It's just hazing.
That's what he tells himself. I'll get through it. Everyone gets through it. It doesn't matter that this is happening to me.
Somehow this is easier to believe at other times of the day. Times when it isn't late summer's after-dinner twilight. Times when he isn't standing at attention, staring forward, trying desperately not to look at the officer watching him.
"Hands behind your back, Ellison."
"Sir! Yes, sir."
Trying not to think, Jim complies. He feels the twist of rope abrading his wrists slightly as they are tied together. He keeps his head up, looking at an imaginary spot on the far wall, as the officer circles him. A rough hand runs over his jawline, as if checking for a smooth shave, and Jim schools himself not to flinch.
The officer kneels and unfastens the webbing of his belt. Jim tries to ignore the fact that a man is kneeling in front of him, ignore the hands so near his crotch, but as his pants are pulled to mid-thigh he can't help the fearful anticipation that runs through him.
His briefs are yanked down, and for an instant he thinks he can feel breath on his cock - impossible, the man's at least a foot away. Still, he can't help it, he's starting to get hard. He stares straight ahead, trying to pretend this isn't real.
"Bend over the horse. You know the drill."
Jim takes a few steps forward, awkwardly, off-balance from having his arms restrained, shackled by the pants around his knees. He bends over the vaulting horse, resting his chest on the black expanse. From this close up it still smells faintly like leather.
The smacks begin. Loud, stinging slaps that seem to echo in the empty room. He tells himself he's used to it now, tells himself he can recede into his head, not pay attention to the heat of hands on his ass, the way his thighs and crotch feel exposed between his untucked shirt and pushed-down pants.
"Thank you, sir. May I have another?" The words are rote.
Hands parting his ass startle him and he crashes back into his body, no longer able to ignore or pretend. A slick finger slides easily into him and he can't help groaning, horrified and surprised at the feeling of his body opening to the invading hand. He is burning bright red now, humiliated. The officer's finger slips in and out, again, then pulls away. Before he has a chance to think, the finger is replaced by something else: too cold to be flesh, it must be plastic or rubber. It slides into him, making him feel stretched and full.
"'May I have another' seems so formal," the voice says, conversationally. "Why don't we make it easier on you? Let's make it 'Thank you, sir. More, please,'" and Jim croaks out a sir, yes, sir, as the officer chuckles.
He almost shouts when his ass is hit this time: the hand jars the plug inside him, sending ripples of fire up his spine. "Thank you, sir. More, please," he manages. By now he is hard as a rock. That being exposed and spanked and finger-fucked like this has made him hard is terrifying.
"That's it," the officer says. "Let's see you move." And Jim complies, as if there were anywhere he could go between the punishing hand and the hard leather-covered block he's bending on.
And then the officer says, "I think you're enjoying this, Ellison." Jim feels a hand reach around him to cup his erection and it's all he can do not to squirm, not to thrust into the warm grasp.
The hand pulls away, but just as he's offering silent thanks that he won't have to endure that torment, the hand returns slick and wet.
"You want this."
He doesn't and he does; his brain is mortified, but his voice follows the dictates of his body. "Sir!" His throat feels rough. "Yes, sir," Jim says, his voice rising as the hand closes around his dick again.
Now each spank is accompanied by a stroke on his aching cock, down and back, a slow, slick, wet caress. Each "More, please" sounds more frantic; he's becoming desperate, he's never been so hard in his life, and the plug makes something throb inside him. When the hand pulls back he follows it, hips moving against his will. He'll do anything to keep the sweet jacking cadence of that hand on his cock, even if it means letting a man turn and twist the plug in his ass.
The plug wrenches out of him and he groans, asshole quivering from sudden emptiness, but it's replaced with something larger. Jim is stunned by the feel of a cock moving in and out of his ass, the crease of another man's thighs slamming into his ass, again and again. The slick hand teases his erection.
"You want to come, Ellison?" The voice is rough; some distant part of his brain registers that the officer is close to coming himself.
"Please. Please, sir. More. God, please."
As the man slams into him a final time, his hand closes around Jim's cock: finally, finally, enough pressure to get him somewhere, and Jim struggles, breath coming loud and fast, fucking the fisted hand until with a stifled moan he comes, hard. The hand stays on his cock, milking him for a moment, then gently lets him go.
The man pulls away. The air is cold against Jim's ass and thighs. He rests on the horse, chest still heaving, head hanging. His wrists are untied and his arms flop down, tingling as the blood rushes towards his hands.
The officer tosses a towel onto the vaulting horse, but Jim doesn't move. He hears him tucking his shirt back in, his footsteps leaving the room. He is still bent there, body still throbbing, when the door creaks and the officer is gone.
"Jim!"
A hand is rubbing his shoulder firmly through his shirt, pressing the flannel into his skin. Jim blinks a few times and feels his face color.
Blair sets a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches on the coffee table and sits down next to him. He smells like olive oil, like toasted bread, like melted cheese. He reaches for one half of a sandwich.
"You haven't zoned in ages," he says, around a mouthful of cheddar.
"Aren't you going to use a plate?"
Blair rolls his eyes. "I'm not getting crumbs anywhere. What'd you zone on?"
"I didn't." Jim reaches for the plate, balances it on his lap, takes a bite of a half-sandwich.
"So what's up with the 'staring into space and not hearing when I said lunch was ready' thing? I thought you were hungry."
"I am." Jim picks up his second sandwich half.
They eat for a few minutes in silence, Jim batting Blair's hand away when he reaches for more, Blair using the other hand to grab the sandwich he wanted.
"Where were you when I called?" Blair's voice is studiously quiet, as if he's trying to sound nonchalant. He's curious as hell, though. Jim can tell.
"Thinking." Jim stands. "I'll get the dishes, Chief. Thanks for making lunch."
It's not that he doesn't like their sex life, Jim thinks idly, ignoring the movie on tv. The movie's about a high school dropout who falls for a guy who carries a hand grenade, and it's definitely more Blair's speed than his.
It's not that things aren't good. They're fine. Great, even, a lot of the time. And what do you expect after five years?
Five years. Hell of a thing. More than twice as long as he was with Carolyn. A damn time longer than he's ever been with anyone. And at this point he's pretty sure he's never going to be with anyone else.
Which is fine. Things with Blair are good. And if they don't have sex twice a day like they did in the beginning, that's okay. Normal.
Even without as much sex as they once had, he knows he loves Blair. Even says so occasionally, as a treat. For him, not for Blair. Blair doesn't need that kind of reassurance.
Jim's train of thought is interrupted when Blair shifts on the couch to tuck his feet under Jim's thighs. Cold feet.
"Why don't you wear socks if your feet are so fucking cold?" He's not really annoyed, just likes sounding that way.
"I like this better." Blair's still intent on the movie. After a scene or two Jim's mind picks up where it left off. The sex is good stuff, still. There's no denying that Blair Sandburg is a hell of a good-looking man - Jim still enjoys looking at him. And what kind of idiot turns his back on regular blowjobs, a little fucking now and then?
But when he opened his Army trunk this morning, looking for the couple of wool blankets he could have sworn were in there, he was hit with a sense-memory so strong he can't believe it hasn't been in his head all these years. Remembered the feel of the fatigues on his body - his slimmer body, then. Moving felt different; he remembers that now. And he remembers the feel of his first fuck. His first time being fucked. Bent over a vaulting horse in an empty barracks that he's pretty sure was kept empty exactly for that purpose.
Did everybody go through that, or was he chosen? Did the officer - God, Jim can't even remember his name - have some inkling of the desires Jim wasn't letting himself feel, or did he just pick the grunt-in-training he thought was prettiest, the one with the tightest ass?
It's on his mind through the movie, through the eleven o'clock news, through the time he spends brushing his teeth. He's still half-thinking about it when they go to bed.
Blair's hand closes over his cock and, to his embarrassment, he can feel himself going soft. Shrinking in Blair's hand.
The silence lasts an instant too long.
"Sorry -"
"Guess you're-"
They start at the same time, then laugh a little, awkwardly.
"I'm sorry, Blair." Jim can feel his cheeks flaming.
"S'okay."
"You want me -" Jim's not sure what to offer. "I mean, I can -"
"Will you suck me?"
"Come on top of me - let me do it like this," Jim says, suddenly. It's not a position they use.
"I'll choke you." Blair sounds skeptical.
"Please," Jim says, and that's all it takes: Blair's kneeling up, moving over him, holding his cock over Jim's mouth. It takes a minute to find a workable angle, and then Blair is in his mouth, starting to move a little, and Jim can lie back and let his hands slip down.
He twists his hands in the sheets and holds himself still, as if he were tied. He imagines he's restrained, imagines Blair is fucking his mouth and he can't do anything but let it happen, and a thrill runs through him.
"Mmm," Blair sighs, and Jim hums back at him, feeling the sound muffled in the filled cavity of his mouth and throat. Blair's breathing is coming fast, now, he's making little sounds of desire, and Jim is keeping himself unmoving, only his new erection twitching slightly as Blair thrusts into him.
When Blair comes, Jim does too, his body straining at his invisible bonds. After a moment Blair pulls back, falls beside him, burrows his way back under the blankets again. Jim hears him open his mouth, as if to say something, but Blair closes it again, leans over to nuzzle at his ear for a moment, then rolls to his side of the bed to sleep.
Jim's sleep is uneasy, filled with dreams of crisp olive-green uniforms and barked commands and slick fingers dancing away from his dick.
Another Saturday night on the sofa. Dinner dishes soaking in the sink, empty beer bottles rinsed and stacked in the recycling bin, a book in Blair's hand, a magazine in Jim's. Which he isn't reading. Because he's thinking about the army, again.
It's occupied some part of his brain all week, actually. He feels like he's been functioning somewhere around sixty percent capacity - the rest of him has been spinning like a broken machine, stuck on the remembered way everything felt.
Imagining the officer's hands on him again. Trying not to imagine what it would be like if Blair did those things to him now, but finding himself obsessing about it anyway.
"Do you ever think about other things when we're in bed?"
The words come out of his mouth before he can think about why he knows he shouldn't say them.
Blair tilts his head slightly and puts the book face-down on the floor, marking his place. "What kind of other things?"
"Like...fantasies."
After a moment Blair nods. His face quirks into a half-smile. "Yeah. Doesn't everybody?"
For an instant an old fear recurs. "You think about other people?"
"Not really." Blair looks momentarily concerned, and Jim realizes his flash of jealousy must have shown on his face. It's hypocritical, of course, since he's been thinking about other people all week. But not in a desiring-other-people kind of way; just remembering. And wishing.
Blair moves across the sofa and settles himself on Jim's chest, arms around him loosely. Which Jim appreciates, since it means he doesn't have to look at Blair's face. It's almost as if Blair knows he's working up to something.
"You?"
Nice, the way Blair's voice is muted by Jim's body. Jim's solid, now, not spindly like he was back then.
"Yeah," Jim says. He knows where he wants this conversation to go, but he's not sure he can ask for it. Not sure what Blair would say. And he doesn't want to freak him out; if Blair said no, things would be awkward. Horribly awkward. It would be there, all the time, the thing he asked for that Blair didn't want to give.
"I'd love to hear one of your fantasies." Blair's voice is gentle. Jim figures he's spent the last minute or two planning the best way to say that, trying to gauge which words would seem calmest. A wave of appreciation washes through him.
"You might not like it."
The fact that they're even talking about this sets Jim's heart pounding. He wonders if Blair can feel it.
"There's something you want, isn't there?"
Jim nods, not trusting himself to speak.
"Tell me, Jim."
God, this shouldn't be so hard. Why is it so hard to say? He makes the words appear: "Would you." He stops. God damn it, I'm a grown man, I can say this. He swallows hard. "...tie my hands?"
"Mmmmmmm." Blair's voice rumbles through Jim's chest. "Oh, yeah."
Jim can feel Blair's smile. He knows Blair is imagining, now, what he could do to Jim while his hands are tied. The combination of this knowledge, and the fact that he's managed to say even this much, has him feeling almost giddy. Blair's aroused by the idea; Jim can smell it.
But he doesn't want to stop here. To get so close to asking for it, and then chicken out. He makes himself say "And." Now he has to keep going. He's committed himself. He has to finish.
There is a pause. "And," Blair repeats, prompting.
Jim closes his eyes, summons his courage. "And spank me," he whispers, so quietly he's not sure Blair has heard him. He can't believe he's said it: it sounds strange, juvenile. Like words someone else would say.
Blair exhales, then places a small kiss on Jim's chest. "Oh, man," he says, and Jim is anxious almost to the point of nausea until Blair follows up with "I am so down with that."
Jim lets out a breath, not realizing he'd been holding it until he let it go, and feels himself melt into the couch under Blair's weight. He becomes aware that Blair's hand is stroking his side, gently, and it occurs to him that that same hand is going to - going to -
He shivers and Blair smiles again, shifting against him. Blair's erection is burning a hole in his thigh. God, this idea excites Blair - which somehow makes it even more erotic, even just thinking about it, even before they've started anything.
Blair pushes himself up and stands. "Stand up," he says, and Jim does. Facing the window. Hands loosely behind his back, as if at ease.
Blair is rummaging in the overgrown closet that his former room has become, and when he comes out Jim sees a flash of something silk in his hands. A necktie. Next thing Jim knows it's being wound, around one wrist and the other, around them together. Binding him. He realizes, with a flash of embarrassment, that he was standing with his hands ready to be tied. His body taking over from his brain.
Then Blair is standing in front of him, a look of open appraisal on his face. He reaches down and adjusts himself through his pants; then, as if the thought has just occurred to him, starts to stroke himself.
There's something wonderful about knowing somebody well enough that you can jerk off in front of each other without worrying about looking weird - not to mention that it's incredibly hot, and usually leads to them falling all over each other. But this time Jim can't do anything. Can't reach out and touch his partner; can't even reach down and jack himself. He's become helpless, allowed himself to become helpless, and it feels like all the blood in his body surges immediately to his cock.
"You like this," Blair muses.
"Please." Jim's voice is already rough. He's not even sure what he's pleading for.
Blair kneels in front of him and mouths his erection through the cloth of his sweatpants, and Jim's knees almost buckle. Thank God Blair stops after a minute; Jim's not sure he could keep from coming.
The glint in Blair's eyes shows he knows it, too. "Upstairs," he says, and Jim moves so fast he almost overbalances.
Upstairs Blair stacks two pillows near the foot of the bed, removes Jim's pants, then quietly says, "Face-down."
And Jim is lying on their bed, arms bound behind his back, ass upraised. There is a pause as Blair strips off his own clothing - Jim can hear it hitting the floor - and moves to the bed, between Jim's legs. He nudges them further apart.
The first smack is hard, harder than he expected. It hurts. But under the hurt is the awed, horrified delight that he's actually asked for this, that he's getting what he asked for. "Thank you, sir. More, please," he hears himself say, automatically.
If Blair's surprised, he doesn't show it. "You ask so nice," he says, approval in his voice, bringing his hand down again. And again.
There's something humiliating about the helplessness of this: hands tied, ass in the air, begging for the slaps raining down across the tops of his thighs. But it's twined with incredible pleasure, too. He's so hard he's shaking. And he's not in some darkened barracks; he's in his own room. Their own room. And it is Blair whose hand is making his body burn with this heat.
The spanking has stopped and Jim can feel fire radiating through his reddened flesh. "Please," he groans. Blair's hands land on his cheeks, calluses sharp on his sensitized skin, and pull him open. He stiffens, expecting a rough finger or one of their toys, but it's Blair's mouth that descends, his tongue pushing inside.
To have gone from his most private fantasy to this most intimate caress almost breaks him, and he is quivering and moaning and melting when Blair pulls away and the smacks resume.
"More, please - please - ohh, God, please -"
And he hears Blair fumbling with the lube, and then Blair drives into him, one long slick thrust and they both groan. "You're so hot like this," Blair murmurs, thrusting again.
Jim can feel each pubic hair against his aching ass. The feel of Blair's body pushing against his is both painful and sweet; his nerve endings are firing non-stop. Blair's weight is pushing Jim into the pillows. Every thrust rubs Jim's swollen cock against the fine cotton of their pillowcases, a scratchy caress from a million intertwined threads.
Blair shifts up slightly and Jim can't hold on any longer, he's coming harder than he thinks he's ever come in his life, and he's dimly aware of Blair jerking inside him, and he hears someone sobbing, and he doesn't care that it's him.
Some time later he becomes aware that Blair is kneeling over him, picking at the knotted tie.
"You did a number on these." Blair's voice is appreciative and amused.
"Yeah, well." Jim's voice sounds used.
"I've got to learn to tie a better knot."
Blair's already planning for next time. Blair's not freaked out; he liked it. A quiet happiness washes through Jim's body.
Jim closes his eyes and smiles. "Should've been a Boy Scout. That knotwork comes in handy."
"Fine, tomorrow you're teaching me knots." The snarl finally gives way and Blair pulls the tie free, rubbing Jim's hands firmly. "Cold hands."
"Circulation." Jim is mumbling. He just wants to lie still, to savor his singing body.
"Yeah, yeah." Blair kisses the hands, gently. Pushes Jim off the pillows, moves them back to the head of the bed, and curls up beside his partner.
Jim drifts off to sleep. For the first time all week, he doesn't dream.
The End