Desmond's Impulse - Chapter 1?
I apparently never posted this story to my journal proper, or else I can't *find* it on my journal. It's the potential beginning for a story that's bugging me right now, when I am actually trying to write something ELSE. Go figure. Maybe if I write a bit of this, it will stop bothering me? Haha
ETA: It was part of therealljidol, oops. That's why I couldn't find it! I am so on top of things today.
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“Russell, are you sure you know where you’re going?” Desmond muttered as he looked around skeptically. The surroundings were awfully industrial, with dark, squat warehouses everywhere.
His friend Russell smiled confidently as he waved his old smartphone around. “My phone says this is the neighborhood.”
Desmond wasn’t so sure -- would they really find a rare tea shop in such a place? There didn’t seem to be any shops at all on the gray streets. He furrowed his brow in worry as he watched Russell practically skipping beside him, his strawberry blonde curls bouncing in time with his steps. “Why are you so happy?” Desmond asked.
“Because Annika said she would pay us for finding this tea for her, and I could use some extra cash. My sister’s birthday is coming up,” he said as he glanced at his phone. “It says we’re almost there -- it’s just right around the corner.”
“Well, I do hear people,” Desmond murmured, stopping on the sidewalk to listen better. “A lot of people. Sounds like a market.” He could hear shouting and music with an odd, pounding beat. It didn’t sound like the kind of place that would sell you tea.
The two of them turned the corner, only for Desmond to discover something that was very much not a place that could sell you tea.
He turned to Russell, feeling his jaw drop. That was nothing compared to the stunned expression on his friend’s face. Russell’s eyes were huge as they stared at the scene before them. The open air square wasn’t a food market of any kind -- it was a slave market.
In some ways, it looked like a farmer’s market with stalls scattered haphazardly on the pavement square. Instead of tables full of produce, each silvery stall boasted a smallish tented platform where the various pieces of “merchandise” stood, displaying themselves to potential customers in skimpy outfits. The “shopkeepers” sat in chairs behind their wares, hidden in shadows. Each stall had a sign declaring it to be a licensed provider, and each tent boasted a logo for its particular facility.
“How the hell did your GPS lead us here? Desmond cried, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “Your ‘smart’ phone is even stupider than you are.” He stared up at the buildings, noticing the security cameras twisting back and forth, watching them. If his parents ever somehow got footage from this, they would kill him.
Desmond’s parents were members of the Freedom Crusade to abolish slavery and would not look kindly on him for wandering into a slave market, even a small one, even on accident.
“I don’t know,” Russell breathed, his eyes still wide. “But we should get out of here.”
“No kidding,” Desmond muttered, shaking his head.
The two of them turned around, only to find their way blocked by a low metallic barrierl. A grumpy old man stood next to it. “Construction is beginning now. You’re gonna have to go another way,” he muttered. Desmond’s stomach sank -- they would have to go through the market to get out of here.
He glared at Russell. “Don’t look anybody in the eye, and stick to the outskirts. We don’t want to invite trouble,” he growled.
“You -- you don’t think anybody would try to sell us, do you?” Russell asked, looking around nervously.
Desmond resisted the urge to smack his forehead. Nobody would going to try and sell a pair of ordinary people like him and Russell. The slaves, even in a minor non-auction market such as this one, would have been trained practically from birth to be willing providers of services. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the idea.
“So which way do we go?” Russell wondered.
He pointed in a direction that seemed to contain fewer people. “I guess we go that way,” he said.
Desmond started walking, and Russell followed him. He tried to heed his own warning and not look anybody in the eye. Unfortunately, Russell dropped his smartphone. It skidded along the ground. “Oh shit,” Russell hissed. “I gotta get my phone before someone grabs it.”
Privately, Desmond thought he might be better writing off the phone as lost, since the damn thing had lead them to the market in the first place. Because of the growing crowds, Russell quickly disappeared among the mass of people. When had so many shown up?
Despite a growing nervousness in the pit of his stomach, Desmond hesitated to call out his friend’s name -- he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. He scanned his surroundings. Surely, Russell’s hair should be easily spotted? It wasn’t. So focused was he on finding his friend that he didn’t notice the crack in the pavement.
He caught his foot in it, sending him tumbling forward and sideways -- into one of of the silver stalls.
Time slowed; he was all too aware of what was happening. Desmond spread his arms out to stop his fall. Something -- or someone -- caught him and stopped him from faceplanting. This was not happening. His legs shook from the shock of his almost-fall; he didn’t think he could even stand without help.
“Are you alright?” the person who caught him asked.
Desmond felt his face heat up. So much for Russell being the one to make trouble. “I’m fine,” he muttered, finally pulling himself away from whoever held him. He looked at his rescuer, a young man with golden blond hair and striking amber eyes. His face appeared flawless, as did his lithe, tanned body, fully displayed in one of those skimpy outfits -- a thing with tiny shorts and a midriff-baring top.. Desmond realized he was staring at the slave who had caught him. His face burned, but he couldn’t tear himself away.
An older man approached the two of them. “Do you like what you see?” he asked Desmond in an oily voice.
Did the man think he wanted to make a purchase? He should just tell him that this whole mess was an accident and leave. Instead, Desmond murmured, “He has lovely eyes” and felt even more heat rush to his face when he realized what he had said.
The oily seller put an arm around the slave’s shoulders. “That’s not the only ‘lovely’ thing about him,” he drawled.
Desmond looked the slave up and down once again, feeling a strange warmth in his body. “I can see that,” he muttered. From a purely aesthetic standpoint, the young man was lovely, though he had no particular interest in men, much less ones you bought.
“You’re quite lovely yourself.” The slave smiled at Desmond, making his heart skip a beat. The sensible part of his mind had curled up into a little ball to hibernate, because he would, under ordinary circumstances, most definitely not try to flirt with a slave who wasn’t even of his preferred gender.
“Thank you,” Desmond murmured. “I -- I would like--” He stopped himself before saying he would like to “try out” the young man to see if he was as skilled as he was beautiful.
The oily seller seemed to sense what he meant, anyway. He let go of the slave and murmured, “My merchandise is allowed to offer, ah, demonstrations, if you like.”
He was perfectly aware of how immoral it would be to ask the slave for a “demonstration” of his abilities. His parents had told him all about how the poor souls up for sale had no real ability to consent, and Desmond wasn’t the type to take advantage. He was a better person than that, not ruled by lust for power and sex like the typical shopper at such a market.
Only all his resolve melted when the young man smiled a particularly dazzling white smile and said, “For someone as pretty as you, I would be happy to demonstrate. I saw you as you were walking by, and hoped you would take a look over here. I wondered what it would be like to kiss you.”
The words were probably the usual things said by slaves at the market, flirtations given to anybody. Desmond should have ignored them, but the slave seemed so sincere -- or perhaps he was so addled by strange feelings that he just didn’t care. He leaned forward and kissed the young man.
A sensation shot through his body -- an overwhelming warmth that shook him to his very soul. When the other man wrapped his arms around Desmond and pulled him closer, he didn’t object. He let warmth and want overtake him as he dared to deepen the kiss, letting their tongues play against one another.
He wasn’t thinking about just how wrong any of this was, though some part of him knew it. He craved more, thus he whined when his partner broke this kiss.
“I hope you’ll take me home with you,” he whispered in Desmond’s ear.
When he pulled away, he looked at the seller. “How -- how much is he going for?”
The man named his price, along with a warning that it was not negotiable. Desmond’s eyes widened -- while he had that much money, it was an exorbitant amount to spend all at once.
The slave whispered in his ear, “Please, don’t try to haggle -- he doesn’t take it well. I’ve lost buyers that way.” His voice trembled with desperation, and Desmond felt a pang in his heart. He couldn’t say no to that.
“I’ll take him,” he said. After he completed the transaction, he smiled and took the slave’s hand. As they stepped off the platform, he asked something that only just occurred to him. “What’s your name?”
Russell burst into Desmond’s field of vision at that moment, panting and out of breath. “I -- I looked everywhere for you, Des. Where the hell did you go? And -- and why are you holding hands with that guy?”
Now, he understood a person wasn’t a secret easily kept. He was grateful the smartphone credit transmission he used to pay for the slave hooked up to an account his parents couldn’t access. Still, that didn’t mean they would never find out. The reality of what he had done hit Desmond, and he had no words.
next chapter
ETA: It was part of therealljidol, oops. That's why I couldn't find it! I am so on top of things today.
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“Russell, are you sure you know where you’re going?” Desmond muttered as he looked around skeptically. The surroundings were awfully industrial, with dark, squat warehouses everywhere.
His friend Russell smiled confidently as he waved his old smartphone around. “My phone says this is the neighborhood.”
Desmond wasn’t so sure -- would they really find a rare tea shop in such a place? There didn’t seem to be any shops at all on the gray streets. He furrowed his brow in worry as he watched Russell practically skipping beside him, his strawberry blonde curls bouncing in time with his steps. “Why are you so happy?” Desmond asked.
“Because Annika said she would pay us for finding this tea for her, and I could use some extra cash. My sister’s birthday is coming up,” he said as he glanced at his phone. “It says we’re almost there -- it’s just right around the corner.”
“Well, I do hear people,” Desmond murmured, stopping on the sidewalk to listen better. “A lot of people. Sounds like a market.” He could hear shouting and music with an odd, pounding beat. It didn’t sound like the kind of place that would sell you tea.
The two of them turned the corner, only for Desmond to discover something that was very much not a place that could sell you tea.
He turned to Russell, feeling his jaw drop. That was nothing compared to the stunned expression on his friend’s face. Russell’s eyes were huge as they stared at the scene before them. The open air square wasn’t a food market of any kind -- it was a slave market.
In some ways, it looked like a farmer’s market with stalls scattered haphazardly on the pavement square. Instead of tables full of produce, each silvery stall boasted a smallish tented platform where the various pieces of “merchandise” stood, displaying themselves to potential customers in skimpy outfits. The “shopkeepers” sat in chairs behind their wares, hidden in shadows. Each stall had a sign declaring it to be a licensed provider, and each tent boasted a logo for its particular facility.
“How the hell did your GPS lead us here? Desmond cried, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “Your ‘smart’ phone is even stupider than you are.” He stared up at the buildings, noticing the security cameras twisting back and forth, watching them. If his parents ever somehow got footage from this, they would kill him.
Desmond’s parents were members of the Freedom Crusade to abolish slavery and would not look kindly on him for wandering into a slave market, even a small one, even on accident.
“I don’t know,” Russell breathed, his eyes still wide. “But we should get out of here.”
“No kidding,” Desmond muttered, shaking his head.
The two of them turned around, only to find their way blocked by a low metallic barrierl. A grumpy old man stood next to it. “Construction is beginning now. You’re gonna have to go another way,” he muttered. Desmond’s stomach sank -- they would have to go through the market to get out of here.
He glared at Russell. “Don’t look anybody in the eye, and stick to the outskirts. We don’t want to invite trouble,” he growled.
“You -- you don’t think anybody would try to sell us, do you?” Russell asked, looking around nervously.
Desmond resisted the urge to smack his forehead. Nobody would going to try and sell a pair of ordinary people like him and Russell. The slaves, even in a minor non-auction market such as this one, would have been trained practically from birth to be willing providers of services. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the idea.
“So which way do we go?” Russell wondered.
He pointed in a direction that seemed to contain fewer people. “I guess we go that way,” he said.
Desmond started walking, and Russell followed him. He tried to heed his own warning and not look anybody in the eye. Unfortunately, Russell dropped his smartphone. It skidded along the ground. “Oh shit,” Russell hissed. “I gotta get my phone before someone grabs it.”
Privately, Desmond thought he might be better writing off the phone as lost, since the damn thing had lead them to the market in the first place. Because of the growing crowds, Russell quickly disappeared among the mass of people. When had so many shown up?
Despite a growing nervousness in the pit of his stomach, Desmond hesitated to call out his friend’s name -- he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. He scanned his surroundings. Surely, Russell’s hair should be easily spotted? It wasn’t. So focused was he on finding his friend that he didn’t notice the crack in the pavement.
He caught his foot in it, sending him tumbling forward and sideways -- into one of of the silver stalls.
Time slowed; he was all too aware of what was happening. Desmond spread his arms out to stop his fall. Something -- or someone -- caught him and stopped him from faceplanting. This was not happening. His legs shook from the shock of his almost-fall; he didn’t think he could even stand without help.
“Are you alright?” the person who caught him asked.
Desmond felt his face heat up. So much for Russell being the one to make trouble. “I’m fine,” he muttered, finally pulling himself away from whoever held him. He looked at his rescuer, a young man with golden blond hair and striking amber eyes. His face appeared flawless, as did his lithe, tanned body, fully displayed in one of those skimpy outfits -- a thing with tiny shorts and a midriff-baring top.. Desmond realized he was staring at the slave who had caught him. His face burned, but he couldn’t tear himself away.
An older man approached the two of them. “Do you like what you see?” he asked Desmond in an oily voice.
Did the man think he wanted to make a purchase? He should just tell him that this whole mess was an accident and leave. Instead, Desmond murmured, “He has lovely eyes” and felt even more heat rush to his face when he realized what he had said.
The oily seller put an arm around the slave’s shoulders. “That’s not the only ‘lovely’ thing about him,” he drawled.
Desmond looked the slave up and down once again, feeling a strange warmth in his body. “I can see that,” he muttered. From a purely aesthetic standpoint, the young man was lovely, though he had no particular interest in men, much less ones you bought.
“You’re quite lovely yourself.” The slave smiled at Desmond, making his heart skip a beat. The sensible part of his mind had curled up into a little ball to hibernate, because he would, under ordinary circumstances, most definitely not try to flirt with a slave who wasn’t even of his preferred gender.
“Thank you,” Desmond murmured. “I -- I would like--” He stopped himself before saying he would like to “try out” the young man to see if he was as skilled as he was beautiful.
The oily seller seemed to sense what he meant, anyway. He let go of the slave and murmured, “My merchandise is allowed to offer, ah, demonstrations, if you like.”
He was perfectly aware of how immoral it would be to ask the slave for a “demonstration” of his abilities. His parents had told him all about how the poor souls up for sale had no real ability to consent, and Desmond wasn’t the type to take advantage. He was a better person than that, not ruled by lust for power and sex like the typical shopper at such a market.
Only all his resolve melted when the young man smiled a particularly dazzling white smile and said, “For someone as pretty as you, I would be happy to demonstrate. I saw you as you were walking by, and hoped you would take a look over here. I wondered what it would be like to kiss you.”
The words were probably the usual things said by slaves at the market, flirtations given to anybody. Desmond should have ignored them, but the slave seemed so sincere -- or perhaps he was so addled by strange feelings that he just didn’t care. He leaned forward and kissed the young man.
A sensation shot through his body -- an overwhelming warmth that shook him to his very soul. When the other man wrapped his arms around Desmond and pulled him closer, he didn’t object. He let warmth and want overtake him as he dared to deepen the kiss, letting their tongues play against one another.
He wasn’t thinking about just how wrong any of this was, though some part of him knew it. He craved more, thus he whined when his partner broke this kiss.
“I hope you’ll take me home with you,” he whispered in Desmond’s ear.
When he pulled away, he looked at the seller. “How -- how much is he going for?”
The man named his price, along with a warning that it was not negotiable. Desmond’s eyes widened -- while he had that much money, it was an exorbitant amount to spend all at once.
The slave whispered in his ear, “Please, don’t try to haggle -- he doesn’t take it well. I’ve lost buyers that way.” His voice trembled with desperation, and Desmond felt a pang in his heart. He couldn’t say no to that.
“I’ll take him,” he said. After he completed the transaction, he smiled and took the slave’s hand. As they stepped off the platform, he asked something that only just occurred to him. “What’s your name?”
Russell burst into Desmond’s field of vision at that moment, panting and out of breath. “I -- I looked everywhere for you, Des. Where the hell did you go? And -- and why are you holding hands with that guy?”
Now, he understood a person wasn’t a secret easily kept. He was grateful the smartphone credit transmission he used to pay for the slave hooked up to an account his parents couldn’t access. Still, that didn’t mean they would never find out. The reality of what he had done hit Desmond, and he had no words.
next chapter