This was it: the exact thing George wanted...feared...hoped for? He wasn't nearly drunk enough for this. His inhibitions were crushing him. Was George really going to let freakshow Dream punish him? What did that mean? What did Dream's punishment entail? George didn't even dare to ask; He could hardly even speak.
"You don't know that," George whispered. "You don't know anything about me...maybe I just like being a bitch to you. Maybe I..."
Dream's touch turned into a grip. He held George's chin, and tipped his face up slightly. "I know enough, Gogy. I know you're so careful with how everyone perceives you. I know you don't like to let that better-than-thou mask slip for even a second. I know you'll keep it up even if it means denying yourself something you want, if that something happens to not fit the cool social conventions of the in-crowd."
George gulped, viciously biting down on the inside of his cheek. The fact that Dream was right made not snapping back some derogatory remark even harder. Anger and haughtiness were George's shields. Without them, his defenses were thin, at best.
"So, Gogy, for your own sake, I have to rip away that mask of yours. The best way to do that..." Dream leaned even closer, turning George's head slightly to the side so he could whisper in his ear. "Is to punish you until your silly pride doesn't matter anymore. The best way...is to make you cry."
George folded his arms, the only way he could think of to stop them from shaking. He realized his lower lip was pouting, and when he spoke, his voice came out as a whining, weak protest. "I don't need to be punished. That's stupid."
"It's exactly what you need, Gogy. What's even better is that as much as you're dreading it right now, you're still going to follow me." He released George's chin, chuckling. "You're going to follow and accept your punishment like a good boy, aren't you?"
He didn't give George the opportunity to respond. Instead he turned his back, and wandered his way down the hall. George stood there, frozen in his hesitation, torn between the urge to run and the urge to follow.
Dream was right. Following won out.
The entertainment room occupied a large portion of the front corner of the house, but tonight the lights were off and the door was barely ajar. There was a massive TV on the wall, playing some classic 80's horror film. A girl with long blonde hair fled from a masked killer through a suburban neighborhood, shrieking uselessly. Blacklights flashed in the corners, and there was at least one jack-o-lantern on every available surface, including lining the pool table and the shelf above the long, sectional couch. The room was isolated, dark, and currently vacant. It would probably be overtaken later by couples looking for privacy and sleepy drunks seeking a place to curl up. But for now, they had the room to themselves, and Dream shut the door behind them.
The girl on screen went down in a spray of blood. The killer's knife glinted, dripping as it plunged into her again and again. Dream sat down on the couch, right in the middle, spreading his arms across the back.
"Good slaves don't sit on the furniture, George," he said, as George turned away from the TV. There was still a smile lurking behind his serious expression. He was enjoying every second of humiliating George.
George mustered up his trembling, shrinking pride. "Where the hell do you expect me to sit then?"
"On the floor, on your knees, at my feet. Like a good boy."
George closed his eyes slowly. Every time he cursed at Dream, he was certain he was making his punishment worse - whatever it was. George had to do better at watching his mouth. At least here they were alone, with no crowds to see George's degradation. George knelt, and crawled toward Dream until he was on his knees at Dream's feet, facing him.
Dream smiled. "So much better, Gogy. Doesn't that feel good? Just letting go, accepting the embarrassment? It's one of my favorite things to see..." Dream watched George in silence for a few moments, likely waiting to see if he had anymore snarky responses, but George bit his tongue. "Should I make you kiss my boots again? Hm? Since you're down there already..."
"Please don't," the words slipped out in a whisper, in desperation, fear blossoming at the prospect of more humiliation. George bit his lip, regretting that he let Dream hear that tone in his voice.
Dream leaned forward, elbows on his knees, so close George could smell the mint on his breath. "Please?" he mocked. "Begging already, Gogy?" His eyes searched over George's face.
It was difficult to see that one white contact up close. It was creepy, like seeing a shadow in the background of a family photo that wasn't supposed to be there. "Such a silly boy. Why are you down there, on your knees, begging for me not to order you to embarrass yourself?"
"I don't know," George said softly.
But he did know: he was understanding it more and more with every order, with every condescending glance and mocking word. George liked feeling as if he had no choice. He liked that he had an excuse to let go of his pride and do the filthy, degrading things that made his belly light. George couldn't resist diving deeper; he couldn't resist getting more of that feeling.
If Dream ordered him to do the most utterly degrading, public act he could think of - he'd do it. Whatever punishment Dream came up with - George would let him administer it. He'd throw a fit about it, curse at him, call him names - but he would do it. George would do it because he wanted that twisting in his belly to tighten and the heat inside him to become a blaze. He would do it because it was the closest thing to freedom he felt: no room for pride, no place for carefully constructed laughter, no fake smiles, no pretending. George's attempts to keep up his mask - sarcasm, arguing, disobeying - were quickly falling away, dismantled, piece by piece.
Giving Dream that power over him...maybe it was karma for what an asshole George has been to him. Maybe it was the biggest self-discovery George has ever encountered. Whatever it was, He couldn't resist it.
"You do know, Gogy," Dream said calmly. "You know there's the surface level reasons: you accepted my dare, you acted like a disobedient little brat, and now you have to be put in your place. But you know there's the deeper reasons too: you want to explore something that's probably pretty new to you, something that's giving you feelings you didn't expect. Something you're enjoying, even though you don't think you're supposed to." Dream waited, probably hoping for another aggressive reaction out of George, but his lips remained tightly sealed. Dream smiled slowly, sadistically. "I'd hate to deprive you of something you enjoy, even if it scares you. Get your head down, angel. Left boot only. Kiss it. Clean it with your tongue."
"Please," George whispered again. Tighter this time, more desperate.
Dream just laughed. "You're going to do exactly as I say," he said softly. "No matter how much you whine and cry about it, you're going to do it, Gogy."
"I'm not crying."
The idea of breaking down in tears in front of Dream sounded delicious. The idea of crying, begging, sobbing uncontrollably, only to have to give in and accept it in the end. George wanted to imagine Dream was forcing him. He wanted to imagine there would be dire consequences for refusal, instead of none at all. He wanted to imagine he hated Dream - just like he always insisted he did. The fantasy of it took George over like a high.
Dream leaned back in his seat again - calm, collected, waiting. "Obey me, George. Get your head down and let me see those pretty little wings of yours."
An actual whimper came out of George's throat. He looked down at the boots he had been commanded to put his mouth on once again. George could see the pale pink of his lipgloss shining on the leather, and he could still imagine the smell of them - that rich, sweet scent. The urge to run his tongue over them was strong, that strange desire returning with a vengeance. George dared one last look up at Dream. He was smiling as he watched George.
"Do it," Dream said. "This is what you get for being a bad boy. You'll learn."
George's stomach knotted up into a ball as he lowered his head. Crouched there, curled up small, George nuzzled his nose against the wrinkled, worn leather at Dream's ankle. He let the roughness of Dream's tight laces brush against his lips. George inhaled deeply, the intoxicating scent flooding his brain. What the hell was wrong with him? Since when did something like boots turn him on? It had never even crossed his mind, never worked its way into any fantasy he touched himself to. George pressed his lips to the leather, lingering there now that he no longer had all the eyes of a crowd on him.
Heat rushed between George's legs, his arousal intensifying as he placed his kisses lower, towards the dusty sole of Dream's boot. The taste of dirt was on George's lips but even that didn't dissuade him. George pressed his forehead against Dream's ankle as he kissed, utterly lost in that strange world of leather and laces and his own degradation.
There was a tap on George's head, something pressing him down and keeping him there. Within moments George recognized the textured feeling of a boot sole, and realized Dream had pressed his opposite foot on top of his head.
George felt Dream shift, and knew he had leaned forward again by the nearness of his voice. "Use your tongue. Get it clean."
George wanted to beg him, Please, please don't make me, please don't make me do it, I'll be good, please... His heart was racing, his breath quickening, his arousal an ache that spread throughout his body and set all his nerves alight. George didn't want to say no, he just wanted to beg. But he couldn't manage any words with his face pressed down on Dream's boot.
Obediently, George stuck out his tongue and traced it along the leather. Smooth, pleasing, and almost tasteless except for that heady scent that he was now inhaling through his mouth. George licked around the toe, just above the sole, over his lipstick prints, up beside Dream's laces. George savored every inch. He felt filthy, vile, completely disgusting...
George felt on fire, alive, utterly consumed in the high. He laughed from the giddiness. Licked and laughed, then laughed harder. George wanted to touch himself so badly...
"Head up."
Dream's opposite foot no longer held George down. Slowly, begrudgingly wrenching himself from whatever bizarre pit of a headspace he has fallen into, George raised his head. Still on his knees, George stared at Dream and waited.
"Thirsty? Dream held out the beer bottle.
George's mouth was dry, and he reached for it eagerly, only to have Dream pull it back.
"Uh-uh, no hands." Dream said as George put his hand down slowly, uncertainly. "Open your mouth, angel."
George didn't even hesitate to obey. It was as if the world had fallen away and all that was left was Dream's gaze and the sound of his voice. Dream filled his mouth with beer - filled it, but didn't swallow. He leaned forward...George knew exactly what Dream was going to do. George didn't flinch. He didn't back away. He didn't close his mouth.
Dream leaned close, so close their lips nearly touched. He spit the beer into George's mouth, all of it, not spilling a drop. It was still cold, refreshing on his tongue, but it tasted...it tasted like Dream. George knew it was Dream's taste, he remembered it, and it sent a shudder of pleasure throughout his entire body. George's arousal dripped as he gulped it down.
On screen, an unlucky teenager begged the killer not to stab him, his screams blasting from the speakers.
"That's much better, angel," Dream said. "If only you were this obedient all along, I wouldn't have to punish you now."
George was horrified that he was going to leave a wet spot on the carpet. Every time Dream mentioned "punishment," it got worse. George couldn't handle it anymore. He was too turned on, too humiliated, too desperate.
"Give me my thong back," George said quickly. "Please."
Dream frowned, still leaning close. "Why?"
"Just give it back!" George hissed, shifting his position uncomfortably.
"I'm going to need a reason, Jess," Dream said calmly.
George clenched his fists. He wanted to slap Dream, to whine at him, to break down into more useless, pathetic begging. What had Dream done to him? How had he managed to reduce George to this?
"I...I'm..." The words garbled up in his throat.
George couldn't say it, it was too embarrassing! But there was that wicked little voice again, whispering, egging him on. Go on, say it, spill it all. Let him know what a pathetic, desperate little whore you've become.
Dream's fingers wrapped around George's chin, forcing his gaze up. George couldn't hide his blush, or the desperation of his expression. Dream said nothing, just locked George into that dark, creepy gaze. He didn't even need to command George to speak; it just came spilling out.
"I'm wet and I'm afraid I'm going to drip on the carpet, okay?" George's own gasp cut him off, a choked sound, full of shock and horror at his boldness. Except George wasn't bold, not really: he was squirming, hot and humiliated.
"Is that so?" The smile that spread across Dream's face only made it worse.
George hadn't noticed before how sharp Dream's canines were, like little fangs that could pierce into his skin.
"Oh, Gogy. Poor little angel. I've made a sinner out of you. Enjoying your punishment so much it's making you wet. So cute."
George wanted to look away. Instead he began whimpering again, staring at Dream helplessly, squeezing his legs together.
"Now I have to make your punishment even worse," Dream said, his voice mockingly sad. "I can't have you enjoying yourself that much." He patted his lap. "Come here. Sit."
George's eyes widened. Here it was, the moment George had dreaded and desired. That little voice inside his head was still cheering cruelly, taunting him, You're gonna get punished, you're gonna get punished!
All George's sassy protests died in his throat. All his thoughts of coming out of this with his pride still intact were shoved aside by vivid fantasies of Dream spanking him, Dream's palm making contact with George's bare ass again and again, until George was crying uncontrollably as Dream laughed.
George had no doubt that was what his punishment would be. It could be nothing else, and it granted Dream the opportunity to hurt George, humiliate him, and make his arousal worse all at once. Dream's eyes were wide, bright in the dim light from the flashing TV. His white eye seemed to glow. Haunting music played over the speakers, and George crawled up onto Dream's lap, his back to Dream.
Dream's hands gripped George's hips and he leaned forward, pressed against George's back, and said softly in George's ear, "Do you understand what a safeword is?"
George gulped. "Yes."
"Yours is Red. Call it if you need to. Although, now that I'm seeing how much of a little masochist you are, I don't think you'll be calling it. You know what you deserve."
"I'm not a masochist!" George hissed.
But the words felt false. The wetness between George's legs was getting worse as his fear over his punishment intensified. If George didn't move soon, he'd get a wet spot on Dream's pants, and he knew Dream had no intention of letting him go anywhere. George tried to squeeze his legs together, but it didn't make a difference since he was straddling Dream's lap.
As George moved, he felt the hardness in Dream's crotch and froze. Dream was enjoying this, really enjoying it - god, he felt big.
"You've been a bad boy, George," Dream whispered harshly. "A very bad boy. You deserve to be punished."
George held his breath so he wouldn't start gasping. Dream's words squirmed inside George's brain and straight down to whatever nerves controlled his dick. The heat between his legs felt unreal, too extreme to be a reasonable reaction to simply hearing someone speak. Before George truly realized what he was doing, he pressed himself against Dream's crotch, so that his hard dick made contact with George's aching tip and George moved against Dream, claiming the only physical stimulation he had all night. George nearly moaned just from that tiny moment of pleasure, the contact so good that it sent a shudder all the way up his spine.
Dream's hand gripped into George's hair, right at the nape of his neck.
"Naughty angel. Very naughty. You really think that's what you deserve right now?" He pulled George back, his mouth close against George's ear and whispered. "You deserve to have your tip aching all night. You deserve to have duct tape slapped over it so you can't touch it while I crush your dick under my boot."
The sound that came out of George was somewhere between a sob and a groan. Fuck, that was disgusting and wrong and so...so hot. It was terrifying and cruel and...damn it...how could he want that? How could that thought turn him on?
"But we'll get to that, won't we, angel?" He pressed George forward. Then further...further. "Bend over. Head down to the ground."
George had to reposition himself to manage what Dream was demanding. With George's torso and face dangling off the couch, Dream forced George to put his legs up so that his thighs straddled Dream's lap and all his intimate parts were bared, open and spread for Dream. He moved George's feet behind him, crossing George's ankles and leaning back, so George was effectively locked into position.
"Awww, angel, you're so wet." His hands squeezed George's thighs, his rough palms moving higher until his thumbs fit right beneath the curve of George's ass. George opened his mouth in a silent gasp, thankful for the darkness and his lowered face helping to hide the fire that was blazing across his cheeks. After all the shit he'd given Dream, after all the nasty things he said behind Dream's back, said to his face - George was completely melting in Dream's hands. He was craving Dream's touches, craving his grip. George began to shake as he was held there, bent over, helpless except for the safeword that waited tucked at the back of his brain, utterly unwanted.
"Feeling a little scared now?" Dream murmured, as George's legs shook. "You'll be more afraid in a moment, you know. But it's alright: the door is shut, and the music out there is so loud that you can scream and cry all you want, but you won't disturb anyone."
"Fuck you," George hissed. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you." The words weren't angry - they were desperate, needy, heavy with desire. "Please Dream, don't...don't..."
"Don't what?" Dream chuckled. "Don't punish you? Hmm? Is that it? My naughty little angel doesn't want to be punished?" His voice, suddenly, was serious. "If you really don't want this, say so now. Right now. You're safe to do that, I promise you."
"I want it," George's voice cracked, but he had to be honest. He had to tell Dream the truth. "I'll use my safeword, if I need to, but I...I want it."
He squeezed George's ass, kneading and gripping George's flesh in his hands. "Such a cute little ass, Gogy. It'll look even cuter with bruises."
The final chase scene in the movie had begun. A woman ran through the empty halls of a hospital, limping, looking behind her with wide, terrified eyes as the killer made his slow, trudging way after her. He'd catch her eventually. They always did.
Dream's palm slapped across George's ass with a crack loud enough to be heard over the horrifying screaming coming from the screen. George sucked in his breath, then held it through the next swat, and the next, and the next - but the fifth - god damnit! Dream was determined to break him. George could feel it in the strength Dream was putting into every slap. George's skin was tingling, then stinging, then burning. He had never been spanked like this. Little slaps on the ass during s.εﾒ, sure; but bent over and slapped repeatedly, purposefully, painfully? Never. Dream's sixth smack made George shriek and wiggle his feet, a useless attempt at squirming away from the pain.
"It's okay to struggle, angel," Dream's voice was soft, soothing. "Struggle all you need to, you won't get away. You'll stay right here and take your punishment until you've learned your lesson."
Smack, smack, smack! George was wiggling in earnest now, grinding over Dream's lap. His dick kept rubbing against Dream's jeans, and the tangle of pain and pleasure made George moan.
Dream moved his legs, and George felt that pressure on the back of his head again - Dream had slid one leg over George's back and pressed his boot onto George, forcing his face against the carpet and holding him pinned.
"Doesn't it feel better to be restrained?" Dream said, speaking over the brutally loud sound of the swats he kept raining down on George. "Doesn't it feel good knowing that you're getting what's best for you? Learning to be a good boy."
George gave a long low cry, the pain and his nearly unbearable humiliation winning out over his pride. Just a few more swats, George told himself. Just a few more. But there were always more, and more, the pain growing worse as his ass grew hotter. Dream was right: in some twisted way, putting all his strength into struggling and finding that it got George nowhere was a relief. George couldn't kick his legs, he couldn't squirm away, he could even raise his head up from the floor. He had no choice but to submit, to give into the punishment and accept the pain.
George was getting wetter from this, but with Dream's leg on top of him, George could no longer grind his crotch against Dream, and that denial was a whole new torment. George was so tense, he was certain that the slightest touch from Dream's hand would make him cum instantaneously. His tip was pulsating with need, his nerves on fire.
George wanted Dream to touch him, desperately. Instead Dream switched back and forth between slapping first one cheek, and then the other, the burn so intense that George's eyes welled up with tears. George was squirming and yelping with every strike, and finally, when he knew he couldn't take anymore without crying from the awful sting of it, George began to beg, "Please, stop, stop, stop, I'm sorry, please, Dream, I'm sorry!"
"Are you really?" The swats paused.
On screen, the girl had been cornered by the killer in the woods. She was screaming, crying, begging for her life.
"Yes!" George shook under Dream's boot, trying to move his face enough so he could look up at Dream so he could see how sincere George was. "I'm sorry! I won't talk back anymore!"
"You'll be a good boy? You'll obey?"
"Yes," George groaned, and remembered something Dream told him earlier. "Yes, Master. I'll obey."
"That's better." Dream's boot slowly moved off George's head.
The girl on screen had been caught. Every stab of the knife into her chest was punctuated by the shrieking of violin strings.
Dream helped George sit up, slowly, and eased him back onto his lap despite George's ass stinging as it made contact with his jeans. George settled against Dream's chest, the buckles of his harness cold against George's back. For a moment, all George wanted to do was lay there close to Dream, feeling his heartbeat against his back. Dream's arms encircled George in an embrace - soothing but not demanding. When George settled into it with a heavy, trembling sigh, Dream's hold tightened.
Slowly, George drifted back to reality. The house around them felt real again. He could hear the bass thumping through the walls, and the distant murmur of the crowd. Dream's fingers traced circles on George's arm.
"Are you alright, Gogy?" Dream murmured.
George nodded, then said, "I can't believe you...you actually..."
"I can't believe you let me," Dream said softly.
George sat up, enough so that he could look back at Dream. Dream wiped a rogue tear from George's eye before it could fall, and George leaned into Dream's hand.
Dream Wastaken - weirdo, freakshow Dream Wastaken. He made George feel safe and terrified, protected and brutalized, all at once. But it wasn't only that.
In that moment, George wanted nothing more than to get in Dream's pants.
"Are you going to be a good boy from now on then?" Dream said, taking George's chin in his hands. "No more sass?"
George smiled. "I can't promise no sass. But...I'll try to be good."
"Sliding into your old ways so soon?" Dream chuckled. "It's been two minutes and now you'll only try to be good?"
"Being good is hard for a bad boy," George said. He traced his fingers up Dream's chest, wondering what it would look like without his shirt. "But you know...it may help me be good...if you fucked me."
Dream's calm expression was rattled by his surprise. George was used to boys falling head over heels for him, scrambling for the opportunity to sleep with him. But as his surprise subsided, Dream just smiled slowly, as if George had said something silly.
Dream squeezed George's cheeks and gave his face a shake. "Oh, Gogy. I can't make it that easy for you, now can I? Thats'no fun. I like watching you struggle."
George pouted, wiggling on Dream's lap so he could grind up against him. "Of course it would be fun! Just a quickie-"
"No, angel." His voice was firm. "Not yet. When I fuck you - if I do - it won't be some quick fuck on a couch. I'll make you scream."
George could usually roll his eyes at boys' promises of overwhelming sexual prowers, but from Dream - George believed him. He didn't dare doubt what Dream was capable of, and George wanted him even more. The desire was going to drive him crazy. How could he possibly manage to rejoin the party after this and behave normally?
George wasn't used to not getting what he wanted. His voice became a whine. "Please, Master. Come on."
George moved his hips in a slow, smooth circle, and felt Dream's dick twitch against him. Ha! How could he possibly resist that? But instead of unclasping George's bra, Dream reached around and gripped George's hair. The painful tug made George still instantly, hissing at the pain.
"When I say no," Dream's voice was low, a warning. "It means no. Understand?"
"Yes, Master," George's response was quick. As horny as it had made him, George did not want to get bent over and spanked again.
"You're going to be patient for me," Dream said, holding George's head in such a way that George couldn't look away from his gaze. "You're going to suffer and wait. And every time I order you to do something, it'll feel a little worse. You'll just have to take it."
The very fact that Dream dared to deny George...the balls on that guy were monstrous. Dream stood up suddenly, dragging George with him, holding George close against his chest with his hand still tangled in George's hair.
Looking up at Dream like that made George quiver, yet somehow, in total disregard for self-preservation, he whimpered, "That's not fair."
Dream tweaked up an eyebrow and said slowly. "Not fair? Not fair, angel?"
George gulped. Oh, regret, regret, instant regret! "Well...I mean...you...you can't just..."
"I can't just what?" His grip on the back of George's hair tightened, tugging George down, forcing him back to his knees as Dream leaned over. "I can do whatever I want, angel. I can make you suffer all night and never give you release. I can spank you again just because I like hearing you scream - and you do sound so pretty when you scream."
George's ass burned as it pressed against his folded legs. George didn't want another spanking when his skin was already so angry.
"I'll call my safety word then," George whimpered. He didn't expect Dream to find that funny.
"Your safety word means that this stops, angel. That's what it's for. It's not a way to get what you want, it's a way to keep you safe."
But George didn't want it to stop! He wanted to get off, desperately.
George squirmed unhappily, "You're so mean."
Dream grinned and kissed George's forehead. "Oh, angel. You have no idea."
