| Title: Becoming Author: automatic_badgirl Ships: - Syd/Sloane Rated: NC-17 Timeline: S2 Summary: Sloane, Sydney and Shubari Karada: Japanese Rope Bondage. Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit intended. Author's Notes: Set after Basements of Paris. | ||
Somewhere on Hokkaido.
Sloane will release her when he's ready; she's learned all the struggling and pleading only prolongs her torment. She remembers how he would sit and watch the first few times as she writhed and bucked, fighting the rope she willingly bore. Her face would grow flushed and sweaty with humiliation and need. Frustrated tears died on her cheeks as she became hotter and wetter, balanced on the knife-edge of climax. She alternated between begging him to touch her and cursing him for everything. For recognizing the darkness that lived in her—so like his own—for teaching her to embrace it. Since the aftermath of the events in Paris she has surrendered to the care of a man whose evil is unfettered; a killer who has writ with moving finger new words upon her soul. Words like pain and degradation. Her suffering at his hands will be her liberation. Like a martyr she will be broken on the rack of Sloane's cruelty to be reborn as a pitiless creation completely at peace with who she is and what she is capable of. And that is what she craves most of all—Sloane's sense of serenity and acceptance of just what kind of monster he is. So she waits. The air in the bedroom of the safe house near Sapporo is warm and filled with the scent of flowers. Sydney knows Sloane isn't being ironic when he sees to her creature comforts with such small niceties. He desires her pain and discomfort to be solely of his design and not as a result of her surroundings. Like an artisan choosing the best setting to display a magnificent jewel Sloane is very particular about the places they meet for her undoing. This one—which she can't exactly say has sentimental value—is one of the places where she feels the tug of the familiar the least. The room is spare and elegantly furnished, very Japanese in its cool aesthetic, so unlike her bright, busy, sunny home in California. She rests her forehead on the wood floor and listens to the sound of the Bach chorale flowing from the tastefully hidden speakers that are part of the surveillance system. She wonders if he is recording this encounter also, to join the dozens of others he has made of her—them together. Scalding tears well in her eyes and she closes them to keep them from escaping; when did I become so weak—so completely his creature? Sydney knew the price for her transformation would be sacrifice. Sacrifice is a term she can understand, like duty and honor—sacrifice was a shield she nobly bore in battle for her country. Duty and honor are meaningless now to the woman Sydney is becoming—only sacrifice matters. The bitter tears escape and fall to the floor, the only outward sign she may regret her choice, they disappear within moments into the grain of the wood. However, her need remains, the bone deep cravings that shame and excite her. Every liaison she has with Sloane plumbs new depths as he slowly teases out her every malignant desire, exploring every dark facet of her persona. Presently he is teaching her the art of control, of restraint. Sloane is incredibly skilled at Karada Shibari; a single lengthy skein has become a corset of interwoven loops and knots restricting her body and heightening her erotic agony. Like the tidal heaviness he has created with a few simple knots running between her legs. All the cunning knots there slip and slide past her lips, and glide across the wetness of her cunt. The knots only grow slicker with time. Sydney feels the warmth stealing down to coat her thighs and she bites back a moan, torn between shock and arousal at her depravity. She can smell herself—her juices. Distantly she notes her scent is different; the clean female musk she associates with...before has changed, becoming something mysterious and secret. Inexorably the pressure centered between her legs builds until it matches the pressure inside her mind. This too is part of it as well. She is supposed to go through the pleasure, the pain—beyond to the terrible silence that fills the core of her. Sydney looks into the abyss and sees the deadness that touched her the first time she knew death; the numbing cold that sent questing tendrils to fill her once she began to offer death as well. Until she was entombed from everything. Until anything that makes her feel—even if it is wrong and twisted—is better than the nothingness. Letting go—giving up—was easier than it should have been but then the road to Hell is always the slipperiest slope of all...If I wasn't so tired and scared I could have fought this, fought him—Oh shame on you for lying!—You'd crawl back to him on broken glass Syd, just for the things he makes you do, makes you feel. Shame adds its potent heat to her face turning her dewy flush of desire into a humiliated blaze. She hears the quiet murmurs of Sloane from the other room where he is on the phone. They were in the midst of a session when he abruptly left to take the call. Sydney didn't protest—this is another thing he has taught her—the endless patience of a predator. Still she had been so very close; her nerves were jangled from denied release. He had been sitting beside her, whispering, filling the delicate cup of her ear with despicable fantasies and horrid confessions of desire as his cool fingers skimmed the fine bones of her face and his lips traced the curve of her mouth. She remembers how she moaned and panted, close to coming from the black honey of his voice alone. Her belly tightens recalling it, need makes her shiver. The motion doesn't help her already cramped limbs and she can't quite stop a tiny whimper from slipping out. As if he heard her quiet sound Sloane ends the call and pauses at the threshold of the bedroom. "Sydney, do you wish to continue?" This is part of her training as well. She and he both know she has no real choice in this matter—even if she had said no he could have her begging in moments, he knows her body now. Knows just which spots to linger at to bring her to her knees figuratively and literally. But the illusion of civility is important to him. "Yes." He waits. She raises her head enough to peer at him through the spill of her hair. The rope tightens once more and her neck and shoulders ache from the awkward position. He's going to make her say it. "Yes—Please. I want you to. I need...I need..." She lowers her head unable to articulate such base longings. He's at her side in a moment. The raw silk of his dressing gown is a cool whisper as it brushes her flesh. She can feel the rigid outline of his cock through the drape of fabric when he leans over her and runs his hand down her spine, as if admiring the lines of a particularly lovely piece of furniture. She shudders under his touch. "So beautiful...you are so exquisite, my darling Sydney." His lips press into the nape of her neck, hands slip round the curve of her ribs under the rope to find her breasts. Her skin is red and grooved from the bindings, warm sweat has gathered in the crease underneath. His fingers are a chill balm soothing the tenderness. Her heart beats hard when his mouth makes contact and the desire roars awake, bulleting along her nerves and making her weak and dizzy. He drugs her with his teeth, tongue and lips. His fingers reach between her eagerly spread thighs to toy with the knots—rolling them over the wet silk of her folds—she can feel the strong bones of his wrist digging into the creamy tautness of her thighs. Sydney bears down, aching to rock her hips and slide his clever fingers into her warmth. The rope contracts checking her motion like a dog on a leash. Before she realizes it she is pleading with him, trembling words fall half formed from her lips, raw noises of need and pain. She doesn't have to see his face to know he's smiling. He soothes her, quiets her, as his mouth tastes her tears. Sloane strokes her cheek raising her chin to look at her—the fatherly concern in his face jars with the grinning monster lurking in his eyes. She falls into their awful attraction, burning up into a thousand glittering fragments when she reaches the alien atmosphere of his will. "Anything—" Her throat is full, her voice is broken, "You can do anything—just please—let me go. Please...I want to stop this." "Do you?' Sloane settles himself more comfortably in front of her. She knows from experience, despite his obvious desire for her distorting the elegant lines of his robe, that he can wait endlessly until he is ready for satisfaction. His hands smooth her trembling flesh, caress her hair. He lifts a lock to his face and inhales the clean scent; it smells like sunshine. "I don't think you do Sydney. No I don't think that's what you want at all. Is it now?" His fingers slip into her as he says the last. Her mouth falls open in a soundless cry of protest. His fingers move slowly, tracing heated circles inside her. She can feel the delicate cage of her ribs straining to contain the sounds she wants to make—sounds Sloan can effortlessly pull from her. She almost believed she could too—walk away—that is until he touched her again. "Tell me to stop." He watches the violent beating of the big vein in her throat. Unable to help himself he presses his mouth to that spot, just underneath her jaw, beside her ear. He feels the wild river of her heart's blood under his tongue and whispers once more. "Tell me..." "Please." Her lips shape the words but there is no sound. She hitches in a deep breath and Sloane slows his movements, almost drawing his fingers all the way out before easing them leisurely into her again. Her entire awareness, her whole universe has narrowed to the controlled motions of his hand—like slowly dragging a match until the friction finally causes it to explode into flame—she cannot fight this. "Oh Please. Please don't..." "Don't what, Sydney?" "Stop! Oh God don't stop!" With his free hand he cups her head to pull her upright and kisses her hard, never slowing the caresses of his other hand. The rope is chokingly tight; she can't breathe, gray static buzzes at the edges of her vision. Sloane clings to her holding her fast, knowing that this too is part of what she needs. She sold her soul to him for moments like this. She bucks and writhes against his hand as she comes hard, the strangling rope steals all her breath to scream and call out. Sloane can feel her throat working as she tries to anyway. Sydney is on the verge of passing out when he lowers her to the ground and works the rope loose while he unties her. She lies there limp, heaving in sobbing breaths and lets him see to her. He is fast and efficient and soon the rope is tossed to the side and she can finally stretch out her aching limbs. At first they are numb and stiff like blocks of wood but then as her circulation is restored her joints flare awake into sizzling nodes of pain. The hurt makes her groan which her bruised throat can only express as a croak. Sloane lies beside her working at the knots of tension, kneading her back until the pain has mostly retreated into pins and needles. Sydney melts into the blissful pleasure of his touch; I don't know which is worse—when he's cruel to me or when he's kind... She rolls over to face him, partly to stop him from touching her in such a caring way. But he draws her to him, snuggling her up against his chest and feathers kisses on her eyelids, line of her jaw to finally end at her mouth. His kiss is as soft, gentle and worshipful as a boy's with his first love. "Better my dear?" He voice is low and affectionate. She can't stand this. Being held by him—loved by him. Disgust for him and for herself flares again in her gut. She braces to push against him, to pull herself up. Sloane reacts to the imperceptible tensing of her muscles before she has time to respond. He rolls over on top of her, pinning her down with the hard length of his body. Her arms are trapped over her head. His grip on her wrists isn't hard—yet but she can feel his hands flexing faintly ready to make it so. "We aren't done yet...Not nearly done." The affectionate tone is still there but laced now with a thread of cruelty. He drops his head to mouth her neck, teeth grazing her shoulder. Sloane is warning her with every motion of his body—it's up to her how she wants it to go—gentle or hard, kind or cruel. How she responds to him will dictate how things will be, but he's made his preference known, now she'll have to choose. Desire floods her being again, no other has read her so closely, divined her moods with such precision. "Fuck you, you bastard!" She struggles under him and feels the thick weight of his cock press into her belly when he easily holds her down again. His smile is cold. "Sydney...such vulgar language..." Then he fastens his teeth on her nipple and bites down stopping just at the edge of pain. Her eyes glitter with pleasure as she taunts him again. "I'll kill you. I'll make you beg just before you die...I promise you that." "Seems to me you were doing most of the begging, my darling girl." His grip loosens experimentally, she doesn't move so he trails one hand down the smooth line of her arm, drifts along her body to draw her thigh up and urge her leg over his back. She contemplates fighting him now, flipping him over and using her fists to punish him, when he flexes his body and his cock thrusts forward, parting his robe, and bumps up against her cunt. Instead she rolls her hips against him and is pleased to note when his eyes close in helpless pleasure from the feel of her wet sleekness. "Now. I want you inside me now." Her voice imitates the imperial command of his, but her hands are shaking as she drags the robe off of his shoulders. Sloane helps, shrugging the garment off but remains stone still and poised. He watches her intently, some part of him remote and aloof from her even at times like this. His voice is almost sad. "You can't stand it can you?" She tosses her head annoyed and impatient at the delay. "No I can't. Don't make me wait..." "I don't mean that. I mean love—you can't stand being loved. Because you don't think you deserve it anymore." His eyes change and she sees them fill with pity—for her. Fright dumps adrenaline into her veins; her heart hammers in her chest, threatening to burst through the skin, she longs to flee but she is held more by the look in his eyes than his actual weight on top of her. "No. Shut-up. Stop. Stop talking..." She draws his head down and kisses him to make him stop. She whispers against his lips, "Just fuck me..." Until I don't think or feel anything anymore. Until I'm just an empty shell. Sloane is only capable of so much pity so he eases himself into her tight heat and begins to move. Sydney clutches at him as if she is drowning and a part of her is; what can you do when even killers can sense the brokenness inside; who can you become when your world crumbles around you again and again. You can only reinvent yourself so many times. Sydney squeezes her eyes shut against the tears and presses her trembling heart closer to the man on top of her. She loses herself in the feel of him surging into her: she is adrift in the sea of sex. Their bodies twine together; the monster and the gorgeous wreck of a girl he is slowly destroying every time they do this. Gently she cradles his head close to her breast when he climaxes, gasping her name into the secret hollow of her neck. Afterwards they lie quietly together. He thinks that it's the sweat cooling on their bodies that starts her shivering so Sloane drapes his discarded robe over them and curls himself protectively around her. Numb and distant she lies under the silk wrappings, stretched on the floor of an isolated house miles away from the life she pretends to live in California and wonders what kind of woman she is becoming. Later, after Sloane gets up to pad off to the shower, she wonders if she even really cares anymore. Sydney rises to join him, leaving the robe crumpled on the floor next to the abandoned length of rope.
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