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Flipped, a story of Tír na Cali

May9

Edit: Forgot to cut for content- slavery, unwilling, and revenge-slavery.

“No! You can’t! It can’t be you!”

He had not been the best master, but he had also not been the worst.

“No! What are you going to – oh, Goddess and – ow!”

He had not been dumb – was still not dumb – which had made organizing things so that he lost everything and she managed to get both freed and enriched by the situation quite difficult.

“Right, right. I’ll behave. I’ll behave. You don’t have to – ow!”

She’d been motivated, slightly smarter than him, and she’d had outside help. So now, it was her passing over her credit card to the nice lady at the slave shop, and it was him kneeling there in the cell, the thick plastic slave-shop collar around his neck and the plastic manacles around his wrists. He kept looking up at her; the guard kept pushing his head down. And he kept complaining. That was new, the whining.

“Get him up and into my car.” She nodded at the guard. “I’ll take it from there.”

“How do you have the mon- Ow!”

She smiled cheerfully at him. She found this part immensely fun, more fun than only ruining him had been. “It turns out that the Agency is immensely interested in what I can do. And they pay very, very well for hazardous duty.”

“No,” he whined. “You belong to me…”

She held up her hand, stopping the guard from striking him again. “Try again. Or you’ll spend your first month as a slave muzzled.”

“No,” he said again, much more quietly. “No… mistress.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/936354.html. You can comment here or there.

April A-Z Blogging Challenge: B is for Bondage

Apr3

The Meme Master Post

B is for Bondagage, Nice and tight

Well, we’re diving right into the “Adult Content” warning I had to put on my A-Z link, aren’t we? *Cough*

I can’t remember the first time I encountered fictional bondage, but it was probably a Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror anthology – where I got most of my early erotica.

I remember very clearly when someone first used the term “S&M” around me – I can’t tell you who he was, but he was the friend of friend, on a mall not-quite-double-date. And when I asked what it meant, he said “spaghetti and meatballs.” 😛 😛

I don’t think he expected me to know the words. But at that age – early teens – I was all about the words.

Buying my first handcuffs, discovering newsgroups (alt:binaries:pictures:erotica:bondage!)… it’s all immensely personal, and yet seems entirely natural to me. I’m not sure I can say much more about this in blog format, so… have a microfic.

This is one of the scenes that started Addergoole. It’s set in Tir na Cali, in a school open to American kids with Californian bloodlines.

~

She’d agreed to be his slave for a week, because he’d said she couldn’t handle it. She wasn’t going to give in now, even if she was beginning to worry that he might be right.

She’d had only the vaguest idea of what that meant. There were slaves in the school, of course – this was California; there were slaves everywhere – but none of them… well.

She shifted from one knee to another as surreptitiously as she could. He ignored her, as far as she could tell; he was probably focusing on his game. They all seemed to be ignoring her. She wasn’t certain, not truly, if she preferred that to being paid attention. She had never been so exposed. Or so helpless.

It was a good thing that their weekly D&D game was in his room; otherwise he might have carried her down the hall like this. As it was – well. She couldn’t walk, that was certain. She could feel the corset pushing into her ribs, pushing her breasts upwards. She could feel the stilleto heels pushing two ridges into her ass. She could feel the way the gag distended her mouth and pushed against the back of her throat, the straps on either side of her nose, the way the buckle pressed against the back of her head. She couldn’t see any of it, not with the thick blindfold covering her eyes. But she could feel it all.

He’d used so much leather. Her arms were laced behind her back in mitts that went straight to her shoulders. Her legs were strapped together in ten places. Even the heels of her shoes were tied to each other – he’d let her watch that one.

She shifted again, trying to get the heel out of her ass. She’d told him she could handle this. She was going to handle it.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/918474.html. You can comment here or there.

Rescue and Shelter, a ficlet of Tír na Cali

Feb26

The below story is Tír na Cali and includes slavery, previous abuse, and people who believe in the system as it stands.

It came from a comment by Sky:”What if the Californians have things similar to animal shelters for lost and abandoned slaves?,” and was prompted also in part by a ficlet cluudle wrote about the same idea.

Shauna had been running.

She hadn’t been running away, no. She’d been moving past her owner’s fields and into the suburbs, staying out of sight, staying quiet and low and unimportant. She’d managed to disable the tracker on her collar and the identity chip but not the latch itself, and that was all right. Because if the collar had come off, she’d be a runaway. And runaway slaves did not get sold to nice places and they did not have nice prospects.

No, she was just running, just moving away from her master’s property at a quick pace. Too quick: she slipped on a culvert and fell, skidding down the concrete edge and hitting her head on the curb.

She woke in a bed, in a place with no traffic sounds and the smells of the forest wafting in. She opened her eyes slowly, feeling for pain and finding none. Her master owned no place that smelled like this. Had his son found her? Had…

A woman smiled at her. She was dressed in soft colors and soft fabrics; her eyes were blue and her hair was brown, and she was not wearing a collar. She was holding a tablet, and sitting comfortably near Shauna’s bedside. “Welcome.” Even her voice was soft. “You are in the Rescue Shelter.”

“Thank-” she swallowed to wet her throat, and tried again. “Thank you, ma’am.” The room she was in was not large – big enough for the bed and the chair, a small dresser and a big window. But they were the only ones in it. “What-“

“The Rescue Shelter is a recovery facility for abused slaves.” Even though the woman’s voice was still gentle, there was an edge to the words. “When you were brought in, you had quite a bit of damage, and most of it could not be explained away by the culvert in which you were found.”

Shauna winced. There had been “damage,” yes. She had done her best to hide it, for as long as she could. Her owner loved his son.

“We’ve documented all of it. A tenth of it would be enough to have you removed from the home, you know.”

Shauna had not known. She looked away from the earnest, soft woman. “Slaves that get removed, they don’t get sold to nice places, do they? They don’t get to be Chatelaines or Head Cooks or, or Companions.”

The woman smiled again, gently but proudly. “When you are recuperated, I can introduce you to several people who have gone through either this Rescue Shelter or another like it and gone on to hold very esteemed positions indeed. The people who tell you otherwise are those who don’t want you to complain, even when your treatment is illegal and immoral.”

“You’re… you’re not an abolitionist, are you?”

“Oh, no. I’m not one of those sad people who wants to do away with the whole system, no. I just want the system to work the way it’s supposed to. Now…” She looked at her tablet and smiled, before meeting Shauna’s eyes again. “Your collar data chips were damaged, I imagine in the fall. Would you like to tell us your former owner’s name?”

Former. Shauna swallowed. “No, ma’am, please. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Very well. Would you like to tell us your name?”

Shauna shook her head and pressed her lips together. Her name was on record. There were only so many slave-Shaunas in the country.

“All right.” The woman moved things around on her tablet for a moment. “We could call you… ah, that’s a good one. How does Hope sound?”

Unbelievable. But… nice. “I like it,” Shauna – Hope – offered.

“Then that’s what we’ll call you. Nice to meet you, Hope.” The woman half-bowed from her chair. “I’m Cariadad ni Rougan, but you can call me Carrie.”

Tír na Cali has a landing page here.

Setting notes: grey eyes & red hair indicate being a part of the ruling class, thus Cariadad’s blue eyes are comforting because she is probably not high-class.

ni Rougan is interesting because only bastards take “daughter of their father” such (and the ap Gwydion, but they’re another story); a bastard is someone whose mother has no name (i.e., a slave) or would not claim her.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/902969.html. You can comment here or there.

The Ramifications of Hair, a continuation

Jan7

Written as [personal profile] wyld_dandelyon‘s commissioned continuation of Tricked out for her pleasure.

Joe was bound to the bed, naked, as far as he could tell, except for too-many-piercings, and there was an elf woman on top of him. As far as slavery went, this was not what had been in the brochure.

Not that there’d been a brochure, unless you counted I Was A Slave In California documentaries, and Joe had watched more than a few of those, usually while very drunk or very hung-over.

Very hung-over was not dissimilar to the way he was feeling right now. It was like his face had been wrapped in blankets and now he was beginning to see the light – except that right now, the light was either a pillow or a lot of hair.

Hair. She’d said something about braiding. Joe forced himself to pay attention to the situation at hand. “I… I can hold still.” He shook his left wrist, making the chain jangle. “There’s not much option anyway, is there?” He turned his head to look at the elf-woman, but succeeded only in getting a mouthful of hair.

She chuckled throatily at him. “There is always an option. You’re lovely, did I mention?”

Joe coughed. “That’s not what I’m used to people saying.”

“Oh, well, Americans.” She gathered handfuls of his hair in her hands and began finger-combing it. The sensation was strangely pleasant. “They like big, bulging sorts, don’t they? Football players?”

“Mmm. Manly men.” He sounded bitter, and felt a little guilty about it. His country was better than this, than slavery, wasn’t it? Except nobody had told him slavery was about naked women braiding his hair.

“Manly men.” The woman chuckled. “My name is Carienne, by the way. Baroness Carienne ni Scholta O Rhinne, but when we’re alone like this, you can call me Cari.”

Joe tried it out. “Cari.” It sounded like a teenager, not like – “So. I think I remember you buying me?” Wow, that was awkward.

She began finger-combing his hair, pushing a bunch of it to one side of him, a bunch to the other. “I bought you,” she agrees. “You were very well drugged. I was curious to see what you’d be like when you surfaced.”

“Other than tied to the bed?” He jangled one cuff for emphasis. Her hands felt good on his scalp. Nobody had said anything about slavery felt good.

Well, that wasn’t right. But it wasn’t supposed to feel good.

“Other than tied to the bed, yes.” She chuckled. “So, do you think the drugs are gone yet?”

“Well…” Joe thought about it for a moment. “I’m starting to freak out. Because you took me somewhere – and then I had hair. Like, lots of hair. That wasn’t a dream, was it?”

A tug on his head answered the question. He turned as much as he could, and saw the mass of black-and-brown in Cari’s hands. “No. Not a dream.”

“But it’s impossible. I mean, I don’t think that was just a weave…”

She gave another tug, a firmer one this time. Joe swallowed a gasp. “No. not a weave.”

“So…” One things the documentaries had hinted at but never said outright. Joe put his face down on the pillow and let it muffle his answer. “So magic is real?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/881454.html. You can comment here or there.

Thanks, a ficlet of Tir na Cali from the New Years’ Call

Jan6

He hand-picked her from the fields – a formerly angry former-American who had been beat down by the sun and the rain and the hard work. He gave her a new collar, pretty and silver and far lighter than her old one, and she thanked him for it.

So he gave her a place in his bed at night, and her own place to rest during the day, with soft sheets and a solid roof over her head. She thanked him for it, both with words and with her body.

And thus he gave her fine silks to wear and fine food to eat; he gave her easy work and kept the foreman from her. He gave her a golden cage – the room, with gilded-grilled windows, the collar, with its lovely leash, the clothing, too frail to survive outside. And she bowed down and kissed his feet and thanked him for it.

He gave her a day outside in the garden, sunbathing the way few Californian nobles did, an hour of privacy, because she had been so good to him. And she thanked him for it…

Oh, yes, did she give him what he deserved for it.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/880998.html. You can comment here or there.

Cage Match

Dec31

Content warning: implied possible rape

“If you want to fight so much,” Lady Glenora had clearly used up the last of her patience, “then by The Lady, you are going to fight.”

Tobias was uncertain of exactly what had happened next. It had involved at least three burly guards, four painful injections, five-point restraints, and possibly a partridge in a pear tree.

He was absolutely certain where he was now, though. He was naked – again, these Californians and nudity – and he was in a cage, maybe 10 feet on a side, with a guy a foot taller than him and a short girl wearing a terrifying strap-on.

All three of them were collared – he checked, yep, still wearing the damn thing – and slicked in oil.

“The object of the game,” the announcer called, “is not to get penetrated. Begin!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Tobias began… and quickly thought better of that curse.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/876763.html. You can comment here or there.

Cali, Femdom, Catgirls, Part II

Dec27

After Cali, Femdom, Catgirls.

Daniel had gotten kidnapped into slavery. He had been beaten up, stripped, beaten a little more, and forcibly showered and combed. Someone had put a thick plastic collar around his neck, and someone else had chained him to the floor. All in all, his opinion of Tir na California was not very high.

And now there was a pretty lady with cat ears kneeling next to him, and she had just clipped a leash to that damned collar. And she was – what was she doing? She was whispering. She was whispering to him. That was new.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

“I’m all cat ears. I mean ears. Shit.”

She chuckled. Maybe he wasn’t totally screwed. Well, other than being kidnapped into slavery, naked, and leashed. “Here’s the deal. For every ten minutes you cooperate in getting out of here without incident, I’ll answer one question for you.”

“Any question?”

“Any question.” She squeezed his hand, which was still chained behind his back.. “Do we have a deal?”

“Do I have a choice?” He squeezed her hand back anyway.

“Of course. She patted his shoulder with her free hand. “You can kick and fight and struggle and I’ll have you carried out of here. It’ll be a scene, I’ll be annoyed, and I won’t answer any questions. Not even about the ears.”

“Not ever?” This was ridiculous.

“Not ever.”

“I… All right.” He squeezed her hand again. “We have a deal. Clock starts…?”

“Now.” She gestured, and one of the thugs that had chained Daniel in the first place came over. “He’s coming home with me. Unchain him, please.”

“He’s a fighter… miss.”

“He’ll be tame for me.”

Daniel chafed, but she was right. He nodded mutely, not trusting himself to say something helpful.

“Surely you want me to leave the handcuffs on, at least, miss?” The thug had gotten the shackles on Daniel’s ankles undone. It felt like bliss to be able to move his feet separately of one another.

“Do you insult all your clients, or just the ones with grey eyes?” The girl’s voice was velvet, but it had claws. Much like her. Daniel watched with interest.

The thug bristled. “Grey eyes don’t make you noble… ma’am.”

“No. But mods don’t make me a slave… dearie. Come on, Daniel.”

How had she known his name? Daniel found his feet, and found them a bit shaky. He could do this. He could – he stumbled, and was surprised to find her hand on his chest, steadying him.

She was short. The tips of those ears only came to his nose. But she was keeping him upright. “Steady, steady.” All the sharpness was gone from her voice. “Small steps at first. They kept you chained up too long.”

“I, ah, he’s right about me being a fighter…”

Daniel found himself squirming. “Any time they unchained me…”

“I can’t say I blame you.” She winked at him. “They’re rude.”

Daniel turned his head and coughed. “Rude. Yeah.”

“Do you think you can walk now?” She shifted to one side of him, her hand on the small of his back.

“Uhrm. Urhm, yes…” He twisted to look at her, and the cold metal of the chain pressed against his chest. “What am I supposed to call you? Clearly not ‘miss.’”

“‘Miss’ is what you call a female slave, when you’re being polite.” She started walking, and Daniel, with the pressure of her hand on his back and the swinging presence of the leash on his chest, moved forward with her. “Do you want that to be your first question?”

Could he stay well-behaved for twenty minutes? He swallowed. “Yes, please.”

“‘Please,’ even. I’ll give you a freebie for that.”

“m… Thank you?” Daniel was not certain if that was a good thing or not.

“My name is Sharanna; you can call me Lady Shar, your ladyship, or my lady, depending on if you’re feeling really formal, a bit formal, or intimate.” She winked at him. “In a pinch, ‘ma’am’ will do for Americans.”

“We get special rules? D’oh… I mean… thank you, Lady Shar.”

“You’re doing really well. My car is just through here. It’s an enclosed parking lot. There won’t be many, if any, people there.” She opened the door, keeping pressure on the leash.

Daniel took a breath. “Plenty of people have already seen me naked… Lady Shar.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it. Besides.” She tugged him through the door and put her hand back on the small of his back. “People stare at me, too.”

“I… I can imagine.” He swallowed. “Is talking okay? It’s just…” He swallowed. “This is more words than they let me get away with, back there.”

“Talking is fine.” She stopped and looked at him, looked up at him until he made eye contact. “If something is going to be against the rules, I will tell you, and I will tell you why.”

Daniel nodded. “Uh. Thanks. So talking’s okay.”

“Talking is very pleasant.” She flashed him a smile that had far too sharp of teeth. “I enjoy talking quite a bit.”

“Oh.” He swallowed again, around a lump in his throat. “Oh, good. Uh. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Are you trying out all of the terms of address I gave you?” She grinned at him, all those sharp teeth again.

Daniel swallowed. “Um, yes, Lady Sharanna. I wanted – I – one of them has to feel comfortable, right?”

“In my experience, most Americans aren’t comfortable with any term of address; we’re far more formal than they’re used to. And you’re talking to a cat-girl; you’ve got to be uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t say that!” He realized after he’d said it that he’d practically yelped it.

“I know, I know.” She started walking again, giving a little tug on the leash as she did so. It made the collar press against the back of Daniel’s neck, and that, in turn, made him start walking. So that’s how that works. He wondered what would happen if he balked.

Well, he’d said he’d be good. He wanted answers. He’d have to wait and balk later.

“Everyone thinks variants on the same thing when they see me.” She kept a steady pressure on the leash as she led him through the parking garage. “You’ve been impressive in that you haven’t asked, yet.”

“It hasn’t been ten minutes yet. I think.” Daniel dared a weak joke. “I don’t exactly have a watch on.”

“Tch, no. Aren’t you uncomfortable, naked?”

Daniel didn’t think it was a good idea to make another joke, but he did it anyway. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one saving up questions?”

“You are.” She turned back to grin at him. It was not exactly a reassuring expression. “Should I be a good girl for you, then? For my questions?”

Daniel had never been all that good with girls; he’d never been great at figuring out what answer he was supposed to give. That one, though, had red flags painted all over it.

“You’re the owner, Your Ladyship. I’m the slave. You can ask as many questions as you want.”

She chuckled, giving Daniel the slightly-uncomfortable feeling that he’d passed a test. “You learn faster than most. So – aren’t you uncomfortable being naked?”

Daniel shrugged. He’d hedged long enough to give himself time to think of an answer. “I dunno. I mean, yeah, at home nobody wanders around naked. And I wouldn’t want to go running like this, but I wasn’t a runner, I was a swimmer. So… this isn’t that bad?” He shrugged. “I mean, don’t be mad at me, but being kidnapped and sold into slavery is a lot worse than just wandering around a parking garage naked.” He touched the leash dangling between them. “This, this is a lot worse than being naked.”

“Thank you.” She swung a car door open; he’d been so caught up in the conversation, he hadn’t realized they were at her car. If it was her car. He wouldn’t put anything past her at this point. “So, in the car and buckle yourself in. Then we’ll talk.”

Daniel swallowed. But there was really no point in balking now. He was already kidnapped, already collared. He got in the car.

If only the door shutting on him didn’t sound so final.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/873343.html. You can comment here or there.

Cali, Femdom, Catgirls

Dec10

By the time Daniel was dragged to the sales floor, he was bruised in at least seven places, two of which didn’t show; he was chained, collared, naked, sweating, had been forcibly showered three times and had his hair combed five time. He was furious, but he’d gone past furious into panic and then past panic into shaking.

And then the cat-girl walked into the room.

There was no other word for her. She had perky cat ears, whiskers, and a tail; she had a human face and body with fur or patterns on her hands – paws? She was wearing a small dress and tall heels, and very little else.

She strode in like she owned the place, and here, in California, where supposedly anything went, everyone stared. Daniel couldn’t fault them; he was staring too. Had to be prosthetics, or some sort of cosplay thing. But the ears were moving. The tail was moving.

The girl was moving. Woman, he supposed, nobody ever called them cat-women. Except DC comics. Anyway. She was moving towards him. She was carrying something in her hand. Something – what –

“Oh, no, no, no, no.” He couldn’t back up. He was so very locked to this place he was standing. He could fall backwards, and he did that. “No.”

She leaned down until her lips were nearly at his ear. “Yes.”

He felt the leash clip onto his collar, but he was out of options.

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/873343.html

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/863725.html. You can comment here or there.

Waking Up In Cali, a ficlet xover (@inventrix)

Nov9

This is a break from Nano, essentially: Kyle, Lady Maureen, and his succubus half-sister (Ivette) are Addergoole characters; the setting is Tír na Cali..

Kyle woke up in a small concrete room, on a small, hard bed, wearing nothing but his skin – his Masked skin, he checked – and with the familiar feeling of a collar heavy on his neck.

And it was heavy, the sort of thing only sadistic or control-freak Keepers put on their Kept. He touched it; it felt plasticy and thick, hard and not giving at all. And locked on.

Okay. Memories. He needed some of those. He’d been out at a bar – well, that sort of thing happened when you were in college, and he didn’t want to be that strange. And then there’d been the weird rainfall, and he and Dave and Jerry had hopped through it to a bar none of them could remember seeing before. And then… then there’d been a redhead.

He tried not to think too much about how much redheads did him in. He knew more about his mother than he ought to, and he knew more about himself than he ought to, and that being said, she hadn’t looked anything like either his mother or his succubus half-sister, except that she’d had flaming red hair.

So bar, alcohol, redhead… “Fuck.” He ran his hand over the collar again. “Fuck, fuck, shit.” Well, once he could get to a phone – assuming he didn’t have orders not to – he could probably get in touch with his mother, and Lady Maureen could probably make this go away.

He didn’t feel guilty about that. He ought to feel guilty… shouldn’t he?

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/845825.html. You can comment here or there.

Time Out, a story of Tír na Cali for the Dungeon & Cave call

Oct31

Lady Castilla came home late from a tiring night at the office to find her assistant Geordi still on the phones.

She waited patiently until he hung up the call, taking the time to strip off her business-wear and slide into a robe and her favorite slippers. Only when she heard the click of the phone did she click the leash onto the back of Geordi’s collar.

“How long have you been on the phone today?”

He may have been property by law, but he was her most valuable assistant. There was no groveling in his voice when he answered her. “Twelve hours.”

“Don’t you think it’s time for a break?”

Now, he hesitated. “There’s still the calls for the Mansfield problem to deal with…”

“It’s time for a time-out, Geordi.” Lady Castilla tugged on the leash, pulling him back in his chair. “Clothes. Off.”

“I’ve really got to get this paperwork done…” He was not so pampered or valuable as to directly disobey; he was already unbuttoning his shirt.

“The paperwork will be there when we’re done. You’ve been overworking yourself.” She gave him enough slack on the leash to work, but not enough that he forgot it was there.

“There’s always more work.” He draped his shirt over his chair and moved on to his pants.

“Then I’ll buy you an assistant.”

“They’ll just mis-file everything, like the last one.” He dropped his pants and knelt to finish with socks and shoes. “The work has to get done.”

“Later.” He was already on all fours; she gave the leash another tug. “Come on.”

“But the paperwork…”

“No more words, Geordi.” The closet was well-appointed, the cage inside it even more so. “Your mistress is telling you it’s time for time-out.”

“But the Mansfield problem…” He tugged back against the leash, as futile as that was.

“Later.” She put her slippered foot on his bare butt and gave him a firm shove into the padded cage. The leash, she threaded through the bars and hooked above his head, leaving him just enough slack to curl up comfortably. “Rest.”

She padlocked the cage door and stepped back, watching. He looked at the lock, and back at her. “But…” The tension left his shoulders. “Yes, Mistress. Thank you.”

“No more words now, Geordi. I mean it.” She passed a sippy-cup of Merlot through the bars. “Rest.”

She closed the closet door on the cage, leaving him relaxing wordlessly with his wine.

Written to Skan’s prompt. Tír na Cali has a landing page here.

If you’d like to see more of this story, I bet there’s more to be written. Just drop a tip in the the tip handcuffs:

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/842095.html. You can comment here or there.