Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2685269.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Rope_Bondage, Predicament_Bondage, D/s, Humiliation, Pain, Gags, Begging
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-28 Words: 1890
****** The Art of Begging ******
by Shayne_(Thigh_Bone)
Summary
     When words aren't an option, Stiles has to learn to use his body to
     get what he wants.
Notes
     For a prompt from a friend: "peter/stiles, hardcore bondage. And
     maybe a little humiliation too?"
     Okay dear, your wish is my command. Hope you like.
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles groaned and flexed the muscles in his thighs. They were trembling
faintly with the effort of holding his position, and he didn’t think he could
stay like this much longer. Peter had been rather viciously creative tonight.
The way he was bound, Stiles couldrelax into the rigging, let the ropes hold
him up, but that would be more painful than the effort of holding himself up.
Stiles was on his knees, a rope knotted around each ankle and each thigh
secured to the frame of the bed. There was just enough slack in those ropes to
allow him to spread his knees about an inch or so, but not much more than that.
His upper body was braced on his shoulders, arms pulled together under his body
and stretched straight out beneath him. The rope around his wrists was tighter,
not allowing any movement of his arms, or his upper body at all really. But it
was the ropes looped around his genitals that really concerned him though.
Peter had tied up his cock and balls, two loops over the base of his cock and
four around his balls drawing the exposed flesh tight. The end of that rope was
tied around one of his thighs so that any attempt to spread his legs or shift
his weight would yank uncomfortably on his sack. There was also a rope threaded
through the ring in the head of his cock and then fastened to the hook in the
headboard so that any attempt to rest more on his haunches would pull on his
cock piercing. He was forced to stay in exactly the position he’d started in,
and after almost an hour of this, he was running out of strength to hold
himself that way. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait for Peter to
decide he’d done well enough. “Please,” he begged, though the sound was muffled
by the ball-gag stretching his lips wide and came out as nothing more than a
garbled wet noise. It sounded loud, obscene, and an embarrassed flush crawled
its way from Stiles’s face down his neck and chest.
Obviously unmoved by Stiles’s plight, Peter chuckled, low and cruel. He ran a
light fingertip over the tight skin of Stiles’s bound cock.
The light flutter of sensation seared like a line of fire and Stiles whined and
twitched, not knowing if he was pushing into or shrinking back from the
contact; it didn’t matter anyway. Peter would keep touching him as he pleased,
and immobilized as he was there was nothing Stiles could do to stop it. Not
that he was entirely sure he wanted to. He liked this though, not having a
choice. Before, indecision had been crushing, but like this he could accept the
things he wanted, fight against his desire to take them as much as he needed,
and know that at the end of everything, none of it mattered. Peter was still
going to use him as he pleased, give Stiles everything he craved in the most
shameful part of him, and then give him even more when he’d been broken down
and cracked open.
The sound of Peter’s zipper was loud in the quiet of the room. “Are you ready
for me?”
He wasn’t—he hadn’t been fucked in days and Peter had only given him a cursory
push of two fingers to slick him up—but he knew better than to disagree with
Peter, knew better than to disappoint him. The worst of the bruising he’d ended
up with the last time that happened still hadn’t faded. Stiles arched his back
as far as he dared. The rope connected to the piercing in the head of his
cock—only days old now—pulled tighter with the movement, and pain sparkled
across Stiles’s nerve endings as the ring tugged cruelly on his dick. It hurt,
but he had to present himself to Peter as best he could. Peter liked to ignore
his ass and get himself off with Stiles’s mouth, leaving Stiles embarrassed and
unsatisfied, if Stiles didn’t show himself off for Peter.
With slow, deliberate movements, Peter climbed onto the bed behind him. His
hands smoothed over the skin of Stiles’s ass, reddened and raw from his earlier
caning, and then spread his cheeks apart. “Such a pretty little hole, always
fluttering and begging me to fill it up any time it’s empty.”
There was discomfort in Peter’s rough touches to his abused skin, but it barely
registered. Shame and humiliation surged over Stiles and he squeezed his eyes
shut as his stomach turned over with disgust at himself. The hideously
embarrassing thing was that it was true. Any time Stiles wasn’t stuffed full of
Peter’s cock he felt so cripplingly empty and bereft. He craved Peter and that
fullness all the time. When he woke up every morning and shaved himself knowing
that Peter liked a smooth hole to play with, he was tempted to fill himself
with fingers or toys just to stop the ache. When he went through his day and
every step he took caused his smooth cheeks to rub against each other, it felt
so wrong, they were only ever supposed to be spread wide signaling his
readiness. At night, when it was too late to pretend anymore that Peter might
still call him today, he lay in bed and felt the sheets caressing his body and
all he wanted was a rougher touch, pain and bruising and the end to the
desperate ache to be full. It was humiliating to admit to himself how much he
wanted to be nothing more than a tool for another’s pleasure; it was absolutely
mortifying for Peter to recognize it so easily, his needy, wanton body
betraying him.
Peter shifted and then the crown of his cock was snug against the slick furl of
Stiles’s entrance. He remained motionless, a hovering, implied threat that
never materialized. He was waiting for Stiles; waiting for Stiles to give him
something, rather than make him take it. He liked it when Stiles gave himself
up and submitted fully.
Blood rushed in Stiles’s ears and thought ground to a halt. He could feel the
racing of his heart, he could feel the panicked wheezing of his breaths, he
could feel adrenaline and endorphins singing in his veins and confusing the
impulses his body sent to his brain. He could feel the myriad ways his body was
spinning out of control, hurtling him toward that place he both loathed and
craved—the one where he truly was Peter’s plaything in both body and spirit—and
yet it felt as if time slowed down, crawling along at some glacial pace.
Sensations pushed themselves to the forefront of his mind: the chill of sweat
cooling on his skin, the scratch of the nylon ropes abrading his flesh, the
tingle in his jaw and face from having his mouth forced so wide open for so
long—all of them individually catalogued and filed in with the multitude of
aches that flared up reminding him of the weeks of similar abuses he’s
suffered. And yet none of it compared to the light pressure against his core.
Nothing hurt as much as feeling that cock so close but not inside.He whimpered,
desperate for Peter to spear him open.
Merciless, Peter squeezed the skin of Stiles’s ass hard. “If you want it—beg me
for it.”
He already ached all over, so Stiles hadn’t thought any one thing Peter did
would rise above the cacophony of sensations vying for his attention, but
Peter’s rough grip flared bright and hot with a fresh wave of agony. He
wanted,oh god, he wanted, and a little more of his dignity chipped away to be
lost in the ether. Stiles let loose a litany of pleas, all of them mangled and
unintelligible around the gag. He didn’t care that he was lowering himself so
completely, didn’t care that he’d never get this tiny sliver of his pride back;
he surrendered it willingly, sacrificing it on the altar of the god of frantic
need.
While Stiles unraveled completely, Peter remained frustratingly still. The
angry, leaking head of his cock pressed tight to Stiles’s entrance, completely
immune to the way his hole would pulse and try to grab at his dick and draw it
inside like a hungry little mouth.
Beyond desperate now, Stiles whined high and keening. The pain and the shame
and his need had carved out his insides and left him feeling broken and hollow.
He needed Peter to fill him back up. He needed Peter to take all the useless,
hideous pieces of him and reshape them into something Stiles could understand.
He needed Peter to tell him what to be. He tried again to get the word “please”
out clearly around the rubber obstruction in his mouth, but it was a lost
cause. The only thing his extra effort did was make his saliva bubble up at the
corners of his lips.
Peter laughed meanly. “If you can’t use your words, then you best beg me with
your body for what you want, boy.”
Pathetically grateful, Stiles panted roughly around the gag, spit now coating
the entire lower half of his face. Peter’s words were not nice, but they were
still a kindness. Clear directions that he could follow, a linear path that
would take him to the place where he pleased Peter and convinced him that
Stiles was worthy of his use were like a gift to Stiles’s lust-addled, confused
mind. He spread his legs wider against the sheets, whimpering when the nylon
wrapped around his balls bit into his flesh. It pinched and squeezed, the raw
ache of it tingling along his nerve endings. God, he loved this so much.
Peter squeezed his handfuls of Stiles’s ass harder. “That’s certainly very
pretty, boy, but it’s still not convincing me that you really want this, that
you’re desperate for it.”
Out of everything—all the pain and humiliation and waiting—this, the thought of
being denied, and of failing Peter was what brought tears prickling to the
corner of Stile’s eyes. Sucking a deep breath through his nose, Stiles arched
his back and pressed his hips backward as much as the infinitesimal slack in
the ropes would allow. Fiery pain licked its way from the tip of his cock all
the way up his spine to light his brain on fire. The torturous throbbing filled
up his consciousness and Stiles delighted in it. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt
badly, or that he enjoyed the pain—it was more that he enjoyed the respite it
gave him. When everything was this much agony and red-tinged awareness, he
couldn’t get a grip on anything else—desperation and emptiness and shame
sliding right through his grasp.
“There, now that’s begging, boy.” Peter’s voice was warm and full of pride.
The approval washed over Stiles, and suddenly the pain and degradation lost
their sharp edges, and everything was heat. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears
leaking over his cheeks, and sighed around the ball in his mouth. He settled
into the constant waves of sensation battering his abused body, grateful to
Peter for bringing him to the place that only he knew the way to.
 
End Notes
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