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Fox Hunt Continues – On Patreon!

Jul13

The Hunt Continues, the July Patreon microstory, has been posted:

George sidled up to the clothesline, checking the lay of the land. Nobody around; he could hear the household slaves in the kitchen, gossiping around what Her Ladyship had done.

They ought to be more careful, he thought dryly; someone might overhear…

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Sale Price – Patreon story

Jun27

This is a story of Tír na Cali written (loosely) to Wyste’s suggestion for more commoners in Cali. 

“They don’t put slaves  on sale.”

Ellen made a point of window-shopping the slave store every time she went to the mall. It reminded her what she was saving up for, what she was working overtime for.Her maternal grandmother had been a freed slave and the best cook in southern Tír na Cali; her grandfather had cleaned floors for a living until his seventies. Her mother had paid her own way through college working nights as a waitress and afternoons in a high-end brothel; she’d met Ellen’s father there — at the bar she waited tables at. Ellen was in the middle of the pack at a high-end software company and climbing her way up the ranks. And, Consort witness, she was going to own a slave before she was thirty and a house in the Heights by the time she was thirty-five.

Right now, she was balancing her protein shakes and the suit she’d need for that meeting next week, running the numbers in her discretionary fund through her mental calculator, and staring at the sign in the window.

And, it appeared, talking to herself. Nobody had noticed — well, nobody except, perhaps, the young man standing behind the sign, strategically positioned so that he was figleafed by the red letters declaring SALE: SLIGHTLY DAMAGED MERCHANDISE.

He didn’t look damaged. He had muscular calves and thighs, a flat stomach, a toned chest…

“Oh.” Ellen swallowed. The scar could be healed. That it hadn’t been spoke volumes about someone : it was a livid, nasty mark that had not healed, running under his collar, above his collar, and down over one collarbone. It looked like someone had tried to cut his head off with imprecise aim.

The scar — no, call it a wound, that was what it was — the wound was awful, but that hadn’t been what made Ellen swallow. The look in his eyes challenging, angry, hopeless — that had gotten her attention.

The sign, the sale, had to be humiliating. On the other hand… she ran the numbers in her head again. If they discounted him enough, she could take him home without totally blowing her budget.

She looked up at him again, ignoring the washboard abs and the damage done to his body. He would take careful handling. She’d have to watch her words, and, more importantly, her body language. And he would very likely act out.

She hadn’t gotten where she was at twenty-seven by turning down challenges. She nodded crisply to the man in the window and walked into the slave shop to make a deal.

 

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“Sale Price,” a story of Tír na Cali, is this month’s Free to Everyone Patreon story!

Jun27

Sale Price, the third of the June Patreon stories, has been posted:

“They don’t put slaves on sale.”

Ellen made a point of window-shopping the slave store every time she went to the mall. It reminded her what she was saving up for, what she was working overtime for.Her maternal grandmother had been a freed slave and the best cook in southern Tír na Cali; her grandfather had cleaned floors for a living until his seventies.

A Patronage of just $1/month will give you access to the rest of the Patreon stories!

Want input into the story prompts? A Patronage of $5/month lets you prompt to your heart’s content and for $15/month you will get your own personal story!

Check it out!

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/954757.html. You can comment here or there.

Fox Hunt, a story of Tír na Cali for Patreon patrons, is posted

Jun26

Fox Hunt, the second of the June Patreon stories, has been posted:

Ariana shifted in her saddle and tried not to look nearly as bored as she felt. This was her mother’s sport and her grandmother’s, not hers, and it bore as much relation to actual tracking as Duck Hunt did to being an army sniper.

Her family still thought it was fun, somehow: they stuck a fox tail on a slave; the slave then dutifully ran through the woods. They sent dogs after him and then, in the grand tradition of the fox hunts, rode the poor schmuck down. Afterwards, he was rewarded, coddled, and praised; the better run, the more praise. Everyone got drunk and praised themselves on how good a hunt it had been.


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This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/953909.html. You can comment here or there.

Leaving the Land of the Free, a story of Tír na Cali for Patreon patrons

Jun25

Leaving the Land of the Free, the first of the June Patreon stories, has been posted

The letter from Jordy had said D- The rumors are true. They really can do it. Ruby slippers forever. -J

It had been in Jordy’s bubbly, heart-dotted-i’s handwriting, even if the envelope had been machine-printed. It explained everything, and at the same time, it opened up so many more questions.


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This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/953370.html. You can comment here or there.

Last Bid – Patreon Story

Jun23

This story was written to Wyste’s prompt on my “Write something short, Lyn” prompt call here. It is set in my Tír na Cali setting; read more about Cali here.

2️⃣

The buyers were all bored, or perhaps they simply didn’t like the opening bid. More interesting purchases had gone first, prettier people, stronger people. No it was down to this boy in chains, trying not to panic.

The auction ended with no bids, not even a desultory bargain-basement sort of suggestion, below his asking price, below what any well-behaved slave should ever sell for. The boy in chains raised his chin and stared out at the thinning crowd. He was not going to cry, not for them. He was to good for that.

He was too good for the work camps, too, but that’s where he’d end up. The auctioneer was making the final call for bids. The woman’s voice was trailing off as she looked over at the boy. She caught his eye, somehow. He noticed the way that her teeth caught her lip.

“Ladies and gentleman,” she called, as she picked her cell phone up as if reading a message. From where he stood, the boy could see her screen: no message. Nothing but a picture of lavender fields. “Ladies, gentleman and sundry, this is most unusual.”

The discussion in the room stopped.

The auctioneer cleared her throat. “I appear to have gotten a bid by text. While this is unprecedented, it is not, technically, disallowed by the rules of the auction hall. The buyer wishes to be anonymous, of course, but her La – that is, the opening bid is ten thousand dollars.”

A card went up in the back of the room immediately. “Eleven thousand!”

And the bidding was off. The boy posed, his false smile becoming a real smile, as the numbers rose and rose and rose.

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Giving in, a story (beginning) of Tir na Cali as per @Cluudle’s request

May18

Involves slavery and discussion of corporal punishment

The woman who owned Zachary – thanks to the stupid, fucked-up legal system of this stupid, fucked-up country – spent every Saturday with her family. She left early in the morning, returned around six in the evening, and retreated immediately to her room, speaking to no-one until the next morning.

Zachary loved it. It gave him an entire day where he didn’t have to dance attendance on her whims. He usually helped out with the housekeeping and cooking a bit, spent the early afternoon helping with the groundskeeping, and then spent the evening lounging in the garden, pretending he wasn’t a slave.

Today, she was late. Zach had enjoyed dinner with the rest of the help, although they were all watching the clock, enjoyed a long stroll around the property (since he wasn’t allowed to leave said property without an escort), and gone back to his room (such as it was) to grab a sweatshirt, and she still wasn’t home. Phil, her cook-slash-housekeeper, who for some reason liked the bitch, was pacing. Zach found himself watching the clock. Maybe she’d finally had it out with her family. Maybe she’d died in a crash on the way home. What happened to slaves if their owner died?

The garage door didn’t open until nine. By that point, Zach had camped out in the kitchen with Phil, trying not to stare at the clock. She’d been late before, but never this late. What if she didn’t come back? He hated her. He really did. But he knew her. And Phil, for whatever reason, would be upset. And Phil was a pretty cool guy, for a Californian slave.

When the door between the garage and the house slammed open, Phil bounced to his feet as if he was on strings. Wine bottle, glass, a selection of sweet crackers, tray: his eyes were glazed but he was going through the motions. His hands were trembling. He was scared.

Zach had done his best to ignore the way the staff, such as it was, jumped to every time the lady slammed home like this. But today, he couldn’t ignore it. And he couldn’t ignore the sick feeling like worry somewhere down in his own gut.

“I’ll take it up.” He held out his hands for the tray. “Look, if she’s going to holler at someone, it might as well be me. She’s got a lot of practice, and I’ve got a lot of practice taking it.”

It had, in truth, been almost two weeks since the last time she’d yelled at him, and nearly three since she punished him. He was losing his edge. Letting her take out her anger on him again might help that.

“You’re sure?” Paul was a skinny thing, looking a lot younger than the age he claimed. Zach had a hard time not feeling all protective of him and the other slaves.

“C’mon, give me the tray before she gets impatient.” He held out his hands. “I can take it.”

He could tell Paul didn’t want to give in; just as much as he could tell Paul was going to, and a few minutes later, Zach was knocking on Her Ladyship’s door.

“Lady Kaelin?” Surprising how it rolled off his tongue after all these weeks. “I have your dinner.” Such as it was.

A pause. Another pause. “Bring it in.”

He swung the door open carefully. She wasn’t beyond throwing shoes when she’d had a bad day.

The room was dark. He said, “I’m turning on the light,” remembered at the last minute to add, “Lady Kaelin,” and turned on the light.

She was in her bed, the blanket wrapped around her. Her face was red, her eyes were puffy. From the looks of things, she was still crying.

“Shit.” You weren’t supposed to swear in front of her Ladyship. “Shit, shit.” Zach kicked the tray table into position with his foot and dropped the food on it as quickly as he could without spilling anything. “Shit.”

“You said that already.” There was none of the usual poison in her voice, just something tired and bitter-sounding. “That’s good, thank you. That will be all.”

So easy to leave. So easy to just walk away. Saturday was his day off, and, besides, he was supposed to do what she told him to.

Zach flopped down into a sitting position between the bed and the tray table. He grabbed a cracker off the tray and offered it to her like it was finest caviar. “Want to talk about it?”

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