Fic: A Simple Strip of Leather (Didier Vascom, Katherine Friote, Balthasar Shahrizai, PG-13)
Title: A Simple Strip of Leather
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Didier Vascom(/Mandrake adept), Katherine Friote(/Roshana Shahrizai), Balthasar Shahrizai(/Valerian adept)
Summary: Love, lust, and love again: three generations muse on collars.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: Collars; D/s, breathplay, animal play all mentioned
Word Count: 2053
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for the
kink_bingo square "collars", and somehow morphed from straight-up porn into character pieces midway through the writing process. That's writerly inspiration for you, man.
I. Didier Vascom
My desire to yield has never been an act, and it still is not, but as the years have passed, it has become more and more necessary to exaggerate my reactions to certain patrons who step through the doors of Valerian House. I've grown inured to them, after a while, those men and women in whose veins the blood of Kushiel runs thin and weak; certainly they have a right to be here, and a right to their pleasure, just as any patron does, but for them I must summon the memories and feelings of a younger time, when I was not just eager to please, but desperate to grovel. I am not so easily dominated, now. The Dowayneship has hardened a certain contrariness in me into a thin shield of glass, so that I may conduct business with the other Dowaynes of the Night Court with what they perceive as dignity; I must be a steel core under layers of pliant silk, as my predecessor told me during my training. That glass shield has lent itself to my interactions with many of my patrons, few of whom can sense its presence. But others do, and for them, I let it down.
And then there is he who shatters it.
I bear his bonds proudly, a symbol of his possession of me: embossed leather cuffs on my wrists, and, less obviously, a permanent contract in my files, first signed at our reciprocal training under the eyes of our Houses' Dowaynes, and now, decades later, still in effect. I wear many marks of his ownership, but the one I love most lies 'round my throat. My collar is a slim strip of black leather, simple and of excellent quality, with a small metal lock clasped at the nape of my neck. There is no loop for a leash to attach; he has no need for such displays. He knows I am his.
The weight of the collar is both a comfort and a promise. There is little of the erotic in it, not after so long, but it is always there with me, as I turn my head to check the appearance of my adepts, as I glance down in submission before the cruel gaze of our most cherished patrons. It rubs against my skin as I move in my sleep; it constricts my neck ever so slightly as it dries after my bath. When I am uncertain of my place in the world, I touch it, and remember. When he comes to me, whether after two weeks or two months, it does not matter, I bare my throat to him and he hooks his fingers through the leather, and drags me to him. A kiss, the languisement, simply to hold me - if he guides me, I am willing, and if he loves me, there is nothing I can do but love him. There is never anything I can do, but love him. And if I, weary and saddened by our time apart, ever chance to forget this - my collar is there, a promise of affection, a reminder of him.
II. Katherine Friote
"Of course we in Kusheth play at marriage," Roshana said with a smile. She let down her hair from its beautifully wound braid, and twined the blue ribbon between her fingers as she spoke. It matched her eyes. "Much like Siovalese children do, I imagine."
"Surely there must be some variation," I protested. "There has been in everything else we've talked about."
"Does it offend your sense of natural order?" she asked, eyes dancing. "If it is so in one instance, it must be in the other?"
"It's logical," I said, feeling somewhat out of my element. "And besides - "
You're Kusheline, I nearly said, but I bit my tongue. Despite my initial curiosity, I wasn't sure I wanted to know what sharp-edged games they played in Kusheth.
Roshana studied me for a moment. It was disorienting, being under the scrutiny of those twilight eyes; I knew she was purely a scion of Kushiel, of course, but she had been so kind and polite during her time at Montrève, I'd nearly forgotten what that meant.
"Well," she said, and her expression grew sly. "There is one twist to the game, uncommon in other provinces. It's not often played, to be truthful, but I always enjoyed it."
"What is it?" I asked, greatly daring.
"This," she said, and quick as a darting bird, she flung the ribbon over my head and wrapped it around my neck.
I tried to duck away, but she had secured it tightly, almost too tightly. I was drawn up short, nearly throttling myself in my hurry to escape.
"What - " I began, a flush of embarrassment spreading along my cheeks, and I couldn't finish my sentence.
"It could be anything," Roshana said in my ear. She was closer than I had expected. She gave a little tug on the ribbon, and I thought, She could choke me, if she wanted. I shivered.
"It could be a necklace," she continued, her voice dropping to a velvety purr. "A gift given to a dearest lover, soon to be a spouse, or mayhap to a wife whose favor may be useful in the future."
I laughed, and she twisted the ribbon to cut me off. I was leaning almost fully against her, now, her ribbon drawn taut, much like my nerves.
"It could be used like this," she said, "to take control, willingly given."
"To strangle," I whispered. It came out in a gasp. My body was heated, and it wasn't entirely from embarrassment or worry.
"Sometimes," she agreed. I could hear the smile in her voice.
"What else?" I asked hoarsely. My head leaned against her shoulder. My eyes were unexpectedly lidded.
"Mayhap," she murmured, "as a collar, linking one inextricably to the other."
My body went rigid, and I drew my breath in sharply, or tried to. Roshana laughed softly, and bent to press a kiss to my neck, right over the ribbon.
"Why, Katherine," she breathed, and stroked my cheek with her fingers. "I do believe you like that idea."
I shuddered. She was beautiful, but I hadn't desired her overmuch, until now. Elua, how I wanted her! And all due to a scrap of ribbon. It was something to think about.
She loosened the ribbon, and I coughed as I drew breath. My throat ached; I thought it might for some time.
"This has been very educational," I said.
"Discovered somewhat new about yourself, have you?" she asked with a smile.
"I do believe I have," I said, and kissed her. The taste of her, her scent, the force of her response, were all overwhelming. I was panting by the time we broke apart.
"Well, well," she said, eyeing me speculatively. "Demoiselle Friote."
"Lady Shahrizai," I said, and laughed a little. "Collar me again?"
This time, her smile was languid and intense, and set me to melting.
"Yes," she purred, and wrapped the ribbon around my throat, none too gently. "Oh, Katherine, yes."
III. Balthasar Shahrizai
It's funny how it changes you, being enslaved by a madman and forced to till the fields under the supervision of a million ant overseers. I daresay it is an experience few could claim, except, of course, those who were there with me, and thus it is an experience few could understand. So when I say I hated it, people nod sagely, murmur their frivolous agreements and meaningless platitudes. They believe I mean the jungle, the insects, the horror at seeing a countryman so deranged and dangerous - those who know believe I mean those bedamned bad spirits, and I can emphatically say that yes, I hated all those things. The nearly dying, especially. It goes against all my plans for further accomplishments, particularly those at court and in the boudoir.
I hated them all, but it was worse to be weak. I could do nothing to help myself, nor anyone else; I was forced to throw chance to the wind and pray. Relying on an insane man's power over a horde of carnivorous ants to remain steady, trusting to Moirin to outsmart him, praying a horrific, holy sacrifice and a memory I will never wash clean would save us - I had nothing, no control. The struggle through the jungle was a relief, for there I took my life back in my own hands, but then we boarded the boat - sorry, the ship; Septimus would have my head if he heard my misuse of terminology - and it all went to hell again. I paced; I couldn't keep still. It was like there was nothing in my head but fear, and waves of nervousness pulsing through my veins instead of blood. Uncontrollable, like so many of the things I now loathe.
I can't see myself sailing again, unless I somehow learn how to run an entire ship by myself. I dislike carriages, and even riding sets my teeth on edge; lately, I've preferred to walk, however déclassé it may be. It's irrational, yes, but there is little I can do about it but wait.
Luckily for me, in the meantime I have a pretty filly of my own to play with.
As of late, I've been putting her in bit and bridle, with a splendid tail of real horsehair, but that isn't how it began. We had had a relationship before my ill-chosen adventure to Terra Nova, she a Valerian adept and I a patron - but no, that wasn't where we started. Later, perhaps, after she had made her marque. Yes, that's it.
She had given me a lover's token, a pin of the entwined Shahrizai keys with a rose winding around them, and I had taken to wearing it everywhere I went. Infatuated, Josephine called me, and she was quite right; I was so in love with her, I bought her a token in exchange, something I'd never done before. A collar, amethyst in a gold setting, placed on a cord of deep brown leather, the sort of thing a lady's pampered pet would wear. And so I called her.
"My little lapdog," I would croon, tugging her nearer, gathering her slim body close and placing her in my lap. She played her part to the hilt, nuzzling my neck, whimpering ever so slightly as I stroked her hair and her back. Obedient to a fault, she would fetch if I threw something, usually scraps of pretty fabric or a small item from the flagellary, and when I called her to heel, she would go. What she preferred, though, was to lay at my feet, often on her back, and watch me with wide, adoring eyes, nearly slavish in her devotion, like a good dog would.
When I returned to Terre d'Ange, shaken and pretending I wasn't, she was one of the first to call on me. She walked into the receiving room with her collar in her hands, as if presenting it to me. Not a word was spoken; she simply buckled it around her neck and went to her hands and knees, gazing at me. I combed my fingers through her hair, and she nuzzled my palm affectionately. I am only a little ashamed to say I cried, at her love and at her tenderness, and at how deeply she understood my needs. She licked the tears from my face, and only when I took off her collar did she kiss me.
Even now, when she plays the pony for me, does she leave it on. Inauthentic, perhaps, for a horse collar is something different altogether, but necessary, and quite beautiful. I plan on training her to trot, next, and I think it will look lovely gleaming above her pert breasts.
I have been asked by those who know, mostly my closest friends and family, just how far we take this act, but even I have my limits to what I am willing to share. I will simply say that there is nothing she wouldn't give me, if I truly require it, and I often do. I hand her her collar, and she knows. She knows. My pretty filly, my little pet.
Read @ Dreamwidth, where this post has
comments.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Didier Vascom(/Mandrake adept), Katherine Friote(/Roshana Shahrizai), Balthasar Shahrizai(/Valerian adept)
Summary: Love, lust, and love again: three generations muse on collars.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: Collars; D/s, breathplay, animal play all mentioned
Word Count: 2053
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: Written for the
kink_bingo square "collars", and somehow morphed from straight-up porn into character pieces midway through the writing process. That's writerly inspiration for you, man.
I. Didier Vascom
My desire to yield has never been an act, and it still is not, but as the years have passed, it has become more and more necessary to exaggerate my reactions to certain patrons who step through the doors of Valerian House. I've grown inured to them, after a while, those men and women in whose veins the blood of Kushiel runs thin and weak; certainly they have a right to be here, and a right to their pleasure, just as any patron does, but for them I must summon the memories and feelings of a younger time, when I was not just eager to please, but desperate to grovel. I am not so easily dominated, now. The Dowayneship has hardened a certain contrariness in me into a thin shield of glass, so that I may conduct business with the other Dowaynes of the Night Court with what they perceive as dignity; I must be a steel core under layers of pliant silk, as my predecessor told me during my training. That glass shield has lent itself to my interactions with many of my patrons, few of whom can sense its presence. But others do, and for them, I let it down.
And then there is he who shatters it.
I bear his bonds proudly, a symbol of his possession of me: embossed leather cuffs on my wrists, and, less obviously, a permanent contract in my files, first signed at our reciprocal training under the eyes of our Houses' Dowaynes, and now, decades later, still in effect. I wear many marks of his ownership, but the one I love most lies 'round my throat. My collar is a slim strip of black leather, simple and of excellent quality, with a small metal lock clasped at the nape of my neck. There is no loop for a leash to attach; he has no need for such displays. He knows I am his.
The weight of the collar is both a comfort and a promise. There is little of the erotic in it, not after so long, but it is always there with me, as I turn my head to check the appearance of my adepts, as I glance down in submission before the cruel gaze of our most cherished patrons. It rubs against my skin as I move in my sleep; it constricts my neck ever so slightly as it dries after my bath. When I am uncertain of my place in the world, I touch it, and remember. When he comes to me, whether after two weeks or two months, it does not matter, I bare my throat to him and he hooks his fingers through the leather, and drags me to him. A kiss, the languisement, simply to hold me - if he guides me, I am willing, and if he loves me, there is nothing I can do but love him. There is never anything I can do, but love him. And if I, weary and saddened by our time apart, ever chance to forget this - my collar is there, a promise of affection, a reminder of him.
II. Katherine Friote
"Of course we in Kusheth play at marriage," Roshana said with a smile. She let down her hair from its beautifully wound braid, and twined the blue ribbon between her fingers as she spoke. It matched her eyes. "Much like Siovalese children do, I imagine."
"Surely there must be some variation," I protested. "There has been in everything else we've talked about."
"Does it offend your sense of natural order?" she asked, eyes dancing. "If it is so in one instance, it must be in the other?"
"It's logical," I said, feeling somewhat out of my element. "And besides - "
You're Kusheline, I nearly said, but I bit my tongue. Despite my initial curiosity, I wasn't sure I wanted to know what sharp-edged games they played in Kusheth.
Roshana studied me for a moment. It was disorienting, being under the scrutiny of those twilight eyes; I knew she was purely a scion of Kushiel, of course, but she had been so kind and polite during her time at Montrève, I'd nearly forgotten what that meant.
"Well," she said, and her expression grew sly. "There is one twist to the game, uncommon in other provinces. It's not often played, to be truthful, but I always enjoyed it."
"What is it?" I asked, greatly daring.
"This," she said, and quick as a darting bird, she flung the ribbon over my head and wrapped it around my neck.
I tried to duck away, but she had secured it tightly, almost too tightly. I was drawn up short, nearly throttling myself in my hurry to escape.
"What - " I began, a flush of embarrassment spreading along my cheeks, and I couldn't finish my sentence.
"It could be anything," Roshana said in my ear. She was closer than I had expected. She gave a little tug on the ribbon, and I thought, She could choke me, if she wanted. I shivered.
"It could be a necklace," she continued, her voice dropping to a velvety purr. "A gift given to a dearest lover, soon to be a spouse, or mayhap to a wife whose favor may be useful in the future."
I laughed, and she twisted the ribbon to cut me off. I was leaning almost fully against her, now, her ribbon drawn taut, much like my nerves.
"It could be used like this," she said, "to take control, willingly given."
"To strangle," I whispered. It came out in a gasp. My body was heated, and it wasn't entirely from embarrassment or worry.
"Sometimes," she agreed. I could hear the smile in her voice.
"What else?" I asked hoarsely. My head leaned against her shoulder. My eyes were unexpectedly lidded.
"Mayhap," she murmured, "as a collar, linking one inextricably to the other."
My body went rigid, and I drew my breath in sharply, or tried to. Roshana laughed softly, and bent to press a kiss to my neck, right over the ribbon.
"Why, Katherine," she breathed, and stroked my cheek with her fingers. "I do believe you like that idea."
I shuddered. She was beautiful, but I hadn't desired her overmuch, until now. Elua, how I wanted her! And all due to a scrap of ribbon. It was something to think about.
She loosened the ribbon, and I coughed as I drew breath. My throat ached; I thought it might for some time.
"This has been very educational," I said.
"Discovered somewhat new about yourself, have you?" she asked with a smile.
"I do believe I have," I said, and kissed her. The taste of her, her scent, the force of her response, were all overwhelming. I was panting by the time we broke apart.
"Well, well," she said, eyeing me speculatively. "Demoiselle Friote."
"Lady Shahrizai," I said, and laughed a little. "Collar me again?"
This time, her smile was languid and intense, and set me to melting.
"Yes," she purred, and wrapped the ribbon around my throat, none too gently. "Oh, Katherine, yes."
III. Balthasar Shahrizai
It's funny how it changes you, being enslaved by a madman and forced to till the fields under the supervision of a million ant overseers. I daresay it is an experience few could claim, except, of course, those who were there with me, and thus it is an experience few could understand. So when I say I hated it, people nod sagely, murmur their frivolous agreements and meaningless platitudes. They believe I mean the jungle, the insects, the horror at seeing a countryman so deranged and dangerous - those who know believe I mean those bedamned bad spirits, and I can emphatically say that yes, I hated all those things. The nearly dying, especially. It goes against all my plans for further accomplishments, particularly those at court and in the boudoir.
I hated them all, but it was worse to be weak. I could do nothing to help myself, nor anyone else; I was forced to throw chance to the wind and pray. Relying on an insane man's power over a horde of carnivorous ants to remain steady, trusting to Moirin to outsmart him, praying a horrific, holy sacrifice and a memory I will never wash clean would save us - I had nothing, no control. The struggle through the jungle was a relief, for there I took my life back in my own hands, but then we boarded the boat - sorry, the ship; Septimus would have my head if he heard my misuse of terminology - and it all went to hell again. I paced; I couldn't keep still. It was like there was nothing in my head but fear, and waves of nervousness pulsing through my veins instead of blood. Uncontrollable, like so many of the things I now loathe.
I can't see myself sailing again, unless I somehow learn how to run an entire ship by myself. I dislike carriages, and even riding sets my teeth on edge; lately, I've preferred to walk, however déclassé it may be. It's irrational, yes, but there is little I can do about it but wait.
Luckily for me, in the meantime I have a pretty filly of my own to play with.
As of late, I've been putting her in bit and bridle, with a splendid tail of real horsehair, but that isn't how it began. We had had a relationship before my ill-chosen adventure to Terra Nova, she a Valerian adept and I a patron - but no, that wasn't where we started. Later, perhaps, after she had made her marque. Yes, that's it.
She had given me a lover's token, a pin of the entwined Shahrizai keys with a rose winding around them, and I had taken to wearing it everywhere I went. Infatuated, Josephine called me, and she was quite right; I was so in love with her, I bought her a token in exchange, something I'd never done before. A collar, amethyst in a gold setting, placed on a cord of deep brown leather, the sort of thing a lady's pampered pet would wear. And so I called her.
"My little lapdog," I would croon, tugging her nearer, gathering her slim body close and placing her in my lap. She played her part to the hilt, nuzzling my neck, whimpering ever so slightly as I stroked her hair and her back. Obedient to a fault, she would fetch if I threw something, usually scraps of pretty fabric or a small item from the flagellary, and when I called her to heel, she would go. What she preferred, though, was to lay at my feet, often on her back, and watch me with wide, adoring eyes, nearly slavish in her devotion, like a good dog would.
When I returned to Terre d'Ange, shaken and pretending I wasn't, she was one of the first to call on me. She walked into the receiving room with her collar in her hands, as if presenting it to me. Not a word was spoken; she simply buckled it around her neck and went to her hands and knees, gazing at me. I combed my fingers through her hair, and she nuzzled my palm affectionately. I am only a little ashamed to say I cried, at her love and at her tenderness, and at how deeply she understood my needs. She licked the tears from my face, and only when I took off her collar did she kiss me.
Even now, when she plays the pony for me, does she leave it on. Inauthentic, perhaps, for a horse collar is something different altogether, but necessary, and quite beautiful. I plan on training her to trot, next, and I think it will look lovely gleaming above her pert breasts.
I have been asked by those who know, mostly my closest friends and family, just how far we take this act, but even I have my limits to what I am willing to share. I will simply say that there is nothing she wouldn't give me, if I truly require it, and I often do. I hand her her collar, and she knows. She knows. My pretty filly, my little pet.
Read @ Dreamwidth, where this post has
comments.