amberdreams (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amberdreams) wrote2013-07-06 06:11 pm
amberdreams) wrote2013-07-06 06:11 pm
Entry tags:
Oh Bondage, Up Yours! - a fic
Unbeta'd fill for the square dungeons for 
hc_bingo
Title: Oh Bondage, Up Yours!
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam/Dean
Prompt: dungeons
Medium: Fic
Wordcount: c4k
Rating: N-17
Warnings: BDSM, caning, bondage, angsty porn, porny angst - probably more angst than porn
Summary: Sam might have got a full ride at Stanford, but that doesn’t mean he has enough money to pay his way without finding part time work. He just wasn’t expecting to end up working in the local BDSM Club.
Author’s note: Title from Brit punk band X-Ray Specs. My first venture into the world of BDSM, thanks to a friend of mine who worked for a while behind the bar in a club vaguely similar to Domnio’s. Some of Sam’s experiences belong to her…thanks for letting me steal them, babe. This one’s for you.
Sam stared at his bank statement again, as if looking was somehow going to miraculously put him back into the black. He’d been struggling to make ends meet since he lost his job at Arnie’s bar when it closed two months ago, making a mockery of their tag-line you’ll be back! The local mini mart didn’t have any extra slots to fill so couldn’t increase Sam’s hours, leaving only one option. He had to find another job.
Anticipating a long and tough search – competition was fierce with so many cash strapped college students around – Sam was pleasantly surprised to find a card in the mini-mart window on his arrival at his shift that very day.
WANTED – BAR HELP. Experience & an open mind essential. Call Reggie Williams on (415) 430 1983 .
It was a Mountain View phone number, so Sam sneaked out the back and called it straightaway. It turned out that Reggie Williams was the proprietor of the Domnio Club. Reggie sounded interested in Sam after a brief chat over the phone, and asked him over for an interview at 5pm, before the club opened.
Sam arrived ten minutes early at the anonymous-looking door on the anonymous side street. While he waited by the buzzer, puzzling over the low-key location, he suddenly wondered about the open minded essential criteria.
When Reggie ushered Sam inside, he started to get an inkling why the outside of the Domnio was so understated. The exterior door of the Club opened up onto a bland and almost empty space, with a dark wood reception desk off to one side, and three closed doors. Two were marked up as Reception Rooms, the third was clearly the Club’s main entrance – a set of double doors, completely covered in red and black padded leather. Reggie, who was at least a foot shorter than Sam and dressed in a very expensive pale grey silk suit topped off with a matching vest and lemon yellow tie, pushed the double doors open with a flourish and invited Sam inside.
Sam supposed he should have guessed the kind of club from the name, but he was a bit slow on the uptake. Domnio being Latin for the Master’s tower, and this clearly being a BSDM club. Sam swallowed as he took in the ambience of the main room – red velvet drapes everywhere, dark walls and ceilings with soft lighting that didn’t reach the corners. He could just make out the several doors around the perimeter walls that were decorated with graphic paintings on variations of a theme, principally of chains and torture, and bondage in positions Sam had never even imagined before. And he’d always thought he was pretty broad minded after being exposed to Dean’s eclectic porn tastes for all these years.
“We are strictly a members only club, open to all, though the majority of our male customers have always been gay. We do have a couple of transgenders but only about a dozen female members since Arnolfi opened a BDSM club over in Fremont – their no gays policy took the majority of my straight girls away, looking for straight Doms and Subs.
Distracted by the décor, it took Sam a moment to realise his prospective employer was still talking to him. With an effort he dragged his gaze away from the depiction of a satyr with a phallus of Roman proportions who was enjoying fellatio administered by two more human-sized characters. He was desperately trying not to think about how much Dean would mock the way he was blushing right now. Always said you were too vanilla, Sammy… Sam shook off the memories of his brother as he always did, and turned his full attention to the proprietor.
“Now all of this,” Reggie was saying, while gesturing expansively at the room, “Is not to everyone’s tastes. Most of the more extreme activities happen in the dungeons and naturally bar staff don’t have to actively participate, but I do expect them to treat all our clients with the utmost respect, no matter what their requests are. I can tell you now, you will see some interesting goings on out here and in the washrooms, and I need someone who isn’t going to be put off his stride by anything. Unflappable, that’s what I’m after, savvy?”
Sam found the sudden slipping into Pirates of the Carribean-speak was actually more disconcerting than the topic being discussed, but he managed to give Reggie a response that the guy must have thought constituted ‘unflappable’, as the next thing he knew, Reggie was pumping his hand to seal the deal, and Sam Winchester had a new job.
0x0x0x0
Sam thought a lifetime hunting monsters had left him incapable of being surprised by anything weird, but his first few evenings behind the Domnio bar soon opened his eyes to just how sheltered his life had actually been.
For instance, shooting ghosts with rock salt had left Sam woefully unprepared for Drew. Like many of the members, Drew liked to get changed in one of the Reception rooms before entering the club – in this case into nothing but an old school tie, socks with suspenders and very shiny shoes. The shine was so high on those shoes, Sam could see everything reflected in the polish. So even if he was desperately averting his gaze from Drew’s uncut penis with it’s fetching Prince Albert and epilated balls, he could still glimpse them quite clearly when he dropped his gaze to Drew’s feet.
Waiting tables was an exercise in restraint, for Sam and for the guests, many of whom were a bit too openly appreciative of Sam’s manly attributes. After his first night, for the first time ever Sam was tempted to cut his hair short. He lost count of the number of guys who wanted to either run their fingers through it, or worse, grab a handful and pull. Hard. Sam was used to hair pulling, but his usual response was to wrestle his assailant (Dean) to the ground and kneel on his stomach until he cried uncle; a reaction which was likely to get him fired here. Having one of the ProDoms administer discipline was one thing, but being beaten up by the busboy-come -barman was not part of the membership contract.
Then Reggie had to tell him off for hunching over to disguise his height after he’d been propositioned twice by two vertically challenged guys who had height kinks they wanted Sam to help them play out.
“Sugar, walk tall and enjoy the extra tips,” advised Marquis, the most flamboyant of the club’s three resident professional Doms.
Sam had to admit, while the wages were good, the tips were freaking awesome. At the end of his second night, he’d already earned more in tips than he earned in a week at the mini mart. At this rate, he could quit that job and free up more time for studying. By the end of the week, Sam was feeling surprisingly comfortable at the Domnio. Even the shock of walking into the washrooms and finding a guy up on the counter on all fours with another guy arm deep up counter-guy’s ass, hadn’t put him off working there. All the staff had been very welcoming of a complete greenhorn to this world, and for a student of human nature like Sam, seeing how BSDM worked from behind the scenes was endlessly fascinating. The three ProDoms were more than happy to chat about Dom/Sub dynamics in their spare time, and Sam was starting to wonder whether he could swing a thesis out of his experiences for his Psychology unit. If he dared.
He was still taken totally by surprise to come in on the Saturday evening and have Reggie practically beg him to be stand-in Dom for the Viscount.
“Viscount has just called in to say he’s got food poisoning, there’s no way he can perform tonight, and both Marquis and the Baron have full cards. Look, it’s nothing too kinky, just one of our irregular regulars in from out of town.”
“Yeah, he’s a babe, really easy to take care of, even for a novice Dom. We wouldn’t ask you, but we’re desperate, darling.” Marquis leaned in close, draping one leather-clad arm round Sam’s shoulders, and practically purred into Sam’s ear. “And I’m sure you’ll be perfect for the job.”
Sam was distracted from Marquis’ warm breath tickling his skin by Reggie thrusting a piece of paper in front of his nose.
“Here, just read this while we get your costume sorted for you.”
Sam was left gripping the paper as Reggie disappeared in a flurry of navy silk. The man seemed to have a different suit for every night of the week, and Sam hated to think how much each one cost. Probably a term’s tuition fees… Marquis tapped the page in Sam’s hand. He looked up, startled. Marquis was the only person working in the Domnio who was taller than Sam.
“Earth calling Sam! This is the Dom/Sub contract for your customer.” He grabbed the paper from Sam’s unresisting grasp. “Here, I’ll run through it with you. Come on, let’s get you suited up, Caesar.”
“What? Caesar? Really? That sounds like a dog…”
Sam squeaked in protest, even while he allowed Marquis to lead him into the ProDom’s private dressing room to get kitted out, trying not to allow his minor freak out cloud his focus on the instructions he was getting from all sides as Baron, the other Dom, and Reggie crowded round. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and when Reggie finally remembered to tell Sam exactly how much of a bonus he was going to earn tonight, Sam found his performance anxiety was magically reduced to a manageable level.
The two Doms and Reggie gathered round him like a flock of hens, all clucking at once.
“This sub likes a bit of pain, but nothing that leaves a mark where normal clothes would reveal it.”
“Which is strange, because he already has a lot of scars…”
“His hard rules are no knife play, no scat, no golden showers.”
“So, whips and paddles are ok but he really prefers to feel a hand when spanking; caning is good too…”
“And he’s gonna love to feel your giant mitts, Sam!”
“He likes to be tied up but hands only, he has to have his legs free to move.”
“He wants his Dom to be quiet, minimal conversation during play, just keep it to single words and commands.”
Sam’s head was reeling from all the instructions, but his brain was used to assimilating information at speed whilst multi-tasking, and there was no likelihood he would forget any of this. He had been working there long enough to understand the importance of the rules that governed every interaction between Dom and Sub. Even more so when the relationship was a temporary transaction, like this one.
He jumped slightly as someone slapped him on his newly leather covered ass and his jaw dropped as he turned around and took in the sight of himself – no, of Caesar – in the full length mirror. His chest was bare and shining with the baby oil or whatever it was the Baron had applied all the way down to the low slung waistband of his skin tight leather trousers. His crotch was covered in a silver studded cod-piece that was, as Reggie kindly demonstrated with a flick of his wrist, quickly removable, allowing free access to his dick and balls. Sam hurriedly fastened the thing back up, blushing fiercely while the Doms giggled like a pair of schoolgirls. His forearms were covered in silver studded arm-braces, and Marquis brought out the final piece of his wardrobe with a flourish. A very fine, lightweight leather mask that covered most of his hair and only left his mouth and chin clearly visible. He barely recognised himself, which was good, as it meant he would find it that much easier to slip into whatever persona he was to create for Caesar.
“Wow.” Sam turned from side to side, marvelling at how different he felt. “Makes me glad I’ve been working out,” he said, as he checked out his thankfully flat stomach and toned pecs.
Marquis pulled him away from the mirror and grabbed Sam’s face in both hands.
“Enough preening, handsome. Tell me what you are going in there to do, Caesar.”
“I’m there to dominate the submissive. I will be firm and self-assured. I will state my wants and needs clearly and clarify should the Sub not understand. I will make sure the Sub’s needs are met and that I am observant, and ready prevent subdrop.”
Marquis grinned at him. “That’s right. Just remember, don’t be an asshole. A good Dom doesn’t need to strut about like they are god’s gift to their Sub. This boy might not come here that often, but he knows what he wants, so let him guide you.”
“Don’t worry about warming him up, Harry’s been in there setting up the scene and prepping your boy. All you need to do is take charge of the scene the minute you walk though that door.”
Sam tamped down the butterflies in his stomach and nodded. He was ready to go.
0x0x0x0
“He’s all yours,” Harry said when Sam walked through the door of the Topaz Dungeon.
Sam was greeted by the expected tableau. The sub was naked, already kneeling, bent over one of the flogging benches, and wrist manacled into place with leather cuffs. His legs were slightly apart, his head bowed and facing the far wall, so all Sam could see was short brown spikey hair and the edge of a high cheekbone over the broad curve of muscular shoulders.
But the thing was, Sam didn’t need to see the sub’s face, or the long jagged scar low down on the pale freckled back, or even the faint curve of those bow legs, to know who this was. Sam had recognised his brother the instant the door clicked closed behind him when Harry left the room.
He was familiar with Dean’s naked body, of course. You can’t live the lifestyle they had grown up with, on the road in the same car, sharing the same motel rooms and even the same bed when necessary, without becoming intimately acquainted with every aspect of your companions. But he’d never seen Dean like this.
This was more than naked. This was exposed, spread out and vulnerable in a way Dean would never have allowed if he’d known who was currently stood behind him, frozen to the polished concrete floor.
Sam must have been silent for a beat too long, because he saw the muscles in Dean’s ass twitch, and then Dean was half turning his head, straining to see over his shoulder.
“Viscount?” Dean said, and paradoxically, the well-known rough tones of that voice released something in Sam, and he was able to move again. Almost unconsciously Sam deepened his own voice when he replied. He drew gladly on the remembered instruction to keep talking to a minimum, because that certainly worked in his favour now.
“Viscount can’t make it,” Sam began, then continued quickly as he saw Dean start to pull against his restraints. “It’s okay, I’m here to take care of you.” He kept his tone soft but firm, and filled with confidence, and he was a little taken aback to find that he meant every word.
He wanted to do this for Dean, to give him this. This moment, this release. He knew how hard his brother worked 24/7 to appear brave and strong and to be everything that Sam had always admired and aspired to be. Sam wondered what had been happening over the last two years since he’d walked out on his family to come to Stanford. Since he’d left Dean behind. How many times had Dean come here to do this with strangers, how often had Dean been here in California and come this close, yet never tried to contact Sam?
If there was a small part of Sam that also wanted to punish Dean for abandoning him, for not contacting him for all this time, for being Dean, then it was buried so deep Sam would never acknowledge it.
Maybe Dean could read the sincerity in Sam’s voice, even though he was trying to disguise his identity; maybe it was just that Dean had paid for this session, or that his brother needed it too badly to stop now. But whatever the reason, Sam was relieved to see Dean’s shoulders loose some of their tension and his head turn back to face the wall – a gesture of trust.
“You’ve read the contract, right?” Dean said. It’s more of a statement than a question, and Dean continued without waiting for Sam to answer. “What do I call you then?”
Sam thought Dean wasn’t really very good at this whole submission thing, too damn cocky, but he kept any emotion out of his voice when he replied.
“Caesar.”
Sam couldn’t help cracking a grin when he heard Dean echo his own reaction from earlier with a muttered “Caesar? Sounds like a fucking dog…”
Part of him still couldn’t believe he was going through with this, but at his core Sam was determined and strangely calm. Something about this felt right and he wasn’t going to analyse too deeply. He had a job to do.
He purposefully ignored Dean’s grumbling or else he’d be forced to discipline him before they’d even started, and moved on with a curt request for Dean’s safeword.
“Salt.” Dean said. Right, Sam thought. Of course.
“Look,” Dean was saying, sounding nervous. “Not being funny, but could we just get on with this, please?”
Sam put his hand on Dean’s bare shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze, half reassurance, half warning. It seemed there was some work for him to do in establishing the right levels of respect and trust here.
“What did I say when I came in?”
“I…That you’re here to take care of me.” Dean said, somewhat hesitantly. Sam dug his fingers in a little harder, enjoying the feel of the cool smooth texture of skin over muscle, making Dean hiss a little at the discomfort.
“Then let me do my job, sub. Do you want me to call you that, or do you have a name?”
“Dean.”
Sam raised his eyebrows under the mask, a little shocked that Dean had given up his real name so readily. Though he supposed Dean was giving up a lot more of himself that just his name, here. Sam selected a thin cane from the rack next to the bench and swished it through the air a few times, testing its flexibility. There was something very delicious about the way Dean tensed up again in anticipation on hearing the sound. Sam licked his lips. Swallowed convulsively.
“Let’s get started, then.”
0x0x0x0
Before he had stepped into that dungeon, Sam had told himself this would be scientific, clinical. An experiment that he could use towards his degree. He had been an observer for a week and not felt a single moment of arousal or desire – either sexual or a need to join in any of the activities. He hadn’t felt any urge to administer punishment or receive it before now, so he really hadn’t expected this.
This was Dean.
Made fragile, breakable.
All pale flesh where the sun never touched him; below the neck his skin like cream dusted with golden freckles and golden hair - except for where Sam was laying thin stripes of colour with the cane, watching the blood rise to each stinging touch, creating an intricate latticework of pain across his brother’s back and thighs and buttocks.
This was Dean.
Biting his lips rough and red as Sam moved around him. Holding his breath in anticipation of each stroke, huffing it out as the rod landed. Shuddering and gasping.
This was Dean.
Cock hard and leaking where it hung between his legs; his ass raised, hole clenched around the butt plug Harry had inserted before Sam entered the room.
Sam the intellectual knew BDSM wasn’t all about sex, but.
This. Was. Dean.
And Sam wanted. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to punish.
Oh god. He wanted to fuck him.
He wanted to hear Dean begging for his cock.
The room was silent except for the swish and crack as the cane hit, and Dean’s harsh breathing echoed by Sam’s. Sam could even hear the faint splash as drops of sweat hit the bare concrete of the floor. He didn’t want to stop, even though he could see Dean was near his limits, and he knew from bitter experience that his brother would never, ever admit he has limits.
Reluctantly, Sam put the cane down and ran a hand over Dean from shoulder to thigh, lingering over the raised welts he had drawn on his brother’s skin, feeling the heat rising from the red-rawness he had created. His fingers slid back up Dean’s thigh and stopped at his crack, fingertips trailing round the edge of the butt plug. Dean shivered under the gentleness of Sam’s touch.
When Sam spoke, it felt as though he’d been silent for days. His voice had dropped into a hoarse whisper that even he didn’t recognise, wrecked as it was with the depth of his desire.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, Dean.”
Dean lifted his head and Sam could hear the harsh inhale. For a fraction of a second, Sam thought Dean was going to say no, it was enough, and Sam even had time to wonder if he would be able to stop now, before Dean was exhaling on a yes please, please, I want, I need…oh god.
The leather of Sam’s cod piece had been pressing so hard on his dick for so long, it felt like heaven just to rip it off and get his dick in his hand. With his other hand he was working Dean’s plug loose and slid in a long finger. Fuck. Dean was so slick and hot inside. So ready for Sam. Dean was moaning now as Sam moved his finger around, found Dean’s prostate, and Sam was frantic. If he didn’t get his cock inside Dean right now, he was going to explode. He grabbed his cock, slicked himself up and didn’t even think about the condom he had tucked into his costume, or the ones he knew were in the drawer in the toy cabinet across the room. He shoved in; harsh, brutal, nearly balls deep in one hard thrust and Dean let him. Dean pushed back as much as he could, restraints straining; a stream of filthy pleading pouring out for more, harder, deeper. Just more.
Sam gripped Dean’s hips so hard he could almost see the bruises forming. He had only one thought left. One command.
“Don’t come till I say you can…” Sam said, and hammered home.
0x0x0x0
When Caesar released Dean from the cuffs and drew him into a huge embrace, Dean didn’t protest like he normally would. Like he always did with Viscount, or the Baron, or Marquis. He didn’t really understand it, but this Caesar guy was different. At once fiercer and more gentle. He didn’t know what to make of it, but at the moment, he was too exhausted to care. Caesar’s chest was firm and his arms well muscled and strong, and Dean allowed himself to relax into the radiant heat the Dom was giving off. Under the pervasive scent of sex, the guy smelled of leather and clean sweat and oil – familiar and safe – like the Impala. Like home.
He didn’t want to dig too deep into why he kept coming here, why he needed this. He just knew that this was something he could control in a life that frequently felt chaotic and painful in ways he couldn’t escape from. Those hurts went too deep and were too ancient and too new to examine closely. They were woven into his flesh and his bones, running through his veins, mingled with his blood. He couldn’t rip them out without tearing himself apart, but he could overlay them with fresh, clean pain that provided the perfect distraction. Here he could lay himself open, spread wide for cane or whip or hand or cock in a situation he had created, taking orders that kept to rules he wrote, and from which he could walk away.
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough, but it was the best he could do.
hc_bingoTitle: Oh Bondage, Up Yours!
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam/Dean
Prompt: dungeons
Medium: Fic
Wordcount: c4k
Rating: N-17
Warnings: BDSM, caning, bondage, angsty porn, porny angst - probably more angst than porn
Summary: Sam might have got a full ride at Stanford, but that doesn’t mean he has enough money to pay his way without finding part time work. He just wasn’t expecting to end up working in the local BDSM Club.
Author’s note: Title from Brit punk band X-Ray Specs. My first venture into the world of BDSM, thanks to a friend of mine who worked for a while behind the bar in a club vaguely similar to Domnio’s. Some of Sam’s experiences belong to her…thanks for letting me steal them, babe. This one’s for you.
Sam stared at his bank statement again, as if looking was somehow going to miraculously put him back into the black. He’d been struggling to make ends meet since he lost his job at Arnie’s bar when it closed two months ago, making a mockery of their tag-line you’ll be back! The local mini mart didn’t have any extra slots to fill so couldn’t increase Sam’s hours, leaving only one option. He had to find another job.
Anticipating a long and tough search – competition was fierce with so many cash strapped college students around – Sam was pleasantly surprised to find a card in the mini-mart window on his arrival at his shift that very day.
WANTED – BAR HELP. Experience & an open mind essential. Call Reggie Williams on (415) 430 1983 .
It was a Mountain View phone number, so Sam sneaked out the back and called it straightaway. It turned out that Reggie Williams was the proprietor of the Domnio Club. Reggie sounded interested in Sam after a brief chat over the phone, and asked him over for an interview at 5pm, before the club opened.
Sam arrived ten minutes early at the anonymous-looking door on the anonymous side street. While he waited by the buzzer, puzzling over the low-key location, he suddenly wondered about the open minded essential criteria.
When Reggie ushered Sam inside, he started to get an inkling why the outside of the Domnio was so understated. The exterior door of the Club opened up onto a bland and almost empty space, with a dark wood reception desk off to one side, and three closed doors. Two were marked up as Reception Rooms, the third was clearly the Club’s main entrance – a set of double doors, completely covered in red and black padded leather. Reggie, who was at least a foot shorter than Sam and dressed in a very expensive pale grey silk suit topped off with a matching vest and lemon yellow tie, pushed the double doors open with a flourish and invited Sam inside.
Sam supposed he should have guessed the kind of club from the name, but he was a bit slow on the uptake. Domnio being Latin for the Master’s tower, and this clearly being a BSDM club. Sam swallowed as he took in the ambience of the main room – red velvet drapes everywhere, dark walls and ceilings with soft lighting that didn’t reach the corners. He could just make out the several doors around the perimeter walls that were decorated with graphic paintings on variations of a theme, principally of chains and torture, and bondage in positions Sam had never even imagined before. And he’d always thought he was pretty broad minded after being exposed to Dean’s eclectic porn tastes for all these years.
“We are strictly a members only club, open to all, though the majority of our male customers have always been gay. We do have a couple of transgenders but only about a dozen female members since Arnolfi opened a BDSM club over in Fremont – their no gays policy took the majority of my straight girls away, looking for straight Doms and Subs.
Distracted by the décor, it took Sam a moment to realise his prospective employer was still talking to him. With an effort he dragged his gaze away from the depiction of a satyr with a phallus of Roman proportions who was enjoying fellatio administered by two more human-sized characters. He was desperately trying not to think about how much Dean would mock the way he was blushing right now. Always said you were too vanilla, Sammy… Sam shook off the memories of his brother as he always did, and turned his full attention to the proprietor.
“Now all of this,” Reggie was saying, while gesturing expansively at the room, “Is not to everyone’s tastes. Most of the more extreme activities happen in the dungeons and naturally bar staff don’t have to actively participate, but I do expect them to treat all our clients with the utmost respect, no matter what their requests are. I can tell you now, you will see some interesting goings on out here and in the washrooms, and I need someone who isn’t going to be put off his stride by anything. Unflappable, that’s what I’m after, savvy?”
Sam found the sudden slipping into Pirates of the Carribean-speak was actually more disconcerting than the topic being discussed, but he managed to give Reggie a response that the guy must have thought constituted ‘unflappable’, as the next thing he knew, Reggie was pumping his hand to seal the deal, and Sam Winchester had a new job.
0x0x0x0
Sam thought a lifetime hunting monsters had left him incapable of being surprised by anything weird, but his first few evenings behind the Domnio bar soon opened his eyes to just how sheltered his life had actually been.
For instance, shooting ghosts with rock salt had left Sam woefully unprepared for Drew. Like many of the members, Drew liked to get changed in one of the Reception rooms before entering the club – in this case into nothing but an old school tie, socks with suspenders and very shiny shoes. The shine was so high on those shoes, Sam could see everything reflected in the polish. So even if he was desperately averting his gaze from Drew’s uncut penis with it’s fetching Prince Albert and epilated balls, he could still glimpse them quite clearly when he dropped his gaze to Drew’s feet.
Waiting tables was an exercise in restraint, for Sam and for the guests, many of whom were a bit too openly appreciative of Sam’s manly attributes. After his first night, for the first time ever Sam was tempted to cut his hair short. He lost count of the number of guys who wanted to either run their fingers through it, or worse, grab a handful and pull. Hard. Sam was used to hair pulling, but his usual response was to wrestle his assailant (Dean) to the ground and kneel on his stomach until he cried uncle; a reaction which was likely to get him fired here. Having one of the ProDoms administer discipline was one thing, but being beaten up by the busboy-come -barman was not part of the membership contract.
Then Reggie had to tell him off for hunching over to disguise his height after he’d been propositioned twice by two vertically challenged guys who had height kinks they wanted Sam to help them play out.
“Sugar, walk tall and enjoy the extra tips,” advised Marquis, the most flamboyant of the club’s three resident professional Doms.
Sam had to admit, while the wages were good, the tips were freaking awesome. At the end of his second night, he’d already earned more in tips than he earned in a week at the mini mart. At this rate, he could quit that job and free up more time for studying. By the end of the week, Sam was feeling surprisingly comfortable at the Domnio. Even the shock of walking into the washrooms and finding a guy up on the counter on all fours with another guy arm deep up counter-guy’s ass, hadn’t put him off working there. All the staff had been very welcoming of a complete greenhorn to this world, and for a student of human nature like Sam, seeing how BSDM worked from behind the scenes was endlessly fascinating. The three ProDoms were more than happy to chat about Dom/Sub dynamics in their spare time, and Sam was starting to wonder whether he could swing a thesis out of his experiences for his Psychology unit. If he dared.
He was still taken totally by surprise to come in on the Saturday evening and have Reggie practically beg him to be stand-in Dom for the Viscount.
“Viscount has just called in to say he’s got food poisoning, there’s no way he can perform tonight, and both Marquis and the Baron have full cards. Look, it’s nothing too kinky, just one of our irregular regulars in from out of town.”
“Yeah, he’s a babe, really easy to take care of, even for a novice Dom. We wouldn’t ask you, but we’re desperate, darling.” Marquis leaned in close, draping one leather-clad arm round Sam’s shoulders, and practically purred into Sam’s ear. “And I’m sure you’ll be perfect for the job.”
Sam was distracted from Marquis’ warm breath tickling his skin by Reggie thrusting a piece of paper in front of his nose.
“Here, just read this while we get your costume sorted for you.”
Sam was left gripping the paper as Reggie disappeared in a flurry of navy silk. The man seemed to have a different suit for every night of the week, and Sam hated to think how much each one cost. Probably a term’s tuition fees… Marquis tapped the page in Sam’s hand. He looked up, startled. Marquis was the only person working in the Domnio who was taller than Sam.
“Earth calling Sam! This is the Dom/Sub contract for your customer.” He grabbed the paper from Sam’s unresisting grasp. “Here, I’ll run through it with you. Come on, let’s get you suited up, Caesar.”
“What? Caesar? Really? That sounds like a dog…”
Sam squeaked in protest, even while he allowed Marquis to lead him into the ProDom’s private dressing room to get kitted out, trying not to allow his minor freak out cloud his focus on the instructions he was getting from all sides as Baron, the other Dom, and Reggie crowded round. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and when Reggie finally remembered to tell Sam exactly how much of a bonus he was going to earn tonight, Sam found his performance anxiety was magically reduced to a manageable level.
The two Doms and Reggie gathered round him like a flock of hens, all clucking at once.
“This sub likes a bit of pain, but nothing that leaves a mark where normal clothes would reveal it.”
“Which is strange, because he already has a lot of scars…”
“His hard rules are no knife play, no scat, no golden showers.”
“So, whips and paddles are ok but he really prefers to feel a hand when spanking; caning is good too…”
“And he’s gonna love to feel your giant mitts, Sam!”
“He likes to be tied up but hands only, he has to have his legs free to move.”
“He wants his Dom to be quiet, minimal conversation during play, just keep it to single words and commands.”
Sam’s head was reeling from all the instructions, but his brain was used to assimilating information at speed whilst multi-tasking, and there was no likelihood he would forget any of this. He had been working there long enough to understand the importance of the rules that governed every interaction between Dom and Sub. Even more so when the relationship was a temporary transaction, like this one.
He jumped slightly as someone slapped him on his newly leather covered ass and his jaw dropped as he turned around and took in the sight of himself – no, of Caesar – in the full length mirror. His chest was bare and shining with the baby oil or whatever it was the Baron had applied all the way down to the low slung waistband of his skin tight leather trousers. His crotch was covered in a silver studded cod-piece that was, as Reggie kindly demonstrated with a flick of his wrist, quickly removable, allowing free access to his dick and balls. Sam hurriedly fastened the thing back up, blushing fiercely while the Doms giggled like a pair of schoolgirls. His forearms were covered in silver studded arm-braces, and Marquis brought out the final piece of his wardrobe with a flourish. A very fine, lightweight leather mask that covered most of his hair and only left his mouth and chin clearly visible. He barely recognised himself, which was good, as it meant he would find it that much easier to slip into whatever persona he was to create for Caesar.
“Wow.” Sam turned from side to side, marvelling at how different he felt. “Makes me glad I’ve been working out,” he said, as he checked out his thankfully flat stomach and toned pecs.
Marquis pulled him away from the mirror and grabbed Sam’s face in both hands.
“Enough preening, handsome. Tell me what you are going in there to do, Caesar.”
“I’m there to dominate the submissive. I will be firm and self-assured. I will state my wants and needs clearly and clarify should the Sub not understand. I will make sure the Sub’s needs are met and that I am observant, and ready prevent subdrop.”
Marquis grinned at him. “That’s right. Just remember, don’t be an asshole. A good Dom doesn’t need to strut about like they are god’s gift to their Sub. This boy might not come here that often, but he knows what he wants, so let him guide you.”
“Don’t worry about warming him up, Harry’s been in there setting up the scene and prepping your boy. All you need to do is take charge of the scene the minute you walk though that door.”
Sam tamped down the butterflies in his stomach and nodded. He was ready to go.
0x0x0x0
“He’s all yours,” Harry said when Sam walked through the door of the Topaz Dungeon.
Sam was greeted by the expected tableau. The sub was naked, already kneeling, bent over one of the flogging benches, and wrist manacled into place with leather cuffs. His legs were slightly apart, his head bowed and facing the far wall, so all Sam could see was short brown spikey hair and the edge of a high cheekbone over the broad curve of muscular shoulders.
But the thing was, Sam didn’t need to see the sub’s face, or the long jagged scar low down on the pale freckled back, or even the faint curve of those bow legs, to know who this was. Sam had recognised his brother the instant the door clicked closed behind him when Harry left the room.
He was familiar with Dean’s naked body, of course. You can’t live the lifestyle they had grown up with, on the road in the same car, sharing the same motel rooms and even the same bed when necessary, without becoming intimately acquainted with every aspect of your companions. But he’d never seen Dean like this.
This was more than naked. This was exposed, spread out and vulnerable in a way Dean would never have allowed if he’d known who was currently stood behind him, frozen to the polished concrete floor.
Sam must have been silent for a beat too long, because he saw the muscles in Dean’s ass twitch, and then Dean was half turning his head, straining to see over his shoulder.
“Viscount?” Dean said, and paradoxically, the well-known rough tones of that voice released something in Sam, and he was able to move again. Almost unconsciously Sam deepened his own voice when he replied. He drew gladly on the remembered instruction to keep talking to a minimum, because that certainly worked in his favour now.
“Viscount can’t make it,” Sam began, then continued quickly as he saw Dean start to pull against his restraints. “It’s okay, I’m here to take care of you.” He kept his tone soft but firm, and filled with confidence, and he was a little taken aback to find that he meant every word.
He wanted to do this for Dean, to give him this. This moment, this release. He knew how hard his brother worked 24/7 to appear brave and strong and to be everything that Sam had always admired and aspired to be. Sam wondered what had been happening over the last two years since he’d walked out on his family to come to Stanford. Since he’d left Dean behind. How many times had Dean come here to do this with strangers, how often had Dean been here in California and come this close, yet never tried to contact Sam?
If there was a small part of Sam that also wanted to punish Dean for abandoning him, for not contacting him for all this time, for being Dean, then it was buried so deep Sam would never acknowledge it.
Maybe Dean could read the sincerity in Sam’s voice, even though he was trying to disguise his identity; maybe it was just that Dean had paid for this session, or that his brother needed it too badly to stop now. But whatever the reason, Sam was relieved to see Dean’s shoulders loose some of their tension and his head turn back to face the wall – a gesture of trust.
“You’ve read the contract, right?” Dean said. It’s more of a statement than a question, and Dean continued without waiting for Sam to answer. “What do I call you then?”
Sam thought Dean wasn’t really very good at this whole submission thing, too damn cocky, but he kept any emotion out of his voice when he replied.
“Caesar.”
Sam couldn’t help cracking a grin when he heard Dean echo his own reaction from earlier with a muttered “Caesar? Sounds like a fucking dog…”
Part of him still couldn’t believe he was going through with this, but at his core Sam was determined and strangely calm. Something about this felt right and he wasn’t going to analyse too deeply. He had a job to do.
He purposefully ignored Dean’s grumbling or else he’d be forced to discipline him before they’d even started, and moved on with a curt request for Dean’s safeword.
“Salt.” Dean said. Right, Sam thought. Of course.
“Look,” Dean was saying, sounding nervous. “Not being funny, but could we just get on with this, please?”
Sam put his hand on Dean’s bare shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze, half reassurance, half warning. It seemed there was some work for him to do in establishing the right levels of respect and trust here.
“What did I say when I came in?”
“I…That you’re here to take care of me.” Dean said, somewhat hesitantly. Sam dug his fingers in a little harder, enjoying the feel of the cool smooth texture of skin over muscle, making Dean hiss a little at the discomfort.
“Then let me do my job, sub. Do you want me to call you that, or do you have a name?”
“Dean.”
Sam raised his eyebrows under the mask, a little shocked that Dean had given up his real name so readily. Though he supposed Dean was giving up a lot more of himself that just his name, here. Sam selected a thin cane from the rack next to the bench and swished it through the air a few times, testing its flexibility. There was something very delicious about the way Dean tensed up again in anticipation on hearing the sound. Sam licked his lips. Swallowed convulsively.
“Let’s get started, then.”
0x0x0x0
Before he had stepped into that dungeon, Sam had told himself this would be scientific, clinical. An experiment that he could use towards his degree. He had been an observer for a week and not felt a single moment of arousal or desire – either sexual or a need to join in any of the activities. He hadn’t felt any urge to administer punishment or receive it before now, so he really hadn’t expected this.
This was Dean.
Made fragile, breakable.
All pale flesh where the sun never touched him; below the neck his skin like cream dusted with golden freckles and golden hair - except for where Sam was laying thin stripes of colour with the cane, watching the blood rise to each stinging touch, creating an intricate latticework of pain across his brother’s back and thighs and buttocks.
This was Dean.
Biting his lips rough and red as Sam moved around him. Holding his breath in anticipation of each stroke, huffing it out as the rod landed. Shuddering and gasping.
This was Dean.
Cock hard and leaking where it hung between his legs; his ass raised, hole clenched around the butt plug Harry had inserted before Sam entered the room.
Sam the intellectual knew BDSM wasn’t all about sex, but.
This. Was. Dean.
And Sam wanted. He wanted to hurt him. He wanted to punish.
Oh god. He wanted to fuck him.
He wanted to hear Dean begging for his cock.
The room was silent except for the swish and crack as the cane hit, and Dean’s harsh breathing echoed by Sam’s. Sam could even hear the faint splash as drops of sweat hit the bare concrete of the floor. He didn’t want to stop, even though he could see Dean was near his limits, and he knew from bitter experience that his brother would never, ever admit he has limits.
Reluctantly, Sam put the cane down and ran a hand over Dean from shoulder to thigh, lingering over the raised welts he had drawn on his brother’s skin, feeling the heat rising from the red-rawness he had created. His fingers slid back up Dean’s thigh and stopped at his crack, fingertips trailing round the edge of the butt plug. Dean shivered under the gentleness of Sam’s touch.
When Sam spoke, it felt as though he’d been silent for days. His voice had dropped into a hoarse whisper that even he didn’t recognise, wrecked as it was with the depth of his desire.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, Dean.”
Dean lifted his head and Sam could hear the harsh inhale. For a fraction of a second, Sam thought Dean was going to say no, it was enough, and Sam even had time to wonder if he would be able to stop now, before Dean was exhaling on a yes please, please, I want, I need…oh god.
The leather of Sam’s cod piece had been pressing so hard on his dick for so long, it felt like heaven just to rip it off and get his dick in his hand. With his other hand he was working Dean’s plug loose and slid in a long finger. Fuck. Dean was so slick and hot inside. So ready for Sam. Dean was moaning now as Sam moved his finger around, found Dean’s prostate, and Sam was frantic. If he didn’t get his cock inside Dean right now, he was going to explode. He grabbed his cock, slicked himself up and didn’t even think about the condom he had tucked into his costume, or the ones he knew were in the drawer in the toy cabinet across the room. He shoved in; harsh, brutal, nearly balls deep in one hard thrust and Dean let him. Dean pushed back as much as he could, restraints straining; a stream of filthy pleading pouring out for more, harder, deeper. Just more.
Sam gripped Dean’s hips so hard he could almost see the bruises forming. He had only one thought left. One command.
“Don’t come till I say you can…” Sam said, and hammered home.
0x0x0x0
When Caesar released Dean from the cuffs and drew him into a huge embrace, Dean didn’t protest like he normally would. Like he always did with Viscount, or the Baron, or Marquis. He didn’t really understand it, but this Caesar guy was different. At once fiercer and more gentle. He didn’t know what to make of it, but at the moment, he was too exhausted to care. Caesar’s chest was firm and his arms well muscled and strong, and Dean allowed himself to relax into the radiant heat the Dom was giving off. Under the pervasive scent of sex, the guy smelled of leather and clean sweat and oil – familiar and safe – like the Impala. Like home.
He didn’t want to dig too deep into why he kept coming here, why he needed this. He just knew that this was something he could control in a life that frequently felt chaotic and painful in ways he couldn’t escape from. Those hurts went too deep and were too ancient and too new to examine closely. They were woven into his flesh and his bones, running through his veins, mingled with his blood. He couldn’t rip them out without tearing himself apart, but he could overlay them with fresh, clean pain that provided the perfect distraction. Here he could lay himself open, spread wide for cane or whip or hand or cock in a situation he had created, taking orders that kept to rules he wrote, and from which he could walk away.
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough, but it was the best he could do.
0x0x End x0x0
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Would love for Dean to find out and Sam just take control. ;)
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wow. hot.
:)
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♡
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This was Dean.
Made fragile, breakable.
All pale flesh where the sun never touched him; below the neck his skin like cream dusted with golden freckles and golden hair - except for where Sam was laying thin stripes of colour with the cane, watching the blood rise to each stinging touch, creating an intricate latticework of pain across his brother’s back and thighs and buttocks.
This was Dean.
Fantastically written, Amber.
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