FIC: The Masochism Tango
You are all probably SO SICK of me by now. Someday I will stop clogging up your flists by posting "drabbles" and start posting actual updates again, but today is not that day. D:
Title: The Masochism Tango
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17. SO NC-17.
Words: 2,255
Summary: Sam plans on taking full advantage of his birthday to get all the kinky sex he possibly can. Dean is really not opposed to that idea.
Warnings: Panties and spankings and D/s.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are sadly not mine.
Notes: The PWP-iest PWP ever. If you are looking for tasteful, purposeful porn, this is not it. Written for my Sam's 25th Birthday Drabble Party in response to memphis86's prompt: "Sam/Dean!! ...SILKY PANTIES AND SPANKINGS AND GARTER BELTS AND A RIDING CROP." Thank you as always to lazy_daze for the quick and awesome beta! <3!
The Masochism Tango
Dean's known about Sam's-thing for a while now. It kind of shocked him at first, though he doesn't like to admit it. He's got too much of a reputation as a try-anything-once kind of guy to let on how he's actually pretty vanilla when it comes down to it, brother-fucking aside. Simple man, simple pleasures.
Sam, though. Sam's really not vanilla. Sam's more like triple chocolate fudge rocky road ripple with mint cookie dough and sprinkles. Sam is all 31 flavors of Baskin-Robbins and then some, and today is Sam's birthday, so Dean is just gonna grab his little pink sample spoon and start licking.
When Dean comes back from his run to the drugstore down the street (Condoms? Check. Lube? Check. IcyHot? Double check. He'll be needing it later.) he strides into their motel room and sets the bag on the table, assuming they'll end up using it that evening.
But then Sam steps out of the alcove with the full-length mirror set back in the wall, and Dean chokes on his gasping intake of breath. Looks like they'll be using it now.
Sam's-well, Sam's dressed to the nines, for lack of a better phrase. Dean tries not to let his eyes bug out too far, and he snaps his jaw shut when he realizes it fell open. He feels himself hardening already, dick pushing painful at the fly of his jeans, and fuck but he loves Sam's birthday.
"Strip," Sam says, standing imperious in the middle of the room. He's wearing a pair of delicate panties, baby-blue silk with scalloped edges. They're his favorites. His cock's half-hard, straining so much against the fabric it's pulling the leg-band away from Sam's thigh, showing more than a hint of his balls, heavy and full and shaved completely clean. It's entirely possible the panties will end up splitting at the seams, Sam's dick is so fucking enormous, but considering how intense their sex life is these days, there's bound to be some collateral damage.
He's also wearing a pair of sheer black stockings, pulled up clear to his thighs, skin smooth and hairless under them. Dean's mouth is watering, fingers itching to slide under those stockings and feel Sam, the mile-long golden expanse of his legs. They're held up by a lacy black garter belt, snug around Sam's waist, accentuating both how narrow it is, and the soft flare of his hips, his flat belly, the thick jut of his cock in the panties.
His chest is bare, just acres of perfectly smooth skin, burnished and glowing and stretched over solid, cut muscle, shoulders to forearms to massive, capable hands. He's holding a riding crop, stiff black leather against his palm, and Dean can't stop the shivers that race down his spine. He whines in the back of his throat, swallows audibly, and Sam just smiles at him, dark and lustful.
"Didn't you hear me?" Sam asks, rubbing the tip of the riding crop against the soft line of his calf. "I said strip."
Dean knows that voice. "I heard you," he manages, and immediately does as he's told, scrambling with his jacket and shirts and jeans and underwear with astonishingly little grace. It's like Sam sucked all the coordination out of him, used up enough for the both of them with the way he flows walking across the room, strong and confident and taller than god in his sharp black heels. Dean climbs onto the bed, kneeling naked on the comforter.
"Good," Sam says, stopping beside Dean. He trails the riding crop up Dean's thigh, smiling smugly as Dean's muscles twitch and his cock bobs, heavy and red with blood, desperate to be touched. Sam just runs the leather end of the crop up to the wet head of Dean's dick, strokes maddeningly light, back and forth. He smears precome all over Dean's shaft, the crop glistening with it, thick and clear. "You want me to touch you, Dean?" Sam says, soft and promising, flexing his fingers where they rest against his thigh.
"Yes," Dean whispers, looking up at Sam, letting his need shine in his eyes. "Please, Sammy."
"Too bad," Sam says, smiling almost apologetically, and Dean bites back a whimper. "I'm not going to. Not yet, anyway. You have to be good, first, and do everything I tell you. Will you do that for me?"
Dean nods, flushing deep, embarrassed by his instant acquiescence. He can't help it, though, not when Sam's like this. Looking at him like that. Needing him to be so good. Stroking the crop up and down Dean's naked belly, his sides. Dean's shivering, now, and not from cold. "Yes," he says, staring straight into Sam's eyes.
Sam pulls his arm back and brings the flat of the riding crop down hard on the thick meat of Dean's thigh. It hits with a stinging slap, and Dean flinches, crying out, high and surprised. "Yes, what?" Sam demands. There's no malice in his gaze, but he's stern-faced and serious under his obvious arousal.
"Yes, sir," Dean gasps.
"Good," Sam says, softer, soothing, smoothing his hand over the red welt spanning Dean's thigh. "Now suck me. Make it wet, and don't hold back, don't keep it neat. Messy, Dean. Through the silk. If you're good, if you do it just right, I'll let you take my cock out and suck it for real, taste just me on your tongue."
Sam threads his fingers through Dean's hair, pulling Dean's face towards his cock, fat and heavy in the cradle of his panties. Dean takes a deep breath, smells the hot scent of Sam, of the precome blurting out, smearing a dark spot into the light blue silk. Dean can feel his own cock twitch, so hard he feels like he's going to burst, but he can't get any relief. It only makes him hotter, drives him crazy with the need.
He opens his mouth wide and sucks right over the head of Sam's dick, swirling his tongue in the bitter mess of seeping precome. He works his way down, savoring the long, heavy line of Sam's cock, lips slick with dripping spit as he mouths at the silk, craving the taste of only Sam.
Dean meets Sam's eyes with a groan, watches Sam shifting his hips against Dean's tongue, moaning quietly, eyes fixed wide and intent on Dean's mouth, his red, swollen lips. Dean's watched himself in the mirror before, knows what he must look like. He tries to keep his own hips still and show Sam how good he can be, how much he wants to be good.
It feels like an eon before Sam smiles at him, pulling Dean back with a grunt. "God, god, so good, Dean, so good-" he mutters, pulling the panties down just enough for his cock to spring out, so thick and long, so hard it bobs heavily under its own weight.
Dean's so eager, he tries to swallow too much in one go, jamming Sam's cock down until he chokes on it, stretching his throat so it aches. Sam's just moaning, humming his approval as Dean drools around his dick, slides back and forth on it, takes it as far as he can. He brings a hand up to smear his spit over the length he can't get in his mouth, to jack Sam with the rhythm he's setting with his swallows, the tight screw of his lips.
Dean cups Sam's balls in his other hand, runs his thumb gently over them, between them, stroking at the soft, hairless skin, stretching it tight across them. Sam's mouth falls open and his moans turn to desperate words, half-swallowed, but Dean can make out his name, knows he's doing well. "Dean, Dean," Sam manages. "I'm-ngh, I'm going to come, and you. Swallow it all. Every drop. Drink it down and lick it up and don't let me see a single smear of it anywhere."
Dean says, "Yes, sir," but it's completely incomprehensible. He can't even breathe with Sam's fat cock stuffed down his throat, much less speak. He trails his hand from Sam's balls, drawn up high and tight now as he teeters on the edge, and strokes it down Sam's perfectly smooth thigh, over the hard muscle and soft skin, under the band of his stockings, just like he wanted to.
Sam starts gushing into Dean's mouth at just that moment, lips parted on a silent shout as Dean looks up, opening his throat. Sam's come floods his mouth, and he swallows as hard and as much as he can, muscles sore and tired from the abuse of Sam's cock. It's like Sam's trying to make him fail, won't stop coming hot salty streams into his mouth, and finally Dean can't swallow anymore, his throat just won't work, and he chokes on it, coughing out sticky globs of white onto his lips and chin as Sam pulls out, finally sated and shaking with aftershocks.
Dean frantically licks at his lips, wipes up Sam's come with his fingers, shoving it into his mouth, sucking on them hard, knowing he didn't do what Sam asked, that he needs to be better.
Sam's face is flushed dark, cock softening as he tucks it back into his soaked panties. "Dean," he says, voice deep and hard, fucked out. "I told you to swallow all of my come. That I didn't want to see a single drop of it." He slides a finger across Dean's cheek, shows it to him. "What's this?"
"Come," Dean says. "Sir."
"Lick it off," Sam says, and Dean does. It's bitter and cooling but he doesn't care. Sam sits down on the bed next to Dean, all fluid grace and long, strong lines, his stockings swishing as his legs rub together, garter belt pulling tight across the rise of his hips. "Bend yourself over my knee," he says, voice tight and even.
Dean does it, kneeling on the floor and spreading himself over Sam's lap. "Yes, sir," he murmurs. His cock is impossibly hard, throbbing insistently with every beat of his pulse, leaking strings of clear precome all over Sam's thighs, dripping onto the silk of his stockings. He's never felt more naked than he does right now, laid bare for Sam, ass turned up waiting for punishment, cock burning hot pressed between them.
"You didn't do what I told you to," Sam says, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut when he feels the shift as Sam pulls his arm back. He brings his hand down against Dean's ass with a ringing smack, and Dean gasps, pain thrilling through his nerves, setting him alight. He can't help but thrust his hips into Sam's lap with the force of the spanking, rub his cock in the smeary mess it left. Sam brings his arm back and down again, harder this time, in the exact same spot. Dean sobs and humps his hips faster against Sam, shallow but enough. He can feel Sam's cock getting hard again under his belly, moans at the thought that this is turning Sam on as much as it's turning him on.
Sam rains strong-armed spankings over the tender skin of Dean's ass, and when Dean can't help it anymore and keens loud on each smack, Sam makes him count them off, won't let him come until Sam says he can. After a while Dean sinks into a fuzzy sort of constant pleasure buzz, the pain receding as all he feels is the throb of his cock, his balls drawing up, the spiraling tightness in his lower back and pelvis, seeping into his bones.
"Come for me, baby," Sam says, voice full of everything Dean longs to hear. Love and approval and pride. "Come on, baby, so good, let it all out, you can come."
It's like Dean's actually falling apart, his muscles convulsing, and he's shivering, shaking all over; he's actually crying, can feel the tears on his cheeks as he sobs with his release, the flood of his come spurting all over himself, all over Sam's lap, everywhere. He can't see or hear anything but the rushing white of his orgasm, finally, as he pumps and pumps and can't stop, chokes on Sam's name, on yes, on please.
He's not sure how long he lies there, but Sam is cradling Dean in his lap when he comes to, bending over him to clean him up with wet, sucking kisses and licks around his spent cock and balls, his stomach and his legs.
Sam lays Dean back on the bed, then gets up, and Dean immediately feels cold. Sam kicks off his shoes, unclips his garters and peels off the ruined stockings, then gets back down on the bed with Dean, gathering him up and kissing him breathless, deep, real kisses that speak volumes, taste like Sam and everything Dean's ever wanted.
Sam lets him relax, rubs IcyHot into his aching, bruised ass as Dean recoups and starts to feel human again, less raw and peeled open. "You know we're not done," Sam says, hands gentle and voice teasing. His cock is still hard, pressed against Dean's thigh.
"We still have thirty flavors to go," Dean says, turning over to smile up at Sam. His cock's half hard again now, too, just from Sam's hands on him and the promise of what's to come. They still have two brand new bottles of lube to go through.
And maybe Dean isn't so vanilla after all.
*
Title: The Masochism Tango
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17. SO NC-17.
Words: 2,255
Summary: Sam plans on taking full advantage of his birthday to get all the kinky sex he possibly can. Dean is really not opposed to that idea.
Warnings: Panties and spankings and D/s.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are sadly not mine.
Notes: The PWP-iest PWP ever. If you are looking for tasteful, purposeful porn, this is not it. Written for my Sam's 25th Birthday Drabble Party in response to memphis86's prompt: "Sam/Dean!! ...SILKY PANTIES AND SPANKINGS AND GARTER BELTS AND A RIDING CROP." Thank you as always to lazy_daze for the quick and awesome beta! <3!
The Masochism Tango
Dean's known about Sam's-thing for a while now. It kind of shocked him at first, though he doesn't like to admit it. He's got too much of a reputation as a try-anything-once kind of guy to let on how he's actually pretty vanilla when it comes down to it, brother-fucking aside. Simple man, simple pleasures.
Sam, though. Sam's really not vanilla. Sam's more like triple chocolate fudge rocky road ripple with mint cookie dough and sprinkles. Sam is all 31 flavors of Baskin-Robbins and then some, and today is Sam's birthday, so Dean is just gonna grab his little pink sample spoon and start licking.
When Dean comes back from his run to the drugstore down the street (Condoms? Check. Lube? Check. IcyHot? Double check. He'll be needing it later.) he strides into their motel room and sets the bag on the table, assuming they'll end up using it that evening.
But then Sam steps out of the alcove with the full-length mirror set back in the wall, and Dean chokes on his gasping intake of breath. Looks like they'll be using it now.
Sam's-well, Sam's dressed to the nines, for lack of a better phrase. Dean tries not to let his eyes bug out too far, and he snaps his jaw shut when he realizes it fell open. He feels himself hardening already, dick pushing painful at the fly of his jeans, and fuck but he loves Sam's birthday.
"Strip," Sam says, standing imperious in the middle of the room. He's wearing a pair of delicate panties, baby-blue silk with scalloped edges. They're his favorites. His cock's half-hard, straining so much against the fabric it's pulling the leg-band away from Sam's thigh, showing more than a hint of his balls, heavy and full and shaved completely clean. It's entirely possible the panties will end up splitting at the seams, Sam's dick is so fucking enormous, but considering how intense their sex life is these days, there's bound to be some collateral damage.
He's also wearing a pair of sheer black stockings, pulled up clear to his thighs, skin smooth and hairless under them. Dean's mouth is watering, fingers itching to slide under those stockings and feel Sam, the mile-long golden expanse of his legs. They're held up by a lacy black garter belt, snug around Sam's waist, accentuating both how narrow it is, and the soft flare of his hips, his flat belly, the thick jut of his cock in the panties.
His chest is bare, just acres of perfectly smooth skin, burnished and glowing and stretched over solid, cut muscle, shoulders to forearms to massive, capable hands. He's holding a riding crop, stiff black leather against his palm, and Dean can't stop the shivers that race down his spine. He whines in the back of his throat, swallows audibly, and Sam just smiles at him, dark and lustful.
"Didn't you hear me?" Sam asks, rubbing the tip of the riding crop against the soft line of his calf. "I said strip."
Dean knows that voice. "I heard you," he manages, and immediately does as he's told, scrambling with his jacket and shirts and jeans and underwear with astonishingly little grace. It's like Sam sucked all the coordination out of him, used up enough for the both of them with the way he flows walking across the room, strong and confident and taller than god in his sharp black heels. Dean climbs onto the bed, kneeling naked on the comforter.
"Good," Sam says, stopping beside Dean. He trails the riding crop up Dean's thigh, smiling smugly as Dean's muscles twitch and his cock bobs, heavy and red with blood, desperate to be touched. Sam just runs the leather end of the crop up to the wet head of Dean's dick, strokes maddeningly light, back and forth. He smears precome all over Dean's shaft, the crop glistening with it, thick and clear. "You want me to touch you, Dean?" Sam says, soft and promising, flexing his fingers where they rest against his thigh.
"Yes," Dean whispers, looking up at Sam, letting his need shine in his eyes. "Please, Sammy."
"Too bad," Sam says, smiling almost apologetically, and Dean bites back a whimper. "I'm not going to. Not yet, anyway. You have to be good, first, and do everything I tell you. Will you do that for me?"
Dean nods, flushing deep, embarrassed by his instant acquiescence. He can't help it, though, not when Sam's like this. Looking at him like that. Needing him to be so good. Stroking the crop up and down Dean's naked belly, his sides. Dean's shivering, now, and not from cold. "Yes," he says, staring straight into Sam's eyes.
Sam pulls his arm back and brings the flat of the riding crop down hard on the thick meat of Dean's thigh. It hits with a stinging slap, and Dean flinches, crying out, high and surprised. "Yes, what?" Sam demands. There's no malice in his gaze, but he's stern-faced and serious under his obvious arousal.
"Yes, sir," Dean gasps.
"Good," Sam says, softer, soothing, smoothing his hand over the red welt spanning Dean's thigh. "Now suck me. Make it wet, and don't hold back, don't keep it neat. Messy, Dean. Through the silk. If you're good, if you do it just right, I'll let you take my cock out and suck it for real, taste just me on your tongue."
Sam threads his fingers through Dean's hair, pulling Dean's face towards his cock, fat and heavy in the cradle of his panties. Dean takes a deep breath, smells the hot scent of Sam, of the precome blurting out, smearing a dark spot into the light blue silk. Dean can feel his own cock twitch, so hard he feels like he's going to burst, but he can't get any relief. It only makes him hotter, drives him crazy with the need.
He opens his mouth wide and sucks right over the head of Sam's dick, swirling his tongue in the bitter mess of seeping precome. He works his way down, savoring the long, heavy line of Sam's cock, lips slick with dripping spit as he mouths at the silk, craving the taste of only Sam.
Dean meets Sam's eyes with a groan, watches Sam shifting his hips against Dean's tongue, moaning quietly, eyes fixed wide and intent on Dean's mouth, his red, swollen lips. Dean's watched himself in the mirror before, knows what he must look like. He tries to keep his own hips still and show Sam how good he can be, how much he wants to be good.
It feels like an eon before Sam smiles at him, pulling Dean back with a grunt. "God, god, so good, Dean, so good-" he mutters, pulling the panties down just enough for his cock to spring out, so thick and long, so hard it bobs heavily under its own weight.
Dean's so eager, he tries to swallow too much in one go, jamming Sam's cock down until he chokes on it, stretching his throat so it aches. Sam's just moaning, humming his approval as Dean drools around his dick, slides back and forth on it, takes it as far as he can. He brings a hand up to smear his spit over the length he can't get in his mouth, to jack Sam with the rhythm he's setting with his swallows, the tight screw of his lips.
Dean cups Sam's balls in his other hand, runs his thumb gently over them, between them, stroking at the soft, hairless skin, stretching it tight across them. Sam's mouth falls open and his moans turn to desperate words, half-swallowed, but Dean can make out his name, knows he's doing well. "Dean, Dean," Sam manages. "I'm-ngh, I'm going to come, and you. Swallow it all. Every drop. Drink it down and lick it up and don't let me see a single smear of it anywhere."
Dean says, "Yes, sir," but it's completely incomprehensible. He can't even breathe with Sam's fat cock stuffed down his throat, much less speak. He trails his hand from Sam's balls, drawn up high and tight now as he teeters on the edge, and strokes it down Sam's perfectly smooth thigh, over the hard muscle and soft skin, under the band of his stockings, just like he wanted to.
Sam starts gushing into Dean's mouth at just that moment, lips parted on a silent shout as Dean looks up, opening his throat. Sam's come floods his mouth, and he swallows as hard and as much as he can, muscles sore and tired from the abuse of Sam's cock. It's like Sam's trying to make him fail, won't stop coming hot salty streams into his mouth, and finally Dean can't swallow anymore, his throat just won't work, and he chokes on it, coughing out sticky globs of white onto his lips and chin as Sam pulls out, finally sated and shaking with aftershocks.
Dean frantically licks at his lips, wipes up Sam's come with his fingers, shoving it into his mouth, sucking on them hard, knowing he didn't do what Sam asked, that he needs to be better.
Sam's face is flushed dark, cock softening as he tucks it back into his soaked panties. "Dean," he says, voice deep and hard, fucked out. "I told you to swallow all of my come. That I didn't want to see a single drop of it." He slides a finger across Dean's cheek, shows it to him. "What's this?"
"Come," Dean says. "Sir."
"Lick it off," Sam says, and Dean does. It's bitter and cooling but he doesn't care. Sam sits down on the bed next to Dean, all fluid grace and long, strong lines, his stockings swishing as his legs rub together, garter belt pulling tight across the rise of his hips. "Bend yourself over my knee," he says, voice tight and even.
Dean does it, kneeling on the floor and spreading himself over Sam's lap. "Yes, sir," he murmurs. His cock is impossibly hard, throbbing insistently with every beat of his pulse, leaking strings of clear precome all over Sam's thighs, dripping onto the silk of his stockings. He's never felt more naked than he does right now, laid bare for Sam, ass turned up waiting for punishment, cock burning hot pressed between them.
"You didn't do what I told you to," Sam says, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut when he feels the shift as Sam pulls his arm back. He brings his hand down against Dean's ass with a ringing smack, and Dean gasps, pain thrilling through his nerves, setting him alight. He can't help but thrust his hips into Sam's lap with the force of the spanking, rub his cock in the smeary mess it left. Sam brings his arm back and down again, harder this time, in the exact same spot. Dean sobs and humps his hips faster against Sam, shallow but enough. He can feel Sam's cock getting hard again under his belly, moans at the thought that this is turning Sam on as much as it's turning him on.
Sam rains strong-armed spankings over the tender skin of Dean's ass, and when Dean can't help it anymore and keens loud on each smack, Sam makes him count them off, won't let him come until Sam says he can. After a while Dean sinks into a fuzzy sort of constant pleasure buzz, the pain receding as all he feels is the throb of his cock, his balls drawing up, the spiraling tightness in his lower back and pelvis, seeping into his bones.
"Come for me, baby," Sam says, voice full of everything Dean longs to hear. Love and approval and pride. "Come on, baby, so good, let it all out, you can come."
It's like Dean's actually falling apart, his muscles convulsing, and he's shivering, shaking all over; he's actually crying, can feel the tears on his cheeks as he sobs with his release, the flood of his come spurting all over himself, all over Sam's lap, everywhere. He can't see or hear anything but the rushing white of his orgasm, finally, as he pumps and pumps and can't stop, chokes on Sam's name, on yes, on please.
He's not sure how long he lies there, but Sam is cradling Dean in his lap when he comes to, bending over him to clean him up with wet, sucking kisses and licks around his spent cock and balls, his stomach and his legs.
Sam lays Dean back on the bed, then gets up, and Dean immediately feels cold. Sam kicks off his shoes, unclips his garters and peels off the ruined stockings, then gets back down on the bed with Dean, gathering him up and kissing him breathless, deep, real kisses that speak volumes, taste like Sam and everything Dean's ever wanted.
Sam lets him relax, rubs IcyHot into his aching, bruised ass as Dean recoups and starts to feel human again, less raw and peeled open. "You know we're not done," Sam says, hands gentle and voice teasing. His cock is still hard, pressed against Dean's thigh.
"We still have thirty flavors to go," Dean says, turning over to smile up at Sam. His cock's half hard again now, too, just from Sam's hands on him and the promise of what's to come. They still have two brand new bottles of lube to go through.
And maybe Dean isn't so vanilla after all.
*