Private Lessons - Sarge (pt. 2)
Caius realizes he has made a dangerous mistake.
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Special thanks to @suspicious-whumping-egg, @sunshiline-writes, and @killorbekillian for edits and inputs!
~
Sarge’s mouth was cold pressed against his, and then pulled away. A pause, and then he leaned in and did it again, curious. Whatever it was, it did not feel like a kiss, but Tommy wasn’t sure he was relieved. Sarge’s breath stank and he pressed his lips to Tommy’s face over and over, showering him in weak, awkward kisses. In spite of Sarge’s best imitation, it felt entirely devoid of affection.
He just wants to know what it feels like. But this isn’t what he wants.
Each kiss left the slightest touch of moisture, and he could feel it chill on his skin. Miserably, he almost wanted to lean into Sarge, just because his body was warm. This whole underground lair bullshit was cold. His clothes were still soaked, his hair starting to curl around his face as it began to dry.
He closed his eyes. Pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, pushing where his gums were still numb from the coke Caius fed him at the door. The warmth and weight in his lap disturbed him, but he tried to let in some miniscule sense of comfort from it. Peeling his shame and disgust away from the thread of warmth. Peel it away. Separate.
He was already pretty sure it wasn’t working by the time Sarge bit down.
He tested the skin and the muscle between his teeth and chewed, making Tommy seize with pain. It felt like the nerves under his skin there were being caressed with a cheesegrater. Then he stopped, moved up to a fresh part of his neck and bit down slowly. Sarge reached out with greedy hands and tugged Tommy’s uniform shirt down, then clumsily began to unbutton it, revealing more skin to his ministrations. He buried his blunt canines into his chest as deeply as he could and then released, moving onto the next patch of unblemished flesh. He worked his way across every exposed inch of Tommy’s skin, leaving wide, angry bite marks carved like a signature in his wake. The first few glittered slightly in the light as blood lazily began to pool in their wells.
//
So far, this wasn’t what Caius had expected. Watching the disheveled man sit on his ward’s lap, curling in on Tommy to ravage his collarbones with his teeth, it didn’t match the picture he had imagined when he read the request form. This mock display of intimacy felt unbecoming of him, though the way Tommy keened and shivered underneath him in pain stirred something pleasing in Caius.
He hadn’t expected the bunker, either. He hoped the military fetish gear came with ebay receipts. The amount of it, though…even the banality of some of the items… it itched in his brain, like there was something he was missing. He just couldn’t place it.
Joey. It reminded him of Joey, when they were kids. His dad had kept all this junk from Vietnam, they wanted to look through it but he wouldn’t let them touch it. Joey’s dad, who just sat around in his boxers and drank. He’d just take out this old cigar box full of empty shells and count them on the kitchen table, FOX news blaring from the grainy screen of a heavy box TV. Finish off another bottle of malt liquor. Count them again, or maybe just feel them in his hands. Sometimes he would forget how many there were and would accuse Joey of taking them, that’s why he was chasing them with the belt.
They had gone for the front door when they heard him yelling, and they ran out to the park across the road. His dad came out with his belt in his hands and his pants falling down, screaming at them to come back. They waited across the street, waiting for him to go back inside. That’s why they saw it, when he hesitated by the road. He and Joey saw that he waited just that one extra moment before he stepped out right in front of a truck, and that was it. The life insurance policy took years to get, the company insisted it was suicide, but Joey and his mom got it in the end. Every cent of it went to cleaning out all the shit his dad had hoarded in his house for 30 years.
Tommy whimpered at a hard bite along his jaw. Caius watched. He thought about the sound it made when Joey’s dad went under the wheels. His mind wandered, taking in the old flags pinned to the walls. A large monochrome banner featuring a black silhouette, a tower in the distance. POW MIA - YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN. An American flag done up in dull green shades to mimic camo. Shadow boxes everywhere there wasn’t a shelf. One held a purple heart, next to another with an iron cross. Badges of honor, monogrammed caps, ribbons, pins, crucifixes, grenades, GI Joe figurines. Slowly, his eyes wander down the room to the wall nearest to him, where a stained american flag proudly bore the addition of the Mason’s golden symbol.
There was a large square, printed on the wall beneath where the dust hadn’t built up. A smashed frame and shattered pieces of glass were all that remained of the display.
It finally clicked, and when it clicked, he felt ludicrous for how long it had taken him to put it together.
This wasn’t just Sarge’s fetish - this bunker was a testament to a military family, one that stretched back many generations. Each one bearing more and more weight on Sarge’s shoulders.
A military family.
With this kind of wealth...
Without a shadow of a doubt, they had to be politically connected.
And here he was, generously providing a home delivery scandal.
A feeling Caius hadn’t felt for a while twinged deep in his gut.
Fuck.
He tried to wash his anxiety from his face, applying a fine mask that bore a thin, cool smile.
//
Tommy moaned in pain as Sarge sank his teeth in, catching the corner of his chew toy’s mouth and spanning onto his cheek. When he released this time he finally leaned back to study the imprinted marks up Tommy’s throat. Angry red crescents mirrored each other in pairs along his collarbone where Sarge had pulled his shirt away. His face was vflushed and pink, eyes wide and wet. His lips were slightly swollen, jagged toothy marks now bisecting his smile at the corner of his lip. Its mirror image was bruising up on the apple of his cheek.
Say it, He wants to hear it.
“Pleeeaaase, don’t hurt me,” Tommy cried.
Lips parted, pouted, eyes wide, soft moaning whimpers on every exhale. Pain nearly indistinguishable from pleasure. Don’t look like you’re enjoying it too much, it’s a turn off.
He just did it for him, without even thinking.
The look Sarge gave him was so hungry, he wondered for a moment if he would be eaten alive. He might just lean in and pull away with a mouthful of him this time.
But instead his face changed to something more…confused. He suddenly looked surprised and frowned, pushing a hand between his legs to feel himself through his pants for a moment. Tommy immediately wanted to retch, but Sarge mercifully stopped after only a second and began a clumsy dismount.
What the fuck is this guy’s deal.
Tommy was tuning into him, picking up some faint frequency he’d tapped into that told him what these sick fucks wanted. Still, he couldn’t place him, couldn’t understand. He could sense some desire there, but what exactly it was he wanted, Tommy couldn’t tell. It was an unfamiliar bitterness on the back of his tongue.
Something like iron, rusted to ash.
He swallowed it down.
Sarge was towards the back corner, out of his line of sight, struggling with something that made a metal clanking sound. Not exactly promising. Caius was watching Sarge - or at least, Tommy was pretty sure he was, the light reflected in his glasses again. Caius had this look on his face though, where his lips were pressed thin together but quirked at the edges. Struggling not to laugh. Tommy couldn’t quite find his sense of humor at the moment - it must have been washed away, down the stinking drain drilled into the cement floor beneath them.
Sarge stepped just close enough to be a dark figure in the corner of Tommy’s eye, rummaging through another drawer. He returned to Tommy’s side, letting out a sigh of relief as he shrugged off the heavy wool coat that he had covered his wet uniform with. He had really started to sweat underneath, and a rich smell of body odor accompanied the removal. Tommy scrunched his nose up and turned his face away, forcing his breath out through his nose as if to dispel it.
When Sarge began to unbuckle him, Tommy ground his teeth. He hated these parts, where he felt like he was complicit in it all if he didn’t fight back. Fighting back didn’t get anywhere though, especially not in a damn bunker.
Caius flanked him as the last of the bindings came off, both men looming over Tommy in the chair, readied for some resistance.
He felt small. Tiny in this big chair, four hands immediately catching his arms and dragging him off. The coke Caius had prepared him with had left him feeling wired, but he was also exhausted. It felt like his eyes were looking out at the world from deep holes bored into his skull.
I’m so tired. I’m so tired I can’t fight back. I can barely walk. I can’t possibly fight back.
Tommy repeated it in his head in as many different ways as he could think of, and it helped it feel true. His limbs felt so heavy, he focused on the feeling and disconnected himself. Of course he was too tired to fight. Of course there was nothing he could do.
A sliver of guilt still poked its way through. If you don’t fight it’s all your fault.
He imagined pulling that thought like a worm from his ear and grinding it under these stupid fucking boots.
I’m helpless. I’m helpless. At least I can say I was helpless-
It wasn’t a comforting thought. Yet, it was a balm to his self pity, creating a terrible feeling to soothe another one in some odd way. Caius always said that Tommy struggled with acceptance - well, this felt something akin to it, somehow.
No big deal. Just a rope. Taut on a… pulley? He looked up and saw the heavy wheel anchored into the metal ceiling by a silver hook.
The hook looked bright and clean, even in the dim light. New, then, the juncture out of place connecting the dull green ceiling to the dull green pulley. The thick paint on the wheel casing had long since started to chip away, exposing a more aged steel beneath, dark and curdling with rust. He must have some kind of fetish for these fucking antiques - maybe Sarge and Darwin would be the best of friends, if they met. They could compare notes over tea and fuck on their old crusty furniture and die of tetanus. The idea of it brought a gruesome smile to his face.
You’re fucking twisted, man. You’re losing it.
Caius stood in front of him, his hands on his shoulders holding him in place. Caius, ever so helpful. Heavy hands secured him while Sarge started twisting the rope around his wrists behind his back. Tommy failed to hide his sick grin before Caius saw it and raised an eyebrow.
“Enjoying yourself?” Caius murmured, and his lips parted on a broad smile. His face suddenly felt far too close. Tommy wanted to step back away from him. No, he wanted to lean in closer, just to slam the thick of his skull into Caius’s neat white teeth. But his rage was impotent, rising as if only out of habit. He couldn’t summon the energy to back up the anger. He felt cold and scared and small, and it drained him.
His arms were bound together from his wrists to his elbows. His shoulders were already beginning to cramp from being pulled back.
Sarge fussed with the bindings at his wrists for another moment. When the pulley made a clunk Tommy didn’t have to look. He could hear the whir of the rope being pulled through, and suddenly his wrists were being pulled upwards behind him.
“Caius,” he gasped, leaning forwards in spite of himself. He pressed his face to Caius’s chest without a thought, and arms wrapped around him without hesitation. A hand carded fingers into his hair, stroking it softly.
“You’re doing so well.”
Tommy shivered in terror as the rope slowly tightened, dragging his bound arms up behind his back. He bent forwards to try to relieve the pressure, but it just pushed him to bury his face in the soft fabric of his handler’s shirt until his nose pressed against his sternum.
The rope climbed, dragging him with it, until it finally pulled him off of his feet. His stomach dropped as there was suddenly a violent pull from deep in his shoulders, and with a blinding pain, his body suddenly sagged a few inches further down. There was a breathtaking pain radiating from his back and his shoulders, but his arms felt swollen and numb.
It all only took a moment. The tips of his boots had only just left the floor, and he shuddered as his shoulders gave out.
In the space of three pounding heartbeats, he was eye to eye with Caius. His captor’s arms had slipped away to let him go, but delicate hands framed his face again just long enough to lean in for a kiss. It lingered for another beat, Caius’s lips parted, Tommy’s still open in a gasp as Caius sighed softly into his mouth. Then, just as quickly, he was gone.
His head buzzed and began to pound, blood rushing to his face. He couldn’t process all the sensations. He was a good few feet from the floor when it stopped rising.
His legs kicked out frantically, pointing his feet, desperate for even the tips of his toes to graze the floor. If he could make the slightest contact, he would do anything to relieve the ache even the smallest bit. Sarge laughed in a jarring, harsh outburst, watching as Tommy wiggled like a worm skewered on a hook.
It hurt to struggle. It hurt not to struggle, too, but it felt too much like giving up. He sobbed and struggled until it all hurt too much, his muscles on fire from the strain.
The paralyzing effect of the pain finally started to kick in, and his impotent resistance slowed to a halt. Tommy’s breathing was shallow, fast, scared. A rabbit in a snare.
-
Sarge watched. He liked to watch. It was so different up close, personal. Even when that man— the handler, when he kissed his rope bunny, it sent a little thrill through him.
The boy in the ropes was flushed pink and breathless, trembling from the strain. Instinctively, he was leaning as far forwards as he could. They always did in the drawings, too. He found the drawings and then he learned the terms and then he found the videos. They all leaned forwards. The closest someone could get to comfort in this position.
He looked to Caius without moving his head. The other man seemed to appreciate the view of his captive. Sarge wondered how Caius would do if he was strung up, too. If that self satisfying grin would leave his face. Sometimes Sarge like to watch videos of guys like him being done in. They’d always start off angry, yelling, cursing, threatening. Every time, they’d whimper and cry like lambs when it came down to it.
Tommy stopped struggling. He was breathing shallowly. His hands were turning purple. Sarge knew that if held long enough, the tissue in his fingers would begin to die. If left too long, his hands would have to be amputated-
The thought aroused him. He would love to watch him slowly die on the rope. But there was so much he still wanted to do, and so little time.
Tommy stopped struggling, and Sarge knew just how to fix that.
Caius surveyed Tommy like an art student at a sculpture - delighted, curious, imagining his own process to form such an exquisite state of being with his own hands. Still, his better judgment burned the back of his neck. Coming here was a mistake.
-
Honestly, the pain was not the worst part.
Tommy had been dealt more than his fair share of agonies. He never got used to it, per se, but it didn’t pack the same punch as it did the first few times.
Discomfort, however, rarely relented.
His hands were going numb. Hands and feet were usually the first to go. His feet were fine, hanging uselessly underneath him, unable to touch the ground. The tension in his shoulders, the pull of muscle and ligaments, it all pushed on the ropes binding his arms together. He tried to lean forwards, relieve the ache somewhat, but his movements were limited at best.
Breathing in and out gently tugged his shoulders, and every breath stroked his pain with loving hands. Being immobilized was nothing new to him nowadays, but it was shocking how utterly helpless he felt with only one tie. He hung from a strand, a twitching toy dangled between two cats.
At a lazy pace, he began to turn like a mobile, unable to control it as the rope twisted above him. It slowly rotated him towards the wall. Sarge stepped out of the corner of his peripheral vision. He refused to turn his head, stilling any movement he didn’t have to make to spare himself the pain.
It made him uncomfortable to not be able to see them. He did not look.
It doesn’t matter if you see it coming. Maybe it’s better if you don’t. It doesn’t matter if you can see what they’re going to do because - because - because there's nothing you can do to stop it.
It would not have mattered if Tommy could see Sarge when a hand gripped his ankle, long yellowed fingernails catching in the stiff laces of his boot. His feet were yanked violently back and his stomach jumped as he was pulled back. For just a second there was a slight ease, where he was able to bend forwards, only to feel his full weight slam down on his shoulders. He gasped, granted no respite before he was abruptly shoved, swinging like a pendulum above his audience. Another push and he spun around, slowing after a few rotations to face Sarge.
The look on Sarge’s face was disturbingly out of place. He was absolutely gleeful, breathing hard with excitement. Tommy wasn’t sure if he was still spinning, or if the rest of the world was turning beneath him.
Sarge’s hands trembled around another bucket he had prepared. From his vantage point slightly above him, Tommy could see it was filled with water. Sarge grunted with effort as he raised the bucket above his head, his arms trembling. Tommy cringed away from it, but couldn’t move away any meaningful amount. As it loomed closer to him though, he was hit with a strong smell, musty. It reminded him of…a moldy basement. No, a farm, maybe the manure they put on the crops? It didn’t have the faint metallic scent the water had. His stomach turned as the sharp smell began to overwhelm his sinuses. Turning his face to the side offered little relief, and he wheezed as the burning musk reached his lungs.
“TO THE MOOOOOOOOOON!” Sarge howled, and he tipped the bucket forwards, upending it as he slammed it down onto Tommy’s head.
The momentum forced it up his nose. It was acid in his eyes. He choked and spluttered, huffing and spitting to get it out of his nose and his mouth. Everywhere it touched, it started to burn. Acidic drops oozed down his body and he immediately jolted into a fit, his struggles renewed with fresh urgency. There was already a fire stoked in his head, infecting his sinuses, his throat. Thick drops clumped in his eyelashes, and he blinked hard to push the stinging tears of pain out. He could hear his own desperate panting reflecting back to his ears from the plastic bucket that still hooded him. Rivulets of fire trickled down his body and soaked into his clothes.
Underneath the searing burn, there was a maddening itch. Fuck, fuck, he could take all the pain in the goddamn world if he could just scratch, he’d do anything. Caius could whip him in the air like a goddamned pinata if it would scratch the itch for even a moment - It felt like- like-
He’s looking at himself in the bathroom mirror. Twenty years old, back in his first trailer’s bathroom. His skin fucking hurts, it hurts so much but he can’t stop tearing into himself with his fingernails. Intense, painful prickles of irritation, sparking up everywhere at once, underneath the worst sunburn of his life. He struggles to get his shirt off without breaking from clawing at himself.
His skin was already red and stiff, hot to the touch, even pulling the soft cloth over his shoulders made him hiss in pain. That’s why he’d tried the lidocaine spray, Kevin said it would take care of the soreness. The spray Tommy had bought had menthol in it, even better.
Two things he learned later: Lidocaine is not supposed to be used on injured skin, and Tommy is allergic to menthol.
He wants to crawl out of his skin, scratching only makes it hurt more but he could NOT stop slapping and itching. It was like some kind of involuntary whack-a-mole response. He lurched over to the tub and ran the water ice cold, shucking his clothes to desperately try to rinse himself in the bathtub.
-
Tommy was cute, fighting it. He was already clearly fatigued with pain, but he began to thrash more desperately than ever as the chemical set upon his flesh.
Caius admired the scene, sure, but he winced a little when the bucket doused Tommy. He thought it would be more water, but judging by the smell and the way Tommy reacted, it must have been something much worse.
Sarge coughed and backed away, his hacking turning into a laugh as soon as he started to catch his breath. The smell burned in Caius’s nose, too, and he quickly backed away to escape it, covering his nose with his hands.
“What is that?!” He demanded from Sarge.
The anxiety in his gut boiled into a frenzy. I am not in control. I am not in control.
Sarged giggled and clapped his hands like Caius had told a sordid joke.
“It’s the special sauce!”
“Tell me what it is.”
“Technically, it’s an herbicide.” He pronounced it with a hard C, like he’d only ever read the word. He had to raise his voice to answer Caius as Tommy screamed and struggled in his bonds.
Caius stalked closer, and saw Sarge’s eyes widen — good.
“Either tell me exactly what this shit is, or you’ll be swimming in it next.”
Sarge looked a little startled, and oddly, a little hurt.
“Agent Orange. Like in Vietnam? That’s like — it’s kind of the theme. For the night.”
Agent fucking orange. Joey’s dad hobbling after them. Weak from the chemo, brandishing his cane, his pocked and rashy face twisted in anger. He found out later he was already dying, mutilated beyond repair from what he referred to as “the OJ”.
Tommy was soaked in it, it was poured into his eyes, and they were both standing so near. An unfamiliar alarm gripped Caius’s throat, an urgent fear rising inside.
Caius shoved Sarge, catching him slightly to the side and off-guard. He stumbled back and fell, smashing his head against a metal locker before sliding the rest of the way to the floor. Caius followed him, wedging the tip of his shoe in between Sarge’s ribs as he kicked him for good measure. Sarge wheezed and tried to shuffle away on his hands, failing to block his ribs with one shaky hand extended. Caius leaned in, crouching to get in Sarge’s face.
“You fucking pathetic fr-” Caius was interrupted by the crack of his skull, a blistering pain surprising him. Sarge kicked him in the stomach, and as he shoved him back, he brought the baton down on Caius’s head again. The second hit blinded him, and when his head hit the floor, he plummeted into unconsciousness.
The sound of plastic hitting the floor startled Sarge, and he turned to see Tommy’s bucket rolling away. Tommy had managed to shake it off his head at the last second, and stared with horror at his handler’s limp body on the floor.
“Well,” Sarge said, standing and dusting his uniform off.
“Looks like we finally get a little alone time, you and I.”
~
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