Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Wednesday Briefs: No Way Out #1

Welcome to Wednesday - the work week is half through! And it's time for your weekly dose of flash fiction. This week, the prompts were: "Dream a little dream of me" or use: molasses, wine, mist or try a trope you've never used before or "Don't stop until I tell you to..." or use: roof, adjust, philanthropist or "Tie me up, big boy..." or write about book burning.

As you'll recall, last week was the final episode of Stan and Ollie - for now - and I promised I'd start something new. Well, I did, and it's actually something rather different for me. I hope you enjoy it. I've given it a working title of No Way Out, which is subject to change, of course. Let me know what you think! And don't forget to see what the other Briefers are up to, whose links follow my tale.  Enjoy!

No Way Out #1

The silver rims gleamed pristinely. The afternoon sun bounced off the highly polished surface, directly into Shylor’s eyes. But he never flinched, never showed his discomfort in any way. The muscles in his arms ached, and his shoulders threatened to spasm if they didn’t receive a little relief from the relentless effort he’d been expending all morning.

But Shylor refused to give up. Failure was not an option. Failure came with its own consequences, and not of the pleasant variety. Was there a pleasant variety anymore? If so, that was so long ago he’d forgotten how good it might have felt. Right now, all he could focus on was the potential for pain. The possibility of being reprimanded. And damned if he was going to let that happen. Especially over something as trivial as how he washed Randy’s expensive set of wheels.

He wasn’t aware he’d stopped moving until a cold voice behind him prompted him. “Don’t stop until I tell you to...” Icy fingers traveled down Shylor’s spine—or what passed for one. He would have been hard put to find that anymore. Zoologically speaking, he could probably be classified as an invertebrate, something belonging to the order of cowards. Was there a special species known as weaklings? If so, he ranked somewhere pretty high among them, he figured.

He never turned, never acknowledged the rebuke. He knew it wasn’t expected of him. He also knew what he would see, should he do so. Randy Grant. Six foot, silver hair that matched his expensive luxury sedan. Eyes of a changeable grey that reflected his mood and his pleasure. Sometimes they were tranquil seas that seemed almost an icy blue, and at those times Shylor could almost...but not quite... believe that Randy cared about him.

It was the other times, when the grey turned dark and turbulent, that Shylor knew he was in for a world of pain, and at those times there was nothing he could do to ameliorate the situation. All he could do was grit his teeth and bear it, wait for the storm to pass.

Randy was forty years old, twice Shylor’s age. To the business world, he presented the image of a successful entrepreneur as the driving force behind one of the city’s most creative marketing agencies: Granting Your Wishes. They called him the Silver Fox, because of his prematurely grey hair, but on Randy it looked good. He had a smile that charmed the pants off everyone he met—figuratively and literally. And he had a body to die for. Well, he should, he worked very hard at maintaining it. Having the money for an expensive personal gym couldn’t hurt anyone, and neither did having a personal trainer who supervised his exercise regime, and a dietician/cook who made sure he ate very well and very healthy. Shylor wasn’t fooled, though. Randy controlled every move; he knew exactly what he was doing every step of the way, and he reveled in his control.

Inside the bedroom and out.

Shylor’s labors were exacerbated in no small way by the presence of a foreign object nestled inside of him. He felt it whenever he moved, pressed against his channel, a constant reminder of Randy’s dominance. Purple and ridged, the butt plug was designed to remind Shylor just who he belonged to, and what purpose he served in the scheme of things, even as it prepared him to be plowed later, at Randy’s whim.

He supposed it could have been worse. At least Randy hadn’t demanded he wear the one with the wolf tail. That one was a specialty item, particularly popular with fetishists and furries. Randy was among the latter. He’d had costumes specially made for both of them, and had devised elaborate scenarios for their use. Cosplay at its kinkiest.

Shylor had never met anyone like Randy. He had mesmerized him from the beginning, drawn Shy into his world, and into his bed. And now he was locked there, for all eternity.

After the things he’d done, who else could possibly want Shylor? Randy had made him untouchable, as far as other men were concerned. Shy no longer had a choice in the matter.

If Randy was pleased with the way Shylor washed his car, then later he would reap a reward. Namely, by being fucked with some modicum of consideration for his own pleasure. But if not, then it would be the kowtow-to-Randy show all the way, with no regard to Shylor’s well-being or safety.

Although Shylor had a safe word, there were times when it was simply disregarded. And sometime he forgot to use it, thinking why bother? There was no safety, there was only Randy and what he wanted. Nothing else mattered.

The sound of an engine drew his inadvertent attention to the street. Without thinking, Shy turned his head. They lived on a high-end cul-de-sac, and passing traffic was rare. A police car? Shy’s heart began to beat faster. For just a moment, he felt his liberation was at hand. Perhaps someone had noticed... someone had made a call... someone cared...

He searched for a sign that the officer behind the wheel was seeking him, Shylor. The policeman never turned his head, remaining in profile as he passed. Was he going to stop, pull into the driveway, Shy wondered.

But no, the car reached the end of the street, traversed the circular turnaround, and headed back in the other direction, quickly disappearing from view.

Only then did Shy realize what he’d done. He stiffened, bracing himself for the inevitable. He didn’t know what form it would take—retribution came in many forms, and Shy knew them all.

His heart pounded, his breath coming in short gasps in anticipation.

Just do it. Get it over with. Please...

He felt Randy move closer to him, waited for the pain.

An unexpected shadow fell across the sedan, from the wrong direction. From the street, not behind him.

Shy looked up in confusion.

“Is something wrong?”

To be continued

Now go see what the rest of the Briefers are doing:

 Until next time, take care!

♥ Julie


  1. Obviously a hurt story ... hopefully a comfort too! I like this so far, it hits so many of my 'oh, I love this theme' favs. I really hope whoever is asking if something is wrong won't be discouraged by the so called 'Silver Fox' and will see that Shy needs help. Great use of a name btw, it gives us a certain vibe for the character with just that one element.

  2. You have a wonderful way for picking the right names. I am totally enjoying this story after only one taste. Really looking forward to next week to see who the mysterious stranger is and why Shy isn't able to just walk away

  3. Drat I miss the end of Stan and Ollie. But I like this new one.

  4. Oh I love stories about silver foxes and this sounds intriguing! <3

  5. Love this beginning and can't wait to see what happens with Shy. Hopefully the one asking if something is wrong is someone that can actually help him get his freedom. Great start!