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nickngregThis is a semi-experimental, very dark fic that sort of took over my brain for a while. It will be N/G eventually. I don't usually write anything this dark, so I'm not sure it worked. Let me know?
Title: The Ages of Greg Sanders
Rating: R, possibly NC-17
Spoilers: Play With Fire
Warnings: BDSM and sadism. VERY dark stuff.
A/N: Since I can remember Eric Szmanda's birthday and not Greg's birthday, Greg's birthday is in July for the purposes of this fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I don't profit from them. (If I did, I wouldn't let this sort of thing happen!)
April 1997
“Boy! Come here!”
I crawl across to my master and kneel at his feet. I know what he wants; it’s gotten to the point where I can practically set my watch by him. It’s Thursday, 8:45 PM, so he wants me to blow him. Which I do, competently but without taking much pleasure in it myself. I’m not even hard, but since he lets me wear what I like for pants, and today I wanted jeans, it’s hard to tell.
“That was…adequate. I hope your new master can get more out of you than adequacy, boy. You go to him on Saturday.” Saturday is club day. I wonder which of my master’s friends I’m being given to, but in the end it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change what I am. When I’m allowed a name, I’m Greg Sanders, slave.
July 1997
“Tonight, boy, we’re playing a new game. You may express your pleasure.” I’m chained in the middle of the room, my hands bound and pulled over my head by a rope through a hook in the ceiling. I’m also blindfolded, but not gagged this time. I just hope I’ve healed enough from the last time. My lord keeps other slaves, I know that even though I’ve never seen or heard them; I’ve heard him with them. The first rule is, my lord’s slaves will be silent unless given permission to speak or make any other noise.
I’ve just been given permission to enjoy what he’s going to do, but I really doubt I will. I know it’s going to involve me bleeding again. For some reason he likes to see blood on me, and because of the dangers of bloodborne diseases, it has to be my own blood. Fortunately that means he can only do it about every two weeks, which is how long it takes for wherever he cuts me to heal. But it also means that every two weeks I have another cut somewhere. Usually on my back. Sometimes on my arms or my chest, but generally across my shoulders.
I don’t know what it looks like back there, because I’m not allowed a big enough mirror. Mine is just big enough to see my head in. My lord likes me to wear eyeliner, and I can’t put it on without a mirror. He doesn’t like vain slaves.
Oh, god. He’s serious tonight. Whatever he’s done across my shoulders, he’s done over and over and deeper, and I’m…slipping…cold…falling…
Club night again. Leather pants and open vest. Eyeliner, collar and leash. Kneeling at his feet. Loud, dark, bass pounding through the air, through the floor, through me. A new pair is here; they’re not used to the darkness and the layout of the place, and his master trips over me and kicks my leg hard by accident. The new pain takes my mind off my back, until the other slave stumbles too and falls over me, grabbing at anything he can to keep from sprawling on the floor and disgracing his master. My vest drags across the new scabs on my back and I feel them break open, feel myself bleeding down into the leather pants, hear somebody gasp…
Hospital. I hate hospitals. I hate the smell and the fluorescent lights everywhere. The doctor didn’t say anything while she was cleaning and stitching my back, but I saw the look that passed between her and the nurse. Something is very wrong here, and it’s the nurse who finally tells me.
“Mr. Sanders? You came here from Onyx, didn’t you?” That surprises me, and I nod. Not many people outside the scene know about Onyx.
“Did your contract include any provisions for permanent body modifications?”
“Contract?” I’m confused because I’m doped up on whatever painkiller they gave me, but even sober I wouldn’t know what he meant. I had had a verbal agreement with my previous master, but never anything written down. I didn’t know I could have.
“You didn’t have a contract with your master.”
“No.”
“Good, then he can’t keep you from pressing assault charges. Probably grievous bodily harm, too, if not sexual assault.”
“What? Wait, what’s…”
“A slave contract exists to keep what happened to you from happening. Or if it does happen, the contract makes sure you know it will.”
“Hold it. Start at the beginning. What happened?”
“Your master put a permanent mark on you. Several times, from the look of it.” He leads me into the bathroom and shows me in the mirror there. My lord has left no doubt at all as to what I am. The mark he put on me says it clearly. In English. Across my shoulders in letters two inches high, the bastard has carved SLAVE.
Title: The Ages of Greg Sanders
Rating: R, possibly NC-17
Spoilers: Play With Fire
Warnings: BDSM and sadism. VERY dark stuff.
A/N: Since I can remember Eric Szmanda's birthday and not Greg's birthday, Greg's birthday is in July for the purposes of this fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and I don't profit from them. (If I did, I wouldn't let this sort of thing happen!)
April 1997
“Boy! Come here!”
I crawl across to my master and kneel at his feet. I know what he wants; it’s gotten to the point where I can practically set my watch by him. It’s Thursday, 8:45 PM, so he wants me to blow him. Which I do, competently but without taking much pleasure in it myself. I’m not even hard, but since he lets me wear what I like for pants, and today I wanted jeans, it’s hard to tell.
“That was…adequate. I hope your new master can get more out of you than adequacy, boy. You go to him on Saturday.” Saturday is club day. I wonder which of my master’s friends I’m being given to, but in the end it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change what I am. When I’m allowed a name, I’m Greg Sanders, slave.
July 1997
“Tonight, boy, we’re playing a new game. You may express your pleasure.” I’m chained in the middle of the room, my hands bound and pulled over my head by a rope through a hook in the ceiling. I’m also blindfolded, but not gagged this time. I just hope I’ve healed enough from the last time. My lord keeps other slaves, I know that even though I’ve never seen or heard them; I’ve heard him with them. The first rule is, my lord’s slaves will be silent unless given permission to speak or make any other noise.
I’ve just been given permission to enjoy what he’s going to do, but I really doubt I will. I know it’s going to involve me bleeding again. For some reason he likes to see blood on me, and because of the dangers of bloodborne diseases, it has to be my own blood. Fortunately that means he can only do it about every two weeks, which is how long it takes for wherever he cuts me to heal. But it also means that every two weeks I have another cut somewhere. Usually on my back. Sometimes on my arms or my chest, but generally across my shoulders.
I don’t know what it looks like back there, because I’m not allowed a big enough mirror. Mine is just big enough to see my head in. My lord likes me to wear eyeliner, and I can’t put it on without a mirror. He doesn’t like vain slaves.
Oh, god. He’s serious tonight. Whatever he’s done across my shoulders, he’s done over and over and deeper, and I’m…slipping…cold…falling…
Club night again. Leather pants and open vest. Eyeliner, collar and leash. Kneeling at his feet. Loud, dark, bass pounding through the air, through the floor, through me. A new pair is here; they’re not used to the darkness and the layout of the place, and his master trips over me and kicks my leg hard by accident. The new pain takes my mind off my back, until the other slave stumbles too and falls over me, grabbing at anything he can to keep from sprawling on the floor and disgracing his master. My vest drags across the new scabs on my back and I feel them break open, feel myself bleeding down into the leather pants, hear somebody gasp…
Hospital. I hate hospitals. I hate the smell and the fluorescent lights everywhere. The doctor didn’t say anything while she was cleaning and stitching my back, but I saw the look that passed between her and the nurse. Something is very wrong here, and it’s the nurse who finally tells me.
“Mr. Sanders? You came here from Onyx, didn’t you?” That surprises me, and I nod. Not many people outside the scene know about Onyx.
“Did your contract include any provisions for permanent body modifications?”
“Contract?” I’m confused because I’m doped up on whatever painkiller they gave me, but even sober I wouldn’t know what he meant. I had had a verbal agreement with my previous master, but never anything written down. I didn’t know I could have.
“You didn’t have a contract with your master.”
“No.”
“Good, then he can’t keep you from pressing assault charges. Probably grievous bodily harm, too, if not sexual assault.”
“What? Wait, what’s…”
“A slave contract exists to keep what happened to you from happening. Or if it does happen, the contract makes sure you know it will.”
“Hold it. Start at the beginning. What happened?”
“Your master put a permanent mark on you. Several times, from the look of it.” He leads me into the bathroom and shows me in the mirror there. My lord has left no doubt at all as to what I am. The mark he put on me says it clearly. In English. Across my shoulders in letters two inches high, the bastard has carved SLAVE.
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no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 10:59 am (UTC)So I guess thsi will be AU?
Love it so far, and Greg's birthday is May 5th =) Not that it will be useful any more, but thought I mention it =)
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Date: 2007-03-14 11:27 pm (UTC)Well it does sicken me in the "oh poor Greg" way but not in the "Oh dear god this is horrible way" now I'm gonna mosy off and read the other chapters.
Four gold stars.