Chapter Text
Back at the beginning, when his collar rested new and heavy around his throat, Jon thought that the terms of his indenture required him to ride in one of the Tube's Indent cars on the way to and from work as a way of mocking him, reminding him that now the only difference between him and the squirming, moaning Indents in their crotchless, chestless skintight jumpsuits bearing the Underground logo was that the lights on his collar hadn't turned on yet.
Now, knowing all he does, he'd like to think it was another manipulation of Elias', the other man using supernatural means to discover that Jon never rode in the Indent car and trying to put him even more off balance, undermine his equilibrium just that little bit more. He's still just as uncomfortable being in such close proximity to people engaged in using other Indents, though now that discomfort is tinged with sympathy for the plight of the Indents, too. He knows how wrong the assumption that no one who didn't want to be an Indent, at least on some deep subconscious level, would find themselves under indenture is.
But he's afraid that that isn't the reason, either. After all this time, even without his collar awakening to pump drugs under his skin just yet, he's conditioned to the sound and smell of sex like one of Pavlov's dogs, dripping something other than saliva.
He still thinks he's better off that the Indents in the Tube cars, though. The average Tube ride is so short that a transit Indent, somewhat notoriously, is rarely ever used long enough to get off.
-
His first day as Head Archivist, eyes gritty and dry from the hours it had taken to first accomplish the list of errands Elias had set him for beginning his life as an Indent and then poring over his contract for any way to escape his indenture until late into the night, news hasn't quite spread yet.
All his study of the contract did little to soothe the sick guilt and shame that say that if he had simply read the contract better, as of course was common sense before signing any legal document, Elias never would have been able to snap a collar around his throat. The terms were hidden deep in the contract, as if Elias was trying to trick him but had at least assumed that Jon would be more diligent than he actually was. Still, they were in plain English if he had just looked at them: all the stomach-turning requirements of service as the Magnus Institute's new on-staff Indent and the lone condition allowing termination of indenture: quitting the Institute.
He should have. He wanted to, wanted to whirl on Elias and say "I quit" the moment the collar closed around his throat and buried its probes and needles into his veins and brainstem, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it, even as Elias commanded him to strip and laid Jon out across his desk to use him for the inaugural time. Still can't bring himself to do it.
He cringes at the soft tapping at his door, hunching in on himself as though that could hide the bright lights of the collar. The door opens without waiting for his response.
"Boss! I didn't think you had it in you." Tim's voice is bright, cheery, exactly the same as it's always been. He sounds just like he does when Jon agrees to a drinking contest or karaoke on the rare occasions they go out together. Something unspools in his chest, grateful that it's Tim of all people and not someone he doesn't know, humiliating as it is for his friend to see him like this.
Tim strides into his office, coming just a little too close to where Jon had been fretting and trying to pace away the drug-induced flush setting his nerves alight before he arrived. Jon steps back toward his desk, but Tim follows. "If you wanted someone to fuck you, all you had to do was ask."
"What?" his breath catches. "No- Tim, I didn't, I don't!" He can't stop tripping over his words, noticing now that there's a strange light in Tim's eyes, something that he hasn't seen since the very first time Tim made an overt advance toward him and Jon turned him down.
Tim raises his eyebrows. "I didn't take Elias for the type to be into the 'unwilling' act." His mouth stretches into a sly smile, "That's alright, though. With me, run and fight as much as you want."
Jon wants to break down crying at Tim, Tim, not believing him that he didn't want this, but that was close enough to an order to bring the collar's contact with his brain to life, forcing his limbs into motion because he does want to run, as far away as he can possibly get from this entire situation.
His flight is brought to a rapid halt by Tim's arm around his waist, only making it far enough to bring Tim close enough to close the door and turn the lock. A sob bursts from Jon's throat, but Tim told him to fight and so he can't stop trying to squirm out of his hold, useless as he knows it is. Tim is much stronger than Jon.
"Shh," Tim hums into Jon's hair, hauling him over to his desk and laying him face down across it, catching his hands as he tries to push up and pinning them ruthlessly with one hand at the small of his back. "I'll take care of you."
Another sob tears from Jon's throat as Tim's free hand slides down, skimming his waist before yanking his trousers down around his knees. Tim chuckles.
"Another surprise out of you, boss!" He slides a finger under the waistband of the lacy panties and snaps them against Jon's skin. Jon is too busy trying to muffle his crying to tell him that it was Elias' decision to replace all his boxers and binders with lingerie sets whenever he's at work.
He catches a ragged breath, desperately searching for the words that will convince Tim he doesn't want this and choking out. "No, I- I'm asexual."
Tim's hand pauses in stroking over his buttock, but before he has a chance for relief Tim says, "Well then I'm proud of you for doing the right thing. We'll have all that frigidness fucked out of you in no time!"
He doesn't have to respond, because Tim yanks down his panties and thrusts a finger into him, knocking the breath out of him.
"No wonder Elias picked you for Head Archivist instead of Sasha."
It's completely unlike any other time he's tried sex, he thinks in dizzy intervals as Tim goes from one finger to two to three to his cock far too fast. Either his brief, disinterested experiments in university or yesterday with Elias. Yesterday he didn't have nearly half an hour of drugs pumping into his system, turning him into a sloppy, needy object. It's like being turned into another person entirely. He hates it.
Indents aren't allowed to hate their purpose. That's what the collar's drugs are for. It isn't long at all before his sobs become indistinguishable from moans, hard as he tries to muffle them.
-
The instant he crosses the Institute's threshold his collar's lights turn on and it starts pumping drugs that will put his nerves into overdrive, hypersensitive to every touch, and keep him turned on and ready to be used. More than once, he's had someone notice him, notice his collar, during his commute and follow him until they find where the lights turn on to indicate he's on duty and available for use. Not today, though, not that it gives him a reprieve for any real length of time.
There's something of an informal contest, among his coworkers, as to who can catch Jon as he comes in and be the first of the day to use him. He rarely makes it all the way down to the Archives without being stopped and fucked at least once.
He tried coming in early, some part of him determined to live up to the promotion to Head Archivist in spite of the circumstances even if it meant doing as much work as he could before anyone else arrived at the Institute, but it didn't take people long at all to catch on. With Elias expecting him to be there for his contract hours of 9AM to 5PM no matter what, he was simply adding 3, 4, 5 more hours of being used to his day. He still comes in early on isolated days when the workload really warrants it, but he can't make a habit of it.
A trio of researchers are clustered in a loose circle a bit past Rosie's desk. All three fixed on him as soon as he came in, eyes hungry, but he doesn't have anywhere else to go. As he tries to walk past them to the Archives one catches his wrist and smiles, pulling him into the center of the circle where all three can get their hands on him.
-
Jon is struggling valiantly to get some work done in spite of the constant fear that someone will come in, the cooling mess Tim left in him leaking into his panties, and the "Rules for Use of Our New Indent" email Elias sent out midmorning. He had to read the email, desperate to see the terms laid out in plain English rather than the dense legalese of his contract, but he wishes he hadn't. Some of it he hadn't realized from the contract, like Institute employees but not clients or guests being allowed to use him without a condom provided they can submit clean STI screenings to HR regularly, but it doesn't exactly make him feel better. Elias and Tim didn't use protection, but he didn't realize that allowance extended to the entire Institute. And the long, long list of permitted acts, featuring more than a few entries he's never even heard of, only makes his stomach churn.
He flinches when there's a tap at the door. Sasha eases it open, a sympathetic look on her face. "Hello, Jon."
"Sasha." He's uneasy, afraid of her reaction after Tim's betrayal.
"I've talked to Elias," she starts, and his stomach sinks, "and he agreed that, since this is so new to you, we could help you adjust this week."
He lets out a breath, surprised and relieved. "Thank you, Sasha." He'll still be an Indent, but taking it slow is... something, at least.
She nods, smiles. "Come here."
Sasha takes him by the hand and leads him out to the bullpen, where Tim and Martin are already milling about, waiting for them. Tim smiles, but it doesn't feel the same as it used to, now that Jon can't look at him the same. He averts his eyes.
"Alright," Sasha says, "Strip."
His hands move without permission, and his breath catches again. "Sasha?"
"You're alright, Jon." Her voice is still calm and reasonable, as if he has no reason to be apprehensive. "We just want to help you."
He swallows the lump in his throat, slowly growing sure that he's drastically misunderstood her. As he takes off his shoes and shucks his trousers, leaving him in the bright red bra and panties, Tim wolf-whistles and Martin openly ogles him. Sasha's eyes scan him up and down critically. Jon's face heats. He never wanted to be seen like this, even if he had chosen to have sex with someone.
"Do we leave him in that or strip him completely?" Martin asks.
"He does look good in lingerie," Tim says.
Sasha looks thoughtful for a moment, then shakes her head. "This is about helping Jon, not giving us eye candy, and I have something. We can always look later. Unless Martin wants a turn?"
Martin shakes his head. "I'll wait."
All attention returns to Jon, and Sasha says, "Take them off."
She steps closer when he's completely naked, and he can't hide the flinch. He'd been made to get every last strand of body hair waxed off yesterday as part of the conditions of his indenture, and it makes him feel even more like a shiny new toy in their eyes. Sasha runs her hand up and down his spine, guiding him to the side of the room. "You're doing great, Jon. It's just an adjustment, that's all."
A table that he's sure used to be covered in file boxes is bare now but for a basket. Next to it, on the floor, there's a cushion. Sasha reaches into the basket, tilting it toward them slightly. What he sees of the contents sends a jolt of fear through him.
Sasha guides him so he's standing beside the cushion, and he realizes that he's positioned in full view of both his assistants' desks and the stairs leading up to the rest of the Institute. "Don't move," Sasha orders, and it's like someone's taken away the part of his brain in charge of voluntary motion, a horrifying inverse of Mr. Spider. He dreamed of that for the first time in a long time last night, dredged up out of his memory by the collar doing the same thing all these years later, and he's sure it won't be the last.
Sasha pulls his arms behind his back, painfully gentle, and wraps them in the wide leather cuffs she took from the basket. They go from his wrists almost all the way up to his elbows, and his stomach flips at how much they restrict his motion. She digs in the basket again, and kneels to wrap a leather strap around his thighs, fixing them together just above the knee.
She holds him by the shoulder as she stands. "Just a little hop, over to the cushion." He wants to make a caustic remark about the inconvenience of moving him rather than the cushion, but his mouth is too dry to form the words. Sasha guides him down to kneel on the cushion, face burning with the humiliation of it all. Anyone could come down and see him here, on his knees and wearing nothing but an Indent's collar. Once he's seated, she moves behind him and wraps another leather strip around his ankles.
Something clinks, and Jon jerks his head, but Sasha's deft fingers are already fixing the other end of a short chain anchored to the wall to the collar.
Oh. That's why they couldn't move the cushion.
Her hand goes into the basket again, pulling out another mess of straps and buckles. "Open up, Jon." The collar doesn't let him do anything to resist her nestling the ring gag between his teeth.
With his mouth gaping open his breath is unbearably loud, the hiccuping start of a sob impossible to hide. Tears from an Indent don't mean anything, of course; Sasha just presses a bulb into the ring, muffling any sound Jon cares to make but leaving his mouth... readily available. He presses his eyes shut, unable to hide or wipe away the tears that roll down his face.
Sasha pats his shoulder. "I have just the thing." She goes to her desk and rummages through the boxes that aren't quite unpacked yet. Without her close by, filling his view, he can see the way Tim and Martin are looking at him, Tim openly adjusting the crotch of his trousers.
"You'll be good at this, boss," he says as if that's supposed to be a comfort.
Sasha comes back with a length of broad green ribbon that must be leftover from Christmas. She reaches behind Jon, carefully threading it beneath his bound arms, and pulls it to cover his nipples, tying a festive-looking bow in the middle of his chest. It's almost big enough to hide his tits, but if Tim and Martin's expressions are anything to go by that somehow only makes them more enticing.
Sasha stands and he flinches at something cold hitting his stomach. He looks down to see a small decorative chalkboard she had hung up in her old cubicle, the twine for hanging it threaded into the bow so it dangles there. It takes a moment, reading upside-down, to decipher what she's written on it: "Office Use Only."
Sasha runs her fingers through his hair, and he shivers. "Almost done, Jon, and then you won't have to worry about anything. Close your eyes for me." The Archives vanish as she plucks his glasses off and winds a thick blindfold around his head, leaving him even more terrifyingly vulnerable.
He assumes they're done with him, that they've gone back to their desks to work as though he's part of the furniture, not their supposed boss and friend. It means he startles all the harder when cool, dry hands press between his bound thighs, guiding something up toward his cunt.
It's long and thick, and when it's fully seated part of the bottom curves forward to embrace his cock. His breath quickens in fear.
"Good boy, Jon," Sasha says, calm and collected as ever, "Good slut."
There's a faint click, and he properly realizes it's a vibrator inside him as soon as it starts to live up to its name. He keens, writhing in place because he's too securely bound to do anything more.
"Don't worry," Sasha soothes, "Elias already approved everything. We'll get things up and running this week, and all you need to do is worry about adjusting." There's a click, and the vibration grows more intense, and this time he does hear them all go back to their desks.
His assistants start discussing the state of the Archives and Martin's old work in the Library as though Jon doesn't exist. He tries desperately to keep his tears and the heaving of his chest- god, his tits are bouncing with it, he can feel them- silent. He doesn't want to exist.
The drugs ensure there's only so long he can hold out, though, even though in the past vibrators have done next to nothing for him if he isn't intently focused on getting off. He comes with a cry that's muffled by the gag, and all conversation stops abruptly.
When he falls silent and comes back to himself enough to think, he's torn between his humiliation and overwhelmed frustration that the vibrator is still going.
All Sasha says is, "Good slut," voice filled with warm approval, and Jon realizes as the vibrator leaps drastically in intensity that she's too far away to for him to hear the remote.
She said they arranged with Elias to keep him like this all week.
Time stretches on like that, Jon holding back tears and his assistants acting as though it's a regular work day. The vibrator changes intensity and rhythm at random, but never allows him so much as a moment's reprieve as he's forced to climax over and over, until his thighs are shiny with slick. Every time he's showered in demeaning praise before they go back to ignoring him.
The terrible monotony breaks with the sound of footsteps, and his breath quickens as he realizes someone else is going to see him like this. Whoever it is enters the Archives with a low whistle and a scoff of a laugh.
"I came down to see if what they were saying about Sims was true but- wow!"
"Hey Jake," Tim says. "He's gorgeous, isn't he?"
"Yeah." Jon is sure he can feel their eyes on his skin like brands. Jake was with them in Research, and he never liked Jon at all. Him being here is worse than Sasha and Tim, who he used to trust, or Martin, who's a stranger. If this is how friends treat him...
"Did you want to use him?" Tim offers after a moment, sending another jolt of betrayal through Jon. "He's lovely. Just put him back the way you found him."
"Sure," Jake says, and trots over. He unhooks the chain and heaves Jon up onto the table like he doesn't weigh anything. "Having fun, Sims?" he asks, voice taunting, as he undoes the strap around Jon's thighs. Jon holds them exactly as they were, pressing them together as tight as he can.
"Come on," Jake goads, plucking at the ball nestled in the gag. "I want to hear you. Never knew you were such a whore. It explains a lot." A sharp smack hits the side of Jon's leg, and there's nothing he can do to smother the cry.
Jake presses his hands between Jon's thighs, forcing them apart. He loops something around one of Jon's knees, and he can't move. It must be attached to the table, he realizes as the other leg receives the same treatment, splaying him awkwardly open with his ankles still tied together. The vibrator is pulled out of him, but it's like he can still feel the buzzing in its absence after so long. Jake plucks at the bow covering Jon's tits and sets the sign aside.
Something narrow traces the seam of him, slowly dragging through the mess of slick that's been mostly trapped between his legs. "Look at you," Jake says, somewhere between arousal and disgust. The implement draws away and a moment later a sharp line of pain erupts along his inner thigh. Jake doesn't wait for his scream to fade before applying the riding crop to the other thigh. Then he moves up, whipping it over Jon's nipples several times each. Then his stomach, his calves, the bottoms of his feet. Every stroke is agony, multiplied by his drugged sensitivity.
Jake waits until Jon's cries are coming so strong that they've faded into near-silence as he gasps and struggles to catch his breath before taking the riding crop to his cunt.
Someone comes over as he's wailing at the repeated blows to the most delicate part of himself but he has no idea who. There's the sound of wet flesh and then something lands all over his stomach in streaks, followed a moment later by another splattering over his chest. Then the vibrator is tucked neatly back inside.
Jake makes quick work of putting him back in place, exactly as he found him except for the cooling streaks of cum dripping down his torso.