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Chris is still damp from the shower when John pulls him out onto the porch, so that the chilly air immediately settles into his scalp and down between his shoulderblades where the moisture’s lingering. He shivers and earns himself a sharp jerk to the collar.
“Not going to get any better staring at it,” John says. Then looks back at Chris, the crows’ feet around his eyes deepening as he smiles.
It’s the smile of a friendly, salt-of-the-earth type, a farmer or a small businessman just stopping by at the end of the day, slow and easy. Not the smile of a man who’s had Chris for long enough to break him out of the habit of whining, much less looking where he’s not supposed to. Not the smile of someone who fucked Chris raw against the wall and then shoved a thick, ridged plug into him, who even now is taking the chain attached to Chris’ collar and threading it through the porch rail before hooking it to the handcuffs on Chris’ wrists, so that if he struggles he’ll choke himself.
Not that Chris struggles much these days. Though he can’t help following the other man—that’s not the point—and ends up looking down when John bends down, and seeing the thing laid out across the old, warping boards. It looks like a body bag, except Chris still has his hunter’s eye and can size it up in a glance and know that it’s not going to have nearly that much play in it. And anyway, nobody makes body bags out of shiny white latex and black straps.
“Leather would be sturdier but it’s too much of a distraction, smells too much,” John says, as he slips his hand through the roll of black tape that’d been lying in the open sack. He starts to pick at the edge of the tape as he gets back onto his feet, grimacing once when his knee pops. “Just want them to smell you, Argent. And anyway, I don’t think you’re gonna be ripping out of this one any time soon.”
Chris inhales sharply, then drops his eyes as John straightens enough for them to be facing each other. John chuckles, his breath pattering against the gag in Chris’ mouth, chuckles and pulls the tape off the roll and then lets Chris hitch in dread.
Then he ties Chris up even more. He’s brisk about it but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s unnecessary, and so nothing more than cruelty. Chris already isn’t going anywhere but John bundles him up like a Christmas package: tape around his ass and groin first, tightening his buttocks around the plug so that his knees wobble, John carefully swinging his latex-sheathed cock out of the way. Then a long, flexible rubber wand gets taped to Chris’ cock, its tip just nudging at the flushed, deeply sensitive head. It’s another damn vibrator, just like the plug currently stuffing him, and so is the flat, round disc John tapes to the back of his balls. And the two rubber-cushioned ones that John fastens over Chris’ nipples with two crossed strips each, like the man’s marking out Chris’ pectorals. When John lifts his fingers from pressing down the tape, it retracts slightly so that Chris feels as if someone’s trying to squeeze the muscles up. A sharp wheeze spurts from Chris’ nose.
“Hold your horses, son,” John says, chuckling again, as he moves off the decorative part and onto the functional, wrapping rounds of tape around Chris’ thighs. “You’re gonna have plenty of time to enjoy yourself, so if you could keep from dripping all over me while I’m finishing you, I’d appreciate it.”
The plug seems to push deeper into Chris as his thighs are forced together, digging into his prostate so that he bites down into his gag. John moves onto his ankles, which isn’t as bad, but then gets up and pulls Chris’ arms to his sides. It strains the chain, yanking the collar so Chris has to bend backward over the rail to keep from choking. By the time John uncuffs him, he's so short of breath that he ends up groping at the other man for support. John brushes his fingers off into tight latex mitts that get taped on, and then uses more tape to strap Chris’ wrists to his hips, rolling it across Chris’ legs and across his cock so that it crushes his balls back into the squeezing vise of his thighs.
Being forced to kneel, and then to sit is almost a relief at that point, but for the way that it rocks him back onto the plug. Chris is sweating now, sweating and trembling, a low, shameful but undeniable arousal sparking inside of him. And then John lifts him by the ankles to stuff his feet into the end of the sack and Chris jerks in place, moaning behind the gag. Jerks and rolls his hips and—
“Stop trying to fuck yourself,” John says, giving Chris a shake that only sends white-hot bolts flaring out from Chris’ prostate. “Jesus. Then again, the mess you’re gonna make, it’ll be a hell of a lot easier to wipe this off.”
‘This’ being the sack, which John is slowly zipping over Chris’ legs, sealing them away from the cold air into what immediately feels like a steam bath. The latex clings so tight that John has to squeeze Chris’ legs between his knees and hold the zipper edges together to get it seal. There are straps every few inches over the zipper to reinforce it, and when John pulls at them and the latex snugs even closer, Chris feels as if he’s both being robbed of feeling and being forced to do nothing but feel.
John gets to his crotch and makes Chris lie on his back. The sack doesn’t seem to have any allowance for genitals; John puts his palm over Chris’ cock, warm rough real skin, even if it’s crushing Chris, and the contrast to the slick latex a couple seconds later makes Chris shake his head without thinking. He’s going to be stuck in this, he suddenly realizes. Stuck in this damn thing, shrinkwrapped away, can’t feel anything—
The vibrators come on. The ones below the waist, cock and balls and ass, and Chris somehow finds the strength to hump his ass off the porch before his bindings catch up with him and he just flattens out, limp and groaning. John zips the sack over his chest and up to the middle of his throat, and the nipple massagers turn on at that point, and Chris can’t even think. He can feel—oh, he can feel, all right, can feel and can’t get away from it, can’t do anything but lie there and let it build against the stretchy but impenetrable latex. The vibrations seem to rattle through his whole body this way, bouncing off the sack walls back into him—sometimes the vibrators don’t sync up and the clash wants to rip him apart, except he can’t even do that. The sack’s going to hold him no matter what.
“…Argent. Argent,” John is saying, through the buzzing haze that’s become Chris’ world. Tapping at his cheeks, not yet a slap but not that much less. “You in there?”
“Please,” Chris gasps. The gag’s off, he doesn’t even remember that but when he realizes the torrent comes out. “God, please, please, don’t do this, I can’t—I can’t—”
“Too late for that, Argent, it’s happening. Your question’s for how long, and here’s where you might want to listen,” John is saying. Staring down, still with that face, how can the man have that kind of face, looking like Chris can trust him to tell the truth with what he’s done to Chris? “Way you’re leaking in there, it’s not going to take too long. An hour if I don’t turn the fan on over there, and get things blowing downhill instead of up. Maybe less if I do. So if you want to get out of this faster—”
“Please, anything,” Chris says. “Anything—please, sir.”
John pauses. His eyes darken, and for a moment that face changes—it fits. “Trying to butter me up,” he finally says. “Well, I’m open to it. Get your mouth open and do a good job, and I’ll turn on the fan.”
Chris has his mouth open before the man even finishes. Shaking his head to himself, John moves up so that he’s kneeling over Chris’ face and unzips his fly.
The angle makes his cock hit the back of Chris’ throat every single time. Spit is welling up out of the corners of Chris’ mouth as he tries to just swallow past the urge to choke, swallow and suck and make it good because he can’t last an hour like this. He can’t even last till John comes, his tortured body already turning soft and unstrung inside of the sack, every single nerve shorting out. He doesn’t see John’s climax; he only tastes it.
Tastes it and tastes the gag rubbing it over his tongue as he finally can’t stop himself from whining. His head tries to flop to the side but can’t, tensioned in place by something that tightens across his eyes and ears, and then he realizes—the sack comes with a hood too. Shoved down over him, with only his nose and the part of his mouth stretched around the gag left to touch the air, only those two little bits of skin free.
He can’t hear very well now either; there’s some kind of padding attached to the inside of the hood that muffles his ears. There’s the rattle of the boards as John walks around him, and then the sudden stiff flow of a directed air current over his strained lips—the fan, thank God—and then Chris feels his shoulders and legs being hoisted upwards, latex tensioning all over him, shifting the vibrators so that if he could, he’d squirm. He’s slung up like a piece of meat, and that fan’s blowing his scent all over the countryside.
Chris hadn’t really been paying attention when John had mentioned that, too taken up with the idea of just getting out of this sack, but now it hits him: this is werewolf country, a crossroads for multiple packs, and they all know the Argents. They know what he smells like, they knew that even before—and now they’re going to smell him like this.
Something touches Chris from underneath and his thoughts instantly fragment. John runs his hand down Chris’ back and ass, stopping to squeeze a buttock as Chris’ vision whites out behind the hood. Then does something, tugging between the buttocks—Chris feels a wisp of air, and the biting double line of a barely-parted zipper. He’s not free by any means, the tape holding in the vibrator there, and God, they’re going to smell him.
The hand drops away. The porch stops trembling under John’s weight. He could have sat down or gone inside or just gone away entirely, Chris has no idea. And the worst part is…he’s hoping someone smells him at this point.