Tag Archive | D/s

Working out the kinks – a ficlet continuation of an old thing

So I wrote this as a continuation of When One Is Being Hunted, but I had Invisible People a little in my head too, and maybe got them a little mixed.

I think it works for Aisleigh and her new sub, though.

“All right. If we’re going to sell this – and we’re going to have to sell it – you’re going to have to be believable. And so am I.”

She stretched. This wasn’t going to be easy. ​”I’m rusty, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. It’s been… well. It’s been a while.”

He looked up at her, his lips curling in a smile that was too close to superior to be healthy in a sub. “You don’t like it.”

“Hush now.” She tapped him very lightly on the side of the head, not a hit so much as an admonishment. “There’s no reason to be teasing me like that.”

He cringed. She had not been expecting that. She hadn’t been expecting the way he dropped to his knees and dropped his head, or the way his expression went blank. Nor the murder somewhere behind the blank expression, the way his spine was too tight and his smile was too perfect.

Someone had done this person a disservice, and then some.

“Easy, easy.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean anything by that and it won’t happen again. Come back to me now. Easy now, come back.”

He looked up at her, blinked, and his smile vanished into a worried frown. “What-”

“Seems like you’ve got some interesting traps in that mind, dear. We’ll have to explore those very, very carefully.”

Want More?

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Thimbleful Thursday – Easy Street

“I’m telling you, one more run, that’s it. Just one more score, and we’re on easy street.” Pell leaned back against the fence, grinning. “And this last one was a sweet one, wasn’t it? In, out, smooth as butter, no hitches at all.”

“Why is it,” Kell mused, “that every time you say something’s going to be smooth, I start to worry?”

“Well, that, my friend, is because you have no faith in me at all. Now, look, I’ve got all the info already. My source set me up good. You, me, Fell, the three of us in and out and kabang, we never have to see each other again, we never have to see nobody we don’t wanna see again.”

“This source.” Kell made the word sound sour and dirty, “that’s the question. They get, what, a quarter of our take?”

“Yeah, uh, something like that.” Pell shifted from foot to foot.

“And they give you the locations. But you’ve never seen them. You just dead-drop the money and get the information the same way?”

“Yeah? And?”

“And you never thought that was the least bit hinkey?”

“Why should I? I mean, Fell set us up. Fell’d worked with them before, and I know Fell from that Southwest job, you remember. Hellion set that one up.”

“And Hellion is such a good judge of character, too, aren’t they?” Kell’s headshake was more sad than upset. “Seriously, Pell, something’s just a little off about this.”

“Come on, Kell,” Pell wheedled. “Think about the money. Think about Easy Street. Not having to do anything else like this ever again, if we don’t want. Not having to work if we don’t want.”

“If it sounds too good to be true…” Kell muttered.

“Well, it’s not like this job is going to be a simple one or anything. We’re going to have to work damn hard for this last score. But once we do…”

“Easy street.” Kell wasn’t that hard to convince. People that were didn’t usually end up in their line of work. “All right. Let’s go.”

The building was just as the plans had suggested; the target was just where they were supposed to be, the security as easy as hacking a baby monitor. Pell handled the extraction with customary finesse while Kell handled the getaway car.

“See?” Pell drove into the drop-off site. “Easy-peasy, easy street.”

“You know,” Kell agreed slowly, “you might actually be right for… what’s that smell?”

“You’ve done quite well in acquisitions,” the voice over the car radio purred, as the gas knocked them unconscious. “But now I want you in a more front-and-center position in my slave shops. As merchandise, I think.”

Written to this week’s Thimbleful Thursday Prompt: Easy Street, and part of my d/s ‘verse. Probably.

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Let’s Play Turnabout

Content includes insinuated rough sex and manipulation.

“That’s it, my Master. Lay down, right here.”

Landyn wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to this. He was the Master, as she’d said, and she was his slave, bought on the market, fair and square. She’d been marked and collared and chained. She was a possession.

And he was a Noble.

But “let’s play,” Keely had suggested. Keely liked to play, and for some reason, Landyn always found himself agreeing to her games.

“Let’s play,” she’d said, and they’d been running around the forgotten sections of the old Habitat. “Let’s play,” she’s purred, and they’d put on Citizen’s jumpsuits and covered her collar and his tattoos with scarves and jewelry and gone running through the town-bubbles like they were just normal Citizen kids. “Let’s play,” she’d whispered, and they’d dressed up in their finest and crashed the wedding of a rich Citizen’s eldest daughter.

“Let’s play,” she’d suggested, and now Landyn was wearing no clothes at all, nothing except a makeshift collar made of his own belt, face down on the bed while his own slave crawled up over him, her long hair dangling over his back and the token chains on her wrists and ankles jingling.

“This isn’t how it happens, not really,” she whispered in his ear. “Because I like you, my Master. And because you play with me. And because you’re a Noble. If we played for real, if we did it the way it happens…”

“What?” Landyn’s voice was muffled against the pillow. He craned his neck, trying to look at her.

Keely put her hand over his eyes, blocking his view. “The way it happens when you become a thing. When they take it all away from you.”

Landyn swallowed. “Just play, you said. Just play.”

Her hand trailed over his back. “Just play, of course, my Master.” Her fingers slid down lower, down to the bottom of his spine. “Like I said, you’re a Noble. And everyone knows that the Nobles couldn’t handle the hard life.”

It stung his pride, even as he found himself lifting his hips to her touch. “I’m not weak. I’m not delicate.

“Of course not, my Master. Bite the pillow, that’s a good boy, and show me how not delicate you are.”

Landyn wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to this, but as he arched to her touch, he knew there was no way he was going to back out this time. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t some frail Habitat-hider. He’d been out in town. He’d…

As his moans grew louder and she shoved his face into the pillow, as he bit down on the feathers, transfixed between pain and pleasure, it occurred to Landyn, if only for a moment, that perhaps that was exactly what Keely wanted him to try to prove.

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Invisible People, a continuation of a thing.

First: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/958781.html

“You are not what I bid on.”

The sub shop had delivered Steve as per their standard issue, hooded and bound. The gag was extra, but Steve understood why they’d added that part.

He looked up at the speaker — she’d said kneel and he’d knelt, not because he was feeling particularly obedient, but because he wanted the hood off — and tried to communicate his frustrated scorn by eyebrows alone.

She looked down at him with something that could have been irritation. “The Silver Quill has a very good reputation. They shouldn’t have mixed something like this up.”

Steve worked his mouth around the gag, trying to make his displeasure with being something like this as clear as possible. The sooner she worked through her little complaint-fest here, the sooner he could be out of these bindings and…

…he really didn’t know what came after that. He sat back against the bindings and waited. She’d come to her conclusion, or call the Quill, or something, eventually. All he could do was —

“Do you know what happened?”

Steve blinked. Him? She was looking at him, not at anyone else, not at a phone.

“You,” she agreed. “Did you overhear anything?”

He considered that. Those were two different answers. After a moment, he decided he could answer yes to both, and nodded.

“Okay, good. I’m going to take the gag out. It’s easier than playing twenty questions.”

Steve nodded again. What was he going to say? What could he say?

The gag coming out felt strange. The Quill had not really wanted to hear Steve, and so he’d been muzzled for most of the last week. He waited until she sat down in front of him, and then until she cued him to speak with a hand gesture.

“They wanted to get rid of me, as quickly as possible. Mistress.” He bowed his head carefully. It pulled at his bonds in several places. “And they said — that is, I overheard them saying you seemed like the sort that wouldn’t complain.”

Steve risked a glance at her. Her eyebrows were up and her lips were pursed. “Well, then. I suppose I ought to prove them wrong.”

Steven swallowed hard and thought harder. “Please don’t. Look. Please don’t send me back.”

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Jumping Sharks, a dystopic story bit for Thimbleful Thursday

The new TV shows were stretching further and further, going more and more extreme in their desire to get the viewer’s attention. First it had been the Extreme Games. Then it had been the Survivor Shows. Now… Now it was this.

Aisleigh left the television on as she tidied the house. She was an honest citizen in good standing, and so her home wasn’t monitored, of course. Still, it was easy to track viewing practices, so she left the TV going.

The bookshelves needed a good dusting. Not only did that make the place look sharper, Aisleigh often found things she’d mislaid, and, less often, bugs someone had intentionally hidden. If they thought she never moved The Lesser Uses for Goldenrod, well, then obviously they weren’t studying her all that hard.

“Today, here on The Biggest Challenge, we have a brand new obstacle! Stay tuned to see our contestants struggle to stay on their skis as the tow boat executes turn after turn. Will they make it? Just how skilled are they?”

The announcer’s voice dropped deeper and softer. “The station and the Enforcement would like to remind all of the viewers that theft, murder, and rape are crimes. All criminals will pay restitution to their victims and to the state. And we all know –” now his voice rose up into his dramatic near-shout “–what happens to those who cannot pay!”

The audience behind him shouted happily. “They dance the dance!”

It was, Aisleigh thought, one of the worst slogans: Those that can’t pay the fiddler must dance the dance. But it certainly kept the reality shows stocked with “actors.”

“Today,” the announcer declared, “triple-murderer Shaun Cortwright is going to face an even more exciting challenge. Today, he is going to have to jump a shark! Let’s see how long he can stay on the skis while the hungry beasts swim below him!”

Somewhere in a planning meeting somewhere, Aisleigh was certain, someone had uttered the phrase “jump the shark” to a director. And someone had said “that’s it!”

She turned off the television. Criminals couldn’t pay their restitution if they didn’t bring in the ad revenue. Certainly, people would watch. Bloodsports always garnered attention. But maybe, if enough people turned off the tv, someone would explain exactly what “jump the shark” was supposed to mean.


written to Today’s Thimbleful Thursday prompt.

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A drabble of a thing I’ve been thinking of (Partially from something @cluudle said)

in the same not-yet-a-‘verse as http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/938413.html

“You are not what I bid on.”

The sub shop had delivered Steve as per their standard issue, hooded and bound. The gag was extra, but Steve understood why they’d added that part.

He looked up at the speaker — she’d said kneel and he’d knelt, not because he was feeling particularly obedient, but because he wanted the hood off — and tried to communicate his frustrated scorn by eyebrows alone.

She looked down at him with something that could have been irritation. “The Silver Quill has a very good reputation. They shouldn’t have mixed something like this up.”

Steve worked his mouth around the gag, trying to make his displeasure with being something like this as clear as possible. The sooner she worked through her little complaint-fest here, the sooner he could be out of these bindings and…

…he really didn’t know what came after that. He sat back against the bindings and waited. She’d come to her conclusion, or call the Quill, or something, eventually. All he could do was —

“Do you know what happened?”

Steve blinked. Him? She was looking at him, not at anyone else, not at a phone.

“You,” she agreed. “Did you overhear anything?”

He considered that. Those were two different answers. After a moment, he decided he could answer yes to both, and nodded.

“Okay, good. I’m going to take the gag out. It’s easier than playing twenty questions.”

Steve nodded again. What was he going to say? What could he say?

The gag coming out felt strange. The Quill had not really wanted to hear Steve, and so he’d been muzzled for most of the last week. He waited until she sat down in front of him, and then until she cued him to speak with a hand gesture.

“They wanted to get rid of me, as quickly as possible. Mistress.” He bowed his head carefully. It pulled at his bonds in several places. “And they said — that is, I overheard them saying you seemed like the sort that wouldn’t complain.”

Steve risked a glance at her. Her eyebrows were up and her lips were pursed. “Well, then. I suppose I ought to prove them wrong.”

Steven swallowed hard and thought harder. “Please don’t. Look. Please don’t send me back.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/958781.html. You can comment here or there.

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When One is Being Hunted… (A story for the Giraffe Call, for @Rix_Scaedu)

Written to Rix_Scaedu‘s prompt here, and in re. a conversation cluudle & I were having about BDSM AU’s.

New/unnamed ‘verse.

What do you do when you’re being hunted?(8)

Aisleigh was making spaghetti and meatballs when she found the boy in her cupboard.

He was skinny, probably too skinny, and he was staring at her with wide, terrified eyes. He’d probably thought he was safe in the canning pantry. Certainly, everything in there had enough dust on it.

“What are you–” She dropped her voice as she heard the unmistakable sounds of the Force outside. Working on an instinct she hadn’t had to use in a long time, she closed the pantry door, taking only the tomato sauce she’d been looking for.

The Force was moving from door to door. She could hear their radios, the hearty chatter that was half-casual, half-intimidation, the way their boots hit on the sidewalk. Her hands were shaking; she reminded herself, carefully, that she was a legal citizen now. That she obeyed the law, paid her taxes, and owned her home outright. There was very little the Force could do to her, and she had cameras installed on her front and back door and the large windows, just to be sure they remembered that.

The knock on her door came while she was seasoning the sauce. She waited until she’d gotten just the right amount of parsley and oregano into the sauce and turned the burner off before she answered, wiping her hands on her apron.

She didn’t look like a threat, she knew. Even as a young woman, she hadn’t looked like a threat. It had served her well against the Force’s predecessors; she hoped it would serve her well now. “Sorry, I was in the kit- oh, hello, officers. Nothing’s wrong, I hope?”

She had a premature streak of white in her hair that she hadn’t dyed over, and she was wearing a ruffled apron over sweat pants and a Metallica T-shirt; she did not look like a soldier and she did not look like an easy lay. They barely glanced at her. “Looking for a fugitive, ma’am. Have you seen any? Just about 6’4″ tall, armed. Injured a Force Officer.”

Good for him. “Oh, no, I haven’t seen anyone that tall around here. Is he a runaway sub? I hear that happens some times…”

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am. Let us know if you see him.”

“Oh, but if there’s someone dangerous – you said armed, didn’t you? – then we really ought to know what’s going on in our neighborhood.”

She saw the moment the lead officer utterly dismissed her as one of those. People who said “really ought to” never actually did anything.

“It’s nothing at all to worry about,” he repeated. “Johnson, O’Malley, with me.”

Aisleigh waited until the sounds of them had passed the next three houses. She put the finishing touches on her sauce and dished it up with her pasta – one plate, but a large one. She “accidentally” pushed the complex 17-button sequence that deleted the last 24 hours of footage from all of her security cameras, and then the 24-key sequence that deleted that backup. She closed the curtains on the one window she’d kept open to let the sun in. And then she pulled a large, flat jewelry box from her safe.

It had been a while. Fifteen, no, eighteen years since she moved to Clinton. Three years since her last sub had moved on to other things. This wasn’t quite how she’d found the last one…

…he’d actually been running away when he ran into her.

She opened the pantry door and passed the box inside. “I’m not asking questions yet.” Her voice was quiet. Just because she’d swept for listening devices last week didn’t mean there wasn’t one she’d missed. “But you pissed the Force right off.”

She closed the cabinet and set the table. Normally, she’d eat in front of the TV, but company, even company in your pantry, meant doing things right. She sat down at the head of the table and counted to ten.

On nine, her pantry opened, and the boy emerged. He really was tall, and far too skinny, and, aside from that, quite good looking, in a pretty sort of way.

He took a look at the kneeler set beside Aisleigh’s chair. He was still carrying the box, glancing between it and the kneeler. Slowly, as if fighting against himself, he knelt.

“The thing to do when you are being hunted–” She had his attention already. She knew her voice sounded like a different person than had answered the door to the Force. She felt like a different person. “When you are being hunted,” she repeated, and watched him flinch, “you need to lie low for as long as possible. Predators can be very patient. But after a while, even they wander off in search of juicy prey.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. He opened the box and looked down at the silver collar sitting there, and the small matching rings that would fit Aisleigh’s ring fingers.

Aisleigh continued. “As a sub, you don’t exist legally. No paperwork, no name, no taxes. As a sub, you’re entirely off the radar – for as long as you need. When you’re being hunted,” she repeated, “you need to become invisible.”



Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1272291.html

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