Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jackson had misbehaved. Boy had misbehaved. Boy had pissed off Sir, and now Boy has to earn back his right to be called Jackson or baby. Baby is special and only to be used by Sir on good boys. Boy is not a good boy right now, but he will be again.

Boy shivers as the air conditioning in the room kicks on. He is covered in sweat and fluids. Arms bound behind him in a harness made of leather straps, he dangles from a chain in the center of the room chosen for his punishment at Sir's favorite BDSM club. His ankles are held apart by a spreader-bar, and his toes barely brush the floor, suspended as he is. The positioning of the chain attached to his harness keeps him in a bent-over position.

His ass had been thoroughly prepped and lubed, stuffed with a plug when he isn't in use. He had not been gagged, a request from him fulfilled only with the promise that he will not speak or protest the entire punishment; if he needs to safeword, he is to press the panic button he has been holding in his right hand all evening. Otherwise, the only noises he is allowed to make are nonverbal sounds of pleasure and pain.

Weights dangle from the barbell piercings in his very sore nipples. His cock and balls are trapped in the smallest chastity cage he has ever worn, making it hard for him to find pleasure in the things done to him—which is part of the point, he knows; this is a punishment, and any pleasure he feels will be and is coincidental. There are hooks in his nostrils that tug his nose up into the little piggy-nose look, fastened behind his head to the chain holding him suspended, which only allows the Doms to sink as deep ad they can into his mouth when they use it. After having it in for so long, his nose aches, but he endures it resolutely. Condoms, full of sperm and tied off so they don't spill, are tucked under the straps of his harness so they'll remain in place, a humiliating display of how many times he has been used.

The punishment for flirting and dancing with other men to tease and get Sir's attention is that he must allow Dom after Dom, as approved by Sir, to use his mouth and ass for pleasure without complaint while Sir watches from behind the two-way mirror, until Sir is satisfied, or until Boy utilizes his safeword. The Doms are allowed to do as they please as long as his Hard Nos are not violated—posted in a laminated memo on the door before anyone walks into the room; they do not kiss him—because he will only ever allow that intimacy with his Sir; and they do not penetrate his ass—his pussy—without a condom on. The only sperm allowed to touch him is on his face, down his throat, or across his back.

Boy has been dangling here for two hours.

Hazy, teary blue eyes gaze longingly at the mirror, unable to see Sir beyond its reflective surface. He is an absolute mess, drooling uncontrollable from his chastity cage and his mouth alike, sore all over. His skin is splotchy with bruises, superficial bites and hickeys, hand prints from open-palm slaps, many welts from a flogger and a riding crop, and various fluids—spit, piss, semen, and the remnants from Dom number five's surprise waxplay he isn't entirely sure he ever wants to try again; he'd almost used the button on that one, but he'd held firm.

Boy is desperately needy for Sir's approval, for his forgiveness. He has been fucked countless times. The owner of the club had pissed in his mouth and forced him to swallow it before using both holes to come in; the taste is still bitter on his tongue, even after all the use it has been subjected to. He's been groped and spanked and bruised all over. They'd degraded him, scolded him, spoken filthy things and threats into his ear, making sure he knew how unhappy his Dom was with his behavior and how they were honored to help him punish such an ill-behaved little slag like him. What they would have done if he'd belonged to them instead of Sir.

This is the longest he has been forced to endure a punishment, especially at the hands of other men—not his specific Dom—and two women with strapons; he thinks he has a new, healthy fear of women with strapons, for they had been rough and possessive, leaving scratches on his hips and back with their nails, and the impersonal feel of rubber cocks, both large and brutal, had made him feel less than. And then the women had ganged up on him, fucking him roughly from both ends at the same time, and they hadn't stopped until he was sobbing and shaking. At least they'd been courteous enough to stay with him until he'd calmed down, praising him and soothing him with gentle words and caresses.

He has been flirting with the idea of tapping out, of pressing his button, for the past fifteen minutes.

He endures. He is determined to earn his names back. He will make Sir proud.

He whines but makes no other sound. No real attempt at communication, aside from the wordless mewl he would ordinarily be mortified to make. The blond licks his lips, chapped and dry. He would love some water. Maybe a snack. He would love for Sir to come get him even more, though.

Blue eyes flick hopefully up when the door opens. They drop again before eye contact can be made, and he struggles not to let his disappointment show when it's not Sir that steps in, but another nameless Dom, one he doesn't remember seeing before even in passing. He shivers and bites his lip when a broad, calloused hand skims his spanked-red ass. Fingers squeeze cruelly and spread one cheek aside, igniting his nerve-endings, and then the plug is removed and tossed aside, lube dripping from his stretched hole from where the last Dom had filled him with it before leaving.

Boy yelps when his hole is spanked a few times, jolting enough that he sways in his suspension, helpless to stop himself as his toes skim the floor uselessly.

“Your Sir certainly has an exquisite whore in you,” the Dom remarks in a gravelly voice.

A shiver ripples its way down Boy's spine. Unease coils its way through his intestines, tightening his core. He's not sure what it is, but there's something that has alarm bells going off in his head. Boy makes deliberate eye contact with the mirror, even if he isn't sure where exactly Sir is sitting on the other side, and his fingers fidget with the panic button in his palm, thumb testing the perimeter of the smooth button.

He hopes Sir is there and sees his discomfort for what it is. Sir is usually very intuitive about his comfort and his boundaries, and he knows when Boy is truly upset or scared. Boy doesn't think it's because he's at the end of his rope or from his fatigue. Something genuinely sets him off about this guy...

Boy whimpers at the next few slaps to his over-used, over-sensitive hole, rim puffy and stinging sharply. He squirms, no longer at the point that he can hold onto any sort of composure, wishing he could lift his legs to kick, and without repercussion. Four digits delve into his stretched hole right out the gate, and he squeals, arching, his hips trying to escape the grip holding him still.

The Dom tugs Boy back roughly, and he tenses up, feeling the smear of wet on his thigh, the turgid flesh rubbing against him. That's a naked cock. The Dom is humping against him, and there is no condom.

With startling clarity, he knows why this guy is setting off his instincts. He has no respect for the condom rule.

“I can't wait to fuck your sloppy cunt raw,” the man growls in what Boy assumes is supposed to be sexy, but it just makes him feel sick and dirty. The fingers inside him feel cruel. “Premium meat for the taking is all you are, whore.”

Boy squirms and tries to gain enough distance to be able to communicate without breaking his promise not to speak that he is not okay with this. He is ignored as the Dom attempts to work his thumb into Boy's boicunt, bare dick rubbing obscenely against his damp skin. Panic races through his bloodstream, and he tries again to escape. He yelps at the harsh smack across his back, barely registering the nasty insult the Dom hurls at him.

He presses the button. Filth being whispered into his ears, one hand attempting to fist him, and an insistent prick threatening to penetrate him at the same time as the hand culminates into being Too Much, and he can't take it anymore. An immediate alarm sounds through the room with a flashing red light in the corner signaling the use of the panic button, the nonverbal safeword.

He presses the button again in a panic when he feels the naked head of the Dom's throbbing flesh start to push in as the man ignores the alarm and the light, and he shouts, “Red! Red, red,” in hopes the verbal safeword will kickstart the Dom's instincts.

It doesn't, but by then, the door is slammed open, and Boy gets a flash of Sir's thunderous expression before the Dom is wrenched away harshly by the shoulders. It hurts when that many fingers and the very tip of his cock are ripped out of Boy's ass, and his pain-filled cry makes Sir roar, “He gave his safewords, asshole!”

Two of the club's security staff flood in and seize the transgressor, dragging him out before Sir can start throwing punches, the arm already cocked back.

Sir whirls around and grabs the chain to Boy's suspension. He lowers Boy down to stand flat on his feet for the first time in hours, and he unhooks the chain and helps Boy to ease back into an upright position instead of bent at the waist. Boy moans, gasping for air and trembling as he leans into Sir's sturdy chest, eyes clenched tight as he tries to focus on keeping his breathing steady and not listening to the commotion behind him where the Dom shouts in protest and resists security.

“My good boy,” Sir croons, arms encircling and rubbing his skin soothingly. “You did so well. Took your punishment like a champ and behaved perfectly for Sir's guests. You used the panic button right when you should have, my boy. Sir is here. You're safe, sweetheart.”

“'M sorry, Sir,” Boy whines, face pressing tight to his skin and babbling softly as the dam breaks, crying despite himself. “Won't ever do it again, Sir, I promise. Want only Sir beside me and in me and on me. Only Sir makes me feel safe and satisfied. 'M sorry, sorry, sorry...”

“You're forgiven, Jackson, my sweet baby boy,” Sir promises, pressing kisses to his hairline and forehead, and the relief Jackson feels at earning his names again is instant, like cool water soothing a sunburn. He goes limp, panting, a weight lifting from his shoulders, knees buckling. His head rests on the broad, strong expanse of his Dom's shoulder. Sir, Stiles, carefully releases him from his bindings, leaving them in a pile on the floor for the staff to gather up for sanitization—especially the nose hooks, which trail a disgusting line of snot from his crying.

The used condoms plop to the floor, laying like detritus. He dazedly tries to count them, but he gets lost, blurry from tears, after fifteen.

Stiles picks him up carefully and carries him out of the punishment room with only the spreader-bar and nipple-weights remaining.

He carries Jackson to a recovery room he'd also reserved in the club for the occasion, and the vanilla-caramel candle scent speaks to just how much Stiles had thought ahead to make sure it would cater to Jackson's specific needs. He wraps his noodly arms around Stiles, clinging with adoration and the need for all the comfort he can possibly glean from him.

Laid down on a bed, he makes soft noises of appreciation as Stiles takes the time to wipe him down with a soft, wet cloth, cleaning away the sweat and cum from him. He carefully picks away the rest of the wax and presses little kisses to each bruise that makes Jackson flinch away, just this side of too painful. Jackson basks in the attention, and he squeaks when the weights are finally removed, and the chastity cage taken off. The spreader-bar is also removed and tossed aside, hands gently massaging his ankles where faint red marks remain.

Stiles sucks on Jackson's nipples until they're sore for different, more pleasurable reasons, and the blond loves every minute of it, feeling safe and wanted and forgiven, accepting everything bit of attention Sir gives him. Then his Sir's tongue swipes gently over his cock, sucking tenderly while his hands caress every inch of Jackson that he can reach.

Jackson stays still, panting and moaning with pleasure as his Dom, his Sir, takes and gives in equal measures, always attentive and caring and focused on every sigh and croon he drags out of his Boy. This is all Jackson has wanted all evening, his Sir's attention and touch on his sensitive body and re-staking his claim on the blond's body and soul.

“Can I come, Sir?” Jackson asks softly, desperately. He's gotten hard quickly, balancing on that knife's edge within minutes after being tormented all evening, unable and not allowed to tip over into orgasm while other men used him as a fleshlight. But with Sir's attention, he is hard as a rock and yearning for release. “Please, sir, I want to come so badly.”

“You can either come in my mouth, right here and now, or you can come when I put my cock in your pretty pussy,” Stiles offers, stroking Jackson while looking him in his face and speaking calmly, firmly. “Naughty boys, even when forgiven, don't get two orgasms post-punishment, you know this.”

Jackson just barely holds back the whine of protest. He knows the pout made it onto his face, though. Luckily, Stiles loves his expressions. He wants to point out he didn't safeword because he couldn't handle his punishment anymore; he only did it because the Dom was violating their rules. He whimpers at having to make a decision, his brains jellifying at his Sir's touch.

“Wanna come with Sir inside me,” he decides finally. He lifts his legs to give Stiles an awkward hug with them around the other man's torso, toes teasingly poking even as his thighs squeeze as securely around him as he can.

Stiles smiles affectionately and leans up over him to reach his lips, pressing soft kisses to them that Jackson eagerly reciprocates, drinking up every bit of his attention worshipfully. Circling his arms around Stiles' shoulders and neck, he tilts his hips, legs spread wide, inviting his Sir in. A euphoric sigh escapes him as he feels the pressure of that too-full feeling he always gets when Stiles' cock sinks into him. Stiles has a huge member, larger than any other he has ever taken, and it always hurts in the best way, even after hours of being fucked endlessly by other Doms.

Despite being so big, his size is perfect, and Jackson gladly accepts him as deep inside as he can, even while feeling like his organs are being rearranged.

Neither of them last long. They both have gone without orgasm while constantly aroused for the past three hours, and the mishap with the intruder hadn't done much to interrupt it. Stiles is rough and possessive as he fucks Jackson, and Jackson soaks it up with reckless abandon, sucking at his Sir's neck and lips, depending on what is closer at the time, and he does his best to massage exhausted muscles around his Dom's pistoning phallus.

Stiles bottoms out and holds himself smashed against Jackson's ass and pelvis, and Jackson moans, shaking, overstimulated, as he feels the spurts of cum coating his insides. Stiles whispers permission against the side of his throat, and Jackson loss track of everything around him and in him as that tightly-held restraint shatters, and the orgasm crashes over him with the intensity of an inferno.

Easily one of his best orgasms, despite how it built.

The praise and crooning and soft kisses Stiles showers him with is pretty damn great, too.

“Love you, Sir,” Jackson whispers, tongue heavy and slurring just a little, a well of that exact emotion threatening to suffocate him, fears in his eyes as he floats down from the high of his climax. “Love you so much.”

“I love you, too, Jax,” Stiles whispers back, bundling him close and cuddling him with the warmest embrace. “Even when you're being a little brat.” His hand grasps Jackson's asscheek, squeezing the stinging, hot flesh from earlier spankings. Jackson squirms, low-key loving it even as it tingles with pain over his nerves, but Stiles' cock is still buried inside him, and that's all he cares about.

“We'll rest here for an hour or so,” Stiles tells him, touch gentling once more, caressing affectionately while pressing kisses into his hair. “And then we'll go talk to management about what happened, let them check on you, and then we'll go home, okay?”

“Sounds great,” Jackson mumbles, sleepy. He glances over at the nightstand behind Stiles, and he nudges gently. “Water?”

“Of course, baby.” Stiles twists his torso, ever the flexible one, and he grabs the half-warm bottle off the nearby nightstand, opening it and tipping it to let Jackson sip. What he doesn't drink, Stiles finishes, and then drags up the folded-back blanket on the bed to cover them. “Rest, baby, and then we'll go home.”

Obeying is the easiest thing in the world.