Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jon should have expected this. Is foolish for putting himself in this position at all, probably. Certainly for doing it again after the first time. He'd only just started being able to look Martin in the eye again.

But being Head Archivist is the most stressful thing he's ever done. He needs some way to burn off energy and relax, and Gertrude's mess certainly isn't giving him time to learn to meditate. And more than being comparatively-fast and effective at wearing him down enough to actually sleep, it's easy. The hardest part is meeting the bartender's eyes as he takes him back at the beginning and lets him out at the end, and that's easier than it was before he made a habit of this. He gets the sense that the man is happy to see him, and refuses to consider why that might be. If he's the only person stupid enough to volunteer to get chained up in a grimy bar's backroom he doesn't need to know. If it's because the bartender enjoys fucking him in particular he really doesn't need to know. He hopes that it's just because him showing up so consistently- damn Gertrude Robinson and her terrible archiving skills, truly damn her, he doesn't care that she was just a kindly, cardigan-wearing old woman- is, if his experience in the backroom is any indication of the bar's popularity as a whole, rather good for business.

Really, it's remarkable that he made it this long coming nearly every Friday night- after the first time, he decided that going to work the next day while he was sore and stiff was a bad idea- without seeing Tim in the establishment that Tim introduced him to and to which he has on at least two occasions brought coworkers. On the other hand, Jon had drawn a relatively sound conclusion, based on Tim bringing him and Martin each on weekdays and not reappearing after Jon started going on Fridays, as well as Tim's in-person and social media accounts of where he did spend his Friday nights, that Tim only came to this particular establishment in the midweek.

He's standing fixed in place in the so-labelled Grope Box and pondering its name (groping is the least of what happens in it, and so the name feels incongruously specific), waiting for the first crowds of the night to start arriving, when the door opens.

The sound sends a rush of heat to his cunt, and out of habit he tests the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. They hold him fast where he stands, pressed tightly between the back and the lid of the box with his legs spread too far for his thighs to even think of touching, identity and body hidden except for his chest and groin, where the lid is cut away to leave him on display. He swallows as well as he's able with the ring gag stretching his mouth.

It's always a bit nerve-wracking when the first person or group enters the room, when the only touch he's had so far is the bartender's now-customary grope of his chest and smack to his cunt (which may or may not be meant as a friendly gesture), and he's still fully present in his brain and aware of the spectacle he makes like this, how he's practically dripping onto the floor of the box.

It's more nerve-wracking when the first group of people enters and he immediately recognizes the voices of all three of his assistants.

He hears Martin's laugh first, and while he knows that it isn't, strictly speaking, a good thing that he's here and possibly able to recognize Jon when he'd by some miracle not been recognized the first time, his cunt is starting to do a not-insignificant part of his thinking, fluttering at the memory of Martin's cock.

Martin is rapidly revealed to have company, though, in the form of Sasha saying, "Seriously Tim, I can't believe I'm the only one you haven't brought here."

Jon panics for a second, then realizes that she must be talking about the first time Tim brought him, not that they've realized who it was when he brought Martin.

"I didn't think you'd get much out of it!" Tim protests. "I specifically recall being told to stop trying to find you dates!"

"Remind me not to go out with you again, if this is your idea of a date! And let me decide what I think I'll get something out of, thank you very much."

"Alright! You're the newbie, it's your show."

"I think this might be the same person as when you brought me," Martin says, far closer than Jon had realized he was.

"Charlie says they're here just about every week," Tim says.

"Scoot!" Sasha says, again closer than he thought. From the scuffle of footsteps, he's pretty sure she's claiming the place right in front of the box.

"Where's the- oh, Sasha has it," Martin says, which isn't reassuring given that the only objects in the room besides the box are the little basket of toys, the table it sits on, and one chair. Somehow Jon doubts it's the furniture Sasha's moved out of place.

Sasha weighs his breasts in her hands, and he makes an absolutely mortifyingly needy sound at finally being touched. If the ring gag weren't in the way he'd bite his tongue to prevent any other incriminating noises.

She rolls her thumbs over his nipples, and he arches into the touch as much as he can without clotheslining himself on the edge of the opening. His resolution not to make any more incriminating noises immediately goes out the window as one hand starts to pinch and squeeze while the other nipple is engulfed in the heat of her mouth.

"They sound the same, too," Martin says, fortunately just as Sasha goes back to simply weighing his tits in her hands, so he doesn't abruptly stifle any noises in response.

"Mm-hm," Tim says. "That was a Thursday, though, Charlie says they always come on Fridays now."

"Maybe their day job is kicking their ass as hard as ours is," Sasha says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. Jon is going to die here. Either out of frantic embarrassment over how close they are to the truth or frustration at how slowly she's going.

As if in response to the thought, her mouth lands a bit further up his breast than the nipple, licking and nipping and sucking. When she withdraws with a smacking sound, Tim chuckles and Martin says, "Oh, mean!"

"Don't start with me," Sasha says, "Tim told me what you did!" Then she latches on like a vampire again, just a bit above the last spot, fingers massaging both nipples. Frustrated heat courses up and down Jon's abdomen; he's too stimulated for it to abate, but not enough for it to come to a head.

He almost dies of anxious embarrassment for the second time tonight when he realizes what she's doing. Martin was probably remarking on the hickey she left behind, and as she moves up his chest, closer to skin that won't be covered by his shirt and binder when he has to go back to work on Monday, and she's lingering over each one longer and more fiercely. He starts to worry that not only are all three of his assistants going to have seen him set out as public entertainment, they'll know they have.

The hickeys and Monday morning become increasingly distant concerns as Sasha makes her track of hickeys further and further up his chest, finally stopping when he has about a half dozen- Jon lost count at some point, sue him- and she's reached the edge of the window exposing his tits. He can hear her walk back to the other two, and she says, "You two are going to be my minions."

"Sure," Tim says. If it weren't for the numerous physical and personal reasons preventing him from speaking, Jon would say that he thought they already were her minions. The three of them certainly don't take him seriously enough for any of them to be his minions.

He can't make out what she whispers to them, but Martin says again with a laugh in his voice, "Mean."

He loses track of who's standing where as they all move around, but a moment later each breast has two hands and a mouth pinching and pulling and squeezing and rolling and sucking and nibbling, maddeningly out of sync as each attends to his own task without a thought toward the other. Every breath Jon takes comes out tinged with a moan. He can feel his heartbeat in his cunt he's so desperate.

There's a wet sound, somewhere too far to be any of what's slowly frittering Jon's sanity away. He realizes it's Sasha's fingers sliding into her own, by the sound of it, soaking wet pants when one of the mouths pulls away with a smack and Tim says, "You get off to weird things." One of the vibrators from the basket goes on- all three laugh at his desperate, hopeful noise- but it's soon muffled, going to Sasha's benefit instead.

Sasha's response to Tim, if there is one, is nonverbal. The person who can only be Martin licks a swathe over his entire nipple and up past it and then says, "I wondered last time if they could come just from their nipples."

Sasha hums, considering. Jon makes a protesting noise before he can think about it. Martin says, "That's what they said last time I suggested it, too."

Sasha laughs. "I can wait. Who am I to stand in the way of science?"

Jon whines as both men redouble their efforts, employing every trick they can think of in teasing his poor tits.

Eons of agony later, they all find out that he can, in fact, come from just his nipples.

When it passes, he's practically crying through the gag. The onslaught hasn't lessened in the least. He would kill for something, anything, to touch his cunt or his clit instead of his chest right now.

Sasha James studied at the Monkey's Paw school of wish-granting. No sooner has he had the thought than something whistles through the air and his cunt erupts in agony.

He comes like a thunderclap anyway.

He knows the strap is in the basket, but people usually use it on his tits. They're the big, jiggly, obvious target, easy to hit. Sasha isn't worried about her aim, though. The cavalcade of wretchedly on-target strikes proves she doesn't need to.

He's choking on sobs in between moans when, finally, Sasha makes a little satisfied sighing noise that he realizes when he hears the buzz of the vibrator again is an orgasm of her own. Tim and Martin withdraw, but he can still feel phantoms of their touch. His cheeks are wet with tears.

A hand trails over his sternum, almost lost in the ghost of less gentle touches, and Sasha says, "I know, I know, poor baby."

His face heats at the false sympathy. If he thought looking Martin in the eye was difficult...

"I know, I'm sorry," Sasha says, voice lower like she's kneeling. She sounds more mischievous than sorry.

He almost doesn't know how to process it when a puff of breath tingles against the abused flesh of his vulva, followed seconds later by a tongue, rough wetness dragging over all the flesh she made burning and tender. This is even rarer than taking the strap to his cunt instead of his tits. Sasha's tongue half-soothes, half-irritates the beleaguered flesh there. She suckles at his clit, draws the flat of her tongue over his entrance, gives him just the slightest terrifying taste of her teeth, and altogether methodically and enthusiastically eats him out. He doesn't know whether to be embarrassed or consider it a form of revenge when he not only comes incredibly quickly from her attentions, but does so hard enough to squirt all over her face.

His limbs are trembling faintly when she finishes licking him through the orgasm and withdraws. He thinks they're going to leave now- Tim didn't take a turn when he brought Martin.

Sasha says, "Your turn!"

He knows without anyone speaking that it's Martin who steps up and starts pulling on first one nipple, then the other, little alternating points of pain. Apparently earlier wasn't enough.

Jon writhes, the animal part of his brain desperate to escape, to go lick his wounds somewhere private. Martin is unswayed. He doesn't move on until he makes Jon come from just his hands on his tits a second time.

He's whining and feeling increasingly fragile when Martin lets go and starts stretching his fingers in Jon's cunt, too quick to be comfortable.

Martin's fingers withdraw, he hears Sasha whistle, and his stomach lurches at the thought of what could impress her.

Martin's cock punching into him felt huge the first time this happened; now, with his cunt already so abused and only the most cursory exploration of his fingers to stretch for it, it feels bigger. Jon's breaths start to jolt in rhythm with the thrusts; each time Martin bottoms out it hits so hard that it moves Jon's body up and back slightly, even with the cuffs. He thinks he comes again, but he's so overstimulated it's hard to tell.

Martin must have been pretty worked up by everything to come before, because it doesn't take him long to bury himself as deeply as he can, hands pulling at Jon's hips for every spare millimeter, and finish.

"You two are hard on your toys," Tim says. He's clearly coming closer, and Jon says goodbye to there being any assistant to be found Monday morning who has not made their mark on his cunt. Sasha makes an unrepentant humming noise. Martin snorts.

Fingers close like a trap on his clit, holding it between the sides of two fingers while the thumb teases the head. Tim doesn't bother with any more preamble than that before making Jon take his cock. It's not as big as Martin's, but not by much.

Tim's first few thrusts are slow and leisurely, and accompanied by equally even, lazy attention to Jon's clit. He can't help but sigh in relief.

Apparently, that was the signal Tim was looking for.

The grip on his clit becomes painful, pulling and twisting like Martin did his nipples, and Tim's thrusts come faster and harder. Jon is far, far too far gone to even think of holding back his sounds of distress. Instead of easing up, Tim digs his teeth into the mirror of the spot Sasha sucked her highest hickey, almost certain to leave a bruise.

He's back to unfiltered sobs that keep turning into moans by the time Tim comes, pinching Jon's clit hard while he does. He doesn't even pull out before saying, "Hey, Sash, pass me that- no that one, yep."

Jon is pretty sure he knows what Sasha passed him. There is, for some reason, a cloth drawstring bag full of nipple clamps and clothespins in the toy basket. He's heard multiple people exclaim over the inexplicable bounty. He braces for another assault on his nipples. He does not brace for Tim to use the first clamp on his clit.

Jon's bawling doesn't distract Tim from his task. At some point, he pulls out. Jon isn't focused enough to notice until several clamps in. Given his apparent friendliness with the staff, Jon's pretty sure the answer to the drawstring bag mystery is Timothy Stoker.

When he's done, Jon's labia is decorated by a line of clamps on both sides, as well as his nipples, and lines of skin running up and down over his breasts are pinched into by clothespins.

"There," Tim says, ignoring the whining that Jon can't stop.

"Hang on," Martin says, apparently unsatisfied with Tim's masterpiece. His contribution is a vibrator shoved into Jon's cunt.

Their footsteps head for the door. Sasha's dart over to the box. Jon cringes, but she just lays a kiss on his sternum before following.

Jon's assistants leave him feeling more ruined and used up than he usually feels at the end of an entire night. And it's just beginning.

He wants to call them back anyway, body pulsing with how badly it wants to be used.

Chapter Text

"I feel kind-a bad," Martin slurs as they stagger out of the bar.

"Hm?" Tim asks, trying to focus on being the center linking their chain together.

"We were mean t'them!"

"Who?" Sasha asks. Maybe the boys got into an argument when she was in the loo?

"'n th'box," he says.

"Psh." She waved her hand expansively, like she's wiping the worry out of the air, and nearly topples. Tim, somehow far less drunk than she and Martin are despite having the same number of drinks and ordering the same thing she did at dinner, catches her arm and levers her back on-center. "They came, like, five or six times. I counted. Th're fine."

"Psh," she adds again, liking the way it feels in her mouth.

Martin appears to think deeply on this. It isn't as if she's wearing remotely difficult shoes, just her trainers, but he looks much steadier on his feet. She walks drunk and he talks drunk; for a moment she thinks she can nearly grasp a way they could combine with each other to be the perfect not-drunk drunk person, like Tim, but then it disappears. Maybe Tim has something they can steal?... it's gone again.

"D'you th'nkit w's Jon?" Martin asks as Tim finally manages to hail a cab, ending their straggle toward the Tube station.

"What was Jon?" she asks.

"'n th'box," he says again.

"Jon didn't come with us," she reminds him. Martin shakes his head and trips over his feet, but he manages to recover without Tim's help, translating the momentum into climbing into the cab instead.

"He had this idea last time," Tim says, looking worried that being pressed in the middle seat of the cab with them on either side is going to get him vomited on. "Jon dropped a box of files on his foot or something and made a noise Martin thought he recognized."

Sasha furrows her brow, trying to give this the consideration it deserves.

"I'fits," Martin insists. "Th'y look right f'r Jon, I mean."

"I guess." She's actually having a hard time picturing what either the person in the box or Jon look like. "I mean. We'll know, though."

Martin makes a quizzical sound that isn't even trying to be a word, and Tim looks at her dubiously. She glares at them for doubting her.

"Hickeys," she explains and, her argument infallibly made, turns to stare out the window.

-

When she wakes up Saturday morning with a killer hangover, bits of the conversation are still swirling around in her head.

When she leaves for work on Monday, she's all but decided to tell Martin she's seen a hickey on Jon sometime when Jon is well out of earshot. Just to see Martin's reaction before she tells him it's a joke.

When she arrives at work, she's only a few paces behind Jon, who's walking like something's tender.

When she sees Jon from the front, she asks him if he's coming down with something, and makes him let her lay a hand against his forehead to see if the flush is from a fever.

None of it would come to anything if it weren't for what happens Tuesday.

Jon is still walking strangely, still shifty and red-faced. At lunch, which Tim has to practically drag him out of his office to join, the tension is finally starting to fade. Tim cracks a joke just as Jon takes a sip of water, and Jon snorts hard enough to drench the front of his shirt and nearly choke.

While Tim scrambles for the paper towels and Jon tries to move things out of the way of the puddle on the table, Sasha and Martin freeze, both looking at the place where water has made Jon's white shirt just transparent enough to reveal a fading but still noticeably mouth-shaped line of marks. Then Tim passes Jon a wad of paper towels and he starts sopping up enough water to restore his shirt's opacity.

When lunch is over and Jon is once more safely ensconced in his office, the assistants' bullpen is a buzzing hive of whispers, exchanging doubts and rationalizations and corroboration that she and Martin really did see the exact same thing.

Before she can think better of it, Sasha decides that she needs Jon's opinion on a case and heads for his office.

She doesn't hear anything, so she lets herself in, assuming that he's not in the middle of a recording. Jon's head jerks up with one of the faint blushes he's been unable to shake for the last two days.

"Is your shirt alright?" she asks. Okay, not her smoothest opener.

"My- er- my shirt? Fine! My shirt is fine, thank you for asking."

"I just. Wanted to know, since it looked like." She has no idea what comes next in this sentence.

Jon shakes his head. "Nothing! I mean, there's nothing under my shirt. Except my skin, obviously. And- er-"

"I didn't say anything about under your shirt." It's also the only way she sees to get them out of this conversation alive, even though she feels a bit bad to pick on Jon while he's so obviously flustered.

Jon just goes bright red without saying a word. She waits, but it's like he's been frozen. "I was just... if, hypothetically, you engaged in some consensual stress relief in your off hours and, hypothetically, the three of us ran into you without realizing. Then I just wanted to say that none of us would hold it against you, or make it weird, or anything."

"Right," he says, sounding strangled. "You'll just silently change what you think of me."

"No! It's none of our business unless you want to tell us. If things worked out any differently we wouldn't even know. Not that we know anything in particular!"

He gets, impossibly, even redder, and glances to the side. "It wouldn't be... inaccurate. I suppose. Particularly if you were to ask Tim what he said the first time he took Martin."

Sasha, because she never learned not to push her luck and she's fairly sure what at least Tim would say if she had thought to ask, adds, "Well, I just. Wanted to apologize for what we did. But if you wanted to do that sort of thing, hypothetically, without going to a sketchy bar... the three of us would..."

"Right," he says.

"Right," she says, and flees the office.

-

When Sasha finishes panicking and worrying about whether Jon is going to report the three of them to HR, or whether she should just go report herself to HR, she asks Tim what Jon was talking about. The idea of having treated their boss like a toy, of him wanting to be treated like a toy, immediately loses them another 10 minutes on top of what they already lost to Sasha freaking out. The conclusion at the end is that the last thing she managed to half-say to Jon is accurate, and they all probably deserve to get fired.

When she gets home she carefully drafts a text while she waits for her dinner to cook, as comprehensive an apology and reassurance that she would never mention it again or think of him any differently as she can come up with. Jon only takes a few minutes to reply, asking, "Did you send this because you're concerned about the professional implications of our conversation, or the personal ones?"

Then, before she can even answer the first text, "Because I have no intention of treating anyone differently professionally, regardless of any apology text."

Not sure whether she's more worried about the possibility of what he's saying about their friendship or about the other elephant in the room, she asks, "And personally?"

Jon's response, again, comes quickly. "If you meant what you said, we should probably have that conversation as a group. And not on Institute property."

She immediately screenshots the exchange and sends it to Tim and Martin with an assortment of emoji, because she has no idea how to translate what she's feeling into words.

-

The next day, having once again confirmed in blushing, whispered conversations with the others that they're just as on board for whatever disaster is about to play out as Sasha, they go to the best restaurant they can think of for both private conversations and getting back to work on time for lunch, all four of them. Tension lays over their booth like a blanket.

Jon sits stiff-backed, blushing but serious. Sasha can see what he's about to say before he starts, because he's given variations on the same apology for lack of professionalism multiple times since the promotion to Head Archivist; and even more, now that she has fresh data as context, since the first time Tim and Martin went together and found him in the Grope Box, when he stopped being so hard on Martin for then-unknown reasons.

She unlocks her phone and passes it to Jon, scrolled back to the beginning of her conversation with the others the night before. "Read that."

He takes the phone like it's something dead, but does start to read, face even redder as he realizes it starts with a screenshot of their conversation. Whatever apology he was about to make, probably about using his position to pressure them into things, is clearly at least stalled by the extensive, filthy, and enthusiastic contents of the groupchat.

To drive the point home, once he sets her phone down she says, "I made the suggestion. You can't pressure me into something that was my own idea. I would appreciate being told if you feel like we're pressuring you into anything, because that's the exact opposite of what any of us want to do."

Jon's stiff demeanor has collapsed, leaving his embarrassment to shine. "I wouldn't have made such an ambiguous statement if I didn't feel comfortable with all of its possible interpretations."

Which she figures is Archivist Robot Sims for the same sentiment, and she takes the reins of the conversation.

-

The Magnus Institute, somewhat predictably, receives such a deluge of obviously confused, patently false, and unfunny joke statements and, in smaller numbers, artifacts every Halloween that staff from all departments are pulled to help with the flood. Somewhat less predictably, the deluge repeats two months later at Christmas.

In the nineties the stress of said flood of work caused someone to have a nervous breakdown. Appropriately for the Institute Sasha has heard versions, urban legend fashion, of the story in which the unfortunate researcher killed himself (or herself; she suspects the story is an amalgam of several incidents and that's why just about every personal trait changes between versions), killed someone else, killed several other employees and then himself, or simply vanished, usually ending up as a ghost haunting the Head of the Institute's office regardless of how he or she got there. Considering that any of those things would have made the news, especially if any tabloids caught wind of the Institute's connection, and Sasha has never found so much as an obituary even implying the story is accurate, she suspects that what actually happened was one or more employees having ordinary nervous breakdowns due to overwork.

Whatever happened, since the mid-nineties, in deference to the increased workload and the near-drought that occupies much of November once the Halloween rush is squared away, the Institute has closed for the last two full workweeks in November to allow the staff to recharge slightly before the Christmas rush.

The November break, a couple months away, is where Sasha has centered her plan if Jon seems interested in more than a night of fun, rough details hashed out in whispers with Tim and Martin that morning.

To the obvious, immediate delight of all three of his assistants, Jon rubs his legs together and says in a strangled voice that he would, if they were interested, be interested in such a thing.

Sasha will host, since she has enough beds for all four of them, well-insulated walls, and no roommates.

("How the hell are you affording that, we make the same amount!" Martin had demanded when she said as much that morning.

Sasha shrugged. "I'm the only grandchild on my dad's side. When my aunt died she didn't have anyone closer, so I inherited her condo and all of her things, except for the half of her bank balance she wanted to go to charity."  Martin looked embarrassed at having acted envious of her for having a dead relative, so she added, "I mean it when I say she left it to me because there was literally no one else. She was close with my dad, and cared about me at least conceptually, but after she moved to London she didn't see the rest of the family much. I didn't know her very well.")

She'll also take on the responsibility for directing the preparations. Jon and Tim both know better than to object to her getting to organize something, and Martin wisely takes their lead. Jon, in particular, is expected to be involved in the planning as little as possible.

"That doesn't seem fair," he says.

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying that because the idea of not knowing more going in makes you uncomfortable, or because you feel like it's unfair not to do your part? Because if it's the latter, trust me, the three of us will consider your contribution more than even by the end."

Jon blushes, clenches his jaw, and says nothing, proving her guess right.

They'll have the option to go for the entire break if they want, but Jon will be able to call a halt at any point before then if he wants, either temporarily or permanently. She still feels far too embarrassed and guilty about their first encounter not to build in every safety measure she can think of, so he can bail the second he stops enjoying things.

As they finish eating and start to walk back to the Institute, all shifting suspiciously and readjusting their clothes, far too "excited" for work hours, they take turns hitting a point of guilt that they can't stand any longer and demand the others tell them if they aren't interested.

No matter who asks, no one wants to bail.

Chapter Text

Jon figures that the conversation with Sasha is just her trying to find a way to make him feel less awkward about everything. He assumes that she doesn't mean it seriously, even after her text. Even after their lunch meeting.

Sasha was, in fact, serious.

Within a week, his personal email (which he hadn't even realized she knew) receives a link to a survey. Tim and Martin are also both listed as recipients. The survey is- well, if he'd actually put in thought as to what a survey written by Sasha James for the purposes of organizing a group sexual getaway would look like, this is probably about what he would come up with. Having not pondered that particular question, though, opening it is rather a shock.

He makes it as far as the description of the first section, asking him to rate each act on the provided scale (bafflingly: hard no, unsure, unsure but curious, interested, and proficient. He can't decide whether "proficient" is there  because it needs to be or to head off jokes from Tim by giving him an outlet that won't spoil her data) and, if applicable, leave other comments in the box beneath each, and the first four options, which is all that can be seen without scrolling down. Sasha has provided a definition of each, something that's probably more useful for later options. The ones he can see are kissing, french kissing, forcibly kissing someone, and being forcibly kissed. He takes a guess as to how many questions must be in the first section alone based on that, looks at the clock, and decides to leave it until morning.

He remembers to reply to the email saying so, which is an accomplishment. If she doesn't know whether he's started she'll ask him at work, and in addition to wanting to avoid discussing this whole scheme there as much as possible for at least the hope of the veneer of a whisper of propriety, if she asks him in person he'll feel guilty that he didn't start. He knows that not starting is perfectly reasonable, and that Sasha will tell him so and mean it, but he'll feel guilty all the same.

-

The Sasha James Sex Scale (name suggested by Tim and vigorously resisted by Sasha) asks questions about, among other things: forms of address, favorite foods, disability accommodations, and the expected list of what Jon is choosing to believe is every sex act under the sun, or at least all of those that can be performed by their configuration of participants and parts. Any more than that just sounds exhausting. He has absolutely no idea what she plans to do with that much data, and it would be unwise to get between her and her spreadsheet in order to find out.

He thinks- or possibly hopes, for Sasha's sanity if nothing else- that that is where the idea will die. Analyzing all that in whatever way she plans to sounds like one of the most tedious things in the world, and that's before she mentioned she sent Tim and Martin follow-up questions.

His part in the enterprise is the one least involved in all of the planning, not just the bits he expected to be excluded from; he offered again, but Sasha told him that being unaware of the "grocery list, et cetera," would be "more verisimilitudinous." The others do check in regularly to ensure he's still interested (he is, embarrassing as it is to say) and include him in the occasional discussion/debate about the less tangible particulars, but he still feels guilty at the relatively small part of the burden of planning that falls on him.

He feels less guilty when he says as much to Martin and Martin, in the sideways fashion Jon is learning he says many things that may or may not be intended as jokes but which Martin enjoys seeing people laugh at regardless, tells him that he doesn't mind the planning, because this is the perfect opportunity to counterbalance Jon's earlier nastiness toward him by fucking him silly. None of the others need to know about the pang that sent through him; not when they're already happy to tease him about the accompanying blush. (It isn't even a particularly scandalous phrase, but Jon went red anyway!)

Someday, he will learn not to underestimate Sasha James.

He mostly loses track of things when the Halloween fake statement rush starts. If it doesn't come off, he'll probably end up back in the Grope Box for a significant portion of the break. Were there always this many when he was back in Research?

But when the drifts of statements covering his desk half-researched finally start to abate, he gets another email. This one is an alarmingly thorough and specific packing list and a completed list of rules for him to double check and agree to. At the bottom of the page, in big, bold type, it says, "Our mission: Make Jon cum his brains out until he's so stupid I get to be Head Archivist after all! ♥" He immediately scrolls back up so he doesn't have to look at it, face hot. He still isn't sure why the others want to do this- it's not as if he's particularly desirable, or even averagely desirable, even gagged so his personality can't drop him further down the scale- but apparently they are doing it.

The last Friday before November break, Jon heads back to his flat after work just long enough to change out of his work clothes and collect the duffel bag he finished packing the night before, and leaves for Sasha's.

Chapter Text

Jon's the first to arrive aside from Sasha. He knows that Martin and Tim are supposed to wait, to give Sasha time to prepare, but he has no idea why. He was strictly instructed to stop trying to get a peek at the itinerary Sasha was working on in a spare window unless he was going to say that he'd changed his mind and wasn't comfortable doing this without more information on what was happening ahead of time, in which case the itinerary would have to be reworked and the one he got a glimpse of was irrelevant anyway. He'd thought about it for the rest of the day, but at the end of it texted Sasha his conclusion that no, he did not need or want more information ahead of time. He's anxious about not knowing what he needs to prepare himself for, but aside from everything else it's been made repeatedly clear to all of them that Sasha intends however long they spend staying over to be fun on top of everything else. It's more exciting, more fun, to wonder, even witha bit of worry mixed in.

Sasha lets him in with a smile, friendliness mixing with amusement when she sees his outfit. His packing list had included two clothing sections, regular clothing and "disposable clothing," explained in a subheading to indicate clothing that he would not want for more than, at most, kitchen rags when they were through, and told to wear the latter in a fashion as close to his usual style as possible.

The Primark clearance section delivered on cheap and disposable, if not dignified. The best he'd been able to do, spending the minimum amount possible as instructed, was some joggers that are almost acceptable and a criminally loud shirt. It's actually the least outrageous "disposable" shirt he'd found.

Sasha shuts the door behind him; there's a staircase directly across from the front door, and to his right the foyer opens up into the open concept kitchen, dining, and living rooms, while to the left there is a low bench with shoes shoved haphazardly underneath- he takes his own off and sets them neatly with the rest of the pile- and a door on each wall, one a wide closet door; against both the wall between the regular door and the stairs, and between the stairs and where the wall cuts into a corner leading to the kitchen are a pair of dark, wooden standing cabinets. Each has a set of cabinets above, a tabletop in the middle, and more cabinets below.

"Last chance to say you don't even want to start," Sasha says, letting the outfit go unremarked on.

"Your last chance to say you don't want to host us and kick me out of your house," he counters, embarrassed but smiling shyly. "I don't know why you're even willing to do this in the first place."

"It'll be fun!" she argues. "It's nowhere near as much of a chore for us as you seem to think. Maybe we all want a little payback on our annoying boss, did you ever think about that?"

"You didn't already get it?" His face heats; it's the first time he's directly alluded to the box incident itself since the conversation when Sasha figured it out.

"We didn't know then. It doesn't count if you don't experience the payback in the moment."

He laughs, ducking his head. For all the talk of payback, he feels safe with all three of them, especially Tim and Sasha. He wouldn't have agreed if he didn't. But Tim and Sasha have been his closest friends for years, even if the reverse isn't true, and the amount of preparation he's watched them put into things, the number of conversations they've had checking and double-checking and triple-checking that he wants to do this, that he wants to do all sorts of minor things, that he's comfortable with the way they're going to do such and such, only affirms that feeling.

He hikes up the hand on the strap of his bag and glances down. Sasha giggles, visibly gathers herself, and asks, "Color to start now?"

"Green," he says, not as confident in stating it loudly as he could be but bone-deep confident in its accuracy. He stifles his smile and says, "Thank you so much for hosting."

"Don't worry about it," she says, eyes gleaming at wherever she was leading the conversation. "Can I take your bag?"

"Oh, I can carry it," he demurs, going white-knuckled with nerves for a moment.

"It's no trouble," she says. "You probably want to freshen up a bit, I can take it upstairs."

If she's steering him toward the restroom, he should probably go. Aside from the implication that it might be a bit before he has another chance, one of the rules is that the bathroom is a safe zone for Jon- except for the upstairs guest bathroom, wherever that might be, which Sasha has designs on. He pulls the strap of his bag over his head, but sets it on the ground. "Don't bother taking it up, I'll be quick and then you can show me where I'm supposed to sleep."

The half-bath he ducks into- the door to the left of the stairs- is clearly prepared with him in mind. There's a portable shelf rack stocked with water bottles and snacks and other things he doesn't bother looking at right now, trying to be quick. The stairs looked to curve up and around so that they would go over his head, but he doesn't hear Sasha's footsteps above.

He suspects that she posed waiting for him to be finished, because quick as he was, he was too slow for her to, apparently, unlock one of the cabinets, place his bag inside, and be in the middle of locking it again. He assumes that's what she did, anyway; his bag is gone and she has a key in the cabinet.

"What did you do to my bag?" he asks anyway. "I didn't hear you go upstairs."

"I didn't go upstairs."

"Well where is it?" he demands, playing annoyance rather than the flips his stomach is actually doing.

"In the cabinet." She's unnervingly calm, looking at Jon like he's an interesting scientific specimen.

He goes over and rattles the door, but as he assumed it's locked. "Why did you lock my things in the cabinet?"

She smiles, mischievous but with a hard confidence in her eyes. "Toys don't need clothes."

He's brought up short by that, no play-acting about it, just by the jolt of heat that that sends through him. "What?"

"Toys don't need clothes," she says again, giving him an obvious once-over. "Strip."

"What? Sasha- I'm not going to- what are you talking about?"

"You can do it yourself, or I can help you," she says, turning to the cabinet and picking something up from the recessed tabletop that he can't quite see. He's about to demand she start to make sense, but then she turns back to him and he sees the scissors.

"Sasha?" he asks, not having to try to make his voice break.

"This is your last warning," she says.

"I- I'm leaving, if you don't want to make sense, if you want to steal my clothes, if you want to threaten me you're welcome to do it on your own!" He gets half a step away, not trying to move particularly quickly, before his wrist is caught with a handcuff, the other end snapped around the banister.

Sasha steps into his personal space, grabbing his chin and keeping his face pointed her direction when he tries to jerk away. "Toys obey their owners the first time they're told to do something, or they're punished. Strip." She lets go and takes a step back, clearly giving him a chance.

He wavers, but even though he knows the handcuffs will open just as easily if he pushes the lever as they would for the key, Sasha cuts an intimidating figure. He struggles out of the Primark shirt, and it ends up dangling on the chain of the handcuffs.

Sasha whistles, and he folds in on himself, crossing his arms over his chest instead of moving on to the joggers.

Sasha steps back into his personal space and he cringes away. She cuts through the sleeve of the shirt so the handcuffs are unburdened, then turns back to him and hooks a finger under the strap of his sports bra and snaps it against his skin. "Never would have guessed. This is going to be more fun than I thought." She kneads one breast with her hand, and his mind goes blank, the only thought he's able to maintain until she steps away that the objectification of the fake outing makes his body pulse.

She snaps the waistband of the joggers in the same manner as the bra strap, and he takes the cue to awkwardly shuck them off. A snip of the scissors to get her started and Sasha is able to tear a huge rent in the fabric, rendering them effectively unwearable.

"I don't even know what this is," he says. "I don't know what's gotten into you or why you keep calling me a- a-"

"A toy?" Sasha asks. He bites his lip. Nods. "It's what you are. An object, a non-person, a fucktoy. Look at this," she cups her hand between his legs, where his boxers are embarrassingly damp.

"This isn't funny," he chokes out.

"It isn't a joke." She presses close again, scissors at the ready.

He isn't particularly well-endowed, B-cups that he binds more for his own sake than anyone who might look at him and realize he has breasts. He gets by with a sports bra just as well as a binder, if the latter is in the wash, but this sports bra in entirely for show. It's ancient and ragged and the elastic is going, and his tits are acting on it more than it's acting on them. The boxers are similarly ancient and raggedy. Neither gives the scissors anything to worry about. When she's done, Sasha plucks his glasses right off his nose.

"Sasha!" he says a moment later, when he's found his voice. He wraps an arm around his chest and covers his groin with the other hand.

"Color?" she asks, and he chokes out, "Green," somehow more embarrassed at that than the nudity.

"Toys don't speak unless spoken to," she says as though they never stopped.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, voice taut and body throbbing with anticipation.

Sasha doesn't say anything, just picks up another object from the recessed tabletop he can't see from the banister. His stomach gives an embarrassing lurch when he sees it, held in front of Sasha to give him plenty of chance to look at the collar as she approaches.

It's dyed leather, far more expensive than he anticipated- his assistants are adults who can decide what to spend their own money on, he reminds himself, as he was reminded with no small exasperation when he voiced concerns about them spending money on this- in pale purple. There's a D-ring at the front and to either side where they'll probably be directly to his left and right once it's on, and from a jump ring below the center D-ring a heart-shaped tag dangles, capital letters large and as clear as possible on the small surface.

This was one of the things that had been brought up as a point of concern, just as repetitively as Jon had worried over expenses and been told over and over that it was fine. He thinks they all feel guilty about what they did when they didn't know it was him, even though he's said repeatedly that it was fine, and so they're treating him with kid gloves. He'd told them to pick something from the massive list of names, terms of endearment, titles, ad infinitum that he'd marked on his survey that he doesn't mind being called, that he was wholeheartedly in favor of the idea and if he said so on the survey, any given name doesn't make him uncomfortable, isn't misgendering him, is perfectly fine. He didn't realize how much he meant that, how much it would get to him in the best way, until he saw it printed plain as day on metal, somehow exactly what he couldn't have verbalized he wanted, four little letters that make his face flame and his cunt throb.

He skitters back from Sasha as far as he can, which means moving up the stairs backward with his cuffed arm thrust in front of him where the cuff catches at a crossbar of the banister and slides no further. Sasha keeps coming like he hasn't moved at all, and when she reaches a high enough point on the stairs to get behind him, Jon skids back down to the floor, winging out toward the kitchen this time, back to the locked cabinet.

He doesn't get away this time, Sasha swinging the collar around and grabbing the loose end, pulling it hard against his throat, looping it closed.

"Color?" she asks as she pulls it tight.

"Green," he says, breathless from more than running around. Laughs breathily. "Or purple, I suppose."

"You like it?"

He likes it a lot. "It's. Cute."

She hums in response, a happy little sound, and draws it tight against his throat. "Is that alright?"

"Try to pull it a notch farther? No, too tight."

Sasha loosens the collar to the appropriate point and fastens the buckle. She makes sure he sees what she's grabbing when she picks the little padlock up off the tabletop. Opposite the front D-ring are the  loops to thread the padlock through.

This was another point of contention. Most of the keys in the house are for show, there for realism more than necessity. The cupboard lock is real, and the padlock is real. It was difficult to convince them- to find the words to convince them- that that's part of the appeal. That being locked in at someone's mercy was why he kept going back to the Grope Box, and why he wanted a real padlock on the collar. That he wants the collar to mean that it's out of his hands, that he doesn't get to be Jon again until the others decide he's finished being Slut.

The anal plug isn't quite as large, but it's just as overwhelming. He feels hot and cold all over, and a bit dizzy from all the blood rushing down. When it's seated inside him Sasha says, "Sit up."

It takes him a while to remember how to work his limbs, then a bit more to remember how he's supposed to sit. Kneeling with his legs in a V manages to put pressure on both plugs, the one in his cunt resting against the floor and the position making him bear down on the other. Sasha takes his arms and starts to wind soft rope around them. Once they're tied off, she fastens an armband just above his elbow. "Test the button for me?"

He doesn't know if the button is something she bought or something she rigged up herself, but it's meant for if he needs to safeword while he's gagged or alone in a room, so he can just press it and have it blast a loud noise and send texts to all three of their phones. His fingers fumble for it, and then he flinches at the combination of the siren and Sasha's phone pinging. Tim and Martin will know they've started, now.

"Open your mouth."

"Sasha-" before he can get any farther she scoots down the couch lightning-quick, giving her the angle to slap him across the face.

"Open. Your mouth."

He works his jaw- the slap wasn't hard enough to hurt much, but it did surprise him- and then winds up hanging his head and whispering, "Sorry, Mistress," before opening up.

The feeling of a ring gag between his teeth is familiar, even if this one feels like it might be a smidge bigger than the one he's used to. It's soon accompanied by the familiar feeling of sightlessness as Sasha wraps a blindfold around his face, wrapping it multiple times until there's not so much as a sliver of light.

One hand grabs at the loop of his arms behind his back, and the other pushes him forward until his core can't hold him up anymore and he's hanging by her hold on his arms. She lowers him gently until he's lying flat, and makes quick work of tying his legs together at the knee and ankle.

"Color?" she asks, probably for the last time until Tim and Martin arrive. He snaps his fingers three times; they agreed that if he couldn't speak he was to snap his fingers or tap his hand or something similar, thrice for green, twice for yellow, and once for red , if it was what he thought of before the button.

They had experimented at work- by which he means they took turns sneaking up behind him- and all three of his assistants can lift him at least a bit. It still makes his stomach swoop, spectacularly vulnerable, when Sasha lifts him up, moving a step or two and lowering him down on something crinkly. He tries to straighten from the curl she's set him down in, but runs into walls, a bit flexible like cardboard.

Sasha tucks a few more sheets of tissue paper around and over him and then he hears her set a lid on the box, and all he can do is wait.

Chapter Text

Tim and Martin have to wait another half hour after they get the safeword text that shows Sasha and Jon have started before they can go to Sasha's, and it's agonizing. The only upside is that they had the sense to meet up to try to distract each other.

Tim leads the way when it's time to head over, having been to Sasha's place before. Sasha must be waiting at the door, because he barely manages to knock.

They kick their shoes off and Tim makes to take his bag upstairs- they each only have one, but that's because he's been taking the rest of his stuff over all week- but Sasha flaps her hands at him and says, "Put it down!"

"Yes ma'am." He grins and salutes her. Sasha rolls her eyes.

"Come here, I have something for you!"

They follow her to the living room, and once they're seated she says, "I have an early Christmas present for the two of you. Well, all three of us."

It clearly takes some doing to push the big box, an early Christmas product based on the red and white stripes and green lid, even with the carpet helping it glide, but she flaps her hands at him again when he goes to help and keeps shoving it over with the side of her foot. He notices a line of awkward square holes clearly made by a box cutter, providing some ventilation to the inside.

It's certainly the biggest box of its type he's ever seen, but Tim can't get over how small it is. He lets Martin take the lid off, but helps pull out the layers of tissue paper until they finally hit paydirt.

Jon is curled up small and naked, blind and gagged and bound and collared, and it goes straight to Tim's dick. He can see Martin's in a similar state, though not so dumbstruck that he doesn't think to bend down and lift Jon out of the box, laying him across both their laps so Tim can run a hand all the way down his side from ribs to ankle and Martin can reach down and give his nipples an experimental flick. Jon moans through his gag, but Martin just sets his fingers on his tongue, watching to see if he'll let them sit there or try to suck.

"Thanks Sash," Tim says, beaming at the role he gets to fill, "it's beautiful!"

Jon shudders at the praise. Tim runs his hand down his side again, and then helps Martin lift him to the floor. Jon groans when he's set on his knees, probably because of the plugs Tim can see jammed between his legs. He shares a look with Martin, raises his eyebrows, and eventually they come to a wordless accord. Martin slides down the couch so Tim can scoot to the place directly in front of where they set Jon. Sasha starts chatting about their plans for the break- the ordinary ones, at least- and Jon clearly thinks that he's been left there, trapped but also left alone.

He makes a sound like he's been shot when Tim grabs the back of his hair and pulls his mouth onto his dick.

Sasha does an admirable job of keeping up the charade of paying Jon no attention at all, though Tim sees her rub her legs together. He gives Jon a chance to do things the easy way, asks, "Color?" in an undertone in case it's yellow, but gets three snaps of Jon's fingers in response. So he grabs Jon's hair and starts using it to fuck his throat.

Jon moans and gasps, but his fingers stay far away from the button on his arm.

A timer goes off, and Sasha jumps up to take the pizza out of the oven. Tim leans Jon back and tucks himself away. There will be plenty of time for that later, but the pizza will get cold.

Jon is left kneeling alone in the middle of the living room, swaying and sniffing the air. He shouldn't be hungry- he was supposed to eat something quick and filling before coming to Sasha's- but the pizza does smell delicious.

They focus on each other as they eat, pretending that their boss isn't tied up naked in the next room. They took bets on whether he would give up on kneeling where they put him, but he doesn't lie down through the whole meal, even though sitting on the plugs like that must be driving him up the wall and he's visibly vibrating with nerves by the end.

Sasha lets them handle the dishes, watching as she approaches Jon. He startles when she pets her hand over his hair, but she coos, "Good toy," and starts untying him. He falls forward on all fours when she undoes his arms, but she allows him the lapse. Soon, Jon is free of everything but the plugs and the armband, the latter of which he offered Sasha but was rebuffed and now clearly can't stop thinking about.

It can only take so long to set three plates and a pizza cutter in the dishwasher and toss the cardboard the pizza cooked on, no matter how much they're enjoying Jon getting more and more anxious at being forced to wait. Even from the kitchen, even with the plug, Tim can see shiny spots on Jon's thighs from how wet he is. He sympathizes; seeing Jon like that is just as affecting for him, and he's painfully hard.

When they're finally done dawdling in the kitchen, Sasha snaps her fingers and says, "Heel." She marches toward the stairs without turning to see if Jon follows. Tim watches his expression closely as he wavers, but before Sasha can turn and reprimand him for disobedience Jon hunches slightly and crawls after her.

Tim and Martin grab their bags and follow up the stairs, enjoying the view of Jon crawling in front of them, ass and pussy plugged up and on display. Sasha leads them all into the master bedroom.

"Jesus Christ, Sasha!" Martin says. Tim isn't surprised, having had his turn here before, but the size of her bed remains impressive. He steps past Jon, watching for the moment he spots his own sleeping arrangements.

"My aunt slept on a double until the day she died. That might be acceptable for the family spinsters of the past, but I refuse." Sasha turned on one foot, kicking the other up behind her and pointing up the air to punctuate her point. "The first thing I did when I inherited the place was move her old bed into the bigger guest room and buy this."

It must have looked odd to have so little of the space taken up by the bed, considering how well Sasha's giant bed fits the room,.

Jon clearly decides that he isn't going to be told to go anywhere for a bit, and hesitantly adopts the pose the three of them chose for when they want him to feel his position in the dynamic but don't have anything in particular to do to him or for him to do. He bites his lip as he does it, plugs shifting inside him and cheeks flaming, eyes darting around the room under his lashes.

"Isn't the bigger guest room the one Tim and I are supposed to be using?" Martin asks hesitantly.

"Come on, Martin!" Tim says, jabbing him with an elbow as both a teasing gesture and a prompt to look at Jon. He can't tell all eyes are on him with his head lowered, even as he scans the floor of the bedroom for hints and dangers. "What kind of paranormal researcher are you, afraid to sleep in the ghost bed?"

"You sleep in it, then!" Martin retorts.

"Actually," Sasha says, eyes fixed on Jon as his eyes skim all the way to his left and he freezes, head slowly tilting so he can get a better look, "I was thinking you two might want to sleep in here. No pressure, the guest room is always on offer, but the bed's got plenty of room."

The bed is actually big enough that they could add another three people and still lie down on it without touching each other, but the main appeal is the chance that Jon elects to continue the game through the night and sleep in here rather than the second guest bedroom set aside for him.

"Oh." Martin goes tomato red with impressive speed. Jon is equally flushed, but seems to think he's being ignored. Tim can see his breath coming a bit quickly, and he's squirming like he wishes he had some friction between his splayed legs.

"Sleeping arrangements aside," Tim says, swinging his bag to the floor, "anyone fancy a nightcap?"

"Sure," Sasha says with a sly smile. Jon is either so focused on the threat looming against the wall (he keeps dipping his head back down to where it's supposed to be and then gradually turning back to look at it) that he didn't hear, or he assumed that Tim meant alcohol. Either way, his spine jolts straight when Sasha kicks over the tall cushion that they'd hidden up here when Tim brought his last load of supplies yesterday.

Tim has just enough time to start worrying at the conclusion that Martin hasn't answered because they've made him uncomfortable before Martin steps up beside Jon and grabs him by the hair, voice containing more authority than Tim realized he was capable of as he growls, "Come here, Slut."

Jon makes an "Ah!" noise, mouth open and panting as Martin starts to arrange things on the cushion. Sasha slips her panties off and tosses them aside, taking a seat on the edge of the bed with her skirt rucked up.

It takes some trial and error, the height of the cushion making Sasha on the edge of the bed accessible but Martin's height initially getting in the way, until they're arranged. Tim has his back to the bed, with Sasha sitting above him with her legs spread, tapping her heels happily against his shoulders. Martin is on the cushion facing Tim, their legs tangling and cocks straining free out of their flies, smeared with lube, with Jon in between them.

Sasha takes the hand with the button on it and slides it down to Jon's wrist instead, taking him by the wrists and laying his hands around Tim's neck. "Color?" she asks. "Last chance."

Jon shimmies his hips nervously, setting Tim and Martin twitching. There won't be any check-ins again until they finish using him; if Jon wants to alert them to his color he'll have to remember to do it himself, tapping on Tim's neck or hitting the button.

Jon bites his lips, cheeks flushed, and says. "Green."

Tim and Sasha both look to Martin, the only one Jon can't see, for a signal.

Martin holds up three fingers nods his head, putting a finger down with each nod.

He hits zero, and they move.

Sasha grabs Jon by the hair and grinds against his face. Tim and Martin yank the plugs out of Jon in unison, grabbing him by the waist to arrange him, shifting closer to the bed so he has greater access to Sasha and tilting him forward as they force him to rock down onto Tim's cock with his cunt and push forward as Martin takes his ass.

Jon groans as he's buried in Sasha's folds and impaled on Tim's cock, but Martin takes a moment longer. Martin's cock is intimidatingly big for the hole it's thrusting into, where the only thing Jon's ever had is Sasha's fingers and the plug. Even held stretched and waiting for hours, dripping lube onto Martin's lap, Jon struggles to take him, his long shrilling groan muffled into Sasha. They agreed dirty talk about his virgin hole was off limits, but in the privacy of his mind the knowledge makes Tim's cock twitch.

Sasha's feet go up, wrapping around Jon's head and holding him so tight he has little choice but to lick into her, only occasionally allowing him up for a breath. Tim grabs him by the waist and starts bouncing him on their cocks like the toy that he is, pressing harder into Sasha on the upswing and making his tits jiggle. Martin starts playing with Jon's clit and one breast, massaging and pinching moans out of him.

Jon's been too turned on for too long to last long, and he tremors his way through a long orgasm, moaning when he's audible at all; Sasha must not have set a rule against coming without permission yet, because he doesn't hunch or twitch or act at all guilty. None of them react, either, thrusting and grinding and pinching like nothing happened, leaving him overstimulated and whining, wriggling slightly in their grasp, unable to find relief.

Sasha goes off next, her voice lovely in a moan. Jon pushes back, tries to get away thinking he's done, but Sasha's hold on his hair won't let him.

"Clean it up," she says, holding him too tight for an answer. "Don't let it stain the bedspread." She falls onto her back, lying still as Jon tries desperately to keep her dripping cunt from making a mark, licking her through the aftershocks.

Tim follows shortly after, pulling Jon down onto his cock as hard as he can. Martin doesn't give him a break, though, shifting his position so he can hold Jon tilted forward and thrust into him a brutal pace.

When he's done, Tim takes Martin's job bullying Jon's poor clit, flicking it with his fingernails and rubbing it in long strokes that end in painful pinches. Jon rolls his hips on Tim's softening cock and shakes in what might be a second orgasm. He keeps at it anyway, and leans forward to start sucking a lurid lovebite as far up Jon's neck as he can reach, nipping with his teeth hard enough to get a frightened shout in protest.

It takes a small eternity of Jon's squeaks and moans for Martin to finish, and when it's over they all stay there, panting for a moment. Then Tim makes eye contact with Martin, and before he can even take his mouth off of Sasha's pussy they lift Jon up, sliding him off their cocks and slipping the plugs back in as quick as they can. Jon makes a whimper-moan noise, and Tim starts pinching his nipples.

"You liked that, didn't you Slut?" he asks. "You liked being used, you liked us filling you up. You're such a cum slut, your pussy was so happy to be filled."

Jon whines and squirms and is finally released, left sitting with his legs spread, both plugs sinking unevenly into the cushion, a constant rocking pressure with no equilibrium. His lips shine where they're spread by the plugs, his clit and tits are irritated and red, Tim's lovebite a splatter of red and purple on his jaw, and his face drips with pussy juice.

They give him a long, heaving-breath moment to call a yellow or red, but in its absence Sasha lifts up his arm, unstraps the button, and pushes at his shoulder. "Go clean yourself up."

He crawls toward the bathroom like a sailor who hasn't got his land legs back, set off with one last slap on the ass from Martin.

Chapter Text

When Jon slips inside the restroom- rest being the most relevant word at the moment- and shuts the door, he doesn't even try to stand, just falls into a puddle on the cool tile.

When he starts trying to get things done, seconds or minutes or hours later, he goes to the little shelf rack, identical to the one downstairs, here just for him. In the top are water bottles and high-energy snacks- he takes a granola bar, more ravenous than he would usually be only this long after his dinner. While he crunches his way through that and chugs down some water, he goes through the bottom shelf and starts thinking about his options.

The bottom shelf has all of his toiletries and medications and pajamas, taken from his bag while he was waiting and stewing in a gift box. Sasha has a massive tub that looks lovely, but he doesn't have the energy. He manages to drag himself to the shower stall, undecided about the future. He squirms the plugs out and sets them on the counter, something unwinding inside him with the pressure gone. He stays seated as he pulls himself into the shower and starts the water, shower supplies sitting on the floor beside him.

They arranged beforehand that he would only have to say a number, one through three, to signal which sleeping arrangement he intends on.  Sasha anticipated better than him how little bandwidth he has to spare if he had to absorb the options for the first time right now, let alone choose one afterward.

Number one and three both potentially take him to the smaller guest room. If he wants, they can stop the game for the night and they'll all fuss over him. He won't even have to say anything, just walk out instead of crawl, as clothed or unclothed to sleep as he feels like. He can sleep in the guest room, with the looming figure of whatever Sasha has set up in there, but he's almost certain that if he asked to join them in Sasha's bed they'd say yes. She'll undo the collar if he asks, give him privacy from the three of them or let him cuddle up with them with no distinction between him and them. A psychological break and a bit of aftercare, stopping for the night.

Option three seems disingenuous. The idea is to tie him up somehow in the guest room, stuffed with toys to keep him up through the night. The idea makes his stomach swoop, little as he enjoys staying up all night the morning after, but he hasn't done anything to warrant punishment yet. It can wait. They have- his whole body flips and squeezes and flushes at the thought- two weeks. Eighteen days if they count the bit after work today and before work the last Monday.

Option two makes his face go red just thinking about it, heat he can't even convince himself is from the warm shower. It's humiliating and extremely public, for the definition of "public" that simply includes the inhabitants of Sasha's condo. He felt their eyes on him when he spotted it, far more affected than he expected he would be when they were stuttering through the planning.

He gets out of the shower and wraps up in a towel. It's only been a few hours, but it already feels faintly strange to be covered up. He feels a bit better, a bit more clear-headed with the aftermath of overstimulation fading.

He'll still have complete control of option two. It makes his body throb with shameful excitement, and this is the least run-down he's likely to be, the night he'll least need rest free of the game.

He wants to do it, even with the flip of his stomach and the flame of his cheeks and the thought of someone finding out. It's better to have tried and changed his mind than to have the thought plague him, maybes and regrets coming to mind at inappropriate moments.

There's a basket on the counter for toys they've finished with, so they can be sanitized and returned to play. It's his choice to put them there. He sits with his back against the counter, and thinks that he should ask Sasha if she has a bench or chair she could put in here, anything that would offer a place to sit besides the toilet and the floor.

It feels faintly awful to reveal such a part of himself to them. They've had him on his knees and whining for release, seen him locked up and on display, but there has to be a line. They're his friends- well, not quite Martin yet, but soon- but work complicates things, too. Any reasonable person's advice would be not to have started this in the first place. Where's the line between all in good fun and an HR report (though lord knows what they'd do if faced with the whole thing to unravel)?

They've all been so careful about everyone being into whatever they do; he'll trust them to tell him if it's too much. He brushes his teeth, brushes the taste of Sasha out of his mouth, sitting there on the floor. He shuts his eyes when he stands, wobbly but upright, to spit and rinse his mouth. He only opens them when the mirror is out of sight, back on the floor with his back to the counter, groping up behind himself and flushed at the mere idea of what he would have seen in his reflection.

There's a bottle of lube next to the basket, the options laid out side by side like he's in The Matrix. Even by himself it's both humiliating and arousing. There's a clock radio on the counter, moved here especially for him; it's only been about half an hour. He's glad for the lube all the same, body quickly releasing the stretch.

He gathers his courage and opens the door, crawling back into the bedroom wearing nothing but his collar and the plug in his pussy.

He wavers nervously as they all turn to look at him, interrupting whatever conversation they were having. He doesn't know what conclusion they're getting from drinking him in. The moment drags out and snaps, and Sasha says, "Number?"

The embarrassment washes over him again, and all he can do is hold up two fingers, other hand splayed over his face for a moment.

Sasha the concerned friend feeling out his comfort levels vanishes. Sasha the Mistress snaps her fingers, pointing at the floor beside her. "Slut, come."

Martin snorts a nasty laugh. "Bout all it's good for."

He kneels as he's supposed to; he can't see his bed for the night without turning, which might get him in trouble. Sasha skims a hand over his hair, the only attention he gets as they discuss their own sleeping and showering arrangements. The position presses the plug against the floor, trying to fill him even further.

Even distracted, he catches that they'll all be in Sasha's bed. All able to get up in the night and use him.

They all start giggling nervously, the exact timbre of emotion he's awash in. He tunes in in time to catch their plan, and Sasha says, "Slut, stay," and leaves him.

They all pile into the bathroom, door open behind them, laughing at the conclusion that they were too tired to wait for three showers and the stall was plenty big enough for all of them. It wasn't part of the initial plan, he thinks, but he's glad they're having fun. He thinks over and over of trying something, of playing his part as temporarily obedient but trying to escape. He decides he's too tired. They're all too tired. There's always tomorrow.

Sasha scrubs down with a towel and walks into the bedroom naked; she left her pajamas on the bed. She carries herself more confidently than Jon could when she'd only stripped him down to underwear. Tim and Martin follow, and they might as well be dressed for work given their bearing, despite Tim wearing nothing but loose boxers and Martin wearing a shirt and his pants. Jon shrinks in on himself, face still red at what he knows they know he wants.

Sasha snaps her fingers, but instead of giving an order she hooks a casual finger in the front ring of his collar and drags him around, letting him scramble to follow until they're right in front of it. She'd asked him before buying it, double checking answers from his survey. He'd thought of it as an idle curiosity, then a shameful but very present interest, and now his cunt is throbbing with the mess of emotions the dog cage elicits.

It's large, large enough he can probably sit up without hunching over. The door takes up about half the front of the cage, big enough that they could tie him up and set him inside easily. There's a padlock- real- hanging from the mesh near the door, but it's for show for now. If they decide to repeat this experiment somehow it might be used, but not tonight. The cage is large enough to have two other doors on both short sides, but those are padlocked. He has no idea what the use case for three doors is supposed to be.

Sasha swings the door open; there was an extended recital, after it arrived, of her adventures in modifying the door they intended to use. She's hacked the latches off with something, bent some other things a bit out of shape, and now it holds closed with magnets, only as much resistance as a refrigerator door.

His heart is racing. It started when he sat waiting for them to use him, darting looks out of the corners of his eyes. Realizing it was real. That there was a dog cage that they were going to put him in. He's more embarrassed about how into it he is than the fact that it's happening at all. He freezes before the door, clenching hard around the plug.

"Color?" Sasha asks, and he's glad they established the tapping system because his voice is strangled and motionless in his throat. He barely manages to tap the floor three times.

"In," she commands. He hears some movement from Tim and Martin behind him, catches a glance at Sasha taking something as it's handed to her, and then yelps when he's smacked hard on the arse, jarring the plug. He stumbles forward unintentionally, and then he's on the threshold.

He takes a breath, hangs his head, and crawls inside.

The idea is to pretend it's locked; in an emergency either real or psychological he'll be able to easily exit the cage but, barring that, it has all the appearance of trapping him inside. Therefore, it has all the things he's expected to possibly need during the night.

Right in front of the door is a dog bed, draped with a blanket. It gives him the impression of Sasha searching out the fluffiest and most comfortable option she could find, to compensate for the hard metal of the cage's bottom. The other half has no such comforts. The mere implication of the dog bowl of water and puppy pad in the other half of the cage adds to the blush he can't fight down, even though he'll just leave the cage if that becomes a necessity.

He has to turn around on hands and knees to face the door, just like an animal, half-nestled in the bed. He breathes through a rush of humiliation that leaves him light-headed with the rush of blood to his face and his cunt. He clenches involuntarily and realizes he's dripping around the intrusion.

The door swings shut, and his pussy aches. He really is a slut. Sasha says, "Test?" and he pushes at the door, proving he can open it in an emergency. She adds, "Color?" even though he can get out of this any time he wants, no more vulnerable than he was with a locked door between him and the others.

He forces his voice to cooperate for "Green," assuming she's over-cautious because of how non-verbal he's been.

Sasha grabs the slowly swinging cage door and slams it shut with a clatter, making Jon sink back. "Goodnight, Slut," is all the farewell he gets before she turns on her heel and goes back to discussing sleeping arrangements.

He squirms back, dragging the blanket over himself- soft and fluffy and warm and nicer than the blankets he has at home, to be honest- and watches them act like nothing out of the ordinary is happening. The lights go out, but he can see the faint shapes of three people lying in bed, a neat line spread out so that none of them are even close to touching. He hunches into the dog bed and rubs his legs together, desperately aware that some ill-defined punishment is in store if he tries to defuse the coil of tense arousal himself.

He buries his head in the blanket, jumpy and desperate and alone, and simmers in the humiliating hope that someone will use him in the night.

Chapter Text

The cage was an awkward topic from the moment it entered the picture, and they had had a fairly heated discussion while Jon showered. It wasn't particularly productive, but it did result in a queue for the night. Tim is asleep, vibrating alarm set on his smartwatch. Sasha is the same, an absurd early bird when she's excited and planning on being the last to take a turn. Martin watches with hooded eyes as Jon squirms and tries to get comfortable. He gives him plenty of time to finally settle.

When he slips out of bed, padding over to the cage and swinging the door open as quietly as he can, he's half-convinced that he'll wake the others up with how loud his heart is pounding in his ears. Jon doesn't stir at all as Martin scoops him into his arms and lifts him out.

He had a vague intention to leave for one of the guest rooms, whichever he found first, but looking between Jon, still asleep or pretending very well, and the acres of bed around Tim and Sasha, he changes his mind. He knows from earlier that the bed doesn't squeak, and if he's careful he can do this without disturbing either of the others.

This is something that he'd never thought much about before Sasha's survey. For a long time after dropping out of school he was too tired and busy to think of much of anything sexual or romantic, or even platonic, assuming that he'd never have the time for things like that- like this- anyway. He gradually started to consider more after he got (and kept) the job at the Institute, started experimenting, but he never imagined much beyond the basics, relationships that fizzled out after a few dates, hook-ups with a boilerplate order to them, certainly not nearly involved enough to think about anything like this. Seeing the breadth and depth Sasha had assembled for her survey was a bit intimidating. It was a bit more intimidating, having considered what he might be interested in hypothetically doing, how many of those things were things Jon had decided he was willing to have done to him.

He doesn't doubt Jon, both the intensity he gave to his work and the halting, scripted but earnest apology he gave for being so hard on Martin making it clear his default way of engaging with things means that every item must have been considered carefully, but it still seems surreal for the visual of his boss naked and collared to have materialized, much less everything beyond that.

He lays Jon down on the far side of the bed, propped up on pillows but distant from the other two, and kneels over him. He loops a pair of handcuffs around one of the posts of the headboard and closes them around Jon's wrists, padded, no cold metal to wake him. Around one wrist he fastens the button, although for Tim and Sasha's sakes if he needs it he'll probably tap his hand against something instead.

Jon gives no sign of consciousness, but it's the easiest thing in the world to slide the plug out of him, body remembering its desperation. Martin slides into wet heat, one hand keeping his balance and the other covering Jon's mouth.

He gains confidence after a few slow thrusts, speeding up. Jon makes a sleepy sound against his hand, then another. He's pounding into him by the time Jon opens his eyes, crying out against Martin's hand and writhing beneath him.

He stops, hisses, "Color?" anxiously, and starts to lift his hand away, but before he can Jon raps his knuckles against the headboard one, two, three times. He picks up the pace again.

Jon continues to try to squirm out of his grasp or shout against his hand, tears welling in wide eyes with disturbing realism, but he keeps tapping out greens every thirty seconds or so, before Martin can even ask, and for all the moving his upper half does trying to escape, once he's awake he hooks his ankles together behind Martin, pulling him in deeper.

It's kind of embarrassing how well the whole act works for Martin. Jon has just barely subsided, acting too tired to do more than cry (but legs apparently not too tired to hold on) when Martin drives deep within him and comes. Jon grinds against him.

He tries to follow, still searching for friction, when Martin pulls out, but the handcuffs keep him in place. He tries to find release again when Martin's hand comes within range to replace the plug and whines needily, but gives a thumbs up to Martin's whispered, "You okay?"

He fiddles with the handcuffs (using the superfluous key, because Jon's made it very clear just how much he likes the helpless bit of being restrained, the more realistic the better) and asks, "Color for me to put you back in?"

Jon groans softly, pressing his legs together as hard as he can, and whispers, "Green."

He shudders as Martin picks him up again, from cold or anxiety or arousal he couldn't say, but stays limp. Martin tucks the blanket over him once he's back in the dog bed all the same, and Jon is still fighting not to give in to temptation and touch himself when Martin shuts the door and turns away. As he climbs back in bed, he realizes that they exchanged barely ten words during the whole thing. Even knowing Jon was fine with it, enjoyed it even, he feels a bit embarrassed.

Jon certainly must feel like an object now, if that's all the chivalry Martin mustered for him.

Chapter Text

The third time Jon wakes to something pounding into him and a hand over his mouth, pre-dawn light is filtering through the windows.

He squirms, but his hands are cuffed over his head. He's bowed back over the cushion to give a better angle without taking him all the way up off the floor. He blinks blearily, slowly bringing Sasha into focus as she starts to pull away. He whines and bucks his hips.

Sasha' leans over, driving the strap-on a little further in. "Do you want to come, Slut?"

He nods. He did before and hearing her call him that only makes it more urgent.

"Then show me how prettily you can beg for it." She takes her hand off his mouth. "Make sure you don't wake the others."

He heaves in a breath and whispers, "Please, please let me come, Sasha, please."

He's ready to keep going, but she pulls away, leaving him open and desperate. He can't decide whether the plug she slips in a second later is smaller than the one from yesterday, or if he's so pent up that anything that doesn't help him to climax feels inadequate.

He doesn't realize what he did wrong until she says, "Toys address their owners respectfully."

"I'm sorry, Mistress, I'm sorry, please-" anything else is cut off, as Sasha moves the cushion up so it's under his head instead and kneels, straddling him, stripped of everything but her pajama top and, when the nervous anticipation of  the moment starts to peak, starts riding his face. He tries to impress his apologies into every lick, continuing until she stands, leaving him trapped in the cuffs looped around the leg of the bed and his face filthy.

Sasha undoes the cuffs and snaps her fingers, not giving him time to get his bearings and onto his knees before she walks toward the door.

He follows her downstairs, but when they reach the bottom he yawns and Sasha immediately starts fussing at him. He doesn't let her remove the collar or plug, arguing that they'll resume as soon as the other two come downstairs- he actually has no idea how pressing that is, unsure of the time- but lets her wrap him up in a blanket and sit him on the couch. He rests his eyes as she walks away, but soon she's back with a warm washcloth, wiping his face clean. She returns again to press a cup of tea into his hands, and he drinks about half before setting it on a side table, determined just to rest his eyes.

-

The light is brighter when Sasha rouses him and lures him into the kitchen with the promise of breakfast, streaming in through gauzy curtains that block the view of what goes on inside but let the light in full-force. This time he really is up for good, but they sit and chat while they wait for Tim and Martin to wake up, Jon tilted into Sasha with his head on her shoulder, wrapped in a blanket but increasingly fidgety about the plug in his cunt and the unanswered arousal in his gut.

Finally, Tim and Martin start down the stairs, a chorus of thuds audible through the entire condo. He does his best to participate in the conversation as they putter around getting their own breakfast, but Sasha letting him cuddle up to her isn't enough. He forgets what they're talking about minute to minute, only sure that it isn't what he wants with humiliating, alien desperation.

Tim and Martin must not notice quite how badly he's fidgeting with the blanket wrapped around him, because when Sasha looks to him, crooks an eyebrow, and gives him a light push in answer to his nod, they startle. Jon can't see their reaction, because he's already on the floor, blanket left behind and kneeling the way Sasha showed him yesterday, not bothering to resist the urge to whine at the back of his throat.

Sasha gives the other two a moment to recover before she says, "I was thinking we ought to do something to break our new toy in."

Jon can imagine the sort of things they'll say if he lets his reaction to the idea of being "broken in" show any more than his blush gives away. Tim asks, "What do you have in mind?"

"A competition. For the next three days, we each take a turn spending the three hours between breakfast and lunch making it come as many times as possible. Write the number down in a sealed envelope, whoever gets the highest number wins."

Jon sways in place, trying not to react to the proposition.

"What do we get if we win?" Martin asks.

There's a long pause, during which Jon realizes some things he needs to do if his next three hours are spoken for, before Sasha says, "Texted it to you."

Jon works up his courage, face flushing, and says, "Mistress, may I use the loo?"

Sasha says, "Yes, you may. Hurry, though." The point isn't that she might deny him, that's strictly off-limits; it's the humiliation of having to ask.

It turns out to be nigh impossible to hunch his shoulders enough to hide his blush while crawling across the length of the house. Behind him, he hears Tim say, "Okay, but if we're doing this we're doing it right-" before the door is closed and he can't hear the rest.

He forgets to shut his eyes against his reflection when he washes his hands, and he winds up transfixed.

Seeing the collar and knowing it was meant for him is one thing, but seeing his reflection with "SLUT" dangling on a heart-shaped tag, his jaw spotted with a huge hickey, is something else entirely. When he steps back, he can see more of himself, the obscene glisten of his lips around the plug.

He splashes cold water on his face to no effect and goes back out into the condo, where the others are waiting.

Tim is right outside the door, clearly the first contestant in their game. "Broken in" is probably the only way he can imagine himself feeling after what they have planned. Before doing anything else, Tim says, "Color? We don't have to do this if you don't want, Sasha only just came up with the idea."

It's probably extremely obvious how he feels about the idea, with his legs splayed as he kneels, but he says, "Green," anyway.

Tim snaps his fingers in the way Sasha is already making a habit when she wants him to follow, and as he's led up the stairs Sasha yells after them, "If you use the Punishment Room blindfold it first!"

His stomach swoops, and Tim says offhandedly, "Martin and I are fine staying with Sasha, so if you decide you want to sleep separate you can have the big guestroom and we can reserve the smaller one for just that." Which is nice to know, but does nothing to stifle the spiraling curiosity about what they don't want him to see.

He doesn't get a chance to peek, because Tim takes him into the larger guestroom. Evidently, he and Martin were busy before they came down for breakfast. The beds clearly used to be identical, but one has had all the blankets stripped and shoved to the side of the room, nothing but a towel on the bare mattress and restraints dangling, ready, from the four corners. He wonders idly which is the one Tim was trying to convince them was haunted last night.

"On the bed, Slut," Tim says.

Jon feels a spark of brilliance, and sits on the edge of the bed, on the towel. He glances at the restraints, says, "Green," and holds himself stiffly, like he's anticipating resistance.

"Stubborn little toy. You want it rough, don't you?" Tim asks, but he's still hesitating.

Jon feels too hot, worries he's pushing Tim too hard, and for the first time he's the one to ask, "Color?"

Tim's eyes snap to him, surprised. He taps a finger lazily against the headboard, one, two, three, and says, "Have it your way."

Jon tries to fight, but Tim is far stronger and more athletic than him, and once he has the first soft cuff around one of Jon's wrists it takes very little effort to get the rest. He walks down from the first to where Jon's still sitting, if leaning dangerously, and grabs Jon by the ankle, picking him up entirely so all he can do is twist ineffectually in the air. It's almost upsetting how much he enjoys the feeling of being manhandled like that, of being left spread open.

Tim stops long enough to strap the button around one of the posts of the headboard and make sure Jon's hand can reach it, then taps a finger teasingly against the plug. "I'll be right back."

Being alone is the same waiting excitement of being in the Grope Box, of being in Sasha's gift box, made strange by the daylight streaming through the curtains and the ability to see the entire room.

Any nervousness is banished by laughter when Tim comes back, having somehow acquired a small wheeled shelf, the tray of implements visible as it's rolled up beside Jon bringing to mind nothing so much as a villain preparing to torture James Bond, if instead of knives and saws and needles they had sex toys. Tim tries to maintain a straight face, but they lose nearly a minute to mutual giggles before both are able to resume serious expressions.

"Are you going to beg for what you need, Slut?" Tim asks, but being strapped down has added an edge of fear that makes other avenues too tempting.

"Tim, please," he doesn't have to pretend to gasp for air, "you know this is wrong. You know me, please!"

The answering hard slap to one of his tits makes him shout. "Don't pretend you don't know what you are," Tim says, "I've seen you gagging for my cock, I've seen your body show me what it needs when you're too asleep to pretend you're a person. This could have been good for both of us if I didn't have to put you in your place."

He climbs onto the bed, straddling Jon, and looks at him like he's about to ask for a color as he frees his erection. Jon snaps his fingers three times before he can, repeating little trios every so often, a habit he got into last night when he was so into the scene he didn't want it to stop to check verbally.

Tim gives him no time to adjust, pulling the plug out in nearly the same motion he drives into Jon's cunt, shifting him up the bed with the force of it. Jon wants to grind his clit against Tim when he bottoms out, wants to wrap his legs around him to drive him just that bit deeper, but he's held spread over the bed too well, restraints too tight to let him contribute.

Tim starts thumbing his clit midway through, finally allowing Jon to come. He follows not long after, still flicking Jon's clit as he squeals with overstimulation. When he pulls out, Jon sees him lean over to the tray of toys and pick up a pencil he didn't notice earlier, marking down his first tally.

He isn't empty for long, and Jon can feel dribbles of cum dripping out around the vibrating dildo Tim shoves into him. His fingers move down, coated in lube so he can start on Jon's other hole, empty since last night and not receptive to being filled. Tim's free hand roves, toying with Jon's nipples, his clit, scratching out another tally when the dildo overcomes Jon and he comes again.

When he finally deems himself finished, Tim makes sure that Jon sees him reach for the plug, sees him turn it on, watches it vibrate before it's lodged inside him, making his toes curl. "We want you to be ready for when I take you here, too. You'd like that, wouldn't you Slut? You want me to fill up every hole you have, keep you fed and watered on nothing but my cum?"

He sighs a droning "eeeee" noise through his teeth before he takes in a breath that unexpectedly becomes a sob and says, "Yes, sir, please, please use my holes, make me useful, I need it, please, please fill me up and plug me so it sloshes around inside me and I can't forget what I am, please sir!"

He whines in the silence that follows, afraid it was too much, he's too much, but too addled to apologize. He squirms, and his face is wet with tears. The sound of another vibrator clicking on goes through him like a bolt of lightning, taut and straining against the cuffs.

Tim strokes a hand over his forehead, wiping away sweat and smoothing his hair back. The wand touches Jon's clit in tiny, tapping bursts, even arching toward the toy and sobbing for it. "Shh.... good toy. Isn't that better? This is why it's so difficult for you. You aren't meant to be anything else, that's why it's so hard. You want to be good, don't you?"

Jon sniffles, suddenly aware of the  contrast between Tim, standing calm and returned to fully dressed, and himself, naked, spread open and sticky with tears and sweat and snot and cum, unable to do more than nod while Tim says things that in this headspace, this moment, feel like they make everything make sense.

"Good," Tim coos, holding the wand hard against his clit. When the aftershocks fade, he marks another tally, looking no different than he does crossing off leads at work. He strokes Jon's forehead. Jon hums and tries to lean into the touch. "You want to be good for me, don't you?"

Jon sniffs again. "Yes, sir."

Tim smiles down at him. "What are you?"

He wriggles, swallowing hard, hot enough his blush must extend halfway down his chest. "Your toy, sir."

"What kind of toy?" Tim presses.

Jon hiccups another sob, but taps on the headboard when Tim looks concerned, faculties no longer up to snapping his fingers. He doesn't want this to stop, doesn't want the sticky mess of emotion inside him to stop being teased smooth by Tim making him say some of the most mortifying things he can imagine. "Your Slut, sir." Tim hums, face expectant. Jon's eyes squeeze shut without permission and a tear slides down his face, inhale tremoring before he can say, "Your fucktoy. Fleshlight. Cum dumpster." He gasps a sob, out of ideas and unbearably wound up, wishing for the wand against his clit again.

Tim leans over, pressing a soft kiss to Jon's brow. "Good Slut," he praises, and Jon arches up after the kiss. "Who do you belong to?"

"You sir," his eyes open, glassy with desperation and humiliation, "You and- and my Mistress, and-" he freezes, trying to think of how to refer to Martin in the third person without using his name.

"Good job," Tim says, truncating the dilemma. "What do you want?"

He chews his lip before answering, anxious. "To come. Please, sir."

"Why?"

"Be- because it's what I'm for, sir."

"Good toy," Tim says again, and then the wand is pressed hard to his clit and he doesn't have to think of anything else for a long time.

Chapter Text

Tim startles at the knock at the door, glancing between it and Jon, realizing what this looks like.

He's a bit flushed and flustered himself, panting after using both Jon's holes in relatively quick succession, but Jon looks destroyed. He hasn't done anything but moan and whine and cry for well over an hour. He answers the door a bit cautiously, poking his head out. Martin looks a bit wide-eyed, and Tim realizes he can probably hear both Jon and the array of vibrating toys inside Jon.

"Time's up, but I'm not allowed to come in until you seal and label your envelope," Martin says, apparently deciding the best way to defuse an awkward situation is to ignore it.

"Right." He shoots Martin a thumbs up and darts back, glancing at the tallies he's marked out and determining that he's made a more than decent showing. "Come in!" he calls, and on the bed Jon flinches. Tim realizes his phone is right there, and Jon listed being photographed as "Interested," with comments elaborating that he should get veto power for any he wants deleted and they should stay between the four of them and as secure as possible unless he specifically consents to sharing. The handful of shots Tim gets of him are plenty, but he knows there was a furious discussion of what Jon meant by "consenting to share," that ended with him and Sasha both red-faced and trying to tamp down giggles, which is promising in its own right. Tim's a bit miffed he forgot yesterday and missed out on a shot of Jon in the gift box. Maybe they can reenact it later.

Martin's eyes go big when he sees Jon, the snot bubbles and red-rimmed eyes and plenitude of toys, the cum dribbling onto the towel laid underneath to keep from staining the mattress. He starts helping Tim without comment. Jon whines as things are removed and turned off, and when he's unshackled he rolls and collapses off of the bed onto all fours.

"Do you need a break before we go down? To clean up?" Tim asks.

Jon shakes his head and sways to lean against Tim's shins. "Color?" he asks, which Tim learned over the course of the session is his go-to response when he wants something rather badly but thinks he's being an imposition. That little tidbit he'll need to be sure to alert Sasha and Martin to; he suspects that the habits that lead Jon to overworking himself to an absurd degree apply here, and it's the three of their responsibility to pump the brakes when it seems like he's in danger of burning out.

"Green," he says, instead of any of the rest. "Do you want to go straight down because you want Sasha to see you like this? To see what a good toy you are, ridden hard and put away wet?"

Jon nods shyly into Tim's trouser leg. Tim gives him a once over to decide whether he wants Sasha to see Jon like this, knowing Tim's the one who put him into that state.

Jon's face is flushed with exertion and embarrassment, tacky with dried sweat and tear tracks, nose dribbly from the crying, eyes a bit crazed. His hair is sticking up like he's been electrocuted, matted into disarray by sweat. His nipples are clamped, the chain between them making his tits sway in hypnotic unison, no matter what gravity or posture tries to do. He's back to being plugged in both holes.

Tim ends up holding a tissue over Jon's nose. "Blow."

Snot wiped away, he snaps his fingers and lets  Jon crawl after him otherwise unchanged.

Sasha has lunch mostly moved to the table, final dishes waiting enticingly on the counter. She looks up and takes Tim's envelope, then draws up short the same way Martin did.

She walks over to Jon, hand gentle on his bowed head. "Color?"

Jon shifts. "Green, Mistress." 

"It wanted you to see it like that. See how good it was being for me," Tim adds.

Sasha looks dubious, eyes darting between the tear tracks and the plugs. He knows from experience that she can take either or both of these particular plugs with little trouble, but Jon's quite a bit smaller than her, and in him they look almost obscenely large.

"Are you sure?"

A little of the dazed expression leaves in favor of annoyance as he says, "Yes, Mistress."

Tim suspects it's the annoyance, more than anything, that convinces her he's fine, and leaves her to tell Jon how good he's been while he darts off to freshen up a bit himself.

Sasha must have stalled, teasing Jon redder and redder so that Tim doesn't miss the next bit. As soon as he skids into his seat, phone camera at the ready, she says, "Lunchtime, Slut."

Jon freezes when she sets the two dog bowls in front of him, water in one and the marinated chicken on rice the rest of them are having chopped up into very small, easy pieces in the other. His eyes go wide and his face goes red. Tim has found himself, the past few weeks, extremely happy to discover that Jon blushes easily.

Tentatively, he takes one hand out from behind his back and reaches for a piece of chicken. Sasha, hovering just out of his periphery waiting for this moment, snaps forward to grab Jon by the hair before he can get close.

"Toys aren't allowed to eat like that," she says. Tim gets a lovely shot of how Jon's clamped tits arch toward the ceiling as he bends backward to relieve the pull on his hair. "I thought you learned your lesson with Tim. I'm so disappointed you decided not to be good."

Jon, clearly still feeling pretty fragile, sniffs, eyes welling. "I'm sorry Mistress."

Sasha lets go, smoothing a hand over his hair. "You'll learn." And to be sure of it, she binds Jon's arms in position before taking her seat.

Jon looks mortified as he realizes what he's supposed to do, and even moreso when he glances up and sees that they're arrayed slightly awkwardly around the table so they can all watch, and Tim's phone is out.

But instead of calling a yellow or red, he shimmies tellingly on the plugs and leans forward toward his lunch, letting Tim capture a mirror of the shot of his tits, now dangling as he bends forward. Jon doesn't stop when Tim stands and gets a few profile shots of him eating like an animal, either.

When he returns to the table, his and Martin's phones both ping with a message from Sasha. Both look up and nod agreement; they're definitely doing some aftercare between now and dinner, for all their sakes.

-

Sasha's announcement of a break after lunch leads to a heated argument. Surprisingly, it's not against the idea generally. It is against Sasha's desire to at least remove the collar and all of the toys. Jon has a number of arguments pertaining to both practicality and his own preferences. It hits a peak with Jon announcing he doesn't want to drip cum onto either his own clothes or Sasha's furniture, and both are knocked back into blinking, red-faced silence for a long moment. It ends when Martin texts Sasha, and Tim texts his corroboration, that Jon seems worried that this is too much for them and seems to regard the solidity of the padlock holding his collar closed as something of a security blanket against the idea. Tim's fairly sure he hasn't even noticed how he runs his hands over the leather back to the metal any time his hands aren't otherwise occupied. In the end, Sasha removes the clamps and the rope around his arms, and Jon ends up swaddled in a blanket she promises is entirely machine washable and holds no sentimental value,

They end up playing Monopoly, after watching Jon's eyes start to slip closed once he was wrapped in the blanket. Jon banishes any worries that he's tying himself into a psychological knot, accounting for the argument against a little aftercare, by glaring down any (entirely absent) opposition to his claim on the cat once he sees that Sasha's edition is a newer one, and then by leaning heavily against Tim, eyes lidded, and making him pass the dice into Jon's blanket cocoon, draw cards, move Jon's token, place houses, and pay and collect  his money for him. When he's not playing the game for both of them, Tim also lifts the glass of juice Sasha poured so that Jon can sip from the straw and feeds him chocolate-covered pretzels.

No one's made it more than halfway around the board when Martin removes Jon's cat and puts the dog in its place, but Jon's protests quickly subside when he's handed the cat. He spends the rest of the game stroking it between his fingers with a sleepy smile on his face. 

Tim doesn't know whether to feel like a winner when Jon somehow wins without doing more than dropping dice out from the blanket.

Sasha and Martin leave at that point to start dinner, and Jon gives up being vertical entirely, laying on his side, still stroking the Monopoly cat, with his right arm reaching out from the blanket so they can play Battleship. Tim, regardless of how tired Jon looks as he continues to refuse a nap for being too close to bedtime, doesn't throw the game, because he knows Jon well enough not to insult him by implying he can't win all on his own. Which he does, somehow. Twice.

He scoots up close to Jon, back against the couch and legs stretched out in front of him, and coaxes Jon up off the floor and onto his lap, patting an indeterminate part of Jon's blanket-clad torso. "Do you want to eat at the table and go to bed, or go back to the scene?"

Jon looks at him sideways, eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"We're all fine with either! It's your show!" Tim is actually quite certain that he'll get an earful from Sasha, but sometimes she and Jon are so much alike she starts displacing her self care into smothering him.

Jon hums, and Tim knows what he wants before he says it from the blush. "Not at the table."

"Alright. Let's just wait for the others to let us know dinner's ready." He shoots Sasha a text, and immediately feels a hole start burning through the back of his skull from her glaring. He sends another text, reiterating why he feels they should do this. Just like every other time he's brought up her helping others instead of taking care of herself, she's furious but finds herself with little ground to argue- or so he interprets from the emojis that make up her answer.

Jon relaxes into Tim's lap, letting Tim pet him, until they hear dishes start to be moved to the dining table. Then he hums and bonks his head into Tim's torso to get his attention. He barely manages to point to what he wants before burying his face- in Tim's crotch, which he manfully refuses to draw attention to- in embarrassment. Tim's checking verbally gets him a little triplet tap to the knee, and when Sasha calls out that dinner's ready, Jon goes with the nipple clamps back in place.

Jon gets none of the Sasha James Scowl as she places the two dog bowls in front of him once again. Out of the blanket he looks much more awake, murmuring, "Thank you, Mistress."

At the table, she gives Tim a Look. Tim gives her a Look right back, jerking his head so she'll look back at Jon.

Rather than hunch his arms over the bowl now that he has them free, Jon has them folded in position behind his back, dipping over the bowls with surprising grace, a shy smile determinedly flickering at the edges of his mouth. Tim isn't sure Jon realizes how doing it like that really shows off his tits.

Sasha continues to hate Tim for being right about everything when they go upstairs almost immediately after dinner and he once again suggests a nightcap. In the hanging moment after, Jon knocks against the baseboard three times and then buries his face in his hands, which makes Sasha melt. Even with every fuckable hole he has in use, Jon whines for attention, leaning into the hands Tim and Martin run over him, teasing. When he makes his dizzy way toward a shower, the argument finally plays out in whispers.

The tension is gone again when Jon comes out and the three of them tumble into their shared shower, laughing. For good, he thinks, having gotten Sasha to listen long enough to get across how this, for Jon, is most of all being wanted, and how desperately he wants that. Hearing that Tim is just as devoted as her to making sure everyone gets the full day of scheduled rest loosely penciled into sometime midweek helps, as does sharing not the contents of what was said when it was just the two of them, but the conclusions Tim drew.

Chapter Text

Jon knows that the others think he's being foolish, reckless, any number of things, but he doesn't have the words to explain to them how nice it feels having them pretend to want him enough to force him to stay. His collapse onto the tile once the door is between him and the others is as much embarrassment as it is exhaustion.

When he forces himself into motion, he doesn't bother avoiding his reflection; its embarrassing secrets were revealed earlier. All it can offer now is better lighting to show how vigorously he's been used, how obvious that is looking at him.

The shower feels good, all the sweat and... various other fluids... finally washed away. He realizes when he wraps up in a towel that he hasn't thought at all about where he'll be sleeping tonight, hasn't even remembered it's in question.

They'll let him sleep in the big bed with them; it isn't a question of wanting to avoid the room Tim took him apart in and its probable remaining odor, or the ominously-renamed Punishment Room (now with handwritten sign, he noticed when they got upstairs).

He wants it, just as much as he did last night. He wants it when he remembers he's supposed to make a choice, and he wants it when he remembers being woken up over and over, and he wants it as he brushes his teeth.

He still wants it when he notices two smaller plugs have been conspicuously put out, the exact genre of unsubtle hint Sasha employs at work when she's irritated enough to get passive-aggressive. And they are passive-aggressive. But he also sees what else they are: A peace offering, a sign she isn't upset at him for only partially following her advice.

He's sure some very telling looks are exchanged over his head when she asks where he's sleeping, but no one objects. Curled into the dog bed, he's sure these are the days he'll be cursing his past self over when he has back problems in somewhere between five and twenty-five years, but he doesn't care.

How easily he falls asleep like that is another mark in the humiliation column, but he can't bring himself to care.

-

His arms aren't curled around his head like they usually are when he sleeps. He tries to pull them back down, but they stop. The little jerk of resistance opens his awareness to two other things: the hand over his mouth and the cock thrusting steadily into his cunt.

He squirms, trying to escape in a single icy moment of fear, then remembers what's happening and arches into it. He doesn't bother opening his eyes, but he does remember to tap out signals on the headboard. He's too asleep to remember what exactly they mean, but he knows if he wants to keep getting fucked they're important.

He's so close when the cock spurts inside him and pulls out, but all he gets is a plug, nowhere near enough. His hands are free, and as he pulls them down they touch leather and he remembers he isn't allowed to touch himself, has to live with the terrible tension inside him until someone else relieves it.

Martin hisses, "Color to go back?" and he remembers the answer is "Green!" even if he's asleep again before he remembers what the question means.

-

He isn't as deeply asleep the second time he wakes up with his arms above his head and a cock inside him, but he pretends otherwise.

He wants to know what will happen if he doesn't wake up. If he doesn't wake up they have permission to finish inside him and put him back where they found him; he wants to know if Tim will do it.

He can't quite keep from following desperately after the friction Tim's body offers his throbbing clit, but the charade must come off because as he pulls out Tim whispers, "Jon?"

When he doesn't respond, Tim sucks a hickey into the side of his neck and puts him away.

-

Curved over a cushion on the floor, he tries to chase the silicone pumping in and out of him. "Please, Mistress!"

Apparently it isn't enough to beg anymore, though, because Sasha doesn't touch him again until the strap-on is put away and she's rearranging him so she can ride his face.

He gets the warm washcloth treatment there on the floor, but when she rouses him to follow downstairs she still makes him lie down on the couch. When he wakes up there for the final time, she asks, "Are you aware of what you have on the side of your neck?"

Jon flushes and confirms he absolutely is by clapping a hand over it. "I... I wanted to see what he would do if I pretended not to wake up. Apparently he needed a trophy to prove it happened."

She laughs and gives him a look- he knows she doesn't understand his interest in the passive role in that particular kink because she's said as much, but she doesn't say anything about it. As his brain continues to come back online he sits up straight, urgent, and hisses, "Don't tell him!"

"I won't," she promises, also in a whisper, and starts bullying him off the couch to come eat breakfast. When the other two arrive, Tim seems entirely taken in by his reaction to the accounting of the previous night, probably because of how hard Jon blushes and stammers.

-

Martin is no less effective at taking him apart, if different. Instead of making him beg for it, Martin murmurs at every turn how good he's being, how beautiful he is. He ends up crying a fair bit anyway.

There's no argument after lunch; Sasha seems content to let the previous arrangement stand as long as Jon cooperates to what she considers the bare minimum standard. He leans against Martin, this time, and can't decide if he wins Cluedo on his own merits or because they let him.

When he comes out of the bathroom that evening, increasingly coming to terms with his own interests, all three of them stop talking at once.

He kneels back, looking up. "What were you talking about?"

Sasha opens her mouth, clearly about to tell him, but Tim leans over and starts whispering aggressively in her ear, hand cupped around his mouth and all. Jon glares at him. So does Sasha, as he leans back into his own personal space, but she says, "Do you need to know now, or can it wait for noon tomorrow?"

How ominous. He considers. "Do you think that, at noon tomorrow, I will wish I knew now?"

It doesn't take her long to think it over. She frowns. "Almost certainly not. And if I told you you'd know you didn't want to know instantaneously."

"Then I'll wait."

The thought is erased moments later when he realizes he's crawled over to the cage without even telling them what he wants. Sasha lets him in, though, and he's asleep before the other three even start the shower.

-

He has a fuzzy memory that might be Tim, and he wakes up far more desperate to climax than the cursory thrusting of Sasha's strap-on necessarily accounts for, but he doesn't know for sure until, sat for breakfast the same as the previous two mornings, the others reveal that not only did Tim and Martin both use him in the night, they took advantage of him falling asleep so early to set up a tripod for their phones and film it.

It's too much. Between knowing he'll have to let Sasha be the last to try to win their stupid contest just as soon as breakfast ends and the unexpectedly powerful effect of seeing his own unconscious, handcuffed body fucked by the light of a bedside lamp with no more consideration than a toy (twice!), he spends the rest of breakfast failing to swallow whines and keep his hips from rolling, trying to use the chair to make the plugs inside him hit the spot he needs.

Chapter Text

Sasha is pretty sure she's a bit mad with power. At this point the best she can do is probably vowing to be a benevolent dictator.

Jon melts so easily into every order she gives him, and then confirms she should take charge by resisting her when she tries to get him to take care of himself. She knows she isn't out of control, Tim and Martin would put a stop to everything if she was, but she didn't expect to enjoy herself this much. Didn't expect it to get to her as much as it does when she looks down on him, naked, collared and caged like a dog. When he kneels at her feet and leans into it as she strokes his hair.

Jon is a whining, teetering mess of lust before they even finish breakfast, falling gratefully to his knees when she tells Tim to start the timer and heads for the stairs, grabbing the things she got ready while he was sleeping a bit more as they pass the kitchen island. He stays right at her heels all the way up the stairs, he'd run into her if she didn't step to the side when she stops.

He teeters impatiently, but kneels just like he's supposed to. He's confused for a second when she lets the length of the blindfold unspool from her hand, and then his face goes through a gymnastics routine as he remembers what it means, eyes darting in the direction of the sign Martin convinced her to put on the Punishment Room door when he and Tim decided they didn't need the guest room. Jon whines a bit.

Sasha smooths a hand over his hair, by now a familiar gesture that she takes as much comfort from as Jon seems to, and says, "Shhh. I did some shopping while Martin had you yesterday," he turns bright red, "and now it's set up better. You're so good for me, sweetheart, you're not being punished."

More specifically, she found out Tim and Martin had been using a folded towel to protect the mattress in the other room and decided if it was that much of a concern she could just buy the sort of plastic sheet meant to be put under the real sheet for children who still wet the bed. No one else is going to sleeping in there, not the way it's set up now, and it's too much of a pain to return it to its usual state, so it'll probably remain that way for a while after this ends.

"Color?" she asks, just in case.

Jon's eyes roll from her, to the Punishment Room, and back to her before he says, "Green."

The blindfold also constitutes the first way in which she's stacked the deck in her favor in their little contest. Jon likes being pulled around by the collar, and he likes things that make him feel vulnerable or embarrassed, at least with them. The next purchase she made clips with a satisfying noise into the front D-ring of his collar, and the sound makes Jon stop trying to find a gap of light in her extremely thorough multiple wraps of the blindfold. She regrets doing that first; the short leash is purple to match the collar, which she thinks Jon would appreciate.

He gets the idea quickly as she sets off down the hall, leash in hand, pulling him along as soon as she's taken a full step. He moves warily, but his choice is changing his color or Sasha, and he- gratifyingly- chooses her. "Do you remember what your yellow's for?" she asks at the door, and he nods.

He moves obediently when she unclips the leash and guides him onto the bed and straps him in place. He rubs against the sheet, probably enjoying the texture after two days of bare mattress and towels, or wondering what the crunchy sound of the plastic sheet is. As soon as she's confirmed that he knows where the button is and can reach it, she gets to start.

"Did the other two play with you before they let you come?" she asks as she prepares her next set of tools.

"Yes, Mistress," he says, sweet as a lamb and with no idea of what's about to happen.

She hums. "I'm not going to do that. Do you know why?"

Jon's answer is lost in a keening breath as she slides both plugs out of him and attaches the first clip to his labia. She straps it to his thigh, holding him open for her perusal. He pants, but says, "Green," before she can ask, tapping it out on the headboard at the same time.

She gets the other side finished before he manages to choke, "No, Mistress."

"I'm not going to do that because you're a toy," she says. Jon moans, tapping on the headboard making it clear what sort of moan it is. "I don't have to make you want to come. Your body is going to do what I want, because it belongs to me. You belong to me. Come."

The theatrics pay off; Jon about screams the moment she grinds the vibrator into his clit. She moves it away the moment she's sure of his orgasm- so more or less instantaneously- refusing to provide anything to carry him through, leaving him even more desperate than before. His hips jerk at the air, but with his legs and folds held splayed he doesn't have even the friction of his own body for relief. He keens, tapping on the headboard.

She told him, while the two of them waited for Tim and Martin, that edging would be something of a theme in their session. He probably got the impression it would be less prominent, and/or of a different type than she actually plans, but that's irrelevant. What matters is that he knows if it's too much he should give yellow instead of green. She's checked multiple times that he knows, and here he is tapping out green.

"Come," she says, applying the vibrator again. Again, he nearly screams.

Her phone pings, and luckily they're in a good place for her to take a moment to text Tim that they're fine and everything is under control. She even double checks, asking "Color?" and getting a response that's just shy of having too much moan in it to be an intelligible word. "Not yellow?" she asks.

"Nooooo," Jon half says, half sighs.

Her phone is already in her hand, so she takes a few pictures. Then she changes her mind, and takes a little video of Jon held open and rutting at air. She mutes the phone and puts it down before they can respond.

She sits on the edge of the bed. "Who do you belong to?"

"You, Mistress." Good boy. That gets him another order to come, another taste of the vibe, another orgasm that doesn't get to hit its peak. She taps a finger teasingly feather-light across his pussy, swiping away some of the old cum drooling out. He whimpers.

"Does your body belong to you?" she asks.

He shivers, still tapping his little trios. "No, Mistress." Again.

She stands, starts perusing her options as silently as she can. It isn't long before he's tossing his head, unable to dislodge the blindfold. He holds as still and silent as he can, listening hard.

He knows she hasn't left, he heard how the door squeaks on the way in, but she can see him thinking it, wondering if there's some way he could have been left alone.

Finally, still trying to thrust and grind at the air, he asks, "Mistress?"

The trap springs on him with ferocity. He's desperate enough that the smack of her little paddle makes him come anyway.

"What rule did you break?" she asks when he's back with her.

He pants. "I- I-"

Too slow. Another smack. She can't decide this time, so she asks, "Did you come from being punished, Slut?"

His face turns bright red. "Y-yes Mistress," his voice gets quieter with every syllable, "both times."

"You spoke out of turn," she says, can see him try to decide if it would be speaking out of turn again to apologize. She moves on before he has to.

"What's your name?"

"Sssslut, Mistress." He turns his head, wanting to hide but unable to go anywhere. She rewards him and he forgets about being embarrassed. She goes silent again, leaving him in suspense between each question, each order to come, never letting him ride it out all the way through.

"What are you?"

"Your toy, Mistress." The specificity of "your" was unasked for, but she lets him have a little longer with the vibrator for showing the initiative. He just has to wait a little longer in silence in compensation.

"What kind of toy are you, Slut?"

-

Jon is shaky and whimpering and exquisite, completely at his wits' end when they both startle at a knock on the door. Sasha skims a look over her set of tallies, stuffs it into the envelope and tosses the envelope under the door, calling, "We'll be down in a minute!"

She strokes a finger up his slit before she starts undoing the clamps, and he makes a plaintive sound. "Do you still want to come, Slut?" she asks, pretending she has no idea why he might.

"Yes, Mistress," Jon says.

She hums sympathetically. "Do you want to play board games after lunch, or do you want me to tell Tim and Martin to fuck you?"

"No board games, Mistress," still burning up at even the implication of begging, and utterly adorable for it.

"You'll have to tell me what you do want, then."

He sniffles, hips jerking against nothing. "I want to get fucked, Mistress."

"Why?"

"So I can come, Mistress."

That gets a smack, across his thighs. He isn't getting anything against his clit now, not until after either lunch or dinner, depending on his answers. "It doesn't matter if a toy comes."

He whines, but says, "Because it's- it's what I'm for, Mistress."

"And what's that?"

"Being a- a cock sleeve cum dumpster fucktoy, Mistress." Blindfolded, he can't see her smother a snicker into her hand at his effort to be comprehensive enough that she doesn't ask again.

"So what is it that you want?"

"I want to be fucked and filled and used after lunch, Mistress, please!"

She skims a hand over his hair. "Good toy." She texts the others letting them know the plan. Then she slowly, tenderly works her fingers into him, stretches him for a new set of plugs, a very particular set, the biggest he's taken yet, and none of it enough to let him come.

She swaps to the longer leash she bought, holding it short until they're out of the room and the door is closed. Jon stays in position, not even trying to touch his blindfold before she unwinds it. As soon as it's off she starts walking, letting the length spool in front of him while he blinks at the light, not reaching the end of it before he can see what it is and scramble after her.

Chapter Text

When Sasha rounds the corner into the kitchen, Tim immediately shouts, "Cheater!" He gets distracted before he can say anything else, blinking and focused on the purple leash in her hand instead.

"You opened them without me!"

"You cheated!" he says.

"Just because I'm better than you doesn't mean I cheated!"

Jon comes to a halt next to her, rocking in position. He clears his throat. "There was a- a clear winner." Sasha looks smug. Jon mostly looks red.

Tim doesn't glance at his phone, doesn't see Sasha's text, until he sits at the table. He gives her a look, and then stops, because she has Jon's food next to her, hand feeding him little cut up sections of sandwich instead of leaving him to eat from the bowls. She picks up her own sandwich, free hand stroking Jon's hair where his forehead rests against her legs.

"Do you want to know what we were talking about last night, Slut?" she asks.

Jon perks up at remembering a mystery. "Yes, Mistress."

"Tim thought that it would be unfair to have our contest each with different conditions, so we agreed that if you decided on your own to sleep in the cage, everyone would use you without letting you come like we did the first night." Her voice is admirably steady, considering the blush they can see but Jon can't.

"What was the prize, Mistress?"

Sasha shuts him up with a piece of sandwich. "Toys don't need to know how they're going to be used."

Jon whines, but says, "Sorry, Mistress."

"I was thinking," Tim says when he's gotten over what seeing Jon like that is doing for him, "no one but Sash's used its mouth to come yet."

Martin turns pink, but it doesn't show in his voice. "Flip you for it?"

"Sure."

Martin wins, but Tim thinks the panting, gasping sounds Jon makes should make them all feel like winners.

-

Tim gestures for Martin to wait and hurries upstairs. The rechristened Punishment Room is a bit of a mess, storing all the toys he and Sasha have pulled together for this and no longer kept tidy by the threat of Jon sleeping there to get away from the game, but he finds what he needs quick enough.

He has Jon move away from the table, into the open area of floor where he's been eating the past couple days. Even trying to hold still, Jon can't help but rock the plugs against the floor. Tim does his nipples first, letting him get a look at the set of three, all the same pink as the plugs, and giving him plenty of time to object before the last goes on his clit. He groans, but doesn't say anything.

Just the motion of him breathing is already making the weights on his tits sway.

Next, Tim straps a spreader bar between Jon's splayed knees, telescoping it out until Jon's body gives resistance. Tying his arms in position behind him and putting the button in place is quick, and then there's just the blindfold, a foam one that can just be strapped around his head like a pair of goggles; Tim doesn't have Sasha's patience for winding and tying off fabric. He lets the gag dangle against Jon's cheek so he knows it's coming when he asks, "Color?"

Jon pants and groans, but he still says, "Green."

With the ring gag in he can't stifle the little noises he makes anymore. Tim shoots Martin a look, hoping he remembers what they were discussing while Sasha was busy winning their contest, and that he'll realize which idea Tim is thinking of. Martin gives him a thumbs up and hooks a hand through the loop of Jon's bound arms and lifts until Tim can get a good grip on the spreader bar. Swinging him between the two of them they carry him, belly down, to the living room, letting the weights on all three clamps sway freely. Jon is audibly having trouble catching his breath by the time they're there.

Tim has a pretty good idea of the sort of state Sasha must've had Jon in to decide she wasn't going to make them all take a break for the afternoon and, knowing what he himself has in store, decides to torture him a little. A look at Martin has him fiddling with the plug in Jon's cunt before pulling out the other. Jon's despairing noise is smothered by Tim's cock, and they're off, rocking him back and forth between them by their grips on his hair and hips. Every so often it makes one of the weighted clamps sway hard enough to give Jon a particular pang, and he tries to cry out.

Tim watches closely, but while he sees Jon's fingers drift toward the button once or twice when they draw away they do so with an emphatic harshness to the gesture.

Sasha comes over with her phone, and Tim smiles his thanks to her.

When it's over, Jon's thighs are twitching with the urge to pull together and give him any kind of friction, but they can't. Martin replaces the plug and Tim fits a bulb into the ring gag, muffling any noise Jon tries to make.

They carry him over to a bit of floor against the wall, visible from most of the ground floor, swinging and moaning again. Martin gives the position Tim arranges Jon in a dubious look: Jon's knees and shoulders both on the ground, arse in the air, forced to maintain the pose by a strap hooked into his collar and tied around the spreader, displaying his stuffed, wanting holes to anyone who cares to look. Only then does Tim remove the weights from the clamps.

He stands and gives Jon's thigh a smack. "There. I think it's a real conversation piece."

Jon makes a despairing noise that makes Sasha ask his color, but after a long pause he snaps his fingers three times.

Sasha and Martin go to the kitchen to finish with the dishes. Tim grabs his phone and takes a few pictures before joining them.

He waits until he sees Jon slump, sure he's been forgotten for at least the moment, before taking the remote out of his pocket and clicking the button to set both plugs and all three clamps vibrating.

The noise Jon makes startles Martin hard enough he almost breaks a plate.

Chapter Text

For a long moment after everything starts buzzing, Jon thinks he's gotten so desperate he's started imagining things. Then he's relieved, letting it finally coax him to and through a satisfying orgasm.

Then he's a different kind of desperate, unable to think about anything but the relentless assault on his senses.

He's half-forgotten that there is anything but the constant vibration when it stops. It feels like it's still there, just in a different form, all the parts of him that got used to vibrating sending signals insisting they still are.

No one comes to return him to normal. Instead, Tim kneels beside him and removes whatever's hooked into his collar to make leaving his assigned position impossible, takes out the gag, and scoops Jon into his arms as-is.

He can tell he's set down on the hardwood, but otherwise has no idea where until two chairs screech in on either side of him. Before he can think of safewording to get hold of some of the excellent-smelling dinner, a fork taps against his lips.

As conversation strikes up, he realizes he's knelt under the table, between Tim and Martin. Both feed him bites from their forks, taking turns so he gets about the same amount of dinner- he's still not sure what it is from taste and texture alone, but it tastes as good as it smells- as he might feeding himself. He isn't sure which is more embarrassing, them making a habit of making him eat like a dog or them making a habit of hand-feeding him. At least this time there are utensils involved.

"You up for a nightcap?" Tim asks at one point, making him blush because he knows even if Tim is asking him, he's the nightcap. He nods anyway; after the day he's had, it actually sounds incredibly appealing.

He's left under the table as they spend a bit clattering- and presumably washing- dishes. Then Tim comes back and removes the bar between Jon's knees. Instead of doing anything else, he pours Jon into his arms and carries him up the stairs. It's probably not a bad idea; Jon has no idea how well he'd be able to get to the bedroom under his own power.

Tim removes the clamps once they're both sat on the cushion, but leaves the blindfold and rope. Jon realizes too late that the removal of the clamps has made their victims extremely tender, but under sustained human attention the tension inside him finally uncoils. Tim and Martin make short work of the rope and blindfold when he's slumped onto Tim's shoulder in the afterglow, but they don't give him time to move. Instead, and instead of shoving the plugs back in as soon as they pull out, Tim takes advantage of Jon's arms being draped around his neck to lift him into another bridal carry.

With Tim apparently determined to take over, Jon lets his eyes droop shut. The shower starts, and he assumes Sasha and Martin are inside, but then Sasha says, "It's warm," and Tim carries him in.

The shower turns out to fit four people as easily as it does three, at least when the fourth is barely awake and kept on their feet only by their arms  around someone's neck. As the pieces click together, he feels very warm knowing that Sasha and Martin braved the cold spray so they could tell Tim to carry him in only after it warmed up.

His arms are separated and draped around each of his assistants' necks in turn, all of them washing both him and themselves when they aren't the one holding him up. He's too tired to feel embarrassed. They keep telling him he did a good job, and petting his hair, and giving whatever part of him they're helping wash off little pats. At one point, Sasha plants a kiss between his shoulder blades and says, "You're sleeping in a real bed tonight." He hums agreement; he's already gotten today's credit against his future back problems, thank you very much.

When they climb out, he's back to Tim, who lifts him off his feet just long enough to step out of the shower, setting him on his feet on the mat, where they both drip as Sasha and Martin dry themselves, and are both toweled down when that's accomplished. He's faintly aware of being helped into his pajamas, and makes himself focus enough to take his arms down and manage the rest himself.

Tim carries him out of the bathroom and toward the bed, and Jon curls up as much as he can against his chest. "You good to sleep in here?" Tim asks. Jon hums happily against his chest.

Tim walks to the door out of the bedroom, and Jon makes a distressed sound. He stares up in betrayed confusion when Tim sets him on one of the guestroom beds, but then Sasha and Martin are there. Tim climbs onto the bed- Jon realizes that the comforter has been tossed back over the bare mattress, the rest of the bedclothes still in their heap against the wall- and arranges himself behind Jon until Jon can lean against his chest instead of trying to hold himself upright on his own.

Sasha starts unpacking an extremely precarious looking tupperware.

"I didn't have a basket," she says when she sees where he's looking. Then she hands him a juice box with the straw already in. Which is good, because Jon isn't feeling intellectually up to that right now. Catching the straw in his mouth is difficult enough.

Sasha's tupperware turns out to also contain orange slices, biscuits, and carrot sticks. Tim sees that Jon's hands are busy with his juice box and starts feeding them to him. Jon decides not to be embarrassed, because they've all been feeding him things all day.

"Are we taking a break tomorrow?" Sasha asks once she's passed out the picnic. He sees Martin nod, and feels Tim doing the same.

"I think," Jon says, then pauses to remember what he thinks, "I think that, if the fiction is that you've spent the last three days 'breaking me in,'" he finds he is not too tired to blush, "then we should take a break the day after tomorrow."

Tim laughs, which almost makes Jon drop his juice box. "You want us to work you hard before you want a break?"

He hums and nods. That does make him drop the juice box, but he just took the last sip of it and wasn't holding it very tight anymore anyway.

He watches through his lashes as Sasha turns the idea over. Finally she says, "As long as you sleep in a bed tonight."

Jon is too tired to argue, even if he hadn't already told Tim he would. He barely manages to brush his teeth before falling asleep. He thinks Tim might say something about wanting him to move, but he has one ear under the blankets, which are pulled up to just below his eyes, and the other pressed against Tim's chest, so it doesn't make very much sense.

Chapter Text

Jon wakes up choking. After a moment, he realizes it's just his throat spasming around something pushing past his gag reflex. Half a second after that, he realizes that someone else is thrusting into his cunt, rocking him between two cocks and making the sheet underneath him chafe against his chest. Several seconds after that, he realizes that his hands are bound behind his back and the cock in his mouth is unimpeded by any of these realizations because there's a ring gag holding his mouth open.

He squirms and snaps a trio, trying to shift to an angle that will let something grind against his clit.

As his brain continues to wake up, he recognizes Tim's torso in front of him, and remembers that that must mean the other cock is Martin's because it isn't silicone and thus can't be Sasha.

The gag means that when both finish and neither does anything to his clit he can't smother his moan. Martin sticks a plug into him as soon as he's finished, and then squirts cold lube directly onto his ass to start working him open for another.

When that's finished the ropes are untied and the gag removed, and they set him on the floor so he can crawl downstairs after them.

Downstairs, Sasha directs him under the table and makes him eat her out before she'll let him eat breakfast. After, she lets him lean against her chair while she gives him little cut up squares of toast, which is nice.

The end of breakfast sees him kneeling by her chair, head bowed, because they haven't told him anywhere else to be.

His stomach does its first nervous/excited flip of the day when Sasha looks up from the dish she's washing and says, "Put it away if neither of you is going to use it."

"Martin?" Tim asks, already heading toward Jon. Martin must shake his head, because Jon doesn't hear his response.

Tim sits in Sasha's empty seat. The first thing he does is put the blindfold from yesterday back over Jon's eyes. Yesterday's torments continue to make appearances with the weighted nipple and clit clamps and the spreader bar between his knees. Jon makes an unhappy noise, but he doesn't have anything to say to Tim's check but green. He wants to see where this goes.

Next he gets a ball gag and the click of a leash fastening to his collar, then the button around one wrist. The leash gives him no time to figure out how to follow with the bar holding his knees wide.

Martin laughs when he sees the awkward waddling crawl Jon ends up in. "Look at it, shaking its ass. Little whore."

Tim makes him crawl a long way. Then he starts arranging Jon; he realizes when his knee hits the inside of a door that he's in the closet. There's just enough space for his spread knees, but the touch makes the door shift open anyway.

Tim does something to the plugs, and they start buzzing. Before Jon can get too hopeful, he does it again to the one in his cunt and it switches to a jolting pattern, one second on, one second off. "Color?" Jon knocks green against the floor. "Stay like that."

Tim closes the doors. The one by Jon's knees shifts open again. Tim closes it, and does something to keep them from opening, even after Jon experimentally leans on them a bit. He's glad he isn't claustrophobic, because if he was the feeling of being enclosed by walls on either side, just wide enough to admit him, would absolutely have him hitting the button.

Blind, he keeps shifting to keep his balance. It keeps the weights hanging from the clamps constantly swaying which, along with the plugs, keeps him feeling desperate and needy while never getting close to any kind of release.

Alone in the dark, he can hear the other three going about their morning. Put away, just like Sasha said, a toy set on a shelf once it stopped being interesting.

Even knowing that he can get out and be fussed over by his friends any time he wants, it's a heady cocktail of emotions. Half keep him despondent enough that he's sure he'll fall all over himself to do anything they ask when they take him out. The others go to helping the clamps and vibrators keep him on the edge.

He manages to stifle any noise for a long time, fervently hoping they forget he's in here and don't remember until they decide to remember, not because he made pathetic noises at them.

Then he settles for choking them off anytime someone comes near the door.

The door opens, and someone picks up his leash. They lead him over to the couch and uncuff the bar on one side. He moans when they turn off the plug in his cunt and take it out, set it on the ground next to him. Then they haul him up, legs on the couch and hands on the floor, so that as they fuck him the weights still sway.

Any hope of being quiet is long gone. He moans and whines into the gag and tries to get any stimulation at all on his clit, desperately trying to grind back against them. He's so full, the way the weights pull and sway goes straight to his cunt, this is the fourth person to use him today and he still hasn't gotten to come.

They finish, and hold him up slightly so that someone else can take their place, start fucking him all over again. His hands skitter around trying to keep his balance, bumping against the plug, which he hears roll away under the couch.

When the second person finishes, they shove an even bigger plug into him. It still pulses the same awful rhythm, and he moans and whines and waggles his hips in protest.

"You should be glad I'm not going to punish you for throwing that under the couch," Martin says, pinching the inside of his thigh hard enough to make him yelp. It's not quite agreement and not quite denial.

Martin reattaches the spreader bar and puts him away again, the dark and silence even more torturous. He's alone and he's so full and he needs to come, he can't think of anything but the alone and the full and the weights and his cunt.

He can hear them talking, laughing. Eons later, he hears kitchen noises. After a while, he hears someone nearing the closet, Sasha calling something he can't quite hear, Tim calling back, "I have a better idea! It doesn't need lunch, does it?"
The door opens, and Tim asks, "Color? To skip lunch?"

Jon knocks against the floor three times. He's forgotten or missed lunch most days of his adult life; if Tim has something remotely interesting to offer instead, he'll take it.

Tim leads him across the condo, leash going oddly slack and then much tauter than before as they reach the end. He doesn't figure it out until he hears a chair pushed across the floor next to him, and Tim nudges him into position by increments. They passed the leash under the table instead of taking him around.

He kneels, held open by the bar and trying not to make a noise at the plugs or the weights or the clamps, and keeps his arms behind him because he's a good toy. Tim removes the gag, and Jon's jaw aches to close, aches even more at the thought of opening it again.

A chair squeaks right in front of him. Another adjustment, and skin hits his face. He leans forward and takes the cock in his mouth without being told.

"Aren't you eager?" Tim teases. "There's your lunch, Slut."

What Jon lacks in blowjob experience he makes up in enthusiasm, desperate not to go back to the closet just yet. The others converse above him, ignoring him just as thoroughly as they have all morning. 

When Tim comes, he takes Jon by the hair and pushes him back so that he has to taste it before he swallows. A combination of a tug on the leash and Tim pushing him sideways with a foot shifts him so that he's in front of Martin.

Martin is more forceful, using Jon's hair to pull him up and down his cock. He scoots his chair back, pulls Jon along with him. Everyone's almost done with their lunch overhead.

When Martin pulls out of his mouth entirely, Jon is confused. His mouth hangs open a moment, and before he can close it something spatters all over his face and chest.

Tim laughs. "I think it wants more, Martin! Look at it, sticking out its tits."

With the way the plugs sit, with his knees spread and his arms folded behind him, it's hard not to stick out his tits.

He hears someone's camera go off, and Sasha calls, "Don't move it until that dries, I don't want it all over!"

They put the gag in, then take more pictures. "Poor thing," Martin says. "I think it deserves a reward, don't you?"

Someone takes the clamps off his nipples, and he groans. Before he can get too excited, four hands grab his chest, and he realizes what sort of unsatisfying orgasm his "reward" is going to be.

He doesn't think it'll work, both of them clearly not interested in getting a mouthful of Martin's cum by mouthing at his chest to push him over the edge, and maybe if he weren't so desperate for it it wouldn't. The moment he's done, the clamps are back. He whines.

"Color?" Martin asks.

Jon thinks carefully. The closet game is a bit miserable, yes, but god help him he is enjoying it, in its way. Immediately having to become Jon with cum still drying on his chest sounds more like the sort of thing he'd rather safeword out of. He knocks on the floor three times.

When it's clear he won't make a mess, someone takes his leash and leads him all the way back to the closet. Everything he can do without disobeying makes some part of him ache for release. He could remove the clamp and sit back on his heels and change the plugs' vibrations and touch himself so easily. It's difficult to remember why he doesn't; when he does remember, it's difficult to ignore the part of him that insists he can do it without being caught.

He's a good toy, he's a good toy, he's good, he's a toy, he won't touch himself, he can't. He wants to be a good toy, his owners don't want him to come. His owners put him in here, and people have good reasons for what they do to toys.

Being a good toy is the only thought he can cling to to keep himself from breaking the rules, but every time he remembers, every time he tells himself, that he's a toy it makes his clit twitch in its bonds.

The closet opens. They take his leash and lead him onto the rug. He hears Sasha sigh as she sits. She takes the gag off and grabs him by the hair. Any thought he might have to try to take his time to keep from going back in the closet is banished by the relentlessness of her grinding on him, half-suffocating him. He focuses intently on the task, on being the best toy and getting his Mistress off. Far too soon, she's moaning and letting go.

She takes him back to the closet.

By the time they start making noise in the kitchen again, he can't stop making little sounds in his throat. He's a handful of points of arousal and pain wrapped in a ball of static.

He hears footsteps, and the closet door opens.

For a wonder, when he's taken back to the couch the blindfold and gag are both removed. Then the leash. He squints and works his jaw as Tim pulls the plug out of his cunt and fucks him, holding him over the side of the couch like earlier, keeping far away from any way for Jon to grind his clit against something. He finishes just as the last plates are set on the table.

Jon is taken to his bowls, and his stomach growls. He folds his arms behind his back so they aren't in the way. There's cum all over his chest, and he can feel places where it's dried on his face.

He eats ravenously, and when he's done he sits up, letting his lids droop as he waits for someone to pay attention to him.

It takes the others a bit longer to eat. When they finish and start to clear the table, Sasha stops next to him and yells, "Tim, that's disgusting! You forgot to plug it when you finished! I just mopped this floor before dinner!"

Jon's eyes snap open, and now that he's paying attention he sees the place where cum has slowly pooled out of his cunt onto the hardwood. He blushes so hard he can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"Sorry!" Tim says. "One second."

He goes into the living room and when he comes back he uses Jon's folded arms to pull him backward, leaving a shrinking smear of cum trailing up to the big puddle. Then he leans down and pushes the plug in, displacing a final few drops onto the floor. The plug isn't vibrating, at least. The other one still is.

Tim stands over him. "Well?"

Jon doesn't know what he wants. "I'm sorry, sir."

Tim gives him another moment to figure it out before he pulls Jon back again, a fair bit further than last time. He grabs a handful of Jon's hair and uses it to push him down, directly into the mess. "Clean it up." Tim walks away.

Oh. Sasha just cleaned the floor. Oh. His face heats.

"Color?" Sasha calls. He knocks his answer.

Tim makes sure to get plenty of pictures of Jon licking cum off the floor.

When he's finished, Tim shoves the blindfold back over his eyes. Then he hooks a ring gag into Jon's mouth, ties his hands behind him with soft cuffs instead of in position, and picks him up in a fireman carry over his shoulder. His hand comes up to steady Jon and grope his ass.

Being carried up the stairs like fondled luggage is probably for the best, because Jon isn't sure he would have managed to get there under his own power. When Tim sets him down, he knows they're in the bedroom because his hips are propped up by the cushion and he can feel the carpet beneath him. The ring gag makes sure that the whine of anxious vulnerability at the thought of how he must look is heard. He can hear water running in the other room.

He hears footsteps and whispering, and then someone picks his head up off the floor and sits, laying his head in their lap and stroking his hair.

He makes a noise when the clamps are all removed, his clit still begging for attention, but above him Sasha says, "Shhh... you've been so good for us, you did so good, just lie there and let us make you feel good, you were such a good toy all day."

It's just as effective a directive from her lips as it is in his own thoughts, if not more so. There's shifting by the cushion, and then they all set on him at once.

Sasha's hand is still stroking his hair, still calling him a good toy, a good slut. There's a hand playing with each of his tits, then a mouth taking over for one. The plugs are pulled out, and an absolutely massive, vibrating toy starts pumping in and out his cunt. A wand is laid against his clit, and none of it moves away when he climaxes.

They work him through one orgasm, switching to playing with his clit with fingers or sucking on it hard, slowly working him back up to another. This, too, doesn't have stimulation torn away the moment it starts, just the constant cooing of how good he's been, Tim and Martin occasionally chiming in when their mouths aren't otherwise occupied.

They don't stop until they've worked him through his third orgasm, bringing him slowly down. Then the toys are all taken away, the attention to his chest and clit and cunt slowly tapers off, and when it's all gone he's carefully lifted to sitting, leaning forward onto someone as Sasha behind him removes the cuffs and hands his arms forward to be wrapped around the neck of whoever has him, unbuckles the gag, removes the blindfold, opens the padlock with a click of the key and sets the collar aside. His eyes stay closed, and he feels very light without the collar.

Whoever has him scoops him up in a bridal carry. The sound of running water changes, and the air in the bathroom is warm, humid, nice against his tired skin.

They set him on his feet in the shower, and it's cold. He whines, but it doesn't get any warmer. Someone rubs a soapy washcloth hard over his skin, because he's ruined and disgusting and covered in cum. Tim's chest vibrates as he starts saying, "You're okay, you're done, you've been so good," rubbing Jon's back with the hand not holding him up.

He whines when two fingers curl into his cunt and tapers off into a sadder sound as he realizes they're scooping cum out of him. The other hand starts giving his clit apologetic little rubs, and he mewls into Tim's neck.

He feels on the verge of shivering, though the others don't seem to feel the cold as much, by the time he's scooped back into Tim's arms and carried out. He's a bit more awake from the cold, but not by much. The air is still warm, unchanged by the bullying cold of the shower.

He's set down into warmth, and he finally opens his eyes to see what they're doing. Sasha's arm wraps around him, keeping him from slipping under the water of the ridiculous giant tub, frothy with bubble bath. He leans sideways into her, and without the water of the shower running down his face, too, he realizes he's crying.

"Hey," Sasha says, realizing the same thing. "C'mere," she manages to shift him around so he's sitting sideways on her lap, face buried in her neck, "It's okay, you're okay, get it all out, I've got you."

"I didn't realize," Tim says, leaning forward to pat Jon's shoulder, "I'm sorry."

Eventually the tears stop, and he stops feeling so disgusting, just embarrassed at the crying. He mutters, "I'm sorry," as he sits up and scoots out of Sasha's lap.

Sasha says, "You have nothing to be sorry for. Alright?"

They must both look up at the same time, because she doesn't say anything else. Even without his glasses, Jon can see well enough to see what's happening at the other end of the tub.

Tim and Martin, apparently trying not to disturb them, are smothering laughter behind their hands as they take turns picking up a bar of soap and deliberately holding it hard enough to make it slip out of their hand and shoot across the tub. The ridiculous size of the bath is the only reason they haven't sent it out of the water entirely or hit a wall, though a couple of red marks on Martin's chest imply he wasn't so lucky.

"Are you ten?" Jon asks. Both men jerk to look at him and Sasha, still muffling laughter. Martin goes pink and starts to slip under the water.

Tim sloshes over to wrap Jon in a hug; he leans into it instead of trying to pretend he doesn't want it. When Tim releases him, Jon scrubs a hand over his eyes, which he's sure must be red and swollen, and mutters, "Sorry."

"It's fine," Sasha says, "I put ice in the cooler." She shifts Jon enough for Tim to take over keeping him from sliding underwater.

It takes a moment to process what she said. He moves so he can lean far enough to watch her as she lunges over the side of the bath, curiosity doing more to rouse him than the cold could.

Four ice cream sundaes are packed into a cheap cooler with ice cubes filling the space between.

Sasha catches sight of him and says, "Here, I'll pass to you, you pass to them." Jon does, taking hers as well so she can heave herself upright enough to land in the tub instead of on the bath mat. As she leans back, they both notice his glasses on the broad rim of the tub. Sasha trades them for her ice cream.

Jon ends up snuggled into Sasha's side with very little effort from himself, her arm wrapped around him as she bypasses the spoon entirely and starts taking bites directly out of her ice cream. "Why do you have a set of parfait glasses in the first place?"

"They were my aunt's," Sasha says, mouth full. She swallows. "Eat your ice cream."

The second wind he half got from the cold shower is starting to fade when he sets his empty glass on the rim of the bath. He slumps into Sasha, and his eyes slip shut when Tim splashes over and starts scrubbing shampoo into his hair. He's too tired to feel it as an indignity; the fingers in his hair feel nice.

They shuffle through drying off and putting on pajamas and the rest. At some point Tim scoops him back in a bridal carry and he says, "I can walk," but leans into Tim's shoulder anyway. He's asleep before they make it to the bed.

Chapter Text

Jon wakes up in the middle of a pile of limbs, surrounded by several acres of empty bed. He opens his eyes enough to see that there's no readily apparent avenue for escape and lets himself drift off again.

The second time he wakes up, he's been teleported to the couch. Something is popping and crackling in the kitchen, and he's been wrapped in a blanket so thoroughly it takes a while to figure out how to unwrap it. He finds his glasses on the coffee table and, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, staggers toward the kitchen.

The others are all busy with something or other. He means to offer to help, but ends up on a barstool watching. He's a bit sore from yesterday.

"Hey, he's awake!" Tim says with a grin. "Good timing, breakfast is almost ready."

"Can I..." he trails off, trying to detect where there would even be space for a fourth body running around the kitchen.

"Don't even think about it," Martin says with a glare.

Jon holds his hands up. "Fine!"

When he's ushered to the table so the counter can be used for serving dishes several minutes later, the size of the spread is rivaled only by the impressive feat of timing finishing so it's all hot at once.

Once he starts eating he realizes he's starving. The others must have similar experiences, because the table grows very quiet. It's a bit strange to be sitting at the table. He's sat at the bar with Sasha in the mornings, but never at the table.

He's tired again once he finishes, stomach warm and full, so he bullies his way into helping with the dishes to keep from falling asleep.

The others start tossing out ideas for how to spend the day, but he finds he has little to contribute. He's too much of a homebody to have much of an opinion.

"You alright?" Sasha asks, sliding to his side and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"Still waking up." She looks dubious, but then he does actually need to yawn.

He doesn't start feeling human until he's dressed. He finds a single set of clothes set out for him in the bedroom when he steps out after brushing his teeth, which makes his stomach flip. He hopes he isn't blushing, at least, by the time the others see him.

Sasha starts fussing again when she spots him. "It that alright? I can just get your whole bag out if-"

"This is fine!" He's definitely blushing. Sasha waved an arm in the direction of the cabinet, and once he looked over he spotted the collar, sitting out on the tabletop. Any more conversation on the topic is swept up by Tim and Martin pounding down the stairs and the flurry of leaving.

"I still think we could've done a picnic," Sasha says.

Jon, Tim, and Martin are all trying to fit under one umbrella, because only Martin remembered to bring one and the weather waited until they were just too far to feel like going back for another before the rain started to fall.

Sasha is letting the rain hit her full force. Her clothes are already dripping. Tim shakes his head. Jon says, "It's November."

"People go on picnics in November!"

"Where. Who do you know going on picnics in November in London?"

Sasha glares at him, because he's right. Jon doesn't manage to glare back for long, because Tim and Martin decide without telling him that the most effective way to fit under the umbrella is to both put their arms around him while he holds it, and he nearly trips. It works well for the thirty seconds before they make it to the Tube station.

It's possible there are people going on November picnics in London and they're all Sasha clones, because she also decided that she wanted to wear boots with a significant, wobbly-looking high heel to them. She seems significantly less worried about this fact than Jon is.

He doesn't know where they're going because he stopped paying attention, so he sticks close to Martin, who's tall enough that even if Jon loses him it shouldn't be too hard to spot him again. Or he could just go off on his own, either to do something else or head back to Sasha's. Or even to his own flat, though he hasn't forgotten anything there and doesn't particularly want to call an end to their experiment. And he'd have to go back to Sasha's, or have someone come to him, because all of the things he can't do without are already there. And he doesn't know how they'd communicate that, because he has his wallet, but knows himself well enough to have specifically told Sasha when they were deciding how this would work not to give him his phone, even when they were taking a break, unless he specifically asks and can provide a good reason other than checking his work email, or his personal email for emails pertaining to work.

He and Sasha walk on opposite sides of the group until Tim and Martin shoo them into a bookshop and they forget to be annoyed at each other.

Tim and Martin both end up buying something, but they're finished and sitting together on a bench long before Jon and Sasha are ready to leave. Jon has a list of several dozen titles in his phone, and buys one. Sasha makes him help her decide what to buy, but still abandons self control entirely and ends up with five.

She very quickly bullies Tim into carrying them for her. He rolls his eyes and takes Jon and Martin's books away as well. He immediately leverages his hostages by announcing that he's deciding where they eat.

Martin makes an unhappy face at Tim's first choice he clearly doesn't think anyone sees, and Tim immediately declares that they'll be going to his second choice instead, before Jon can even nudge him.

Jon isn't sure Martin realizes the reason for the change. A design-your-own pizza place admittedly does seem like a very Tim place to suggest.

Tim insists on paying because he chose the restaurant. He insists by body checking Martin away when he starts taking out his wallet. Jon and Sasha are warded off by how far Martin moved, despite being bigger than Tim and much harder to body check than either of them.

Jon tries not to look up from his plate when their food comes. Something's been poking at the back of his memory since they walked in; he doesn't realize until taking his first bite that he's remembering kneeling naked and bound in Sasha's living room while the others ate pizza. With the achievement of not choking at the memory under his belt, he decides to press his luck and try to keep the others from seeing his blush. He cannot try to explain- or deflect- the reason in a restaurant. There are people here. Families, even!

Martin, of all people, leans over as they exit the restaurant and says loud enough for all three of them to hear, "Don't think I didn't see you blushing, Jon. Do I know why?"

He can't deny blushing in the restaurant when the comment sets him off again. Sasha wraps an arm around him and plants a kiss on the crown of his head,. Thankfully, after a bit of side-hugging and giggling they all drop the topic.

They try to make him pick the movie they see, but eventually he manages to fend them off with the (true) admission that he doesn't watch many and certainly doesn't have an opinion on new releases.

Apparently it's been too long since he last did this, because none of the others look bewildered at entering the theater to find enormous armchairs instead of flip-up seated chairs.

He realizes that the chairs are sized to fit two people, if the arm in the middle is put up. Sasha, seeing a look on Tim's face that they both know is absolutely going to lead into some sort of cheesy pickup line, sits down abruptly and pulls Martin down next to her. Jon, now doomed to be Tim's seat partner instead, refuses to look at either him or the armrest. Then his elbow hits an unexpected button and his chair moves, at the same time Sasha starts bullying Martin into reclining his seat to the same position as hers and letting her steal his body heat.

It is rather chilly. Jon doesn't make Tim recline, but when he does so on his own Jon hurriedly matches it and shoves the armrest out of the way. Tim throws off heat like a furnace. The arm he wraps around Jon is also quite nice.

The movie is better than Jon expected. The bits of the others' debate he paid attention to had him anticipating a raygun and flying saucer sort of movie, entirely too close to the absurdities at work this break is supposed to be about recovering from, but it's actually at least marginally scientific and quite funny. They head back to Sasha's in even higher spirits than they left.

A tall, flat package leans against Sasha's front door. Jon and Martin both hang back; Jon, at least, feels acutely uncomfortable at being near other people's mail, as though he might suddenly steal it, or seem to be stealing it, and get yelled at, despite having no such intention.

Sasha throws her keys at Tim and wraps her arms around the package, even though he's taller, probably stronger, and definitely wearing more practical footwear.

"You all have to help me put it together!" Sasha says once all are safely inside and the package is leaning against the wall. She either doesn't notice or doesn't care about the immediate hit to morale caused by the realization that the package is furniture and she's going to make them assemble it with her.

Four people is either far too many or exactly the right number for the task. Jon is fairly sure he'd be able to put the bench together faster on his own, but having him sort and hand over the pieces, sat next to Martin, who reads out the instructions, so that Tim and Sasha can put them together is effective in an assembly line sort of way. They only have to take things apart twice, and the appearance of a bowl of chocolate-covered pretzels from the kitchen lifts the mood. Tim asking Jon to hand him both a screw and a pretzel and putting the wrong one in his mouth raises spirits further, for everyone who isn't Tim and does not sustain the alleged toothache and/or permanent tooth damage he melodramatically insists the screw caused.

It's rather satisfying, sitting back and looking at a bench that wasn't there a couple hours ago but now supports three of them at once.

It's less satisfying when Sasha, the only one not sitting on the bench, steps out of the living room and returns to reveal that carrying it herself disguised the fact that there were actually two packages.

"What could it possibly be missing?" Martin asks.

"I bought two!" Sasha says, undaunted.

"Why?" Tim asks.

"Because Jon asked if we could put something in the bathroom to sit on besides the floor! One is for upstairs and one is for down here!"

Jon sputters. "I meant something like- like moving a chair from the kitchen temporarily! You didn't have to-" he can't make himself finish the sentence.

Sasha blows a raspberry at him. "Stop that. This'll be great, they both fit storage bins underneath, those just won't be here for another couple days. Storage is great, I always need more storage!"

Jon doesn't actually feel better about Sasha spending money and permanently altering her decor on his account, but subsides since she clearly refuses to be reasonable.

"It'll probably be easier the second time?" Martin offers.

"Traitor." Tim shoves him off the edge of the bench.

-

They end up building the second bench.

-

Jon's job on the bench-building team wasn't especially difficult the first time, and while performing it for the second he starts to think. By the time Sasha is lamenting failing to think of building the second bench upstairs instead of carrying it and risking her walls, and Tim is insisting that he and Martin are perfectly capable of transporting it safely, he thinks he has his wording sorted out.

"Can we stop talking about the bench for a moment!" Everyone goes silent immediately. The request came out far too aggressively.

Unable to do anything but soldier on, he starts, "Sorry, I'm not annoyed, I just wanted to discuss- that is, I think it would be interesting- I mean, I was wondering-"

Martin taps him on the shoulder, holding something out. Jon takes the pencil and torn-out blank page from one of the instruction booklets gratefully. It's much easier to get what he wants to say out on paper. When he hands it back, he immediately buries his face in his hands. The others, mercifully, pass it around instead of reading it aloud.

It says:

If everyone is amenable, I would like, at some point, to try a less... cautious version of our previous arrangement. By which I mean, one in which you ask for my color at the beginning of an action, and trust me to alert you to any changes afterward rather than repeatedly asking. Or, either on its own or in combination with the last point, I'd like to suggest maintaining the fiction 24 hours a day for whatever length of time is deemed agreeable to everyone (and of course with the option to stop immediately should anyone change their mind). I don't want to imply that what we've been doing hasn't been lovely; I would be quite content to continue with it if anyone feels uncomfortable with my suggestion.

For some reason, he signsit underneath, like a letter. Probably because he's the most miserable creature ever to be allowed to walk the Earth, and cannot have a good thing without spoiling it by being selfish and/or inhumanly awkward. That's exactly what's been steering him wrong so often since his promotion.

"So," Martin says when the note has been passed all the way around the loose circle they're sitting in, rather than mercifully allowing Jon to die of embarrassment unheralded, "basically you want to try being a bit more intense. Something like having you wearing the collar mean that the game is ongoing regardless of anything else, unless someone safewords. And assuming that if you haven't called a yellow or red unprompted we don't need to check. Or something like the game being ongoing meaning that we decide things like where you sleep instead of you calling a number. Relaxing by giving up more agency in the game unless it's absolutely necessary."

Jon narrowly avoids professing his love. That's exactly it, even bits of it he hadn't even realized fell into what he wanted, couldn't have put into words if he had weeks to do it. "Exactly," he manages to say. "It's not an adrenaline-junkie thing, it's just-"

"Being stressed from being the bossman and wanting to relax by being bossed around?" Tim offers. Jon nods, nervous giggle joining the fuller laughs it elicits from Sasha and Martin.

Sasha turns so she's mainly addressing Tim and Martin. "He did call a yellow unprompted before you guys were over. It's not that he isn't comfortable doing that, he just hasn't wanted to since." She turns back to Jon. "Right?"

He nods, his ability to speak rather exhausted.

Tim wavers, rocking side to side a bit. "What about things that start when you aren't able to weigh in, like while you're asleep?"

Jon tries to take a deep breath, but doesn't manage very deep. "Nothing... has happened. Like that. That I would want to. Or that I couldn't have told you I was red if that happened."

"We can sleep on it," Sasha says. "I mean... I think we should sleep on it. We can go on mostly as we have, and we're taking Sunday off, so it you feel the same way at the end of the day Sunday and no one has an unresolved issue with it, we could do that for as many weekdays next week as you want."

"That sounds. Good." It isn't much of an answer, but it's all he can muster.

Sasha smiles. So do Tim and Martin. All of it makes him feel quite a bit better.

"So we'll start again tomorrow! Tonight you sleep in the bed," Sasha announces. Tim and Martin stand to carry the bench, and he's pretty sure Sasha doesn't see the look they shoot each other; he isn't the only one to notice that, collar or no, she's just done exactly the sort of thing he just admitted to wanting.

Chapter Text

The bench makes it upstairs without so much as a bump. They all stand in front of the spot Sasha told Tim and Martin to put it (against the wall perpendicular to the door of the shower stall) a bit stupidly, just looking at it.

Tim is the first to get back in motion, reaching to turn on the water so it can start warming up. No one asks, but they all start moving around pajamas and shower products at the same time, anyway. It's bizarrely nice, showering with friends.

It gets a bit more bizarre when, as they're about to climb in, Sasha asks Martin to see if she left a toy in one of the baskets under the sink. He turns pink, and before anyone can choose not to ask for an explanation she adds, "I'm dying to have something inside of me."

Jon sees Tim's posture change, and knows before he says anything that he's going to inflict a no doubt terrible pick up line on all of them. He's behind Sasha, so she doesn't see, or possibly doesn't mind, given the wealth of past experience which ought to inform any and all entendre-adjacent statements made in his presence. "I mean, if you wanted the real thing..."

Sasha turns to glare at him. Jon abandons them all to their fate, not caring what temperature the water is if it'll drown out the same half-joking conversation he's heard dozens of times play out with the added factor of nudity. He doesn't want to embarrass himself by blushing about the conversation, either. He's too wound up to be teased, energy darting through his body with the absence of the past several days' pre-shower orgasms.

When they follow around thirty seconds later, no one is carrying any sort of toy and Sasha is given Martin a very specific sort of evaluating look. "Yeah, alright," she says.

Jon feels qualified to note to himself that she's made an excellent decision.

Tim throws a hand up to his forehead, wisely enacting no other part of the swoon, given the location. "I guess I'll just see if Jon will have me instead. Used up, unappreciated, my youth wasted-"

"If it'll stop the one man show, gladly," Jon says without fully thinking the sentence through.

Tim immediately straightens and turns. "It was a joke, I didn't mean to pressure you, or anything. I'm sorry!"

Jon's face heats. With his brain catching up to his mouth, he's realizing that it would be gladly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Tim seems to catch on to Jon's thought process from the blush. "Unless you've gotten used to a little something before bed..."

"Maybe I have." The only way out is to brazen through.

"Who am I to say no to mutually consensual vanilla sex on the side?" Tim asks. Then he leans down, hand next to Jon's cheek and asks, "Can I kiss you?"  Jon nods quickly.

There hasn't been much kissing thus far, which is clearly a mistake.

By the time they surface from the kiss, they're more situated, mainly by Tim's doing. He and Martin both seem to have taken the same approach to avoiding anyone slipping, and gotten their respective partners to wrap their legs around and be held aloft, aided by the wall. Jon rocks his hips and grinds against Tim, clit throbbing impatiently.

Sasha catches his eye over Martin's shoulder with a wicked little grin. "Can I kiss you?"

Jon nods. It takes very little maneuvering to be close enough to do so; it may be a large shower stall, but they're still stretching the limits of what can safely be done inside. He twines a hand in Sasha's hair, and she grabs the back of his much harder, the kiss itself somewhere between soft and demanding as they trade its navigation back and forth. Leaning over Tim's shoulder shifts him enough that both clit and chest rub against Tim, and he writhes, trying to increase the stimulation.

"Oh, I see," Tim says when they separate. "You'll kiss anyone in the world except me."

Sasha laughs. "I guess so!"

Jon keeps Tim from continuing the argument/flirting/call-and-response game by leaning back for a good angle and kissing him again. When he looks, he can see Martin taking the same approach with Sasha. The wall comes up behind him as Tim steps back from the position that allowed Jon and Sasha to kiss over his and Martin's shoulders, and it's smooth and warm from the spray. With the wall sharing the load, Tim can use one hand to hold Jon in place as he starts to thrust and the other to tease his clit.

The sound of running water is soon joined by a chorus of moaning.

Tim is surprisingly sweet in the absence of the game, whispering little compliments and paying more attention to rubbing Jon to climax than thrusting enough to speed his own way there. Jon didn't realize how empty he'd felt after so long being constantly filled by a plug or a cock. He mouths at Tim's neck, teeth grazing skin in sharp threat, moving up to take a kiss occasionally.

Tim must be feeling as pent-up after today as Jon, because even with the lack of attention to his own pleasure it doesn't take very long for him to come, grinding as hard as he can against Jon's body and rubbing electric circles around his clit, insistently bringing him over the edge.

Somehow, when he and Tim are done panting through the afterglow with their foreheads pressed together, it feels more taboo than anything else they've been doing.

They separate; Sasha, with Martin letting her down, is grinning wildly, force of personality seeming to sparkle off the raining water. She staggers a bit, then marches up to Tim and puts her arms around his neck. He ducks back a bit, but before he can ask Sasha says, "Well? Do you want it or not?"

Martin hunches in on himself a bit, and probably thinks no one notices how his eyes dart to Tim and Sasha, then to Jon, then determinedly at the wall. Jon decides to take a page out of Sasha's book and marches himself over to block Martin's view of said wall. "If you want one you'll have to come down here, because I can't get up there."

Martin turns red and says, "Oh!" and Jon has just enough time to think about how awful that sounds in the context of being Martin's boss and making unwanted advances before he leans down.

Tim and Sasha's kiss is fast and hard and biting, uncoordinated enough to be in danger of clacking their teeth together, but Martin kisses Jon slow and sweet, one hand cupping the back of his head like something precious and the other giving soft encouragement between Jon's legs, making Jon moan into his mouth.

Eventually, when both pairs have separated, Sasha takes a step back from Tim and crosses her arms. "Well? Everyone else has done it."

Tim and Martin eye each other, faint nods are exchanged, and something bright and vicious happens between them, both paying each other's mouths no more attention than they give to necks and jaws and collarbones, biting hickeys into each others skin.

When Jon glances at Sasha, her fingers are between her legs, eyes fixed on the other two. He graciously waits until she sighs and drops her hand before he takes the initiative to keep her from being smug about being obeyed or about the lack of any variation of "If all the other kids jumped off a bridge would you do it, too?" in response to her blatant levying of peer pressure by kissing her again.

Jon still has the fading bruises of the hickeys Tim has already decorated his jaw and neck with, so to keep Sasha from feeling left out he starts giving attention to a spot just under her jaw. In response, Sasha latches onto the nearest bit of his neck she can reach like a vampire. Jon retaliates by using the hand not buried in her hair to tweak and tease her nipples, making her squeak and moan into his skin.

When everyone breaks apart gasping and laughing, finally searching out their various supplies for actual showering, a thought hits Jon and he starts laughing harder, leaning his head back against the wall.

By the time he's gotten his breath back enough to talk, Sasha is driving pointy fingers into various places on his torso, trying to pester his thoughts out of him, and Martin looks like he's considering joining her.

Jon looks over to Tim. "I don't think that counts as vanilla sex. I think when there are four people involved you're officially considered an orgy."

Tim guffaws, but Sasha screws up her face and raises an eyebrow. "Who's declaring what's officially considered an orgy? Who is the orgy official?"

"HR, if they ever find out what we're doing," Martin suggests. It should be a sobering thought, but everyone gets caught up in another round of giggles.

It takes a good while for them to stop cracking each other up long enough to bother actually getting clean.

Chapter Text

He told the others that they should surprise him with how they decided to continue the game Thursday morning. The result isn't entirely unexpected. They let him sleep in, and Sasha insists on watching him eat breakfast before anything else.

The most upsetting things are that he wakes up alone despite falling asleep in a happy tangle, and that when Sasha says she's going to watch him eat breakfast before anything else it's not remotely a figure of speech, she means it with all the passion of a parent trying to prevent a child from slipping their broccoli to the dog again. Everyone else has been up long enough that Martin and Tim end up drifting over as well before he's finished.

Increasingly rebellious looks get a sunny smile from Sasha and faintly abashed looks from the other two, presumably because Sasha has decided this is the morning she becomes a very specific kind of pervert and the other two still have working senses of shame.

"You won't mind a slow start today when you see what I have planned for tomorrow," she says when he starts to maintain direct, glaring eye contact as he continues to eat. "Not to mention the weekend."

The weekend is supposed to remind him of something, but it's too early to bother caring about what.

"There is no reason for slow start to be synonymous with this level of observation."

Sasha shrugs. She does not look away.

She doesn't follow him into the loo, but she does linger at the door. "Decide whether you want me to be the one to take care of your clothes."

With the door closed and locked, Jon acknowledges that he does not want that. He's fairly sure that Sasha wouldn't destroy any of his designated-non-destroyable clothing, but her tone implies something he'd like to do without, regardless. He may have asked them to be rougher with him, but that doesn't extend to these pajamas. The midpoint between being allowed to tear or rip them up and him taking his own clothes off seems like it would be undignified and arduous to all parties.

That doesn't mean that opening the door with his clothes already stowed in one of the storage bins under the new bench- storage Sasha seems to not have needed seeing as the bins, pulled from a clear variety of areas in lieu of those purchased for the purpose but yet to arrive, now contain the relocated contents of the shelf that was there before- isn't intensely awkward.

Sasha doesn't draw things, out, though. She steps into the doorway and he turns so his back is to her and his breath catches at the feeling of the collar at his neck, again when he hears the padlock click shut behind him.

He lets the slight pressure of a hand on his shoulder guide him to his knees, and once he's there Sasha steps forward and buries her hand in his hair, letting him nuzzle the side of her leg. He chooses to focus exclusively on how nice it feels.

"Do you two feel like some board games?" she calls. 

Tim and Martin agree, and he's being led by the hand in his hair to the table. He blushes when he sees that, while Sasha and he were occupied with his clothes and the collar, they set a trio of Sasha's throw pillows on the floor. He goes where he's led, kneeling between her legs on a pillow when Sasha pulls her seat up to the table.

"Winner gets the lapwarmer," she says, pulling his head under her skirt. He leans forward, knows what to do now, presses the warmth of his tongue over her and stays there with his mouth open and fitted over her, leaning his head against one of her thighs.

He drifts, only paying attention to what's happening above him when whoever has his head between their legs pushes him off and the current victor clicks their fingers to tell him where to go. It's a hazy headspace, one where it's easy to fall back into the story, to replace any other reference to the three as a group with "owners." His jaw hurts, and his knees a bit, but it's nice, just being a body. Just being a toy. Not having to think.

He has Tim halfway down his throat when they call a halt for lunch. He only notices because the other two chairs are pushed out as Sasha and Martin make for the kitchen. Tim doesn't move a muscle when he says, "If you can get my cum in your belly before they're done I'll let you have something else for lunch, too."

He doesn't know how honest the threat is, but the ambiguity doesn't stop him from applying himself to the task before him. Tim doesn't contribute so much as a hand in his hair.

It's possible that the specifics of Tim's threat were worked out in the board game conversation he wasn't paying attention to, because he hears pans sizzle in the kitchen, implying a more involved take on the meal. Regardless, he has more time than if they were slapping together sandwiches out of whatever was in the fridge.

He can smell meat cooking by the time Tim's cock spills down the back of his throat. Tim doesn't say anything, so Jon fades back into the space he was in before, warming Tim's cock.

When dishes being set on the table above his head and Tim pushing him off jolt him back to awareness, it only takes Sasha a moment to settle into her seat before she clicks her fingers, the same signal they were using while they played. Rather than letting him hide under her skirt this time, she steers his head to rest on her thigh.

"You're being so good for us, Slut," she says. It makes his stomach give an embarrassing jolt. After that, she doesn't acknowledge him again, other that to feed him pieces of grilled chicken and cucumber and the occasional crouton out of her hand.

When the meal is over, Sasha pulls her chair back far enough to let him out easily and says, "Go into the living room with Martin."

He ducks his head, shy about coming out from under the table after being there so long with barely a word spoken to or about him. The room seems crookedly oversized, especially staying on hands and knees.

Martin starts working him open for a pair of plugs without a word. It's hard to see without his glasses, but there's a pile of other things as well. His heart kicks up when Martin reaches over and picks up a spreader bar.

It turns to confusion when Martin uses four bars to hold Jon's limbs in a tidy, fixed rectangle, barely different from where he had them himself.

Martin clips a weighted clamp to one of Jon's nipples and flicks it, saying in a bored tone, "We wanted to watch a movie, so. We'll need a footstool."

Jon doesn't want to know what his face does in reaction to that. Luckily, Martin doesn't make him, occupying himself with ensuring the other nipple and his clit are clamped instead.

He makes a sound at the last, trying to catch his breath from the familiar but somehow always unexpected pain. That seems to be the signal Sasha's waiting for; he can't see her run over, but he can certainly hear it. He does see her slide across the couch to crash into Martin and start wedging herself under him while shooing him away.

Sasha eventually gains the seat Martin at no point tried to deny her; she reaches over to the supplies Martin's been slowly equipping Jon with and makes sure he sees what she's setting out in her lap: blindfold, ball gag, and ear plugs. "Furniture doesn't see or hear or talk," she explains idly, then with more sharpness, "Color?"

He has to take a deep breath and think about it, biting back his immediate gut answer. It's the same after he's thought it over, a somewhat shy, nervous, "Green."

She loops the blindfold around his head first. It's strange, having his limbs locked into their pattern with his sight taken away. All the other times they've blindfolded him he's done a lot of wavering to keep his balance. His position is as sturdy as it was when he could still see, but part of his brain insists he's about to overbalance some direction and fall over.

The ear plugs are next, and he realizes she's given him the most time to put a stop to things as possible before she puts the gag in. It isn't as bad as he feared, though. It isn't a perfect seal, he can still make out faint bits of sound, muffled though it is. When the gag falls against his lips he opens his mouth easily.

He's left adrift for a while; he has no idea how long. He was bad enough at keeping track of time when his owners had him put away in the closet, and now he's down another sense. Then he feels the vibration of footsteps near him through the floor, and a hum that might be the dilute sound of whatever they're watching. Very soon after that, he feels two sets of feet resting on his back.

Even if he isn't about to fall, just breathing keeps the weights swaying. His awareness narrows to the ache in his jaw and the sway of the weights, how even with the pain of the clamps he still wants someone to touch him there, the feet on his back and the intoxicating things being in such a position does to him. His owners keep shifting their feet on top of him, paying no more mind than if he really was a part of the furniture; it should probably be concerning, how much that does it for him.

They take their feet off him. Someone grabs him around the middle, picks him up, (only slightly, but still) and sets him down with his side pressed to the couch, probably a grand total of three centimeters to the right at most. Someone unfastens the gag, but someone else puts their feet up, making it clear that he isn't going anywhere. Someone holds their hand to his mouth, something in their palm, and he accepts that he's going to be fed by hand for the second meal today.

He thinks it's takeout- which would make sense, seeing as he hasn't felt anyone move since they put him here- but doesn't manage to identify exactly what. Chinese would be the obvious answer given the information he has- certainly, not something necessarily designed to be eaten with one's hands- but he could have sworn Sasha had had a lengthy rant at Tim about not liking it at some point. Unless that was a joke between the two of them, which isn't unlikely.

The blindfold and ear plugs stay even after they release his limbs, all the way upstairs. He can feel them setting him between them on the cushion next to the bed, and taps three times on Tim's shoulder before they can remove either.

It's certainly an interesting experiment, varying the set up they've made a habit of like that. A surreal one; he's gotten used to the others saying things to him and each other, trying to tease him to a blush or giving each other joke pointers like they're all on a sports team together. Only at the end does Martin reach up and remove the blindfold and ear plugs, returning Jon to conventional reality from his muffled, blank sojourn.

His owners let Jon survive most of the nightly routine in silence. Sasha doesn't outright make the decision to sleep in the cage for him, but she does hold the door open expectantly. His brain feels like soup from spending the whole day quiet and still, too much so for him to work up a blush.

The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is Sasha, probably trying to look ominous but mostly looking excited.

Chapter Text

Sasha may say that they're reevaluating on Sunday, but she's clearly had some of the things Jon mentioned on her mind; she makes him eat breakfast from the dog bowls. With the two of them alone on the ground floor, Tim and Martin still asleep upstairs, she doesn't remotely try to hide that she's getting off on the visual. He suspects that the lack of subtlety is calculated. The feeling of being so actively, blatantly objectified goes straight down in a fiery arrow through his core. The persistent reminder that Sasha can stick a hand down her sleep shorts and finger herself all she wants, but if he tries to take care of the buzzing, beating need inside him the same way he'll be punished, does the exact same thing. He's considering the possibility that some of the brain cells he woke up with have since permanently migrated to his pussy.

The instant he sits back, taking up his usual position to signal that he's finished eating, she's marching past him with a click of her fingers to summon him along. Another thing that goes straight to his cunt. The plug put there before bedtime last night isn't especially large, and even if he knows it won't really happen he feels dangerously close to his drooling arousal making it fall out entirely.

Sasha leads him back upstairs. When they enter the bedroom to find Tim and Martin slowly starting the day she shoos them out with aggressive arm movements, like they're a pair of birds she's trying to frighten away. It does work, though.

When they have the bedroom to themselves, she leads him into her walk-in closet. He hasn't been inside before; Tim and Martin have places cleared out for the things they brought, but as Sasha said that first afternoon, toys don't need clothes, and she only handed over a single outfit when they left the house. Being surrounded by a basic human dignity that is, for him, forbidden fruit sets his clit to throbbing, like just about everything else this morning.

His collar is feeling extremely accurate. If it's possible to come just from thinking too hard he thinks he might be in danger of doing so.

"Stand," Sasha orders. He clenches around the plugs keeping him ready to be used, and doesn't know anymore if it's because of some dubiously accurate feeling that they might fall out or because the order is another thing keeping his body pulsing desperately.

She glances over. Jon, with his head bowed and his feet shoulder width apart, sees what she sees, sees how utterly obvious to anything with eyes it is that he's clenching hard enough around the plug in his cunt to make it move. Sasha sets down whatever she was playing with, wicked smile playing over her lips.

She walks over to him with graceful confidence. She reaches the point where he stops being able to see her clearly by looking through his lashes, but a moment later she sets a finger under his chin, tipping his head up to look at her. She adjusts her grip so she's holding his chin more securely, keeping his eyes locked on hers. "Do you want to come, Slut?"

"Yes, Mistress," he breathes.

Sasha shifts her grip to let her nails dig in a bit. "I asked you a question because I wanted to hear an answer, not a whisper. Do. You. Want. To. Come. Slut."

"Yes, Mistress," he manages to choke out at full volume, sure his face must be a sight. Sasha's free hand drifts between his legs, lightly grasping the end of the plug in his cunt.

She hums thoughtfully. "Remind me what you're for, Slut." Holding the plug, she doesn't have to look to know that every repetition of the name makes his need spike.

"I'm made for being useful to people, and getting them off, Mistress," he says, counting it as a victory that it comes out mostly even.

Sasha pumps the plug a bit, and his knees collapse inward for a second before he manages to straighten out. The hand on his chin migrates up to cup his cheek, and she leans in to kiss him. He lets himself be kissed, unsure if he's supposed to take initiative here or if that will be punished. She sucks and bites at his lips hard enough to make him whine.

Her hand stays on his cheek when she pulls back, but the other stops pumping the plug, holding it so that the widest point is what his entrance is wrapped around, anxious to suck the last bit in or expel it entirely. "Remind me what your brain is for, Slut."

He gapes a bit. "I... I don't know, Mistress." He lowers his eyes.

"Shhh..." a hint of nail reminds him he's supposed to be meeting her eyes. "That's alright, I didn't expect you to know. Your brain isn't for anything at all; toys' heads are just hollow plastic. That's why you're too stupid to remember the rules all of the time. The only thing in the world you need to know is printed right here so you can't forget." She takes her hand away from the plug to tap the tag hanging from his collar, making it chime against her fingernail.

It stings, which means it hits his pussy with impunity. He has to catch his breath before he can say, "Thank you for reminding me, Mistress."

"You want to be a good Slut for your owners, don't you?"

"Yes, Mistress." He desperately wants to press his thighs together, but he can't without moving his feet. Keeping himself spread open and vulnerable when he's ordered to stand instead of sit isn't something they've ever instructed him on, but it stands to reason.

Reason that he's supposed to let her make him believe isn't useful or necessary for him to have at all.

God help him.

"You trust us, trust me, to make the right decisions for you, when your little bimbo head can't handle things, don't you?"

The dark alchemy of arousal and letting himself believe what she says and trying to scramble together rational thought anyway and rising desperation conspire to make his body act out word association on the new phrase, back arching, thrusting his tits forward like he's trying to make them look bigger. Sasha doesn't hide the little smile at the sight.

"Yes, Mistress."

"You know we only do things to make you a better toy, don't you, Slut?"

"Y-yes Mistress."

"What do you want?"

"To- to- to be a better toy, Mistress. A better- a better slut."

"That's all you need to think about. It doesn't matter how badly a toy wants to come. It matters whether its owners want it to come. What do you think about, Slut?"

He moans before he can speak. "I, I think about being- being a better slut. I think about being a better toy. I think about making my- my owners come, and I don't think about coming unless you tell me to, Mistress."

"Good toy." She goes back to pumping the plug in and out, thumb lazily finding its way to his clit. The ensuing orgasm is fast and loud.

Sasha clicks her tongue disapprovingly when he's back with her. "Did I tell you to come, Slut?"

His face heats. "N-no Mistress, I'm sorry Mistress."

She sighs, and he does actually feel bad for a moment, even knowing it's an act and she isn't actually disappointed. "It's okay. You know your owners only do things to make you a better toy, don't you?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Good." She rewards him with another kiss, one he lets himself lean into a bit more. Maybe she'll keep him her all day, clothed and confident while he's trembling naked, and kiss him silly. "It's just that sometimes a toy is so stupid it doesn't understand its lessons the first time, and needs a more aggressive learning aid."

She abruptly gives the plug a little tap to push it back into him fully and turns on her heel, leaving him struggling to remain upright even with the wall holding him up and missing the warmth of her body as the cold air hits exposed flesh again.

"Close your eyes, Slut," she says, fiddling with something different from whatever she abandoned to kiss and torture him. "Are they closed?"

They snapped closed without conscious thought, embarrassingly quickly after the order. "Yes, Mistress."

"Good toy." He lets himself shudder happily at the praise, not up to caring about it if he can't see himself doing it. "Turn around and put your hands on the wall."

He does, trying to figure out what she's up to without cheating, legs spread because that goes without question.

"I want to make you a good toy, Slut," she breathes into his ear, far closer than he'd realized she'd come. "Even if it's hard for you sometimes. You're doing so well."

He can't help shuddering at the praise again, barely choking back a "Thank you, Mistress" because he isn't sure if it would be speaking out of turn.

"The only thing you need to think about today, aside from following orders, is that you aren't allowed to come without permission."

He can't stop himself from whimpering. Earlier wasn't nearly enough; his thighs still want to twitch together to try to provide some friction.

"Shh," Sasha coos, "I know, I know it's hard. That's why I'm going to help you."

His eyes are still closed, face scrunched up to resist temptation as her hand reaches between his legs and plucks out the plugs, letting them both fall to the floor. Before he even has time to feel empty, something new is between his legs. Something cold and rippled starts to press into both holes at once, and he makes a punched-out sound. It's big, both of them are big.

"Shh... you're doing so good. You're so good for me, Slut, this is just something to help you be good. You want to be good, don't you?"

"Yes, Mistress." It comes out more like a plea than an affirmative.

Sasha keeps making little humming, soothing sounds as she fiddles around between his legs, the situation becoming dawningly, dreadfully clear even with his eyes closed. Finally, she pulls back and says, "Open your eyes and turn around."

He does the latter first, which turns out to be a mistake. It means he's facing her when he looks down at the chastity belt, her phone's camera going off several times to capture his reaction. She gets another set when he looks up at the sound and she opens her hand to dangle three identical keys, so close and yet utterly out of reach.

"Try to touch yourself, Slut." He hesitates. "That's an order, not permission to do so at your leisure."

The camera keeps going as he does as he's told, tiny whimpers and moans as he proves to both of them how impossible the task is. The front bows out rigidly, a wide enough bubble that pushing his hands against it can't even get him close to where he needs pressure. The toys stuffing his holes keep him achingly, infuriatingly full, spread open and ready to be used, but they're attached to the strap going between his legs and held in place too tightly to let him pump them in or out so much as a millimeter.

To add insult to injury, the front is transparent plastic, giving all and sundry a clear view of his sad, desperate clit, swollen red from monopolizing half his blood supply to continually inform him that it wants to be touched. A closer examination might very well also show where the first plug enters him, but he doesn't have the angle to know.

Sasha waits until he's tested and she's photographed to her satisfaction before she asks, "Color? I wasn't planning on this today until just now, we don't have to do it."

"Green." He doesn't answer her explanation with one of his own, and thankfully he isn't expected to. The tangled knot of need, frustration, and the thrilling intensifier of having control wrested from him isn't something he can fully explain to himself, much less anyone else.

Sasha pockets her phone and steps so close her shirt brushes temptingly against his nipples. He tells himself that's not why he arches his back.

Sasha's hand plays between his legs, brushing over his lips where they're parted by the cruel strap of the belt. "This is just a reminder. Taking it off to use you isn't permission to come. Understood?"

He pants. "Yes, Mistress."

She hums, a bit doubtful. "Can I trust you to be responsible about," she flicks his right nipple and he groans, "these? I know you're such a well-designed whore you can come just from playing with them, regardless of the belt."

"Y-yes Mistress, I'll be good." His clit is equally determined to support the statement imprisoned as it was free. It's been less than two full minutes and it's already driving him mad.

Sasha's expression is skeptical, but she leaves him be, walking back over to whatever they came in here for. She looks down, then shoots a sideways glance at him. "I think I want this to be as much a surprise for you as it is for the boys. You like surprises, don't you Slut?"

He stammers, nearly long enough for her to go past put-on impatience into actual scolding. Finally, he manages to say, "I like whatever my owners want me to like, Mistress."

She smiles at him, annoyance giving way to pleasant surprise. He smiles faintly back. "Good toy, Slut. Maybe you'll be able to earn your orgasms back today after all. Close your eyes for me."

She's serious about the surprise, evidently, because the first thing she does is wind something around his head- not the blindfold she's used before, given the tassels he feels hanging down over his neck. He thinks she grabbed a scarf and improvised instead of leaving him to potentially discover the surprise in her absence.

He probably would have looked if she'd done that. He's growing increasingly concerned about a surprise that has her acting this cautious even just compared to the surprise of the belt.

He is surprised when Sasha has him lift his feet and he feels fabric around his ankles, then being pulled up over his body. She doesn't bother trying to give him instruction, just manhandles his arms toward sleeves until he gets the idea.

She steps behind him, and he starts to worry as the fabric draws tighter. He can already tell that whatever it is, he'll probably spend the rest of the day in a permanent blush. What little he can tell from having it pulled onto him like he's a doll feels distinctly indecent. More so than being naked and collared, possibly.

The fabric draws skintight, confirming his fledgling fears with the distinct feeling of boning structuring the fabric. Sasha keeps fussing at things behind him; he's almost positive she has a set of laces and intends to use them to her own satisfaction, not his.

She stops- or possibly the laces' ability to restrict him in a garment not made exclusively for the purpose does- before he's more that faintly out of breath, which might be psychological more than physical. The way it nips his waist in to some extent definitely isn't psychological, even if he can't see it. Yet.

The outfit has more pieces.

He's allowed to sit down on something, made odd by the belt and the way sitting does nothing to push the plugs in or let him rock on them, for her rolling stockings up his legs. And up, and up, and up his legs, far enough that regular pantyhose would be more efficient.

Not that efficiency in dressing is the objective; he very well might change his tune given enough time to not have to roll down a waistband every time someone wants access to his holes.

Two clicks and a slight tension in the fabric around his waist causes him to surmise that there are built in clips to hold the stockings up. And to emphasize just how much he's on display, the bottom of the skirt not meeting the stockings in spite of how long they are.

Next are some rather insulting cuffs- the clothing kind, not the bondage kind- around his wrists, miles away from the actual end of the sleeves somewhere before managing to turn the entire right angle around his shoulders.

Something goes on over the initial garment- he's increasingly convinces Sasha is keeping her movements loose and wide to keep him from guessing what she's put him in- and then she does something to his hair, driving a bobby pin into his skull hard enough he makes a sound. She pauses, a waiting silence that's just waiting for him to call a color into it, but when he says nothing she goes back to trying to perform brain surgery on him.

Last of all, she guides him into a pair of high heels. "You get to walk today. No crawling," she says, like that's supposed to be a convincing pitch for turning his ankle and most likely looking ridiculous while doing it thanks to the rest of the day's accessories. The heels buckle around his ankles, no slipping off and "losing" them if he decides he can't stand them. The obviousness of the lie will keep them on his feet just as well as any lock could.

"Come on," Sasha says, guiding his hands so he takes her arm and she can start towing him along blind. She isn't bad at it, saying out loud when they reach the stairs and when they're at the bottom, but it makes his heart pound all the same.

She doesn't make him go far once they reach the bottom of the stairs, his shoes clacking off the hardwood. She calls out, "Tim, Martin, I have a surprise!" and stays put. If Jon had to guess, she's waiting to snap pictures of their faces when they see what she's got him dressed up in. Ominous.

Tim laughs. "Wow!" It's just as disbelieving as it is pleased.

Martin doesn't say anything, but he must nod or something, because Sasha says, "Do you think it should get to see?"

Tim laughs again, but neither says anything. They're probably doing it on purpose, taking advantage of the blindfold.

His hand is tucked back into Sasha's arm, and they're heading back up the stairs. The stairs she just made him go down in high heels, and which he will no doubt be expected to descend after this.

He loses track of things a bit once they reach the top of the stairs, but if he had to guess they're back in Sasha's closet, where she has a full length mirror on the inside of the door. He braces himself when someone starts unpicking the knot of the scarf around his head, determined not to blush.

The scarf falls away from his eyes and he immediately fails.

He guessed some of it. There's a fluffy skirt that is, if he stands perfectly still, technically long enough to cover everything. The clips holding up the stockings look just as slutty as he anticipated they would. The sweetheart neckline is one wrong move away from flashing a nipple. The boning pulls his waist in and forces his chest up enough that he has obvious cleavage, even with as little raw material as he presents.

It's the sum of the parts he didn't expect. He assumed, for some reason, that it was just a dress, just some sort of outfit Sasha probably got off a fetish website. He doesn't know why he assumed something from a fetish site would be generic, but it certainly isn't.

The thing Sasha drew around his waist is an apron, just as lacy as the neckline and the bottoms of the sleeves, as the cap in his hair. It's a French maid outfit, and he's immediately approaching tomato-colored. They're all clicking away at their cameras, capturing his reaction.

He buries his face in his hands, and Sasha spins him around. Probably to make him photograph more easily, if he's not going to look in the mirror. "I almost forgot," she says.

It takes very little effort for Sasha to bat at the hem of the dress and make it and all its layered petticoats float up to reveal the chastity belt. Then, his vulnerability to passing breezes established, she grabs them so she can hold them out of the way for a closer look.

He's no less turned on now that he knows what he's wearing.

"Color?" Sasha asks once the others have looked their fill at his imprisoned clit, going so far to tap on the plastic like they're testing how sturdy it is, and she's let his skirts drift back down.

He shakes his head. He said he was willing to be put in feminine clothing if they wanted. This is about what he anticipated that might entail, in a purely abstract sense. He doesn't take his face out of his hands to say, "Green."

Sasha's hand slips behind his wrists and steers his hands down. "One more thing."

She moves slowly, giving him plenty of time to change his answer. She's grinning, though, as she says, "The help should obviously be seen and not heard."

He hangs his head and meekly opens his mouth for the black ball gag.

Tim's camera is still going, even though Jon isn't doing anything interesting and one picture of your boss gagged and wearing a skimpy dress must be as good as another. Martin seems to feel the same way, but instead of telling Tim to stop he walks over and starts adding interest to the scene, pushing the neckline down far enough to expose Jon's tits as he gropes them, then a little more until it's completely apart from what it's meant to be containing. He pulls the skirt up to show the belt, loosens the gag just enough to shove his fingers past Jon's lips until he starts sucking on them, trails saliva down onto Jon's exposed chest when he takes them out. Resecures the gag by taking it all the way out and giving Tim a step by step view of Jon obediently allowing it all. All in all, Tim probably has several dozen photos of Jon in varying states of debauchery before they both get tired of him standing and start bending him over, making him kneel, anything they can think of.

All three of his owners seem to decide in the same moment that the game has lost interest. He's left sprawled on the closet floor, Sasha dropping a piece of paper and the instruction that he's to do his job- maid service on top of toy eternally there for the fucking, today- and that the cleaning supplies downstairs are already put out for him.

The chore list consists almost entirely of things that will have him bending over and losing the scant protection of the skirt, scrubbing floors and using the hand vacuum and the like. Most of them require enough movement to have him falling out of the top, too.

Chapter Text

Tim is the first one to come up behind him ,as he scrubs the tile in the downstairs loo, and flip his skirt up. He doesn't react, or at least tries not to; he hears Tim's camera go off.

Conveniently, the lock on the chastity belt is at the back. Tim can fit his key and unlock it without making Jon move at all. He doesn't even have to take it all the way off, just pulls the first plug  free and lets it dangle, the weight only barely enough to shift the second.

Jon stops scrubbing as Tim starts to thrust into him. Tim leans over, draping himself over Jon's back so he can pull Jon's tits even further out of the neckline than they already were and start fondling them. "Don't stop on my account."

Jon does his best to follow the order, skidding forward on ill-timed thrusts and only managing, if anything, to increase the mess.

When Tim finishes inside him and starts replacing the belt the way he found it, Jon's wet from collarbone to navel from falling forward into the soapy water. Tim pats him over the belt between his legs and, seeing Jon reach to pull the neckline of the dress back to where it's supposed to be, says in parting, "Leave your clothes alone, Slut."

Jon bows his head and tries to focus on what he's doing, since he can't agree verbally.

Martin finds him not long after, when he's moved on to taking the hand vacuum to the stairs. He sits down on a step beside where Jon's working and unfastens the belt, pulling it away so he can start methodically fingering Jon's cunt.

He half-wails against the gag, biting the inside of his cheek and trying to think of the least erotic things he can think of.

Martin stays by his side as he moves up the stairs, doing his best to make Jon break the one rule Sasha set. When they make it to the landing where the stairs turn, he stands, gestures for Jon to kneel and look up at him.

Martin slides his foot between Jon's legs, grinding it into his clit, as he gives his cock a few perfunctory strokes and comes all over Jon's face and exposed tits. Then he returns Jon to how he found him and leaves.

Jon vacuums the landing very carefully, concerned both with not being found slacking off and Sasha's previous concerns about him getting cum everywhere last time Martin did this.

-

Just about every time one of his owners sees him they pull out their key and shift the belt just enough to make use of him.

The only exceptions, no less humiliatingly, are when he has to awkwardly ask to relieve himself. Tim immediately texts the other two the new addition of four knocks to their knock code. Jon doesn't see the conversation, but guesses from the number of rapid-fire alerts chiming out from Tim's mobile that Sasha is angry at herself for having forgotten something in her planning. Jon thinks that if it hasn't come up before now it can't be that big an oversight, but, of course, his opinion isn't required at the moment.

The only chore he completes unbothered is cleaning the inside of the oven; he's glad they have at least that much sense, though he begrudges Sasha's creative approach to getting someone else to do an irritating chore a bit. As soon as he's finished closing the oven and cleaning the leftover grease off his arms- he's somewhat proud of thinking to take the little decorative cuffs off and keeping the rest clean while remaining otherwise intact- Tim and Martin accost him so that they can remove the gag and rock him between their cocks, pulling his hair and groping at his tits.

None of them let him come.

Sasha comes to find him around noon, now scrubbing the upstairs guest bathroom's floor. She doesn't say a word as she pulls the belt free; he doesn't know who it is until she starts pumping toys in and out of him. She waits until he's panting and whimpering, desperately trying not to give in to her attentions while she tries just as hard to get him to break, to put him back how she found him and tell him to come downstairs for lunch.

Tim, of course, has his camera waiting from the production of Jon going from standing to kneeling without breaking something. Sasha waits until he's finished before she takes the gag out of Jon's mouth.

Somehow the dog bowl is more demeaning like this, fully dressed but exposed in spite of it all, than it was stark naked.

Tim and Martin take all the dishes when everyone's eaten. Sasha turns her gaze on Jon, smirking. "Come here, Slut."

He doesn't bother trying to stand, which appears to delight her. He stops between her spread knees, fairly certain of where things are going.

"Do you want to come, Slut?"

He can feel his cheeks going red the second he decides on his answer, but says it anyway. "Do you want me to want to come, Mistress?"

Sasha laughs, not an act at all. A moment later, when she's forced her face back to seriousness, she pats him on the head, a bit awkward because the usual head-patting real estate is currently occupied by the maid uniform's lacy little cap. "Very good, Slut. And yes."

He doesn't say anything in response, because she didn't ask another question, but he lets himself shift around, hips wanting to find a way to to rock on the plugs inside him the way he's been doing up to this point.

"Why don't you convince me to let you come, Slut?"

He bites his lip, trying to decide on his approach.

He noses up between her legs, rubbing his face against her groin, a hum that's almost pleading to be sure he has her attention.

Sasha pulls him back by the hair, pulls so he meets her eyes. "Do you want to eat me out, Slut?"

He licks his lips, somewhat self-conscious of the gesture even though he does it as part of his own little tableau. "Yes, Mistress."

She's wearing trousers, which she hasn't, much. Skirts may have been easier for things like this, but she undresses easily enough now. Jon doesn't wait for permission, once she's sitting again, just starts doing his best to put all the education of the last week to work. Only a few seconds pass before she buries a hand in his hair, holding him to her.

He's licking her through the aftershocks, face shiny all over, when she says, "Do you think you deserve to come, Slut?"

He only stops long enough to murmur, "Please, Mistress."

Sasha uses his hair to pull him back, looks down on him and he sits back. She fusses at his hair, shifting the little cap a bit where she'd knocked it awry. Her face is sympathetic for a moment, and then it hardens. She grabs one of his bared nipples- never hidden back under the dress after Tim pulled his tits loose and told him not to- in a harsh pinch, twisting a little.

"I don't. I'm good enough to give you clothes, and you thank me for it by going around like this, you ungrateful little whore?"

He opens his mouth to protest in spite of himself, unable to suppress the instinct to explain that it isn't his fault, he was being good, but he wasn't watching the hand not abusing his chest. Sasha uses his distraction to grab the ball gag from where it's been sitting beside her plate and use it to stifle his protests directly.

Once it's fastened, she asks, "Color?" He knocks three times against the floor. She leans forward, pats his cheek, pulls the neckline back to where it's supposed to be. She kisses him on the forehead and then turns all her attention to putting her trousers back on, leaving Jon to climb to his feet and go back to what he was doing before lunch.

-

He expects to find himself at dinner, and quite possibly going to bed, in the same state he passed lunch in. Tim and Martin seem to be devoting their attention solely to finding ways to "stumble" upon him and tease and fuck him, and coordinating with each other so that he hardly has fifteen minutes together unbothered.

Around three, though, Sasha comes in to find the three of them in the doorway to her closet, the other two coordinating to deny him not just climax but coordinated, purposeful movement of his limbs in concert, mostly groping and pinching and spinning him to fall between them in a fresh dizzy heap. He's given up standing under his own power as too risky in the heels, which just provides them with a more interesting way to ragdoll him between them and, upon her entrance, for Sasha to photograph them doing so.

She speaks up before too long, though. "It's been a week. I was thinking we should go out to celebrate."

Tim and Martin seem to have been expecting this, because they quickly have him righted, Martin reaching around his head to unfasten the gag and Tim behind him unlocking the belt. They have him spun into the en suite before he can even come up with a response to Sasha's announcement.

Once the door is shut behind him, he looks to the counter to see what they've left for him and is quietly pleased to see his entire bag for the first time since he arrived. It's surreal to see the forgotten collar over his own casual clothes. The long break makes being himself feel secretly exciting, and he heads back into the bedroom with a faint smile.

Sasha looks over at him, and she immediately scoffs a sigh, rolling her eyes.

His heart plummets for a moment, adrift in confusion over whether he's supposed to take that as genuine or an extension of the game. Then Tim comes up behind him and hooks his arms under Jon's, hauling him back and up onto the bed, answering the question rather definitively.

Sasha and Martin come over, and Martin uses Jon's incapacitation to start pulling his trousers off. Before he has to think of something to say other than the surprised grunt at Tim grabbing him, Sasha says in a sour tone, "I forgot you weren't just pretending to be a person; you were pretending to be a man."

She leans forward and starts unbuttoning his shirt, hesitating for a moment to ask, "Color?"

Maybe they should have gone about this in reverse. Every time he says, "Green," his face says red.

He kicks and squirms as they work together to get all his clothes off without allowing him to escape the island of the bed. He only pauses when he's down to just his binder; it's one of his good ones, since he had all his luggage and no instructions for what to expect, and he'd rather not risk it being damaged, even accidentally. Everything else would be far cheaper to replace if it met with misadventure.

When he's once more bare to their eyes, Sasha reaches back- his struggles having brought them closer to the center of the bed- and Martin passes her a spreader bar. It was leaning against the bed, and that would've clued him to what Sasha intended before the scoffing if he'd only looked.

When she has his legs forced wide, Sasha scuttles back across the comforter until she can bend over the edge of the bed and use the bar to haul him, somewhat chafingly, all the way back to where they started. Tim, rather ominously, abandons his duty to restrain Jon's arms.

He stacks a bunch of pillows so that Jon can still look at Sasha comfortably after being displaced from his lap, though.

Sasha opens something on the bedside table and takes something out. Without his glasses, it takes him a moment to identify the object she holds up for his assessment with another, "Color?"

He thinks about it. It's one of the things he was less confident about expressing any level of interest in, and his curiosity won out. It's probably his curiosity again, rather than his sense, that has him saying, "Green," in response and immediately shutting his eyes and turning his head to try to bury his face in the pillows as much as possible without actually moving. It's half in reaction to the embarrassment he can feel going over his body like a blanket, and half so he doesn't have to see even a vague portion of Sasha's activity with the little blue silicone sound, a few little balls on a littler rod.

"Tell me the second something hurts or you change your mind," she says. He nods, sort of, against the pillows.

Tim and Martin each lean on a leg, which is probably wise. Jon focuses on them, on the assurance that they won't let him squirm at any of the activity going on between his legs and risk injuring himself, and on the comforting pats and rubs that draw his attention away from Sasha.

He does his best to ignore Sasha; trying to analyze what she's doing can only make him nervous. It nonetheless is utterly, unerringly clear when she gets to the point of inserting her little bit of silicon into his urethra. He makes a squeaking sound he didn't realize he could make. He holds up a thumbs up before Sasha can stop to check in. It may need to be done slowly to ensure it's done correctly, but any delay he can prevent on his end is a plus.

Sasha is slow and careful. He's approaching something like accustomed to what it feels like, what it's going to continue feeling like, when she comes to the first bump.

It sets shivers going up and down his body, like a more tactile version of the unpleasant screech of chalk on a blackboard. It's incredibly strange, but through the happenstance of personal biology or the meticulousness of Sasha's preparation, it sets pulses and pops of feeling toward his clit. It's a good thing that he's already long given up on being too embarrassed at the sounds the other three insist on drawing from him.

Sasha grazes his clit with the pad of her thumb when she's finished. "Color?"

He ends up snapping his fingers. Just because he's faring well and telling himself he isn't embarrassed doesn't mean he's up to admitting as much verbally.

Sasha has a script prepared. He can tell, even barely returning to the visual world from his bedding haven, because her shoulders square before she says, "If you're going to insist on being... disobedient... then we can't have you out in public and trust you to behave left to your own devices. If you don't need the loo, that doesn't ever need to be the case."

The plug- the same blue silicone as the sound- is unobtrusive to the point of comedy in comparison. It isn't very big, but the contrast makes his cunt, empty in the middle, twinge with jealousy.

The three of them working in concert are worryingly efficient at tossing him around like a mannequin. Between one breath and the next, the bar between his ankles is gone and he's off the bed and standing in their midst, wavering at the unexpected speed with which he's been so relocated.

"I have something much more... appropriate... for you to wear," Sasha says. The tone makes it clear that the terminology would in fact be entirely inappropriate to apply under any other circumstances.

He blushes hard enough to feel a bit light-headed when he sees what she has for him, and snaps his fingers so no one asks. He knows they're all- understandably, endearingly and comfortingly, even- anxious about the things he's approved that misgender him, or come close, but that's not actually what has him so worked up, this time.

(Worked up in terms of both anxiety and arousal. He hadn't realized how closely those were related for him, before this.)

The maid getup he could excuse; if they were interested in putting it on him then at least one of them would probably have some interest in claiming it after this is over, and it's the sort of thing sized so that it more or less works over a wide range of body types while only being manufactured in a few sizes. And he has no idea how such things are priced, anyway. It was obviously a higher quality example of the form, but for all he knows even the expensive sort costs scarcely more than the version sold for Halloween costumes, could even have been a clearance Halloween costume.

He does have experience with bras. He's slight and flat enough to spend less, but before he came out he was intimately acquainted with how much anything half-decent could still cost. And those were utilitarian, neutral tones whose only nod to either decoration or enhancement was a perfunctory little bow between the cups. A matched set, clearly far more interested in serving both purposes, would only be more expensive. Sasha couldn't possibly wear something meant for his measurements comfortably, and lingerie is far more personal, far more inappropriate to pass on to any future partner. Even donating them to charity seems a bit distasteful.

He and Sasha had a moderately awkward exchange several weeks ago that ended with her in possession of all of his measurements. She was particularly pleased that they share a shoe size, which is unfortunate for Jon, he realizes having spent all day literally walking what at least felt like a mile in her actual shoes. He should have declined to share. He was only thinking of whether he'd be uncomfortable wearing anything they were discussing, and not whether he was comfortable with them purchasing the same.

Sasha, cannily, hadn't actually brought up the bit where she flatly refused, having already colluded with Tim and Martin, to allow him to contribute monetarily to the endeavor until after obtaining his answers to her survey and thoroughly double-checking anything that required spending money.

He should have pushed and gotten her to at least let him buy something. A veggie platter. Lube. Anything!

His stare-down with the proffered underthings reveals nothing to make him feel less guilty about the expense, just that they're quite thoroughly unreturnable.

He doesn't have to entirely smother his objections. He snaps his fingers, careful and loud, three times before he shakes his head. "No... no!"

Sasha flashes out with the speed of a viper, grabbing him by the hair. "What did you say?"

He pants, crooked toward her to lessen the strain on his hair. "I- I said no."

They have to have been rehearsing what they would do, any time they weren't teasing and pestering him. He barely has a moment to stand on his own between Sasha releasing his hair and Tim and Martin heaving him back onto the bed.

Tim has him under the arms again, with Martin helping hold his torso down as he struggles and keeping hold of his ankles so he can't kick. Sasha's eyes skim over him, evaluating. "Turn it over."

He can't see what she has with his face smashing against Tim's stomach, but he certainly feels it. He doesn't hold back from crying out at the harsh blow over the backs of his thighs.

Sasha judges it sufficient- at least, for the moment- after five blows. She must make some sign to the others, because he's rolled back onto his back, pinned between them.

"You," she starts, nails pinching their way up his legs, "don't get to say no. You are not a person. You are a toy, and toys do what their owners tell them."

He doesn't get to respond. He isn't sure that he was planning to, but there's something between his teeth, flatter than the ball gag but no less effective once it's buckled behind his head.

"I tried to do this the nice way, Slut," Sasha says.

He does his best, but Tim and Martin are stronger than him, and he's outnumbered. Between the three of them, they have him wrestled into the purple bra and panties with no more difficulty than they had getting him out of his own clothes.

He keeps snapping and tapping assurances that he's good to continue. If he wasn't, it would become apparent how much he's into it far more quickly than feels like even a remote cousin of dignified.

He's used up his one chance, it seems- or they've spent enough time rolling around on the bed. Being told to get ready so early probably should have been a sign that Sasha had something up her sleeve. He's kept pinned and manipulated like a doll as Sasha adds a new, entirely separate set of soft thigh high stockings and garter belt to match the rest of the set, and then into a worryingly short skirt. It takes a bit more maneuvering, Jon taking the first chance to get his pent up energy out all day and making it difficult, to get the top over his head.

The skirt is a close relative of the purple of the lingerie, a necessity to match the all-too-visible straps of the garter belt and, it becomes clear, the bra. The top is skintight, white, and made of something stretchy and presumably closely related to cobwebs. The neckline dips low and wide, wide enough that at least one bra strap is visible at all times; the material that does cover the bra leaves very little of it to the imagination, a shadow any interested eye could parse.

His owners all trade places, Tim keeping his legs under control by more or less sitting on them and Sasha coming up to hold his head like she might someone just recovering from a severe fever, or whose neck she was about to snap. Martin is the one who leans it and starts quickly applying makeup. Jon's surprised enough he doesn't even try to avoid him.

"You'll have to call us by our names in public, of course, and we can't use yours. So you'll have to be Jen for now, Slut," Sasha says. It isn't terribly creative, but she wasn't trying to be. When this came up, the idea of him not just wearing something feminine but doing so in public, her only question after the rounds of double-checking and testing out different sets of specifics had been whether she was likely to end up accidentally deadnaming him by sticking close to Jon (not remotely).

"Understood?" Sasha asks, grip getting tighter.

Jon makes a formless, irritated sound through the gag. Martin pulls back, hand clapped over his mouth to hold back giggles. Tim has been gradually sliding from the bed to the floor, and that's enough to make him lose his grip on Jon's legs and hit the ground with a thump. He can't see Sasha's face, but assumes the hand that flies away from his face is occupied with a similar task.

When everyone manages to stifle their giggles, Sasha removes the gag, clears her throat, and asks, "Understood?"

Jon pants for a moment, working his mouth so that the uncomfortable dryness that resulted from being held partially open is gone. "Yes, Mistress."

Tim, still on the floor out of sight, reaches an arm up to toss something toward Sasha and, as collateral damage, Jon. He counts himself lucky that Tim's aim is too weak, rather than being off in a way that connected with his newly made-up face.

"Can't wear this in public, either," Sasha says lightly, tapping at the collar. She twines her fingers with Jon's, leaning over to grab Tim's projectile. The bangle is broad, the same purple as the outfit, hinged metal. Sasha holds it open so he can see his tag's text copied there. It clicks around his wrist, wide enough to go halfway to his elbow, and she again ensures he sees the little keyhole where the halves join, as immovable as the collar but far more subtle.

They let him sit up, Tim clicking away a million pictures as Sasha snags something from the bedside table again. Subtlety having had its day, she loops a choker necklace around his throat, followed by a dangling pendant that draws the eye rather directly to his cleavage.

Then, finally, his glasses are returned to him and they all troop downstairs.

Chapter Text

She has two pairs of her shoes set out downstairs, positioned so that they're what Jon is focused on instead of her. It's an obvious choice; if he soft-pedals and goes for the flats, he's probably not up for the rest and she'll just have to save it for another day. If he doesn't, then she doesn't want him to what else she brought downstairs until she's ready.

They all watch as Jon turns the idea over in his head, but he ends up hanging his head without a word. Sasha shoots a look at Tim, and he steps up to handle the shoes ,tall white boots that go nearly to the top of Jon's stockings.

She has the case she brought downstairs tucked unobtrusively among counter clutter by the time Jon is teetering in her heels. She stops trying to hide her excitement when she says, "Oh, I forgot!"

No one asks what she forgot, but she wasn't expecting them to.

She snaps her fingers and points toward the table. "Bend over, Slut."

Jon does, face flaming, and she flicks the egg vibe on so he knows what she's coming over with, more or less. He doesn't move as she flips his skirt up and moves his panties out of the way instead of pulling them down. She rests a hand on his back so he won't straighten.

"Obviously," she says as she grabs the next part of her repertoire, "you're not allowed to come in public. Any time you do is a day next week you aren't allowed to come at all, regardless of who gives you permission."

She's pretty sure both the reason for the warning and the implication of her plans for next week are responsible for the way Jon hunches his shoulders and squeezes his thighs together for a moment before spreading his legs again.

Next, she has a funny little nested clamp, the inner part pinching his clit and the outer pinching his labia closed over the inner. He makes a sound and Sasha freezes. "Color?"

Jon knocks three times against the tabletop, so she pulls on his arm so he straightens up.

This is the tricky part; she doesn't want him to notice that what she has now is visibly of a set with what she put in place upstairs. She pulls his shirt down; she tried wearing it herself, and if the neckline could be pulled down to rest under her tits without losing shape it definitely won't struggle to do the same for Jon.

Lucky her, Jon has his hands over his eyes, blushing up a storm. He doesn't emerge until she has both nipples clamped and the shirt replaced.

Jon whines as he shifts in place, nudging his weight from one foot to the other with his face flaming. "Can I please wear something else?" he begs, though his fingers go one-two-three and he bites his lip on a smile.

"Not enough skin, Slut?" Martin asks.

Jon shakes his head, impossibly redder. It's a bit adorable. "Something more masculine."

She meets his eyes, checking again. Jon snaps his fingers, and he did say this was alright on his survey. They aren't pressuring him into something he wouldn't ever want if he weren't caught up in the moment, and if he says he's still green, fair enough. "You think you can hide what you are?"

Jon's pupils go wider, which is flattering. "I'm, I'm not-"

"Aren't you?" Tim's still holding Jon's balance, and he slips his free hand under Jon's skirt. "Feels like you are."

Jon whimpers. "Please."

"If you want to show off your tits, I've got a cute little tube top upstairs," Sasha says.

Jon shakes his head. "Please," he whispers.

"Anything more modest than a miniskirt is just false advertising," Sasha says. "If everyone's got to see what a slut you are, the packaging should tell them just what it is you're flaunting."

Jon's free hand spreads over his face open-palmed, and she's afraid she's overdone it. She has an apology on her lips when Jon cuts it off. "I'm sorry, Mistress."

"What do you want?" she presses, an out and a continuation of the scene rolled into one.

Jon makes a strangled noise in his throat before saying, red as anything, "I want to wear this. I, I don't want... false advertising. I don't want to look like a man, and I don't want to wear less because it's misleading when they can't actually, um, have me."

Martin gets his phone up in time to catch video of most of it, which Jon notices and looks even more embarrassed about, but with a smile threatening the contrite expression that accompanied his monologue. 

Sasha does a quiet check of everyone before steering them all to the door. They're running green on all four cylinders- or possibly five, because Jon answers before Tim and then again after Martin. He looks so distracted Sasha's not sure he realizes he did it.

They split into pairs as they leave, Tim taking Jon's hand and speeding up a hair, still careful that Jon doesn't topple over. He is cute when he's being chivalrous. Martin stays by Sasha, looking at her phone with a hint of envy as she pulls it out. She sticks her tongue out at him; if he wanted to be the one in charge of this he should've tried harder when they had their contest at the beginning of the break.

The egg vibe was set just high enough to be noticeable. She starts upping the power one percentage point at a time, waiting a minute between each boost. By the time they get to the station it's at fifteen percent, but Jon doesn't show signs of having noticed anything amiss. He probably still thinks that it's his tolerance being worn down the longer it's there and the harder he tries to ignore it.

She leaves it be for a bit, not wanting to distract him somewhere dangerous, like the stairs. She's a bit more circumspect as they approach the point where Jon is definitely going to realize that something's different, but it's up another five points by the time they get to the restaurant, and as they wait to be seated, everyone but Jon scrolling social media, she taps back to the app to add a bit more a few times.

As a group, they look like young professionals with a friend who wildly misunderstood the dress code. Jon isn't indecent enough to cause any tangible problems, but it's definitely eye-catching. He shifts anxiously, caught between the sex toy he's probably starting to worry is somehow obviously present and the judging and appreciative looks people keep giving him with no phone of his own to distract him. Eventually, he realizes he can pretend to be tired, and lays his head on Tim's shoulder. Sasha snaps a picture, because it's adorable.

No one acts strangely in front of the hostess leading them to their table, but as soon as there's no one else to see Sasha leans over to grab Jon's menu. They discussed this ahead of time, what they would do if they decided to go out without suspending the game. She has a list of foods Jon likes in her notes app, so he won't actually end up with anything undesirable, and she's going to order for the entire table so he won't seem strange. But Tim and Martin get to tell Sasha their orders, while Jon isn't even allowed to look at the menu.

Martin broached the subject when they were still in the planning stages, clearly worried that Jon would feel singled out in a mean way, not a sexy one. Jon ended up rattling through a deeply-awkward freight train of a paragraph about his general preferences at restaurants. It made some of the times all three of them went to lunch or after-work drinks together before the Archives make a lot more sense. Jon left the decision of how many people Sasha would be ordering for in her hands, so she settled on all of them. One generalized oddity seems like a better idea than one singling Jon out when there are already things singling him out, or threatening to. She doesn't want the waitress to notice any of it enough to be made uncomfortable. The idea was nearly thrown out because she and Jon couldn't agree on the ethical lines before Martin intervened again, to say that he was the only one of the four of them who'd ever been a waiter and he really didn't think any of what they were proposing would stick out too much.

The accompanying stories made Sasha, for the first time in her life, really glad she worked retail in uni. At least her paycheck never arrived as a heap of 10p. coins.

When she knows what everyone wants, she elbows Martin so he'll use his height advantage and aisle seat to make sure no one is immediately visible on their way to take their orders.

Jon is trying the same tired act from before. He stops abruptly when Sasha stops trying to go unnoticed, vibrator jumping up dramatically, a couple dozen points in one go.

Jon's spine snaps straight like he's been electrocuted. He shifts and presses his legs together, wide eyes turned on Sasha and blush rising. He rests his elbows on the table, hands clasped, and leans against his hands, half covering his mouth and the smothered squeak he can't suppress.

It's exactly the sort of pose she's been waiting for. Before Jon can straighten, she hits him with a jolt of vibration from the clamp over his clit and the sound in his urethra.

Jon bites down on his knuckles, doing an admirable job of suppressing any sound that might alert the people around them to something indecent. Sasha doesn't let up until it's clear to everyone at the table that Jon's broken the one rule she gave him, and he starts panting and shifting with overstimulation fierce enough to approach pain. The polite facade comes up just in time for the waitress to return. Jon keeps his eyes on the table, nodding vaguely when Sasha gives his order and chewing his lips at the revelation that he doesn't know whether she can control the plug and nipple clamps as well.

It takes a good while for their food to come. Tim and Martin carry on an entirely normal conversation, requiring input from her or Jon only occasionally. Anyone looking at them would see Jon resting his face in his palm and Sasha absorbed in her phone. You'd have to look closely to see that Jon keeps turning into his palm to muffle his mouth, or that Sasha's taps match up to these occasions, as she gives his cunt and ass just enough to keep him on edge and alternates much fiercer pulses between his nipples.

She doesn't put her phone away until the food arrives, a stretch of time that would be irritating if they didn't have such a satisfying entertainment and which must feel like an eternity to Jon.

His hairline is starting to stick with sweat by then, if you're looking for it, and she feels entirely confident clucking her tongue and saying, "That's two," before anyone can dig in. She leaves the sound and Jon's clit alone, but sets everything else buzzing on a low enough level that it'll take him half the meal to decide whether they're truly doing anything or if his senses are confused at their stillness.

The blush never quite goes away, but he perks up as the meal progresses, Tim wrapping an arm around him- Jon leans into him, and Sasha sneaks a photo because they're adorable- and drawing him into the conversation. He twitches every time Sasha's hand strays toward her phone.

Chapter Text

Jon feels sticky under his clothes, and he can't tell whether every twinge he feels is an effect of the earlier assault on his senses or if Sasha's actually fiddling with the toys' settings. She spent dinner looking like the cat that got the cream, and the other two didn't refrain from knowing looks and teasing nudges.

Between the conversation and the regular visits from their waitress with refills- faster for him than the others, because one of the ways Sasha made sure he'd feel singled out was ordering ice water for him alone, and the pitcher of water was carried from table to table rather than having to take away a glass- and as Sasha and Tim lead them out window shopping it starts to worry at him.

He's too full. He ate, it was nice sharing the meal, but he also drank a lot, and Sasha's alluded-to motivation is starting to feel more pressing. His face feels hot and his stomach is cramping and there's nothing he can do to alleviate any of it.

It makes his clit throb, but it's also less and less sustainable as they keep walking. His feet hurt from the heels.

He decides that if Martin- walking beside him while Sasha and Tim walk a few steps ahead- notices, that's fine, and if he doesn't Jon won't try again.

He snaps his fingers, once.

Martin immediately stops, Jon's hold on his arm pulling him back as he tries to continue walking before processing the stop, and Martin has to catch him to keep him from toppling off the heels.

"Home?"

Jon nods, cheeks hot and face downturned.

"Alright, you okay with the Tube, or do you want a cab?"

He doesn't think they could find a cab quickly here, there don't seem to be any around. He holds up a single finger.

"Okay," Martin says, and a moment later they turn around to head back toward the Tube entrance they passed not too long ago. The pause must have been for Martin to text Sasha or Tim, because their footsteps come up behind them soon after.

No one says anything, which he's glad of. They manage to find seats, and Sasha sits beside him and holds his hand, and he's less conspicuous seated than he was standing. She rubs her thumb soothingly over the back of his hand, giving him a sensation to focus on that won't heighten his distress.

Martin, to his surprise, scoops Jon up the moment they're over Sasha's threshold. He squirms, as much for the principle of the thing as anything. "I can walk!"

Martin smiles down at him in lieu of answering, but it's a nice smile, one that sets off a much more pleasant sort of butterflies in Jon's stomach. By the time his brain catches up, they're already upstairs and Jon just has to step into the en suite and close the door.

As soon as he's out, Sasha says, "I'm sorry, I should have guessed that would be a problem, we didn't talk about it before."

Her hand is buried in her hair, and clearly has been the entire time.

Jon shakes his head. "Don't be. It was fine until it wasn't. Before that..."

"You enjoyed it?" Martin asks. Sasha and Tim whip around to glare at him, but Jon nods.

"In a more... controlled... environment. It would be. I would. Er. It isn't."

"Something you'd like to try again another day?" Sasha asks. Jon nods.

Tim smiles. "You done for the night? Do you still want to go tomorrow?"

He does. "Yes. Can we just... do what we were going to do when the plan was all going well?"

They must have talked it out amongst themselves while he was otherwise occupied, because Tim slings Jon over his shoulder faster than he could get confirmation from the other two that they're still up for it, too. Jon shrieks, laughing, as Tim carries him to the guest shower. He sets Jon on his feet, but Jon quickly loses track of what's happening. He's tired. Not too tired for this, but definitely too tired to keep track of what's happening with four people getting undressed in a room that definitely wasn't designed to hold that many people at once.

However they end up there, they end up in the shower, with the bracelet off and the collar back on. It's a very efficient method of restraint, being trapped in a small space with very little room between bodies and the concern of slipping, or making someone else slip. Jon wraps his arms around Tim's neck and buries his face in Tim's shoulder.

"There you go," Tim coos, playing with Jon's hair. Jon gasps as someone prods at his cunt. "Good toy, there you go." He keeps it up as Jon squeaks and moans in time with his ass and cunt being plugged.

Jon doesn't let go when its over, or even lift his head. He just shuts his eyes. He trusts the others to get him wherever they decide he should be safely. 

Chapter Text

Most of their plans for the break were fluid, prepared for unexpected events or deciding to call things off entirely before the break ended. The only hard commitment they have is the second Saturday, provided they were still going when it arrived, beginning at an ungodly hour.

The others have all scoped the place out; Tim and Sasha had gone a few times, but Martin was new to it. It's not the sort of club Jon would have even thought to look for, but the timing was terribly convenient. They've sorted everything out without him having to make an initial visit before the game started.

Madame Rosa's, a BDSM club only a couple Tube stops away from Sasha's, is having a Christmas charity auction smack dab in the middle of their break. All proceeds go to a handful of charities, primarily those dealing with homeless youth, childhood food scarcity, and LGBTQ+ youth. He probably wouldn't have even tentatively committed if it wasn't for a good cause. It all seems terribly revealing.

He's woken by Sasha clattering a hanger against his cage, far too early. She opens the door and he scrambles out without being told. She must see his confusion, too far from consciousness to remember, because she snaps her fingers before walking away, expecting him to follow, and says, "Hurry up, Slut. If we're late to Madame Rosa's it comes out of your hide."

He manages to piece memory together by the time they arrive in the kitchen, where he's surprisingly told to eat with his hands. He kneels in position at Sasha's feet at the head of the table, Martin to his right and Tim across from him. He's given a muffin, and every so often Sasha or Martin holds out a bit of sausage or egg for him to eat out of their hands, which he tries very hard not to blush at.

After breakfast he's taken to the middle of the living room and told to stand. His owners had him keep both plugs in last night, so they don't have to waste time with that. He's handed a stack of clothes and his glasses.

He may be allowed clothes for the Tube, but they remain in the same mold as the previous night's. Tim's phone is out and snapping pictures the entire time he's getting dressed, showing Martin and Sasha every time he gets a particularly compromising one.

The outer layer of Jon's get-up involves a pointless white turtleneck sweater that goes up far enough to hide his collar but compensates for that with an oval cut out over his cleavage and a hem that barely covers his breasts, baring his midriff. It goes with a hot pink pleated skirt, short and flowy enough to threaten exposure at every breeze, but still modest enough to be mostly safe. The shoes are the same as last night. He knows he'll only be wearing them briefly, but he's tempted to ask for the flats Sasha set out as alternatives last night, not sure he's awake enough to wear the boots safely.

Tim takes his arm in very gentlemanly fashion, so he doesn't say anything about the boots. Sasha and Martin trail behind; the auction is not only an all-day affair starting so early that they're among the first people on the Tube, but apparently a potluck, and Martin has two dozen lemon poppyseed muffins- the third dozen providing their breakfast and left home- and Sasha has a slow cooker of something savory and spicy meant for lunch or dinner.

The other reason they trail behind is because three of them together would block too many gazes. Tim is enough to fend off interaction, but Jon is burningly aware of the gazes on his tits, the hem of his skirt, the way he teeters on the heels like he just might go down and end up flashing the car in the process. He's sure a number of people conclude that it's a walk of shame situation, which is close enough to the truth to make him feel it even more keenly. He keeps ducking into Tim's shoulder to hide his smile.

Madame Rosa's has an unobtrusive black and purple sign, only standing out because of the hint of neon lighting up the pre-dawn dark, and inside the entryway looks like any other business; not even a club, a day job white collar business. There's a reception desk, a hallway leading back to who knows what past that, and to the side a locker room. Sasha and Martin greet the receptionist and scurry back to put their potluck offerings in place. Tim leads Jon into the locker room without interacting with the receptionist.

He keeps expecting something to jump out at him, his stomach flipping in anticipation and anxiety. Tim's shoulder bag is unzipped for him to retrieve a lock for the locker and then laid open while he waits for Jon to remove his street clothes, shoes, and glasses, threatening unknown additions to his person.

Underneath, he's wearing a lingerie set. It isn't terribly elaborate, only half a step removed from regular everyday underthings, white cotton panties with a wide band of lace at the top and a white cotton push-up bra with lace forming the top half of each cup, each revealing half a dark nipple. More comfortable than last night, because he's likely going to spend much longer wearing them. The panties bulge with the toys inside him, which he wants terribly to grind against the ground and obtain some release.

The final pieces of the puzzle are in Tim's bag. He presses his legs together hard when Tim pulls back each cup of his bra and clamps his nipples, pleasure-pain singing through him. The last accessory is embarrassing, but he's grateful for the ball gag all the same. It holds his jaw painfully wide, and he knows when it's removed the relief will be so intense that he'll be glad to close his mouth meekly over someone's dick. It's not only white but a bright, unscuffed white that makes him suspect it was bought new for this purpose; it stands out aggressively against his complexion, every piece of the outfit refusing to fade into any sort of background. It also ensures he doesn't have to try to socialize.

Tim leads him out of the locker room crawling and on the short leash to keep him at his side, and then he speaks with the receptionist. Soon she's handing over a bit of paper and a safety pin, and Tim has him kneel up so he can fasten it to his bra, declaring Jon lot number 18.

They explained to him what would happen multiple times, trying to banish both his anxiety about doing this and their own anxiety about doing it to him. Everyone is in the main dungeon, where assorted implements are scattered about and most classes are held. People mingle, chatting and sampling breakfast offerings and getting a look at the merchandise, for a couple hours. The auction starts at 7:30 and is intended to take an hour and a half or so. He wishes he wasn't up this early, even if the butterflies in his stomach are doing their best to wake him up.

After the auction, he spends the rest of the day with- he swallows nervously at the thought- whoever wins him. Everyone interested enough to come to such an event can be assumed familiar with the same traffic light system they've been using, and many prefer it. Whatever information his owners disclosed about him, their nonverbal variation is included. There's a silent auction for everyone in lack of other activities to amuse themselves with.

Everyone breaks for lunch and dinner, mingling on mostly-even ground, but the day doesn't start to end until 10 PM. People apparently start to filter out around then, but the terms of the auction state that lots can be kept no later that 1AM. If he's here that long, he'll have been awake for twenty-one hours.

His cunt is throbbing and threatening to douse his panties in spite of the plug about that.

They're hit by a wave of sound and food smells when they enter, people smiling and clumped in loose groups to chat. It's hard to watch where he's going in a crawl, so he doesn't, letting Tim lead him where he may. They end up beside some shoes he recognizes, falling into his kneel at Sasha's feet.

"Look at you," she says, grabbing him by the chin and tilting his head up, turning it side to side a bit so she can get a good look at his lips stretched around the gag. Sasha's lips are coated with bright red lipstick and curled in a grin. "They'll be lining up round the block."

 They stay put for the moment, Sasha's hand stroking his hair, and he gets a look at the room through his lashes.

Even with much of the usual furnishings pushed to the side and put away to make room for tables of potluck offerings, it puts the grimy bar and the Grope Box to shame. About a third of the people here, if that, have people with lot numbers at their feet or walking on a leash. There are quite a lot of lots;  three times that is a truly daunting crowd, and it's still growing. Everyone either has a lot number pinned or painted on their chest or a program listing all of the lots. It doesn't have photos, for privacy reasons, but it does list out pronouns, likes, dislikes, and so on.

People start coming up to Sasha, Tim, and Martin to chat. Jon keeps his head down and tries to focus on behaving, on holding his position for his Mistress until she tells him to move. More and more people keep coming in, and it feels like his tense arousal increases along with the crowd. They keep debating whether to bid on someone at the auction, and he can't tell if they're joking. Sasha, at least, is taking furious notes in her program every time they encounter someone else leading a lot around.

They start to wander, his owners sampling some of the potluck offerings. Tim suggests splitting up so they can canvas the merchandise, and they all agree once Jon's tapped a green against Sasha's leg. He feels much more exposed without the solid wall of Tim and Martin.

Jon's pussy is on fire, but he's trying to be a good toy. People keep coming up to tilt his head to see his face, or to make him stand while they grope his breasts and pump at the plugs, evaluating him before he's allowed to fall back to his knees. The sea of unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar voices blends, because he can't maintain close attention for so long without keeling over from embarrassment.

He hears a familiar voice, and the heat inside him turns to ice.

The familiar voice can't be her, won't be her. Stuff like this never came up when they were dating, he'd know.

The ice doesn't make his body any less desperately needy.

He darts a look through his lashes, trying to make out as much as he can without his glasses. The blur looks incriminatingly Georgie-like. Tuning into the conversation midway through doesn't give him much, just Sasha exclaiming, "Oh, mine is number 18!"

He jerks his head back down, maybe if she doesn't see his face she'll never know it's him. He's listed in the program as Slut, not Jon. The voice continues to sound like Georgie, "They should be friends then," and a laugh.

Talk of his lot number apparently prompts Georgie to look down, because before Sasha can reply she says, "Oh, my god. Jon?"

He can feel Sasha tense next to him, a protective hand light against the side of his head. "You know each other?"

He pretends the hand has enough force to push his face into her leg, half-hidden. "We dated back in uni. I didn't think he was into this sort of thing," Georgie says. Jon didn't know he was into this sort of thing back then. He didn't think she was into it, either.

Sasha taps a finger against his head, hidden by the rest of her hand. He instantly feels better, knowing that she'll get him out of here right now if he asks.

His reply comes to him slowly. This is the sort of thing he's avoid like the plague if he were given the choice; he probably wouldn't even want Georgie to meet his assistants, too much potential for embarrassing stories being shared. But it's too late now. Georgie knows, and if they leave the conversation now he'll probably be getting a text soon. He won't answer it, because his phone is locked in Sasha's cabinet until they're finished, but it'll be there waiting for him. He'll have to explain eventually.

Unless he doesn't. The impetus is on Sasha, at the moment. Jon couldn't explain if he wanted to.

And more even than the knowledge that over a hundred people are going to see him like this- in even more compromising positions than this- the knowledge that someone he knows is seeing him crawl along on a leash like a dog is... something. Is exciting as much as it is anxiety-inducing. He slips an arm out of position to tap Sasha's leg three times, freeing them from the moment of thought that feels like three hours.

Sasha's hand moves to pet his hair. "It was pretending it wasn't a toy until recently," she says, and he's worried that the way it makes his cunt convulse might be visible even through the panties. Sasha doesn't do anything to make him move, so he keeps his face half-hidden against her leg, sizing up Georgie and hiding his furious blush as well as he can.

Georgie laughs. "Mine's still trying." Georgie always talked with her hands, and today that means his attention is drawn, for the first time, to the leash she's holding.

They've been talking about him and the other sub, but he didn't process what that meant.

Georgie's sub is standing, dark collar around her neck with a leash dangling in Georgie's hand. She's standing, but she's also completely nude, showing off how all the hair has been removed from her body and the lot number has had to be painted over her right breast, since there's nothing to pin it to. She holds her arms like they're restrained tightly behind her back, though he can't see, and she's scowling fiercely at all three of them, particularly him. It's surreal to see such a person attached to Georgie more or less exactly how he knew her.

"You can do what you want," she says, shifting her glare to Georgie, "but you're not going to turn me into an idiotic little slut happy to be walked around on a leash."

"Mel!" Georgie scolds. She reaches into her pocket, and Jon realizes he missed something: her sub, Mel apparently, isn't standing with her legs spread intentionally; there's a spreader bar locked between her ankles, keeping her pussy on display and probably making walking rather difficult. It also leaves her perfectly positioned for Georgie to apply the short, narrow paddle she pulls out of her pocket. Three rapid-fire applications of it leave Mel hunching forward, swearing, the sneer wiped off her face.

"I'm so sorry," Georgie says. "She just needs a firmer hand, you know?"

Sasha nods sympathetically. "I'd love to get a closer look, if you don't mind?"

"We can trade," Georgie says. He feels Sasha rock back on her heels, hesitating, and taps her leg again. In for a penny, in for a pound. The thought of someone other than his owners, who knows him outside of this, getting a "closer look" is the exact same shade of forbidden arousal that he got from his assistants showing up to play with him in the Grope Box unawares. Foolish, but close to irresistible. It worked out for him then, and Georgie can't even report him to HR.

"Sure," Sasha says, holding out his leash. It's so short that he has to lean forward with even that much additional distance.

Both women end up stepping forward rather than making Mel and Jon move. It means that past Georgie he has an excellent view of Sasha toying with another sub, a stripe of jealousy he didn't know he was capable of.

Georgie grips his chin and tilts his face up. All he can do is stare up at her, even the expressions he can manage with only eyes and eyebrows limited by the size of the gag. Her gaze drifts down, possibly distracted or possibly recalling that he doesn't like eye contact, to his collar. She keeps his head tipped back and takes the tag in the other, tilting it up so she can read it. "Is this what you're going by now? Slut?" He nods as much as he can between her grip on his face and the lightheadedness from all of his blood rushing elsewhere. Behind her he can see Sasha, taking advantage of Mel's hunch from the spanking to wind the leash around her hand until there's no give for Mel to stand up straight again until Sasha lets her. Mel is cursing fluently and aggressively. Sasha uses her free hand to weigh Mel's swinging breasts the same way she did when Jon was in the box.

Georgie takes advantage of his distraction, pulling his focus back with a pull on his leash and a cruel foot to his groin, grinding the plug in his cunt in. "What am I going to learn about you when I read my program, Slut?" The only answer he can give is how red his face goes.

"Stand up." She pulls the leash, forcing him to obey- he would've anyway. His face continues to heat and she gives him a once over. This is about as much as she's ever seen of him, between his asexuality, not having realized that sex is decent stress relief yet, and extremely undiscovered kinkiness.

Georgie grabs one of his tits, mirroring Sasha even though her back is to her. Sasha leans forward to spread Mel's lips and expose her clit, giving it a few testing tweaks that take Mel's breath away for a moment, then delving further and deeper. Georgie's explorations find the clamp under the bra and twist until he whimpers.

Georgie takes her hand away, and it drifts downward. She steps to the side a bit, and loops his leash onto her wrist so both hands are free. It's short enough he has to hunch a bit, She takes a plug in each hand and starts pumping them, making him moan behind the gag. Sasha raises her hand so she and Mel can both watch the viscous fluid on her fingers stretch as she spreads them. When Mel hits a point in her tirade that leaves her mouth open, Sasha's fingers dart in. Mel tries to continue, muffled, and looks like she's considering biting. Georgie stops playing with the plug in his cunt and shifts to teasing his clit. His knees go weak, and his hips twitch.

"Huh. Guess the tag's right." She stops, leaving him seconds from climax, and takes hold of his hair, testing to see if he'll let her use it to manipulate his head, turning it this way and that. Keeping his legs apart instead of trying to take himself over the edge is torture.

Their attention is diverted by the abrupt end of Mel's tirade. Georgie drops his hair, letting him look straight ahead, unpunished since no one is looking at him to notice. Apparently Mel stopped just thinking about biting. She's still bowed toward Sasha's hold on her leash, but her mouth is open and gasping. Sasha has her hand back between Mel's legs, and Jon's cunt twinges sympathetically as he realizes Sasha must have got a hold on Mel's clit.

She keeps Mel bent a few seconds longer before releasing both Mel's leash and Mel's body. Mel keeps swaying and gasping. "Color?" Sasha asks, concern coloring her voice the same way it did when she realized it was Jon she had been torturing in the box.

Mel glares up at her. "Green. Fuck you."

"Sure," Sasha says, dimpling. Mel doesn't get to respond, as Sasha drops the slack of her leash; Mel is foolish enough to take the opportunity to stand straight, and Sasha's hands gain cruel holds on her nipples, pinching and twisting and cutting Mel off before she can get a word out. After a moment she turns back to Georgie. "You were right. She does need a firm hand."

Their leashes are exchanged, and Jon is allowed to return to previous humiliation levels.

Chapter Text

Mel is already there, glowering but unable to do much about it with her hands bound and feet kept a uniform half meter apart by the spreader bar. From this angle he can see that her hands aren't held back by basic handcuffs, but by leather cuffs that go all the way up to her elbows, forcing her to keep her chest thrust out or start losing circulation. Her leash, he notes, is tied around its hook; there are dark spots on the material like she still tried to gnaw it down.

She scoffs when Sasha loops his leash around the hook and the only adjustment he makes it to sit up straighter in his trained posture. She scoffs again when Sasha leaves him with a final kiss to the forehead. Jon ignores her. It's not as if he can contribute to the conversation, anyway. He leans what little distance he can to get a look at the stage. He can't see much, but if he leans to look past Mel and the other people in front of him he can see another straggly line of people to match his own in the opposite wing.

They're watched over by a pair of brawny men wearing different combinations of leather, mesh, straps, and partial nudity. The effect is somewhat ameliorated by the white name tags declaring them both "STAFF". One of them looks at his watch, picks up a neon orange flag, and holds it up. Presumably there is another brawny man doing the same thing in the other wing, but they're standing toward the front of the stage, well obscured by curtains.

The flag is set aside, and its bearer starts to draw his half of the curtains open. Audience, merchandise, and staff all hold their breath for a single trembling moment- this was why he did theater back in school, this feeling; he'd forgotten- and then eardrum-pounding music starts to play.

A woman who Jon surmises to be the eponymous Madame Rosa, from both her presence on the stage and the glimpses he can catch revealing she's wearing a purple wig precisely the same shade as the sign and much of the decor, stalks out from the other wing. She's a woman of late middle age, but far more confident on her spike heels than Jon was in Sasha's borrowed boots. She's dressed exactly like the character the word "dominatrix" brings to mind, fishnets, leather corset, whip and all, but a lot more purple.

Rosa wheels around the stage a few times, vamping for the increasingly enthusiastic audience. The music cuts out, and she moves out of Jon's view.

The part of the stage he can't see must have a microphone, because the same speakers carry Rosa's voice as she starts greeting everyone and explaining how the auction works. All around him, people are shifting anxiously and impatiently. Even Mel is caught up in the feeling, hissing down at him, "You ever done this before?"

He shakes his head. "Me neither," she says, "but you came in that get-up?"

He tilts his head to shoot a significant look at her own get-up. She shrugs, says, "Fair enough," and turns back to watching the action.

Soon enough, things actually begin. The other wing is revealed to contain a matched set of  brawny women. He wonders why they split up by gender, more for the sake of having something to think about other than his own rising anxiety (and other emotions) than out of real curiosity. Each person is lead out in a straight line nearly to the wing he's waiting in before turning and presumably taking a tour of the stage to show them off.

He starts keeping track of bids, an easier and more absorbing thing to distract himself with.

Madame Rosa starts each bid at five pounds, which seems low for something for charity but he surmises from the apparent enthusiasm of the bidders is probably to entice people into competition with each other before people start falling off from hitting their budget cap. Before the bidding starts she reads what is clearly a prepared description of each lot but does not match with the descriptions in the program; Sasha showed him the first two pages and not a single description from those pages is read in full or left unembroidered with both probable facts and salesman sleaze that makes the audience laugh. She does an excellent rapid-fire auctioneer's patter, and the bids quickly climb. The lowest number he hears end a bid is three hundred, which is far enough above what he anticipated to make him flush with additional nerves. Instead of a gavel on a podium, Madame Rosa must have something with her other than the whip, because each lot is declared, "Sold!" with what sounds very much like the spank of a paddle and a noise of distress from the said sold lot.

He pays attention to each lot as well before they're walked out of his sight, trying to divine the tastes of the crowd. It's frustratingly consistent regardless of gender, garb, or whether they put up a fight. The handful who drive the bidding particularly high have nothing to distinguish them from the rest, and he presumes there's either an atypically aggressive bidding war or something specific known by regular patrons at Madame Rosa's about the individual, if not both.

It all seems significantly more real when the other wing is empty and people start to be removed from his own line and led across the stage. Jon hasn't been concerned about how they all go back to working together after this before, assuming that there was no greater frontier to that awkward atmosphere than already existed weeks ago, but watching him crawl across a stage for an audience might be it.

Mel gets increasingly agitated as she nears the front of the line. He idly wonders how much is an act and how much is genuine distaste that she's here in spite of because of some sort of game with Georgie.

Number 15 leaves, and the bored expression is entirely banished in favor of a scowl.

Number 16 leaves, and she starts working her shoulders like she's trying to squirm out of her bindings, or possible winding up to hit someone.

"Next up," Madame Rosa says, "Lot number 17, kindly donated by Miss Georgina, Mel!"

He has a split second to be confused before remembering that Georgie's opinion of her full name contained a number of attributes assumed of someone named Georgina that slot into her present role rather nicely, especially if she wanted the fig leaf of something other than what she went by in daily life. Mel's name might very well be achieved by the inverse alteration, for all he knows.

Mel is fighting even before the staff are there, undoing the knot she failed against with ease and giving the leash a tug. They lead her out onto the stage shouting insults, stumbling through a few wide-stepped waddles before straining against the leash. The men share a look over her head, and the issue of Mel's lack of cooperation is immediately solved by one looping his arm under her bound arms and the other stepping onstage and picking up the spreader bar. The audience laughs as she's carried across the stage, still screaming invective.

"As you can see," Madame Rosa says, clearly holding back laughter, "she's going to need a firm hand!" There's the sound of something smacking into wet flesh, Mel shouts and quickly slides into panting silence, and Madame Rosa says, "See what I mean?"

The rest of the patter about Mel sums up to similar points, a preference for being dominated with a thoroughness Jon finds faintly alarming, even knowing that Mel can opt out at any time. The bidding is aggressive, jumping up and up by tens, then twenty-fives. Finally, Mel is "Sold!" and farewelled with a smack that makes her moan, for all of six hundred and twenty-five pounds, a sum he finds even more alarming than Mel's apparent preferences.

He's torn from his contemplation of whether he gives enough to charity by the approach of the two burly men. Onstage, Madame Rosa announces, "Lot number eighteen, Slut! Donated by Sasha, Tim, and Martin."

Any thought of misbehaving was well and truly banished by seeing Mel carted around, and he meekly crawls after the man holding his leash. He tries not to extrapolate anything from the sounds the audience is making, but unlike his theatrical expeditions in school the audience isn't at all darkened. The need to keep paddles visible from the stage also enhances what he can glimpse while crawling with terrifying detail.

When he's finally deposited next to Madame Rosa, leash passed into her hand, he realizes how much more exposed his position is when people are looking up at him on a stage rather than down on him on the floor.

"Show everyone that pretty face, dear," Madame Rosa says, pulling on his hair so he has to look out on the audience. The absence of his glasses is his last saving grace, rendering him incapable of isolating any detail to obsess over. It's still an intimidating number of people.

"Slut here isn't very experienced, but it is a very obedient toy," she starts. "It loves getting passed around, and flourishes under either a firm or gentle hand."

Knowing it's accurate doesn't make it less humiliating to have it read out to a crowd. He's so wet that sneezing at an inopportune moment might push the plug out of him entirely.

"It's an awfully versatile toy," Rosa says. "And an easy blusher, too, isn't that sweet everyone?"

The affirmative roar of the crowd makes him tremble, and the blush intensify.

Chapter Text

Looking through his lashes, Jon can see four people's feet walk up to the table. The amount of spike heels, fishnets, and leather present even only seeing below the knee implies that this group is far more involved in such things than him or any of the others.

On the other hand, Tim did know this was an event that existed in the first place. Jon should probably stop assuming things like that.

He tries to think back to whether it's familiar footwear, anyone Sasha spoke to earlier, but the only individually identifiable memory he turns up is the man who said his incongruous bunny slippers were because it was too early for the heels he left in the locker room. He can hear a pen, probably a checkbook, but none of them speaks. The check is torn out, and the brawny woman manning the table says, "Thank... you! Here's its expanded instructions and... the rest of its things."

He catches a glimpse of the rest of the things he apparently has; it's Tim's shoulder bag, meaning it's almost certain to contain toys from home. He starts frantically searching his memory for items his owners might have decided to send along that would not be redundant to the items already here for some reason. Meals are explicitly arranged as breaks from play, but the dog bowls are all he can think of.

He wonders if every lot's "expanded instructions" form such a fat little booklet, or if the length is because of Sasha. He thinks it might be thicker than the program.

Heels clack around the table and take his leash. He keeps his head bowed, trusting them not to lead him into any walls. Trusting a stranger.

His insides are roiling, and he's pretty sure anxiety and arousal have become so hopelessly entangled he can't tell them apart.

A couple of hands skim fingers over his hair as they leave the Performance Hall. As they fall in around him, he starts to worry that they'll be able to see how he keeps clenching around the plugs. He can't stop, he's too desperate to be filled, and the plugs aren't enough. He's been desperate for hours.

In his periphery, he can see them moving past the main dungeon where the morning started, people moving around what's on the tables. Past the Main Dungeon and the large classroom beside it are smaller spaces, smaller classrooms and beyond them still smaller rooms that can be reserved. As long as there isn't a class- and none are scheduled today, all resources going toward the charity auction- people can use the classrooms, they just aren't guaranteed privacy.

They go into one of the smaller classrooms. A few greetings are exchanged between Jon's group and the man already inside, who has someone suspended in rope and gagged, the tag for lot 3 abandoned on the floor. A few chairs are pulled into a semicircle, and then Jon is the center of attention.

He looks at them through his lashes.

"Aren't you cute?" one of the women says, burying her fingers in his hair. "I'm Emmy, and this is Cressida, he's Alex, and they're August. You want to sit and take a break up here?"

Jon shook his head. She smiled.

"Come suck my dick while we read what your owners wrote for us, Slut," Emmy says. Jon crawls over to her and bows his head for her to remove the gag. Finding his way under her skirt is feels natural enough to be deeply embarrassing when he goes back to functioning on a level capable of processing such things. Emmy places a hand on his head and scratches his scalp gently with her nails.

It's nice enough to disengage from the sensory onslaught of the day so far, eyes remembering how early he got up in the darkness of Emmy's lap, that he manages to put away the worry of the pages turning above him for a bit, tuning out the quiet discussion of whatever Sasha's written. It's only interrupted when she finishes down his throat and then passes him over to August.

-

They finish reading whatever Sasha wrote around the same time August finishes. "Doing alright?" they ask, keeping him in place but able to hear the conversation better than he could between their thighs. Jon nods.

"We have another engagement this afternoon," Cressida says, pulling Jon toward her, next. He would be more nervous, but Tim mentioned a situation like that being a possibility, and already leaving other people behind the wheel of his life for the moment, Jon isn't able to work up too much anxiety over it.

"We weren't planning on bidding, but since you're amenable to being left unsupervised..." Emmy trails off significantly.

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, because if he looks at other people he'll have to decide whether the expression he's wearing is embarrassed or excited. Either one feels like it might have dramatic consequences for his self-image.

"You're amenable, I see," Cressida says brightly, ruffing his hair before pulling him into her lap.

"I'm sure we can find it something interesting before we have to leave," Emmy says. Jon, luckily, is too busy eating Cressida out to have to respond, trying to avoid embarrassment by focusing on flicking her clit with his tongue the way he's found Sasha likes. She hums contentedly and holds his hair a bit tighter, which he decides to count as a success.

He hears some discussion going on, but tunes out of most of it, just focusing on the task ahead of him. It's an embarrassing, ridiculous contest with himself, but he kind of wants to see if he can manage to get all four of them off before lunch.

What he notes of the conversation touches on that theme when Cressida sighs and lets go of his hair, but whatever the answer is, he's passed on the Alex next.

Alex buries his fingers in Jon's hair and pulls him off his cock with a pop, setting the others to gasping and giggling as he spills over Jon's face. It takes Jon a moment to stop blinking and close his mouth, swallowing what landed on his tongue, and in that time they all quiet. "Color?" Alex asks, the brusqueness of thrusting into his mouth without a word gone.

Jon is sure their impression of how red his face is naturally is sustained as he says, "Green."

"Good toy," Alex says, ruffling his hair before letting Jon go. "Maybe you'll have earned something after lunch. I know you want to let everyone there see you like this, advertising just how accurate your name is."

Jon whines at the reminder, rolling his hips against the floor. Alex smiles. "Well? Do you want everyone to see you covered in my cum or not?"

"Yes sir, I want everyone to know what a slut I am," Jon pants. He bites his lip hard when they all go to stand up, knowing how desperate they're leaving him.

August offers him a hand, and he takes the help up to his feet. They pick up the dangling end of his leash and say, "Might as well walk, not that far to get to lunch anyway."

He's subject to more teasing and jostling as they walk, but he can't help smiling. There are other people in the halls, and the performance hall has been transformed, long tables brought out from somewhere with a long line of more tables around the edge of the room, laden with food.

"Let's find your owners while the others get food," August says, pulling Jon along behind them. He starts scanning with them for Sasha, Martin and Tim. They aren't hard to spot, near the end of one of the dining tables.

"Hey!" Tim says, smiling but not teasing Jon about his appearance. "I'm Tim."

August shakes his hand over the table before sitting. "August."

"Alright, Jon?" Martin asks, bumping his foot against Jon's. Jon nods, looking down so he doesn't have to meet Martin's eyes. It's good to see them, even though it's only been a few hours, and even though they're all trying not to laugh at him.

Jon barely has time to fidget in place, wobbling over the bulge of the plugs, before a gust of wind blows his hair and Emmy sets a plate of food in front of him, sitting next to him with her own and starting the introductions anew. "Hey, I'm Emmy!"

"That was fast," August says.

"The fastest," Emmy agrees, cutting herself off mid-word from telling Sasha her name again. They both lean back, kissing behind Jon instead of blocking him from his food or, more reasonably, moving to do it without the risk of toppling off a bench.

He's so cheered at seeing the others that he takes far too long to notice who's sitting next to Sasha. Mel looks a bit the worse for wear; her breasts are red from being spanked, her nipples are clamped at the centers of lines of clothespins marching up and down, and while she doesn't blush as easily as Jon, she's evidently not immune. Sasha looks like the cat that got the canary. Mel is sizing him up in turn, shifting in her seat.

She doesn't call him on clearly noticing her for the first time, so he doesn't have to engage his defense that he doesn't have his glasses.

"You decided to bid, then," he says to Sasha, who preens.

"I did! I won!" She smiles. Jon isn't a fan, given the present venue, of how it makes him think of the last Institute holiday party, but it's exactly the same way she looked after winning an oversize chocolate bar in the raffle then.

"Hi!" two people say at once, sending Jon whipping his head back and forth to get a look at both while Georgie and Alex fall victim to laughter at accidentally speaking in unison. He suspects the early morning might be making people a bit punchy.

"How did you meet Jon?" Georgie asks, because she wants Jon to develop psychic powers just so he can use them to murder her.

"How did you meet Mel?" he asks a bit grouchily.

Georgie beams. "We work together."

Sasha snorts. "So do we."

"Jon!" Georgie says, scandalized.

"You just-"

"We make a podcast together," Mel interrupts. "We don't have HR."

"What HR doesn't know won't hurt them," Sasha says primly.

Georgie doesn't push, at least, and Jon is relieved to tune into Tim and Martin telling everyone who was preoccupied about all the things they saw taking a turn through the silent auction items.

"Gonna piss," Mel says at a lull, hopping up.

Jon stands too, but doesn't ask to join her. It seems weird, and mostly what he wants is to have someone to walk near to make sure he doesn't somehow get lost.

"You really met them at work?" she asks as they make it to the hall, apparently deciding not to ignore him following her like Jon hoped.

"I mean. There was a trip to... a venue... where I was anonymous, but not anonymous enough, in between." It sounded like a reasonable way to deflect in his head, but Jon regrets it immediately.

"Your boss know?"

Jon sighs gustily, glad that she saw the dynamic and got up close and personal with Sasha before asking that. "I'm their boss. All of us but Martin worked together in another department before I was promoted."

Mel lets it go without comment, but it doesn't take Jon long to get uncomfortable with the silence again. In normal, linear distance, they don't actually have that far to go. It feels impossible that they have yet to arrive. 

"I see Sasha..." Jon trails off. Why did he think that was a good ice breaker?

"Yep," Mel says. "Why, jealous you aren't getting all her attention?"

It's a bit too provocative, enough to make him feel on more even footing, even threatening to smile. "She's never done that."

"Teacher's pet?"
"Well, it's just that I'm practically perfect," he says, tone lofty and nose in the air like he can think he's above anything with dried cum all over his face. Mel cracks a smile, and then they're past the need for awkward conversation, having successfully traversed the longest ten meters of hallway he's ever experienced.

There are two restrooms, but both are gender neutral. The nearer one has a clipboard on the wall by the door, but they walk past too quickly for him to see what it's for.

He has a pretty good guess once they're inside. There are lines of stalls and sinks, and opposite the door the wall is lined with urinals. There's a gap in the center with someone bound and blindfolded with a ring gag in their mouth. The restraints are built into the wall and floor, as is the sign over their head that says, "Use me." It takes Jon too long to look away. He glances to the side, about to make some joke to Mel to cover up that he definitely stared too long, at least we aren't THEM, but she's still fixed in that direction, interest far plainer than he suspects she'd prefer. Jon looks away and says nothing, going into a stall and pretending he didn't see anything.

Mel isn't so bad, but he suspects that's not a conversation he'd make it out of alive if he made the joke before looking over at her. The walk back is silent, and he chooses not to clarify whether it's an awkward or an angry silence.

They both pick up the pace when they see how engrossed the diners remaining seem. Jon makes out all right climbing back into his seat, though his thighs squeak against the bench. Mel appears to remember a bit too late that there's no fabric to lend her friction and she's arriving pre-tenderized.

"What are you all so interested in?" he asks, feeling gracious about not leaving Mel the center of attention as she takes a swig of her water to try to hide how her eyes are watering.

"Nothing!" Sasha sings. "Just a bit of friendly competition!"

Jon gives her a look. Sasha smiles shamelessly, like that was some other boss of hers at the center of her last "friendly competition."

"You'll find out soon enough," Emmy says, bumping him with a shoulder. Georgie giggles.

Mel darts suspicious looks around the lot of them, but Jon decides discretion is the better part of valor and doesn't clue her in to any prior conversations about "being left unsupervised."

Chapter Text

Unexpectedly encountering Georgie's ex provides an excellent distraction from any nerves that might turn into regrets if Melanie gives them too much space to percolate. It doesn't occur to her to be concerned about any other bit of that exchange until Sasha comes up to the table with a sunny smile and is handed Melanie's leash. 

"You asked, I answered," she says, swinging the bag Georgie packed without informing Melanie of the contents over her shoulder.

Melanie snarls, but follows her out of the Performance Hall cooperatively enough, mainly because she isn't sure Sasha won't let her faceplant if she resists and would prefer to save that discovery for a smaller audience. She's more than happy to leave all theatrical adventures squarely in Georgie's court.

Even if the memory of dripping onto the stage in front of an enthusiastic audience is going to be making a number of encore experiences in her future fantasies.

"How do you feel about an audience?" Sasha asks in the hall like she's read Melanie's mind, the tones of husky teasing gone in the liminal space between stage and dungeon.

Put the stage out of the equation and the answer was in the program, Melanie knows, and in the booklet passed over with everything else Georgie put in her mystery bag.

"Do your worst," she says, tone landing somewhere odd, less comfortable snapping in and out of roleplay than Sasha seems.

"Audience participation?" Sasha asks, pausing outside the door of the main dungeon. 

Melanie's mind spins. The silent auction is set up there now, or will be soon, and evidently becomes the place to be once the auction in the performance hall ends. It's embarrassing how fast her mind jumps to the idea of Sasha leaving her tied up somewhere and leaving her to the mercies of every passerby while she browses the offerings. She wishes her hands weren't tied; her preferred method of answering would be with one hand over her face and the other giving a thumbs up. "Super."

Super?

"Are you going to cooperate?" Sasha asks, back in a register that goes straight to Melanie's clit.

"Let go," she snaps, back on the conversational plane she didn't quite follow Sasha off. She jerks away, trying to get the leash to slip out of Sasha's hand.

Sasha sighs, and Melanie gets ready to move, because she can hear someone jogging up behind her and they're in the way of the door if whoever it is wants anything resembling personal space. "If you're determined to be difficult..."

"Why?" Melanie snarls, "Disappointed?"

Sasha smiles, chilling in how fast her face shifts. "No. I knew what I was getting into." The smile turns a bit evil. "I assumed I'd have to start out by setting expectations."

Someone hooks their hands under Melanie's arms, and she squeaks. "Hey Sash," he says.

"Thanks for the help!" Sasha chirps, and Melanie manages to come down from being startled. Sasha enlisting accomplices is much less worrying than someone coming up and grabbing her without a word or indication that either of them wanted him to.

Melanie struggles as much as she can, but doesn't say anything. It takes them very little time to get her strapped onto a spanking bench, limbs freed so slowly she never has enough freedom to do anything with it. 

"Thanks," Sasha says, grabbing a chair set against the wall and pulling it over to Melanie.

"All good?" he says.

"All set!" Sasha says, clearly taking joy from Melanie's increasing impatience with the pleasantries.

The man who apparently came exclusively to briefly play Brute Squad for Sasha says, "Alright. See you at lunch." Then he leans in and kisses her on the cheek. Sasha turns and returns the gesture.

Only Melanie is positioned to see both of them go wide-eyed and shocked at themselves. Georgie's told her a few stories about Jon. This is going to be a side-splitting addition to the morass of "the biggest disaster I ever dated," stories when Melanie tells her.

"Color?" Sasha asks, leaning over and waving a riding crop in front of Melanie's face to make her intentions clear. It's silly enough Melanie almost laughs. It gives her an odd impression of being a fish Sasha is trying to catch.

"Green. Don't ask," she says, biting her lips straight again and thinking of the interaction this morning. She was almost sickeningly adorable with Jon, but that's not remotely Melanie's speed. "I'll tell you if I need you to stop."

"If you're sure," Sasha says, looking at Melanie out of the corners of her eyes.

"Absolutely. At least until lunch."

"Got it." Sasha leans all the way back, to where Melanie strains to see her at all, and starts going through the things they handed her when she collected Melanie.

Sasha gives her enough time to become used to waiting before she strikes. Melanie bites down the first cry of surprise the instant before it makes it out of her mouth, barely keeping ahead of it. Sasha isn't even looking at Melanie, just sitting in her chair with a riding crop dangling from her hand and the little booklet of information Georgie assembled evidently holding the whole of her attention. A minute later, another blow comes. The pain in her thighs seems to bleed through muscle and bone to resurface in her cunt, throbbing with pain and embarrassment.

Melanie is gasping and sweating with the effort of keeping any noise that might escape down when she hears Sasha stand and move around. "I wish you decided to cooperate when I asked," she sighs.

"Fuck you!" Melanie spits before she remembers Sasha's answer to the same sentence earlier.

Sasha doesn't say anything, but Melanie imagines she can hear smug satisfaction in her footsteps anyway. Sasha pinches her right next to one of the stinging red marks left by the riding crop, and Melanie gasps at the unexpected delivery route of fresh pain. Sasha hooks a spider gag between Melanie's teeth and has it fastened before Melanie can fight back. She walks back around, and Melanie hears her shift the chair she was sitting in earlier.

The open-handed slap wouldn't warrant a response if it weren't over the more painful earlier blows. Melanie can't keep any of her reactions locked up in her chest with the gag forcing her mouth open. Sasha gives her ten, and Melanie is left moaning with drool dripping uncontrollably through the gag. Without a glance, Sasha leans over and starts working Melanie open, fingers cold with lube, until she can shove a butt plug big enough to make her groan into her.

"Hey!" Sasha says, and Melanie turns to look. There's a man near the door eyeing her, and Sasha is facing him. Melanie moans in a way she thinks is as unambiguously in favor of what she thinks Sasha's up to as anything can be with her mouth stretched wide around a gag. "Can I have a hand? You'd get... payment, obviously."

Sasha's new friend seems as amused at the dramatic pause as Melanie, in the scattered bits that aren't entirely fixed on her aching, hungry pussy. "Sure."

She's too limp to fight much, but she gives her best effort anyway. She can see more of the room flat on her back, strapped down with her legs open wide. "I'm Greg, by the way," the man says absently to Sasha, wiggling the plug without pulling it out.

"Sasha," Sasha says, looking at Melanie with an eager glint in her eye. She steps aside for Greg without a word.

Melanie moans when he finally pulls the plug free, but the relief is short-lived. He thrusts in, technically well inside the bounds of safety but so fast and deep it knocks the breath out of her lungs. Her cunt throbs every time he thrusts and brushes tantalizingly close to where she wants stimulation but never close enough.

He finishes and pops the plug back in, leaving Melanie moaning weakly at the ceiling.

Chapter Text

Sasha smiles, looking down at Mel spread out, pushing against the straps holding her down,and rolling her eyes around as far as she can, trying to catch the slightest glimpse of any onlookers in her periphery. There aren't many- not yet- but Mel can't easily surmise that from her position. The room is mostly empty and the quiet is a jarring contrast to earlier, when it contained the entire crowd. She's pretty sure her genuine glee is pulling her face out of the sort of smile she's aiming for, but Mel's eyes are crinkled back at whatever goofy expression Sasha is managing, so she supposes that it might be for the best.

Not that she intends to allow Mel so much free information for much longer. Mel's eyes widen when she sees the thick blindfold Sasha is holding, and she squirms harder, held in place by the restraints.

"Much better," Sasha says once the blindfold is on and Mel has relaxed back into lighter squirming. "How many people do you think can see you right now?"

Mel makes a breathy noise that's trying not to be a moan, and Sasha's grin widens. She shuffles through the bag of Mel's things digging out everything she plans to use, now that Mel can't see her lining them up. She picks up the first and lets the plastic rest over Mel's clit long enough for her to recognize what it is and start making pleading noises. Then Sasha starts to squeeze the pump, drawing pink, flushed flesh up into the pump's textured barrel.

She drops the pump once she's satisfied, letting it dangle, pulling further on Mel's clit. Mel whines.

"Look at this," Sasha says, swiping a finger along Mel's slit. She's in a similar same state as she steps up to Mel's head and sticks her finger in Mel's mouth, resting it on her tongue and watching until she gets the hint and starts licking up her own fluids. The image makes Sasha's insides pulse, and she palms herself absently. "It wouldn't have to be this difficult if you'd just cooperated."

Once Mel's finished, Sasha leans over and starts squeezing and pulling at her nipples. Mel squeaks, and Sasha can't help giggling. She digs her fingers around Mel's breasts, twists, pinches, experimenting with the things that draw the best noises from Jon and learning what draws the best noises from Mel. Eventually, she's gripping a nipple tightly in one hand and pinching the surrounding skin with the other, conducting her own little symphony. "People are looking," she coos softly to Mel, who groans.

Mel's hips twitch, and without knowing if she can get off just from the pump and Sasha's attentions Sasha wants to stay well away from allowing her that sort of relief. 

She picks up a bag of clamps and starts with Mel's swollen nipples. Mel's chest heaves. Her voice is already starting to give out a bit. Sasha smiles; she jingles the bag and returns to pinching at some of the marks she left earlier. She double-checked the more complete packet and intends to follow its suggestion of sending Mel home to wake up tomorrow with a canvas of gladly-made bruises to the letter.

She waits for Mel to tense as she realizes what the sound in before she stops touching her. She hovers in silence, watching Mel try to anticipate more abuse of her breasts. Once Mel looks well and truly braced for what she thinks is coming next, Sasha silently steps away, relishing the moment before placing the first clamp.

Mel half-sobs at the sudden, unexpected clasp onto her labia, but it trails off into a moan. Sasha laughs, and gives the pump another jostle, letting a bit of the pressure go and then bringing it up again, Mel's cries rising and falling in time with it.

She takes her time decorating Melanie's lips to frame the pump, occasionally reaching up to pinch her breasts again just to maintain the suspense. When she's finished, Mel's melted into a puddle of moans. Sasha's close to joining her. She pulls out the vibrator she stowed in her bag in case of just such an occasion and makes sure Mel can hear it buzz, then makes equally sure Mel knows exactly where it goes.

She plays up her own cries just the slightest bit- she isn't the exhibitionist Mel is- to rub it in as she gets off on Mel's predicament.

"You wish you were good earlier now, don't you?" Sasha asks sweetly once she finishes. Mel nods as best she can, pinned as she is. She perks up when she hears the vibrator resurface from Sasha's pants. Sasha wants to see Mel hear it turn off before she stows it away. Mel sighs longingly.

Sasha sighs back as sadly as she can, given she can't make herself stop smiling. "If you had been good earlier, we could be done right now."

Mel whines, and Sasha freezes, watching her hands. She doesn't want to miss it if Mel wants to safeword and end things now, like Sasha just alluded to. The packet said she and Georgie use a thumbs-down- or as close to down as Mel can manage- when Mel is gagged. Mel doesn't twitch a single finger, though, so Sasha continues as planned, taking the clamps off her nipples.

At first, Mel makes a relieved sound, but before long the returning blood heightens the pain, helped by Sasha kneading them between her fingers. She glances up; there are more people around now; the auction must have ended. It doesn't take her long to catch an interested eye and hand a strap, too wide to do too much damage, to a stranger, indicating Mel's chest.

Sasha spends most of the time remaining until lunch observing from the side as people occasionally come up to deliver a few more spanks to Mel's abused tits. Her cries sound almost outraged at the beginning, but start to soften as time goes by. Somewhere in the middle, Sasha pulls the vibrator back out and makes sure Mel can hear her getting a second orgasm while Mel is still desperate. A number of other people come to watch instead of wielding the strap themselves, and Mel hears most of them, as well.

Sasha only stops things because she needs time to replace the nipple clamps and finally center them in the long rows of clothespins she's been foreshadowing from the beginning. Mel whimpers at the first. By the time Sasha finishes roughing out the lines she's moaning almost continually.

It isn't until Sasha starts to go back, filling in the gaps, that Mel finally swaps entirely to begging- as well as she can with the gag still stretching her mouth.

Mel is plainly hopeful, despite her efforts not to show it, when Sasha removes the pump. Her attempts to move her hips against her bonds become more focused than the half-instinctual twitches of earlier when Sasha starts massaging her clit, keeping a light hand. She still doesn't intend to allow Mel to actually come. Not yet.

When Sasha feels Mel's clit is sufficiently tender, still slightly swollen with the effects of the pump, she sets the pump back over it and squeezes. The moment of hope makes Mel's cries of desperation even more gratifying.

Chapter Text

She doesn't think he sees her interest in the single human occupant of the line of urinals before she hides it, either, which is more important.

She's anxious about what everyone started smiling and whispering about while they were gone, and that anxiety only grows when Sasha picks up her leash and Georgie follows them. The part of the schedule carved out for lunch doesn't end for another fifteen minutes. Sasha checks Melanie is alright going, and she's being truthful when she says she is, but it still makes her nervous. And other things.

Sasha presses a hand against Melanie's shoulder once they've move away from the doors a bit, and Melanie lets herself be gently pinned against the wall. "Have you learned your lesson now?"

Melanie's sure she turns bright red, but she does manage to nod.

"Have you?" Sasha asks. 

Melanie nods again, not quite as enthusiastically. She's a little bit afraid of Sasha, just now, but her traitorous pussy is more present in her thoughts.

"I didn't see you thinking about much of anyone besides yourself this morning," Sasha says lightly. Melanie holds very still. She's pretty sure Sasha doesn't actually need much of her input to carry on with the script she's written herself. "So we're going to work on that. And maybe we can make it stick that you're nothing at the same time, too." She smiles; Sasha is really bad at keeping a dopey grin from ruining whatever she's trying to act out instead. She lifts her hand from Melanie's shoulder and starts walking. Melanie barely regains her wits enough to follow in time.

She starts to get a sneaking suspicion of where they're going very fast. She shoots Georgie a dirty look; Georgie beams back. Glaring easier than deciding what her own feelings should put on her face. She is, impossibly, even more desperate for anything more than the pump and clamps than she was a few seconds ago.

The space in the line of urinals is empty now. It looks very bare with just the metal of the fixtures and the white of the tile. She can see all the restraints now. There are two sets of manacles embedded in the floor, the pair nearest the wall close together and the nearer one terribly far apart in comparison. The arm restraints are similarly doubled, rather than merely holding the wrists as she'd guessed. There's a peg sticking up from the floor, a short little rod that's there so toys can be swapped easily.

Sasha goes to the little hatch to the side of the urinals without hesitation. Just past it, tucked unobtrusively in the corner, is a small shower stall Melanie suspects she'll be glad of before the end of the day; right now, in the time it takes her to process that this is really happening Sasha's already got a dildo over the rod in the floor and skipped over to pull the plug in Melanie's ass out quickly enough to make her lose her breath for a moment. Georgie, apparently lying in wait, has another gag between Melanie's teeth before she catches it well enough to close her mouth.

Melanie protests, once, and then holds still as Georgie and Sasha strip her of clothespins and clamps. She throbs when points of pain start to light up with the returning bloodflow, but Sasha keeps her hands ostentatiously away from the pump.

She doesn't resist being steered to the wall. She needs enough of her wits to keep from falling into a desperate writhing mess more than she needs to waste them on struggling. 

Once she's secured, no longer able to embarrass herself with her desperation quite so thoroughly, Melanie starts to test her restraints. Her arms are pulled harshly behind her, making her stick her tits out; her legs are pinned to the floor in a wide V, so if the pump weren't in the way anyone could see how dripping and empty she is; she's stuck flush with the floor, keeping the dildo deep inside her; her head is both the most thoroughly immobilized and the least. The collar is wider at the back, a slight curve ensuring she can't turn her head to either side, but there's a bit of give built in, a smoothly-oiled track that lets Sasha grabs her hair and yank her forward and back a few times. Aside from that, so much of Melanie is pinned she's practically a statue. The most she can do is wiggle her fingers and toes. 

Sasha gives the pump one cruel squeeze before bouncing up to her feet. "Good?"

Melanie nods and makes the best affirmative noises she can summon in response.

"You sure?" Georgie checks. "Last chance until dinner."

When Melanie's made it clear she means it, a bit weak (in a good way) at how long Sasha's carved out to leave her here, both smile down at her. Georgie pulls out her phone; there's no way for anyone to accidentally pop up in the background with Melanie against the wall, and she always has Melanie's permission to take pictures of her. With the rules thus thoroughly satisfied, Georgie takes her time capturing Melanie's predicament.

She can see the image in her head. Melanie is fixed in a line of urinals, a plaque over her head instructing anyone who comes across her to "Use Me". She's jutting her tits out for the room, displaying her inflamed nipples and burgeoning bruises. Her legs are spread wide, and the only thing keeping her cunt from being on full display to the room is the pump in front of it. That's the only thing between her and everyone seeing that she's getting wetter by the second. She tries to sigh, but it turns into a moan.

When Georgie's backed up and snapped a few with the full effect she nods at Sasha. Sasha pounces with a blindfold, and the others and tiles and sinks disappear, leaving Melanie alone in the dark. Her hips twitch (as far as that's possible) without her permission. It's quiet, too. She thinks Georgie's taking more pictures.

Sasha's footsteps slap against the floor again after a bit, stopping in front of Melanie. Something cold and slightly wet moves down the center of her torso, then back up to write something on either side, just beneath her collarbones. She feels Sasha fiddle with the collar, and then something drops between her breasts, dangling from a string.

There's a slap that makes her flinch, somewhere overhead. Sasha makes apologetic shushing noises, and soft hand brushes her hair. Melanie has just enough space to move to embarrass herself still further and lean into the touch. 

"Is that legible?" Sasha asks.

Georgie answers, "You're good. Fits in the picture, too."

Sasha pets Melanie's hair a few more times before moving on, walking back over to the hatch the supplies are kept and the current victim's belongings stored, digging something out. Somewhere in front of her Georgie makes a satisfied hum. More pictures?

Melanie is taken aback when Sasha comes back and she can feel her breath brush lightly against her face. It's the only warning of Sasha's location she gets before Sasha releases the pump. She can't keep her moan in with the ring in her mouth. Sasha laughs softly. Melanie feels the heat of Sasha's hand close by again, and then something is sliding up, into her cunt, and she's making grateful noises.

Sasha laughs, and then slight pressure kicks the vibrator inside her on. "A bit of positive reinforcement that this is what you really are."

She steps away, and all Melanie has to focus on is the dark, the faint sound of footsteps, and the vibrator inside her and cradling her needy clit on either side. She thinks she might hear Sasha and Georgie saying something, but she can't tell. She comes fast, after being left wanting all day, and she isn't particularly focused on what they're doing. As she's coming down she hears laughter, and the sound of the door closing, leaving her alone.

The vibration is insistent, but not so aggressive that it becomes too much immediately. Melanie is only slightly starting to lose her mind, caught between overstimulation after her first orgasm and the need for a second, when the door opens again. This time, the laughter comes toward her.

"Look at this," a voice sneers. A hand buries itself in her hair, jostling her head a bit. There's no way her rising blush goes unnoticed.

"I mean, really," someone else says, a bit further off. Melanie squeaks and clenches around the vibrator.

"You mind?" the first voice asks casually. Melanie doesn't bother to pretend, even to herself, that the question might be meant for her.

"Go ahead," the second voice says. That's all the warning Melanie gets before a cunt is pressed against her face.

She presses near as well as she can, lapping her tongue hopefully. When that gains her a happy sigh, she redoubles her efforts, trying to see if the lean forward will give her any extra give to press her own clit against the vibrator any harder. Some part of her is pleased at how quickly she brings this stranger to orgasm.

Then there's piss stinging her throat, and she's too focused on swallowing instead of choking to feel much else.

The thing dangling from the collar is tapped against both of her collarbones briefly before being dropped. Melanie hears the owner of the second voice come closer. There's a cock in her mouth with little further ado. Any attempts to be active about it soon dissipate; they're interested in fucking her throat, and the rest of her is irrelevant.

Without anything else to focus on, the vibrator and humiliation consume her thoughts.The loop of humiliation increasing her arousal, and that in itself being humiliating, has vicious hold over her. She moans when she comes again; the person down her throat chuckles derisively, probably feeling the vibration even with their dick blocking most of the actual sound.

As she's processing that wave of shame, the door opens, admitting a crowd large and chatty enough that the echo off the walls makes it impossible to guess its size.

The person using her pulls out and spatters cum over her face. They touch her chest again, but this time only on one side. There's a new cock on her tongue and piss pooling in her mouth before she can decide what she thinks that's about.

The cock is pulled out and slapped against her cheek once they finish, then put back in her mouth. Melanie does her best to use her limited movement to suck it. She's desperately, horribly eager to please, to do something right. To be good.

Thinking about what she looks like in the pictures Georgie took, what Georgie might do with those pictures, only makes the shame worse.

Someone says, "Wanna go to the other one? Spread our contributions to the contest evenly?" as two more slightly wet little lines are drawn on her chest. Melanie is too busy finally managing to connect the dots to the competition everyone was refusing to tell them about to hear the answer.

They're tallying up how many people use her, and for what. Jon is her counterpart in the other bathroom, presumably. Sasha wrote- what? Something short. Cum on one collarbone, piss on the other, with a line between her breasts demarcating the border splitting the scoreboard?

Someone asks, "Is this where the line starts?" Knowing its source is nearby doesn't change the fact that it feels very far away.

Chapter Text

Jon chokes and swallows around Martin, struggling to breath around the cock thrusting into his throat. He's horribly aware of his exposure, the weights bouncing merrily from nipple clamps and his knees spread to display his wet cunt and desperate clit.

Martin grunts and his grip on Jon's hair lightens as he spills down Jon's throat. He starts to pull out, but stops with his cock resting on Jon's tongue, the only warning he gets before urine fills his mouth. That explains why he drew tallies on Jon's chest before actually using him. Now he doesn't have to get near the piss waterfalling out of Jon's gaping mouth and onto his tits as he struggles.

"You need a go?" Martin asks, ignoring Jon's spluttering.

Tim hums, and Jon doesn't have time to do more than half-swallow Martin's piss before another of his assistants is using his mouth. He can hear people approaching, more heading toward the bathroom as lunch ends. He doesn't have any more time to brace himself after Tim makes his marks and leaves than Tim gave him after Martin, his mouth full again almost immediately.

-

A million years later Jon pants, gasping for air now that there's no one rubbing their clit against his nose and covering his mouth with their cunt. He feels the slight pressure of another mark being scored on his chest. He tried to keep count at first, but there are too many people, too many things monopolizing his attention instead.

He keeps trying to rock his clit just a little forward to grind against the tile, but there's no give in the restraints. There's a dildo spearing his cunt to the floor but it isn't enough. Not even reminding himself that Tim took pictures of Jon like this before abandoning him to his fate until dinner is enough.

Someone pulls hard on his hair, yanking the collar to the end of it's reach, pulling Jon onto their cock instead of stuffing their cock into Jon. He tries to keep his throat relaxed as he waits to see if the soft cock will harden or send piss scorching down his throat.

He struggles to swallow quickly. There's already piss and cum splattered all over him, dribbling out his fixed-open mouth when he fails to swallow quickly enough or someone pulls out for the purpose of making him a worse mess, but he can at least try to avoid adding to that unnecessarily. The piss burning down his throat joins a heavy weight in his gut. He doesn't know how long he's been here (how much longer he's going to be here), but there's a drain in the floor very close to him. He's pretty sure that's strategic.

The stream into his stomach ends, but the cock doesn't withdraw. The person using him uses their grip on his hair to shove him up and down on their cock instead of moving themselves. Jon tries to marshal his tongue to help move things along.

His hair's the only thing people touch, really. The pen dangling from the collar can't be much better than his skin, but people are pointedly careful not to touch any more of Jon than they have to. He can feel how disgusting he must be, but when his mouth is filled again almost immediately after a serving of cum is shot into him he's shamefully glad.

"You going to be a minute?" someone asks.

"Probably not," the person with their hardening cock resting on Jon's tongue replies. He tries, again, to use his tongue. He may not have the most experience, but he does have enthusiasm, for whatever that's worth. They seem content to let him fumble around, belying their words to their friend.

A shoe presses against Jon. At first he thinks they're just shifting, but then it stays put. It's smooth, maybe leather or an approximation, and it's pressed right against his clit.

Jon moans, squirming his hips with all his might. They start slowly, almost experimentally thrusting further into his mouth. Do they not realize? He supposes that thick enough leather might hide how hard he's trying to rub against their shoe. He's close-

The shoe and it's pressure leave before he can come. Jon makes a broken noise in his throat.

The person who asked how long Jon would have this particular dick in his mouth scoffs, and Jon burns. "God, it's shameless."

There's cum splattered across his face in short order, and then he's alone.

Not completely alone, he doesn't think. He's pretty sure he can at least hear someone near the sinks, messing with makeup or something, but there's no one speaking. No footsteps coming toward him. He's pretty sure the weights dangling from his nipples have a bit of springiness to them, if not actual springs. The only thing moving him is the rise and fall of his chest, but he can feel them bouncing away.

If he's alone...

If the lunch crowd is just clearing out, he could be here a long while yet. It comes down to weighing different fragments of his dignity against each other.

Last night comes back to him abruptly. Picturing himself just as he is right now, but with that little sound forcing his bladder to continue to accommodate the growing strain shouldn't be such an appealing thought.

Jon only has the luxury of a comparatively-empty bladder for a few face-burning heartbeats before he hears the door swing open again.

Chapter Text

If she does hear them, they let her sweat. Sasha waits for Georgie to snap to her heart's content, capturing the tableau for later. Melanie is filthy, weak, drooling heavily, and absolutely covered in tally marks.

When Georgie's finished Sasha goes and opens the hatch. Georgie has enough time to think it strange, and then Melanie grows a bit more alert, and she feels silly. She doesn't know what either of them could say to give Melanie some sort of warning that they're here to bust her out. Melanie would probably appreciate a verbal cue less, because she'd have to really grapple with the knowledge that they're here looking at her instead of taking a moment to quietly brace herself for it.

Melanie is loose-limbed as Sasha helps her to her feet, now devoid of all the bells and whistles. Her knees are pink from pressing against the floor. Sasha makes eye contact and Georgie steps forward so Sasha can pass Melanie and some soap to her. Georgie leads her to the little shower cubicle.

"Hello, Mel," she says brightly. Melanie mumbles a noise.

Georgie shucks her shirt and bra, decides she can keep her trousers mostly away from the water and they're light enough to dry fast, and hits the button to turn the water on, then sets to gently washing Melanie. The marker should wash off with some targeted attention at home, but it's permanent enough that it won't budge before they can compare Melanie with Jon.

Melanie slowly grows more aware, leaning on Georgie intentionally instead of Georgie struggling to pin her dead weight to the wall and wash her at once.

"Hi," she says softly.

"Hi," Georgie says. "You alright?"

Melanie nods weakly. She doesn't move to help, but when they're coming back out she takes the towel Sasha hands her and dries herself off.

"Good?" Sasha asks brightly, face serious.

Melanie turns bright red, showing she heard more than just a request for a status update. She buries her face in her hands- Georgie manages to get her phone up fast enough to take a picture, her girlfriend is adorable- and nods.

Sasha laughs. "I'm glad!"

Georgie loses track briefly as the world is obscured by the shirt she's yanking over her head, but evidently Sasha works fast, because once she's put herself back together Melanie is pressed against a wall, muffling squeaks as Sasha taps her finger over all the little tally groups. Georgie did mention that Melanie's ticklish in her materials; if Sasha's doing it unintentionally, Melanie still looks hazy enough that Georgie elects not to remind her. Georgie takes pictures until Sasha is partway through counting the second half of Melanie's torso, when Melanie notices her and shoots her a glare.

"Come model for me," she says when Sasha's put big totals on Melanie's chest. Melanie pouts, but allows them to pose her and spin her around. Her steps are light when they finally head toward the day's final batch of potluck food. Sasha and Jon's Martin went home at some point without Georgie noticing until she bumped into him bringing in a large quantity of bread rolls. Dinner's expected to have the largest crowd of the day, with all the people who can't or don't want to clear their entire day but do want to come socialize and join the silent auction.

They can see the group sitting in the same place they sat for lunch- well, they can see Martin, who's tall enough to act as a signpost even sitting down- and send Melanie over to get off her feet. Once they've puttered through the line to fill their plates, they finally go close enough themselves for Georgie to spot Jon.

Jon is a bit flushed, and just as covered in marker as Melanie. He's also back in the white lingerie, but he either didn't towel off or they had him put it on before going in the shower stall, because it's plastered to his skin. Sasha hardly looks at him before Jon's giving her a Look and saying, "Marks needed to be visible."

Georgie exchanges a Look with Melanie. Melanie widens her eyes before rolling them to excess. At least Georgie isn't the only one noticing how close the little "platonic" foursome seem.

She didn't quite manage to find the time to get a proper look at all the silent auction goods yet, so she splits off on her own after she finishes eating and heads there. She's beat enough of the crowd that she can stand back and survey long chunks of table instead of having to crowd in close in the slow-moving semi-line that formed earlier in the afternoon. There's a wide variety, including a couple signed What the Ghost? shirts and hoodies they're hoping will manage to bolster what Georgie's hoping to spend herself. They agreed on a budget ahead of time, and Georgie does plan to stick to it, despite Melanie's vocal doubt.

Mostly. She mostly plans to stick to it. Christmas is coming, and if she sees something that would make a good gift for Melanie that's a separate budget.

The room is filling up and Georgie's put down a few low, starter bids when she hears a noise at her feet.

Jon is on all fours at her knee, head bowed. "P- please, ma'am, use me, let me-"

"Jon," she says. When they were dating they never... she doesn't dislike the sight of Jon down there, begging at her feet, but she doesn't know if she wants to act on it.

He looks up eyes wide. Then he keens. "Please, use- Geo-" Jon yelps at the crack of a riding crop to his thighs. Georgie looks up and smiles at the person holding the leash, but she's too focused on Jon to pay attention to them. Jon moves forward and in. "Please, ma'am, fuck me, let me-"

"You don't think you've come enough already? Greedy slut."

Jon whines. "Not at all, please-"

"I don't know," Georgie interrupts. He looks up at her so sweetly, pressed against her with his hands between her shoes. It gives her an idea that feels less like something that needs a few hours pondering. "Find me again in a bit, and I might have something for you."

Jon hums and retreats, head down again as he's led to beg the next person to use him until he comes. Georgie doesn't think he's going to find much luck with the second bit.

-

Melanie makes fun of her, but this is exactly why Georgie keeps little disinfectant wipes in her purse.

Well, not exactly. Sexually humiliating her ex for mutual enjoyment wasn't on her list, but that's why she keeps the wipes in her purse. You never know when you might need one.

She keeps the torn packet when she's done. Jon will recognize it, which is faster than using words. Then she goes back to chatting with people and perusing the auction, checking on her old bids and deciding whether to leave lost ones be or raise them. She's quietly pleased to see the What the Ghost? merch doing better than she'd expected. It feels less like they took up useful, limited table space now that it might actually pull its weight among the other offerings.

She's chatting with a couple acquaintances when Jon finds her again. He startles slightly when he realizes he's looking at three pairs of shoes, not just Georgie's. She puts a hand on the side of his head and murmurs, "Good?"

Jon hums guiltily. "P- please, ma'am use me, let me-"

"Do you deserve to come?"

Jon hums again.

"You can try," she says. Jon looks up at her, expectant, until Georgie presses her shoe between his legs.

Jon looks down at her shoe, and when he looks up again Georgie had the torn packet the disinfectant wipes she used on the shoes between her fingers. He nods, and she says, "If you ask nicely I might let you hump my shoe. You're nearly good enough for that."

Everyone in the little knot of people laughs. Jon squirms.

"Please ma'am may I hump your shoe?" he asks in a small voice.

"Hm?"

"Please may I hump your shoe? Please, I'm not good enough to be used, please may I hump your shoe?" More laughter.

She tips her head side to side like she's weighing the question. "I suppose." 

Jon swallows and looks down. Georgie grabs his hair and forces him to look up as his hips start to move.

Jon bites his lips, shuts his eyes, does everything to swallow his reactions, but he can't stop himself blushing. Georgie keeps a close eye on him. She doesn't know what Jon looks like when he's nearing his peak, after all.

She grips his hair a bit harder as his breath starts to become short. "That's enough."

Jon whimpers, but stops.

"Clean up your mess," Georgie says, slacking her grip on his hair. She starts to ask, under her breath, if he's alright when she feels Jon's finger tapping against her thigh, the little triple she's seen him using as a nonverbal green all day. He used it with Sasha in the morning, and with the others at meals. Mostly Martin, every time he looks like he's about to ask Jon if he's alright yet again.

Jon looks up at her again before turning his gaze very deliberately down, shifting away from her show with a sad little cry, hips twitching against air, before placing his hands on either side of her foot and lowering his face to her shoe.  "Yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am, thank you ma'am."

Georgie resumes a semblance of the conversation she was having before Jon arrived, though they're all shooting looks at Jon with his face bent over Georgie's shoe, slowly licking it clean of his own fluids.

When Jon raises his head and starts to back away, one of the men in their little cluster says, "No wonder no one's let it come, leaving the job half-finished." He shifts, and Georgie doesn't think Jon will have to look hard to find the next person interested in taking advantage of his pleas.

Jon glances up. Georgie doesn't smile. "I have two feet, Slut."

He hunches back down. "Sorry, sorry ma'am, I'll do it."

Georgie watches Jon, who always seemed so buttoned-up and prim, on his knees, letting her degrade him in front of a crowd of strangers. Thanking her for it.

Melanie is going to laugh at her when Georgie eventually asks her to help unpack this.

Chapter Text

"Yes, Miss."

Mel feels very naked, kneeling in their living room without a collar, but Miss Georgina said she should. She hoped that the shower was a good sign, but it feels like it takes Miss Georgina a very long time to come for her. She tries to track her footsteps to figure out what she's looking for, but the Admiral keeps getting underfoot or meowing loud enough to drown out the footsteps.

"Here we are, Mel," Miss Georgina says, finally.

Mel can feel her body heat nearby, thinks she can track her hands as they come up and almost move in to place a collar around Mel's neck, but then she stops.

"Miss?" Mel ventures.

"Touch."

"Good?" Georgie asks.

Melanie's heavy collar only comes out when one or both of them has concluded the best thing for Melanie is to spend a while in a constant state of humiliation, until the jagged static in her mind smooths out into obedient submission long enough for the sense of peace to stay once she's Melanie again. They had speculated that feeling on the brink of one of those periods might have something to do with her enthusiasm for today's scheme, not just Melanie's unremarkable inborn charity. The fact that the collar's presence is striking her like this after the day she's had, instead of prickling or just feeling rightfully tired, is a good indication she was right.

Georgie lets Mel take her time finding her face and leaning in to kiss her. When their lips meet, the blindfold can't hide Georgie's smile from her.

"Thank you, Miss," she says, fully relaxing again. Miss Georgina hums and wraps the collar gently around Mel's neck. Mel smiles as she hears it click shut and the weight settles entirely on her shoulders. This one does lock.

"Stand," Miss Georgina says.

"Yes, Miss."

Miss Georgina uses her foot to nudge Mel's feet wider apart, and Mel blushes at the realization she tried to keep them together. Once she's standing properly, Miss Georgina moves the belt into place. Mel holds back a whine as her cunt and clit are both imprisoned away from her own hands, but trapped, filled with and pressed against toys Miss Georgina could activate whenever she chooses.

"Thank you, Miss," Mel says once the belt is secure. It's harder to say than it should be, proving she deserves the heavy collar.

"Blindfold."

"Yes, Miss." Mel is on edge at being told to take it off already. She finds Miss Georgina looking at her with a critical eye.

"I have some new ideas, but I haven't decided yet," Miss Georgina explains, though she doesn't have to.

"Thank you, Miss."

"You certainly look good enough on your knees to crawl now."

"Yes, Miss." Mel drops to the floor and waits until Miss Georgina has walked far enough to crawl two steps behind. In the bedroom, she sees her firm mat laid out at the foot of Miss Georgina's bed, and the ends of something hanging on the closet. That must have been what took so long; she had to lure the Admiral into the spare room with a treat so he wouldn't pitch a fit about being shut out of Miss Georgina's room.

Mel stands and pulls back the bedcovers of Miss Georgina's bed before kneeling again.

"Mat."

"Yes, Miss." Mel crawls onto the mat and lies flat. 

Miss Georgina kneels to buckle the straps that hold Mel to the mat, spread out, then clicks a chain onto Mel's collar. Before she shuts the lights out, she drops a blanket over Mel.

"Thank you, Miss."

"Goodnight, Mel."

Melanie falls asleep with a smile on her lips.

Chapter Text

Jon rests his head against Martin's shoulder, eyes half shut. After the second time he fumbles his fork, he lets Martin feed him, lashes dark and thick over the sliver of eye necessary to watch for when he needs to open his mouth. Martin doesn't think he's awake enough yet to realize that Martin can feel him rubbing his thighs together. Jon didn't get to come once yesterday, and awkwardly requested to leave it, keeping part of him charged through the day, all the more desperate Monday. Martin almost hopes he'll change his mind before then, fantasizing about a situation where he asks Martin for help outside a scene, instead of just taking care of it himself.

It's a problem. He hasn't really said much about how attractive he's found Jon from day one, even when he still seemed to hate Martin, telling himself that this was the sort of bizarre stroke of luck winning the lottery would be, not something to expect to happen a second time. Or a fourth, if he counts the times he didn't know it was Jon.

A week from today they'll be returning to normal life, if they don't stop before then. Martin's previous promises to himself feel a lot shakier with Jon snuggled against his side, slotted in like a puzzle piece.

He didn't even think to make those promises about Tim or Sasha. It felt different without the prior crush to consider, but watching Sasha slip out of bed and start zipping around doing who-knows-what doesn't. 

Martin's lucky enough to have a single, bizarre, wonderful week with coworkers who are all kinder and hotter than he'd ever be able to hope, and he's so selfish it doesn't feel like enough.

-

They have a list of things to spend Sunday doing, with an attendant list of chores to make it all run. Sasha spots Jon resting on Martin's shoulder and snaps a picture, then a few more when Martin starts making faces, trying to get her to stop without disturbing Jon. Then she starts racing around doing things that were definitely on Martin's part of the chore list.

He minds less than he should. Jon makes a pleasant armful, and the more time he spends with Sasha outside of work the more sure he is that Sasha's just not someone who can bear to hold still for long. It's her house, he should be a better guest, but... well, it's her house. And for some reason she's decided that that's a logical precursor to her filching Martin's laundry.

Jon isn't really someone who can stand to sit still and do nothing for long either, but he's apparently exhausted from yesterday. Martin doesn't blame him; he has much less of a claim to it than Jon, and he was pretty exhausted by the time they made it home. 

Back to Sasha's. Not home.

Regardless, Jon lasts longer than Martin had guessed he would before he starts stirring and making to get out of bed. Sasha's eyes light up and she races to start running a bath.

Jon makes an adorable disgruntled noise, half sitting up. "Sasha."

"Jon!" she says, floating out and beaming at him.

"You don't have to-"

"Maybe I want to," she says, cutting him off. She softens it by adding, "If we want to lay out out on the couch and hand-feed you grapes you should let us."

"I don't want to be fed grapes!" he says, more alarmed than annoyed for a second before he spots her smile and glowers at her. He falls back against Martin's shoulder and spends a moment suspended in indecision before adopting an exaggerated whine, cheeks adorably pinked. "She's being mean to me!"

Stop thinking he's adorable!

Martin fails entirely to take up the role of gallant knight, laughing instead. Jon turns and muffles giggles into the crook of his neck, and Martin really hopes Sasha can't tell how much he likes it. He's pretty sure he's blushing, too, though.

"Are you having fun without me?!" Tim demands from somewhere near the stairs, and sprints into the room. 

"Always!" Sasha says, leaning forward and kissing him. When she pulls away, Tim looks as dazed at being kissed as Martin is at watching him be kissed. Sasha bounces out of the room without a care in the world. Martin pretends not to have seen anything.

-

When they discussed using Sasha's giant tub again Martin was mainly thinking of how nice it is, and how much fun they had the first time, and a bit how he'd feel too bad using all that water to fill it again on his own. He's pretty sure Tim and Jon thought the same, going by their expressions.

Sasha decided it meant setting out an array of face masks, the selection criteria of which appears to have been which ones she thought were funniest, and enough bubble bath that they can't actually see each other very well at all through the drifts, which at least makes it harder to ogle his coworkers inappropriately. 

Martin feels a bit mortified, like she's gone out of her way buying things because he likes her bathtub and trying to construct an argument to get Sasha to keep them for herself, but then he sees Jon glancing at them with poorly-concealed interest and doesn't have the heart to object.

It's nice. It's all nice. He misses it already and it's not even over.

"Are we really so boring you had to go over the top?" Jon asks.

Sasha doesn't answer. Martin makes eye contact with Jon through a couple of hills of bubbles and sees him matching his suspicion through the pallor of paper gummed onto his face with something or other.

"Sash?" Tim says. 

"Tim?" Martin says. Tim doesn't sound like he's in the dark, and if Sasha won't crack he's the weak link.

"Hm?" he says, like he forgot Martin was there.

"Tim!" Jon says.

"Sasha!" Tim says, sounding a bit desperate.

"IN my defense!" Sasha says. "It's fun."

"What's fun?" Jon asks.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," she says sweetly.

Chapter Text

"Ice cream on your nose," Sasha says, stopping her finger a hair's breadth from the tip of Jon's nose. 

"Any time," Sasha says, turning her attention back to the game. Tim barely manages to pull his eyes off of Jon's exposed stomach before he stops scrubbing and can catch Tim staring.

Tim went bankrupt a quarter of an hour ago, but he didn't leave the circle. He likes this, the quiet domesticity. He'll be sad to see it go, but he won't do anything that could be taken for trying to pressure the others into an encore. It's not all about the sex, but that's the easiest factor to point to. It feels like they'll never regain this again after they return to work, even if they keep up a regular game night.

Sasha and Jon regard the game intently. Martin seems distracted most of the time, but he's still going to win bar some disaster even though Sasha keeps abusing her power as banker to double her own withdrawals from the bank. Jon would call it out if he'd realized, but he hasn't. Martin might know, though. Tim supposes you don't need to call out cheating if you're winning anyway.

"Go fish," Sasha says flatly to Jon, reaching over to shuffle the depleted chance cards for him.

"I'm actually good at that one!" Tim says.

"No you aren't," Sasha says. "You cheat."

Tim raises his eyebrows at her. "I can believe you, of all people, would throw such vile accusations around!" His eyes slide over to the bank's stacks of bills beside her. Sasha gives him a capital-L Look and then turns away.

Jon sighs, looking at his card. "Go to jail."

"Free card?" Martin asks. Jon shakes his head.

"I have one!" Sasha says, beaming. "Pay up."

Jon frowns, looking between his cash and Martin's. In spite of Sasha's cheating, Jon is in the best place to unseat Martin. "I'll wait."

"Too cheap?" Sasha asks.

Jon shrugs. "I'll wait."

"Well, you could do me a favor instead," Sasha says brightly. Then her face flushes. "Not- I didn't mean-"

"I know!" Jon blurts.

While they're busy blushing and looking at anything but each other Martin rolls the dice and quietly moves an extra square, off of one of Sasha's properties. Then he scoops them up before either of the others can notice the discrepancy between his position and the number and nudges Sasha. "We agreed on no house rules, remember?"

No wonder Tim lost. He should have been cheating this whole time.

Tim takes over the kitchen when the game ends, leaving the others to try to cheat each other out of the rematch. It'll be nice to have a proper Sunday dinner, and he likes cooking for people. They'll need it to counter all the ice cream. He really should have done the grocery shopping himself instead of trusting it to Sasha; he ought to know better, by now.

It isn't hard, but cooking takes his mind off things and lets him drift in a context-free void of pleasant thoughts. He finds himself floating in a fantasy of returning to work. Catching Jon in his office and bending him over his own desk instead of waiting to be given another assignment, pinning his wrists and pounding into him as Jon struggles and squeals. Or Jon calling him in to do the same to Tim, keeping him down with wandering hands and biting kisses instead of brute strength. Or entering to find Sasha in Jon's chair instead, Jon and Martin's clothes heaped on the floor, with Martin under the desk and Jon bound and gagged in the corner.

He glances over, but the others are all intently focused on the game. If they look over he can probably pass his flush off as being from standing so close to the stove. He needs to get a handle on that before they actually do go back to work. It's unprofessional.

(Isn't all of this?)

When he calls the others over to eat Tim has regained control of his thoughts, and he's unreasonably pleased with himself for the meal. It's the domesticity again. The table is set nicely, like this is just what they do, share Sunday dinners every week. The others are all appreciative as they help themselves to the food, and then things fall quiet as they start eating. As a bonus, the gratification Tim feels seeing people enjoying food he's made is much more work-appropriate.

Tim wants to keep this. He won't say so, but he does.

-

Tim and Martin still aren't entirely sure what the secrecy around photos has been about, but waiting until they're all in their pajamas, in Sasha's bed, is an interesting choice. He watches Jon for any sign of discomfort, pressed in the middle of the group, but so far the worst of it seems to be embarrassment.

"Here we go," Sasha says, tapping at her tablet. She already had them send their own photos to her, so she has the full set.

Jon tucks his nose into the crook of Sasha's neck when she pulls the first picture up so his eyes just peek over her shoulder. Tim hasn't taken the time to review the pictures he's taken except to send them to Sasha and then delete his copies, never mind those she and Martin took. The sight of Jon bound to a bed and blindfolded is... certainly striking.

Jon taps a finger on Sasha's elbow. Whatever code they've worked out doesn't match the one they've been using for safewords, because Sasha flicks to the next picture without doing anything.

Watching Jon is almost more absorbing than the photos, even the ones Tim wasn't there for himself. He can't really tell with Sasha between him and Jon, but he thinks Jon is starting to squirm.

"No," Jon says after several photos have passed by, wrinkling his nose, and Sasha deletes it. Tim doesn't particularly mourn the loss; it doesn't really do justice to Jon kneeling for them until he's used, even if the light didn't catch him at such a strange, unflattering angle.

And once it's deleted they're looking at a much better picture, Jon arched to floor, licking up cum with weights dangling from his chest. What can Tim say, he's an artist. An artist in danger of joining Jon in the suspicious-fidgeting club.

Jon takes a bit longer to answer, eventually squeaking, "Yes."

Sasha smiles and hits the heart to favorite the image.

"Yes?" Martin asks. "Why yes, why is yes different?"

Jon goes red and hides his head behind Sasha so forcefully she just leans up a bit and lets him hide between the back of her neck and the pillows. "It means that, if we want, we can post it somewhere online, and Jon will never know whether or not we did. Unless he asks, obviously."

"Oh," Tim's mouth says.

"Oh," Martin says.

"Are you going to come out now?" Sasha asks Jon, tipping her head up even further at an angle that can't be comfortable.

Jon retreats and goes back to merely hiding in Sasha's shoulder. Tim notes every image that gets a shy approval from Jon, and knows the others are keeping track just as carefully.

Chapter Text

(Regardless of whether Jon wanted.)

After a whispered conference, Sasha grabs the scissors tucked under the couch cushion and kneels beside the coffee table. The moment she sets the cool metal against Jon's skin is the first he's been completely still and silent since Sasha locked the collar back around his neck.

Jon hardly breathes while Sasha cuts through his shirt, and in light of his disadvantages and the very real blades she doesn't draw it out. The sports bra goes even quicker, and in no time she's whipping the fabric out from under Jon and Martin is leaning over to squeeze Jon's tits. 

Jon jolts and shakes his head, and his pleas sound genuine.

"Fuck," Sasha says. Under the renegotiated agreement she's supposed to make sure everyone gets to hear everyone else's color firsthand before they do anything serious, and if that's Jon's reaction this should probably count. She flicks her hand at Martin, who shifts as close to the couch and Tim as he can without actually moving his legs, adding at least a bit of mystery to who's been tormenting Jon, and Sasha uncovers one of Jon's ears. "Color?"

Jon snaps his fingers, the rest of them reply, Sasha deafens the ear again and they're back in business.

Martin kneads slower and Jon fights harder for the interruption. Sasha taps at Martin's hands until they shift enough to let her at Jon's nipples, pinching and pulling while Martin tries to leave hand-shaped bruises on the surrounding flesh. Jon strains to get away, but he doesn't have the slack to move a full centimeter.

They stop before he can come. That's not on the day's agenda. 

"Here," Tim says, mouth half-full, and sets aside the last bites of his breakfast so he can dig through his pocket. Martin reaches back to take the clamps and Jon shrieks through the gag when they go on.

Tim polishes off his omelet and Sasha goes back to the kitchen with the others. Handling the dishes and cleaning Tim's egg off the floor involves a lot more running around and jumping than normal, just in case Jon can distinguish whatever vibration makes it up through the coffee table well enough to have a shot at realizing all three of them have abandoned him. There's no sign Jon can make out their voices, so unfortunately he doesn't get to hear how much fun they're having while they do it.

Sasha closes the dishwasher and leans over to whisper in Tim's ear, then takes off up the stairs at a sprint. Her cheeks ache from smiling, she's never had so much fun doing dishes. She skips into her closet and allays the fear that letting Tim and Martin hear that is too vulnerable with the easy excuse of any loud locomotion, be it skipping, running, or jumping rope, is purely for Jon's benefit.

She picked her clothes out last night, aiming for something casual and comfortable that still makes it painfully clear how wide the gulf between Jon and the rest of them is. The blouse is cute, but it also has long sleeves, a high neckline, and absolutely no form-fitting properties, and she figures it matters less what she wears on the bottom, so long as it's comfortable. Jeans seemed like the obvious choice for strict interpretation of her own brief, but she doesn't want to pull on and take off jeans multiple times today.

The underwear is presentable enough she's fine with everyone seeing it, but very plain- nothing like what Jon's immediate future has in store. She's pulling the straps of her bra onto her shoulders when Tim barrels in and wolf whistles.

Sasha rolls her eyes. "Grow up."

"Art appreciation is a very refined, adult activity," Tim says. The pious tone he takes on for most of it doesn't work at all with the eyebrow-waggling sleaze he imbues "adult" with.

"Well cover up, I have things to do today," she says, gesturing toward the closet. Tim gives her a mournful frown and shuffles around the bed to where he must have set his own clothes out before coming downstairs; the bed is big, but Sasha thinks she would remember if they were there last night.

Martin pounds in, managing to make the floor shake enough the next door neighbors might know he's come upstairs. "He got louder after Tim left!"

Sasha holds up her hand for a high-five. "I'm a genius."

"You are." Martin leans down and kisses her on the forehead before going into the closet to find his clothes.

Sasha blinks and looks at Tim. His back is turned.

She goes to brush her teeth, hoping that the blush will fade before Martin catches up to her.

-

They can't fully hide their descent, but when Sasha reaches the bottom of the stairs Jon is working on his restraints much more strategically than he was with them in the room. He freezes a moment later, and seeing it almost knocks the wind out of her with sudden lust.

Tim draws ahead of the group with the basket of toys and slides in beside Jon.

"You're going to give yourself rug burn," Sasha says.

"My knees are invincible." Tim lifts a leg to check, but from what Sasha can see it's only pink. 

"That's what he said," Martin says under his breath. Tim chortles and Sasha snorts, and Martin goes as pink as Tim's knee.

Jon is squirming now that he knows they're here, but he isn't fighting like he was before. Tim traces his fingers over Jon's chest, and Jon shivers and stills as he approaches the  clamps. "You want these off?" Tim asks no one, since Jon can't hear. "Alright." Tim removes them and Jon makes a relieved sound, visibly relaxing.

The relief fades, and Jon progresses from whimpers to begging as Tim starts to massage blood back into his nipples, making them ache worse from the loss than they did in the clamps. It's hardly ten, and they're already flushed dark from the abuse they've taken so far. Jon's chest heaves as he struggles and cries through the gag.

Martin starts taking pictures, and with him installed as photographer for the moment, Sasha kneels between Jon's legs.

She starts slow, groping him through his boxers, dragging the already-wet fabric around to get even wetter. Jon keens and shakes his hands in his restraints, trying for noise instead of escape. He's shaking his head so hard she worries he might give himself a headache. His feet kick, but there's nowhere for them to go. Jon is helpless.

Helpless.

The glee makes her feel a bit like a supervillain who's captured James Bond.

Sasha dismisses the thought and starts rubbing her hand over him more intentionally until the fabric is soaked enough to cling to Jon's skin.

Jon squeaks, kind of adorably, when Tim pulls a favorite out of the basket and pinches on a different set of nipple clamps, joined by a chain too tight to be comfortable. Tim hooks a finger under the chain and pulls it back and forth, making Jon's tits jiggle.

Jon freezes again when Sasha sets the scissors against his stomach, giving him warning before she opens them and approaches more dangerous areas, but Tim doesn't. Him playing with Jon's tits doesn't affect Sasha, so while Jon tries to modulate his voice and breath to move as little as possible his tits dance for Tim.

Jon is bared to the room, every sign he's ever worn anything they didn't give him tossed in the bin with the eggshells and leftover spinach from Tim's omelet.

Chapter Text

Jon has made his feelings on the matter clear, and he was the one to suggest the change in the first place, but Martin still can't quite believe it's happening. He should know better, considering that that's how he's felt about most developments until Sasha dragged the truth of their original encounter into the light, but apparently he never learns.

Having his phone camera as intermediary helps. Looking through the phone, Martin can focus on things like how nicely the coffee table frames the body spread across it. It distances mere aesthetic observations from the boss he'll have to go to work with on Monday. Once this is all over, Martin can't keep thinking about things like Jon's cute little tits, and how much cuter they are after a bit of torture. The phone helps him practice.

"You alright?" Sasha asks. "With being cameraman, I mean."

Martin blushes, because of course he does. It's an injustice. He thinks Jon might be as prone to it as he is, but it shows better on Martin. "More than."

Scared looks good on Jon. Without everything that came before, and the memory of Jon crying while his legs pull Martin closer instead of trying to kick him away in particular, Martin wouldn't be able to touch that thought, but now it won't leave him. Jon is helpless and he knows it. He's practically unrecognizable under everything keeping him sealed off from the world, barely a stripe of cheekbone visible between the things swaddling his head, but you can still tell he's afraid.

Or pretending to be. Probably a bit of both, in proportions he's okay with, given how far his hand keeps from the button to end it.

It isn't even ten yet, and Jon's already spent the morning being treated like a thing. Not even a sex toy; closer to a utensil. And if all goes well, Martin gets to keep doing that, at least, he hopes, for the rest of the day.

He jumps, lost in thought and in trying to capture the feeling of the moment through the camera, when Tim nudges a shoulder against him.

Tim smirks when Martin meets his eyes. "Sasha's going to be sorting things out for a bit, if you..."

The speed with which Martin can fill in that blank probably doesn't bode well for his ability to string together a professional front next week. Neither does how little he considers opting not to jerk off onto his boss' tits in front of the rest of the department.

He doesn't need much encouragement to finish, with such inspiring imagery in front of him. When cum splatters onto Jon's abused tits, he flinches. The gagged protestations and limbs jerking against his chains that had started to die down, Jon probably having managed to wear down his own resistance before they even got to him, renew. His chest heaves in panicked breaths, but Jon still doesn't twitch toward any method of ending the ordeal.

"Good timing," Sasha says as Martin aims his camera at Jon again.

"Photo or video," a much cooler, more casual Martin asks through his mouth.

Sasha's eyes sparkle, shifting over to look at Jon's obscured face. "Can you do video?"

Martin can.

Tim slides up to the table, lays one arm over Jon's hips, pinning them, and taps, twice, on Jon's stomach.

This is the only thing Jon has to be warned about no matter the circumstances, for safety's sake. He freezes immediately, but doesn't try to stop or slow them.

Jon whimpers at the first touch of silicone. Martin's pretty sure he's trying not to squirm, but he can't help it. The coffee table is big enough that his own bent limbs do most of the work of paralyzing him, though, and Tim's arm does the rest.

It's a different sound to the one they used earlier. Most saliently, it is (unfortunately) not equipped with a vibrator, and it's textured quite differently.

As Sasha pushes the end in, Jon's whimper turns into a whine, rising to a higher and higher note. Martin didn't realize Jon could make sounds that high. His chest heaves, which makes his tits jiggle. Jon might not have noticed that with everything else, normally, but the chain is short enough that any movement pulls painfully on at least one side. He's been twitching away from touches, real and imagined, all morning, but now they're really moving.

Martin doesn't know what to call the sound Jon makes when Sasha starts pressing the part of the sound where smooth silicone becomes ribbed, but the camera catches it anyway. It tears and slides up and down register, and it lasts long enough to demonstrate impressive lung capacity. Sasha giggles.

When the first textured section is done, he's start whimpering, isolated, pitiful noises. The sound is smooth for a bit before a little bulge Sasha pushes just far enough for it to be entirely inside Jon.

Then she starts to pull it out.

Jon's first reaction sounds like a mix of distress and relief, thinking it's coming out altogether. When Sasha gets half the ribbed section out and switches directions again, he breaks into something wild and uncontrolled.

Martin doesn't know how long Sasha spends fucking Jon's urethra, but his nose is bubbling snot by the time she slides it home and lets go. The three of them are all a bit flushed and short of breath; Martin's pretty sure he stopped breathing for a bit at some point, too focused on absorbing every desperate sound Jon made. They all look at each other, silently sharing what feels like a victory even though Jon can't hear if they say it out loud.

Martin stops recording and meets Tim's eyes, nodding his head to one side. Tim manages to correctly interpret the request to trade places, and pulls his phone out as he gets to his feet.

Sasha is leaning back on her hands, giving Jon a bit of a reprieve while she catches her breath.

Does Jon deserve a reprieve? Martin doesn't think so. 

Jon doesn't deserve a break. He had one while Sasha waited for him and Tim to wake up, and another when they all went upstairs to get dressed.

He may still be spread and naked on the coffee table, but as Martin kneels in the same spot where he ate breakfast, he decides that what Jon deserves is an active reminder of what a disgusting, worthless, helpless whore he is, until the three of them get bored and leave him all alone again.

Jon doesn't sound relieved when Martin removes the nipple clamps this time. He's learned that his owners only remove marks of his station to make the lesson sink in a little deeper when they put them back.

As Martin starts massaging and pinching Jon's nipples, stretching his hands out to knead an entire tit occasionally, he says, "Wonder if we could play with these long enough he'd still be feeling it Monday morning, every time his shirt moved."

His brain catches up to his mouth, but before he can apologize for the inappropriate (not work not work the whole point of this is that they're off work) remark, Tim laughs and says, "Easy. I wonder how much of the week we could make it last for."

Sasha pulls out her phone and makes a note. "We can talk about it."

As she sets aside her phone and prepares to force Jon back into the chastity belt that hasn't seen action for several days, Martin turns his full focus to Jon. He has to be watched carefully if Martin wants to keep playing with his tits, after all. It would be a shame if any of the cum drying on Jon's chest flaked off, and he certainly doesn't deserve to orgasm.

-

Martin goes to replace the nipple clamps when Sasha's finished with the belt, but she bats his hand away. "This first."

"This" is a box of permanent markers in a variety of colors, which suddenly appears in Sasha's hands. It's a fairly big box, shouldn't he have seen it waiting in the basket of toys, or in her hands carrying it down, or waiting on the carpet?

"Sash," Tim says in a quelling tone like he's trying to talk her down from something much more delicate than craft supplies. "Those could-"

"Oh!" Sasha says before he can finish. "Didn't I tell you?"

Tim slowly shakes his head, eyes shifted to the side like he's trying to remember something. When Sasha looks to Martin, he shakes his head without considering it. He would definitely remember Sasha talking about markers, wouldn't he? She had them in her survey, but Tim took the same one, so whatever Sasha's on about couldn't be the questions there. There was yesterday...

but Martin is pretty sure it was a different kind of marker. It washed of easily enough.

"Jon already tested them," Sasha says. "Weeks ago. You really don't remember?"

Tim gives her a look. "Testing it on his hand isn't the same-"

"Indeed it isn't!" Sasha interrupts. "We're good, as long as you don't do anything stupid."

"I'd like to know what we're doing?" Martin says. "Or not doing?"

Sasha nods at him, which isn't an answer, but Martin doesn't think she's really listening; her face is set in her thinking face.

"Marker could cause skin irritation," Tim fills in. "Especially somewhere..."

"Ah." Martin wonders if the red in the marker box can compete with whatever he's sure his face is doing.

"All tested. Ready, set, go!" Sasha says, looking at neither of them. She grabs a marker for herself and tosses one at Tim's chest, but Martin thinks she just didn't want to feel like she was starting alone. "Don't do anything he can't hide under work clothes, just in case."

Given Jon's penchant for wrist to ankle coverage, that gives them quite a lot of leeway indeed.

Chapter Text

Tim races upstairs before Sasha finishes with Jon, because of course she's the last one left unsatisfied by their canvas. He makes it back down to the living room to see Martin picking up the chained clamps to replace them. "Hey!"

Martin looks up, and his eyes brighten at the pair Tim holds out to him instead. "Good idea."

Jon whines a bit, but he wore himself out fighting his restraints while they enjoyed a leisurely morning, and they've worn him out still further getting him dressed for the day. The feeling of the markers is probably eating at him, driving him wild wondering what they've written, but Tim doesn't think any of them plan on revealing the answer to that mystery any time soon.

Jon's limbs are like jelly when they release him, but Tim can't judge how genuine it is. Actual muscle exhaustion, weary compliance, or method acting?

Sasha and Martin get a spreader locked on his knees before they even lift him off the table. Jon squirms when they set him down kneeling, testing how well he could hobble around on his knees like that, but he's sadly mistaken if he thinks that's indicative of how easily he could escape. Sasha stretches the bar out, and Jon whines another protest. It's one of the only sounds he can make while he's gagged, of course, but Tim suspects he isn't alone in pondering training him out of it.

Knowing how much trust he's putting in them (and how far he'll allow them to go on that trust alone) is exhilarating. The recontextualized memories of him in the box are good, seeing him bound and on display at Rosa's was better, and having Jon sweetly submit was lovely, but this...

Tim ties Jon's arms behind his back and secures the safe button around one while Sasha and Martin waffle over just how far they should spread Jon's knees. "Hey," he says when he's done, "make up your minds."

They do, and Jon almost relaxes at the familiar posture, head hanging down in what could be humiliation and fatigue or obedience, but his assumptions are, again, sadly mistaken.

Tim ties his ankles next, pinned at an angle from his knees instead of being allowed to turn out parallel to each other. A rope runs from his ankles to his looped arms, tightened until it's impossible for Jon to lay out flat. On his other side, Sasha attaches a chain to his collar and the spreader bar, forcing Jon's head to bow.

Martin, wisely, takes a few pictures. The mention of playing with Jon's tits until they're sore enough to make a constant reminder once they're back at work makes Tim's mind drift into other fantasies.

What would Jon's face do, he wonders, if they printed out a picture of him bound into utter vulnerability, needy clit visible through a plastic window, nipples flushed, cum on his chest and snot on his face, and taped it to his computer monitor to be found when he sat behind his desk?

Sasha whips the headphones off with a flourish, before having to ruin her dramatic momentum with the fiddlier task of removing the earplugs beneath.

Jon starts protesting again now that he can actually tell how effective his pleas are.

Sasha sits on the couch and buries her hand in Jon's hair, tight enough for him to add a sharper, pained protest to the more general ones. "I'm only going to explain this once, Slut." Jon whines and tries to shake his head in spite of her hold on his hair.

Sasha leans down and slaps him. "You aren't a person. You're a toy. Our toy." More whining negatives from Jon. "You don't get an opinion. You do exactly what we say, when we say it. You don't get to make decisions. Nod if you understand."

She loosens her hold on his hair a bit, and Jon shakes his head wildly. Tim smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

"I thought you might say that," Sasha says, tightening her hold again and twisting just a bit, until Jon yelps and stops trying to move his head. "That body doesn't belong to you. It belongs to us. So! Until you prove you deserve it, you don't get to have it. Yes?"

Jon shakes his head, but it isn't as dramatic this time, wary of the turn Sasha's taken.

She hums. "You don't get to see things. You don't get to speak. You don't get to use your arms, your legs, you don't get to move at all. You don't get these," she flicks a clamped nipple, and Jon yelps again. "You don't get to decide what holes are filled, and you get to use them at my discretion. Understood?"

Jon's head doesn't move at all. He just tries to speak through the gag, and hard enough that Tim can actually make out the shape of the words begging Sasha to stop.

"Ground rules," she says as if he didn't say anything. "Even if you can earn," she flicks the other nipple, "any of those things back, these rules always apply. Unless we tell you to do otherwise, when you aren't being used you kneel just like this, for as long as it takes us to care about you again. You don't walk, you crawl on all fours like a dog. You eat like one, too, if you earn the privilege of eating anything but cum. You don't speak without permission; I suspect it will be a long time before you earn the right to say anything but 'yes, Mistress' and 'yes, sir'. Keeping up?"

Jon teeters between answers (probably questioning whether he wants to answer at all), but Sasha doesn't give him time to decide.

"You don't touch yourself without permission," she says. "You don't wear clothes without permission. If we decide to allow you clothing, you wear it exactly as we arrange it without changing anything, down to buttoning buttons or adjusting strap lengths. If you're given clothes, they will always remind you that you're a worthless whore, not a person." She flicks a finger higher up Jon's chest, near a dried spot of cum. "You are not allowed to clean yourself up without permission. There is no plausible deniability; if any of that flakes off your chest, I will make you regret it."

Jon whines. Sasha leans down and strokes his hair. "This is the most important part."

Jon jumps, surprised by her voice moving closer. Sasha sits back up and tries to muffle a smile.

"You never tell a human no, under any circumstances," she says, adding under her breath, "just yellow or red."

Tim sees Martin covering a laugh, as he is, and Jon snorts, nose bubbling after all the crying.

"You never make eye contact with a human," Sasha says. "If you ever attempt to, the punishment will be much worse than this." She knocks a knuckle lightly against the blindfold. "You've never had any name but Slut, and you always respond to your name. Your collar never comes off. You never address a person by their name. You call me Mistress, and everyone else sir or ma'am. You never come without permission. You are to remember and obey all rules at all times. If you break one, you will be punished. You get no input into how you are punished, and attempts to fight will only make the punishment more severe. Do you understand?"

Jon shakes his head, crying through the gag, but Tim thinks it's more of a denial of the situation, not an answer to Sasha's question.

"'You are never to tell a human no,'" Martin quotes. Jon freezes before shaking his head harder.

Sasha sighs and moves behind him, fiddling with the gag. As soon as it's free, Jon starts talking.  "Please don't, please don't, Sasha, no, no, I'm sorry, please, I won't tell, Martin, stop, let me g-agh!"

Sasha smiles at the sound of Jon's words vanishing from the ring gag she forces beneath his teeth. "'Toys don't get to make requests,' remember?"

Jon moans and shakes his head again. They want to keep him guessing at what he is or isn't allowed to do for as long as they can. Sasha dumping a thousand rules on him at once will probably mean at least one slipping through the cracks, but in addition to that and what he remembers from last week there are several new ones. Sasha laminated copies of the list to tape up to remind them- it's supposed to be internally consistent, not like they're just making new rules up on the spot- but those all go places like the top of the table, where Jon is never going to spot them.

In a much softer voice, Sasha gives what she can see of Jon's face a skeptical look and asks, "Are you breathing alright? Do you want a tissue?"

Jon tips his head and wavers.

Tim snorts. "That's two questions, Sash."

"Are you breathing alright?" Martin asks. Jon nods. "Do you want a tissue?" Jon shakes his head.

Sasha clicks her tongue. "We'll work on what punishment you're earned, Slut. I don't think these are going to be enough for so much disobedience." She rolls the first ear plug between her fingers. Jon knows what's coming, now, and tries to turn away, but he can't do it very far and Sasha grabbing his hair negates it entirely. "You two decide amongst yourselves who gets the cockwarmer first."

Martin waits for the headphones to be in place to say, "I already had a turn."

-

Jon enjoys a somewhat awkward journey to the kitchen table; they aren't aiming to do anything that might give him the ability to struggle effectively yet, so it's easier for Tim to carry him as-is. 

Tim sets him down by his seat at the table, and very considerately grabs a couch cushion to put under him.

It's definitely consideration. Nothing to do with the extra height getting Jon's mouth where Tim wants it without removing the chain between collar and bar that keeps him bowed down.

Jon is jerking in his bonds, trying to move under his own power, when Tim returns. He manages maybe half a centimeter, with little control over direction. Tim makes a mental note, and sets to arranging Jon how he wants him. Sasha is buzzing around taping lists to things, having waited so Jon wouldn't see them while he ate and wouldn't have the thumping while she pings one surface to another to spoil the suspense of not knowing where they were.

Tim digs a bag out of his pocket and sets it by his place, then allows Jon an extra two links of the chain keeping his head bowed before he sits down and slips his cock through the gag.

Jon jerks away as much as he can, which isn't far. Tim pulls Jon up his cock by the hair until he gags on it. The angle is awkward with the chain forcing his head down, but the cushion gives him enough height that he doesn't seem to be struggling to breathe for the minute Tim spends carefully monitoring him for discomfort that could actually be dangerous. Jon squirms a bit, but settles when it becomes clear there's very little he can do.

Tim releases Jon's hair and waits to see if he'll try to move away again. He behaves, for the moment.

As hoped, the rings on short chains dangling from the clamps currently torturing Jon's nipples swing over open air with his collar attached to the bar between his knees. Jon won't be getting any easy hints about what Tim's up to.

Sasha smacks a list of rules down hard on the table and spots the bag next to Tim. "Exactly how many different kinds of those do you have, Timothy?"

"Exactly?" he says. "We don't all exhaustively inventory our sex toy collections, Sash."

She rolls her eyes and starts looking through the stack of board games.

"Do the rest of up get a vote?" Tim asks, nodding his head at her, entirely turned away from the table with her back half to them, shoulders canted to protect her hoard.

"No, because the rest of you get to have fun, and I don't yet."

"You're not having fun?" Martin calls from the kitchen before Tim can.

She flaps a hand at him. "You know what I mean!"

Tim takes a weight from the bag and leans down, hooking a finger in the ring on Jon's right and pulling it down until Jon starts making panicked noises. Then he clips the weight in place and lets it go.

The weights are light, on their own. Jon would be able to feel them if the rings rested against his body, but the chains aren't long enough for them to touch his chest if Tim set them swinging as hard as possible. As long as Tim disguises the change like that, Jon won't start to realize what's going on for a good bit. And he makes such lovely noises when Tim repeats the operation on the other side- one for trying to wiggle across the floor, and one for trying to pull his pretty little mouth off of Tim's cock.

It's a wonderful morning, if you can appreciate it.  He expects it to continue into a long, wonderful day- it's barely even eleven.