Chapter Text
A deep relief comes with not knowing — with not needing to know — that’s unlike anything he has ever felt.
Decades ago, when the desire to let go first wormed its way under his skin, when it sat heavy in his shoulders and hot in his groin, this hadn’t even felt possible. Now, through acts of liberation and self-acceptance, he knows that what he wants is possible and attainable. With his freedom secured, his autonomy intact and in action, and his body completely his own, he once again has something to let go of.
This is how Bucky finds himself kneeling in the center of a room wearing a thick, leather blindfold that blocks out even the barest rays of light. Matching black leather encircles both of his wrists, flesh and vibranium, with silver hardware linking them neatly behind his back. They’re not remotely reinforced but more-so symbolic of his choice to be there, to put himself in capable hands, to allow someone else to dictate what happens to him.
His Dominant, who he only knows as Sir, will walk in after some time — he’s taught himself not to count. The leather cushion beneath his knees has warmed to match his body temperature, along with the slow sag of his shoulders, which is the only way for him to gauge how long he’s been waiting.
Waiting is a source of anxiety for him outside these walls — attempting to expect the unexpected, diligently preparing for the worst outcome, being responsible for the unpredictable. When he kneels and waits for his Sir, though, his mind is blissfully empty. Obedience and stillness are the only things expected of him, and he has learned that thinking beyond what he’s been told is not what his Sir wants.
He doesn’t know what the room looks like, how big it is, or anything that is in the room beyond himself and his cushion — and soon his Sir. It’s here he finds that deep relief, where not knowing is still safe, where danger is pre-negotiated and recorded on paper with two signatures. He leaves Bucky at the door when Sir’s assistant blindfolds or hoods him, when the cuffs hug his wrists, and when he bows his head in deference and patience.
Today, he’s bare except for his blindfold, cuffs, and the dark red lace panties he was given on arrival. He strips out of his clothes, shucking away pieces of himself he has to carry day to day, metaphorically putting distance between himself and the outside world. The thick plug he’s been wearing for two hours is exposed through the sheer fabric. Sir likes the contrast, strong muscles wrapped in the delicate floral pattern, and he likes making Sir happy.
The panties are an extension of control — expectation and sensation to keep him company while he kneels and waits. He didn’t bat an eyelash when they were left out for him, thought nothing of pulling them up his legs and feeling the fabric briefly strain over the thickness of his thighs. His decision-making ends the moment he steps through that first door, swapping that weight with a warm smile that calls this building home.
When Sir finally does enter the room, the only sound is steady footsteps — boots on hard flooring — and their breathing. He waits, his lips curved in a gentle smile, and lets the last of the tension drain from his shoulders. What the night holds for him, he has no idea, but he trusts in his Dominant.
Pleasure, pain, exhaustion, escape. It’s the kind of therapy he’d always longed for, and he’s eternally grateful that it’s accessible now that he needs it most.
“You look beautiful.” The deep, familiar voice comes from in front of him, but he doesn’t move. He longs to sink forward, to crawl until he finds the man’s smaller but sturdy frame, to drag his tongue over the grooves in Sir’s leather boots to show his gratitude. Instead, he stays put and swallows down his own desire, replacing it with what’s expected of him: obedience and verbalization.
“Thank you, Sir. They feel good on my skin.” It’s almost as if acknowledging how good the panties feel makes them feel softer against his skin, the lace somehow smoothing into silk as it caresses his half-hard cock, his tightening sac, the swell of his ass.
“You’ll have plenty of time to show your gratitude, boy,” the man’s voice comes again, and Bucky’s hearing picks up the sound of a zipper mixed in with the words. “First, show me how you greet me.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice, and opens his mouth wide, letting his tongue lay flat like an invitation. Words might come later, but he doesn’t need to worry — not when those footsteps are coming closer, when he hears the shifting sounds of leather being adjusted.
He thinks of nothing but the weight that will soon be on his tongue, of how spit will spill from his lips as he serves, and the delicious pressure that’ll sit at the back of his throat while Sir remakes him into the perfect vessel for His desire.
With the press of Sir’s cock into his mouth, deep into his throat, comes that relief. He doesn’t know exactly what will come next, and he is so grateful.