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writingbyebonio ([personal profile] writingbyebonio) wrote2009-09-29 07:25 am

Fanfic - SPN: Walking Nightmares - Ch. 4: Hurt

Title: Walking Nightmares [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: [livejournal.com profile] eboniorchid

Full Header for the Series

Chapter Four: Hurt

It was freezing and the world was tilted, dark, and wrong. Everything seemed out of focus as he swayed from bare foot to bare foot on the rough slab of darkness that would've been a parking lot if this world had been real. It wasn't, though, and Sammy was watching him from the other side of the motel window, fingers tapping against a latch that they both knew didn't open. The door hadn't been so kind as to stick around, though, even broken. No, it had disappeared altogether.

They were together but utterly alone.

Sam held up his handwritten note for the fifth time or so and, again, Dean tried to decipher what looked like alien gibberish. It rather broke his heart to see the spark of hope fade in his brother's eyes as he had to shake his head sadly for the fifth time. The world lurched for the dozenth time that night, but harder, and Dean staggered, fighting the urge to puke his unreal guts out. Sam's face twisted in an incomprehensible expression, but then he was miming the universal sign for guzzling beer and Dean groaned, almost laughing, wishing it were that simple. He did feel compelled to close his eyes, though, his blinks taking longer and longer, and when Sam started to faux-seriously mime smoking hash, Dean kindly flicked him off, smiling but strangely distant as he gave in to the pressing urge to kneel and make a bed of the darkness holding him up.

He woke up slowly, eyes blinking away the blur of sleep as he realized that he was strapped to one of the chairs from the table and sitting next to the bed. His leather wrist cuffs were bound to each other behind his back, the matching ankle cuffs attached to the front legs of the chair, and his knees were bound spread, with rope from the previous night seeming to tie them tightly out, under the chair, and up to his wrists, making it impossible to close them without seriously straining his shoulders. Not all that much had truly changed, though, because as sleep wore off he could feel the throb of bruises on his back, the pressure of the plug in his ass, and the slick of wet rubber keeping his mouth stretched open. Eventually, his eyes found Sam's, a smile on his brother's lips as he sat in a chair across from him, their knees almost touching.

"Good, you're awake!"

Dean grunted something snide around the gag, amusing himself though it would never be distraction enough from his predicament.

Sam stood to undo the gag, setting it aside as Dean rolled his jaw. "I assume you're going to plead the fifth on that one."

"Where did you learn this trick?" His tongue felt a little thick as he spoke, swallowing to wet his throat.

"The internet." Sam shrugged, his eyes twinkling as he sat back down, barely an arms length away.

Dean let his eyes squint a little, only partway joking. "There's still an internet?"

Sam's mock look of hurt came with a snicker. "Of course, what do you think we are, barbarians?"

Dean opened his mouth and earned himself a slap, though he didn't actually get to say anything.

"I had gifted teachers." Sam was sober again, typical.

"Demons?" He almost regretted it as soon as he'd said it, as if this was just another case, his brother just another supernaturally allied captor.

"It takes all kinds." Sam shrugged, but it came stiffly and Dean noticed the marks of sleeplessness on his face.

Dean was immediately fully awake, shrewd and pushing for answers. "Is that why you have the nightmares?"

A smack fell across Dean's face, going back the other way before he knew to prepare, then two more, harder. He clenched his teeth, but when another slap smashed into him hard enough to make him bite the inside of his cheek, he dropped his eyes and shut up.

"That's more like it." Sam bent over between Dean's legs and started to strap Dean's cock and balls into a cock ring he'd never seen before, one that seemed made to keep everything up, apart, and accessible. Then Sam wrapped his fingers around the base of Dean's soft but vaguely interested cock and spoke very deliberately. "What is this?"

"Uhh …" It seemed an odd question even more oddly timed and Dean's answer became a question. "My … dick … sir?"

"Really?" Sam's expression was amused but somehow cold as he handled Dean's cock. "So you're responsible for this worthless piece of meat?"

"… I guess." He didn't think it was worthless, but from the way Sam's eyes looked at him and it, agreement seemed the best route.

"So it's your fault that this defenseless little thing is about to face extreme punishment for disobeying orders, is that right, whore?"

Dean breathed in deep and let it out slowly, finally understanding though he really wished he didn't. "… Y- Yes, sir."

"Disgusting." Sam pulled his hand away then spat on Dean's cock, making him flinch, then he stood up and spat down on it again, Dean turning his face away instinctually. "Disgusting and worthless. You should have more control than that, whore. There's nothing else for you to do here but be a slut and come when you're told to but not before."

The anger and disappointment in Sam's voice made Dean cringe, his anxiety drenched in anger of his own, knowing that negative energy would be taken out on some very sensitive skin. "Sorry, sir."

Sam walked around behind him, hand wrapping at the right side of Dean's neck, building a visceral link of control that had Dean breathing hard in seconds, eyes closed. "Spit down on that worthless cock for me, whore."

Dean grit his teeth for a moment but slowly opened his eyes and rolled his tongue to gather spit that he let fall from his mouth with a plop that made his body shift with strain, his shame not helped by the way his cock is responding to the chastisement.


Again, he spat on his own cock, working to dampen reactions that he didn't understand.

"Part of me just wants to drench you in filth for failing simple orders with such downright finesse, but … your nothing little dick works fine enough for the moment." Sam bent to lean over Dean's shoulder, letting more spit drop onto Dean's semi-hard cock, then he spoke low into Dean's ear, his intensity making Dean shudder. "It's disgusting that you've been here for as long as you have, that you were a supposedly good soldier for as long as you were, and yet you constantly show just how incompetent you are at following even the simplest of orders, you worthless fucking whore. … You know you need this discipline, but I'll give you time to think about it so I won't have to repeat myself today or tomorrow or the day after that."

Sam moved away and Dean heard the door open and close behind him as he was left alone.

Saliva slipped its way down his shaft and over the curve of his balls until disgusting was how he felt, worthless, though other things seemed mixed up in there too. He should know better, like Sam said. It was fucked up, but it was still true. He could be a good whore- … could earn less punishment, if he tried harder. It was just- … Blinking down at his spit-wet dick, he knew that he kept fucking up because he wanted to be something that he couldn't be anymore, wanted to have something that he couldn't have, and he had to get his head on straight right-the-fuck-now because the ropes and the spit and the interrogation-style talk was nothing compared to what would come next, his dick bruised up like his back.

He had to stop being so careless, had to pay more attention to details, and not just for a moment or a night but … all the time. Things weren't going to get better if he was anything other than good and even though he didn't know how much better things could really get, he had to try, had to stop acting like some ego-punk with a knife in his pocket. Being nothing here, being a whore, meant that he was really the only one looking out for him. So, if he could help it, he wasn't going to be woken up like this ever again.

Eventually, Sam came back into the room. "Have you thought about your discipline this morning, whore?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what are your thoughts?"

Dean wasn't expecting the question, but he inhaled and straightened his back as much as the bonds would allow, handling this like he'd handled hunting mistakes with Dad around. Speak clearly and don't cut yourself slack that you don't deserve. "You're right, sir." He forced himself to really hear the words as he stared straight ahead, giving a soldier's confession though it made nausea spill into his system. "It's … disgusting that I'm … such a worthless whore … that I can't follow directions properly … and that you keep needing to discipline me, sir." He wasn't sure if he believed it, but he didn't think it mattered.

"So, you need special discipline today, isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"What discipline do you need, whore?"

Dean swallowed, but continued to hold his formal posture and tone. "I need to have my cock … … … whipped … sir." It felt like begging to be stabbed in the eye.

"And that will be consequence enough for your disobedience, for letting your worthless cock get out of control?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well … we'll try it for a few days, but if I don't see consistent and immediate behavioral changes, your cock will be put in a lockbox and only let out on special occasions. Is that clear, whore?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Sam went to the toybox and began to gather a few short floggers and various long-handled somethings with various shapes at one end. Then, he set them on the bed and sat on the edge of his chair to look Dean in the eye, though Dean quickly let his gaze drop. "You are my property and you will behave accordingly, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Sam grasped Dean's cock and squeezed. "What is this?"

"My cock, s- …" His cock took a backhanded strike and he gasped.

"The fact that it's attached to you just makes it all the more clear what it really is. Try again, whore. What is this?"

His cock twitched even as his breath stuttered. "… Your property."

"And who controls this property every second of every day?"

"You do, sir." God, how could this make him want to run in the other direction and buck his hips up at the same time.

"That's exactly right, whore. All of you belongs to me all the time."

It was all just smacks at the start, Dean's cock batted lightly or harder, connecting with Sam's palms, Sam's knuckles, and the meat of his own thighs. The flicking and scratching were worse, though, the tips of Sam's fingers thumping tiny bruises down his shaft and around the head of his cock before his nails scraped red welts of unbroken skin around the edges of his veins and out like spokes from the hole at his tip. As he groaned miserably, the aches everywhere but his groin fell away and he watched with mounting dread as Sam taught his wayward cock a dire lesson. Before long, he had to look away to keep from torturing himself with thoughts of momentary physical freedom, his body twitching as if the bindings were the only thing that could keep him from protecting the part of him that most needed help right then.

He saw the way Sam paused to shift his own boxer-clad cock when he struggled and knew that Sam enjoyed fucking with him like this, forcing his surrender with items as mundane as leather, rope, and flesh. The lack of tangible demonic energy meant Dean's gut said he should be able to fight this and each insanity-building ping of discomfort meant he couldn't get his body to listen, even though his mind knew he wasn't going anywhere until Sam was through with him. His wrists, shoulders, and thighs already hurt from the opposing rub and tug of restraints.

"Why do you misuse my property, whore?" Sam almost seemed genuinely interested, but Dean knew there was no good answer to this, let alone a right one.

"I'm- …" He gasped, barely stifling a whine as Sam's middle finger flicked hard against his piss-hole. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry is not and will never be good enough. You fuck up here, you pay in pain. Is that clear?"

Dean shuddered as he watched Sam's hands hover near his cock, letting up their barrage for a moment. "Yes, sir."

Sam tilted his head, the hard line of his mouth tipping into a harsh smirk as his hands shifted, pressing his palms lightly against Dean's inner thighs. The sudden rough scratch of nails there had Dean's knees popping up, thighs clench-releasing. Then the smacks fell hard enough, one thigh then the other, to leave a stinging white handprint where the blood fled only to flush pink again and then onto red as Dean's hips bucked towards his torturer. He found his lips forming prohibited pleas, but he held them off as he closed his eyes and let the pain settle into his system as heat. In minutes that felt double-long, his aching, throbbing cock became flanked by burning thighs, strangled sounds squeezing out of his throat.

Dean was breathing hard enough to dizzy himself by the time Sam relented, slowing his own breathing deliberately as if he could savor Dean's pain through some current in the air. Too scared to look but too scared not to, Dean inched one eyelid open, shuddering in trepidation as Sam reached for a pair of long-stemmed instruments with leather heads.

Sam caught him looking and licked his lips before they tilted into a wicked little smile. "Crops … riding crops … like for disciplining and directing horses."

Dean half-nodded and swallowed, unsure that he would've asked the question on his own and equally unsure that he really wanted the answer, but … he'd fucked up, right? Fucked up in a world where he was a kind of prized work animal. It just happened that his work was sex. Being beaten like an animal was just one of the many perks here, right? He tried not to think about how it would feel as his brother lined the first one up with his shaft, the crop's head a wide loop of black leather like a piece of someone's doubled-over belt. When it finally struck, it only elicited a small gasp from him as the pain was flat with only a hint of sting. Sparing a glance at his brother, Dean worked not to think 'is that all?' as though his brother might hear him. The tilt of Sam's head, though, said Dean's eyes betrayed his disinterested reaction.

"Shit!" Dean nearly yanked his shoulders from his sockets as his knees sprung together after the backhand swing of the crop landed in a stinging crack. Exhaling shakily, his body shouting its distress from upper back to the base of his cock, Dean slowly returned to the required vulnerability of his bound default position. As his mind returned from the realm of pure pain, he glared at his brother, holding his stare steady, teeth grinding, until Sam wound up for the next strike, Dean tensing as the crop whistled through the air. He yelled, eyes squeezed tight, as the crop's tip crashed into his aching cock, from one side and then the other, lower down and higher up, from his tender sac to the sensitive crown which was an angry shade of purple in his mind's eye as he shook and raged and endured. The pause that came too many minutes later didn't last anywhere near long enough and when he felt the slow lick of the second crop, his lungs went into hyperventilation mode.

"Easy. Easy."

Despite his effort, Sam's voice couldn't be soothing when Dean knew that calming down meant Sam would continue his assault. In little time at all, however, the lack of real physical strain let his body sink back into a kind of anxious tingling and his breath slowed. Dean even opened his eyes for a moment, watching his brother watch him, but his gaze kept wandering down to the crop in Sam's hand, its long narrow leather tip reminding him of a wider version of the bull whips he'd seen out West. That frightening reality made him force his eyes back level with his brothers' as Sam's arm rose for the first stroke. He just kept telling himself, 'I will not look down. I will not look down. I will not- …' His eyes snapped shut in agony.

"Ohfuck!" The yelp that sprang from Dean's mouth was an instant echo of the crack that the crop made when it connected with his cock and Sam didn't wait for his breath to return before cracking the crop against him in the opposite direction. The implement whizzed away from him only to swing back before its movements erupted in quick, sharp flicks that made him shout. It felt like the leather tip had been covered in tiny needles, pricking him and drawing away, pricking and drawing away again until he was speechless and breathless, panting as his thoughts whirred incoherently.

Then it all suddenly stopped.

The next sensation on his cock, could only be classified as surreal. The rough but gentle pads of Sam's fingers were tracing gossamer lines of warmth up and down the flesh that had been beaten to heightened sensitivity and Dean groaned, nudging towards the touch that was somehow too much and yet so desired. Pleasure of immeasurable intensity spread like wildfire on every trail that Sam laid down and when Sam smoothly cupped his balls, Dean bit his lip to keep from coming and crying, sensation radiating from there like smoke billowing in a strong wind, covering his cock before fanning to his thighs, his abs, his calves, his chest. His head lolled back over the top of the chairback as Sam began to tenderly stroke his shaft, all of Dean's muscles flexing and straining as his brain worked to determine if this was more than he could handle or everything he wanted. Without any decision, though, he fell into a small rocking pattern with his cock and Sam's hand, letting out a soft sound, not quite a grunt, on every exhale-driven forward thrust until the rising speed made the sound into a string of deep short moans as he fucked his aching needy cock into his brother's fist, edging closer and closer to orgasm, and then … nothing.

Dean's body went limp, sweaty and exhausted from holding onto to too many waves of mounting tension, even if the last one had been mounting pleasure as well. He blinked his eyes open, ready to beg, actively silencing the part of his brain that wondered why the switchover from pain to pleasure was easier now. The miniature flogger that had found its way into Sam's hand, however, halted any words from escaping his mouth.

Calmly and carefully, Sam lay the tiny-tendrilled whip over his thigh and reached for a short length of very thin green rope and a small washcloth that had been buried underneath the other toys. Then he leaned into Dean's lap with a whispered, "stay still," and proceeded to tie a loop under the head of Dean's cock, tugging upwards slightly in a way that made Dean's breath stutter before tying the other end of the rope around the center of the rolled up washcloth. Lifting the cloth to Dean's lips like an offering, Sam gave a little shrug. "You'll want to bite down on something. Just don't pull too hard or- …" He smirked. "Well, I'm sure you can imagine."

For a long moment, Dean was too shocked to make his mouth move and when he finally opened it, to allow in the shove of the cloth and his brother's fingers, he wasn't sure that he was actually breathing. He'd never needed a bit, though he vaguely recalled Sam joking – or perhaps not joking – about it when they'd played with the needles. If Sam was suggesting this then … Jesus Christ, Sam was going to destroy him.

It surprised Dean when he didn't scream as the flogger made its first contact. The tails of this flogger felt nothing like the heavy leather one that Sam used for basic discipline, they were thin and light and soft, sweeping over him with a whisper of sting that gave him a chill like something not entirely unappealing. The lithe strands brushed over the head of his cock, his shaft, his balls, his inner thighs, until his entire groin was alight with a stinging warmth that made his breath rush and the bit remained doughy and unused in his mouth. The brushes grew into swats as Sam began his rounds again and the soft sting graduated into the bite of two dozen tiny whips. Biting down, Dean groaned as Sam's movements picked up speed and strength, pain building and spilling into his nervous system like sharp hot shards of scorched metal splintering away from his cock.

By the end, he was screaming.

His tight-gripped eyelids pressed out hard tears and when the onslaught finally stopped, he found himself rocking, teeth clenched and body strung like an over-tuned instrument. He felt so ready to snap that it shouldn't have been any surprise that he jerked once and then crumbled as Sam gently stroked his cheek, coaxing the bit out of his mouth and untying both ends of the string. Dean sobbed over his inflamed and abused cock, internally begging to end this though he was too afraid to voice his own need. He was for Sam now. His body, his cock, his pleasure, his pain, was for Sam and that was it. He would not, would not, make Sam do this again because he couldn't survive this again. Couldn't, but had to.

The flinch was strictly autonomic when Sam's fingers made even the lightest contact with the base of Dean's cock and when those fingers unlatched the cock ring, the room started to spin with an unbalancing mix of pain and an intense sensation that could almost be pleasure. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, though, when Sam's hand closed around his cock as it had before and Dean's eyes fled back to the safety of lid-locked darkness, his fists clenched as whimpers and moans accompanied every shift of Sam's fist.

It didn't matter if a stroke was feather-light or almost as tight as he usually liked it, every touch made Dean want to curse or cry out and every point of contact became a lit match against his skin, burning him but still pressing him higher. It was the most excruciating yet somehow amazing ride up the twisted ladder of pleasure and pain and he threw back his head when his mind gave out and his body no longer knew what it wanted – stop, no, slow, stop or more, god, please, more.

"Oh god. Oh god. Oh god."

"Beg." Sam knew what Dean wanted before Dean did and Dean begged, grateful and aching for an end as much as for more.

"Please- please- … god please- … Come? Please?"


The word was as harsh as Sam's hand as it clamped tight around Dean's dick and pulled up hard, a strangled shout erupting from Dean as screaming white pain burst into his body on a wash of hot pleasure. His hips slammed upward defying the screeching ache in his shoulders and come flowed in spurts like a heated fountain, up, over, and out, until he was spent and shaking, his consciousness hanging on by a quickly fraying thread.

Sam's soft "breathe" was the nudge that tipped him into the haze.

Even with fog clouding his mind and dampening his body's sense of reality, Dean was distantly aware of Sam releasing him from his bonds and tidying the area, the toys clicking and thudding as they were tossed in the cleaning box or returned to their proper places. The fact that Dean wasn't required to move on his own, or respond, or even just observe, all suited him quite fine. So when Sam lifted his arm like he was a life-sized action figure and put a plate of food in his hand, Dean just blinked at it, both confused and vaguely repelled, as if the food was blue and crawling.

"I don't think I can- …"


Dean snapped his mouth shut, mid-protest, recognizing the tone in his brother's voice. Then he complied, numbly putting one forkful after another into his mouth, chewing and swallowing as he watched Sam go to the closet and pull out a not-so-innocuous black tool box. Seeing Sam sit that box on the bed and begin setting up the machine made Dean's stomach knot, his insides twisting like angry snakes as he shoved more of the ordered food into his mouth, trying not to run and hide from the hell that his life had become.

When Sam stepped back to survey his finished work, Dean swallowed, dropping his eyes as a tremble flooded into his blood. He wanted to open his mouth and say that he was already tired, used, and aching, wanted to stand up and tell his brother that he couldn't handle this today, couldn't handle anymore of anything, maybe for a few days. It wouldn't matter, though, so he silenced himself before even a single sound escaped.

Dean was mute as Sam walked up to stand in front of him, his mind working to remember what resignation felt like and what survival looked like the day before. He wasn't sure, but he knew it was possible to endure, and he just had to remind himself of that as he took this path again and again until he learned or until Sam at least thought he learned.

"You done?" Sam's words almost startled Dean and he peered at the plate he'd been given, now more than half empty but not without food.

He hesitated a moment before pressing through his fear and exhaustion. "I- … Yes?"

Sam didn't even bother answering before taking the plate away and returning to loom in front of his brother.

Dean wanted to ask about what came next, what his orders were today, how Sam wanted him positioned, but he couldn't bring himself to form a single word that would help this day proceed. He just brought his knees a little closer together and lowered his head a fraction more. Whore. Fucked. Punished. Nameless. Worthless. Stupid. Wrong. Whore. Whore. Whore. The words spun through his mind like a skewed and broken record and the aches in his body – back, shoulders, legs, cock – just weren't enough somehow. There was an urge under his skin to hurt more, to hurt differently, to control the hurt and make it work for him. His nerveless fingers scrabbled onto his thighs like furtive mice as he fought to hold himself together while he waited, just waited for Sam to give the order.

He gasped and froze when Sam's fingers slid into his hair, surprising in their near-delicate movement as much as their presence, but whatever kindness this was couldn't siphon off Dean's stress. "I'm looking forward to seeing this longer again."

The fear that silenced him also warned him against being rude even when he didn't know what to say. "… Yeah?"

"Yeah. I remember that summer at Pastor Jim's when you were gonna be the next John Bonham. Until dad came back with clippers anyway." Sam chuckled lightly, but it sat strangely in the air.

The oddness of the whole situation had Dean bunching his eyebrows together, his mind almost too distractedly confused by the conversation to process its previously overwhelming batch of sensations and fears. He responded anyway, factual more so than intentionally humorous, though he could feel something of his former self lighting up again. "You said I looked like a girl."

Laughing softly, Sam shook his head. "You were built like a truck that year ... and with the hair? It was just … distracting."

Dean nodded a little, unsure of quite where they stood right then and if he was supposed to apologize for an infraction of ambiguous seriousness from decades ago.

Sam didn't seem to expect anything, though, because all he did was offer a hand to help Dean up, which Dean was almost thoughtless enough to refuse, the heat rising in the room as he stared at it for long seconds before finally filling it with his own hand and pushing his way to standing. "Come on. I'll help you in the bathroom."

Not thinking or still thinking too slowly, Dean shook his head with a slight shrug and stepped towards the bathroom. "It's okay. I can do it." He wasn't that hurt. It was mostly radiant aches more than focused pain now and a little space would help him realign his mind.

The hand that had helped him up suddenly became a vice-grip and Dean looked back at his brother, startled. "My property needs special care right now and you've proven that I can't trust you to really listen to me, to follow my directions properly unless someone's watching, if then." Sam's emotional detachment seemed complete, his matter-of-fact expression a sharp contrast with his demeanor moments before. "Isn't that right, whore?"

No matter what strange sweetness Sam showed, that lack of trust was what this whole punishment situation was about. He'd lost the use of names, free time, mobility, comfort, and any independence because he rebelled carelessly, instinctively, even if it was only with words, all while he purportedly worked to subdue and re-route his more conscious desires to fight. Sam needed to believe that Dean would do things 'right', as it was defined here and by him.

Dean fixed his lips into a tight line, but acknowledged his brother with a grudging shrug. "I'm trying."

Sam held his gaze, sincere though empty of compassion. "Try harder or the pain will swallow up the pleasure and you will lose yourself for real."

Dean gritted his teeth to hold back the angry retort of 'as if I'm not losing myself already?'


He almost wanted to growl like some untamed canine as he stared at his brother, but just under his anger something nagged him quietly and his mind sped back over his brother's words, finding them more complicated on every pass. Didn't Sam want him lost? No, he remembered moments in life and in dreams that Sam said he wanted Dean as he had been, full of swagger, just … obedient … owned. Who he had been, Dean, could be pleasing as he was, as long as he was controllable, perfectly responsive to his master's reins, but how would that work?

"If you start to be the whore I want, then I can consider decreasing your punishments and returning your privileges. Not before. So, this can take as long or as short a time as you like."

Dean glared at his brother. Leave it to Sam to make this sound like a choice. Still, Dean relented with a huff, looking away.

"Maybe if you're good while I'm cleaning you up and you ask really nicely, I'll let you service me in the shower like before."

That was supposed to be an incentive? Maybe even a privilege? Sucking Sam's dick on his knees in the shower like he'd been forced to for too many days since training?

"Would you like that, whore?" Sam's tone was careful and deceptively soft, but Dean didn't let himself forget what the goal line looked like here.

He had to learn how not to buck against his station, how to consistently remember his place and stay there, even revel in it wantonly. A shiver took him as he shoved his worthless anger away, but he didn't let it stop him. He just nodded, not looking up, and stepped close enough to feel his brother's human warmth, offering his proper answer with his body and his ragged voice. "Yes, sir." He willed himself not to flinch or balk, every shift of his skin reminding him why. "And … thank you, sir."

A good whore would want the hands that wrapped at his hips then, the mouth that overtook his own, the guidance that pulled him across the carpet and into the shower, the attentive touches that washed him like some dirty porcelain doll. A good whore would love the cock that made his knees rub the bathtub floor and the power that made his fingers scrape raw against the tiled wall, leaving swirls of pink to circle the drain even after the water had been turned off. Yet, it was a man just trying to be a good whore whom chains forced to recognize that he was still nameless and punished and wrong. He didn't even try to make sense of his owner's 'reward' for good behavior that morning: a hole full of his come to feel for hours, deep inside and spilling out with sticky lube and trickling sweat, while his worthless, striving man-made-whore spent another day pained and fucked and horrified.

Chapters: 1.Lost - 2.Exposed - 3.Used - 4.Hurt - 5.Modified

[identity profile] deadbeat-nymph.livejournal.com 2009-11-20 07:15 pm (UTC)(link)
God, there's just so much going on in each chapter, in each story, the psychology of it, the character development, it just wows me time and again.

(Also, there cannot be enough spanked Dean, not ever.)

[identity profile] writingbyebonio.livejournal.com 2009-11-22 06:29 am (UTC)(link)
Thank you so much! I'm all about layering and complicating things, so I'm glad that's coming through. :)