This story was written to @cluudle‘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.
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…
(Read on)
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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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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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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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His wrists caught my attention first.
You wouldn’t think it would be wrists, but these were bony wrists, slender, so thin I could circle each wrist with my forefinger and thumb. He had nearly-hairless arms, and these bony wrists between lanky long arms and long-fingered skinny hands.
I think I fell in love with his wrists before I ever made it to his eyes
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Drausus the warlord lived in an impenetrable fort on the top of an unclimbable cliff and ruled over his territory with an iron fist and a stone heart. Or, at least, he had.
Drausus commanded the farmers to grow enough for themselves and then enough for him, and those that did not, he put to work in the mines, pulling out steel and gold. Or, at least, he had.
He took his pick of the finest of the young people to warm his bed and keep him company and if they were lucky, when he was done with them he’d arrange a marriage with a member of his personal army. Or, at least, he had.
The woman, the hero, had climbed the unclimbable cliff, bypassed the well-bribed army, penetrated the impenetrable fort, and beaten the unbeatable warlord. She had done the first with tools he had never seen, the second with stealth he hadn’t thought of, the third with a little bit of both – and the fourth, Drausus had to believe was witchcraft and dishonesty and nothing more. She couldn’t have been that good at everything.
She couldn’t be that good at everything. Because if she was, Drausus was never going to escape.
“The rules are simple.” The hero-woman-thing was pacing in front of him. It turned out, Drausus had quickly learned, that the abandoned old fort on the other hillside was neither abandoned nor that old. “You will do as I say, in the manner of our people. When you do not, you will be punished. When you do, you will be rewarded.”
Drausus snarled. “And then what?”
“And then?” She pulled up a chair and smiled at him. “There is no ‘and then.’ I don’t imagine you’ll suddenly become a nice guy, or a good warlord. But I imagine, with a lot of practice, and possibly a few shocks to the system now and then, you could become an obedient one.”
This may be fae apoc.
If you’d like to see more of this story, there is definitely more to be written! Just drop a tip in the the tip handcuffs:
We are as of this posting, $17 from three more prompters getting an extra 500-word story, and $35 from a rug for my cave!
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Shiva and Niki are characters in the webserial Addergoole.
Addergoole has a landing page here.
“Niki, stop squirming.” Shiva flicked the back of Niki’s ear with forefinger and thumb in exasperation. “You’d think no-one had ever picked your grapes before.”
“Shiiiiiiiva,” her Kept whined, sitting very still because he had no choice and still managing to give off the impression of wriggling. “It tickles. And you didn’t have to thwap me,” he added, sulking.
“This was your idea,” she pointed out. “You can hold still, or I can tie you down.”
She felt a stillness come over him as he stopped fighting the order. “That could be fun.”
“It could,” she agreed. She leaned forward to breathe against the back of his pointed ear. “And if you’re very good, then we will do that later.”
A tiny moan escaped him, a sound she was pretty sure he didn’t know he was making. “I’ll be good,” he whispered, the words seeming to come from deep inside him, from the person behind the bitchy mask.
“I know you will,” she purred. His ear was right there, so she licked the back of it slowly. “You’re my wonderful, wonderful slave, aren’t you?” And was he in the mood to take that as it was meant, and not act insulted?
The soft groan suggested that he was. “All yours.” Sometimes, sometimes she could remind him why he’d asked her to collar him. It seemed today was one of those days.
“Lay on your stomach for me,” she murmured, “and I’ll finish harvesting this batch of grapes.”
She waited for him to shift around, and then straddled him, one hand on the center of his back pinning him, while she used the other to pick the juicy red grapes that grew, Bacchus-like, from thick vines in his hair.
On the bedstand, a bowl already overflowed with the fruit. “I’m going to make the sweetest wine from you, my beautiful boy,” she whispered, watching him shudders at her breath on his shoulders. “And then we’ll get drunk off you.”
“Yes, Shiva,” he groaned, twitching as she murmured the Words to coax his vines to fruit again.
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After Three-Way, the Duet.
3-Way originally posted here and on LJ,
continued here (LJ)
and then here (LJ
and then
Here (Duet) and Here on LJ
And the “Preferences” (LJ) and
“9 Things I Hate About You” (LJ)
For cluudle, for being awesome.
Content warning: this relationship borders on emotionally abusive.
Thorburn released Ceinwen slowly from the hug. It seemed as if he’d been holding her forever, since he’d agreed that now was not the time to talk about the elephant in the living room, since he’d said they had room for negotiation. She’d thought he’d forgotten. She wasn’t quite sure he hadn’t fallen asleep; she wasn’t sure she hadn’t, either. It had been a long day, and it was late.
“You were right. I said you could earn your clothes back, your things. And I never told you how. I admit, I didn’t think about how much.” He stroked her arm. “I like the things I put you in. And I like you naked next to me.”
She wasn’t sure if now was still the time for talking, but she tried. “I wouldn’t mind, if it didn’t feel so demeaning.” Like she wasn’t a person enough to get clothes.
He nodded slowly. “If I don’t wear anything to bed…” He stopped what he was going to say, but she could see the shadows around him. “then you will be getting more waking up in the middle of the night than I think you’d prefer. Boxers and panties?”
“Am I getting a say?”
“I do want you to be happy. And I’d say for helping Basalt out, you deserve a reward, wouldn’t you?”
“I…” She twisted her lips. “‘Good girl, have a gold star?'”
He frowned at her. “You’re not a child, Ceinwen, but you are Mine, and that does mean I get to reward and punish you as I choose. I’d rather work out rewards, give you things for pleasing me. Would you prefer I punish you when you irritate me?”
“The way it seems lately, you’d be punishing me all the time and never rewarding me anyway,” she muttered. She had just a second to realize she’d pushed him too far before he picked her up and bent her over his lap, her wrists pinned at the small of her back. He pulled her skirt up – always skirts, he’d taken all her pants – and his hand came down hard on her ass, one cheek and then the other.
She yelped at the first hit, struggling against his hands, and then whimpered at the second. After that, she froze, hoping he’d stop. She could feel his erection against her stomach and ribs, which made the whole thing more humiliating, more terrifying, more arousing.
He leaned down until his lips were near her ears. “I’d like doing that every time you mouthed off,” he whispered. “But I don’t think you would. So I’ll reward you, and I’ll tell you what will earn rewards. And maybe, sometimes, then, I can just spank you for fun.”
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Addergoole has a landing page here and on LJ
This story requires, I think, some background to really understand.
Her father was scolding Falk again.
Regine could hear every word through the library wall. If she moved to the other side of the library, she wouldn’t have to hear them anymore, and would be able to focus on her studies. She was fascinated with this book, with the whole series of them her father had found and brought for her and Falk, one at a time, plying them with scholarly works the way some girls’ parents brought them toys or clothing.
“Haven’t I given you everything?” their father was demanding, in the quiet way that was so much more real, more intense, than the yelling she’d heard other men do. Her father never yelled. “I have provided you every advantage, Falk. Everything.”
Falk’s answer was almost swallowed. If their father was calm and soft-spoken, Falk was nearly inaudible on a good day. “You’ve given me everything to start, Father. And I am very grateful for that.”
“If you’re grateful, then why would you have done this? Why would you have besmirched my legacy this way?” Their father wasn’t shouting. He would never shout. But his voice was getting a bit more enthusiastic.
“I didn’t do this on purpose. Believe me, it was my sincere wish to Change properly. I don’t know what happened, Father. I didn’t do this to spite you. I didn’t do this at all.”
“My blood is pure-blooded Grigori. My line can be counted all the way back to the Greeks. To the Gods themselves. This must have been another of your experimental ideas.” Their father made “experimental” sound like a perversion. “You will fix this mockery, or you will leave.”
“Father…”
Regine looked down at the book in her hands, and moved to the other side of the library.
Regine and her father Changed as full-blooded Grigori; her half-brother, Falk, did not. At that time, the early 1700’s, the wheres and whyfores of pure-blooded or half-blooded were not understood. The genetics of the Ellehemaei are still not all that well understood.
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