ellnyx (ellnyx) wrote in no_true_pair, @ 2009-05-19 22:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 2009 kinks challenge, author: ellnyx, fandom: final fantasy 12, pairing: cid/fran |
illused [ffxii, cidolphus/fran]
Fandom: FFXII
Author: ellnyx
Title: Ill-Used
Pairing: Cidolphus/Fran
Prompt: Fran spanks/disciplines Dr Cid during sex.
Warning: Prompt!
Rating: M to NC-17
Wordcount: 4000
Other: part of this timeline
Summary: Fran tries many careers in her lifetime. 'Archadian Dominatrix' was not the best of them.
.
The townhouse appeared a small one for Tsenoble, but the narrow façade was a deception. The sound of movement came from a distance within.
As she waited, Fran considered the house's crazed skyline without forming a conclusion as to the logic behind its grand wilderness of form. Like most things in Archades, it looked to be yet another structure that could only be understood from within.
Fran's breath misted in the cold. She did not ring at the main entrance, rather in the servants' slopyard, servants who took such time to access their own entrance that Fran rang the bell again. Her bodyguard huffed displeasure at the chill, slowed, his reptilian metabolism ill suited to Archadian altitude. She would have shared her warmth with him, but not on call.
A creaking housekeeper permitted entry where it should have been a butler, the same housekeeper serving as a guide where it should have been a page. Fran's heels clicked on marble steps to rival the old woman's knees. It was too dark in here, barely every fifth globe flickering, and the dust was worse than in the student guildrooms Fran haunted to find her daylit amusements. She sneezed, and did not bother to raise her hand.
They stopped before a door, which, once opened, revealed yet another dignified, book-lined study. Fran could not know why Archadian lords gravitated to this seclusion for her services, but she could guess: howsoever bereft the insides of their skulls might prove, Archadians enjoyed the outward trappings of knowledge, a currency beyond that for which she laboured.
The housekeeper aired to the working master her complaint of company, before disappearing with an alacrity that had seemed beyond her.
The doctor kept working even as Fran bowed. He was broad across the shoulders, tall even seated, thickened in the way muscular men did in their middle years. He looked up but once when Fran's bodyguard closed the door, for the housekeeper, derelict as the house, had not.
There were those that would remain anonymous regardless of how intimately Fran knew them, individual personality consumed by the bright banner of desires not nearly so distinct as they thought them. This man would not be one of those anonymous numbers. Fran could not read his desire, not from a distance nor as she approached. His insolent, intolerant bearing, pronounced with growing proximity, gave Fran rise to a certain unease, such that she was almost afraid to look at his face for fear of being struck down by good looks. It was this that Fran had found most dangerous in her latest profession, and she, too prone to weakness, an innate lust that longed only to rise and wrestle with this mask she wore of well-governed sensuality.
Fran arrived at the doctor's desk. Only then did he set aside his pen.
She must regard his face, of course, but fixed her focus only upon the doctor's eyes, canny and coloured with a mix of golds and greens. He appeared less than pleased when Fran lowered her hood to reveal her own truth. To his credit, the doctor eyed her ears but once; his displeasure seemed focused on her hands. Fran did wear gloves in Archades, must, but even worked black leather could not disguise the disproportionate length of claws atop already elongated fingers. She had discovered some gentlemen delighted to discover her claws, and educated her as to the opportunity her nature offered, but beauty – even measured by standards of functionality – was ever in the eye of the beholder.
If the doctor eyed her disdainfully, his eyes saw the issue, it was not her flesh in which the problem lay. This mantra enabled Fran to survive in this city when countless foul mouths sought to consume her.
She drew her crop as swift as if it had been her sword, and cracked it resounding against the red leather of the doctor's desk. He did not startle, though his eyes widened for on her rising backhand she brought the crop's leather tip to press firmly against his cheek. She would not strike his face before he defined his boundaries, but some rules were well understood.
Fran said, 'You will greet me with appropriate enthusiasm.'
His lip curled into something resembling a smile. 'Madam. May I offer you a drink?'
'You may not, as you have failed your first task. Any gentleman even remotely enthused would rise to greet his guest, yet you continue to misuse your buttocks for the purpose of sitting.'
The doctor smirked. Fran could admit she found a strange charm in that crooked curl, the humour (whether good or bad) that showed in the sparkle of his eye, for as long as she considered each aspect in isolation. He rose with a portentous grace, adjusting his clothes as he did so though they did not need it; the action was clearly designed to display what he touched. The lace at throat and cuffs, stiff-starched and immaculate, seemed an unwise decadence within this dusty, ill-worn house.
Three steps it took him to round his desk and stand before her, each one swaggering to mock his compliance. It was rare in Archades to find a man almost tall enough to meet her eye.
When he bowed, it was with such a commitment to flourish it appeared a performance, folding and excessive until he knelt on one knee. He claimed her hand, by the wrist, Fran noted, avoiding her claws, and he kissed her leather-clad palm with a heat that made her feel as though her hair should be mussed. 'Mistress,' he sounded so earnest compared to his physical excesses, 'you truly grace me with your presence. I have so longed for your arrival.'
Fran tapped his shoulders with the crop, once for either side. His head stayed bowed, but she could see his posture change as his expression did: he grinned, mirthful, shoulders shaking as though he kept quiet a laugh. 'Better,' Fran said. 'Your conditions of engagement. Be brief, I will not tolerate timewasters.'
Still holding her wrist with a possessive clasp of which he seemed unconscious, he stood again and too close, a physical presence that extended beyond the bounds of his flesh.
Fran did not like his type in this scenario, those who wanted to be forced to comply; she was not new to this game, but not old at it either. She had but a few strategies learned, and was not fond of them.
The doctor said, 'You will not remove your gloves or,' he glanced downwards, 'your boots. You will not penetrate me, nor strike my face, nor involve aught in our engagement but the contents of your cunt, and predominantly that content will be my cock; no filth or water games, nor striking any of my skin currently visible; no crippling, binding, constricting—'
With a wrestler's move better suited to the arena, Fran used his hold to draw him close, a swift step to force her thigh between his, to grind herself against him. He was already hard, undoubtedly fuelled by his words. Fran blinked, near as startled as he was at her sudden move: he was large, oh gods he was, when Archadian males simply were not.
The doctor did not move his hips, nor did Fran move her thigh, but she could feel the motion in his cock. His eyes did not look down from hers. Fran was suddenly made aware that her lips had parted, her breath ghosting too quickly; the doctor grinned with an oddly honest delight.
Fran struck him across the backs of his thighs for the insolence of presuming her pleased, for she was not, she could not be. She did not withhold force. Their proximity was such his pained grunt disturbed her hair.
Fran touched her lips to his ear, her chin grazing his jaw as she did so. The sensation of sandpaper stubble should have been displeasing, and was not.
His cock kicked against her thigh, the full solid intolerable length of it.
'You are full of denial, to only speak words of what you don't want,' Fran whispered, 'thus I will deny you all right to penetrate. Admit what you want, and perhaps then I will let you do what you want. Perhaps.'
His breath curled around her neck, a laugh restrained at the back of his throat. She heard him part his lips, a moist sound, his tongue to touch the upper as he considered response. And in response the doctor dared to roll his hips, to rut against her.
'You have me stand to greet you, and see how readily all of me obeys? And then you threaten to withhold, oh my poor confused lass, my disappointment knows no bounds! Perhaps I should sit myself down again and continue to misuse my buttocks while you make up your mind,' his free hand ghosted under her robe, along the tight curve of her corsetry, a palm hot enough she felt it before it landed, had time to anticipate it, and did not deflect it, 'about what it is you want from me.'
He did not kiss, but pressed his lips firm and hard against the curve of her neck. His stubble's rasp set a flush racing from Fran's head to her heels. That heat was not, could not be from his lips, his hand, nor the thought, feel, persistent throb of his cock.
With a sweeping motion, Fran kicked out one of his knees, hooked his ankle, brought him to kneel. The doctor cursed as he fell, his surprise unguarded; he grabbed at his desk to stop himself from falling further and would have risen again, thus braced. Fran threw herself at his spine, held him down with a forearm across his shoulders, her full weight on her elbow's point until he cried out and arched girlish against an unexpectedly direct pain.
Fran wrapped her crop about his thighs again with undue force.
She knew her response disproportionate for his provocation, but she could not withhold. Three strikes she gave him, one for the kiss and one for each hand that touched her so presumptuously. She would have persisted but that his grunts sounded grateful, that her own breath came too fast, too heavy; it had been too long since she had fought in truth. City life offered her particular favours she had longed for in her province, but each one took her further away from her nature.
In the absence of her continuance, the doctor angled his hips as though he would straighten. Slow upwards pressure brought more of his body into contact with Fran's, brocade against bound leather. His cuffs were disturbed by motion, baring an inch of whorled hair that ringed thick wrists.
'Desist. You will not touch me again before you earn the right; and you will earn that right firstly through an appropriate use of your buttocks. Remove your trousers! But,' Fran caused herself to sneer as the doctor looked at her, for his cheeks were flushed with adrenaline, 'do not dare to remove your gloves, or your boots. I have no desire to see your miniscule hume appendages.'
'But you wish me to remove my trousers, thus permitting me to draw my own conclusion as to your preference—'
His insolence was a distraction, to strike too close, to resemble a conversation that bordered repartee as though they were true lovers; his touch, his kiss, had all suggested that she were perhaps the subject of his tender romancing. It was incomprehensibly worse that he was not unattractive, not unfit, not uncharming, that his wrists were as thick as—
Fran struck the doctor so hard his trousers tore. The expression on his face showed a sudden battlefield, pain, shock, delight all at war. His belts clinked as he removed them with alacrity, his fingers most hasty on the laces below. She stopped him when he pushed his trousers to his knees, for it was enough, and if he would humiliate himself upon the fabric she could not be displeased with that; but she did not think he would.
That last blow had left an ugly purple stripe just above and behind his knee, from which a single bead of blood had smudged. An unbecoming urge would have had Fran wipe that mark away.
Fran knelt, which set her lower than he for a bare moment, yet when she beckoned him over he came, obedience always mocking. She arrayed him with hands rather than words, for she found herself distrusting her voice with him this close, as though her tone would betray what her dominatrix's mask could conceal. The doctor's predisposition to touch had her efforts feel more like a wrestle than the commanding manipulation she intended. Even once he bent across her knee, the position was more in his favour than hers, for his head hung where he could look – and did – directly at the narrow line of her g-string; his freed cock swung to tap her other thigh with his every motion. The tip was wet, the turgid length hot, and each tap made her shiver.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
His buttocks were very pale, broad from that consistent misuse of sitting for which she had lambasted him, but despite the thick hair on his thighs it tapered to smooth flesh a fair inch below his arse. Fran pulled up his shirt and vest only enough to bare him completely, to find thick muscle tense and trembling on either side of his spine's shallow curve.
The doctor set one gloved hand to brace against the carpet. His other reached where it should not, between her legs, a confident touch turned incredibly light with taunting.
Fran struck his buttocks, but only with the flat of her hand; she could not trust herself with that crop.
The doctor jerked disproportionately and cried, in full voice, 'dear gods, mistress, do you mean to cripple me for any kind of use?' after which he laughed.
And brushed again between her legs, his fingers slightly more forceful and lingering this time. Fran gazed at the ceiling, quite unseeing, as her knees moved further apart. It was a posture that allowed her to hold his weight better, she told herself, he was a large – a large man; her thigh now pressed firm and unrelenting against his cock.
The doctor worked a gloved finger between undergarment and flesh.
Setting aside the crop had been a wise decision, for Fran put such force into him now even with just her hand, each strike increasingly wild, that pale flesh rippled and swelled into a burgeoning redness that ignored the requisite shades of pink between. Each strike had him flinch, which was less of a flinch than a rut, his cock stroking solidly against Fran's thigh. Fran was aware of sudden moisture, his cock, his fingers, the sweat which slicked him in an effort to ease pain, droplets from them both that gathered, trembled, and occasionally shook free to fall.
When Fran stopped, it was only for the ache in her arm. She did not know who was panting the harder; he was racked, but she, she too. Even as she watched, the patterned red of his buttocks darkened to a shade closer to an almighty bruise. At some point he had worked his whole hand into her underwear, the angle preventing specificity but allowing the backs of his knuckles to stroke persistently, with just enough pressure his overall touch proved unbecomingly stimulating. Fran considered she would have wept had viera the ability for tears, for despair and desperation gathered in her throat as though to demand their own voice. To regain control she would have resorted to maligning this great man's submerged want for childhood discipline, but could not find the words; she remembered this had been her configuration, not his. If he responded to this, it was only because he responded to her.
This was not how these nights were to unfold. Guilt bloomed in strange ways: Fran proved derelict to yet another duty. Her sisters had been right to malign her, for it seemed she could undertake nothing, not even whoredom, without perverting all virtue to selfishness.
'Madam,' the doctor rasped, and stopped to clear his throat; he had been crying out, Fran realised, and she too consumed to notice. His hand did not stop its suggestion. 'Please, allow me to fuck you as you so want me to.'
He was not expecting a final blow; Fran brought her hand across his insulted flesh with her claws in play, through both leather and his ruddy bruising. The doctor howled, and four bright ribbons of blood burst into being; he laughed.
'Now,' Fran panted, intending to order: now you may, now you will please me, now I command it. Her breath and his ceaseless glove betrayed her. 'Now! Ah gods, now, now, now—'
The doctor's hearty growl was half outrage, all amusement, and he: sudden dominant force looming over her. An unkind push sent her sprawling onto her back and a kinder set of teeth ripped free her underwear by the laces at the side. His trousers were still about both his ankles, but did not inconvenience him as they would have a man with a lesser length, girth, of member; his fists he set on either side of her head. Fran fought against her corsetry for release, and scarce a moment after her breasts were bared he buried himself with a single stroke, full and unrelenting, to gasp wetly as she groaned.
A moment the doctor rested within her. He glanced at where they joined as though bemused she could take his fullness so easily, but bemusement became a welcome lust. As he thrust again, this time they sounded together, both growls. Fran laced her legs and hands both behind his neck, and turned her head to bite as much of his wrist as she could stretch her jaw to take; he thrust again, and sped, rapid, persistent, bothering with no nicety but force and full depth. He was vocal; yet so was she, around his wrist; and only then did she realise that this whole night, all their sounds and breaths and shudders had come in unison.
But for this one: for with a despairing wail, Fran rocked against him and came with a burst that she did not want to admit must end, until it did.
Grinning, the doctor eased his emphasis. Supporting his weight on one elbow, he brushed her hair out of her eyes, smoothed his hand across each breast in turn, each nipple.
'Turn over,' he said, 'if it would please you?'
.
After, the doctor showed her to a shower.
His bedroom was unfortunately on another floor. He offered Fran his right arm for balance up that marble stair, for from this level to the next the balustrade was lacking, and she, shaking and uncertain with each step for the forceful satiation between her thighs. Across his other arm the doctor had draped her minimal clothing, Fran but wearing her cloak and he still clad in nothing but arrogance. Master of the house, perhaps he had the right to be unconcerned for discovery. He certainly did not care that Fran's bodyguard kept the step behind him, with all the viewing that entailed. Of his stride, only his right was mildly hampered by the bite of her claws.
If this room was truly his bedroom, then Fran could determine his housekeeper incompetent, for the accrual of crockery - if not the discarded cravats, the sweat-heavy sheets – spoke of nothing but decay and distraction. The bathroom was clean enough for her purposes. Fran returned to his bedroom fully clad and robed again, but her formality was in tatters.
Perhaps it was that which had her state that which she had been well warned against: 'You are married?'
The doctor regarded, via a wallhung mirror, the wreck Fran's nails had made of his buttocks, and later his shoulders. He still wore his grin when he turned her way. Still arrogant, there was something in that smile that seemed oddly parental, and proud.
'Once, but not again.'
'You must be lonely.'
Fran spoke without thought, and regretted it on the instant, for his eyes narrowed. Not to suspicion, oddly, but rather to something more thoughtful.
'Marriage is not much of a solution to loneliness. You would do well not to aspire to it, nor to any great form of intimacy. All things living must die, and if they do not die, they leave; then what is left but a memory all the colder for having once known warmth?'
The doctor held out his hand.
Failing to conceive of any reason as to avoid it, Fran gave him her own.
Yet her presumption of his reasoning proved flawed, for a fold of bills pressed firm and thick against her palm. The shock of that sensation settled in her stomach, oddly like illness, and exactly like insult. She had been paid before, it should not have shocked her, but tonight she had not offered any service worthy of recompense more than he had already given her.
'Thank you,' the doctor said. 'You were not what I expected, nor, I think, did this go as you had expected.' He brought his other hand to cup her chin, strange rue turning his lips upwards at the corners. 'You aren't very good at this game. Much experience?'
Fran could have argued the length of her life doubled his, but length did not account for experience. She shook her head.
'You entirely forgot to determine a signal for cessation before you began. Any man would have guessed you inexperienced from that alone.' He touched his lips to her forehead, a kiss perhaps meant as apology that nevertheless rekindled a blaze so recently dampened; Fran ached enough she clenched her thighs tight against abused flesh. The doctor, lost in the distancing of his actions, did not notice. 'Might I suggest that you try this game from the other end of the spectrum?'
Fran stepped away, tugged her gloves smooth. Her hair was wet, trapped against her skin by her cloak, but she did not draw it free.
'This is Archades, Doctor. Use your imagination and conceive of what might happen to a bound, gagged and blinded viera in this city. I do not like risks, especially when they are not risks but certainties.'
'I could wish to see you again, but if that's your attitude to risk, I can certainly imagine you'll conceive of ways to avoid me.' Further rue coloured his smirk; he appeared almost boyish. 'You will admit we fuck amazingly well.'
Fran closed her fingers around her dividends. She should not have to remind herself this was all she had come for, all she needed from his type. Archades was a cruel city; it had taught Fran this lesson again and again. Perhaps one day she would learn to heed.
'Goodnight, doctor.'
'Take the stairs at the end of this hall this time, so you don't have to wake the housekeeper.' The doctor did not make a move to escort her, returning already to his mirror. 'Mind you and your guard go quietly, though, for I won't have you waking my – just go quietly.'
Fran drew her hood over her ears before she crossed the threshold. The heating was archaic in this house, the hallway chill compared to the bedroom; she closed the door firmly behind her. Her bangaa guard stepped forward eagerly.
There was but one trail of footprints down this hall, and even that proved layered with enough dust to tell a tale of total isolation.
Fran stifled her sneezes until she could relinquish them to an Archadian dawn.
.