Hotel Victoires, Paris

It was late, and the place was as quiet as the proverbial grave - which perfectly suited the man exiting the lift. The door swished closed behind him and the slender blond man, dressed from the neck down in black, exited onto the quiet corridor.

This was a man with a purpose, but he didn't let it show in his casual manner as he walked coolly down the empty corridor. He was relaxed, unafraid, as though he belonged in this place. But that was his intent. No one should suspect his reasons for being here, lest he give the game away.

There were few people in the hotel at this hour, which made his business easier. He smiled to himself as he glanced about, pausing outside the door he needed. Suddenly, the door at the end of the corridor opened and a young woman stepped out, a light cardigan draped over her shoulders, a bag swinging in one hand, but her attention was elsewhere as she walked haughtily past him, her nose in the air. She didn't appear to notice him, for which he was grateful. Nevertheless, he turned toward the wall, pretending to search his pockets for some elusive item, while she entered the waiting lift. As the doors pinged closed, he pulled a black beret from his inner pocket, along with a set of lock picks. He selected one and with one last check of the corridor, quickly inserted it into the lock. This was an art he had learned years ago, and practised many, many times as a necessity in his trade. It was mere moments before he felt the lock tumble to his expert probing. He tried the handle, already confident that it would give to pressure, and smiled with satisfaction as the door pushed easily open.

In the doorway, he paused for mere seconds, allowing the light from the corridor to familiarise him with the layout of the furniture in the room before he entered. By necessity, his business must be carried out mostly in the dark. He entered, pulling the black beret over his bright blond hair before shutting the door behind him. If he was disturbed, his fair hair would stand out in the darkness like a torch in the night.

Inside the room, the windows were hidden behind heavy velvet drapes inhibiting the weak light from the street lamps from entering the room. The encroaching blackness surrounded him like an old friend, enveloping him in its comfort, like a womb, comforting and intimate.

He stood a moment, listening for sounds, making sure the room was unoccupied, and once satisfied, he reached inside his pocket and withdrew a small flashlight, no bigger than a fountain pen. He clicked the button on the side and let the thin beam of light play over the furniture in the room, letting it rest on the desk in one corner. The beam acted as his guide, and he followed its dim pointer to the one piece of furniture that interested him. The desk was faux antique, French style with a veneer of walnut, of a type he'd seen many times in his career. The locks on the drawers were simple - someone with a bent piece of coat-hanger could pick this lock. He ran an un-gloved hand over the leather inlay, before moving the flashlight further down to the drawers.

He found what he was looking for in the first drawer, and withdrew a buff folder, flipping it open with one hand, while he played the flashlight over the typed sheets inside. His back was to the door and his attention was solely on the contents of the folder, so much so, that when he felt the whisper of a draught stir the hairs on the back of his neck, he gave it no mind.

Not until the lights clicked on, illuminating him in their spotlight glare. He spun, and gasped in surprise as he recognised the face of his nemesis: Inspector Chabert. Not much taller than the blond, the new arrival was dark and handsome, exuding the supreme confidence of a man who knows he holds all the aces. The new arrival shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his raincoat, supremely self-assured as he stepped forward. "So, we meet again, eh, pussycat?"

The corners of the blond's mouth almost turned up in amusement - but instead, his face rapidly changed to a look of stark terror. "Inspector Chabert, th... th... this is n..n.. not what is seems," he stuttered.

"Non? I find you in my room, rifling through my...drawers." He stepped up to the desk and tugged the buff folder from the blond's fingers. "Reading my most private documents, no less." He poked the blond in the chest with the edge of the folder. "You were looking for ze pen to write ze confession, perhaps?"

The Inspector took a step closer as the burglar took a step back. He watched as the blue eyes darted about the room, searching for escape. The blond feinted to the left, but the Inspector blocked his path. He darted to the left, but the policeman seemed to anticipate his every move. The black-clad shoulders slumped in defeat. "Very well. I am caught. What will you do?"

"Now, I will take you down to ze station and take down your..." the brown eyes looked the slender blond over from head to toe. "...particulars." He stepped closer. "Zey will lock you up and zis time, zey will throw away ze key."

The burglar looked alarmed. "Non, non. Please, monsieur, I cannot go back to prison. Do you know what they will do to me in that terrible place?"

"Should I care?" he asked with disdain.

The burglar dropped to his knees, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. "Please, please, Inspector. You do not understand. They will do such monstrous things."

"Really? How monstrous? Tell me, you grassy snake, what are zese things you talk about?"

The blond's eyebrows knitted together as his face creased in a look of despair. "Things no man should have to endure, monsieur. Violence. Rape. Buggery," he spat out, using the English word with a wide-eyed expression, as his face became more animated and his dialogue more dramatic. "They used me, Inspector, night after night after night, each and every one of them, touching me, feeling me, using my body how ever they desired, violating every possible orifice in every possible way." His voice dropped lower. "Can you imagine, sir?"

"Oh, yesss," the brunet purred. "I think I can."

The burglar shook his clasped hands up at the Inspector. "Please, please, don't send me back there. I couldn't bear it," the blond pleaded. "I'll give you anything, anything. Just let me go, please."

A speculative look came over the Inspector's face as he considered the offer. "Anything, you say?" he asked, his eyes narrowing on the thief.

"Yes, yes," the thief replied excitedly, latching on to his only hope. "I have a cache of jewels: emeralds, diamonds, rubies. You can take them all if you just let me go."

The policeman sneered, "What do I need wiz all zees jewels, when I can think of something more...precious you can give."

The blond frowned. "I have nothing more of value, monsieur. What can you mean?" he asked innocently.

The Inspector leaned closer, and his hand slid into the blond mane, clenching a hank between his fingers. He pulled the burglar's head back, stretching his neck in a graceful arch. "I shall tell you what I mean. Tonight, I am feeling...'ow iz it zee Americans say?" His face came closer to the burglar's. "...'orney."

"Or-Nee?" the blond repeated, emphasising each syllable with clear exaggeration.

"Oui, 'orney. Tres, tres 'orney." His eyebrows wriggled suggestively.

The artless blue eyes blinked at him. "I do not know this word, Inspector. Perhaps you can explain?"

"Perhaps," the Inspector replied, his free hand reaching for the zipper on his pants, "it might be best if I gave you ze practical demonstray-shee-on."

The blue eyes widened as the zipper was lowered, and the Inspector teased a large, rigid erection through the opening of his fly. The burglar tried to pull away, but his attempt was halted by the fingers tangled in his hair. The blue eyes looked at the Inspector, imploring. "You can't mean...."

"Oui. I do. It is your choice, little pussycat: ten years being molested by ze vile inmates of ze prison, or one night spent pleasuring me. What do you say, hm?"

"One night?" The burglar's brow furrowed in thought. He glanced at his watch, raised it so the policeman could see, and tapped at the glass.

The Inspector rolled his eyes and sighed with disappointment, understanding the unspoken signal. "Okay, zen. One hour, hm?"

The burglar nodded, apparently satisfied. "It seems I have no choice, Inspector. You have me over a barrel."

"Over ze barrel, hm," the Inspector considered with a leer. "Now there is ze pleasant thought." He stroked the organ lovingly in an act of self-worship. "Look at my staff. It is magnificent, non? Have you ever seen one so big?"

The burglar's expression turned slightly wicked. "Certainly, I have never been...eye to eye...with one this big," he said, studying the uncut cock that bobbed in front of his face.

The Inspector huffed, and his accent slipped a little. "Eye to eye, huh?" He tugged the hair, pulling the blond head nearer. "Perhaps, if you looked a little closer?"

Warm breath tickled the bare satin skin on the end of the Inspector's cock. The urge to press forward was overwhelming, to push himself between those generous lips, to feel that tongue against the head of his cock, to press on into the throat and bury himself to the root. "Open your mouth, pussycat," he ordered, forcing himself against his captive's lips.

The burglar shook his head in negation, and the Inspector gripped the hair tighter in warning. "Do as I say. Do you wish to go to prison?" he demanded.

The blond opened his mouth to reply, and the Inspector took the opportunity to force the hard organ between his lips. He felt the burglar gag a little in surprise, and withdrew slightly, so the tip of his cock was still in the burglar's mouth. "Mmm. See? It is not zo bad. You will soon grow accustomed to zis. My cock was made for zat pretty mouth of yours, I think, hm?"

The burglar's eyes squeezed shut as the Inspector tightened his grip on the blond mane. "I know you know what to do. If you obey me, zis will all be over soon." He felt a tongue glide deliciously over the tip of his cock and he hissed with pleasure. "Sooner than I would like, if you keep this up," he whispered, his accent slipping slightly. The tongue stopped its sensual caressing. "Now, suck it, pussycat. Suck my cock. That's it.... slowly, slowly. Ahhh," he sighed, as the blond obediently began to gently suckle at the flesh that filled his mouth, his tongue caressing the velvet hardness, dipping into the sensitive slit in slow, sensual movements. The Inspector moaned with pleasure, and began to rock slowly, letting his captive get used to the feeling, slipping it slightly deeper each time, so the blond didn't notice he was taking more and more of the cock into his mouth.

The Inspector closed his eyes for a second, relishing the feeling, before dropping his gaze to the sight before him. He could come now, just from watching the hard rod of flesh disappearing between those lips, seeing the pale cheeks hollow each time the blond sucked on his cock. It was tempting to hold the blond's head in place and fuck his mouth until he ejaculated down the back of his throat.

But then it would end too soon, and he had other plans before his hour was up. Slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew the cock, hissing with pleasure as it slid over the teeth. He pulled the blond's head back, forcing him to look up into his eyes.

"Now, my little grassy snake...."

Tap, tap, tap!! The unexpected knock at the door galvanised both men into action: the blond slid to the floor, hiding behind the security of the desk, whilst the 'Inspector', realising that his rigid erection would be almost impossible to cram back into his pants without serious injury, simply picked up a file from the desk and held it in front of the organ that still protruded from between the folds of his raincoat.

"Come in," he called cheerfully.

The burglar held his breath and remained stock still as the door pushed open, but his attention stayed on the man towering over him; he looked cool and calm, as he always did in the most dire of situations. The blond head shook in amusement and he grinned to himself as he watched the standing man blatantly stroke the buff folder across the sensitive head of his cock. Did anything turn this man off?

A young lady paused in the doorway of the room. Mary Pilgrim, her eyes sparkling with joy, stood in the open doorway in a stunning emerald green silk dress. She had been the latest innocent recruited by the U.N.C.L.E. organisation to assist in their attempt to recover some stolen gems. The convoluted affair had eventually ended satisfactorily, with Mary being generously rewarded for her part by the U.N.C.L.E.. She was happy with her gift and, apparently, eager to explore her new acquisition.

"Napoleon?"

The 'Inspector' smiled benevolently at the intruder. "Yes, Mary?"

Mary stared at Napoleon, taking in his appearance with a glance. The raincoat was peculiar, considering it was mid-summer, and obviously uncomfortable, judging by the sweat that glittered like dew on Napoleon's upper lip. She sensed something wasn't quite right, but shrugged it off with a smile. "You spy types. Don't you ever relax?"

"I'm doing my best to."

"So, are you done for the night?" she asked.

"Ah, just about," Napoleon replied, non-commitally.

"Oh. Well, I've ordered some champagne to celebrate. They're keeping it on ice for use. Are you coming?"

Napoleon tapped his foot against Illya's side. "I'll be coming soon," he promised, confidently.

Mary frowned at the odd tone in Napoleon's voice, trying to understand the undercurrent of tension she felt coming from Solo. He didn't appear concerned about anything, just...impatient. Napoleon was waiting for her to go, that much was obvious. Mary sighed to herself, as Napoleon gave her a little wave with his free hand, signalling that the conversation was ended. "I'll see you later," he added, pushing home the fact.

"Well, I have a set to do at ten and then I'm free for the rest of the night. Try to make it before the bar closes." She started to leave, but before Napoleon could relax, the door pushed open again and she stuck her head around the door. "By the way, be sure to bring your friend. Madame Grusheka would love to meet him."

The door closed and both men remained still. After a moment, Illya asked, "Is she gone?"

"She's gone," Napoleon said definitely.

Illya uncurled from beneath the desk, giving Napoleon a hard glare as he stood. "I thought you'd locked the door."

Napoleon shrugged. "This is a private suite. I didn't think we'd be disturbed."

"Well, we were. And I am."

Napoleon snagged a handful of Illya's sweater and pulled him closer. "I think I like it when you're disturbed," he said, his voice low and seductive.

"I think you take too many risks."

"Risks add spice," Napoleon replied, his breath sighing across Illya's lips.

"Spice gives me indigestion."

"I have a cure for that," Napoleon leered.

"Let me guess. It's to be taken orally."

Napoleon grinned, leaning in to press a kiss to his lover's lips. Illya pulled away. "Door," he commanded.

Napoleon sighed. "You have no sense of adventure."

"You have no sense of decorum. I have no desire to spend the evening languishing in a Parisian prison cell for lewd behaviour."

Napoleon smiled, planted a quick kiss on Illya's mouth and quickly crossed the room. He turned the key, tested the lock, then turned back towards his lover. "Zo! Where were we, hm? Pussycat?" He stalked back towards his partner. "I think we were discussing ways to keep you out of ze prison, non?" He was inches from Illya, his gaze as palpable as his hands travelling possessively over the blond's chest. He slid his hands lower, down towards Illya's belly, skimming over his hard erection.

He smiled as Illya leaned into the touch, like a snake drawn towards the snake charmer's flute.

"Mmm, I wish to spend myself inside you." Napoleon leaned close. "And I'm not talking about zat pretty mouth of yours."

Illya was back in character, too. "Do your worst, Inspector," he challenged.

"My worst? I promise you, zis will be ze best you have ever had." He stepped back to give the blond room, and gestured with his hands at Illya. "Now, undo your pants and turn around."

Illya obeyed, lowering his pants to his knees before turning to face the desk. He felt a strong hand push him forward, while another swept aside the clutter on the desk top before bending him over the cool surface. Napoleon's body pressed close up to him. "Keep your hands in ze front, where I can see zem," he ordered.

His prisoner did as he was told, resting his hands face down on the leather surface. His ears twitched as he heard a drawer being opened and shut, and there was a moment's pause where the only sound was the heavy breathing of the room's occupants. A small white tube was tossed on the desk top near to the burglar's face, and the burglar gripped the edge of the desk in front of him as he felt something slick part the cheeks of his bottom.

Napoleon's girth was bulky, and it took a lot of concentration to relax and allow the violation of his body. But a large, hand - and its familiar touch - was reaching around, taking hold of the Illya's erection, stroking it, milking it, making the blond moan and writhe with pleasure.

"No, no, no," Illya protested, in the guise of the thief.

"Yes, yes, yes," gasped the 'Inspector', punctuating each word with a sharp thrust of his hips.

"No. Stop. You're killing me," the 'burglar' said half-heartedly.

"Only with ze littlest death, my pussycat," the 'Inspector' promised. In truth, Napoleon was almost there, giving in to the sensations as his balls began to tingle and ache. If he could just hold on until his lover came - and he knew just the thing. Napoleon gently stroked the bare bottom in front of him, enjoying the feel of the taut muscle beneath his fingers. Then without warning, he slapped - once, twice - hard enough to leave a red handprint on the pale flesh, and felt the cock in his hand jerk in response to the stimulation as the burglar, trapped between him and the desk, came with a loud groan.

It was the catalyst for Napoleon's own orgasm, and he willingly gave in to it, spending himself deep inside Illya's bowels with a short cry of triumph. His orgasm peaked, and as the last echoes of its transient pleasure dissipated, he sighed, breathless and exhausted. And deeply satisfied.

And with their mutual climax, came the end of their game.

Napoleon was reluctant to release his partner, reluctant for the night to end so quickly. The night was young, and there was so much more he wanted to do. If only they hadn't promised Mary to accompany her and Madame Grushenko to the club. There was nothing he'd like better than to stay here like this, his arms wrapped tightly, possessively, around Illya's waist.

Napoleon rubbed his face against Illya's back. "Mmm, my little pussycat," he whispered in his lover's ear.

"Pussycat? I am no pussycat, Napoleon," Illya repeated with indignation, his words a little muffled with the side of his face still pressed into the desk top.

Napoleon chuckled, his words colored by affection. "Oh, yes, you are. My pussycat. Tame and domesticated."

"Hm. Cats have claws, remember?"

"Not mine. He keeps his sheathed for me."

Napoleon reluctantly loosened his grip, moving one hand to rest lightly on Illya's head. He stayed quiet, apparently content to remain in this awkward position for some time. Illya, however, was the one on the bottom, and while it was nice, it was a trifle uncomfortable. "Do you think you could you get off me now? We haven't much time, and we need to get showered and changed. And you need to make our report to Mr. Waverly."

Napoleon sighed, but shifted reluctantly. "Killjoy." He stood, not bothering to fasten his pants. "Why don't you take the first shower? Then you can go downstairs and keep the ladies company while I make my report. I'll join you when I'm done."

Illya stood, shucking out of his clothes as he headed towards the bathroom. He paused in the doorway. "You will explain to Mr. Waverly, won't you? About the furniture, I mean?"

"Of course. You can trust me," Napoleon said, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Illya narrowed his eyes at him before shutting the bathroom door behind him.

Napoleon sat down in the chair, his mind already planning their next 'adventure.' Sometimes the disguises necessary for their work provided the inspiration for their playtime. Like this affair, when they had posed as a thief and a policeman. Napoleon had rather enjoyed manhandling Illya, loved the power he'd had over his feisty partner, even thought it was illusory.

Domination and submission: sex games that gave them both some form of relief. As Napoleon saw it, they worked hard and they played hard. These were distractions, a harmless sport that released tension and helped them both relax.

Buy maybe not so harmless. Napoleon had begun to recognise the games were bringing them inexorably closer. Dangerous games, games that he was fast becoming addicted do. Or was it his partner who was the addiction? He shivered at that thought.

To distract himself, he stood and shrugged out of the raincoat, folding it up neatly and leaving it on the chair. His other clothes followed, adding to the pile, ready for placing in his suitcase. It was time to pack away their alter-egos for the night.

He began to undress, already mentally returning to his regular persona.

Tonight, for the public, he would be playing another role - Napoleon Solo, ladies' man.