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syredronningTitle: How to Get by
Author: Acidqueen aka![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
syredronning
Series: TNG
Pairing: Riker/OFC
Rating: NC-17+, bdsm, mutilation, dark
Author's Note: Written for the Weekly Challenge at ASCEML 2003 - TNG without Picard. Ties in at the beginning of the pro-novel "Imzadi" where Riker is Admiral on the outer-edge Starbase 86, also called "Starbase Dead End". Deanna Troi is dead for a long time, and he is dining on ashes. Written 2003.
Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom owns Star Trek. I own my brain.
Acknowledgement: Special thanks to jm for the beta! All remaining errors are mine!
***
I stand at the window and gaze outside into the silent darkness, searching for the one small spot between the other spots that will move toward me. It's time - her schedule is as regular as any base operation, and every four weeks her black saucer with the small silvery letters on her hull comes to this forgotten edge called Starbase 86.
I know the owner's name only from the docking list, but in reality she has none for me. And she ignores mine, never asked who I am or what I do, although I guess she knows; never wanted to see my face that I have to hide under a full mask every time. It's her style, and it suits me well. Who would want to see the face of a loser anyway?
There the ship comes, and in the darkness shimmers an even darker tinge, distorting the little light to foreboding shades. I go down to stand before the docking bay, unable to keep away as the knowledge of her presence behind the round door pulls me there like magnetism. My hands are sweaty and my collar too tight, and in the polished metal surface I get a glimpse of the old man I am. For a second my desires bow to shame and my mind wants to leave, but my body stays in place.
So when the door opens, I step through, fear and despise and arousal my companions on my way downwards.
*
I strip and mask myself and put on the cuffs before I enter her chamber. She slaps me and ties me up, then beats me with the single tail until I sob. It makes her laugh and joke about me having no balls. She is partly right - since the day she has extracted one, I am only half the man I was, and it fits.
At one time in the past, she only opened the loose flesh with one leisurely cut along the middle, and pulled the balls out and showed them to me: shimmering, slightly bloody eggs, the spermatic cords thin and barely connected. She played around with the razor and threatened to remove them, making me plea for mercy. In the end she put them back and sealed the cut.
The second time I pleaded too, but she ignored me then and cut one off; and it was right.
I stand on the cross and look down on the heavy metal weight that hangs on the sac and swings back and forth from the movements of her crop, and I cry as she hits the ball by chance. She ignores my pain, as I expect and need. No one should listen to a weakling like me, an existence faltered before its meridian was even reached.
Loser, she calls me and spits in my face; and it's true. Didn't my father say the same? In the end, everyone joined the choir about my failure, my colleagues, friends, and family. I was commander once, andit was all I ever should have been. Even there I didn't fulfill the expectations. That I am admiral now only demonstrates the Fleet's stupidity, paired with good manners; the entry "Enterprise" in my record still keeps me where my own accomplishments never would.
She takes the thick needles today, and pierces my nipples with them from left to right. So little blood there is, but so much pain. I begin to swim in it as it rises from deep inside, and I submerge in the flood. A second pair of needles she puts in vertically, forming little decorative metal crosses. And then she takes a communicator, one for the rough area usage with the pin in its end, and attaches it to the skin of my left breast in a mocking image of my past.
The sac and ball get numb, the weight shutting off the circulation, but she ignores my small comment and instead gags me. I welcome this addition to my state - it takes away the last leftovers of my faked power and adapts the circumstances to my life. She slaps my face hard over and over, because she feels like it, and humiliation creeps up and tightens my throat; between my legs, the small device of manhood blossoms out. She does not look at it.
I am no man for her, only a whining creature that is now sobbing at her feet, begging for more in unintelligible sounds. The sharp heel of her boot on my groin makes me cry behind the gag; the warm liquid that flows over my face makes me drown in thankful shame. With every stroke
I pay for my ridiculous existence, asking forgiveness from the universe for what I have become. And in the end, when I can cry no more, blankness embraces me tenderly for a long moment when I just cease to be.
I leave her, barely able to walk alone. For now, I am grateful it is over. For some days, I feel alive and well. After that, all I do is wait for her again.
Sometimes someone asks me how I get by.
I manage, I reply.
And I truly think I do.
*****
Author: Acidqueen aka
syredronningSeries: TNG
Pairing: Riker/OFC
Rating: NC-17+, bdsm, mutilation, dark
Author's Note: Written for the Weekly Challenge at ASCEML 2003 - TNG without Picard. Ties in at the beginning of the pro-novel "Imzadi" where Riker is Admiral on the outer-edge Starbase 86, also called "Starbase Dead End". Deanna Troi is dead for a long time, and he is dining on ashes. Written 2003.
Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom owns Star Trek. I own my brain.
Acknowledgement: Special thanks to jm for the beta! All remaining errors are mine!
***
I stand at the window and gaze outside into the silent darkness, searching for the one small spot between the other spots that will move toward me. It's time - her schedule is as regular as any base operation, and every four weeks her black saucer with the small silvery letters on her hull comes to this forgotten edge called Starbase 86.
I know the owner's name only from the docking list, but in reality she has none for me. And she ignores mine, never asked who I am or what I do, although I guess she knows; never wanted to see my face that I have to hide under a full mask every time. It's her style, and it suits me well. Who would want to see the face of a loser anyway?
There the ship comes, and in the darkness shimmers an even darker tinge, distorting the little light to foreboding shades. I go down to stand before the docking bay, unable to keep away as the knowledge of her presence behind the round door pulls me there like magnetism. My hands are sweaty and my collar too tight, and in the polished metal surface I get a glimpse of the old man I am. For a second my desires bow to shame and my mind wants to leave, but my body stays in place.
So when the door opens, I step through, fear and despise and arousal my companions on my way downwards.
*
I strip and mask myself and put on the cuffs before I enter her chamber. She slaps me and ties me up, then beats me with the single tail until I sob. It makes her laugh and joke about me having no balls. She is partly right - since the day she has extracted one, I am only half the man I was, and it fits.
At one time in the past, she only opened the loose flesh with one leisurely cut along the middle, and pulled the balls out and showed them to me: shimmering, slightly bloody eggs, the spermatic cords thin and barely connected. She played around with the razor and threatened to remove them, making me plea for mercy. In the end she put them back and sealed the cut.
The second time I pleaded too, but she ignored me then and cut one off; and it was right.
I stand on the cross and look down on the heavy metal weight that hangs on the sac and swings back and forth from the movements of her crop, and I cry as she hits the ball by chance. She ignores my pain, as I expect and need. No one should listen to a weakling like me, an existence faltered before its meridian was even reached.
Loser, she calls me and spits in my face; and it's true. Didn't my father say the same? In the end, everyone joined the choir about my failure, my colleagues, friends, and family. I was commander once, andit was all I ever should have been. Even there I didn't fulfill the expectations. That I am admiral now only demonstrates the Fleet's stupidity, paired with good manners; the entry "Enterprise" in my record still keeps me where my own accomplishments never would.
She takes the thick needles today, and pierces my nipples with them from left to right. So little blood there is, but so much pain. I begin to swim in it as it rises from deep inside, and I submerge in the flood. A second pair of needles she puts in vertically, forming little decorative metal crosses. And then she takes a communicator, one for the rough area usage with the pin in its end, and attaches it to the skin of my left breast in a mocking image of my past.
The sac and ball get numb, the weight shutting off the circulation, but she ignores my small comment and instead gags me. I welcome this addition to my state - it takes away the last leftovers of my faked power and adapts the circumstances to my life. She slaps my face hard over and over, because she feels like it, and humiliation creeps up and tightens my throat; between my legs, the small device of manhood blossoms out. She does not look at it.
I am no man for her, only a whining creature that is now sobbing at her feet, begging for more in unintelligible sounds. The sharp heel of her boot on my groin makes me cry behind the gag; the warm liquid that flows over my face makes me drown in thankful shame. With every stroke
I pay for my ridiculous existence, asking forgiveness from the universe for what I have become. And in the end, when I can cry no more, blankness embraces me tenderly for a long moment when I just cease to be.
I leave her, barely able to walk alone. For now, I am grateful it is over. For some days, I feel alive and well. After that, all I do is wait for her again.
Sometimes someone asks me how I get by.
I manage, I reply.
And I truly think I do.
*****
