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DISCLAIMER: This site is in no way affiliated with the Monkees or personal relations thereof. All fan fiction and fan art is intended for entertainment purposes only and no defamation of character is intended whatsoever. To break it down one more time: It's all just for fun, folks.

"Bound"

Title: Bound
Pairing: Torksmith
Rating: Very NC-17
Warnings: Real People Fic and rough stuff, bondage
Summary: Peter tries something new.
Author's Note: I was laid off. No severence. No savings. No nothing. I'm pissed as hell and going to get drunk later, but decided to first screw around with the real Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork.


Peter's heart jumped as he heard a car screech to a stop outside. The car door slammed, and soon after, so did the front door. Darting to the mirror to give himself a last once-over, Peter dove onto the bed, clicking the metal handcuffs loosely around his slim wrists and posturing seductively, wriggling on the satin sheets he’d snagged from Wardrobe for just such an occasion.

Thus situated, the worries came back. What if Mike didn't like it? He had been at the set all day talking over some changes he wanted to see made to the "Mike" character if the Monkees went in for a second season. He was always amped up after talking to the "brass," and would likely want to come home, have a beer and watch some TV, especially given that Phyllis and Christian were back in Texas, visiting family.

Mike did, however, enjoy being in charge, and even more than being in charge he loved seeing Peter nude and laid out on any flat surface waiting especially for him, so Peter calmed down. There was no use worrying - either Mike would like this or he wouldn't. And soon, he'd find out which it would be.

Peter heard the heavy tread of Mike's footfalls heading up the stairs, getting ever closer to the master bedroom. Peter swallowed nervously, unable to breathe as he heard Mike's fingers on the doorknob. His breath caught as the door was pushed open, and a weary silhouette appeared in the doorway.

Even if Mike missed the slight indrawn breath in his frustrated state, he couldn't possibly miss the presence of his lover awaiting him in his bed. By now, he could sense Peter without hearing the slightest footstep. A soft smile curved across his face as he took in the sight of his pale, golden-haired lover: his lean hips and slender torso half-turned in expectation of his arrival. Brown eyes soft and dark in arousal just from anticipation. Delicate, long-fingered hands dangling from a pair of handcuffs.

For a moment, Mike couldn't breathe. Handcuffs. Peter. Bed. Naked. Total sensory overload. What the hell is going on here?

"Hey." Peter turned, laying flat on his back, and arched upwards, stretching luxuriously like a satisfied feline and drew his legs up, crossing one over the other, swinging the top leg back and forth slowly, enticingly. He locked his eyes on Mike, pleased to see how ... how ... what was Mike feeling?

Stunned. That was the only word to describe Mike's demeanor. Utterly stunned. Dumbfounded, even.

"Where the hell did y'get those?" he demanded raggedly, gesturing at the handcuffs with a hand that trembled as if it suddenly itched to have a joint in it.

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion to Mike's reaction. "Uh, just, uh, I borrowed them from props. They were gonna use 'em in that kidnap scene for the contest episode, but decided on ropes instead ..." Peter shut up quickly. His lover's expression was scaring him.

"Uh, Mike, are you okay? Did something happen on the set?" he asked immediately, concerned that maybe Jim Frawley amd Bob Rafelson’s despotic moods had gotten under Mike’s skin.

"Same bullshit. Nothing y'haven’t heard before," Mike replied shortly. He assessed his lover again. "When’d y'think up this little scenario?”

"Err... I guess, uh, a couple of days ago," Peter replied uneasily, squirming now under Mike's gaze. "We were watching that movie, and I thought maybe . . . um ... shit. You're not into this, are you?"

Peter turned his face to the opposite side to hide his disappointment and mortification. He closed his eyes tightly, not wanting to see Mike's expression or the light reflecting off the handcuffs or anything at all. "You can - you just unlock them, and I’ll take off.”

Mike was quiet, saying nothing as he climbed into the bed, hovering over Peter on all fours. "You don't want me to do that, though, do you?" he murmured. His lips brushed across Peter's flushed cheek. "Do you, Peter?"

"No. I just thought ... I thought maybe you'd like this, but maybe I was wrong." Peter's eyes drifted to the side. "Was I wrong...?" he asked after several moments of having Mike perched over him, completely still, save for the ragged breathing and racing heart Peter could hear easily, ratcheting up his excitement.

“Wrong?" he reiterated softly. With a sudden fierceness, his teeth snapped out and sank into the lobe, all but drawing blood as Peter gave a tiny cry of shock. "Oh, I don’t think wrong’s the word here, Pete.”

Peter cried out at the shock of pain. The feel of a gentle tongue soothing over the sore spot quelled his immediate fear and misgivings, but in any case, he'd seen something deep and slightly sinister flash in Mike's eyes, and Peter was reminded that he really didn't completely know just what Mike was capable of.

"Peter," Mike murmured, raising his hand to slowly trace the slim line of Peter's torso with his fingernails. "I could punish ya in ways that would make ya beg, but you wouldn't know whether you wanted it to stop or go on and on until you'd come too many times to count."

His lips traced Peter's jaw, his teeth suddenly sinking fiercely into the tender underside. The harsh sting drew another cry from Peter even as Mike suckled on the wounded flesh, drawing the cry out into a low moan.

"Is that what you wanted from me? Is that what you were thinking when you shackled yourself to my bed, knowing I could do any . . . fucking . . . thing . . . I . . . wanted?" Each word was punctuated with nips along Peter's collarbone.

"Yesss . . ." Moaning and writhing under Mike's skilled manipulations, Peter fell willingly into his own trap. "Yes, I've been a bad boy, too, Mike... I just thought you should know that," he added, yelping as Mike's teeth sunk into his neck again.

Leisurely, Mike raised his head again, slowly surveying his prey. Miles of lickable creamy skin and soft sandy hair and glowing brown eyes captive beneath him. Stripping off his shirt with slow, feline grace, he watched Peter's Adam's apple bob almost nervously.

“You knew this was going to be hard.” Mike looked pointedly at the handcuffs. “So I’ll give ya what ya want.”

Ducking close, Mike sank his teeth into the sensitive tip of Peter's erection, nibbling until Peter was crying and bucking beneath him. Before Peter could come, Mike released it, noting with satisfaction that the flesh was an angry, almost bruised purple-red. It would be sensitive for days, sharply reminding him every time he even became aroused. "I told you you'd beg," Mike murmured.

Peter’s tears coursed down his cheeks to dampen the pillow beneath his head. Mike was biting his penis! Fuckfuckfuckfuck!!! his mind screamed as his body betrayed him and bucked wildly for Mike, his head thrashing from side to side. He had to stop this, before his mind became too clouded to think clearly.

Why hadn't he thought he'd even need a safe-word of any kind? Why should he, when this was just Mike? What could he even say to Mike not to stop him dead in his tracks? He cried harder when Mike eased off his aching member, and Peter was unable to stop his hips from leaving the bed to follow Mike's mouth in protest.

Stripping the rest of his clothes away, Mike slid gracefully between those parted thighs. His thumb brushed back and forth over the flesh he'd just attacked, the sob of pain mingled with pleasure twisting his gut in knots while hardening his cock like marble.

Urging those supple legs around his hips, Mike slid deep into Peter's body, his thumb still tormenting the bruised tip of Peter's erection.

Peter's throaty cry quickly melded into a moan, enjoying the feeling of being taken. Broken, and made whole, all in one excruciating, beautiful instant.

Mike stroked him leisurely, a counterpoint to the rhythm of his hips, his heart as raw and aching as the flesh he now tortured.. Gripping Peter's hips powerfully in one hand, he picked up the pace with the other, constantly rolling the tip of Peter's cock under his thumb and absorbing Peter's cries like blows to his heart.

Twisting and rocking under Mike, Peter delighted in being roughly shoved with each pounding thrust, Mike jerking at his throbbing member, the sounds of breathig and skin slapping against skin and chain-link metal clinking.

"God Mike, fuck me harder! Harder!" Peter begged, utilizing his legs to pull himself as far inside Mike as humanly possibly. "Mike!" he cried, no longer aware of what he was doing or saying, only in it for the raw, primal pleasure of it all.

Mike lost control, taking Peter harder, deeper... barely, he heard the snap of the wood as Peter's chained hands broke free of their anchor, falling around his shoulders to dig tightly into the muscles of his back... somewhere in his mind he was able to gather his wits enough to lift Peter from the bed and slam him against the wall, pinning the slender young man by the sheer force of his hips as one hand stroked Peter even harder, the other lacing into Peter's hair possessively as his mouth slanted over Peter's in a fierce, claiming kiss... He felt Peter's lithe body trembling beneath his hands, his erection quivering in anticipation of orgasm. Mike couldn't hold on much longer.

"Come on, Peter," he snarled, his teeth nipping fiercely at Peter's already bruised lower lip. "Come for me. Come for me now."

Obeying as only his shackled self could, Peter's cock let loose with an impressive stream of white, coating Mike's hand, seeping through his fingers and lubricating the final few strokes as Peter felt Mike explode deep within him.

"I... god ..." he gasped, body numb and limp from the sensual torment. "Have I been a good boy, Mike?" he panted, staring deeply into the dark eyes, too weary and feeling too incredible to mind the splinters of shattered wood digging into his wrists or Mike’s sweet, exhausted, answering laughter.