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Title: Command Performance
Author: Daytona Demon
Summary: Peter's music and the French language hath charms to soothe the savage Texan. However, Mike makes sure Peter still knows who's boss.
Warnings: Explicit sexual language and situations
Disclaimer: This story is about the characters, not the guys who played them, no implication is meant about the men who played the characters, I don't own the characters, and I get no profit from this (except a case of the jollies). So there.
Mike slammed the front door behind him as he stormed into the Pad. Peter looked up from the floor, where he sat singing and playing guitar.
“Where are Micky and Davy?” Mike asked, not greeting Peter.
“Beach, I think,” Peter said. “They’ve been gone for hours and said they’d be out late.”
“Son of a BITCH!” Mike yelled. “Those two knew I wanted us to practice tonight!” He sat down on the couch, crossing his legs and arms and glaring out the window.
Peter went to the kitchen to pour himself and Mike a cup of tea. He carried the two cups back to the couch, offering one to Mike and hoping the gesture would pacify him.
“Thanks, Peter,” Mike said, his expression and voice softening as he took the cup. “I’m not angry at you. I’m not really even angry at Micky or Davy. Goddamn club owners…I’ve been out all day, talked to like five different guys, and they all want bands to perform for nothing. One even wanted us to pay for the privilege of our first booking there! I can’t believe them. Sharks. Buncha sharks.”
Mike stared out the window, the hardness and anger back in his eyes, his jaw set as he tried to hold off a torrent of swear words and insults. He drew his crossed arms higher and tighter, making his body a barrier between himself and the world.
Peter stood with his cup of tea, waiting for Mike’s instructions. When Mike was in one of his moods, it was always best to let him dictate the course of action.
Mike looked at Peter and pointed to the floor. “Sit,” he said. “Play, like you were when I came in. I’d like to hear some music.”
Peter sat near Mike’s feet, setting his tea aside, and picked up his guitar. “What would you like to hear?” he asked.
Mike thought for a moment. “Medieval folk songs,” he said. “I’ve heard you play those before. ‘Greensleeves,’ stuff like that.”
“Folk songs it is,” Peter said, strumming the opening chords of “Greensleeves.”
Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.
Lost in the music, Peter felt something on his leg. He looked down to see Mike caressing him with one of his boot-clad feet. Mike stared out the window, seemingly unaware that he was touching Peter, a faraway and lonesome look in his eyes. Peter marveled at how beautiful Mike looked as the late afternoon sunlight streamed in and framed his face.
If you intend thus to disdain,
It does the more enrapture me,
And even so, I still remain
A lover in captivity.
Mike turned his head to gaze at Peter, tilting his head slightly as he focused on the music.
Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady Greensleeves.
Peter fell silent as the last chord rang out. Mike sipped his tea and finally spoke. “I can tell you’ve been working on your singing,” he said. “That was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. You may have the best voice out of the four of us.” He set his teacup on a nearby side table.
Peter grinned. Any compliment from Mike made him happy, but to hear a compliment about his singing – a topic which was usually a source of complaints from the band – was unexpected and especially welcome.
Mike moved his boot down Peter’s leg again, sending a shiver of excitement through Peter. “Sing. Please. Play some more,” Mike said, gesturing to Peter’s guitar.
Peter picked up the guitar, mentally flipped through his catalog of folk tunes that he’d played since childhood, and remembered a French song he’d always loved to sing and play on either guitar or keyboards; one he was sure Mike wouldn’t have heard before. He strummed the opening chord and dropped his voice down into his lowest register, something that he knew pleased Mike.
Se je souspir parfondement
Pleure en recoy,
C'est, par ma foy,
Pour vous, quant vo faitis corps gent,
Dame, ne voy…
As he sang, Peter watched Mike, and Mike looked back at him with eyes that had gone dark and intense. Mike hunched forward, his expression focused and predatory, reminding Peter of a cat about to pounce.
Peter finished the song, and Mike leaned back into the couch, finally smiling. “That song’s in French, isn’t it? You never told me you could speak French,” Mike said.
“I don’t speak French,” Peter replied. “I just know that one song. It’s old French. The first line means ‘If I sigh deeply.’ I don’t know what the rest of it means.”
“We can make it mean whatever we want it to mean,” Mike said, still fixing Peter with a hungry stare. Peter felt a small shiver of nervousness and excitement run through him. He’d sung the song knowing the effect it would have on Mike.
“Put the guitar down,” Mike said. Peter complied, his anticipation increasing. The prey had tempted the cat, and now the cat was poised to strike.
Mike made his next request: “Take off your shirt and lie down on the floor, on your back.”
Here we go, Peter thought, feeling the thrill that reminded him of a rollercoaster that had just begun the plunge down its steepest drop. He wadded his shirt up and placed it under his head as he lay flat on the floor.
Mike extended one leg, running his boot up and down Peter’s right side. “Undo your pants. Leave them on, but undo them. Very, very slowly.”
Peter’s heart raced and he tried to control his breathing, His hands trembled slightly as he unsnapped the button on his pants. Slowly, as Mike had requested, he pulled down the zipper, the sound seeming unnaturally loud as the teeth pulled free.
“Put your hand inside,” Mike said. “Play with yourself.”
Peter slipped his hand inside his pants. He was already hard. He felt his face flush as he moved his hand. No matter how many times he and Mike did this, he could never get past the initial embarrassment of touching himself in front of someone else, and he knew the embarrassment was part of Mike’s pleasure.
“Pull it out,” Mike demanded. “Let me see it.”
Peter freed himself from his pants, cradling his erection in his hands. He looked Mike up and down, noting with satisfaction that Mike had grown visibly hard as well, bulging beneath his jeans.
“Hands down to your sides,” Mike said. “Don’t move until I say you can.”
Peter moved his hands and lay still, watching Mike, waiting for his next command.
Mike leaned back, one hand behind his head, the other leisurely unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. He raised his hips slightly as his hand disappeared inside the open zipper. He moved his hand slowly as Peter squirmed on the floor and watched him.
Peter looked up at the ceiling, at the pictures on the walls, anything to distract himself and his restless hands from the insistent tingle and ache between his legs. He looked at Mike again, his expression becoming distressed.
Mike winked at him and smiled, still moving his hand inside his jeans.
Peter exhaled sharply, impatience and physical need clawing at his restraint. “Mike? Um, do you want me to…do anything?” he asked.
Mike stopped, his eyes turning the thundercloud-dark color that Peter knew meant disapproval. Mike leaned forward, raising an eyebrow and glaring at Peter.
“Michael,” Peter said, correcting his mistake. “I’m sorry. Michael. Please. What would you like me to do?”
Mike leaned back, his smile returning. “I told you not to move until I said you could. Do you remember me saying you could move?”
“No,” Peter replied, his face flushing again with shame and annoyance.
“Well, there you have it,” Mike said, putting both hands behind his head.
Peter fought the urge to leap at Mike, rip his shirt from his body, pull his jeans down and lick him until he growled and swore and shouted. Biting his lip, Peter turned his head away from Mike. He felt a boot poking at his hip and turned his head back toward the couch.
Mike leaned forward, elbows on his knees, resting his chin in his hands and staring at Peter with an expression of almost childlike curiosity.
Peter’s eyes widened, his irises gone black with anger he could no longer control. “God DAMN it, Michael!” he shouted, slamming one hand against the floor. Even before the last syllable was out, his face turned bright red and burned with shock at his own behavior. “Please…just…do something…let me do something,” he pleaded.
Mike grinned at him. “That’s what I wanted to see,” he said. He patted the space to his right on the couch and motioned for Peter to join him. Peter climbed onto the couch, grabbing Mike, kissing him, putting a hand inside Mike’s jeans.
Mike pulled away from Peter. “I want you to tell me the words to that song, that French song you sang,” he said, pointing to his ear. “I want to hear you say all that again.”
“But I don’t know what it means,” Peter said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Mike replied. “I don't need to know what it means. I love how it sounds. Do it, Peter.”
Peter knelt on the couch, leaning in close to Mike.
Mike pulled his jeans down, placing Peter’s hand around his hard shaft. “Your other hand is for you,” Mike said, nodding toward Peter’s crotch. Peter slipped his free hand back into his own pants.
“Now talk to me. In French,” Mike said.
Peter began, first whispering the words, then speaking louder, dropping his voice down low as he moved his hand up and down Mike’s stiff cock, spreading the sticky fluid that collected at the tip, tickling and squeezing and making Mike writhe and moan next to him.
Se je souspir parfondement
Pleure en recoy,
C'est, par ma foy,
Pour vous, quant vo faitis corps gent,
Dame, ne voy…
Peter grasped his own erection, timing it so that his hand on Mike moved in concert with his hand on himself.
Vostre dous maintieng simple et coy,
Vo bel aroy,
Cointe et plaisant,
Vo maniere sans effroy,
Pris m'ont cil troy…
Mike’s left hand drew into a fist, clenching and unclenching, as his breath grew ragged and he raised his right hand, tangling his fingers into Peter’s hair.
Dame, mis m'avés en tel ploy,
Bien le perçoy,
En vous sens, temps et vie employ
Et toudis croy
En ce talent…
Mike’s body went rigid. Peter stroked him hard and fast, his hand wrapped tightly but not too tight.
“Ahhhh, God, oh, Peter…” Mike gasped, a groan escalating into a series of shouts as his hips spasmed and he spurted all over Peter’s hand.
Mike slumped back into the couch, breathing hard, and then he grabbed Peter, nibbling his neck and forcing his tongue into Peter’s mouth. His hand moved down between Peter’s legs, replacing Peter’s hand.
Peter thrust into Mike’s hand, whimpers escalating into moans. His breathing became harsh, each inhalation a gasp as he fought for the release he needed after Mike’s earlier torments.
“Come for me,” Mike whispered, and Peter came, splattering on Mike’s jeans and burying his face into Mike’s shoulder to muffle his cries. He fell back onto the couch, taking Mike with him.
“You’re a real pain sometimes, you know that?” Peter said, his breathing still rough from pleasurable exertion.
“Yeah, but you always know how to get me into a better mood,” Mike replied. “Just remind me that we should never eat at a French restaurant, or I’ll probably put my dick in your mouth right then and there.”
Peter burst out laughing. “Best appetizer I can think of.”
Mike snickered. “So…know any other songs in French?”
Peter shook his head. “Nope. But after today, I think I should learn a few more.”
Mike rested his head on Peter’s chest and reached up to caress his cheek. Peter wrapped his arms around Mike and thought about a book he had with more medieval folk songs, a book he’d dig out later that night.