#it's not like it's a conflict between a bunch of very close friends tightly bound by a bloody-red string or anything like that

[dhufflebee]

when I see you like that  (a Glee fanfiction)

One-shot Fandom: Glee Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jesse St. James & Andrea Cohen; Jesse St. James/Rachel Berry - mentioned (and at this point very much one-sided) Characters: Jesse St. James; Andrea Cohen  Additional Tags: rambling phone calls; basically just Jesse moping a lot; Friendship; Pining; Self-Worth Issues; rated T for some swearing

Read on:  AO3  |  ff.net Summary: After the loss at Nationals, Jesse can’t face his Vocal Adrenaline students, and calls his friend Andrea instead. Talking with her, though, painfully reveals his well-concealed sense of inadequacy—and his unquenchable feelings for one Rachel Berry

This fic is basically 3k words of Jesse moping, in a weird half-dialogue half-rant format. I’ve felt the need to write this since I’ve rewatched ‘Nationals’: that three-second shot of Jesse on the verge of tears has been haunting me, and I had to get the story out of my system. Most of all, I needed him to get some of the love and validation that the show deprived him of.

In my mind, it isn’t at all out of character for Jesse to be this miserable in private. He is crazy talented and he knows it, but he also has deep self-worth issues (due to his demanding and not very loving upbringing), for which he compensates with pride and overconfidence. He also has his (in)famous showface that rarely goes away, and he doesn’t feel comfortable being emotionally vulnerable. Except with Andrea—and, well, with Rachel.

By the way, I know Jesse and Andrea's friendship is mostly fanon, but I like it very much nonetheless.

Jesse had never felt so upset in his life. His heart, his mind, his guts were telling him conflicting things, and his knees were starting to give way under him as the adrenaline of the competition slowly went away. He barely managed to close the door to his room before he had to sit on the bed. He was feeling lightheaded, with black pushing at the edge of his vision—the way he would feel after a long training when he hadn’t eaten enough. But it wasn’t low blood pressure, Jesse knew that. It was the same dreadful mix of emotions and thoughts as that damn day two years before, but somehow a hundred times worse. Then it had been divided loyalties, two shattered hearts, and the gut punch of feeling like an utter bastard, but now… damn, he’d added so many failures in the past two years that he had no idea how his showface was still so good. He was starting to feel like a hollow husk at times. Something had definitely broken back then, and the constant, cyclical reminders of what he’d stupidly lost weren’t doing him any favors—that evening after Nationals, the castle of cards that had been Jesse St. James’s so-called adult life was a breath away from collapsing, once and for all.

Jesse kicked off his shoes, threw the suit jacket haphazardly on a chair, and lay down on the bed, trying to steady his breath against his inner turmoil. After a while, he felt blindly around his legs for his phone, until he found it lying precariously near the edge of the bed. He then flung the duvet up over his head and snuggled under it, shirt and nice slacks be damned. He unblocked his phone and opened his recent calls, dialing his best (only?) friend’s number.

“Victory boy! Hey!” a chipper voice answered.

“Andrea…”

“Ah. You didn’t win, then.”

Jesse sighed. Andrea’s reaction made him realize he sounded as dejected as he felt—something he’d long learned how to conceal, but the Chicago air must have jinxed him or something. Or maybe he was simply beginning to crumble under the pressure of his feelings. Whatever.

“I feel like crap, Andy. I should be with the guys, drowning our disappointment in ginger ale or what-have-you, but I don’t even have the energy for that. I barely managed to tell them I was proud of them—and I am—before I had to get out of there. They were crying, Andy, and the looks on the seniors’ faces… I just—I couldn’t stay.”

Jesse knew he was rambling, but a big part of his and Andrea’s friendship had always been taking turns in unloading while the other listened and then offered some honest advice. No one else in his life had ever made him feel safe enough to be so open and vulnerable—except for Rachel, but he’d thrown away his chance to have her at the other end of the line again, hadn’t he?

“I’m sure they understand, Jesse. You told them you were proud, and that’s what matters. Remember how nice it felt when they would tell us? Eased the disappointment of losing somewhat, no?” Andrea asked, a tinge of wistfulness in her voice.

“Yeah, well… god, they worked so hard for this. I really thought we’d win, you know? I honestly miss the high of victory—as I’m sure you do, too,” Jesse said with a smirk, getting a chuckle from Andrea in response. “Nevertheless, Carmel High is going to kick me out the minute I get back to Akron, as they so candidly told me they would when I got the job. And I guess they have all the rights to do it—what kind of failure am I, four-time champion and I can't even coach fucking Vocal Adrenaline to victory? I wouldn't want to keep me around either."

Jesse heard himself getting whinier by the minute, and he hated it, hated how earnest he ended up being while talking with Andrea (and with Rachel, too—he never quite managed to keep his walls up for long with her either… Stop! Stop thinking about that!). Andrea hesitated and exhaled, and Jesse could imagine her shaking her head as well.

"Why didn't you win, though?" she asked at last. "I've seen those videos you sent me: the choreo was incredible! What happened?"

"A ragtag bunch of misfits, that's what happened," Jesse answered, trying to sound mean but only managing desolate. Figures. "The New Directions really busted their asses this year, apparently. You should have seen them, everyone performed at a level they'd never reached before—and you know how they've always been so endearingly energetic. I loathe to admit it, but they were great, and I guess they did deserve to win. Probably. Couldn't tell that to my guys, though," he chuckled, gloomily.

"I'm glad to hear that," Andrea said, with a careful, knowing tone that Jesse instantly dreaded. "Is that it, though? This whole call just because the New Directions finally snatched first place after years of trying?"

Jesse didn't answer. He couldn't, he wouldn't tell Andrea the real reason of his moping—besides, he knew she could easily guess it.

"Unless..." (There it is.) "What about Rachel, Jesse? Did she sing?"

Jesse was thankful the conversation was happening on the phone, Andrea at one end of the nation and himself buried under a duvet in a hotel room in Chicago. He wouldn't have been able to sustain her gaze, otherwise. At least on the phone he didn't need his showface, and his instinct to flee from emotional vulnerability was somewhat tamed (but not much).

"Jesse?"

He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the phone more tightly, hoping to keep at bay the flood of emotions that he could sense coming. At last, he whispered: "Yeah, she did. It's All Coming Back to Me Now".

"Oh."

And that was it. Andrea’s understanding tone was all it took for the floodgates to open and for Jesse’s rambling, vulnerable side to come out in full force. Tears threatened to escape his eyes, but he them firmly shut—he would not cry.

“God, Andy, when she sung that song—it felt like she was saying all those things to me!” Jesse’s voice traitorously cracked at that last word.

“I don’t think that’s—”

“I know!” Good lord, he was whining again. “I know that it’s ridiculous! that I’m reading too much into it, that they chose the song way beforehand and Rachel has much better things to think about than me… But what if she was singing about us after all? The words are rather fitting, and she knows that—same as she knew we were bound to meet here tonight. It’s there, Andy, the whole story! Me being an idiot, all my mistakes and the hurt I inflicted her—she was reproaching me, and I cannot blame her because I deserve it. And I especially deserve to hear it from her magnificent voice, even if god knows I don’t need to be reminded of what I did to her.” Jesse was breathing heavily, almost unable to articulate his feelings, his words spilling out at an alarming speed.

Andrea remained silent for a few seconds, then answered with a deliberate yet soothing tone—the one she reserved for Jesse’s rare mopey moments. “I don’t think your history with Rachel had anything to do with the song, Jesse.” He scoffed lightly, but she ignored him. “Besides, you were a teenager back then, and you were forced between a rock and a hard place. Shelby was a bitch that manipulated you and treated both Rachel and the parents of that baby like dirt. Sure, you were a bit of a dick, but you’ve got to cut yourself some slack. You were not stupider than the average teen in love, all things considered.”

Jesse tried to scoff again, but what escaped his throat sounded more like a sob than anything else. “Andy, you don’t understand,” he pleaded, pressing the heel of his free hand on his eyes. “I threw away the one truly warm thing in my life because Shelby threatened to take away my scholarship to UCLA, and look how well that went,” Jesse laughed bitterly. Ah, the familiar taste of self-deprecation. Saying all that out loud felt better than just mulling over it constantly, though. “I’m such an imbecile—I got college handed to me on a silver platter, and I couldn’t even manage to float just above the pass grade? Or, I don’t know, use my fucking brain for a change? And to think I would be so conceited about it, as if I could ever hope to accomplish anything intelligence-related…”

“Jesse, stop!” Andrea interjected vehemently. “You’re spiraling and you’re starting to sound like your father. You’re not stupid, you’re not brainless—you’re smart, and the most brilliant guy I know as far as musical theater is concerned. And don’t start with how acting or singing or whatever is bullshit, because I’ll come down there, slap you, and then find your dad and punch him on his ugly mug.” At that, Jesse felt a sharp surge of affection for his friend, regardless of her proclivity for mild physical threats. “We all sweated blood in Vocal Adrenaline, but we were happy and good—you above all, because performing is your passion and your talent. Who cares if you didn’t pass gen eds? You’re wonderful, and you will take Broadway by storm soon.”

“Ms. Tibideaux didn’t seem to think so,” Jesse replied, dejectedly.

“Who?”

“Carmen Tibideaux. NYADA?”

“What does she have to do with anything now?” Andrea asked, confused. “That was years ago.”

“Yeah, right—the first of my many failures.” Jesse’s tone was more bitter than he expected. He intentionally hadn’t thought much about his audition since, but he guessed disappointments never actually stopped stinging, did they?

“Come on, Jesse…”

“I didn’t get in, okay? No point in sweetening the pill. I was good but apparently not enough—and I always knew that, but now I have confirmation from the woman’s own voice that I ‘showed promise’ but couldn’t overcome the obstacles to be the best. So really, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life.” Was he being overdramatic and overly self-critical? Absolutely. At that moment, though, Jesse had no idea how to stop.

“Enough!” Andrea exclaimed. Deep down, the rational part of Jesse’s brain had realized he was being maddening, but he also had to admit he didn’t mind Andy’s forceful tone. It felt strangely soothing, being told to get a grip from someone who cared about him.

“I can’t believe you are saying this,” she pressed on. “I’ve already told you: you are incredible, and I won’t let you wallow in this kind of negativity. The audition was years ago, and believe me, I’ve seen you get absurdly better in the meantime. Ms. Tibideaux said you showed promise, and that’s good! You did and you do, and you will reach even higher that she could ever imagine.”

Jesse hummed, not entirely convinced but certainly relieved that someone else was eager to vouch for his talent. He knew he was good (okay, very good), but that didn’t mean he wasn’t, from time to time, afraid he’d been deluding himself due to his own arrogance.

“When did you speak with the woman?” Andrea asked.

“She was here to see Rachel perform. And when I went and told her she shouldn’t let Rachel slip through her fingers, she remembered me and made a list of all the flaws in my audition. Lovely experience, really,” Jesse said, with a bitter chuckle.

“Aw, you put in a good word for Rachel—that’s so sweet! Did you tell her?”

“I can’t! Are you crazy? She cannot know ever. I don’t deserve her knowing, if anything I owe her.” Jesse replied, his voice half-strangled. (Pathetic.) “Rachel and I bantered for a couple of minutes before the competition, and it almost got me punched by Finn, in addition to giving me some serious doubts about my ability to function properly.” He smiled at the memory. Rachel’s red dress was still incredibly vivid in his mind. “God, Andrea, you should have seen her—she was radiant. I’d ever seen her inhabit the stage so perfectly. She is the one who deserves to take Broadway by storm and who will. She’s a powerhouse, and she’s absurdly talented, and tonight she looked so beautiful with that smile of hers, and then she sang Céline and I couldn’t—”

Jesse heard Andrea exhale, as if ready to answer, but he rambled on, unable—unwilling—to stop now that someone was there to listen to him for once.

“I just—I miss Rachel so much. She earnestly thought I was worth all the fuss. Even with Shelby, it’d always seem like my work was barely acceptable, and that all the trophies were just due to luck and the power of a good routine or something. Which yeah, I guess is true, but—honestly, Andy, except for you, Rachel’s the only person who’d always tell me how much she liked when I performed, and how good I was. I was starved—I am starved for that, Andy. D’you know my grades improved while I was in Lima with her? I actually had to study, and I wasn’t half bad at it. All thanks to her. God knows why she stayed with me after the initial razzle-dazzle, because she was way better that I could ever deserve. And she definitely deserved more than yours fucking truly,” Jesse spat out.

“And I guess she will have it,” he continued, barely taking time to breathe, “since she’s getting married soon to Finn. And sure, I hate him and he hates me, but I can see how Rachel looks at him, and he looks at her the same way. I mean, he’s a rhythmically-challenged dumbass, but I can’t deny he makes her happy—that’s the truly important thing. I ruined everything, and I know I’d never be able to make her feel that way. I think Rachel could really be the one, you know? I feel it in my bones, I’ll never be as happy with anyone else as I was with her… But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is Rachel won’t have a fuckup like me beside her, who’d just end up wiping her wonderful smile away.”

Jesse had to stop—his throat was aching due to the strain of putting one coherent word after another, of trying to talk as fast as his inner turmoil demanded. Tears were escaping his eyes and running down his cheeks and in his hair. He didn’t care that he was crying, though: he already felt like an utter failure, another embarrassing thing wouldn’t change anything. Besides, it was nice, having a friend listen to him while he moped and pined. Crying is good, right? It helps get the toxins and the sadness out, doesn’t it? A good cry and I’ll stop feeling like shit—

“Oh, Jesse…” Andrea whispered after a beat, and that shattered Jesse’s attempts at regaining his composure—he started sobbing uncontrollably, burying himself more and more under the duvet.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me that?” Andrea asked, softly. “God, Jesse, I wish I was there to hug you. Believe me, though, Rachel is right—everything she told you and everything she thinks about you is true. You’ve had a lot of shitty people in your life, but never for a second doubt that Rachel was sincere and saying things as they are. You’re brilliant and very talented, whether you believe it or not,” Andrea added, in a decisive tone that drew a wet smile from Jesse, “and no amount of Shelby or Ms. Tibideaux or your asshole of a father can claim otherwise. All that hard work and dedication… you do deserve the world, Jesse.”

Calming his breath enough to answer took Jesse a moment—his gratefulness to Andrea and his longing for Rachel were a killer combination, and he didn’t want to start bawling again.

“Thank you, Andy,” he finally managed to say. “I just wish I’d made fewer mistakes, you know? Maybe then I wouldn’t always feel like such a failure, maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely all the time and it wouldn’t hurt this much… I know things between me and Rachel probably won’t ever be mended, but gosh what I wouldn’t give to sing with her on a real stage, to have a partner that inspires me to be better and lets me share the spotlight with her.” Jesse exhaled shakily, willing himself to not cry until he had finished talking. “It’s too late now, though, and it’s all my fault, no point in denying that. I just wish for her to be as wonderful and captivating as she was tonight, forever—she lit up the whole place. I really hope I didn’t make an ass of myself with Ms. Tibideaux, and that Rachel’s dreams will come true. No, scratch that: I know they will. I just pray I’ll be able to get a glimpse of her happy as can be.”

Andrea’s silence at the other end of the line was almost deafening, but Jesse pressed on, feeling that he’d never have another chance (nor the nerve) to admit to it all out loud.

“Sorry for the rant, Andy. We lost Nationals and it hurts like hell, but it will pass—it’s going to be a nifty addition to the You’re A Failure pile, though,” Jesse mused, with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I have no idea what my plans for the future are going to be, after Carmel High parts ways with me. I guess I could finally try and go to New York for real. It’s just that, you know, seeing Rachel again really threw me for a loop, even after all this time, and I’m not sure why—”

“It’s love, Jesse,” Andrea interjected. “The way you talk about Rachel—you love her.”

Jesse inhaled sharply. Repeating that to himself was one thing, but hearing someone else say it so matter-of-factly felt real, definitive. (Scary.) “Hurray for me, then,” he muttered, at a loss for words to describe how his heart was ablaze, dismayed, and longing at the same time.

“I really hope you and Rachel will put your cracked pieces back together, Jesse,” Andrea said, sounding softer than she did at any other point in the phone call. “You both deserve a great life, and to have your talents shine—you and her alongside each other? Musical theater won’t ever be prepared, let me tell you.”

“Thank you, Andy.” Jesse’s eyes had filled with tears once again, and he’d once again buried himself under the duvet, in hopes of preventing the onslaught of painful memories he was sure would come. But it was no use—he thought back to Rachel singing, and a loud sob escaped his lips. Tears started falling freely down his cheeks and neck, reaching his hair and the collar of his shirt. “I wish. I’m not sure I believe that, but god, I wish.”

[somesmallfics]

Good Girl

Rating: Mature 

Fandom: The Beatles

Finished: Yes (I think)

Summary: Niki gets caught by Ringo. John has to punish her. Lots of BDSM

“Good girls don’t do that.”

Only two people called me good/little girl. Only one of them sounded half way between disappointed and stern. In an instance, I knew I was caught. Stark naked, I turned myself around on the pale blue towel that had been keeping the carpet beneath it dry and looked up at the doorway where Ringo stood, leaning on the wall.

I could not think of what else to say other than squeaking my voice high to an innocent pitch, “Do what?” I sat, cross-legged with my hands between my legs in fists, knuckles flat on the floor. It brought up my shoulders, giving me this cute, childish look; perfect for my act. Ringo, while probably enjoying my cutsie look, was looking as though he’d walked in on something really surprising. Not horrifying, nor amusing, just that ‘I was not quite expecting that’ sort of surprise. Then again, there was intrigue painted in the sharp blue of his eyes. He seemed conflicted as to whether he should’ve been telling me off, or if he should’ve walked in and slowly walked back out, letting me carry on. In all honesty, I didn’t know which I would’ve preferred.

“Good, little girls don’t do that sort of thing, you know.” He said again, then glanced over his shoulder as though remembering something, “I think we should go and see John about this.”

My eyes grew wide. I wasn’t sure what John might say about this and when I didn’t know that sort of thing, I didn’t want to. I may have been having fun on my own- which technically wasn’t allowed in and of its self- but it was the act that I worried for John’s reaction to. There would certainly be punishment, but would there also be humiliation? It wasn’t that humiliation had ever been off limits. John was contractually allowed to humiliate me and I really got off on having bright red cheeks, that nervousness to look in people’s eyes, that power he had over me. It was something private about what I had done that made me dread telling John.

Ringo held out his hand for me to take as he told me that I mustn’t put on any clothes, then he paraded me in front of the three remaining Beatles in the open plan kitchen/living room, just a small hallway walk away. A huge smile came on Paul and George’s face- both were sitting on the sofa in front of the TV- when they saw the pale curves of their submissive following their friend before John walked into the room, a harmonica held just shy of his mouth, and remarked, “What’s this, ay? A show?”

As he collapsed on the sofa between his friends, I winked at him coyly and ran my free hand, the left, down my torso to give him something to look at. I hoped it might distract him from what Ringo was about to say as he keenly inspected my body, the obviousness of want filling his hazel eyes. He played some idle tune on the harmonica, his mouth curling around the metal. I thought he may not be so hard on me, he may even find it funny, if he was in a good mood. I was wrong. When Ringo said he needed to speak to him about me, he snapped into dominant mode.

“What? What is it?”

Being always accommodating, Ringo didn’t really want to embarrass me further by ratting me out in front of all three other boys, so he suggested “Could we go somewhere else? This might need demonstrating.” At least, if I was going to be humiliated, I would only be so in front of only one other person, maybe in the cosy space of a bedroom or…

“What’s wrong with demonstrating here.? No. Tell me now.” John sternly demanded. Ringo, with a level of apology in his voice, told him of finding me, in what position and with what where. I watched as both Paul and George’s expressions changed, visualising their utter surprise on each expressive feature. Paul looked as though he didn’t fully get it, or didn’t want to, and George’s eyes sparkled with a mouthless grin.

“I don’t believe I fully understand,” John mocked a received pronunciation, “Would you mind getting on the floor, luv, and showing us what you did? Now, please. Richie, luv, come and sit next to me.”

It sounded like he was in a good mood, yet that didn’t stop my cheeks from burning crimson. Not least as Ringo’s absence made me feel even more exposed than I already was, if that were even possible given my total nudity. I believe it was his hand around my right wrist, holding secure with his strong drummer’s hands. The disappearance of that assuring, if a little aggressively forceful, touch left every inch of me to be seen, not to mention having to sink onto my knees on the scratchy carpeted floor and, facing away from the four, I had to fall onto my shoulders, my butt up in the air. Like some animal presenting its self, I looked over each boy’s gaping gazes for approval, before continuing by licking my fingers and reaching my hand up through my legs.

Paul looked equally as shocked as he did intrigued, while Ringo was watching in a mixture of confusion and desire. John lustfully scrutinised every movement I made, every inch of playfulness gone from his eyes and George looked hungry, this time not for food. I was somewhere between proud, sickeningly self-conscious and turned on, the latter very much so.

John then piped up, “And you think that this is an appropriate thing to have been doing, little girl?” I knew not to think he’d be soft on me. His tone was harsh and strict, he wasn’t messing around anymore.

“No, Sir.” I moaned between laboured breaths, “It just felt good. It… f-feels really good.” My back hunched as I tensed and let out a small caught gasp. It seemed that I had no more concern about being in front of four boys, watching me closely as pleasure spiked below my stomach, fizzling out, but indicating a build of it. It was that very thing that they watched that washed over my fears. I found myself quickening, stopping only to slick up my fingers again.

While he was enjoying the spectacle, John could see that I was too and that was not the point of this display. “Stop.” He commanded, much to the perceptible dismay of George whose head shot in John’s direction critically.

“Oh, no. Please!” I whimpered, “No…”

“Stop. Now.” There were no terms of endearment, nothing except the order along with when he expected me to follow it. I couldn’t, I didn’t want to. Only once he sat forward and physically snatched my hand away did I think to obey, mostly because I had no choice. He tugged my arm up, through my legs so that I had to untangle myself by throwing one leg over as though dismounting a horse, and rose up onto my knees to bring me to eyeline. I was very close to his face, close enough to kiss him.

“Listen to me. What you did is a breach of two rules. One, you touched yourself, no matter how you did it, without the permission of one of us. Two, you disobeyed a direct order.” I looked nowhere else other than in his flaming eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“You know that’s not enough. Go and get your play collar and a lead and sit right here in front of us. Do you understand?”

I nodded and set about following his instructions, crawling on my hands and knees. I was aching to get off, every movement stirring something within me as though every part of my body was connected to the most sensitive of strings to my crotch. And constantly I was acutely aware of the eight eyes fixed on me. They were almost tangible. I crawled back, now with the black, leather collar whose inside was a dark purple, while the matching leash was hanging from my mouth. I crept up to John, meeting each of the boy’s gazes, until I tried to give the leading dominant my equipment. Instead of taking it, he shook his head.

“Give it to your owner.”

Paul hadn’t expected John to involve him, but he jumped at the chance to be the first to actually touch me. As I padded over, dropping the items on his beautiful lap, he wove a hand through my hair to guide me where he wanted. He threaded the collar around my neck, under my mess of red hair, then clipped the lead to the O ring hanging at the front. He let the lead fall through his palm, but caught the handle and tugged it tightly to make me gasp.

“There, John.” Paul sexily presented my newly bound self, “What now?”

John tenderly stroked my back, right on the spine from the very tip of it under my skull to the very base. My thighs twitched in hope of being touched elsewhere, but John would never be so rushed, as much as he’d like to be. “Punishment,” He declared, “She needs to be doubly punished. Turn around, Luv.”

I obeyed, crawling so that I was back facing away from them. However, I didn’t want to be so blind, so I peered eagerly over my shoulder. John didn’t like that. He wanted me to be totally out of control.

“Paulie, go and sit over there,” He pointed at the couch that sat at a 90-degree angle from the one they’d all bunched up on. Paul seemed unenthusiastic to do so, so he looked along the line of bandmates with a cheeky smile on his cute face.

“Rings luv. You fancy keeping her in check?” He held out the leather encased in his hand and was surprised that Ringo took it, quite happily in fact. He walked around me, tugging the collar so my gaze had to follow him, and perched himself on the very end of the sofa, right on the edge in front of the arm. His butt must’ve been almost completely hanging off. Then I saw why he was so glad to take this position, he pulled my head up, feathering his knuckles across my face with a tender stroke and was able to rest my cheek on his knee if he sat far enough forward. I believed I would be grateful for that and I’m sure he knew it. Always the comforter and calmer, Ringo was.

While I was distracted by Ringo’s gentle touches, I was unaware of John’s preparation. He’d probably gotten one of the other boys to find a paddle of which he used to spank me. The first hit was totally unexpected. The next few, a mess of stings. He wanted my attention, so he gave me 10 or so lashings just to make sure I was completely focused.

“Niki. I’m going to give you 10 more, ok? I’m going to count them. If you move out the way or do anything out of turn, 2 more for every misbehaviour. Have I made myself clear?”

My eyes were streaming already, my butt burning scarlet, my heart thumping. Once I got over all that, I vocalised my agreement, not that it mattered much anyway. The only thing stopping him now was one word, the safe word of which I had not used yet in any of my encounters with any of the boys and I had no intentions to use it then. The next few hits were numbingly painful, having me bury my face in Ringo’s trousers, making an awful mess of soaking tears and saliva as I clenched my teeth around the thick flesh of his thigh. He stroked my hair as John continued my punishment, all the while George and Paul were sitting, watching out of my view. I wondered what they looked like. Paul would probably be focused on the aesthetic aspect of me and I imagined George was indulging in the sounds, the sight of the act and my reaction to it. I even expected the hand traveling down my thighs was his, as John continued to punish me while that touch was still present.

As always with things like this, it feels like forever, like no slap counts towards the count down from 10, but really, it’s over before you know it. Before I could even straighten out my thoughts, it was all over and I had several warm hands all over me, over my back, over my thighs, on my shoulder, running through my hair. I tried to arch into each one as the last stings turned to heat and I cried my last tears. Then again, it was only my first punishment, obviously something I’d neglected to remember.

I’d just about recovered when John slid onto his knees on the floor and gathered my hair into a pony tail so that he could position himself in conjunction with my body. He knelt between my legs, his trousers now discarded and he entered me. There was no description of this punishment, of which I couldn’t see as ever being punishment because, even in the first push in, I was ignited with pleasure. I turned my head to the side so that my cheek rested on Ringo’s leg and simply felt John’s strong, sure hands gripping my hips. He was quite rough from the get go, leaving no time to be slow or gentle any more.

Meanwhile, the bystanders, quietly, voyeuristically watching, decided they might help out. Paul, who was on the inside between John and Ringo, stayed where he was to help Ringo control me. He tugged on the slack lead, pulled my hair to keep my head up, pushed on my back when I was arching out of John’s grip. He was rarely so aggressive, but I think something sparked in him every time he made a move and heard me groan loudly, whether frustrated or in pleasure, he liked it both. George, on the other hand, had moved himself onto the floor as well, sitting cross-legged right beside me so that he was just low enough to play with my underside.

All the sensations from all the hands proved enough to get me close to climax, but it was too easy. I didn’t think of it at the time, but John was never going to just allow me to have such pleasure with all four boys, especially since I’d badly behaved. Just before I reached that peak, John pulled out and took the hands of everyone else, even Ringo’s comforting leg, away from me. I was left to whine, all desperate and unable to do anything. I moved my hands to try and bring myself over the edge, but immediately George grasped them and slammed them back on the floor.

“Really haven’t learnt your lesson, have you, Luv?” He said, shaking his mass of dark hair, “Look John,” He continued, now turning to John on the sofa, “She still hasn’t learnt her lesson.”

“Seems not, ay? Naughty girl.” John affirmed, the last part in a mocking teacher voice.

Then Ringo joined in, sounding all disappointed, “I told you that good girls don’t do that sort of thing.”

“See, Ringo even told you and you ignored him.” John remarked. I sulkily looked up at Ringo’s sad blue eyes. I wanted to apologise, but a word out of turn would mean more punishment and my cheeks were so stained with tears, my body so unsatisfied with heat practically rising off me in desperation, I didn’t think I could take much more. I turned my head to meet John’s eyes, subsequently noticing Paul as well, and prayed that they could see my apology in my eyes. I was happy to take anything, just not for much longer.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with her,” Paul piped up, his hand being the first touch back on me once almost all of that built up pleasure had died.

“Well, if she doesn’t learn her lesson, she’ll have to be kept in handcuffs when we’re not with her. And she won’t like that.”

“I will.” George laughed, huskily. The other boys laughed with him, then John decided to have another go with me.

“Let’s see if she gets it now, shall we?”

He proceeded as he had before and, one by one, the other boys joined in. I knew it was coming, the moment when they’d all let off, leaving me to squirm desperately as their touches were gone, the pleasure reduced to aching want, but knowing about it didn’t make it any easier. George didn’t keep holding my hands, which meant I had to control them myself. No touching, my mind insisted in a slow mantra, No touching. It built up as the pace did and, before I knew it, I was grinding the air in hope of release. My body tensed, sweated as it stressed in its state of almost, but not quite. I whimpered like a puppy who’d been locked out of its home, I stamped my knees into the ground like a toddler whose parents were refusing them chocolate, I flinched like someone was sticking pins in my stomach. Just a little more, I begged in my mind. One thing I did not do, though, was give in to the pushing urge to touch myself. I refrained, fighting against my own muscles until the pleasure had gone enough for me to have control again. I waited for some kind of reward, some kind of endearment, but no such sound left any of their mouths.

“Get up and get ready for bed, luv. I’ve got to deal with something down here.” John said nonchalantly.

I was barely able to move. My eyes widened and I looked at him again, my expression something like ‘please don’t do this to me.’ I looked round each boy with begging eyes, yet they all seemed to be finished with me that day. My mind screamed No!

“Well don’t look at me like that, luv. You had your punishment, I need to see you learn your lesson. No touching tonight, no touching until I say so, and that goes indefinitely. I’ll be up once I’m done down here to give you some aftercare. Go on, luv.” John’s voice was patronising and he sounded as though he’d sung ‘Twist and Shout’ a few too many times. There was a gravel quality, probably that had been the product of holding back growls deep in his throat after too much harmonica playing beforehand. I loved the sound of it. Now, however, I was not thinking much on how gorgeous his voice way. I was actually stuck on calling him names in my head. I shakily stood up, allowing Paul to unclip my leash and was about to make my way upstairs when a voice called me back.

“Kisses!” Ringo insisted and I gave each of them a goodnight’s kiss, while cursing at them in my head.

I didn’t feel as lonely as I thought I would. I just felt really turned on. Under the duvet, having brushed my teeth, washed myself, all the usual night routine stuff, I was rocking my hips, just for some movement. It was better than nothing. I promised I wouldn’t touch myself, promised myself as well as John, but I needed some movement, some feeling.

My butt was surely bruising, burning from red into a purple colour, which just made me think of John. I wanted him to come upstairs, to coat me in a layer of that cream that soothes spanked skin and to hug me. His hugs were like that of a huge teddy bear, a huge, possessive teddy bear that insisted on one of two hugging positions: spooning or him lying on his back with my head on his chest, top leg hooked over his, all curled up against him.  He might’ve sung me to sleep, or kissed my forehead as he drifted off. After all that excitement, I wanted some sort of relaxation about as much as I wanted to climax. It took my mind off the latter, so I imagined being between two bodies, one being my big spoon, the other facing me with his legs intertwined with mine.

“Little girl?” There were only two people who called me good/little girl. Only one had a playful, strict sound to his voice. I peered up over the duvet and saw John standing in the doorway, blocking the light from the corridor.

“Yes, Mr Lennon?” I whispered.

“Get up and sit on the edge of the bed.” He flicked the main light on before fumbling about in the bedside draw. I scuttled to the edge of the mattress and swung my legs off it. I noted that he sounded quite tentative, almost kind as he wandered around to kneel in front of me, the plastic tub with the white lid in his left hand, “Have you touched yourself?”

“No, Sir.” I thought I saw him smile. He scooped up a fair amount of cream with the tips of his fingers and smoothed it over each butt cheek, running down to my upper thigh that also had some biting slaps. He rubbed it in slowly, carefully so that his fingers barely touched my skin through the cream. I watched him closely as he did so. Once the white colour had melted into transparent and mostly been soaked up by my skin, John then parted me with his index finger. He started to replicate my solo actions.

“I thought you put this as a limit on your contract.”

“Limits change.” I stated, thrusting my hips into him, “I would’ve told you, but I was… preparing myself.”

“When you’re not allowed to do on your own.” He said, almost as a warning, then his voice changed again, “We can explore this, if you like. I’d like to.” I could not even think when I nodded, enthusiastically. John was using both his hands now, one higher than the other, working different areas. He chuckled to himself, before ripping away from me. I moaned again in disappointment. “But not now. I’m knackered.” He stripped down to his shirt and got into the bed beside me. He wrapped his arms around me, his legs bent under mine as though I were sitting on top of him and his nose he buried into the back of my neck.

I’d have to thank Ringo in the morning. If he had walked back out upon walking in on me, I may not have had so much fun that evening. I grinned and sunk my teeth affectionately into John’s wrist.