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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
Completed:
2009-07-16
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14,035
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3/3
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27
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Adam's Universe: Ties That Bind

Summary:

Methos takes Duncan into the world of D/s.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: Adam's Universe: Ties That Bind

Chapter Text

Duncan wanted this, Methos reminded himself. This was to make his lover happy. It was Duncan's scene. Even though the Scot had absolutely no idea what to expect. He said that was the way he wanted it.

So be it.

Methos went to the owner of the club he'd taken Duncan to a few times. Ayla, the Dominatrix and owner of Gracelands, was absolutely delighted to help. Between the two of them, they concocted the most elaborate scene ever yet hosted at the club.

A FEW WEEKS LATER...

Methos and Ayla made a final walkthrough of the play area. Which had been transformed into a Renaissance themed theater-in-the-round.

There were three staging areas. First was a receiving chamber.

An enormous red leather chair with a footstool stood next to a 'fireplace.' Standing candelabras were set to the sides. A small desk held a vellum-paged leatherbound journal. A large chest sat next to the chair. Methos checked the contents. Everything he had requested was there.

The next set was a bathing chamber. A large copper tub would be filled with water and kept heated until it was needed. There was an armoire, a stout wooden bench holding a plethora of towels, and more standing candelabras. Again, the old man made sure everything that
would be needed was in the armoire.

Last, was the master's bedchamber. A twin-sized fourposter bed had been specially built. It was carved and decorated in Renaissance style. The coverlet and hangings were ruby velvet. Heavily embroidered in gilt thread.

The bedside tables were adorned with ornate candelabra. A gilt treasure chest held scented oil and MacLeod's surprises.

Rich oriental carpets defined each area. Except for the bedchamber. The rug there was shaggy faux bearskin.

Around each set were small gilt chairs for the audience. It would be a most intimate gathering.

"Well, I think it will work." Ayla was impressed. And she had been in on the design. She smiled over at the man she knew as Adam Pierson.

Then she held out a small remote control. "This lets you control the lighting and the sound system." They had agreed the candles were just for atmosphere.

Methos took the device and played with it. There were spotlights set to illuminate each area. And certain key places. The large chair. The bath. The bed.

The music was period to the late sixteenth century.

"It's incredible," the old immortal said softly. "More than I imagined."

SEVERAL DAYS LATER...

"MacLeod, we haven't played in a while. I want you to fast for the next twenty-four hours."

Sometimes it was one of Methos' requirements. Sometimes it wasn't. He tried not to let the Highlander get bored. He watched as the Scot turned to look at him. There was just the tiniest bit of stiffness in Duncan's nod.

Duncan knew something was up.

Then again, he was the one to bring up doing a scene at the club. And he was the one who had left things in Methos' hands. It was about control. H is release of it. It was about becoming something other than who he was. And it was about being who he was. All together.

He had no particular problems with the order to fast. He got a water bottle and filled it up--he wouldn't let any food touch his lips. Fasting was a clue, though. It meant that whatever they did next, whenever they did it, it would be intense. It would be incredible. It would be awesome.

Such was the confidence of Duncan MacLeod in his lover and Dom.

Methos took him places he had never been before, places he had never known existed. The artistry with which the ancient could command Duncan's body, could bring responses that the Scot never knew he was capable. It amazed Duncan to no end.

Methos had been right from the beginning. It was addicting.

Duncan took another drink of his water and looked over at his lover. He and Methos would both be fasting in another way.

The ancient immortal wouldn't touch his Highlander. Not with so much as a fingertip. It was hard. Incredibly so. But the tension it created was vital to the success of the scene.

They slept apart that night.

THE FOLLOWING DAY...

Methos was gone early that morning. He had left a message that a car would pick MacLeod up at four that afternoon. The Scot was to follow any instruction he was given as if it were his Dom speaking.

Promptly at four MacLeod's doorbell rang. Waiting outside in the hall were two men in chauffeur uniform.

Neither spoke. They simply waited for the Highlander to precede them to the elevator.

Out in front of DeSalvo's was a gleaming white stretch Hummer. One of the men opened the door for MacLeod. Then got into the back seat with him.

The immortal was nervous. He had been since the evening before. The fact that Methos was staying away from him had him right on the very edge. He knew that whatever happened, it was, in fact, going to be incredible.

After reading the note, Duncan had realized that today was the day. It had to be the day. He'd agreed to a scene at the club. He knew that Methos had been working on it--or at least he suspected that Methos had been working on it--with Ayla.

He sat calmly enough as they drove away. Checking out the vehicle.

The windows were tinted so dark that no one could see in or out. There was a shield between the driver and passenger compartments.

The man sitting across from the Scot nodded. Then reached into his pocket and pulled out a blindfold. He looked at MacLeod for a moment, then leaned forward to put it on the man.

That done, he relaxed. And, he noted, their passenger was relaxing also. He smiled at MacLeod as his breath evened out. The man was slipping into his role already.

The short drive to the destination was made in complete silence.

A few minutes later the Hummer came to a stop and MacLeod was helped out and into a building. He was guided into a small room, and seated in a comfortable chair.

People spoke in low voices around him, but not so he could understand what they were saying. Then he was left alone for several minutes.

The door opened, and there were rustling noises. A woman spoke.

"These humble garments are for you to wear. When I'm gone, you can remove the blindfold and dress. When you're done, and the blindfold is back in place, someone will come for you."

The door shut again.

The woman had left three things. A white cotton pirate-style shirt, a traditional MacLeod tartan kilt, and a wide, black leather belt.

Duncan removed the blindfold and saw the clothing that had been laid out for him. He touched them for a moment then stripped carefully. He pulled on the white pirate shirt first, then the tartan, which he put on without any hassle. Then he put on the belt. He made sure everything was perfect. Every pleat on the tartan had to be just so, every fold where it was the most flattering. After all, he was dressing for his Dom, not for himself.

Finally satisfied that he looked perfect, and without having to be told to keep his hair down and loose around his shoulders, Duncan sat in the chair. He put the blindfold back on, securing it so that he couldn't see anything at all through it. He wasn't taking any half-measures here.

He concentrated on his breathing while he waited.

The door opened again. Two people entered silently. They took MacLeod by the arms and raised him from the chair. He didn't struggle. Why should he? This was what he'd been waiting for.

The people efficiently bound his arms behind his back, led him out into the hallway. Their steps were measured and slow so there was no danger of the Scot taking a misstep.

Coming to a stop, a door was opened. They walked through and stopped again. The door was closed. The two people holding MacLeod's arms moved him into the room.

There were sounds. Music was playing. Lutes, pipes. A quiet susuration, the product of several bodies moving ever so slightly. And of course, there was the frisson along his spine that told him another immortal was near.

MacLeod was stopped again. The blindfold removed.

It was dim. The only illumination came from a single candelabra. Methos, garbed in a deep burgundy-red velvet robe was seated at the desk. Writing in a journal.

For a moment he seemed to be ignoring the trio. But he had noticed Duncan's nervous glance into the darkness beyond them. Nothing could be seen of the other sets. Or their guests. It was as if this world he had created existed for them alone.

Yes, Duncan, he thought. Alone, but very much the main attraction tonight! Then the old man sat back and looked towards them.

"Well.?"

The man to Duncan's right gave the Scot a shove and sent him forward to his knees.

"'Tis the rebel Highlander, MacLeod," the man said in a sneering tone. Then he bowed. "Brought just as you commanded, Milord."

"Ah." Methos rose and approached. The robe swirled around him. Now it could be seen that the only ornament Methos wore was an enormous ruby pendant hung on a string of large mobe' pearls. The gems glowed in the candlelight.

The ancient immortal stopped in front of the Scot and reached down to tilt his chin up.

"Not so rebellious now, eh?" He smiled. "Now that I have you, what should I do with you? Hm? You may speak, Highlander."

For a moment Methos wondered if his lover had been struck dumb. He seemed to be mesmerized by the ruby pendant. But then Duncan collected himself. Methos hid a smile. The man was amazing. Again, the ancient found himself wondering what MacLeod saw in him.

"I assume ye'll be killin' me," the Highlander pulled out the Scots accent on purpose. "After all the trouble I've caused ye. And I'll die happy knowin' I caused ye as much trouble as I ought."

He looked away, though it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

Methos turned and went to sprawl in the enormous red-leather chair. At a signal, the two guards had MacLeod up and were holding him between them. Another signal, and the Scot was brought close and again made to kneel before their Lord.

"Kill you? No. There would be no...satisfaction in that. At least not until you've paid for the inconvenience you've caused." Methos reached out and caught his captive's chin and forced him to look back up.

"Your countenance is not displeasing. As it happens, I'm in need of a bed slave."

Duncan had to fight natural desire, natural emotions. His body's need to be Methos' bedslave. Oh yes, his body wanted it very much. But for the role he currently played, he had to fight that need. He knew he wasn't really fooling anyone. The people who knew him well knew how his body was responding to Methos' decree. But he was playing a role and he wasn't going to make it that easy on him.

"I'll nae whore for ye," Duncan declared, letting the 'r' in the word 'whore' roll merrily off his tongue. "I'm nae a woman to be bedded at your whim, Lord or no."

He flashed a challenging glare at his lover. God, he wanted Methos so bad he could barely see straight. Duncan wanted to fall to the ground, lift his kilt and feel his master buried deep within him. But he couldn't give away the game so soon. Oh, no. He couldn't.

Magnificent. There was no other word that fit. Methos stared into dark-flashing eyes as MacLeod challenged him. It was almost...almost believable.

Certainly passionate. Definitely passionate.

"You'll nae find me so easy," the Highlander declared. "You'll have t'kill me."

Duncan wanted to surrender. But surrender was out of the question. For now. Let me hold out, he prayed silently. Let me hold out.

Methos laughed, and let go his captive's chin. "We'll see. We'll see."

The guards dragged MacLeod up again and back several feet. Methos rose from the chair. The old man hit a switch. The whole thing turned to reveal that the back side was a whipping post.

Duncan continued to look willful, to look defiant. The men took his arms and dragged him back and he struggled just a little, at least enough to make it look good. He was so hot, though, on fire already with need and want and desire and lust. H e knew, too, it was going to get worse before it got better. Or, maybe, that was get better before it got better? Though he acted defiant, his body wanted this. He, Duncan MacLeod wanted this!

A button-push to the remote in Methos' pocket, and a spotlight came on to light the chair and the large chest.

The ancient man had his back to the audience. He opened the chest and toyed with the contents. But he was watching MacLeod as his first surprise was revealed.

His lover was being manacled spread-eagle to the chair.

Duncan struggled, and for good measure threw out some blistering Gaelic oaths. Oaths that he didn't mean at all. They were, after all, for show.

MacLeod's passionate reaction to being bound to the chair had Methos on the verge of laughter. The ancient man pretended not to understand. But the green glinting in his eyes gave away his knowledge. And the fact that he loved Duncan MacLeod more than his own life.

Then, just for fun, Duncan told Methos, in a blistering tone, but still in Gaelic, that he loved him. It wasn't as though anyone else watching would be fluent in the language. He struggled violently, and then went silent. Pretending defiance to the end though his body screamed to have Methos touch him. It was hard to keep from reacting in the way that he wanted to react.

The Scot's last Gaelic tirade was almost too much for Methos. He had to look away as MacLeod loudly and vehemently swore how much he loved him.

"Ye may force me," the Scot suddenly added in English, for the benefit of those watching. "But I'll ne'er be willing."

"Never say 'ne'er,' my brave Scots ram," Methos said softly. He turned back to MacLeod. "I, on the other hand, have no doubt that you will be tamed."

The old man slowly crossed to stand to one side of MacLeod. Then he reached around and loosened the man's belt. When he did, the kilt slipped from the Scot's body to lay puddled at his bare feet.

"Hm." Methos looked his lover over. The white shirt was large. MacLeod was still modestly covered. But it was no ward against Methos. Holding the belt in his left hand, he used the right to caress his captive's erection. He leaned in close.

"Last chance, *ciall*," he whispered the Gallic love-name he's given Duncan. "Once we start, there's no stopping. No safe word. Do you want this, beloved?"

Duncan took a deep breath as he turned to look up into those beautiful, exquisite, hazel eyes and he only barely managed to keep from losing control. Did Methos know how finely tuned Duncan was at the moment? Did he know how close he really was?

Of course the old man did.

And as far as the the option of stopping--nothing on this planet would have let him stop what was going on. He wanted this. He needed this. He would no sooner stop this than he'd stop breathing.

"I want this," he whispered to Methos. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

He wasn't sure how he'd survive it but he was going to. He would take this to the end--for both of them--because he loved Methos that much.

"I love you," he said clearly in Gaelic. But only loud enough for Methos to hear.

Then he started struggling with the manacles, and trying to ignore Methos' hand on his erection.

"I love you, Duncan." Methos' words were whispered. Barely more than a breath across his lover's ear.

Those whispered words - as good as wine on his lips--were all Duncan needed to know that he had made the right choice. As heightened as his senses and emotions were at the moment, having the acknowledgement of Methos' love, he knew he could make it through this. He loved this man more than life itself. And he wanted this very much.

"Fight me all you want, Highlander," Methos said loudly. He ran his hand over his prisoner's body. Still covered by the shirt, the audience could only guess what he was doing to cause his captive to struggle so.

Duncan took a deep, calm, steadying breath even as he felt Methos' hands all over his body under the shirt. He writhed, struggling with the manacles, more out of a desire to touch Methos as well. Forbidden, he knew. And not within character either.

He managed a glare as he tried to struggle free of Methos' constant touches, which seemed to make his erection all the harder.

Methos backed off after just a few moments. He waited. Knowing the suspense would heighten all of his lover's senses.

The Highlander turned his head resolutely away.

But Methos knen his lover well. MacLeod's glare spoke volumes. Every word one of love and confidence. Trust. He trusted his lover. Methos felt a surge of love and protectiveness for his Highlander.

"You will yield to me, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Yield. For I have your family. Your Clan. Your entire village in my grip." He made a fist and brought it before the Scot's eyes.

The heat in his lover's eyes was seering the Scot, it was tearing him up inside. Hearing his lover's voice, hearing the command, the absolute authority in his voice made Duncan harden even more. His body didn't want to resist its inclination to give into whatever Methos wanted to do to him.

Managing another glare, Duncan shot a defiant look when Methos suggested that he would kill his family and clan.

"Ye won't dare!" he protested.

"Perhaps you need some proof that I mean business?"

Just then Methos grabbed the back of Duncan's shirt and tugged. The basted seam easily parted. Leaving the shirt still covering MacLeod's arms and chest. But leaving his back and buttocks exposed.

The ancient man recognized the sighing of the audience, and smiled to himself.

Duncan gasped as his shirt was torn up from the back. He felt the slightly cool air of the air around them brush across his bare back and buttocks.

Methos slapped the belt across the arm of the chair. It made a loud echoing smack on the leather. "Now, my Scots ram, my pet, I want you to count. I think twenty blows...to begin." The ancient grinned at Duncan's reaction. Including his glare.

The ancient man drew back his arm. Swung back and delivered the first smack across his lover's ass.

"I'll nae..." Duncan started to protest again, but then the belt slammed down onto his bare ass. He managed to hold in the shout that he wanted to loosen. He hadn't meant to count, either. After all, wouldn't it make it a little more interesting if he was still defiant? If he failed to give his Master what he wanted?

But the word burst from his lips anyway. "One!"

Methos stopped and stepped back to give their audience a good look at the crimson streak decorating his lover's ass.

There were definitely some appreciative murmurs.

Then he laid a cool hand on MacLeod's right cheek. "Good. Very goodpet. Only nineteen more to go."

The ancient leaned forward. "Scream. Yell. Beg, my love," he whispered. "But you may not come. Do you understand? Can you control yourself, pet?"

Methos was giving his lover the freedom to choose. Selfcontrol. Or binding. "One warning, *ciall*. You come, and the scene ends..." Again his words were whispered for MacLeod alone to hear.

Duncan knew this was the ultimate control any Dom had over a submissive. Now he had to decide if he could trust himself to maintain that hard, painful, erection without release of any kind, even in the height of the pain being bestowed upon him. And God, he loved the pain.

Methos held his breath as he waited for his lover to reply.

"Yes, Methos," Duncan whispered, softly. "I'll control myself."

Or else be bound. There was something to having himself bound, to having Methos' control forced upon him. But he wanted to honor his lover. He would do anything to make sure the scene didn't end. To hear the reaction of the unseen crowd around him. To know that they could see him, but he couldn't see them.

"Very good, pet." Methos ran a hand through MacLeod'd long hair. Giving the mane a sharp tug, he stepped back.

"Ready!"

Methos drew back the belt again and worked methodically up and down MacLeod's buttocks and upper thighs. Of course, the marks from the first blows were already healing, fading. He sighed.

Duncan had to grit his teeth. He had to yell. And he did beg Methos to stop, to just please stop. It was mostly a distraction, to keep himself from giving way to his erection, to disappointing his lover. Even with Immortal healing his ass and thighs ached and the vivid memory of other beatings he'd received had surfaced.

But this was different. It was pleasure. It was pleasure he couldn't give way to. That, perhaps, was the thing that got to him the most. He wanted to bliss out--he had learned the pleasure of making the pain pleasure. But this time he couldn't.

"Here it comes, Highlander," Methos murmured.

The room echoed with the last crack of the belt across the Scot's upper thighs.

"Twenty," Duncan gasped. Finally it was ended.

The two guards reappeared from out of the darkness to loosen the Scot. Methos moved towards his desk, and dropped the belt across it. When he looked back, MacLeod was again on his knees. Had been turned to face him. Methos looked his prisoner over. The ruined shirt still hung from his lover's arms. Covering him from the waist down.

Duncan stared up at Methos as he tried to catch his breath.

"As you see, Highlander, I keep my promises. Again, I offer you a choice. Do I take the lives of all you love, your Clan? Or do I take you?"

"Quickly, boy, what will it be?" Methos fingered the huge ruby that hung as a pendant on his chest. He waited in silence to hear the Scot's answer to his ultimatum.

Duncan stared up at Methos and spoke in a strong voice. "Me," he said, softly. "Spare my clan, my Lord."

Duncan hoped this was the moment when Methos wanted him to surrender. At least partially.

The ancient nodded. "You've chosen well, my pet."

Without a word, the guards helped MacLeod to his feet. Methos moved in front of his lover. "I have your word that you will be my bed slave. And for this, I will spare your people."

Methos waited for the Scot's sworn oath. He had no doubt what his answer would be.

Duncan hung his head a moment and took a deep breath before he spoke again. He really did hurt.

"You have ma oath, ma Lord," he said in a voice tinged with reluctance that he didn't feel at all. In fact, his body responded quite well to his words, to his surrender to the man before him, his lover. "I am...I am your bed slave, my Lord."

The Scot hung his head again, surrendering, knowing that he had
pleased Methos with his words.

The old man clapped his hands, and two women in drab garb appeared.

"My new pet needs grooming," he told them. "Take him away and prepare him for me."

The women curtsied to the Lord, then took over the Scot from the guards. The two men moved onto the bath set and lit the candles. The lights on the first set dimmed and went out.

As the women drew MacLeod away, Methos extinguised the candles on the desk. The audience moved to take their new places.

The bathtub stood in the middle of the second set. Duncan took another deep breath. It was so intimate, being washed by another person. He didn't know the women that were working with Methos for this scene. Not that it mattered. He'd agreed to anything the ancient had wanted.
And if this was what Methos wanted, he'd have it.

The Scot's hands were set free, and the remnants of his shirt was removed. Revealing him in all his rampant male glory.

Duncan inhaled sharply. He stood naked before the audience that surrounded him, before the women in the room. He stood proudly, for the first time unashamed to let others see him as he was. Perhaps it was the fact that he was erect, standing firm, so that everyone could see, that made him blush a little.

He waited for the someone to tell him what to do. He had a suspicion it would be something he wasn't going to like.

The sighs and appreciative noises from the audience were louder than ever.

Methos stood in the dark and drank deeply from a large glass of water. He removed the velvet robe. Leaving him clad in a white silk poet's shirt, black hose and breeches. And the pearl and ruby pendant.

Ayla rose from her seat and went over to him. "Adam," she whispered, "you have them so hooked. And Duncan! Well, he's totally into it."

The ancient immortal only had eyes for the Scot. But he nodded. "He doesn't even realize the maids are club regulars. Oh, here it comes..."

On the set, the maids had directed the nude Scot to lie back on towels that had been spread on the sturdy bench. One went into the armoir for supplies. The other went to dip up a basin of warm water.

It soon became apparent that the first step in making the Scot presentable was shaving. Everywhere.

Methos tensed. Waiting to see what his lover's reaction would be.

Duncan nodded obediently and lay back onto the towels atop the bench,
slightly tense from his desire to control his erection and his responses. It was, he thought, the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. He hadn't expected to be separated from Methos like this. In fact, he had been sure Methos would do everything. Perhaps that was why Methos wasn't, and other people were. Others that he didn't kn...

He nearly froze on the couch as he looked up at the woman who was shaving his face. He really should have known that the women would be ones he knew.

And damned if he didn't get even harder. He'd thought it was impossible, but he was in even more agony. Still, he played the part-and lived the part--of a young man who had surrendered himself to the fate of being a bed slave. To doing what it took to save his Clan.

He was all sensations just now as the women shaved him. His face. His chest. Under his arms. He would be completely hairless by the time they were done. Except for the long mane of hair on his head. He quivered under the women's care and touch. His body one large nerve ending.

Ayla looked over at Adam. Then back at the incredibly naked man being so effectively humiliated by being shaved.

"You are a scheming, manipulative bastard," she whispered.

"Thank you. But there's more..."

"Oh. My. God." Ayla wasn't sure she believed what she was seeing.

Methos held his breath in anticipation.

The women had worked in tandem to make their charge as smooth as a newborn babe. They were careful to keep their pleasure at handling such a fine submissive from showing. Too much.

Continued... 

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