Title: Novice Chronicles: part 4/15
Chapter title:  Beneath the Skin
Author:  Brigantine
e-mail: gidgetpup@netzero.com
Pairing:  Vig/Bean/Dave
Rating:  R
Warnings:  AU.  Mild, happy Bondage
Length: fic
Summary:  Ian gets angry, Sean starts to walk, and Viggo enjoys the bubbles. 

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

Tuesday, 11:17 a.m.:

The parking lot that Dave favors, the one close to the beach, was already full when he 
arrived this morning.  It's his own fault for having got off to a late start, but he grumbles 
anyway as he shoulders his surf board halfway back across campus from the beach to the 
lot near the humanities building, salt-bleached auburn hair spiking every direction and his 
wetsuit squeaking at a pitch and regularity that is becoming progressively more irritating.  
On the other hand, the water is clear and clean today, the swells are better than decent 
due to recent storms further north, the board he put the finishing touches on last night 
performed beautifully, and at one point he unexpectedly found himself nose to noses with 
three curious female sea lions, who shared the waves with him briefly and 
enthusiastically before disappearing to wherever sea lions disappear to these days.  Worth 
the trek, on the whole.

He catches sight of a familiar figure crossing the parking lot.  "Ian!"

The older man glances back, slows, and Dave catches a quick flicker of expression, from 
darkly thunderous to a wan smile.  "Ah.  David.  Communing with Neptune and his 
nymphs, I see."

"Three of them," Dave chuckles. "Sort of.  What's the matter, Ian?"

"Matter?"  Ian stops at his car, keys jingling in his hand.  China blue eyes fail to appear 
ingenuous.

"A moment ago you looked ready to murder somebody, and now you're practically 
vibrating with the need to get into your car.  What's up?"  Dave carefully rests the tail of 
his new board on the asphalt.

Ian sighs, allowing the anger to seep back into his face.  "You remember Joshua?"

"Sure.  Young fella, blond, plenty of energy.  24/7 now."  Although, if he's honest about 
it, he never quite warmed up to Josh's current master.  Bit of a cold fish, Dave always 
felt.

Ian glowers past Dave's shoulder.  "Not for much longer.  Not in his current situation."

"What happened?"

"His master has just telephoned me, complaining that he has become intractable.  Does 
everything he's told, now that he has been... "  Ian's jaw clenches.  "...properly 
disciplined, but he sulks and lacks any enthusiasm.  Master is displeased and has asked 
me for suggestions.  I am going to kill him, David."

Dave's eyebrows lift.  "Josh?  Seemed keen to please last time I saw them together."  

"Not Joshua, his master!"  Ian rubs at his face, fighting to keep from shouting.

Dave has never seen him this rattled.  There is something severely wrong if Ian is this 
upset.  "Ian, what do you mean by 'properly disciplined'"? 

"Beat him to the floor in a fit of pique."

"What??"  Flogging one's boy for mutual enjoyment is one thing.  Beating him in anger is 
entirely another.  Dave's heart-rate speeds up in dismay.  "So much for trust.  Surely that's 
a breach of their contract!"

"It is a defilement of the gift," Ian snarls.  He unlocks the driver's side door of his car, his 
usual elegance wound taught by outrage.  "Joshua is young and inexperienced, or he 
should have walked out the moment it happened.  I haven't all of the horrid details yet, 
but by hell I shall find them out!"

Dave pleads, "Wait!  Ian, don't drive yet."

"I want him out of there *now!*"

"Cool down first," Dave advises.  "You're no good to anybody from the emergency room.  
Listen, do you want me to come with you?"

Ian shakes his head, smiling fondly.  "My voice of reason, David."  He lets a long breath 
out, and opens the car door.  "But I'm not sure it is possible for me now to be quite cool." 

~~~~~~~~

Thursday, 7:42 p.m.:

"There are great big eyebolts screwed into the floor," Viggo observes, peering 
interestedly.

Dave stands next to him as he kneels to investigate the shower in the large bathroom at 
the end of the second floor hallway.  "You see why we're here, then," Dave says.  

Viggo tugs thoughtfully at one ear as he glances around the generous room.  White 
ceramic and nickel-plated fixtures add to the sleek design of hexagonal black and white 
tiles.  Somehow it manages to be both utilitarian and welcoming.  Large, plush white 
towels hang on two racks along one wall, and the floor mat Viggo knelt on a moment ago 
is large and thick.  Dave has turned up the thermostat, and the room is warm in spite of its 
tiled surfaces and stark colors.  Someone has lined up a variety of old green bottles along 
the ledge in front of the frosted glass window, and the waning evening light throws little 
waves of green and gold into the room.

Dave clicks on the chandelier in the ceiling.  The simple light fixture gleams in nickel 
with four round, opaque white glass globes.  The wattage is low, but will still be 
sufficient by the time the sun has fully set.

"Hang your robe up on the hook there on the wall by the sink," Dave tells him, "and step 
into the shower.  Face away from the fixtures."

Viggo obeys as Dave opens the cupboard on the other side of the room and pulls out his 
equipment for the evening.  Cuffs and chains.  Viggo looks up.  There is a swivel bolt 
attached through the ceiling above his head.

Dave notes Viggo's gaze with a tug of a smile.  "That's right.  That's yours tonight.  Raise 
your arms."

Dave attaches a double length of chain to the steel loop in the ceiling, and buckles 
neoprene cuffs to Viggo's wrists, checking them for snugness.  The length of chain allows 
Viggo only limited movement, but is not uncomfortable.

"Spread your legs, now.  Line up here, at the attachments to your left and right.  There's a 
good fellow."  Carabiners and a few links of chain fasten the neoprene cuffs on Viggo's 
ankles to either side of the large shower, maneuvering him into a broad stance, and he 
wraps his fingers around the chains at his wrists to help himself balance.

Dave strips down to his bathers and pulls the shower curtain about the two of them, 
cocooning them in white.  He runs the water behind Viggo, waits for it to warm, and 
takes hold of the hand-held shower.  "Tilt your head back and close your eyes."  Dave 
runs warm water over Viggo's scalp and upturned face, slicking his hair back.  

Viggo raises his head, breathes through his mouth, shakes the water from his eyes, as 
Dave applies the warm spray to shoulders, back, buttocks.  Dave moves forward, wets 
and warms Viggo's chest, watches the water flatten and darken his chest hair, running 
down over his belly and between his legs, over the crisp hair of his thighs.

Dave shifts back, returns the shower handset to the wall bracket, turning it so that the 
spray splashes against the wall.  He reaches into a long niche set into the wall and takes 
up a large, soft sea sponge and an amber plastic bottle.  He pours a generous amount of 
amber gel into the sponge.  He starts at Viggo's neck and shoulders, working the gel in 
the soft sponge into a heavy lather.  The smell of spice joins the drifting steam in the 
shower space, and Viggo makes a little "Oh..." of surprise and pleasure.

"What's that, Viggo?"  Dave lathers Viggo's arm, watches his face from the side.

"This scent.  Sir, this scent.  Couple of years ago, there's this little temple in Kyoto..."  He 
hums and drifts a bit as Dave lavishes his other arm, gentle hands sliding over the sleek 
lines of Viggo's muscles.  "...cedar, rosewood, silk..."  Viggo blinks, trying to keep track.

"Let go, Viggo, it's alright," Dave advises quietly, thumb rubbing at the back of Viggo's 
neck. He smiles as Viggo lets his head slowly droop forward.  "There, that's better."

Dave adds more gel and water to the sponge, swiping it across Viggo's back, letting the 
thick trail of fragrant bubbles trickle down into the cleft of Viggo's backside.  He lathers 
ribs and lower back, takes his pleasant time over the pale curves of Viggo's bottom, 
letting him enjoy the encouragement of the sponge over his tender skin before dropping 
to the backs of Viggo's thighs, where trails of lather have already brought the scent of 
incense.  Dave washes flexing calf and bony ankle.  He supplements the foaming sponge, 
moves to Viggo's front and works his way up, washing wriggling toes, the hard tendons 
of  knees, the low arch of the front of Viggo's thighs.  He moves over the rounded jut of 
hip bones, the hollow of Viggo's bellybutton, up into the center of his torso, the curves of 
pectorals, into the sweet dip of his collarbones at the base of his throat.

"Close your eyes."

Dave runs the sponge lightly over Viggo's upturned face, the incense-laden foam trickling 
and settling into the set of his eyes, the fine tracks of laugh lines, the plum shadow where 
his lips meet, where vows are pronounced.  Dave pulls the shower head forward briefly to 
rinse Viggo's face, and he takes a slow, open-mouthed breath without opening his eyes.

Dave sets aside the sponge and pours the spiced gel directly into his hands.  *Cedar, 
rosewood,* Dave thinks.  He runs his warm, soapy hands over the slick, lathered surface 
of Viggo's wet skin, indulging himself in the feel of the man, imagining Shinto shrines 
tucked beneath dark, aged pines.  Or perhaps discreet amongst spring azaleas a modest 
chapel to a Bodhisatva, Guan Yin eternally pouring out her limitless urn of gentleness 
and mercy.  *Do you dream of wise dragons and ardent heroes, Viggo?  Someone to 
share your warmth, your kindness?  Someone to walk with when the cherry blossoms all 
settle to earth in the spring?*  Dave would ask this aloud, except that he believes Ian is 
right not to push too soon, nor from too many directions.

Viggo relaxes in the restraints, his head back as though half asleep, drifting further and 
further out the more Dave touches him.  Dave lets his fingers dip experimentally into the 
shadow of Viggo's backside, feels the sweet pucker beneath his fingertips, and Viggo's 
slight backward push into his touch.  

Dave leans down, curves his hands about Viggo's calves, caresses his thighs, hands 
surfing the slide of his belly, the soft abrasion of wet, soapy hair around his navel, and up 
into Viggo's chest, steadily rising and falling as Viggo breathes in the lather's perfume 
and arches unconsciously into Dave's touch.  Viggo lets out a little grunt of pleasure 
when Dave gently rubs and circles his nipples.  Dave encircles Viggo's throat between 
slick hands, lightly presses against the strong pulse beneath warm skin.

Dave moves behind him again, takes up the sponge, gels it thickly and warms it in the 
water from the shower head.  He wraps his arms around Viggo's waist.  One hand drops 
low, gently grasping Viggo's balls, warm and heavy in Dave's hands.  Viggo makes a 
pleased, yearning sound, his hips tilting into Dave's grasp as he presses the sponge to the 
deep rose length rising hard against Viggo's belly. The sea sponge is large and pliable, 
and Dave can just about wrap it around Viggo's cock as he strokes down, and up again.

Viggo presses into the sensation, little eager noises suppressed in the back of his throat.  
Dave feels Viggo trembling against him, his hips moving faster, and Dave teases him 
affectionately, "Back from Kyoto, eh?  Here with me now?"

Viggo manages an affirmative hum, a sort of wishful sound, deep down.

Dave grips harder, hands moving quickly.  He feels Viggo's urgency within his fist, 
murmurs into Viggo's ear, "Tell me, does it feel good, Viggo?" giving him permission.

Something like a whimper escapes from between Viggo's teeth. 

Dave smiles, nuzzles at Viggo's ear, holding steady against Viggo's increasingly frantic 
movements.  "Show me.  Come on, Viggo.  Yell if you want to--"  and he does, just once, 
the sound sliding into a low groan Dave can feel in his own chest.

Viggo leans into Dave, who abandons the sponge to the shower floor and holds Viggo to 
him, rubbing his belly slowly.  "You alright, Vig?"

He laughs shakily.  "Sir, I think I ruined your sponge."

Dave chuckles and hugs Viggo tightly, as though this is all a sort of victory.  "Good 
boy!"

~~~~~~~~~

11:37 p.m.

Viggo slouches in the big old sofa in his work room.  Jim dozes in a neat curl on the 
carpet, and Marilyn is prowling the house on her nightly rounds.  Every now and then 
Viggo spots a tip of calico tail.  He's proud of himself.  Tonight was his first session 
being bound, and in the beginning he was nervous as hell, but he's pretty sure he didn't let 
it show.  He will never, of course, look at his shower in the same way that he used to, but 
that's alright.  Dave took care of him, just as he'd promised.  It was no small triumph for 
Viggo to give up as much as he did during their negotiations tonight.  Even Dave was 
impressed when Viggo suggested that while they would strictly observe their List of 
Things to Never Do, he might otherwise allow Dave to surprise him.  Viggo grins.  Dave 
asked him twice if he was sure about that.  The truth is, Viggo is not entirely sure of what 
he'll be able to handle, but he is certain that if he doesn't push himself he's not going to 
get anywhere, and there is a very definite place Viggo wants to go.

~~~~~~~

Friday, 7:48 p.m.:

"Benson," Sean said.

Dave leans against the corner of the big armoire, indulging himself in the simple pleasure 
of observing Sean as he kneels compliantly in the middle of the big bed.  Dave has lit 
seven thick, ivory candles in the fireplace.  Light from these and from the dozen or so 
candles on the generous mantle warm the pale skin of Sean's chest and belly, the darker 
rose skin of his relaxed sex; throw shadows and light over his long hands as they rest on 
lean-muscled thighs.  Behind him, the sconces on either side of Dave's bed don't match.  
One is of wrought iron and ivory glass, the other of copper and brass hung with golden, 
opalescent shades, and earlier this evening Sean noticed.  He stepped up to the copper 
sconce, peered at it in the soft light that filled the room, and smiled, "Benson."

W.A.S. Benson designed the rare fixture in the late 1800's.  Dave discovered this graceful 
double bracket buried beneath rusty old tools in a small junk shop in Monterey, and 
brought it home to clean it and re-wire it and use it as Benson intended.  Tonight Sean 
recognized it for what it is, and now its gentle light toys softly in the curled shadows 
between Sean's toes, tips the backs of his heels, dips into the tender cleft of his bottom, 
rolls up the low bumps of his spine, gilds the span of his shoulders, and picks out the 
highlights in his sun-bleached hair as the length of it rests against the back of his neck.

Dave smiles affectionately in the low light.  Holding himself very still, forcing himself 
into a state of solemn quiet, Sean looks like something Michelangelo might have sculpted 
from fine Italian marble.  Dave almost hates to move him.  Still, other, more interesting 
activities await.  A few minutes earlier, while Sean knelt on the bed, Dave clipped a pair 
of heavy leather wrist cuffs and extra lengths of chain into the short links dangling from 
two particular eye bolts screwed into one of the heavy beams at the ceiling. He made 
certain Sean heard the noise they made as Dave worked.  To Sean's credit, he licked his 
lips nervously, but neither moved nor looked up to see what Dave was doing.  Dave's 
modest supplies for the evening rest on an antique tea cart draped with white linen, which 
waits near the dangling restraints.  Dave and Sean have made a list together of things that 
are absolutely not acceptable, and which they'll update as they go, but otherwise Sean has 
agreed to be left ignorant.  Dave admires Sean for that, and can hardly believe his own 
good luck.

Dave steps to the corner of the bed.  "Sean.  Come stand here."  Sean unfolds himself 
from his kneeling position and stands on thick towels spread over the hardwood floor. 
Dave motions, and Sean raises his arms, allowing Dave to buckle the cuffs snugly around 
his wrists, arms extended above his head just past the width of his own shoulders.  Dave 
feels him shiver.  "Cold?"

"Nervous, Sir."  Sean's voice is subdued.  His pupils are dilated, wide and black and Dave 
is certain that it's not just because of the dim light.  Sean is trying very hard to be good 
tonight, and Dave could kiss him for it.  But he won't.

Dave's arms drift down around Sean's waist from behind, pressing flat against his belly, 
and Dave speaks softly into the back of Sean's neck.  "Never been bound before, have 
you, Sean."  They both know the answer.

Sean takes a deep, slow breath, settling himself.

Dave smiles into Sean's shoulder.  "Widen your stance.  There's a good fellow.  I believe 
you'll enjoy this."  Dave's hands brush lightly upward.  "I know I will."

Sean makes a small, nervous sound, but Dave detects a trace of wry humor in it now, and 
he knows they're on solid ground.  "Remember," he warns.  "Hush."

Sean nods and watches as Dave gathers the small terry cloth towel and the cobalt glass 
bottle from the table.

Dave drops to one knee behind Sean, and pours a generous amount of gleaming oil into 
his hand.  The rich fragrance of myrrh rises as he warms it briefly in his palms.  He 
caresses a broad swipe of oil onto Sean's skin, starting upward from Sean's right ankle, 
and he begins to rub, gently and firmly, the blond, curling hair of Sean's leg crisp beneath 
his hands.  Dave adds more oil, rubs and caresses, and in a short time has slicked Sean's 
right leg up to the soft skin where the front of his thigh slopes into the joint at his hip, 
then into the delicate crease where the back of Sean's thigh snugs up into the curved 
shadow of his buttock.  When he's satisfied he begins to work on Sean's left leg, rubbing 
skin and kneading muscle, warming and soothing.

Dave stands and turns his attention to Sean's bottom, oiling generously and kneading with 
strong hands.  Sean exhales a low hum of pleasure, resting placidly in the cuffs.  Dave 
circles the shallow dimples where the upper curve of Sean's buttocks slopes into his 
lower back.  He closes his eyes and enjoys the feel of soft skin and yielding flesh beneath 
his hands.  He smiles contentedly, works up into Sean's lower back, digging deep with 
long strokes of his thumbs into the long, powerful muscles on either side of Sean's spine.  
He hears Sean's breath ease out in a low, even exhalation that ends in a tiny grunt as Dave 
digs into Sean's shoulders.  Sean lets his head loll forward as Dave continues to add oil to 
his skin, now slick and gleaming.  The warm room has filled with the scent of myrrh.

Dave digs into the tight ropes of muscle along Sean's shoulders, feels their lean strength, 
imagines football matches and bar fights.  Left jab.  Right cross.  Bruised knuckles.  
Blood hot and singing to the oldest tune in the world.  He savors the richness of the oil, 
warmed between his hands; the faint sound of his palms slicking slowly over Sean's 
shoulders, carefully kneading the vulnerable column of his neck, the deep, even sounds of 
Sean's breath.  He feels the warm trickle of oil beginning to drip from his own elbows.

Dave oils Sean's forearm, the cabled muscles stretched and standing out in relief in the 
candle light; first the right, then the left, and just when he knows that what little remains 
of Sean's conscious thought is assuming that he's nearly finished, Dave moves in front of 
Sean and begins to rub oil into his belly.  Sean lets his head fall back with a groan that he 
bites off sharply in his attempt obey Dave's command to remain silent.  Dave hasn't the 
heart to reprimand him.  He watches the light from the wall sconces gild Sean's sides, 
glide over his oiled backside, over his hips, slide toward the fronts of his thighs, where it 
blends with the ochre light from the candles.  Dave's hands drip oil, rub it into Sean's 
chest, kneading pectorals that flex in automatic response to the pleasure of Dave's hands.  
Sean sags contentedly in the chains, watches Dave from heavy-lidded eyes, as though 
he's been mesmerized.  Dave gently oils the tender skin of Sean's throat, feels the solid 
pulse in his neck, the hard corner of his Adam's apple, slicks careful thumbs over Sean's 
flushed cheeks, brushes his parted lips, feels the warmth of his breath.  "Nearly there," 
Dave murmurs.

"I..."

"Sshhh..."  Dave steps aside, wipes his hands briefly on the towel, and pulls the tall 
wood-frame looking-glass over, setting it in front of Sean.  "Look," Dave urges him.  
"Look at yourself now."

Sean obeys initially, but soon turns his head away, frowning, his glances sideways and 
hesitant at his image in the mirror.  

Given Sean's history Dave has expected a certain reluctance for Sean to make a show of 
himself, but from a man whose profession sometimes requires him to dwell on his 
appearance this is a surprise, and Dave begins re-thinking, quickly.  He wonders how 
often Sean sees himself reflected from the waist down; whether he ever spares a moment 
to look at himself head to toe, naked and simply pleased with whatever nature has given 
him, or whether he feels awkward in his own skin these days, foreign and disconnected 
from himself.  Dave wonders suddenly when was the last time Sean fully enjoyed sex, 
without reservations. 

He stands behind Sean, looking at him in the mirror from over his shoulder.  He runs his 
hands over Sean's warm, slick skin.  Sean blushes and won't meet his own reflected gaze, 
as though he's for some reason ashamed of himself.   "Earth, fire, air, water," Dave 
incants, and now that he's got Sean's full attention adds, "Ever since the Inquisition we've 
been burning the witch that birthed us.  Time to reclaim the old power, Sean."

The tension in Sean's spine has pulled his shoulders back, straightened him taught. He 
scowls into the mirror, as though worrying at the riddle, but the writing on the wall 
tonight is not in hieroglyphics. Sean is hiding, but Dave's not going to let him get away 
with it.

He grabs for the cobalt bottle of myrrh-scented oil, takes firm hold of the loose velvet of 
Sean's foreskin and forces it down.  

Words Sean might have said are cut off by his soft gasp of surprise, and Dave lets the oil 
fall in a thin, glittering stream, cool against the sensitive head of Sean's cock.  Sean lets 
out a long tremor of breath as the oil flows down his skin, gleaming over the lengthening 
column of his sex as his body responds, and the loose skin tightens.  

Sean's breath stutters into a moan when Dave reaches around him to fondle and tease, 
while the other hand grips and strokes.  Dave rests his cheek against the back of Sean's 
neck.  The muscles in Sean's back and shoulders flex, as though in denial, jerking hard at 
the chains and making them thrum, all the while his hips rutting steadily upward into 
Dave's grip.  

Sean breathes like a winded stag, his doubts and his body at odds in the circle of Dave's 
arms.  Dave wraps one arm hard around Sean's chest, his fingertips digging into the lean 
flesh of Sean's ribcage.  Bruises tomorrow, likely.  Myrrh oil highlights the long, cable 
muscles in Dave's forearm as he pleasures Sean relentlessly, nearly undone himself by 
the desperation of Sean's hips and the harsh moans forced out from behind his teeth.  
Dave chants darkly into Sean's ear, his fist just rough enough on Sean's cock.  "Fire, air, 
earth..."

Sean wrenches and climaxes with a yell and then another, hauling at the chains that bind 
him.  Careless of Sean's come on his hands, Dave takes him by the shoulders and orders 
him fiercely, "Look in the mirror, Sean!  Do it!"

Shuddering and still panting for breath, Sean stares into the stunned green eyes of a fire-
gilded and barbaric apparition in the mirror, all gleaming limbs, shifting amber light and 
carbon shadow.  "'t's not me," Sean moans, but he doesn't look away, not even from the 
pale stream of his release still trickling down his half-hard cock.

"The sword," Dave murmurs into the damp hair at the back of Sean's neck, "exists within 
the unforged iron."  He grazes his fist up Sean's cock, milking him gently and making 
him groan and writhe in a twilight between pain and pleasure.  "It is the task of the smith 
to bring it forth."

"I don't…" Sean swallows hard, backing into Dave, as if for comfort.  "I don't 
understand!"

But Dave suspects that he does, and all too well, because there's a panicked edge to 
Sean's voice, far beyond mere bafflement.  Dave wraps his arms around Sean's middle 
again, soothing him with hands turning unashamedly sticky, and sliding in cooling sweat.  
He meets Sean's wide-eyed expression in the mirror, his own gaze dark.  "Let it rest, 
Sean.  Just let it be there, behind your eyes, until you're ready to look at it again."  Dave 
nuzzles into the side of Sean's neck, brushes his fingertips over the deep pink of his 
nipples.  "For now, let's just have a nice hot bath, shall we?"

Sean blinks and stares into Dave's reflected gaze.  "*What?*"  As though the ordinary has 
suddenly become suspect.

Dave smiles.  Too right.

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

12:13 a.m.

Sean does not as a rule spend much time looking at himself in the mirror.  He dresses 
well because he is inclined toward tidiness, but it's merely something Sean does.  It is his 
habit, nothing more, along with vacuuming the living room carpet and washing the 
dishes.  The closest he's come to genuine vanity is the cologne his kid sister sends him 
from England, because he can't get it in the U.S.

Tonight Sean stands in front of the mirror over his dresser and he stares.  On the surface 
he appears just the same as he's always done, but he knows he's different.  He saw 
himself tonight as Dave sees him; wild-eyed, carnal, an elemental creature from fantasy 
or nightmare; he's not sure which just now, but all denials aside, that was definitely him 
reflected in that mirror, and as Sean stares into this reflection in the quiet of his bedroom 
he realizes with a dizzying surge of certainty that that naked, screaming Celt has always 
been there, blue war paint and all.  This new understanding of himself is unsettling.  He 
doesn't know what to do with it.  Still, he's stepped onto the path now, and he's bloody 
well not going to quit and run, just because he's been shaken.  Sean will follow Dave 
wherever he leads, if for no other reason than to find out exactly what sort of man he will 
have discovered by the time they reach the end.


--tbc--