TURNABOUT

[tingreca]

Title: Turnabout
Author: Sarah B. Leonard
Fandom: NCIS
Genre: Slash ideas
Pairing: Gibbs and ... oh my ... well, you have to read it to find out what's going on...mentions of the team members
Rating: Adult with adult concepts, nudity
Warnings: BDSM, flogging et al, angst,
Wordcount: 5,700
Spoilers: not really
Warnings:   Not a funny one (!!!) so therefore no food or drink warnings but what some might consider violence, although consensual
Disclaimer: These characters belong to DPB, CBS, Paramount, et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
Authors notes:  This one has been sitting around for a couple of months.  It didn't work with my original concept so I had to change it.  I hope it works now.  Takes place in a universe of BDSM but not any particular one (although it was inspired by xanthelj 's HiPS universe but didn't quite fit) ... at the time of this story.  (This is not the one I was promising, but another that needed to be finished.)  And remember, feedback is a good thing.

               

 TURNABOUT

By Sarah B. Leonard

Gibbs stood at the familiar front door, wondering what it was about himself that made him so stubborn. Why was he so extreme, so hard on his team, so very hard on himself? He knew what he craved, knew what he wanted. If he made his wishes known, he doubted that he would be refused. In fact, he suspected he would be welcomed with open arms.  But he couldn’t. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. He definitely was not ready. He couldn’t take the chance on changing the relationship within the team. He couldn’t trust himself to change anything yet. 

He’d wrecked three marriages that had all started out just fine. Just damn fine. He’d loved them and he’d ruined them and they’d left him. All three. He couldn’t risk it happening to him again.  He couldn’t risk losing this one. This one already meant too much to him.  

Not yet. He was not ready.

Right now his team was just what he wanted and damn fine. He couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t risk screwing up another person, much less another relationship. He couldn’t risk what he had. Not now. Not yet. His team was just that – his team. He needed them as they were. Safe.  Secure. His team.  Abby, Tim, Ziva, Ducky and Tony. All his and all working in perfect harmony with him. Status quo. He couldn't change anything yet.

Gibbs made himself stand still, just slightly not at attention until the door opened. When it did, he brushed past the man who opened the door, barely nodding in his direction. He couldn’t acknowledge him, not as who he was, until this was over. He couldn’t allow himself to even think his name, and he definitely wouldn’t meet his eyes or see the sorrow showing so clearly in his eyes. As he walked down the hall he heard the impatient sigh but chose to ignore it. He continued on, through the kitchen, through the door and down the stairs into the basement.

Once there, he took off his jacket and hung it on one of the arms of the clothes tree. He glanced over at the single bed in the room, where, if things went as he expected, he would spend the night, on sheets that were more expensive than any in his house. As usual, it had been cleaned and remade, complete with hospital corners. He also knew that a coin would bounce if tossed on the wool blanket that served as the cover. Oddly there was a comforter folded at the foot end. Comforter? To offer comfort? He didn’t need comfort. He needed what this room offered. He craved it.

He needed escape.

Gibbs took his phone out of his pocket, set the alarm and placed it on the night stand at the head of the bed. His wallet, badge and watch followed. He emptied his gun and put that on the lower shelf of the stand, out of easy reach. He sat on the bed, bending over to toe off his shoes then remove his socks.

He sat up straight again. He hadn’t heard anyone descending the stairs yet. But then it was early. Both he and the man whom he hoped would oblige him knew the routine by now. There was still time. He would get the rest of the items ready. But first, he opened the bed, pulling the covers back. He knew when the time came that he would just want to drop in it and not worry about moving sheets and blankets.

He sat again for a moment. He needed to get into the right place in his head. It wasn’t always easy. Sometimes he struggled with it, because of who he was and what he refused to admit. It had gotten much worse lately. He was showing up here more frequently. But he was over the last time and his body craved the release, dark as it might be. This was what was keeping him going, keeping him from imploding. This and his work. But work, with his team, was becoming strained and he couldn’t allow that to happen. He had to do what he had to do. He needed it tonight. He needed it now.

Fortunately, he had one person he could count on. One person, who should be coming down the stairs soon. Please. Before he ran. Before he decided he couldn’t do it. Before he decided he couldn’t handle what he knew he needed. Before he got his escape.

Please.

He looked over at the trunk. Rectangular rough cut wood, lightly sanded and stained a rich mahogany.  Crude looking but bearing unique wrought iron hinges and one lock. He reached into the small drawer of the bedside table and removed the key. Also black and wrought iron. He ignored the other items in the drawer. They weren’t his to touch. He closed the drawer quickly but felt a chill run down his spine.  Even with the drawer closed, they were still there. He would have to acknowledge their existence soon. At least one of the items. The others were unopened. New. They had never let this arrangement that they had now become sexual, but perhaps some day one of them would need something else. After all, he was forcing an alternate persona onto the other one, onto the one who served him in this unique manner.  One day he might have to truly submit. But until then, the tube and the small flat packages would remain unopened.

But back to the key he held. He almost grinned as he tossed it in his palm a few times. He remembered his friend’s comment.

“Quite ‘dungeonesque’.”

He had answered “It fits.” He had meant that it fit on the box but then realized there were several more meanings that would work with his comment – actual proportion, ambiance and what the box would hold. Dungeonesque fit the box and this room, where the box held its contents.

Now he knelt in front of it. The key turned easily, belying its rough look. As he lifted the top he felt another chill run down his spine. He leaned into the top, lifting it up until it rested against the wall. He dropped his arms to his sides, cataloging the items in the box, allowing his gaze to caress the contents as he expected them to soon caress his flesh.

His eyes immediately picked out the single-tailed whip. He pulled it free. He had to rummage a bit for the strap and finally found the black leather length coiled under a flogger. He vetoed that suede implement with its knotted ends. There was another – a cat, with the traditional nine tails, each one ending in a small but significant metal weight. Significant when used on flesh, he knew. It was perhaps his most hated tool for what was to be accomplished here. He picked it out of the box too. His most hated and his most desired.

He heard the floor above creak, then water running. His enabler would be down soon.

He took the three items he was carrying over to the longer table in the room. He placed them in precise order, equidistant from each other. He stood back and looked at them dispassionately, changing what they were to some abstract work of art framed on a polished wooden surface. Cat, whip, strap. Tools on display. The ones he needed tonight. He flashed for a moment on the other tools he used. Mallet, plane, sander. Gentler sounding words.   Tools used on him versus tools he used.

He had, of course, used the brothers of those he had placed, as the Dominant that he was.  Just not these particular tools. These belonged here, in this house. These belonged to another.

Dominant. That is what he was. Tonight he would express his dominance in a unique fashion. He would dominate himself, through the use of another. He would force another to give him what he needed, to release him, if only for a few hours, from the true need that he denied.  From the desire that was eating at him. From the emotional pain that was eating him alive, replacing it with physical pain.

He looked around the small room, at the items he had made with the softer sounding tools. There was the clothes tree on the same wall as the door through which he had entered. He had made it with several graceful arms, enough to hold a full set of clothes and then some. 

On the second wall was the small table, the night stand, another of his creations, as well as the platform rocker beyond it. That one had taken him some time. He had measured the person that it was for, so he would be comfortable using it. But when he had made it, it wasn’t for this specific room. It was just to offer him comfort. As was the comforter for comfort. As were the high thread count sheets. Comfort. Not what he was here for.  Behind the rocker was a torchiere floor lamp, with two sidelights, the only item besides the bed that he had not created. The one lamp could flood the whole room in glaring bright light or be dimmed to barely nothing. The smaller sidelights could be brightened, dimmed and aimed. Aimed at, say, a book read while the other slept. Or on a naked back, or ass. Or to bare his soul to the one here who satisfied his desperate need.

He moved his eyes to the third wall, where the trunk that contained the sharp tools was located. The door to the bathroom was beyond it. He walked over there, his bare feet noticing the smooth texture of the floor, under which heating cables were embedded. He had installed those contrary to his wishes but according to the desires of the man he waited for, who was concerned with comfort. But first, while he still had some time, he entered the bath. Fresh towels were hanging on the towel rods, causing him to almost grin again at the contrasts in these rooms. He brushed his teeth, used the facilities and then set up the small coffee pot that was waiting on the sink’s counter for a morning brew. Again, comfort demanded by the other, not him. But appreciated come morning, when he would wake to the sound of his phone alarm.

He walked back into the main room, this time allowing his gaze to fall on the fourth wall. The long table, where he had set out his choices, was another item he had built, as was the last item in the room: The Saint Andrews Cross. The crux decussata. The ‘X’ that marked the spot. This one was freestanding, supported by additional solid beams to the floor and the ceiling. This allowed one man to walk around the structure while preventing any movement of the piece itself if the one attached to it struggled. It allowed the supplicant’s head to drop forward. It allowed additional access to more of the body secured there.  It was an impressive and forbidding piece. It was there to hold him.

He cleared his throat. He walked over to the cross and checked the restraints. Thick leather straps hung from eyebolts in strategic places. Ankles, wrists or whatever could be held securely in the straps or the leather could be wrapped around the hand of a volunteer, to help him remain stationary. 

The floor above him creaked again. He had better finish preparing. Back at the clothes tree, he removed the rest of his clothes, and hung the pieces on the arms. Naked, he moved to the middle of the room and knelt, facing the door. He grunted slightly as he arranged himself. Dammit. Knees on hard wooden floor. Bare knees on bare floor. Presenting himself in this fashion sometimes hurt more than what followed. Well, not really. Not if he got what he needed.

Footsteps. Descending slowly. Carefully. He knew the man was taking his time in preparing, changing his own head space. Finding the strength he would need. Finding the ability to offer a unique form of release.

The door opened. His enabler entered. His temporary Dominant. Temp Top. That sounded like something Tony would voice. He didn’t want to think of Tony right now. 

He concentrated on his own breathing. Slow deep breaths.  Relaxing. Forcing himself to relax as he breathed deeper. Slower. Taking himself to a state where he could get what he wanted, using the same method that he would use taking down a submissive. But not for him to submit. For him to get what he needed. His own head felt heavy on his neck as he stared down at the floor. He couldn’t look at the man in front of him. That would break his mood, break his concentration, break his heart perhaps. What this man did for him, he knew, was difficult for him to do. Was contrary to everything in which that man believed. Yet he did it because he understood.  Now. After the argument they had had.

He remembered that argument. He really hadn’t played fair to win it, but then he didn’t have to play fair. He knew what he required and he would get it, one way or another. He had asked for a favor. A favor from a friend who owed him more than he could ever repay. That had been unfair and yet … the favor required trust, and silence and a unique form of comfort. It also required that his friend do something he would hate to do. But he had forced his friend.

“If you won’t do it for me I can find someone who will. Someone I arrested maybe?"

“You will not.”

“How about one of my divorced spouses? Now there’s a trio who would love to get a whip on me, or another chance with a baseball bat or a golf club.”

“No.”

“Then who, dammit? Who do you suggest? Should I go to some club? Do you think I could come off as a Submissive? Do you think I would find anyone who would come within a mile of me with a whip?”

“No.”

“Then there’s this. If I did find some ‘supertop’, then I would be expected to bottom after that. D’you see me there? I‘d be up for murder so fast it wouldn’t be funny.”

“No.”

“Or I’d have to be secured so tightly that I’d break myself to get away. You know I couldn’t do it. I’m not wired that way.”

“That is true, but the answer is still no.”

“Then I’ll put it this way.”

He’d played his ace on this one. He’d looked him straight in his eyes and said “You’ll do it for me because you wouldn’t want someone else to do it. And you know I’m bastard enough to go that route.” 

“I hope you felt as bad saying that to me as I do saying this to you. Yes, I will do it for you.”

He was here now, standing in front of him. 

“Have you eaten?” he was asked.

Gibbs nodded in answer.

“Perhaps I should rephrase my question for a more specific response. When did you last eat?”

“Lunch.”

“I suspected as much. Before you leave in the morning, you will come to the kitchen and eat. Or I will report you to your Doctor and you know how he can be about your health.”

It wasn’t a very subtle reminder but he nodded in compliance. They were friends. They exchanged their caring, their give and take. They looked out for each other. And, as best they could, they covered each other’s back. In more ways than one. Definitely more ways.

Now it would begin. Sometimes he thought this was the most difficult part. If he could get through this, then he would get what he needed. He watched his friend walk over to the long display table, even though he kept his head down. He knew how to observe without seeming too obvious. He held his breath as he hoped his choices would be accepted. But they weren’t.

The other man walked over to the trunk. He bent over and lifted several items. He held them in his hands as if weighing them. His shoulders shrugged. Maybe he was checking his swinging arm?

One item was placed carefully back in the trunk. Then his friend walked back over to the long table and set the three items he carried onto the table, so that now there were six items arranged in pairs.

“Come here.”

He turned his head to show that he heard. There were two fingers raised. Damn. He would have to change two items. If he refused, the man who could give him what he needed would refuse him and climb back up the stairs. That had happened once before. And he had stayed here, kneeling, for a very long time, stubbornly waiting in vain. He had finally climbed stiffly into the bed and slept. When he showed up here again, the next Friday, he had cooperated, holding back the grin that threatened to escape. Yes, his friend would do the favor but he would do it on his own terms.

So he stood carefully, hearing a knee joint pop as he moved. He walked over to the table, very aware of his naked self compared to the clothes his friend wore. Long shirt sleeves covered all but his hands, those hands that would offer what he needed. But now those hands were demanding that he make a decision. 

The first pair, no - the closest pair to him was now the cat with its wicked claws or the alternate, the suede flogger with knotted ends. He was torn. He craved and hated the cat, but if he stuck with that he would have to give up the strap. Tonight, he needed a long session. The cat would be hard on him, too hard to last long under its wicked claws. He removed the cat and left the flogger in its place. He handed the cat to the man who stood next to him, silently watching as the tools were reduced in severity. As the rules were changed to accommodate his friend. A subtle display of strength for his friend to test him.

The next pair was the singletailed whip and a Dragon’s Tongue. The tongue was wider than the whip and wouldn’t leave long lasting marks, those welts that he would feel for an extended period of time. He thought about it, about giving up the strap. The tongue could be a serious implement. But as he looked at these two items, the strap was still calling out to him from the next pair.  He glanced over at it, now coupled with a long thin paddle. No. He didn’t want the paddle. The strap was his ultimate choice.

He handed the whip to his friend, who then reached beyond him to pick up the paddle. These three items would be returned to the trunk, to await their use on another night. The flogger, the Dragon’s tongue and the strap would be the items of choice tonight. And, knowing his friend’s routine as he did, in that order.

He stood still where he was. His eyes were still reviewing the three tools as he tried to clear his head. He could smell the scent of himself, sense his own impending arousal mixed with trepidation. And he could smell the light scent of after shave on the man standing next to him. He wondered if he should just grin and start up a conversation, take the scene away. Put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and say it was all a joke tonight. He just wanted company. 

Company. Wasn’t that his problem? Company and comfort. Comfort that he denied himself in favor of this release. This powerful release.  This ache to replace the other ache. Pain in exchange for the other pain. Even for just a few short hours. Even for the short time while he was here, in this temporary situation, under the caring kiss of this man’s tools. Here he would be given what he begged for:  release from the pain in his heart. He would exchange anything for that. It was eating him alive. It was destroying him from within. He would not give in. It was not a conversation or a joke.

A hand touched his bare shoulder and turned him. This was it. He moved toward the cross and stood in front of it. He could change his mind. He could still refuse. It was all his choice.

The man standing next to him unbuttoned one of his shirt cuffs. He carefully folded the fabric over.  Once. His careful fingers pressed in a fold. Twice. Another fold completed as the other man watched. A third time. One final fold and it was over his elbow. It was a ritual between them. It gave them more time to reach where they needed to be, as he knew they were not quite there yet. The second sleeve. Another precise operation.  Unbutton, then fold back, then another fold, and a final fold.      

Now his Enabler was ready – he couldn’t think of him as his friend now. Not when he was about to be whipped by him. Not when he could get this desired release from his own emotions from the other.

Gibbs held his position while the other man walked away. He heard the drawer of the little table open. He knew what was being retrieved. This was when he would have to prove that he was ready. That he was ready and would accept what his good friend, his trusted friend, would give him. It was a hard symbol for him to take but he knew that if he couldn’t, if he didn’t have himself under his own control, he could hurt his friend. He could strike him. He could lose his control and fight him. He could allow his temper to take over and that would be tragic. He could accidently allow his natural dominance to rise to the surface.

He had to accept. He had to show that his mindset was correct for what was about to happen.

He kept his head down as his Enabler approached him. His friend, acting as a Dominant. Gibbs was the Dominant but he needed this. He craved this. He wanted this with all of his aching heart. His selfish proud bastard’s aching heart.

A cold chain touched the back of his neck. It was a choke chain that had been used on a dog, although it was slightly different from the norm. This one had a toggle – a toggle that secured it and could be easily released. Easily released when he was done with it. When he no longer needed to accept this temporary symbol of a collar.

“Temporary.” His friend reminded him.

“Necessary.” His response barely cleared his own throat. “Ready for it. Put it on me.”

He knew the other reason why this collar was necessary. It wasn’t only needed to test his state of mind. The first time, his friend had been unable to perform. The man had agreed but then couldn’t do it. Gibbs had had to put his clothes back on and follow him, dejected, disappointed, back up the stairs.  They had finally sat, in a neutral place, on either side of a small breakfast table, untouched drinks at each man’s hand.

“Why?” Gibbs had asked.

His friend had lifted his hand to his own neck and then dropped it to the glass.

“I believe it has to do with a collar.”

He had raised his eyebrows at that.

"Tradition is strong in me, you know.”

He had nodded back at his friend.

“I can not discipline one who does not wear a collar.”

Now he took a drink, as did his friend. Expensive scotch slid smoothly down his throat, then burned for a few seconds in his stomach. He swallowed again.

“It is not whether I wear a collar or how you see my status, but that you do not wear mine.”

They both stared into their drinks, unable to meet eyes over this. 

 “I cannot do what you desire me to do unless you are collared. But I understand you, after all these years. I doubt you would be able to tolerate that, even if just for … for the duration…”

They had tried one of leather, but his friend hadn’t even been able to touch it, much less wrap it around someone else’s neck. It was too similar to his own once beloved collar and Gibbs thought he would be refused his desires for yet another week. He tried to put it on his own neck. That had been close to ridiculous. He had almost lost it. Then his friend had an idea. He had jogged up the stairs and returned with the chain. It was a little different from the usual choke chain, having a toggle on one end instead of the rings on both ends.

Gibbs had raised his eyebrows at it, then pinched his nose to keep from laughing at the look of satisfaction on his friend’s face.

“He has sensitive ears.”

“Who does?”

“Why, Tyson, of course.” 

It almost made him laugh out loud, but instead he had knelt and bowed his head, getting back in the mood that he required.

“Temporary.”

He heard the whisper reminding him again, pulling him from his memories. He nodded and allowed the warm hands of his friend to secure the chain. Once it was around his neck, he shivered again. He wanted those cold links off. He wanted it off now. He closed his hands into fists and dug his nails in hard until he had taken three deep breaths. One for each tool. The links warmed on his skin until he could not feel their chill. Then he stepped forward and stood against the cross.

Again, he had to take a deep breath. He recalled another fragment of conversation from the first time.

“You will have no safe word, because you will not need one. This will be done on my terms, not yours, and you will not make me go beyond my terms.”

He nodded to himself. He was ready. He spread his legs out, until he could feel the wooden legs of the cross against his ankles. He slid his hands between the loops of the high straps and grabbed hold of them.

Behind him, his Enabler reached around him and tightened one of the ankle straps. It was another modification to acknowledge his normal dominance. It was secured with Velcro – quick release if he lost his control. He felt the other one tighten. He gripped the hand straps tightly. He had to hold on to them. He had to choose to hold on to them. His wrists were not secured – his own will secured him.

He listened to the footsteps of his friend. They moved over to the display table. He listened carefully but was unable to hear the flogger as it was separated from the trio. He counted the footsteps back over to him.

There was no warning. The flogger struck, hard, between his shoulders. He sighed deeply. It had begun. Again it struck him, a warm thudding dull pain. It wasn’t hard to accept, yet. It would take more blows to begin to reach him with pain. For now, he relished the sound of the strands drumming on him, across his shoulders, his back and, he knew, raising color on his ass. 

The blows continued in regular rhythm. Sometimes he was impressed by the hidden strength of his friend. He wondered, between blows, if others had any idea of his hidden ferocity? His hidden strength?

He relaxed more into the blows. The cat’s strikes were hitting the same areas again: his shoulders and then working down. This time there was more pain, less thud. He was beginning to feel the individual strands as they nibbled. Next time through, he knew they would begin to bite. Then he could begin to lose himself. He waited, accepting the blows, eager for the freedom he would find. Eager to escape the desires. Eager to escape from himself.

He was just beginning to appreciate the warmth of actual pain when the blows stopped. He dropped his head, suddenly realizing that he had been holding it up. Next on the agenda was the dragon’s tongue. It licked a smaller area than the flogger, meaning that its bite would be sharper, especially on already sensitized skin. The first blow was a shock across his shoulders. He threw his head back and grunted. He hadn’t been ready.

His Enabler’s arm was loosening. The speed of the strikes was increasing. Hard and fast. The level of pain rose and he welcomed it. The sound was different. Sharper. One diamond-shaped leather tongue, biting hard against his tenderized flesh.  A red glow began to grow at the edges of his sight. He closed his eyes. His ass hurt now, as the tongue concentrated on that portion of his anatomy. It lowered to his thighs. For one quick second, he wanted to let go of the straps, step away from the cross. But he couldn’t. He needed the release. He needed this escape. He lowered his head again and jerked as the tongue lapped across his shoulders again. 

His friend took a short break. Gibbs knew he would offer to stop and he shook his head before he could even ask, feeling the sweat loosened by his action leaking into the marks on his back. The sting blended with the fresh onslaught of blows. This was it. The pain was sharp and strong now. His flesh cried out, nerve endings screaming at his body, telling him to do whatever he needed to do to avoid more pain. He stood his ground, balanced on bare feet and pressed harder against the cross, making the solid wood dig into him, giving himself no breathing space, allowing no quarter to move. 

Now the strap. Finally the strap. The hard thick leather thrashed against him. His breath came in gasps, timed with the acute agony of each blow on his beaten flesh. Harder and faster the other man struck him, giving him what he needed. Giving him the pain. Transferring the agony in his heart to his flesh. Honoring his request. Fulfilling this specific dark desire.

He leaned back into the blows, opening his mouth and yelling his need.   He knew his Enabler was waiting for this action and was watching him carefully, observing his every reaction. Analyzing his injuries. And probably, if he knew his friend, sharing his pain as he watched his back accept the blows he was inflicting. Gibbs opened his mouth and screamed, on purpose, forcing himself beyond what he would ever do in front of anyone but this friend. He wanted to get himself beyond his own self, beyond his own acceptance, his own pride, his own needs. Beyond his own cold bastard’s heart.

He struggled to keep his hands holding on to the straps of the cross, yelling at the top of his voice as the punishing strap was flung against him over and over. He couldn’t let go, he wasn’t ready. He finally sagged in the bonds as he realized what he was yelling.  A name.  Dammit – he was yelling out a name.  He was yelling out the name of the person who caused all of this agony within him, who caused the ache in his heart that made him prevail upon his friend. The name that made him beg for this distraction, this role reversal, this turnabout. That made his friend torture him until he screamed.

Never before had he screamed the name.

He dropped the restraining straps as his friend simultaneously declared “Enough.”

He placed his hands on the wood of the cross, bracing himself as his flesh screamed back at him. It had been a satisfying session. His head was spinning. His body was high on adrenaline mixed with agony.

There was one step to finish. He turned and dropped carefully to his knees. His friend, still breathing heavily, removed the toggled collar. Gibbs stayed still until he heard the small drawer open, the collar drop in, and the drawer shut again. He worked himself up with a groan and then waved a dismissing hand as his friend would have come to his aid. He stumbled over to the bed and fell onto it.

He heard the rocker creak and knew the lights had been dimmed. He kept his eyes closed as he let the throbbing pain envelop him. He let the agony become his only source of thought, his sole existence and pushed out everything else. For at least a few hours, he would have peace, as his friend watched over him.  For a few hours, he would not think the name, imagine that face, acknowledge his desire to bury himself in what he knew would be a willing body. For a few hours the pain would replace everything.

*** 

The smell of coffee woke him just before his cell phone alarm went off. He forced his aching body to move, to shut off the alarm. Good. The pain was still acute. That would help him go on.

He put on his clothes and stumbled up the stairs, carrying the filled coffee mug with him. There was a plate of rolls on the breakfast table. He grabbed two to go, and discovered as he took a bite that they were filled with bacon and eggs. Breakfast sandwiches. He grinned. Trust his friend to give him everything he needed, whether breakfast or a whipping.

Speaking of his friend, he was at the door, somehow aware that Gibbs was leaving. Gibbs gestured at him with the coffee mug, his mouth full, as he walked through.

“Why don’t you just claim him, Jethro? Tony could be your collared submissive.”

He swallowed. He owed him a response after using him so brutally last night.

“Not ready yet, Duck. Not time.”

He walked on down the porch stairs, taking a swallow of his coffee. He’d know when it was time.