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The Iron Cage	By : Aragem23 Category: Comics > WitchBlade Views: 2083 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Haibane Renmei or Witchblade. I do not make any money from writing this fic.

Chapter List
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She had always been naked. When she was cold, she would huddle close to Reki or drape a blanket around herself. The only thing they were given to wear were the collars with small locks that prevented their removal by anyone other than the wingless with the key. Her nudity had been uncomfortable in the beginning, but she had become accustomed to it over the days and weeks that followed, especially since the others were also naked. However, those ice blue eyes brought back the humiliation of being so exposed and vulnerable. Blood rushed to her face and chest bring color to her cheeks.
She was relieved when the woman began speaking. Maybe he'll look at the woman instead of her. “Mr. Irons, my sincere apologies for the wait. We had this one tucked far away on the back shelf.”
The joke sounded poor even to Rakka. Worse, the silver hair man, Mr. Irons, kept looking at her, never giving the woman a glance. She shivered as if the ice in those eyes were on her skin. Then he spoke in a smooth masculine voice, “Turn her around.” It was like icy water flowing over hard stones.
The woman faltered, likely disappointed that her joke didn't have any effect on the man she so wanted to impress. She quickly recovered, “Yes sir, of course.” She pulled Rakka's leash, having the girl turn her back and wings towards Irons. It helped that she couldn't see him, but she still felt him staring at her backside. The woman began speaking. “I can assure you, sir, she is untouched, a virgin. In fact, you are the first man she has ever seen in her short life. If you wish, I can allow you visual confirmation that her hymen is intact. . .”
“I requested the one with dark wings. This one's is just gray.” His tone was clipped, unhappy. Even though her back was turn to him, just by hearing his voice, she could tell his being unhappy wasn't a good thing.
Again, the woman faltered and she sounded deflated, “My apologies, but that one has been purchased.”
Rakka raised her chin, pricking her ears. They were talking about Reki!
“Then I want the name of the man who bought her.”
“Sir, we don't disclose that information . . .” The figurative ice at her back turned colder and colder. There was a long silence and tension was filling the room like a powder keg. She bit her lip and braced herself for whatever may happen. And then just like that, the tension left the room as the woman relented, “She was sold to Mr. Nathan Coldstone. Two weeks ago.”
“Goddamn it.”
Who was Nathan Coldstone?
“If you aren't interested in this one, then I'll take her back. I apologize if she wasn't the one you wanted.” The woman tugged her leash and Rakka was relieved to be leaving Mr. Irons presence.
“Stop.”
The woman paused with her hand on the door. “Yes?”
“I might as well look at her since I came all this way.”
“Yes sir!” The woman sounded hopeful again. “If you like I can . . .”

“Unbind her hands and drop her leash.”
“S-sir?” Again, the woman looked at a loss. This whole meeting wasn't turning out as she had wanted. “She hasn't received any training . . .”
“I want to see how well she obeys without the training.”
“Uh, very well.” The woman let the leash dangle between Rakka's breasts and undid the chain holding her cuffed hands behind her back. She felt her arm receive a quick pinch, a silent warning reminding her of the promise the woman swore on the elevator.
“Come here.” Until that moment, he had only spoken to the woman. Now the full weight of his words and attention were on her. It felt as overwhelming as being wrapped tightly in a smothering blanket. She wanted nothing more than to just disappear, to not be there in this room with this man.
She turned around and forced her feet to carry her. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Irons was reclined back in a wide leather lounge chair with a glass with brown liquid in his left hand. The tall man behind him hadn't moved, standing as still as a forgotten statue. She felt a shiver across her wings as she stepped into his long shadow and under the weight of his gray eyes. Irons leaned forward, setting the glass on the table as she arrived before him. Even when sitting, he was almost as tall as she was standing and he was broad at the chest and shoulders.
He took her arm and had her stand in front of him. Her heart clenched when he drew his large hand up her arm and over her shoulder. Fingers fondled a small breast, the tips tweaking and rolling over the tight nipple. Then downwards over ribs, her stomach, and pausing at her hip. She quivered under his manipulations, her wings shaking as she struggled to remain still. Wingless have touched her, sometimes while she laid face down to be scrubbed clean, sometimes one would stroke her rear or her thighs, even smacking her a couple times just to see her squirm. Reki had caressed her hair and rubbed her back to sooth her when she wept from fear, pain, or terrible dreams. This was different, this was raw, cold and hot at the same time. It was electricity coursing through her from the friction of his skin on hers. Was it because he was a man? Or so imposing? Or that she was so afraid of him?
She looked up towards the tall dark man. His eyes were on her, but they lacked any reaction, as if she was just a small pebble on a road. Then she lowered her eyes and met Irons'. It was as if layers of her skin was being peeled back, exposing what she was on the inside. He studied her, like a scientist studying the chemical reaction in an experiment, testing her responses to everything he did to her. What frightened her was the hard edge in his eyes, like the sharp edge of a knife, quiet anger. What has she done?
“Turn around.”
She turned around happy to have his eyes out of her sight.
“Acknowledge me when I speak to you. Or I may think you're ignoring me on purpose.” There was acidity in his tone, a thinly veiled warning.
“Y-y-yes sir.” She barely recognized her voice, it sounded so frightened.
“Yes, Mr. Irons,” he firmly corrected her.
“Yes, Mr. Irons.” She wanted to please him. If he was pleased, then he wouldn't be angry with her.
Fingertips drew down her back sending lashes of tingles down her spine. She lifted her chin and saw the woman standing looking disappointed and dejected. The woman had wanted to be the center, had wanted to be the one to direct this meeting, but Irons had taken that from her. She caught Rakka's eyes and for a moment, the girl could see cold fury in her face. As if challenged, she walked forward, her voice rising in a high, friendly saleswoman tone, “As you can see, she has no blemishes or scars on her skin. She hatched from her cocoon three months ago and we have taken care to keep her in the same condition as she was born in.”
The hand traced the curves of her buttocks, drawing little circles on the globes. “The only voices I want to hear in this room is my own and this one's. Nottingham, if she opens her mouth again, escort her out.”
The woman's eyes went wide and her mouth feel from it's tight grin to an O of shock. Her lips moved as if she wanted to say more, but wisely, she stayed silent, but sullen. She shot Rakka a severe look of hate and the girl wondered what had she done. She wasn't the one that told her to be quiet.
“Can you move your wings?” The hand was at her shoulder, bringing her attention back to him.
“Yes, Mr. Irons.” She felt a sense of pride that she remembered to use his name.
She had practiced on controlling her wings with Kuu, the short blonde girl. They had held their hands out before them and concentrated on the new muscles in her back. Her wings open and closed in short flaps. Now she had enough control that she didn't have to point her hands downward in front of her, but it did take some concentration. Her wings moved slowly, the soft feathers whispering from the disturbance. Each wing was nearly the length of her forearm and extended outward past her shoulders. Where Reki's had been pitch black, Rakka's feathers were charcoal gray, neither white not black.
She felt the hands touch her wings. Fingers moved through her feathers closing around the bend of her left wing. She paused for a brief second, then continued moving them. He wasn't holding it to keep it from moving, but to feel it move. His hand slipped down, giving the end of her wing a caress.
This . . .this wasn't too bad. He hadn't asked anything of her she couldn't easily do. Thus far, he hasn't done anything to hurt her, but he was intimidating giving away this sense of danger that stayed in the pit of her stomach. Controlling her wings made her feel calmer, a better sense of control that had been taken from her.
“Stop. Spread your wings and keep them that way.”
“Yes, Mr. Irons.”
“Turn around.”
“Yes, Mr. Irons.”
She turned around, feeling a bit more relaxed, poised even under the brunt of his cold stare. There was a fluctuation in them, he had taken noticed of her calmness. Whether it pleased him or not, Rakka couldn't tell. She was unprepared when he pushed two fingers between her thighs and stroked her folds. A tongue of flame, electricity surge up to her chest, making her shoulders hitch and wings flick by the intensity of it. Seeing her reaction seemed to amused him as for the first time, a smiled curled the edges of his mouth. A thumb rubbed two fingers covered in slick, gleamed in the light. She noticed a gold ring with two small blue stones on his middle finger.
“She's a natural submissive.” Irons lifted his face towards the dark man behind him. The man said nothing, but turned his head to meet Irons' eyes. “But far from perfect. She keeps looking at you when I should have her full attention.”
Finally, the dark haired man spoke for the first time. “Shall I arrange payment?” His voice was smooth like black flowing silk.
Irons raised the wet fingers to her lips. At first, she was confused of what he wanted from her. He wasn't telling her to do anything . . .but then it clicked. She opened her mouth and accepted the digits into her mouth and sucked them clean. The fluid was slippery on her tongue and she wasn't sure how it tasted. Whether it was good, salty, or bitter, she couldn't tell or maybe she wasn't paying enough attention for it to matter. Irons withdrew his hand, “I am considering it.”
For the first time, Rakka noticed that he did everything left handed. His other hand was tucked away in his pocket. Wouldn't he want to use both hands to touch her? His left hand plucked the leash from where it hung against her stomach and pulled it downward. She didn't resist, she lowered herself, following the leash, into a kneeling position on the floor between his knees. He draped the leash over his left knee and stroked her hair, tousling it as he would if giving affection to a dog.
Rakka leaned into his hand. If he was petting her, then he wasn't hurting her. It felt good, not as gentle as Reki would stroke her hair, but firm, demanding. It was strange and she didn't understand it. She was afraid of him, but at the same time she felt . . . protected by him. Like no one was to hurt her, but him and as long as she pleased him, then she needn't fear being harmed. She wanted to stay with him, in this room and never go back to the old one. For the first time, since she could remember, she felt secured, safe. And it was priceless.
Rakka wanted to touch him in return, but, somehow, in her heart she knew she had to get permission first. Her brown eyes sought out his. His eyes met hers and a sensual, almost cruel smile sent a sharp shard of glass into her heart. With only the slightest of motion, he nodded. She pressed her cheek against his knee, her arms curling around his leg. It felt solid like a tree with the brush of silk from his suit. Her wings remained spread, because he didn't give permission for her to relax them. She hoped he wouldn't order her to stand because she didn't think she could let him go if she wanted to. If time froze in that second and she could cling to him forever, she would be satisfied.
“Mr. Nottingham, make the payment arrangements. We'll be taking . . .” There was a pause, then a thumb rubbed over her ear, “What is your name?”
“Rakka . . . Mr. Irons.”
“We'll be taking Rakka with us.”
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The Iron Cage