met each other purely on their own terms.
She kissed him deep and open-mouthed, entwining herself around him, wanting to climb his body. He reached under her skirt, lifted her by the thighs and set her down on the veranda railing. She kept her knees locked against his hipbones, her face in his hair as he opened her blouse. He smelled of sand and seawater and something else that was uniquely him. When he undid her bra and cupped her breasts in the hollows of his hands, her skin came alive to his touch.
“When was the last time you made love?” Napoleon murmured between kisses.
“In August, in Tokyo. With you, remember?”
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Still, she knew what he was thinking — that she should be bolder, freer, more aggressive in seeking her own gratification — though he would never embarrass her by saying so aloud. And maybe he was right. Suddenly, two months did seem like a small eternity.
April drew him nearer and moaned through her teeth as he nuzzled her throat. Napoleon chuckled.
“I can see we’re going to have to make up for some lost time,” he said.
***
Of course, to say that her friend had an active sex life was like saying that Babe Ruth played baseball or Lindbergh flew planes. Solo’s fondness for women —or weakness, depending upon your point of view — was legendary, a fact of life at New York Headquarters, as permanent and immutable as Channel D or Waverly’s pipe. Everyone, from the Old Man on down to the file clerks, knew about it, joked about it, even exploited it to their own purposes.
As far as April was concerned, however, an appetite for sex, even a pronounced one, was hardly noteworthy. Most men wanted — or thought they wanted— more sex than they received. What set Napoleon apart from the rest of the pack was his exuberance, his sense of high drama, and from a perspective of romance, his continuing ability to deliver the goods.
If he was constantly in demand for a date or a tryst, April knew why. Contrary to the usual cliché, Napoleon was more of a giver than a user, and he usually returned as good as he got. He was one of those rare men who actually knew — and cared to know — when his partner was satisfied. If the woman tried to fake it, he took it personally.
For those who were sexually unresponsive for whatever reason, this last point was less a marvelous boon than a petty tyranny. And though Napoleon never divulged what went on behind closed doors — not ever — April always knew which of her female colleagues were uncommonly cool between the sheets, because Napoleon discreetly avoided taking them to bed again.
For April herself, managing her friend was never a problem. Ever since that night at the country inn, a year ago this month, he’d been her sweet secret, a respectful but always willing accomplice. What she needed, he was only too ready to provide, offering her a bountiful source of erotic pleasure that prudence and propriety prevented her from seeking elsewhere.
It was all so easy. Too easy. Even now, the wonderfully voluptuous atmosphere of the cottage — the kisses and caresses, the cheerfully rumpled sheets, the candles flickering in the evening breeze — seemed an embarrassment of riches. She was self-consciously aware of how effortlessly he romanced her, excited her, gauged her responses, anticipating her desires and taking care of them.
And tonight, for some reason, it all began to nag at her.
“Something wrong?” Napoleon asked from somewhere between her knees.
“No,” April sighed, wishing he hadn’t noticed. But of course he would, she told herself.
He broke off the lovemaking and crawled beside her. She saw the concern in his eyes, highlighted in the glow of the candlelight, and silently reproached herself for not managing her emotions more diligently.
“Everything’s fine, Napoleon. Perfect, even.”
She reached for him and kissed him deeply, a gesture of reassurance and perhaps, apology. She sighed again. “You always seem to know what I need, even before I do.”
Solo grinned, the concern melting into relief. “And that’s bad?”
“No, not exactly. But sometimes, it seems too smooth. Too proficient, too in control, know what I mean?”
The confused expression on his face said he was trying. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to jab you with an elbow from time to time, or give you an occasional poke in the eye?”
April chuckled aloud, in spite of herself and kissed him again. This was so complicated, so difficult too explain. It wasn’t simply a matter of exchanging positions. He’d often encouraged her to be on top. It had more to do with responsibility, with taking the initiative, and she told him so.
“But I enjoy making love to you,” Napoleon said, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.
“But don’t you see? That’s the point. Listen to what you’re saying: you’re making love to me. You do it to me.”
“April my darling, I’m lying in bed, naked, with a beautiful, desirable woman. If I didn’t want to do something to you, there’d certainly be a problem all right — with me.”
“Well, maybe you should try to be a little less, umm, active.”
Napoleon ran a hand through his hair and laughed ruefully. “That might be difficult. I don’t think I have that much willpower.”
“Then maybe I’ll just have to tie you down,” April teased him.
“If that’s what you want, then maybe you should.”
The suggestion caught her off-guard. Did she really want that?
She looked at him, less scandalized than genuinely surprised. He sounded half-serious. Civilians might toy with such games, but for enforcement agents, it was almost too painfully close to reality. When they were either strung up or tied down, terrible things usually followed. Indeed, in the past, Napoleon had confided to her that it had taken him years to learn to still the panic that rose from his heart whenever he was restrained or confined.
“Go ahead if you want,” he repeated simply, almost nonchalantly. He lay flat on his back next to her. “Do it.”
He was daring her, April realized, and if she refused it, she’d probably never live it down.
“All right,” she agreed. She retrieved her scarf and used it to bind his right wrist to the bed frame, then borrowed one of his ties for the other. She expected him to put up at least a mock struggle — maybe even to change his mind — but he surrendered docily without any fuss.
After making an elaborate show of testing the knots, April sat back on her heels with her knees between his thighs and admired her handiwork.
“Now what?” she asked.
“I’d say that was up to you.”
It is, isn’t it? she thought, growing accustomed to the idea. The fact that Napoleon had no attachments to any other woman always allowed April to entertain the fiction that, for a few hours anyway, he belonged solely to her. Now, at this moment, she possessed him in a very real sense of the word. Not only did she hold his erection in her hands, but she held his life in them, too. It struck her that she was now responsible not only for their mutual satisfaction, but also for their mutual safety. And if she, herself, had suddenly felt inclined to put a bullet through his brain, he’d be helpless to stop her.
She ran her hands up his flanks, feeling the muscles tense and relax.
My God, to think that he trusts me this much! she told herself as she leaned down to kiss him. And with that realization, she felt such an intense surge of emotion, that the passion it became fueled the kiss and the rest of the night.
***
Even the next day, April still couldn’t believe that he’d allowed himself to be placed in such a vulnerable position. She sat on the beach in the early morning sun, remembering the hunger and heat of the evening, what they’d done and how she’d enjoyed it. As usual, Napoleon preferred not discussing any of it. He wanted to take a swim before breakfast, but he could see that April was determined to talk, so eventually, he relented. He sat down next to her in the sand.
“I liked getting control,” she admitted to him.
“You don’t get control, darling, you take it. Remember that.”
“All right, then, I liked taking the responsibility. I felt confident, autonomous...” She groped for the proper word.
“You felt powerful,” Napoleon said softly. When she demurred, he added, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I wanted you to feel that. It was important that you did.”
She waited while he lit a cigarette. He went on: “There’s nothing wrong with a little aggression when it’s channeled properly and used creatively. Now maybe you’ll understand why so many of your male colleagues think that self-confidence in bed translates to success in the field.”
“But it’s not the same thing,” April protested.
“No, not exactly, but there’s a relationship.” He took a deep drag. “It’s been my experience that women generally shy away from power, from competition. They’d rather talk things out. But when you’re working in this business, there’s often no time for vacillation or compromise. You can’t second-guess yourself, and it’s hard to negotiate with a bullet.”
“But you yielded to me last night.”
Fleetingly, she recalled how he looked when she straddled him — eyes closed, back arched, straining against the bonds, the veins standing out in his arms.
Napoleon leaned back on his elbows, considering. “There’s a time to yield and a time to fight back, and it’s important to know which is which. A man can’t really understand one without the other.”
April drew a pattern in the sand with one bare toe and studied it. “But I’m not a man,” she reminded him. “I couldn’t live like you do. On the other hand, I can’t go on living alone like Illya either.”
She shook her head in frustration. “For you guys, it’s either win or lose, top or bottom, all or nothing. I guess I’ll just have to find my own way for myself.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Napoleon said, through a crooked grin. “You did pretty well last night.”
“Oh yeah?”
Napoleon shrugged. “I can’t complain.”
“Well, I suppose one should try everything once, don’t you?”
There was a pause. Napoleon cocked an eyebrow slyly. “And what makes you think I’ve done that only once?”
Before she could reply, he tossed the cigarette away and was on his feet, ready to race her out to the reef. They swam all morning and made love again all afternoon, and April left to catch her plane before she found an opportunity to bring up the subject again.
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Date: 2014-02-26 03:39 pm (UTC)