Waiting for the Slaughter
Aug. 16th, 2012 06:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marmolitaAlso at AO3.
Teen Wolf, Derek/OFC, Derek/Kate, BDSM, sort-of explicit?
Warnings: BDSM involving electrocution, chains, and shaming. Implied past underage relationship. This is not a happy fluffy fic.
The house is on the outskirts of town. It’s small, but the garden is nicely tended and there is a low fence surrounding the property. You hesitate a little, hand on the latch, then ease open the gate and walk up the path. The gate creaks as it opens, and clangs shut when you let it go. You tighten your grip on the canvas bag in your hand as you climb the steps to the front door and ring the bell. You’ve never been to this house before, but you’ve thought about it. You’ve thought about it every time you go back to the burned-out hulk of your family home, every time you walk down into the basement. Every time you see the handcuffs still hanging off the wall.
The woman who answers the door is just a little too short, her hair just a little too dark. Her smile is a little too genuine. She’s wearing tight-fitting black pants and a gray tank top, showing off the curves of her hips and breasts. You give her your best, most personable grin, but you get the feeling she knows it’s not real. She invites you in anyway, and you fish out your wallet to pay half her fee up front. She takes the bag from your hand and looks inside.
“How much of a charge does it have?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. The eyebrow is right, but the color of her eyes is wrong, dark brown instead of the flickering green-gray you’re looking for.
“Not enough to do any damage to me,” you reply, “but you probably shouldn’t let it touch you.” The woman nods and pulls the paper you’ve written notes on out of the bag, reading it carefully. She asks you for your safeword, and you tell her you don’t need one. She writes one down anyway.
The two of you sign the paper and she makes a copy for her records. She holds out a strip of black cloth, and you tie it around your head, adjusting it over your eyes so you can’t see. You let her take your hand and lead you into the house, down stairs, into a cool basement. She helps you take your clothes off, and closes cold metal bands over your wrists and ankles. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she says, “and we’ll start then. Take off the blindfold when I’m upstairs.”
You drop your head and sink onto your knees, sitting back on your heels to wait. Her footsteps and her scent recede away, up the stairs, behind a closed door. The scent is wrong too, and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake coming here. You untie the cloth from your head and set it aside. The basement is unfinished -- cement walls, cement floor cold under your knees. Dim light filters through from the window wells, illuminating a post with shackles attached, a swing, a table filled with whips and paddles. The chains on your wrists and ankles are heavy and strong, and you tug against them experimentally. They’re designed to hold a normal human, and you think you could probably break out of them pretty easily right now if you wanted to.
You don’t want to.
You hear the door open, then slam shut. The footsteps coming down the stairs sound different: firm, determined, decisive. The scent is still wrong but your stomach clenches as you see the boots, the fitted black pants, the black leather jacket descending towards you. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, but there is a hard sparkle in her eyes and an amused smile playing at the edges of her lips. The cattle prod is in her right hand, tapping against her thigh on each step down.
You get to your feet, clench your jaw, let the old familiar anger rush through your body. “Well,” she says, “it’s you and me again, Derek. Just like old times.” The laugh in her voice is exactly right, the mocking tone, and you find yourself lurching forward to the end of the chains. The cattle prod swings out, faster than you expected, and there is a sizzling sound as your muscles seize up and you fall to the ground. She laughs. “Is that all you’ve got?”
You struggle up to your hands and knees, but she shocks you again before you can clear your head. You fall flat on your face, and then a booted foot is shoving at your ribs, rolling you over. Your breath sounds harsh in your ears. She leans down over you, and her hair tickles across your cheek. “Sweetie, this is just too easy. I thought you were going to be more of a challenge,” she drawls, disappointment lacing her voice. She’s close, her neck hovering just above you, and you lash out with your teeth, pulling back at the last moment, reminding yourself that this isn’t real. She jerks back and laughs, letting you get back to your feet. You can’t stop yourself from growling, just a little bit.
She disappears around a corner, and the sound of creaking and gears turning echoes. The chains are moving, you realize, being drawn up through a pulley system, and your hands are being drawn slowly and inexorably over your head. Your shoulders start to burn, strained by the pressure, and over the groan of the chains you can hear her singing to herself.
She’s still humming when she comes back around the corner, and her eyes travel over your body appraisingly. Your feet are still on the ground, but some of your weight has been lifted off of them by the chains on your wrists. She chuckles, and runs the end of the cattle prod down your chest. “You filled out nicely,” she comments casually, touching the trigger and sending another shock through your body. She takes the prod away and trails her fingers over your chest as she walks in a circle around you, tracing your ribs, the muscles of your back. You try to catch your breath as your muscles relax from the spasm; her fingers feel like they’re on fire. “You used to be so slender. I’m not sure which way I like you better.”
Another shock, the prod on your lower back this time. Your back arches involuntarily, head thrown back and hips pushed forward. You think you might have cried out, but you’re not sure. “Oh, does that hurt?” she asks. “Does it burn?” She’s come around to the front now, and you can see her narrowed eyes dancing. Guilt, anger, shame, sadness all rush through your body, and you snap your teeth at her, but she just laughs. Another shock comes quickly, and another quick on its heels, before you can recover. Sweat drips down your face, down your back. Your strength is sapped by the electricity; even if you wanted to try to escape now you couldn’t.
She takes a step back and strips off her jacket, tossing it over the whipping post in the center of the room. When she comes back, her fingers are on you again, tracing your chest, gripping your hip and digging in hard. “You were such an innocent kid,” she says. “So eager to please. I bet you would have done anything I wanted. I bet you were in love with me.” She shocks you again, the prod touching your ribs this time, and this time you know you’re yelling but you don’t care anymore. Tears sting at your eyes. “Aww, sweetie, I’m sorry,” she says, caressing your face too tenderly. You try to resist, but find yourself turning into her touch. “Let me kiss it better.” Her lips are on you then, traveling down your chest to the place she shocked you, tongue coming out to lick the sweat off your skin. Memories flash through your head, memories of lips and tongue and soft flesh. You’re ashamed of yourself for wanting her so badly. You hate your body for its reaction, hate that this makes you so hard you can feel the tip of your dick touching your stomach.
Her teeth dig into your side and you cry out, arching and writhing in the chains. She steps back again, walks around you in a slow circle. You can’t see her behind you, and you strain your ears to predict her next movements. “Beautiful,” she says, palm cupping your ass. You don’t have much warning of the prod coming up between your legs, shocking you just behind your balls, and the sound you make can only be described as a scream. “All you ever were to me is a wild animal.” She comes around in front of you again, trailing the prod around over your hip. “That’s all you are. Look at you, all you want is to fuck. I bet you’d beg me for it.” Leaning in, her lips close to your face, she says, “Beg me for it, Derek. Beg like a dog.”
“Please,” you breathe. “Kate, please.” Her hand closes around your cock, squeezing too tight, but it doesn’t matter because you’re coming harder than you ever have in your life, spasming as if she was shocking you again.
She leans in, mouth close to your ear while you struggle to catch your breath, hot tears trickling down your cheeks. “Just an animal waiting for the slaughter,” she laughs. Her footsteps recede up the stairs, and the door slams.
By the time the woman returns, with softer footsteps and different clothes, the tears have dried. She lowers you down, releases the chains, and hands you a warm, wet towel to clean up with. There is no more mocking laughter in her voice or eyes, just clinical detachment. You dress and follow her upstairs without a word. Your hands tremble when you pay her the rest of what you owe. She says your name softly when you start to walk out the front door, and presses a business card into your hand. You feel like you should say something, but your mouth and throat are too dry so you just nod and walk away. You sit down in your car and close your eyes, clutching the steering wheel tightly. It’s a long time before your hands stop shaking.
***
Thanks to quigonejinn and vongchild for beta and helping me with the endless struggle of AO3 tags and summaries.
Teen Wolf, Derek/OFC, Derek/Kate, BDSM, sort-of explicit?
Warnings: BDSM involving electrocution, chains, and shaming. Implied past underage relationship. This is not a happy fluffy fic.
The house is on the outskirts of town. It’s small, but the garden is nicely tended and there is a low fence surrounding the property. You hesitate a little, hand on the latch, then ease open the gate and walk up the path. The gate creaks as it opens, and clangs shut when you let it go. You tighten your grip on the canvas bag in your hand as you climb the steps to the front door and ring the bell. You’ve never been to this house before, but you’ve thought about it. You’ve thought about it every time you go back to the burned-out hulk of your family home, every time you walk down into the basement. Every time you see the handcuffs still hanging off the wall.
The woman who answers the door is just a little too short, her hair just a little too dark. Her smile is a little too genuine. She’s wearing tight-fitting black pants and a gray tank top, showing off the curves of her hips and breasts. You give her your best, most personable grin, but you get the feeling she knows it’s not real. She invites you in anyway, and you fish out your wallet to pay half her fee up front. She takes the bag from your hand and looks inside.
“How much of a charge does it have?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. The eyebrow is right, but the color of her eyes is wrong, dark brown instead of the flickering green-gray you’re looking for.
“Not enough to do any damage to me,” you reply, “but you probably shouldn’t let it touch you.” The woman nods and pulls the paper you’ve written notes on out of the bag, reading it carefully. She asks you for your safeword, and you tell her you don’t need one. She writes one down anyway.
The two of you sign the paper and she makes a copy for her records. She holds out a strip of black cloth, and you tie it around your head, adjusting it over your eyes so you can’t see. You let her take your hand and lead you into the house, down stairs, into a cool basement. She helps you take your clothes off, and closes cold metal bands over your wrists and ankles. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she says, “and we’ll start then. Take off the blindfold when I’m upstairs.”
You drop your head and sink onto your knees, sitting back on your heels to wait. Her footsteps and her scent recede away, up the stairs, behind a closed door. The scent is wrong too, and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake coming here. You untie the cloth from your head and set it aside. The basement is unfinished -- cement walls, cement floor cold under your knees. Dim light filters through from the window wells, illuminating a post with shackles attached, a swing, a table filled with whips and paddles. The chains on your wrists and ankles are heavy and strong, and you tug against them experimentally. They’re designed to hold a normal human, and you think you could probably break out of them pretty easily right now if you wanted to.
You don’t want to.
You hear the door open, then slam shut. The footsteps coming down the stairs sound different: firm, determined, decisive. The scent is still wrong but your stomach clenches as you see the boots, the fitted black pants, the black leather jacket descending towards you. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, but there is a hard sparkle in her eyes and an amused smile playing at the edges of her lips. The cattle prod is in her right hand, tapping against her thigh on each step down.
You get to your feet, clench your jaw, let the old familiar anger rush through your body. “Well,” she says, “it’s you and me again, Derek. Just like old times.” The laugh in her voice is exactly right, the mocking tone, and you find yourself lurching forward to the end of the chains. The cattle prod swings out, faster than you expected, and there is a sizzling sound as your muscles seize up and you fall to the ground. She laughs. “Is that all you’ve got?”
You struggle up to your hands and knees, but she shocks you again before you can clear your head. You fall flat on your face, and then a booted foot is shoving at your ribs, rolling you over. Your breath sounds harsh in your ears. She leans down over you, and her hair tickles across your cheek. “Sweetie, this is just too easy. I thought you were going to be more of a challenge,” she drawls, disappointment lacing her voice. She’s close, her neck hovering just above you, and you lash out with your teeth, pulling back at the last moment, reminding yourself that this isn’t real. She jerks back and laughs, letting you get back to your feet. You can’t stop yourself from growling, just a little bit.
She disappears around a corner, and the sound of creaking and gears turning echoes. The chains are moving, you realize, being drawn up through a pulley system, and your hands are being drawn slowly and inexorably over your head. Your shoulders start to burn, strained by the pressure, and over the groan of the chains you can hear her singing to herself.
She’s still humming when she comes back around the corner, and her eyes travel over your body appraisingly. Your feet are still on the ground, but some of your weight has been lifted off of them by the chains on your wrists. She chuckles, and runs the end of the cattle prod down your chest. “You filled out nicely,” she comments casually, touching the trigger and sending another shock through your body. She takes the prod away and trails her fingers over your chest as she walks in a circle around you, tracing your ribs, the muscles of your back. You try to catch your breath as your muscles relax from the spasm; her fingers feel like they’re on fire. “You used to be so slender. I’m not sure which way I like you better.”
Another shock, the prod on your lower back this time. Your back arches involuntarily, head thrown back and hips pushed forward. You think you might have cried out, but you’re not sure. “Oh, does that hurt?” she asks. “Does it burn?” She’s come around to the front now, and you can see her narrowed eyes dancing. Guilt, anger, shame, sadness all rush through your body, and you snap your teeth at her, but she just laughs. Another shock comes quickly, and another quick on its heels, before you can recover. Sweat drips down your face, down your back. Your strength is sapped by the electricity; even if you wanted to try to escape now you couldn’t.
She takes a step back and strips off her jacket, tossing it over the whipping post in the center of the room. When she comes back, her fingers are on you again, tracing your chest, gripping your hip and digging in hard. “You were such an innocent kid,” she says. “So eager to please. I bet you would have done anything I wanted. I bet you were in love with me.” She shocks you again, the prod touching your ribs this time, and this time you know you’re yelling but you don’t care anymore. Tears sting at your eyes. “Aww, sweetie, I’m sorry,” she says, caressing your face too tenderly. You try to resist, but find yourself turning into her touch. “Let me kiss it better.” Her lips are on you then, traveling down your chest to the place she shocked you, tongue coming out to lick the sweat off your skin. Memories flash through your head, memories of lips and tongue and soft flesh. You’re ashamed of yourself for wanting her so badly. You hate your body for its reaction, hate that this makes you so hard you can feel the tip of your dick touching your stomach.
Her teeth dig into your side and you cry out, arching and writhing in the chains. She steps back again, walks around you in a slow circle. You can’t see her behind you, and you strain your ears to predict her next movements. “Beautiful,” she says, palm cupping your ass. You don’t have much warning of the prod coming up between your legs, shocking you just behind your balls, and the sound you make can only be described as a scream. “All you ever were to me is a wild animal.” She comes around in front of you again, trailing the prod around over your hip. “That’s all you are. Look at you, all you want is to fuck. I bet you’d beg me for it.” Leaning in, her lips close to your face, she says, “Beg me for it, Derek. Beg like a dog.”
“Please,” you breathe. “Kate, please.” Her hand closes around your cock, squeezing too tight, but it doesn’t matter because you’re coming harder than you ever have in your life, spasming as if she was shocking you again.
She leans in, mouth close to your ear while you struggle to catch your breath, hot tears trickling down your cheeks. “Just an animal waiting for the slaughter,” she laughs. Her footsteps recede up the stairs, and the door slams.
By the time the woman returns, with softer footsteps and different clothes, the tears have dried. She lowers you down, releases the chains, and hands you a warm, wet towel to clean up with. There is no more mocking laughter in her voice or eyes, just clinical detachment. You dress and follow her upstairs without a word. Your hands tremble when you pay her the rest of what you owe. She says your name softly when you start to walk out the front door, and presses a business card into your hand. You feel like you should say something, but your mouth and throat are too dry so you just nod and walk away. You sit down in your car and close your eyes, clutching the steering wheel tightly. It’s a long time before your hands stop shaking.
***
Thanks to quigonejinn and vongchild for beta and helping me with the endless struggle of AO3 tags and summaries.
