World Renowned, C. Herish, Whip Master

Back at Kaya and the writing went incredibly well this morning.

I blame this 10 minute Free Write on my good friend Sarah M. and the unexpected influence of fan-fiction on my dream time. (Notable – 10 minutes turned into an hour and a half in order to arrive at an acceptable stopping point.)

And now, spell checked but otherwise raw, here is what could have happened this morning in my dreams:

++ She threw the collar into the bottom of her duffel, cramming clothes and personal effects over top, pushing the collar and her mortification deeper into the dark of the bag where no one would ever have to know it sat; useless.

++ She seethed, gut curdled and throat burning with hot tears she would never release. After the Royal Procession and the glorious agony of her prolonged bullwhip session she had been down incredibly deep, sunk into a bliss where her only thoughts were of the flow and flick of her best whip and the figure of the Royal Dominant, King ____ striding ahead of her the whole long way. When he had turned to her at the end of the parade, just steps away from retreating into his massive Great Hall, and had asked her to await him later that evening when he could find her to discuss an exclusive event he wished her to attend, the only answer she had been coherent enough to give was a breathless “yes.”

++ Now, furiously packing in order to flee the King’s City, she was devastated. He’d never arrived, and sent no one to find her. Worse, she hadn’t dropped into subspace in years, her control and Dom persona too embedded, too ingrained, to be released for even a spare moment. Yet on first sight she’d felt a nearly overwhelming desire to kneel for him.

++ Disgusted with herself she harshly pulled the zip to close the duffel and roughly tugged the strap up and onto her shoulder. Arms and elbows helping her muscle through the door of the closet-like room she’d been given for her stay she managed to exit into the hallway and began barreling towards the end of the long corridor. Her destination was the servants door that would let her exit the lower levels of the Great Hall and into an area of kitchen gardens that she had found while practicing in the week leading up to the Royal Procession. The gardens conveniently connected by back alleys to the city’s markets and from there she could get away from this horrid city and her nearly disastrous loss of sense.

++ If anyone had perceived her drop into subspace during the Procession all of her years of careful hiding would have crumbled. The world renowned C. Herish, Whip Master, would have been stripped and publicly beaten for impersonating a Dominant. She pictured the outrage and betrayal on the faces of the submissives she had occasionally dominated in order to help solidify her Dom persona, and the inevitable abuse charges that could be filed against her, and once again felt sick at the enormous risk she had taken at just the sight of that goddamned man.

++ Quick strides finally brought her to the exit stairs of the dimly lit servants corridor and she pushed her bag through the door then skinny-ed through herself as quickly and quietly as possible. The sun of a new morning was still gentle on the Eastern horizon and the barely illuminated paths through herbs and deep green vegetation passed rapidly as she ran from the hall. The gateway ahead was still unguarded in the early morning and she sighed in relief as it swung freely. The gate released her into a narrow alley between the Great Hall’s walls and the quiet of the nearly deserted market streets. Tempting smells attempted to snag her away from her hurried escape. Bakery stalls open early with fresh bread, fragrant sausage breakfast rolls, and the overwhelming aroma of warm cinnamon caused her traitorous stomach to growl in need, but she resisted and persisted in her goal of leaving the city and her shame as rapidly as possible.

++ An hour and a thousand twisting alleys later she had made it through the market, the central square, and rows of cramped apartment homes to reach the Western Toll Gate of the King’s City. In that time she had succeeded in drawing her Dom personality back around her like a comfortable but smothering robe, and now walked briskly but without the earlier urgency. Fear and shame were squashed beneath an exterior of false cold and calm. She approached the short line of travelers attempting to leave the city in the early morning and paused briefly to remove her Ident Pass from a catch-all in her jacket pocket, getting ready for the city Police Doms and Trade & Export officers inspection. The city was rousing now as light grew, and soon the line would wrap back through the streets as the spectators, merchants and special performers who had been drawn to the King’s City for the Annual Royal Procession began trickling away towards their home cities or the next major attraction. She wished she had the luxury of waiting until mid-afternoon, when the Police Doms and the tax men would be overwhelmed by the crush of traffic and more likely to let her and her one single duffel pass through with little inspection, but the driving dread and nauseating self-loathing twisting inside wouldn’t let her linger.

++ Nearly at the front of the inspection line and she continued to mentally reinforce her rigid Dom demeanor. People knew her as a cold and aloof Dominant. Never cruel, but strict and demanding with little humor and even less tolerance for bull-shit. She had attempted a sort of warmth in her persona when she first realized how critical it would become for her to hide her natural submissiveness, but it had kept her too open to responding inappropriately subby at the wrong moment. Cold and locked down was the only means she had of portraying an acceptable and believable level of dominance.

++ “Ident Pass,” said the Police Dom, dressed in a standard blue leather uniform and hand extended towards her commandingly.

++ She slapped her C. Herish ID into his palm confidently and glanced around the gate area with a scrutinizing glare, pretending indifference to his demand. Not nearly the struggle she’d experienced in the beginning, pretending a Dom’s order was irrelevant to her and that she complied only out of a basic respect for law enforcement.

++ “Bag please, Mistress,” stated the collared Trade & Export submissive from her other side. She cocked an eyebrow at the older gentleman in a fairly nice suit and an even nicer and clearly expensive Permanent Bond collar. Ripping back the zipper on her duffel she barely held the two sides parted so that he could only peek at the top contents. The glistening length of a Master Bullwhip was coiled right on top, something a proper submissive would never dare to touch or handle. She’d found that the tactic usually worked to keep the Trade & Export people from rummaging any deeper into her belongings, and she was lucky this morning as the tax man quickly nodded and waved her small duffel and herself forward in the line.

++ Abruptly C. was stopped by the Police Dom’s hand connecting with the meat of her upper arm and holding her firmly.

++ “I’m sorry Mistress Herish, but you’ve apparently got an alert on your Ident Pass. It looks like his Dominance, King ____, has placed a hold on your passage from the city and has requested you be escorted back to the Great Hall to attend the Annual Council of Royal and Common Advisers,” the Dom cleared his throat and awkwardly released the arm he’d grasped. Scanning the notice on his screen further he continued, “Looks like this was flagged late last night. There’s another note on the hold saying the King couldn’t invite you personally ’cause he was caught up in some emergency meeting.” He looked up now and caught her eye, then gestured back towards the Great Hall. “If you’d please, Mistress Herish, I’d like to assign a Guard Dom to escort you back to the Great Hall.”

++ Thoughts furiously raced through her mind, The Royal and Common Advisers Council? What, why…? Was his interest in me last night as a diplomat, not as a …partner? She drew herself up and bit the inside of her cheeks to stop a flood of curses. Inside her head she spewed, Greeeaat. Now I’ll be forced to play Dom for the King in person. Damn my fucked up life…”

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Published in: on April 25, 2014 at 4:18 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Don’t overstay; it’s a finite welcome you have there

Another¬†Writing Prompt from my deck of StoryWorld cards; The River, utilizing “Who lives in the little house?”

The River

++ Death has a house on the River. It’s small and quaint and you can visit there only once in this lifetime. Death has a house on the River. It’s set between trees and meadows, and you cannot return once you’ve seen it.

++ Death’s house on the River is at the very end of the line. Before time rushes away in a free fall through space you may rest there. Rest long enough and Death may choose to show you one of the houses’ secrets, but more likely he’ll show you the door and politely suggest you take a jump back into the River to let your journey finish.

++ Death’s small quaint house on this ever flowing River is full of strange and beautiful mementos. Not objects, like chairs or stoves, but rather bottles of glass in every size and whimsical shape. Contained in each the most beloved memory and most appalling horror of each guest who’s made the stop at Death’s house before sliding back into the River and onward to new times and spaces.

++ Death’s house, set between trees and meadows, welcomes you and he is the most gracious of hosts. He remembers every one of his wayward visitors and holds steady your truths for all time inside these little mementos. Bizarre ornaments of glass; they are the whole history of Death and his lonely house on the edge of the River.

Published in: on April 10, 2014 at 2:47 pm  Comments (1)  
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