#94 - Danger Zone - "Safe No Longer" - nleseul - Kushiel's Legacy

[nleseul.livejournal.com]

Well, this is my first time posting here. I've been thinking recently that I really ought to spend more time with writing, and actually start finishing some stuff rather than letting it float around in planning limbo forever. So I poked around LJ for a bit, looking for good prompt communities, and this seems to be the most interesting and most active one.

I really haven't been particularly involved in fandom previously, at least not since the days when online fan culture was pretty much limited to Final Fantasy VI and Sailor Moon, and people wrote fanfic in Microsoft Write and traded it over e-mail in AOL 3.0 over 56k modems. So this should be an interesting experience.



Title: "Safe No Longer"
Fandom: Kushiel's Legacy
Characters: All original. Minor references to events in the novels.
Prompt: Danger Zone
Rating: NC-17, for prostitution, sex, and BDSM themes
Warnings: As mentioned above, alludes to BDSM activity. Nothing explicit happens on-screen, but you might not want to read if you find that sort of thing squick-inducing.
Summary: While at court in the City of Elua, a young noble visits the place he was told to avoid.
Words: 1,823

With the imposing edifice of Mandrake House looming above him, Tyamel nó Arrande de Liancere knew fear. And he smiled.

Though the place had all the scale and grandeur of all the Houses of the Night Court, the dark gray stone of its façade was clearly not intended to be pleasing or welcoming. The columns of the portico were unusually narrow and closely spaced, and seemed designed to suggest to the viewer the bars of a dungeon. Over a massive wooden door, banded with iron, were cut in unadorned block letters the words of Mandrake House: Yield all.

Stay away from Mandrake, Tyamel had been warned by Jenain Arrande, his foster-father. It is not safe. His foster parents had, of course, recognized that Mont Nuit would be of great interest to a young man, and had given him the lecture that they regarded as necessary for his safety. The adepts of Jasmine, Heliotrope, Orchis, or Alyssum were all noted as perfectly wholesome entertainment, but he had been warned against the dangers of Valerian and, especially, Mandrake.

But they had no authority to prohibit anything to him. He was, after all, the Comte de Liancere, and the sole surviving member of the family, after his father’s death on a Skaldi blade at the Battle of Troyes-le-Mont some fourteen years previous. Jenain Arrande and his wife were only distant cousins by marriage, and while they might be the only parents he had ever known, they were hardly his true family—nor were they even peers of the realm. Blood gave them no authority over his activities—and moreover, surely it would have been heresy for them to do so in any case. Love as thou wilt, Blessed Elua had bade the people of Terre d’Ange centuries ago. If Mandrake House was where he chose to seek his pleasure, then that was his right as a peer and as a D’Angeline.

But his foster parents were ever concerned with his safety. As the sole scion of House Liancere, they said, it was his duty to remain safe, so that the name of his family might be preserved. But, be that as it might, it was also his duty to travel to the City of Elua to attend to affairs of state at the court of Queen Ysandre de la Courcel—whatever those affairs might be; thus far, they seemed to have consisted largely of cooing over the newborn third granddaughter of the Duc de Namarre, or gossiping that the Comtesse de Maurignon had at last lit a candle to Eisheth and might be expected to bear an heir soon—and recent events had surely shown that the politics of the realm held dangers which were rather greater than anything Mandrake House might hold. At least here, the daggers, the whips, and the bonds would be in plain view.

He ascended the stone steps and pushed open the great doors, and stepped across the threshold of the danger zone.

The chamber within was even more like a dungeon. Torches set in sconces along the stone walls illuminated stark furnishings. A single large table. Several hard benches. Several corridors, which receded into the shadows. Behind the table sat a hard-faced, dark-haired man, who rose as he entered.

“Ah,” said the man. “I assume you are the Comte de Liancere.”

“I am,” said Tyamel. “I trust payment was delivered by my man?”

“Of course,” the man replied. “All the necessary arrangements have been made. I am Arrêt Nouissan, Dowayne of Mandrake House.” He frowned slightly. “You are younger than I expected. You are sure you understand the nature of this House? And that what you will find here is indeed what you seek?”

Tyamel nodded. “Quite sure.”

“Why?”

“Because I am tired of being kept safe,” Tyamel said. “I want to know fear. I want events to go beyond my control. I want the uncertainty of not knowing what will be done to me. I want to experience pain. I want to be made to bleed. I want to be made to yield.”

The Dowayne nodded. “An understandable feeling for one of your station, and one well-suited to the canon of Mandrake.” He pushed forward a parchment that lay before him. “A contract has been drawn for this assignation; you may confirm that the terms are to your liking. Most importantly, your chosen signale has been noted.”

Tyamel read the contract, and nodded his approval. He took up a rod of black wax that lay on the table, held it over a candle for a moment, and pressed the softened end onto the page beside his name and rank. He then set the wax aside, and pressed his ring into the patch that remained on the document.

The Dowayne took up the contract. “Wait here,” he said. “The one who has been chosen for you will be summoned.” He turned and vanished down one of the dark hallways.

Tyamel sat down on one of the benches, and found it quite uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily, nervous and impatient. Minutes passed with no sign of anyone arriving from the passageways, and despite the discomfort of the hard bench, the heat from the torches and the lack of stimulation were making him drowsy. He began to doze off.

And he started, as he suddenly felt metal bands close around his wrists. He tried instinctively to pull away, but found his hands bound in place by some sort of manacles. “What’s going—” he began, trying to turn his head, but his cheek was met by a powerful, stinging slap.

“You will not speak without permission,” said a steely, feminine voice from behind him. “My name is Evalin nó Mandrake, but your lips are not fit to pronounce it. You will address me only as ‘Mistress.’ Do you understand?”

“Yes.” There was a moment of silence, as if his unseen captor was waiting for something, and then a hand was crushing his throat, sharp nails digging into his chin. And he remembered what was expected here. “Mistress!” he choked. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good,” said the voice, and the hand withdrew. “Now, stand.” There was the jingle of a chain, and he felt his bonds jerked roughly upwards. Still coughing from the pressure on his windpipe, he staggered to his feet, only to stumble as he was pushed forward. “Move. To your left. Quickly.” He hurried ahead into the passage, trying to stay ahead of the footsteps he could hear behind him, as best he could at the end of what seemed to be a short length of chain.

Doors, most barred or chained shut, lined the passage. He hurried past them, followed closely by the footsteps of his captor. He turned several corners; the relative safety of the room where he had entered the House was beyond his sight, and he was no longer entirely sure which way it lay. Once or twice, he thought he heard a scream or a whimper from behind a door. And, in front of one of the doors, he was pulled to a halt as the chain lost its slack.

A hand caught his collar, and he heard the metallic sound of a blade being drawn. The blade cut smoothly, efficiently through his garments, and they dropped in a pile at his feet, leaving him naked. He flinched away as cool fingers prodded his stomach, and was given a stinging blow to his buttock.

“Be still,” Evalin commanded.

His hands were trembling now, but he complied as best he could, remaining motionless as she roughly squeezed his shoulders, his legs, his buttocks, putting him in mind of the livestock he had seen being inspected in the city market.

Then she walked around to his front, coming into his sight at last. Trying to keep his head and eyes motionless, he caught only brief impressions of her. Dark hair, dark eyes, a pale face. A sharp knife still held in one hand. A black dress, the low bodice framing ample cleavage. Cut even lower in the back, plunging nearly to the base of her spine to expose the inked design on her skin. A crown of leaves, over a root shaped vaguely like a human torso and legs. So, she was a full courtesan, her marque complete. She would be very skilled in the arts of Naamah.

She was inspecting his front now, and he colored, fighting a brief impulse to move his hands to guard his modesty from her eyes. Her hand came up to feel his chest, squeezing and twisting his nipples. Then it moved downward. Until he felt her fingers close around his firm shaft, he had not realized how aroused he had become.

“So, slave boy,” she said quietly. “You think you might enjoy this.” Abruptly she squeezed, and he cried out and fought to move away from her, trying and failing to free his sensitive parts from her firm grip. “And perhaps you will, if pain is what you enjoy.” She moved forward, forcing his back against the stone wall. The knife in her other hand came up to his chin, and he was forced to rise on his toes. Its point pricked his chin, drawing forth a bead of blood. “Do you enjoy pain, slave? Say yes.”

He swallowed. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Do you?” She pressed closer. He felt the fabric of her dress, and the firmness of the breasts within, pushing against his chest. Her eyes, dark and penetrating, filled his vision. “You enjoy having scars cut into your flesh? Being whipped, beaten, burned with hot coals? You enjoy having everything that is you stripped away, and having naught remain of your identity save fear—fear, and the will of your Mistress? Is that what you enjoy?” The blade pressed harder. “Say yes!”

“Yes, Mistress!”

“Good,” she purred. “Because that is what you will have from me. You are mine now, and there is nothing that will prevent me from using you as I will, save the signale. Until you speak it, you are my toy.” She smiled a predator’s smile. “And I have been known to break my toys.”

She stepped back, and pushed open the door. “In,” she said. He stepped forward unsteadily and looked into the room revealed. There was a long table, straps hanging along its sides. Beside it was a smoldering brazier, and a rack of instruments, laden with oiled leather and gleaming metal. In the shadows along the walls, he vaguely perceived other devices, things of blades and sharp points, which his eyes feared to inspect too closely. “Faster!” she said, pushing him, and he stumbled through the doorway. His heart was beating rapidly. He had no idea how she intended to use him, but seeing the tools which would be applied there drove home at last the knowledge that this was truly no place of safety. At last, he was utterly terrified.

And it was good.