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Chapter Text

It was a glance. He hadn’t even meant to. One quick admiring glance at Douglas’ sturdy back while his FO was taking his shirt off in some sweltering hole of a hotel where the aircon didn’t work and the bathroom was barely big enough to stand up in.

A glance for which Martin had apologised, stammering, once Douglas had paused and raised a speculative eyebrow. Waited until Martin had stuttered himself to a stop before turning the charm on.

‘Oh I didn’t say I minded,’ he purred, ‘were I not a happily married man I might even respond.’

That, of course was before what Douglas thinks of as ‘the Brown Sauce Incident’. An incident for which Martin acted as unwitting catalyst. Not that Douglas blames Martin. Rationally he knows that had Martin not turned up that day and accidentally provoked an outburst of honesty on Douglas’ part, and corresponding confession from his wife, Helena would still be having an affair – whether in secret or not.

Still, Martin was a factor, and it’s maybe not surprising that it’s Martin that Douglas uses to stroke his ego back to form in the most obvious of ways. Taking some sort of irrational revenge on them both in the way he bosses him and pushes him down, face full of mattress, legs spread, fingers working Martin a little too fast, too rough.

He would have stopped though if Martin hadn’t seemed to relish the roughness, muttering encouragement and pushing back into him in a way he would never have expected of his prissy little control freak of a captain.

It feels like permission to take liberties he wouldn’t dream of under normal circumstances. Palm slapping Martin’s skinny arse as he orders him up on his knees, ploughing him until Martin has to brace against the headboard, cursing and laughing, and Douglas wrap his thick fingers around Martin’s thin thighs to hold him steady.

God it feels good to put this bloody pedant – his Captain for hell’s sake, which is an insult on every level - in his place. Pull his hair and crowd him close and make him take it however Douglas wants to dish it out.

Martin is definitely getting off on it too, busy telling Douglas how he can take it, wants it, won’t break.

‘Please Douglas..’

‘Stop whining,’ Douglas mutters somewhere close to his ear, ‘or I’ll make you.’

Martin bites his lip obediently, although a teasing glance over his shoulder suggests he’s not averse to that idea either.

Which is it. The final straw. Douglas has to reach for Martin’s cock – nothing to write home about, happily, but firm and warm in his hand – and get him fully off before Douglas does.

‘Masochist.’ Douglas accuses after.

‘Mmm.’ Martin agrees, too sated to be ashamed. He really is such a little thing, Douglas thinks, watching him yawn and snuggle into the pillow once they’re back in their respective twin beds (matching mustard yellow bedlinen, just one pillow apiece). All angles and hollows, and barely up to Douglas’ shoulder. There’s something appealing about that featherweight vulnerability. About the idea that Douglas could hold him down with one hand and…

Well, getting ahead of himself a bit there. Douglas doesn’t want to bully Martin, not really – but it’s still fun to play with the idea of it, since his erstwhile captain really does seem to enjoy giving up control. It’s been a long time since Douglas did anything kinky, but there had been a certain amount of hanky panky at Air England back in the day. He knows some of the ropes.

It’s a relief actually to admit as much to Martin without worrying if he’ll be shocked. If he is it barely matters. What they have is a casual, sporadic, straightforward thing.

Martin still hooks up with other men – he claims he’s not great at chatting up but quite good at being chatted up, which Douglas can see, now that he’s looking at Martin through (lets be honest) more predatory eyes. Martin is a lovely piece of prey, a juicy, leggy gazelle. It would almost be worrying if Douglas weren’t benefiting from it himself.

As it is he hopes Martin doesn’t take too many risks.

They confine their mutual activities to stopovers, Martin falling into bed with Douglas and letting him set the pace, never quite sure what that pace will be. Douglas likes to switch it up, explore Martin exhaustively or manhandle him into a quickie or take his sweet self-indulgent time as he fucks Martin’s mouth. 

‘Good boy.’ He says afterwards, sleek and smug with satisfaction, and Martin preens a little. He knows he’s good, but it’s always nice to be told.

Neither of them think it’s going to go long term enough to worry about the dynamics. Douglas generally prefers women anyway (even though his innate chivalry and the whole married-but-recently-separated situation makes it hideously complicated to navigate).

They’re not looking for romance, or domesticity. Just a little fun in a variety of cheap and anonymous hotel rooms.

It’s just a shame the walls are so thin. Not least because someone, and generally Arthur, is often in the room next door. Which means Martin has to smother himself with the pillow or bite down on a fat rubber phallus to stop himself from shameless begging when Douglas strings it out to the point of cruelty or fucks him hard and rough.  

Which is at least one reason why Douglas does it, coming down from his own orgasm gleeful with bastardry.

‘I don’t know what I see in you.’ Martin says.

‘And yet,’ Douglas says, ‘you'll be back for more.’

The thing is though, however quiet they were, Arthur was bound to notice something eventually. The way Douglas and Martin always want to share a room these days, that no-one wants to share with him, has him wondering, sadly, whether there’s something he’s done wrong.

Which, of course, brings it to Carolyn’s attention.

She doesn’t wonder about it at all, or at least not for very long, before summoning Martin and Douglas to her corner of the portacabin and assuring them that whatever they do in their own time is entirely their affair, but it had better be in their own time or there will be trouble.

‘And for goodness’ sake feed him up a bit Douglas.’ She finishes up. ‘He gets more translucent every time I look at him.’

Douglas makes no promises – beyond the obvious one that they won’t do anything that could jeopardise MJN – but it starts a train of thought. One he’s still mulling when Martin breaks in on it.

‘I know there’s not much of me,’ Martin says, once they’re safely out of their CEO’s earshot and heading to Douglas’ Lexus for the drive back, ‘but it’s a bit of a cheek for Carolyn to complain about it, given that she’s not even paying me to fly her aeroplane.’

‘I’m certainly not complaining.’ Anything but. Douglas likes the fact his fingers can bracelet around Martin’s wrists, the line of sight down the long valley between Martin’s lean buttocks towards the target. Likes holding that skinny, wriggly form down while Martin bucks greedily beneath him.

‘Still, it probably wouldn’t hurt to come round for dinner occasionally,’ Douglas suggests. ‘You could even stay the night and share breakfast if you want.’

Martin hesitates. They’ve been so careful up to now, kept things so neatly compartmentalised. The professional relationship still a little sticky, something like a friendship developing over flight deck games and the odd flash of honesty, and lastly some very mutually satisfying sex that still doesn’t want a label pinning on it yet.

‘I suppose it would make things easier,’ he finally admits, face tinged pink with a bashfulness he’s never exhibited in the bedroom, ‘staying the night at yours I mean.  Not having to get the regulation amount of sleep to fly back next day. Or worry if I’m going to be a bit too – uncomfortable – sitting in a pilot’s seat for hours.’

‘Not to mention not having to worry about the logistics of packing a sixteen-inch sex toy in a flight bag measuring ten inches by twelve.’ Douglas adds merrily.

‘Sshh.’ Scandalised by the thought of losing what little respect he has on this airfield, Martin scans around to check no-one is listening, despite the fact that’s much more likely to draw attention than anything Douglas says. ‘Anyway, don’t you think that one’s a bit ambitious?’

‘Perhaps. But where would any of us be without our ambitions? Besides, it’s very flexible. As are you.’

‘Brute.’ Martin mutters, but he smiles as he says it.

Douglas knows Martin isn’t fragile, really, has plenty of snark and a stubborn streak and even picks his sexual partners with more care than he admitted at first. There is something there though, around his not being paid by Carolyn, and perhaps not eating all that well, and having to take on van jobs to get by, that puts Douglas at uneasy advantage. More unsettling still because he quite likes the idea.

Because, much as Martin loves to give it all up to someone else, free-fall into submission, that’s only if that someone knows how to catch. He hadn’t been surprised to find out Douglas had been a Dom before - in an on-off way, experimenting with others, but still, familiar enough with the dynamic. Had even admitted finding it reassuring.

Douglas suspects that if he put his vague thoughts into words, Martin might be less reassured.

‘Dinner Monday then?’ He says instead, steadily ignoring all these niggles, since niggles are what he has decided they are. ‘8 o’clock at mine?’

‘Alright. I’d like that.’

Chapter Text

And on Wednesday they have a flight to Irkutsk. Not quite consecutive nights and mornings, but close enough to help with the training the sixteen inch sex toy will require. The slow stretching out, the gradual filling up and pushing deep.

Douglas tries not to think about it as he picks up things for dinner on Monday. Something Martin wouldn’t make himself, fresh, crisp vegetables that need only be briefly sautéed, plump steaks that will hiss deliciously as they hit the pan. He gets ground coffee too. Martin likes his coffee.

Realises he’s planning this like it’s a seduction, which is ridiculous. The one thing guaranteed about Monday night is the sex. Still, he doesn’t mind treating Martin before maltreating him.

Not that Martin thinks of it like that, even when he comes away with bruises. Seems to enjoy looking at them, letting Douglas fit his fingers back into them, press down just so until his cock twitches against his thigh.

Makes no more suggestions that the latest sex toy might be too ambitious. Is as disappointed as Douglas when they don’t quite get there Monday night. Possibly even more so, panting and wound up in the best, worst way, with Douglas having taken time to really try, finally abandoning the toy only to use his hand instead, three and then four fingers, not as deep but more solid, massaging deliberately over Martin’s prostate.

‘Oh God.’ Martin moans, fingers scrabbling against the mattress. ‘Oh godohgodohgod.’

‘Come on, you can take it.’ Douglas pauses to feel the fluttering rim of Martin’s arse clench around his knuckles before he pushes four fingers home again. Too quick, too hard, the way they both like it, so that Martin’s balls swing and slap against his glistening thighs and he spreads his legs just a little bit wider. ‘That’s right you dirty boy. You like that don’t you?’

‘Oh fuck yes.’ Martin breathes. ‘Oh please.. I’ll be good, I will. Douglas please please give it to me.’

‘When I’m ready.’ It never fails to fascinate Douglas how Martin will hurt himself, will let Douglas hurt him, oblivious of shame or self-preservation in this space, but they do have a flight in 48 hours. He wants Martin to still be able to feel it, but not so much that he can’t sit down. 

He’s quite a sight though, all sticky with lube and cum – Douglas’ cum that had been plugged up inside him all through dinner, waiting for Douglas to take him back to the bedroom, obviously itching for more but knowing the best way to get it was not to ask for it – red clenching hole and lightly padded arse cheeks. Elbows tucked neatly in, fingers clutching. Sharp shoulderblades and fragile-seeming spine.

Douglas can’t see Martin’s cock, but he doesn’t need to see it to find it with his free hand, squeezing gently as he tucks his thumb in and gives Martin’s arse that too, pushing deeper. So tight but so yielding, opening out ever wider as Douglas makes a loose fist and pulls back on it – slowly, slowly, and then in, with Martin pushing back, taking it, still eager even though Douglas can feel a friction that must be searing in his tender arse.

He has to shift his hold to one of Martin’s thighs before he lets himself make a proper fist, a solid ball of knuckle and tendon, pulling back so that it drags and opens him up even wider, gasping and trembling.

He didn’t mean to do this tonight, tells himself he can’t help it, dizzy-drunk on lust.

‘Come on Martin, tell me how much you want it.’

‘God, Douglas, please do it. Make me take it. Please. You know I want it. God I want it so much…’

The force of the thrust in makes him sway on his knees, brace his hands against the lowest rung of the headboard, curse and steady himself, and all the time he babbles and begs for more. So full, so far gone. Loosening impossibly more as Douglas begins to be brutal. 

‘Please. I need it, I need it..’

It’s a relief to be able to talk freely, to know Douglas wants to hear him. In hotels he has to give Martin something to bite down on instead. Or else occasionally tests him - telling him to be quiet and then punishing him when he fails. Just one slap, sharp against his inner thigh, with the flat of his hand.

Martin responds so nicely to a sharp slap. Probably wouldn’t mind more. Does try to be good, wants to be good. Wants Douglas to crack him open, ravage him, fill him all the way up until there is nothing left. Just white noise and the feel of Douglas’ fist bludgeoning him into submission and his own voice taking on a sobbing, frantic quality even as he begs Douglas not to stop, not yet, promises he can take more.

‘I know you bloody can.’ Douglas gropes hard at Martin’s balls, his cock, drags along the length of it. Palms roughly across the head and feels Martin’s cock spasm and spit out as he comes, collapsing around Douglas’ fist, legs going and palms slipping on the headboard.

‘The state of you.’ Douglas tells him, finally freeing his own erection and taking it in hand, wanking over the shivering wreck of Martin’s orgasm and coming within moments over his still-dilated arse.

‘Christ, Martin you precious little slut.’ He lets himself fall on his side next to the still-panting sub. ‘How am I supposed to make myself let you recover all tomorrow when you’re like this?’

He does though. Drives Martin home after breakfast and throws the bedsheets in the wash. Heads out into the garden for what was meant to be a bit of light pruning but eventually requires a handsaw and a lot of sweat and creative swearing before he’s happy.

He packs the toy in his flight bag for the second attempt that he and Martin have already agreed, and tries not to think about it again until they land.

He fails, but at least it’s not just him. They’ve barely locked the door of the room behind them before Martin is stripping off. Although he does, being Martin, hang his uniform jacket and trousers up neatly before he removes the rest.  

Within seconds Douglas has him on his back on the bed, covers thrown to the floor, knees all the way up and ankles apart. Shameless as Douglas pushes them even further asunder, messes Martin up with lube and the very tip of the toy. Groaning and throwing his head back as it sinks deeper – just firm enough to be manipulated, tapering and lightly ridged down the length at intervals in a way Douglas hopes means he can feel every bloody inch of it.

‘Push down on it now for me. That’s right.’ Douglas is coaxing - watching, fascinated, as Martin’s fingers dig into his thighs to pull them impossibly wider, his belly flexing as he squirms down on the thing. Inches in now, as deep as they’ve got so far, the flared base flat to Douglas’ palm, the next, thicker, length of the toy firm between the fingers of his other hand as he eases more in.

‘Sit up a bit. Slowly.’ It’s tricky to hold it in place and have Martin raise himself to his knees so that he can sink down in increments, but they manage the manoeuvre between them, Douglas still touching, feeling it be swallowed up into Martin’s body.

‘Fuck.’ Martin breathes the word out as if to make more space. The pressure inside him pushes out as well as up. Not all that painful, just unbelievably deep and full and strange.

Inches to go. Douglas slips two fingers beneath the shaft of the thing, where it dips in before widening out again for the soft, sucker-capped base, tips Martin over onto his belly and straddles his waist – this too, is one of the advantages of Martin’s skinny self, that Douglas can sit astride him, pinning him down without putting too much weight on him. Feel Martin shift and shiver beneath him as he rubs all around the sensitised rim of the hole where he has been slowly stretching it out. Wets it again with lube before pushing.

‘Nearly there.’ He murmurs. ‘Come on you little sod. You’re not getting out of it this time.’

He can feel the contact, the congestion, how tight Martin is, smothered whimpers as he bites down on something – the edge of the mattress probably – to control himself. Can feel Martin’s body give, just a little at a time, to the constant pressure. See it, like a magic trick, gradually disappearing. Mere centimetres now. The heel of his hand against the base, just a little more force, just enough, and the shoulders of the thing drop in.

‘Fuck.’ Martin says, quietly. It’s secure enough now that he can sit up again, biting his lip at the shape of the thing shifting inside him, his arse tightening and easing on it, still struggling to comprehend the sensation. Shivers of feeling behind his balls, in the small of his back, drawn out, simmering arousal flaring as Douglas pulls him close enough to kiss, licking into his mouth possessively as Martin opens up to him, surrendered but reciprocating, submissive but not passive.

Continues tasting as Douglas urges Martin down his body to his lap. His very hard, very obvious erection. Pressing solid but shallow between Martin’s lips - a taste, a shape.

‘Just there. Use your tongue. Nice and wet. I’m going to fuck you, don’t worry, but not until you’ve sat with that thing in you a while first.’ He rumples Martin’s hair into curls as Martin obeys, slick, agile tongue probing and curving and teasing around the very head of Douglas’ cock, pursed lips coddling and keeping him in.

The shallowest of thrusts, saliva pooling in Martin’s mouth, swallowed with difficulty since it’s still open, tongue still working, arse throbbing not unpleasantly from the thing in it, training it. Training him.

Fingers trailing down his cheeks, feeling the bone beneath. A collection of hollows, of holes to be filled. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, in his arse. Shallow thrusts and plumbed depths.

‘Tart.’ Douglas says fondly. ‘Sit up now.’

Martin sits, squeezing again around the thing, feels it barely yield. Watches, mildly jealous of Douglas’ hand, as he tugs at himself, making the mattress bounce slightly, and Martin compensate and throb with fresh sensation.

‘You’re just one raw nerve aren’t you?’

‘It doesn’t hurt. Just… too much and not enough.’ Martin swallows hard. ‘Cliché.’

Douglas moves his free hand to Martin’s cock, watches his face as he wanks them both, loosely, leisurely. 

‘You’re going out of your mind aren’t you?’ he says.

‘Douglas…’ Martin looks like he might cry. ‘Please.’

‘Please what, Martin?’

‘Please fuck me. I can’t take much more.’

‘Alright. Hands and knees.’

There’s a moment of resistance, the thicker part of the toy compressing as Douglas wiggles it to free it, Martin’s arms almost going out from under him at the shudder of sensation all the way up, and then it’s sliding out almost too easily, Martin groaning as he’s emptied.

Douglas tosses the toy towards the ensuite to be dealt with later, takes a nice tight hold of each of Martin’s thighs, and fills him back up again. Not as deep, but thick and pounding and demanding. Just right, just there.

Martin’s arms go to jelly again as he comes, too wound up to last a moment longer. Oversensitive but not caring as Douglas’ arm wraps around his waist and keeps him steady. He can take it. Wants to. Relishing it even as he sobs and Douglas’ arm tightens again and everything grows hotter and harsher, accelerating, and he’s a toy, a rag doll, one of those sleeve things. No will of his own.

Used. Used up. Collapsing as Douglas finally lets him go, both of them glutted and exhausted.

Chapter Text

Martin wakes up half trapped beneath Douglas. Also sore, but he was expecting that. Is fairly sure Douglas knows he disguises how much it hurts, just wants the plausible deniability of Martin claiming it doesn’t.

Which is sort of true in the moment, the dizzy heat of hormone rush and surrender. Still he’s glad he packed painkillers in his wash bag, plans to wriggle out from under in a minute and take them before he brushes his teeth.

Douglas must have got up in the night. The sex toy has been cleaned and left on the edge of the sink to dry.

Martin can’t help noticing that it doesn’t look any less formidable now he’s had it inside him. Loops his thumb and middle finger round it, measuring the girth, stretches his fingers apart to measure the length.

‘The elephant in the room.’ He mutters, moving it so it doesn’t get covered in foam as he shaves and making a mental note to suggest Douglas put it away before they forget. The thought of Arthur seeing it or a chambermaid coming in and finding the thing is quietly horrifying.  

The water pressure in the shower isn’t great and every pipe in the building seems to rattle when he turns it on, but at least it’s hot. He’s not surprised to find Douglas awake when he gets back, sitting on the side of the bed looking unfairly rugged and handsome, yawning and presumably woken up by the sound of plumbing.

‘When did you sneak out of bed?’ He asks.

‘Sorry, should I have asked for permission?’ Martin smiles upwards, faux innocent as Douglas stands and intercepts him with a hand to his chest.

‘Sir is feeling feisty this morning.’

‘Actually, Sir is feeling more hungry than anything else. Do you think they’ll have pancakes for breakfast downstairs?’

‘If not there must be somewhere else that does. My treat.’ 

‘Honestly Douglas, I can buy my own breakfast if I want it.’ 

True enough, Douglas thinks, but not the point. ‘Look at it this way Martin, it’s all to my advantage. Soften you up a bit.’ Then he chucks his Captain under the chin and heads, whistling, into the bathroom.

The arrogance should be annoying. Is annoying. Also a turn on, unfortunately.

Still Douglas isn’t quite that bad in the air. Mostly confines himself to inventing word games he then wins. They don’t bet on anything, not anymore. Douglas knows now that betting on their inflight catering is higher stakes for Martin, and one of the hard boundaries his Captain set right at the beginning was that they don’t bring their sex lives into the flight deck.

‘So I suppose that excludes playing word games for sexual favours?’ Douglas had asked.

‘Yes of course it does.’

‘Not that there would have been a lot of point in that anyway,’ he has more recently pointed out, ‘given that you always let me set the pace.’

Oh, and now Martin has goosebumps, even though he’s in no condition to do much about it, and Arthur is knocking at the door in his inimitable Arthur way so there’s no time either.

It really does make life easier to spend more time at Douglas’. They fall into a pattern of dinner every week or so, if Douglas asks and Martin isn’t on a promise somewhere else or busy with his actual paying job of moving other people’s furniture.  

Embarrassed at first that he can’t reciprocate (neither his skills or his budget are up to more than baked-potato-and-tinned-protein meals) but soon resigning himself to it happily. Douglas clearly enjoys showing off his vast repertoire of gourmet dishes and the extra calories are very welcome. Martin gulps down his pride and lets himself be fed. Just another thing Douglas is better at. It’s fine.

Douglas has a nice mix of CDs and LPs that Martin quite enjoys rooting through while Douglas cooks as well.

He tries not to be too alarmed by the domesticity. It doesn’t mean anything anyway. It’s too soon for Douglas to trust someone again and Martin – Martin maybe doesn’t trust Douglas quite as much as he thought he did either, has had to push back just a couple of times, and although Douglas was a gentleman about it, he doesn’t really seem sorry.

Martin can see how Douglas might think Martin likes it that way though, because sometimes he does.

‘Show me how you want me,’ he says, and Douglas picks him up and flips him over so easily, spreads his legs – and just this once Martin decides not to comply, twitches his knees back together. Not resisting, but testing.

‘Do I have to make you?’ Douglas asks.

‘I want to see if you can.’ Martin tells him, sliding his hands beneath his head, lounging, open. Enjoying the way Douglas’ eyes go dark, the set of his jaw.

It’s probably foolish to find that antagonism arousing but Martin’s brain is not in charge, flooding with the thrill of being manhandled as Douglas pushes his thighs apart again with determined but almost casual force.

Then Douglas is groping him, rewarding him with short, sharp tugs of his cock. Not too hard, but hard enough that Martin understands he’s not forgiven.

‘Little sod,’ Douglas says. ‘I should tie you up.’ Douglas knows he won’t, not tonight, not until they’ve talked, but he enjoys the way Martin reacts as if he might, shivering underneath him, giving in and curling his forearms around his own thighs to pull them further back and expose himself to Douglas’ achingly slow preparation.

‘Sweet revenge,’ Douglas teases, fingering him beyond anything that could be considered necessary, and Martin whines in frustration but lets himself be tormented, stroked, even though it’s disproportionate punishment for one brief moment of brattishness.

Douglas isn’t even angry anymore, this is just because he enjoys seeing Martin squirm. Gets Martin open and wet and ready and then moves slickly on to longer, more lazy pulls of his cock, not enough to get Martin really going but enough to keep him twitching and turned on.

‘Are you going to behave yourself?’ Douglas asks him.

‘Yes.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’ Martin says. ‘I’ll be so good Douglas, I will.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

It’s all a bit of game, really, Martin confident enough by now to ‘misbehave’ on purpose, asking for trouble, knowing Douglas enjoys using the flat of his hand to keep him in line (might even use something with a bit more bite, one day when they don’t have both Martin’s jobs to build around).

A game until just occasionally it crosses some line that has Martin wriggling free and shaking his head and saying no, and sorry, and give me a minute. Making him just a bit more careful until he forgets to be careful again.

Perhaps that’s why it takes him so long to let Douglas take him out to dinner. Or perhaps it’s just that he’s a proud, stubborn little idiot under the bluster. Either way Douglas can see his point of view, wouldn’t want to get too comfortable and dependent on himself either if he were Martin.

They should probably talk. Properly, seriously. Not in the heat of the moment. Douglas should insist that they talk. Set more boundaries, a safe word. Clear up all this ambiguity once and for all.

He doesn’t. Tells himself Martin is a grown man who has proven his ability to say no when he needs to. It is not Douglas’ job to mollycoddle him.

He does negotiate with him about major changes though. The paddle, for example.

They try, but Martin is too big to be spanked over Douglas’ lap. Is usually spread out on the bed for this.

Naturally Douglas is good at that too. Playful, which is twice as devastating as something more straightforward. Trills of blows. Three or five or six. Pauses between while Martin braces and waits, stomach and buttocks clenching. Sometimes being told to count, or to get up on his hands and knees and take it in silence.

More occasionally there’s no instruction and Douglas has Martin face down on the bed with his wrists cuffed to the headboard.

It's intoxicating. He’s in free-fall. Uncensored, unashamed. Douglas loves the way Martin looks when he’s like this, the way he moves, the soft defeated sounds he makes. So vulnerable. He can’t help thinking how easy it would be to intimidate him. How ripe he seems for it - for having his boundaries pushed good and hard. Having someone remind him how small he is really, how soft and skinny and young.

The thoughts spill out as they play. In low voices and firm hands and words that aren’t quite threats.

‘Christ Martin, look at you. I could break you in two.’

Then, as Martin whines, ‘is that what you want? Come on, say it..’

‘I’m not ashamed.’ Martin might even sound amused if his voice wasn’t so choked with lust. ‘I love it when you’re a bastard. God, Douglas..’

So far though Douglas has kept the bastardry playful. He leads, cajoles, pampers, pushes. Martin rarely resists. Even finds it easier to accept Douglas’ largesse if it’s all part of a game. If the outcome of being bought dinner means that Douglas calls him a whore, and tells him he has to work for it.

‘If you lived with me I’d take rent in kind,’ he says, and Martin shivers, seated in Douglas’ lap, speared by Douglas’ cock, head pulled back by fingers twisted cruelly in his hair. ‘Make a proper tart of you.’

Martin bites his lip, completely fails to protest, falls back against Douglas’ strength when Douglas starts moving his hips again.

Gone are the days when Douglas resented the fact of Martin as his captain – it’s well-nigh impossible to resent someone who gives you so much consistent sexual satisfaction – but he’s enjoying this for it’s own sake now, and that’s so much better, Martin moving in synch with him, imprisoned in his arms, shuddering and stuttering out orgasm, gasping and overstimulated afterwards as Douglas squeezes the last few drops from his wrung-out cock and doesn’t even pause in buggering him.

It feels marvellous to hurt Martin, make tears spill down his cheeks; feels like something Douglas had wanted forever but had never admitted to himself. A relief, release, to admit it now.

‘Alright?’ He asks after, because he does care. Is fond – increasingly fond – of his captain, and even if he weren’t he wouldn’t want to do him any real harm. Wouldn’t want to do anyone real harm. He presses a kiss to the back of Martin’s neck and wipes his eyes and curls up with him, thinking about how they ended up here, and how he wouldn’t have believed it just a few short months ago, and how he doesn’t – ever – want it to stop. 

Chapter Text

Jefferson City. Or a hotel not, technically, in Jefferson City at all but within taxi range of Jefferson City airport.

It is however spotlessly clean, with free coffee in the foyer and a receptionist untroubled (in fact utterly indifferent) about two men sharing a double room.

‘The walls could be thicker.’ Douglas says as they unpack. ‘But that’s not really a problem now, is it?’

Martin shakes his head. Not a problem.

‘And still an hour until dinner.’ Douglas adds, keeping his tone light while he turns over various options in the small selection of toys he’s packed. Nothing too extreme yet. Just enough to keep Martin ticking over for a few hours.

He makes sure Martin sees him decide on a buttplug – a fat, silvery arrowhead – rolling it in his fingers to feel the weight of it, and then slipping it into his spongebag with lube and toiletries.

‘Shower?’ He suggests. 

The shower is, in fact, a bath with shower attachment, a whole unit of moulded plastic in one, walls and small shelf included. The shower head fixed in position, the bathplug the kind operated with a lever, the white plastic surface once sleek but now scarred.

Rough against Martin’s belly and cheek as Douglas fucks into him, jerking him to his toes with the force of it, crowds him and uses his free hand to pin Martin’s to the wall.

Martin doesn’t even try to touch himself until Douglas tells him he can, says thank you so sweetly.

Douglas groans as he comes, still bracketing Martin’s body and plugging him with his softening cock as Martin finishes himself off.  Revives enough by the time Martin has finished to pull out fully, reach for the butt plug and push it home in his place, relishing Martin’s small shudder as his body yields, the picture his arse makes as he climbs out of the bath, cheeks distorted by the base of the thing, a tidy little blob of silvery metal between, like a tail.

He's passive as Douglas dries him off, finger combing his half-damp hair into some kind of order before pushing him out into the hotel room so that they can both get dressed for dinner.

Carolyn isn’t on this trip, and while Arthur is very excited to find out about fried ravioli, Douglas enjoys the meal more for the company than the food. Or rather, more for the quiver that goes through Martin when he takes his seat in the car, and again at the restaurant.

He orders distractedly, indifferently, but there is nothing unusual about that. Martin has no pretensions to be a gourmet. Even if he had, this is not a pretentious restaurant. They aspire to friendliness and heaped plates, and that much they deliver.

‘I don’t think I’ve any room left for dessert.’ Douglas says at the end of the meal. ‘A pity. They invented the ice cream cone in Missouri I believe. Martin, Arthur – ice cream?’

Martin shakes his head. He barely trusts his voice. Douglas’ smug, greedy looks whenever everyone else is too distracted to notice, and the constant weight of the plug inside him, increasingly obvious every time he moves in his seat, have layered themselves over one another as the meal goes on, ripening from a manageable distraction into what is now a slow, exquisite torment.

Arthur, predictably (utterly, utterly innocently, because he is an innocent) does have room for ice cream. Douglas, rather less characteristically, encourages him to dither over the dessert menu, enjoying stringing the game out. Watching Martin slip from his original pretence that he was unaffected to barely holding it together as Arthur finally settles on something with fudge.

It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun though if he didn’t know Martin could end it at any time. That nothing is keeping him here, plugged and suffering, but the need to submit his will to Douglas’ own.

‘Such a good boy.’ Douglas tells him later, his cock sliding comfortably back between Martin’s arse cheeks, filling him again where the butt plug has just been removed, still tight at the initial push, enough to make Martin whine, soft in his throat, although all Douglas feels is snug, plush, pleasure. ‘You deserve a treat after this, don’t you? Something bigger.’

‘Please.’ Martin moans. He loves being fucked, being toyed with, but he does want more. Wants to be filled to bursting with it, until he can’t help but howl and Douglas has to use the gag they’ve brought. 

‘Soon.’ Douglas promises, still savouring the soft clutch of Martin’s arse as he pulls back, not quite free, sinks balls deep again with a groan of satisfaction. He can feel Martin shivering with the effort of staying where he’s put, of not demanding more, or now, or harder.

Lucky for him that Douglas wants those things too. Sets an almost punishing pace, one that has Martin pushing back to meet it, take it, trying to be quiet as he stutters with legs and tongue and elbows, and Douglas laughs and pulls him back, seating him in Douglas’ lap, pushing up into him, letting gravity do the work of drawing them tight together, palm open and steady against Martin’s ribs as he breathes, quickening as Douglas quickens, hungry, lips finding Martin’s neck to suck and kiss and barely hold back from biting as he comes. 

‘Good boy,’ Douglas says again, a little shaky as he lets Martin fall forward. ‘So patient.’ 

Douglas’ fingers are clumsy, orgasm still clinging to him as he strokes them over Martin’s lax and tender hole, feels his own cum slick but thickening, the give of muscle as three fingers slide in freely, right to the root, then curl and spread until Martin is gasping, spreading his legs wider in response, offering himself up for more.

There is no way Douglas can possibly fuck him again so soon, or indeed tonight, but if he could… oh if he only could. Martin makes him feel gluttonous, sated but still tempted to push for more, thumb tucking in - and there it is, the friction of flesh, spasming and wet and surrendering. A loose fist, knuckles and palm, pushing again, while Martin gasps and curses and shivers under the palm Douglas has set on the small of his back to hold him in place.  Still quiet but growing louder.

‘Do I need to gag you?’ Douglas asks, almost as if he hadn’t known the inevitability of that for hours, as if this hadn’t been where the evening had been going from the moment he mentioned the flimsy walls. Even perhaps from the moment they packed.

‘Yes, I…’ Martin already sounds wrecked, struggling to find the words. Gives up, falls back on what seem to be his favourite ones. ‘Yes. Please.’ 

It’s only a small thing, latex and leather, nothing he couldn’t remove himself if he wanted, a truncated phallus that presses past Martin’s teeth for him to bite down on, a buckle at the back. Just enough to stifle whimpers, garble speech, distort louder sounds to something soft and unconvincing. 

It looks good on him too, Douglas takes time to stroke across Martin’s cheek, freckles and warm colour fresh from arousal, tear tracks from being made to wait so long.

‘What a filthy little prize you are.’ Douglas says softly. ‘Almost there, I promise.’

He makes Martin wait just a few more seconds though, so that Douglas can slip a pillow under his belly, a towel over it to give his cock just a hint of friction when it needs it.

Even that short space of time has made more force necessary. Martin moans and moves on the bed as Douglas fakes impatience, no longer worried they will be heard as he drives Martin harder, opening him up around the flat wedge of his hand in increments, coiling in again to make a fist, pressing out, letting his fist uncurl a fraction, turning his wrist to feel the soft scrape of the hard lines of his hand in Martin’s yielding body, the throb and quake of Martin around him.

He pushes again. Again. Feels it give completely, welcome him in, hears a choked sound that might be a curse or a shout. Tugs and feels Martin come with him, impaled, pushed and pulled as Douglas fucks him with his fist, Martin trying to push to meet it, to pull back when Douglas wants him to, bare inches with his cock dragged against the towel, and that is it, the finish of everything that Douglas has done to him tonight. Martin’s hips move by themselves, trying to make it worse, better, something, anything, and everything tightens and flares and he is coming, raw and shaking.

Comes back to himself to find Douglas’ hand still moving inside him, flexing closed and unclosed, pulsing through his oversensitised body.

Martin sobs, never wants it to stop. Wants to endure like this, only able to get through it moment to moment, fighting the urge to scramble free, tears running hot down his cheeks. So full. So thoroughly, completely overcome.

Eventually it ends. Bruising again as Douglas pulls his fist free, forcing Martin’s arse to open wide to relinquish him.

Then there is the run of taps in the bathroom and the cool touch of a flannel as Douglas cleans him, unbuckles the gag and helps him into his pyjama bottoms and herds him under the duvet.

Tells him he’s a good boy for the last time tonight.

Chapter Text

They get better at talking - it’s essential when they’re plaything this hard, and anyway they both enjoy it. Douglas is a verbal artist, teasing and negotiating and constructing scenes with the same facility he plays word games. Martin bites his lip and adds the odd finishing touch – the cherry on Douglas’ cake – or sets a boundary. Soft, most of them, just a shake of the head and an ‘I’m not ready to try that’ or ‘Wow. Um no, not today. Or this month, even.’

He can say ‘this month’ now, because there have been so many months - of bed-sharing and camaraderie and sheer, wicked, heat, and they are both anticipating many more, with all those layers of the relationship growing and evolving. Douglas in charge – setting rules, and Martin obeying them.

Like how Martin has to tell him about the other men he lets shag him, so that Douglas can spank him properly for it; even though Douglas isn’t really cross.

‘Wouldn’t discourage you anyway would it?’ Douglas asks, helping him up to his feet, fingers carding back through Martin’s sweat-damp curls.

Martin shakes his head even while he shivers, sweat and spunk cooling over his sore, red thighs, presses his face to Douglas chest, seeking more contact, soothing hands, the press of lips to his brow. There aren’t so many other men now anyway. Martin’s a busy boy. Two jobs, and a Dom to keep happy.

It’s useless to pretend this is casual any longer. They’re too fond, too entangled.

Douglas, for his part, keeps Martin well-fucked and mostly sated.

Or, on the rare occasions he doesn’t, he always has his reasons. Even if his reasons are as simple as self-indulgence, as the fact that Martin squirms so prettily when trying to behave himself; determined not to come when Douglas has told him not to come, not to ask for more when Douglas says not to expect more.

Of course Martin fails at first, repeatedly, Douglas’ busy hands and bulging cock stripping him of self-discipline, teasing, taking him to the edge and telling him no, not yet, don’t make me cross with you.

Douglas spanks him for failure too, with Martin gasping and writhing and protesting that he wants to be good, honestly he does, but it’s hard. Agreeing to try again, and again. Failing better, Douglas says.

Not every time though, Douglas is always careful not to leave Martin unable to sit – even postpones punishment sometimes if there’s a van job or a long flight ahead of them. Keeps feeding him, kissing him, calling him naughty but praising his obedience, the way Martin lets himself be petted and played with and edged. Lets himself be tied up so he has no real choice but to allow it to happen, even warning Douglas when he’s close so that he can be better frustrated.

Denied just on the point of coming. Collapsing in a warm rush of tears instead of the torrid pulse of orgasm, clinging uninhibited in his frustration, babbling thanks when Douglas relents and lets him come.

Which Douglas always does eventually. Perhaps not until a day or two has passed, but eventually.

It’s not until they have a fortnight’s holiday – Carolyn is, almost unbelievably, going away herself, and Martin can afford to take a break from van jobs too, now that Douglas is feeding him – that they have the chance to take it further.  

Martin’s behaviour is exemplary for the first 48 hours.  Whimpering a little, but otherwise quiet, shivering and twitching across Douglas’ lap as Douglas teases and fingers him open, going down on Douglas and taking his time as Douglas tells him to. Swallowing and not contradicting when Douglas says he’s making it easy for Martin by not touching his cock, not bending him over and ravishing him. Crawling up to be draped back over Douglas’ thighs, head propped comfortably up on cushions against the arm of the sofa, so Douglas can toy with him again, making Martin part his legs a little way so he can reach between to Martin’s balls, running slick fingers all around them, clasping and rolling them, keeping Martin bubbling under, breathing heavy, biting back pleas for more.   

By the evening of day three Martin is becoming understandably brattish. Crossing his legs and wiggling in place, pouting, slipping out of reach, daring Douglas to do anything about it. Trying to provoke him.

A spanking isn’t what he really wants, but he’ll take it, biting hard on the pillow after as Douglas rogers him, telling him he’s done being considerate, and if Martin doesn’t learn to behave, if he dares to come, Douglas will give him something serious to cry about.

He doesn’t come. Isn’t quite sure how he manages not to, is certain he can’t hold it back a moment longer, that the next thrust, the next tug of his hair, the next brush of the linen sheet against his cock will be the one that sends him over, but somehow he chokes it off, even as Douglas is coming inside him. Is still hard and red and aching when it’s over.

Douglas cleans him up then, cuddles him close for a nap.

Worries, actually, that he might have been too severe. Martin can stop of course, say it’s not working for him, refuse to play, even get in his van and go, and they did say five days, and Douglas doesn’t want to make it too easy – what would be the point if it’s too easy? Still, he should probably check in when Martin wakes up. Despite Martin’s erection, and the fact the little sod was definitely baiting him, and he knows Martin likes it rough.

Maybe even as much as Douglas likes dishing it out.

He’s still surprised at himself about that, really. Not the fact of it but the – intensity. Just how much he likes it. How far he’s already taken them both in a matter of months. Well out into uncharted territory now, and all of it mind-blowing. Not that sex before hadn’t been good, but it had never been like this. He’d have been doing this all along if he’d realised. If he’d met the right person.

Funny how you can feel fiercely protective of someone, watching them sleep, all limbs and soft snores, and at the same time want more even than you have. Things that five months ago you would only ever have entertained as fantasy.

Douglas realises he’s not going to be able to sleep himself, and that laying here fantasizing about all the things he'd like to do to Martin whilst Martin is naked and vulnerable and wrapped in his arms is not going to help with that. 

Instead he gently rolls Martin back far enough that Douglas can extricate his arm from beneath Martin’s head, and creeps away to prep dinner. If Martin isn’t up by the time it's cooked, then Douglas will wake him.

Chapter Text

Martin wakes more hungry than anything else. Comfortable enough now in Douglas’ space to borrow his overlarge dressing gown and wander downstairs - reactions sluggish and hair a dishevelment of curls - pour them both coffee and head back up to the bathroom with his own cup and a bourbon biscuit to tide him over until dinner is ready.

He sets the shower to barely warm, soothing where he’s been spanked and hopefully cool enough elsewhere to keep him unexcited. Soaps himself quickly and efficiently, trying not to linger anywhere sensitive for the same reason. Still, he’s half-hard by the time he steps out and lowers himself gingerly down to sit on the edge of the bath, sore enough that he knows bruises are on their way.

That sends a subtle heat through him too. Tempts him to touch himself – he could, it’s only orgasm that’s forbidden – even though it will obviously only make things harder. He ignores it, focusses on drying between his toes and not wondering if Douglas will make it easier from here on in or take the opportunity to push.

He’s not sure which he’s hoping for. Only that he’s failed hopelessly at not thinking about it and is now fully hard. He tucks it away as best he can - as Douglas has gleefully pointed out Martin has a neat little member, more decorative than useful – and tries to ignore the gentle friction of fabric over the sensitised skin of the head, held gently but firmly by the waistband of his briefs.

Dinner is ready when he comes downstairs again, two chairs drawn up around a corner of the table, bowls of vegetables and jars of condiments set out. Douglas only has to put the fish he’s been keeping warm on the plates and carry them over for them to start.

‘Alright there, Martin?’ He asks, hand moving to Martin’s thigh to squeeze it in a way that could be interpreted as reassuring but is clearly meant, and manages, to make Martin’s arousal thicken again. The trail of fingers up the inside seam of his trousers before Douglas lets him go and applies himself to his own food is also not in any way helping. Just knowing he is in arm's reach is a distraction.

Douglas is no less distracted. Has already given up on that check-in he told himself they would have - muddying the waters instead with his touch, keeping Martin foolish with frustration - and he can’t even bring himself to care. Martin flusters so prettily, and it’s not usually easy to achieve outside work.

Anyway he’s clearly alright. Lets Douglas help him to chocolate cake and cream for dessert – Martin has a long, long way to go before he stops being skinny, but he has begun to fill out his shirts just a bit better, is aware of having more energy, more colour, more focus, now he’s getting a full range of foods. Douglas tells himself he treats Martin quite nicely, all things considered.

The last mouthful of cake swallowed, another coffee to chase it with Douglas’ hand on his thigh again, teasing up and down the inner seam, wandering perilously close to where Martin’s modest cock is distending his trousers, only closing over it properly when he’s sure Martin has finished.

‘Oh god.’ Martin breathes, thighs falling further apart. He knows this is going to lead to more frustration but that, perversely, only makes it hotter. His hands grip the seat of his chair, holding him in place as Douglas gropes him, his head falls back as that hand unbuttons and slides inside his clothes, gets a proper hold. Its humiliating how fast he starts to lose control, squirming and curling his bare toes against the kitchen tiles, breath growing quick.

‘Enough for now I think.’ Douglas tidies Martin up, fastens every button again, before ordering him under the table and settling him between Douglas' spread thighs, head bowed attentively over Douglas’ lap, lips a gentle cushion around Douglas’ cock, letting Douglas direct him with a hand in his hair, not too hard but not sparing him either.

Douglas groans some kind of warning before he actually comes, gives Martin the room to pull away if he really needs to, mops his lips with the edge of a napkin. He’s not a brute, after all, and Martin is flushed and breathless and still deliciously, achingly aroused.

Douglas wonders how long he can keep him that way. 

Chapter Text

He really doesn’t need to touch him that much. Wakes him the next morning with the lightest of fingers along the innocent curve of Martin’s spine, bare and vulnerable from the way he’s sprawled on his stomach overnight. Martin pushes lazily at Douglas’ hand, shying like it’s ticklish, like he doesn’t want to be woken yet, but Douglas is persistent, and Martin’s hips are already twitching against the mattress before he’s fully roused.

Douglas is pretty sure he can see the precise moment Martin remembers his current predicament, freezing in his humping of the mattress and rolling onto his back with a groan.

‘Oh don’t be like that. You can surely manage two more days.’

He takes Martin’s hand and kisses the back of it before cupping it over Martin’s own cock. ‘Go on.’ Continues to mutter encouragement until Martin has himself thoroughly flustered, hips pushing up into his fist at tempo, breath coming harsh.

Then he makes him stop, presses a finger to Martin’s bottom lip where he’s pouting and asks him if he’s got something to say.

Since he doesn’t, apparently, Douglas leaves him to stew while he gets breakfast.

It sets a pattern for the day. Moments of intensity and periods of domesticity, but with Douglas always keeping Martin within reach so that he can stir things up when the mood takes him: just gently run his thumbnail up and down the inner seam of Martin’s jeans in a way that could almost be absent minded, close his hands firmly over Martin's narrow shoulders to briefly massage them and let Martin appreciate his strength, spend some minutes necking with him on the couch before he tips him gently off his lap so that Martin’s mouth and Douglas’ cock are in proximity. Confident that Martin will take the hint.

Which Martin does.

Douglas lets him do all the work this time, offers a hand to help him back into his seat afterwards, rests his hand on Martin’s thigh, bare inches from where Martin really wants to be touched, keeps it there, holding Martin in his seat, until Douglas decides to let him go.

Or he could ask to go, of course, but Douglas is fairly certain that’s the last thing Martin wants to do. It’s the submitting, the endurance, that has Martin so turned on.

Later Douglas takes him to bed, murmuring dark and insubstantial threats as he fucks him. Slowly and leisurely, so that Martin can feel the long hard stroke of it inside him, the press of Douglas’ abdomen where his arse is still sore, the cling of skin to skin, damp with lube and the heat generated between them, Douglas’ well-fed belly fitting nicely into the concave curve of Martin’s back. Martin is coherent enough to hear every word, to know Douglas means to use him like a toy, take him with no thought to Martin’s pleasure.  Take as long as he wants, and if Martin dares complain, or still worse, comes...

Because Martin is high by now on Douglas’ selfishness, light-headed with arousal, in danger of coming. Almost relieved when Douglas pulls out to leave him aching and twitching, tosses himself off instead, spattering against Martin’s thighs, and then coaxes him into a cold shower that gets him clean but only goes a small way towards calming Martin’s wayward hormones.

Wayward is what Douglas calls them, as if he hasn’t been deliberately triggering cascades of said hormones for four days.

Only one day to go, Martin tells himself. Just tomorrow. 30 hours at most, probably.

He still feels fuzzy-headed. Perhaps it’s all the blood that keeps being diverted downwards, Douglas’ hand spread possessively on his back as he sprawls back in the bed, reminding Martin ridiculously of a big cat with a kill. Is it weird that turns him on? Everything turns him on right now. His body is still thrumming, still expectant of orgasm.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and when he wakes the shower is already going in the bathroom, a pot of coffee still hot downstairs.

Again the morning sets the pace for the day. Douglas is less hands on, which should be a relief, is a relief, but at the same time Martin misses all that playful cruelty. Knows he doesn’t want to be spared.

Doesn’t want to make any demands of Douglas either though. It would be so much worse to be a chore than, than… Martin’s brain stutters... than whatever Douglas has decided he is.

Or perhaps Douglas is just being more lenient to make a contrast to the evening. When he steps it up again, has Martin draped, rendered helpless with handcuffs over the kitchen table, progressing from fingers to vibrator – not on the highest setting, not trying to make Martin fail, but wicked enough – then at last buggering him.

Martin clutches at the edge of the table, pushing back, offering himself. Arse still a little tender from the spanking two days ago but all the more stimulated by that. 

He knows too that if he comes Douglas will spank him again, and that’s not helping him stay calm either, dread and heat coiling in him, working through him. 

He’s so close, so nearly there. Just has to get through this. Not… not feel it. Not occupy his body. Not be aware of the way Douglas is fucking him so very vigorously. Has to separate himself out. Think of it as coming from a long way off, happening to someone else, even though the intensity makes his knees go out from under and if he weren’t spread flat over a table he would surely crash to the ground.

He must not come, he will not come. Won’t, mustn’t.

A mantra, a pulse beating in his head. He won’t, will not, won't. Nearly there. Nearly…

Douglas laughs aloud – joy and triumph and not a drop of humour in it at all - as he comes himself.

Martin is trembling as he’s turned around, encouraged to take a few stumbling steps into Douglas arms. Cheeks wet with tears, with tension.

‘Easy gorgeous.’ Douglas’ voice is soothing, a low rumble in his chest.

‘I didn’t think I was going to make it.’ Martin explains.

‘Strange,’ Douglas says. ‘I never doubted.’

Chapter Text

The rest of the holiday is more relaxed. Douglas starts teaching Martin to cook (because baked beans and instant mash don’t count Martin, no) and lets himself be inveigled into one of Martin’s flight simulator games with no more than token mutterings about busman’s holidays. They spend a day at the coast doing all the cliché things - ice cream and fish and chips and sandcastles, and another at Brooklands, looking at old fighter planes and race cars.

Douglas still calls the shots at night – and one very enjoyable afternoon when all of Martin’s clothes are in the wash (he didn’t bring enough, didn’t anticipate wanting to spend the full two weeks here) and Douglas uses it as an excuse to handcuff him naked to the headboard in the spare room and see how many orgasms he can wring out of Martin before he’s begging Douglas to stop.

He’s still trembling and overstimulated as Douglas manages to coax him up on all fours to take him doggy fashion, but apart from a frantic string of swearwords while it’s happening – high-pitched, repetitive, evocative of a valve releasing pressure – he says nothing to suggest he doesn’t want it.  Doesn’t ask to be released directly after, or protest as Douglas pushes his legs more widely apart again so that he can draw lazy spirals down Martin’s thigh with the cum escaping and drying there. Only twitches, bone-deep exhausted, ticklish as the hairs are teased and plastered backwards.

Just letting it happen. Drifting, trusting.

He's still in the handcuffs when he wakes from a shallow doze, conscious of the press of fingers inside, freshly slicked. Swears again, more softly this time, and apologises when Douglas slaps him sharply as punishment, shows willing by letting his legs fall wider apart when Douglas resumes.

He’s already breathing heavy, never really came all the way down, even in sleep, bites down on the pillow to stop himself swearing again as Douglas takes him up to too much, too full, groaning in his throat. He knows he’d be hard if he were physically capable of it right now, knows Douglas is right when he tells him how much he loves it.

‘Come on.’ Douglas takes a fistful of Martin’s hair and tugs his head back until he is forced to unclench his teeth from the cotton he’s been stifling himself on. ‘I want to hear you.’

‘Bastard.’ Martin moans, ‘I can’t. Oh fuck, fuck…’

‘Should I stop?’ it’s not sincerely meant. It’s there in Douglas’ voice, the richness, the smugness. He knows full well Martin isn’t going to tell him to stop. That Martin craves it more than he dreads it.

Lets Martin shake his head free and bite down on the pillow again as Douglas works more of his hand in, slick and efficient with practice, until he’s fucking Martin with his half-curled fist, and Martin is shuddering and whimpering and dragging his soft but still sensitive cock against the sheets as if he could possibly find release that way.

‘Enough.’ He unclamps himself to stammer out at last. ‘Fuck, Douglas please… I’m so, oh god, so, so…’ he doesn’t even know what the next word is: done, satisfied, shattered? ‘Please.’

‘Ssh,’ Douglas’ own voice isn’t quite a smooth as usual, but he does his best. ‘You only had to say.’

He helps Martin sit up, discarding the handcuffs, checks he hasn’t done himself too much damage pulling on the things, walks him to the bathroom (propping him up where he totters, smirking and soothing where he flinches) turns the shower spray to just warm enough and encourages him to lean against the tiled wall as Douglas soaps and sponges and makes them both clean again.

It still feels odd, having someone in that space already, and yet not so odd because it’s not the same. Helena’s betrayal had been a shock, and his own (admittedly more minor) dishonesty heightened the feeling of ground cracking beneath his feet, but that was because the relationship had never been as he’d thought it. Just a slick pretence, two people presenting a façade to one another.

Whereas with Martin it might be all angles and snark and the odd rough spot to work through, but it feels honest. They know each other’s sticky places, odd kinks, irritating habits.  The strange contradictory and complementary parts of whatever this is.  The absurdity of Martin in a robe three sizes too big for him, the ridiculousness of their working lives, the hang ups and pettiness and bruised egos they must find ways to work around. Douglas’ impulse to feed Martin, to take care of him, and not only so he’s settled enough to submit to being shattered again.

Although Douglas would be lying if he said it wasn’t a factor.

Chapter Text

If Douglas is less excited than Martin to get back to work, at least he has the consolation that Martin has enjoyed staying with him these last two weeks. Not put off at all by the – he decides to call it pace – Douglas set.  Or the use of a firm hand on occasion.

It makes him wonder what else he might impose. Nothing, naturally, that will interfere with work, but there’s a whole range of shiny toys available for what they might get up to outside.

Or not get up to. A little more denial seems the obvious next step. Perhaps even when Douglas isn’t around in person to enforce it.

It’s not, Douglas assures Martin, intended to prevent him getting out there if he wants to. It’s just, if he does, his… (here Douglas pauses, well aware of Martin’s Pavlovian response to hearing Douglas’ voice lower and linger over the next word) satisfaction will be curbed.

‘We don’t even have to lock it at first, if you’d rather not.’

Which implies it will be locked later, Martin notices. Implies something ongoing, increasingly strict. He can’t pretend it’s a surprise – it’s the way they’ve been going from the start – but it is something to think about. Before any purchases are made, thank you Douglas.

Douglas doesn’t try to cajole this time. He’s learnt the difference between a Martin who might be persuaded and a Martin capable of digging his heels in if he’s pushed. Much better to let him come round when he’s ready.

Because ultimately Martin is, of course, far too curious for his own good. Cups his hand over his groin and tries to imagine what it would feel like, thinks about Douglas carrying a key – on the bunch for his car perhaps, or tucked in with the small change in his wallet – without which Martin can’t touch himself.  

The next step is to look online, and that inevitably leads to a discussion about preferences, re-opening the conversation less than a week after it closed, giving Douglas confidence enough to ask in earnest again just a few days later.

Martin dithers, but by now they both know he’s going to agree eventually. Douglas does a little discreet shopping in anticipation, familiarises himself with how the two models they’ve chosen actually work. What Martin doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and it’s in his interests really – if Douglas knows what he’s doing he’s less likely to do Martin an injury.  

Not that they’re complex contraptions – one a gently curved tube of polycarbonate, clearly designed to prevent any hint of arousal and display the trussed up cock, the other faux leather and stainless steel. That probably will allow a bit of give, Douglas thinks, but not too much.

He’s impatient now for Martin to catch up, catches himself out in being just a bit rougher than he means to when he has him over the side of the bed in Livorno, Martin’s hands bunched up in the light bedcoverings, his thighs bruising against the wooden frame, smothered groans escaping around the gag Douglas has had him wear as Douglas takes a fistful of his hair and pulls hard, his other hand gripped around the bedframe to get more leverage.

He has no idea what Martin is trying to say, but he’s not struggling at all, so Douglas simply pinches Martin’s flank hard to get his attention and tells him to shut up. When he doesn’t, he smacks him smartly, twice.

‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’

Then Douglas is coming so hard he can’t hear Martin at all, is barely aware of him shuddering as Douglas tugs on his hair again.

‘On the bed.’ Another slap to speed him up, and Martin is on his back, spread, while Douglas gives his cock the three or four short tugs it needs to tip Martin over the edge into orgasm.

Sleep follows quickly, and in the morning Martin doesn’t seem to be any more troubled by this than the other times Douglas has played rough.

Only Douglas suspects that there’s a touch of rage resurfacing, decides it's probably best not to mention it. He’s not at all comfortable with his reaction himself - if he tries to explain it he'll probably sound petulant.

Or downright threatening.

Anyway as soon as Martin gives in Douglas’ mood is sure to improve, and he’s still confident he won’t have much longer to wait.

Chapter Text

Martin justifies his confidence the very next day, but what with Douglas having to pretend he’s waiting for delivery, and then Martin having a run of moving jobs that leave him almost too exhausted for any sort of sex, and incredibly grateful for the wakeup call with coffee and juice and bacon sandwiches the one night he stays over, it’s the weekend again before they can snatch time.

‘So,’ Douglas says, laying the options out on the pale blue bedspread, ‘what’s your pleasure?’

Martin surprises him by picking the one with the steel rings. That had been Douglas’ pick when they’d been researching. It’s more the look of it than the logistics, if he’s honest. There’s something about Martin that suits restraints in latex or leather. Makes them look more wicked, more real, somehow, than they would on someone more obviously attractive.

Since they’re not using the padlock Douglas threads a matchstick through the loop to hold the thing closed. Then he encourages Martin to get used to the feel of it, walking careful circuits of the sofa, sitting and standing and pacing carefully out to the kitchen and back, a ridiculous but rather charming expression of concentration on his face.

Douglas can’t help but pull Martin down into his lap so that he can snog him stupid. Martin is unresisting, moaning softly as Douglas strokes through the hair at the nape of his neck, curls his fingers more tightly to keep Martin there, slowing and taking kisses in sips so that they can catch their breath before moving in again.

‘Oh god.’ Martin drops his head to Douglas’ shoulder as soon as Douglas has finished kissing him, his hands still clasped in Douglas’ shirt.

‘Alright there, Martin?’

‘I think so, just give me a moment.’

Which instead of doing Douglas slides his fingers up to part Martin’s bathrobe – he has his own here now – and get an eyeful. It doesn’t look uncomfortable, but it’s definitely more snug than it was when it went on.

Martin stares at it too, biting his lip, making no comment as Douglas lets his hand creep higher, running his forefinger across one of the steel rings and down to the next.

It can’t feel like much, so perhaps it’s the visual input that makes Martin’s cock twitch, puts that little catch in his breath.

Still moving slowly, ready to stop if he hears protests, Douglas slips his hand down between Martin’s thighs where his balls are hanging, soft and plump between the first hoop along his shaft and the thicker one that sits behind his balls and holds the whole thing in place.

‘You can tell me not to.’ Douglas offers, cupping Martin’s balls gently – much, much more gently than usual – and stroking his thumb between them, just teasing, feeling out the shape, the shift in the way they hang.

Martin only wriggles uncomfortably in Douglas’ lap, still staring as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing as his cock fills the thing completely, and finds it can grow no more.  

Actually Martin isn’t really seeing anything. He’s too focussed on how it feels to have his soft vulnerable cock pressing out into something so unyielding, and the way Douglas is touching him, still lightly but with intent, then kissing him even though Martin is far too distracted to do more than passively allow it.

‘Enough for now, do you think?’ Douglas asks, working the matchstick free before Martin has a chance to respond, peeling the sleeve of material and steel off again.

Then he pulls Martin back in for more kisses, surprising himself. There’s something about that wide open expression, he thinks, and how fragile Martin suddenly seemed, perched here on his knees, his balls literally in Douglas’ hands, trusting Douglas not to hurt him even though he knows Douglas can be cruel at times.

Something that makes Douglas want to do this right.

The second time they agree to use the padlock. It really is more practical if Martin is going to walk around in the thing, and Douglas suggests he put the key in the fruitbowl in the middle of the kitchen table - in plain sight where Martin can reach it if he needs to - while they eat. Then after the meal and a little light petting on the sofa he can take the device off again and progress to heavier petting - and the obvious mutual finale.  

It's late at night - dark and quiet out - before it goes on again. This time it's for longer still, but again the key is accessible and even though Martin is on his knees between Douglas’ spread thighs, with Douglas’ fingers carding through his hair, and Douglas’ cock in his mouth, and his own cock hanging heavily as it tries to thicken further inside its prison, he’s not uncomfortable.

Just constantly aware. The sensation of it, the strangeness. The buzz of frustration beneath his skin, in the small of his back, behind his balls, low but constant, promising worse it if goes on.  

It’s a relief to be freed from it, to feel Douglas’ hand wrap around his cock without any barrier between them except a light slick of lubricant, to rut into his palm and let himself come messily over the solid veins and meaty tendons of Douglas’ wrists.

Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to try it again. He very much does. Agrees, when Douglas asks, that it’s been a successful experiment, that he should wear it a little longer again next time.

‘Nothing excessive.’ Douglas says. ‘Just an hour or two.’

Chapter Text

It creeps up over the next few weeks, not always longer every time but definitely longer over time. Once Martin is acclimatised Douglas finds he likes to mix it up – perhaps an hour in a cheap hotel at night while they watch Slovakian television or a morning spent wandering around Fitton country fair, the contraption surprisingly discreet beneath Martin’s jeans, comfortable enough that he can almost forget it’s there.

Almost.  It never quite tips over into fully forgetting. Never reaches the point where he stops noticing it as completely as he would a new pair of shoes, or as people do with contact lenses. He’s always a little bit aware, vaguely wondering how long it will be on for this time, noticing the way Douglas checks his watch more often. Biting back the temptation to ask.

It’s not, as Douglas kindly points out, as if Martin’s erection was ever a particularly impressive sight, but it’s still emasculating to not be able to attain one. Douglas likes that of course; says he could happily watch Martin gently simmer in self-consciousness for days.

‘Anyway its good for you. Think of the relief when I take it off.’

Which is true enough. It always is a relief.  Especially so on those occasions when they are alone together. When Douglas kisses him, touches him, runs his tongue over all sorts of places he’d usually consider too undignified. Works on him until the chastity cage is like a vice around Martin’s cock, and Martin is squirming as Douglas impales him first on his fingers and then on his cock.

On those occasions being freed from it is almost a mini orgasm before the main one, which also usually follows promptly. Douglas doing the work himself or choosing to watch, satisfied and self-indulgent.

‘Ask nicely.’ He says, gag and chastity device dropped casually off the bed, and Martin knows he means beg, and as he is in no state of mind to resist if he wanted to, that is what he does.

Goes on doing as Douglas rolls him over and Martin hears the slide of the bedside table drawer even through his own babbling, then the click and buzz of a vibrator, readying him before he feels it slide through the thickening wetness between his arse cheeks, catch and push in.

‘Oh thank you. Please Douglas, just there, oh god please…’

Douglas isn’t really interested in the words, it’s that breathy, hectic, desperate tone and the way Martin opens himself up to it so eagerly and lets Douglas do such wicked things to him. The way he shudders and comes and allows Douglas to go on buggering him with the thing even though it’s clearly too much - Martin’s knuckles white where he’s gripping the edge of the mattress and a sob in each exhale of his breath.

‘Such a good boy,’ Douglas tells him. ‘Such a little darling.’

Which is true, most of the time. He can still occasionally be brattish. Refuses firmly to call Douglas sir, even in the bedroom. Not (he claims) because he thinks Douglas is trying to usurp his authority, but because it would be weird.

After the second such spat Douglas decides to pick his battles. Gives Martin one solid spanking – supposedly as punishment for being a stubborn so and so, but mostly because sex after a spanking is always deliriously intense – and then offers Martin a chance to be good again. Sends him home for the first time in the chastity cage.

Logistically it’s fine – he can urinate in it, and has done, and Douglas has already put the key in his flight bag so that he can’t possibly forget to bring it to the airport in the morning (Martin’s inner fusspot had surfaced briefly to absolutely insist on that, worried that it might affect the flight if they can’t remove it) – and he still has the option to call Douglas if he really can’t deal with it a moment longer.

It's probably even possible to clean under it, sort of, with cotton buds, but for one day (16 hours, to be pedantic) Martin decides he probably won’t bother. Doesn’t want to disturb it any more than he has to.  Even looking – especially looking – seems to start him ticking over, countdown to a lift off that won’t happen. The drive back from Douglas’ didn’t help. He’s never noticed before how much the old van vibrates when the engine’s on, or how many bumps there are in the roads around here.

Someone should probably write to the council.

At least he’s got a kettle in his room. He’s not sure he wants to use the communal kitchen right now, wants coffee and a wash and a chance to calm down before he sees anyone, and surely, surely he should be used to taking stairs in this thing by now? He doesn’t usually worry if the students notice him, even on the very rare occasions he’s sneaking someone out, but he’s sure he’s walking funny, and he just wants to escape to his room. To not have to engage in small talk or whatever.  

It's a relief to collapse onto his bed, ease the zip of his jeans down and catch his breath a moment.

Douglas, he soon decides, is the bastard to end all bastards. This is so awful it’s amazing. Winding something inside him tighter and tighter as afternoon becomes evening, wondering if Douglas is sitting at home on his sofa, smugly remembering how he’d sent Martin off with a pat on his still-tender bum and a kiss on the cheek, or if leaving his Captain quietly buzzing with frustration means little or nothing to Douglas. Out of sight, out of mind.

There’s that throb of heat again, the twitch in his cock, thinking of Douglas callous and amused.

God he never knew he was such a masochist. A bit, yes, but not like this.

He’s still half-distracted when Douglas joins him in the gents next morning, ushering him into a cubicle to unlock him and coax his bloody ridiculous cock free because it doesn’t want to come, swelling eagerly even before Douglas takes it in hand.

‘Douglas please.’ Martin knows he’s whining, in fresh clean uniform with his trousers round his knees as Douglas crowds him up against the partition and squeezes and Martin is groaning in relief into Douglas’ mouth, wound up so tightly by now, scrabbling his hands on Douglas’ broad back as his first officer jerks him off with irritating efficiency.

‘On your knees, Captain.’

He hasn’t even consciously registered the command before he’s dropping, reaching to help Douglas unbutton his own trousers, mouth already watering in anticipation, as conditioned as any dog.

It’s not his best work, still sloppy from orgasm, but Douglas isn’t complaining, wipes his mouth for him and sets his hat back on his head so that they’re ready to face Carolyn and the customer du jour with at least a façade of professionalism.

Doesn’t even – although it’s tempting – pinch Martin’s arse as they leave the loo.

Chapter Text

Things stabilise for a bit after that. They’re both settling into this new status quo where Martin is at Douglas’ often as not, and sometimes - but still rarely - ‘chaste’. Including one memorable occasion he only tells Douglas about afterwards, where he baffled some poor nice Spanish chap who didn’t understand why Martin wouldn’t let him do for Martin what Martin had done for him.

It’s all quite confusing to Douglas – is it the frustration that Martin is getting off on (even though he’s not, actually, getting off?) or is it doing as he’s told or.. what? Martin is no use, happy to answer questions but vague in his own head about the answers.

Douglas supposes he should push, but he’s concerned that if Martin thinks too hard about it he’ll overthink. Get himself all anxious. Shake himself one day and say he’s wrong, sorry, must have been confused, doesn’t want to let himself be manhandled and pinned down and played with the way they’ve been doing. Certainly doesn’t want to take things any further.  

Because Douglas, oh yes Douglas does want to take things further. Douglas’ plans are nebulous, as yet, but perfectly real.

It hasn’t escaped Douglas’ attention, for example, that the more time Martin spends at Douglas’ house the more comfortable he becomes with being ‘kept’. Money is power, after all, and power in all it’s different forms is what they’ve really been playing with – so being made to wear a frilly apron and nothing else while he cooks and serves Douglas dinner makes Martin blush far more than just being naked would. Because it’s not about nudity, it’s about humiliation. About giving Martin a delicious sense of his own weakness, thus turning them both on.

Like kneeling with Douglas’ hands cradling his skull, not unkind but so competent, so certain, holding Martin steady as he lets Douglas fuck his mouth, certain he couldn’t pull away if he wanted, and anyway he doesn’t want, is willing to take anything Douglas gives him right now, half-drugged on lust and submission. That this is what Douglas negotiated as payment for dinner – and the two glasses of wine Martin has had, because ‘you might as well get everything you want, Martin, I certainly intend to’ – is just the cherry on the cake, another reason for Martin to feel exposed.

‘Tart.’ Douglas tells him after. ‘Cheap tart at that.’

Martin sticks his tongue out, but it’s only half hearted, and Douglas knows it. Catches it between his finger and thumb, lets it slips free, and then hoists Martin up on the bed with an ease that makes Martin’s head spin.

He’s feeling rather wicked tonight, stroking Martin’s prostate, his balls, his cock, and then slipping away or stalling, watching Martin’s face as he realises the kind of mood Douglas is in, as he twitches and moans and is left aching.

He’s almost beautiful like this – not pretty, no, but this odd appealing mismatch of cheekbones and eyes and too wide mouth, and it’s impossible not to think about the way he’s just used that mouth, and the glimpse of Martin’s pale eyes through his lashes as he did so, and the way Martin is letting his hair grow slightly longer so that Douglas can get a good grip when he pulls it.

Fondness though won’t make Douglas permit Martin to orgasm. Or stop him punishing Martin when he slips up, cutting Douglas’ game short with a shudder and pale spurts across his belly.

‘What the hell Martin.’

‘Bugger, sorry, I got, not distracted, no, but… thinking. Oh, are you cross?’

‘I’m not best pleased, put it that way.’ Douglas says drily.

‘Sorry.’  

‘Is that the best you can do?’

‘Very sorry?’ Martin tries, ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

‘Too right you will.’ Douglas says. ‘It’s the paddle when we get home. And if that doesn’t work, mi amore, next time it will be a cane.’

‘Bugger.’ Martin says again, but he doesn’t say no, or even ‘hang on a minute’, and certainly doesn’t point out that Douglas has no right to escalate (again) without consulting him.

So the status quo shifts another small increment, and Douglas goes ahead and buys the cane and tells himself he’ll be very, very careful with it at first, since Martin doesn’t seem able to be careful at all.

Then all he has to do is wait for an opportunity to use it.  

Or orchestrate an opportunity, but that would be a step too far - and anyway Martin knows him much too well by now. It would never work.

It takes another 12 days for Douglas to realise the obvious way around that – that Martin doesn’t have to be fooled if he’s in on it. If Douglas is upfront that the task is impossible, that Martin is meant to fail, then Martin can decide whether he wants to play along or not.  

That’s not unethical.   

Martin says he has to think about it. Will give Douglas an answer next time he sees him. 

If he wonders why they can’t just negotiate, have it all cut and dried and planned in advance, he doesn’t say so. He’s pretty sure the failure is part of the point. Even knows Douglas wants him to fail hard – hold out as long as he can, pretend he might manage it.

There's no victory for Douglas otherwise, is there? 

Hence the handcuffs, hence Douglas taking his time with mouth and fingers and gently buzzing toys until Martin is squirming on the bed. Edged a bit further, and a bit further still, wrestling back orgasm, trying to think unsexy thoughts, fully aware he agreed to this even while he's becoming oblivious of practically everything else. 

Blinks away blinding tears as Douglas squeezes at the base of his cock, supposedly to discourage it but only sending another throb through him, pain and heat and wanting to be good, which in this instance means being bad but not too soon, not until they’ve both had to work for it.

He wants something to bite down on but of course Douglas can’t gag him when he’s like this and since he’s on his back he doesn’t even have the unsatisfactory substitute of a pillow to stifle his moans in.

He begs shamelessly instead, for permission, for more, to be filled, to be hurt, to be taken, anything to make Douglas end this early and let him damn well come. He’s not scared of what happens after, he just wants, please, please just wants to come.

‘The mouth on you,’ Douglas says, ‘and no Martin, you do not have permission.’

It’s flattering, Douglas supposes, that the moment Martin slips up is when he’s actually being buggered, legs back until his toes almost touch the wall behind him, hot, panting breaths evaporating across Douglas’ chest, everything so close and tight that Douglas doesn’t even realise it’s happened until he’s come himself, is pulling slowly free, and Martin, true to the part he’s playing, is apologising.

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t. Nevertheless,’ Douglas smirks at his own ridiculousness here, still panting hard, ‘discipline must be maintained. And will be,’ he throws himself on his back, suddenly much too hot and sticky and suffused with post-orgasm torpor, ‘just as soon as I’ve recovered somewhat myself.’

Chapter Text

He doesn’t take too long, rolling Martin’s sticky self onto his belly, wrists crossed as the chain of the cuffs twists round, giving him a friendly pat on the bottom he’s about to lash.

‘What do you think Martin, six of the best? Nice and traditional? Maybe one extra for luck.’

It’s not completely rhetorical – it’s a last chance for Martin to object if he’s going to, a warning that Douglas will assume consent from this point in – but he’s not really seeking a response either.  He suspects that Martin is nervous now it’s actually happening, but not nervous enough to object. Hopes he stays that way.

Douglas gives him a few more seconds – drawing out the tension a little but not oppressively so – wonders that Martin doesn’t turn his head, try to catch a glimpse of what’s happening, instead of laying there, so passive, legs together, ribs expanding and contracting with each breath.

Douglas raises his arm, eyes fixed on the gentle curve of Martin’s arse, brings the cane down smartly. Straightforward punishment, as agreed.

He half expects it to make a sound, cutting through the air, but there’s nothing until contact. A jolt and a sharp sound, and Martin jumps, almost as if he hadn’t been warned at all. Curses, low and intense.

‘What was that?’ Douglas asks, shifting his grip on the thing. Yes, that seems like a nice amount of force. Satisfying but not too much.

‘Sorry. Just.. wasn’t quite braced for it.’

‘Lets get through this punishment before you earn yourself another, shall we?’ 

With Martin still handcuffed to the bed, it’s not entirely jocular. Douglas calculates he could push as far as ten this first time if Martin continues to ‘misbehave’.

To that end the next four strokes descend in quick, even succession. Martin, unfortunately, bites down on the pillow to smother any more waywardness. Takes it like a man.

He does flinch rather deliciously though, and there is always next time – and next time is more likely, Douglas supposes, if he doesn’t push Martin too hard on this.

‘Nearly there.’

Now Douglas slows down, more to savour than terrorise, although if it makes Martin tremble a touch more he won’t object to that either. Martin braces and relaxes and braces again, waiting for it, clearly nervous now.

Douglas lets him cycle one more time before hitting him.  Perhaps slightly harder than before – it’s difficult to judge with heat and lust blurring the finer detail. Martin makes some sort of loud noise – protest or shock, still smothered in cotton and feathers.

‘One extra for that.’ Douglas tells him, bestowing it almost at once.

‘And one more for luck.’

This time he knows he’s heavier-handed, but Martin doesn’t let out so much as a whimper to give him the excuse to take more.

Probably just as well, Douglas tells himself. Rationalises at himself.

He sets the cane down carefully on the top of the wardrobe – in his reach but not Martin’s, he will realise later, although there’s no particular thought process behind it – and takes two full breaths to calm himself before he sets Martin free.

There. Done. Oh, Martin has been shaken up. He's crying.

Putting Martin back together is never as much fun as taking him apart, but it’s satisfactory in it’s own way. He’s clingy in a way he isn’t at any other time, and rather quiet, and Douglas provides tissues and blackcurrant cordial and a snug, warm belly to rest against until Martin is ready to talk.

‘I’m alright now I think. It wasn’t,’ he hesitates, ’it wasn’t that it was bad. It was just… I felt naughty, even though we agreed I was meant to slip up, and then it felt like you might really be cross, and it all got a bit too real for comfort.’  

‘Silly boy. You should have said something.’

‘No, it wasn't... it wasn't bad. I mean, it was meant to be a punishment, wasn't it?’

Douglas doesn't answer that. If Martin isn't going to question Douglas' right to punish him Douglas certainly isn't going to bring it up.

Nor, although the thought flits across his mind for at least the hundredth time, does he mention using a safe word.

Why trouble trouble, after all?  

Chapter Text

Things ease off after that – not entirely through choice, since they’re flying both to and round the States. A hell of a lot of sitting, for which Martin needs to be as comfortable as possible. Douglas convinces himself it's probably for the best. Time to take a breath, to recalibrate.

This trip is not going to be terribly good for Martin’s pocket either, which makes it a good opportunity for Douglas to gently float the idea of Martin moving in with him – not right now of course, but at some point. It’s something Douglas is interested in if Martin is.

‘You just want to have me at your mercy.’ Martin says drowsily. ‘Beholden and…’ here he yawns enormously because it really has been that kind of week, ‘..all that.’

‘All that yes,’ Douglas only half jests, ‘but not just that. Consider, Martin, how may hours we spend in one another’s company, and yet still seek out more.’

‘You old romantic, you,’ Martin teases back, but he does sound more awake.

‘I’m serious. I cannot imagine anyone else I would spend seven hours in close proximity with in an aeroplane flight deck and still want to go to dinner with. Still less share a hotel room after.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. I suppose you’re right. Now I think about it you’re the only person I’ve ever had anything this long term with. Certainly the only person I’d still bother having vanilla sex with.’

‘Can anal sex be described as vanilla?’

‘Oh surely. I mean, it's nice enough but it’s hardly a kink is it?’

‘Sometimes I feel I’ve led a very sheltered life.’ Douglas sighs.

‘Of course you have.’ Martin is facing away, his back to Douglas’ chest, but Douglas swears he can see the disbelieving face Martin is pulling anyway.

‘If it’s any consolation I am as keen as you are to get back to something a little naughtier.’ He slips his hand down to Martin's thigh and pinches him sharply to underline the point.

‘I know you are. Brute.’

‘Darling.’

Martin giggles. 

Chapter Text

Funny how things pan out. When an old colleague – and former playmate – turns up, the first thing Douglas thinks isn’t, as it would have been a little over half a year ago: How can I get him to put in a good word for me with a proper airline. Instead it’s: I wonder if Martin would be up for taking both of us at once.

Assuming Martin doesn’t intend to go for a job with Air Cal himself, and Herc is as much of a randy old sod as he used to be.

Certainly from conversation he seems exactly as Douglas remembers. Starting a whole unprompted spiel about how, of course, he realises Douglas is very happy here at MJN, pre-empting the request Douglas wasn’t, actually, going to make.

‘Of course,’ Douglas agrees, once Herc has wound down, ‘that’s perfectly true. It’s not the job I might have dreamt of perhaps, but there are compensations.’

‘Such as?’

‘Young Captain Crieff.’  His smirk makes it obvious what he means.

‘You old dog.’

‘Give me a call if you want to hear more.’ Douglas is careful, perhaps too careful, to sound casual. Herc’s glance is suspicious.

‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’

‘Well, I admit I’d have to make absolutely certain Martin is up for it. But he’s a greedy young man.’

It’s only afterwards he wonders if he’s jumped the gun a bit. If Martin might be annoyed. But it’s not like they haven’t talked. Not specifically about Herc, obviously, but other things. Regular communication, of a sort Douglas never had with a former partner, is still working out brilliantly so far.

Even if Martin threatens to throw a plate at him this time.

‘The bloody arrogance of you.’ He’s stacking the dishwasher. Douglas does it wrong apparently. How Martin can possibly know this is a question for another time.

‘Just so we’re clear. Should I take it you’re not interested?’

‘I didn’t say that. Just… ask me next time you invite your friends to have their wicked way with me.’

‘I am asking you.’

‘I meant beforehand.’

‘Fair enough. Apologies, Martin. I see I may have become carried away.’

‘You’re insufferable,’ Martin says firmly, slamming the door of the appliance so that the motor kicks in.

Then, more thoughtfully, ‘do you think he will call?’

Douglas doesn’t even try not to laugh in response to that.

Of course Herc does call. Gives it a few days as a sop to his pride, as Douglas always knew he would, and begins with a certain amount of verbal fencing. Just glancing contact.

‘Good to catch up with an old friend,’ he says, as if Douglas doesn’t know exactly why he’s really rung.

It’s a shame really that Martin isn’t here to listen in on this, Douglas thinks he'd find it amusing.   

‘So, are you planning to grace Fitton with your presence anytime soon?’ He asks.

‘Well I thought I might. There are incentives after all,’ Herc lets his voice lower suggestively, ‘or so I’m told.’

'Well then. When can we expect you?'

Despite everything Douglas has said Herc is still startled by the change in Martin’s confidence once he gets his clothes off. No stammering, no blushing.

Just coy looks through lashes that shouldn’t be long enough to throw coy looks through, sizing up Herc’s cock before he’s even had a chance to get his trousers properly undone.

‘Told you he was greedy.’ Douglas says. ‘Down boy.’ 

Martin pouts but sits back obediently, tucking his hands under his thighs so they won’t wander, twisting his bony feet around one another and swinging his legs until his thickening cock bobs.

Not-incidentally underlining that if it was a dick measuring contest Martin wouldn’t win and isn’t bothered by that. Far more interested in the shape of Douglas’ cock through his soft black boxers, letting Douglas pull him forward again to mouth at it, initially through the cotton and then without. Conspiring to give Herc a bit of a show too, Douglas’s hand resting on the back of Martin’s neck, Martin licking and sucking and tonguing him from root to tip under Douglas’ guidance, opening wide when told to, letting his head be tilted so that the head of Douglas’ cock rubs against the soft pad of Martin’s cheek from the inside, where Herc can see it, clearly outlined, thrusting shallowly.

It's obscene the way it moves, the spit-shone length of Douglas’ shaft that won’t fit, the plumping out of Martin’s hollow cheek where it pushes and slides, the pink of lips and sliver of strange colour where Martin’s eyes aren’t quite closed.

Douglas doesn’t let himself get too carried away. This isn’t what they’re here for tonight. Another time… well who knows? He pulls free and nudges Martin’s jaw with his knuckles to close it.

‘Turn around and bend over.’

Martin doesn’t speak as he crawls into position, spotlessly clean, but otherwise unprepared. He can tell Douglas is enjoying all that, bending him over, showing off his tight, yielding arse, getting Herc going as he watches Douglas rub slick all around Martin’s hole before pushing just the tip of a finger in.

Martin, predictably, pushes back, trying to get more than he's been given.

‘Someone is asking for a smack.’ Douglas observes.

‘I didn’t mean to.’

Talking back does earn him a smack. A hard one too.

‘The word you are looking for is sorry.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You better be.’

Despite his words though Douglas has started to hurry it up, two fingers pressing and scissoring; four, feeling the resist and give, the shiver Martin can’t help at the burn of it.

‘He’s not as fragile as he looks, is he?’ Herc observes, as Martin braces against Douglas’ fingers where they’re fucking themselves in up to the palm. It looks like a conjuring trick, as though the narrow hips couldn’t possibly take the width of Douglas’ hand. Herc wonders if the shape would show through Martin’s belly the same way Douglas’ cock had shown through his cheek. Probably an anatomical impossibility - and Martin isn’t as skinny as all that anyway - but weirdly appealing to think about.

As is as joining in the loosening up of the previously uptight Captain Crieff. Douglas yields position with a shrug as Herc moves in, watches in turn as Herc’s fingers – longer but not as broad – take the place of his own, driving deeper.

‘You might need to fist him before he’s loose enough.’

‘That will be more than a pleasure.’ Herc says smoothly. ‘You can push back as well if you want Martin. I’m not as strict as this one.’

Douglas knows that to be a lie, but lets it slide this once.

Martin is already moving, but it’s still a relief to be able to grind down with impunity. He needs (not a need, Douglas insists sometimes - Just a craving Martin. Have patience. You’ll cope. Because Douglas likes making him wait, and although Martin used to tell himself he hated it, just thinking about it makes his skin flush hotter and breath come quicker) and now they both have hands on him, keeping him steady as Herc pushes hard, and Martin bears back through the feeling that it’s too much, half hoping it is. He wants… he hardly knows what he wants. Just more, always more.

He feels it give, so full, and then so empty, and he’s being sat back on his haunches again, shifted up in Douglas’ lap, legs splayed wide and pulled wider. Herc sliding a hand down beneath his balls to feel Douglas’ cock, press in beside the thick length of it as it breaches Martin’s arse. Twitch his fingers so that Martin shivers, and Douglas curses him.

‘I’m trying to keep some measure of self-control here Hercules. Pack it in.’  

Herc grins, not remotely sorry, but he does stop, sits back to admire the picture the two of them make before moving in again.

Martin is slight enough that they have to hold him down – Herc’s hands on his hips, Douglas’ arms resting on his shoulders - before Herc can slide his own cock in besides Douglas’. Even then it’s all so tight and close it seems it might be impossible until it actually happens.

Eyes closed now, Martin reaches blindly behind himself with one hand to find Douglas, turning his head to mouth at Douglas’ bicep where his arm curls and cages him in. He’s not even fully seated yet but they give themselves a moment to get used to just how tight it is already. How little room there is to manoeuvre, subtle movements of hips to test it out, and even those enough to make Martin quiver in response.  

‘Alright Martin?’ Douglas’ voice is thick with self-control, and Martin manages to unglue his mouth from Douglas’ bicep just long enough to nod emphatically.

It’s irrational to feel jealous, but Herc uses the shallow stab of it to start things off again, telling himself he doesn’t care if they aren’t quite ready.

Not too brutal though. At first more of a rocking motion than an up and down, Martin sinking still, kissing wet smothering moans into Douglas’ skin as he’s pushed inexorably downwards. Held more tightly as their thrusts became more vigorous, falling in and out of synch with one another.

Despite the pressure of hands, the extra weight, Martin can’t help but bounce with the force of it, flotsam tossed up and dragged down, going willingly when Douglas decides he wants to see his face, taking a loose clutch of curls and pulling his head back. Throat bared, eyes unfocussed, lips parted.

Lust is a monster. A thing with teeth. Douglas has no idea if Martin’s arse is loosening, somehow, still more, or if he’s just too turned on to care anymore. Herc is in a similar state. Martin is the bone between them, and Herc being Herc, and this being him, it would always have become a competition.

Each is determined that he will not come first.

Herc’s hands move back on Martin’s hips, Douglas’ migrate to his thighs. Martin has to work to cling close enough, to keep himself upright as they push and pull and pump into him, all three of them slick with sweat, and god Douglas loves the look on Herc’s face, so close, biting it back hard, the shudders that shake through Martin as they fuck him, the noises he makes.

Douglas is… fuck it. Douglas wants it too badly to play along any longer, racing instead for the finish, getting his hand around Martin’s cock to make bloody sure he comes too, that he’s left oversensitive as Herc finishes at last, all spasms and whimpers in counterpoint to Herc's low grunts of triumph. Tears wet on Martin’s cheeks as it all becomes too much.

Douglas makes it worse, better, both, by continuing to play, slicking Martin’s own spend around the head of his cock and under the foreskin and down to his balls while Martin jerks with the violence of Herc’s final few thrusts. Unco-ordinated as Douglas somehow slots their faces together and kisses his wet, red, whimpering mouth just as Herc finally catches up.

For at least thirty seconds they do nothing more than collapse in a puddle, utterly fucked out.

‘Well, I’m glad we’re friends.’ Herc says at last.

Chapter Text

It’s not long afterwards that Martin manages to injure himself the same day he’s supposed to be shifting a piano. Apparently demonstrating how carrying boxes the wrong way restricts vision and can lead to trips and falls and then, well, tripping and falling due to restricted vision. It’s possible, he admits, that he didn’t think it all the way through.

Anyway it’s not too bad, just a nasty sprain, but he certainly can’t be shifting a piano so would Douglas mind awfully…

Douglas doesn’t mind at all. It just means he’s clocking up more favours to cash in at some point.

‘Once that ankle is better, naturally. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you in your vulnerable state.’

‘Yes you would.’

‘Yes, you’re right, I would. But we’ll wait for you to heal before we do anything too recherche shall we?’  

In the meantime, piano safely delivered and the two of them heading back home to Fitton, Douglas suggests that Martin stay at his place, at least for a week or two.

‘Unless you fancy the idea of hopping up those attic stairs with a bag of groceries over one arm and your hat under the other.’  

‘Yes alright, I know I’m a clot.’ Martin sighs, staring out of the window. ‘Thank you.’

‘No need to thank me. As discussed, you can pay me back later.’

‘You know I can’t - at least… oh you didn’t mean in money, did you?’

Martin sounds, and as he glances Douglas’ way looks, a little flustered. Obviously Douglas’ eyes are on the road, but it's there all the same; body language, the quick glance and turn away again.

‘If that’s a problem…’ Douglas allows the suggestion to hang there, although he can’t imagine why it should be. They’ve played this particular game before often enough. He had been under the impression they both rather enjoyed it.

‘Not a problem no. It’s just… it must be a lot by now. I mean, a lot of catching up to do.’

Douglas is absolutely certain that he should say something renunciatory at this point. Something about it only being a game. About how he can’t possibly hold Martin to it and wouldn’t anyway. Perhaps even pointing out that it’s hardly Martin’s fault that he’s still stuck working for nothing while Douglas draws a modest but acceptable wage, and that perhaps they should ask Carolyn to make it more equitable.

Except he doesn’t want to say any such thing. Waits instead until Martin stammers into speech again. ‘I mean, I haven’t actually been counting but,’ another tentative glance, ‘but I suppose you have.’

‘Naturally.’  

‘And it’s a lot.’

‘Yes it is rather.’

‘And it’s about to get even bigger.’

‘Martin, are you hedging?’

‘I.. I suppose I’m nervous.’

‘None of this is compulsory you know.’ Douglas finally admits.

‘No I know,’ Martin says quickly, clearly relieved to be reminded.

Then he laughs, ‘sorry Douglas, I’m getting myself in a state over nothing aren’t I?’

‘Just a little bit.’ Douglas says mildly, shifting down a gear as they come up to the turn off for Fitton.  Probably best, he decides, to change the subject.

‘Anyway, I don’t know about you, but it’s been a long day and I’m famished. What would you say to Chinese?’

Chapter Text

Martin misses flying, even for the three weeks he’s recovering. Hobbling well enough about the house and then down to the shops and eventually even back to the flat to pick some more bits up – it’s become very important, all of a sudden, to prove to himself he can do things without Douglas, and although it also feels a bit silly there’s a sense of triumph when he gets back safely with the stuff he needed and folds it away into the drawer Douglas cleared out for him. He's still some way from being medically fit enough to fly.

Nor can he do any man-with-a-vanning. Asking Douglas to help again so that Martin can contribute financially would just mean he’s indebted in a different way. He’s just thankful he had a few months rent saved up. He wouldn’t want to be completely reliant on Douglas.

Even though he does trust him, really.

Perhaps it’s himself he doesn’t trust. He still has no idea how he’s going to ‘pay’ for all this. Has had it on the tip of his tongue to ask but never quite got it out. Possibly because once Douglas tells him Martin will have to think about it, perhaps say yes or no, and he doesn’t want to do that yet. Or ever, really.

On the other hand Douglas has been a lot less rough since Martin was injured and he’s missed that. So whatever Douglas picks might be sweet relief, in a way, even if it is a bit much as well. Plus it’s been a frustrating few weeks, and he’d quite like the excuse to have a good cry.

Douglas gives him the excuse. Not at first. At first there is only the steady stroke of Douglas’ hand, Douglas’ knowledge of how to get Martin off with the minimum of fuss or mess, the careful swab over with a damp flannel and then a dry one.

Then Douglas has the chastity cage in his hands and the only thing Martin can think is that he should have known it would be something like this. Should have expected to be crawling up on his hands and knees, ankle fully recovered, cock swinging as Douglas preps him none too gently, just the way Martin would enjoy it if he weren’t locked up tight.

‘Oh fuck.’ He’d forgotten what it was like being locked in this thing, knowing he can't take it off, can't get hard, can't do anything, ‘Hell.’

‘Someone is asking for a good hiding,’ Douglas says casually. Then his fingers twist and Martin barely manages to hold his tongue. He’d forgotten that he needs permission to swear while Douglas is playing with him. ‘But you’re going to learn to be such a good boy Martin, I can promise you that. It’s the least you owe me, don’t you think?’

Then, finding Martin’s prostate and circling, circling, so that Martin can’t even think, can barely breathe, he prompts him again, ‘that wasn’t a rhetorical question, Martin.’

‘Sorry, I.. I don’t. What was...’

‘You’re going to learn to be a good boy, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ It feels fated, like this, shivering and wanting, with Douglas so certain and himself so weak. So incapable, honestly, letting Douglas take care of him, it’s shameful. He’ll pay for it now, he knows he will.

‘And this is the least of what you owe me.’

‘Yes. I deserve… I deserve it.’

‘Of course you do. You deserve everything that’s coming to you.’

Martin’s cock is being throttled in the device. He’s so turned on. Douglas’ touch is relentless, inexorable, and it’s so much, too much, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Wants it to be hard, to hurt, Douglas’ thick cock pushing into him and those same fingers, sticky with lube, curling forward around his thigh and sliding over the unyielding rings of the chastity device, the gaps between where his soft flesh is trying to press through, and finally closing around his balls, tugging gently.

‘Just a hint,’ Douglas murmurs. ‘Don’t make me make it worse.’

Martin’s head has dropped between his shoulders, but he nods. He’ll be good. Of course he’ll be good. Douglas’ hands retreat to his thighs again, holding him steady.

Then he fucks him as relentlessly as a machine - except a machine wouldn’t enjoy the way Martin almost buckles and has to fling one arm up against the headboard to push back, the keening noise that Martin makes, the broken off pleas and promises, the swearing that Douglas decides to forgive, too close to his own orgasm to bother repeating threats, but not too close to imagine sweet revenge at a later date.

He leaves Martin trembling, wiping tears away against his forearm, and that’s rather agreeable too.

‘Are you... How long...’ Martin is still not quite coherent, but Douglas manages to parse the meaning anyway.

‘Until I think you’ve had enough.’ Douglas tells him.

‘And then we’ll be all square.’

‘Yes. All square. Account paid in full.’

‘It’s going to kill me.’

‘I will stop before it kills you.’ Douglas helps Martin sit up and reaches for the water glass. ‘Here, drink this. It’s alright.’

‘You’re so sure.’ Martin says, it’s not clear from his tone whether he thinks that a good thing or a bad.

Douglas doesn’t ask.

Chapter Text

‘I suppose I'll have to take this thing off when we fly.’ Douglas says reluctantly. It’s been two days and they’re not due to fly for another three, but Martin still suspects he’s meant to be grateful rather than alarmed. Technically this is a concession that Douglas is making.

‘It would set off the metal detectors.’ He says simply.

‘Yes, there’s that. And it’s probably better not to distract you too much on your first flight for a month.’

‘Right. and it’s not like I can.. do anything. I’ll be under your eye all the time.’

‘Yes, there’s that too.’  

It’s not that the thing is uncomfortable – most of the time. A little tight if Martin’s thoughts wander, uncomfortably constricted if he gets very excited. The real ache is in his balls, in his need to come, stoked up and squirming on Douglas’ fingers or one of the six different vibrators they apparently possess now.

There are new handcuffs too, padded so that Martin doesn’t hurt himself as he struggles.

He doesn’t really mean to do that, but it’s the intensity that’s most difficult for him, and the intensity is building.

It’s his own fault. He could make it stop, he knows he could. It would feel like cheating, like he hadn’t kept up his side of their bargain, but he’s fairly confident Douglas would unlock him without a word if he thought Martin were in earnest.

Garbled protests during the act are different. He doesn’t really know what he’s saying. It’s enough that Douglas hesitates a moment. Checks that it’s not serious.

‘Not that I mind,’ he says, ‘as long as you’re sure you’re alright.’

He certainly doesn’t look all right. Instead Martin is a leggy mess, an absolute wreck, arse still stretched around the now-dormant vibrator, cock strained in it’s leather and metal prison, face flushed and tears still wet on his cheeks. A moment ago he was pulling on the cuffs as if to get free, repeating ‘stop, please stop’ on a loop as if he was afraid Douglas might not hear him.

A cynic might suggest that Douglas is being a little disingenuous in ignoring all that. Accepting Martin’s assurance that he didn’t even know he was saying it as if that was a perfectly good reason to ignore him.

Still it’s Martin’s affair if he wants to recant already, and Douglas isn’t here to coddle him. Has only very few qualms about starting the vibrator up again.

Even those melt away in the satisfaction of seeing Martin’s head rock back on the pillow as Douglas pumps the toy - out and in, out and in, the bulbous head pressing thick against Martin’s prostate and making him sob.

This time Douglas counts to six before he pulls it back, not quite free, pushes it firmly home again for another count of six.

Martin isn’t saying anything coherent right now, which is just as well. He can’t come either - but there’s a trickle of wetness anyway, something that Douglas is fairly confident in classifying as prostate fluid. Mere drops at first, then a little more, a tiny wet patch, as Douglas continues to wring it out of him.

It’s thin sorry stuff compared to ejaculate, but Douglas makes sure that he’s milked Martin dry, has left him with nothing, before he stops.

Chapter Text

Martin heads home the next day after breakfast. Nothing much has changed. The students very sensibly drank the pint of milk and ate the eggs Martin left in the fridge. His uniform is still ironed and tidy on the hanger over his wardrobe door. Outside the window the trees are a bit fuller, a bit darker green. Nothing else.

Except it all feels vaguely unreal, like a stage set or one of those virtual reality things.

He makes coffee – rinsing out his small plastic kettle first – and eats the last three biscuits in the packet even though they’ve gone a bit soft. He puts some music on quietly and reads for a while.

It’s peaceful, quite pleasant, but Martin can’t get lost in the book. Is half expecting someone to walk in and tell him that he doesn’t belong here anymore, if he ever really did.  That fate has already cast the dice and is just waiting for him to catch up.

It’s all in his head, obviously. There’s no such thing as fate.

MJN, on the other hand, feels wonderfully familiar, which is good because he’s been looking forward to getting back and would have hated not to have enjoyed it. Douglas frees him from the chastity device in the relative privacy of the back of Martin’s van, and that’s a relief too.

Douglas doesn’t do anything – there’s a moment of apprehension when Martin thinks his FO might get him all worked up and then expect him to behave as normal, but all Douglas does is wrap the device in a little tissue and stow it away in a pocket.

For his part Martin is glad to see that his attempts to keep himself clean with q tips and corners of flannel seem to have worked, buttons himself as sedately as possible under the circumstances, and swings himself down from the van to follow Douglas across the apron to Gerti.

After that he doesn’t think about sex once, even though Douglas is filling out his jacket particularly nicely today and Martin hasn’t gone this long without orgasm since his fourth attempt to get his pilot’s licence. He’s too focussed on flying again, too happy to be back where he belongs, to give any of it another thought.

At least until they’re through security at the other end and Douglas is suggesting a quick wander round duty free before they grab a taxi and head out to the hotel.

‘And what is this duty free shop going to have that they don’t all have, pray tell?’ Carolyn asks, but by now Arthur is explaining how duty free is brilliant, really, because you get toblerones, and not just toblerones but sometimes different sorts of toblerones like the one in the white packet and the one in the black packet, and once Carolyn is distracted with that Douglas just has to slip away into the gents with Martin and lock him up again.

‘And where did you two slope off to?’ Carolyn asks when they catch up with her and Arthur in the small shop. ‘No, on second thoughts don’t tell me, I’m not really interested. Let’s just get this taxi shall we?’

‘Certainly, since you wish it.’

It’s possible Douglas said that too smoothly. Carolyn is instantly suspicious.

‘What are you up to, Douglas?’

‘Up to? Nothing.’

‘Martin.’ Now Carolyn’s eye is on him. ‘What is Douglas up to?’

‘Nothing.’ Martin tells her. ‘Really, nothing… it’s. Nothing. Why shouldn’t it be nothing?’ It’s not his fault if he’s flustered. Anyone under these circumstances would be flustered, surely?

‘I think what our beloved captain meant to say is that if there were something, and I speak purely hypothetically here, it would be a private thing between the two of us.’

‘Not affecting MJN in any way.’ Martin confirms.

Carolyn’s eyes narrow again. ‘You’re not engaged are you?’

‘No.’

‘Although I have suggested Martin might want to give up his flat and move in with me.’

‘When did you suggest that?’ Martin asks, immediately distracted.

‘Well alright, perhaps not suggested as such. Introduced the idea.’

‘Well then perhaps Martin thought you were speaking purely hypothetically,’ Carolyn suggests. ‘One can see why he might.’

‘Good to be back, isn’t it Martin?’ Douglas mutters as Carolyn turns on her heel and the three of them trail after her to the taxi rank.

‘Yes, actually.’

‘So you’re not engaged then?’ Arthur asks, clearly disappointed but still hopeful.

‘No Arthur, sorry.’

‘Well maybe you will one day. Weddings are brilliant.’

‘Marriages on the other hand,’ Douglas says, still in dry mode, ‘are variable.’

Chapter Text

‘I’ve missed you.’ Douglas says as soon as they’re alone.

‘Me or...’

‘Both,’ Douglas admits, ‘now come here.’

‘Let me get out of my uniform first.’

‘Alright.’ Douglas sits on the bed while Martin strips. ‘I’ve no objection to that.’

The chastity belt is discreet beneath Martin’s trousers, more obvious under the stretch cotton of his underpants – Douglas wonders, not for the first time, what Martin would look like in lace briefs, something flimsy that emphasises everything it’s supposed to cover.

Would he flaunt himself or colour up with confusion?

Both would be equally satisfactory, but it bothers Douglas that he doesn’t know. He wants to know everything about Martin, exactly how to play him, how to keep him coming back for more.

Not that he’s had any trouble so far. Doesn’t know where this insecurity is coming from. Covers it up with a smirk and an insult.

‘I’ve slept with women whose bits wouldn’t fit in that.’

Martin only sticks his tongue out and sinks down to straddle Douglas’ thighs. Insults have always been a part of their intimacy, and Douglas has very much missed dishing them out.

It seems Martin might have missed receiving them too. Certainly he falls back into the rhythm of them easily.

‘Ridiculous brat,’ Douglas tells him. He has a hand between them, fingering Martin’s balls, can feel how he’s twitching, his cock filling the chastity device as far as it is able, already breathless when Douglas kisses him, dragging his mouth down from Martin’s lips to his slim, pale neck and biting just beneath the spot Martin’s over=starched collar will cover.

‘You’re being very good, for such a slut.’ Douglas observes.

‘You don’t give me a lot of choice.’

‘You don’t deserve a choice,’ Douglas tells him. ‘On your back now.’

He over-preps Martin, making him whine. Asking for a slap, as Douglas tells him.

He doesn’t do it yet though, waits until he’s really whining, his knees hooked around Douglas' waist, his head thrown back against the pillows.

‘Stop it.’ Douglas puts his hand firmly over Martin’s mouth. They both of them still, just looking at each other, Douglas balls-deep in Martin’s arse. ‘I know you can do better than this.’

He takes his hand away, slaps Martin’s thigh to make a point, is rewarded with a shiver and a squeeze and then Martin pouting at him, ridiculous and adorable and he is so going to put the brat over his knee when they get home.

‘I can’t though. Please Douglas.’

‘Martin I know you’re a needy little thing but we have barely got started. Stop being a baby.’

‘Well shut me up then.’ Martin suggests.

‘Fine.’ Since he hasn’t got a gag to hand Douglas improvises by stripping off a pillow case, twisting it into a rope and pushing it between Martin’s teeth. ‘There, howl into that if you have to.’

Martin doesn’t howl, but Douglas is pretty sure he's begging towards the end of it. Reminds himself that Martin is a masochist, and did ask to be shut up. Is presumably getting something out of this even now.

What though, he can’t imagine.

Chapter Text

Martin isn’t surprised to be bent over for a spanking as soon as Douglas gets him home. It’s clearly overdue - how many f-bombs has he dropped while frantic? It’s just that normally there would be a pay off, and the way Martin is at the moment there can’t be. So it’s just more frustration that goes nowhere, or at least presumably will go somewhere, but he doesn’t know when.  

The milking provides some kind of release, even though it’s not the one he’s seeking, a twisted travesty of orgasm. The tears are purifying too.

So he’s not loving it, but he’s not hating it as much as he expected to - and he is absolutely determined to stay the course. He knows Douglas is impressed that he hasn’t asked any more questions, although really that’s because he knows he’ll probably just get the same answer - that they'll stop when Douglas thinks Martin has had enough, which is clearly not yet, although it’s definitely getting harder the longer it goes on.

It is still very good to get back to flying - MJN is just one bubble though, and Parkside Terrace is another bubble, and this is the last, the biggest, where Douglas doesn’t scruple about putting his hand on Martin’s thigh in the car or snogging him and sliding a knee between Martin’s legs as they’re cooking in the kitchen, or slipping a hand brazenly around Martin’s waist while they’re watching some tiresome nature documentary and suggesting Martin get down on his knees right now and put his pretty mouth to good use.

It's even nice to do a bit of van work, although he can’t help wondering whether people can see how flustered it makes him when he bends and his jeans press into his crotch and outline the thing he’s wearing. Douglas assures him it’s not obvious to anyone else, and probably it isn’t - but he’s still so conscious of it himself. The weight, the way it swings differently, the fact that Douglas put it on him and only Douglas can take it off, which is a level of commitment he wasn’t expecting when they started this thing.

‘Poor love,’ Douglas commiserates, ‘come on, lets ease some of that pressure.’

Which means milking Martin’s prostate, which means tying him up and oh doesn’t Douglas love to make him howl and squirm.

‘Give it up now,’ he teases, ‘come on Martin, let it all out..’

‘Bastard.’ Martin stammers, but Douglas only looks smug.

‘You got yourself into this,’ he says. ‘I’m just collecting on the debt.’

Douglas is enjoying himself. Who wouldn’t be? Still it’s probably just as well it comes off from time to time for flights. Douglas doubts it would be healthy to leave Martin locked in the thing solidly for – well, however long it ends up being. 11 days so far.

‘Frustration is a good look on you.’ Douglas tells him, and ‘do you want something real to cry about?’

All the old cliches, really, but he likes the effect they have on Martin, the way he sometimes still courts it, behaves more badly in order to be punished. Can’t explain why, when Douglas asks. Doesn’t need to. Takes his spanking, bowed over the edge of the bed, and his warning that next time it will be the cane again.

Is the cane, in fact. Martin is very willing, but his greatest admirer wouldn’t describe him as a quick learner, and his capacity for self control is shrinking steadily.

It’s into the middle of all this that Herc comes back. Indeed, as Douglas understands it, it seems he never really went away, but has been floating around in the background taking Carolyn to the opera.

Not that Carolyn likes opera, or at least if she does, she’s certainly not going to admit it to Herc.

Douglas admits to being surprised. He wouldn’t have thought Carolyn was Herc’s type on... well quite a lot of levels.

‘Yes, well,’ Herc says. ‘Never mind that. The point is that although I will always think of the interlude fondly I was rather hoping to have your assurance that nothing of what happened between you, myself and Martin will get back to Carolyn’s ears.’

‘Very well Hercules.’ Douglas sighs down the phone and rolls his eyes at Martin, who is comfortably curled up on the couch with a new kind of flight simulation game, trying but failing not to listen in. ‘You have our solemn word. We will not tell Carolyn how you rogered her precious Captain’s mouth six ways from Sunday, nor that you and I violated him in tandem. Happy now?’

Martin shifts uneasily in his seat and glances over. Douglas blows him a kiss.

‘Good,’ Herc says. ‘Now the other thing - obviously it wouldn’t be very wise of me to pursue anything more in that line just now.’

‘Assuming you were still invited.’ Douglas points out. Herc ignores him.

‘But I do know someone else who might be interested. Do you remember Claude Grayson? Fair haired chap used to be at Caledonian. Well, he’s in management now, but he’s not a bad person to have on side. Should MJN not have the long and lucrative run we all hope it will, that is.’

‘Ah.’ Douglas does remember Grayson and is genuinely intrigued by the thought of watching him have his wicked way with Martin. Not just yet though, he explains to Herc. He’d need to talk to Martin properly first, and besides they’re in the middle of something he’s fairly confident wouldn’t have troubled Herc but which might not seem so innocuous to someone who hasn’t met Martin before.

‘What sort of something?’

Martin is definitely listening in now. Hisses Douglas frantically across the room.

‘Sorry Herc, one moment. Martin?’

‘Are you really going to tell him… I mean.’ Martin glances down at his lap in lieu of speaking.

‘I was planning to yes. it’s not like he doesn’t know we’re a tad naughty.’

‘Right, fine.’

‘Would you rather I didn’t?’

Martin bites his lip, genuinely considers it. ‘Actually no, it’s… you can tell him.’

‘Sorry Herc, Martin was just having a wobble about my informing you that he’s been wearing a chastity device for, oh it must be a fortnight now I should think. Barring flights, not barring all other activities.’

‘So you mean he’s still…’

‘Oh yes, very much still.’

‘’You know.’ Herc says thoughtfully. ‘One last bit of naughtiness couldn’t hurt that much, really. Carolyn and I haven’t even kissed yet. Arguably we’re just friends who bicker a lot.’

‘Indeed. And why throw away an opportunity like this for a romance that may never truly blossom.’

‘Do stop, Douglas.’

‘Again, give me a moment to consult with my associate.’

Douglas’ associate is actually laughing, games machine controller abandoned for the moment as he stands and comes over, putting his hand around the mouthpiece of the telephone so Herc can’t hear them. ‘Caved already, then?’ he asks.

‘Naturally, what with my silver tongue and your bone structure. Who could resist?’

‘My bone structure is ridiculous.’

‘Well my silver tongue isn’t all its cracked up to be.’ Douglas admits. ‘Shall we invite him down? Make your life just that little bit more difficult?’

Again Martin hesitates, but Douglas looks so uncharacteristically giddy with the possibility of it, and Martin has never been one to turn down sex. Or a challenge, either. He nods.

Chapter Text

They have an unexpected hop to Antwerp before that though. Their first flight with Martin still sore from the cane. Douglas hopes it doesn’t put him off in future. Fun as it is watching him lower himself into his seat as carefully as possible, fretting that Arthur might have one of his unexpected flashes of intuition, Douglas hadn’t actually planned to test his young captain like this for quite a while.

Martin doesn’t squirm for long, though, too happy to be back in the air again and always first class at filtering out anything that might interfere with flying. Even his sexual frustration – which he described as a constant, present distraction just this morning - is suspended.

It’s a cargo flight, as quick a turnaround as legal. The hotel so close to the airport that triple glazing is necessary. Douglas suspects the rooms are soundproofed too, although he gags Martin all the same, fetching it out of his bag at the same time as the chastity cage, securing them both before he takes Martin to bed.

It’s starting to look almost tatty now - still the flimsy but effective thing with a buckle at the back that Martin can release himself. Or could, anyway, if Douglas weren’t holding him down, one hand around both of Martin’s wrists and the other roaming his balls and arse.

Now he's really squirming, all his frustration rising up in him again, biting on the short phallus, whimpering and writhing but not really trying to get free. It’s beginning to feel like forever, like Douglas isn’t ever going to let him come, is having far too much fun gloating, squeezing over Martin’s bruises and trapping his legs between Douglas’ solid thighs and fingering him until he’s shivering with it, a mess of sensation, head empty of anything but want.

Douglas continues to hold him down as he buggers him – Martin’s wrists are slim but not fragile, his fingers long for his height. His toes are long too, flexing, eloquent with tension as Douglas pushes his thighs back almost too far, spreading him wide and impaling him with deep, steady strokes. Still having too much fun tormenting Martin to give in to his own frustrations until they’re almost overwhelming.

Then it’s quick and brutish, and intensely satisfying, and Douglas is left sluggish and lazy - playing with his own cum after, dipping two or three fingers back in where Martin is lax, slowly stepping it up until the poor lad is whimpering again, face all red and eyes all big and imploring, mouth still biting and slavering around the gag.

Douglas can’t feel too sorry for him, even as he curls his fingers into a fist, hard knuckles bruising and bludgeoning with Martin tight and tender around him. Martin has certainly taken more than this on other occasions. Has even begged for it.

Besides he seems alright – no more than a little tearful – when the gag comes off.  

Sleep is imperative, but whilst sex has left Douglas satisfied and drowsy, poor Martin is still wound impossibly tight, cock swollen inside its prison, arse throbbing, and the tension of more than a fortnight without release - teased and dropped repeatedly - singing in his veins. He can’t keep still, can’t even pretend to relax.

Desperate measures, Douglas decides,

‘Alright,’ he says, ‘one quick one. Just because I know you won’t sleep otherwise.’

‘Oh god, yes please.’

It’s just a handjob, no bells and whistles and little tenderness, but Martin is already so wound up – has been for ages – that he’s hard almost the moment the chastity device comes off, and coming gratefully, quietly curled up with his head on Douglas’ shoulder, less than half a minute after that.

Slumps, relieved and yawning as Douglas wipes his cock clean and slips the chastity cage on again. He’ll have to take it off after breakfast, before they go back through security, but he’s determined to make sure Martin knows this was a one off. An expediency rather than him going soft.

It is nice though, to see Martin content and yawning. Douglas pulls him comfortably close and presses a kiss to his forehead before they both fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Herc’s car is parked on the drive when they get back, pulled up with its nose to the bushes the neighbours planted for privacy. Douglas pulls the Lexus in behind.

‘Are we expecting him already?’ Martin asks.

‘Yes and no. I only got his text when we landed.’

Martin squirms a bit in his seat but doesn’t complain that Douglas should have told him. Which he should have of course - and would have if he weren’t trying to see what he can get away with.

More than he expects, apparently.

‘Is he inside?’ Martin asks.

‘He said he was going to get something to eat at the White Fox. I suppose I could let him know we’re back.’

‘Not just yet.’ Martin pleads. ‘Cup of tea first?’

So Douglas waits until he has Martin comfortably seated in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a small pile of chocolate biscuits, and he feels certain the window for objections has passed.

‘I’ve told him we’ll probably start without him,’ he says afterwards, ‘since he couldn’t be bothered to wait for us.’

Besides, Douglas likes the idea of having Martin naked and warmed up before Herc gets there, even perhaps fully prepped and kept ready with one of the larger plugs they’ve acquired.

Again, Martin doesn’t object, although he’s still squirming. It occurs to Douglas that although it’s been bloody good fun testing Martin, the poor little sausage has almost had as much of it as he can bear.

Three more days, he tells himself. Tonight and tomorrow morning with Herc, a full day with just him and Martin and then he’ll tell him he’s all square for now.

Herc takes time to finish his meal before he heads back, but he still complains that they could have waited for him. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the sight that greets him on entrance – Douglas has Martin bent forward over a largish footstool, face down and back to the door. Legs spread. Utterly naked, of course, and quite bruised in patches too.

‘You have been strict.’ He says mildly, kneeling to run his hands up Martin’s thighs, over his rump.  Trailing down to Martin’s scrotum and the band of metal that helps to secure the chastity cage. ‘And how has he been taking this?’

‘Rather well, really. Even if I did have to make an exception last night. He couldn’t sleep.’

‘Poor love,’ Herc teases, fingering the soft folds of Martin’s scrotum and rolling his balls. Perhaps it’s psychological but they feel fuller to his fingers than last time - primed and choked. Martin seems more passive as well, turning his head to greet Herc only when Douglas tells him to, wriggling but not disputing it when Douglas suggests - jocular, flippant - that breaking Martin’s ‘fast’ might turn out to be a good thing. That he might be able to tolerate the device a few days longer.

‘Still, we’re getting towards the end I think,’ Douglas says, sitting on the floor besides Herc so that he can give Martin’s thigh an affectionate squeeze and pull it away from the other where it’s started to drift in, ‘he’s definitely finding it harder to bounce back.’

Herc nods. ‘So how are we doing this, anyway?’

‘You’re the guest. It seems only fair to let you pick your preference.’

‘To be honest I’m very comfortable here. If we’re feeling energetic again later then perhaps…’ he lets the sentence dangle.

‘Oh I think so,’ Douglas picks the suggestion up smoothly. ‘We can give you a bed for the night if need be. You’re not in a hurry to get away, are you?’

‘Of course not. No hurry at all.’

Martin is silent through all this, the casual chat about how they’ll have him, the snick of the lube bottle being uncapped, Herc’s fingers on him, sliding in where Douglas had already begun preparation. Through Herc taking his time with Martin, obviously aware that he’s making it harder and rather relishing the fact, Herc’s thumbs deliberately pressing on the bruises Douglas’ beating left from days ago.

Not that Herc doesn’t have some minor concerns – how long Douglas has been running this experiment for one - but he’s keeping those until he can discuss them with Douglas alone. For now he’s going to enjoy himself. Savour the readiness of Martin around his fingers and the warmth and drag of his skin, the shiver and clench of his buttocks as Herc scrapes his fingernails over his scrotum. So tender.

Douglas has Martin’s head, fingers half buried in his hair as if to hold him there, Martin’s chin presumably in Douglas’ lap, although Douglas has only stripped to the waist so far.

Herc can sort of see why Martin would be attracted, despite the grey that’s threading the man’s hair and the way middle age is catching him up around his waist. Douglas has all the things Martin doesn’t. Broad shoulders, wide chest, thick thighs. It’s not a type Herc finds particularly attractive himself, but he can appreciate the vigour in it. Can also appreciate the sarcastic comments Douglas is sending his way. Surely Martin is ready by now? Has likely been ready for the last ten minutes.

‘I’m catching up to you two, remember?’ Herc tells him, but he relents, unbuttons his trousers and shimmies them down far enough that he can take his cock in hand and line it up, driving smoothly in, one hand tucked a small way under Martin on the footstool thing to balance.

Douglas waits until Herc has got going – a nice, slow steady swing to it, before he stands and strips right off, pleased with the small whine Martin lets out as he eyeballs him – still greedy, even now – and even more pleased with the way he closes his eyes and opens his mouth and lets Douglas hold him steady, a hand in his hair and another against his shoulder, and just take him.

They synchronise at first, back and forth, still not all that fast. Martin has time to suck Douglas just right as he withdraws – never all the way out, but almost. Bloody hell but he’s perfect. Douglas should tell him more often.

He isn’t sure whether it’s him or Herc who decides to up the pace, but Martin accommodates that too, his weight almost all on the footstool so that he can keep fixed in place for them, opening his throat and just making himself this warm thing to be filled. Skewered at both ends.

Soon Douglas has no idea whether Herc is still in synch, suspects from the way Martin is shuddering with the force of each of Shipwright’s thrusts that no, he's not. Nor is he holding back. Perhaps, since Douglas conceded the game last time, he feels he doesn’t have to keep control of himself any longer than he really wants to.

Or perhaps his sex life is just less satisfactory that Douglas’ right now, and self control is harder. Either way, Douglas is still going after Herc has shuddered himself to climax and buttoned himself back up, and Martin is red faced and tear streaked, throat working to swallow as Douglas lets himself go too.

He’s like jelly as Douglas pulls him into his lap afterwards.

‘Something sweet for you I think.’ Douglas says, words half lost in Martin’s curls. Terribly unruly after what they’ve just done, sticking up and coiling every which way. He’s clingy, and still not saying much, but he lets out a giggle when Douglas lifts him up bridal-style to carry him into the kitchen.

Within an hour they’re all in front of the TV, picking a film that they know they’re probably not going to watch to the end, Martin still wrapped in a blanket and sipping squash, throat a little sore, but otherwise fine.

Chapter Text

Herc can’t help noticing that Douglas touches Martin a lot. Hand on his thigh, fingers in his hair, kisses to his temple, and that in response Martin leans into him, legs curled up – both Martin and Douglas are wearing loose and easily discarded clothes. Good quality loungewear in fact.

From the outside they seem nothing but affectionate. It’s hard to remember (if it weren’t so hard to forget) that Martin is bruised under those soft fabrics, that there are leather thongs and chrome rings locked into place to restrict his pleasure and has been – with a few exceptions – for weeks.

It’s a complete contrast from last time, where Martin had been such a randy sod about the sex but there was none of this snuggling up business. Now he’s perfectly willing when they want to go again, doesn’t hesitate, doesn't pout, doesn't say a word - but he’s not eager.

If he is a masochist he's presumably lost his taste for this particular hurt.

Douglas did say he was stopping though, so although he knows Douglas can be selfish, and also that Douglas believes what he wants to believe sometimes, Herc sets his scruples aside again for now.

It helps that Martin’s mouth is really very skilled, and Martin’s eyes are half closed and that from his position kneeling up Herc can see the root of Douglas’ cock disappearing into that arse that doesn’t look big enough for it, and then feel the push of Douglas’ hips through Martin, swaying him forward onto Herc’s cock.

They find a pace again with Martin’s collusion, rocking himself back and forth between them, letting them pull and push and share him. Ignoring the throb of want radiating out from his cock, his balls, the ache of dissatisfaction. Trying to empty his head of everything but this swing from one point to another, to not focus on the taste or the texture or the shift from what should be blissfully full to anticipation of being full again.

God they’re so big. They’re so… sure. Tall. Confident. Proper pilots. It makes him drool.  It makes his cock try to twitch, half-throttled, and another cascade of sensation – pain and heat and heady, impossible craving – reminds him again of the raw reality of this. That he needs to not feel it but he can’t help himself. Douglas isn’t getting his prostate every time but that is where he’s started aiming and his aim is pretty good. It's overwhelming. Impossible to blot out. 

Martin doesn’t know he’s in tears again, eyes closed, only knows that suddenly Herc and Douglas are both pushing in at once, and it’s a struggle to stay stable, to suppress the reflex to gag around Herc's length. He’s proud that he doesn’t just keel over. It is hard… so hard. Douglas really hammering into him now, reaching the final stretch.

Every part of Martin feels like its too hot, too tender, and all the most tender parts seem engorged, swollen with extra nerves, sending heat pulsing up his spine and down his thighs. He swears he even feels the rush of Douglas’ cum inside him, another terrific and terrible thing, almost the last straw.

The very final seconds are rough. It should be over but it isn’t. Herc’s cock is almost choking and his arms feel heavy and his tongue thick. He can’t even swallow properly, ends up with it smeared over his tongue, licking his lips as Herc releases him as well.

Then Martin lets himself collapse, just breathing, eyes closed, waiting for someone else to do something.

Douglas moves first, predictably, comes back with a warm wet flannel and wipes his chin and the hot stickiness of tears.

Herc moves away with a word of praise. Heads to bed or the bathroom or just back to the TV, Martin has no idea.

More tears are coming, just flowing out of him without sound or even thought. He feels purged. Like he does after being milked but – more so. Empty. Absent.

Someone – Douglas – puts a cushion under his head. Tells him to sleep if he needs to.

Oddly, that makes Martin feel more awake. He blinks and squints and sniffs.

‘It lives.’ Douglas teases. ‘Alright Martin?’

‘Not sure. Let me sit up and check.’ He’s shivering, realises he has been for a while, ‘oh, that’s new.’

He’s not actually cold though. There’s the usual blanket wrapped round him, slightly impeding his efforts to sit up. He manages, sways again, steadies.

It’s so, so comforting to lean into Douglas, close his eyes again, wait for it to subside. Martin doesn’t even mind being picked up and carried back to his place in front of the TV.

A short while later that’s where he falls asleep.

‘I don’t know if its my place to say this Douglas but - are you sure you aren’t pushing him a bit hard?’ Herc asks. ‘Not that I haven’t had a wonderful time, thank you for your hospitality, and so on, but… that was a big old drop and it’s not like it’s over.’

‘I did say we were getting to the end,’ Douglas points out, ‘and he’s perfectly capable of telling me if he’s had enough, believe me. He can be a stubborn so and so when he wants.’

He ruffles Martin's hair affectionately, still careful not to wake him.

Herc lets it go.

Chapter Text

There is another brief interlude in the morning before breakfast. Just a quickie, Douglas suggests, one for the road. It makes Martin roll his eyes at him but he gets down on his knees on the kitchen floor and obliges anyway. He really is, as Herc freely admits both during and after, terribly good at this.

Then there really is no time left and Herc takes a coffee for the road and has to leave them to it – once Douglas has backed his car out of the way so Herc’s can get past.

He comes back to the kitchen to find Martin making a fresh pot of coffee.

‘That’s Herc, that was,’ Douglas says meaninglessly, ‘eggs?’

‘Not for me.’

‘Not hungry, Martin?’

‘I’ll have some toast in a minute. Coffee first.’  

He’s fine. Entirely matter of fact. Douglas doesn’t know what Herc is worried about.

‘Looks like a nice day out. We should make the most of it,’ Douglas says.

‘Hmm. Nothing too strenuous though.’

‘Very well. We shall save our more strenuous activities for the bedroom.’

‘Or the living room, apparently,’ Martin says around a yawn, ‘or the kitchen.’

‘Cheeky,’ Douglas sets a plate in front of him, ‘there, toast.’

A trip to the coast and plenty of fresh air does finally wake Martin up properly, although he’s dropping off again in the passenger seat on the way back, eyes closing and head falling against the window.

Douglas can’t help noticing that his legs are slightly splayed as he settles, the modest bulge of the chastity cage more obvious than it is when he’s upright. Douglas had almost forgotten that Martin was still wearing it. Strange how you can get used to things.

‘Wake up.’ He reaches over to give Martin a gentle shake. ‘Will you do something for me?’

‘Hmm. Oh,’ Martin can clearly tell from Douglas’ tone what sort of something it is going to be.

‘Just undo the top three buttons of your flies and get your hand inside.’

‘Alright.’

‘Can you slide your hand right under, find your balls?’

Martin shifts in his seat to make this easier. ‘Yes.’

‘OK, gentle strokes with your thumb, just getting it going.’

It’s dark out, and they’re on a A road, travelling quite fast. Martin knows that no-one can see into the car or know that he has his hand down his pants. It still feels dirty.

‘Give them a little squeeze, just enough, you know the way you like it,’ Douglas hasn’t taken his eyes off the road, but he knows when Martin has done what he’s told, ‘just another little squeeze, a bit of a tug, and then just stroking again, nice and gentle.’

Douglas’ voice is mellow, almost soothing. That only seems to add to the obscenity of what he’s actually saying.

‘Are you still stroking?’

‘Yes.’

‘A little more pressure now, like you’re trying to get somewhere.’

There is pressure around Martin’s cock as well, an inevitable reaction to Douglas' instructions, let alone his continuing to follow them.

‘That’s right. Just... keep it going.’ Douglas checks his watch. Ten minutes until the Fitton turn off, and then ten more perhaps to get home, ‘I want you to focus on just one ball now, firm but not too firm, feeling the shape of it under the skin, the way it gives and slips away when you squeeze it..’

Martin moans softly, shifts in his seat. At some point his eyes have closed again but he’s clearly wide awake.

‘That’s right. now the other one…’

By the time they are home Martin is in rather a state, stumbling as Douglas ushers him in through the front door, unsurprised to be pushed back against it the moment it's closed. Douglas’ hand diving into Martin’s still half- open jeans to continue the pressure he had Martin start. His other hand is in Martin’s hair, his mouth on Martin’s neck, and Martin is panting, hips making foolish thrusts forward against Douglas’ thigh and his probing, pressing fingers.

He would stumble again on the stairs if Douglas weren’t there to help him, tumbles across the sheets of the bed as his trousers are stripped and discarded, has only a moment to catch his breath as Douglas finds lube in the bedside table drawer and kicks his shoes off, and then Martin is being told to draw his legs up and brace against the headboard.

‘Look at it, the ridiculous thing.’ Douglas flicks the tight little bundle of Martin’s cock with a forefinger, the words not remotely disguising the fondness in his voice. Martin shudders in reaction, shudders again as he feels Douglas’ fingers slide into him. So confident in possession, in his ability to push Martin through this.

‘Douglas. Oh fuck.’

‘Ssh. Come on. Just there.’ Douglas' fingers feel like they’re right in the quick of him, places too sensitive to touch, exploring and teasing as if this were novel, as if he hasn’t had Martin like this a hundred times before.

‘Douglas please, please. I need…’

‘No, no you don’t,’ Douglas assures him. ‘Not yet.’

‘Please.’ Martin is whining now.

‘Don’t be a baby. Come on, just one day more, I promise. You can be good a little longer.’

‘One day.’

’24 hours.’ Douglas bends in for a kiss, fingers still pressing and parting. ‘There, now you’re perfect.’

He is too, just right as Douglas sinks into him, shuddering again but holding position. For a moment Douglas just lets the moment be, luxuriates in the feel of Martin’s body and the quickness of his breathing and the knowledge that they have another full day before them.

Then he slides back, and in, and Martin is whining again, higher pitched as Douglas accelerates, as his legs are draped back over Douglas’ shoulders, and Douglas’ hands find Martin’s thighs to keep them there, pressing him down, and open and back - and Douglas is pounding him now, absolutely hammering, loosening Martin’s tongue again.

Douglas has no real idea what he’s saying, it’s all just noise, frenzy, heat, the sharp rush of bliss and the satisfied smugness after.

Tomorrow, he thinks, as he settles besides Martin and sanity creeps back in. Definitely tomorrow.  

Chapter Text

‘Where are you going?’

Martin isn’t sure if Douglas was just pretending to be asleep before or was woken up when Martin slid out from under his arm, but he’s definitely awake now, sitting up and looking vaguely disgruntled.

‘Bathroom. Back in a moment.’

‘Good. I want to start today as I mean to go on.’

He’s not joking. Martin comes back from the bathroom to find handcuffs already set out on his pillow.

‘You can do that yourself I’m sure.’

It’s a little fiddly, first one cuff, then laying down and reaching above his head to lace the chain between around the nearest upright of the headboard, and after that trying to get his other wrist through the other cuff and somehow get it closed.  

Still, he manages, and Douglas seems to appreciate watching him do it.

There’s no reason to gag him as well – Douglas’ house is fully detached and surrounded with a nice thick hedge – but Martin opens his mouth for it readily enough. Raises his knees when he’s told to.

He’s fairly sure he knows what’s coming. Or rather, what’s not – it’s only 10 hours or so since Douglas set himself a deadline of one more full day.

Douglas begins with his mouth, lapping and then sucking each of Martin’s balls into that warmth, careful of his teeth, nudging with his tongue - that same tongue that then slips down and back and down again and probes elsewhere - and through the building fog of arousal Martin is vaguely pleased that he thought to wash before coming back to bed. Even though Douglas doesn’t go too deep before he’s using fingers instead, and then the slimmer vibrator that he keeps in his bedside table drawer, sliding deeper still, deliberately stroking Martin’s internal walls with the angled tip, toying with the vibrate function.

Eventually hitting just the right spot, and then Douglas has to hold Martin’s legs back as he flexes, unconsciously, can hear the metal of the chain drag and rattle against the wood of the headboard as Martin pulls on it, fortitude worn thin over again.

There’s an incoherent stream of sound which Douglas chooses to respond to only when he’s finished with that vibrator and is moving on to the larger.  

‘Alright?’ he asks, and Martin nods, even though he’s all legs and shivers and tears already, and his head and shoulders rock back as Douglas presses this new, thicker thing inexorably in, working him, milking him, until Martin is whining and rocking either deeper onto it or away – its not at all clear which he wants or even if Martin knows which he wants.  

The tiny amount of wetness milked from him barely makes a patch on the sheets, a stripe as it slides down his thigh. Douglas pokes the glistening slit of Martin’s cock with his forefinger, feels the give of it and the tightness of the cage around it as he takes the whole thing in hand, tight and warm to touch, leans in to lick all that small wetness away.

Martin makes a noise like a sob, still trembling as Douglas sits back and admires his handiwork.

‘You love it,’ he says, more from optimism than conviction. ‘Come on then.’

Martin catches his breath as best he can as Douglas unlocks the handcuffs and helps him into the bathroom, still gagged, crowds him against the wall of the shower, trailing fingers down his cheek and under his jaw where there’s just a hint of stubble, light coloured and not too prickly – Martin really isn’t a very hairy man.

Martin is still a little wobbly, but the water is soothing and it’s a relief when Douglas takes the gag off and he can breathe right to the bottom of his lungs again, comforting as Douglas works shower gel through the sponge and slathers them both in teatree scented bubbles.

‘Face to the wall. No, right up against it.’ A hand between his shoulder blades and another pushing between his arse cheeks again, orders to open his legs wider - fingers probing and then a tongue again, both Douglas’ hands on Martin’s hips. Martin’s head is cocooned by his arms, just breathing in and out, as fingers twist and worry inside him and he can feel everything swell and stifle and enflame.

‘Douglas…’ again it’s not clear what he’s asking for. Not that Douglas is troubled at this stage. Pushes Martin forward hard again, mouthing at the back of his neck and muttering greedy curses into his hair. Pressing up into him where he’s still quite wet but not completely ready anymore, pushing him up on his toes, releasing him only long enough to turn him and pull Martin’s legs up around his waist, so that he has no choice but to cling to Douglas’ shoulders and let gravity sink him down onto Douglas’ cock again.

Douglas curses him as he slides and scrabbles back up, fully off his feet now, everything behind him slick and everything else solid and hard and hot. There will be bruises on his arms where Douglas has taken a grip and pushed him back against the tiles, and perhaps on his back where his shoulder blades are hitting the wall too.

‘We need a new gag.’ Douglas says after, matter of fact, and it’s true that the thing looks very sorry for itself, frayed and sodden and trampled on the floor of the shower, the phallus part of it scarred with teeth marks. Martin stares at it a moment, wiping his eyes, and then lets Douglas wrap a towel around him and pull him into a hug.

The rest of the day is relatively uneventful. The odd, lingering touch. A glance perhaps, that self-satisfied smirk that says that Douglas thinks – or knows, rather - that he’s winning. That he can see that Martin is still affected by it, even after so long, and how every supposedly casual touch is stirring it all up again.

There are handcuffs again at bedtime.

‘I’ll make it worth your while.’ Douglas assures him, and Martin submits, again, to being milked of nothing or next to nothing, worked up and left shuddering and weak and begging: please, please, it’s enough, please Douglas…

‘Ssh.’ He’s already got the key in his hand, pulling Martin’s poor red cock free of the cage, handling it gently, as if it might be harmed. Or perhaps because he can tell that Martin is not going to last ten seconds if he doesn’t. So wound up, so turned on. Light, barely there strokes as it thickens, a finger rubbing round and round at the base where there is still the mark of the first ring, and Martin’s hips are lifting off the bed to meet it.

‘Oh, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?’ Douglas says smugly. ‘So eager. Come on Martin, keep on begging for me. Let me hear how shameless you are.’

‘I’ve been good, I’ll be good, please let me come. Please…’

Douglas is being rougher now, and Martin is revelling in it, fingers wrapping around the upright he’s still handcuffed to, feeling his cock be choked again by those strong fingers, tugged and worked over, then abandoned as Douglas takes his thighs and presses those apart instead.

Martin rolls back, anticipating - and the push into him is delicious now, sweet relief.

Douglas stops there, just feeling Martin loose but not too loose around his cock, hot and trembling and perfect. Good enough that Douglas realises that he’s been pursuing the wrong type all his life. That this is what he wants, this shivering, whining thing, impaled and bruised and begging for more.

‘You’re asking for it.’ Douglas threatens, and Martin nods, encouraging, eyes closed the better to feel it as Douglas takes his cock in hand again and squeezes just enough, moves his hand up and down and up again and that’s it, Martin is coming with a groan that is pulled right from the bottom of his chest.

‘As easy as that that Martin, really?’ Douglas hasn’t even paused in wanking him, squeezes the softening length as it shrinks. ‘Tart.’

Something between a sob and a giggle escapes, and Martin’s eyes open to see Douglas triumphant and smug, still sheathed deep in him.

‘Go on. I can take it,’ he promises, all loose and warm now he’s been allowed to come. Sensitive, too, in the afterglow, but neither of them cares about that.

‘You’d better,’ Douglas tells him, ‘because you’re going to.’

‘Promises, promises.’ Martin says cheekily, and Douglas finds himself smiling. He doesn’t regret a moment of his little experiment, but he’s still very happy to see all that greedy hedonism back. To feel Martin arch up and hear his breath quicken into hot, sharp panting as Douglas pounds into him, to feel him want it, even though it’s too much really, too soon, is making him shudder.

To feel his cock hard again afterwards and get him off a second time, still handcuffed and helpless, and only release him so they can both sink gratefully into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter Text

Martin isn’t privy to the conversation Douglas has with the ex-Caledonian pilot Herc has nudged their way, nor does he get to meet him before he’s bending over for him in his house in Windsor. Only really has time to take in a huge fireplace and a fluffy rug, a tallish man with pale hair turning paler with age, before he’s being stripped and blindfolded.

It feels like an ambush, even though it isn’t really. He knew exactly what he was coming here for, isn’t surprised to be handcuffed and turned around and bent at the waist over the back of some kind of couch, legs spread.

‘Good boy.’ Douglas drops to his knees on the couch and reaches up to slide a palm around the back of Martin’s neck, holding him in place while Claude nudges his ankles further apart and tears the seal from a small silver packet of lube.

Douglas can’t see what he’s doing but he can feel Martin’s reaction, the way he’s already breathing more quickly, the twitch beneath his fingers. He’s distracted but still receptive as Douglas kisses him, slow and thorough and dirty.

Claude lets them finish before he actually buggers Martin, pushing his hips hard against the sturdily overstuffed fabric, his cock bumping and sliding, his bound wrists caught in Douglas’ grip and resting on his thigh.

Trapping him.

Not that he’s trying to escape. Only hold as steady as they clearly want him, caught off-balance and only able to take. Not reciprocate, not react. Claude is quiet and steady and selfish. Mutters something in French about a puppet – Martin doesn’t know enough French to understand the rest but doesn’t really need to – comes with only a low moan. Helps Douglas walk Martin in silence back to the centre of that rug.

‘Right down.’ Douglas says, and Martin folds down to his knees, and then forward to lie with his chin on his bound hands. The rug feels plush and Douglas’ hands sure as they rearrange Martin slightly, pulling his knees wider and then tugging him back up onto Douglas lap and slotting them together, gripping each thigh tight.

A pressure on his back between his shoulder blades must be Claude’s hand - or maybe even his foot. Martin can’t tell. Only knows he is being held in place again. Trapped again as Douglas buggers him and comes and still doesn’t release him.

Martin knows not to ask what happens next, only waits, passive, submissive.

There’s none of the banter there is between Douglas and Herc but they work seamlessly, releasing him and rolling him over and catching hold of him again, Claude holding Martin's wrists above his head while Douglas plays with his cock, teasing him until he becomes vocal, pleading, and then stopping short and waiting for him to calm before beginning again.

Martin’s hips jerk helplessly with need, wrists flex against the pressure of Claude’s hand. It only tightens.

‘Please.’ He whines. ‘please let me…’

Douglas says nothing. It only underlines how helpless Martin is, unable to break free even if he truly wanted, unable to control his body as it shivers and tries to thrust up into Douglas’ hand as it slips away again, his voice as he asks again and again to come. Unable to provoke Douglas into answering him.

Afterwards he is made to thank them both. Later still, no longer blindfold but still bound at the wrists, kneeling between them on the carpet while they half watch the cricket (Douglas is surprised at himself, well aware he is both showing off and testing Martin at this point), he has to suck them off in turn.

‘Now yourself.' Douglas says, finally loosening Martin’s wrists and addressing him directly. ‘Nice and slow at first. We want to see you unravel.’

Martin obeys. Claude switches the cricket off. They take their time.

Chapter Text

The conversation shifts over the weeks, becomes about not if Martin moves in but when. They both know it’s inevitable. He’s at Douglas’ over half his free time now anyway. 

God. It feels so definite though. Martin’s never wanted to be with someone like this. Still has wobbles where he’s surprised that it’s finally happened, and it’s Douglas, and does Douglas feel the same way?

Its almost frightening to be this bound up in someone else. To care this much about whether they care for you. Want you.

But Douglas does want him. if he didn’t he wouldn’t keep pressing Martin to move in. Some of it’s about power - he still teases about ‘taking the rent’, about having Martin at his mercy – but not everything. Anyway that’s not a disincentive.

There’s a lust for being dominated. For surrendering. It’s tugging at him, growing in him as Douglas feeds it.

That’s a bit frightening too - but the shivers are the good kind, he thinks, and Parkside feels more and more distant and he wants to trust Douglas with this, even if he’s not quite there yet. Wants to see where giving in leads him.

‘Alright.’ he says at last. ‘I think we’re ready for that.’

Moving in takes barely half a day. Admittedly they already have a van and live in the same town, but it’s still slightly pathetic how little Martin actually owns, how small a space Douglas has to clear to fit him in. The only things he really cares about are his uniform and a model of Concorde in flight that Douglas would never choose himself but sets pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece.

Shifting over an old carriage clock – a wedding present neither he nor his first wife had particularly liked – and thinking that they’re almost like trophies, placed there together.

He suggests dinner out to celebrate. Even buys Martin a half bottle of champagne, on which he becomes giggly but not so far gone Douglas feels any scruples about pressing him down into the sheets of the bed – their bed now, and their sheets – and interfering with him until he’s almost in tears, tongue loosened by alcohol and need, clinging and pressing and wanting more.

Douglas doesn’t actually make him cry. Not this time.

He celebrates again himself when Martin’s lease actually lapses a few weeks later. Despite its undeniable faults the room in Parkside Terrace was cheap. His captain is unlikely to find something that reasonable a second time.  

He hasn’t, yet, raised the interesting question of payment in kind again. It needs a delicate touch, a blurring between jest and expectation, and to do it too soon – before he had really landed Martin – had seemed risky.

Besides, it not as if Martin doesn’t do as he’s told anyway. There doesn’t need to be a transaction or a punishment or anything official for Douglas to tie Martin up or bend him over for a good spanking. He just likes the idea of making Martin his whore.

Once a month would do, nothing much more extreme than they’ve done already. The important thing is the understanding that it’s payment. Not something Douglas has to ask for and Martin can choose to decline. 

24 hours, one day a month. He doesn’t think it sounds unreasonable. 

Nor does Martin, although he's more alive to the risks than Douglas thought he would be. More aware, and more turned on. Clearly conflicted.

'Every month, for years, basically?' he asks, 'having to. Being made to, maybe, and not able to, to, to renegotiate. Douglas that's huge. I don't think you really realise how big a thing that is you're asking me.'

Douglas does, actually. He was just hoping Martin wouldn't. Or at least not until they'd got it properly up and running. 

'But you like the idea. Come on, admit it.' He says lightly.

'Because I'm stupid, and thinking with my genitals, basically. Not with my brain, anyway.'  

'You don't have to decide today. It's a suggestion. A proposition.' Douglas is soothing now, calm as Martin gets more excitable. 

'Douglas...' 

'And I have another proposition, if it helps. We trial it. Three months. Six months. See how it goes.'

'Six months.' Martin snatches at the compromise eagerly.  

There, Douglas thinks. Was that so hard?

Chapter Text

As far as Douglas can tell no-one who knows (except perhaps Herc, who has shot his bolt and given up) gives a second thought to the fact that Martin is so dependent on him.

Of course he still has the van job, but it’s always been sporadic, fitted in around work for MJN, and whilst Douglas is scrupulous about making sure his captain is in good condition to fly, he’s not so bothered the rest of the time.

It's not as if Martin really enjoys man with a vanning anyway.

Carolyn, Douglas suspects, is too delighted that Martin’s precarious finances have effectively become somebody else’s problem to be her usual suspicious self. She can stop fretting about finding a way to pay him now.

Arthur is just excited and happy that they’re ‘together, together’. Still hoping for wedding bells, a happy ending.

For almost everyone else the relationship is only worthwhile gossip until something better comes along.

Just two exceptions – ones that come to Douglas’ attention a good fortnight after the gossip goes round. A couple of chaps on the fire crew who happen to mention, in passing, that it’s a shame Martin is off the market.  

Which he isn’t, exactly, but Douglas doesn’t say that just yet. He’s not sure what the story is or what they’re angling for – Outrage? Camaraderie? Something else?

'Attractive blokes though,' he tells Martin later, over some sort of creamy pasta in Bologna - it seemed best to get the flight out of the way first. 'Big strong lads. I wouldn’t mind seeing what they made of you. Assuming that is what they were after.' 

‘Oh God.’ Martin says. ‘I wouldn’t have hooked up with either of them in the first place if I’d known they worked at the airport.’

‘People look so different out of uniform don’t they?’ 

‘You didn’t suggest...’ It’s really very cute how flustered Martin is. Douglas realises it’s the first time he’s really seen him like this over sex. 

‘Of course not, I'm speaking to you first. I do sometimes listen.’ 

‘Did they – were they together when they mentioned this to you?’

‘Oh yes. I got the impression they’d been swapping anecdotes.’

‘Oh God.’ Martin says again. Now he’s blushing. It’s another one of those things that aren’t objectively attractive - and yet. It’s definitely stirring something.

It’s a sign of vulnerability, Douglas realises. That’s what’s so appealing about it.

‘Martin, relax. No use crying over spilt milk.’

‘Right, you’re right. It’s not like I work directly with either of them.’

‘No, it’s not.’

A point Douglas is glad Martin has made and fully intends to return to at a later date. Not yet though, they’re neither of them in the right frame of mind to negotiate this now. Martin needs time to get used to the idea, and if he’s honest with himself Douglas does too.

It’s already much too easy to feel protective of Martin – he looked so small on his knees the first time he paid the rent, bruises fading to pale violet but still visible at the tops of his arms and thighs, places Douglas had held him down or open. Douglas had eased the feeling with kisses, tasting Martin’s willingness, feeling Martin meet him, push for push, seeing him with his head thrown back, hearing him ask for more, greedy past the point of sense.

They had done nothing extreme, but had done it for hours, with Martin still on his knees, speaking when he was spoken to, petted and praised or just leaning against Douglas’ knee between various sexual acts. Ready, willing, and constantly aware that Douglas could do more. Will, next time, do more.

That he couldn't, if he wanted, just get up and go to the loo or make a cup of tea. That even the most basic things had to be asked for, and that permission might be refused. 

Total Power Exchange, the online forums call it, although Douglas has never really thought Martin had any power to begin with.  

Even on the flight deck - although he has earnt rather a lot of Douglas’ respect in that area. A different thing.

Maybe that’s why he finally manages to relax enough to call Douglas ‘sir’ in their love life. His little glance up to check Douglas' reaction the first time – on his knees between Douglas' legs again, hogtied, but loosely, comfortably - demonstrates that he knows exactly what he’s done. Is even a bit proud of himself.

Douglas is proud of him too.

Chapter Text

Martin has been naughty. Well, not really – Douglas is not so far gone that he actually believes coming without permission is misbehaviour. Especially since Martin didn’t do it deliberately. Was trying quite hard not to, in fact.

He calls him naughty anyway, makes him apologise and brings him into the spare room for the appropriate punishment, bent over and clinging to the far edge of the single bed.

They hadn’t used this room much before Martin moved in but Douglas has cleared some stuff out to make space and it works quite well now. It feels very private - one of those big trees the neighbours planted has grown up and out into Douglas’ space, making it darker than the other rooms, and the single window and green velour curtains (slightly too large – Helena left them behind) add to that.  

The bed is the smaller version of the double in the main bedroom, sturdy enough that Douglas can handcuff Martin to it if he needs to, although he’d prefer to have Martin hold still and take his medicine.

‘Like a good boy.’ He teases or tries to tease. It comes out a little too hungry.

Martin already has shivers.

The top drawer of a bureau that used to contain obsolete electronics and boxes of board games slides. Martin knows it’s the top drawer because that’s the one Douglas emptied out so he could use it exclusively for other, more interesting, toys.

A pause, more movement – Martin can’t see it but Douglas is mulling whether he wants to use the gag, deciding against, double checking the windows are closed and curtains fully drawn before they get started.

He closes and locks the door too. Martin hears the key turn. It makes his heart kick up another gear, another small shiver go through him. He clutches harder at the frame of the bed in an attempt to reestablish control over his body. He’s all arousal and dread and Douglas hasn’t even started yet.

Braces himself.

It was thirteen last time. Was meant to be twelve but Douglas added one for luck. A baker’s dozen.

It will be at least thirteen this time, Martin is sure of it. It’s never less than the time before. Not with Douglas.  

The first three blows are slow and paced and sharp. Martin flinches and clutches the bed harder, manages not to cry out. He still can’t see Douglas – can only squint at his shadow on the wall to the side of the bed when he stops again. It’s fuzzy, ambiguous. He could be adjusting his grip or just savouring the moment. Martin doesn’t get long anyway.

‘Eyes forward,’ Douglas says, and Martin obeys, stares at his own fingers, how pale his knuckles are as he clings.

Two together. Martin yelps on the second, not yet recovered, not expecting it so soon.

‘How many is that now?’ Douglas asks. He knows of course. He just wants to hear the tremble in Martin’s voice. How breathless he is.

Douglas isn’t breathless at all yet.

‘Five.’

‘And how many does that leave?’

‘I don’t think we… eight, at a guess.’

‘Not a bad guess.’ Douglas says judiciously. Actually he hasn’t made up his mind yet. It was ten for a long time, then twelve, and now of course it’s thirteen, but it’s not really about the numbers.  It’s about how prettily Martin holds himself still and tries to prepare himself, the state he’ll be in by the end, how it will smart when Douglas buggers him over the bed like this.

He’s braced, ready. Douglas hits him again. Stops again.

‘How many?’

‘Six.’ Martin says. The stringing out of this is almost crueller than the pain, but Martin knows Douglas knows that.

‘Which leaves?’

‘Seven?’ It’s not the maths problem that leaves him uncertain, it’s that Douglas still hasn’t said. Hasn’t confirmed. That’s cruel too. Heightens everything.

Douglas pauses again after the next strike, but he doesn’t ask Martin to count, just takes stock of the stripes crossing and recrossing Martin’s backside, layered over one another. It looks very painful.  

Two in quick succession. Martin cries out again, loosens his grip briefly on the bed, manages to regain it.

‘Ten,’ Douglas says, ‘do you need to take a moment?’

‘No. thank you.’ Martin says. What he means is god no, please no, that would be even harder. He can’t even tell at this stage if Douglas asked out of kindness or another kind of cruelty. It’s all got muddled. He can only trust him to see Martin through this.

The door is locked. He remembers hearing the key turn. The house is detached, no-one can hear him. He has to trust Douglas.

He’s panicking, he can feel it in the sweat on his back and the way he is shivering, hear it in his thoughts.

‘Do you need me to tie you up?’

‘No.’

The word is barely out before Douglas is hitting him. Pauses briefly before he does it again.

Twelve. Martin is sure that is twelve.

He doesn’t look up as Douglas sits on the bed next to him, rests a palm between his shoulder blades where the skin is clammy. It’s grounding, feeling that weight there. He lets his eyes close, tries to slow his breathing down. Douglas was right, he did need a moment.

‘Nearly there.’ Douglas says softly. The skin of Martin’s back is very soft, pale, freckled. There’s muscle here – the van job – a whippet kind of strength. His spine is not as prominent as it used to be. He can feel Martin’s ribs expand and contract as he breathes.  His hair is dark at the nape of his neck where sweat has soaked it. Looks almost brown.

‘Easy now,’ Douglas says, and Martin does seem calmer. Braced and ready when Douglas stands again.

‘Can you count for me now?’

Martin nods.

He flinches as the birch connects. The sound is surprisingly loud in here, echoes off the plaster walls.

‘Thirteen.’ His voice is steadier. Just thirty seconds or so has helped quite a lot.

‘Unlucky thirteen.’ Douglas agrees - teasing, relieved.

Martin braces again. Shudders again.

‘Fourteen.’ He’s breaking a little again now, but that alright, just one more.  

‘Fifteen,’ and then Douglas is laying the birch aside and telling him he’s forgiven, hands running over the hot, painful lattice work he’s left Martin with, down his thighs as he parts them.

Martin bites down on the edge of the mattress as Douglas preps him. It’s all heat, the pleasure inside and the smarting pain where he has been lashed, and Douglas pulling him back to meet Douglas’ cock, forcing him to unclench his jaw or yank the mattress back with his teeth.  

Douglas reaches around and finds Martin’s own cock, feels how hard it is already – or has been all through perhaps – works it in time with his own thrusts.  

‘You’ve got permission now,’ he mutters, and Martin comes almost at once. Douglas keeps his hand there, cradling Martin’s softening cock, squeezing just a little bit as he finishes off himself.

There's a nice black butt plug, latex, firm but soft, which Douglas has already put in easy reach. Uses not because he is planning to go again tonight (he doubts he could) but that so Martin can feel it there as he’s cleaned up, slipped into his pyjamas, walked downstairs and placed next to Douglas on the sofa.

He tries not to fidget as Douglas flicks through music options on the phone he has hooked up to his fancy speakers, but everything is so distracting, the cream Douglas has spread on his injuries and the way they smart even against the soft cotton of drawstring pyjamas. The subtle shifts of the thing inside him, the temptation to clench down on it as Douglas’ hand finds his thigh and squeezes, stroking over the soft, loose fabric, pleating it under the weight of his hand, drawing it tight over where Martin is hard again. Can’t help himself.

Douglas loosens the drawstring, gets a hand inside, and Martin is so ready and so unfocussed all at once. Like his body doesn’t belong to him. Like he doesn’t know how he got here.  

‘Shall we see how quickly I can make you come again?’ Douglas suggests. ‘Fast as you like.’

Martin doesn’t know the answer, doesn’t need to answer. Douglas is already starting and he can feels himself push into it, can hear himself moaning with the sensation, so much sensation, too much.

They don’t time it, but it’s definitely less than a minute before he is coming again, falls forward into Douglas, overwhelmed, burrowing into his embrace, enveloping himself in Douglas’ warmth as it all catches up with him.

Douglas pulls him in, muttering something soothing, encouraging, and just holds him for a while.

Chapter Text

Douglas knows he can’t finalise anything with the fire crew members just yet, even after Martin has agreed to it. He needs to let Martin’s bruises fade before he lets anyone else at him. Too many explanations.

‘I could sound them out though. Even find out if they know anyone else who might be interested…’ He lets the sentence trail off suggestively. Martin, who is trying to pick ‘three blind mice’ out on Douglas’ newly-acquired piano, bites his lip but doesn’t say anything. It’s not that he minds the idea at all, it’s more the way he’s being asked. Or not being asked, the sentence just hanging there while Douglas reaches over to ruffle Martin’s hair.

He takes a moment after Douglas has left the room. He’s been doing that more lately, just sitting and breathing and visualising clouds and blue skies. The way he used to do before exams. It’s an adjustment, living here as opposed to just being here a lot. Not that Douglas is any more – well, Douglas. Or that he hasn’t been made welcome – even now Douglas is calling through from the kitchen and asking if he wants tea or coffee.

‘Not for me, thank you.’ He calls back.

It might not even be anything outside Martin’s own head. He can still say no – except he won’t, of course, because that would be cutting off his nose to spite his face. It is true that he barely sees the fire crew, that it’s not going to really change anything, that there’s nothing to be scared of.

Not that he is scared, of course not.

Clouds, he thinks, cotton wool sheets of fluff below him, the throb of engines, the blue above.

He doesn’t hear Douglas come back, pause in the doorway, taking in Martin’s closed eyes, hands folded in his lap, how still he is. Startles when he knocks on the open door as if asking to come in.

‘Alright there, Martin?’

‘Fine, yes. Sorry.’  

Douglas hesitates as if he’s not sure he really believes him, sets his own coffee down on the top of the piano so both his hands are free to smooth Martin’s hair back into place. Then he kisses him. Just one small kiss.

‘As long as you’re sure.’ He says. It’s an opening, if Martin wants to take it. As much of one as Douglas is willing to provide before he moves on to the couch and the book left face down on the coffee table last night (which Martin has slipped a bookmark in and closed in order to protect the spine).  

Not that he should need to provide an opening. Martin is a grown man, for goodness’ sake. It’s not Douglas’ fault that Martin doesn’t know how to have that conversation. 

The closest he even gets to it is three days later, in an airport in Ireland where they are inadvertently stuck for the night, watching a goose waddle around on a strip of grass outside the open café doors.

‘Is four people a gangbang, technically speaking?’ Martin asks, suddenly.

‘I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question.’ Douglas tells him. 'Why wouldn't they be?'

Further delay is caused by Martin’s mother becoming unwell. Lovely in herself but also the sort of person who runs around after everyone else and is completely unable to sit and let people do things for her, she has to be stayed with.

Naturally, since telling her anything about his love life has always seemed like it would add to her worry, Martin never has.

'And I imagine that right now, when she has almost certainly had a heart attack,' Douglas remembers just enough from his medical school to know that ‘heart attack’ is not always the big dramatic painful thing as shown on TV, and not be tempted to downplay it, 'definitely doesn't seem like the moment. I agree. Just focus on making sure she rests.'

‘Easier said than done.’

‘And don’t worry about money. Or…’ Douglas picks his words carefully. ‘…owing me anything else. This is not the sort of situation I’d be comfortable profiting from.’

‘Right, thanks.’

Comfortable or not, however, Douglas knows he has already profited. Martin is grateful, both for the assurance and for the fact that although Douglas isn’t excessively careful with him – there’s still the ‘rent’ each month, for example, and he will smack Martin’s arse if he dawdles - he’s definitely more aware of Martin’s emotional state. Has learnt what is always safe to tease about and what can be truly upsetting when he's feeling fragile, and is staying well away from the latter for now.

Aware, as well, that Martin doesn’t have the bandwidth to overthink the situation. That he is relaxing into being kept because he has no other choice, and into the submissive role because it allows him to let Douglas take control and not think for a bit. Can't spare the energy to worry about himself right now.

Habits that are bound to be advantageous to Douglas at a later date.

So all in all Douglas realises he is just going to have to live with the discomfort of doing well out of this situation. So well in fact that he can even bear to share a flight deck with Hercules bloody Shipwright (and if there is any upside at all to that it’s that Douglas will never take Martin’s captaincy for granted again).

Chapter Text

Four people have become six by the time things are normal enough for Douglas to broach the subject again.

‘Too many to host here, really, but we’ll manage. Put the sofa back against the wall perhaps, shift the piano into the window recess.’

He’s already halfway through the logistics before it occurs to Martin to speak.  

‘When were you thinking?’

‘Tuesday.’ Four days time. The way Douglas explains it, it does make sense. They fly out to Crete this time next week, which has meant putting Martin’s rent back until their return, and after the rent he may not be in a position to have six men (and Douglas) have their way with him.  

‘Not comfortably anyway,’ Douglas points out, ‘and after that there will be time to rest, since our esteemed CEO will apparently be in Zurich with Hercules Shipwright pretending she doesn’t give un derrière du rat whether he moves out there for good or not.’

‘He really hasn’t made up his mind whether to take up the job yet?’

‘So he tells me.’

Six people, Martin thinks, doesn’t sound like a lot until you really think about it. So he isn’t thinking. Much.

Douglas says he’s met them all, that they’re a mixed bag of reactions, some a bit jokey, probably more hung up about their own sexuality than they want to admit, some curious, some keen. They might push him about a bit – they know he likes that – but none of them seem bad-natured.

Anyway, Douglas will be there to play referee.

He half expects them to all arrive together on the day, but it’s three lots in the end. One alone.

It’s hard to gauge how well they even know each other. Whether they mix outside work, whether they get on. At least one is a proper wallflower. Shy? Uneasy? Voyeuristic? Martin is too distracted to tell.

Too busy as well really, the other five not exactly crowding him but not queuing nicely either. Making him very aware – far more aware than usual – of his own small stature, of the fact he’s outnumbered. He’d feel more settled if they’d speak, give him an instruction, let him show how good he can be.

Instead there’s more than one set of hands on him, pushing up the thin t-shirt Douglas suggested he wear, pushing down into the loose boxers, feeling him up, finding him hard already.

There are smirks then. Comments. A tube of something pressed into his hands and a rough voice telling him to ‘get himself ready.’

Martin shakes his clothes off, gets to his knees to make this bit easier, glancing up through his lashes as some of them start to remove layers too. It’s a relief to get fingers inside himself, to scratch that itch, the heat stoked up inside him.

They’re moving nearer still. Prowling – or perhaps that’s just his overheated imagination. He keeps his eyes lowered now, one hand on his thigh framing his cock, the other busy behind, pushing him forward, showcasing his modest erection.

He’s not entirely surprised to be interrupted by a hand under his chin, tilting his skull, a voice telling him to open wide.

Arousal is a drug, quieting his mind, as he takes it back over his tongue, sucks and bobs slowly. He can already tell this isn’t about getting this man off yet. It’s about testing him. Seeing what he will do.

Sensations are heightening: the scent of the men around him, the warmth of the room, the twitch of the fingers he still has inside himself, not having been told to stop. Hands on his shoulders from behind, holding him still as his mouth is fucked – reamed slowly but deeply, repeatedly, then left empty for another of the fire crew to fill.

The wallflower, almost defiant, not quite so practised, becoming breathless quickly, stumbling back, shocked at the strength of his own reaction. Embarrassed.

Everyone pretends not to notice. Everyone has to start somewhere.

Someone finds the lube and tosses it in the direction of Martin’s lap again.

‘Get on with it.’

Actually he’s almost there. Douglas would definitely have him like this, tight enough to feel it after. That is, if he wasn’t in the mood to watch Martin over-prep himself, wriggling and wanting it and not being allowed to get himself all the way.

‘Gently does it,’ he says now, as if on cue, ‘don’t get too excited just yet.’

Martin stops at once.

‘So.’ Douglas says. ‘Who first?’

By some kind of tacit agreement – perhaps because the question seemed mostly addressed to him – it’s one of the men Martin already knows who steps forward. Reaches down to pull him up, turns him and sets him against the wall, bracketing him with his arms.

Martin is more than ready. Lets the push of it bring him up to his toes, lets the wall take his weight, the wallpaper faintly textured against his cheek, eyes closed. Just feeling himself be taken, deep and smooth and fuck he wants more. Harder.

‘Say please, Martin.’

Because Douglas knows. He always bloody knows. Always a step ahead, laying traps that Martin walks into even with his eyes wide open. Tripping his tongue into asking for harder and faster even when he doesn’t mean to.

‘Does he like it rough?’ Another voice, one of the strangers.

‘He likes it however he gets it. But he likes it best when it’s rough.’

By now Martin is barely taking the words in. It’s just background, blurred. He’s all heat and sensation and greedy panting and soft, supplicating moans.

It’s obvious he’s going to come, the silly boy, even though it will make him horribly over sensitive for the next man in. Douglas watches it unfold from the sidelines, the thick pulse against the wall that they will have to clean up later, the panting wreck as he is left alone for just a moment, the tiny shudder as the next man lays hands on him and he realises what he’s done.

Douglas is ready to tell them he’s fine, if asked. If there’s any hesitation.

There isn’t.

Martin’s arms have largely given up, his fingers latticed on the wall in front of his face. Whimpering softly into the back of his hands as he takes this second pounding. Douglas can’t imagine what he’ll be like by the sixth.

’Rough enough?’ the man asks, after, pulling briefly on Martin’s earlobe to make sure he’s listening.

He nods, breathing deep, wiping his eyes.

‘Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.’ Douglas suggests, already peeling him off the wall and helping him towards the couch. It’s easy to sink to his knees there, with Douglas supporting him - to lean forward across the seat, knees apart but hands folded again, this time over a scatter cushion he already knows he’s going to have to bite.

Douglas leaves him there, back to the room, curled up and exposed all at once, and waves the others forward.

Not that any of them is in a state of mind to stop.  Martin is suffering, but not reluctant. Flinches when a hand is snuck round to his cock but slides his knees even wider apart in invitation. That earns him a tap – the lightest possible slap, jocular rather than corrective, nothing Douglas feels the need to intervene about – before he’s being buggered again.

The rest of the fire crew have all got their hands on their cocks now; hidden inside their trousers or brazenly out on display as the scene before them plays out to the climax at an almost brutal pace, Martin half- crushed into the padded seat, whimpering and smothering the sound in the cushion he's clutching. 

Which means they're half way through, in theory. Although not, Douglas suspects, in practice. 

Chapter Text

A good host, Douglas thinks, would wait until everyone else has had their turn.

He doesn’t mind. Martin will be all the weaker, and it’s surprising how compelling it is, this repeating pattern, the same sounds, the same movements, similar bodies, familiar skin - and Martin, overwhelmed beneath it, pushing back obediently when told to, holding himself ready in each short pause, growing ever more filthy but not quite so close to tears, finding strength from somewhere.

If he were feeling especially cruel Douglas would force him to come again, leave him sensitive and near-unwilling for the last two of their guests. He can tell that Martin is close, keeping himself back from the edge through willpower alone. It wouldn’t take much.

Maybe next time. He’s proud of him really. Pleased to be showing him off.

Besides, Martin may just come without Douglas’ intervention. This second to last man is like a bloody jackhammer, quick and hard and steady, Martin crumpling and slipping even further down under it, mouthing words into the cushion where they can’t be heard, tears starting to his eyes.

He doesn’t come though, even as fingernails rake down his spine – not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to heighten it impossibly more, enough to make him shudder and push back into the length inside him, instinctively seeking all of it as the man climaxes inside him, swearing in the same way he fucks, repeatedly, steadily, and then sliding back, reaching for a tissue he had ready. Cleaning himself up and tucking himself away before he stands, almost reeling, sparing a hearty pat on the shoulder for the last man in.

Who gives him a vague, friendly swipe back. Mates, presumably.

Douglas is just on the fringes of impatience now.  Wants to pull Martin’s suckling mouth free from that bloody cushion and hear him – howls or sobs or determined mutterings about how he’s not going to come, not yet (all three, ideally) – pull his hair, bruise his thighs, push through that slick loosened hole and right up into him.

Yet he’s still enjoying watching, reminding himself he was the one who set it up. Whored Martin out, basically, even if no money has changed hands. That he doesn’t even know, hadn’t even properly considered until now, whether all of them were really to Martin’s taste. Had assumed that once Martin got going it wouldn’t matter anyway.

A fair assumption. Things are already building to a crescendo again. The couch positively shaking. Martin too, poor lamb. Limp as a rag as he pants his way through it, forehead gleaming wet with sweat.

It coats his back too, between his shoulder blades as Douglas finally gets his hands on him. Pulls him up to turn him, not wanting to bugger him with their backs to the fire crew. Strangers really, when all is said and done.

Instead he has Martin straddle his lap, facing outwards, all red and hot and enfeebled with exercise. Every bit as loose and sore as expected, gravity enough to slide him down on Douglas’ cock. A shiver rippling through him at the feel of it, a sound in his throat as it hurts.

‘Darling.’ Douglas murmurs, throaty against Martin’s ear, starting slowly but steadily. Martin only makes another incoherent noise for answer, rides with his head thrown back against Douglas’ shoulder, limbs all anyhow, completely abandoned, relying on the strength of Douglas’ arm to prevent him collapsing and crashing to the floor.

Douglas chuckles darkly, nips gently at that hot, pink, ear, lets two fingers of his free hand wrap loosely, lazily, around the base of Martin’s erection.

There is at least one man back in the game. If Martin comes now he’ll be taking it in tears. Douglas tells him as much, between more sharp but shallow bites at his earlobe, more deep, almost lazy thrusts of his hips, not at all certain whether Martin is taking the words in but absolutely certain he can do nothing about it, is too far gone to stop himself from coming, weakly but definitely, in the loose clutch of Douglas’ fingers.

Douglas is seconds behind. Spills him back onto the sofa with a kiss to the cheek for now.

Finally, someone hesitates. Wanting it, stepping forward for it, but clearly not quite sure he should.

‘It’s fine. He was warned,’ Douglas says lightly, backing up to give the other man room ‘and believe me, he doesn’t want to be let off.’

Which, if it isn’t true now, will be later – and anyway, Martin does nothing to save himself. No suggestion of refusal. Only the same tearful, shivering, exhausted compliance.

No-one could be blamed for taking it as consent. Certainly not with Douglas confidently treating it as such. Describing him fondly as ‘a masochist, anyway’.  

Martin hears that bit, at least, even though his limbs feel like lead and his head is all fuzzed and other words are muddling themselves. Everything hazy except the intense – too intense, too sharp, too solid – sensation as he is lifted more firmly back onto the couch and violated, a puddle of a person, hot and cold with sweat, cushion tasting of salt as he bites down on it, still wet with his tears. He doesn’t even know if it is over after this time. Doesn’t know if he wants it to be even though he can’t, surely can’t, take much more without screaming.

Or coming, but he can’t – definitely can’t - there’s nothing there. He wants it, needs it, just as a release, just to get the pressure out of him, but there’s nothing.  

Afterwards it comes back as tightness under his ribs, a coldness curdling under his skin, making him shake harder than he ever did while he was being buggered, cowering against Douglas as his boyfriend gathers him up onto the seat of the sofa he was sprawled across, drapes the familiar blanket round them both, but mostly Martin.

‘Sssh.’ He murmurs, settling Martin’s sodden fringe back out of his eyes. It will fall into ringlets as it dries, and Martin will curse and rummage for the wax he uses to keep it tidy. At the moment though, he’s still quaking.

‘Easy now, darling, you’re unsettling our guests.’ Douglas says.

Martin giggles then, face still mostly hidden in his blanket and Douglas’ embrace, more than a touch of hysteria to the sound.

Then he swallows, and swallows, and wipes his eyes uselessly on the back of his sweaty hand.

Douglas wipes them again, properly, with a tissue. His nose too.

‘I’m ok.’ Martin says at last, glancing round but not making eye contact. Not wanting to. ‘Really… just. God. Bit of a wild ride.’

‘There are drinks, if anyone wants one.’ Douglas says, almost as smoothly as usual. ‘Martin could do with a squash. Three quarters water. Sorry, I’m occupied or I’d do it myself.’

Their guests take it just as easily, glad of the excuse to mostly drift out to the kitchen, pulling clothes back on. Quiet voices, Douglas notes. Coming down themselves, likely enough. Finding reassurance in each other if they need it.

He hears the tap gush, the kettle filling. Cupboard doors opening and closing.

Someone comes back with Martin’s squash, a ginger ale for Douglas. Others wander back in with tea. There’s a drop of whisky taken from the bottle Douglas keeps for guests and perhaps to prove to himself he can have it in the house without drinking it. Some in tea (sacrilege) some with soda. People lean on walls, awkward at first, but loosening, chatting, like the tail end of a party.

It dissipates like a party too, drinks drunk and thank yous said and the sound of cars starting up in the road, clearly audible through the open door as good nights are said too.

Only six people. Martin reminds himself. It sounds like more.

Felt like more as well.

Chapter Text

By the time they get back from Crete - just the two of them and Arthur - it’s starting to look like Herc will take the Zurich job.

Naturally this makes Carolyn even sharper and snappier than usual.

She must have considered going with him, Douglas supposes. Whether by winding down MJN or leaving Arthur in charge or selling the business (although it’s not clear who would buy it. Her ex-husband was after the plane at one point, but not the business).

If so she’s not letting on. All defences up as she sweeps out of the portacabin with a last firm instruction to lock up properly, Arthur trotting along in her wake.

‘Perhaps she’ll talk to him.’ Martin already has the logbook out, is hunting for a pen. ‘Do you… thanks.’

He won’t be long. Anticipation is warm in Douglas’ belly as he makes coffee for them both whilst waiting. Thinks, but doesn’t say, that he suspects Herc’s departure is as much self-preservation as anything else.  Herc might not know exactly what’s going on with Martin, but he definitely knows there’s something to know, and since he doesn’t have the guts to just tell Carolyn and risk his own part coming out, cutting and running probably seems like the best option.

Well, not quite cutting. He’s keeping in touch, apparently.

Douglas finds he’s quite sanguine about all this. Regardless of what Herc might say, Carolyn might think or even the gentle grumblings of his own conscience, he’s fairly sure that Martin doesn’t regard himself as abused. A little bit cheated, maybe, on occasion - inveigled into things he can’t get out of, but always with his eyes open.

It’s not really anyone else’s business is it?  

Even if a couple of familiar members of the fire crew who just ‘happened’ to hang about to catch a glimpse of Martin earlier think it might be their business too. Douglas had given them a vague wave, Martin blushed and pretended not to see them. Douglas doesn’t think they’ll get anything from that. Isn’t sure what they expected to see. Trauma? Acknowledgement?

‘We should pick some food up on the way home.’ He says now, over the rim of his coffee mug and the length of his legs, feet up on the desk. He means picky bits, given how late it already is. Bread, cheese, olives, perhaps the makings of a salad. Martin might want a bottle of wine – he won’t be allowed to touch it tonight of course, but tomorrow evening, or the next day, he might want a drop.

By the time they get home a fine drizzle is falling, too heavy to do without windscreen wipers, too light for the wiper blades not to complain as they move across the glass.  Douglas flicks the heating on – just taking the edge off really, since Martin will be spending most of the evening naked.

Martin has caught the anticipation as well now. It makes him self-conscious, almost dropping the plate Douglas hands him, mangling the bread as he cuts it. Glancing and looking away as Douglas moves easily around the kitchen, certain in his movements. Comfortable with Martin’s discomfort.

Sometimes the rent thing is almost comical – never laugh out loud funny but not entirely serious. This isn’t, Martin can tell, going to be one of those times. Douglas has been watching him, thinking about whatever it is he wants tonight. Ready. Eager.

Every so often he checks his watch as well. Counting down.  Martin is sure he knows he’s doing it, that it’s making Martin more skittish, thoughts spinning, wondering what Douglas has planned.

He could ask. Douglas might even tell him.

Or he might tell him to wait and see, or that the night is young and he hasn’t made his mind up yet.

That would be a lie though. Martin can tell there’s something definite in Douglas' mind. Something he’s looking forward to. Smug about.

Douglas glances at his watch again, begins clearing things back off the table.

Martin stands to help him.

And so, he thinks, we rush onward to our doom.

Chapter Text

The spare room is small, already warmer than the bathroom or kitchen. A comfortable temperature for Martin to strip out of his shirt and trousers. He has his hand on the waistband of his briefs as well when Douglas stops him.

‘Not yet. On the bed. Face up this time.’

He spreads Martin out, wrists cuffed at opposite ends of the headboard, ankles falling off the bed each side. Martin twitches as Douglas secures him, and again at the trail of fingers up his thigh, over the cotton of his briefs, the pressure as Douglas gives his cock a gentle squeeze through the material and finds it soft and unresponsive.

‘Not in the mood?’ Douglas asks. ‘That’s not like you.’ His hand is inside now, moving down to cup Martin’s balls, massage them between his fingers and thumb. Just a brief bit of plunder.

‘Turn away from me a moment.’

Since the old gag fell apart they’ve upgraded to something much sturdier, the buckles stiff and difficult to navigate from touch alone, the phallus a denser, heavier material, the leather a red that clashes violently with Martin’s hair. There is a matching collar with a d-ring at front and back, and Douglas takes the time to put that on Martin too, admiring the fit of it around his slender neck, slipping two fingers beneath to check it’s not too tight, and a third so that it presses, gently, against Martin’s adam’s apple.

It's not too much, not uncomfortable, but Martin is still intensely aware of it. Aware that it could be tightened, that he cannot speak, cannot raise a hand to defend himself, cannot escape - and he knows Douglas is thinking the same thing. Is excited by Martin’s helplessness, thumb stroking now along Martin’s jaw, feeling the hinge of it beneath the leather strap of the harness, the press of Martin’s ribcage to his Douglas’ thigh, the quickness of his breathing.

Despite the obvious reaction Martin is passive beneath his touch, eyes half closed. Really rather gorgeous like this, in fact.

‘Delicate as porcelain and just as surprisingly durable.’ Douglas says, pleased with the poetry of the words.

Martin’s head is still turned obediently away, but his eyes flick back up to where Douglas is sitting, leaning half over him, gloating and admiring, thumb tracing the long line of the tendon at the side of his neck, the way it curves and disappears beneath the collar.

‘You’re right. Lots to do before bedtime.’ Douglas tells him, moving down the bed again. It’s not what Martin meant – if he meant anything at all. It’s just a convenient segue. A way to keep the conversation going whilst Martin can’t speak.

The shape of Martin’s cock is obvious through the dull blue cotton now, half-doubled but stiffening as Douglas takes it in hand again, just as unhurried but not nearly as gentle as before. Instead he squeezes and tugs at it, skin to skin, confident that Martin doesn’t mind the harsh treatment.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ Douglas tells him, even though he, not Martin, is the one in control of how excited Martin will get. It will Douglas’ slip up if Martin comes, although Martin will of course be blamed. Even, potentially, punished.

Martin knows all this, can’t pretend he doesn’t. They’ve been playing this game long enough. He even knows how these particular episodes go, the way it intensifies and ebbs repeatedly over the 24 hours as Douglas dictates, that the collar will probably stay on now, that Douglas will expect him to remain where he’s put, eat what’s set in front of him, wear what he gives him to wear.  

The briefs slip down beneath Martin’s hipbones as Douglas plays with him, stretch around his thighs where there is definitely more meat than there used to be, and Martin forces his thoughts onto a different track - anything but Douglas and the way Douglas handles him so easily, how hard he already has him, the scent of cherry flavoured lube – Martin’s favourite - sharp squeeze of his balls almost in passing before Douglas’ thick fingers are pushing inside him.

He lifts his hips slightly to meet it, can’t help himself, and earns a slap to his inner thigh, a pinch to follow, hard enough that he twitches.

‘Pack it in,’ Douglas says, matter of fact.

Martin tries to keep still after that, but they both know it’s only a matter of time before he fails. That’s it’s all a part of the game Douglas is playing with him, not just prepping but stroking up inside him, reaching for tender places that he knows will make Martin twitch again, earn him another slap or potentially something worse.

Nothing really excessive, of course. There is still this balance to be struck - not too much but a little more each time, coaxing and controlling. There is probably an aeroplane metaphor there, something about angle of attack. Douglas will have to think it out later when he’s less distracted.

Martin is visibly struggling with keeping still, biting wetly down on the gag for relief, knuckles white as he grips the headboard each side, trying to ground himself, and Douglas turns his wrist in the way he knows Martin likes, searing but so satisfying as his knuckles push out at the same time and his hand drives deeper, corkscrewing inside him.

Martin squirms, flexes helplessly, mindlessly, an indecipherable, mewling sound escaping around the gag. The long lick of Douglas’ tongue along the length of his shaft, hot and wet and utterly unexpected, is very nearly enough to send him over the edge, the gentle opening and closing of a thumb and four fingers inside him keeps him there, just on the verge of losing control, making small spasmodic movements that Douglas assure him he’ll be paying for later.

The emptiness as they’re removed almost makes him whimper, but then Douglas is rolling him back on his spine and dragging his briefs all the way down his legs, and then, at last, he’s being made full again.

If he could speak he would be begging to come, instead he mangles the phallus between his teeth, tries to pull back on the feeling as Douglas absolutely bloody rogers him, leaning in tight enough that Martin’s own modest cock is kissing lightly against Douglas’ belly, his arms bracketing Martin’s shoulders, sweat and heat and friction building between them, heightening everything.

‘Don’t you dare.’ Douglas says harshly, breathless with how close he is himself, but it’s not really the thought of punishment that’s a deterrent, its something less rational, an obedience that’s settled bone-deep in Martin over months now, the fact his body has learnt that it won’t always be satisfied, that there’s a twisted sense of fulfilment in seeing Douglas gluttonous, taking and using and gleefully self-indulgent.

Douglas is almost dripping as they part, the heating in here perhaps too generous now, his fingers sticky as they curl around Martin’s knees to pull them down again. Movements still uncertain, made weak by climax but recovering fast.

The spiralling cylinder is made of some heavy, dark material. Not as pliable as rubber but of a similar texture, needing lubricant to ease the slide of Martin’s fully erect cock into it, the threading of his balls through between one loop and another to keep it in place. It’s not a chastity device, exactly, but it is restrictive. Weighty enough that it pulls Martin’s cock out of true, the far end thicker, tightening into a hoop through which a small sound – more of a tiny arrow shaped plug - can be inserted and locked in place.  

If Martin does come with this thing on, Douglas is fairly sure it’s going to hurt like fun.

Now he resumes playing with Martin, rolling his balls between fingers and thumb, gently mostly, stroking around just under where the coil of the cage narrows it, making the rest of the parcel plumper, too tempting not to squeeze, gradually increasing pressure until Martin is squirming and mewling again.

‘Poor baby,’ Douglas mocks, relaxing his fingers, stroking again, easing Martin down before gripping and tightening a second time, slowly and deliberately, where Martin is most sensitive.

Twice is enough though. Martin is trembling and trying to flinch away, only succeeding in hurting himself, almost panicking. Douglas turns soothing again, lazy caresses back over his perineum, up into his lax, lubricated arse.

‘There, that’s what you wanted wasn’t it?’ it’s a rhetorical question, he doesn’t look up to see whether Martin is nodding, just slowly fills him up, four fingers and then five, the thicker part across the palm, the fat ball of his fist.

‘More?’ Douglas asks, and this time it’s not rhetorical, he wants to see Martin agree to take it, see his head rock back as Douglas gives it to him, the shudder with each thud in, his cock thick inside the coils of the cage, wants to leave him fit for nothing all tomorrow and, with luck, the day after.

Martin is shaking as Douglas unties him, mops his tears, loosens the gag, helps him to his feet.

His cock lolls drunkenly inside it’s cage and the sound is a blunt stab of physical pleasure that Martin is too sensitive to manage. He clutches at Douglas as he nearly falls, giggles as if drunk as Douglas hoists him up bridal style and carries him into the bathroom to clean them both up before bed, settles between the sheets exhausted but still aware of the collar around his neck, the heaviness around and inside his cock, the comforting but no less obvious weight of Douglas’ arm and leg slung idly over him, pinning him to Douglas’ side.

Still he falls asleep before Douglas does.

Wakes with an awareness of bruises, that it doesn’t hurt now but will if he moves, that the cage thing has loosened considerably in the night but not enough to slip off, and that Douglas has made them both coffee and set it on the table beside him.

He sips it gratefully, the bitterness on his tongue tasting of normality as Douglas picks out some pale grey sleep shorts for him to wear today, tells him he can take the sound out briefly to go to the loo if he likes, but must come straight back after he’s washed his hands.

If he wants to brush his teeth or have a shower as well, he’ll have to make two trips.

Calmer now, he manages both. Even navigates the stairs downstairs with only a minimal amount of heavy breathing and reliance on the handrail. Eats the pastries set in front of him with fresh coffee, drinks the glass of water he doesn’t really want. Waits until Douglas has finished and is ready to move things into the living room. Sinks to his knees between Douglas’ thighs when he’s told to and puts his mouth to good use.

It's a lazy sort of day after that, some time on the rug with his head against Douglas’ knee, some up on the couch in range when Douglas wants to slip a hand beneath his waistband and get him hot and bothered again. There’s a radio programme about architecture that they less than half listen to, and cream to rub into Martin’s bruises - and so the morning slides into the afternoon without anyone noticing until Douglas’ stomach rumbles and he leaves Martin curled up on the couch so that he can make tea and sandwiches.

Martin’s are pate and cucumber. There’s also a bourbon biscuit that he’s not really hungry enough for but eats anyway because Douglas is expecting him to.

The thing is, it's easy – maybe too easy – to just do each thing Douglas tells him, then the next, then the next. To let Douglas check his phone when it beeps and tell him it’s just an automated message from his bank rather than looking himself, to let himself be herded back upstairs again into the master bedroom, stripped naked and pulled across Douglas’ lap.

To tolerate the soothing lubricant Douglas has chosen to use despite the fact Martin doesn’t really care for it – or rather, he’d prefer the other, regardless of how sore he is.

His cock feels a little raw at the tip too, shifting and tightening and easing around the sound repeatedly, and of course he’s getting turned on again as Douglas fingers him, draped awkwardly across Douglas’ lap, his cock trapped not only in the cage but also between Douglas thighs. The gentle slide of a drawer, the buzz of a vibrator, has him setting his teeth into the duvet, suffocating the sounds he’s making, the desperation of please, more and oh god please stop.

Douglas is remorseless, slowly fucking him on it before pressing just where he needs to, holding Martin down as he wriggles and kicks – not fully, not with intent, just as a kind of reflex, the thing building inside him trying to find release somehow.

‘You’re going to do yourself a damage if you don’t calm down.’ Douglas tells him. Martin is right on the edge of orgasm again, and Douglas can tell that just a little more vigour, a little more accuracy, will make his sub come despite himself. Wonders if Martin knows it too, if he’s coherent enough to realise Douglas has asked the impossible as he quickens the pace, tilts and…

…there it is. Martin howls as he comes, clutching frantically at the sheets, is shaking as Douglas rolls him over and slips the sound free, eases his drooping cock out of it’s prison.

‘Don’t,’ he says as Douglas takes his balls in hand, exploring, carefully massaging. ‘Douglas, please…’

‘We’ve got three hours yet.’ Douglas points out, moving his attention on to the shaft. Martin is undamaged, just tearful and shaken. Horribly sensitive, as a finger pressed lightly into his yielding arse proves.

‘Back up the bed a bit.’

‘Oh god.’ Martin breathes the words out. He knows what’s coming, of course he does. Douglas is kicking his own trousers off, crawling after Martin as he settles himself against the headboard, bringing his knees up.

‘Good boy.’ Douglas watches Martin’s face as he pushes in, the wide-eyed shock of it, the tremble of his mouth, the streaks of tears down his reddened cheeks.  There’s nothing beautiful about him now, but there is something raw, like he’s been stripped back to the essentials, unable to hide. It’s all there on his face, how much it hurts, how lost he’s become, and yet he’s yielding to it.

More than yielding, clinging to Douglas as he slides back, pushing into it as they come together again.

After that Douglas loses track. His body takes over, overwhelmed by spurring, repetitive pleasure, Martin pliant and giving, shuddering. His eyes lose focus, his whole body alight with the rapidly-rising heat, fresh shock of orgasm, and then content and heavy in the lassitude after.

‘Rest now.’ He tells Martin, but he means himself as well.

Chapter Text

Word goes round the fire crew. Not all at once, but in the way Douglas would expect it to, a gradual increase in curious glances and muttered disbelief and raised eyebrows in Douglas’ direction – would he, do you think? – over the next few months. Douglas is discriminating, willing to share Martin on his own terms, but not overly generous. Martin is, after all, still getting used to the idea of being – well, pimped.

Not that money changes hands at all. Some currency in favours, admittedly - Douglas is always happy to have goodwill to cash in – but he can honestly say he never lets it become more of a motive than the pure twisted joy of putting Martin through his paces for some small coterie of muscular firefighters or, as rumour filters out more widely, the odd engineer.

He also likes the way that, in front of others, when being shown off, Martin often calls him ‘sir’ now. Less self-conscious, more comfortable with the idea of Douglas being fully in charge almost anywhere but on the airfield. 

At work he blushes and sticks his nose in the air and pretends he doesn’t see people, but Douglas allows him that. Gets a small measure of revenge by chatting up Dirk, who he knows doesn’t play all that well with others, who has been looking for a way to put Captain bloody Crieff in his place, and who has no scruples about tethering him down to a workbench and expressing himself freely in words and actions.

All Douglas has to do is lay a few, firm, ground rules down, and then stand back and admire how imaginative a man can be with a toolkit and a few lengths of rope.  Martin lets himself be tied and gagged quite willingly – why not? If he doesn’t trust Dirk he trusts Douglas well enough, and besides, Dirk doesn’t say anything Douglas hasn’t said, and does a lot less.

Except with Douglas it felt like play, while Dirk is loud and angry. Contemptuous afterwards too. It is Douglas who has to soothe Martin down, ease the gag from between his teeth, help him dress.

Worth it, Douglas decides, but Martin would have to do something very bad indeed before Douglas delivered him into Dirk’s grasping hands again.

He’s cautious with old cronies too, not sure he wants this new development getting back to Hercules Shipwright, even though there’s nothing Herc could really do.

Martin is a little quiet sometimes, in need of someone warm and solid to cuddle up to. Reassurance that he’s not just a slut or a baby, or whatever Douglas has said while he was doing wicked things to him. Words that Martin enjoys, that turn him on, but that hit harder now they’re properly together.

It’s nothing Douglas can’t handle. Nothing he could get in real trouble for, even if Herc did make a fuss. Especially with Martin there to explain how he’s always got off on a bit of verbal abuse, a good firm hand, that they’ve been together quite some time now. That he more or less knew what he was getting into, and they talked just recently – approved the current ‘rent’ for at least another year.

Douglas hasn’t, as far as he knows, done more than blur some lines around consent, and perhaps been a little heavy handed when Martin has been very naughty.

It’s an understood thing, now, that minor transgressions are all tallied up, ready to be revisited on Martin’s tender behind and sleek thighs whenever a) Douglas is in the mood and b) there are slack periods at work.

Major misbehaviour – which is rare but which still, when Martin is feeling insubordinate, does happen – may be treated the same way. Or else, if Douglas chooses, he might give Martin a light punishment initially, enough to bruise but nowhere near enough to affect Martin’s competence, and then real retribution on their return.  

A third option – one Douglas now favours for longer trips – is to allow Martin to operate out unscathed, but having already agreed that it won’t be like that on the way back. Not badly enough hurt that he couldn’t fly in an emergency – Douglas would never do that – but certainly enough that it’s just as well he doesn’t have to.  

Enough that he has to be gagged during the punishment, laid out on a rug or draped sideways over a single bed – so many twin rooms rather than doubles - opened up with a dildo of hard silicone, ridged widthways, slipping in smoothly at first then finding resistance as it gets deeper, Martin moaning and mouthing the gag, opening as widely as he can for it, cock bouncing against the edge of the mattress, under instruction not to come if he knows what’s good for him.

The flat of Douglas’ hand gets the dildo as deep as it’s meant to go, Martin’s sphincter closing around it where the base narrows, leaving the ‘handle’ free. Douglas slaps him too, hearty but not too hard, squeezes his balls, gives his cock a quick grope. Threatens him again with terrible things if he dares to climax. Tells him to shush now, take his medicine.

Spanks him first with the flat back of a wooden hairbrush, over his bottom and thighs, ‘inadvertently’ striking the base of the dildo and making it thud dully inside him. If they were at home he’d make Martin count out loud, but he doesn’t trouble himself. Estimates when to stop by how red Martin’s bottom becomes, how sharply he flinches every time the brush connects.

Returns to the dildo, pumping it into Martin’s body in a way that makes it very clear he’s punishing him for something. Martin pants and moans, sounding both distressed and desperately aroused, clenches down instinctively as Douglas leaves the thing in him and goes back to the brush.

This time he turns is around and strikes Martin with the bristles. Sharp little stinging blows falling rapidly as he works up Martin’s thighs, over his arse cheeks, down again.

The bristles bend and part around the silicone handle and find his balls as well, startling a yelp from Martin that makes Douglas shush him again. It’s not even that painful at first, only becomes so as the beating goes on, layering fresh assault where Martin is already tender. He begins to cry out regularly – not on each blow, but getting there, his control cracking. Squirming until the sheet becomes untucked and he finds he’s sliding off the bed.

‘I know it hurts.’ Douglas says, in the brief pause he gives Martin to haul himself back up, gives himself to handcuff Martin to the opposite side of the bedframe so that he can’t slide out of place again, ‘but let’s not pretend we don’t both get off on that.’

Since it’s a punishment they haven’t negotiated numbers, but even with Martin’s back turned Douglas can tell his sub is becoming more distressed. Finishes up quickly and moved on to fisting that soft, half-open hole fully open instead.

That is tender too, Martin moans and shudders. His cock is still kissing the mattress, and he can feel his climax building, knows he mustn’t let it happen, mustn’t make Douglas any more cross with him.  Wonders if Douglas is going to make him fail on purpose just so he can punish him some more.

Instead Douglas stops without warning, leaves him frustrated, rolls him onto his back.

‘Oh, don’t look like that,’ he says, ‘you know you ask for it.’

Climbs up on the bed to kneel over Martin’s heaving ribcage – ribs not quite so stark as they once were but still narrow enough that Douglas can straddle him and, one hand on the far wall, loosen the gag and get his cock between Martin’s soft, pink, lips.

Just the tip at first - gently, almost tenderly in and out, getting Martin used to the position, so very defenceless, so easily crushed if Douglas wanted to crush him. Gradually working up to fuck his mouth more firmly but still carefully, hands in Martin’s uneven and rebellious curls - Martin has threatened to cut them all off again, says they look unprofessional, and Douglas has threatened to take a belt to him if he does. Doesn’t think he’s in any danger of having to follow through on the threat, isn’t even sure he would, but still has that picture in mind when he pulls back sharply and comes all over Martin’s face.

Afterwards, that bed abandoned and both of them squeezed in the other single, Douglas twines one of Martin's soft curls around his index finger, careful to be gentle, to not wake him. Thinking to himself how adorable Martin is like this, pale in the moonlight that filters through inadequate curtains, how very odd it is that Douglas can really rather adore him, love him even, can want to keep him safe. And yet...

Douglas doesn’t resist the feeling, embraces the oddity of it, even finds a kind of humour in it.

Then settles down to follow Martin into sleep.