Title:  Novice Chronicles: 3/15:  Kneeling--or Not
Author:  Brigantine
e-mail: gidgetpup@netzero.com
Pairing:  Vig/Bean/Dave
Rating:  R
Warning:  AU, Dom/sub situations, but nothing serious.
Disclaimer: Not happening.  Didn't happen.  Won't happen
Summary:  Dave gets his hands on his new charges and lays down some rules.

#################

First week of July.

Friday night, 11:35:

Dave lies back in the warm water of his bathtub, idly playing with the soap bubbles 
mounding on the surface of the water.  He has come to the conclusion this evening that he 
has been truly blessed.  He doesn't know what he might have done to deserve it.  He can't 
recall having rescued any babies in runaway prams, nor guided any helpless little old 
ladies across a busy street lately, but whatever the reason for it, Dave has no intention of 
second-guessing serendipity.  Rather, he vows to thank Ian at the earliest opportunity for 
sending him two such charming men to play with and to teach.

Dave stretches one long leg, flaring his toes and watching the water run up his calf, 
glittering pleasantly in the soft light from old nickel fixtures.  His bathroom here at home 
isn't all that much different from the one at the studio. 

Viggo and Sean are new to this game.  Dave has been playing since his teens, and in later 
years has had the good fortune of an excellent mentor.  He closes his eyes, reminiscing in 
full color imagery.  Marton... mmmmm....

Dave chuckles, sending little ripples under the soap bubbles.  Sean and Viggo have a long 
way to go before Dave will be satisfied with his work--Sean perhaps further, given his 
tendency to fuss at moments during which the previous night Viggo had quietly obeyed.  
Dave reviews Viggo's first session yesterday evening with a sense of satisfaction, and a 
certain amount of wonder.  

Given Ian's description of his habits and the disarray of his home, Dave half expected 
Viggo to arrive late and missing some key item of apparel, but he showed up with a few 
minutes to spare, fully dressed; nervous but resolute.  Dave met him in the mansion's 
reception room downstairs.

Thursday, 7:52 p.m.:

The large mansion that Dave and his friends lease from Ian was built in a genteel Spanish 
style in the year 1923.  Under Ian's care most of the stately old home has been lovingly 
restored to reflect its dignity and age, and the pride with which it was originally built, 
back when the small city of Saint Arquette had been home to many of the film industry's 
pioneers.   Now the comfortable reception room is efficiently presided over by Dave's 
friend Orlando, a dark-eyed, slender young fellow who upon initial inspection appears 
something of a cross between a kindly headwaiter and Errol Flynn. 

Viggo and Dave sit in large, leather upholstered wing chairs, drawn close to discuss 
Dave's plans for the evening, subject to Viggo's approval.  Viggo perches, fidgeting, at 
the edge of his chair cushion.  "That's Billy, over there," Dave tells him quietly.  To 
Viggo's left, near the great old fireplace, a soft-spoken master confers with a repeat client, 
an athletic looking individual with the emblem of the Saint Arquette City Fire 
Department emblazoned on the left breast of his t-shirt.  The tall, burly firefighter is 
considerably larger than Billy, and the two of them are reminiscing happily about a scene 
they played together last month.  "Gentle as a lamb, Billy is," Dave says, "yet implacable 
as the tide."

Behind Viggo, Orlando chats soothingly with a husky middle-aged man who looks like a 
displaced bank executive.  So many of them do, and are, Dave thinks briefly.  Orlando 
turns on the charm, all big brown eyes and bright, disarming smile, and Viggo peers 
discreetly around the back of his chair to watch the bank executive's reserve disintegrate.  
Dave leans forward, murmuring, "That is Mr. Kardarian.  He's come to see Eric.  I am not 
entirely certain that Mr. Kardarian is quite prepared for the ebullient mayhem that is 
Eric."  He turns to Viggo, shrugging.  "But you never really know until you get into a 
play room together, now do you?  Shall we?"

Dave notes with amusement that although he smells as though he's just walked out of the 
shower, Viggo still has bits of blue paint collected in his cuticles.

He leads Viggo upstairs into a broad hallway softened with rich, period carpet running 
down a dark, hardwood floor.  Copper and stained glass wall sconces light the hallway 
gently.  Voices can be heard coming from the rooms that line the long hallway, though no 
distinct words, as all of the doors are quite closed.  Halfway down the hall and to the right 
Dave opens the door into the warm, candle-lit suite that is his to use. Behind them he 
pulls close a deep gold velvet curtain that runs on a half-moon track in the ceiling, and 
now hides the door.

Viggo gapes at the lush space around him.  "Charles Rennie Mackintosh," he murmurs.  
"William Morris.  Gaudi.  Dave, this is beautiful, so sensual, so.. organic.  It breathes of 
potential..."  He stutters to a stop, suddenly uneasy.

"Karl and Eric helped me with it."  Dave smiles at his new play partner. "Had quite the 
little party, putting this together."  Dave's darkening blue gaze rests thoughtfully on 
Viggo.  "Hopefully you and I will enjoy our time here, as well.  Look up."

Viggo glances upward, noting the heavy wooden beams that span the ceiling above his 
head. Sturdy eyebolts have been screwed into the thick wood at certain intervals.  It's a 
simple arrangement that lends itself to a wide range of possibilities.  Viggo takes a deep 
breath.  "How do I know when we've started a scene?  Officially, I mean."

"I'll tell you.  Or we can work out some sort of ritual, later.  For now, just let me say it--
ready?"

"Yes."

"Here we go, then." 

Dave had instructed Viggo to wear a loose t-shirt and sweats for this evening.  Now, 
standing together on a thick rug near the bed, he instructs Viggo to take them off.  
"Naked," Dave tells him soothingly, "is nice.  Put your clothes on the bed.  Good.  Now 
stand still for me.  Just you and me getting the feel of one another is all this is."

Dave gently runs the flats of his hands across Viggo's shoulders, feeling their breadth, the 
warmth of Viggo's skin.  "I'm giving you a choice.  You can call me Master, which 
frankly I find a bit formal for our situation, or you can refer to me as Sir.  Whichever you 
like, but once you've made your choice, stick to it.  You never call me Dave when we're 
in a scene.  So which will it be?"

"Sir, I think," Viggo says, swaying just perceptibly as Dave brushes over his shoulder 
blades and down either side of his spine.  The muscles of Viggo's back are long and lean, 
in character with the man, and Dave's hands love the feel of him already.

"Now we need to choose a safeword for you.  Do you know what that is?"  His hands 
drift lovingly over the sweet curves of Viggo's backside.  Viggo, Dave notes happily, is a 
fuzzy fellow, in all of Dave's favorite places.  Of course, some of that's going to have to 
go, later this evening.  Ah, well.  All for the cause.

"Yes, Sir."  Viggo's breath hitches as Dave drops to one knee and curves his hands over 
the fronts of Viggo's long thighs.  

He rests his cheek against one buttock, letting Viggo feel the warmth of him, feel his 
breath on him.  He hears the man make a tiny noise in his throat and smiles to himself, 
though why Viggo is trembling quite so much this early in the proceedings Dave 
wonders, and the question rests there at the front of his mind.  "Tell me."

"The, um, the safety word is in case something goes wrong, or if I'm completely freaked 
out, and can't continue.  A verbal panic button.  Sir."

"Good boy, Viggo.  Did a little homework, I see.  So what do you think would be a good 
safeword for you?"  Dave rises slowly, trailing his hands up Viggo's thighs and hips.

He moves around to the front of Viggo's body, running his hands lightly over Viggo's 
chest, ruffling the soft chest hair, then down over his belly.  Viggo shivers.  The motion 
runs from his toes to his jaw.  "Howitzer," he whispers.  "Sir.  Howitzer, Sir."

Dave regards him curiously.  "Isn't that an enormous gun of some sort?"

Viggo gulps awkwardly.  Dave has stopped to ask this question with his hands braced on 
either side of Viggo's delicate parts, and said delicate parts are signaling their 
appreciation of everything Dave's hands have done thus far, and apparently hoping for 
their fair share of attention.  That's always been a good sign for Dave, but Viggo is 
nevertheless shaking an awful lot.  "Yes, Sir.  Unlikely to come up in general 
conversation, Sir."

Dave smiles.  "Right.  Well done, then."  He decides that he quite enjoys the sound of 
Viggo's softly growly voice calling him Sir.  He stands directly in Viggo's line of sight.  
"Viggo, it's time for you to learn to kneel."

Viggo's grey eyes are wide, and he is suddenly holding himself very still, and when he 
says, "Okay.  Yes.  Sir," it comes out like Mowgli staring down Shere Khan, which is not 
at all what Dave is after. 

He regards Viggo closely, brushes at his hair and reminds, very gently, "Nothing horrible 
will ever happen to you here.  I swear.  Nothing without your consent."

Viggo gives him a relieved and faintly embarrassed smile and says, "Of course.  Thank 
you, Sir," and licks his lips and tries to shrug the tension out of his shoulders.

Dave recalls what Ian told him.  Used.  Badly.  Sweet Mary.  He's going to have to ask 
Ian what exactly he meant by 'used.'  Part of him would pull Viggo in close now and hold 
him tightly, and promise him everything's going to be wonderful.  Instead, he smiles and 
instructs kindly, "Now, when I tell you to kneel, it goes like this..."

~~~~

Though Dave has been playing these games for some years, and with many estimable 
partners, he admits that by the time he had instructed Viggo in the proper way to kneel, 
how to position toes in and knees a bit out, and all of that, the sight of Viggo kneeling, 
head bowed and quietly naked on the heavy rug before him in the soft light of a candlelit 
studio is probably the most erotic thing he's ever seen.

Dave runs more hot water into the bathtub and lies back again.  Viggo has been damaged 
by someone, that's clear, but he's a sport and a quick learner, and he dropped into sub-
space easily--so easily in fact that Dave considers it his first solid clue as to how someone 
previously might have taken foul advantage.  It's Dave's job now to push, to nudge Viggo 
out of chary old shadow and into a brighter space where he might fearlessly enjoy 
whatever kind chance chooses to offer.  Tricky bit of work, but that doesn't mean it can't 
be fun for both of them.
 
Sean, Dave decides with a rueful smile, promises a slightly different story.  Dave does 
not believe Sean arrived at the studio this evening with any conscious intent to be 
difficult, but submission is obviously not a role into which the Yorkshireman slips as 
easily as Viggo does.  On the one hand, Dave is not at all surprised by this.  On the other 
hand... 


Earlier this evening, 8:53 p.m.:

"Sean, will you quit squirming!  It's just a safety razor!"

"It's cold!  And it tickles!" Sean asserts truculently, and then adds, "Sir."  He mutters, 
"Shit," then corrects himself, "It tickles, Sir."

Dave has the sudden urge to beat his forehead against something.  A brick wall.  Maybe a 
hand grenade.  *Steady mate,* he encourages himself. *Steady on.*

"You're running out of chair anyway," he points out, "so you may as well get your feet 
back into the stirrups and hold still.  This would take half the time if you would just--"

"Oww!"  Sean gapes at Dave momentarily, then settles onto his back with his heels in the 
steel stirrups rigged into the base of the large, Stickley style recliner.  Its caramel leather 
cushions squeak.  Sean grips unhappily at the broad oak armrests.
 
"Oh stop whingeing," Dave clucks, "I didn't hurt you!"

Sean snorts sulkily, "You needn't 'ave grabbed *that* bit *quite* so hard!  Sir.  Fuck!  
Sorry."

Dave ducks his head, trying not to let Sean see him smiling.  Despair has given way to 
laughter at the look on Sean's face.  *Hopeless,* Dave chuckles to himself, *Absolutely 
hopeless!*

He reaches up for the elegant old reading lamp and bends it closer.  How could he have 
guessed Sean would prove quite so wiggly?  Most long-term submissives enjoy this part 
as a sort of bonding moment, to the extent that Dave often uses being shaved by him 
instead of doing it themselves as a reward.  "Scoot forward and pull your knees further 
back," he orders.

Sean agrees meekly, as if sensing that he's making a twit of himself.  "Yes, Sir."

Dave finishes his work in brief silence, then carefully washes off Sean's smooth skin with 
a wet wash cloth which they both know would have been warmer but for the time wasted 
in wriggling.  Sean flinches at the cool touch, but does not complain.

"There.  Much better," Dave pronounces.  "See how nice that feels?"  He gently caresses 
Sean's newly bare skin, watching with satisfaction as Sean's eyes drift shut and he lets go 
his knees.   Dave caresses him again, purely for his own pleasure in touching the warm, 
tender skin and watching Sean's narrow hips tilt upward whether Sean wills it or not.  His 
shoulders push back against the leather.  *Ian is right.  He needs this.  He'll fight it, 
though.*  There's a powerful temptation to keep stroking, to bring Sean to release right 
here in the chair, just like this; find out what sorts of noises Sean makes when he's close, 
and when he's there, and his pride finally submits to what his body wants.  But that is for 
another time.

Dave clicks off the work light and flicks the washcloth at Sean's big toe.  "And tell me, 
since when do you argue?"

"I'm very sorry, Sir," Sean answers contritely, and Dave can see by the openness of his 
body language that he means it.

When Sean is angry, Dave suspects, he might easily seem like the devil himself coming 
after you, but when he appears as he is now, genuinely repentant, and with the angles of 
his face softened in the light from the candles on the mantle, it's all Dave can do to keep 
from kissing him on the top of his head and telling him what a very good boy he is--
which, really, he's not.

Dave sits down on the padded ottoman sideways to Sean, pulling Sean's left foot forward 
into his lap.  He begins to rub his thumbs hard into the arch of Sean's foot, and within 
seconds feels Sean begin to relax.  It's a reward Sean hasn't earned, but Dave considers it 
an investment.

Beside him in the soft shadow, Sean speaks in a small voice. "Sir?"

"Yes, Sean?"  And here it comes.

"M'sorry I were such a wanker tonight, Sir."

Not even Wall Street offers returns like that.  Dave smiles and strokes Sean's scarred 
shin.  "You'll get better at this, Sean.  Don't fret."

Sean lets out a regretful little sigh.  "Thank you, Sir."

*Good boy.*

~~~

Dave sloshes in the bathtub, reaching for the drain pull.  The water has gone tepid, his 
fingers are all pruny, and the hour has become quite late.  Deep down, Dave considers, 
Sean wants to co-operate, but he is not submissive by nature, and he's getting in his own 
way.   Dave just needs to find the right angle for Sean to be able to see his way clear to 
letting himself run.  Dave laughs quietly as he rinses himself off in the draining tub, 
recalling the squinched face Sean made when he chose 'rutabaga' as his safeword.  Dave 
reaches for a large, dark green towel, wondering if an episode of vegetable-related trauma 
lurks somewhere in Sean's past.  Personally, Dave doesn't care much for peas.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

12:27 a.m.:

Viggo turns in his bed and stares out the window at a thumbnail moon.  He replays 
moments from his time with Dave yesterday evening.  The images, the feelings, have 
haunted him all day.  The odd fact is, that in obeying a soft-spoken order to lie back with 
his naked body vulnerable, that kneeling on command while Dave sifts knowledgeable 
fingers idly through his hair or gently traces the tendons at the back of his neck, Viggo 
felt more wanted than he has otherwise felt in an awfully long time--not merely wanted, 
but appreciated.  He is already learning, on a deeper level than he is accustomed to, the 
difference between those two.

He was terrified, it's true, at the beginning, and he's still unsure about what may come 
next, but he senses a powerful kindness in Dave, a sort of quiet strength that does not 
require the subjugation of others to exist.  It's more than ironic, Viggo thinks, that in spite 
of impending chains and leather and other as yet unrevealed peculiarities, Dave is one of 
the few people in the world Viggo trusts entirely.  He smiles to himself, makes a soft, 
contented hum as he settles among the bed linens, and slides easily into rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the southwestern part of town, where the sea fog first rolls in at night, Sean sits in one 
of the wooden recliner chairs on his back patio, listening to the crickets making their 
midnight racket, and something small rummaging about in the ferns beneath the vast old 
scrub oak in a far corner of the yard.  In the cool quiet of the night he can hear the surf at 
the bottom of the cliff, smell the sharp, welcome tang of it.  He sips at his beer and gently 
scritches behind Ophelia's ears as she rests her head on his leg.  He wishes he'd done a 
better job of obeying Dave this evening.  He wishes, if he's plain about it, that he hadn't 
let his nervousness and his inborn stubbornness make a complete idiot of him.  

Dave, Sean realizes, is not afraid of him.  It's not that Sean ever thought to himself that 
Dave *ought* to be afraid of him, but after the way Sean misbehaved tonight--there's no 
other word for that, Jesus, he threw a fit like a five-year-old--the possibility was there.  
Sean doesn't know why, but most people fear him when he's grumpy.  Even innocent 
bystanders tend to cringe and quiver when Sean's temper flares up, but not Dave.  He was 
patient with Sean, even yielding to a point, but neither of those is a fear response, and it 
all sets Sean to thinking, and finally making a promise to himself that he'll do a better job 
of it next time.  He fidgets a bit in his chair, awkward at the feel of being newly hairless 
in certain places.  That is going to take some getting used to.


--tbc--