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Pipe for Papa

A “Teen Titans: The Judas Contract” Fan-Fiction

The room was dark and unnatural. Given that he had awoken after a particularly unpleasant duel with Slade, Robin assumed that he was imprisoned within the assassin’s home base, wherever that was these days, and the adult-teen titan knew that Deathstroke had probably had the cell made especially uncomfortable for his purposes. Trained by Ra’s al Ghul and serving as his right hand for many years, Damian knew that Slade had the techniques of interrogation and manipulation sharply honed into a fine art. He’d been experiencing the sharpened edge of that art for several weeks now, and its sting was beginning to hurt his soul.

“It’s a shame I don’t have more time to break you down,” Slade had contemptuously growled. “Inside a month, I’d have you bringing me my pipe and calling me papa.”

He’d gloated over the newly captured hero when he’d first arrived and Robin had first possessed the strength to taunt him in return. Unfortunately, Robin didn’t have that resolve any longer. Long days filled with torture, both physical and mental, had left him exhausted and drained him of the impressive resistance he had previously wielded against Slade. He’d been pinned to the wall of the cell when he’d first been captured, bound in place by Terra’s terramorphic powers after she’d revealed herself to be a traitor among the titans. Then he’d been chained in the center of the room, given more mobility but with an equal sense of imprisonment. With every passing day in Slade’s control, Robin was given more freedom in his movement and autonomy, yet in his mind, he never came any closer to freedom. He didn’t realize that the assassin already had him in the palm of his hand, hopeless and submissive to his captors whims. Every day, no matter the chances Damian was given to step out of line, he became increasingly less willing to do so. He would wait until Slade arrived, allow himself to be subject to Slade’s intensive and rigorous conditioning, and then wait until the next day. It came to the point at which Damian was even provided a cot to rest on, “a reward for being such a good boy,” per what Slade told him. The smallest part of Robin felt ashamed by the larger part of himself that took pride in the accolade from his captor despite the fact that he was falling only further under the assassin’s thumb.

These last few days Damian wasn’t even physically restrained anymore. He simply waited out of restraint. Damian knew nothing of the outside world other than what Slade told him, which wasn’t much. He was able to deduce that the assassin had ascertained him to keep Robin from interfering with some greater scheme. He was told that the rest of the Titans had been collected for some contract that saw them “handled.” Damian didn’t know exactly what that meant, but when Slade made it clear that he wasn’t going to be rescued, he assumed the worst. Terra no longer accompanied the grizzled man to Damian’s cell, so she had most likely been a casualty of the contract. And despite all of this, an odd mixture of admiration and fear for Slade kept Damian obedient, something that pleased Slade greatly. Now that the physical torments had run their course, the assassin bore down using the rest of his training in conditioning a captive’s mind.

A sound from the door awoke Damian. It was opening. Previously he might’ve dived towards it in a mad dash to freedom, knowing that failure was not an option. Now he knew it as a signal. Damian hurriedly rose from his hard, stiff cot. His back ached from the hard sleep he’d managed while laying on the uncomfortable resting place, but the rest of his body hurt from the daily torture he’d endured every day since waking up in the cell. Really, sleep had been an inevitability, his mind’s desperate escape from the pain of the waking world. His uniform, previously kept in pridefully maintained conditions was now decorated with a variety of rips and tears through which the collection of scars and bruises he’d collected over the last month were on display. He’d attempted to tear the uniform to more minimalistic coverings at first, seeing that it was already mostly shredded, but that had resulted in further punishment from Slade. He said that he liked the ragged look on the hero, that his fallen appearances suited his fallen grace. Damian had disagreed with Slade at the time, but that had been early in his conditioning. Now Damian rarely disagreed with Slade over anything.

Damian hurriedly presented himself in the center of the cell. He stood perfectly straight, bolt-upright. His shoulders tightly hung back and away from his neck. His arms hung stiffly by his sides. His head bowed to the floor in solemn submission. This was the position that Slade demanded of Damian since a week ago, and he’d taken to the task with ease. Today he’d managed to prepare himself in the pose before Slade had even entered the cell. Despite his increasingly ambiguous feelings about Slade, Damian hoped that his efficiency would please his captor. If it did though, Slade made no acknowledgment of it.

“I have a new gift for you, boy,” he gruffly announced as Damian heard Slade’s metallic boots clacking towards him from across the cell.

Damian didn’t show it, but his heart fluttered upon being called “boy”. Slade had begun calling him boy early on in the conditioning. At first he was mostly called “brat” after Damian managed a snide remark or taunt. He was a brat when Slade punished the titan or had long conversations with Damian over how futile his position was. He was a “brat” when Slade was breaking him down, but there was always one glimmering moment of their interaction in which Slade would be leaving. It was at that point that Slade would always manage to refer to Damian as “boy”. At first Damian saw the moniker for what it was, a conditioning technique to make him associate being called “boy” with that same elation he first experienced from Slade leaving and the cessation of torture at that moment, but as time went on Damian began to lose track of all the little ways Slade was manipulating him. By then Slade had already began calling him “boy” when Damian would become less resistant to his punishments or when Damian began showing obedience to the older man. Now Damian made a conscious effort to be called “boy”, to be Slade’s “good boy”.

Damian flinched when he felt Slade’s gloved hand wrap around his jaw, his strong grip forcing Damian’s head upward. The possessive grasp saw that his meek gaze met that of his grinning captor’s.

“Don’t you have something to say for my charity, brat?” Slade growled through his subtle grin.

“Uh-” Damian’s heart now pounded in his chest, fear overwhelming him, and the steady hands at his side now trembled as he stuttered, “Th- Thank you, sir?”

Slade clenched onto his jaw for a moment longer, sternly glaring into Damian’s eyes with a vehemence that made the young man’s bladder grown near to failure, until the grin cracked just a sliver wider and the assassin took a step back, releasing Damian from his grasp.

“Dumb boy,” he scoffed. “You don’t even know what I got you.”

Damian couldn’t help but smile in relief at both earning a lack of punishment from Slade and being called by his affectionate handle. His body loosened, no longer tense under the threat of pain, and though his obedient posture remained the same as Slade would expect of Damian, he began to feel an altogether different part of his body give way at the lack of stress. He felt a warmth grow in the crotch of his pants, and before he’d realized what was happening, urine was already dripping down the legs of his uniform and forming a frothy, yellow puddle beneath him. Damian sighed, both in relief and disgusted humiliation. These accidents had grown exceedingly more common the longer Damian was under Slade’s dominance. It had started as a bit of a necessity, there being no way to properly relieve himself while pinned to a wall. Then his bladder had begun to grow weak from fear, his body’s innate response under the pain of the torture Slade inflicted on him. Slade always found the incidents comical, using them to highlight Damian’s weakness, and watched with sadistic glee as Damian would desperately attempt to clench his legs to stop the flow. Some days Damian just let it happen, too weak to resist his body’s signals of submission, which Slade found just as enjoyable. Following the incidents, the older man would then have him clean up his own urine, though the methods always deviated. Sometimes he was given a rag. Some days he was told to use his uniform before being commanded to put it back on, and Damian would fall to sleep that night with the stench of piss haunting him. The most barbaric method Slade employed was requiring the young man to lap up the mess like a dog, often with his boot pressing the titan’s head into the pool to thoroughly reinforce Damian’s place beneath him.

Today the humiliating act merely earned another scoff from Slade.

“It has something to do with that though,” he gruffly continued, an expression of disgust mingling with the smirk of amusement already on his face.

It was that Slade presented Damian a package out from under his arm. The young man flinched again before taking the package in hand, examining it. The plastic compressed in his hands as he secured the package between them. The contents weren’t betrayed by any label or signage on the parcel’s wrappings, but it didn’t feel entirely solid. It was soft, bulky, and Damian could just make out a vague crinkling sound from within as he spun the bundle looking for some sign of what was inside. He was about to open the thing and sate his curiosity when something made him freeze, a pointed feeling that he was forgetting something. Then he  felt Slade’s watchful eyes still hanging on him, expecting the younger man to make this mistake, waiting for his opportunity to inflict more correction and conditioning.

“May I open it, sir?” Damian asked, careful to address his captor as politely as possible.

“Yes,” Slade answered, the glint in his eye betraying the older man’s pleasure at Damian’s subservience. “Yes you may, my good boy.”

Damian grinned ear to ear upon hearing the praise, even gasping from the euphoria of the phrase, before grabbing an end of the package in each hand and tearing it apart. He was perplexed, however, when the plastic was peeled back only to reveal more plastic, puffier and whiter than the previous layer. Damian seized one of the smaller, contained plastic objects in hand before realizing what it was. He blushed, suddenly becoming very self-conscious of the wet warmth in his pants and beneath his feet.

“You seemed like you could use them, boy,” Slade mocked as Damian stared at the diaper in his hand. “I was getting tired of you and my perfectly good cell stinking to high hell because you couldn’t hold your piss, so this is my solution.”

Slade pointed beneath Damien’s feet to the large, golden puddle he was standing in.

“So why don’t you take the newest addition to your uniform, soppy up all of your mess, and tape it on?”

Slade had presented the idea as a matter of suggestion, but Damian knew when he was being given an order by now. The younger man grimaced as he got down onto his knees, kneeling before Slade’s strong, muscular legs. He set the larger package aside, still brimming with diapers to be used however Slade saw fit, and brandished the singular diaper he’d pulled out in his other hand. Looking at the thing, Damian assumed the best way to complete this humiliating task was to press the absorptive inside toward the puddle on the floor. He began to clumsily unfold the unfamiliar garment under Slade’s watchful eye. Damian was certain that the assassin enjoyed watching the humiliating process of him struggling to comprehend how to best complete his assigned, degrading tasks just as much as he liked watching Damian actually doing them, and the thought made the blush on his cheeks only grow brighter as he fumbled with the diaper until it was entirely unfurled.

Face red-hot from embarrassment, Damien pressed the diaper down on the ground and began lightly dabbing the infantile garment into the puddle. Light splashes brought droplets of urine raining down on Damian’s hands and knees, yet he took simple solace in how well the diaper absorbed the warm liquid. It grew squishy beneath his grip, almost emulating the feel of warm clay in his fist. By the time he was done, the floor was entirely dry, and the diaper had gone from being white as the driven snow to a muddled golden brown from the piss and other filth from the floor. Damien eyed the mushy bulk in his hand with a feeling of disgust hanging in his gut, but then he heard a gruff voice from above the strong legs before him.

“Good boy,” Slade praised. “Now, strip down and tape it on.”

The feeling of disgust inside of Damian became clouded and unclear. The fluttering, pleasant sensation of being commended by Slade mingled with the sensation, leaving the man feeling conflicted. The desperate need for obedience to his captor from within his conditioned psyche won out over emotion though, and Damian found himself rising with the hand not clasping onto the diaper reaching to the top of his uniform to undress. The foul, stale stench of urine and sweat that had clung to Damian like a leech since his kidnapping were peeled away with his uniform, and he couldn’t help but to release a sigh of relief as his uniform was removed for the first time in several weeks. His strong, muscular form were displayed piece by piece with every article removed from his worn body. His shapely, bulging abs came into view along with a plethora of bruises as the result of various administered gut punches. His bulging, brawny biceps flexed with his arms’ every movement to reveal all the places they’d been wrung and wrenched. His muscular, lithe legs bore several recovering purple blotches were breaks had been reset and mended. When the underwear come off though, even Damian gasped to see the revealed swelling. Slade, on the other hand, merely laughed.

“Well, look at you, boy,” he chuckled. “You do enjoy being put in your place after all.”

Throbbing between them was a thick, lengthy erection, Damian’s. The younger man blushed even brighter than before. Being eighteen, he had knowledge of sexual response, what it was, and how to manage it. Damian’s preferred methods were a cold shower or his fist in a pinch. He’d never had much time for seeking attention from the opposite gender, instead preferring to focus on his work, and he could never seem to work up the interest in it either. Now, faced with almost a month of torture, a villainous assassin as his kidnapper, and holding a diaper drenched with his own urine, Damian’s cock was at full length, throbbing, and dripping precum. He had no idea what to make of the development. That didn’t stop Slade from reaching out to toy with the thing though, his gloved hand giving the desperate erection a few strokes before pressing down and releasing the head of the penis to watch it dance and fling out more of its juices like leaky pump, and much to Damian’s dismay and further embarrassment, he couldn’t stifle the moan of pleasure elicited from Slade’s fun.

“And you managed to make even more of a mess,” Slade observed as he bemusedly examined his gloved hand, slathered in precum. “You better put that diaper on before I make you clean it all up with your tongue, brat.”

“Yes, sir,” Damien gasped, wrenched from his euphoric revere upon the mention of his looming punishment.

He hurriedly grabbed the diaper in both hands, clumsily seizing the unwieldy bulk in both hand. Having stripped all of his clothes off, he brought the absorbent center of the garment up between his legs before clasping the front over his leaking erection. Damian gasped as he felt the warmth of his piss and soft texture of the diaper being pressed over his drooling erection, and his hands shook as the other one seized the back end of the diaper to do the same with his firm ass, drawing the entire diaper tightly up between his legs. He frantically struggled to reach the tapes on the backside of the diaper, finding the task exceedingly difficult as he attempted to ignore his cock’s orgasmic sensations. Yet one by one Damien was able to tape the back of the diaper to the front. He finished quickly, and in looking down to proudly admire his handiwork, it was only then that he realized what an embarrassing predicament he was in, a gigantic diaper, already soaked to a bright golden color, spreading his muscular legs and his sizable erection tenting the front.

“Very good, boy,” Slade chuckled again. “But there is still one mess you forgot to clean.”

Damian, confused, looked up. Slade snidely smirked at the younger man, presenting his hand towards his captor. It still glistened from the prolific amount of precum that Damian’s erection had oozed into the palm and coating the fingers. Damian’s cock throbbed at the sight, the hand offering him his own seed, and before Slade even needed to spell out the letter of his command, Damian’s mouth had already began sucking down the salty residue. Slade smiled as Damian willingly prostrated himself before him. Part of Damian wondered why he was so eager to slurp down his own cum, whether it be his newfound attraction for the humiliation and degradation that Slade was so good at heaping on top of him or his conditioned need to please the man. He supposed it didn’t matter either way in the end, and the other part of him, the larger part, eclipsed what was left of his formerly inquisitive mind in favor of full enjoyment of his unbridled lust. He engulfed every one of the man’s gloved fingers inside of his mouth, sucking them clean, before working his way towards Slade’s presented palm. There he lapped the cum off of the assassin’s hand like lap dog enjoying its treat. When he was done, he fell back into position, head bowed down to take his throbbing, padded crotch into view.

“You’ve come a long way, boy,” Slade said, the approval in his voice making Damian grow further erect. “I think it’s time you come with me.”

Damian heard the sound of Slade’s footstep begin to exit the room, and glancing up, he saw that the assassin looked over his shoulder as he opened the door.

“Come on, boy,” he growled. “Don’t make me wait.”

“Yes, sir,” Damian obediently repleaded as he rushed after Slade.

With every quick step he felt the sloshing, wet warmth of his piss collected in the diaper between his legs. His feet pounded against the cold floor, his sturdy, muscular form causing them to fall hard upon impact, until he joined Slade at the entrance to the cell. He gazed beyond the open door into the long, dark corridor beyond it. He’d so often glimpsed this sight after suffering intense beatings and obscene torture and saw hope, an ultimate goal, a chance to escape, but now he only saw a dark path ahead of him. Part of him was nervous, frightened even, to leave the room he’d become so accustomed to. He had awoken in it such a different man. He’d changed so much since he’d last been outside of it. What he’d counted as days had felt like years to the young man, and now that he was presented with an opportunity to leave, Damian found himself mortified. Slade merely walked through the door and down the hallway though, and not wanting to displease him, Damian followed.

Author’s Note: I may add more to this, but due to the intense themes, I din’t want fully develop a story people wouldn’t be interested in. If you a continuation, please leave a comment.

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