Surprise, another Jaime-in-training drabble for the masses.
Warnings: Handler Smith, BBU/BBU-adjacent, stress positions, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper, (accidental) hanging reference, choking
A hook has been attached to the back of his collar, a chain pulled taut between the anchor point on the ceiling and where Jaime kneels in the center of his cell.
Well, not quite kneeling.
While the hook forces him upright with the constant threat of strangulation, another restraint keeps him from standing. Or, for that matter, even stretching up into a ninety-degree angle on his knees to alleviate the strain in his thighs, which hold his body weight in the half-elevated stance. His hands are cuffed behind his back with the same unbreakable metal that he wears permanently around his neck, and there’s another chain securing them to a bolt in the floor between his ankles.
No way to settle into the kneel. No way to rise out of it.
For hours—god, it had to have been hours by now—Jaime has been forced to maintain his position. His quads scream out from the exertion of balancing his weight in the awkward angle. Sweat runs in thick rivulets down his back, his face, his arms. The slow trickle is its own torture; a faint buzz of sensation that only grows more unbearable because he can do nothing to wipe it away.
All because of a single mistake. An isolated moment of defiance bred from days of complete and utter soul-destroying obedience. He had been doing so well. Handler Smith had even given him small bites of his lunch nearly every day this week for his compliance.
And now, because Jaime couldn’t resist a knee-jerk reaction of fear last night when Handler Smith had backed him into a corner and told him to get on his knees, all his progress—or what passes for it in this place—is lost. He had refused to kneel, just once, and now he isn’t given a choice.
You’ll learn not to make that mistake again, he promised Jaime before leaving him like this.
Several times over the course of the punishment, Jaime’s legs have given out from under him, muscles collapsing in momentary defeat, and he has tried to endure the subsequent constriction around his neck, the loss of air, as best he can. But it hurts, and the metal of his collar is unforgiving against the tender skin of his throat, and he always finds himself forcing himself back up after only a few seconds. There’s not really a choice. There is no relief in this game. Not until he is released.
When a faint beep outside his door signals an impending entry, Jaime’s head snaps up, ready to beg, to barter, to apologize and grovel for forgiveness. And it’s… god, for once it’s a fucking relief to see Handler Smith walk through the door.
“Don’t speak,” he says before Jaime can get any words out. He snaps his mouth shut, the words dying in his throat. “I’m not ready to hear your apology yet. Not until I know you mean it.”
I do mean it, Jaime’s head screams back at him, and he’s distantly horrified to realize it’s almost true. The sound leaves his body as an involuntary whimper.
His breathing is a mess of hitching gasps and hisses between clenched teeth as Handler Smith circles him like a shark in water. Every time he rounds behind him, out of Jaime’s line of sight, the already-trembling muscles in his back knot up in awful anticipation.
Minutes pass. It’s an eternity. Smith settles back against the wall directly in front of him, legs crossed at the ankle and arms folded over his chest. And for a long time, he is content to stand there and watch Jaime suffer. His eyes are wide and pleading from his personal hell in the center of the floor, and they’re met with an amused indifference.
At one point, his hand slips down to the pocket where Jaime knows he keeps the remote to his shock clip, and it takes everything in him to bite down on the urgent please that lodges in his throat.
In the end, he doesn’t activate the shock collar on him. Instead, after entire lifetimes seem to have stretched out between them, Smith pushes off the wall and ambles toward him. Jaime is shaking so hard, his mind half-gone from the pain and the exertion and the constant, constant misery, but he still finds it in him to be terrified of whatever comes next.
Tears are making their way down his cheeks, mingling with the sheen of sweat, but he doesn’t realize until the pad of Handler Smith’s thumb swipes across their path. “Are you sorry for earlier?” he asks.
Is this another trap? He doesn’t know if he is allowed to answer. He was told not to speak, but he knows it’s against the rules here to ignore a direct question. Jaime nods, a bit more frantically than he intends to.
Handler Smith smiles. The thumb on his cheek drags slowly downward until it presses down on his lower lip. Jaime doesn’t have it in him to so much as hesitate at the silent command. He relents instantly, mouth falling open to allow his thumb entrance. He doesn’t dare pull his eyes away.
“Tell me,” he says, applying light pressure to the flat of his tongue. “I want to hear you.”
“Please. Please, I’m sorry, sir.” The words come rushing out of him like a dam has broken, garbled and misshapen around the intrusion in his mouth. Jaime doesn’t have the bandwidth to feel the intended humiliation. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hmm.” A thoughtful glimmer lights up in his handler’s eyes before he pushes his thumb further, triggering Jaime’s gag reflex. “Next time I tell you to kneel for me, I suspect there won’t be any hesitation.”
His reply comes out as a choked whine around his thumb, but he nods as much as he can manage, and finally Smith retracts his hand.
“I told you when you got here that I would make sure you learned your fucking place. Can you tell me where that is?”
Jaime doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care about the loss of dignity, the humiliation, the exchange of power he’s offering up in his words. He just needs out of this. He won’t last another minute. His legs will give out for good and he’ll end up hanging himself from the ceiling. “On my knees,” he whispers. A few more tears slide down his cheeks as he closes his eyes. “Sir.”
“Don’t fucking forget it.”
A wave of panic takes hold as the collar suddenly yanks tight against his throat, cutting off his air. His wrists burn and chafe against the cuffs as he tries to rise with the sudden upward pull of the chain. His eyes snap open, but he only has a second to process the sight of Handler Smith’s grasp on the hook before the tension releases and Jaime collapses down—fully, blessedly—onto his haunches. The clasp at his wrists is released a moment later, and he sprawls helplessly to the floor.
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