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Chapter Text

He gets him once enough people have had their hands on him and inside him.

He gets him so broken that when they meet, John doesn’t seem to care that his shame is exposed before an old rival. He just offers his stretched, sagging tits and misshapen nipples and if his hands tremble, Sam finds out later that the fear is less directed at him than at the entire world. 

Because by the time he gets him, John fears everything.

It’s an unexpected change from the man who was arrogant enough to piss off not only an entire rival gang of hot-headed delinquents but his own captain, who wasn’t given to talking through his disappointment. For John, who schemed and dominated and fought like violence was breath, this helpless vulnerability is shocking.

Sam pretends for a week that he takes him home for John’s benefit.

He knows he’s lying to himself when he comes back from a trip to the store to find John fucking himself with an empty soda bottle he’s fished out of the bin.

The glass is so slippery with cooking oil that John can’t keep his grip on it. By the time Sam finds him he’s frantic, half in pain and overloaded with pleasure. And Sam gets oil all over his jeans as he pins him down with a hand in the small of his back and rips the bottle callously out of his ass.

“No,” John cries, “No, please. I need it!”

And Sam says nothing as he watches that swollen, scarred asshole wink desperately at him.

“Sam,” John wails piteously.

“Tell me your safe word,” Sam demands.

“Please, Master! Please, I’m so empty, please…”

Sam gives up and pushes the bottle brutally back into him.

He doesn’t wait. He fucks him hard, the glass hot from the heat of his hand and John’s insides, smeared with frothing oil and filth and Sam inhales the scent of sex like a starving man. Leans down to run his tongue over the prominent knobs of John’s spine under his skin. Bites the back of his neck as he shoves the bottle deeper; twists it into different angles until finally John howls and tries to struggle.

Sam only growls and bites again.

John comes so hard that Sam is afraid he’s passed out when he goes still.

He hasn’t. Even with a glass bottle inside him and a welted bite on the back of his neck.

Sam eases the bottle out gently, and spreads John’s asscheeks to take his first good look at his hole.

It’s badly swollen and red; hot to the touch as he slides two fingers inside to check for damage.

John makes a wounded little sound and Sam’s hard cock twitches. He thinks of stuffing himself into that heat, imagines how loose and wet it would feel around him. But then he takes his fingers out and reaches for a sheet.

Pulls it chastely over the naked body and sits down beside him. Lays a hand carefully on John’s back between his shoulder blades.

“If you need this,” Sam says seriously, “I’ll give it to you. But I have conditions.”

He thinks his conditions are reasonable – he simply wants John to tell him everything.

He wants to know about the first time John had sex. He wants to know how many men he’s had sex with, how many women – where and when and how. He wants to know if he loved any of them. He wants to know what he enjoyed, and what he didn’t, and what his limits are. More importantly, he wants to know his safe word.

John shifts under his hand. “What safe word?” he asks plaintively.

Sam nearly rubs his cock raw that night at the thought of how perfect a slave fucking John is, how exotic his ignorance is, and how much he wants to go to his spare room and fuck him until he’s screaming. Grab those gorgeously ugly nipples in his teeth and see how far his tits stretch.

He has to masturbate again in the morning when he imagines the heat of John’s mouth.

But he leaves his bedroom looking as calm and composed as possible. No trace of perversion to be seen.

He is gentle, and kind, and he explains that he has family money so the house is his and he lives in it as he likes. He explains this so John knows that he doesn’t need to worry about interruptions or expenses. About being kept.

He also tells John that he does work, but that it’s hardly a job.

He’s underselling this but it’s easier than explaining that he’s a highly paid business consultant for fun rather than necessity.

“Your safe word for now is stop,” Sam tells him.

 And there’s an opportunity to use it not three days later.

“I’m working from home this morning,” he announces.

And John looks up from the food he’s not eating. Looks fearful.

Sam’s not in the habit of smiling constantly like some kind of lunatic but he tries to look calm and reassuring. Keeps his hands where John can see them. Stays still when he’s not actively moving.

It’s like getting a kicked dog to trust him, he thinks.

“You’ll help me,” he says.

Well, he says help.

It’s been ten days since he found John in the brothel and brought him home, three days since the incident with the soda bottle, but there’s something deeply personal about having him come back to his office.

“Take your dick out,” he says, and sits down at his desk.

He has to arrange things a little but that’s easy enough.

John’s dick is a nice size. It would be a perfectly average, normal dick if it weren’t for the thick genital piercing in the head.

“Put it on the desk,” Sam says, and turns on his laptop.

John seems to be confused because nothing happens.

Sam doesn’t look up. “Your dick. Stand close to the desk and put your dick on it. Lay it out as much as you can.”

There’s another brief pause and then he hears the clink of the metal ring piercing against the glass desktop.

He glances over. “Arrange it properly,” he directly.

John’s hands are slow but he does as told. Lines it neatly up on the desktop, makes sure its straight out as far as it can go given that his hips are higher than the desk.

“Good,” Sam says, and turns back to his laptop. “You will stay there while I work. I want your dick exposed on my desk at all times. If it moves out of place, put it back. I might touch your dick, or put something on it, but I’m not going to hurt it.”

He finally looks up.

John stares back at him, pupils already dilated.

The Prince Albert piercing clinks ominously.

Five minutes later John is hard.

Sam ignores him entirely.

For two hours they do this. For two hours John stands there, dick out and presented for his pleasure while he focuses on his work, on spreadsheets and reports and – for five memorable minutes – a phone call from his subordinate.

He scribbles figures on a sticky note and, without apparently paying any attention, reaches across to stick it on John’s dick.

He can see the twitch in his periphery. Even better, he can hear the clink of the Prince Albert piercing and then the soft whimpering moan.  

He leaves the note there for ten minutes after the phone call before he removes it. Looks at it and then crumples it up and throws it in the bin.

After two hours, he stretches and stands up.

Reaches out to touch the line of John’s jaw. “Okay?” he asks softly.

John looks dazed, almost drugged.

“Do you need to use your safe word?” Sam asks.

John opens his mouth and then closes it again. “No,” he finally says, and his voice sounds scratchy.

“I’m going to touch you now,” Sam tells him, “I’m going to stroke your pretty cock. I want you to get hard and come for me but if you can’t, that’s fine.”

John most definitely gets hard. And he comes in a silent spasm of ecstasy all over Sam’s hand.

“Good,” Sam praises, and rewards him with a slow, sweet tease of his sensitive cockhead.

Without any warning, John reaches out and takes his hand. Brings it up to his mouth and licks it clean.

Sam shudders.

But he is still working, so he tells John to take a bath and change, and that he’s now free to do whatever he wants until lunch.

John glances down.

“I want,” he says, and licks his lips, “I can suck you. I can… I can sit under your desk. I’ll be quiet.”

Sam’s stomach clenches from the effort of not shoving John face-first into the desk and fucking his ass raw.

“No,” he says finally, “No, I’m working. Go.”

He sends him away. And Sam expects that John will be afraid that he’s done something wrong, so he takes him into his bed that night. Not for sex, but just to sleep. Wraps him chastely in a sheet first and strokes gentle fingers over his hair and face.

“If you think,” he says, “That you need to pay me back, you don’t. I liked having you there, seeing you show me that pretty cock of yours. Will you show me again tomorrow?”

They repeat the same thing in the next morning.

This time Sam runs the tip of his pen absently over sensitive skin before he slides it through the heavy metal ring and leaves it propped there while he reads his emails. He removes it every so often to make a note before he puts it back.

When he finally stands up, John is flushed, dazed, lips red from biting on them.

“You did so well,” Sam tells him, “So pretty. So sweet,” he adds, and reaches for the pen he put back twenty minutes ago.

He hooks his fingers around the thin rod, one finger on either side of the ring, and then he yanks.  

John cries out as his cock is pulled hard by the tip.

His hands actually lift, as if he intends to protect himself. And Sam watches avidly as they stop halfway, long fingers clawing into thin air as lust and fright chase themselves across John’s broad face with absolutely no pride left to hide behind.

Sam stops pulling and drops the pen. Lets it clatter off the desktop onto the floor. He thinks of laying his hand on the hot drooling cock and jerking it off hard and fast. Wonders how John’s distress will betray itself if he’s forced to take pleasure he has no control over.

‘Distress’ is the word that settles his resolve.

He does reach for John’s cock, but he only fingers the pierced slit in the sensitive head as he leans in.

“Kiss me,” he demands.

And John blinks but he’s still dazed and half-frightened and desperate to please. He does as told.

Somewhat inexpertly, Sam notes. He’s not sure if the fact amuses him or saddens him.

He strokes him smoothly, considerately, and lays the other hand on the back of his head as he kisses him properly.

John gasps and his hips jerk.

“Good. Like that,” Sam encourages, “Fuck my hand.”

He can feel the piercing slide against his palm as John fucks, slowly at first but then picking up speed. A desperate little whine washes hot between their mouths, and he gasps; imagines holding the sound on his tongue and he wants more of it so badly he thinks wildly about clenching his fist and wringing out a few more. 

He doesn’t.

When it’s over John is weak-kneed and drooping, trembling, his hands dropped to rest heavily on the desktop. The same desktop now splattered with his semen.

Sam watches as John stares blankly at the streaks of fluid. And then bends down with his tongue out.

Sam strokes dark hair gently as John licks up his own spend. Then he sends him out to bathe and rest, as he did the day before.

But he doesn’t go back to work. Instead he stares at the glass desktop, cloudy streaks dried into the surface, and he comes into a tissue and his own tightened fist so hard he needs to bite his tongue not to cry out. A work colleague calls when he’s panting in the afterglow, and he reluctantly puts his perversions away for more professional considerations.

That night he takes John into his bed again, and simply holds him.

He’s almost asleep when John asks, “Why don’t you use me?”

Sam stares up into the darkness.

“Is it so disgusting?” John asks.

About ten years ago, Sam thinks, the tone of that question would have been challenging, violent. Definitely a prelude to raised fists. Not that John would ever have discussed such a topic in St Maurice’s Boys High School.

There are about a hundred St Maurice’s graduates, he thinks, who would not believe what John has become.

About ninety of them would celebrate.

He chooses to answer the question honestly, assuming that no one in the last ten years of John’s life has actually been honest with him.

So he tells John that he thinks his body is beautiful, that he loves his sagging tits and his loose asshole, and that the sexiest thing he’s seen in years is the way he licked up his own semen. It’s dark, so he’s not sure if there is any piece left of the boy he used to know ten years ago. He doubts very much that John could lose so much of himself that he would not be insulted and horrified by this confession.

It’s one thing to be the victim of abuse, another to be the pervert who enjoys his humiliation.

They say nothing more that night, and when he wakes up the next morning, John is not in his bed.

He finds him fully dressed, sitting by the front door.

He leans against the wall with his arms crossed against his expensive white shirt, tie hanging carelessly from his fist.

“You can go,” he tells him, “You’re not a prisoner.”

But he’s starting to suspect that the only pieces left of John are his intelligence and his self-preservation. The same self-preservation that forced him to join someone else’s gang when it was obvious he couldn’t survive on his own. The same intelligence that now tells him he has nowhere else to go to.

“Your family,” Sam prompts softly.

John blanches and shakes his head. “No,” he says, “No.” And he sounds almost breathless.

Sam puts out a hand and touches that soft dark hair. Strokes his fingers gently through it as if petting an animal.

John does calm.

“Come inside,” Sam tells him, “Stay with me.”

And John does.

“Come to bed with me,” Sam says that evening.

And John does that too.

“Do you remember your safe word?” Sam asks.

And John shakes his head.

“Let’s try a different type, then. We’ll try the traffic light colours. Red to stop, yellow if you’re upset and need me to help you, green if you can and want to continue. Okay?”

John nods hesitantly.

Sam reaches out to stroke the line of his jaw. Runs a finger across his lower lip. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Baby, I’m going to hurt you tonight.”

John’s expression doesn’t change.

“Unbutton your shirt but don’t take it off,” Sam says, and slides his fingers into John’s mouth.

He thrusts his fingers in and out slowly, gathering moisture as he watches the buttons open on the blue shirt.

He decides he will burn the shirt. Decides John should only ever wear black, the way he used to.

“Keep it closed,” he orders, which means that when John is finished, he has the pleasure of carefully pushing the open shirt off one shoulder, unveiling pale, vulnerable, obscene flesh dangling down against too-prominent ribs.

He groans and pulls his fingers free of John’s mouth. Only to lift the exposed breast and bring his wet fingers to the dark, abused nipple.

John whimpers, and Sam groans again.

The flesh is so soft under his fingertips, so malleable, and he plays with it for what feels like years. He’s desperate to see it harden, see the little goosebumps, but it’s been beaten and stretched and abused so badly that it barely reacts.

Over and over he plays with that one nipple, until finally he looks up and John’s eyes are black with lust, his lips red from biting them.

“John, what colour?” Sam asks.

John blinks at him. “What?”

“How are you feeling? Red? Should I stop?”

“No,” John says quickly, loudly.

“Then yellow? Should I go slower? Softer?”

“No. No. Master…”

Sam slaps the poor nipple in his hand without any warning.

John actually wails.

“Then answer me next time,” Sam says ominously, “Ten more as punishment.”

John stares at him with his eyes wide, pleading. Whether he’s pleading to continue or stop, Sam can’t tell, but he waits for a slow, silent count of six. He waits to see if John will stop him or beg him not to do this. He waits to see if John will give him a safe word.

He stays silent.

The first blow is more sound than sensation. The fourth blow gets a flinch. The sixth blow gets a whimper. He pauses before the ninth blow.

“Hold on for the last two,” he says softly.

He strikes twice, as hard as he can. And then covers the sting with his warm palm; presses just a little to put pressure on it.

“Colour?” he asks intently.

“I don’t…” John blinks.

Sam waits.

John shudders and drops his head. “Green,” he says.

He’s obviously lying.

Sam sighs in disappointment. Reaches for the other side of John’s shirt. Gently eases it back and picks up the other misshapen nipple.

“Ten more,” he says implacably.

John whimpers with each blow.

“Colour?” he asks.

“Yellow,” John gives him, and then immediately, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sam lets go and sits back. “Did anyone stop when you asked before?”

John doesn’t answer him. Which is answer enough.

“No more pain tonight,” he promises.

John clearly doesn’t believe him.

Sam reaches for the blue shirt again and takes it off. And he knows what to look for here. Draws gentle fingertips over the whip scars against pale skin. Thin rope scars around the wrists. He’s seen them before, when he walked into a brothel dungeon with boringly obvious red walls and alarming amounts of equipment and found John of all people kneeling in the middle of the room.  

He kisses both wrists and brings them to the buttons of his own shirt. “We’ll talk about tying you up another time,” he says, “For today I want you to touch me. I’m going to hold your arms but I won’t force you to do anything.”

He slides his fingers down pale forearms, paying attention to the flex of muscle and sinew. Pays attention to the thin, delicate hairs.

John undresses him slowly but surely. When that’s done, Sam returns the favour. When they’re both naked he lays him down on the bed and leans forward to do what he’s been fantasizing about for weeks.

John’s nipples are still warm from the slapping, still sore, but he doesn’t spare them. Sucks with single minded devotion as John’s back arches off the bed in an impossible bow. Seconds later Sam crooks his finger in the Prince Albert piercing and pulls.

John wails.

John is so hard Sam can’t believe it. He’s had submissives get off on pain and humiliation – goes to clubs specifically to find them – but this is like nothing he’s ever seen before. This complete surrender to sensation. As if John is already on the verge of orgasm and it’s already driven him half mad.

And perhaps it has, Sam thinks, looking up to those eyes, wet and overbright.

The tears fall when he finally lets go of the piercing and slides a finger further down.

He lets the nipple slip out of his mouth with an obscene slurp as he sits up in surprise.

“What the hell?” he says out loud, not actually expecting a reply.

“I’m sorry,” is all John actually says again.

Sam pushes John’s long legs up to his chest and forces them apart. He exposes him and stares, and John has his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to look back at him. Doesn’t have to see his own shame.

“Baby,” Sam whispers, amazed by the gape of the slicked, swollen, clearly used hole.

“I needed it,” John says pathetically.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam groans, “I told you I’d give it to you.”

“I tried. You wouldn’t even let me suck you.”

Which is true enough. He had asked to do that. Sam runs the tip of his index finger apologetically around the slack muscle.

It contracts and expands – it flutters – and he salivates.

“What oil did you use?” he asks.

“I… cooking… cooking oil.”

Sam sinks his tongue in without a second thought.

John cries out and tries to arch again but Sam’s folding him almost in half, keeping his hole pointing up so he can drill his tongue down into it. Kisses it like he would kiss John’s mouth and nips at the swollen rim until he can hear a specific note in John’s moans. A kind of lost desperation.

Sam takes his tongue out. “What do you want, baby?”

“Master…”

“Tell me. Use words, baby.”

“Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck…”

It’s a litany, a prayer, and he obliges as quickly as he can. Pulls John’s hips into his lap and works the head of his cock in gently before he settles his hands on John’s hips.

It’s so wet, and so hot, and if he wasn’t so focused on John’s flushed face and damp eyes he’d be lost chasing his own pleasure.

As it is he fights to hold back the worst of his excesses.

“Ready?” he asks tightly.

And his heart breaks as John clenches his fingers in the sheets before nodding.

He’s bracing himself, Sam realises.

“I’ve got you,” Sam promises and presses in long and slow.

John clenches immediately.

Even worked open and gaping as wide as he is, he still manages to squeeze down and Sam gasps, jaw dropping as sparks jump in his veins.

“You’re safe,” he gasps, “Pretty baby, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And he lavishes promises and reassurances on him as they fuck. Heaps praise and endearments on him that he’s never used on anyone else in his life but now he watches John’s eyes glaze over, watches him shudder and shiver and break apart with each word. Watches as he twists, impossibly flexible as he somehow rolls over, long legs and flanks smoothly shifting without ever letting Sam slip out of his ass.

Sam runs his hands over the whip scars and down to John’s hips. Urges him up on his knees.

“So good for me,” he says.

And John lets out a sobbing gasp that sounds like it’s been ripped right out of his chest.

Sam starts to fuck again, and the angle is even better because he’s smacking across John’s prostate with each stroke. And he just knows that underneath them John’s dick is bouncing, his tits are swinging.

Wildly he imagines them stretched even further so the nipples brush the sheets as they move. Constant stimulation.

He fights his own impending orgasm to get a hand around John’s dick and rub.

And John’s cries rise by degrees until he lets out a scream and bucks. Presses into Sam’s hand and then pushes back as if he’s trying to stuff himself full. As if he can’t get Sam’s cock deep enough.

Sam grabs his hips and grinds in. It only takes him another thrust before he tips over the edge as well.

“Baby,” he gasps, “Come here.”

Pulls John close and wraps his arms around him. Tangles their legs and presses his cheek against the sweaty tufts of John’s dark hair.                         

John is trembling.

Sam holds him as still as he can.

“You’re safe,” he says again. Insists on it. And decides he’ll keep saying it until John believes him.

Finally he feels the shaking stop. He lets go cautiously.

“You can let me go,” John says, and makes an infinitesimal shift away.

Sam lets go and sits up. Moves away.

John’s face is blank, his eyes dull. He lies still and stares up at the ceiling like a broken doll and Sam watches in mounting alarm as he collapses into himself.

“John,” he says carefully.

He gets a twitch of facial muscle. The head turns and eyes regard him steadily.

“Baby,” he says, “What colour?”

John looks at him with a level stare. “Green,” he says, and then, “It’s always green.”

“Even when it isn’t?” Sam asks.

“You’ve seen what I am. Where I was. What did you place your order for back there?”

“For these,” Sam says honestly, and he reaches out to pet one sloppy tit. “I didn’t think I’d get them.”

John starts to laugh. “Let me guess,” he says, “You want to stretch them some more. Pull them, bite them, tie them up. You want to hit them with something hard so you can see how well they bruise.”

Sam watches him.

“They’re almost a whole new person,” John says, and his expression finally changes as he frowns a little at the ceiling. It’s not an improvement. “These,” his fingers close on his nipples, “And then me.”

Sam grabs his wrists as he sees the long fingers press so hard they’re almost bloodless with pressure.

“Stop it,” he says sharply.

“Why?” John asks seriously, “Everybody else does it. Everybody else enjoys it. Why can’t I?”

His breathing is starting to catch. He’s starting to go pale. His hands are starting to tremble.

“If you want someone to hurt them,” Sam says, “I’ll do it. But I don’t let anyone else hurt what’s mine.”

“I am yours.”

“Then I’ll hurt you. But no one else will. Including you.”

John finally lets go of his nipples. Flinches as the blood flows back.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Soon enough Sam realises that sex makes John eloquent. That for a few brief moments after his release he seems almost normal. Seems almost angry.

For that night he lies down beside his submissive, and even if John is stiff as a board, he softens when he’s asleep. By the time Sam lets himself drift off, John is a soft vulnerable shape under a blanket, curled into his side seeking in sleep what he can’t ask for awake.

Sam wakes up and John has woken up before him again. Is cleaning… something. Sam’s not sure what.

“Don’t use the oil today,” Sam says, looping his tie around his neck, “I’ll get you proper lube.”

John can’t meet his eye as he nods, a pink flush rising up his neck.

Sam steps closer, pulls him into his arms and kisses his cheek gently. Slides one hand into the back of his sweatpants to finger his hole.

“Keep you nice and wet,” he says affectionately, and tickles just inside the rim.

John gasps quietly, gaze going unfocused.

Sam kisses his cheek again and lets him go. “I see I’ll have to get you some toys for that slutty hole of yours.” He picks up his satchel. “Do you have a preference?”

John blinks at him, slightly dazed.

Sam grins. “I’ll get a selection, then.” He pauses. “Maybe something for me too,” he says intently.

And he is as good as his word.

He brings back two vibrators of different sizes and a large flesh-coloured dildo, several bottles of edible lube and more condoms.

“We should have used one last night,” he says, and lays each item on the table.

John sits silently across the table from him, eyes fixed on these items as if he’s afraid of what will happen when he looks away.

Sam is very careful to keep his movements smooth and calm as he takes the last item out of his bag and lays it neatly out alongside the others.

John stops breathing.

“Relax,” he coaches quietly, “It’s okay. We’re going to talk about it first.”

He’s bought a flogger.

It’s in pure black leather, ominous with three knotted strands. A better fit again John’s skin than the bright pink version he decided not to buy.

For a moment he thinks he’ll get away with it and then John opens his mouth.

“Red,” John says distantly, “Red. Red.”

“Okay,” Sam says, and stands up. He slips the flogger off the table and back into the bag and throws the whole thing in the vague direction of the door as he walks around the table to squat beside the chair.

“Breathe,” he says, “You’re safe. I won’t use it if you say no.”

“No,” John says immediately.

And Sam nods. “Alright,” he returns, “No floggers. What about whips?”

“No,” John says again. Even more vehemently.

“I thought so.” Sam lays a hand carefully on the back of his neck, warm and light. “I bought the flogger because it isn’t the whip. The bastard that did that to you with a whip should be strung up by his own balls.”

John looks at him. “You mean my Master?”

Sam stills.

“Didn’t they tell you? I went to them properly broken in,” John smiles mirthlessly.

Sam shakes his head. “Are you telling me the dominant who did that to you wasn’t just some moronic customer but your lover?”

“My Master,” John corrects colourlessly.

Sam feels his stomach twist.

“He definitely doesn’t know how to use a whip,” is the most diplomatic thing he can think of to say.

“Does anyone?”

“I do,” Sam assures him. And then gives him honesty – “Well enough not to do that to my partners. I’ve seen real masters at work.” Sam lets his thumb stroke rhythmically back and forth. “And I’ve felt it myself.”

John looks at him in surprise.

Sam quirks a smile at him. “What, you think I wasn’t curious? I like dominating my partners, but sometimes I want to be held, and sometimes I like it to hurt.”

John says nothing.

“Does that interest you?” Sam asks.

Something sparks in John’s eyes and then just as suddenly he looks frightened again. As if he’s caught himself doing something forbidden. As far as Sam can tell, the only thing he’s done wrong is think. Sam bites down on the bitter suspicion that the boy who once schemed and planned and strategized like breathing has been learned to fear punishment for using his brain.

True to form, John turns to the only coping mechanism for his fear that’s worked in ten years.

He reaches out and picks up one of the vibrators. The small purple one.

Sam gets a fresh battery from the kitchen drawer as John lays his hands on the table and leans forward.

“Master,” John says.

And Sam pauses as he cuts the toy out of its packaging. “That’s the bastard who fucked you over,” he says, “Call me by my name.”

And something flashes in John’s eyes again. “Sam,” he whispers.

Sam stops and stares. “Oh, I think I’m going to like that a lot more than I thought.”

He gives him honesty because no one has been honest in ten years and John blooms like a flower when he’s treated with respect and honesty in the filthiest of situations.

Like this one. When Sam asks for permission to pull his pants down. Strokes the curve of his ass as he reaches back across the table to grab the new bottle of lubricant.

John moans when the toy is finally inside him, and then jerks as Sam turns it on to the lowest setting.

“Sam,” he whimpers, staring ahead and unfocused.

Sam helps him up carefully, pulls up his clothing and smooths it back into place. And then turns the vibrator up to the next setting.

John’s jaw drops and his hips jerk uselessly against thin air.

“You’re not allowed to touch yourself,” Sam says, “Come and sit with me.”

He turns on the television and John sits in a corner of the sofa, curling around himself. Breathe deepening.

As time ticks on his breathing moves through a cycle of calming down to almost catatonia, and then picking up again. Picking up and rising until John makes little ‘aah’ sounds on every exhale. Usually when that happens he’s rocking on the couch, head thrown back and fingers digging into the upholstery, his thighs, and once memorably his own hair.

Sam ignores him for the most part.

Or appears to.

Truthfully he’s watching him from the corner of his eye, and he’s so hard he thinks somewhat hysterically that he could cut rock. He has no idea what’s on the screen, too busy actually looking at the window in the corner show him a perfect reflection of his submissive in the powerful grip of desperate pleasure.

“Sam,” John finally whimpers, “Sam, please. Please! Let me cum!”

Sam turns his head immediately and holds his hands out. “Come here,” he commands.

And John goes willingly.

Scrambles across the couch and straddles Sam’s lap without the least trace of self-awareness.

“I’m going to keep it on,” Sam says, “And I’m going to stroke you.”

John submits beautifully. Gives him everything as he strains for his relief.

Sam gets him there and holds him as he spasms.

“Good,” Sam says quietly, and offers him his wet hand.

John licks it clean submissively.

Sam turns the toy off and tugs it out. Makes a face and pushes John carefully off him so he can put it in the bathroom for cleaning. When he gets back with a glass of water, John is nearly asleep.

They sleep apart that night for sanity’s sake.

In the morning Sam slicks up John’s hole for him. Has him bend naked over the edge of his own bed while he himself is already dressed for work. Gropes one dangling nipple as John’s asshole sucks greedily on his fingers.

“I’m going to be late tonight,” he says, as he takes his fingers out and goes to wash his hands. “You’ll have to amuse yourself.”

He gets back to where John is still panting, still braced forward against the sheets still warm from his sleep. And it’s too much of a temptation not to reach back around and close his fingers around one of those drooping nipples. Uses his grip to tugs John around to face him. John makes a small sound and once again his hands lift as if to protect himself. Once again he stops himself, so he’s left uselessly clawing at thin air.

And Sam can be cruel if he wants to be.

So he takes John with him through the house, leading him along by his nipple as if it’s leash. Collects his satchel from the office, his coat from the back of the sofa.

John’s breathing is rough and rapid, his pupils dilating as he blushes. As he follows docilely. At the door Sam kisses him and then drops a kiss on that beautifully mangled flesh that he’s genuinely reluctant to leave.

It’s past midnight when Sam stumbles back home, and he’s drunk.

He’s aware enough to know this.

John comes to his room while he’s staring at the ceiling and wondering if he can bring himself to undress.

Long fingers remove his clothes, and Sam turns his head to see John put his things away neatly, as if he knows exactly where everything goes in Sam’s bedroom.

In the black t-shirt and boxer shorts, in the dim yellow light – in Sam’s hazy mind – he almost looks like he used to look when they were students back in high school, staging stupid fights over nothing. What had John wanted from St Maurice’s, Sam wonders sleepily.

John leaves him there and turns the light off.

It’s only when the lights are off that Sam lets himself remember his first visceral reaction to John, more powerful than anyone else he’d encountered in that school. He’d wanted to hit him so badly in the mouth it had shocked him. It had terrified him when he’d wanted to kiss the bruise. Wanted to sink his teeth into his flesh. Wanted to rip him apart and see what lay inside.

He has a hangover and a raw throat the next morning but he goes to work, commiserating with everyone else in the same boat. He gets home and John seems calm.

For three days they fall into a sort of holding pattern. They don’t touch each other, nor do they talk about touching each other. They exchange quiet sentences about mundane things like food and laundry and the weather. Sam does think about forcing the issue but the moment slips away before he can do anything with it.

And he is busy. The evening he comes home relatively early he spends in his office, shutting the door to help his focus stay on the task at hand.

It’s the weekend when he finally breaks the stalemate. Goes to John’s room at dawn and watches the rising sun throw red sparks across John’s skin as he gives him the lubricant to finger himself open.

Sam kindly helps by holding his ass spread wide apart so he can enjoy the show.

John whimpers, contorting desperately as Sam gives him a running commentary on how well his asshole is taking his fingers. Tells him it’s gorgeous and slutty and that he’s going to fuck it hard once he’s satisfied it’s been properly opened.

“Once you get it warmed up for my cock,” Sam tells him.

He’s made him use too much lube, and it drips down his perineum onto his balls. Taking Sam’s attention much lower than just the wet gaping hole.

Someone has gotten to John’s balls as well, and they hang lower than they should. It’s not as bad as his tits but his sac has clearly been stretched at some point.  

Sam pours more lube into his hands and takes a cool, slick grip on those defenceless balls.

John actually tries to pull away.

“No,” he says, “No! Yellow!”

Sam lets go immediately. “John, stop. Wait.”

“No!”

He looks over his shoulder, miserable and frightened and panicked. Eyes almost wild.

“You can do anything you want to my ass, my chest, but please. Please. Not there.”

Sam blinks. “Baby,” he says slowly, “I’m only going to please them.”

John doesn’t believe him.

“I’m going to touch them again,” Sam tells him implacably, “Just for six seconds. You can count it. Let me show you.”

John’s eyes go dull. “You said you’d stop.”

Sam sighs. “Baby, you need to say ‘red’ to stop me. Yellow means you’re upset and you need help.” He strokes a careful hand over one taunt calf. “Trust me. If you can’t take it after six seconds I’ll stop.”

He takes him through the six seconds and he does stop. Then he exerts himself to please. Uses his fingers and mouth and his hands to get him as high as he can and then gets him off.

When John is boneless and languid in his bed, Sam kisses him and says, “I’m going to touch your balls again.”

Once again John’s eyes go dull and defeated. Once again he claws his fingers into the sheets to brace himself. But he spreads his legs wide submissively.

Sam leans down to kiss him.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “So good for me.”

John whines into his mouth and bucks as freshly lubed fingers touch his balls.

He stays quiet and passive as Sam pets them and rolls them gently, strokes the soft skin. Then just holds them before dropping them.

“Done,” Sam says.

John rolls off the bed and sits up.

Sam doesn’t let him get away that easily. Wraps his arms around him from behind and nips at his shoulder.

“What did he do to you?” he asks quietly.

John says, “This time it was a customer.” His voice is expressionless. “He’d have been much worse.”

Sam's chest tightens. He decides that John’s former master is a worthless waste of space, partly because he hurt someone he was supposed to love, but mostly because he clearly had no idea how to treat a submissive. How to preserve his trust while he was breaking his body.

He thinks of the boy he knew ten years ago and thinks that that boy would be horrified by the man he has become. Would hate himself for his own weakness more than he would hate anyone who hurt him.

“I want to hurt your balls,” he says seriously, “The same way I want to hurt your tits and your ass. I want to whip you and beat you and push your limits, baby. But I will always listen to you. I will stop when you need it. I want you to trust that I won’t hurt you more than you can take.”

Something’s brewing.

He can sense it.

And he should have remembered that John is eloquent after sex. Almost himself again. This time anger boils over like a volcano.

“Who the fuck,” John asks slowly, “Are you to know how much I can take.”

His voice is trembling.

And oddly Sam feels his heart leap in his chest. Feels a kind of fierce joy spread like heat through him.

John pulls out of his arms and grabs blindly at the pile of clothing on the floor.

Sam lets him go. Listens to the sounds of footsteps retreating, and then strains to hear the faint echo of what he can only assume is the front door. At the time he finds himself oddly unconcerned about this outburst, and about John’s departure. Decides that if the man can make it through the front door and then the gate, he deserves to have the freedom to roam.

Three days later he is far more worried. And relieved when John turns up on his doorstep.  

John comes back three days later a mess, with bruises on his face and wrists, misery in the hunched line of his shoulders, the bowed nape of his collared neck.

Sam steps back to let him in.

By the time he’s shut the door and turned around, John is already on his knees, bowing forward in formal submission.

“I’m sorry,” he says compulsively, “I’m sorry.”

His voice cracks, harsh and grating, and Sam feels anger start to burn slowly at his core.

He squats down. “Baby,” he says, “I told you – you can leave. You can come and go whenever you like. I’ll give you a key and some money.”

John stares back at him with a kind of blank hopelessness.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Sam says softly, and reaches out to stroke his hair.

He intends to pet him like a favourite animal. A loved dog or cat, maybe. Something devoted and domesticated but still autonomous.

Instead John hisses, pain flashing across his face.

Sam frowns before he can help himself. “What the hell?”

He finds the contusion on his scalp soon enough. There’s no blood as far as he can see. From a fall, John tells him. But then John says ‘a fall’ for the thin friction burns on his wrists, the bruises on his face, the thin welts across his back and ass that Sam guesses were made by someone wielding a switch with more enthusiasm than sense.

The worst are John’s poor, sweet, soft tits.

John comes back to him with thin strips of leather still tied around the base of his breasts, blood engorged in sensitive flesh for so long that they’re badly enflamed. Red and blue already mottled under the skin.

Sam touches them gently and John jerks.

“Okay,” Sam says softly, “I’m going to get a knife. Let’s get the rope off.”

He gets them free, and takes off the collar. Gets cool damp towels to lay across the bruises and feeds him before he gives him water and painkillers.

It takes until the next day that his submissive tells him he went back to the club.

“I wanted to be used,” John says dully, “I didn’t care what they did. I wanted it to hurt.”

“Did you think I couldn’t that do that for you?” Sam asks.

John looks at him fearfully.

“I’m not angry,” Sam tells him.

It’s obvious John doesn’t believe him. And he’s right – Sam is angry. He’s even angry at John.

“It’s different in the club,” John says finally.

“Because you don’t know your dominants?”

“No,” John closes his eyes, “Because they don’t know me.”

Sam feels his heart sink.

John hasn’t lost any part of himself at all, he realises. He’s just learned to ignore what isn’t useful. Keeps his self-preservation and his intelligence because they serve him but even in his most abject submission he still has his arrogance, his anger. His own need to dominate.

Sam leaves him alone for a week to recover. Goes to work and comes home. Keeps his distance.

If John notices or even cares, he doesn’t say.

When Sam finally breaks, he doesn’t do it as he did before.

“Sit down,” he says brusquely, and pushes a pamphlet across the table.

John blinks at it. And then blanches in the strongest show of terror Sam has ever seen.

“No,” Sam says quickly, “Fuck. Sorry. I mean, this is plastic surgery. I’m not trying… Breathe!”

Eventually John does breathe, and he does calm down. And Sam holds up the pamphlet to say, “This is plastic surgery for a breast reduction.”

He’s taken a week to do his research and make his plans. He lays it out for John in neat, calm sentences – reconstructive plastic surgery to fix at least some of the damage done to his chest, a small flat in a new town somewhere so he can start again, work, maybe study if he feels he can manage that. He doesn’t know what can be done about the genital piercing but plenty of men have piercings.

“I have one condition,” he says, “Don’t end up back in another brothel.”

Something odd flickers across John’s face.

“I see,” he says at last.

And it’s such an incongruous response that Sam raises his eyebrows a little.

“Why?” John finally asks.

“Because that isn’t you,” Sam says simply. He stands up. “Think about it,” he says.

And he supposes that John does.

He has a deadline to meet on a new project at work and a friend’s wedding to attend on the weekend. He places a key on the kitchen counter when he leaves early in the morning. Clears his mind as he drives out and thinks about the road and the implementation of his strategy and whether the bride will be wearing any underwear.

She frequently hadn’t when they’d hooked up a few years ago.

They’d treated it like a game and gone everywhere they could safely manage to see how hot she could get. How turned on by the different temperatures and textures against delicate, sensitive skin. Culminating in a spectacular episode in a bar when he’d fingered her to orgasm under the table right there in public.

He wonders if her austere new husband enjoys playing her games as much.

She kisses him on the cheek when he congratulates her, eyes mischievous as she leans in.

“We’ve already done it in the bathroom,” she whispers.

And he laughs. Genuinely amused. Congratulates the bridegroom and says, “Good luck”.

He drinks himself to a lack of inhibitions and takes one of the bridesmaids to his hotel room. Uses his tie to tie her hands behind her back. Uses her silk scarf to blindfold her. And fucks her hard enough to shake the bed.

She slides easily out of his arms when he lets her go and gathers up her clothes while he watches from the bed. She’s heavy-eyed and languid, a satisfied smile curling the corners of her mouth as she waves goodbye to him.

He goes back to find the key still where he’s left it on the kitchen table.

John is nowhere to be seen.

Sam drops his bag in a corner and frowns slightly, a strange sort of worry tugging in his gut.

He finds John in his bedroom.

His immediate reaction is relief. And then he blinks.

“Baby?” he calls softly.

John looks up from where he’s just sitting on the floor, back against the wall and eyes fixed blankly on the bed.

Sam squats down in front of him. Sighs. “This isn’t healthy behaviour.”

“I’m trying to understand,” John tells him quietly, “Why you don’t want to use me anymore. I know I fucked up…”

“You didn’t,” Sam interrupts.

“Then you’ve had enough?”

John’s hands lift, start to unbutton his shirt.

Sam’s eyes drop, and he wonders absently if he’s still a little drunk or a little tired. Because he’s never had enough, really.

He takes John there, on the floor of his bedroom. Sucks on those gorgeously ugly nipples as he twists his fingers into that gloriously loose asshole, jabs hard against John’s prostate and listens to him moan like a whore in a porno.

Loses himself enough to bite down, as he’s always wanted to.

And John arches in that impossibly flexible way he has, writhes and twists against the wall and the floor but does absolutely nothing to stop Sam from doing exactly what he wants.

Takes it all beautifully.

Sam rolls him onto his knees to fuck him and allows himself not to care enough to get up for a condom. He hasn’t washed yet after sex with the bridesmaid the night before and he thinks briefly that John would be horrified if he knew her juices were still streaked across Sam’s skin. He’d be humiliated at the dirty cock he’s allowing into his body.

Sam licks up the prominent knobs of his spine and fastens his teeth into the back of his neck.

When he’s done, he pulls out. John hasn’t come, and he whines as Sam pulls out of his ass. Reaches behind to expose his hole. Shows him his own semen dribbling out.

“Sam,” he whispers, “Please.”

Please.

Sam watches his semen trail over John’s sac and says, “Alright. But I’m going to hurt you, baby. Do you remember your safe words?”

“Yes,” John breathes.

So Sam rubs his semen into the soft skin of John’s sac. Kneads roughly, painfully, and John’s breath stutters out in hurt and shame and fear. “Keep that ass open. Let me see it.”

He watches that sweet, gaping muscle contract and expand. Watches it flutter.

“Colour?” he asks.

John whimpers and his fingers twitch against his own skin but he gasps out, “Green.”

Sam tightens his grip and pulls.

Then Sam spanks him.

The first blow is a shock. He can see it in the way the muscles of John’s back tighten. The fourth blow gets a tiny groan. At the tenth blow John gasps and lets go of his ass. Braces against the wall.  

And Sam keeps going.

Damps all the safety switches and good sense in his brain so his sadism has free reign.

John writhes but there’s nowhere he can go. He’s boxed in place by the wall in front of him and Sam behind him. And when he tries to pull his hips away Sam only drags him back by his balls. John wails, claws at the walls as Sam pulls brutally backwards.

“Move,” Sam growls.

And John scrambles back a little on his knees.

Lets himself be turned over on his back.

Sam kisses him hard. Squeezes his balls in short, cruel pumps.

John whimpers under the onslaught and his hands lift. This time he doesn’t stop halfway through. He does grab at Sam’s forearm. But he doesn’t try to stop him. Simply holds on.

“Can you feel that?” Sam asks, “Can you feel me hurt you?” He squeezes again. “Feel how much pressure I’m using? Shall I use more?”

John genuinely shakes his head in what looks like mounting terror.

The look on his face when Sam tells him they’re going to stand up now is delightful. The look when he realises his Dom is going to drag him up by his balls if he doesn’t move fast enough is ecstasy.  

Sam does it, pulling upwards as John whimpers and stumbles to his feet.

“Please, Sam,” John says, still holding onto his forearm.

“You wanted this.”

“No, I…”

Sam squeezes harder.

Watches as John jolts and curls down. The scream makes his pulse jump.

“I’m going to let go,” Sam tells him, “You’re going to lie down on the bed on your back. Spread your legs. Pull your knees up. Show me that pretty hole. Nod if you understand.”

John nods.

“Go.”

Sam lets go.

And John whimpers, hand going down between his legs. But he moves. Crawls into Sam’s bed and pulls his long legs up. Holds onto his knees and holds them apart.

Sam goes to John’s room and looks for the toys he’s bought for him. He’s imagined them strewn around the room, ready for frequent use. But he finds almost all the toys still in their packaging in a drawer, save the one he cut open himself.

It feels like it takes hours to get the box open.

He goes back and his pulse leaps. John is where he’s left him, exposed and vulnerable and absolutely broken. Completely shattered.

Sam kneels on the bed beside him. Strokes one finger from the Prince Albert piercing down towards the reddened balls.

John is trembling, eyes shut as he lets it all happen. Lips bitten and kiss swollen so they’re almost sinful.

Sam slicks the dildo generously with lubricant and holds it against his slack, scarred asshole. Slides two fingers from his other hand into John’s mouth.

“Bite if you need to,” he says quietly.

And starts to force the dildo in from pressure alone.

John’s eyes go wide and he whines in panic.

“Easy,” Sam says, “I’ve got you.”

He feels John’s tongue flick against his fingertips and something burns deep inside him but he’s focused now on the stretch and strain of John’s ass. Watches intently for the smallest sign of trouble.

“Push out,” he orders.

John whines but he does it.

And he slowly opens up.

The head finally pops in and then the silicon shaft slides in almost as an afterthought. The plug-shaped base nestles into sore flesh like it belongs there. Like it was made specifically for this body.

John drools around his fingers, eyes pleading, whimpers slipping hot over Sam’s palm and wrist.

Sam urges his legs back down to the mattress. Rubs a hand over John’s knees and thighs. Then slowly slides his fingers out of his mouth.

“You will keep that inside until I tell you to take it out,” he says.

Brings his wet fingers to John’s cock. Teases the pierced slit until John shudders.

“You can beg me to let you take it out earlier,” he says, “But I might not say yes.”

He tugs on the large metal ring.

“Why did you provoke me?” he asks.

John licks his lips. “I wanted it,” he says, “You know I need…”

“You don’t,” Sam interrupts. Doesn’t argue. States it as simple fact. “You may want a lot of things, but you don’t need it.”

“It feels worse.”

“That’s because you’ve had bad dominants teaching you bad habits,” Sam says, “A good one will help you learn better.”

John doesn’t ask.

Sam sighs. “You want a Dom who doesn’t know you,” he says, “I’ve got some friends. You can try one of them.”

John looks at him. “So now you’re pimping me out.”

“Fuck you,” Sam snaps back.

John doesn’t look repentant. He almost looks defiant. As he used to look.

And that’s the problem, Sam thinks bleakly. He wants John just defiant enough. He wants his arrogance, his brains, his violence. Almost as much as he wants this damaged, vulnerable shell of a body.

“I’m offering you a safe outlet for whatever it is you think you need,” Sam says.

He goes for a bath, washes carefully to remove all traces. It’s only in the quiet that it occurs to him to wonder why John was sitting in his room in the first place

He walks out and John is still in his bed, curled on his side with his eyes closed. But he’s clearly not asleep.

Sam drops the towel and watches those long fingers play with the Prince Albert piercing. Watches them pull gently on the ring, twist it a little, roll it a little. Watches as John breathes, not turned on anymore but deeply focused. Sensual and languid and erotic.

He thinks in despair that John is definitely going to break his heart or his dick. Probably both.

He rolls him onto his back and crawls over him. Sits on his thighs and kisses his neck.

“You’re safe,” he breathes, and kisses him.

John sighs into his mouth and guides his hands to his tits.

Sam remembers them tied up, badly swollen and bruised. Remembers John’s misery and pain. The memory slips away like mist as he touches them gently. Delicately. Feels John shudder under him as he paints endearments against his skin with his fingertips.

‘Beautiful’ he writes, and ‘sweet’, and he wonders if John can read it. Decides that it doesn’t matter if he can’t. The emotion is clear enough.

He kisses his sternum and follows the concave dip of his belly, making a mental note to feed him. Slides his tongue into the tight navel a few times to mimic what he wishes he was young enough to repeat. But neither of them is going to get hard again any time soon.   

He kisses his way back up John’s body and then lies down on top of him. Presses down into him. Watches to see if this is too much.

But John groans and settles surprisingly quickly.

Sam tucks his face into John’s neck and feels hands come to rest in the small of his back. Murmurs a pleased little sound and closes his eyes.

He wakes up an hour later in the same position. John is still asleep under him, and Sam tries not to wake him as he gets out of bed but it’s inevitable that he does. He dresses quietly but he doesn’t bother to be silent. John stirs before he’s halfway through.

Sam finishes and sits down on the edge of the bed. Slides a hand between John’s legs and presses gently on the base of the dildo.

John makes a small helpless sound as he rolls his hips.

Sam smiles and takes his hand away. Strokes his hair before rising.  

“You can take it out,” he says, before he leaves him to wake up in peace.

He coaxes John out of the house that afternoon. Puts him in the car and drives them to the town centre.

“What if I meet someone who knows?” John asks.

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, “But if you feel anything, come to me.”

“I’m not a child,” John reminds him.

Sam doesn’t look at him. “I don’t let anyone else hurt what’s mine.”

They say nothing more about it.

Truthfully there’s nothing to see in the town centre. It’s a small town, mostly full of dying industrial complexes, and Sam only lives here because it’s a short commute to work. He likes it because it’s private and quiet and his family finds it too provincial to visit.

They wander for an hour, winding in and out of tiny stores.

Sam does briefly contemplate a cheap pair of sunglasses that look almost identical to the pair John used to wear. But he lets it go and walks away.

John stops in front of the pet store, watching a display of kittens stare back at him through the glass.

“Want one?” Sam asks.

John shakes his head. “I can’t look after myself,” he says, “Why get something that needs so much care.”

“Sometimes getting something that needs care gets you out of bed in the morning,” he says.

John looks at him curiously. “Is that why you like slaves?”

“No, that’s why I work,” Sam says dryly, “My little sister hasn’t figured that part out yet.”

“You have a sister?”

“Half-sister. Much younger,” Sam says, “She’s still in high school.”

He shows him a photo on his phone.

John looks at the photo and then at Sam. “She has the same mouth as you,” he says, and hands the phone back.

“Should I worry?”

John squats down to stare at the kittens a little closer. Taps on the glass. “You have a gorgeous mouth. You should be protective of her.”

He stands up and walks away before Sam can properly process that.

When he catches up John changes the subject. Talks about being a kid in a town like this and roaming around with his friends on lazy summer afternoons looking for shade and something to do.

“Burnt all the skin off my nose one day,” John says. “My mother was horrified.”

Sam wonders about John’s family, and wonders if his mother knows her son is still alive and mostly in one piece. He wonders what it was about his family that made John recoil from going back to them. Wonders if it was shame or something else.

“I don’t burn,” Sam says, “Just tan.”

John snorts. “Of course,” he says, as if it isn’t a compliment.

Sam grins.

“We used to go to Hawaii a lot when I was kid,” he says, “My aunt lives there. I spent every second I could at the beach. Sometimes in the evening you get bioluminescence along the waterline and it lights up as you walk.”

John stares at him. And then shakes his head. “It’s almost a different world,” he says quietly.

Sam bites back the words hovering on his tongue. Says instead, “You talk about friends. Holidays in Hawaii meant I left my friends behind. I made friends there, but it was never the same.”

“How sad,” John says sarcastically.

Sam laughs. “I’m not complaining. You have no idea how sexy…”

He stops.

John raises an eyebrow.

“… women in bikinis are when you’re twelve,” Sam finishes.

“Real tits,” John says ironically, “Proper ones.”

Sam thinks about how much he wants to slide his hand down the back of John’s pants. How much he wants to slide his fingers into John’s asshole and tease his prostate. How much he wants to see John try to keep walking while he’s so turned on he can barely breathe.

He takes them back to the car.

It’s only once they’re in the privacy of the cool shadowed interior that he reaches out to run his thumb across John’s lower lip.

“Don’t you know?” he asks, “I don’t want proper anything. I like to know you’ve been used, desecrated, damaged, that you hate your own body because of what’s been done to it. I like how unnatural it is.”

He drops his hand.

He takes them home.

In the garage he reaches out and pushes the hem of John’s t-shirt up. Holds it up to his mouth. “Hold it in your teeth,” he says.

And John’s eyes go dark as he does.

His desecration is completely exposed. And his hands stay passively at the side, leaving anyone to do anything to him as they like.

Luckily there’s only one person around, Sam thinks greedily.

“Come on,” he says, and opens his door.

John follows him out.

Once inside Sam gets one of the vibrators and puts it inside him. Turns it on to the lowest setting.

He sits down on the couch.

“Get me some water,” he says mildly.

John stares at him.

Sam stares back calmly.

John does.

With the hem of his t-shirt clenched in his teeth and his tits on full display he goes to the kitchen. Reaches up in the kitchen for a glass and fills it from the bottle in the fridge. Brings it back with a carefully steady hand.

Sam gestures to the coffee table in front of him.

The table is glass and metal, like a lot of surfaces in this place. It reflects a little, but most importantly it’s low to the ground.

John hesitates.

He’s intelligent, Sam exults, and he knows exactly what will happen if he bends over. He knows exactly what he’s being set up to do.

But he does it anyway. Leans over and places the glass on the coaster. And his tits dangle forward, swinging with the smallest movement.

Sam sits forward and stops him straightening up. Circles his forefingers and thumbs around the bases of John’s breasts and then squeezes lightly as he drags his grip down to those dark grotesque nipples.

John gasps.

“Just like a cow’s udders,” Sam says admiringly. And does it again.

They’re really not, not being full enough or big enough. His hands are too big, really, to make this as satisfying as he would like it to be. But the fact that it’s a man in front of him – the fact that it’s fucking John – is enough to make it wildly perfect.

He lets him go and sits back up.

“Bend lower,” Sam says. And then, “Lower… can you go lower?”

Sadly he knows he can’t really have John bend so low his dangling nipples brush the floor, but he watches them sway and feels his cock harden.

“You can stand up,” he says, “Put your shirt down.”

John does.

“Come here,” Sam says affectionately.

He pulls him to sit down, strokes his hair and his face and then gives him the glass of water. Makes him drink all of it while he glances at the clock on the wall.

“In an hour’s time, come and ask me to turn the vibrator higher,” Sam says.

John nods.

Apart from that he’s free to do whatever he likes.

He comes back punctually an hour later. “Sam,’ he says, voice rough, “Turn up the speed. Please.”

“Of course,” Sam says amiably, “Turn around and show me. Do you like how it feels?”

John whines as the speed increases inside him. “Yes,” he breathes.

“No need to ask your colour, then,” Sam laughs, and slaps him affectionately on the ass, “You can go. Have fun.”

He reads quietly.

There are five speed settings on the vibrator. They’ve gone through two but he calculates the fourth round will be interesting.

And true to form, John makes it through the third increase without more than some deep breathing but he’s late for the fourth increase by ten minutes. He’s heavy-eyed and flushed. Drops down on his knees in front of Sam who simply glances at the clock to make his point.

“I’m sorry,” John moans, clearly too far gone already, “Sam. Please.”

“Take your clothes off,” Sam instructs.

John struggles out of them. He’s panting, gloriously hard.

“Spread your legs,” Sam says, “Wider.”

John does.

Sam lays his bare foot delicately down on his exposed genitals and presses.

John chokes.

And even as Sam watches in fascination he notices that John is squirming, beginning to bounce his ass against the floor in a desperate attempt to get himself off the knife-edge of arousal with his orgasm nowhere in sight.

Sam wriggles his toes.

John whines.

“You’ll have to be punished,” Sam decides, “First come here and turn around. No, stay on the floor. Hands and knees. Now turn around.”

John does.

Sam leans forward and adjusts the setting to the last and highest speed. And listens to the hopeless little cry that slips out of John’s throat, deep and guttural as it’s dragged up from the soles of his feet.

It’s cool in the house – almost cold with the air conditioning running – but John’s skin is hot and sweaty.

“Now your punishment,” Sam says, “Get me the satchel from my office. No, you don’t need to stand up. You’ll have to stay on hands and knees for the rest of the hour.”

“I… I can’t…” John blinks, eyes wet and overbright, “I can’t carry anything like this.”

“You can balance it on your back. Like a donkey,” Sam says cruelly.

He swears he can see the flush of arousal darken at those words. The humiliation of it.

But John starts to crawl to the office.

It’s difficult enough watching him crawl away with his stretched sac dangling between his thighs, but when he crawls back Sam has to fight not to shove his hands down his pants. John’s moving as carefully as he can, tits flapping and swinging under him and his flushed red cock dragged down by the weight of the heavy metal piercing.

He takes the bag from John’s back and cups a hand under his chin, forcing him to look up.

“Colour?” he asks quietly.

“Green,” John moans.

And for all his desperation, for all his lust, it’s the first time he sounds at peace with it.

“Good,” Sam says, “Pretty angel. Doing so well. Thank you.”

John leans into his hand and kisses his wrist.

“Only forty-nine minutes to go, baby. You can take it for that long.”

John whimpers.

“Think you can do one more thing for me?”

John nods.

Sam kisses him. “Bring me the flogger,” he says, “It’s in my room.”

John pulls back immediately.

“I’m not using it on you,” Sam assures him, “I promise. Trust me.”

He watches those balls swing and slap against the sleek thighs as John crawls away. He watches him crawl back with his sweet tits and cock on display. Watches his eyes clouded by desire.

When the hour is up, he holds John in his arms and strokes him to completion. Slides a finger into him so he can angle the vibrator directly into his prostate.

John comes with a yell and then seems to have a tiny dry orgasm not five minutes later while Sam continues to torment his prostate with the vibrator. He collapses into a boneless mess when it’s over.

Sam continues to hold him, strokes his hair and whispers pretty things at him until he feels him calm down. Until he feels him relax. Until he shows signs of wanting to leave the full-body contact Sam insists on as he comes back to the real world.

When John’s eyes are clear, Sam seizes his chance.

John is always most eloquent when he has just finished a scene. He is always just that little bit more like his old self.

“I want to try something,” Sam says, “I want you to whip me with the flogger.”

John freezes, eyes widening. “What?”

“I want you to use the flogger on me,” Sam repeats.

He tells him that he wants this. Reminds him that he told him once that he does enjoy being held sometimes, that he does like to be hurt.

“Not now, and not often,” Sam says, “But sometimes. With someone I trust.”

John sits up. He blinks.

And Sam isn’t surprised that John simply gets up and leaves. Snatches up his clothes and walks out. Sam had hoped for something different, but he isn’t surprised. He shrugs philosophically and pulls the pending work from his bag that he hasn’t looked at all weekend. Focuses his mind on more professional matters.

In the end it takes a week.

For several reasons – one of which is that he is busy. He works for fun rather than necessity, but his obligations to his employers are real. His deadlines are real, along with the subordinates and colleagues who rely on him to do his job. He leaves early and comes home late, and when he is home, he is exhausted.

The second reason is that John avoids him.

They share a house so they do meet, they do talk, but John’s gaze slides away from him when they do.

Sam can’t talk to someone who doesn’t want to listen. Every evening he comes home and the bag with the flogger is still lying neatly by the side of the sofa where he’s left it.

So he tries to be patient.

The problem is that he’s never been very good with patience.

A week is how long it takes for him to let his frustration and his yearning get the better of him. At the end of the week he goes out with work colleagues to celebrate someone’s birthday, and lets himself get drunk enough to lose his inhibitions.

A week is how long it takes before he lets himself end up in a very specific brothel, looking for a very specific requirement.

This time he is the one who kneels on the floor.

He wears a mask because he prefers his anonymity. He chooses a mask that blocks his vision because he prefers not to see his own humiliation enacted. His own weakness.

He’s been here before but they still ask for his limits, for his requests, for the kind of equipment he likes.

“A whip,” he says, and thinks of thin scars across pale skin. “A paddle if you need. Not a flogger.”

They nod.

He asks for nipple clamps.

The woman with sleek dark hair appraises him and asks if he’s used them before.

He gives her a thin smile and assures her he has. He doesn’t mention that she was the last person to use them on him. She’s either discreet enough to betray absolutely nothing about her encounters as a dominatrix, or she doesn’t remember him. He prefers to believe the former but is resigned to the latter.

As always, he thinks he won’t survive the encounter; not because it hurts but because it overwhelms him to the point of despair.

And he lets himself drift through it as his Dom brings him to the central point of all his encounters – when he’s left bound and alone in his helpless submission. More than the pain, this is what he pays for.

He stumbles through the front door of his home only a few hours before dawn.

His Dom was good and made sure to bring him out of it before he let him leave, but Sam finds to his horror that he slips back down as he sits in the back seat of the taxi thinking about how much he wanted a different set of hands on his skin, how much he wanted a different mouth, a different voice.

John wraps him in a blanket and puts his things away neatly. Gentles him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks.

Sam nods. “Only what I asked for,” he clarifies, and even to him his voice sounds strange. Flat.

John nods. “Rest,” he says, “You’re safe.”

And Sam starts to laugh. Deep rolling hysteria that pulls itself out of thin air because he’s fairly sure that he isn’t in the least amused about any of this.

When the sound finally hiccups away, he’s tired of it. Tired of the sound of his own voice and the echo chamber of his own head.

“What did you let them do to you?” John asks.

Sam looks at him. “Whip,” he says, “Then Shibari. With weights.”

“Did they fuck you?” John asks.

Sam closes his eyes. “Of course.”

John says nothing more.

And later that morning Sam comes out to find breakfast, tea and the flogger on the table.

“Teach me how to use it,” John tells him.

Sam watches the sunlight streak across the determined line of John’s jaw, watches the banked spark of something in John’s eyes that makes his heart rate pick up. Makes his skin itch and his fists clench. He sits down carefully.

"Welcome back,” he says.

And there are just enough pieces left of the boy he used to know to bring a slight smile to John’s face. In the sunlight, it holds a touch of arrogance.

Chapter Text

Sam finds out the day John comes home late.

It’s been two months since John took up a job in a cheap grocery store in town, and Sam has prepared himself for the consequences. He has prepared himself to handle shock and nerves, worry, self-doubt. He has even prepared himself for the re-emergence of John’s pride and anger as he gains a sense of his own independence.

But he is not prepared for the lost, broken look in his submissive’s eyes.

He frowns before he can help it. “What happened?” he asks.

And John tells him.

John stands in the middle of the room, arms passively by his side, and says his former master found him stocking shelves. That he kindly didn’t make a scene. That he generously waited until John finished work to take his former slave back to his hotel room.

“What did he do?” Sam asks, and he keeps his voice level.

“He checked me,” John tells him.

Which tells Sam nothing.

“Did he hurt you?”

John doesn’t look at him. “I’m fine,” he says.

Which doesn’t answer the question. 

Nothing does, until John comes to his bed the next morning before dawn breaks and wakes him with a mouth on his cock. Sucks and licks until Sam gathers himself enough to take charge of this. Tangles his fingers in John’s hair and pulls him off.

John whimpers.

“I need it,” John breathes, “Sam.”

He never does get tired of hearing his name said in that way. Feels his pulse jump and his chest tighten. But Sam also knows his submissive, and there’s only one reason John would do this when he’s half asleep and in the dark. He turns on the lights.

The bruises littered across those pretty little tits do not correspond to anything he’s done, and there are fresh welts across John’s inner thighs, some of them delivered hard enough to have broken skin.

“Did he do this?” Sam asks ominously.

“I didn’t hold still,” John tells him.

Sam pushes his long legs up and runs a finger across the gape of his red, swollen asshole. “And this?”

There’s a brief silence. “How much I could take,” John whispers, “How wide I could stretch.”

“When did he beat you? Before or after he stuffed you full?”

“After.”

Sam nods. He’s not surprised. It’s how he would do it. No point tormenting this delicate skin if not to watch that poor overworked hole spasm valiantly in its attempts to close as muscle tightens in self-defence.

It twitches weakly under his gaze, and he leans down to lick it.

John whines and tries to open his legs wider. “Sam, please,” he says.

Sam drops his legs.

“No,” he says implacably, “Punishment for waking me. Get up. Bring the lube from the bathroom.”

There are several bottles of lubricant in his bedside drawer. He knows it; John knows it. But the purpose is to set boundaries, and to force John to submit to them. To participate.

When John comes back, Sam has the first aid kit ready. He gestures back to the bed.

He starts with cleaning the welts, and then puts on a glove and lubricates two fingers before gently inserting them inside. It’s hot and tight, and John hisses when he twists a little to test how raw the skin is.

“I don’t think he’s torn you,” he says, but he sounds far more confident that he feels. John’s anus is scarred from ten years of hard use. Scar tissue tears absurdly easily. The brothel would have medically treated any anal fissures and injuries as an investment, but given the whip scars and the scabbed welts, he has no confidence that John’s former master has ever cared about his slave’s safety.

He moves to take his fingers out and John suddenly squeezes down around them. Reaches behind to grab at his wrist.

“Please,” John breathes.

Sam pauses. And then realisation slams into him. “No,” he says emphatically, “No, you’re in no state.”

“Sam, please?”

He is the dominant here, he thinks distantly, but John looks back at him over his shoulder, fucking himself back onto Sam’s fingers even when pain pulls at the corners of his eyes. It’s obscene and gorgeous and Sam wants so badly he thinks his heart might burst.

“How much did you take for him?” he hears himself ask.

“Two,” John says, “Two dildos in my ass. And he tried to put a finger in.”

Sam decides his dick is likely to burst before his heart.

He takes his fingers out of John’s ass and reaches for the bottle of lubricant. Makes sure to coat both hands until his fingers are dripping wet. And then he rearranges them so John is on his back, hips in his lap. Watches his face as he eases his gloved fingers back into him.

Watches him wince and bite his lips.

“Your former master forgot an important measurement,” Sam tells him, “How long can you hold it?”

He spends a half hour edging him. Takes him to the peak and holds him there before he forces him back down so they can start again. Watches him moan and whimper and plead, hands clenching on the sheets and pillows and for one glorious round on his soft little nipples as he tries to get himself off before Sam can stop him.

He gets a slap across his sensitive cockhead for that.

It’s more sound than sensation but John cries out, and arches as if offering himself for another.

Sam obliges him with three more, and John fucks down hard against the fingers in his ass, and then, before Sam is ready for it, John sits up so his weight forces him down even harder.

He reaches for his dominant.

“Please?” he begs, and wraps his arms around Sam’s neck.

“Fuck, baby, you’re begging for more punishment,” Sam groans, but he kisses him anyway. Stops stroking his dick in favour of cupping the delicate curve of the back of his skull. Doesn’t care if his hand is covered in lubricant and pre-cum as he threads it through John’s hair.

John’s tongue is desperate and greedy, and Sam welcomes it protectively into his mouth. Sucks it and kisses it and plays with it until he’s not entirely sure he remembers what they were originally doing.

John does remember, and his asshole clenches on Sam’s fingers as he continues to fuck up and down on them.

As a reward, Sam gives him another finger and John gasps as the third one stretches him wider. Actually drops backwards onto his elbows on the bed.

Sam seizes his opportunity to wrap his hand back around that pretty cock and squeeze from root to pierced tip.

By the time John is finally allowed to come, he’s wild-eyed, reduced to pure sensation and wordless sounds of helpless need. Sam encourages him to touch himself, and watches as he gropes his own nipples before sliding his hands down to his welted inner thighs.

Looks up at Sam, who nods and stretches his three fingers as far apart as they’ll go.

John gasps and pulls his hips up so he’s forced open around the widest stretch of Sam’s fingers. Then he digs his nails into bruised flesh.

He howls as he comes, asshole fluttering and sucking and his thighs trembling as he fights to hold himself there. He starts to slide down but pulls himself back up over and over as the aftershocks rock through him.

A macabre sort of fucking.

Sam finally pulls his fingers together.

He gives him a final humiliation – he eases his hand out of the glove and shoves it casually into his spasming ass.

John groans, hips jolting sluggishly at the sensation.

“Good,” Sam praises softly, and continues to gently pull on his sensitive dick. “Keep going.”

He strokes him long past any point of pleasure.

“Open,” he says, “You can take it.”

And John mewls and sobs but he does.

Finally Sam stops. And reaches for his phone to check the time.

“We’re going to be late for work,” he says, “That means another punishment when I get home.”

John blinks, but he’s too far gone to react.

Sam leans down to kiss him. “Pretty angel,” he whispers, “You did so well. Thank you.”

He gets a soft sound against his lips and smiles. “I’ll suck your tongue again another time, baby. For now we have to move. Come.”

He gets him up and into the bath. Gets in with him and pulls the glove out before he scrubs them both down. Makes sure to wash John’s hair and, as a precaution, he checks his ass again to make sure there’s no obvious damage. He rubs a little aloe gel on the sore muscle, hoping to soothe it enough for the long day ahead.

By the time they’re dressed, he is definitely late. But he takes the time to drive John to the grocery store in town. Pulls into a parking space and says, “I’ll pick you up when you finish. If I’m late, go to that place across the street and eat something. Relax. If I’m on time, I’ll be here waiting for you.”

John already has his seatbelt unbuckled. “What?”

“I’ll pick you up after work,” Sam repeats.

“You don’t have…”

“You can get out,” Sam interrupts.

John hesitates, but he decides not to argue the point and gets out.

Sam keeps his word.

For three days he keeps his word, leaving his office so early it sparks whispers and rumours. But he’s murmured something to his boss about ‘family obligations’ and ‘providing care’ and spends extra time working at home. So far they’ve been understanding. He’s a consultant anyway; they pay him to produce an outcome. He chooses to follow office culture to buy favours and good will.

It comes in useful now, when he uses it to wait and watch rather than focus on more professional matters.

On the third evening he turns up early and watches his submissive backed into a corner by an older man he’s never seen before.

Through the windscreen he watches John put distance between them, jaw tight as he shakes his head. But when he watches John go pale as fear twists across his face, Sam gets out of the car.

John catches sight of him and for a moment Sam pauses in surprise. Something like despair edges out the fear, and then John’s face goes blank. His eyes dull. And he simply stops fighting and stares unhappily down at the pavement.

In contrast, the old man looks delighted to see him.

“Ah,” he says, “You must be his new owner.”

“I’m a friend of John’s,” Sam says neutrally, “Who are you?”

John twitches.

Lucas Sullivan is genial and well-bred, formally polite. He introduces himself and says all the things a new acquaintance should say, but his eyes flick between the two of them and there is a sly cruelty somewhere in the glance.

“Master,” John says impulsively.

“Be silent,” Sullivan says amiably, “Whores shouldn’t talk in front of men.”

John’s mouth closes with a snap, a flush rising up his neck as he glances furtively – fearfully – around.

Sullivan looks at Sam. “I think we have a lot to say to each other, young man,” he says calmly.

And Sam nods.

He takes John home first, and the moment they’re inside, he holds him safe as the fear shakes through him. Gentles him as best he can, knowing he’ll have to leave again in a few minutes to meet the man who causes this. And he suspects he knows what will be asked for, and he suspects tiredly that he won’t be able to stop Sullivan from taking it.

“You don’t have to do it,” he says later than night.

Unexpected John looks down at his hands. “I should leave,” he says.

Sam frowns before he can stop himself. “You have a key,” he says neutrally.

John flinches.

Sam sighs. He doesn’t have the energy for whatever is in John’s head but he does know he can’t leave his submissive balanced on the knife-edge of fear and panic. “Baby, I told you, you’re not a prisoner. And,” he adds, “You’re not his slave. You have the right to agree or disagree with all of this.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Because you’ve never let yourself believe you can.”

“What,” John asks him seriously, “Do you think caused the whipping?”

Sam’s jaw tightens. “If you say no, it’s no.”

“Then what? He comes back to my store? Next time, he won’t wait until I’m alone before he puts his hands on me.”

Sam is silent. He can imagine it. It’s no worse than his fantasies about sliding his hand down the back of John’s jeans and fingering his hole as they walk around the town centre on lazy weekends. Of watching his lust and submission exposed in public.

John has always been intelligent. He’s never lost that in the ten years Sullivan and every fucking brothel customer did their best to shatter him into the pieces of his former self.

Enough of those pieces have been put back together that Sam sometimes sees the shadow of the boy John used to be. Sees a trace of arrogance in the line of his mouth, a touch of manipulation in the way he smiles.

Sam wonders if these repairs are what Sullivan is most interested in. If he wonders how much pressure it’ll take to break him again, and how much worse it will hurt as he feels himself go under.

“He can do that anyway,” Sam points out, “For all we know he’ll secretly record whatever he does to you and send the tapes to every trash media in the country.”

“I should go,” John repeats.

Sam takes him into his bed that night, and he waits patiently for John to fall asleep. Waits for him to draw closer and take the reassurance in sleep that he can’t ask for awake. John is still dressing when he calls Sullivan in the morning.

“One night,” he gives him, “But I have conditions.”

His conditions are simple – he will be there, it will happen in his house, nothing will be done to John to cause permanent damage or marks, and they will use safe words.

“If I hear John say anything close to red or yellow, I will stop things immediately.”

“Red or yellow?”

“Yes. The traffic light system. I will ask at regular intervals, and he is free to call them out even if he isn’t asked.”

“A proper slave doesn’t need safe words.”

“He isn’t a slave.”

“She,” Sullivan corrects with a laugh, “Will be while she’s under my care.”

But Sullivan agrees to all the conditions. Far too quickly, Sam thinks, before he is interrupted by a polite cough on the other end of the phone.

“I have a condition as well, young man. I want you to assist me.”

“No,” Sam says immediately.

“Why not? You want to be there. You want to protect your slut. Yes?”

He does.

He’s never said that. He’s told himself that he’s perfectly happy indulging John’s assumption that he is nothing more than his damaged body and his submission, and that sex and pain are the only ways he can please a partner. Since the time he tried to offer John a way back into the world, he’s done very little to really keep that promise. He’s certainly never stabilised their relationship. So many months since then, he thinks, and he’s been telling himself that he’s perfectly happy using John’s ignorance for his own gain.

And yet.

“I’m not helping you hurt him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t ask that. I only ask you to help him. I want you to keep him calm. I’m sure you can manage that.”

Sam starts early. He gently lubes John’s hole before it’s time, kisses him, gets him aroused but not hard. Far easier to drop him into docility with gentleness, he finds, and from there it’s almost inevitable that John takes his pain like a drug. Breathes it in like oxygen.

Sullivan arrives on time with an old-fashioned air of urbanity and a large bag.

In spite of the fog of desire he’s built up, John’s not a fool and he knows what’s coming. Sam hasn’t seen that look of fear in John’s eyes since the night at the brothel when he walked into a dungeon and found his old rival kneeling in the middle of the room. 

Sullivan says a few polite things to his host and glances at John.

“Why are you dressed?” he asks.

John strips in a hurry. He drops his shirt twice as he tries to fold it.

Sullivan says nothing. He simply watches until John is done.

He reaches out to gently bat at one tit, watches it wobble, and then turns back to Sam to ask if he may have a glass of cold water.

“With ice,” he says.

Sam obliges.

Sullivan places it down on the coffee table across from the sofa, and gestures to it.

“Put that sloppy nipple into the water and let’s see if that helps it harden,” he says, “The right one, I think.”

John kneels down slowly beside the coffee table. Glances helplessly at Sullivan, but he pushes his tit up so the nipple dangles down, and he slowly lowers it in.

He draws it in a quick breath and shivers but leaves it there.

“Perhaps,” Sullivan says meditatively, “Another two glasses. With ice.”

Sam silently does as directly. He knows where this is going but he gives them both to Sullivan, who pushes them gently across the coffee table.

“The other nipple,” he orders, “And one for your little clit.”

John whimpers.

“That’s three,” Sullivan says pleasantly.

Sam almost wonders what he means but as he watches the look of horror cross John’s face before he grabs hurriedly for the two glasses, his heart sinks in realisation.

The left nipple goes into the iced water without more than a shiver. But his dick gets a short, aborted cry, and John’s hands slam down on the glass top as he jerks, spilling water all over the floor.

“Four,” Sullivan says genially.

John whimpers. But he holds still almost immediately, shoulders heaving as he just breathes, head bowed. Curling down into his shock.

Sam clenches his fists; digs his fingernails into his palms.

Sullivan looks up at him. “Sit down, please,” he says pleasantly, “We should talk.”

Sam doesn’t sit, but he gestures to Sullivan to continue.

Sullivan asks about his day, about his work, about the weather. He takes his time, speaks calmly and at length, and then he smiles at Sam and says, “Bitches go into heat at inconvenient times, I find. It’s important to cool them down.”

Sam stills.

“Takes their minds off their cunts,” Sullivan says genially.

Sam glances at the back of John’s neck, watches the red flush smeared across pale skin. Arousal, shame, cold – any and all of those, he guesses, and he can only imagine what the iced water feels like cooling down the large metal ring in his dick.

“A good master focuses his slave’s mind on pleasing him. That is their true nature. They want many things,” Sullivan says, “And a good master teaches them discipline.”

“Is that why you whipped him until he bled?” Sam asks quietly.

He’s had enough.

He crouches by John, lays a hand on his skin and listens to the small, quick exhale he gets.

“Colour?” he asks gently.

“Green,” John says.

But he doesn’t miss that John slips a quick glance at Sullivan before he gives his answer.

Sam traces one thin scar rolling across his shoulder blade and leans forward to kiss his shoulder. “Good,” he whispers, “It’s just water. Just cold.”

“I know,” John says, but Sam is almost certain he can feel muscle relax under the skin he’s kissing.

“Of course,” Sullivan says unexpectedly, “Discipline can only buy so much obedience. Love, now, respect. A slave much love her master.”

Sam ignores him.

“She must want to please him. She must beg for her punishment to prove that she is a good slave, a good bitch.”

Sullivan sits forward.

“This one,” he says, “Was rarely a good bitch.”

Sam looks up, and then looks at John curling down further.

He stays silent.

Sullivan smiles.

He stands up.

“It is time,” he announces, and bows slightly to Sam. “You have prepared a bedroom?”

Sam stands up. “This way.”

“The slut will follow us on her hands and knees,” Sullivan says, “Like a proper bitch.”

And John lifts his nipples out of the chilled water; gasps quietly as he takes his dick out.

But he follows docilely.

There are only two bedrooms in the house, and Sam has remade his own room for this for no other reason than that he does not want to ruin the safe space John has created for himself in the spare bedroom he uses. He sees them both in and takes a place against the wall, forcibly leaning back on his hands so he isn’t tempted to interfere again.

Sullivan puts down his bag and sits on the end of the bed.

Sam decides he will burn the mattress in the morning and buy a new bed.

Sullivan gestures John closer.

Sam watches in astonishment as John kneels upright in what looks like a rigidly disciplined presentation position – back straight, head lowered, chest and pelvis pushed out a little.

Sullivan reaches out and fondly flicks a finger across John’s cheek.

And then he clicks his tongue.

“You’ve dripped water everywhere,” he says, “Filthy bitch. Turn and apology to our host.”

John turns and bows low. Prostrates himself as low as possible.

He doesn’t look Sam in the eye as he bows.

And Sam is watching so he knows what to expect when Sullivan shifts. Sits forward and reaches out.

John startles when hands touch his hips and Sam’s heart breaks because it’s been months since his submissive has been so tense, so on edge that simple touch frightens him.

Sullivan sighs. “Five,” he says.

And John whimpers.

Sullivan stands up and takes off his jacket. He puts the jacket aside on a chair and unbuttons his sleeves to roll back the cuffs. Takes off his tie and lays it neatly over his jacket. He makes quick, neat movements.

“I am disappointed,” he says sternly, “I taught you better than this but you shame me in front of your new master. One, a bitch doesn’t stand in the presence of her betters. Two, a bitch doesn’t stay dressed in the presence of her master. Why should I waste my time waiting for you to be ready? Three, you tried to protest when I told you to enjoy the water I so kindly provided. Four, you repeated the same mistake like the stupid slut you are.”

He takes his belt off.

Sam leans harder on his hands.

Sullivan holds his belt in his hands.

“Five,” he says, “I told you to apologise.”

The first blow lands before John is ready and it’s delivered with no warning or gentleness. John howls. And then the next blow falls.

“Did I say bow? I said apologise! This requires words!”

Each sentence comes with a strike across the defenceless back and flanks. The last cracks across his right shoulder and John, already as low to the ground as he can get, still looks like he crumples further into it.

Sam doesn’t close his eyes. Forces himself to watch this, praying for any notion of a safe word to slip out of John’s mouth. He hears nothing but sounds of pain and wonders in a daze how John survived any time at all with this maniac. 

He counts fifteen blows in total before Sullivan stops. The man leans down to haul John up by the hair and holds the belt out. John kisses it before Sullivan lets him go. Turns away to lay it neatly with his tie and jacket.

And then kneels down carefully on the floor to stroke a gentle hand over John’s hair.

Sam has seen his submissive overwhelmed with pain, but it’s always been mixed with pleasure. He’s made sure to give him pleasure. There is no pleasure here, and John cries in ugly, wheezing fits in Sullivan’s arms. Buries his face against the old bastard’s neck and begs forgiveness in a broken, desperate voice.

Sullivan strokes a hand over the bright red stripes already bruising the skin of his back. Before the crying has even stopped, he forces John’s head down.

And John desperately unzips his trousers and takes his cock into his mouth. Sucks sweetly and carefully.

This, Sam looks away from.

“You see,” Sullivan says darkly, “Discipline and love.”

He doesn’t touch John, simply stares down at him as if he’s an interesting specimen, an entertaining object.

“There!” he suddenly says, breaking into a smile and pointing down, “See how she quiets down when you put a cock in her?”

Sam can see the bright red stripes from the belt bloom across John’s skin. Thinks of his reaction to the flogger.

“Enough,” Sullivan says, and pushes John off him, “Get on the bed. Lie face-down and show me your loose pussy.” He glances across at Sam. “It can’t be any good to fuck that hole. Do you stuff her with something else first?”

“No,” Sam says shortly.

“Oh, so you’re one of those who likes it loose,” Sullivan observes. “Interesting. I think I would like your help for this.”

Sam frowns.

“Give him something to keep his mouth busy,” Sullivan instructs.

Sam stares uncertainly at Sullivan but when no other demands are directed at him, he decides to take the words literally. He climbs onto the bed and gently cups John’s face in his hands.

“Baby,” he whispers, “You ok? Do you need to check in?”

John blinks at him but says nothing. Just turns his head to kiss his wrist and nuzzle into his hand.

Sam kisses his brow gently. “You’re ok,” he says, and tries to persuade himself of the fact since it’s very clear that John is not okay.

He isn’t hard, as he suspects John isn’t hard, but he guides his soft cock into John’s mouth and settles his head comfortably in his lap. Shades a hand over his eyes to simulate a moment of dark and quiet. Strokes his hair and the back of his neck to ground him.

“You’re okay,” he repeats.

John plays the tip of his tongue over the slit in the head of his cock and in spite of himself Sam feels himself stir.

This sweetness after so much brutality is intoxicating. The needy way he nurses Sam’s cock like it’s the only thing that matters.

He watches Sullivan take out a bottle of lubricant and a pair of medical gloves. Then he feels his belly clench as Sullivan starts to take wooden eggs on long strings out of his bag.

The eggs vary in size and the largest one looks impossible, Sam thinks, but he keeps his hand over John’s eyes and the sick, perverted side of him wants to see this. Wants to see those eggs forced through that poor, overworked hole. Wants to see the rim stretch and catch on the biggest ones, slurp greedily on the smaller ones. He wants to know desperately if they can fit so many inside that John’s belly is distended with only the strings dangling out of his ass like an obscene tail.

He closes his eyes as John’s tongue curls around him, head moving to lick him from root to tip and back again. Soft little breathes that ruffle the coarse hairs at Sam’s groin until he’s not sure he can take much more of this before he slams himself down John’s throat.

The first egg goes in without more than a slight whine on John’s part. A shift of his hips up as he instinctively gets into position to open his ass up.

The second egg gets another whine.

The third egg makes John startle. Makes him pull at the sheet in distress.

And Sam finally takes his hand off John’s eyes.

He tells himself that he does this is to check in on John’s condition. He tells himself this is to make sure he’s okay.

He knows he’s lying when John’s wet, overbright eyes stare pleadingly up at him, and he only slides his cock deeper into his mouth. Gasps as lust licks up his spine and tightens in his balls.

Sullivan chooses to select the largest egg next. But when John moans loudly and tries to pull away, grabs at Sam’s thigh and noses desperately into his crotch, Sullivan actually stops.

“Perhaps that is too big,” he says musingly, and takes a moment to simply spread John’s asscheeks to stare at his hole.

Sam watches him grin suddenly and poke at John’s ass, feels John swallow around his cock and whimper.

“She’s trying to push them out,” Sullivan laughs, “You should see her hole winking at me. Like an eye.”

He winks at Sam in an exaggerated manner and Sam looks down to see John close his eyes, shame and lust rising in his cheeks in a red flush.

Almost as suddenly as his perverse need to hurt arrives, it banks.

He softens, and strokes his thumb across the shallow crest of John’s cheekbone.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “We’ll do it properly one day. Stretch you nice and open before I make you take so many of them you’ll look pregnant. And then I’ll help you push them all out. Stroke your cock and suck your tits until you come so hard you won’t remember your own name.”

John moans, and his eyes open.

He stares up, pupils blown so wide Sam smiles. Coaxes his mouth off his cock and lifts his head to kiss his mouth. Licks his lips and says, “I promised I’d suck your tongue. Will you let me?”

John opens his mouth and Sam keeps his promise.

And he’s still holding him as Sullivan starts to brutally stretch his hole with his fingers.

John jolts and his jaw drops.

“Colour,” Sam demands urgently, watching John’s eyes widen in shock and pain, “Tell me now!”

John’s mouth opens and closes.

“Colour,” Sam demands, and grabs his chin to hold him still. To force his gaze back to him.

“Green,” John wails, “Green, green, green. Please!”

“Then pretend it’s me,” Sam says fiercely, “My fingers. Come on. Open your gorgeous ass for me, baby. Come on! Push out!

John whimpers and moans and they both know there’s actually nothing he can do while Sullivan forces his sphincter to dilate before its ready. Pushing out, pulling in, focusing – none of it will work. All that works is time and care and Sullivan doesn’t care enough to give him that.

So John suffers.

He whimpers into Sam’s mouth and claws a hand into Sam’s shirt and holds on, clinging desperately to tenderness as Sullivan hooks two fingers from each hand into either side of his asshole and pulls in two opposite directions.

When he holds him as wide as he can get it, he spits suddenly into the gaping flesh.

John wails and jolts again.

Sullivan does it again and then lets go.

Sam eases John back down to the bed.

“Hold on, baby,” he says, and guides two fingers into John’s mouth. “Bite if you need to,” he says.

Mercifully Sullivan lubes the largest egg again, and slathers more lubricant into the twitching gape of John’s ass. Then he pushes it in.

It still takes work.

John closes his eyes and, for the first time since Sam brought him home, he watches his submissive endure in silence.  

Sullivan crows when the egg is finally forced in, and by contrast another three go in without any problem.

When it’s done, Sullivan lifts the strings to show Sam and then tugs experimentally. John rolls his hips.

Sullivan slaps a hand across John’s ass. “Sit up.”

John sits up slowly, breathes deeply as the wooden eggs shift inside him.

“Now that we’ve stuffed your your slutty pussy for you, my dear,” Sullivan says genially, “Let’s keep your neglected little teats company.”

He slaps one lightly and watches it jiggle. Does it again, and then again with a lot more force.

John jolts.

“Two,” Sullivan says warningly.

John stills immediately.

And Sam watches Sullivan slap those soft little tits, alternating between light taps and hard blows. All while holding the strings to the eggs packed into John’s ass.

And John takes it.

“Well, they look more cheerful now,” Sullivan says, “A nice red. What do you say, little bitch?”

“Thank you, master,” John whispers.

Sullivan tugs the strings.

“Six eggs,” he says musingly.

And he reaches into his bag. Drops the strings to search properly. Emerges triumphantly with two ringed metal clamps. Grabs one of John’s soft misshapen nipples and sets the tip between the two wicked looking serrated vise plates in the middle. Then tightens the screws until the plates close down on the tender flesh.

John breathes hard, but he doesn’t react until the second nipple is treated as roughly, and then the screws on both clamps tightened even further.

His hands lift, in a gesture Sam knows all too well. And like he always does, John stops himself halfway through the act so his fingers grasp at thin air.

Sam finds the gesture sexy, finds it a perfect moment of his submissive driven to protect himself and yet trusting his dom to see him through it. 

Sullivan clearly does not.

He grabs both clamped nipples and pulls them roughly to either side of Sam’s body.

“How dare you,” he snarls, “Hands down! Now!”

John’s hands drop like stones.

Sullivan grabs the back of his neck and pushes him down so he’s forced to bend almost in half. Takes the strings from eggs in his ass and separates them into two bunches. One bunch he ties to the screws in the right clamp, the second bunch to the left clamp. And then he drags his slave off the bed.

John puts his feet down to the ground and almost falls. The strings aren’t long enough for him to straighten, and if he doesn’t want to rip at his poor tits or his asshole, he has to bend down, knees bent and spread to stop the strings catching on his cock and balls.

He whimpers.

Sullivan halts him where he stands in this half squat, and picks up the belt again.

Sam looks away this time as John screams.

When he looks back, two of the eggs have been pulled loose, and John is bent forward, almost boneless as his thighs tremble.

“The next time,” Sullivan says tightly, “I’ll hit your useless balls and make you a proper bitch.”

Sam gets out of bed, takes the belt calmly out of Sullivan’s hands and lays it neatly over the jacket.

“The next time you pick up that belt,” he says ominously, “I’ll throttle you with it.”

“You are not meant to interfere.”

“This has gone too far,” Sam returns, “John, this is what your fucking safe word is for! Use it!”

John is almost falling over. He’s sweating, his face pale and tinged slightly green as if he’s going to be sick.

But his silence drops into the room like a bomb.

Sam looks at him in confusion.

“Green,” John finally tells him.

His voice sounds raw, rough, but he says it.

And Sullivan smiles cruelly. Walks around to look him in the eye. “Good bitch,” he says softly, and hooks a finger through the Prince Albert piercing.

He leads him back to the bed, still forced into his ungainly squat, trailing two of the wooden eggs from the strings tied to his nipple clamps.

John sighs in relief as he gets into the bed, the mattress supporting his knees and hips and back.

And this time there is nothing Sam can do. So he only watches as John is laid on his back.

He watches Sullivan tighten the screws yet again. And then kneel over John’s face to slide his cock into his mouth. Watches Sullivan pull hard on the strings as he orders John to force the eggs out, and John tries as he gurgles and moans and whimpers around the dick in his throat.

Worse, the pressure on his prostate has done the impossible and made him hard.

His erection leaks onto his belly as he suffers his abuse.

And it is abuse. The angle is wrong for Sullivan to force this – he’s pulling up while John’s trying to push down. The smaller eggs make it through but the largest egg jams, forced sideways and now too big for John to expel, especially after the beating. Worse, it traps another two eggs inside him, pushing hard at his prostate and adding pressure against his sphincter. John moans in a panic around Sullivan’s dick, thrashes, but Sullivan only pulls harder and fucks deeper into his throat.

And Sam can’t bear this anymore.

Grabs at the string to buy John some relief from the pull and sinks his thumb into John’s hole to push the egg back. Manages to get it turned around and then pulls the string down to counter-act Sullivan’s pull upwards, and John’s hands grab at the sheets as the largest part of the egg stretches him wide.

Sam watches spellbound, terrified that the wood will be streaked with blood when it finally comes through.

So he stops pulling, and prays his submissive will manage it alone. Holds the string only to prevent Sullivan causing more pain than he already has.

From the sounds the old man’s making, Sam doesn’t think Sullivan cares much about what’s happening to John’s ass. He’s too busy chasing his own pleasure.

Which leaves Sam to lick sweetly at John’s strained, almost blanched rim in encouragement.

John’s thighs tremble, but after one last push the widest part pushes through and the rest of the egg follows almost like its coated in butter. The other two practically fall out after it.

And John’s tired asshole expands and contracts uselessly around thin air. Spasms. Flutters. And Sam hurriedly slides a single finger in just to take the edge off the empty feeling.

John whimpers and Sullivan grunts and shoves down with his hips hard enough to make Sam wince.

But just like that it’s over.

Sullivan gets off John’s face and Sam eases his finger out.

“The bathroom’s there,” Sam points, and Sullivan goes.

Sam sits on the bed and takes John’s weeping dick in a gentle grip, and he doesn’t care if Sullivan comes out to see this. In fact he wishes he would.

He wants him to see John’s pleasure, the way John begs for more with more raw honesty than any forced, desperate act to save himself by pleasing his tormentor.

“So perfect,” Sam whispers, and leans down. Slides his tongue into John’s mouth and swallows down the soft, huffing cries of his release.

John licks his hand clean in the aftermath, already heavy-eyed and half-asleep.

Sam takes the clamps off and kisses his nipples as John moans around the pain. When that’s over Sam pulls the sheet chastely up John’s body and tucks it around him.

“You’re safe,” he promises him, “It’s over.”

John’s eyes slide closed.

Which leaves Sam to stop smiling like a besotted lunatic and stand up. He rolls his neck.

Sullivan comes out of the bathroom to find the rest of his clothes and his bag removed. He finds them in the living room, thrown haphazardly into an armchair as Sam waits for him with his arms crossed.

“Now we talk,” Sam says, “And if you lie to me, I’ll shove your head through the wall.”

“Are you always discourteous to your elders and guests?” Sullivan enquires.

“It would have been discourteous of me to kick you in the balls the first time I ever met you,” Sam tells him, “I’m ready to try violence now.”

Sullivan takes a step back.

“I know John,” Sam continues, “He should have said ‘yellow’ when you walked through the door. He should have said ‘red’ the first time you hit him with a belt. Why,” he asks, “Didn’t he?”

“I trained him,” Sullivan says, “He knows I don’t tolerate safe words. I know what he can take.”

“No, that’s not it. I was there. He knew I’d stop you. He listened to me try to stop you.” Sam grabbed Sullivan and shoved him hard against a wall. “What the hell did you say to him?” he snarls.

“What the hell are you…?”

“You’ve seen him once at the store,” Sam says, “You could have seen him again. What did you threaten him with?”

Sullivan’s mouth snaps shut.  

“You’re not very clever,” Sam says witheringly, and lets him go. Shoves him towards the armchair with his belongings. “No wonder you had to punish John for thinking. He must have given you hell until you finally broke him. Take your belongings and get out.”

“You know I’ll come back for him,” Sullivan says seriously, “He’s mine.”

“Oh, ‘he’, now?” Sam curls his lip to show his teeth. “Don’t try it. You know where John went to high school? I bet some of his old friends will be very interested in hearing from me. He mentioned hanging around with the son of a mob boss.”

Sullivan leaves.

“You must be shit at poker,” John says quietly.

Sam doesn’t turn his head. “You don’t bluff on a winning hand.”

“Gabriele wouldn’t give a shit,” John snorts, and adds, “None of them would.”

Sam does turn his head this time. “Are you serious?”

John looks at him as if the answer is obvious.

“Blakely spent a year asking around everywhere he could think of for news of you. You vanished up North and we decided… we thought you simply wanted to forget St Maurice.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Most of it,” Sam admits, “That half an hour after we beat Grammar was good, though. Walking back through town feeling high as a kite.”

“I couldn’t feel my face,” John says prosaically.

Sam laughs. “I remember that feeling too,” he agrees wryly, and then holds out his arms. “Come here,” he says softly.

John hesitates. And Sam can see it, the memory of who he was holding him back. That boy he used to be trying desperately to fit all his pieces back together in rage and shame.

But John comes to him, and Sam simply presses up as close to him as he can get – chest to hip to thigh. Tucks his face into John’s neck and breathes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I should have stopped him earlier.”

“I’ve taken much worse. Thank you,” John’s voice is gruff, “You helped me. When…”

“Shut up,” Sam says affectionately, and nuzzles in. Flicks a small kitten lick at John’s pulse point hammering under his skin. “Don’t you ever go anywhere with him again.”

“Sam,” John says hesitantly, “I can leave tomorrow morning. If I’m not here, then it’s just a story. And you can always say you were just helping a friend.”

Sam sighs. “When will you learn to trust me?”

“What if he finds out who you are?” John continues relentlessly, “What if he goes to your boss? Your family?”

Sam kisses that hammering pulse point. 

John’s breath catches. 

But John has always been most himself after sex.

Stubborn, Sam thinks affectionately, inflexible and unbending. As immovable as stone.   

And John knows how precarious Sam’s position is.

“I should go,” John says again.

Sam thinks of how easy it would be to say ‘yes’ to that. To send John out into whatever semblance of a life he can make for himself and sever all ties before this can turn into a scandal.

Because John is scandalous.

He is a former sex slave, a former brothel worker. A man who spreads his legs so other people can act out all their filthy, perverse fantasies. 

Sam has a family name built on generations of influence, wealth and good breeding. His brief rebellion in St Maurice was forgivable since he is a much younger third son and his parents are indulgent. He has paid them back by building his success, his career – his respectability. By being as much of what he is required to be as possible.

His parents will not forgive him for John.

Sam bites gently at warm, soft skin.

“Or,” he suggests, “You could stay.”

John freezes.

Sam lifts his face finally and looks him in the eye. “Do you think my family lets itself be threatened? We pay an army of lawyers; and when lawyers aren’t enough we have… other means.”

He smiles and lifts a hand. Strokes a gentle hand through John’s dark hair.

“My parents will be a pain,” he admits, “But you don’t have to have anything to do with them. I don’t have to have anything to do with them if they go too far. The worst they’ll do is cut me off. I have a job, you have a job…”

“I stack shelves in a grocery store,” John protests, “I’m not earning enough to support you.”

Sam presses harder into John’s solid bulk. “Good thing,” he points out, “That I earn enough to support us both.”

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t need a protector…”

“No, you need a dominant. And you don’t need a dominant who doesn’t know who you are, you need one who knows what sort of stupid shit you’re capable of. You need someone who’ll stuff your slutty hole and suck your pretty little tits and then talk about boring stuff for hours because he wants to know what you think.”

John blushes.

Sam laughs softly and swiped a thumb across his cheekbone.

“How the hell,” he asks, “Can you still blush?”

“You talk about it like it’s…” John gestures helplessly.

“What?”

John’s mouth twists a little. “Like it’s sexy.”

“Of course it is. I told you, I went to that brothel for these beautiful things. I never thought I’d get them. And then you… you don’t even know how badly I’ve treated you for all these months. How often I’ve taken advantage of you. You think I’m good to you but baby, the things I want to do to you are obscene.”

John whimpers.

And Sam groans at the sound of it. “I meant what I said. I’ll get you a set of the smaller eggs, and we’ll play properly. Get you the clamps, and maybe a leash to lead you around by your cock. Maybe,” he suggests, and presses his hand over John’s groin, “Maybe we can find a park somewhere.”

John shoves him away unexpectedly. “No,” he says firmly, “Not in public.”

Sam grins. “Of course,” he says softly, “If you say no, it’s no.”

John pulls him back in. Kisses him. “I want to please you,” he whispers.

And Sam places his hands on his shoulders. “Can I use your mouth?” he asks.

John nods and drops to his knees. Moans as he sucks Sam’s cock in. Plays with it and kisses it and pleases it until Sam tangles his fingers in his hair.

“Stop teasing,” Sam warns.

And John obediently flattens his tongue and relaxes his throat. Holds onto Sam’s hips and nods.

Sam’s eyes darken and he shoves in as deep as he dares, only to pull back and then shove deeper. On and on until he feels the head of his cock pop into the back of John’s throat and he looks down to see John swallow around him.

When it’s over and he’s come, he pulls out slow and takes them both back to John’s bedroom.

“Not my bed,” he says, “I’ll buy a new bed tomorrow. You need somewhere safe.”

“This whole house is safe.”

“It is. I promise.” He checks John before he takes him to bed, kisses his breasts and his navel and his hips and his thighs and his knees, and all the way down until he bends down completely to press a kiss to John’s left ankle.

John chokes and drags him back up. “Don’t ever do that again,” he says sharply, “You shouldn’t. Not you.”

“Trust me,” Sam says tenderly, “Trust that I know the difference between what I want to give, and what you fear.”

The welts are beginning to mottle purple already, and Sam is careful not to touch them as he curls into John’s side.

“I want to ask a favour,” he says.

John opens one eye.

“What do you like me to call you? I love to call you sweet things but if you don't…”

“You can call me anything you want,” John interrupts him, “And I’ll come running to you like a dog.”

Sam decides to tackle the question of whether John is a dog in the morning, ugly echoes of Sullivan’s ‘bitch’ echoing in his head. For now, he feels as giddy as a schoolboy. And then he closes his eyes determinedly.

Because he isn’t a schoolboy, he was never giddy when he was one, it’s late, and he has work in the morning.

And he now has a lover to support.