heroeswork | Walk, come with me now, I'm gonna take you down

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Walk, come with me now, I'm gonna take you down

It wasn't often that Billy let those he'd trap walk free. He'd play with them until they were all used up, then dispose of them. Or they were unable to pass his little tests. More than a few just swallowed a handful of pills rather than face what he'd do to them. But Mike was different. Special. So Billy got curious. After he'd played with him for long enough, he still wasn't used up. And he hadn't stuffed the pills into his mouth. So now came the rarest test of all.

He'd made plenty of promises of keeping Mike well stocked in his vices, and for so much cheaper than Kelly ever could do for him. But sitting in his usual perch in that dive bar, he wasn't shocked, but mildly surprised when just a few days later Mike walked in. He'd expected at least a month to pass before he'd see the boy again. A token effort of resistance.

Billy could have done the deal then and there, but he couldn't resist toying with the man. So he followed the same processes as before. Getting him out to the truck. Driving far, far from the bar. Only this time when they stopped it wasn't the side of the road or an old warehouse. It was a house that had seen better days. The place Billy currently called home.

He led Mike inside without a word. Tossed his coat over an old arm chair. Went into the kitchen to grab a drink. All without a word. Just waiting to see what Mike was really after. He couldn't have gone through his stash already, could he?

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Liam moves the cane from Mike's throat and smacks it hard against the bed as hard as he can. It makes a thunderous sound, far louder than was necessary. But he knew how to get the biggest sound out of it, and knew doing it so close to Mike's ear would be far more alarming than actually striking him. Coupled with a dark twist to his expression, a cloud of restrained anger, it was not a kind moment.

His free hand came up to grip Mike by the face, his fingers digging in hard, making the junkie look at him at point-blank range.

"You keep saying that..." he breathed out. "...yet I don't believe you." He shifted back slightly, adjusting his hips and grinding hard against Mike's hips. "I'm giving you one final chance." His weight shifted onto the hand holding the cane, shoulders rolling into a slight hunch so he loomed over the man beneath him. "If you fail me this time, the cane will be the least of your worries. Do I make myself clear?" The dangerous calm started to slip from his tone, an barely restrained note of aggression pushing through.

He doesn't scream or yelp but he curls as much as he can when that cane hits just by his ear, instinctively wanting to move away and make himself a smaller target. He swears he didn't do it, but he whimpers, too. The room is hot, even though he knows nothing's been done to the temperature--it's all of the adrenaline and his fear and his heightened sense of both pain and pleasure. His eyes are screwed shut when he feels those fingers digging into his face, forcing him to look.

Mike sees anger. He sees anger and disappointment and he has the urge to rectify it, to fucking fix it because he knows he's fucked up. He knows he has, but he's trying his hardest. It never occurs to Mike that Liam sets him up to fail--it's always his fault. Always.

He wonders, as those hips grind against him and Liam doesn't perch but looms, when he had started associating this sort of feeling with love. Because Mike is frightened, especially as the other's tone dip, and his nails curl into the palm of his hands, and he just barely nods, but he deserves this. If this is the only way he can get Liam's approval, he'll do it.

"Yessir," He says quickly, and clears his throat to sound more confident. His left arm is still going numb, but that's the least of his worries.

He can't fuck this up. He can't.

That flinch and whimper were exactly what Liam wanted out of Mike. After everything, the junkie was still capable of such a response. Part of him hadn't yet given fully over to the treatment. In a way, it reminded him of his brother. So trusting, so eager, and yet still so very afraid. Never quite letting go of the fear. No one had given him quite so much since he and his brother parted ways. And with Mike, he could do so much more. His head tilted to the side as the junkie worked through everything, anger fading to mere impatience, masking his delight. Oh how he wanted an excuse to do so much more to the man.

"Good." One sharp word was all he said as he started to slide back off of Mike and off of the bed. He let go of the man's face, fingers trailing roughly down his canvas covered chest and arms.

"You will respond only with 'yes sir' and 'no sir' to any question I ask you. And you will pick up your counts where you left off." As his hand neared the end of the coat, he slowed, fingers teasing down over the very narrow expanse of exposed skin. "If you say a single--" His fingers wrapped suddenly and aggressively around Mike's shaft. "--word outside of this..." He started to stroke, firm and steady. "...you will lose your final chance. Do I make myself clear?"

Mike can't think of anything other than wanting to please Liam at this state--partially because he loves him, or he thinks he loves him, but also because he knows what will happen if he doesn't. The drugs aren't the biggest problem: Liam is, very much, even worse.

That hand curls around his cock and strokes and every single moment of doubt leaves, dissipating through every touch, and Mike already finds himself panting. "Yes, sir," He mumbles, and it's barely audible because he's far too focused on how good it feels.

This is what can happen when he behaves. This is what he can look forward to after every thing Liam does. His reward.

It never occurs to him that this has been taught. It never even occurs to him that he'd considered himself straight before all of this. All that mattered was keeping Liam happy and those hands still on his dick.

"Good..." Liam gives Mike a few more strokes, watching him closely. Watching how quickly he unravels and falls under the steamroller of pleasure. It wasn't the wanton enjoyment that he delighted in, but rather the anticipation of what came next. He waited until Mike seemed to have surrendered to it completely. Maybe even to the point of forgetting what came next. Just long enough to hint that it might just keep going.

Then and only then did he pull his hand away. One stroke turned into him slowly dragging his fingers away and moving down to Mike's thigh.

"Good," he repeated. "Now get back into position so we can finish this." He patted the junkie's thigh and stepped back. He had no intention of helping, wanting to watch the frustrated man and see if he could actually get back onto his knees from his current position.

This. This is what he wants--Liam whispering things in his ear, not about how useless he is but how he's doing a decent job. Those hands stroking him, and Mike just needs a few more to come before he drags his hands entirely away. He'd been biting his lip to keep quiet but the moment the other removed his hand entirely he breathes out, shaking. He's not sure how long he can do this, getting teased and caned only to have the process repeat itself.

"Yessir," he mumbles, and Liam steps back. He can do this. All he wants is to not make another mistake. It's all he wants to do. He wants to hear Liam say 'good' a third time in relation to him. That's all he needs.

He carefully, carefully grunts as he tries to move, only to have his entire face flicker with pain the moment he tries to roll over. His ass is already sore and in pain, and he's dimly aware there's something inherently fucked up with presenting his ass a second time. But this is what Liam wants, and ultimately, that's all that matters: Liam.

He manages to roll on his side, face a flicker of different emotions--most of them half-frustration--as he carefully, slowly and shaking, finds a way to get up to the same position--ass in the air, already bruising and angry. It took him a while--and one small noise of frustration as he slips--but he manages.

He's already screwing his eyes shut, slowly anticipating.

Liam stood to the side, watching, his face completely impassive. It was all he could do to mask how much he enjoyed this. Knowing he had such complete control over another person that even when promising a great deal of pain, his commands were still obeyed. It thrilled him in ways he hadn't thought possible. He'd thought having control like that over Mike would grow boring. But watching him struggle to roll over was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Maybe Mike wouldn't get boring, after all.

Once Mike was settled, Liam approached again. His hand slid over that raw, bruised ass, inspecting how the marks had developed. Wide, angry welts with blood presented in several different ways, both beneath and outside the skin. This was one session Mike would be remembering for a good long time.

He brought the cane down without a word, about half as hard as the strokes he'd done before. He needed to be able to work up to something more before he was done.

It still hurts with his ass already sore, even if it is half-as hard. The hand sliding over his ass had hurt, even, instead of soothed like it normally would.

He has to do this right. He has to. He chokes out 'eleven, sir,' as the cane hits him, and even though it's half as hard, his legs are starting to shake. He's exhausted and tired and in pain and still, somehow, despite all of this, hard. And now he wants nothing more than for this to finish, but he'll follow through.

He needs Liam to approve. He needs Liam and his oxy and his praise and he needs to not fuck this up.

Edited 2016-05-23 09:57 (UTC)

"Good boy..." Liam practically purrs the words. He injects as much praise and warmth into those two little words as he can muster. For someone who doesn't care about such things, he can mimic the sentiment impeccably well.

His hand slid over the newest mark, letting out a soft sound of approval. The skin was hot to the touch, angry and visceral. He only wished he didn't have to let Mike leave after they were through. He wanted to watch the junkie accommodate for those marks for all the days they lingered.

"Are you ready for another?" Testing if Mike really was following orders, as the was really only one correct answer to such a question. As he asked it, his fingers teased lower over Mike's thigh, dipping toward that tender skin on the inner side.

Mike closes his eyes, gentle, wanting to stay in the echo of Liam's words forever. He'd done the right thing--he just had to keep it up, had to make sure he could keep keeping it up. He needed Liam and he needed to get off and he'd do what he absolutely could to get to that point.

And, there's a small part of him that just wants it to end so he can get his pills and stumble home, broken and bruised.

"Yes sir," he mumbles, and it's quick and clipped because he's already bracing himself. He doesn't have a choice--he can't say no, can't have a break. Maybe in actual scenarios like this there was a safeword, but not here. Not here, when he shifts his weight to better accommodate those fingers on his inner thigh.

Mike just needed to trust Liam implicitly.

In a healthy relationship similar to this, there would be far more than just safewords. Discussion of boundaries. Check-ins. Staying within the other's limits. Gently pushing those limits with slow and steady guidance. Liam never really had the patience for that. Why guide gently when he could break completely and reshape the way he wanted? He could coax Mike toward being able to take more and more, or he could force it until Mike had no other choice but to take it. The shaking and tears that so often came with that method were so very worth it.

His hand flicked up, dragging rough fingers over Mike's needy shaft. Dragging over his balls. Tracing the tender skin behind before turning and roughly dragging across all of those angry red marks. Then all at once he pulled his hand away and snapped the cane across Mike's ass with enough force to draw small beads of blood. He paused, fully expecting to hear the number twelve from Mike's lips.

He cries out this time, practically crumpling as it comes own harder than it has--something in the way Liam moves his wrist; something to do with how he'd felt pleasure moments before. His cock aches but what's overwhelming is the sense of pain and how his voice seems to bounce off of the walls. He wants to grab at something, needs to stabilize himself but he can't, he can only moan in the strange pain-pleasure combination his brain is swimming in.

Mike hastily tries to move his ass back into position, breathing heavily, entire body feeling like it's on fire but his dick is slick with precome and sweat and he can barely breathe.

The number. "Twelve, sir--twelve," His voice has cracked, feeling unstable and woozy but unable to properly tell with the amount of adrenaline and endorphines running in his system. He bites down on his lip, hard, and is acutely aware of every single movement Liam is doing; every single bit of air stinging his raw ass.

"That's what a like to hear," Liam said, in that same purr of approval he'd used before. "You've learned so well, haven't you, Mike?" Fingers of one hand slid across one cheek, smearing those small beads into faint streaks that criss-crossed the red marks.

He leaned down, a strangely graceful move for someone so violent, hot breath falling across the other cheek, over those angry marks. "Twelve. Just three more to go. If you keep doing so well, you just might get..." his hand dipped down, dragging the pad of a finger gently along the underside of Mike's cock, "...a reward." The finger traced the opposite direction as his tongue flicked out, dragging it over those fine red beads.

He could have just gotten it over with. Given the last three blows and let Mike be done with it. But this wasn't about the strikes, it was about the space between them. Letting the anticipation build each time. Strategic and slow.

Yes. Yes, he has learned so well--he's desperate to get off, but he can't say anything other than what he's told, he has to play by the rules. That's important.

If anything, it's the most important.

It's hard--his cocks' harder--and he can feel hot breath on his ass, hear Liam murmuring sweet, inviting words. His legs are shaking from the strain of holding himself up but he doesn't dare move them. No, instead he forces himself to stay in that position.

And then Liam is stroking him, slow and agonizing--just a swipe of his hands and still talking so sweetly to him, so good, Mike's entire face is flushed and he gives out an inaudible whimper because in the next second, Liam's tongue flicks over those marks on his ass.

He wants the caning to be over. Wants the stinging pain to stop, wants that tongue to soothe him. But most importantly Mike wants to come. He needs it, feeling like this whole thing has lasted forever, feeling like all he can do is shake and whimper like a fucking dog. He can't take it.

His shoulders shake, pressing his own face down in the already sweat stained sheets. All Mike wants to do is come, it feels like his cock is on fire with how much he wants it. His shoulders heave again and Mike doesn't even realize he's so sexually frustrated he's crying, though that is also in conjunction to all of the pain and endorphins floating through him. He wants to scream, wants to yell into a pillow but he knows now, more than ever, Liam will be looking for an excuse to have him start from one.

The worst part is that Mike isn't even sure of Liam will play fairly, despite his sweet, sweet promises. But there's still that hope that builds him up.

Liam lingered, letting hot breath fall over the wet streak he'd left. Two fingers teasing over the underside of Mike's cock. Waiting. For one breath. Two. Three. Listening. Giving Mike a chance to collapse or beg. But he didn't. Liam could feel him shaking, trembling from the war that must be waging in his mind between pain and pleasure, terror and the promise of a reward.

He was both pleased and disappointment when Mike didn't give in. Oh what he wouldn't give for an excuse to make it worse, but he couldn't break Mike if he just went for it anyway. He had to keep that notion of hope alive, no matter how futile it really was. Because the "reward" he had in mind wasn't exactly a benefit to Mike.

With nothing more than a soft sound of approval, he he stood back up. And just as quickly, he snapped the cane down again. Just as hard as the last one, a little lower this time.

He's never loved and hated so much at the same time. The pain he'd acclimatized to, at least to some degree, but it was the mental aspect that was the hardest. His whole body is shaking with effort and frustration and a myriad of emotions and it's only magnified by the pain.

He's bleeding and then, just lower, is the same harshness. It blossoms red almost immediately as Mike's entire body jerks forward, unable to keep himself up for much longer. He yells loudly, sharply, the sound echoing across the walls and only barely manages to remember.

"Thirteen, sir." It's strained, though it's hard to tell if the strain is from anger or pain or the desperate need to come. It's all three of them to some degree, and his legs feel like they're made out of lead, though he forces himself to get back into position. His left leg gives out but he's scrambling to put himself upright again, panting with the effort. HE can't take much more.

"Up, up, up," Liam demanded harshly as he tapped the tip of the cane rapidly against Mike's inner thigh. He made especially sure to sound as absolutely irritated as possible while Mike righted himself. That was however the opposite of the truth, as he was content to wait and watch as Mike struggled to stay in position. Trembling and bleeding and oh so distressed. It was just how Mike should always be.

"There you go," he said, voice glowing with praise. "You're doing so good, and you've only got two more to go." Okay, maybe he was slipping toward mockery, tipping his hand in the simple fact that he had no intention of making this easy. As he spoke, his hand slid between Mike's legs, fingers wrapping firmly around his cock. "I know you're going to keep being a good boy," as if he were speaking to a dog rather than a person, "aren't you? Doing exactly what you're told." He started to stroke. Not the light, teasing strokes from before. These were long, firm, and earnest. As if he meant to get Mike off then and there.

He's breathing so heavily he thinks his heart is going to explode, the stinging of the cane still feeling like it's prickling through his skin. There are already a multitude of bruises on his ass, littered around, but even the cuts are turning a purple-yellow colour around the blood. Mike is trying his best not to whimper.

It fails when Liam sounds agitated, sounds angry and Mike whimpers, finally finding his footing and something magical happens. Something he'd honestly never thought would happen.

It doesn't even occur to Mike that Liam's being sarcastic, or he's being treated like a dog. All that matters is it's praise and he needs it, he craves it, now, more than Oxy, he thinks. He's being good. He's being a good boy.

Fuck. This whole thing is absolutely humiliating. It will sink in later, when that hand isn't on his cock and making it feel so good, when he isn't half-laying down half raising his ass up and in a straight jacket. His eyes are shut tight, breathing heavily, wanting so much to say anything he could. He's not even sure if he can respond to Liam's words. Right now, all he can do is moan, loud and needy as his cock finally gets the attention it craves.

This is all he wanted. This is worth the pain, he tells himself, the humiliation and degradation.

Liam continued to stroke, slow and steady, listening to Mike's rapid, desperate breathing. Listening to those beautiful moans. Mike had changed so much in the last few months. When this all started, those sounds would have been far more angry and restrained. This was so much more open and accepting. That in a way was far more thrilling than the former, knowing he'd shaped and changed Mike so profoundly.

When he could feel the tell-tale signs of Mike getting close, involuntary twitching and quivering, he slowly withdrew his hand. Dragging it up and over his ass. Kneading for a moment over those angry welts and bruises, digging his fingers and the heels of his hands into them. "Such a good boy..." he said, some how purring out the words while also sounding incredibly sarcastic and mocking. "Just two more..."

And that was all the warning he got before Liam snapped the cane across the upper few inches of his thighs. It wasn't as hard as the other blows, but he knew just how sensitive Mike would be when he was so stimulated.

He's going to come. He's going to come and it's going to be great--the greatest thing that will ever happen to him. Finally, he'll blow his load. Times with cock rings have been easier than this--but Liam wants him to come, he's saying he's good.

"Fuh--" He shushes himself so it's more just a noise than an attempt at an actual word, nails pressing palms, shuddering, spasming, and then--

--the cane is over him and he howls with pain, his whole body shuddering as he sobs brokenly and he quickly, quickly shouts out the words. It comes off as 'fourteensirfourteen' but he's done it, breath ragged, entire body feeling like it's raw and exposed. He's too sensitive--that blow may have had less of an impact on his skin than the others with not as much power, but with the adrenaline and dopamine flowing from his brain it's impossible to tell.

He's cracking and he's honestly not sure, whimpering and barely able to keep straight, if he's going to last through the next one.

Liam's hands returned to kneading Mike's ass, letting out a sound of his own that was almost a moan in its own right. God, Mike sounded good when he was so very undone. Well, it was more that he'd pushed Mike to that point that was doing it for him than anything. The knowledge that months of work had pushed Mike to a point where he wanted to get off. Where he was still counting and obeying, even as he fell apart.

One hand pulled away for a moment as he put his finger into his mouth. He took his time, not giving any indication of what he was actually doing, until he lowered his hand and let that damp finger press against Mike's hole. He didn't press it inside, but just slowly circled with it, teasing and threatening. Nothing but his saliva to serve as lubrication.

"Just one more. Are you going to be good and take it?" There was a warning in his voice, as if he didn't think Mike would be able to follow through for this last step. As if it could possibly ever be the last.

He has to. He's about to say that, too, but he visibly shuts his mouth, pushing his teeth against his lower lip to silence himself. He's got to be quiet, that's part of the rules, but he's going to come absolutely undone.

This is it. He's going to fucking come, coming undone right here and now, and he can't help the whimper in his throat. He can't believe how far he's fallen, wanting Liam. He's close to begging, too--to get it over with. It's just one more, one more hit, and he can undo himself. He prays for no more rules, and no more anything but getting off and falling into a corner.

He doesn't want to think about what comes after that.

He just wants Liam.

Mike nods, one swift motion. Murmurs a high noise of agreement, because he's not sure if he has permission to talk again.

"Yes....good boy..." Liam purrs as his finger continues to tease. He takes his time, murmuring soft, wordless praise, content little sounds unlike anything he's uttered before. In letting Mike fly free, he'd become more than just clay. In coming back, things inside him had broken further than Liam could have ever done himself. And with each moment more, he could see just how far Mike had come. He wasn't fighting, he wasn't a broken lump. He was obedient and responsive. Trained. Oh, where could they go from here?

His finger made slow, gentle circles. Dipping toward the center with a firm, teasing pressure without actually pushing inside. Just taking a moment to enjoy the fact that Mike continued to follow the rules. Continued to stay in position. It was better than any high any drug could provide. The rush of it all.

"Just one...more," He breathed out as his hand dragged down, firm fingers sliding down to ever so briefly cup the other's balls. Then there was a brief pause as he pulled his arm back before the cane snapped, hard and fast across the crease right at the top of Mike's thighs. Harder than the last strike, but no where near as hard as it could have been.

He doesn't say fifteen, sir, so much as he screams it as loud as he can. He's bent and broken and all of this, he knows, is his fault. Liam says it's his fault, so it is, as simple as that. Arguing didn't work--nothing did. Nothing but accepting Liam's word as law.

He wants that hand, wants that finger circling his asshole again. He wants that palm on his balls as he hears that praise--he wants to fuck, or be fucked, he just wants some kind of release.

Mostly, he wants Liam.

Funny, how a few months back he would gladly stab the other the first chance he got. It's a miracle that the strike leaves him upright, because that spot just at the top of Mike's thighs is sensitive, still stinging. This is different than a belt, or a crop, this is a sharp, stinging panging over his thighs.

He's never been so grateful that the number wasn't 20 until now. He's visibly shaking, panting loudly, unable to help anything. He can't even adjust himself, arms bound in a straight jacket.

He just wants to come.

Hearing that shout, Liam sucks in a breath through his teeth like he's inhaling the sound itself. He mutters something barely audible, the utter pleasure of it easier to pick out than the words. God, he wanted to keep Mike right there, like this, for as long as possible. Every last person he'd dug his claws into crumpled. They dried up and became as entertaining as dust. Usually in a matter of days. He'd had one last nearly a month. But none had been like Mike. He wanted to keep Mike, not throw him away.

They had all the time in the world, until Liam decided it was time to go fetch the little boyfriend. How long could he keep Mike there? Keep him wanting and burning? Keep him screaming?

Firm hands pushed Mike over, shoved and manhandled him onto his back. Dragging him so his ass slid on the sheets. He seemed to know just the right ways to move the bound man to emphasize those red, angry welts across his ass.

"You did it, Mike," he said, softly. Practically glowing with praise. "You made it to fifteen." As he spoke, he climbed onto the bed, knees straddling Mike's hips. "I knew you could do it." His hand slid over the straight jacket, arms and chest. Caressing his neck through the collar. "You finally learned, you finally know how to be good, Mike." He caught the other's hair in a tight fist.

He leaned close. Close enough for his breath to fall over Mike's lips. "My good boy..." he said, barely a whisper. He leaned closer still, giving Mike that one thing he'd been wanting, craving, for so long. A kiss. A slow, gentle, lover's kiss.

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