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fandomweekly2016-09-26 02:39 am
but_can_i_be_trusted) wrote in fandomweekly2016-09-26 02:39 am
Entry tags:
[#025] To Bind Another to Its Delight (Original)
Theme Prompt: #025: Hurts So Good
Title: 'To Bind Another to Its Delight'
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: R; Potentially disturbing imagery; some BDSM elements; non-con/dub-con elements; mild language
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 843
Summary: He's always possessed a lust for Power. Only rarely does he succumb to the power of Lust.
Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.
~*~ William Blake
from 'The Clod and the Pebble'
...drip...drip...drip...
The incessant sound of dripping water is simulated; experience has taught me that. This isn't a true dungeon; I'm not being held in a dank, medieval cell.
But I might as well be. He wants to create the illusion, and I don't have any choice but to let him. The noise is atmospheric to him; it reminds us both that I'm not the one in control.
It's so typical of him. He's always possessed a lust for Power. Only rarely does he succumb to the power of Lust. That does happen, though. That's why this chamber exists.
That's why I'm here.
In the exact center of the room lies a table. Dim light gleams faintly, menacingly, across the bands of steel that are built into it. I know those restraints much too well, by now. They can be adjusted, depending on how much false hope he wants me to feel.
I sit up straighter; footsteps are approaching. Somewhere, a door creaks open, then clicks shut again. The footsteps resume, coming ever nearer. I'm trembling with fearful anticipation.
The fun's about to start.
Graceful fingers tickle the nape of my neck caressingly, before gliding into my hair. They tighten into a fist, and I cry out in pain as my head is yanked back.
"Ssshh, now," he whispers softly. He tugs harder, and I hiss between my teeth, fighting back another yelp. "That's better, dearest."
Unresisting, I let him guide me to the table and push me down. He takes his time, moving from one restraint to the next. As though tempting me to fight him.
I don't know whether he wants that from me or not. Not this time; not yet. So I keep still and let him work the shackles. There's a frightening reassurance in their painful pinch. I can't escape, even if I wanted to.
It's a thought that terrifies me still further: For surely I want to escape. I want to get far, far away from here, from the power he has over me.
...then why do I keep coming back for more? Why do I always return to this place, and consent to be used in this way? All I have to do is stay away, and I'll be secure. Beyond his grasp.
Bodily, yes. Mentally, on the other hand...
I'm afraid to admit it to myself, but I think I'm becoming addicted to him. This is wrong on at least a thousand levels. What I let him do to me...what I willingly submit to...
Why do I let him do this? Am I out of my mind?!
An urgent sense of panic rises in me. Despite knowing--or, perhaps, due to knowing--what's to come, I begin to struggle, frantically tugging at the metal bands. He's fastened them tighter this time, and their edges cut into my skin.
I hear a delighted chuckle, and I shiver, stomach churning. He expected this of me, and I'm not disappointing him. Bracing himself by placing his hands at either side of my head, he leans over me, peering deep into my eyes. Unable to bear the heaviness of his gaze, I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face away. For all that, he leans in even closer, encouraged by my fright.
"You're such a hypocrite," he whispers against my ear. "You pretend not to want this, but your resistance is just a feeble sham."
Damn him for being right. Damn me for the weakness that drags me back into his hands again and again.
A hand grips my jaw tightly, forcing my face upward again.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice low and dangerous. It's a tone that will tolerate no argument, no disobedience.
I do as I'm told. I'm not the one in charge; I can only do what he wants. I'm not permitted to do anything else.
I don't want to do anything else.
There's a dark hunger burning in his eyes as he holds my gaze. It terrifies me, even as it sparks my own desire. Let him break me, in mind and in body; I suddenly don't give a damn. He can do as he pleases, can keep me here as long as he wants to.
Because I want this, too.
Slowly, the hand that's gripped my chin works its way to my throat, and begins to squeeze. Before long, I'm thrashing against the restraints, desperate for oxygen. Dark spots dance before my eyes, and I feel myself about to slide into unconsciousness.
At the last second, his grasp loosens. His mouth covers mine, cutting off my air-hungry gasp, tongue darting past my lips before I even know what's happening.
Eventually--after a micro-eternity--he straightens. His hand rests on my chest, as though counting every frantic heartbeat, every heave of my oxygen-deprived lungs.
"You're so beautiful this way," I hear him softly whisper.
Title: 'To Bind Another to Its Delight'
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: R; Potentially disturbing imagery; some BDSM elements; non-con/dub-con elements; mild language
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 843
Summary: He's always possessed a lust for Power. Only rarely does he succumb to the power of Lust.
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.
~*~ William Blake
from 'The Clod and the Pebble'
...drip...drip...drip...
The incessant sound of dripping water is simulated; experience has taught me that. This isn't a true dungeon; I'm not being held in a dank, medieval cell.
But I might as well be. He wants to create the illusion, and I don't have any choice but to let him. The noise is atmospheric to him; it reminds us both that I'm not the one in control.
It's so typical of him. He's always possessed a lust for Power. Only rarely does he succumb to the power of Lust. That does happen, though. That's why this chamber exists.
That's why I'm here.
In the exact center of the room lies a table. Dim light gleams faintly, menacingly, across the bands of steel that are built into it. I know those restraints much too well, by now. They can be adjusted, depending on how much false hope he wants me to feel.
I sit up straighter; footsteps are approaching. Somewhere, a door creaks open, then clicks shut again. The footsteps resume, coming ever nearer. I'm trembling with fearful anticipation.
The fun's about to start.
Graceful fingers tickle the nape of my neck caressingly, before gliding into my hair. They tighten into a fist, and I cry out in pain as my head is yanked back.
"Ssshh, now," he whispers softly. He tugs harder, and I hiss between my teeth, fighting back another yelp. "That's better, dearest."
Unresisting, I let him guide me to the table and push me down. He takes his time, moving from one restraint to the next. As though tempting me to fight him.
I don't know whether he wants that from me or not. Not this time; not yet. So I keep still and let him work the shackles. There's a frightening reassurance in their painful pinch. I can't escape, even if I wanted to.
It's a thought that terrifies me still further: For surely I want to escape. I want to get far, far away from here, from the power he has over me.
...then why do I keep coming back for more? Why do I always return to this place, and consent to be used in this way? All I have to do is stay away, and I'll be secure. Beyond his grasp.
Bodily, yes. Mentally, on the other hand...
I'm afraid to admit it to myself, but I think I'm becoming addicted to him. This is wrong on at least a thousand levels. What I let him do to me...what I willingly submit to...
Why do I let him do this? Am I out of my mind?!
An urgent sense of panic rises in me. Despite knowing--or, perhaps, due to knowing--what's to come, I begin to struggle, frantically tugging at the metal bands. He's fastened them tighter this time, and their edges cut into my skin.
I hear a delighted chuckle, and I shiver, stomach churning. He expected this of me, and I'm not disappointing him. Bracing himself by placing his hands at either side of my head, he leans over me, peering deep into my eyes. Unable to bear the heaviness of his gaze, I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face away. For all that, he leans in even closer, encouraged by my fright.
"You're such a hypocrite," he whispers against my ear. "You pretend not to want this, but your resistance is just a feeble sham."
Damn him for being right. Damn me for the weakness that drags me back into his hands again and again.
A hand grips my jaw tightly, forcing my face upward again.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice low and dangerous. It's a tone that will tolerate no argument, no disobedience.
I do as I'm told. I'm not the one in charge; I can only do what he wants. I'm not permitted to do anything else.
I don't want to do anything else.
There's a dark hunger burning in his eyes as he holds my gaze. It terrifies me, even as it sparks my own desire. Let him break me, in mind and in body; I suddenly don't give a damn. He can do as he pleases, can keep me here as long as he wants to.
Because I want this, too.
Slowly, the hand that's gripped my chin works its way to my throat, and begins to squeeze. Before long, I'm thrashing against the restraints, desperate for oxygen. Dark spots dance before my eyes, and I feel myself about to slide into unconsciousness.
At the last second, his grasp loosens. His mouth covers mine, cutting off my air-hungry gasp, tongue darting past my lips before I even know what's happening.
Eventually--after a micro-eternity--he straightens. His hand rests on my chest, as though counting every frantic heartbeat, every heave of my oxygen-deprived lungs.
"You're so beautiful this way," I hear him softly whisper.
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