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bakerstreet2012-06-27 04:20 pm
ladyboneranon) wrote in bakerstreet2012-06-27 04:20 pm
The BDSM Lifestyle Meme
BDSM isn't all about the sex. Sure, handcuffs, whips and chains, toys, power and control-play can be fun, but sometimes it's about the other stuff too. The little stuff. The ways you and your partner give yourselves to each other every day.
So this is a meme to play out safe, sane, consensual and maybe even non-sexual BDSM.
If you want more information, check out:
The Ten Golden Rules of BDSM NegotiationBe warned: Threads and prompts below may contain triggers, and will contain sexual content.
Sexuality.Org's BDSM Index
The Keys to A Relationship
Extreme Restraints
THE EVERYDAY:
1. feeding: using him as a plate? having her kneel and accept hand-feeding? maybe someone's been very good and should have a tasty reward.
2. bathing: after all, you have to take care of your partner. it's nice to have someone to get lotion in those hard-to-reach places.
3. talking/therapy: how are you going to work out this relationship? what obstacles do you have to overcome?
4. massage: some intimate relaxation.
5. dates: it's good to go out every once in a while.
6. negotiation: to work out what kinks are and are not okay.
7. nonsexual bondage: gags, bridles, chastity belts. some people just like the security of bondage in everyday life.
8. humiliation/in public: take your pet out to show her off; bend him over a bench and spank him for bad behavior.
9. animal play: pony play, pet play.
10. punishment/discipline: someone's been bad. maybe it's time for a time-out. or maybe someone has to clean the bathroom with a toothbrush.
11. other
THE SEXUAL:
1. the light stuff: some handcuffs, some ropes. nothing too extreme. maybe one partner or the other is afraid; maybe it's just time to take a break from the trappings and have some love-making.
2. bondage: chains, or elaborately knotted ropes, or full-body bindings. maybe even suspension in midair.
3. caning/whipping/spanking: for punishment and for enjoyment of the pain.
4. shaving: you like them with smooth skin. no beards, no lovetrail, no hairy legs.
5. piercing/tattooing: a permanent mark of devotion.
6. sensory deprivation: gags, blindfolds, earplugs, to shut out the rest of the world.
7. as therapy: exploring a past trauma or fear.
8. first time: one partner or another is experiencing the kink lifestyle for the first time.
9. kink parties: for casual play. mind the rules; drugs and alcohol are rarely tolerated, and all play must be consensual. or else the host or hostess might get angry.
10. orgasm denial/forced orgasm: until they beg for it, or beg you to stop.
11. ageplay: perhaps someone wants to be treated like a child. maybe a little daddy or mommy kink to go along with it.
12. role-play: taking on roles. master-slave, teacher-student, dragon prince and slave-dancer -- your imagination's the limit.
13. genital torture: pain where you're the most sensitive.
14. electricity: to give things a spark.
15. medical fetish: sounding, stirrups, speculums -- oh, doctor.
16. fucking machines: it'll keep in the same rhythm, no matter how much you beg.
17. other
Please do NOT leave your comment blank! (Blank comments will not be deleted, but we highly recommend that you post something.) Either write a note on desired kinks/undesired kinks or create a scenario or fill out the textarea below:
Steve Rogers | MCU | Closed thread (sorry)
The engines of Tony's private jet roar along in their final descent, and Steve's heart is racing. His eyes are closed, his nails white crescents where his fingers press against the armrests of his seat.
It's not the plane's descent that makes his insides dance with nervousness, of course. When you've been trained in jumping out of planes, been shot at in planes, deliberately crashed planes, just riding in one isn't unnerving. It's the knowledge of what's going to happen when they land.
A lot of planning has gone into this trip--"trip," Steve thinks, because it would be impossible for him to think of it as a "vacation," no matter what the brochures say.
Ahh, the brochures. Those damn bewildering, titillating, shocking brochures.
Steve can't blame Tony for this, and he can't blame himself, so it seems to him that the blame really lies squarely at the feet of the brochures--though maybe that's only testament to their efficacy, arriving in discreetly-wrapped brown paper, a corner of which had just happened to get torn in transit, on a day on which Steve had just happened to walk out to get the mail, so that he just happened to find himself curious about the sliver of colors on the cover of the book within.
Steve is not, certainly, in the habit of opening Tony's mail, not even now, when they've been together in this odd...relationship for enough months that he's stopped thinking twice about the set of his toiletries that he keeps in Tony's bathroom. But this particular package had been addressed to Tony Stark or Current Occupier, which only increased Steve's curiosity.
So he'd angled the package to look inside the torn paper cover as he walked back up the long Malibu driveway. And that, really, was when all of this had started.
What he knows now is that the brochure arrived just as they seemingly do periodically at the homes of the mega-rich--and in particular, at the homes of those mega-rich who have a reputation for their sexual exploits and adventures--part of a line of advertising material of an ultra-exclusive resort company that specializes in catering to the more esoteric and rarefied fantasies of exoticism and eroticism.
This particular mailing (each one, Steve had been given to understand, concerned the offerings of a given private island centered on a particular fantasy theme) featured a...quasi-Renaissance aesthetic of the sort Steve had never seen--never even dreamed before.
There were cobblestone streets and thatch-roofed cottages, bucolic countryside and rolling grass hills. But what had caught Steve's eye was not that: it was the people. Naked women and men--aroused men--their bodies adorned with creative ornamentation, harnesses and straps of leather, being driven by other finely-dressed women and men with whips and riding crops, women and men who instructed their actions and punished their transgressions.
It was...insane, upsetting, disturbing...fascinating. And Steve couldn't stop looking at it.
And then there had been the awkward avoidance, with him and Tony just not talking about it, skirting round and round like they were dancing on the edge of some flame. It had been dizzying, and it only became more so as they danced closer, testing the subject obliquely, always in words that left their true meaning slightly deferred.
It had been a long time before they earnestly agreed to do it, a span during which Steve had quite the opportunity to mull over the whole matter at length and to become utterly convinced that he'd never be able to get those pictures out of his head. What he knows now is that he doesn't know--that the whole experience is unfathomable to him, and will remain so for so long as it is only pictures, for so long as it doesn't extend to his own skin. And he also knows that to do this he will have to trust Tony more implicitly than he's ever imagined.
But since they've made the decision to come here, the information that Steve has received about specifics has been slim--a recommendation on the part of the resort, he understands, and one meant to heighten his own experience during their time there.
He knows--because he needs to, that there are safeguards in place, in case an emergency should require the Avengers to assemble--and he knows that he cannot be branded, maimed, or permanently harmed, but beyond that, he's been told very little. He doesn't know how long they will stay; he doesn't know what he'll be called on to do; he doesn't know if he will even enjoy it.
What he's been told is that it will begin almost as soon as the plane lands. He will be taken to a different part of the island along with the other arriving "slaves," where they will be auctioned: the first thing he has to trust Tony to do is to place the winning bid for him.
jfc the tl;dr. Every single time. I blame you for everything ever.
And sure, they were often advertisements on topics relevant to his personal interests, or at least projected interests, so he hadn't been as shocked as he could have been when that brochure had made its way to his hands the first time a few years ago. Seemingly, when you put out an 'anything goes!' attitude and sleep with a lot of people it pings the curious interest of high-flying kink scene types and out come the feelers. It was hardly surprising, and Tony had certainly found himself in a few scene-like settings in the past, though purely as a spectator with a magnificent poker-face. But hardcore kick wasn't his thing; he just couldn't place himself in any of what he saw with anyone. It was, at least in some cases, more commitment and personal exposure than he was willing to partake in.
Not his thing.
But yeah, that brochure. He'd gotten a few of them over the years, thumbed through it and then tossed it aside with disinterest; not his thing, he'd already established that.
And then Steve. Oh yeah, you bet he blames Steve. Maybe not in any serious way, but he wasn't above gentle teasing. It had been Steve who he'd found looking at the thing, Steve who made that face of confusion that wasn't entirely disgust or disinterest but with enough reserve to step back if Tony displayed revulsion. He hadn't, but he hadn't exactly been enthusiastic either. Nonchalant was more the thing. It wasn't his thing. A shrug,a handwave, and a statement that he'd never been. And the awkwardness that followed.
No, really, it wasn't his thing.
But for whatever reason, in his own time and space, Tony picked the brochure up again and did more than just thumb through it, he read it. Page by page, cover to cover, and let his eyes settle on the stunning, shocking images. And he wondered. And he imagined.
And decided it still wasn't his thing. Until it was. Kinda of. ...It was complicated.
Thinking of it as a dance was not a bad description for what happened, actually, and it was not a quick one either. It had been small steps and brushing the surface of curiosity for sometime, and even when they had decided, out-loud and mutually, that this was something worth trying, it still felt surreal and outside of Tony's scope and comfort zones. So unlike anything he could picture himself taking part in.
Then he actually set things in motion, began the real research. Equipment, common practices, general rules and so on. Then specifics for the resort and company, the setting, standard requirements, commitments, agreements and contracts, all the technical stuff. He booked the dates, got sent the information as Master of the pair (Huh. Well, that was different.) and when that arrived he dedicated a great deal of his time to it. He didn't just want to read the information and guidance on what to expect as a Master on the island, he wanted it committed to memory, to have all the details as and when he needed it without needing to refer to any hard copies at all. He needed absolute control over that.
It wasn't his thing, but it was starting to be, and he wanted to do it right.
And the rest of the research and preparations? Now, that had been fun. That was what had really set things alight for Tony. Designing specialist equipment was his area of expertise in most cases, why shouldn't he extend it to this...project. It was a project on many levels and he brought the same level of meticulous planning to this and to Steve as he would if he were outfitting him for combat. Different direction, same amount of care.
So sitting in the jet, knowing exactly what he had packed for the trip (and what Steve doesn't know), Tony can look as relaxed as anything. He isn't, at least not entirely yet, because this isn't his thing, but he's making his way; putting himself in the right mindset, mentally preparing, outwardly projecting confidence, re-"reading" the guidances in his head.
This one time, this would totally be his thing.
Yes, well.... Less tl;dr once the scene's is set? Maybe?
He could literally walk into a war zone with less worry than this--in fact, he has done, and if he were doing so now, this would all be a lot more familiar. Hell, it might actually be a lot easier.
But isn't that, at least in part, why he's doing this: because he's not sure if he can? In some ways, this whole venture feels to him like a way of testing himself, of surpassing the limits of his own endurance. No matter what they do to him, Steve doubts that there will be anything he can't physically fight his way free of, which means he won't be able to rely on physical restraints. He has to rely on his own determination to do this, and nothing else.
He's reminding himself of these things as they step off the plane and into the bright, warm, sun. There are people waiting to meet them on the tarmac, and Steve is almost surprised to find that they are dressed in normal, casual clothing--soft cotton, flannel, khakis.
A muscular, dark-skinned man watches him as they approach. He's the sort of man who exudes an air of calm self-assurance, the sort of man who Steve would usually have no trepidation about meeting. But now his pulse thunders in his ears. He looks towards Tony for a moment before the man greets him (and notably, only him): "Steve? Come this way, please," and he gestures towards a low, plain building a short distance away.
What, that's it? Just like that? Steve actually purses his lips to speak but then stops himself. He's been told to expect this, hasn't he? And yet the suddenness is disconcerting nonetheless. He looks at Tony once more and maybe, just maybe, he looks a bit worried, but he can't think of a single thing that would feel right to say.
He swallows hard and, with a little nod and an "All right," he follows.
We can always dream, but I'm not holding my breath.
He does give Steve a look out the corner of his eyes though, acknowledging the passing look of concern over his team mate's face and forcing himself not to react to it. He isn't the coddling type on the best of days, and certainly not to Steve who he knows better than that, but the context here is already very different. He knows, at least in some conceptual terms, what is going to happen to Steve over the course of their time here and the challenge for Tony will be to maintain his role in all of this too--to not treat Steve as Steve or even as human, and also to not let his feelings about their relationship (whatever that is, exactly, because that is it's own kind of incredibly complicated and largely intuitive rather than declarative...thing.) get in the way role Tony was occupying. It's going to be a challenge and one that Tony is not without concern over.
He keeps his eyes on Steve as he follows, not saying a word or giving even the slightest hint of a nod.
"Mr Stark," came another man's voice to Tony's right. Ah, so this is Tony's version of the escort now. Fun. The greeting finally draws Tony's attention away from the direction Steve has been lead as he turns to engage in the greeting, briefly and settling-in process.
Over the years Tony has dealt with all kinds of people, from high flyers to anti-war activists, from government officials to kid-fans of Iron Man, but he has adapted himself to deal with all those social interactions with an air of absolute confidence and control because he has always had absolute confidence and control in himself. This is unlike anything he has ever experienced. Here, there is a lot of second hand experience that he familiarised himself with and a lot of research and practice without Steve around, but that doesn't translate to actual lived experience of any of this situation. It isn't a fund-raiser, it's not a court hearing, it's not a board of directors meeting, it's nothing that he can just put up a mask of bravado in front of and sweep everyone along with his whims. This is actually a situation where he has to admit, at least to himself, that he's out of his depth and needs to keep his mouth shut and listen, really listen and absorb.
If this had just been about him Tony might have found that difficult, but what keeps his mind focused on what is being said to him, during the casual walk to accommodation he had selected during the booking process, is that this actually isn't about him. If Tony messes this up it's not on his head (like it usually is), it's on Steve's. Steve needs to be Tony's main responsibility and considering someone else first and foremost for someone like Tony is not a small challenge.
But he does his best, only interjecting needlessly once or twice as he is guided though the centre square of the island's picturesque village. What strikes Tony is how much he currently contrasts with the space he's in; the village itself is almost like a renaissance fair but somehow with far more verisimilitude than he would have expected and felt, even to pass through, like an actual lived-in space rather than a temporary tent village. And while he's not dressed in a pressed suit and shined shoes (in this case, a far more casual look of a light t-shirt and pants) he can't help but feel like a bit of the contemporary world left on the set of a period drama, like a coca-cola can in Pride and Prejudiced or something.
So he's almost grateful to get out of public square and into the house on the outskirts of the village that would be his living space for the duration, and only Steve's for select periods. Well, that's an odd feeling in and of itself.
After exchanging the final pleasantries, checking that there were no further questions at this time and that Tony had all the information he would need for the time being, the man shakes hands with Tony one last time and makes his exit, leaving Tony alone finally.
Normally, twee aesthetic isn't Tony's thing and there is no way to call the house he's in anything else, but this was what was on offer and so Tony had selected the space that would most closely suit his needs. And it's a nice space, make no mistake of that: well-tended to, very old European, lavish furnishings and appropriate décor. It would work. But it feels very big and empty to Tony as walks through in a bid to familiarise himself with the space, eventually finding himself in the bathroom washing his face in cold water in something of a daze.
Closing his eyes and resting his hands on the edge of the sink, Tony mentally runs through the agenda for the day that he knows of, very aware that in a few hours the auctioning would begin and Steve would-- He swallows thickly, water dripping down from his eyelashes and off his chin before he glances up at himself in the mirror. A couple of hours feels both like an eternity away and way too soon. In a couple of hours he needs to be firmly in role, in the right clothes, right mind-set doing what he needs to do. He stares at his reflection for several long seconds.
"So," he says to himself "Buying a horse, huh?"
He shakes his head and gives a low chuckle in disbelief at himself, eyes lowering.
"Better get yourself together, Stark. You know I suck at pep-talks."
A silence follows, then he looks back at himself again and gives a short snort through his nose and a nod.
"Let's do this."
And moving away from the bathroom, he starts to get ready.
LOL At this rate, you're probably right.
From the outside, the building had looked utilitarian, almost ugly, in the way that airport buildings often do: a gray, single-story, long house that receded towards the edge of a hill, beyond which Steve could not see. Inside, the hallway could have passed for part of the lobby of a high-class hotel.
Steve's guide (who has offered no name), gestures for him to enter through one of two doors ahead, instructing him in that same calm, confident tone: "Go in there and undress. Take everything off. You can leave it there in the room. It will be collected and held for you until your departure. Once you are ready, press the blue 'call' button on the table. I'll meet you on the other side."
Still feeling very strange and slightly light-headed, Steve nods, and steps through the door, finding himself in a tidy and well-appointed dressing room, with a heavy brocade curtain covering the door on the far wall.
Having spent time in the army, Steve is of course used to the idea of being naked in front of other men, in front of doctors, and as part of examinations. But the opulence here makes the experience of the environment so wholly different that it's hard to compare the two. There's no shortage of mirrors all around him, for one thing. Even the hangers provided for his clothes are a fine-quality polished wood, and Steve feels a bit out of place standing there naked preparing to push the blue button.
But he does it, and a low chime sounds, and a moment later he hears his guide's voice through the curtain. "Stand facing the far wall, please," which Steve does, with some uncertainty.
He hears the curtain move aside behind him and then, he's rather surprised, a soft cotton sheet is wrapped around his hips and secured carefully in place, offering him an unexpected modesty. He looks around to his guide, whose attire is different now too: he is shirtless, wearing only loose linen pants and no shoes, and Steve can see that he is well conditioned. There's a slightly softer expression on his face now, subtle, but different.
"This way," he says, and leads Steve into the hallway beyond, into a stretch where the walls and floor are lined with tile. There are cubicles along one side, each with a curtain across the entry, and Steve is led to one and shown inside. There's a large claw-footed bathtub there, with the water already drawn and burbling slightly with spa bubbles.
Pulling the curtain closed and reaching around him from behind, the guide unwraps the sheet and nods toward the tub. Momentarily taken aback, Steve steps into the warm water, but he's surprised to find his guide taking a seat on a low stool next to him as he does.
"This is your first time here," the man says, lifting a sponge from a shelf of bath salts and oils. "There are some things you'll want to know, and you can ask me questions, if you like, while we're here."
"You'll come through the bathing house whenever you arrive and when you leave. Most people think of it as a sort of ritual, stepping in and out of their everyday world, leaving some parts of themselves behind to take on others.
Once we leave this building, you shouldn't speak, and certainly not where any of the Masters or Mistresses might hear you." He reaches for Steve's arm casually, scrubbing it with the sponge. It's obvious that he's done this many times before.
"What's your name?" Steve asks, feeling like he has so many questions he doesn't know where to begin.
"Alec. But we don't use names here. No one but me and the Master you arrived with will know your name unless you choose to tell them. Some choose to use pseudonyms during their stay. They feel that it helps them. Masters and Mistresses will simply call you slave or...more colorful nicknames.
"Lean forward and let me wash your back."
Feeling only more disoriented by the minute, Steve complies. "You work here?"
"In a sense. I've lived here for nearly two years. A friend brought me along for a holiday and I...simply didn't want to leave. Everyone's different though. You'll be able to tell: some people come here just for the act, and you can see how they stay aloof; they don't let it touch them so nothing really changes. It's like they've stepped into a closet to put on a costume and act out some part in it, and that's what they like. Others take it more seriously."
"I've never done anything like this before," Steve admits, his nerves not dissipating at all, in spite of the information.
Alec smiles at him. "Well, you know, everything that happens here is artifice. But then, truth is structured like fiction. It's through fantasy that we learn our desires. But you have to be willing to take the lesson. You'll learn something about yourself here, and that's what makes people nervous: not everyone wants to know." The sponge has worked its way across Steve's neck and over his shoulders now, and Alec is guiding Steve to sit back as he scrubs his chest. "You should let yourself enjoy this," he advises. "It's slaves who tend to each other here, on the Masters' and Mistresses' orders."
"I'm not sure I can think of myself as a slave," Steve admits truthfully, turning over all of what Alec has said in his mind. It feels convoluted and contradictory, like a riddle he lacks the clues to decipher. He has known that he will have to come to terms with all of this--with his body being on display, with the embarrassment of people seeing and...touching him--but the reality feels vague and diaphanous, like it's happening to someone else rather than to him. But then, at least those are feelings that he knows well enough from his own history, even if it has been years since he last felt them.
"Of course not," the man smiles again so that Steve wonders if he may not be the first to voice this kind of doubt, "You haven't been made one yet."
I'm always right :)
Seeing the types of clothing that were really out there had been an eye-opening experience for Tony and he can easily recall the chuckling sounds he'd made at some the outfits and the vague disbelief that anyone even wore some of that stuff let alone found it sexy. But he'd found a corner of fetish fashion that was more suited to his tastes and from that point on it was a much easier affair. In the end he'd dedicated a surprising amount of time and energy (and an unsurprisingly large amount of money) on a specific wardrobe for the entire event. And it isn't all for him to wear.
But to start with something simple would work nicely. He opts for a pair of black soft leather pants, comfortable black shoes, and a body-hugging shirt which zips up the middle through an intricately detailed centre panel of material and laces up on either side through small silver hooks. Standing in front of one of the large ornate mirrors in the house, Tony regards himself critically, his thumb and forefinger stroking thoughtfully across his face as he absently shakes his head. How is he supposed to get used to this? It isn't that he looks bad--and he knows it, humble as he is--but it somehow feels ridiculous. Somehow. He can't pinpoint how or why, maybe it's just nerves. He really doesn't have time for nerves: there's the Master and Mistress's lunch to attend, directly followed by the auction.
There is no time to indulge that little trembling part of him that wanted to just call the whole thing off now before anything goes wrong. That was the deal, though: if they did this, if they came to this island together, there was no backing out until the very end. As soon as Tony had first stepped onto the tarmac of the airport he knew turning back was not an option, so he blanks the petulant internal whimper and pushes it to the back of his mind.
The lunch itself is actually the easy part. Dining, small talk, rubbing shoulders with other rich-types, that he's very used to. There's no disillusion in Tony's mind as conversations form and merge across the table: most of them know exactly who he is. Yes, he recognises a few faces too (small pool, remember?) but neither in a personal nor professional capacity--different corners of the rich-people sky. But he can tell who knows him because he's so used to it; it's in the way he's looked at, whispered about, nodded to, spoken to. People aren't subtle and for the most part he's glad of that. This is the stuff he's used to, even if the topics of conversation are not. Types of slaves, past experiences, preferred equipment, that sort of thing. That isn't everything being discussed, fortunately, and he is surprised by how easy it is to tell the first timers at the table from those who have done this god-knows how many times. But man he hopes he doesn't look as nervous as the others. He's pretty sure he doesn't--he has an excellent poker face. Still, when the Mistress to his left leans in to say "I've not seen you here before," what she actually means is "I would never have expected to see you here, Tony Stark," or perhaps "It's about time you stopped by, Mr Stark."
But he's not going by Tony here, or even Mr Stark outside of the brief introduction early on. The strict non-disclosure contracts they were required to sign meant that he doesn't need to worry about information leaks, but the choice to extend a hand with with a greeting of "Yeah, I guess not. Hi. Edward, a pleasure," is a concious one on his part. He's not pretended to be someone else, he's still every bit Tony Stark in conversation as he would be back home, but he wants to establish some separation at the same time. He doesn't want to be spoken to about Iron Man, or weapons, or attacks on New York city, or women he's slept with, or anything like that. That isn't what he's here for.
He's almost outwardly surprised to see how easily that is respected as the light lunch continues. Almost. He recovers very quickly and falls smoothly back into the casual conversation with its low level of excited energy brewing between the people dining at the table.
Oh is that so? /eyebrow
But letting someone dry him seems even more strange to Steve than letting himself be washed, and that had been odd enough already. It's hard for him to stand still for it, and it makes him feel awkward and self-conscious when Alec kneels down to dry one leg and then the other.
He's...very thorough. He towels Steve off from head to toe, and there's no hesitation when it comes to Steve's genitals, only a passing instruction for him to spread his legs, an instruction which takes Steve several shocked moments and an internal struggle to comply with. It doesn't feel invasive though, and it's only the towel that touches him, not bare hands.
When he's dry, Alec wraps the sheet around him once more, and leads him out, further down the corridor. Steve can hear soft voices coming from behind other curtained cubicles, and he realizes that there must be others just recently arrived within.
The next room that he is led into is another dressing room--again, opulently furnished, filled with mirrors, and stocked with a bevy of oils, lotions, and colognes. The sheet is removed and Steve's hair is neatly combed and styled. He's beginning to feel disorientingly pampered--less like a man and more like some prized pet.
Alec has selected a bottle of oil, which he uncorks, pouring between his palms. It smells of spices Steve can't quite place--bergamot, maybe? But he's not afforded much time to think on it before it's being rubbed over his skin, smoothed across the muscles of his chest and stomach, over his arms.
There's nothing clinical about this application. Alec's hands are skilled, but his touch also lingers in places just a moment too long for Steve to ignore. He feels like he's being polished to a deep shine, and it becomes harder to stay still for it as the touches move down: shoulders, lower back, buttocks--he jumps slightly as though to move away, and Alec makes a reproachful noise of the sort one might use with a disobedient animal that has misbehaved even though it has certainly be trained better.
Steve resolves to stand still and allow it because...well, it's what he's resolved to do, but it's hard for him to let the work continue. He hesitates when he's again told to spread his legs though, a little battle waging inside of him before he manages to comply. Alec's oiled hands work their way up his inner thighs, and Steve knows what's probably going to come next, even though he can't know for sure that it will until the moment that it does: the man's fingers slide up more intimately.
"Bend over and hold onto the bar," Alec instructs, indicating a brass railing affixed like a ballet bar to the mirrored wall before him. Again Steve hesitates, for longer this time, and he gives the other man a conflicted look, uncertain what to do with his inner struggle. He hasn't even properly begun with all the things that will happen to him here, and already it's shockingly hard to make himself comply--and Alec has no more tried to command him than a doctor might command a patient.
Steve has had no idea that this would be so difficult, and he wonders if maybe he's made a dreadful mistake thinking himself capable of it.
"It's all right," Alec says, though clearly meaning only that he's willing to coach Steve through it, not that they don't have to proceed. "You need to be groomed all over--it's not the last time this will happen. You might be called on to do it to another slave too at some point. It gets easier though, and it will make things easier for you, this happening for the first time while you're in here."
Still it takes Steve several seconds before he relents and bends forward, arms outstretched and hands on the bar before him, legs spread in a way that will, he's sure, give Alec a shamefully uninterrupted view of his most private parts.
The man places a hand on his hip as he slides his fingers between Steve's legs, oiling the skin of his scrotum, and then farther back. Mercifully, Alec talks while he works, giving Steve a small way (though, given the subject matter, it is very small indeed) to distract himself from the mortification of it all. "You're going to be an exceptionally popular slave while you're here. The ones with the beautiful bodies always are. They won't be so patient with you when you're on the auction block though. The auctioneer will want to show you off. He'll want everyone to see how willful you are." His forefinger is brushing the rim of Steve's anus now, and Steve is aware of the digit's renewed slickness. The thought of what's probably going to happen next makes his breath uneven, though not with desire.
The finger presses in and Steve feels his face heat. Even when Tony has been the one to do this, it still always leaves him feeling a kind of embarrassed trepidation. "The audience loves it when we struggle or fight. It gives a good show, and the slaves do it sometimes--even the most seasoned ones--because they know they'll be 'forced' in the end. Some of us enjoy a good struggle. Others are more subdued.
"You can stand up now," and the finger is withdrawn, leaving Steve to feel the slickness it's left behind.
But then Alec is standing in front of him again, and he's got a tape measure in his hands. Steve opens his mouth to protest when the man reaches for his genitals, but then snaps it closed again. He has no idea why he's being measured, of course. Not until Alec pulls opens a drawer to display an array of polished steel rings and selects one of the designated diameter.
Steve balks. "Whoa. Um. Okay--I don't think that I... How about we just skip this part."
"You've never worn a cock ring before, have you? They're going to want you to be hard for the auction. They expect it almost all the time, in fact. This will help."
The answer makes Steve's mind swim, and though he's not sure he's ready when he feels Alec's hand on him a moment later, he also doesn't think he knows what "ready" would really feel like anymore. The metal is cool against his skin and surprisingly heavy, and the way he's being touched--his balls and cock carefully squeezed through the metal ring--makes Steve go crimson.
He can't believe that he's allowing this. He can't believe he's just standing here for it. He tilts his head back, looking up at the mercifully un-mirrored ceiling, and he murmurs a low soft "Fuck" when Alec begins to stroke him into hardness and he comes to life in spite of himself.
He's known that this will happen to him--on some level, without knowing where or when or how, he's known that to come to this island is to agree to have his body displayed for the sexual appetites of others. It's only a reasonable extension of that to expect that his arousal will be induced for, and even by, them. But even if he's known these things, he'd somehow avoided imagining the particulars, maybe because there's no way he could have imagined these particulars. He certainly couldn't have imagined how he feels drawn further and further away from himself the more he hardens, so that finally, when he looks into the mirror again, he feels almost unrecognizable--his skin glinting golden and the light seeming to catch and accentuate each contour of muscle and each downy curl of hair between his legs, his erection jutting out, rosy and flushed, from the polished steel ring.
It's not the first time in his life that Steve has seen himself in a mirror and felt a fundamental jolt of alienation at the foreign appearance of his own skin, but it is the first time in quite a long while.
Before they leave the room, Alec laces Steve's feet into soft leather boots that reach mid-way up his calves. They don't make him feel any more clothed, to be sure. In fact it feels more that they only remind him of how bare the rest of his body is.
Yep. Always. Never wrong in my life. Except for those few times where I was. Oops.
"Well it's about time they brought us the finger food," she scoffs playfully with a nod behind Tony on his right. He has a moment of confusion at the comment, but the instinctive glance over his shoulder in the direction she indicates explains everything rather quickly.
Filing into the dining area were, Tony quickly summarises, the island's own kept slaves, each with a tray offering some kind of refreshment to the island's guests. They glide along the sides of the long table, mixed sexes and all in a strange state of uniformed outfitted nudity: shining black leather lace-up hoof-esque boots that reach half-way up the calves and force the wearer to walk on the balls of their feet, long silky tails matching the hair colour of each slave flowing out from between each slave's buttocks (presumably held in place with a buttplug), and very little else.
In truth Tony hasn't been preparing himself for this kind of encounter quite yet. He can’t figure out if he is expected to do anything in relation to the evidently well-trained slaves offering drinks and light snacks from their gleaming silver trays. It isn't like Tony is new to the idea of mostly (or entirely) naked people (women more specifically) milling around and serving him--he'd certainly been to a decent number of strip joints while trying to do business with clients in the past--but this is different. The difference is in the air itself, the mood of the room, the way the slaves move, and look, and speak. Or don't. Strippers look right at you and talk to you, the slaves do the opposite, even when they're being directly addressed.
Their oiled skin shines in the light of the dining area, showing off every contour and body movement perfectly. Their footsteps clip audibly as they walk from the way the boots are fashioned and momentarily the casual chatter between the Masters and Mistresses dies down as eyes fall on the slaves performing their duties.
This is, Tony realises, the transition period for the Masters and Mistresses. It's the period where they are lead from whatever lives they live outside the island into this one for a limited amount of time, and for the second time since they arrived Tony feels that churn of uncertainty in his stomach. Is Steve going to look like these slaves? Are others going to be looking at him the same way they're eyeing up these men and women--these pony-boys and pony-girls? And hey, these are clearly pony-girls and boys lite; no harnesses or bridles and bits, just a few additions that made the implicit theme explicitly present.
There's some movement from the more experienced doms, the patting of thighs and buttocks, stroking of hair and tails, caressing of cheeks and jawlines. Very petting zoo. A warm up. It makes Tony a little light headed.
Fuck, he's never been more grateful for the drink that's offered to him by a strapping, tall male slave, who he lightly pats twice on the muscular upper arm as his simultaneously crashes the edge of the glass to his lips, eyebrows raised as he nods a few times. It's very impersonal and detached even while he’s expressly interacting, like how he'd be with a regular waiter at a party when he was gasping for a scotch but with more...naked. More kink.
He can't take it seriously, not entirely at least--it just feels so much like something other people do out there somewhere in the world and he hears about at some party. You know, the tales that start with "So I dated this girl this one time, and you'll never guess what she was into..." or "I caught this show this one time. Man, you should have seen it!" It hasn't sunk in for Tony that he's actually physically here yet, even with all the planning, all the hands-on work that's gone into it on his end, he still feels strangely detached from himself.
After having gotten up to examine a small but beautiful female slave with honey-coloured skin and long black hair, Mistress Villeneuve returns to her seat beside Tony with an undeniable buzz about her, eyes glittering, mouth quirked into a cheerful smile.
"You're not taking advantage of the sample session? Does nothing here interest you, Edward?"
Keeping his lips to the glass, Tony's eyes continue to slowly scan the room, over each slave in turn and largely blanking any physical attention they may be receiving from the doms in the room. The glass hides the frown on his lips but not the creasing of his eyebrows and once he realises this he lowers his hand and gives a light shrug.
"Nope. I have something else all picked out already. Nothing here. Different model," Model? Was he thinking of Steve as a car now? Christ...
The woman's smile widens as she rests her forearm upon the armrest of Tony's chair.
"Well, I'll be very interested to see what your type is, exactly. I have to imagine she must be something fairly special if nothing in the room right now can capture your interests."
The alcohol is beginning to help take the edge off. He knows his limit in this space, but enough to help him breathe a little easier, to help him get over the initial shock and use the moment to properly adjust his mind-set, and to get a better handle on that confidence of his. He draws in a slow, deep breath through his nose then cocks his head to one side to give the Mistress a steady look as his lips pull into a pleased smirk.
"Special doesn't even begin to cover it."
Like I said, we're basically writing parallel fic here. It'll get less tl;dr eventually.
Given how embarrassed he is by this whole scenario, he's certain that his erection would have--should have--subsided already. But the cock ring seems not only to hold his hardness, it also just feels arousing: its pressure is strangely and subtly stimulating every time he takes a step. And there's a mental element to it too, an awareness of just how kinky, how perverse, it is--a foreign-feeling exoticism that tugs him away from himself and toward a place of fantasy. And the next things that happen only speed him on that route, though each comes with a new internal struggle of its own.
Alec leads him down the corridor and through a doorway into a huge open room that Steve's mind can only associate, however loosely, with an empty gymnasium. There's a central arena with a low wall running the length of its perimeter, leaving a sort of walkway around the outer edge. At the top of the room, where they've entered, the intervening area is broader, lined with wooden cabinets and shelves on which are set a dizzying variety of harness-like leather straps and bindings with well-polished buckles and fixings.
Speechless at the sight of it, Steve watches Alec step back to look at him, and then lay a hand on his arm in a way that, though he says nothing, seems clearly to convey the notion that he's chosen "just the right thing."
From one of the cabinets he draws out an appliance of dark brown leather with brass buckles, one which, Steve realizes vaguely, matches the soft brown of his boots. Steve can't picture what it's for or how it's meant to be worn, but he'd have to be a fool not to anticipate that it's going to be put on him.
"Stand with your arms behind your back, palms flat together," Alec says.
But Steve doesn't do so. He just gapes at him.
He's agreed to let Tony do these things to him--agreed in the abstract. And he's chosen to come here as part of the arrangement that they've made together. Yes, of course, there would be other people about. Steve has always known that, but in his mind, the other people were...atmosphere. He's always imagined them in the background. Certainly not touching him like this! Not...putting him into restraints!
Tony isn't even here! How can anyone expect Steve to just...just....
It seems almost ironic to him, given how much he's permitted so far--the bathing, the touching, the oiling, allowing himself to be stroked into hardness, all by a complete stranger. Even if Steve does, on some level, have a long history of experience with submitting his body to clinical examination, testing, and use by scientists and military men, even if he has an impressive threshold for allowing all sorts of tactile manipulations, sometimes-invasive palpations and procedures, none of those have ever been prurient in their goals. No one was wanting to get him aroused so that they could put him on display and stare at him like some...he doesn't even know what.
None of that, he realizes, ever made him feel this kind of exposed, this kind of vulnerable. Not physically vulnerable, of course. He's still confident that he can fight his way out of anything that truly crosses the line for him. But vulnerable before the look of...of who?
There's no one here with him now but Alec--a man who's already touched and looked at him so intimately that it makes Steve blush just to think about it. Alec has been oddly professional through all of this, and Steve doesn't doubt that he will continue to be. There's nothing lascivious in the way that Alec looks at him, no teasing and certainly no lewd comments.
Even exposed as he is, Alec, Steve realizes, does not make him feel vulnerable.
But still there's the lingering awareness of the why: what is the objective behind all this outfitting and preparation? It's not for some greater good, this time. It's not to uphold some value or principle. It's purely and simply for the sexual pleasure of others--not just Tony, but everyone else who would see him too, who would look at him as part of the greater tapestry of their experience here, just as they would, of course, become part of the same for him.
Alec doesn't rush him. He simply waits, and presently, to his own shock, Steve relents. He can do this. He's stood up against harder things in his life than this, and he's not going to start backing down now. Not when this was his choice, an action he's set for himself to do.
Taking a deep breath, he places his hands behind his back, not with hands loosely clasped as he would if he were standing at ease, but in a strange inversion of standing at attention, and he feels Alec move around behind him.
The first two straps pass over his shoulders and cross over his chest, attaching in the back between his shoulder blades. He can feel where the anchor point rests, and the first two cuffs, buckled around his biceps, link to it. They're softer than he might have imagined--the leather is padded so that it doesn't dig into his skin when it's pulled tight. And then the next pair of cuffs, just above his elbows, another around his forearms, and then the pair around his wrists.
Almost on reflex, he tests the sturdiness once the binder is in place. It stretches his shoulders, forcing him to stick his chest out, and though he could break free if he tried, he'd have to set his mind to it. In fact, the thing would afford him a fair degree of struggle, he thinks, if struggle was what he wanted to do. And a moment later, he reconsiders whether it might be.
Alec has taken a long stiff driving whip from one of the cabinets, and Steve's eyes are immediately wide with shock. It has a long sturdy shaft of polished wood, a leather-wrapped grip, and a lash that's nearly half its length over again, but Alec holds it casually, as though it's an everyday sort of thing to use on a man (which, Steve supposes, for him perhaps it is).
"I'm going to show you something of how they'll want you to move," he says, equally calm and casual. "It's only a taste, not a proper training. That will come in the village. Now, come onto the court with me," and he leads the way through a gate in the wall so that they're standing together on the dark burnished wood floor from where Steve notices the high angled mirrors that make him visible to himself from practically every direction.
"The most important thing is for you be proud," Alec is telling him. "That's what will be hardest to remember at first. I can tell that you're embarrassed already. You think you look ridiculous." (And Steve wonders when he says it if he's really been that obvious, because that is, indeed, exactly what he thinks--ridiculous and obscene.)
"You don't though. You look stunning, and everyone who's here will think so. This is what's hardest when you're new. You're just waiting for the laugh that will break all the tension, and you're holding out in case you're the brunt of the joke. It's like that for everyone. But no one here is going to make a fool of you."
Looking into the man's bright eyes as he speaks, Steve can tell that he's not lying, and the words do indeed reach something inside of him that's been coiled taut, but he must admit that the reassurance only goes so far to allay his tension. It seems that Alec is not going to spend too much more time on assurances though.
He takes a few steps back so that he's standing just beyond the reach of the whip, which he now shifts in his grasp. "You should always move at a sharp march, with your knees high. Eyes forward, and don't turn your head to look at me. Go ahead, let me see you try."
Steve gapes at him for a moment, suddenly feeling a renewed rush of absurdity which makes what he's been told just moments ago seem painfully ironic. But Alec seems to actually be serious about this, and after several seconds, Steve closes his mouth, takes a several breaths to steady himself, and then marches forward about half a dozen steps before pausing.
"Go ahead. All the way around."
But marching has never felt so hard to Steve in all his life, and this is like no marching he's ever done. He has to reach into a whole different storehouse of fortitude to make himself do it, and, moreover, to keep himself going once he starts: he can feel his erection bouncing and bobbing with each step he takes, and with his arms bound behind his back, it effectively leads him. The whole idea of it is mortifying, and Steve knows even without a glimpse in the mirrors, that he's blushing crimson.
Alec, however, is praising him, encouraging him, telling him to lift his knees higher, and then, suddenly, there's a sharp sting and the lash of the whip lands right on the side of his buttocks, and he balks, stops dead, and stares at the man holding it like he must actually be out of his ever-loving mind. "What the Hell--?"
Calmly, Alec shakes his head at him. "You have to keep going when that happens. Don't stop, and don't look at me. You should never turn and look at whoever holds the lash. It's seen as very resistant."
Steve is indignant. "But what the Hell was it for?! You could have just said if you wanted me to do something."
"It isn't always for something, Steve. Sometimes they'll want to see you flush or go faster. Sometimes it will just happen. Now, again."
There's a deep frown on Steve's face for several seconds as though he might argue or protest, but he's beginning to understand that Alec's role here is to acclimate him to sensations, not to justify their existence. Ironically, in that sense, the whole experience is bizarrely reminiscent of basic training in the Army: you do first because you are told to do, and it's only over time that you begin to appreciate the full importance of your having done so.
So he marches again, and this time, when the lash of the whip stings his thigh, he keeps going in spite of it, and when he's told to move on faster, he steps up to march in double time, and lets the lash catch him across the backside without pause, continuing until Alec is pleased, and again instructs him to walk. And when he does, Steve is rather shocked to discover that, not only is his erection not flagging, he actually feels harder than ever.
At the final door to which Alec leads him, they pause. "And here is where I shall leave you, though I do have one more thing for you first."
From a drawer beneath a side counter, he takes what Steve recognizes immediately as a gag. The ball at its center is large, but hollow, and perforated with holes. But the sight of the thing still makes Steve tense, and for the first time he sees something almost like amusement enter the other man's eyes.
"You'll thank me later," he says as raises the ball to Steve's mouth and slips it into place, leaving Steve to wonder at the willingness with which he opened his mouth to allow it. Given how tightly Alec fastens the buckle, Steve is certain he'd have no easy time working it free, but though it stretches his mouth so that he can't possibly speak a single word around it, it doesn't impede him drawing breath.
At last, Alec steps back as though assessing the full effect of his work, and then, satisfied opens the final door for Steve to walk through.
Around the gag, Steve swallows hard, his tongue and his throat having to work awkwardly to do it. He realizes that he doesn't know how long it's been since he entered the building; he realizes that he somehow scarcely feels like the same man who walked through the front door; he realizes that he can't tell Alec goodbye or thank him for attending to him so thoroughly. And then he realizes that he's not supposed to say thank you.
Still achingly hard and hyper-aware of the steel cock ring, his arms bound firmly behind his back, his body oiled, and his mouth forced open so that he cannot speak a word, Steve realizes the full degree of his trepidation, the extent to which he's been relying on his guide--the extent to which he wants someone to anchor and instruct him, because he's not sure what he's about to walk into when he steps through this door, but he's damn certain it isn't Tony. And he realizes, too, just how badly he wants to see him.
So that's what he reminds himself: when he gets through this, then Tony will be there, waiting to see him to..."own" him. And shockingly, Steve finds that right now he very much wants that. So with an acquiescent nod at Alec, he steps through the doorway.