This is another visit to my vision of affairs in NCIS:LA. This story takes place two months after 'The Supervillain Affair', several weeks after 'Princess Nell' and two days prior to 'The Best Revenge is Revenge'.
In addition to the above efforts, you may enjoy my companion story 'Data', which takes place prior to 'Princess Nell'
All of these are listed in my Profile.
NCIS in its many incarnations is owned by Belisarius Productions. The usual legal Disclaimers about not stealing characters or making money apply. It's all for fun, which is why I try to flesh out such underutilized characters as Nell Jones and Eric Beale.
Rated M
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Nell establishes herself as the willing Slave of Eric Beale?'
To Serve All My Days
by JMK758
Eric Beale turns off his television before the credits on 'Blue Bloods', having watched it only because his favorite show is a summer rerun, and feels as though he's wasted an hour of his life, an hour he can never get back again. The very idea that a Police Commissioner, an Assistant District Attorney, a Detective and several other Officers in the same Precinct can all come from the same family and participate in each other's cases, even in New York, without anyone raising an eyebrow... Well, he's watched Unreality TV before but this is too far over the top.
Removing his shirt, he's ready for too-long delayed sleep when a knock sounds at his apartment door. 'What more of my life is about to be wasted?'
He steps to the door, wondering if he can pretend not to be home, to be asleep, to – "Who is it?"
"It's me," a very pleasant feminine voice comes through the wood, and her elaboration is definitely not needed: "Nell."
All thought of wasted time is obliterated by delight as he turns the lock and pulls open the door – and his heart slams to a momentary stop.
x
Red haired Nell Jones is indeed standing on his landing, slightly smaller than usual because, as he notices in the many seconds that he stands frozen, she's barefoot. But that's not what causes his heart to seize up while a lightning storm fries his brain.
She'd shortened her hair to a pixie cut length in May and had dyed it red to be Betty Willoughby in a nearly disastrous Undercover Op, then kept it red since because he likes it that way, but 'bare' refers to more than her feet and is a monumental understatement. In the bright light of the stairwell she wears a stunning outfit that has spent considerable time in his dreams and the occasional incredible moments in his waking reality, yet each time he sees it he feels he must pinch himself to assure the reality he will never deny.
Princess Leia from 'Star Wars Chapter Five' had been the inspiration for the very brief outfit she almost wears. Two inadequately wide purple bands hang from waist to ankles don't hide the width of her hips yet are held aloft by golden ovals at those hips, yet they're not helped at all by a golden piece of metal that does nothing to obscure her crotch by virtue of being too highly placed. The golden metal filigree bra Carrie Fisher had worn in the movie had been enhanced by brown material at the cups that is utterly lacking in this version. Thin metal swirls make no pretense of obscuring her breasts. In fact, her pink nipples poke between two portions of the filigree.
Swirling gold armlets decorate her upper arms without function other than to announce 'Slave' to the universe, but it's the iron collar about her throat that's the most surprising. To the front of it is attached a long gold chain, the end held in her left hand.
He sees behind her, when he can drag his eyes off her for an instant, the raincoat hung on an ancient and forgotten nail at the other end of the landing, so she hadn't come from her car like this.
When she holds the end of that chain out to him, he sees a golden handcuff clamped to her wrist, secured firmly behind her hand, the other open end dangling.
"Good evening, Master," she says with infinite softness, her honey brown eyes filled with promise, "your slave has come to do your will."
"Aaaa – urg..."
x
Over two months ago, at the DC Greater East Coast Comic Art Convention, she'd been forced to wear these clothes in front of thousands of Comic Fans by the late Grekor Kanyicska. She'd been Undercover, and had no choice about spending three whole days horribly exposed.
But in the days since Memorial Day she'd determined to own the image - with him alone - that once had been humiliation, now expressed as personal fulfillment in their privacy.
Of course, they still celebrate that Kanyicska is dead since Sunday, only two days back and a hearty good riddance; but seeing her like this, he feels slightly short circuited and...
"May your slave enter, Master?"
"Err... ahhh... yes. Come. I mean come in." It feels like the last rational thought that he can squeeze into his skull, nothing unusual when around this enchanting woman.
She places the end of the chain in his hand and he manages to close that hand, finding then that the chain has a press-link at its end, designed to go through a link in the chain to secure her. She steps in, turns to close the door behind her and he sees once more just how thin the long purple band behind her is. It doesn't hide her more than three quarters from behind, even if it is a smidgen wider than the front band is. She turns to him, head slightly down but she looks up to him past her red bangs.
"Your slave is here to please you," she says softly. "I'll do everything you desire, serve you in all things." She smiles enticingly and her whisper is scalding. "Command me."
"Errr, that is I, we, you, I mean..."
She looks to the living room. No matter how many times she visits, it's still a bachelor pad, and she usually lets it go as such, but "Shall I clean up for you, Master?"
"Well, I mean, that'd..."
x
Taking his arms, she guides him backward to his couch, which sits in the center of the room facing his television. "You just sit and be comfortable, Master, while I tidy up." She steps away and the chain, the end of which is still in his hand, halts her just before the iron collar might rotate about her throat. She turns. "Master?"
"Oh! Ah – here!" He holds the chain out to her. She takes the end and wraps the chain about her slim waist, makes it a little snug so it won't move, and latches it before her, the links pressing into her flesh. A portion of the chain still swings from throat to stomach as she moves.
She looks up and sees his eyes on the gold handcuff dangling from her left wrist. Stepping before him, she kneels, making sure her knees are on either side of the purple bands, and she holds her left arm up, the gold catching the ceiling light. "It's for if I displease you, or fail to serve you perfectly. You can secure me if I'm bad, even restrain me while you punish me."
"Pu – punish you?"
"Spank me, whip me with your leather belt, beat me, whatever you decide I deserve." She drops her soft voice to a caressing whisper. "I'm your slave, your property. I have no rights, no freedom, nothing you do not grant me, or take away at your whim. My only reason to live is to serve you," she breathes.
Eric knows that with his lips working as they are something really ought to come out, but he can't manage a sound.
x
Nell – his Slave? – rises smoothly by merely rocking back on her heels and stands before him for a moment until the purple bands stop, then turns her attention to the room. As he watches, convinced that this is not a dream for he has never had any such dream in his life - other than in her apartment or from the photos he'd seen of the Convention - she sets to work. She starts at the far end of the living room, organizing books, magazines and papers, straightens up his computer workstation, picks up sundry pieces of trash and deposits them in the waste can beside it. She works her way leftward about the room, past the door into the rear left corner and a strained pain in his neck is the only thing that reminds him his head won't turn further and he looks over his other shoulder, tracking her progress and the movements of her lithe body.
Then she goes to a closet and takes out his vacuum cleaner, spray bottle and some dust rags from a cleaning bucket, and through every second he can't tear his eyes from her. He's not even sure if he's blinked once since opening his door.
x
Her body, always fantastic in his view, is incredible. Exotic even more than usual, nuder than if she were naked, she must be able to feel his eyes pet her. The gold metal filigree of the bra, only holding her breasts (kind of) in place but covering nothing, hides less than those slim purple bands. Those may reach from waist to ankles, but when she moves, or turns to the side so he sees her dazzling body in profile, they tease and hint and offer with every sway.
When she works the furniture polish into the wood her breasts are trapped by the metal filigree, but rise and fall with her movements and the bands sway about her tapering legs, accenting rather than obscuring anything for even a second.
And the swaying chain, snug about her waist, accents her captivity, her slavery, his ownership of her and he's just about beginning to get his head around that.
x
But the handcuffs, one awaiting closure to secure her, to make her helpless, those are the biggest surprise. To cuff her, to make her slave and prisoner...
He recalls the first time he'd convinced her to wear this outfit, sans chain and collar and cuffs, a special day in her apartment.
'You broke into my apartment,' she'd said when she found the costume laid out upon her bed in a sea of red rose petals. 'I could arrest you for this.'
Her tone hadn't been threatening, more banter, so he'd told her that 'I always thought things between us would eventually involve handcuffs.'
'Well, if so, you're wearing them, my friend,' she'd declared. 'I am not into bondage.'
And now she's introduced the idea, not just of bondage, but of restraint while he punishes her.
The thought of doing so causes such an electrical storm in his mental circuits that Robbie the Robot from 'Forbidden Planet' wouldn't have survived a moment of it.
x
He stares at her, recording every second permanently, every motion, every sway, every glimpse as she uses a dust cloth to clean his furniture, doing a thorough job on each piece, her bands swaying inward and outward, her breasts rising and falling as she works. As she finishes each piece and moves on to furniture polish, her efforts make her bands sway even more, giving him rhythmic tantalizing glimpses. When she dusts and polishes the table beside him, her breasts less than a foot from his straining eyes, he has to clench his own legs tightly to keep from...
When she's finished the room and takes up the vacuum cleaner, she again starts at the far end and works about the room, her pushing and pulling turning her torso to and fro, her hips swaying to the pressure. When turned to the side, the bands hide and expose her in thoroughly enticing beat. The closer she comes the more he can see, to the point that when she's directly in front of him he stares at her nipples closely enough to memorize each tiny bump on her areolas and he wonders how long this dream will last.
x
Finally she's done, having covered every inch of the room and he'd thought he might twist his head off in watching her. She carries the vacuum and assorted materials to the closet, then pads back to him on bare feet.
"How may I serve you now, Master?"
"Well, I... I'm really not sure..."
"Would you like some food?"
"Ye – yes, I thing, I mean I think some foooo... I mean–"
He starts to get up but she puts her fingertips upon his shoulders. "Stay there, Master. I will bring you something."
She crosses the room to his kitchen door, her hips imparting the most enticing wag to the rear band.
x
Eric sits staring at the closed door, hearing her in his kitchen. This is no dream. This is reality. Nell Jones is in his kitchen, dressed as a slave, being a slave – His Slave – having declared herself his property to use in any way he desires, and giving him the means to punish her if she doesn't fulfill that promise.
But this has to be a dream. Independent, competent, proud Nell is nobody's slave, nobody's submissive plaything.
Except His.
He stares, trying again and again to bring his mind up to it, to find some reality in the reality, right up to the moment when she opens the door.
x
She's carrying a white bowl in her left hand, the gold cuff dangling and swaying to her steps, the purple band, less than the width of her hips, obscuring little, the metal filigree surrounding her breasts hiding much less. She steps up to him and kneels down, settling down upon her heels, the front band draped down her slightly parted thighs, leaving her legs half bare. In the bowl he sees a pile of unstemmed grapes.
She sets the bowl down on the floor and unlatches the gold chain about her waist, brings it about and hands it to him by the mid-length so she has little freedom. Only two feet separate his hand from her throat. Picking up the bowl in her left hand, that gold cuff swaying, she meets his eyes only under her red bangs. "Your slave hopes to please her Master," she whispers.
She takes a large grape and brings it to her own lips where she gives it a loving kiss. Then she rubs it on her left breast as though to clean it and reaches up to put it between his lips.
As he eats the cold grape - and after nearly an hour he needs some moisture - she selects another grape, kisses it even more lovingly, cleans it on her breast, this time on her firm nipple as well before giving it up to him.
The third grape she kisses for even a moment longer, then her tongue slips out and she gives it a tiny lick before bringing it to and rubbing it on her right breast, then her nipple before giving it over.
Each grape is added to with additional kisses, tiny flicks of the tip of her tongue, longer and slower and more sensual strokes upon her breasts, more attention to her erect nipples before she feeds each to him in turn.
x
By the time she nears the end of the bowl the process is over thirty seconds for each and getting longer, her firm nipples receiving or giving much attention before she gives her gift.
Finally there is one last one to which she gives a long, sensual kiss, strokes it all over her breasts, gives long attention to her nipples, and then she lowers it, spreads her thighs, lifts the purple band aside and gives it a long stroke up her labia before raising it to him. When she feeds it to him she lets her fingertips trail across his lips.
Interesting flavor.
x
When there is nothing left she looks at the time displayed on the cable box atop his television, reaches out and hugs his legs, lowers her head and rests it upon his lap. "Thank you, my sweet, wonderful Master," she breathes. "You've made me the happiest woman in the world."
"I don't–"
She straightens, her face exultant. "It's been over an hour!" she cries. She stands up and pulls him to his feet, tells him joyously "You've proven you Love me!"
"Of course I love you," he declares, not sure what's happened to his supposed slave who's now acting like it's the Fourth of July, Christmas, Hanukkah and New Year's wrapped in one bow.
"I wanted to know what you thought of me, if you thought of me as a woman or just two breasts and a pussy and all else. Sex with you is great, fantastic, epic, but I wanted to know that I was still more to you."
"Of course you're more to me!" He still can't catch up, so he can't tell her how offended he is that she could doubt this.
"Yes, I know, but now I KNOW. You went over an hour with your willing," she holds up her gold cuffed wrist, "or unwilling Slave, and never once did you jump right to the sex place! You didn't touch me, though you could have fondled me, used me, ordered me to lay down and made me please you. You could've taken every liberty there is."
"What if I had?"
She sobers. "Then I'd have submitted to you." She caresses his hands that hold the chain, eyes on them. "I'm your Slave. I'd have obeyed every command you gave me, done precisely what you desired. I would have brought you to as many orgasms as you wanted," she meets his eyes, "all with as much enthusiasm as driving to work in the morning."
"And now?"
The delight is back full force. She brings her arms about his neck, hops up, her legs wrapped about his waist, open mouth pressed to his, tongue searching and caressing, ankles locked behind his butt, hips shifted upward to press her crotch firmly against his and gyrating to emphasize her availability as her metal breast filigrees press hard into his chest.