Restricted Freedom Chapter 7/?
Title: Restricted Freedom
Author: SnowStormSkies
Universe: Tokio Hotel (Real Person Fiction).
Theme/Topic: Total Power Exchange, a close examination.
Rating: M.
Characters: Bill and Tom focused.
Warnings/Spoilers: Incest, BDSM, punishment, spanking, total power exchange.
Word Count: WIP - constantly expanding.
Time: WIP - the clock is still ticking, people.
Summary: To both Bill and Tom, control is key; it's how they work together. Bill takes it, without or without permission, over everything from clothes to food to songs to bedtime. Tom gives it, freely and wholehearted to his brother - what Bill thinks is best for him is best; whether it is girls, outfits, where they eat or sleep. How they have sex. He is not Master, he is not Sir. He is Bill, and Tom loves him.
Dedication: Nobody in particular - for a anon kink meme prompt which requested this:
I'd love Tom to be fully mentally under Bill's control.
They'd look outside like we see them, but behind the scenes Bill controls everything in Tom's life and Tom is happy about that. You can choose how far or in which things you want to focus on in this fic, but basically total control over everything (like Tom's looks, clothes, using bathroom, everything). Bill also controls Tom's relationships and sex life (chooses Tom's gf's, random sex partners...) and in their own not-so-platonic relationship. Tom is happy to give all his control to Bill and it makes him feel safe. Sometimes Bill plays with Tom's OCD (messes things up, re-arrange things like Tom's need to color match) and it causes Tom anxiety, but in the end they are really happy together like this.
This is not about an abusive relationship, but very loving and caring one.
A/N: Cross posting, nothing new here..... Could be vaguely seen as the sequel to Walk the Line but it's not necessary to think of it like that, found here as part one and part two
Distribution: Nyet. Not for you. See master post here for list of distribution places. Previous Chapter can be found here.
Chapter Seven
Bridles and Begging
It takes a while for Tom to get into the bedroom - every step moves the plug inside him, every breath in lets him feel just how full he is, keeping him almost bent over. He has to cling to Bill, whimpering as they move carefully through the doorway and Bill accidentally - or not? - presses a hand to his belly, tapping his fingers against it and causing the weirdest sensations ever. The ache between his thighs means that every time he catches his breath, his cock throbs and beats an angry rhythm and just to keep him edge, Bill reaches down, strokes at Tom’s dick and Tom is thrown into turmoil again.
Bill leaves him in the middle of the room, kneeling on a blanket, thighs wide apart, head bowed to the floor. The position is neither here nor there in terms of aggravating his condition - it’s more Bill prowling around the room, digging to his suitcase for the playbag that sets Tom on edge, makes him whimper and moan and sigh as he rocks to and fro.
“You have no idea what you look like, do you?” Tom hears Bill’s voice from behind him and he has to grip the blanket tightly to prevent himself turning around, staring at Bill which will surely earn him a week or two longer in this predicament. “So willing, so eager to please, so… so whorish…” He pushes Tom’s limits with that last word - Tom is not a whore, he isn’t, no matter what Bill says but it’s so true in other senses. He has sex with people for something in return - Bill’s satisfaction, his pleasure, his enjoyment of watching Tom be taken over and over by a girl with a strap on, or watching Tom take a girl riding on his dick, hands cuffed to the headboard and unable to buck up.
Only able to take what is given to him by Bill’s command.
“Please!” He begs and whatever he’s asking for Bill knows even if Tom doesn’t.
“Shush, pretty,” Bill stands behind him, and Tom feels the warmth of his brother’s presence wash over him. It’s like a sun warming his skin, it’s that powerful and he allows himself to sink into that sensation, trusting that Bill will make him feel better after all.
A cool material is wrapped around his eyes, and Tom sighs. A blindfold. One of Bill’s favourite toys because it means that Tom is required to be absolutely trusting. They’ve tried it in every possible situation, both in bed and out of it and on several occasions, even outside.
One of Tom’s most memorable times with Bill was when he was blindfolded for an entire week at home before they left to record at the studio. It had been pure divine torment to be so dependent on Bill, needing his hand to walk down the stairs, being washed, being so scared every time the house went quiet. Bill had cared for him that week for the first time, feeding him by hand, washing him, insisting Tom stayed within inches of him. It hadn’t been the last time but the intensity of it stayed with Tom.
It had also been a time of supreme discovery. Learning Bill’s body with his hands, with his mouth and his nose and listening for Bill’s voice, Tom had come to understand that without his sight every time was like their first time. Tom blushed, fumbled, felt around for Bill’s dick, his nipples, the bottle of lube, everything like a nervous virgin and Bill had had to guide him over and over to the right place, to the right lube, to the bathroom and the bedroom and the living room and even to the garden, where he’d made love to him in the orchard, where there were no cameras and no reporters.
But everything had been so intense.
Every orgasm felt like it lasted forever, every kiss felt like oral sex literally, every single time Bill pressed into Tom it was like divine intervention.
So now Tom sits in the middle of the floor, blindfolded in dark moss green silk and he waits. And he wants .
“Stay,” Bill murmurs as Tom starts. There are fingers brushing against his dreads, and a sweep of material across his back. Bill is binding his hair into one of his dreaded scarves, and Tom shudders. If he’s doing that, it doesn’t bode well for getting to come tonight and yes, he’s still holding out for that. Bill cannot be serious if he’s supposed to spend another nine days having enemas and being restrained and not fucking allowed to come.
Tom ignores the fact that Bill is totally serious, and there is nothing he can do about it because the only thing keeping him going by this point is his faith that Bill will give in. He’s gone longer - fuck, he’s done a month or something before, but this feels… different. More. Stronger. He’s gonna lose it before long and Bill isn’t cruel enough to make him lose it and punish him for it to boot.
Tom rocks in place, whimpering as the pressure builds and he's starting to panic. What if is going around in his head, over and over - what if Bill doesn’t let him come, what if he’s stuck like this for even longer, what if Bill has to leave and he’s left here all on his own…
“Shush, baby,” Bill soothes him down from wherever he was going, rubbing his hand down the side of Tom’s neck gently, so gently. Tom pants, wanting to lean forward to see if that helps relieve the hurt but the hand on his shifts to rest on his shoulder, pushing him down hard enough to really make it clear. Do not move, it says, stay where you are, and Tom has no choice but to rest heavy on his haunches, his dick hot and throbbing between his legs. “Hands.” Bill commands him, and Tom unclenches his fingers from around the blanket to offer his hands palms up to the only person who will ever take him this far into submission.
Bill cuffs him with the thick, padded leather ones - the ones with soft fleece on the inside to prevent him from harming himself by abrading his wrists, or even cutting himself on the tough outer shell - checking that they’re tight enough by running a finger between the cuff and Tom’s skin. It only just fits and that’s perfect.
His arms locked behind him, blindfolded and squirming in place, Tom knows he must look ridiculous. He’s blushing as well - a hot pink rushing up from his cheeks down to his neck and chest, and that just makes it feel even worse. He’s damp with sweat already, his back feeling slick and his forehead hot. He desperately wants a cool shower now - to rinse down and relax under the flow is a far better use of water than shoving it where the sun don’t shine and expecting Tom to be grateful for it.
“Bill!” He calls and instead of getting an answer, he gets a jangle of metal as a response and he groans, “No - please, Bill!” He begs but there’s no response from his brother. The jangling comes closer, and then there’s a moment where all is still. Tom hardly dares to breathe, wondering what is actually happening - has Bill given in to Tom’s begging? Hardly likely but Tom can dream, can’t he?
Then Bill presses a thumb against Tom’s lips, forcing them apart, and then instead of allowing Tom to suck on his thumb - whether as a gift in of itself or as a precursor to a blow job - the digit is removed. And its place comes a gag - a bridle gag, with metal links and leather straps, cool as it fits neatly over his head. Within seconds, it’s held in place by Bill’s hand as he does the buckles up and then - and then…
Blind, mute, cuffed. Tom is left alone in the middle of the room, panting, shifting, rocking in place as he is restrained and bound. His dick bounces angrily against his belly as he rocks back and forth again and this time Bill doesn’t tell him to stop it. It means that Tom’s free to rock and shift as he pleases but it also means he’s going to be hugely unsatisfied as well because no amount of rocking is going to alleviate the enema pressure or the raging hard on he’s got going now.
He would beg for release but Bill’s muted him for a reason.
“Good boy,” Bill says, and Tom hears rustling as something is moved from - the bed? It’s the right direction so yes, the bed - and then more as springs squeak. Bill sounds like he’s - “Just a nap, Tom.” He says, sounding horrifically calm.
He wants to protest - if he has to stay awake, and suffering shouldn’t Bill at least watch over him? but the message in the bridle gag is clear - be silent.
**
Time passes so very very slowly. Tom has no way of knowing when his time is up, and there is no clock to tick to let him follow the passage of the minutes and hours. His own breathing is loud in his ears and gradually, so gradually, he relaxes.
There’s nothing else to do.
He cannot remain that tense for so long, and Bill’s occasional soothing words slowly lets him work his way down that treacherous path of submission. It’s hard for him - he wants to resist and stay in control but the right thing to do is to let go. To just allow himself to drift inside the white space of his mind and let what comes, come.
Inside that white space, he can’t hear outside his own mind, and he doesn’t know when Bill moves from the bed. The first indication of it is when he’s touched.
Bill’s hand on his neck doesn’t startle him, and he just sighs into the pressure. “Such a good boy,” Bill whispers and Tom sighs again. He likes hearing it. It makes him feel good. It makes him feel… He likes learning how to please Bill to earn those words more often. “Lie down.” Hands under his arms help Tom to lie first on his side, slowly and painfully and he has to rest into his lover who just steadies him again. “You’re okay, you’re okay…” Bill unfastens the cuffs but only to bring them around the front.
He moans, the sound distorted and strange and Bill immediately soothes him back down, helping him onto his back with his knees spread. He’s back to the same position from the bathroom, but this time he’s on the blanket on the pine of the bedroom, rather than the hard tile of the bathroom, a pillow in the small of his back as Bill raises his arms to lie on the wood floor over his head. Absolutely exposed, unable to protect himself, Tom feels his heart begin to race again.
“I’m here,” Bill strokes along the line of the gag, and Tom feels every brush with a sensitivity beyond what he can normally take. He’s crying, really crying, his breathing ragged and his chest heaving. He feels so on edge, so weirded out and Bill doesn’t do anything except place a hand on his heart.
And that’s it. He’s gone.
He sobs, and actually, it’s a release that feels almost as good as orgasm.
Lying on the floor, feet braced on the floor and spreading his knees, he is absolutely exposed again, and then Bill just breaks him again inside his mind on top of everything else, the pain from his dick and belly combining to shatter his self control. It’s not pretty, it’s fucking ugly, Tom knows, because he feels absolutely fucking stupid but he can’t stop.
Bill’s only response is to hold Tom’s hand and say nothing.
Tom is crying not just from the pain - that’s almost a transcended a part of himself in such a way that he doesn’t ignore it but he recognises it and can just let it be. He’s sobbing from the release of tension, of frustration that’s kept him on edge for the last few days, punished by his own internal need to orgasm that isn’t actually about him at all. It’s about exerting his own control, and he’s forgotten that he has to trust Bill to know what he needs, rather than fighting for it himself.
Time passes again, and Tom doesn’t know how much or how little but he cries for all of it, releasing the pain and the worry and the hurt inside of him by weeping. He clings to Bill’s hand, trusting that Bill will be here for him, and that’s all he needs to know to be able to let go.
Gradually, he comes back to himself, finding Bill’s hand on his face. It’s not an immediate thing - it’s not like one minute he’s floating in his headspace and then next he’s fully in the room. It’s like tuning a television, kind of. Slowly, the fuzz and the white noise is replaces with the bright and stark reality but it takes time and parts take longer to come back and he has to adjust his own internal view point until it works. He fades in and out until he feels like he’s come back all the way and then he has to wait more, just to see if it’s true.
Only when he’s fully aware again, does Bill move, wiping away the tears that have seeped from under the blindfold, the drool that he’s managed to get out from behind the gag and the crap from his nose that’s making him itch. Such is the glamour of crying, he thinks to himself, but Bill doesn’t object to the disgustingness as he wipes the cool wash cloth on Tom’s overheated skin. It feels amazing, and Tom allows himself to wallow in the simplicity of the sensation.
“Are you with me?” Bill asks once Tom is clean again and Tom actually debates the question.
Is he with Bill? Is he back in the room? He doesn’t know yet. He can feel the blanket against his sticky back, the heat of Bill’s hand on his arm, and the smooth finish of the wood beneath his feet but emotionally, he feels lost at sea. He shakes his head, feeling the gag clink with the movement.
“That’s okay,” And with those words, Tom understands that it is okay.
He waits, and Bill waits beside him, waiting for Tom to be ready completely. There’s no rush, Tom understands, no pressure. It’s not about the enema, it’s not about the two hours now. It’s all about him. Just let the waves of pain and reassurance guide him back to himself, that’s all he has to do.
And Bill will be there for him when he gets there.