"Go right in," said Hawkeye when Ed arrived at Lt. Colonel Mustang's office. "He's waiting for you." There was something in her expression that caught Ed's eye, a mix of both regret and annoyance. She quickly turned to her paperwork.
"What is it this time?" Ed asked, a bit abruptly. Damn it, why did it seem every time he reported in, Mustang had some nit to chew with him? Ed was doing his job and the civilians liked him, hell, he was helping put a good face to the military's name. Mustang should be clapping his shoulder and thanking him for weeding out corruption and making the world a better place.
"You are late," Hawkeye said.
Ed blinked, stunned, then looked up at the clock. "No, I'm five minutes early."
"The Colonel asked you to report in last week. You are seven days late."
The world fell into place again. "Oh that! I was busy," said Ed, dismissively. "And he called me back for a stupid reason. It was just a party, and it's not like anyone would notice I wasn't there. Besides, I don't like going to fancy parties, all people do is stand around and drink. It's boring."
Hawkeye glared, then her face softened a bit, and finally she took a deep breath. "It's not my place to talk to you about this, but Ed, if you want to stay in the military, I suggest you pay a bit more attention to orders." Suddenly she pursed her lips. "Just so you know," she said in a slightly kinder voice. "I don't approve of what they've planned for you and neither does the Colonel, but we don't have any say in the matter."
What they've planned for me? I'm going to be punished? For the first time Ed felt a twinge of fear. "It was just a party."
Hawkeye looked away. "It was an order, Edward. It was an order directly from the Fuhrer himself. They were planning on showing you off to some civilian leaders. You embarrassed the brass, and now they want their pound of flesh."
He was going to be punished. Damn it. The good feel he'd had on the train coming over fell apart. All that hard work, and all anyone cared about was the fact that he didn't show up for a social event. Ed's stomach sank through the floor.
"Go in, Ed," said Hawkeye. "And for once, don't fight the Colonel, he feels badly enough about this without you making it worse."
Ed felt annoyed. It seemed that whenever Mustang wasn't completely ignoring Ed he treated him like some child that needed protecting. Ed wished that for once the man would appreciate him for what he was, not some nameless peon, and not some snot nosed child, either. Ed was a capable man, and he didn't need any coddling.
"Well, the Colonel doesn't need to feel bad at all, I can take whatever they dish out."
"You should also know," Hawkeye continued, "they are holding the Colonel as much responsible for your absence as you."
Ed's jaw dropped. "Why? That's crazy!"
"Ed, you need to go in now," said Hawkeye, pointedly.
Chastened, Ed opened up the door to Mustang's office. He kept his eyes on the floor until he reached the dark mahogany desk. Then as silence stretched he looked up. Mustang was sitting on his chair looking cold and inscrutable. So much for that hoped for pat on the back.
"I'm sorry. Hawkeye just told me—" Ed was interrupted by the scrape of the chair against the floor as Mustang pushed himself back from his desk.
Mustang stood up and walked over to Ed. "Come on," he said brusquely. "They are expecting us." He grabbed the shoulder of Ed's red coat and tightened it in his fist. "I'll talk to you on the way there."
Ed bristled at being pulled towards the door and started to push the other away, but then remembered Hawkeye's admonishment. They were going to punish Mustang for his absence, too.
But it was just a party. It wasn't anything important!
Ed looked up and saw the muscles tense around Mustang's jaw, belying his poker face. They walked out the door again, past Hawkeye who met Ed's eye only for a fraction of a second before turning back to her paperwork. Then they went down the hall. Ed noticed a group of enlisted staring at the way he was being shoved around and felt a flush of embarrassment.
"I'm coming," said Ed tightly, grabbing Mustang's hand and attempting to pry it off. "You don't have to push me."
"I don't think you have a clue what you've gotten yourself into, Fullmetal."
That was true, he had no clue what sort of punishment was coming, only that Mustang seemed to think he couldn't handle it.
"Well," groused Ed, "Maybe if you told me"
"Being twelve isn't going to get you out of this. You are in the military now, you can't hide behind youthful irresponsibility."
"I'm NOT!" Ed pulled his jacket out of Mustangs hand and wiped his shoulder. They stopped in the middle of the hall and Ed leveled his full glare down at his superior. "I've never played the age card. The only one who cares about my age is you. I screwed up. I'll take responsibility for it. Stop treating me like a child, because I'm not."
Mustang stood close looking down at him. Ed saw the man's nostrils briefly flare, and a look of pity crossed his face.
Pity. Ed hated that emotion. "So, why are they punishing you . That's completely insane."
"As your commanding officer and your sponsor, I'm responsible for your conduct." Mustangs' lips quirked up momentarily. "It is expected that I keep you disciplined and in line without prodding from the higher brass. Thus, since they are stepping in to discipline you, they also need to discipline me as well."
Well, in a backwards way that kind of made sense. Hell, Mustang had reason to be pissed at Ed. "So. What are they planning on doing to us?"
"You'll see when we get there," said Mustang. "I don't want to discuss it in the hall." And true to his word, Mustang didn't make another peep until arrived at their destination.
The hall was vaguely familiar. Ed had been down in this part of the main building of Central Headquarters once before, during the interview. Ed suddenly gasped as he saw Mustang stop in front of the door to the room where that "interview" had ended—in what one person had called a "hazing."
"They—they want me to do that again???" That being nothing to do with punishment whatsoever. Masturbating was supposed to be something nice that one did in private, to relieve tension, clear the mind, so he could go back to concentrating on more important things. Ed hadn't understood why the brass wanted him to watch him jack off, but they had, but he'd gone along with it, because there wasn't any choice. It had been a disconcerting experience, feeling pleasure and at the same time anger and humiliation. The act had gnawed at him for several weeks, pulling his emotions in a couple of uncomfortable directions at once. In the end, though, he'd shrugged it off, the way he had so many other unpleasant things. He was tougher than that.
"No, this will be somewhat different." Mustang's voice was full of foreboding. "Listen Fullmetal, you aren't the first to receive this sort of discipline. It is a something of a military tradition. Nevertheless, it's not a form of punishment that I approve of, because I don't see that it's efficient, and it is abusive. The idea is to humiliate you and put you in your place, and to—to provide a service to those you wronged."
Ed thought of the men at his interview, who clearly were exited by watching him touch his body. Service is one word for it, bunch of dirty old men.
Ed suddenly looked over at Mustang and wondered if he'd been through a similar experience. He probably had. Probably all the state Alchemists he'd met had at some point. The idea of Mustang naked on that bed made Ed uncomfortable, and yet the idea was eerily interesting at the same time.
Mustang suddenly grabbed Ed's shoulder again, drawing him out of his thoughts. The Lt. Colonel's expression seemed somehow more tender and personal than before. Ed sucked in a breath feeling both very painfully shy and oddly pleased at the attention.
"It may turn out that you like this sort of—punishment," said Mustang softly, looking deeply into Ed's eyes. "If you do, that is okay, there is no reason to be ashamed of it. As far as the military is concerned, the important thing is that you learn how and when to be submissive and put your trust in others."
Trust in others? Submissive? Fullmetal bristled. "I don't think you have to worry about me enjoying being submissive."
Mustang nodded. "No, probably not. Nonetheless, don't fight this. If you do they will only prolong it. They aren't going to be happy until both of us have performed to their satisfaction."
"Both of us? You'll have to do something, too?"
"Yes, Fullmetal," said Mustang with a sigh. "This is as much a test of my loyalty as it is of yours. The military has been doing this for decades—it is traditional, not personal in any way. This is not the first time I've participated in this archaic ritual. Trust me and follow my lead, and this will be over reasonably quickly." Mustang lifted his watch out of his pocket and flipped the lid. "They will be here in less than 5 minutes, we have to be in place and ready by the time they come in." Mustang pushed the heavy door opened and they entered the room.
Ed walked down the steeply sloping ramp between the rows of chairs and past the large, now unlit, flood lights. The walls were hung with heavy black drapes. He was struck by how much the room resembled a very small theatre. It made sense. Certainly the last time he'd been in the room his only purpose had been as entertainment.
Ed was slightly surprised to see the "stage" did not have the bed on it anymore. In its place was an odd complicated mechanical armature with a lot of levers and ropes and winches, and odd swaths of canvas and leather. Beneath it was a thick tough mat of the sort used in the sparring rooms.
Were they going to have him fight Mustang? Hell, that wouldn't be punishment at all! Ed liked fighting, and he rather fancied the idea of wrestling with Mustang.
"Come here," said Mustang, standing directly beneath the armature. Bemused Ed walked up to him. "Now you need to take off all your clothes, just like you did before."
Or maybe they did want Ed touching himself. "What about you?" He asked as he pulled off his coat.
"I get to keep my clothes on," Mustang said. "They aren't punishing us equally."
No, of course they wouldn't be. Ed's stomach tightened, but undressed as he was told. "You know, it was just a party. I don't see why they have to be so upset over it."
"You don't have to know why they order you to do anything, Fullmetal. Your insolence alone could have earned you this. Hurry, they will be here soon."
Ed finished undressing, folding his clothes neatly on the corner of the mat. He then turned to stare Mustang down defiantly, to prove that a silly little thing like nudity couldn't embarrass him.
Ed's throat suddenly caught. Mustang was blushing. In all this time, Ed had given no particular thought about how uncomfortable Mustang might be with the situation. But then Mustang had been the one person to walk OUT of his "interview". For some reason seeing Mustang embarrassed was even more bothersome than the anticipation of his own humiliation. Ed wondered if Mustang maybe just didn't like him. Ed squashed that painful thought quickly, transforming it into annoyed impatience. "What next?"
"Put your arms over your head." Ed did and watched with surprise as Mustang pulled down a thick heavy chain, at the end was an odd arrangement of leather straps and rings separated by foot long length of metal bar. It took almost thirty seconds of buckling and adjusting, but in the end Ed found his wrists securely fastened, held apart and above his head. There was no way he could bring his palms together.
No, they weren't going to spar—or masturbate either. Adrenaline prickled through his bloodstream, making all his senses keener. He felt sweat starting to bead, despite the coolness of the room. He wished that Mustang would just tell him what they had planned already.
Roy continued to mess with the armature, with a few turns of a crank, the chain lifted Ed's wrists until his entire body was stretched out, and his heels left the matt. He had no leverage for a kick, and he couldn't so much as take a step in any direction.
He watched as Mustang pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and then look around the room. He suddenly stepped off the mat and over to what appeared to be a tool chest. He caught the handle and hauled it back in front of Ed.
"What's that for?" Ed asked, breaking the thick silence.
"We'll see in a moment," Mustang replied back. He flipped the latches and began pulling a number of odd items out.
Although Ed had never owned a horse, he knew what a riding crop looked like when he saw one. The armature made sense now. They were going to have him flogged. The second item Mustang pulled was also uncomfortably familiar. It was the same brand of oil he'd been forced to masturbate with three months ago. Ed wasn't sure how that would jive with being whipped, but he supposed he would find out soon.
Mustang snorted as he pulled out a third item. "Well, apparently they are well aware of your mouth, Fullmetal." It was a bit. They were really going with the horse theme.
"It would seem more appropriate if they used those on you," Ed said, laughing a little to lighten the mood.
Mustang's eyes flashed with annoyance. "As I was saying."
Ed tried to keep his eyes on what Mustang was doing, but turning around in this position was difficult. Each step threatened to make him lose his balance, and when he did his full weight made the edges of the stiff leather straps bite uncomfortably into his flesh wrist.
Ed felt Mustang's warm hands touch his face from behind, and his skin crawled with goosebumps. It felt strange to be touched by someone when he didn't have the option of avoiding that touch. It felt disconcerting, and scary, but also really good. Ed bit his lips and hoped that Mustang wouldn't notice his reaction. A moment later the coolness of a metal bar pressed against his lips. Ed clenched his teeth automatically. "Open up, Ed."
Reluctantly, he opened his mouth and the metal bar slid between his teeth. For a second he held it reasonably comfortably, like he might a pencil, but then the straps were tightened and adjusted, and the bit pressed uncomfortably tightly.
"Is this necessary?" Ed tried to say, and found his tongue halted by the metal. The gag did nothing to stifle the grunt of frustration.
The last item out of the box continued the equine theme, but it wasn't until Mustang had actually strapped the elaborate leather thing around his forehead and under his chin that Ed understood what it was.
Fucking reigns thought Ed. Who the hell thinks up this stuff?
He felt a painful jerk as the corners of his gag were attacked to the straps.
A moment later the blinders were aligned and in place, and Ed's vision was reduced to a narrow view, straight in front of himself. He felt a sudden tug his head, and he had to move his head to the side to relieve the pressure of the bit against the corner of his stretched lips.
Now that he could no longer speak he was full of questions he wanted to ask Mustang. Questions like, why they didn't just flog him or ground him, or give him an unpleasant task like scrubbing the bathroom floors. That's what his mom had done when he'd acted up.
Ed knew he looked completely ridiculous in this get up. Maybe when he was five he might have enjoyed dressing up and pretending to be an animal, but he was beyond such childish things. His cheeks burned. This was stupid.
And yet—As utterly absurd as it all was, it made a strange disturbing sense. He was completely incapable of moving positions without causing himself pain, and yet Mustang could move him around like a doll easily enough.
Ed heard the door clang open and the room was filled with the sound of male chatter and footsteps as the audience filed their way in. The lights were still on and Ed tried to see who all would be watching, but the bit stopped him before turn his head enough.
After a few painfully long minutes of simply standing there doing nothing, being exposed Ed heard a deep, voice chime up. Ed sucked a quick breath in realizing that it was the Fuhrer.
"For almost three hundred years the Amestrian Military has been a proud and great house, taking in the finest young men and women, bestowing a sense of solidarity, brotherhood, and sisterhood upon them. We are forged from many into one mighty weapon, united, disciplined, and strong. Each of us has sacrificed, and in return for our sacrifice we have been rewarded. We are there for each other. We have each other's backs. When the civilians would run, we stand firm because we are together, and together we have built a mighty empire and kept it safe from its enemies."
Ed's stomach tightened a bit. Solidarity was one thing he had not felt in his three months in the military. In fact, he'd tried to hold himself as much separate as he could, not only accepting solitary missions, but insisting on them. He felt a brief epiphany, as he realized that his missing that stupid party might actually be perceived as a snub.
"My brothers, I bring before us a new recruit, a fine young colt to add to our stable. One day, he will be part of a team, but right now, he is unbroken and willful and doesn't listen to his masters. Before he can pull the wagon of our country, he must be broken and tamed. His training begins now."
Ed swallowed and tightened up in anticipation. A moment later he heard a whistle and felt a sharp hot sting against his right thigh. He jerked forward only to lose balance again. Before he could regain his footing, the crop came down again, and then again. Ed bit down on the metal bar, feeling his muscles twitch as each blow landed. In their wake was a maddening itch that he couldn't rub out.
His skin felt incredibly sensitized. Not knowing where or when the blows would land added a whole new dimension to the punishment. All thought fled his mind and he was locked down into the moment, into the sensations he felt. The sting, the burn, the itch that didn't have time to die down before the cycle repeated.
Ed tried to keep his voice in check, but he couldn't. He'd suffered pain before, silently, but that pain had been purer and less complicated. This was tainted by humiliation and helplessness. He'd been steeled for automail surgery, but he couldn't steel himself against this. And so his voice grunted out, unwilling past his throat. At first it was small breathy hisses and more throaty moans, but then as the punishment continued, and strokes began to cross each other, a full fledged scream emerged.
"But training isn't just pain, it's encouragement as well," continued the Fuhrer, "Lieutenant Colonel, you know what to do."
The blows ceased and Ed gasped. He felt the reigns loosen, but he didn't try to look around, he just let his let his head drop down. Sweat dripped ticklishly from Ed's nose.
Ed cried out again, louder when he felt a slippery hand grasp his penis. Ed stiffened and flushed. Mustang was touching him. MUSTANG was stroking and sliding and masturbating him, and it felt good, so good, but it was MUSTANG doing it, not his own hand. Ed whimpered uncontrollably, feeling Mustang's hand pulling, sliding over his sensitive skin. Yes, so sensitive, like his back and thighs which stung at the slightest caress of Mustang's white dress shirt sleeve.
This wasn't discipline; this was sex. Sex with Mustang, of all people. He could feel the man's warmth, the texture of his shirt, his breath on Ed's shoulder, up his neck to his ear. Mustang was kissing him on his shoulder, his lips making soft smacking noises as his mouth drew in small puckers of flesh from his neck. Then Ed felt incredible heat and wetness right at the angle of his jaw, just above where the strap bit into his flesh.
"Look at him get into it," someone commented. "Damn, this is good."
Ed jerked like he had under the first blows of the crop, with the same results, for a second he was hanging painfully from his wrist, and that pain mixed with Mustang's licks around Ed's earlobe. Meanwhile the hand on his cock slid with maddening slowness.
Ed managed to get his feet under him again. He wanted to thrust into Mustangs hands, but he couldn't. He wanted to press into Mustang's mouth or possibly pull away. The pleasure was like an itch that Ed couldn't scratch, but that continued to build. He was helpless, dependant, vulnerable.
And it did. Suddenly, the licking, the hand the touch of Mustang's clothes against Ed's skin. It was all gone. Ed breathed hard, his cock pulling heavily at his groin, his balls full and sore, and for second after long second he felt only the almost imperceptible currents of air.
"The crop," ordered the Fuhrer.
Ed tried to shake his head to protest. But the reigns pulled tight halting him, and a moment later there was the sound of crop singing through the air, and a new line of pain etched itself across his hip.
Ed's skin was too sensitive for this rough treatment. It was unfair to make him horny and then make him hurt. It was unfair that these men laughed as he tried to jerk away and protect himself. The bit did nothing to block the moans and breathy screams Ed produced, and part of his mind was shocked and angered to hear his audience murmuring appreciatively. If he wasn't tied up he'd want to snatch that crop from Mustang and whip all of those men's sorry behinds, see what this felt like to them.
Ed's cock was softening, even though the need remained keen.
"Hand," came the Fuhrer's voice. And there was that moment of anticipation, while Ed heard Mustang put the crop down. And then again, the slippery hand stroked him.
Ed's body didn't know which way to go, whether to steel itself against the pain, or against the pleasure, and in the end it did neither. Ed was drowning. He needed relief, a break, he needed more. He heard crying noises but it took a moment to realize that they were coming from his own lips.
Mustang was mouthing Ed's cheek now, and his words were soft and muffled almost to the point of being unintelligible. "You are doing a great job, Ed. You are doing really well."
Ed whined and shuddered, but latched onto that praise. He felt suddenly reassured. Mustang wouldn't lead him wrong. Mustang was there for him. Ed couldn't think anymore.
"Spank him," said the Fuhrer.
And pleasure ended in a broad hot swath of pain against Ed's buttock. For some inexplicable reason, the sensation was comforting. Ed had been spanked before by his mother, and by Pinako as well. After all the strange, stroking and whipping, this felt good. Ed found himself relaxing into the blows. Pain grew stronger with each repeat, building the way the pleasure had before, towards something intolerable, but somehow satisfying.
"I think it's time for our colt to be put through his paces," said the Fuhrer. "Lower him, Mustang."
Ed held still while the pressure on his wrists gradually decreased. His heels met the mat for the first time in what seemed eons. Ed resisted the temptation to collapse, as his arms lowered to about chest level.
Parts of him that had been relatively quiet before now spoke up. The strain off his shoulders and calves made him feel giddy. "Ed," said Mustang softly again. "You will need to do what I tell you to when I tell you."
"Ed, march in place."
Ed frowned. Suddenly his reigns were pulled back and upwards and Ed was forced to straighten up. "MARCH!" Mustang ordered.
Ed brought his legs stiffly up and down. There was a general gruffaw from the audience. Mustang pulled the reigns again, and Ed tasted a bit of blood. "Higher, proudly."
Ed lifted his knees higher up. His thighs banged against his erection, causing strange sensations to course back through his cock deep into his body. He tried spreading his legs a little as he brought his knees up, but felt the reigns tighten once again, and quickly went back to a more normal march.
Ed hesitated and felt the reigns jerk. The sound he made was more of an "Eh!" sound than a real neigh, but it was enough to make the audience howl.
Ed's face burned. He hated them. The only thing keeping him doing this was Mustang, because he wanted to hear that praise again, feel that hand.
Mustang had him march in a slow circle, and as he did so he saw the faces of those observing him for the first time. Ed recognized most of them. They were all middle-aged men, slouching comfortably in their chairs and smiling indulgently at him. Some were rubbing their clothed crotches in a shameless manner. Ed blushed, as he realized how much his humiliation and pain was turning them on, and that his punishment was these men's entertainment.
Mustang continued turning him all the way around the circuit until he was facing the same direction he had at the start.
"Reward him, Colonel," said the Fuhrer.
This time Ed was ready for the hand to stroke him back fullness. Unlike before, Ed now had the freedom of movement to buck into Mustang's fist, and he did so. Mustang responded by holding still and letting Ed do the work of thrusting. The friction was irresistible, and even thought Ed knew that every squirm, every buck of his hips was making the show better for his audience, he couldn't stop his own movements.
Mustang was not unaffected either. Ed could hear his breathing, quick and harsh, and suddenly the man was right there, pressed against Ed's back pushing something that even through clothes, Ed knew was a cock. The slight whimper took Ed by surprise and he wondered for a second if he might have made the sound himself, but no it was Mustang.
Mustang tried to cover the sound himself by suddenly starting to talk in a hushed quick voice. "Very good, you are doing very good. I'm proud of you. You are taking this well."
The praise felt wonderful. It was exactly what Ed needed to hear, had wanted to hear from Mustang for weeks, months. While he'd preened with the happy faces of those who he'd helped, and every time a bad guy went down he'd felt a flush triumph that made all the pain and fear seem oh so worth it, it still palled when faced with Mustang's distant ambivalence. Damn it, Ed had worked so hard to get smile out of the man, a clap on the shoulder, a bit of acknowledgement, and Mustang had held it from him. But now here, when he lay weak and humiliated, his composure ripped away, now the man chose to speak those words.
Ed's heart clenched and he felt a tear slide down the side of his face, and was glad for the blinders which hid this further weakness from view. I'm not being good at all, Ed thought to himself. I'm losing. I'm lost. But nothing, not even the shame stopped his hips from moving, stopped his need for that friction. How can Mustang respect him for this?
Just as his need grew to the critical point, Mustang stopped and let him go. Ed writhed,yanking on his arms to try to reach his own groin. Kicking up his knees to at least give his hardness that small stimulation. It was painful to stop now, but agonizingly his orgasm backed off
As if reading his mind, Mustang said softly, "I can't let you come until we've been given permission to. Settle down. Settle down or they will make this last longer."
Ed whined and with great effort relaxed.
"The colt is still a bit high strung I see," said the Fuhrer. "But perhaps he's ready for his first ride, eh, Mustang."
"Sir." Mustang's voice had a strange bit of pleading.
"Colonel, his behavior is your responsibility. Since you failed to break him in private, you have given over that responsibility to me. Now accept my judgment in the matter. Mount him."
"And while you are at it, Mustang, why don't you show the rest of our assembled brethren, what a fine job I did training you. It hasn't been that long since you yourself were last in his position. If I recall correctly, you've already had two, or is it three sessions in that horse's bit. Don't tell me you need another."
"Then undress and get started, your mount is suffering."
Ed sucked a deep breath, his mind filled to the point of breaking with the thought of Mustang—Mustang wearing the bit and chains. Mustang, the untouchable, Mustang the man Ed had all but hero worshiped, naked, whipped and fondled by the Fuhrer. Repeatedly.
"Anyway, let's hope that Fullmetal is a quicker study."
The next minutes dragged on with an almost unbearable sense of anticipation. Ed could hear the reactions of the audience, but not see what Mustang was doing himself. What the brass saw apparently they liked a lot.
"You've kept yourself in magnificent shape, despite being chained to a desk, I see," said the Fuhrer. "And it's good to see you've gotten into the spirit of things as well." The Fuhrer's voice was warm and slightly condescending. "Oh my dear Colonel, why the sad look? Show some enthusiasm! You take this all too seriously. Is it his age? It was your idea to recruit him in the first place. You knew that this might happen—would probably happen."
"I'd hoped," said Mustang. "Perhaps you would have chosen a different method." Mustang stopped.
"Tell you what," said the Fuhrer. "You and I can discuss this together later. Look, your mount has gone soft, and your audience is bored. Hop to, Colonel, lets see if we can get this punishment back on track."
Ed heard the winch and his hands rose up again up level to his head. Ed was worried that he might be forced back onto his toes, but no. Instead he felt Mustangs arms slide around his belly, pressing a wide strip of canvas against his waist, tucking it down to cross his hips just above his groin. There was the sound of chains and latching hooks.
Ed's curiosity got the better of him and he ventured to look down and sideways. A second later he felt the reigns tighten and yank his head back into position again. There was the sound of the winch again but this time it wasn't his arms, but rather his belly that was being pulled, so that his feet left the ground.
Then the work went on. Now Mustang was wrapping something around his shins and ankles. Chains were adjusted again and first one leg then the other were lifted up, so that the weight of his body rested on his shins, belly and wrists.
The position wasn't uncomfortable, but it came with a great sense of helplessness. Ed was bowed over deeply, his arms pulled straight out in front of him, his legs bent and apart. Ed could no longer steady himself against anything; he was swinging freely in space.
Mustang pushed him, and he rocked forward and back in a gentle arc. On the back swing he felt something scrape against the crack of his ass, not hard, but with enough force to let Ed understand fully what was coming next.
Three months was a long time, and Ed had shed a lot of innocence on his missions. He'd spent a lot of time in libraries and not all of it was spent reading alchemy. He remembered his time before in this room, which had ended with his automail fingers invading that tender spot. He remembered how it had felt, and how excited it had made his audience back then.
He was going to feel that again, only this time he wouldn't be doing it to himself. His waist was pulled up a bit, and Mustang swung him again. This time Ed felt the poke squarely against the tight pucker of his ass.
Mustang held him still with one hand on his hip, then Ed felt the trickle of fluid agaist his sphincter. Then he was being poked again, by something slimmer and harder. Ed tried to wiggle, but it was impossible, with one firm hand on Ed's hip, Mustang breached him.
Ed let out a muffled cry, and felt Mustangs other hand reach underneath him and give his cock a few delicious pulls. Need, which had backed off, bloomed up full force again.
"You must submit to me completely," said Mustang. "Let go, let go." He used his hip swung Ed gently back and forth on that finger until Ed did relax. The second finger was in for only a few seconds, before Mustang pulled both his fingers away.
This was it. Mustang's hand was back on his hip. Ed whimpered as he was pushed forward and then allowed to swing back on something hotter and softer and larger than he'd faced before. It pushed insistantly, stretching him further than those fingers, farther than was comfortable, it wasn't going to fit. It just couldn't.
And then with a sudden pop, Mustang was in. Ed stiffened as who-knows-how-many inches slid inside. He was full, completely full. Utterly possessed.
"Relax," said Mustang again.
And Ed did. He relaxed because there was no point in fighting. His need was pounding in him, and being stretched was not a bad thing. Not bad at all.
"Do start already," said the Fuhrer. "Ride him."
Mustang placed one hand on Ed's hip, and loosely fisted Ed's cock with the other, then Ed felt him thrust. The swing amplified the movements and the first stroke nearly caused Mustang's cock to leave Ed's body. The hand on his cock and hip momentarily tightened and stopped his forward momentum, pushing him back. The length of the older man's cock slid back all the way to the base with a smacking noise. Ed's buttocks, still smarting from the earlier spanking gave out a small protest of pain.
Mustang repeated, thrust, swing, push, smack, sting. All the way in, all the way out. And with each incredibly deep thrust Mustangs hand slid too. Ed gasped and rocked his hips, which in turn made the sensation inside and out keener. He could hear the audience panting. He could hear Mustang stifling his own cries. And Ed let go of the last bit of self-control he had and groaned without around the bit without shame.
"Dear God," murmured someone. "Now there's a pretty picture. I can see everything."
Ed flushed. Why couldn't the audience stay quiet, so he could concentrate on what Mustang was doing to him?
"Harder," urged the Fuhrer. "Faster"
The pace sped up. Friction, pleasure, pain, need, humiliation, anger, comfort, solidarity. He was part of something larger. Eaten up. Embraced, wanted, desired. There was no stopping it, no resistance, only sensation.
He came. The swinging didn't stop or slow and it seemed every thrust was shoving the cum out of him, making him shoot harder, longer. His orgasm better than any he'd experienced before. His whole body twitched in sympathy.
"Ah yes," hissed Mustang. He released Ed's cock and seized the other hip, driving Ed even harder, slamming him now. Ed let out a shout of protest, but then Mustang pushed him away and the cock slid free of his ass. At the same moment Mustang let go with both hands. Then Ed felt something hot and wet hit his sore back.
Roy gently rubbed his tender back. "Good boy, Good boy."
The first claps turned into a ringing applause. The performance was over. The brass was satisfied. They had what they wanted, Ed's virginity in revenge for his snub. They damn well should be happy. That was one milestone Ed would never get to pass again, his first fuck had come before his first kiss. The brass didn't care anything for his innocence or his feelings, they just wanted him to submit.
At least it had been Mustang who had done the touching, and not one of those other men. Mustang at least cared. Now that the show was over, the men were filing out, not even waiting for Ed to be released. They had no use for him, now that he was spent. They passed into the hallway, with the quiet rumble of conversation, and light laughter, as though the whole thing were of no consequence to them.
Ed felt a towel stroking his back. Then Mustang's hands reaching over and unlatching him, legs first, then the band around his middle, finally his hands. Reached up with his numb fingers to touch the bit. "I'll do that," said Mustang, and a few moments later, the pressure there was gone. The blinders fell away.
Ed was naked in an empty room with Mustang.
For the first time Ed saw him. All of him, without the uniform. He seemed somehow smaller and more life sized. His skin was pale and sculptured with muscle. Mustang reached out and brushed the hair away from his face. . Ed felt his heart lurch. For that moment, he seemed so tender. What they had done, it was sex, and despite the circumstances it had felt good. Better than good, fantastic. Intense and overwhelming. And his praise, the pride in Mustang's voice... Ed had been yearning for that for months.
Ed wanted it all again. Not so much the whipping or the embarassment, but that closeness, that tenderness. He wanted Roy to touch him again, somewhere where there weren't strangers looking at them, somewhere when it wasn't punishment for either of them—
They were lovers, now. The idea had a romantic appeal. He wanted to throw his arms around the man, and kiss him, but even now Mustang's expression was changing. Ed could almost see the barrier rising.
"I'm so sorry," Mustang said, the pain in his voice mirrored in his eyes. " I tried explaining that you were too young but—it's tradition. I'll never put your through that again. I promise. I hope you can forgive me."
Ed held still and stared. Rejection hurt more than the crop.
"Please, say you forgive me?" said Mustang, hanging his head.
Ed spun away. "Of course," he said, bitterly. "You only did that because you were forced to." He reached and found his clothes and pushed them on, savoring the pain, willing his heart hard and impenetrable. "I told you not to worry, I can take anything." Ed buttoned the last button and stomped up the ramp.
"Fullmetal—," said Mustang.
But Ed was already out the door.