errorYou must be logged in to review this story.
The Trophy
folder
Lord of the Rings Movies › General › Lord of the Ring Stars
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,485
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Lord of the Rings Movies › General › Lord of the Ring Stars
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,485
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is work of fiction! I do not know the celebrity(ies) I am writing about, and I do not profit from these writings.
The Trophy
TITLE: The Trophy. 1/1.
AUTHOR: Belinda, Doom's Eyebrow (eyebrowofdoom@yahoo.com)
URL: http://www.dombillijah.com/~eyebrowofdoom/
PAIRING: Dom/Orli
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: Kink. Slavery, so: non-con is implicit throughout.
SUMMARY: Master likes to dress him up. A fantasy-historical slave AU.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was written for Cee (earthmagik) for the Lotrips Slashy Valentine project (http://slashavalee.hoe.homestead.com/).
FEEDBACK: Feed the kraken! Has suitably robust, fabled sea-monster digestion.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of amateur fiction, intending no offence.
Master likes to dress him up. To this he has become accustomed, as to so much else in the way of abjection and insult.
"Paneclies," they call him, a long, fluted bloom of their country in the summer. The Master bade him follow a pointing finger once, to a place far up upon the domed ceiling of the great dining hall, where the mosaic was part-blacked with candle-smoke, and a spray of those blooms crowned the arms of the Master's Prince. But he has a name already, Orlando, exotic to their tongues as the crimson fruits in liquor for which they trade with his people's autumn caravans; and he does not care for another. Not least a flower, a woman's name.
Idle he has been forced to be, till the calluses melted from his fingers, the condition from his haunches, the strength from his back. His wrist now seems to him like unto a child's wrist, thin and coltish -- it could not brace a bowstring now, and send an arrow sure and true. His youngest brother could strike him down with the back of a hand, and these slender thighs would serve him ill to flee with. Sometimes he fears the pale gash across his torso, proud trophy of his first boar, will soften away in turn, the way warming butter eases out the imprint of the knife.
At formal table, he must beg to be fed, kneeling like a beast on the floor, rubbing his forehead ludicrously on the Master's leg, then taking the food from the Master's very fingers. Then there is serving at table, very nearly unattired, save for those scraps of frippery and womanish harlotry with which it pleases his Master to adorn him. Worst of all was wearing the loincloth that was but two strips of thin silk hung at front and back from a garter of golden chain, not even a join beneath. His Master bade him lean over far across the table to fetch a pitcher, and his loins spilled out onto the wine-soiled linen. In fright he tried to stand, only to find Master's hand firm on the small of his back, and Master's voice firm also, and amused, and unsurprised. Then the strip at back was flipped aside, and Master's boot was nudging his ankles apart. Without ado, the Master spread the cheeks of his rear, inviting his guests to inspect the wide gold disc stretching the opening of his body. It was the base of a flared cylindrical object that earlier, privately, the Master had slid into him, while Orlando held his ankles. Thus naked and transfixed, he endured their fatuous sodomites' coos and clucks of approval until it seemed his throat would close with mortification, his knees give way.
***
Still, above all these things, he thinks, this is worse. This is the worst thing there has yet been. Before him, in the antechamber in which he dresses, upon a low stool, is draped the costume the Master has had brought for him tonight.
They are the clothes of a youth of this country. In style, they are perhaps the summer attire of a middling merchant's son, but richer in substance. The breeches are softest doeskin, heavy and pliant; themsonmson linen of the shirt is thick and rich as vellum. There are boots too, a heavier grade of doeskin, too soft for any kind of work, and a crimson kerchief of silk -- the equivalent it apes would be toile.
He will be sent out among them as a parody of a man. To be fondled and mauled, dressed thus, as one who might slay another for as much.
Lifting the breeches, he finds they are not doeskin, but a thick, matte velvet. Even this is a parody.
He realises it is an apology for what has passed before; that it is conceived as a concession.
Even now he hears the strike of a heel upon stone. He must dress. The breeches span but little breadth between his hands -- they will fit terribly close. They are cut for a whore.
***
In truth he concedes there have been far worse things than the clothes. The bearded man, ambassador of the crude Northmen, to whom Master sent him, down along the table, after dinner in the great hall; who bent him over the cleared linen, tore off his loincloth and took him, without prelude and with such force that he bled. Who then invited his counsellor to do likewise.
When the Northerner asked the Master the same favour again, the next evening, Orlando stiffened for a moment, in the act of pouring the Master's wine. And the Northerner laughed, and cried, "A proud one! He needs a lesson!"
Orlando turned to his Master and sarth rth in his eyes, in the creasing of his mobile face. Orlando dropped immediately to his knees, eyes downcast, and began to coo and whimper, to rub his bowed head gently upon the Master's thigh.
For a time there was silence in the hall, but for the noises of Orlando's pleading.
At last the Master's fingers carded in Orlando's hair, scratching. "Ah," the Master said, "but this is my little pet."
A rumble of indulgent laughtwellwelled among the guests, and the Northerner did not speak again.
Orlando kept cooing and nuzzling, and bucking into his Master's stroking hand, until his neck and throat ached. He thought, *should my father enter now, armed for the hunt, I would offer my chest and bid him shoot me dead.*
***
"Laggard, I see," Master says mildly.
Master is at the door, and Orlando has put the breeches back down across the stool, and not got dressed.
Master steps close to Orlando: his hands find a naked hip, the back of a naked thigh. "My Paneclies," Master says. Their heights are too different for Orlando to see the smile he hears in the Master's breath, feels in warm air against his collarbone.
Slight is the Master of stature, and Orlando would prefer to be able to think of him, this sodomite and enslaver, as effete. But the Master is wiry and thickset about the shoulders, seldom affecting adornment, crooked of countenance as if by some strike of the gods -- though if the heavens disdain him, he is fearless in the face of it. Orlando thinks that had he his honour and his strength again, he could beat this man in a fight, but this does not comfort him. Whatever the Master is, it has been enough: enough to turn Orlando upon his stomach until he stayed turned, and to teach his body to like it, as helplessly as an empty stomach growls for food.
And now indeed his loins have swelled, as in these later days they do so easily with the Master's attention, and the Master finds them and strokes them lazily, humming against Orlando's throat, for a time.
"Now then," the Master says at last, with a twitch at the corner of his mouth, "you can get dressed like this." He steps aside, and motions Orlando towards the youth's clothes on the stool.
Orlando looks not at the clothes but at the Master, until the Master's eyes narrow. But Orlando falls to his knees and wraps his arms around his Master's legs; he lays his head on his Master's hip and trembles.
When he lifts his head, it is to slip the buttons fastening his Master's breeches delicately from their buttonholes with his teeth.
-end-
AUTHOR: Belinda, Doom's Eyebrow (eyebrowofdoom@yahoo.com)
URL: http://www.dombillijah.com/~eyebrowofdoom/
PAIRING: Dom/Orli
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: Kink. Slavery, so: non-con is implicit throughout.
SUMMARY: Master likes to dress him up. A fantasy-historical slave AU.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was written for Cee (earthmagik) for the Lotrips Slashy Valentine project (http://slashavalee.hoe.homestead.com/).
FEEDBACK: Feed the kraken! Has suitably robust, fabled sea-monster digestion.
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of amateur fiction, intending no offence.
Master likes to dress him up. To this he has become accustomed, as to so much else in the way of abjection and insult.
"Paneclies," they call him, a long, fluted bloom of their country in the summer. The Master bade him follow a pointing finger once, to a place far up upon the domed ceiling of the great dining hall, where the mosaic was part-blacked with candle-smoke, and a spray of those blooms crowned the arms of the Master's Prince. But he has a name already, Orlando, exotic to their tongues as the crimson fruits in liquor for which they trade with his people's autumn caravans; and he does not care for another. Not least a flower, a woman's name.
Idle he has been forced to be, till the calluses melted from his fingers, the condition from his haunches, the strength from his back. His wrist now seems to him like unto a child's wrist, thin and coltish -- it could not brace a bowstring now, and send an arrow sure and true. His youngest brother could strike him down with the back of a hand, and these slender thighs would serve him ill to flee with. Sometimes he fears the pale gash across his torso, proud trophy of his first boar, will soften away in turn, the way warming butter eases out the imprint of the knife.
At formal table, he must beg to be fed, kneeling like a beast on the floor, rubbing his forehead ludicrously on the Master's leg, then taking the food from the Master's very fingers. Then there is serving at table, very nearly unattired, save for those scraps of frippery and womanish harlotry with which it pleases his Master to adorn him. Worst of all was wearing the loincloth that was but two strips of thin silk hung at front and back from a garter of golden chain, not even a join beneath. His Master bade him lean over far across the table to fetch a pitcher, and his loins spilled out onto the wine-soiled linen. In fright he tried to stand, only to find Master's hand firm on the small of his back, and Master's voice firm also, and amused, and unsurprised. Then the strip at back was flipped aside, and Master's boot was nudging his ankles apart. Without ado, the Master spread the cheeks of his rear, inviting his guests to inspect the wide gold disc stretching the opening of his body. It was the base of a flared cylindrical object that earlier, privately, the Master had slid into him, while Orlando held his ankles. Thus naked and transfixed, he endured their fatuous sodomites' coos and clucks of approval until it seemed his throat would close with mortification, his knees give way.
***
Still, above all these things, he thinks, this is worse. This is the worst thing there has yet been. Before him, in the antechamber in which he dresses, upon a low stool, is draped the costume the Master has had brought for him tonight.
They are the clothes of a youth of this country. In style, they are perhaps the summer attire of a middling merchant's son, but richer in substance. The breeches are softest doeskin, heavy and pliant; themsonmson linen of the shirt is thick and rich as vellum. There are boots too, a heavier grade of doeskin, too soft for any kind of work, and a crimson kerchief of silk -- the equivalent it apes would be toile.
He will be sent out among them as a parody of a man. To be fondled and mauled, dressed thus, as one who might slay another for as much.
Lifting the breeches, he finds they are not doeskin, but a thick, matte velvet. Even this is a parody.
He realises it is an apology for what has passed before; that it is conceived as a concession.
Even now he hears the strike of a heel upon stone. He must dress. The breeches span but little breadth between his hands -- they will fit terribly close. They are cut for a whore.
***
In truth he concedes there have been far worse things than the clothes. The bearded man, ambassador of the crude Northmen, to whom Master sent him, down along the table, after dinner in the great hall; who bent him over the cleared linen, tore off his loincloth and took him, without prelude and with such force that he bled. Who then invited his counsellor to do likewise.
When the Northerner asked the Master the same favour again, the next evening, Orlando stiffened for a moment, in the act of pouring the Master's wine. And the Northerner laughed, and cried, "A proud one! He needs a lesson!"
Orlando turned to his Master and sarth rth in his eyes, in the creasing of his mobile face. Orlando dropped immediately to his knees, eyes downcast, and began to coo and whimper, to rub his bowed head gently upon the Master's thigh.
For a time there was silence in the hall, but for the noises of Orlando's pleading.
At last the Master's fingers carded in Orlando's hair, scratching. "Ah," the Master said, "but this is my little pet."
A rumble of indulgent laughtwellwelled among the guests, and the Northerner did not speak again.
Orlando kept cooing and nuzzling, and bucking into his Master's stroking hand, until his neck and throat ached. He thought, *should my father enter now, armed for the hunt, I would offer my chest and bid him shoot me dead.*
***
"Laggard, I see," Master says mildly.
Master is at the door, and Orlando has put the breeches back down across the stool, and not got dressed.
Master steps close to Orlando: his hands find a naked hip, the back of a naked thigh. "My Paneclies," Master says. Their heights are too different for Orlando to see the smile he hears in the Master's breath, feels in warm air against his collarbone.
Slight is the Master of stature, and Orlando would prefer to be able to think of him, this sodomite and enslaver, as effete. But the Master is wiry and thickset about the shoulders, seldom affecting adornment, crooked of countenance as if by some strike of the gods -- though if the heavens disdain him, he is fearless in the face of it. Orlando thinks that had he his honour and his strength again, he could beat this man in a fight, but this does not comfort him. Whatever the Master is, it has been enough: enough to turn Orlando upon his stomach until he stayed turned, and to teach his body to like it, as helplessly as an empty stomach growls for food.
And now indeed his loins have swelled, as in these later days they do so easily with the Master's attention, and the Master finds them and strokes them lazily, humming against Orlando's throat, for a time.
"Now then," the Master says at last, with a twitch at the corner of his mouth, "you can get dressed like this." He steps aside, and motions Orlando towards the youth's clothes on the stool.
Orlando looks not at the clothes but at the Master, until the Master's eyes narrow. But Orlando falls to his knees and wraps his arms around his Master's legs; he lays his head on his Master's hip and trembles.
When he lifts his head, it is to slip the buttons fastening his Master's breeches delicately from their buttonholes with his teeth.
-end-