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By the time John finally found Finch's house, it had stopped being a point to score and had become a grim slogging necessity, because it was just embarrassing. Finch had more than a dozen places, of course — John had found some of them, hotel rooms and condos and one B&B that Finch stayed at roughly once a month as a visiting executive from Ohio, an emergency backup identity. But none of them were remotely personal; each one belonged to a different shell, and none of them were John's Harold.
The search took so long that when he opened a closet in an Upper West Side townhouse and found himself looking at Harold's three favorite suits, and a rack holding his six favorite ties, and three pairs of custom shoes, it took John a solid minute to process that he'd won, he'd finally tracked Harold down, and then he realized he had no idea what to do now.
Obviously, he had to take something back to the library with him, and let Harold see; the question was what. It couldn't be a book — he'd already learned from finding the other places that Harold had multiple copies of many books he liked, which John didn't understand but okay — and a tie was too boring, not to mention Harold might not remember where he'd left it last, and having to explain would take all the fun out of it.
John shut the closet and looked around. It was a nice place — comfortable, homey; he could see Harold here, sitting in the chair near the window, looking out at the small overgrown yard. There weren't any photographs visible, but whiffling through some of the most worn books netted him three: Grace, Nathan, and a second one of Nathan with his son. John looked at their smiling faces, the people Harold loved, and put the photographs back.
He went all the way upstairs to the attic — which was an impassable mess, to his surprise, although less so when he realized it was all old computer equipment. Harold had an entire trunk full of floppy disks from the time when they'd actually been floppy. John shook his head and closed the lid: maybe there was something interesting in the 360 kilobytes of disk space on one of them, but he wasn't going to find out today.
He did a top-down search through the guest bedrooms, finding nothing of interest — not that he expected to, but he was being a completist — and then went back to the master bedroom. Finch apparently liked pinstriped pajamas, which was cute, and wore boxers, which John had already known about him, although not how often Harold was apparently wearing silk, and — John blinked.
Slowly, reverently, he lifted up the stack of boxers and brought out the — he wasn't actually sure what it was, and that was saying something given the number and variety of sex toys he'd come across in his long experience of rifling apartments. But it was definitely not innocent. It was elegant and black, made of silicone and leather, lots of straps, with a small thumbprint scanner attached on one side. After turning it around a little bit, John was pretty sure it was meant to fit over a cock and balls, which was — that was — fantastic; he laughed out loud in delight, imagining cool prim Harold with this under his clothes.
He didn't even bother searching the rest of the place; he couldn't imagine a better trophy. He made sure to tidy things away and locked up behind himself; then he hailed a cab to the library.
Harold was at his desk typing, in shirtsleeves and vest, still more buttoned up than any ten people; John set down a cup of tea by his keyboard and grinned at him broadly, giddy with affection and victory, as he pulled up a chair and sat back into it. Harold paused typing and eyed him with enormous suspicion, an eyebrow raised. "You seem rather pleased with yourself, Mr. Reese."
"Actually," John said, "I've got to ask," and he took out the toy and tossed it onto the desk. "What is that?"
Harold looked at it, and his mouth compressed in annoyance; John had to work hard to keep his face blank and innocently questioning; he wanted to laugh out loud and maybe give Harold a hug, which right now would probably not end well for him, since Harold had both a large cup of hot tea and a computer in arm's reach.
"If you insist on violating people's privacy, Mr. Reese," Harold said, crisply, "I'm afraid you'll have to reconcile yourself with stumbling across sex toys now and again. I would have thought your former career had prepared you for that hazard."
"Oh, it has," John said. "I've just never seen one of these before."
"While it's a custom design, I would think the functionality was rather obvious," Harold said. "It's a chastity device."
He turned away and went back to his code, but the tip of his ear was a little pink. John couldn't quite resist pushing it a little further. "Really? It's just it looks a little — uncomfortable."
"It's tailored," Harold said, mildly reproving: how could John imagine he'd use an off-the-rack sex toy. "I had the components fabricated to measure, naturally. I have it on good authority that it is in fact quite comfortable."
"On good authority?" John said, raising an eyebrow.
Harold turned and looked at him. "I wasn't wearing it, Mr. Reese," he said, and John was suddenly, deeply, murderously jealous.
#
The chastity belt kept sitting on the desk next to Harold's computer. Harold didn't put it away, and John couldn't: he wasn't going to take it back to Harold's place and put it back in his bedroom drawer to keep being a memento; but he also didn't think he had the right to rip it to pieces and dump them in an incinerator. So it stayed, and stayed, and stayed.
At least that meant it wasn't getting used.
John couldn't help evaluating it. The waist strap looked reasonably wide; the cup and the ring were a healthy size. Someone tall, well-endowed. John didn't, he wasn't going to — he was pretty sure he was bigger.
He had that involuntary thought on the third day. As soon as it had wormed into his brain, he got up and went for a book on long-range targeting systems that he'd been meaning to read. Harold never even gave him a second glance, typing away calmly. The book didn't help.
That night John gave up: he lay on his back on top of his bed, his cock sliding through his hands, through a tight circle of his finger and thumb, and imagined Harold sliding the belt on him: sheathing him, closing the cage, fastening buckles, thumbprint on the panel, locking him up—
He came before his fingers even reached the base of his cock, in one stroke, so hard he was shaking, and he wanted — more; Harold would — afterwards Harold would have him bend over, Harold would open him up and — John rolled over onto his stomach, his knees drawn up underneath him and braced apart, rubbing his fingers over his own hole, wet; he'd never — Harold would fuck him, Harold would tell him to hold still, caged, and he'd hold perfectly still, he'd be so very good, while Harold pushed his cock inside and used him —
He jerked on his cock twice, came again and sank flat on the bed, wet and gasping and limp. He rested his face against the mattress. He felt fantastically good. He wondered abruptly if Harold had been listening, watching, any of it. His cock jerked at the thought; John groaned muffled into the covers.
Harold called him the next morning with a new number. If he'd watched John work himself to several orgasms the night before on account of his sex toy, there wasn't any sign of it in his voice. It was one of the easy and ugly cases, a husband planning to kill his wife, meeting a hitman before work that morning. Finch had found the location; John went to the meet, taped their conversation on his cellphone, then stepped in and giftwrapped them after a brief exchange of opinions that ended in what he considered an appropriate use of force. It took an hour; John called the tip in to Carter on his way to pick up breakfast.
Harold glanced over as he came in. "Any trouble?"
"I wouldn't say so, but Mr. Robichaud and Mr. Tan might disagree," John said. He put tea and a bagel down on Finch's desk near the keyboard, not that far from the belt, and sat down in an armchair to eat his own.
He finished and sat back, contemplating Finch at his desk. He wondered what Harold would do if John asked him for a custom chastity belt of his very own. Probably tell him to stand up, take out the tape measure, have him drop his pants — John dragged his eyes away, covered his mouth with a hand, crossed one leg over at the knee, sitting wide and giving himself room. He tried to stop thinking about it. He picked the Post up from the end table and opened it.
The problem was, he didn't want to stop thinking about it. The pressure of his cock against his zipper felt too good, the low buzz of arousal in his head sweet and irresistible. He didn't want to think about a shooting on Riverside or another politician who had broken a promise or how the Yankees had done last night. He wanted to think about Harold's hands between his legs, handling him with cool efficiency, with confidence. He wanted to think about Harold studying him with that tiny frown between his brows, assessing, making plans for him.
He could have forced himself; he could have dragged his mind away to something else; he could have taken Bear out for a walk; he could have gone home. He didn't want to. He wanted to sit here and simmer with pleasure, on the edge of being caught, not allowed to touch.
He let the paper sink over his lap and sprawled deeper in the chair. He liked to watch Harold work anyway, the hummingbird dart of his eyes from screen to screen, the way he'd pause for a moment now and then, brain visibly working, before his hands launched again into rapid-fire movement. John watched his hands, imagined he really was in the belt, that Harold had put him into it and told him to be quiet, to stay still, with the unspoken promise of a reward later.
Harold worked without a pause for a couple of hours, and then stopped, drew back his hands, and turned the chair. John covered for a flinch and licked his lips. His arousal had been ebbing and flowing, the whole time; he was half-hard right now. Harold looked at him. "Are you all right?" he said.
John felt like he was having a hard time fitting inside his skin. "Harold?" he said.
"Yes, John?"
"I'm sorry I broke into your apartment."
"Are you," Harold said.
John opened his mouth and shut it. "No," he said flatly. "Harold — "
"Take off your pants," Harold said.
John stood up and unbuckled, unbuttoned, his hands moving fast; he was already hard. Harold watched him, gestured for John to turn around. John heard Harold's chair roll back, the snap of the latches on his briefcase, then Harold's hand was on his hip, holding him still. He did hold still, his mouth open, panting; Harold was sliding a slick finger into him. Then — "Oh, God," John said, helplessly, his voice rising; Harold was pushing — it was something, cool and firm and — a plug; Harold was putting a —
"Is that secure?" Harold said, tugging on the end slightly.
"Yes," John said. "Yes."
"Good. Turn around, please," Harold said, and when John was facing him took out a soft thin measuring tape; he noted down numbers on his keyboard, a dozen measurements, his hand stroking John hard, harder, holding him: length, girth, around his thighs, the tops of his hips, the distance to the plug —
"I already have your other measurements," Harold said, finally satisfied. "We'll have to have all of your suit pants altered as well, but that will have to wait until the belt comes."
"All of — you're going to — you're going to keep me in it," John said, his voice wobbling, helplessly. "All the time."
"Of course," Harold said, gently. "Of course I am, John." He touched the base of the plug and nudged it a little.
John shuddered and bit his lip. "Okay," he said.
#
It took two weeks for the belt to come.
That night Harold stripped him in the bedroom, torturously slow, carefully hanging up every piece of John's suit as he went. John was already hard by the time he was naked and Harold finally brought out the box and handed it to him. John swallowed as he touched it, rubbed his fingers over the butter-soft leather and the silicone, turning it over. He handed it back to Harold and spread his legs a little, hands clasped behind his back.
"Just to be certain you understand," Harold said, reaching between John's legs, easing his balls through the soft ring, adjusting it, "the lock will be keyed to my thumbprint. You'll of course have a certain range of movement," he was fitting the sheath around his cock, perfectly snug, "for practical purposes, but ordinarily, you'll keep the sheath hooked down."
He demonstrated, and John dragged in a deep, harsh breath. His cock only just barely went that way, straining against the belt. He shuddered, desperately.
"The chip will track whenever you unhook the sheath and notify me of the amount of time," Harold said. "If I consider it excessive, we'll discuss whether you want to continue wearing the belt." He paused; John didn't say anything. He was sweating and shivering at the same time. "Are you all right, John?"
"Yes," John managed.
"And you're physically comfortable?"
"Well," John said, voice wobbly, "I am a little bit distracted."
Harold nodded equably, and finished securing the straps. "Are you ready for me to lock it?" he said.
"Yes," John said, and shuddered as he watched Harold press his thumb to the lock; the whole thing felt a little tighter.
"Good," Harold said. "And now, I'm going to have you. Lie down on the bed, on your stomach, knees pulled up."
Harold took him six times that night, in various ways. Just before morning, he finally, gently opened the lock, and brought John over with his hand and his mouth, and held him afterwards for a long time.
#
The belt was actually pretty comfortable to wear, after the first two weeks where John spent a lot of time lying face down in bed with his face buried in Harold's lap, uselessly writhing against the sheets, aching as Harold stroked his head and murmured comfort. The ache settled in, afterwards, and John got used to being in a constant state of want. He loved it, desperately: it made his whole body feel the way his heart did, and then Harold would make it stop. Harold would slide his thumb over the lock and take him out, stroke him and bring him over the edge; Harold would kiss him softly and tell John he was wonderful; and John would lie in his arms and drift, utterly at peace, utterly sated, loved.
"It really was only a toy," Harold told him half wistfully, when they were lying side by side and breathless in his big bed, in his house. "Nathan enjoyed the idea of it more than the execution. He didn't actually want to surrender quite so thoroughly."
"I do," John said, nakedly honest. "Harold, I do."
# End