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The first thing he noticed about the man, besides the fact that he was in the nude and on his knees, was the hood. It was made out of nice, shiny black leather, the kind that you had to buy a special polish for because the regular stuff would eat through the dye. Probably real cow’s leather, too. Nothing like the hoods you saw on the streets- and, as a copper, Vimes had seen plenty of men in hoods on their knees. Usually burlap hoods; even piecemeal leather was a luxury for this kind of thing.
He was shaking, too, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that it wasn’t from the cold. Vetinari was polishing his cane- not the ebony walking stick he used, but his cane, the sleek metal rod whose only purpose was to inflict swift, blinding pain. It was the kind of thing that inhabited schoolboys’ nightmares. Vimes couldn’t see any bruises from here, but based on the way the kneeling man shifted to keep his weight off of his thighs and buttocks, he had already felt its bite tonight.
He hadn’t really been listening to what Vetinari was saying, but the part of his mind that could follow any conversation enough to pick up the important bits got his attention in time to hear, “…and, indeed, who better to be an executioner than a Vimes?”
His eyes snapped to Vetinari. The Patrician wasn’t even looking at him, still preoccupied with the cane. He ran the cleaning cloth down its length, then swished it through the air once. It made a noise that put into mind the air itself being torn like paper. The hooded man at his feet flinched and whimpered, drooling through the gag in his mouth.
“Executioner?” Vimes repeated, looking between the kneeling man and the Patrician. “You want me to-“
“In the metaphorical sense, rather than the ancestral.” Vetinari said. He laid a hand atop the leather hood, which drew out an even larger flinch. “A punishment is to be administered tonight, Vimes.”
Vimes shook his head, a short, startled motion like an animal trying to shake away a fly. “What, your arms are tired so you bring me in to take a few swings at your man? I left my truncheon at home, Sir.” The word hung in the space between respect and insubordination, waiting to see how things turned out before it landed on either side.
“Not a man, Vimes.” Long, thin fingers glided down the side of the leather-wrapped face. “A thing. An It. A misbehaving It. And I had something in mind other than a little police brutality.”
Vimes glanced around the room. It had some silly, innocuous name… the Negotiations Chamber, maybe? Those who were out of the know assumed it was a discrete torture chamber, and those in the know were more than happy to agree with them. In truth, it was the private room where Vetinari dealt with certain political matters in certain political ways. The It was almost certainly one of those political matters, although Vimes wasn’t so caught up on politics to be able to recognize whoever It was in Its current position.
The Chamber was kept spotlessly clean- Vetinari cleaned it himself- every instrument and tool put neatly away in locked drawers until it was time to be used. This meant you could gather rather a lot of information from what was out, in the same way that you could tell what kind of trouble a street gang was looking for by the weapons they had on them at the moment.
Vimes had been distracted by the It when he had entered, but he was paying attention now. In particular, he was paying a lot of attention to the glass container on the table, the label turned out to be as readable as possible to someone standing in his position. The words were printed neatly around a picture of an elephant with five legs. Big Tusk 100% Purified Fifth Elephant “Massage Grease”. It even had the quotation marks printed on.*
Things clicked into place for Vimes, staring at that five-legged elephant.
“You want to force me onto one of your political pets?” He asked, failing to keep the horror out of his tone.
“Force! Goodness, no. What a terrible thought.” Vetinari said, eyes wide in a perfect portrayal of shock. “Lady Sybil led me to believe you would enjoy the chance to… how did she put it? Let off some steam.”
If Vimes had clenched his jaw any harder, teeth would have shattered. “Sybil knows about this?” He managed, speaking through lockjaw.
“Of course.” The Patrician’s smile had more hidden blades than the entire Assassin’s Guild. “I would never think to ask this of you without first speaking to your wife.”
Vimes floundered, his planned argument about fidelity* falling to pieces. Sybil thought this was a good idea? What kind of spin had Vetinari put on it to dress it up as stress relief?
His eyes fell back on the trembling, naked It at Vetinari’s feet. Its legs were starting to give out, and as Vimes watched It buckled under Its own weight, falling back onto Its heels. As soon as those heels made contact with Its buttocks it yelped, shooting back upright. A pathetic whimper escaped the leaky gag as the cycle began again, Its thighs still shaking.
“So.” Vimes said, more weary than wary now. “I’m just supposed to lay out… whoever he is, right here on the floor?”
“Not who. Not he. Whatever It is.” Vetinari corrected. “…but, yes, on the floor will do.”
Vimes eyed the wooden flooring. He grumbled something under his breath, reaching for his belt buckle. “…hell on my knees…”
“If it becomes an issue, I’ll look into acquiring a rug for the Diplomacy Chamber.” Vetinari said smoothly. “All of your clothes off, if you would.”
Vimes shot him a look that was meant to be piercing and venomous, but the Patrician’s unwavering smile deflected it like an arrow against fortress walls. This didn’t keep Vimes from grumbling as he stripped down, but there wasn’t much that could have, anyways.
There was a flash of disapproval in the Patrician’s eye as he glanced down at the crumpled heap of uniform Vimes had left behind. Vimes scowled at him, daring him to say something as he dropped his last layers on the pile. Vetinari disappointed him by wisely remaining silent. Part of the game with Vimes was knowing when he was trying to bait out a reason to get angry.
Instead, the Patrician tapped the business end of the cane to the business end of the It, startling It into lurching forwards. The polished black-leather boot that pressed It the rest of the way to the floor landed firmly between Its shoulder blades, grinding the It into the wooden floorboards. It yelped as It hit the ground, hands shooting forward to shield Its face.
Vimes couldn’t help but wince as he circled around behind the It and got a good look at Vetinari’s handiwork. There were entire trade agreements spelled out in the pattern of cane welts and growing bruises on the It’s buttocks. It gave him a sudden awareness of the cane, still in the Patrician’s hand, just on the edge of his vision as he kneeled down.
He still wondered who It was, underneath that hood and with Its clothes back on. If It stood and walked a few paces he’d probably not only get a name and face but likely an address and occupation as well*, although Vimes couldn’t imagine Vetinari letting him walk the It up and down the room. Maybe if he had paid more attention to politics, he’d be able to guess, but he tried to keep as much distance from politics as he could. Just like Vetinari to drag him into it anyways, he thought savagely.
“Here you are, Vimes.” Vetinari offered the jar to Vimes, lid already off.
Vimes dragged two fingers through the jar, gathering up a gob of the thick oil. It was solid in the coolness of the chamber, but softened and began to melt almost as soon as he touched it. It was high-quality stuff, creamy and pure all the way through. He couldn’t even begin to guess how much a jar of this stuff cost, all for something that would be shoved up an arse.
Blow off some steam, Sybil had said. He didn’t think it would work. In fact, he felt something bubbling up in him more, some fierce, working-class anger he had no interest in lulling back to sleep. He gritted his teeth. Purified imported oil, polished metal canes, a custom-fitted hood made of real leather; humiliation and power was the game, but not too much humiliation, of course. It would be going far too far to do it like the working class does, using a burlap sack with a mouth hole cut into it and cheap oil that had probably been used to fry something before this, wrapping your bare hands around a man’s throat because he insists it’s the only way he feels anything anymore…
Vimes scowled, palming the It’s ass with one hand and spreading It enough to press oil-slick fingers to Its hole. It yelped like a kicked animal when he grabbed at the bruised flesh. If Vimes had looked up, he would have seen the shadow of a satisfied smirk on the Patrician’s face as he dug his fingers in.
“You don’t have to worry about preparing It.” Vetinari murmured. He pressed down harder with his boot until the It made a strangled honk. “It will relax.”
The unflattering little noise that was forced out by Vetinari’s boot had a strange effect on Vimes. It was quite akin to what happens in a dog’s mind when the toy it picked up lets out a squeak- a sudden, instinctive understanding that this is prey. The biggest difference between Vimes in that moment and a dog is that dogs don’t usually get hard at the sound of a toy squeaker.*
Vimes grabbed one of the It’s thighs and forced it apart from the other, spreading It wider and more vulnerable. It whimpered, but didn’t struggle or resist, which just deepened Vimes’ lack of respect for the pathetic thing. It couldn’t even give him the illusion of fighting back, It was so terrified of Vetinari.
It should be afraid of you, the savage, raging beast in him snarled. If It was a person, It would be able to feel how dangerous Vimes was, would be kicking and screaming and fighting to get away. Even the tamest, most pampered little purse dog will fight for its life to get away from a predator. What did that make the It, then? Just as Vetinari said, it was a thing, an object, a toy.
Vimes swiped another glob of oil, rubbed it in his palm to melt it, and stroked the hand over his cock. The glide of the slick grease was pleasantly, velvety smooth, and something about how nice it was just made him angrier. He let out a short grunt of frustration, taking himself in hand.
The It seemed to be trying very hard to stay quiet as Vimes pressed into It. It was hiding Its face in the crook of Its elbow, muffling the shallow, ragged little gasps from escaping the gag. Vetinari frowned, tapping an elbow with his cane. “Hold Its arms.” Vimes, only halfway buried in the It, seemed to start at the command. He glanced up at Vetinari, then back down at the cowering It. His eyes narrowed.
It was hard not to appreciate Vimes in action. If you took any of his motions apart from the others, they would seem clumsy, abrupt and harsh, but each one combined into a fluid, masterful pounce, a wordless expression of ‘Try and resist, I dare you, just give me a reason.’ Vetinari couldn’t tell if the It’s howl was from the way Vimes twisted Its arms behind Its back, or the way he had buried himself to the hilt while lunging. Perhaps it was both.
Vimes held both of the It’s wrists with one hand, reaching for his cuffs. Of course, his cuffs were with his belt, which was buried in the pile of clothing by the door, so the hand that went to his waist grasped at nothing. His scowl deepened, and his grip on the It’s wrists tightened. It was going to have to wear long sleeves for a few days to cover the finger-shaped bruises. The thought brought a faint smile to Vetinari’s face.
Vimes was still now, body shaking with the tension of a coiled snake waiting to strike. No, not a snake… a hound waiting for its master’s signal. Vetinari lifted his boot from the It’s back. “Go on, Vimes.”
The tension was released so suddenly that it gave the perfect mental image of a crossbow firing its bolt. Vimes drew his hips back and thrust hard, deep, nearly flattening the It to the floorboards with the force of it. It wailed helplessly, the sound echoing through the room freely now that It couldn’t hide in Its elbow. Vimes let out his own groan in response, a noise half and half effort and pleasure as he thrust into It again.
“Good.” Vetinari murmured, watching the It writhe on the ground. “Hold It up, Vimes, before Its legs give out.”
The free hand moved to brace under Its hips, catching It just as It collapsed under Vimes’ brutal onslaught. It made a little high-pitched noise with every thrust, somewhere between a whimper and a cry, the kind of sound that squeaky toys tried so hard to emulate. It was similar, almost identical in fact, to the sounds he drew out with his cane, but there was a slight difference, the kind that would only be noticeable to a connoisseur.
Then those excellent, helpless noises began to bleed into something else. Vetinari’s eyes narrowed. The supporting hand had moved- very likely steered by habit- to the It’s neglected, dripping cock. Vimes wasn’t even stroking It, but the motion he inflicted with his hips was enough to give the desperate little thing some long-denied friction.
“Drop it.” The command was followed nigh-instantaneously, skipping straight from vocal cords to muscle movement and not bothering with any of the air-ear-brain nonsense. The It wailed in response, even worse off for the denial now that It had gotten a brief taste of relief. Vetinari savored the wail as it echoed around the Diplomacy Chamber.
The It’s noises weren’t alone, of course. Vimes was growling now, ragged and deep on every breath, the same sound he made under his breath as he chased unlicensed thieves through the cobbled streets. It was a dog’s sound, and it filled Vetinari with a strange sort of pride. Commander Samuel Vimes of the City Watch was one of his best works, after all, and now he was proving himself equally capable in another sense. Vetinari’s terrier, they called him… and here he was, worrying at a weasel.
Already he was composing a letter to Sybil in one section of his carefully-partitioned mind. He would enclose his preferred catalogue, too, with suggestions as to color and style, but he had a strong suspicion she would have her own opinions on the matter. It wouldn’t make a difference to Vetinari- the only difference between a dog’s collar and a dragon’s collar was fireproofing.*
She would adore the idea. To her, Vimes was a lapdog, a loyal family hound to lay by the fire and gnaw at a bone. And he was… to Sybil. To Vetinari, however, he was a working dog; not one bred for a particular lineage, with standards of coat color and structure and body, but an animal that had been created by some higher power for a particular task, with those innate skills further honed into perfection under the careful guidance of a handler. One merely had to point him in the right direction and instinct took over.
“Good, Vimes…” Vetinari circled, watching the man’s muscles ripple under his skin as he drove down into the It. He might have reached out to touch them, but he flicked the urge aside in favor of a more vicious impulse. “Pull Its legs further apart.”
Smooth, efficient- one hand hooked under one knee, a swift yank, a fluid switch to keep the hands pinned while his grip shifted, and another yank to splay the It even further. All the while, he never once stopped his brutal rhythm, never freed Its hands for a moment, never lost control of his quarry. In a contest, he’d win Best In Show; in this context, only Vetinari was here to appreciate his skill.
The Its legs were exposed enough now that Its bruises were once again visible. The It might have found temporary relief that Vimes’ hips were no longer slamming against bruised flesh, but already it was quailing in fear as Vetinari positioned himself just right. The angle was poor for a cane- a riding crop would be a better instrument- but Vetinari had lethal aim and perfect control in much poorer circumstances.
The swift, sharp Crack! cut through the air like a thrown knife. Vimes flinched at the sound, then groaned, his hips stuttering out of their rhythm. The It was sobbing, puddles forming on the ground under the openings in Its hood. It must have tensed from the blow, Vetinari thought, which explained Vimes’ reaction. The theory was confirmed by a second blow, which inspired such a magnificent noise from the man’s throat that it drowned out a wail from the It.
Vimes’ movements sped up, the man obviously almost at a breaking point. His head was bent over the It, sweat dripping down from his forehead, down his body, effort manifested. Vetinari drew even closer. “Excellent.” The praise fell from his lips so smoothly for how rarely he usually dispensed it. “You’ve done very well. Finish with It however you’d like.”
Vimes tossed his head back, giving Vetinari a brief glimpse of the look in his eyes, the driven focus of a hunting hound. He released his grip on Its wrists, although there was little time for It to stretch the abused limbs before he flipped It over, somehow still keeping It speared on his cock.
Vimes was in a blind, vicious fury, sick of the Its pitiful, pathetic passivity. He craved something that would fight back, damn it, not this soft sniveling thing. His hands leapt to a familiar position almost of their own volition, thumbs there and there and press down like this and watch them struggle and gasp and choke and-
The It, in a moment of sudden wild frenzy, spluttered and scrabbled at Vimes. It tried to push him off, bounced off of his chest, then even less successfully tried to kick him away. Vimes grunted as It flailed and writhed under him, hands tightening and sending It even further into panic. He growled at It and thrust down and into It hard.
He had been nearly there anyways, and the struggling tipped him over almost immediately. The rising pressure escaped in a long, low moan, reverberating oddly against walls that weren’t used to such rich pleasure. The It squirmed silently underneath him as he pulled out to paint Its stomach with streaks of white. As the wave of pleasure finally receded, it left Vimes dazed on its shore, blinking down at the It and wondering faintly why it wasn’t making noises anymore.
His mind cleared enough to remember to release his grip on Its throat. The It made an absurd little gasping sound, accompanied by a sudden full-body shudder that Vimes only barely registered as an orgasm. Then It froze with Its hands covering Its throat, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
“Interesting.” The Patrician said lightly, close enough to Vimes that it normally would have startled him. Instead, he slumped towards the sound, craving the solidity of something to lean on. He found a leg, and a moment later long fingers were stroking his hair, and his mind filled with a sort of contented rightness normally only experienced by dogs and werewolves.*
“I fear this may have been poor sport for you.” Vetinari’s voice drifted coolly through the clearing fog in his mind. “Next time I’ll have to find more… stimulating prey.”
“Hm? Mmh.” Vimes’ mind was still sprawled out on the sand, although there was enough left to give him a thrill at the mention of ‘next time’.
Eventually, it picked itself up and started limping inland, and Vimes returned to himself. He swiftly regretted the return as he remembered who the leg and fingers belonged to, giving a startled lurch away from them.
“Back with us, Commander?” The Patrician said brightly.
Vimes mumbled a confirmation, doing his best to avoid looking at both Vetinari and the It. He shifted in place with a grimace, suddenly aware of the pain in his knees and back. “Ah, hell... You should… look into that rug.”
“Or kneepads, perhaps.” Vetinari inclined his head. He offered a hand to Vimes that was pointedly ignored as the man rose achingly to his feet. “I have an excellent salve for joint pain. I’ll have a jar sent to your home.”
“Right.” Vimes said, finding his shirt and snatching it off the ground like it might try to run away. “I’ll just be-“
“Of course.” Vetinari nodded once. “Do give Lady Sybil my regards.”
“Mmhm.” It was the grunt of a man who has never once passed on regards and doesn’t plan to start now. Vimes hoped he wasn’t putting anything on backwards as he redressed, still-slippery fingers fumbling with buttons and belt buckles.
Behind him, Vetinari was making no moves to help up the It, who was currently very still and very quiet on the ground. He dared a glance backwards and noted the cane still in the Patrician’s hands and the gleam still in his eyes as he looked down at the trembling figure. He probably wasn’t done with It, Vimes thought, feeling a pang of… not sympathy, as it would happen, but fierce gladness that he wasn’t in the Its position right now.
Vetinari glanced back up and met Vimes’ eyes with a dangerously pleasant smile. Vimes startled, looked away, and left the room without another word.
*The labels on the grease had been replaced by a human salesperson in Ankh-Mopork, who had found that the dwarves’ branding didn’t sell particularly well. Something about ‘Schmatlzberg Slippery Purified Fat’ didn’t quite capture the imaginations of the masses like a pair of well-placed quotation marks could.
*Perhaps fidelity wasn’t the right word, but Vimes didn’t have a good vocabulary in place for the negotiation of complex socio-political-sexual dynamics. It wasn’t that these subjects didn’t come up in the Watch, but usually the negotiations had long since come to a head (one with a bottle smashed over it) by the time they were called in.
*If you depended on a face to recognize someone in Ankh-Mopork, you’d drown in a sea of strangers. Peddlers sold masks at the gates for tourists, mostly to mark them as easy targets who’d buy anything.
*Those that do are considered to be abominable little deviants by other dogs, which just goes to show that there really is very little difference between man and beast.
*It is vitally important, when outfitting swamp dragons with collars, to use materials that will survive their wearer’s detonation. More than one dragon breeder has leapt clear of an explosion only to be mortally injured by a bone-shaped nameplate turned shrapnel.
*This feeling of pure canine contentedness is traditionally announced by a long, deep sigh interrupting a lull of peaceful silence. Bonus points if it startles the owner into dropping something.