Big Book of Tross One Shots

Orders (N)

TW: BDSM, Dom/sub, Military Kink, boot licking, Leather gloves, Dirty Talk, Spanking, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aftercare

"Chin up. Shoulders back! " Trott commands sharply.

Ross complies and stares straight ahead. He stands barefoot in the middle of the bedroom, listening to the sound of Trott's boots clunking on the wooden floor.

Trott circles him, scrutinizing.

Ross tightens his grip on his wrist. His hands are clasped behind his back, more at ease than at attention. The fabric of his t-shirt pulls taut on every breath he takes.

"No coat, no shoes..." Trott tuts. "Out of uniform, and at ease on arrival- disgraceful." He stops in front of Ross and looks him in the eye. "I run a tight ship here, private, and I expect each and every soldier to obey orders. Rebellion against policy will not be tolerated."

Ross lowers his gaze enough to look back at Trott. The other man is dressed in tight leather pants, leather gloves, and a pressed military jacket. Ross is decidedly underdressed in only a t-shirt and slacks.

"You and your decorum have been of ill repute in the past few months." Trott continues, circling him again. "Instead of keeping your post, you were found napping below deck. Your lack of timeliness and responsibility looks bad on my account, and nobody...makes my infantry look like shit."

Ross swallows thickly and stares hard at the wall.

"Do you understand me, private?" Trott asks, voice stern and laced with iron. "I will not have disobedience, not from you, or from your tart-mouthed lackeys."

Ross purses his lips together, holds his tongue, as Trott comes around to face him again.

"Have something to say, do you?" Trott snaps, "Do you? "

"No, sir." Ross mutters.

Trott humphs. "I didn't think so."

He starts circling again, like a shark in the water, and Ross shivers.

"If you keep up your horrible disregard for the rules, you're going to find yourself licking the tiles in the shower rooms clean. Keep it up, and you'll have my foot up your ass faster than you can blink." Trott states bitterly.

Ross hears Trott stall his steps behind him, heavy boots shuffling to a standstill.

"But not to worry, private..." Trott murmurs, voice softening in tone as he strokes a leather-clad finger down Ross' spine. "I'll whip you into shape."

Ross holds his posture, but goosebumps rise along his arms.

Trott continues walking. His boots clunk loudly on the wooden floor, every step heel-to-toe. "I will give you a series of tasks, and if you complete them to my satisfaction, I will waive your insubordination. One hair out of line, however, and punishments will be seen to. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir." Ross says.

"What was that?" Trott asks again. "I said, do I make myself clear? "

Ross speaks louder. "Yes, sir!"

"Good." Trott comes around to his front and stops. He looks Ross up and down, and Ross has half the mind not to meet Trott's eyes this time. Though he wants to, he knows it is better to hold his position.

"On your knees, private." Trott orders. "I want you to lick my boots until they shine."

Ross folds down and in half to reach Trott's feet. The leather boots are brand new, and already shiny, but he does as he's told. He licks across the top of the boot in broad stripes, from the toe to the top of Trott's ankle. The taste of the leather melds to his tongue, tasting faintly chemical, and the smell is rich and musky.