Work Text:
Second floor dungeon, jewelry department…
For some reason the words and resonant voice of the ‘Elevator Operator’ in that ridiculous film were echoing in his head as the little gilt elevator crept along its wires, an old-fashioned department store lift, rescued from a backlot storeroom, refurbished and returned to use, in this private emporium of treasures and pleasures.
Amanda certainly knew the most eclectic people, thought Methos, as the elegant cage came to rest at the bottom of the track, and the elevator operator (who had been decorously silent, but dressed in a manner that was reminiscent of that film, nicely muscled chest sheened with oil, snug, low leather pants displaying shapely thighs and other generous attributes) bowed the three of them out into what was indeed a basement dungeon, appointed in the very best of taste and appreciation for sexual exercise, attention and exploration, closed the grate after them with commendable grace and ascended once again.
Basement dungeon, everybody out.
Amanda’s ‘Friend’ (neither Methos or Duncan were inclined to speculate on what that might or might not mean - never ask a questions to which you are not prepared to know the answer - you will get the one you do not want to hear) was very well to pass, and had given Amanda free run of his ‘playroom,’ fitted out in all manner of toys and equipment, all of excellent quality and upkeep. For it was apparent that this space was not just for show, or once-a-season use by a dilettante. People regularly found ecstasy here, in dominance and submission, the give and take of pleasure and pain, mastery of others and mastery of self.
A frisson of equal parts anticipation and fear skittered up Methos’ spine. He knew what he was seeing, what this place was for. Had known rooms like this before, trained and been trained in their like. He knew Amanda knew as well, and her assured walk, her buttoned coat, her polished nails and smile all gathered new and layered meanings. Duncan on the other hand was not so versed in their surroundings, and was looking the tiniest bit wide-eyed at some of what he was seeing.
Amanda certainly intended to fulfill Fitz’s due in that damnable bet with style and panache. The least Methos could do was admire her ingenuity. Other parts of him were well past admiration and on into preparation. He could feel the way his spine and hips, shoulders and knees and even wrists fell into old, old, old positions, ancient patterns, the memories of other masters, other times. It took a moment of conscious will to keep his hands loose at his sides, not clasped behind, to keep his walk his normal saunter, not shift into the sway-hipped languor or come-hither movement of the pleasure-slave who well knows his worth. It was all too easy to remember Lateus, the lessons Aris of Kythera had learned. It was easy (and surprising, or, no, not surprising, he really should have anticipated the thought) to imagine Rebecca teaching Amanda what she knew of the Hetaierae and their Art. His pulse beat hard in his groin, his arse, his throat. Rebecca and Fitz both were present then, in spirit as well as legacy of skill and learning.
Kristin had not used those wiles on Duncan, and Rebecca did not volunteer her knowledge of those Arts to others, even those she loved, without a need. This was likely new to Duncan, then, the safe-word-world, where being bound was freedom, and a skilled hand on lash an unmatched ecstasy. Methos wondered what he thought of it, what questions he might have, and what Methos himself would answer should he ask them. It would depend, Methos supposed, on exactly what it was that Amanda had planned.
Amanda led them through the greatroom, past the X-frames, the straddle-horses, the slings and poles and platforms. Methos was aware of his clothes as a weight, a constriction, a wrongness, tight and loose in all the wrong places. His nipples peaked and rubbed against the cotton of his shirt, complaining of the weave, his nether-cheeks resentful of the cling of shorts, of fabric where there should be only air. Methos was quite sure she was doing this on purpose.
Eventually they came to a wall of archways, doors set into recesses. One stood open, revealing a room of warm color, more intimate appointments. A wide bed stood made up with dark green, silken sheets, mounds of pillows in various shapes and sizes, no doubt both soft and firm. A stately chair, not entirely unlike the one that Methos had in storage now - tall back, wide arms, deep cushioned seat - was placed to view a hip-high, padded platform. His pulse jumped, and he resolutely did not think of what use that surface might - would - serve. A little mobile cabinet stood close, with a cloth covering whatever objects were laid ready on the top. Candles were set about the room, newly lit, and there was a fireplace with a cheerful and steady gas-fed flame warming the air. Through a further doorway a glimpse of thick toweling and smooth marble indicated a bathing chamber, no doubt as well furnished and supplied as everything else he had seen down here. He chose not to think too hard on that yet, either. He, they, were in Amanda’s hands, and the entire building was on holy ground.
Amanda ushered Duncan and Methos through the archway into the room and closed the door behind them. She smiled as she surveyed the space, noting all the things she had asked Cyprian for, and a few things she had not. The fireplace was a particularly nice addition. Much easier to warm things (towels - there was a discreet towel-bar, yes - and toys) than candles, and there was also the clever compartmented dispenser with a heat-coil of its own, for hot and cold running lube. All extremely civilized, exactly as she had hoped. And the bed, as Cyprian had promised, would most certainly hold three in sybaritic comfort.
She turned her eyes to the two men, as decorative in their own ways as the room. She loved both of them, had lain with both, knew both perhaps as well as any person now alive. (Briefly, fiercely, Amanda missed Rebecca, Hugh, Sean, Connor, Darius and others passed. They were not all gone, the friends and lovers, but Grace and Ceirdwyn, Matthew and Corwin and Marcus were not here, were not as close in contact or locale.) Duncan was relaxing in the calming atmosphere of candles and firelight, the subtle incense and the gracious room, nothing overtly untoward or unusual demanding his attention, enflaming his imagination. The images and thoughts that must have arisen seeing the lovingly used and explicit equipment had a chance now to retreat from the forefront of his mind, and become fuel for fantasy, not anything he had to deal with now. Especially he would not yet have to deal with the fact that he was more than half aroused, and they had not yet truly begun, not so far as he was concerned.
Methos, on the other hand, Methos knew exactly what all of this was for, how it was used. For him the evening had started the moment he stepped off the elevator and smelled oiled leather, wood and wax and the newer scents of latex, rubber, silicone, and over all, despite the excellent air-exchange and filtering, the faint incense of sex. She had been looking, and had seen the tiny shiver, half-suppressed, the twitch of hands held careful at his side, the roll of hips and nigh instant, evident arousal. She honestly had not known if she would see the Master or the slave, the Dom or the submissive, eromenos or erastes - she knew he switched, understood the Art from every angle - but had not known which aspect was ascendent now, what it was he needed, wanted, craved, that he had in fact consented to this whole affair.
He wanted to be taken, then. Taken under Duncan’s eyes. She suspected, from knowing both, loving and observing both, that what he wanted most deeply was for Duncan to take him without quarter, and to take him in return. But Duncan was not ready for either part of that program, not yet, though this night might well advance him on that road, did she play everything aright.
Methos was standing not far from the padded platform, hands held still, breathing strict and steady, holding himself on the edge of going under, inhabiting the space where sensation was all, not will, not thought; no future and no past but only Now. And she, she, Amanda, student of Rebecca, was going to give him that. And give Duncan something too: a glimpse of possibility, of love laid open, a facet rarely seen, but as much of the whole that was Methos as any other part.
“Gentlemen,” Amanda said, taking off her coat to reveal a short-short leather skirt over silk stockings gartered high, and a stiffened bustier that made the most of her ample charms. “ Let us begin.”
Duncan looked at her, alert but unconcerned. Methos took a deeper breath, and a tremor shivered through him, head to toe.
Amanda bid Methos bathe and prepare himself while she settled Duncan and explained what he would need to know, what the rules were, what his part would be. She was standing close and speaking low and intimate to him, hands caressing, mischievous and comforting, as Methos went through the archway to the bath, fingers nearly clumsy with eagerness on shirt buttons. Perhaps she was even telling him more of what he had wanted to know of the wager she and Fitz had made with him all those years ago, that Duncan had (all unwitting) won for them, giving him double right - his own and Fitz’s - to be a part of this. But Methos would have wanted Duncan here in any case.
Methos had shaved and showered before they had arrived, but that was not the kind of clean Amanda meant. The room had every amenity possible: bidet, shower (with several different nozzles and heads, fixed and flexible), jacuzzi tub and sauna-bath. Soaps and fluffy towels, oils and unguents, powder and lotion and several scents and kinds. He would not have been surprised to see a strigil, but that was probably a different suite.
Duncan had seemed both excited and confused, an unusual state for him, Methos thought as he undressed and set his clothes in the place provided. The air caressed him, and his skin tingled in anticipation. He and Duncan have been lovers - for various definitions of lovers - hand and blow jobs, mostly. Nothing other than between the thighs. Methos stepped into the sybaritic shower, setting temperature and spray: enough to warm and waken nerves, not overwhelm or stimulate too soon. One tentative attempt at having more, Duncan maddeningly careful, gentle, not what either of them hoped for and Duncan had not wanted to go there again, uncomfortable in ways that Methos recognized but did not wholly understand. He had not pushed, would not push. And the subject of Duncan receiving Has Not Arisen. Methos would … really kind of like it to. He puts the thoughts away. This is not the time for that. This is Amanda’s game. Methos’ own hand is between his thighs, soaping, rinsing, oiling and stretching in a preparation of breath and body, a ritual that let him find the place where he could let him self submit flesh and spirit to sensation, to another’s (Amanda’s, Rebecca’s, even Duncan’s - did he know what gift that was? Not now, Not yet,) will and hand.
Methos finished, dried himself with the warm towels, and returned to where his Masters awaited him, blood beating hard in arse and prick and throat. Amanda’s game. Duncan’s open eyes.
Amanda bound his hands first, his wrists accepting the cuffs with not-quite-eagerness. The ankle-cuffs were harder for him, breath caught against resistance. Not the Rebellious Slave then, to be punished, but a more pliant need, more willing submission, but never easy. Not that he didn’t arch and gasp at the sharp slap of her hand leaving a stinging imprint first on one buttock, then the other. The surprise softened him just enough to make fitting the cock-ring easier, and he stiffened in it nicely. Up on the platform then, and she arranged him, spread, displayed. Duncan swallowed audibly when she fastened the cuffs to the rings set at convenient points on the edges. Once he had tested the bonds (not fighting them — making sure that they would hold against his strength) he let them hold him, giving over that control to her.
Now she ran her hands all over him, discovering, possessing, touching, teasing, noting shivers and twitches and sighs as she had watched Rebecca do to him, to her, to the other favored few. He wanted her touch, not so much the gentle but the sharp, the heavy, the hard and overwhelming. She let him see each toy, before she used it, kiss the handle of the little flogger with the wide, weighted strands (a pleasant thump, a broad sensation, enough for Methos and not too much for Duncan to allow).
Methos’ breath had told her which dildo it was his body wanted: the big one, the one Cyprian assured her was not too large, not for one experienced, but she almost had not chosen, for who knew how long it had been? She weighed it in her hand, fingers exploring the curves and bumps and shapes of it, starting smooth and rounded, two fingers thick, growing by degrees to a wide and brutal root. He shuddered hard when she brought it to his lips to kiss, spine arching, buttocks clenching and relaxing. Oh yes, he wanted it. Was begging for it. Duncan made a stifled sound as she placed it at Methos’ entrance, liberally slicked with lube. He subsided at her warning glance, and Amanda was quite sure he did not hear the hungry sound he made, watching Methos open to the unrelenting penetration of the toy, the engine of desire. Oh yes. Her own core was hot, liquid, roused and ready for the dance her hands and will were working with his need. They all three wanted this, not just consent, but fierce desire met and matched.
Amanda worked it further in, as Methos moaned low in his throat, opening to her, layers of intangible defense falling away from his face, uncovering the Methos very few had ever been allowed to see. A person she loved deeply. That Duncan was only beginning to come to know. But he was learning. They all were.
Then Methos made a different noise, subvocal, bitten, almost-hurt, and Duncan flinched to hear it. Amanda instantly slowed her hand, eased the thing back out a finger-width, soothed the nipple she had pinched, rubbing out the sting around it, kissing close but not directly on the reddened point, as if apologizing. She murmured something in his ear and he shook his head, not opening his eyes, the momentary sharp look of strain leaving as quickly as it came. Duncan realized that despite her own obvious enjoyment, Amanda was entirely focused and aware of the most subtle of Methos’ reactions and responses, and that she would stop, slow, change direction at need, at Methos’ word, his slightest signal.
This was a demonstration of trust, as much or more than love, or pleasure, or fabulous, inventive sex. He wondered, with a pang, if Methos trusted him that much, if Duncan could trust himself, and then he thrust the thought away. That doubt belonged to darkness he had come out of, not this warm, lit space.
Now Amanda was lightly tracing patterns under the arch of Methos’ ribs with her bright nails on one hand, while the other returned to the dildo - phallus - thing that stretched him wide, wider than Duncan would have thought possible, and began to move it again, slowly twisting, rocking, pushing further in. The sounds that Methos was making now were again all wanton, needy gasps and moans that tightened Duncan’s belly, stiffened his cock, filled his heart.
He’d had no idea that this kind of mastery could be done in love, or that Amanda knew it. (Though he knew she enjoyed toys, and mild games with scarves and bedposts, him beneath her, coming at the clench of her skilled muscles and her word. Why had he not known this?) Even less had thought that Methos would enjoy it, be willing - happy! - to submit so thoroughly to another’s hand (and it was a true submission, even Duncan could see that. It made his breath catch and falter in his throat, his blood burn hot and cold and hot again.
“Oh, aren’t you just exquisitely responsive, and so very, very beautiful, all open and exposed and hard.” Amanda touched him lightly, not teasing, but sending little shocks through his skin, to cock and ass and nipples. “And it’s him you’re hard for, isn’t it? Him you want - his mouth kissing you, sucking you, his hands touching you, his cock filling you, fucking you, making you come.” She touched the phallus stretching his arse, nudging it an increment wider, and he shuddered from toe to crown. Across the room he heard Duncan shift and bite back a sound very like a moan.
Oh, how had she known? When had she learned to read him, and so appallingly, amazingly well? (Much the same school he had, as Rebecca had: time and experience and need.) His heart was racing in his chest, her voice pulling knowledge from him he would have not thought possible. He was achingly open, terrifyingly, exhilaratingly exposed, and the ring that Amanda had so deftly and snugly fastened at the root of his cock kept him unmercifully, exactingly hard, held on the edge of release. And it was Duncan he wanted, Duncan to take him and fill him and finish him off. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Amanda, no, he wanted her too, her wicked hands and clever mouth and welcoming wet heat; but in this moment it was Duncan he shuddered and ached in need-desire for, Duncan’s mouth and Duncan’s hands and Duncan’s thick, stiff, glorious cock up his arse, pounding him to ecstasy. How had she known?
Duncan did not think he had ever seen Methos so wrecked, not with ecstasy and satiation. (His mind shied so quickly from any recall of Bordeaux that there was hardly a flicker across his conscious thought.) This was a Methos he had never seen before, trembling and wrung in the aftermath of shattering orgasm/climax, ragged breath still hitching, catching in his throat, dampness creeping from the corners of unseeing eyes. His hands were curled, limp and open by his side, and Duncan was struck with the utter paradox of vulnerability and strength that Methos presented, letting Amanda do that to him, letting himself be opened and stimulated, manipulated, played as masterfully as any virtuoso pianist his instrument, made to bear sensations that Duncan had only ever really thought of as torture, torment to be flinched from, not pleasure to be grasped. He’d known, of course, that people did these things for erotic enjoyment, with consent by all parties, that artisans had made, shops sold, all the toys and trappings and wherewithal for elaborate fantasies and intimate, interpersonal acts. (He had even, if he’d thought about it, enjoyed the very mild games he’d played with Amanda, scarves and teasing, her hands bidding him to hold the bedposts and not move while she mounted him and rode him to their mutual release.) But it had all been distant, academic, something odd that other people did. He hadn’t condemned, but he hadn’t exactly approved either.
But this. This had obviously been deeply pleasurable, meaningful, moving, for both of them. Duncan knew that little sigh and shiver that Amanda sometimes gave him, when things were really, really good for her. Even now, as she gentled Methos back to awareness, hands smoothing along skin shining damp in the candlelight, flush slowly fading, she was glowing too, and the smile on her face was not just for the two of them, but included Duncan in its warmth. His presence had not been incidental, not a passive voyeur but active participant, for all that he had but sat and watched. Amanda had explained that at the start, but he had not known, had not imagined what Witnessing could be for them or him. (And oh, but he was profoundly grateful that there were no Watchers here, and not even Joe knew more than that the three of them were staying with Amanda’s friend.)
They had wanted him to watch, and more, to see. To see strength let itself be vulnerable, to see the laying aside of armor forged millennia ago, worn long, but not a cage, not welded shut. To see the intimacy of letting go, and taking up that trust. For Amanda had surprised him too, in ways that should not have been a surprise. He knew she was strong, skilled, capable. She enjoyed being rescued, playing damsel in distress to Duncan’s Heroick Knight, but she rarely needed him to rescue her in truth. And here was Methos, of all people, submissive under her ungentle hand in the most intimate way possible outside the Game. How did he do it? How could he stand it? - Not a question Duncan could ask of him, not now, not yet, though perhaps in some future time.
And more than watching, witnessing, learning, Duncan was aroused. Not just by the undoubted beauty of both Methos and Amanda, or his affection and attraction - love - for them both, but by the acts themselves, the toys, the words, the broken gasps and the grunts and moans and cries. Aroused, confused, unsure of some things that had always been sure, that he had never thought to question, but coming to be very sure indeed of something else: more than love, (or perhaps it was a measure of love) Methos and Amanda both trusted him. Trusted him where some part of Duncan did not trust himself.
Amanda beckoned Duncan over, and the tumult in his breast expanded out into his belly, groin and knees. He was grateful for the chair-arms as he stood. Not just a witness now, a player too. The grace of it caught at his throat, threatened to sting his eyes. Entrusted with desire, and the aftermath as well.
Methos was still deeply alter-state, though beginning to come up. He was aware of Duncan and Amanda both, and felt very safe, but also thoroughly wrung, and a little fragile. It was not easy for him to let Duncan see that, see him utterly revealed, exposed, undone. He was also aware of Amanda easing him back, no rush, no timetable, and grateful for her care, her skill, her love and the echoes of Rebecca’s. A different kind of awareness was slowly growing in him, a gradual intent to have both these people that he loved, desired, cared for (and those are three different states, not three words for the same feeling) in the big bed all together. He doesn’t want anything more personally sexually (though should Duncan choose to sheath himself in Methos, that would be lovely, an intimacy and closeness long desired, but it wouldn’t be particularly sexual for Methos right now), but Duncan loving Amanda would be lovely to be with, or just all three of them in a giant cuddle. He would really really like that right now. And now both their hands were on him, anchoring and warm. There were no words in any language that could express what he was feeling, would want to say, but their touch told him they knew, and that was enough. Amanda would remember.
Methos didn’t at all want to be alone, Amanda knew. Remembered Rebecca cradling him limp and shattered, wordless in her arms all those years ago. Remembered his hand reaching effortful to take her own and draw her in to that embrace. No more would - or should - Duncan want to be alone. That was why she had made certain of the bed.
“Duncan,” she said softly, getting his attention. She had finished undoing the cuffs and was wiping Methos down, patting him dry with the warmed towel with Duncan’s careful aid; one or the other of them always with a hand on hip or shoulder, back or breast or forehead. Never alone, never left adrift. “Please turn down the bed, and then undress.” The note of obedience expected was still in her voice, not sharp, but present. She was pleased to see him move immediately, attentive to her bidding. When he turned to strip, it was with awareness of her eyes and Methos’ on him, appreciative of his presence, his beauty, his arousal long sustained. He folded his clothes in a tidy pile and began undressing her at her nod, hands delightfully practiced on the laces and fastenings, warm on hip and thigh and ankle. She shivered when Duncan kissed her instep as he steadied her, slipping her feet out of the tall shoes. She could tell that Methos was enjoying the interplay as well, coming more present and alert, though still quite wrung. Not ready yet to move.
Duncan smiled down at him and Amanda didn’t even have to ask — with hardly a pause Duncan had Methos in his arms (entirely un-ridiculous, the moment’s proper thing, breathtaking in beauty) and then they were all three settled in the bed, curled close together.
Amanda happily relieved Duncan of his need, though she would have been happy to see him make love to Methos, find release in his body and not hers, but she was not surprised that Duncan made no indication that that was even possible. One step at a time, she thought. One step at a time. They all snuggled down together into sleep, with Methos in the middle, limply sated and content.
In the morning they had laughed and tussled and tumbled like puppies, naked and happy and mutually aroused. Hands and mouths had proved delightfully sufficient, teasing and touching and playful. Methos making first Amanda and then Duncan wiggle and shiver and not quite come, whereupon they had met each other’s eyes and ganged up on him. That was no hardship, with Duncan moving hard and hot between his thighs (as close as he would come to fucking him, though he surely knew that Methos was still slick and loose, stretched open from the night before and hungry to be filled. Still, this was a happy pleasure all its own, and the present moment was the one that mattered, not mights or coulds.) Amanda chose to grip him in her hand and rub her wet clit along the head, and both took possession of his mouth by turns. When they all three came in a tangle of limbs and a glorious mess, they were too awake to cuddle more, and repaired to the bath, where they did it all again, this time ganging up on Amanda as she laughed and gasped and egged them on.
It was, in Methos’ mind, a long and perfect moment out of time, satisfying, happy and complete.