Work Text:
He’s on his knees, staring defiance.
It’s the most beautiful picture, all his anger and rage bound into submission: shoulders stretched into an unnatural angle, arms tied behind his back by black leather straps. A pose that’s as unnatural as it is striking. He is naked but for his breeches and – oddly - his gloves, the hardness of his body only mellowed by the soft flicker of the fire. It paints his skin golden and makes the shadows cluster and hide under ropes of taunt muscle.
On a superficial glance he appears tamed, but to the keen observer the pretence is obvious: the set of his jaw, the tension in his neck, the flex of his muscles, all those little signs betray the resistance still blazing hot under the calm forced upon him. Yet he kneels, ultimately chained by his master’s command.
Mind and body yield to the pressure, they bend and bow, but they will not break. This is what makes him so special, a perfect tool and a perfect toy.
Minutes seem to pass, trickling through the hourglass with excruciating slowness.
The stone floor grows even harder under Gisborne’s knees which are not used to devotion nor prayer and the discomfort does not help to distract him from his mind racing. What could he be charged with that would have earned him this kind of humiliation?
Only an hour ago he would not have thought it possible to find himself in this position, bizarrely exposed and vulnerable. After all he is the Sheriff’s right hand, his trusted lieutenant. Usually it’s him putting on irons and clapping shut shackles; usually it’s him who enjoys the sight he now presents himself. And God knows how he has savoured this kind of power! But now that the tables are turned, his stomach cramps with foreboding. He has seen what Vaisey is capable of and though he can’t think of anything he’s done wrong, this does not mean he cannot be punished. He is only too aware of the riding crop being tapped impatiently against the Sheriff’s boot. ‚His’ riding crop to top it all.
Inwardly he curses himself for being as stupid as to bring it with him when he was summoned here. But then, how should he have known, the Sheriff would have him strip and kneel? It’s not too unusual to be called to him late at night. Of course the reasons for the summons have varied and he never really knew what was in store for him when he knocked on the Sheriff’s door. It could be anything from his Lord being in a temper, needing someone to yell at, to him being unhappy and dissatisfied with his work for good reason. Sometimes he would include Gisborne in discussing plans and hatching plots. And rarely, Vaisey was simply yearning for some company and a shared cup of wine. It could be pleasant or promising, awkward or disconcerting, sometimes outright nasty but never like this. Never before like this…
Vaisey had been sprawled in his armchair when he entered the room, all lazy elegance and elaborate tedium. “Take off your clothes,” he said instead of a greeting, the familiar catlike smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“My Lord…,” Gisborne stuttered and was interrupted immediately by an impatient wave of a hand. So he lowered his head in silent obedience and did what he was asked, undoing his sword belt, unclasping the buckles of his leather armour, willing his finger not to tremble. The situation was too old an acquaintance not to be nervous. And he had ample time to dwell on its implications as he shed his tunic and the shirt beneath, even his boots.
“That’s enough,” said the Sheriff when Gisborne began fumbling with the lacing of his breeches. “And put your gloves back on.”
He stood there, in the pool of his clothes, leather clad fists clenching at his sides, and tried to fight back the dread, keep it at bay. It is no use to fear the caress of a blade or imagine the pain it invokes, he reminded himself, as long as you’re not feeling it, it’s nothing but a crippling fantasy. Still he could not help his inner turmoil flickering over his features much like the light of a candle. One moment there was only blankness, well exercised yet superficial, the next moment one could see the night gathering in his mind, dripping from his head in strands of inky black hair that cast their shadows on his face.
Vaisey disentangled himself from his chair and began circling him thoughtfully, finally picking up the riding crop from the pile of discharged clothing, smacking it over the palm of his hand for a few times to get a proper feel for it and Guy jumped at the sound.
“Ah, Gisborne. No need to be skittish.”
Vaisey’s joviality did nothing to calm him, on the contrary. He knew too well that beneath the friendly surface lurked a twisted soul and his answer got stuck in his throat that was suddenly raw and tight, and goose bumps were crawling over his flesh.
The Sheriff’s prowl brought him right behind him, so close he could nearly feel his breath on the naked skin.
“Cross your hands behind your back,” Vaisey said and Gisborne was soldier enough to obey without thinking. The leather straps the Sheriff wrapped around his wrists and forearms were smooth and slick against his skin. As soon as it was done a perfectly manicured hand dropped on his shoulder, gently pressing him down to his knees and Gisborne’s mouth went dry.
That’s how he’s been for what seems like half an eternity. Bound, kneeling, at his Lord’s disposal. The thundering snarl of a caged animal is forming in his chest as he waits. Listening to the tune of the riding crop being thrummed against the side of a boot. Listening to the heart pounding in his chest in just the same rhythm.
When the Sheriff finally speaks, there is not a trace of the usual humour in his voice. “This folly has to end, Gisborne,” he says.
“I do not understand, my Lord,” His eyes are blank but his frown betrays his barely controlled anger.
“Your obsession with that woman. Marian,” Vaisey spits out the name like venom.
“You’re making a fool of yourself and I can’t have that.”
As if a spell has been cast, as if the name itself wields magical power, Gisborne’s defiance flickers and burns out. Instead of protesting he inclines his head in an admission of guilt. He can’t possibly argue against that charge of all. He has in deed been acting like a lovesick madman, raving and rueing in internal tides of insanity. Still, he is raw with hurt and he can’t deal with the pain. It eats away at him, it keeps him awake at night.
“You have to learn some restraint,” the Sheriff continues. “And who’d be more apt to teach you than I am?”
Gisborne’s eyes flash upwards to meet Vaisey’s gaze, that is as hard as it’s unreadable. Another smile curls the Sheriff’s lips which is not quite reaching his eyes. “Don’t take this for an offer you can decline, Gisborne.”
His eyes dart towards the crop, then back to Vaisey. He tries to gulp down the furry drought on his tongue. His skin suddenly seems too tight and too hot to be comfortable.
“First of all you have to be punished for your disgraceful behaviour.”
A part of him is shocked at the Sheriff’s words, outraged, but another part, far deeper beneath the surface of control, is fluttering with excitement. For the blink of an eye, the internal struggle is evident on his face, refusal battling with compliance. In the end it’s mainly his reason that gains the upper hand. He can see no way out of this, he has to take the deal or perish. He knows the Sheriff well enough to apprehend his implications. He understands the full meaning of the words, understands the offer and the threat, the arrangement proposed and by his silent nod the pact is sealed.
Vaisey circles him again, the fall of his step matching the pounding of blood in Gisborne’s ears. He holds his breath…
There is no further warning but a faint hiss of air before the first blow strikes between his shoulder blades. It hurts more than he has anticipated and he bites his lip to stifle a gasp. The next blow is easier to take because he is prepared. The leather smacks onto his right shoulder, then onto the left, again and again until beautiful red welts begin to blossom on the broad back, a maze of lines to solve the riddle of his mind.
Every time the crop bites into his skin, his thoughts slip further away. All the deliberations and pangs of conscience and stings of remorse, they dissolve and melt until there’s nothing left but the here and now and the blissful pain kissing his back. It sparks warmth in his limbs that were frozen and numb. A warmth that becomes a fire that becomes a blaze. It’s burning bright in the darkness that for so long has been his prison.
All the world is focussed on this moment, on the sensations invoked by the beating.
On the stone that begins to dig into his knees, that he is driven into with every strike.
On the bonds that cut into his wrists and arms because he simply can’t help struggling against them while trying to keep his balance.
On the crop meeting his flesh, cracking on the bare skin, leaving marks and the sting of needles.
So many forms of pain, dull and raw and sharp, mingling into one…
The angry yell of his body, blocking out every thought, every image, swells in his chest, becomes overwhelming. His teeth clamp into his lips to prevent the scream from escaping him, clamp down until they draw blood, sweet and coppery on his tongue.
Just when he’s about to break, in that very moment when it’s simply too much and he can’t take it anymore, the fierceness of the blows are replaced by a tender hand, finding its way into his unruly hair. He’s drawn into a strange embrace, all gentle strokes and soothing whispers and arms holding him firmly as he is shaking with pain and relief.
“You’ve taken that beautifully,” Vaisey breathes into his ear while his fingers trace one of the marks he’s left on Gisborne’s back. There is unmistakable pride in his voice when he adds “You did not even scream.”
For some very strange reason, Gisborne feels elated by these words and without reservations he snuggles up in the cosiness of his master’s satisfaction. It’s a warm place, without worries or sorrows, one moment stretched into an indefinite present that knows neither future nor past.
In his haze he only vaguely registers the body behind him to move until a hand tilts up his head, fingers pressing into the hollows of his cheeks, much like the grip one would use on a dog. “Let’s put that mouth of yours to better use then,” the Sheriff says and before Gisborne really understands what is happening, Vaisey’s hardened cock is pushing past his lips.
Startled, he tries to turn his head away, to escape the sudden intrusion but the grasp on his jaw is like steel. “I’m not done with you.” The sharp annoyance in Vaisey’s tone blights any spark of resistance and Gisborne obediently opens his mouth to allow the penetration.
Another hand tangles itself in his hair, cruelly yanking at the roots, while the cock slides in deeper, ever deeper, until Gisborne gags and his eyes water.
*
Vaisey just stops there, buried in the mouth of his lieutenant, marveling at the way the man’s lips stretch around his prick. He sees the tears and the panic gathering in the blue of his eyes, sees the desperate attempts to breathe around the thickness filling his throat and he only chuckles.
“If I’d known how good this would feel, I’d have taken you sooner,” he says as he slowly pulls out of Gisborne only to thrust into him again. He revels in his power, in this sense of absolute control. To have such strong a man at his feet, lips wrapped around his cock, struggling not to retch, trying to please him at all costs, is nothing less than intoxicating. It adds to his excitement that he knows very well that Gisborne might be bound but he is not helpless. Chances are he’d be able to crush him even with his hands chained. Hell, he could bite off his prick if he felt like it.
But there is a side to Gisborne that craves to submit and surrender and thereby shed the guilt and regret, just like he got rid of his clothes earlier, to simply strip them off and forget about them. It’s a side that is well hidden beneath sneers and arrogance and demonstrations of cruelty. Sometimes it seems as if only he, Vaisey, can see them – in the faint flutter of eyelashes, in the bow of the head, in the slightly guilty expression that these days so often ghosts over his handsome features. Probably not even Gisborne himself knows about this. The fool still thinks it was love that made him lay his heart to Marian’s feet again and again, patiently waiting for it to be crushed and broken every single time. But that’s not how this is supposed to work, submission is not the same as being abused.
Well, in this case it might be, but they’ve only begun. There is so much, Gisborne has to learn. Above all he has to be taught that unrequited love will not wash away your sins, it is not a religion of salvation and forgiveness. It will only destroy you, reduce to the picture of misery Gisborne has been for the past months. Yet if it is humiliation and submission what his master at arms craves, he will give it to him. And he will add another gift that Marian never bestowed upon him: Relief.
Vaisey’s hands grip tighter in the dark hair that’s slightly damp under his finger tips, as he begins to fuck Gisborne’s mouth for real, in a steady but forceful rhythm. A rhythm to erase Marian from Gisborne’s mind, to make him forget all remorse and pangs of conscience, to claim him as his and his alone.
And after a while the resistance leaves the body he’s violating. The mouth relaxes, the throat accommodates the thrusts and breathing seems to become easier. There are even clumsy attempts of making an effort on Gisborne’s side: the wet slip of tongue, lips sheathing the sharpness of teeth, and those eyes, those blue, blue eyes looking up at him…
*
Gisborne is no stranger to pleasuring other men. He’s a soldier after all. He knows about bonding, about camaraderie. But up to this day, everything he’s ever done have been acts of his own will, trades of relief and comfort. Perhaps this can be a trade of another kind? He cannot think clearly now but it seems to be a possibility. A silver lining in this place of darkness.
He wills himself to be calm, determination iron against the panic bubbling up from his guts.
He forces himself to breathe, to concentrate on the moments he can draw breath.
Eventually this will be over; perhaps even sooner if he plays along. It’s not much that he could do anyway. He could try to run or he could try to fight but even if he succeeded both would cost him dearly. So he stays on his knees and pretends he chose this for himself. Pretends he likes the vicious fingers in his hair and the merciless thrusts in his mouth, the silky length gliding over his tongue, pushing to the back of his throat. He thinks of tavern wenches and whores, he used for his pleasure very much like he is used himself. He did not bind them with rope nor chains but with money and commands. Surely they were as afraid as he is now, struggling against the alienness choking them, dreading what would come after.
In his mind he becomes one of them, sucking cock to make a living. Or maybe sucking cock to live. What is this more exactly but serving his master? And Gisborne lets himself be pulled into the depths of his imagination, down into the shadows.
He is careful for his teeth not to graze the sensitive flesh, hides them behind a firm curtain of lips, that falls just enough to provide pleasant friction, a ring of tightness that distracts from other paths into his body. Depending on his Lord’s mood they could be paths of sweetness or paths of nightmare and that’s why he would prefer not explore these darker ways as long as he is uncertain of the fate that awaits him. So he puts every skill to use he has ever acquired, the teasing of tongue, the greedy sucking, the hum deep in his throat.
It’s only when he made certain he’s doing it right, that he opens his senses to the experience. He breathes in the scent of arousal, primal and sharp. He tastes the saltiness of precum in the slick of his spit. And finally the pretence rubs off on him and the beast within rears its head. Instincts flare and take over what little sanity he has left.
So he sucks and licks until the rush of salt fills his mouth and it’s finally over.
*
Silence falls on the Sheriff’s chamber and Gisborne finds himself kneeling at Vaisey’s feet once more, very much like before he was beaten and his mouth ravished. Slowly the frenzy ebbs and leaves only the sensations it’s washed ashore: the throbbing of stone under his abused knees, the sting of salt in the cuts on his back, the impatient strain of his cock against his breeches. Now that he can feel his body properly again, everything is much more intense than before and he longs for release – and be it by his own hand.
As he looks up at his Lord he cannot keep the expectation from sneaking its way onto his face. Vaisey is sprawled on his chair again, expression satisfied and smug and a little amused. He toys with a pear, twiddling it between his fingers while he studies Gisborne with renewed interest. Without breaking eye contact, he angles for a knife and begins to cut at the fruit in his hands.
Gisborne’s breath hitches. There it is, the bare steel he’s been dreading. He locks his eyes on the shining metal that soon is dripping with the juice of the pear. It slices the fruit as easily as it would pierce human flesh, peel off control and self-restraint until there is nothing left but a quivering mess of needs and desires.
“Please,” he whispers, barely audible in the quiet and Vaisey bares his teeth in a smile that is no less unnerving than the brooding silence.
“Please what?,” the Sheriff asks, running the sharp blade over the pad of his thumb and Gisborne knows very well that it’s not as absentminded a gesture as it appears and again, he gasps for air.
“I need…,” Gisborne’s voice trails off. He can’t believe he is still ashamed, after all that has happened within these walls tonight, but there it is, the flush of embarrassment creeping up on his pale cheeks.
“Yes?” The Sheriff’s smirk is back to the usual grimace of sardonic delight.
Gisborne mulls the words over in his head. Demands or bold requests are out of the question as he is still at his Lord’s mercy. A chosing of words should take that into account. He has to please Vaisey, flatter him, coax him to grant him a moment of closure.
“Please, my Lord, I need to touch myself,” he says in the end, head lowered. “I can’t bear it anymore.” He can only guess Vaisey’s reaction as he’s still on his knees, eyes locked to the ground. He imagines the arched brow and the self-satisfied grin, and he waits.
The silence drags on and his skin is aflame with need. So hot that, when a cool draft teases his over-sensitive nipples, a wanton moan slips past his lips into the leaden quiet.
“A slut, that’s what you are, Gisborne,” says the Sheriff, half approvingly, before he raises from his seat. “But I think, you’ve earnt your reward.”
Vaisey lowers himself to the floor, gracefully. He is so close, their bodies nearly touch again. And then, there it is, the caress of cold steel against Gisborne’s skin. Yet it does not free him from his bonds but trails down the tendons of his neck, lightly, tenderly, over the muscles of his chest and further downwards. He bites his lip as he waits for it to cut, but it never does. Instead Vaisey’s fingernails scratch in its wake, grating and pinching his nipples and Gisborne moans again, shamelessly this time.
The blade reaches his crotch and for a moment he holds his breath, but then the Sheriff laughs and hooks the knife under the lacings of the breeches, severing them with one flick. The relief on Guy’s cock is immediate – it springs free from its confinements in all its glory. It’s a gorgeous tool, like everything about Gisborne it’s proud and arrogant and beautiful and so eager for attention.
Vaisey shoves down the tight leather until it pools around Gisborne’s knees while the knife in his other hand travels over his prick, tracing its length. Guy groans at the sensation - the edge of the blade is no longer cold but warm from exploring his body, yet its threat is nowhere near diminished by that. It slips under his cock and further down until it comes to rest at his balls, the pressure of metal against the sensitive skin so highly exciting. Then soft fingers encircle his shaft, wrapping and pulling and easing back the skin hiding the delicate tip and Gisborne loses himself in mindless pleasure.
His flesh is hot and hard and ready and the tremble of this thighs indicates that it will not take long now. A few more strokes will undo him for sure, so the Sheriff just holds him there, on the brink, palm closed around the cock, the delicious pressure all he’s willing to grant at the moment.
Vaisey discards the knife and puts his fingers in its place, under Gisborne’s balls. They draw a few circles, soothing and sweet, and then they slide further down. Gisborne feels the tease of fingers against his opening, only rubbing never breaching, yet he holds his breath. There is another promise and another threat and the idea alone is intoxicating.
“I knew you’d like it,” the Sheriff chuckles. “But I’ll save that for another time.”
Gisborne’s cock twitches under his palm at the words. Another time.
But he has no time to ponder about the meaning, because Vaisey’s hand has begun to move at last on his engorged flesh and he enjoys the tender graze of fingers, the rough tug of hand, it is perfect and better. His whole body gives in to the sensation, hips jerk forwards, longing for more friction, for harder and faster and more.
He’s squinting his eyes shut, losing himself in the imminence of his release, but Vaisey’s voice hauls him back from his place of seclusion.
“Look at me, Gisborne. I want you to see who’s doing this to you. I will not have you fantasise about your precious Marian or that little kitchen wench of yours or whatever imbecile may haunt your dreams. Not while I touch you!”
Guy’s eyes fly open at the command, guiltily. But his liability does not lie with thinking about women he’s had, it’s simply his own lack of respect that makes him feel ashamed. How could he have allowed himself to escape from the intensity of the moment? When his master has gone to such expenses to show him serenity? To give him an experience that is so much more than he could ever have dreamt of?
He sheds this last piece of control, he lets it flake off and crumble and then, all of it comes crashing down on him, a flood of sensations: the delicious numbness in his hands, the burning on his back, the strain of his abused muscles, the ache in his knees. The pain streams into his belly, hot flaring rivers that run down to his cock, run down its length like electric sparks.
Gisborne hovers there, on the edge of reason. His body is on fire with need and with tension and the tug of the fingers around his cock is overwhelming.
“Let go,” Vaisey whispers into his ear.
It is the final straw.
A strangled cry, not in the least human anymore, escapes Gisborne’s throat as he comes. The strain leaves his body in white streaks, it spurts and splatters and spills. It feels as if he’s gone blind and it seems to take forever. His soul dissolves in spasms of joy, his body melts in a seizure of exquisite torment until there is nothing left, until he is lost and gone and empty.
Moments pass in which after shocks keep on shimmering through his body, electric jolts that are benign compared to the thunderous power of his orgasm yet welcome reminders of the sweetness endured. Vaisey holds him as long as he trembles and again, this is strangely comforting.
When the tremours finally subside, the Sheriff gets back to his feet. He finds the abandonned knife and cuts the bonds around Gisborne’s arms before he retreats to his seat, perfectly at ease with himself, not in the least flustered or tense but smug as ever as he reaches for his cup of wine. He drains it with one gulp and licks his lips in relish, before glancing down at Gisborne who still presents a lovely sight, utterly disshevelled as he is – his lips are swollen and bloody, his long hair is a mess, his back and shoulders are riddled with angry red welts that here and there gape open and bleed and his wrists are chafed with rope burn.
“It rather suits you, Gisborne, being bound and beaten and used,” Vaisey comments. “I will have another taste of that, soon. But now, chop chop, off to bed with you, it’s already late. And you’ll have to be rested for your duties tomorrow.”
He gives Gisborne a toothy grin and waves him off as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened between them.
Gisborne tumbles to his feet, careful not to fall over his breeches that are still down around his knees. When he pulls them up, he realises that the laces are ruined and he gropes for the first thing he can find to tie them. It’s the strip of leather that bound his arms and he can’t help but blush at the sight. The Sheriff laughs at his embarassement and Guy quickens his attempts to gather his belongings. He picks up his boots and his armour and then he flees from the Sheriff’s rooms. But the derisive laughter echoes in his head and chases him through the hallways until at last, he reaches his quarters.
He slumps against the door as soon as it’s closed behind him, the solid oak warm and reassuring against his tortured back, and he takes one, two heavy breaths before he bends over and heaves, bringing up acid and sperm and fear. Disgusted he spits it on the stone floor, purging himself from humiliation and defilement until he is empty and drained. Only when there is nothing left in his stomach and the vomiting ebbs into dry heaves and the nausea wanes, exhaustion begins to weight down on him like lead… Gisborne barely manages to scramble into his bed and crawl beneath the covers before sleep embraces him and he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.