Title: Silk
Author: Syrianora
Rating: Mature
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All is used for entertainment, none for profit.
Pairings: Mostly Chuck and Blair. (D/S to come)
Summary: She awakens in a darkened room: bruised, bleeding, and pleading for mercy. He will grant it to her, but on his terms.
Author's Note: As always, I am indebted to your kind words and prolonged interest. Without them, this chapter could never have been released. I'm certain that many of you will have many questions by the end of this chapter; please ask away. Although I will be certain not to give away plot points, as per writer's code :)
Remember, memory is one of the most powerful things on this earth.
Dedicated to Blake (aka BlackChampagne), who fueled the final editing of this chapter.
God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.
James Matthew Barrie
She was his enigma.
Standing there, watching her tiny figure move hypnotically against the bodies surrounding her, curls wild, lids heavy, and hips swaying, he dutifully watched her for the third time.
And he had fucked her, many many times, when the moon was high and hands were low and eyes would roll.
He had taken her against a railing overlooking her peers, against the sharp piercings of a walled bookshelf, against the stabbing frost of a window; legs crossed, fingers deep, sweat at the small of her back gleaming like the crimson sheen to those devil incarnate lips.
He had fucked her, many many times, and she hadn't even known it.
It had taken him six pills before the pounding in his heart slowed to a steady pace.
Six tiny, beige-colored tablets swallowed in one frantic movement, and his hands had halted their incessant trembling.
This time, Chuck had envisioned every single encounter recalled in his dream, every fuck, every tease she had offered him, knowing full well that it was a dream within a dream; a staggering desire to bed the woman with the blood lips and dark, delicate waves.
With the railing, it was a glistening moisture that covered her inner thighs, as he leaned her over and allowed the bones of her vertebrae to appear.
With the bookshelf, she had worn a red dress (red, because it was his dream, and he adored red on porcelain), bare legs wrapped around his waist, eyes tight and mouth gaping open, clutching at the shelves surrounding her.
With the window, he had stabbed his fingers into her and watched her writhe.
He had awoken with a start, pushing off the limbs of the blonde whore beside him. She purred and climbed atop of him, but he merely shoved her aside and headed into the closet beside his bathroom. The room was empty, save for a hidden collection of buttons that immediately filled the walls with rows and rows of surveillance cameras.
And he sat and pressed a cigarette to his lips, eyes locked on the camera overlooking her bedroom.
Midnight silken sheets, the kind that coated the skin of star-crossed lovers, lay beneath her, her body covered in an identical robe. The room was simple, but touched with an air of class, each piece ornate and representative of old money, money that knew how to be spent.
She awoke in one of the most glorious rooms she had ever seen.
Her ankle, whose gruesome form had brought the bile to her throat, had been cleaned; the only sign of its former demise a thin, barely present white line against the bone protruding from skin. Her fingers ran through her washed hair, the pounding at the base of her skull vacant, the skin beneath her robe void of the bruises she was certain would be present.
She had been healed and laid to rest.
Slowly, she moved to the edge of the bed, fueled by a foreign energy that her body had fascinatingly undertaken. Her feet led her to the curtain-covered window, fingers brushing aside the mahogany fabric in search of any indication of where she was.
The curtains parted to reveal endless brick.
She gulped, heart pounding against her chest, as she moved to the various windows scattered throughout the room, each parting identical and making her heart beat more ferociously, more in fear of what was to come.
Tears swept down her cheeks in an endless river as she found the door to her bedroom unrelenting beneath her anxious hands.
She was locked in.
She turned quickly to the open doorway of the bathroom, falling to her knees and retching a shadowy mixture of bile and water.
She heaved three times before the tears at her eyes halted, before she pressed a damp cheek against the tiles of the floor, before her lids fell heavy, and her arms encased her figure in a tiny plea of desperation.
Serena had long since disappeared from the dance floor, the wide smile and stretched fingers of yet another man brushing at the golden locks and pulling her away from the harsh lights.
Blair breathed a word of momentary absence to the man behind her, whose fingers were beginning to pull at the colorful material of her dress, before she headed to the bathrooms in search of her blonde counterpart.
She felt her phone vibrate against her hip, her fingers pulling out the device and catching sight of her mother's name against the screen. Allowing the phone to beat against her hand, she began to search various rooms, peeking in and finding writhing men and naked girls.
The time was late, far later than the two had anticipated to be out, and Eleanor's call would be proof of the interrogation that would be awaiting their arrival.
Blair glanced into the final room in the vacant hallway and found it empty, her body turning to head back to the dance floor, when she bumped painfully into a dark figure.
And she was stunned, stunned into a most wretched silence by a pair of the most glorious hazel eyes she had ever seen.
He stared at her for what seemed eternity, gaze held between two figures for the longest time, before she heard Serena call for her.
Quickly, far more quickly than she would have deemed possible, he grabbed at her palm, pressed a folded sheet of paper into the skin, and turned rapidly with his head low, walking past Serena and turning a sharp corner, disappearing from sight.
"Let's play pool, B!" Serena shrieked, and Blair could only will the pounding in her chest to still, before she tucked the slip into her pocket and dragged Serena out of the club.
Only when she had dealt with the massacre at home, only when she had bathed and lay comfortably in her sheets, did she fold open the slip of paper with shaking hands.
The Palace Hotel
153 West Broadway
Tomorrow, Midnight
Come alone.
And she dreamt of full lips, a pointed jaw, and alabaster cheekbones beneath silken sheets.
Her eyelids snapped open, the beating of her heart only growing in intensity.
Charles Bass, in a portion of her younger years.
Charles Bass, entering a long-forgotten memory.
Thanks for reading :)
It's about to get very dark, my friends.