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Truth Will Out
by: dustandroses (Send Feedback)
Series: - No Series - #1
Chapters: 002 Word Count: 7720
Warning(s): BDSM, Kink
Character(s): Jethro Gibbs, Tony DiNozzo, Abby Sciuto, Other Male Character
Category(ies): Angst/Drama, First Time, Friendship, New Character
Pairing(s): Gibbs/DiNozzo, Tony/OMC
Summary: Tony decides it's time to make some changes in his life - time to try out a few things he's always wanted to do, but never had the courage to.
Author Notes: This story is for Rebecca. Chapter One was her NCIS_Tinsel present, and the rest are just 'cause Rebecca is who she is. And we're all better off because of it.
Chapters: 1 | 2
How does it feel
To treat me like you do
When you've laid your hands upon me
And told me who you are
And I still find it so hard
To say what I need to say
But I'm quite sure that you'll tell me
Just how I should feel today
"What do you mean, it's not bondage? Of course it is.” Tony held the 8x10 glossy in front of Abby’s face, his fingers tapping impatiently on the heavy paper as he pointed out the leather restraints holding the man in place on the bed. “Looks like bondage to me. He's bound
to the bed – hand and foot. This is a game that got away from them. It got too heavy, got out of control." Tony shrugged as Abby took the glossy back from him, her head shaking adamantly.
"No, Tony. I don't believe it. Just because they're using fetish gear doesn't mean this is BDSM. I mean, look at the flogger for instance; there's blood all over it. Those are suede tails,
Tony. They couldn’t make those kinds of marks on the human body. That's not what a flogger is for." Abby went back to her computer, and Tony followed along behind her, not ready to give up yet.
"Not what a - It’s a flogger
Abby, it’s for flogging
someone.” He grabbed the picture away from Abby for another look. “He looks pretty flogged
"No, he looks dead
, Tony. It's really hard to kill someone with a flogger - it's not what they're designed to do. We don't have the autopsy results from Ducky yet, but I can guarantee
you this flogger,” Abby held up the large evidence bag the flogger was sealed in, “did not even contribute to that death.” Tony stepped closer to examine the black suede flogger. He had to admit, except for the darker ones with the dried blood on them, the long suede strands did look pretty soft.
He wanted to touch them, see what they really felt like. He wanted to ask Abby what they felt like dragged over skin. How hard you’d have to hit with something like that to leave a mark. Would it sting - like a belt? Or bruise deeply like a frat paddle? He couldn’t imagine getting a bruise from that suede, but the flogger looked well constructed – if it were swung by the wrong (right?) person, he bet it could leave a lasting impression.
He could see what Abby was saying. The bloody wounds on the marine were deep and thin, he didn’t think anyone could wield this thing hard enough to cut like that. He wondered if he could get Abby to explain to him just exactly what a flogger was designed for
. He’d reached out unconsciously to take the evidence bag from Abby when the door opened behind him and a familiar voice rang out.
"That your flogger, Abby?" Tony looked around quickly and pulled his hand back as if caught doing something dirty. Gibbs stopped right next to him and offered Abby her usual monstrously large Caf-Pow!, grabbing the photo out of Tony’s hand at the same time.
"Hey, O Wise One!” She took a big slurp out of her drink and then toasted Gibbs with it. “Thanks. This was found with the body of that marine they shipped in this morning."
Gibbs studied the photo in his hand, his head down, a frown of concentration on his face. "They can't seriously be considering that this flogger had something to do with that death, can they?"
"Exactly my opinion, Gibbs. I don't know what they’re thinking. That would be as about as effective as trying to crack someone's skull open with a wet noodle."
Puzzled, Tony looked at Gibbs. "Hey, boss. How come you know a flogger when you see one?"
"I know a lot of things, DiNozzo. You'd do well to remember that." He handed the photo to Abby, then slapped Tony up the side of the head as he turned to leave the room. “For instance, I know that this
is not even our case. Why are you down here? You want to get upstairs and go to work, DiNozzo?”
“Yeah, boss. I’ll be right there.” Tony looked back at Abby as if he wanted to say something else, but Gibbs stood in the doorway, waiting for him, “Now
Tony sighed and turned to the door, calling back over his shoulder, “Hey Abs, wanna catch lunch, later? My treat?”
“Cool. As long as it’s not at that nasty hotdog stand in the park.”
“Damn. Alright, your choice, Abby.”
He heard her exclaim “Excellent!” as he rushed toward the elevator to catch up with Gibbs.
Tony sat back on his couch, feet on the coffee table, and pulled his laptop over to start a search, the buzz of ESPN low in the background. Bondage led to Fetishes, which led to Sado-Masochism, which led to BDSM…it was an endless circle that cut back in on itself over and over again, surrounded on all sides by porn sites and the call of the perfect orgasm. But Tony was not distracted – well, not for long, anyway. He ignored the siren call of bound silicone breasts and pouty lips that asked him to “Hit me, Daddy, you know you want to,” and instead, found his way to where the bywords of every site he went to were: “Safe, Sane and Consensual.” Well, that was a step in the right direction, at least.
He felt pretty much overwhelmed by all the catch phrases and jargon that was spouted every where he clicked. He was having real trouble trying to fit sadists, bondage, domination, masochism, submissives and discipline all into the 4 little initials of BDSM. And what about role playing, and dominatrix’s and slaves and pain and safe words and tops and bottoms and fetishes and power exchanges and ponies? (Ponies?
) And what the hell was subspace all about, anyway? He’d never worked Vice, but he’d hung out with a couple of Vice cops in Baltimore; it was difficult for him to reconcile what he was finding here with what he’d learned as a cop.
He was totally frustrated that Abby had canceled their lunch date, due to the overload of work thrust upon her. He understood, really. Speaking of slaves, she was probably still there, toiling away. She’d promised to come over when she was done, if she had the energy, but when he’d brought her that last Caf-Pow! before he left, he told her not to worry about it. He could see how drained she was; she was definitely going to need every bit of sleep she could get tonight. But he really needed her advice, slogging through all this crap. He needed someone to help him dig through this and sort out some answers.
He’d had his fantasies since he was a teen. It wasn’t like he was really into the pain; he’d known since college that what turned him on about this stuff was the loss of control. Giving
control to someone else. Power exchange? Hmmm…maybe. He’d put that on top of the list of things to do more research on later. It wasn’t like he was afraid of all this, but every time in the past that he’d come close to it, he’d ended up with an excuse not to delve too deeply into why he found certain aspects of all of this attractive.
As a teen, it had been easy to sort out: he’d desperately wanted to fit into the mold his father had built for him. So he listened to the old man’s prejudices and preconceived notions and done his best to fit in. He went for the girls, the grades, the sports, the acclaim of his father and everyone his father had deemed important. By the time he made it to college, he’d realized he could never be what his father wanted, so he’d gone out of his way to piss the old man off. But he’d still been afraid to go too far from the only things he knew, so he’d stuck with the basics: fraternities, more girls, more sports, more of what everyone thought he should be.
A couple of times his frat bros had come close to uncovering his fantasies, but he’d quickly learned that some things never really change: being different meant being an outsider, and there was nothing he’d wanted more desperately than to belong. So the fantasies stayed in the closets. They only came out late at night, when he was safely under the bed sheets.
Then he’d been a cop. What better excuse to not delve too deeply into what he and everyone else, in and out of the Vice Squad, thought of as perversion? By then, he’d pretty much suppressed the largest part of it. Refused to admit to even himself what he really wanted.
But truth will out, as the saying goes. So he’d wake up in the middle of the night, hard and shaking, remembering dreams of being tied up and forced to submit to faceless people, male and female both. He’d ache with the desire to give up everything he had, everything he was, for the chance to give pleasure to someone else. The need to be used by someone, give himself completely to someone, be cared for and nurtured by someone, anyone
, would keep him awake for the rest of the night.
In the end, he decided it was all about the sex. Forget about that other stuff. Concentrate on getting laid. If he got laid often enough, the dreams would go away. It hadn’t totally worked, but it had helped. And when he woke up hard and aching in the middle of the night, it was okay to think about it, fantasize about it, as long as he didn’t do
anything about it, right?
So he’d jerk off, and think about the dreams, and if truth be told, even invent a few new ones. He’d imagine himself tied to his bed, while he ate out a woman who sat facing his feet, twisting his nipples and torturing his cock. He imagined himself on his knees; hands tied behind his back, while a man shoved his cock down his throat, fucking Tony’s mouth. He imagined being bent over a chair as a woman fucked him with a strap-on, while he licked his own come out of her cupped hand. He imagined rimming some guy, feeling his hairy balls slap on his chin while Tony jerked the guy off.
And after he came, harder than he ever came with any of his countless and interchangeable women, he’d fall asleep to thoughts of being held and cherished and taken care of; hands running through his hair, arms wrapped around him, feeling safe, secure, like he belonged there.
He wasn’t stupid enough to try and tell himself he didn’t know what that
was all about. He may be able to convince others he was dense, but he
knew better. It was all part and parcel of the same things he looked for when he was awake: security, approval, acceptance, belonging, love. But when he was awake, he knew what he could honestly hope for, and what he might as well get used to doing without. “Happily ever after” was only for fairy tales and Hollywood – you take what you can get and you get by.
But that was then
. Before he’d had the time to examine death close up in the form of Y Pestis. Before he’d watched Kate die right in front of him, a little round hole in her forehead. He’d always known he would die someday, and he always thought he’d die the way Kate did, the way a cop was supposed to die: in the line of duty. But standing there as they lowered Kate’s coffin into the ground he’d had a revelation. No more hiding. No more worrying what others would think. No more hating himself for the feelings he couldn’t stop. This time, he was going after what he wanted.
Maybe he’d never get it. There was no way to guarantee that he’d find who or what he needed to finally be satisfied in life. Could anyone ever be totally satisfied in life, anyway? But he wasn’t going to die without trying. He wouldn’t be stupid about it. He wasn’t going to shout it from the rooftops or anything. “I’m a bisexual pervert and proud of it! Please! Tie me up and fuck me!” No. He liked his job, he wanted to stay there. If there was ever any place in the real world he really felt he belonged, this job was that place. All that meant was that he just had to be careful, be smart.
But he had seen that flogger, today, and all these feelings had welled up inside him. He was going to go for what he wanted. No matter what happened, at least he could say he had tried. He shifted on the couch, trying to find a comfortable way to sit with his dick half hard in his pants. That was going to be the difficult part: how the hell was he going to talk to Abby about this without getting a hard-on? He couldn’t even read the boring, all text sites without getting a boner. He told his cock he’d deal with it later, and clicked on a new link: Alternative Sex for Beginners: A Glossary of Terms
. That looked promising.
Chapters: 1 | 2
MTAC - NCIS Fic