(no subject)
Elderberry #5. Black Vise with Hot Fudge and Whipped Cream
Story : knights
Rating : R
Timeframe : 1251
Word Count : 869
Warning contains physical/sexual abuse of a minor (Reida's about 15-16 at this point).
“Lie still.”
The tip of the grease paint stick lodged against the base of Reida’s neck tickled. She held stiff and swallowed as it slid up over her collarbone. The scowl that crossed Ephram’s face said that even that was too much motion for his liking.
“What’s this do?” she said, as he drew back to inspect his work.
“It gets you a book.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“You know I don’t care. Now, be a good little rat and stop with the questions.” He gave the neck of her shirt a tug, pulling it taut across the tops of her breasts, and laid the paint stick back against her flesh to start a new form below the first.
Flat on the table, Reida held her breath and glared.
At first it wasn’t so bad, an hour on her back, a little paint on her skin. From what she could gather, he was mapping her body. He made notes and charts, diagrams for what looked like a contruct with at least a hundred points.
“What are you going to do with this?” she asked him once. “Make an artificial me?” She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the look she got in response, but she didn’t like it, and she made a point not to ask again.
She didn’t like the looks Tarek gave her either, when she brought home her rewards. He’d sigh and shake his head as she’d lay them on her shelf, bloodstained old tomes, filled with wonders he’d never have let her read, much less try, when she was his alone. It hurt, letting him down, like there was a rock in her gut, and that surprised her. Somehow, telling him off when he looked at her like that was generally enough to make the feeling go away though.
She was on her back on the table, and it had gotten to the point where this was not an uncomfortable thing. Usually. Today she could feel every knot in the wood as she stared up, breathlessly, at the gleaming edge of a scalpel.
“The problem with healing magic,” Ephram was saying, and the words seemed to float in the air, disconnected, as though she wasn’t really a part of this scene at all, “is that one never gets the opportunity to practice.”
Maybe this was why Tarek always looked at her the way he did. It wasn’t the graphic depictions of the eviscerations of fuzzy critters that she eagerly leafed through at night under the covers that worried him, it was the suspicion she might become one of them.
She closed her eyes as the blade descended.
Visits to Ephram’s study often ended now with a limp, a trip to the kitchens for some ice, or the need to wear loose and long sleeved clothing for days after. It didn’t help that Ephram seemed much more interested in the dealing of damage than in its repair. She’d thought drawing little rings of paint on her underdeveloped excuse for a bosom had excited him, but when the knife hit her flesh, the man all but drooled. At least now when she hobbled out of the room, she generally had two or three books under her arm.
It didn’t surprise her that the knife got old quickly, for both of them. She was standing in his doorway, the latest batch of wounds just healed, a stack of borrowed books in her hand, ready for another round.
Seated at his desk, Ephram looked her over with a tight lipped smile and a cold gleam in his eyes. He held up a book and she followed the cracked and crumbling ancient leather binding as it bobbed through the air.
“Transplanting of energies,” he said. He turned it over, cracked it open, and gently flipped a few pages. “One of only a handful of translations of the original text. This one’s at least a hundred years old.”
Fixated on the cover, Reida licked her lips and wondered at what was inside.
“The price,” he said, laying it back on his desk, “has gone up.” Up? From knives…to what? Her heart was pounding as his eyes slid over her again and he grinned. “Drop your pants.”
Reida spun around, as much to hide her attempt to supress her laughter as to shut the door. The books in her hand found a home on the corner of the table he’d already cleared for whatever he had in mind, and her hands busied themselves with the knots at her waist.
“What?” she said, as she turned back to find he’d already crossed the room. He relocated the books to a shelf and forced a hand through her hair and dragged it down around her chin. She met that glassy blue leer of his with a defiant glare of her own as she shoved her pants down over her hips. “You don’t think I’ve ever been fucked be-” then she caught sight of the knife in his other hand, the big, broad bladed cleaver he was ever so fond of, and her lungs felt like lead “-fore,” she squeaked.
Ephram’s grip tightened around her cheek. “On the table,” he said.
Story : knights
Rating : R
Timeframe : 1251
Word Count : 869
Warning contains physical/sexual abuse of a minor (Reida's about 15-16 at this point).
“Lie still.”
The tip of the grease paint stick lodged against the base of Reida’s neck tickled. She held stiff and swallowed as it slid up over her collarbone. The scowl that crossed Ephram’s face said that even that was too much motion for his liking.
“What’s this do?” she said, as he drew back to inspect his work.
“It gets you a book.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“You know I don’t care. Now, be a good little rat and stop with the questions.” He gave the neck of her shirt a tug, pulling it taut across the tops of her breasts, and laid the paint stick back against her flesh to start a new form below the first.
Flat on the table, Reida held her breath and glared.
At first it wasn’t so bad, an hour on her back, a little paint on her skin. From what she could gather, he was mapping her body. He made notes and charts, diagrams for what looked like a contruct with at least a hundred points.
“What are you going to do with this?” she asked him once. “Make an artificial me?” She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the look she got in response, but she didn’t like it, and she made a point not to ask again.
She didn’t like the looks Tarek gave her either, when she brought home her rewards. He’d sigh and shake his head as she’d lay them on her shelf, bloodstained old tomes, filled with wonders he’d never have let her read, much less try, when she was his alone. It hurt, letting him down, like there was a rock in her gut, and that surprised her. Somehow, telling him off when he looked at her like that was generally enough to make the feeling go away though.
She was on her back on the table, and it had gotten to the point where this was not an uncomfortable thing. Usually. Today she could feel every knot in the wood as she stared up, breathlessly, at the gleaming edge of a scalpel.
“The problem with healing magic,” Ephram was saying, and the words seemed to float in the air, disconnected, as though she wasn’t really a part of this scene at all, “is that one never gets the opportunity to practice.”
Maybe this was why Tarek always looked at her the way he did. It wasn’t the graphic depictions of the eviscerations of fuzzy critters that she eagerly leafed through at night under the covers that worried him, it was the suspicion she might become one of them.
She closed her eyes as the blade descended.
Visits to Ephram’s study often ended now with a limp, a trip to the kitchens for some ice, or the need to wear loose and long sleeved clothing for days after. It didn’t help that Ephram seemed much more interested in the dealing of damage than in its repair. She’d thought drawing little rings of paint on her underdeveloped excuse for a bosom had excited him, but when the knife hit her flesh, the man all but drooled. At least now when she hobbled out of the room, she generally had two or three books under her arm.
It didn’t surprise her that the knife got old quickly, for both of them. She was standing in his doorway, the latest batch of wounds just healed, a stack of borrowed books in her hand, ready for another round.
Seated at his desk, Ephram looked her over with a tight lipped smile and a cold gleam in his eyes. He held up a book and she followed the cracked and crumbling ancient leather binding as it bobbed through the air.
“Transplanting of energies,” he said. He turned it over, cracked it open, and gently flipped a few pages. “One of only a handful of translations of the original text. This one’s at least a hundred years old.”
Fixated on the cover, Reida licked her lips and wondered at what was inside.
“The price,” he said, laying it back on his desk, “has gone up.” Up? From knives…to what? Her heart was pounding as his eyes slid over her again and he grinned. “Drop your pants.”
Reida spun around, as much to hide her attempt to supress her laughter as to shut the door. The books in her hand found a home on the corner of the table he’d already cleared for whatever he had in mind, and her hands busied themselves with the knots at her waist.
“What?” she said, as she turned back to find he’d already crossed the room. He relocated the books to a shelf and forced a hand through her hair and dragged it down around her chin. She met that glassy blue leer of his with a defiant glare of her own as she shoved her pants down over her hips. “You don’t think I’ve ever been fucked be-” then she caught sight of the knife in his other hand, the big, broad bladed cleaver he was ever so fond of, and her lungs felt like lead “-fore,” she squeaked.
Ephram’s grip tightened around her cheek. “On the table,” he said.