Inexhaustible Smorgasbord

The sharp cracks had faded to muted rumbles; the late summer storm trundled to the east, trailing an ebony cloak glazed with jagged streaks of abstract white. At my feet, the dull granite setts slowly slaked a thirst; the detritus of tourists swirling into the gaping sewers leaving behind deceptively safe and clean shiny streets. Historic Old Town, painstakingly resurrected—twice—from the ashes of pitiless warfare, brooded in the sweet morning air. The western skies pulsed with urgency, delayed flights flung themselves recklessly at the obscured stars, hastening to meet global schedules grounded by adverse conditions.

I cupped my left hand. Had any been able to observe, the brief orange flare would have revealed a deep weary cynicism. I puffed the harsh tobacco, blew out a stream of fragrant smoke that lingered close as if terrified by the surroundings. I ignored the warning, watching instead the CCTV camera as it whirred atop the light pole. The police drones had departed with the onset of rain. This was pass through area for visitors by day; small shops catering in information and deceit. By night, contraband slipped past the law with practiced ease.

A vibration shook the front right pocket of my black linen trousers. If a phone could sound impatient the summons snarled at my unruffled savoir faire. The cigarette tumbled like an acrobat without a net: I stubbed it out with a faint hiss as it splattered on the damp pavement. Finally moving forward, the crepe soles of my shoes were silent as a grave.

The night wavered. Lean shadows peeled from brick façades and dropped from pockets of mist hovering above. To those without the Sight, nothing had changed. My escort surrounded me. Lethal, immortal, they were not here to help—they weren’t allowed where I was expected—but to ensure I fulfilled my oath. If thoughts could kill…

Jutting phallicly with a hostile and arrogant contempt at the ragged edge of tradition [reclaimed] and gentrification, the Cashmere Tower was the tallest building in the city. Money fountained like arterial blood from the professional tenants, none of it staying for long; sophisticated programs laundered the stains through shell companies and numbered accounts. Standard procedures for corrupt businesses protected by slick lawyers and bought politicians. My target was higher up the ladder—literally—the top ten floors pandered to a different type of cash flow.

Vice was timeless. Nubile flesh an inflation proof currency. Educated agents were shopping for fresh victims that wouldn’t be missed.

By mistake or deliberate malice—the first understandable, the latter an apocalyptic possibility—the procurers had lured the wrong one. Whatever the alchemy of designer drugs and DJ mixed trance that had created the circumstances of the snatch, it had not removed the clear traces of her passage.

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

Rows and rows of glittering females arranged as if waxed produce in bins filled the luxurious rooms. The buyers with their tablets snapped pictures, and fired off messages that raced around the world. The auction started later, but I was not shopping. My steel attaché was not filled with clean dollars or euros or yen, but a single jewel that pulsed with all the suppressed fury at the unrelenting humanistic devouring of magic.

I carried a portal strong enough to suck the entire building into the Outerlands were it not tuned to ‘rescue’ my target. If the dead-eyed brokers knew what their exotic captive actually was, they’d run screaming into the night; not that fleeing was a viable option should she choose to destroy rather than drink in the essence of fear and despair coating the dungeon walls.

Why I was chosen to interrupt the pain slut as she writhed in her bondage, driving her price higher with every blow of the whip: that is a story best told later. For when the Queen commands retrieval of her wayward daughter: who better to mount an escape, than the Princess’ estranged human husband.

That would be me.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Black Market Night by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées.

14 Comments

  1. […] you know what that means : another tale from Lurvspanking based on the Wicked Wednesday prompt of the week. This time, the keyword was […]

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  2. Fantastic, LS! I hope that wayward daughter gets exactly what’s coming to her!!!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. A great story. Loved the description and I couldn’t help wanting to be in that picture.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I think if you were in that picture, missy, you would be the most popular ‘model’ to be tested. 😉

      Liked by 1 person

  4. This was gorgeously written – I fell deep into your descriptions. And I loved the paranormal aspect of retrieving the pain slut (his wife – love a twist!). Love this!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you Kayla so very much. This story started with the idea of a figure hidden on a dark street smoking, and went from there. Did not expect the paranormal twist. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  5. You know what, LS? You’ve got me hooked on yet another story. This means I want to write more, because there just must be more here, right? 😉

    Rebel xox

    Liked by 1 person

    • Yeah me!! I do like this short story, although, as a prologue it needs some work. It kinda flops around as noirish and thriller without choosing a side. The paranormal twist wasn’t something I started out writing, but popped up when the shadows fell off the sides of the buildings. Which then leads to what type of creatures? Fae, vampires, shifters or something else darker. I agree, there are plenty of hooks in this story, but as always, do I want to continue this?

      Liked by 1 person

  6. As ever, exquisitely handled description, and a very interesting premise. Hadn’t guessed how the story was going to pan out at all – I like the potential here.

    A beautiful illustration by Kalidwen, too. Love the almost indistinguishable of top half of the women contrasting with their lower half individualism. There’s surely some symbolism for your story there!

    Liked by 1 person

    • It’s a strange piece. I really had no idea where it was going, and I didn’t spend more than an hour on it in total. There is potential, but I’m not thrilled with the way it started. I was going for something more noir-ish, and the paranormal threw me off course. It’s going to have to marinate for awhile before I get back to the concept.

      Liked by 1 person

      • There’s definitely something there, though. Whether you choose to ultimately send it down a noir pathway, or fulfil the potential of the paranormal premise (which I like), will be something that will work its way to the fore eventually. Either will work. If you take the noir route, it would be easy to strip the paranormal aspect out as it is. If you head down the paranormal way, I think you have the potential here for a strong lead male character.

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