From amaranth@rogers.wave.ca Sat Mar 7 15:33:37 1998 Received: from Mary.bc.rogers.wave.ca ([24.113.41.11]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with SMTP id <336238-27593>; Sat, 7 Mar 1998 18:33:00 -0500 Comments: Authenticated sender is Resent-from: "Amaranth" Resent-to: nataku@hotmail.com Resent-date: Sat, 7 Mar 1998 15:30:05 +0000 Received: from ranma.com ([199.2.82.65]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with ESMTP id <339249-28458>; Wed, 3 Sep 1997 22:04:41 -0400 Received: (from list@localhost) by ranma.com (8.8.6/8.8.5) id TAA23234; Wed, 3 Sep 1997 19:05:25 -0700 (PDT) Resent-Date: Wed, 3 Sep 1997 19:05:25 -0700 (PDT) Comments: Authenticated sender is From: "Amaranth" Save Address Block Sender To: ysml@ranma.com Date: Wed, 3 Sep 1997 19:02:41 +0000 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-transfer-encoding: 7BIT Subject: yellow/iron key: Prologue 1: A Peaceful Dove Priority: normal X-mailer: Pegasus Mail for Win32 (v2.53/R1) Message-Id: <97Sep3.215848-0400_edt.339246-28459+2911@mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca> Resent-Message-ID: <"ITXqE2.0._g5.aTX3q"@ranma> Resent-From: ysml@ranma.com Reply-To: ysml@ranma.com X-Mailing-List: X-Loop: ysml@ranma.com Precedence: list Resent-Sender: ysml-request@ranma.com X-UIDL: 54cac9129efe5f2e5d6783d76b1441cf This part and the next are a little slow, just introing the characters. Bear with me, part one should be a little more exciting. amaranth chooses yellow. name: dove experience: none. he has never even seen a man close up before. personality: lonely and curious, innocent and gullible. absolutely honest. dove has spent his life isolated in a tower, his only companions the servant women who bring him food and keep him looking nice. he always begs them to stay longer and tell him stories of the other people in the palace, but they have to get on with their other work. dove worries sometimes that there is something wrong with him because he looks so different from the servants. he longs to have a kind master to spend time with him, and also wishes he could meet the other boys that he sees sometimes out his window. description: fine red hair, dark blue eyes, and milky skin, 5'7". clothing: the only thing dove wears is an oversized white shirt that (just barely) covers everything. room: a fairly large comfortably furnished circular room up in a tower, with little barred windows. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++ "All alone in this heat, My thoughts start to wander. Oh my lonesome in this warmth. . . My hands start to long for your skin, My mouth starts to long for your kiss. . . Your kiss. . . " --Lamb, "Lusty". Prologue: A Peaceful Dove His dreams were of blackness, always blackness. . . deep and devoid of sound, of movement, an empty dark vacuum of space. . . but his waking life was not much better. All his life lived in the lonesome tower in the palace, no one around, save the silent women with dusky skin and soothing eyes who enter his room to serve him and brush his hair, businesslike, yet gentle. He asked them things. . . but they tell him nothing. He had known no other life than this. And probably never will. This was the life of Dove, this was his life, the sadness, the loneliness, the supreme isolation, a solitary barred window his glimpse into the life down below. He buried himself in books, in fantasy worlds. . . of kings and knights and damsels in distress. He told himself always. . . *I'm not lonely. . . I'm not. I don't need anyone, I have my books, I have everything I need, who needs company, who needs life surrounded by people, who can say nasty things to you, who can hurt you.* But inside, he knew it was a lie. Outside the window, the warmth of the sun shined down on sweaty skinned boys, just like him, frolicking in sparkling waters and in fragrant green gardens. . . laughing, touching, living. . . But Dove tried not to think of those things. For him, it was not meant to be. He brushed stray tendrils of hair from his face and rose from the bed, pulling the white shirt from the chair and buttoning it. As always, it was immaculate, crisp, clean, neatly pressed and ironed, and yet, he saw no one come in and replace it. He lived a life where others served him, and yet there was never anyone around. He moved to the small desk pressed awkwardly against the opposite curve of his tower room and sat down. He opened his journal. Dove had vague memories of his absentee master. Time no longer existed for him in this opulent prison, but it seemed so long since he last visited. . . and yet his master never touched him. Ever. Not once. He didn't even recall his master's face. He remembered lying in bed. . . the door opening, a man illuminated at the door, staring down at Dove's quiet and still form on the small cot. Dove pretended to sleep, scared of this imposing stranger, and the man had stayed there, watching him for what seemed like hours. Later, after many unanswered questions, one of the servants had taken pity on him and told him that the man was his master. That was the master's first, last, and only visit. Still, he was pampered, made to look beautiful everyday, on the slim chance that that day would be the day that the Master would actually make use of his expensive slave. But it never was. Dove stared down at the blank page in front of him, his loneliness a harsh ache in his chest. It never was the day. And he doubted it ever would be. He picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink well. He hated to use pens. Dove started to write: "Another day, another drop of sand in moving through the cylinder. . . and yet always, always everything stays the same. And the same questions echo through my mind, and my heart. Why does not my master come to visit me? Why does he not take me out to the garden to play, as the other boys' masters do? Why did he acquire a slave, if not to make use of him? Isn't he lonely? Doesn't he want company? Why else would he want a slave? And who am I? I've been here for so long, all alone, maybe so long, that I've forgotten where I'm from, who my family is. I have no home, no friends, no family, no background. . . I have no one. I'm so lonely. . . at night, I feel this strange aching. . . and my skin feels hot. And when I stare out of the window, I watch the boys play, and I feel it again. The other day, I saw a boy in black shiny pants pull another boy with blond hair behind a bush. . . and when they thought no one was watching, they locked in a passionate embrace. I've only read about passionate embraces, but I've never seen one. Is that what a passionate embrace is like? It looks nice. I want someone to touch me. . . I want to know what it would feel like. The servant women have touched me, and yet somehow, it's not the same. I'm sick of looking out the window. I'm sick of living life in here, just me, my books. . . and my pen. I'm sick of being alone." Dove rose from the writing desk and closed the journal with a slam. If he continued on that vein, he would end up crying again, and he'd been doing enough of that lately. The servant women chastised him and told him if he kept doing that, his eyes would get puffy, but he didn't care. He pulled his chair over to the window and stared down at the currently empty garden. His knees rose and he tucked them against his chest, under the oversized white shirt, his chin cradled by the valley made by the press of his knees together. And he watched. . . and would continue to watch, until the sun set again. Dove felt a teardrop slip out of the corner of his eye, and he sighed. "I am half sick of shadows. . . "* ********************************************************************** ** A strange woman came turned the key in the knob and entered Dove's room, moving silently and carefully, as if she was afraid that if she moved too fast, she would startle Dove, and Dove would run away. He didn't blame her, that's what he wanted to do. Run away, that is. He ignored her and continued to stare out the window. Usually, he would ask her all sorts of questions, as he did with the servant women, but he was in a deep funk now, and she probably wouldn't answer his questions anyway. So why bother and just get disappointed again. But the woman sat down at the edge of the cot and stared at Dove's seated form. She stared and stared and stared, as if waiting for Dove to make the first move. But Dove didn't know what she wanted. So he didn't say anything. Finally, the woman leaned forward, her voice careful and even. "Dove. . . " Dove stared at her, startled. He'd never heard anyone say his name out loud like that before, not addressing him. He looked the woman over. She was dusky skinned and beautiful just like the servant women, but he knew that she wasn't one, because of the way she dressed and acted, and the air of authority that surrounded her. "Dove," she said again. The sound of his name being said out loud caused a thrill of excitement down his spine. . . but he was wary, so wary. . . this woman would probably leave, just like the rest. But the woman continued to speak. "I'm here. . . to tell you some bad news, and some good news. Which would you like to hear first?" This confused Dove. He had no concept of bad news and good news, since he had lived the same life for as long as he'd been conscious and aware. He just stared at the woman, not knowing what to say. The woman smiled pleasantly. "I'll start with the bad news. . . that way, you can have some good news to cheer you up. The bad news is, your master is in a better place now. He passed away peacefully, in his sleep. It was a good way to go. And he lived a long and fruitful life, being ninety-seven years old." She waited for his reaction. But Dove had none, because he'd never met his master anyway. Though now that he heard that the man was ninety-seven years old, he was slightly glad that the master never came to claim what was rightfully his. He had seen a ninety year old man in a book once. . . his skin was. . . all folded and ripply and saggy, just like a raisin. It wasn't a very nice picture and Dove hated to imagine how much worse a ninety-seven year old man would look like. Dove just shrugged, and turned back to the window. The woman was perturbed by Dove's reaction, but she pushed onward. "The good news is. . . " she paused to arrange the folds of her pristine white suit beneath her, so as not to get it wrinkled. "that your master was a very rich man, and your master had no family and no heirs. . . and seeing that he loved you very much, your master has left all his money to you." The woman beamed happily, as if she had just handed Dove the key to the room and told him that he could go play in the garden. Dove stared at her, as if she was an alien with a long pointy head like he had seen in his books. What use had he for money? He got everything he wanted here, save companionship. He didn't need smelly old green paper. The woman got agitated now, because Dove wasn't reacting at all, not saying a thing. So she pulled out the big guns. "Your master has also asked that you be given your freedom." She smiled when it got a rise out of Dove. He jumped out of his chair, the white shirt rising momentarily to give the woman a sneak peek of silky-skinned white buttocks. She blushed and said "Oh, my. . . " She started fanning herself with her hand. "My. . . freedom?" Dove's voice was high and tense, because he couldn't believe it. This had to be a mean joke. "You mean. . . I'm not a slave any more?" The woman smiled happily. "That's right. The palace expects you to clear out of this room by tomorrow. There will be a private jet to take you anywhere in the world that you want to go. Your late master had properties all over the world. . . a penthouse in New York, another in Madrid, a villa in Venice, a mansion in the countryside of Yorkshire, another in the Moors. . . it's your choice, just say the word, and we'll take you there." The woman jumped up from her precarious perch on the edge of the cot, all business now. "I'm to be your assistant, Mr. . . . uh. . . Dove. Just tell me what you want to do, and I'll do it." She stood up straight and waited for orders. At first, Dove was elated. Freedom. . . free at last, to live, to love. . . to touch. . . but then, his face turned deathly white. He had to leave the palace. Leave the palace? He couldn't leave the palace. Not yet. He wasn't ready. He started to hyperventilate, and the woman shrieked and pulled a folded paper bag from her purse, telling Dove to blow into it. Dove did what he was told. He couldn't leave yet. Not yet. Maybe in a year. . . or two. . . or five or ten, who knows, he never did know much about time anyway. The thing is, he needed to take small steps, small steps in his freedom, he couldn't jump on a plane and fly halfway around the world, right now, all he wanted was to play in the garden with the other boys. He couldn't leave. . . then he thought of a plan. "How. . .how much money do I have?" "You have close to a hundred billion dollars, Mr. Dove." Dove turned white again and blew into the bag. That was a lot of money, he knew, even if he'd never had to handle it before. People in books always got excited over a million dollars, but this was a lot more than a million dollars. "That's a lot of money," he whispered, when he was calm enough to talk. "Yes, as I said, your master loved you very much. Why else would he fly from Toronto every day just to come and see you?" "He did?" Dove was confused, but he did remember how often there was a shining light of the door opening. . . he thought it was just the servants coming to change his clothes for the next day while he slept. If the master loved him so. . . why didn't he ever say anything? Why did he just stand and watch? But he shook his head of those thoughts, plenty of time to think about that later, he had more pressing issues to deal with now, like not leaving the palace. "Is a hundred billion dollars enough money to buy a key at the palace?" The woman blinked. "Er. . . yes." Dove breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. I want to buy a key, please." The woman nodded briskly. "Yes sir. What colour key would you like?" Dove thought about it. He didn't really want a slave, he just wanted to stay in the palace. "The yellow key." The woman shook her head. "I'm afraid that's not permissible sir. This room now has to be filled by another slave now that you've been given your freedom. You must choose a room that is occupied with a slave." She rummaged around in her massive briefcase and pulled out a list so long it was almost as tall as Dove himself. It was a list of keys. "Pick a key, sir." Dove looked at the list. He didn't really care what key he got, just as long as he could stay in the palace. And all the boys he had seen in the garden seemed nice. "I'll take. . . the Iron Key." The woman smiled; she seemed happier now that she had a purpose. "Done." She stepped quickly to the door, turning around startlingly fast when Dove called out to her. "Can I bring my books and things?" "Of course you can, sir," she said and smiled, then turned bright red when Dove bent over and picked up his books, revealing for the second time his above average and incredibly sexy posterior. "We'll have to see about getting him some clothes," she muttered under her breath, then gingerly began the long descent down the stairs in her impossibly high and incredibly expensive Italian heels. End Prologue 1, Prologue 2 to follow immediately. Amaranth. From amaranth@rogers.wave.ca Sat Mar 7 15:33:40 1998 Received: from Mary.bc.rogers.wave.ca ([24.113.41.11]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with SMTP id <336240-27592>; Sat, 7 Mar 1998 18:33:01 -0500 Comments: Authenticated sender is Resent-from: "Amaranth" Resent-to: nataku@hotmail.com Resent-date: Sat, 7 Mar 1998 15:30:40 +0000 Received: from ranma.com ([199.2.82.65]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with ESMTP id <339243-28458>; Wed, 3 Sep 1997 22:15:53 -0400 Received: (from list@localhost) by ranma.com (8.8.6/8.8.5) id TAA23309; Wed, 3 Sep 1997 19:11:08 -0700 (PDT) Resent-Date: Wed, 3 Sep 1997 19:11:08 -0700 (PDT) Comments: Authenticated sender is From: "Amaranth" Save Address Block Sender To: ysml@ranma.com Date: Wed, 3 Sep 1997 19:07:41 +0000 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-transfer-encoding: 7BIT Subject: yellow/iron key: Prologue 2: A Knight without a Maiden Priority: normal X-mailer: Pegasus Mail for Win32 (v2.53/R1) Message-Id: <97Sep3.220354-0400_edt.339246-28458+2956@mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca> Resent-Message-ID: <"kAI9O3.0.Ai5.xYX3q"@ranma> Resent-From: ysml@ranma.com Reply-To: ysml@ranma.com X-Mailing-List: X-Loop: ysml@ranma.com Precedence: list Resent-Sender: ysml-request@ranma.com X-UIDL: 3c284e9f92400b3cb2ede5cb854b2e28 Status: U The Iron Key (by the Earl) Name: Lancelot Experience: More than enough, especially w/ ladies. As for sex w/ men, he has never been penetrated, so he's what so-called a "back virgin"... Personality: Snob and haughty. Takes a pride in his beauty. But, once he falls in love, he becomes cute, submissive to whatever his master says. In a way, he's noble and values the ancient chivalry code... Description: Long honey-blond hair to the middle of back, large emerald eyes, handsome, 180cm. He's modeled after one of the Knights of the Round Table, from King Arthur's Legend... Clothes: A silk white blouse and a black pants. A small, but sharp silver dagger on his waist. A silver circlet w/ aquamarine on his forehead. Always use either Egoiste or Obsession for perfume. Room: A room modeled after the Medieval England, but w/ A/C. However, since this room is supplied w/ the latest technology, it can be changed to any type of room as the master desires. For example, if the master wish to have a drink, the entire room can be re-arranged into a bar by just typing some command into a computer on the wall... Lancelot is good at handling swords and rapiers and lances. Also, he's good at creating poetry, and can sing relatively well. However, never let him stay w/ another girl or woman unattended for more than 5 minutes. He'll be in bed w/ her after 10 min... He's from a noble or aristocratic family, and was supposed to be the rightful heir to the title of the Duke of [whatever the name you want to put in]... However, for some unknown reason, he ended up to become a gigolo, and then, scouted by one of the Palace Management to be a key boy. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "I could stay there. . . Make my home there. . . Hide away there. . . You could wrap me up in cotton wool. . . " --Lamb, "Cotton Wool". Prologue 2: A Knight without a Maiden. Roland paced the waiting room back and forth. What the hell was the hold up here?? He knew someone had paid his bail, and now he was free to go. . . he even heard one of the cops say that they were no longer pressing charges. . . he didn't know whether to kill Vanessa or kiss her, the rich old bat, she was the reason he got arrested in the first place. The stupid cow gave him the keys to her jag and told him to go out and have fun, then reported the car stolen. And all because she thought Roland was flirting with some young honey at some posh party or another. But he knew he'd forgive her. . . Roland knew better than to blow this one, or else he'd be back to the French Riviera peddling his goods to fifty year old fat widows looking for a beautiful boy to show off as a trophy and occasionally fuck. So he'd simper and suck up until the dame took him back. He didn't really want to go back to the Riviera and sleep on the street until some other woman picked him up. He sighed. This was no life for a titled aristocrat. His pedigree dated all the way back to the court of Charlemagne. . . he damned his ancestors to hell for gambling away the family fortune. He damned his father for spending the last few pennies of what was to be his inheritance. And he damned himself for never paying attention to anything useful at school. Finally, the door opened. He slapped a smile on his face and prepared to greet his latest "patron", a woman on the dark side of her forties who'd had one face lift too many. What walked in, however, was something of a surprise. There were three of them, One man tall and aristocratic, haughty and proud, old yet remarkably well preserved. He wore a dark blue suit, impeccably tailored, neat, not a wrinkle. The second man walked in; he was young, a study in style and modern day fashion. He was model gorgeous, that's for sure, and yet he had a pseudo- John F. Kennedy Jr. thing going on, the heir apparent, the man of the future today. He smiled at Roland and revealed even white teeth. It occurred to Roland that this man would make a very good hustler himself. The last person to walk in was a woman. She was very much Holly the Homemaker. Her hair was tucked into a bun, she was wearing a flowered print dress and pearls, for crying out loud. She looked like she jumped straight out of Leave it to Beaver. And yet in her eyes was a shrewd look. . . Roland was willing to bet that she got things her way a lot more often than the other two realized. He watched as they sat down at the table, all in a row, and motioned for him to sit down as well. Roland eyed them carefully, studied them. . . if there was one thing he learned, it was not to be fooled by appearances. . . you *can* judge a book by its cover, but only if you tell what condition it's in and notice every single detail surrounding it. They reminded him of something straight out of a Classical History text. . . the group formed by Mark Anthony and Octavian and that other old guy. . . the Triumvirate. Yeah. That's what they were; a Triumvirate. But. . . a Triumvirate of what? He sat down warily at the seat across from them. "So. . . who are you guys and why did you pay all that money to bail me out? What's the big catch here?" The old man spoke first: "Mr. De Richelieu, we have an offer for you. An offer we think you'll be very pleased with." The young man followed, almost immediately, continuing the old man's sentence: "We've been watching you for a long time, Mr. De Richelieu, we are aware that you possess certain. . . talents. Talents that we think would be very much beneficial to our enterprise." The woman said nothing, but smiled at Roland. "Uh. . . me, talents? Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. I don't have any talents, unless you count seducing old ladies and fencing." The Triumvirate looked amongst each other meaningfully. Roland shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What kind of business are you guys in anyway? I'm not qualified for much." The old man spoke again: "We're in the business of. . . acquisition and resale, I suppose one could call it." The young man this time: "Yes, we're in charge of the acquisitions department." As always, the woman was silent. "Well, I don't really have anything to sell. All the antiques I owned were sold off with the rest of the De Richelieu estate three years ago. And if you're from the creditor's office, I already declared bankruptcy, I'm afraid you can't really be here, I've got no more money to give." Finally, the woman spoke up, her iron will showing up in her eyes, and the other two fell silent. "What my associates are trying to say, Mr. De Richelieu, is that we're not interested in anything you own, or anything you used to own. We want to buy something that only you can sell and only you own. We want to buy you." "M-me?? I'm sorry, but, I think you've got the wrong guy here, I mean, I may hit on old women, but I'm no prostitute, I haven't quite resorted to that yet." Roland stood up from the table, insulted. He was tired of weird old men hitting on him all the time. And this. . . was just too strange. Who knew what kind of kinky foursome these three had in mind? No thanks, he wanted no part of that. "Listen, thanks for paying my bail, but. . . I'm not interested, can I go now?" "Mr. De Richelieu, I suggest you sit down and hear us out before you come to your decision." Her tone brooked no room for argument. Roland had been right, she was the strong one. He sat back down. He had a feeling the woman wasn't going to let him leave, and would restrain him physically if she had to, until she finished what she had to say. And damn, the woman looked like she had a mean right hook, with or without the dainty white lace gloves. "Okay. . . I'm listening. Make this fast and good." The woman leaned in as if she was about to tell him some nasty secret. Her voice was low and soft. "Mr. De Richelieu. . . have you ever heard of the Palace?" "The. . . Palace?" Roland had heard of it. . . only whispers though, of boys who he'd met before, fellow hustlers, who spoke of a mythical place that bought you to own. . . for as long as your youth and beauty remained, and once you were old and gray, they paid you a hell of a lot of money, so much that you were set for life. He'd heard rumours . . . but never met anyone who'd actually went to work there. And once, a former Sugar Mommy had paid him off and sent him packing, saying that she'd bought a key in the mysterious Palace. . . Roland had asked if he could come, but the woman just laughed and said that where she was going, she wouldn't need him any more. "I've heard a bit about it. . . " "Well then, Mr. De Richelieu, allow me to fill you in on the rest." She pulled out a thick folder from her massive purse and handed it to him. He opened it up and found pictures of a majestic structure set like a jewel against the barren desert. "That is the Palace. And, if you agree to our proposal, that will be your new home. . . for the next ten to twenty years or so." She hurried on when she saw Roland's surprised look. "The Palace pays well for your services. . . services that will make you. . . basically, a slave. You will have a room, which will be your home for most of your life, and that room will have a specific key. The owner of that room, will own you, and will have the right to do anything with-or to-you, for the entire time that that person retains ownership of the key." "Mr. De Richelieu, you must realize that the Palace deals in opulence and luxury, and even our slaves live in luxury. You will eat only the finest food, wear the finest clothes, people will wait on you hand and foot. . . and also, on your release from service, we will pay you ten million dollars, enough to keep you happy for the rest of your life outside our establishment. And in exchange, all we want is that you serve the owner of the key of whatever room that you will occupy. You will be their slave, you will wait on them hand and foot. Your only duty, during your time at the Palace, would be to keep your Master, the owner of your key, happy." Roland's head was swimming. He was staring at the pictures, the beautiful dusky skinned women, the gorgeous paradise that the Palace seemed to be. . . he couldn't really believe they were willing to pay him ten million dollars to live there for twenty years. He'd live there for free. And all he'd have to do was keep some rich broad happy. He could do that, that's what he'd been doing for the past three years of his life, but without half the security. The Palace offered him a contract. . . and when he got out, he'd have enough money to buy back his home. . . he'd make the family name something to be proud of again. He had a hard time trying not to jump up in the air and yell with joy, but he contained himself, knowing he had to play it cool. "Perhaps some time to think of it first? You could get me a hotel room, and I'd tell you tomorrow morning?" The woman's shrewd eyes took in everything. She didn't miss a single detail, especially not Roland's telltale flushed skin. He was a beauty all right, with all that long blond hair and those big blue eyes. . . almost as pretty as a girl, but with the graceful musculature that made Michaelangelo's David such an unforgettable classic. Yes, he would agree. She didn't see the point in wasting any more time with this one, there was a boy in Kenya that needed to be taken care of as soon as possible. "We need your answer now, Mr. De Richelieu. We'd like to fly you to the Palace immediately, and you need training." "Training?" Roland looked at the woman strangely. Whatever kind of training could he need to suck up to lonely women?! He'd been doing it for long enough. But he nodded anyway. "Fine. I accept your offer. But. . . the next ten to twenty years? Don't you have a set time frame?" The woman smiled at Roland. "We hardly ever approach people to work for us this way. We prefer to. . . cultivate our own slaves, you would be one of the first to come to the Palace with a memory of a previous life in the outside world. But believe me, Mr. De Richelieu, people pay plenty of money to get into the palace, and you'll be living there for free, and we're even going to pay you to do it. You won't regret your decision. The Palace is the closest thing to paradise on earth that you'll ever get." Roland took a deep breath. These people could be anyone. . . they could be white slave traders ready to sell him to some fat greasy bald man who wanted to do disgusting things to him, he didn't know, but he'd manage to live though his father's suicide, his mother's death, live on the streets after his rich and sheltered upbringing. . . and if this was for real, this was his way of returning to the good life. . . this was his way of showing his stupid relatives that he wasn't good for nothing. He slowly nodded his assent. It was all or nothing. . . The woman nodded happily. "It's agreed then, Mr. De Richelieu, if you'll step outside, there will be a limo to accompany us to the airport, where we will fly out to what will be your new home. I apologize for the short notice but. . . the palace is horrendously short staffed, we've just expanded, and we don't have enough slaves to meet demand, and this is why we're recruiting older boys. " She ushered him out the door, the other two members of the Triumvirate trailing behind meekly now. "Don't worry about your clothes, Mr. De Richelieu, you won't need them where you're going, we'll provide everything for you, you'll need nothing and want for nothing." Roland looked at the woman, a little frightened and apprehensive. She smiled, a lovely 1950's Mother -figure-straight-out-of-Leave-it-to-Beaver smile. "Roland. . . trust me." She pushed him into the limo and they all climbed in, the sleek black vehicle pulling away from the curb and smoothly rounding the corner, disappearing from sight. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ He had fallen asleep on the private jet, relishing the pampered attention he was getting; it had been a long time since he'd been waited on hand and foot, and he'd learned to fend for himself. The next thing he knew, he was being gently shaken awake by the silver-haired member of the Triumvirate, who smiled at him comfortingly. "Mr. De Richelieu, we are at the Palace now." Roland rubbed his eyes and stared out the window at the Palace. . . his mouth dropped open. The pictures had not done it justice. This. . . was incredible. He smoothed down his rumpled pants and shirt, wishing that he hadn't spent the night in a jail cell, he didn't at all look his best. He was going to live here. . . for the next twenty years. . . serving gorgeous women, addressing their every desire. . . not a bad deal. He was rushed into the Palace, though they bypassed the main entry hall with the plush red carpeting that Roland assumed they used for the guests. Instead, they went in through a massive iron door, pushed open by some guy who looked more pumped than any championship body builder. He was ushered through a maze of dark corridors lined with smaller wooden doors. . . Roland assumed that these were the servant's quarters. Finally, they reached the end of the long trek, a massive indoor greenhouse. . . filled with lush tropical plants and its own built in waterfall. The mist floated in the air, settling on Roland's heated skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the plants move, and jumped, startled. It was a woman, with green hair and green eyes, wearing a bright green body suit. It was most disconcerting. She even wore green lipstick and eyeshadow. "Geez. . . hasn't this woman ever heard of overkill. . . " Roland muttered under his breath. He was distracted by the sound of the Triumvirate leaving. "Wh-where are you going? I thought I had to go through some training and preparation!" Roland didn't want to admit it, but he was feeling vulnerable, and afraid, and he didn't want to be left alone here, not until he was settled in. The members of the Triumvirate were the only links to the outside world left in this eerily beautiful place, and now they were going too. The green woman smiled, patting his hand comfortingly. Her voice was as lush and rich as her artificial jungle. "Please, calm down, you'll be safe here, the palace does not allow any of their slaves to come to any harm. They are our investments, and as such, it would make more sense for us to keep them in perfect physical and emotional health." She encircled him, looking him up and down. "Now. . . what's your name." "Er. . . Roland. Roland de Richelieu. What's your name?" "My name is of no importance, but if you must address me as anything, you may call me the money maker. I'm in charge of repackaging and resale here at the castle." "R-repackaging?!" Roland backed away a few steps, but the green woman pulled him back and clapped her hands, unseen servants coming from seemingly out of nowhere, listening to her issue forth rapid fire commands, scurrying off to obey them. "Yes. I've got to admit, I've never worked with such raw goods before, but I trust that the acquisitions department know how to do their job. And you are a beauty. . . " She pinched his cheek as if to test the resilience of his skin then ripped his shirt open. "Do you wax your chest?" Roland struggled to pull his shirt closed, suddenly feeling like a violated girl. "N-no, I'm quite naturally hairless. . . " The Moneymaker nodded seriously. "That's an added benefit, that means no weekly wax treatments. Now, take off your pants." "What?!" She tsk tsked quite impatiently and began undoing his buckle for him. "There's no time to be squeamish, if you're going to be a sex slave you're going to have to learn how to be a little less shy, Roland." She unzipped his fly and yanked his pants and underwear down around his ankles. "Step out of them." Roland was in too much of a daze not to obey. She ran her hands up and down his legs scientifically, over the planes of his stomach, his back, his arms. . . and finally down to his buttocks, cupping each cheek and squeezing them. He squirmed. "What. . . what's this all about?" "Well, we've got to see if we've got to put you through a diet and exercise regimen before we put you in a room, we've never worked with someone acquired in such a way before. She slapped one cheek lightly and watched as if for jiggles. "You seem all right, very fit, considering. . . " "Considering what?!" "You're previous lifestyle. But never mind that." She rose and grabbed a hank of hair. "This hair is a mess of split ends, but you look very nice with long hair. . . it will need to be trimmed and conditioned." The servants got right to it, snipping and clicking. Roland winced with every fallen piece of hair. "Now. . . what room to put you in. . . what room. . . " She frowned, deep in thought. "The yellow room is open. . . no, you're not innocent enough for that. . . the silk room. . . no no no. . . not feminine enough. The steel room? No, not macho enough. The Iron key. . . the iron room? The Iron room! Yes, that's where we'll put you, goes well with the accent and the lineage. What kind of accent is that anyway?" "Accent?" "Yes, it's not French, that's for sure. . . " "It's a mix of French and British, I think." The woman nodded approvingly. "Well, it's very sexy, you may keep that. However, the name has to go. Roland?! You sound too much like an eighties glamour boy. We'll call you. . . Lancelot." Roland looked at the woman despairingly. "But. . . what's wrong with Roland???" The woman quelled any complaints with one glare. "We own you for the next ten years, Lancelot, if we say your name is Lancelot, then your name is Lancelot." She snapped on a rubber glove. "Now, bend over. It's time for your examination." Roland aka Lancelot bent over and sighed. Somehow. . . he knew that after this "training," he wasn't going to be the same. End Prologue. Okay, Now that I've introduced the characters, we can get down to the SEX! ^^ C&C and questions welcome. Amaranth. From amaranth@rogers.wave.ca Sat Mar 7 15:33:35 1998 Received: from Mary.bc.rogers.wave.ca ([24.113.41.11]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with SMTP id <336242-27597>; Sat, 7 Mar 1998 18:33:01 -0500 Comments: Authenticated sender is Resent-from: "Amaranth" Resent-to: nataku@hotmail.com Resent-date: Sat, 7 Mar 1998 15:30:42 +0000 Received: from Mary.bc.rogers.wave.ca ([24.113.41.14]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with SMTP id <344330-10127>; Sun, 21 Sep 1997 18:17:35 -0400 Comments: Authenticated sender is From: "Amaranth" Save Address Block Sender To: "Amaranth" Date: Sun, 21 Sep 1997 15:21:35 +0000 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-transfer-encoding: 7BIT Subject: Re: yellow/iron key pt. 1 Priority: normal In-reply-to: <97Sep21.181143-0400_edt.344323-10124+1079@mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca> X-mailer: Pegasus Mail for Win32 (v2.53/R1) Message-Id: <97Sep21.181735-0400_edt.344330-10127+1097@mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca> X-UIDL: 86a850a0423b2eb0386432bfaa3a8451 The Yellow/Iron Key, Part 1 "And the sun burns my skin It's outside and in-it's burning Only you can soothe me. . . Come cool me down. . . " He sat at afternoon tea with Ms Tuttle, the lady in perpetual white. She had kept a close eye on him ever since she'd arrived at the Palace, following his every move, and he had never been allowed to leave the Yellow room, being told that it was just too dangerous for him to be walking about alone. His new Iron Room was still being prepared, and he reached into his pocked to feel the well worn Iron skeleton key, hefty to carry around, but to Dove, it was a good weight filled with the promise of new adventures. He squirmed in his seat, unused to the new clothes that Ms. Tuttle had so thoughtfully ordered for him the first day when she came. She had given him something called underwear. . . they were tight, and he didn't like them at all. . . and they kept sinking into unmentionable places. Ms Tuttle fixed him with a glare, and he blushed. She smiled. "Mr. Dove, I've a surprise for you, the Iron room is now ready for your immediate occupancy." She smiled and sat up straighter, as if she'd just announced that Dove had been given the most precious gift in the world. . . and perhaps he had. The Iron key room was not to be entered by anyone save Dove himself, and the servants, sneaking in unseen and unheard, to clean and provide Dove and his "slave". The truth was, Dove was very excited to meet his new "slave", though a little nervous. He didn't really know how he was supposed to treat a slave, but he supposed that he would treat his new slave the way he would want to have been treated by his deceased Master, with kindness and friendship. He and his slave would be friends more than Master and slave. He hadn't seen any other boys his age at the castle, and he was looking forward to meeting someone like himself. He didn't want to do. . . any sexual things with his slave. . . not that he would have the least clue how to, really. And just the thought of doing any of those secret and forbidden things made him feel like hyperventilating all over again. He turned red just thinking about it. He and his slave, they'd be good friends, and they'd go play in the garden, every day. He would treat his slave well. As he sat staring into his tea, woolgathering, Ms Tuttle pulled a small silver box out of her massive white purse, tied with a gold ribbon. "I almost forgot, Mr. Dove, this is another stipulation of your former Master's will." Dove stared at the box, loving the way it looked. He gasped, as he touched the fine transparent gold of the ribbon. "It's beautiful!" He gasped, holding the small rectangle to his chest happily before slipping it into his pocket-the one convenience he admired about these so called "pants". . . he actually had some place to carry things. He sipped his tea and smiled at Ms Tuttle, who was giving him another of her frequent strange looks, as if he was something not quite of this earth. He stared back at her, wondering what he'd done now. "Dove. . . aren't you going to open it?" "Open what?" "Your master's present!" Dove blinked. "You mean, it opens?" He pulled the pretty shiny thing from his pocket and undid the bow. "Oh, I see, it does open!" He gasped happily when he pulled the lid off. . . nestled in black velvet lining was a tiny gold locket and chain. "Oh, it's lovely! A necklace!" Ms. Tuttle clucked happily and helped him put it on. "Your Master has asked that you wear the locket at all times." "I shall. It's so pretty." Dove fingered the locket. Ms. Tuttle smiled. "It opens, you know." She fiddled with the clasp of the locket but found it stuck. Frowning, she finally gave up. "Oh well, we'll have to get a jeweler to take a look at that." Dove smiled and went back to sipping his tea, having no idea what Ms. Tuttle was talking about. ************************************************* Lancelot lay back down on the massive canopy bed, being careful not to wrinkle his shirt. He wriggled a bit, not used to the tight pants they'd made him wear. They were black, skintight. . . made of some sort of animal, god knows what, though he guessed it was some sort of primitive leather. Probably their attempt at making old fashioned breeches. He felt like a sissy. The shirt, however, he really liked. It was so white that it almost shined, and the silk was so soft, he would have swooned every time it caressed his skin, except that that wasn't a manly thing to do. They had also given him a nice little dagger. . . a wicked thing, very sharp, very expensive, with precious stones and aquamarines set into the hilt. He moved it back and forth between hands, testing its weight. It wasn't bad. . . he could probably protect himself well enough with this. He'd been a fencing champion in high school, but he learned how to use a dagger and a knife from a fellow gigolo who had not been as fortunate to have a priveleged background as Lancelot himself did. He wondered what his master would be like. . . probably some woman who had a passion for historical romance novels. . . the room was straight out of a description from one of those cheesy things. . . he'd read one once, when he was sick and holed up in a hotel room in Monte Carlo. The stone walls,nice large tapestries--all this was something straight out of one of those books. There was even a large fireplace flickering and making the room warm and cozy. . . though why they needed one was beyond Lancelot. They were in the desert after all. They probably had the air conditioner on extra high just to combat the effect of the fire. Lancelot. . . he was already used to the name. All the training he had had. . . it was more like brainwashing to him. He wasn't really sure of what or who he was anymore. It was strange. . . as if everything that he used to be was erased in two weeks, and superimposed with someone else's personality. But it was worth it; with the money, he could get enough to reestablish the family name and the estates. . . something to leave to his children. He had just gotten a call from the Palace Management who had informed him that his new Master was to arrive shortly. He stood from the bed and prepared himself for their first and crucial meeting. ****************************************** Dove stood in front of the imposing iron door. . . the keylock looked so tiny and dainty when taken in perspective to the size of the door to which it was guardian. He shivered nervously, while Ms. Tuttle looked on like a Mother Hen, clucking with concern. "Ms. Tuttle, do you think that the boy will like me?" "Oh, I'm sure he'll love you dear, how could he not, you're such a nice boy." Ms. Tuttle fidgeted with Dove's clothes, and with the black velvet bow that tied back Dove's red hair. "Now you've been waiting for this for a long time, don't worry so, you'll be just fine. And if your slave says anything mean to you, you just come and tell me, all right?" Dove nodded his head and unlocked the door, pushing it open, looking down at the ground as both he and Ms. Tuttle walked inside. Dove gasped at the munificence of the scene before him. . . the large canopied bed, the high ceiling, the fireplace and the lovely tapestries. . . in the corner of the room was a sunken tub, filled with water and white rose petals. He was so engrossed with admiring his new room, that he didn't even notice Lancelot approaching him. Lancelot, on the other hand, had been alert as soon as he heard the heavy iron door creaking open. He had held his breath in anticipation of who would walk inside. . . but what he saw wasn't displeasing. . . in fact, he hadn't been able to serve someone so attractive in years. This was *definitely* going to be a sweet gig. He approached the pair, smiling at them both. By the time that Dove managed to tear his eyes away from the magical room, he gasped again when he saw the boy who would be his slave. He seemed a few years older, but absolutely beautiful. He had long yellow hair, and big green eyes, and Dove hoped that this new boy would like him, not only hoped, but *wanted* with every fibre of his being. Dove had never, ever in his life, wanted something so bad, not even his own freedom, as much as he wanted to be friends with this new boy. He didn't want this boy to be nice to him just because he was the boy's master, he wanted the boy to genuinely like him. Dove's eyes lit up, a smile slowly appeared over his face, making his delicate features glow. The boy came closer, closer, walking across the enormous room, walking towards the pair. . . until. . . Lancelot got down on one knee before the Lady in White, ignoring the pretty boy with the red hair. He took her hand and pressed the soft skin against his lips, seduced her with his eyes. . . running his gaze over her body, thinking of all that they would do that night. . . and for the rest of the days after, as long as she would be his Master. "Welcome, My Lady, to the Iron Room. I am Lancelot, allow me to pledge myself to you, body and soul. I will be all for you, do all for you, protect you from harm, keep you warm and safe, devote my life, to making one as beautiful as you, happy, for the rest of your days here." Lancelot bent lower, pressing his lips against the immaculate suede tip of one shoe. "I am yours, to command, for as long as you should want me." He rose back onto one knee gracefully, staring at his new master with glittering eyes, full of promise. And beside the pair, the smile that had lit up Dove's face began to falter, then fade, then his own eyes, began to glitter, from unshed tears. He thought, perhaps, there was something wrong with him after all. He was the one holding the key, the boy. . . Lancelot. . . should have known that it was he who was the Master, not Ms. Tuttle. He turned away, not wanting Ms. Tuttle to see how hurt he was. Ms. Tuttle, to her credit, was extremely embarrassed, and had to restrain herself from kicking Lancelot away as he slobbered all over her expensive shoes. "I'm not your Master, you twit. Your Master is the one holding the key. What kind of a slave are you, anyway?!" Lancelot, rose, confused, staring at the extremely attractive and sophisticated woman, as her words began to sink into his brain. He looked her over again, and now noticed that she wasn't holding the key. He had overlooked that fact because he was too busy ogling her. The only other person with her is the red haired boy. . . so. . . who the hell was his Master?! He regained his composure and bowed deeply at the waist. "I apologize for my mistake, My Lady. Who then, may I ask, will be my new Master?" The red haired boy, who until now had been silent and staring at the wall, was pulled closer by the Lady in White. He stared at the floor, and he looked a little sad. Lancelot wondered why. Their eyes met, and Lancelot stared into those dark blue depths with confusion. Somehow, they held him captive, and he could not look away. There was so much pain in those depths. . . and yet, there was an aura of innocence, as if he had been untouched all his life. The boy was lovely. . . exquisite even, and had he been a woman, he could have had the world with his beauty. His slight build, his shy manner-these things, as a woman, would have given him all. But as a man, it made him seem too effeminate. . . at least, to Lancelot. It wasn't as though the boy did anything overtly feminine. . . it was just that the boy. . . didn't do anything overtly masculine either. He frowned, and the boy looked away again. Then, he noticed. . . Dangling from the boy's hand, was a black satin ribbon. . . and from the ribbon. . . an Iron Key. End Part 1. the excitement builds. ^^ haha, well, not really. From amaranth@rogers.wave.ca Sat Mar 7 15:33:45 1998 Received: from Mary.bc.rogers.wave.ca ([24.113.41.11]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with SMTP id <336239-27593>; Sat, 7 Mar 1998 18:33:01 -0500 Comments: Authenticated sender is Resent-from: "Amaranth" Resent-to: nataku@hotmail.com Resent-date: Sat, 7 Mar 1998 15:30:43 +0000 Received: from Mary.bc.rogers.wave.ca ([24.113.41.14]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with SMTP id <344578-10127>; Mon, 22 Sep 1997 18:05:12 -0400 Comments: Authenticated sender is From: "Amaranth" Save Address Block Sender To: werefox@intrepid.net Date: Mon, 22 Sep 1997 15:08:58 +0000 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-transfer-encoding: 7BIT Subject: yellow/iron key pt. 2 CC: amaranth@mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca Priority: normal X-mailer: Pegasus Mail for Win32 (v2.53/R1) Message-Id: <97Sep22.180512-0400_edt.344578-10127+5235@mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca> X-UIDL: 8f4c247b3acf91bf950eb21e3c17b72f here ya go. Part 2: "Where's your love, let me in, to find the warm fire that I know is there inside you. Let me in, it's cold outside, and I'll grow there, find that place deep down inside you." It was a moment almost frozen in time. All three characters in the drama that was playing out stared at this Iron Key. . . that had all brought them here, to this same place, that had caused their individual lives to collide. And now. . . they had to figure out a way to make sure this didn't end in a total mess. Ms Tuttle acted first. She pulled Lancelot to her and whispered furiously into his ear, pretending to smile at Dove the whole time, like everything was all right. "You'd better get on your knees and beg for forgiveness you little cretin or else I'll be informing the Palace Management about this little mix up." That shook Lancelot out of his daze, and he did exactly what he was told, kneeling down in front of Dove and pressing his forehead to the ground. "Forgive me, my lord, for my inexcusable mistake. Please, tell me what I can do to fix my trespass and I shall do it immediately." Dove stared down at Lancelot and smiled. "It's all right. Ms Tuttle is very pretty, I would like to have her as a Master as well, if I was still a slave." A slave? Lancelot tucked that little bit of information away for future use. "Thank you, my lord, for forgiving me so easily. I am indebted and humbled to have such a kind master." Lancelot stood back up, trying his best not to look uncomfortable with the fact that he had a male master, especially in front of that woman. Ms Tuttle threw Lancelot another look, and glanced over to Dove, worried that the poor innocent boy would get hurt. Dove, clueless as always, felt none of the tension in the air, and smiled happily that the dilemma had been resolved. ****************************************** Ms Tuttle stayed in the room for another hour, watching like a hawk as all three sat by the fire, Lancelot playing the guitar, singing some nice little melodies, to Dove's utter delight. He'd never heard a guitar before, only the melodies that the servants would croon to him when he cried all night from loneliness and couldn't sleep. Dove, however, couldn't wait for Ms Tuttle to leave because he wanted to talk to his new roommate Lancelot so that they could be friends. He was too polite to tell her to go away, however. Lancelot, on the other hand, didn't want Ms Tuttle to go away, because he didn't want to be left in the room with his new too pretty master. He was afraid that Dove might try something. . . sexual. Though the guitar seemed to keep him happy enough. Finally, Ms Tuttle stood, and said that she was leaving. Lancelot jumped up and grabbed her hand. "No, you don't have to leave my lady, both the master and I enjoy your company, very much. Feel free to stay as long as you like." Ms Tuttle stole a glance at Dove and noticed Dove was kind of glad to see her leave, and guessed that Dove wanted to spend some time alone with his new "friend." She worried about him and hoped that he wouldn't get hurt. It took her a few minutes but she managed to pry her hands from Lancelot's death grip. "No, I think that I have to leave now. You two have fun! Tooduloo!" And out the door she went. Lancelot stared at the door a long time after it had closed, effectively trapping him in the same room as his master-his *male* master. He should have prepared himself for this possibility, but he was so sure he'd get a woman, and not a man. And now, here he was, with a little red-headed boy as his master. He turned around and stared at his master for a while. The light of the fire shone on the pale skin, on the auburn hair. He was definitely beautiful. . . and the fact that he could appreciate the beauty scared Lancelot even more. He placed the guitar against the wall gently, and walked over to the bookshelf, taking down a novel. He glanced over at his master. "Is there anything you would like to read, my lord?" Dove smiled happily that Lancelot would ask him if he would want something too. "No, it's all right. And you don't have to call me my lord, you can just call me Dove." Lancelot didn't reply, but after choosing something to read, moved back to sit by the fire, pretending to be so engrossed in his novel, that he ignored everything else. Dove stared into the fire for a while, starting to feel uncomfortable. "Um. . . what are you reading?" "A book." Dove played with the edge of his shirt. "What kind of book?" Lancelot answered without even looking up: "It's called Wuthering Heights." "Oh." Dove fidgeted even more. "What's it about?" "Well, it's about a bunch of people. . . who are forced into situations that they don't want to be in, and how it makes their lives miserable." Lancelot couldn't keep the malice from seeping into his voice. Dove looked down to his lap, where his fingers were busily tugging his shirt. He felt like he was about to cry; even he could figure out that Lancelot was making a shot at how he didn't want Dove to be his master. It was so obvious that Lancelot like Ms. Tuttle better. "You don't like me very much, do you?" Lancelot didn't even look up. "Of course I like you, my lord. I am yours, for as long as you wish." "But. . . but I don't *wish* to have you, unless you want me to." Dove started tugging on his shirt even harder. He just wanted Lancelot to be his friend. He wondered if there was something wrong with him. To Lancelot, those words. . . held a totally different meaning. What he heard was "But I don't wish to *have* you, unless you want me to." He froze in fear. This. . . this tiny, little, overly beautiful boy, wanted to *have* him. To have *him*! He threw the book down onto the floor. "All right then, *my lord,* you want to know the truth? The truth is, I'm kind of disgusted at the thought of having sex with another man. I have nothing against homosexuals, but I'm not a homosexual. I'm *not* a homosexual. And I resent having to have sex with another man against my will." He panted, his face red, staring down at his master. For a few seconds, it felt liberating to say everything, to let it all out, but as he watched the redhead's face crumble in front of him, those sooty lashes getting spiky with tears, the already pale skin turning ghostly white, he felt awful. He felt like the biggest jerk on earth. Dove looked as if his entire world had just collapsed . . . his body hunched over, his hands turning into fists. Lancelot took a few steps forward, desperately sorry that he had opened his big mouth. And it wasn't just because he could get kicked out from this job either. . . but because Dove looked so, fragile, like a delicate daisy, and Lancelot had just stomped the flower to the ground. "My lord. . . Dove. . . " he reached out his hand to apologize, but Dove dodged his hand and stepped away. "I. . . I don't want to have sex with you. I don't know any kind of homosexual, all I know is it's some kind of bad name. I don't want to be a homosexual either. I don't want to do anything against your will. I just want to be your friend, that's all. I've never had a friend before. I just wanted to be your friend. . . ." Dove raised his eyes and fixed Lancelot with the full power of those large anguished eyes, and Lancelot felt as if his stomach just dropped down out of his body, such was the physical effect of the pain he saw there. He had never seen such loneliness. But before he could do anything, Dove turned away and ran out the door. End part 2 From amaranth@rogers.wave.ca Sat Mar 7 15:33:32 1998 Received: from Mary.bc.rogers.wave.ca ([24.113.41.11]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with SMTP id <336246-27592>; Sat, 7 Mar 1998 18:33:01 -0500 Comments: Authenticated sender is Resent-from: "Amaranth" Resent-to: nataku@hotmail.com Resent-date: Sat, 7 Mar 1998 15:30:44 +0000 Received: from Mary.bc.rogers.wave.ca ([24.113.41.11]) by mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca with SMTP id <339752-6961>; Tue, 23 Dec 1997 14:56:09 -0500 Comments: Authenticated sender is From: "Amaranth" Save Address Block Sender To: werefox@intrepid.net Date: Tue, 23 Dec 1997 11:55:16 +0000 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-transfer-encoding: 7BIT Subject: yellow key pt 3 CC: amaranth@mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca Priority: normal X-mailer: Pegasus Mail for Win32 (v2.53/R1) Message-Id: <97Dec23.145609-0500_est.339752-6961+4263@mail.bc.rogers.wave.ca> as promised dear, here's pt 3. kase now? hahaha. this part is too short. I didn't know whether i should cut it off there or not, but it seemed to fit so perfectly that i did. also, keep an eye out for any funky grammar stuff, though i don't think there should be a lot. and tell me if it's too sappy. ^_^ Part 3: Lancelot paced the Iron room, for hours. . . the door had been left open by Dove in his haste, but Lancelot was loathe to step out, knowing if he was caught without a leash and the presence of his master, he would be in even deeper trouble than he already was. But it was already six in the morning. . . and Dove still wasn't back; he'd been gone all night. He wondered what happened to the poor kid. . . He sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed. He felt protective towards Dove already. . . now that he knew Dove wasn't after sex. He should have known, after all, Dove made no move to touch him, no hints at all, as anyone who was remotely interested in sex would do. Dove was too innocent, too easily hurt, especially for one who was only a few years younger than Lancelot himself. He stared at the open door again and frowned. The phone rang, startling him out of the bed, and he rushed to answer it, hoping that it was Dove. But it wasn't. It was Ms Tuttle. Her screeching voice made him want to hang up. "Where the hell is Dove?!" She asked, and Lancelot could feel her seething anger almost emanate in waves from the phone. "I've been trying to page him for five hours, and he still hasn't responded. And I know he knows how to use the pager and the phone, I made sure to show him myself. What did you do to him?" Lancelot winced and imagined her staring at him accusingly. "Nothing. . . I. . . I guess I might have said some things that could have upset him." He put the phone a few feet away from his ear at the blast of screaming and cursing that issued forth from the receiver. Fifteen minutes later, he was still holding the phone away from his ear. Finally, he got tired and set down the phone, falling back onto the bed. He was seriously worried about Dove. . . and not only because Dove could get him fired either. He seriously felt genuinely contrite for the awful words he said. Finally, he got up off the bed, a look of determination in his eyes. He wasn't supposed to leave the room. . . . but this was an emergency. Damn the collar, damn the palace rules. Fuck this whole place. All he could remember was that moment, still in time in which he felt himself sucked into the power of two wide green eyes and the endless portions of pain and loneliness held inside their depths. It was like . . . an awakening, of what a fucking asshole he was. And, like the Ancient Mariner, he too would redeem himself, and learn to be kind to all creatures great and small. In this case-small and frightened, infinitely innocent and exquisite, and everything that Lancelot didn't think a man should be. He took a deep breath, and ran out into the great unknown of the palace complex. ****************************************** While Lancelot ran blindly around, searching for a small redheaded boy, the aforementioned redhead had found himself in a garden, just like he had always dreamed. But in his state of mind, he was not able to appreciate the irony of his situation. This garden was not the garden of delights that he had gazed upon for so many hours. This garden was uncovered, with prickly, spiny desert plants and shrubs. The hot desert rain poured down and beat upon the top of his head, soaking his new clothes. In the back of his mind, he had a niggling thought that Ms. Tuttle was going to get very angry at him for getting his new clothes all wet, but Dove just sighed. Lancelot already hated him, so why not Ms. Tuttle too? He was sure that Ms. Tuttle thought he was a "homersexual" too, whatever homersexual meant. She was just too nice to say it. He sat down on a hard marble bench and stared up at the rain, so that it splattered all over his face, falling down his cheeks, mingling with his salty tears, so that he could forget he was crying and pretend that it was just water that fell down past his eyes to fall upon his clothes. He knew he should go back, but he couldn't. He just couldn't face Lancelot, who hated him so. Sometimes, he wished he was just a slave again. Even though he was lonely, life was simple. And he was ignorant of the fact that he was a homersexual. Dove closed his eyes and let the setting sun stain his eyelids red, pretending that he was floating in the desert sky, at one with the horizon, free, blowing with the wind, without a care in the world. *************************************** Lancelot stood at the entrance of the garden, huffing. It had taken him ages to find Dove, and lots of ducking behind things and hiding behind palace servants. If he got caught, it'd be his ticket out. But now, as he stood and watched the poor sweet boy sitting quietly in the middle of an ugly garden in the pouring rain, he knew it was all worth it. He walked slowly up to Dove, as if afraid to startle him, until he was standing right in front of Dove, staring down at Dove's upturned face, the long sooty lashes spiked with a combination of rain and tears, pouty lips parted invitingly, moist and wet. . . and Lancelot had the most unbelievable urge to kiss him. He mentally smacked himself upside the head. Dove was just too beautiful for his own good. He gently reached out and caressed Dove's cheek, his voice silent and yet filled with the authority that he knew he needed in order to coax Dove back to their room, to mend the rift that he himself, in his foolish arrogance, had caused. "Dove. . . open your eyes." Dove didn't want to. He stiffened, when he heard Lancelot's voice, and yet all the slave training and years of quietly obeying gentle, firm voices had not yet been erased by the knowledge of owning an unlimited amount of money. "I don't want to. . . " he whispered, but he did anyway, lashes lifting, large blue eyes shiny with unshed tears. He looked up at Lancelot with all the feelings reflected in the mirrors of his eyes, and Lancelot again took a deep breath, steadying himself from the blast of intensity contained in those twin azure orbs. "Don't cry, Dove. I'm sorry. . . I was an asshole. I shouldn't have said that. There's nothing wrong with you, nothing at all. You're just too innocent, too sweet, and I'm too jaded and full of myself to appreciate someone as fresh as you." Dove said nothing. He just stared at this. . . man, this man who looked down at him with a strange look in his eyes. In this moment he came to the realization, that life outside his little tower room was infinitely more complicated than he imagined it to be. Humans were like a large puzzle, that Dove thought he could never hope to understand. And he said nothing, when Lancelot took his hand and led him back through the complex, to their room, he said nothing when Lancelot gently pulled off his clothes, and wiped the rain and tears carefully away from his face. He didn't want to do anything at all, to ruin the moment, this moment in which he could actually pretend that Lancelot was his friend. Unfortunately, the combination of dampness and dust particles invaded his nostrils, and he broke the magic moment with a barrage of sneezes, the force of which left him breathless and sniffling, as if his life depended on it. Lancelot chuckled softly and passed Dove a tissue, just staring at Dove as Dove blew his nose ever so carefully, avoiding staring directly at Lancelot. Lancelot sighed, and carefully tied the robe around Dove's waist, since Dove's naked body was beginning to affect him in ways that he knew shouldn't. "Listen, Dove. . . . I feel like such crap." Dove cringed at the words. "Why? Is it because you have to share your bed with. . . with a homersexual? I'll sleep on the floor if you want me to." Lancelot blinked a few times, trying to hold back his laughter, but he was unable to, letting out a warm chuckle. This was better. . . . he far preferred this feeling of being Dove's big brother than the one of wanting to take that robe of and. . . well. Better not to dwell on that. "It's hoMOsexual. And no Dove, you're not a homosexual. Though there would be nothing wrong with you if you were one. I would like you just the same. You and I are going to share this bed tonight all right?" He ruffled Dove's silky hair affectionately. Dove nodded his head, still a bit too wary to be happy, but glad he didn't have to sleep on that cold stone floor. Lancelot sighed and pushed Dove back onto the bed, tucking him in, smiling down at him comfortingly. When he was offered this job as a sex slave, he thought that he would. . . well. . . get some sex. But he guessed he'd be babysitting more than he would be making love this time around. Ah well, still beats having to force himself to get erections for fat fifty year old women. He took of his clothes. Usually he slept in the nude, but he didn't think it was appropriate this time around. . . so he left his pants on and slipped into bed, stiffly lying on his back and looking up at the ceiling. He was aware of the warmth of Dove's skin, the indent he made on the mattress, and most of all, that scent, the fresh scent. . . he smelled so. . new. Not the way a baby smelled new, a cuddly bundle that smelled of baby powder and no tears shampoo, but like the freshness of a spring morning, of daisies, and grass moist with dew. He had to resist the urge to draw Dove closer to him, to inhale him deep into his lungs, nuzzle that fine red hair. Unfortunately, Dove being oblivious to Lancelot's inner struggles, had turned over, pouty lips parting in a soft sigh, and wrapped a slender arm around Lancelot's waist, his head resting on Lancelot's chest. He smiled in his sleep, obviously luxuriating in the fact that for once, he didn't have to sleep alone. Those bad dreams that Tuttle had told him. . . no, screamed at him about over the phone. . . Lancelot hoped that Dove wasn't getting them anymore. Finally, he relaxed and pulled Dove closer to him, giving in to the temptation of kissing the top of his head and running his hand down the back of the bathrobe. This was something that brothers did for their younger brothers right? And Lancelot stayed awake, somehow feeling more peaceful than he ever had since his childhood, and he held Dove, keeping the nightmares at bay, protecting him through the night. End pt 3. 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