Just a Bit of Rough Play: Lady in Chains

Sometimes I just have to get away from manuscript writing and clear my head with a little free-writing. Lady in Chains Is a scene I wrote to give myself a break from mostly vanilla romance. My brain needed a bit of BDSM as exercise.

Enjoy the naughty little vignette, darlings.

~~~~~

Bannon's rough, hot hand on the nape of her neck held her prisoner. It kneaded, exploring and massaging the muscle, spreading a warm, delicious relaxation. She arched herself into it, like a cat. He liked that, and his kneading went on longer in reward, sharp contrast to the strain in her legs and back, earned from standing so long in the inverted, spread-legged position in which he'd shackled her.

Scarves (Pt 3)

<Pt 2

She groaned, tilting her head towards his voice, arching her back to press herself closer into his hands.  His heat radiated against her, making her quiver.  She wanted him, oh, God how she wanted him; she would offer him anything, let him do anything he liked—she was desperate for him.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he muttered, and she uttered a sad sound as he carefully drew away from her.  She’d betrayed her want too early; now he was going to deny her.

She strained for him, following the sounds of his movements, desperate for him.  He circled her again, paused; circled the other way, paused.  He was just out of reach—not that she had any hands to reach with—teasing her with his nearness, his unrelenting distance.

Scarves (Pt 2)

<Pt 1 

It was as she had suspected: she was forced to stand on her toes, grasping the scarves to steady herself, or else strain both shoulders with her full weight.  She gasped a little and her highlander pulled her arms even higher, stretching her reach further, leaving her even more precariously balanced.

“Sadira,” he murmured lowly, running a rough, callused hand across her bare breasts, vulnerable little teacups spread almost flat by the stretch of her arms, the arc of her spine.  He circled her, touching her, trailing his hands idly over her nudity, tickling her and making her tremble as she danced from toe to toe.

Scarves (Pt 1)

Orange torchlight; the rock and sway of percussive song, the embrace of flute, dulcimer, cymbal, drum.  The men watched, enraptured by the winding twist of her hips, the sinuous motion of naked sensuality, following the shimmering gold firelight over bared breasts and long, slender legs.  Sadira’s tawny mane fell wild to her shoulders, held back from her face by a headdress of beaten bronze and adorned with great feathers of exotic birds; thin braids, wound with ribbons and small red jewels, fell at different lengths behind her ears.  As she slowly spun in place, weaving her arms in seductive rhythm over her head, the light of the fires lighting up her savage curves, the dark lines of the tattoos marking her hips and shoulders—markings of her former allegiance to a fallen clan and fallen master—wound with her, a map of her ignoble heritage, a testament to her alien origins.

The men around her cared little for the marks, however.  The foreign beauty, famed as a lover and a soldier to their greatest enemy, now danced for them, enchanting them and pleasing them, impressing them with the sultry talents they might never have expected from one who had been raised in the way of swords and combat.  One who knew the woman’s story might have recognized the distant aloofness on her face even as she arched her body, displaying herself for her enemies, the clan of rugged highlanders that had captured her and kept her prisoner so far from her homeland.  One who had heard the tales of her might expect the beautiful slave yet harbored a searing fury and distrust in her heart, a plan of rebellion in her mind—that observer might even believe he caught a glimpse of something like the subtlest hint of a sneer  across her lips, the defiance of a legend brought low.

~ Slave ~

Completed illustration for To The Victor.

"Slave", copyright 2012

To The Victor

Overhead, she could hear the sounds of the enemy celebrating.  It was a raucous uproar, a hundred men dancing on the grave of her master, the great warlord known as Set.  He had been slain by the leader of the barbarians.  His power was broken.  His clan was in chains.

His woman was their prisoner.

Sadira bowed her head, a grim and bitter scowl on her face.  They had captured her and bound her with ropes, tying her wrists and ankles, and thrown her into her master’s bedchamber for their leader.  She waited on her knees on the bed, stripped of her leather armor, left in only a thin cotton bodice and a flimsy loincloth to cover her nakedness. 

But that was nothing new.  She had been slave all her life to Set and his sadistic madness: she had been servant, soldier, consort and victim to his whims, a prize for his pleasure.  To be honest she was glad he was dead;  she had lived on her knees before him, exactly as she was now, and more than once she had wished she could be the one to sink the blade into his heart.