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Title: Nothing Doing
Fandom: Lord Peter Wimsey
Wordcount: 200
Character: Bunter and assorted women
Rating: R
Warnings: noncon, bondage, bloodplay, featherplay, etc.
Mr. Mervyn Bunter hauled in a deep breath in spite of himself and concluded that he was in trouble. Item: his wrists and ankles secured to Queen Anne bedposts with tasselled velvet tie-backs. Item: his clothes draped carelessly over a nearby chair instead of on his person. Item: the bundle of damp lace serving to gag him, its texture not quite overwhelming the dregs of brandy on his tongue that he now belatedly recognised as unnaturally doctored. Items: the predatory gleams in the eyes of Elizabeth, Hannah, Mrs. Pettican, the Venables' cook, and the other women with whom he had enjoyed "confidential" relations of varying degrees in the course of acquiring clues and evidence.
Here, they were all ghosts, but the feathers, hairpins, candles, and other implements of stimulation they proceeded to wield across and into his flesh felt all too real. In spite of his best efforts not to react, Bunter found himself thrashing his head to and fro, the women smiling ever more serenely as his self-control deserted him. To compound his distress, they took care not to let him come: they brought him again and again to the brink of release and then left him hanging, unforgiven.
Lord Peter (in UNNATURAL DEATH): "Thank God, Bunter, you're human after all. I didn't know anybody could do you. Have a drink."
Mechaieh: I am astounded that there isn't already a rampant quantity of slash riffing on "I didn't know anybody could do you."
Nineveh-uk: That's practically up there with "insinuate myself to your lordship's satisfaction" in potential. Honestly, what is the online world coming to? I am appalled.
Title: Nothing Doing
Fandom: Lord Peter Wimsey
Wordcount: 200
Character: Bunter and assorted women
Rating: R
Warnings: noncon, bondage, bloodplay, featherplay, etc.
Mr. Mervyn Bunter hauled in a deep breath in spite of himself and concluded that he was in trouble. Item: his wrists and ankles secured to Queen Anne bedposts with tasselled velvet tie-backs. Item: his clothes draped carelessly over a nearby chair instead of on his person. Item: the bundle of damp lace serving to gag him, its texture not quite overwhelming the dregs of brandy on his tongue that he now belatedly recognised as unnaturally doctored. Items: the predatory gleams in the eyes of Elizabeth, Hannah, Mrs. Pettican, the Venables' cook, and the other women with whom he had enjoyed "confidential" relations of varying degrees in the course of acquiring clues and evidence.
Here, they were all ghosts, but the feathers, hairpins, candles, and other implements of stimulation they proceeded to wield across and into his flesh felt all too real. In spite of his best efforts not to react, Bunter found himself thrashing his head to and fro, the women smiling ever more serenely as his self-control deserted him. To compound his distress, they took care not to let him come: they brought him again and again to the brink of release and then left him hanging, unforgiven.
(no subject)
23/10/07 22:15 (UTC)nineveh_uk
(no subject)
24/10/07 04:15 (UTC)