Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1169532.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      BDSM, Dom/sub, Consensual_But_Not_Safe_Or_Sane, Sexual_Content, Bondage,
      Angst, Spanking, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-05 Updated: 2014-04-25 Chapters: 3/? Words: 8115
****** Giving Over ******
by ladyoneill
Summary
     Realizing he set up Kira, knowing he's losing time, so afraid he's
     trying to hurt...kill someone (and maybe has), Stiles goes to the one
     person he knows will keep him under control, contain him, prevent him
     from hurting anyone else.
Notes
     This was supposed to be a one shot set after 3.16. It got away from
     me and has become a chaptered fic. I can't guarantee I'll write on
     any kind of schedule, but I will finish it. It was begun before 3.17
     but completely jossed by that episode. As I write, I'll add tags.
     Please read them. This is not negotiated kink. Having a safe word
     gives Stiles an out he can't take. He needs to be controlled or he
     might kill someone. If that bothers you, please click the back arrow
     now. Whether or not he and Peter will develop any kind of loving
     relationship...I dunno yet. The first part is set in the future.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Naked, he kneels, head bowed, hot tears leaking from his closed eyes. He waits.
There are no chains holding him there, no collar, no leash.
They're no longer needed.
Just the word, the voice--firm, hard even, yet what he needs. Control given,
control gained.
The touch of fingers on the top of his head is light, just a brush, but his
breath hitches.
He's pleased or the hand would be hard, the touch painful.
Lifting into the touch, he opens his eyes, focuses on the bare feet in front of
him, the strong legs clad in worn jeans. Tentatively he reaches out, touches a
knee. When there is no indication he's mis-stepped, he leans forward, wraps his
arms around both legs and openly weeps.
Today is a good day.
~~~~~
This is a very bad idea. Stiles knows that, but the fear--the gut-wrenching
terror--is driving him. It's been just over a week since he realized he maybe
tried to have Kira killed, and he thought he could deal with it on his own, but
he's been losing more time. This morning he woke with his sneakers on and they
had mud on the soles.
It rained last night. He was inside the whole time.
Or, he thought he was.
He doesn't know where he went, but he's so scared he hurt someone.
Terrified that a body will show up.
That morning he raced to school, frantic to find all his friends, so relieved
they were all okay that he nearly had a panic attack. Scott gave him concerned
looks. Lydia--calculating ones.
She'll figure it out. God, if he...if he kills...God, she'll know maybe before
he knows.
Dragging in a deep breath, then another, trying to stall the panic that's
building inside him, threatening to squeeze shut his lungs, he knocks on the
door in front of him. It's only a minute wait, but it feels like an eternity.
And then the door opens and Peter Hale is giving him a curious look.
"I need help," Stiles blurts out.
"You have an Alpha, go ask him."
"Can't." He knows he must look increasingly more and more panicked when the
curiosity on Peter's face is replaced by concern--or what, at least, looks like
concern. Stiles is pretty sure Peter Hale doesn't care about anyone but
himself.
But, he does stand back and allow Stiles to enter his apartment.
The space is airy with high ceilings and spotlights, the colors vibrant.
There's a subtle scent of the woods in the air, and comfortable looking
furniture. Nothing like Derek's dank loft.
He must be gaping because Peter cocks an eyebrow and asks, "What? You really
did think I lived in some underground lair or a half-abandoned warehouse like
my nephew?"
Shrugging his shoulders, Stiles goes further into the living room, but doesn't
take a seat. He isn't surprised when Peter sits regally in a wingback chair
covered in navy and crimson stripes and crosses one leg over the other.
"So, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Stiles' mind goes blank, his tongue stills, and he just stares at the older man
until he rolls his eyes and points to the sofa.
"Sit."
Stiles sits, dragging his hands into his lap and together to keep them from
fidgeting, but he can't stop one leg from bouncing. He's sure it annoys Peter.
It's annoying him, but he can't get it to stop.
"Stiles?"
"I need...I..." Taking a shaky breath, he tries again, this time focusing his
attention on his trembling knee. "I've been losing time. I'm pretty sure I
tried to get someone killed. I'm afraid I may have...hurt someone."
"Who?"
Looking up, he's surprised to see the curiosity back on Peter's face. "What?"
"Who did you try to have killed?" Peter asks succinctly.
"Um...this new girl at school, Kira."
"What proof do you have?"
Launching into a rambling explanation, including the sacrifice to the Nemeton
and the darkness inside him, and brandishing the key like a knife, Stiles hopes
he's making sense. When his voice finally trails away Peter is nodding and
tapping a finger against his lower lip.
"Do you know why you would have done this? Why you want this girl dead?"
"No clue. She's...nice."
"Is it possible you see her as a rival for Scott's affections?"
"No. I would have gone after Allison if that was the case. He's still hung up
on her."
"Hm..."
"Do you believe me?" Stiles asks a bit frantically.
"Actually, I do. Even before your adventure with the Nemeton, there was
darkness in you. It's why I wanted you willingly in my pack. We would have been
glorious together," Peter sighs.
None of that makes Stiles feel any better.
"But, you said this happened nearly a week ago. What brought you to my door
today?"
"I...I sleepwalked last night. Even put my shoes on. I don't know where I went
or what I did. I'm...What if I hurt someone?"
"What if you killed someone?"
He can feel himself paling, but it's not a new thought, and slowly he nods.
"In almost all cases, killers are eventually caught. With your father both in
the know and actually good at his job, he would probably catch you. On the
other hand, you are even smarter than he is and might just be one of those rare
ones who gets away with murder."
"I don't want to get away with murder," Stiles protests. "Jesus, if I did...did
hurt someone, I'd turn myself in."
"But you haven't turned yourself in over siccing this Barrow on the girl."
At that truth his stomach churns.
"Because in the end the only harm came to an escaped murderer, right?"
He swallows hard, but can only nod, eyes wide. He feels...lost.
"Am I here to be your confessor, Stiles, or something else?" Peter asks
shrewdly, the finger again tapping on his lower lip. The sight is almost
mesmerizing.
"I want you to stop me."
"Kill you?"
"If...if..." Stiles collapses against the back of the couch, rubbing his tired
eyes. He feels exhausted and overburdened all the time, but he hoped that,
after revealing the truth to someone, the weight would lift a bit.
It hasn't.
"Make me turn myself in. Make sure my dad knows how to contain me. I can't die
on him, though, no matter how much I'll destroy his life by being arrested for
murder. I can't leave him alone."
"Then we need to make sure you don't get to that point, correct?"
Slowly Stiles nods.
"Why did you come to me?"
Taking his hands from his face, he looks over at Peter and whispers, "You won't
care if you hurt me."
A slow smile creeps across the werewolf's face, and a shiver goes down Stiles'
spine. "Do you know what you need?"
"You to stop me from hurting anyone," Stiles snaps because suddenly he's
afraid.
"You need discipline."
Eyes widening in incredulity, he asks, "You're going to spank me?"
"If necessary, but, no, what I'm talking about is control. You giving me
control."
"Like, with Dom/sub stuff? With safe words and ropes and gags?"
"That's playing. We won't be playing. This isn't a pre-negotiated scene."
"Safe, sane, consensual," he argues and Peter snorts.
"And you'd come out of subspace and go merrily on your way to kill someone."
"But..." The problem is, he doesn't really have an argument for that. Peter's
right. Even though the part of him that's lurked around BDSM websites is
screaming at him that giving himself over to Peter without any safeguards is
wrong, Stiles knows he's in too much trouble to just scene.
Another shiver goes through him. "What if you...what if you do something I
really don't like or you hurt me more than I can take?" he chokes out.
"Then you have to trust that I'll stop when you ask me."
"I don't trust you!"
"Yes you do, or you wouldn't be here."
"No one else would do this for me," he cries passionately. "God, I'm just so
tired." His hands rub over his sore eyes again.
"Then how about this for a truth, Stiles? If I hurt you, break you past the
point you can take, what will Scott do to me?"
Oh.
Yeah.
Slowly he nods in understanding and agrees with a whispered, "Okay."
"My room is at the end of the hall. Get undressed and lie on your stomach on
the bed."
Fear churns in him, but a lot of it is fear of what he might do if he just
walks out the door, so Stiles pushes himself to his feet and trudges down the
hall.
The bedroom is as elegant and neat as the living room, done in mossy greens and
ivory, with a dark wood, four poster bed. Another shiver goes through him as he
pictures himself tied spread-eagled to those posts.
He really has no clue what Peter will do to him. He's afraid to ask, though he
figures he won't be leaving this apartment a virgin, not with the nudity and
the bed.
He's not sure how he feels about that. Grossed out would be the appropriate
response, but that's not it. There's wariness, a good dose of fear, but also
curiosity. Peter is attractive, sexy even. Long before Caitlin asked him if he
liked boys, Stiles figured out he was bi, so that's not an issue. Of course,
Peter is old and pervy, but Stiles can admire, along with his physique, his dry
wit, sarcastic tongue and intelligence.
And his ruthlessness.
In the end, that's what brought him here. Peter will do what's necessary.
Stiles just hopes he hasn't made the biggest mistake of his life, though, he's
pretty sure he has.
Taking a deep breath, he strips off his clothes, piling them neatly on a chair,
then crawls onto the bed. The mattress is firm, the pillows stuffed with down.
Stretching out on his stomach, he buries his face in one and waits.
End Chapter 1
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Peter lays down the rules and he and Stiles begin.
Chapter Notes
     I apologize for the delay. I'm an Olympics junkie and they pretty
     much consumed my brain the last couple weeks. Please note additional
     tags and remember that this not sane or safe BDSM for a reason. Also,
     there's no Nogkitsune here, just the darkness from the Nemeton in a
     different way.
Stiles awakens to a hand stroking over his back. Groggy and confused he blinks
up to find that the room is dark except for one lamp lit on the far side of the
bed. Then he remembers and he's even more confused. Turning his head the other
way he's confronted with a leg and a hip sitting next to him. He lets his eyes
drift up and isn't surprised to find Peter watching him.
He is surprised by everything else.
"You let me sleep?"
"You're exhausted and scared out of your mind." Peter's hand stills on the
small of his back and Stiles fights the need to squirm--whether it's away from
the touch or into it, he's not sure. The hand pats him, then lifts as Peter
stands. "Get dressed. Dinner will be ready in five minutes."
Completely confused now, Stiles watches him leave the bedroom, before rolling
off the bed and staggering into the adjoining bathroom.
A few minutes later, dressed, but shoeless--because he has a feeling the night
won't end with dinner--he follows the aroma of home cooked food to the kitchen
where there's a two person table set in a bow window. There are plates and
silverware and, Jesus, flowers on it. Even placemats and cloth napkins. When
Peter points from the stove to a chair, Stiles sits and waits while his plate
if filled with some kind of chicken and rice dish with broccoli and a salad on
the side. There's no bottle of dressing but he can see oil glinting on the dark
green leaves. No iceberg lettuce here.
Peter sets a glass of ice water in front of him, before taking the place across
from him with a glass of wine for himself. "You can eat. It's not poisoned," he
says with a smirk when Stiles hesitates.
Giving him a glare, he picks up his fork and takes a bite of salad--yep, oil
and some kind of vinegar and herb.
"When will your father expect you?"
A clock on the night stand had shown him it was just past seven. "Ten or so.
He's on patrol tonight."
"Good. You slept for over two hours. Feeling at all refreshed?"
"Um, I guess." He cuts into the chicken which nearly falls apart it's so
tender. "Wow, this is good."
"My sister was too busy learning to be Alpha to learn to cook so that fell to
me. I enjoy it," Peter adds with a slight shoulder shrug before sipping his
wine.
"Why did you let me sleep?"
"Not what you expected?"
"No." The smile on Peter's face is making him uncomfortable so he ducks his
eyes to his plate and takes another bite.
"I want you in as right a mind as you can be before you truly commit to this.
So, you have until after dinner and you've washed the dishes and cleaned the
kitchen to think about what you're asking and what you're getting into. Then,
if you still want this, we have at least an hour before you need to leave."
"That's not enough time," Stiles says dully, afraid again.
"It's not going to work in one hour or a hundred, Stiles. You're a minor. I
can't keep you locked away. Obviously you don't want your father or your
friends to know. You have school, responsibilities. What I can do for you is
give you coping mechanisms for when you're not here with me. It's all we can do
if you don't want to be locked up or killed."
That actually makes sense. Obviously he can't just become Peter's sex slave or
prisoner or whatever. But anything has to be better than what's been happening.
"I don't need to think about it. I already agreed. The more time we have
tonight, the better."
"The kitchen will still need cleaning," is Peter's cool reply and, at that
tone, Stiles lifts his eyes and sees that coolness reflected in pale blue eyes.
Oh.
Discipline.
He nods in understanding and returns to his meal.
When they're done eating, Stiles rises to clear the table, and Peter hands him
his empty wine glass and says, "Save the leftovers. There are containers in the
cabinet beside the dishwasher. Don't use it, though. I want you to hand wash
and dry the dishes. When you're done, if you still want this, return to my
bedroom."
Stiles nods and Peter leaves the kitchen. A bit confused as to why he has to
hand wash everything when there's a perfectly good dishwasher, he still does
it, finding the repetition of scrub, rinse, dry oddly calming. When he's done
and the counters and stove are wiped down, the food stored in the refrigerator,
he dries his hands and turns nervous eyes towards the clock on the stove.
It's almost 8:30.
Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Stiles hangs the towel over the oven
handle, and turns off the lights before leaving the kitchen.
The bedroom door is open, only the one bedside lamp lit, and Peter's sitting in
the lone chair by the window, reading. He's wearing only his jeans.
Stiles gulps again. The wolf's arms are muscular, his chest broad. He's strong.
He could hurt Stiles so badly.
As he hovers just inside the doorway, Peter sets aside the book and looks up,
then gracefully stands. "I'm going to check on the kitchen. Undress again and
kneel on the floor at the end of the bed, hands behind your back."
A shiver goes through him, but Stiles nods and once Peter is out of the room,
yanks his clothes off, but then neatly folds them again and, this time, places
them on top of the dresser in case Peter wants to sit in the chair. From the
state of the rooms he's seen, the werewolf obviously likes things neat and
tidy. No reason to annoy him with scattered clothing.
Ignoring the urge to cover his nudity and taking a deep breath, he goes to his
knees at the end of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back. The carpet is
plush and soft; he barely feels his weight. He wonders what it would be like to
kneel on the hardwood of the living room.
He wonders if he'll find out.
Closing his eyes, Stiles forces himself to breathe evenly and wait patiently,
but fear of the unknown is beginning to bubble in his stomach, and he can't
help but worry over what may happen next.
He still expects sex, but this position...?
The door closes softly and he feels a hand on his head, fingers twining through
his hair and he gulps yet again.
"You did a good job on the kitchen."
"Thank you," spills out instinctively.
The fingers tighten just a fraction. "In here, once you've taken this position
and until I say otherwise, you call me sir."
"Yes, sir."
The fingers loosen and pat, and Stiles opens his eyes to stare blankly across
the bed until Peter turns his head and tips it up. The werewolf's eyes shine in
the dimly lit room.
"Stiles, I want you to know I'm not a novice. I have done this before. Did you
suspect that before coming here?"
"No, sir." Psycho, yes; Dom, no.
"So you assumed I simply would hurt you." Stiles can only nod at that, his eyes
sliding down to the frown on Peter's face, and then he winces as the fingers at
his chin tighten. "That was very risky because I can hurt you very easily,
Stiles, but that's only one method of achieving the end you seek. You don't
really know what that is, do you?" The frown fades, the tone turns
compassionate, and the fingers leave.
Confused and lost, Stiles dips his head and shakes it.
"I could beat you until you're bloody, fuck you until you're sobbing, but
that's not going to work."
The fear magnifies, not from what Peter says, but from the thought that he
might not do that and that's what Stiles might need. He just doesn't know.
"Please, oh God, please, Pe--sir," he chokes out, stumbling over the words, his
hands coming round to grab the footboard in desperation. He really doesn't know
what he needs.
Peter's hand returns to his head, stroking through his hair, and he murmurs,
soothingly, "It's alright, Stiles. We'll figure it out together."
Unbidden, tears spill from Stiles' eyes and, with one hand, he swipes at them
as he tries to control his breathing again, the other hand still on the
footboard, anchoring him on his knees.
Seemingly undisturbed by his crying, Peter leans against the bedpost and
crosses his arms over his chest. "So, some basic logistics and rules. Do you
think three times a week will be enough?"
"I...Yes, sir." Maybe. He has no clue.
"So, Monday, Wednesday and Friday after school at least until lacrosse practice
begins. I'll expect you by four unless you text me to tell me you're running
late or can't make it. Either is fine, as long as I know. I'll give you a key
and my cell phone number. If you need me at other times, we can arrange for
that as well. Okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"Unless I say otherwise, you'll come in here, strip and take this position,
even if I'm not home or here in this room. You'll wait." He frowns again, his
eyes dropping to where Stiles' hands are gripped around the footboard, and
Stiles' breath hitches as he realizes what he's done. "I'll give you rules and
expect them to be obeyed, even if they seem arbitrary or capricious. If you
break them, you'll be punished. What rule did you break, Stiles?"
"I...I was to keep my hands behind my back, sir," he replies, his voice small
and breathy and fear spikes through him.
"Have you ever been spanked?"
"No, sir." Feeling his eyes widen--in anticipation or fear?--he pries his
fingers free, but he's already in trouble, so he just lets his hands dangle as
he waits.
"I don't have any equipment here, but I'll buy some. For now, you have the
choice of twelve with my hand or belt."
With a werewolf's strength, both are going to hurt, but Stiles stammers out,
"Hand, sir," and Peter nods.
"Place yourself over the end of the bed." As Stiles pushes himself to his feet
on trembling legs to do so, he continues, "It's instinctive to try to block the
blows, but don't. That will earn you six more every time you do it. I'd tie you
down, but part of discipline is learning not to do something. You can makes as
much noise as you want--the walls are thick--and you can beg, but I won't stop.
Do you understand?"
His "Yes, sir," is muffled in the bedding, but then he turns his head and takes
a shuddering breath. The bed depresses next to him and he feels rough denim and
warmth press against his side, then a hand caresses his naked ass, sending
fresh shivers through him.
The first blow catches him off guard though and he yelps in surprise at the
burst of pain in his left butt cheek. The second one on the other side comes
quickly as well and Stiles digs his fingers into the bedspread to hold himself
down. When the third overlaps the first, he bites back a cry of pain and tries
not to wriggle away, forces himself to keep his hands in the bedding. God, it
hurts.
The crack of the fourth makes his ass both ache and burn as his skin begins to
heat, and with the fifth tears flood his eyes and he chokes out a gasp of shock
and pain.
By the time the twelfth falls on his upper thigh and the undercurve of his ass,
he's shivering and crying because it hurts so much, yet...
If just for a moment, his mind is clear.
Peter's hand smoothes up his back to the nape of his neck where his fingers
caress sensitive skin for a minute, then he murmurs, "Very good, Stiles," and
Stiles feels a weird pride. "Can you sit up?"
Sniffling, he nods, and, though he knows it's going to hurt, pushes up and
turns so that he's sitting on the end of the bed next to Peter. He hisses at
the fiery sting in his ass and wonders how on earth he's going to be able to
sit through classes tomorrow, but then Peter's hand returns to the nape of his
neck and takes it possessively. Instinctively Stiles relaxes and turns his
attention to the other man.
"Where were we? Oh, yes, logistics. So, from the moment you enter this room
until I tell you discipline is over, you obey me or you'll be punished. The
forms of discipline, the punishments you receive, will be my choice alone." He
glances down to Stiles' lap where his hands have instinctively covered his
genitals and Peter's free hand brushes them away. "You'll be naked for all
discipline, so get used to it."
Blushing, Stiles nods but doesn't try to cover himself again and Peter's
attention returns to his face.
"Depending on how long you have each day, our session, let's call them that,
will last as long as I say. You'll trust that I'll know your limits, and I do
understand that'll be hard for you at first, but every time you say no or try
to stop me from doing something, you'll be punished. That includes sex."
Stiles feels his heart stutter at the thought of being forced into sex against
his will, but he agreed to no safe words...Slowly he nods.
"Sex will never be a punishment, Stiles. You might not like or want everything
I do to you, but it's not a punishment. I know you don't understand that right
now; it's okay." Their eyes meet for a minute, then Peter smiles briefly and
his fingers caress the nape of Stiles' neck sending fresh shivers through him,
a bit of fear, but a bit of something new, too,something he's not ready to
categorize. "Once a session is over you can say no, you can leave, you can yell
at me, whatever you need. Once a session is over, it's over for that day or
night, and you won't be punished and we won't start again. I expect a lot of
what I'll do will make you angry, will make you cry. We'll deal with all of it.
And once the session is over, even if you stay in the apartment, even if you
come back to this room and sleep in my bed, you can say no to anything."
That confuses Stiles, because Peter told him to wash the dishes and clean the
kitchen earlier, and he opens his mouth to ask, but then closes it because he's
not sure he's allowed to ask questions.
"I can see you want to ask something. It's okay. As long as it's respectful,
you can ask me anything during sessions. I can't promise that, if you do it to
try to distract me or stall me, I won't punish you, but I will answer all I
can."
"You told me to clean the kitchen and I guess I thought it was a form of
discipline, but..."
"You could have said no to that, but it's a good thing for you to live your
life outside of this room with routine and discipline. You're ADHD, right?" At
Stiles' nod, he continues, "Focus is hard for you. When you're unfocused, the
darkness inside you can take over much easier. And, I did cook dinner, so you
cleaning up was only fair. We won't spend every minute in this room, so if I
ask you to clean or do your homework or turn off some inane music video show, I
hope you'll do it, but I won't punish you if you don't. Does that make sense?"
"Yes, sir. I...I didn't mind doing the dishes. My mind kind of went calm."
Peter's smile sends that weird proud feeling through Stiles again. "Okay, do
you have any other questions? We have a half hour or so before you'll need to
get ready to go home."
Stiles shakes his head and the butterflies return to his stomach. A half
hour...A lot can happen in a half hour.
"Good. Stand up and put your hands behind your back again."
As Stiles obeys, wincing at the stretch of sore muscles and the burn of his
tender ass, Peter goes to his dresser and removes an item from one of the top
drawers. It's a tie.
"I don't have any binding supplies either, so this'll have to do." At a
gesture, Stiles turns away from Peter, and nibbles at his lower lip as the silk
tie goes around and between his wrists, before knotting just over his palms.
Peter takes his elbow and guides him over just to the side and front of the
chair. "Kneel." As he drops to his knees, carefully placing his ass on his
heels, Peter sits and reaches for his book, then pats his thigh. "Put your head
here and close your eyes. For the next half hour I want you just to be, Stiles.
Let your mind wander. If you feel the darkness, it's okay. You can't do
anything about it. You're bound, on your knees and helpless."
The crooning tone of his voice is matched by the gentle stroke of his hand
through Stiles' hair when he puts his cheek down on the firm, warm thigh, and
lets his eyes drift shut.
"The session is over, Stiles," Peter says softly, and, stunned and dopey,
Stiles lifts his head and blinks up at him.
"Did I...fall asleep?"
"I don't think so. You don't remember what happened?" The concern there is
surprising, but, Stiles is afraid, not of Peter, but the darkness. It came on
so quickly and...
"I blacked out," he replies dully.
"You didn't do anything," Peter stresses as he helps him up and starts to untie
him. "You obeyed beautifully, barely even shifted on your knees, even though it
had to hurt to sit on your heels." His hand pats at Stiles' sore ass, making
him hiss and glare.
Peter just gives him a benign smile in return, then tugs him onto his lap where
Stiles flails and groans in pain until the werewolf pins his arms at his sides.
"What are you doing?"
"Two things you need to research before Friday night," Peter says against the
top of his head before placing a kiss there that makes Stiles blush again.
"Subspace, which I doubt you'll achieve any time soon, but I want you to learn
about as that's your goal, and aftercare, which will always happen, Stiles. I'm
a Dom. I'm not that much of a sadist and I'm not at all sadistic. There is a
difference."
Oh.
"Um...aftercare, I know a little. That's when you make sure the sub is okay,
right?"
"Yes. In some cases, it'll be this or cuddling in bed or a warm bath if you're
particularly sore. We'll talk. You can yell at me if you need to. We only have
about ten minutes tonight but I know how to gauge how much time you'll need and
will stop the session at the appropriate time. And, Stiles," another kiss, "If
you need to cry, that's perfectly normal."
That sounds weird, but Stiles just nods and closes his eyes again. Despite the
pain in his ass, this feels kind of good. Peter's hands and hold are gentle,
he's nuzzling against the top of Stiles' head, and he smells good.
Yeah, this is weird, but...it's okay, too.
End Chapter 2
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     The relief from the first session with Peter doesn't last and Stiles
     is nearly desperate by the time school ends on Friday.
Chapter Notes
     I suck, I know. I should never start WIPs. I have been working on
     this part for over a month, and I finally decided to end in the
     middle of a session as it was getting quite long. That said, I
     haven't any more written so I have no idea when I will get back to
     it. I'm the slowest writer in the world, it seems, but I hope it's
     worth it. Also please remember that there are no safe words here, no
     agreements. It's not safe, sane or consensual. There's also no
     nogitsune--this is all from the darkness of the Nemeton.
Stiles wakes up confused until he realizes he's confused because his alarm is
going off. Flapping a hand out from beneath the covers he turns it off. The
digital numbers read 7:00. It's morning.
He slept through the night?
Delving into his memories, he tries to figure out if that was true or if he had
any nightmares, but he doesn't remember waking until now.
He does remember...
Blushing, he rolls onto his back, then winces at the ache in his ass and
quickly rolls back onto his side.
So, that really happened.
In the light of day--literally--he can't believe he went to Peter for help, but
his logical side understands it worked.
He slept.
And all that happened to him was he got a spanking.
Well, a lot more than that. He'd never seriously thought about trying BDSM.
He'd done a bit of research because he's interested in everything sexual, and
most of it hadn't squicked him, but he wouldn't have pictured himself in a Dom/
sub relationship.
Of course he hadn't pictured himself haunted by a damn tree stump either.
A knock on his door startles him out of his thoughts. "Yeah?"
His dad pokes his head in, a smile on his face. "Hey, kiddo. I didn't hear you
wake up at all. Did you sleep?" There's so much hope on that weathered face
that Stiles nods and smiles.
"Yeah. At least, I don't remember waking up till my alarm."
"That's great, Stiles. I gotta head to work. Make sure you eat something,
okay?"
"Yeah, dad."
After his father leaves, closing the door behind him, Stiles rolls from his bed
and stretches, wincing at his sore muscles. Carefully he places a hand on his
ass and presses inwards. It hurts, but nothing sharp. If he's careful sitting,
he should be able to get through the day.
And, for the first time in weeks, he actually has some energy from getting
enough sleep.
He's also hungry, which is new, too. The last breakfast he ate was on Sunday
when his dad made him eat a pancake.
*****
Waiting for his poptarts to heat up, Stiles leans against the kitchen counter
and finds he likes the slight ache it causes in his hip. Because he doesn't
understand why he likes that, he blushes. He never thought he was masochistic.
In the bathroom before his shower he used a hand mirror and the bathroom mirror
to examine his ass and was surprised there was just a bit of discoloration, no
dark bruises. He wondered how red the marks were right after. His ass had felt
like it was on fire and Peter hadn't held back at all, but there were only
twelve smacks. That really isn't that many.
He wonders how many he can take.
And if the next time it'll be with a belt or paddle or a cane.
He looked up caning once. It sounded horribly painful.
But the pain did wonders for him the night before so...
The aroma of strawberry filling cooking brings him out of his thoughts and he
takes his poptarts out of the toaster, wraps them in a paper towel, grabs his
backpack and heads for his jeep.
His stomach growls in anticipation and he smiles.
*****
"You look good, dude."
Stiles gives his bestfriend a side-eye. "I always look good." When Scott rolls
his eyes, he smirks.
"I mean, the circles under your eyes aren't as pronounced and is that poptart
on your breath?
Snorting in amusement, Stiles slams his locker shut and they head for English
and their non-psychotic--they hope--substitute teacher of the day. "Yeah, I
slept and ate. Feeling pretty good."
"That's great," Scott replies, obviously relieved. "Whatever you're doing, keep
it up."
"Will do."
******
But, maybe because he's worried or maybe just because it's inevitable, the
nightmares return that night and he wakes up screaming once. His dad, who
mostly works day and evening shifts to be there for this, holds him through the
shaking and whimpering, trying to comfort him, until he finally drifts to sleep
again.
Waking groggily to the blare of his alarm, Stiles forces himself to eat a small
bowl of cereal, but his appetite is gone. He'd eaten regular meals the day
before but now all he feels is a light nausea and lethargy.
A little over twenty-four hours of relief was all he got from the first
session. God, he hopes the effects of tonight's last longer.
The day goes by in a blur. He remembers Scott frowning as he picked at his
lunch of tator tots and meatloaf, Lydia giving him concerned looks as he
drifted away during AP Physics and would have screwed up their experiment if
his lab partner was anyone other than her, and Coach yelling at him for failing
completely at the rope climb in gym, but otherwise, he drifts through his
classes until, during the final one--Spanish--he begins to feel anticipation
building and gets jittery, nearly earning himself detention for speaking out of
turn for the tenth time.
Finally, the day ends and he rushes from the building to his car, needing to
get away, to get to Peter.
It's Friday. His dad is working a double and won't be home until after
midnight. He'll have nearly eight hours.
*****
Using his key, Stiles enters Peter's quiet apartment and drops his backpack in
the entryway. He toes off his shoes and pads in sock feet down the hall and
into the bedroom. There's no sign of Peter but Stiles can feel his presence.
After using the bathroom, including a new-in-package toothbrush that's sitting
on the counter, he strips off his clothes and places them a top the dresser. A
glance towards the door shows him that he's still alone, and, taking a deep
breath, he sinks to his knees at the end of the bed and clasps his hands behind
his back.
With every second that passes his breathing quickens and he starts to count
them in his head. At nearly two hundred, he's panting, nibbling at his lower
lip, his body twitching, but, then...he focuses on his hands, imagining them
bound by more than his own fingers. He feels the carpet beneath his knees, his
own nude body comfortable in the warmth of the room.
He calms.
The door closes behind him and a hand runs across the top of his head.
"Good boy," Peter murmurs. "Look at me." Craning his head, Stiles looks up.
Peter is once again wearing only trousers, this time a pair of dark gray ones
that suit is coloring and the bright blue of his eyes. "How long can you stay?"
"Until about midnight, sir."
Peter's eyes sparkle and Stiles feels an odd contentment that the older man is
pleased.
"So, did you do the research I asked?" Turning, Peter leans back against the
bedpost and loosely crosses his arms over his chest.
Stiles nods and, when encouraged, shares all he learned about subspace and
aftercare, taking care not to ramble too much. It helps that he's had it all
laid out in his head since the night before.
"As I mentioned, I doubt you'll reach subspace anytime soon, but we'll work on
it. How did you sleep?"
"I slept the first night through, sir. Last night, not so much."
"And eating?"
"Again, pretty good the first day but then today..." He shakes his head and
Peter reaches out and stops him with one hand on his cheek.
"This is actually better news than I expected. It tells me you're not too far
gone."
Alarm hits. "Was that a possibility?"
"Unfortunately. Stop worrying, Stiles. In here, that's for me. Now," Peter
switches topics briskly, "I went shopping yesterday and picked up several items
we'll need. I know you've never been with a man, but have you fingered
yourself?"
Feeling himself blushing, he shakes his head and nervously licks his lips.
"Then we'll start slowly."
Oh God. Stiles isn't sure he's ready for this at all. Tracking Peter as he
moves around the room, opening a drawer in his dresser and the closet in turn,
he bites into his lower lip, but freezes when he sees the wolf cock his head
and scent the air before turning bright blue eyes and a frown on him.
"Licking your lips is endearing. Biting them isn't. Stop that."
"You have to expect me to be nervous...sir," he almost snaps, biting back
automatically saying Peter's name. "Um...sorry." His eyes dip.
"For what?"
"Um...speaking out of turn?"
"If I didn't want you to speak, I'd gag you." Stiles eyes jerk upwards again
and he's relieved to see a smirk on Peter's face as he comes back to the bed.
"All I ask is respect. So far, you're doing fine."
Again that weird contented feeling seeps in past his nerves and he relaxes.
"Now, I want you to lay down on your stomach in the middle of the bed, feet at
the very end, and stretch your arms over your head."
Climbing up from the bottom, the footboard not a hindrance as it's slightly
lower than the mattress, Stiles obeys. When he stretches out, his fingers brush
the headboard which consists of thick, vertical wooden rungs. The bed next to
his head depresses and he watches as Peter lays out two short pieces of soft
looking rope.
"These are silk. They won't damage your skin. Sometimes we'll use rope that
will, but not today." As he explains, he expertly wraps the rope around each
wrist and ties him to the rungs a shoulder width apart. "You may eventually
feel some strain on your shoulders. You may make as much noise as you want. If
you verbally complain too much, I'll have to punish you."
Stiles opens his mouth to ask how much is too much, but then closes it, because
he has a feeling the line may be arbitrary. Wriggling his fingers, he tests the
bonds and they're tight but not uncomfortable. Slowly he starts to relax only
to tense up again when Peter brings two other items into his line of sight.
One, a bottle of lube, is familiar. The other, well he knows what it is...
"We'll start with the small plug."
Feeling his ass cheeks clench, he blurts out, "That's small?" It's red with a
bulge in the middle about an inch in diameter and a wide base. It's not small.
Peter doesn't reprimand him, just smirks and sets the anal plug in Stiles' line
of sight, before moving down the bed and straddling Stiles' thighs. "You're
going to need to relax or it's going to hurt," he says patiently.
Gulping, Stiles tries to relax but he's never even had a finger up there. He
can feel the panic coming on and fights it back. He agreed to this. He needs to
be grateful that Peter didn't just go straight to fucking him. He needs to
relax.
A hand starts to rub his ass, and he tries to breathe with it, then a slick
thumb brushes over his crease, parts him, and finds his hole.
Oh...
A shiver of pleasure goes through him. He never really thought about how
sensitive that bit of flesh is.
"Good boy," Peter croons and the thumb pushes past the tight ring of muscles.
Stiles gasps and grasps the ropes. The thumb wriggles and rubs and it feels
weird but not actually bad. When a second finger pushes in, he's ready for it,
finally relaxing his muscles enough that there's no true pain, just some
discomfort. Gradually he feels himself loosen and then a third finger presses
against his hole and he tightens again.
"Relax."
Swallowing hard, he squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on the fingers
inside him, the other one wanting in, and he lets the muscles go slack. It
hurts and he groans, but stays limp and still, letting Peter push into him to
the base of his fingers. When they begin to spread apart, he groans again. It
hurts more but he knows this is necessary. The bulge of the plug is about the
circumference of the three fingers formed into a cone, and he doesn't know how
long it'll be inside him.
He's also a bit surprised that he's not turned on at all, though when Peter
presses one finger against a certain spot--his prostate?--a shiver of something
like pleasure goes up his spine. His dick doesn't react, though.
Finally, Peter removes his fingers and Stiles takes a deep breath. His ass
aches a bit, but it's not bad, and now he feels kind of empty. With the first
push of the tip of the plug, that feeling goes away and he grunts at the
pressure and fullness as the thing slips inside him.
"Okay?"
"Yes, sir," he pants in response, his fingers clenching around the ropes
holding him down. The plug feels huge and he feels stuffed, but, now that it's
seated, it's pressing against his prostate and that almost feels good.
There's a pat on his ass and then the bed shifts. Turning his head, Stiles
watches Peter walk over to the chair, sit, and pick up a book, in which he
seems to become immediately engrossed. There's also a glass of red wine on the
table and Peter sips at it occasionally.
Time passes.
As Peter predicted, Stiles' shoulders began to ache. He knows he can relieve
the soreness by moving up the bed, but Peter put him in this position for a
reason. Pressing his toes into the bedding, he forces himself to breathe
evenly, but finally he has to squirm.
His dick rubs against the bedspread but it's too soft--there's no friction.
He's not sure he wants any, but the plug shifts, presses harder into his
prostate, and he gulps at the frisson of pleasure. It's brief, but there.
He's not sure he wants that.
Breathing again, through his nose, he tries to ignore the ache in his
shoulders, the way his fingers are clenching and unclenching, the trembling in
his arms, the stiffness in his neck, but it all just gets more intense with
every minute.
How long has he been here?
Glancing over Stiles sees that the glass is half-full and Peter is reading.
Ignoring him. But, he knows the wolf really isn't.
This is discipline.
Stiles squirms again, spreading his legs slightly, trying to do anything to
alleviate the aches that are becoming pain. Something about crucifixion passes
through his mind--necks breaking from arms over the head in suspension, but
he's not suspended. His neck won't break.
It still hurts and it doesn't help that he has to hold his head up to breathe
because it's either that or press his mouth into his arm or the bed. Finally,
he can't hold it in any longer and groans in pain.
Surprisingly, Peter's there in an instant, straddling his back and leaning
forward to untie the ropes. Confused, Stiles watches as the older man brings
each arm down, rubbing the sore muscles of his shoulders and biceps. He sighs
in relief and then groans as the rubbing fingers find his neck.
"You did very well, Stiles," Peter says as he moves to sit next to him,
lounging back against the pillows and headboard.
Carefully turning his sore neck, Stiles asks, "How long?"
"Nearly an hour." He sounds pleased and Stiles gives him a hesitant smile.
"Were you present the whole time?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. And, how do you feel?"
He's not really sure. The plug is still inside him, but it doesn't hurt. He's
still not aroused. "I'm not sure," he finally answers as Peter's giving him an
expectant look.
"That's fine. I'm not surprised. Now, get on your hands and knees." The voice
going from gentle to a firm order surprises him and he scrambles to obey.
Immediately his arms shake and he locks them tightly. When Peter cocks his head
to run his eyes down his torso, Stiles feels his cheeks warm and he ducks his
eyes and nibbles on his lower lip, then stops when he remembers Peter doesn't
like that.
Examining why it matters to him if Peter doesn't like something will have to
wait, though, as the older man moves gracefully to his knees and takes Stiles'
shoulders, lifting him up, then down so he's sitting on his haunches. The anal
plug shifts again and a moan breaks from him.
That felt...good.
"Put your hands on your thighs and spread your legs a bit."
Obeying, Stiles whimpers as his prostate is massaged with each movement and his
dick starts to twitch. When Peter's hand wraps around it and starts to pump at
a quick, steady pace, he gasps and turns bright red. With wide eyes he stares
past Peter's shoulder and nervously licks his lips. He's hard in just a few
minutes and he wonders why Peter's doing this, until he stops, his hand tight
around the base of Stiles' cock, and a small, leather object is held in front
of his face.
Oh.
"I take it you know what this is?"
Licking his suddenly dry lips, Stiles nods nervously, then watches as the
circlet is snapped tightly around the base of his cock, keeping him erect, but
too tight...
Oh.
Peter's fingers tease over the slit and Stiles gulps and shivers in pleasure.
The first hand other than his own on his dick and it's amazing and...he's not
going to get to come.
His face heats even more.
Rising from the bed, Peter helps Stiles off and to his feet then over to the
chair where he guides him to his knees. His cock throbs and he pants, but he
doesn't touch himself, just fists his hands on his thighs. Peter pets his head
then heads for the door.
"I'm going to get us something to eat. I want to find you in this exact
position. Do not remove the ring or the plug."
"Yes, sir." He knows he sounds a bit disgruntled, but he's not used to denying
himself an orgasm in this manner. Forcing down a boner when he's in school or
some other inappropriate place, sure, but he can't force this one down.
Peter leaves and Stiles stares at the chair, trying to ignore his desire and
the ache in his ass and shoulders and...
A bit of resentment creeps him and he wonders at it. He agreed to all this.
True, he hadn't known what he was agreeing to, but he expected sex and
discipline and, he guesses, denial goes along with all that.
He just wonders how long before he gets to come.
If he gets to come.
Stiles is not happy about that possibility.
End Chapter 3
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