Ali Hadrix
Bad Boss
"I’ve told you everything you need to know, Ali." Tara spoke, her voice deadpan, slow, even, frightening. The young woman's eyes had become deep pools of mistrust and uncontrollable violence, as if a deadly current swam beneath their surfaces. Ali's play time had gone from new and acute to something dark and strange, and she did not like the territory she'd accidentally wandered into. Her best option was to release Tara and end the night as it were now. She'd performed cigarette and fire play before but had never actually hurt anyone, and Tara's willingness to have herself harmed was scaring Ali half to death. She felt her hand shaking and her eyes begin to wet themselves.
Then, the pit of Ali's stomach turned into an amalgamation of fire and ice as she felt the whisper of a touch against her throat. She coughed slightly, unthinking for a moment before she realised what it was she was experiencing. Her mother, Myra, had taught her to recognise Force Users when they employed their abilities, and alarm bells were ringing all throughout Ali's conscious mind. Her free hand went to her throat, grasping at air, and the other released the crop. It tumbled over Tara's naked thigh and onto the floor. Ali herself began to panic, something she absolutely was not prone to do. Her lungs felt sluggish in her chest and her breathing had become a quiet wheeze. No one will even hear me die. She thought as she collapsed onto her knees at Tara's side, her eyes locking on to the younger woman's face with a fierce rage in them.
Forcing down her frantic urges in favor of well thought control, Ali reached for the near drawer and pulled from it a small black cylinder. With the press of a switch, a thin, durasteel blade shot out from it and locked into position. Ali lunged forward and brought the blade up against Tara's neck, holding it there until a thin line of red began to seep onto the metal. "Stop. Stop now." Ali demanded weakly, the suffocation clawing at the periphery of her vision. The experience was terrifying, true, but also was it arousing. For what reason, Ali had little idea, and at the moment didn't care to explore the details. She wanted to live, and if that meant Tara had to die, then so be it.
Moments passed, and the look on Tara's face never changed, not for an instant. Ali's emotional strength waned, though her physical struggle was not yet so dire. Even so, a growing part of her wanted to submit. Submit to what? Ali wondered vaguely. Her mind felt like muddied water, easy to travel through but difficult to see in. She had no idea where she was going, and by the time she realised she'd reached the point of giving in, it was too late for her to resist it. It was as if a new part of her had awoken, one that relished in the relinquishment of her freedom, freeing herself from choice itself. Ali herself often played switch for the women she slept with, though Tara's influence was reaching far beyond such a measure as Ali was familiar, or even comfortable, with. Yet now, all she wanted was to know what Tara wanted, and how best she could serve such a need. It was...terrifying, to see such a change in herself. The change itself, however, was addicting. Ali had never felt so aroused, so fulfilled, or so close to finally finding purpose. A moment of shame crossed her heart as she realised that her age and experience meant nothing in the face of a Force User. The thought spawned loathing in Ali, a deeply rooted hatred that coursed through the hearts of Mandalorians all across the Galaxy for the arrogance of such beings. I want her to own me, yet she has no right to do so. Tara had earned nothing in her life. She was young, arrogant, and her control over Ali borne solely of her unnatural gifts of manipulation to which people like Ali had limited defenses. In that moment before the sweetness of submission consumed her, Ali hated the girl.
The switchblade fell from her grip and onto the floor, and with shaking hands Ali loosened the binders around Tara's extremities. Her stomach was tight, she felt sick, and the invisible grip on her throat had yet to lessen. Will she kill me now? Ali wondered, sinking to her knees and staring down at the floor of her own home in an unfamiliar sense of defeat. A part of me hopes she does, Ali knew. What came next, she had no idea. But Ali swore to herself that the young woman would know a great deal of pain before the end. Ali sat on her heels, with her head turned off to the side; she couldn't bear the thought of looking upon those mirror images of her own eyes. Resting her hands atop her thighs, Ali heard herself mutter, without emotion, "What do you want of me?"
Then, the pit of Ali's stomach turned into an amalgamation of fire and ice as she felt the whisper of a touch against her throat. She coughed slightly, unthinking for a moment before she realised what it was she was experiencing. Her mother, Myra, had taught her to recognise Force Users when they employed their abilities, and alarm bells were ringing all throughout Ali's conscious mind. Her free hand went to her throat, grasping at air, and the other released the crop. It tumbled over Tara's naked thigh and onto the floor. Ali herself began to panic, something she absolutely was not prone to do. Her lungs felt sluggish in her chest and her breathing had become a quiet wheeze. No one will even hear me die. She thought as she collapsed onto her knees at Tara's side, her eyes locking on to the younger woman's face with a fierce rage in them.
Forcing down her frantic urges in favor of well thought control, Ali reached for the near drawer and pulled from it a small black cylinder. With the press of a switch, a thin, durasteel blade shot out from it and locked into position. Ali lunged forward and brought the blade up against Tara's neck, holding it there until a thin line of red began to seep onto the metal. "Stop. Stop now." Ali demanded weakly, the suffocation clawing at the periphery of her vision. The experience was terrifying, true, but also was it arousing. For what reason, Ali had little idea, and at the moment didn't care to explore the details. She wanted to live, and if that meant Tara had to die, then so be it.
Moments passed, and the look on Tara's face never changed, not for an instant. Ali's emotional strength waned, though her physical struggle was not yet so dire. Even so, a growing part of her wanted to submit. Submit to what? Ali wondered vaguely. Her mind felt like muddied water, easy to travel through but difficult to see in. She had no idea where she was going, and by the time she realised she'd reached the point of giving in, it was too late for her to resist it. It was as if a new part of her had awoken, one that relished in the relinquishment of her freedom, freeing herself from choice itself. Ali herself often played switch for the women she slept with, though Tara's influence was reaching far beyond such a measure as Ali was familiar, or even comfortable, with. Yet now, all she wanted was to know what Tara wanted, and how best she could serve such a need. It was...terrifying, to see such a change in herself. The change itself, however, was addicting. Ali had never felt so aroused, so fulfilled, or so close to finally finding purpose. A moment of shame crossed her heart as she realised that her age and experience meant nothing in the face of a Force User. The thought spawned loathing in Ali, a deeply rooted hatred that coursed through the hearts of Mandalorians all across the Galaxy for the arrogance of such beings. I want her to own me, yet she has no right to do so. Tara had earned nothing in her life. She was young, arrogant, and her control over Ali borne solely of her unnatural gifts of manipulation to which people like Ali had limited defenses. In that moment before the sweetness of submission consumed her, Ali hated the girl.
The switchblade fell from her grip and onto the floor, and with shaking hands Ali loosened the binders around Tara's extremities. Her stomach was tight, she felt sick, and the invisible grip on her throat had yet to lessen. Will she kill me now? Ali wondered, sinking to her knees and staring down at the floor of her own home in an unfamiliar sense of defeat. A part of me hopes she does, Ali knew. What came next, she had no idea. But Ali swore to herself that the young woman would know a great deal of pain before the end. Ali sat on her heels, with her head turned off to the side; she couldn't bear the thought of looking upon those mirror images of her own eyes. Resting her hands atop her thighs, Ali heard herself mutter, without emotion, "What do you want of me?"

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