Gilding the Lily – Kink Bingo – Lady Alouetta’s Garden

kink_bingo – N-2 – Dressup – from my card.

Faerie Apocalypse setting – Landing Page Here or here; Lady Alouetta’s Garden sub-setting but I believe it stands alone.

“Stand.”

Julie’d learned by now to do what she was told, so she stood, but she didn’t bother to hide her surprise. She didn’t expect to see the Lady of the House – her kidnapper, her captor, her owner, although, to be fair, someone else had done the original kidnapping – here in the barracks, and it was supposed to be her night off the clock. She’d been reading, a small book of history filched from the library the Garden kept, like everything else, as a showpiece; she didn’t bother trying to hide it. If Lady Alouetta wanted to know, she’d know. She seemed to have eyes everywhere.

The Lady, at the moment, didn’t seem to care. She stripped off Julie’s cotton pajamas with quick efficiency, and sniffed at her shoulder and neck. “Good, you’re clean. Go rinse yourself down quickly – take no more than two minutes.”

She was back, shivering but cleaner and damper, one and a half minutes later, only now moving from “react” mode to wondering what the Lady wanted of her, so quickly, so randomly, and so urgently she’d come herself instead of sending the dresser, Mrs. Snips, to take care of matters.

The Lady pressed into her hands something not much different from the PJ’s she’d been wearing – a thin camisole and short bloomers, both trimmed with rows of soft lace. The cotton was yellow, the lace white, the ribbons a far brighter yellow. “Tonight, you are Jonquil,” the Lady declared. “And the gentleman in question likes dressing. He is not a big fan of conversation; you will speak when he tells you to speak, move as he positions you, and remember to smile.” With that, she slapped Julie’s ass hard enough to leave a mark. “Dress, and hurry to the Drawing Room. Vite, vite, girl.”

She vite’d, sliding on the tiny slippers and letting the Lady do something to her hair that looked far fancier than the allowed time should have made possible, and jogged across the lawn – gracefully, the Flowers in Lady Alouetta’s garden were always graceful – to the Drawing Room.

There, a dark-haired man sat in the large leather wing chair, staring out the window. A neat pile of clothes sat across the improbably large chaise lounge; the man himself was wearing knee breeches and nothing else. He had the body for it; the sort of trim, muscular trim she’d expect to see on another Flower, not on a patron; his tanned chest had just a bit of hair, and his muscular back had none.

He stood as she entered. “You’re late,” he scolded, in a voice to match the body, deep and rumbling, and a flutter of his hand that made her swallow a giggle. The Lady had told her not to speak, so she dropped a low curtsey instead.

“We’ll have to hurry,” he continued, as if she hadn’t said or done anything at all. “Come here, straighten up, in front of the mirror, that’s it. Smile.”

Julie, pushed and tugged into position in front of the antique standing mirror, smiled. It was what she thought of as her Garden smile, pretty and sincere and empty. It seemed to please the Patron.

“Good, good, stay.” He tugged her chemise straight, tch’ing softly. “Yellow, really? It doesn’t suit you. I have some blue over here…” Off went the yellow he’d just smoothed, and on went the blue, with no pause to caress or grope or even notice her high-set breasts or her smoothly-trimmed mons.

Julie-Jonquil swallowed the part of her that wanted to gape at him in incredulity, and stood where she’d been put. His hand slid down her back, smoothing the new chemise, almost a caress. “That’s better. Matches your eyes. Spread your legs a little bit for me.” He pushed his hands between her thighs to spread her, showing her where he wanted her; a firm, friendly touch but not getting near the split crotch of her bloomers. “Now brace.”

“Brace” was something every Flower in the Garden knew, although in this pose, with her pants still on, split crotch or no… oh. She swallowed an embarrassed chuckle as he wrapped a Victorian corset around her and began lacing it, and then swallowed a whimper as he pulled the laces tight.

“Just a bit tighter, hold on. There.” He patted her stay-encased back. “Lovely. You’re going to be the belle of the ball.”

Belle of the ball? She searched his face in the mirror: determined, focused, not really seeing her, just the lacings he was tying unbearably tightly. Her eyes trailed down lower; he was erect, bulging in the thin breeches. Whatever his story, he liked it quite a bit.

“Gloves now. Hand.” She’d been told not to move unless he positioned her, so she held still, and got smacked across her bare shoulders for her efforts. “Hand, I said. Tch, here, I’ll do it.” He grabbed her hand and held it out straight so he could slide the fine leather, elbow-length glove on and button it up. The fingers, Julie noticed, with a tiny hint of panic surging through her scene-calm, were sewn together. She’d have had more use of her hands in mittens than in these.

“And the other hand.” Now, he was smiling, and it wasn’t the nice sort of smile. This was the kind of guy she’d run away from, if she had the choice. If she had anywhere to run. “There you go. Stockings now.” He pushed a chair up behind her knees and pushed down on her shoulders until she sat, then knelt at her feet to work the silk stockings up first one leg, then the other. One hand lingered high on her thigh, his face just inches from the bareness between her legs. He smirked up at her, meeting her eyes for a moment. Amused. More than amused, sadistically pleased. It was going to be a long night.

He patted her knee and stood, the moment gone. “Stand,” he ordered, while pulling her up. “Yes. And the petticoat comes next…”

He’d left her arms sticking out in front of her; now he bent her elbows, folding her hands over the hard front of the corset so he could pull the fluffy white thing over her. Fluffy, but tight; the bottom of the skirt gave her almost no room to move. And, she noted, there was a slit down the back of it. Was he going to take her, or no?

“Gorgeous. You’re really taking shape, dollie,” he smiled, and pressed a wooden kiss to her lips. “The dress and the boots, and you’re ready to go.”

Go where? Julie licked her lips, wondering if she dared break her assigned role enough to say something. Lady Alouetta would be angry… the thought quieted her. The Lady angry was terrifying; this guy was merely creepy.

The dress was blue, too, tight against the corset, buttened so high up her neck and so stiffly that her chin was forced up, so tight around her knees and calves that she could barely stand. The boots, last, had ridiculously high heels, forcing her en point. He patted her back again. “There,” he murmured. “How do you feel? Speak,” he added, when she didn’t answer.

She licked her lips, not sure she could actually speak. “Helpless,” she tried. It came out thin and reedy.

“Good,” he smiled, that unpleasant, dangerous smile. “That’s how I want you.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/97177.html. You can comment here or there.

Three Word Wednesday: In her Song

Mar9

This comes after Curriculum, which came after Learning Curves,, which came after Flattery, but it can stand on its own.

It’s in my fae apoc setting, in the same locale as Walled Flowers and Slipping the Trellis

Three Word Wednesday is a once-weekly 3-word writing prompt.

The three words are dainty, haunting, tantalize.

In Her Song

Flowers and herbs are, by nature, mute, pretty, to be savored, adored, enjoyed; and thus was it with most of the Flowers in Lady Alouetta’s Garden: they might converse, but only as an echo of the patrons’ conversation. For the most part, pleasure was taken of them without engaging them except as a decoration, a receptacle, a delicacy.

One Flower was different from all the other pretty things in the Garden: rarely touched, and never without her consent, rarely spoken to, her presence in high demand but, unlike the other Flowers, almost never privately, almost never for the bedroom or the grotto.

Her name was Zinnia; her name was always Zinnia, and that alone set her apart, when her fellow Flowers changed name with the day, with their handlers’ moods, with their patrons’ desires. It was, of course, not her birth name, but no-one but the Lady herself, and Zinnia, knew who she’d been before she’d come to the Garden.

She was slender, dainty even in comparison to the others there, who tended towards a slim fragility favored by many patrons, with tiny hands and feet and an ethereal speaking voice that she rarely used. Clothed in lavender and cornflower, she brought to mind more a lily of the valley or a forget-me-not than a hearty, bright Zinnia, but Zinnia she was, last in the alphabet, last in line, last in the bunkhouse. Newcomers puzzled over her, chin high, smile faint but perpetual, until the first Saturday night.

When she stepped up onto the small stage and the room quieted around her, granting her the courtesy of attention they granted no other Flower, even the densest newcomer began to understand something was afoot. When she opened her mouth, it all became clear.

She had a haunting voice, unearthly, fae; she drew people out with a note, with a measure of a melody. She pulled at their hearts, at their bodies, at their wallets; she could tantalize an aesthetic into dance and bring stoic businessmen to tears. When Zinnia sang, everyone listened.

The boy who was sometimes known as Jason was serving tables today, a jonquil tucked behind his ear in lieu of a name tag; it was the first day Lady Alouetta had seen fit to allow him in public, and the first time he had heard Zinnia perform. He watched the patrons around him struggle with their emotions; he watched them lose the battle, one after another, like dominos falling, and he worried. If he cried like that, would the Lady understand? The other Flowers were smiling, moving among the tables as they were called for, seeming oblivious to the song’s tug.

He chewed on his lip, knowing he wasn’t supposed to do that, either, but too concerned not to. The song was pulling at him; she was singing of home, which was just cheating, a home he could barely remember. Weren’t the others bothered by it? Hadn’t they been torn from their lives, too?

Jason-Jonquil glanced up at the stage, at the singer, just as she looked at him. She threw in a trill that sounded like a flamenco dancer twirling, and winked, very deliberately, at him. Her melody changed, a tug and a tear, ripping the song from home to prison, ripping the listeners with her. The Flowers, who already lived in prison, who had already been torn from home, swayed with the music and were unhurt; the patrons reeled.

He stifled a chuckle and moved on to the next table, to the next patron scrubbing surreptitiously at tears, understanding, for a moment, why the other Flowers smiled at Zinnia’s songs.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/21035.html. You can comment here or there.