Fic: "Custom of the Country" (1/?)
Nov. 13th, 2008 04:25 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
miladygrey.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
whatwekeepMy first venture into this 'verse. All comments are welcomed!
Title: Custom of the Country (1/?)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
miladygrey
Summary: Foreign-born Lord Bettany has his very first body slave--the former Lord Downey. Neither of them know quite what to make of each other.
Pairings: RPF: Lord Paul Bettany/Lady Jennifer Connelly-Bettany, Lord Paul Bettany/Robert Downey, Jr., Paul/Jennifer/Robert
Rating: Starts at PG-13, will likely wander into NC-17 before all's said and done.
Disclaimer: This is not real. This is so far from reality, they do not exist on the same map. This is RPF/RPS, nobody belongs to me, and this is not for any profit whatsoever.
Notes: This is set in the Kept-verse created bypoisontaster, where slavery is legal and accepted. Thank you for letting me play here! As for continuity with the other stories, it's probably happening around the same time or shortly after "A Kept Boy" and "A Question of Compromise".
They ruthlessly dyed the grey in his hair back to black, they waxed and shaved him (the first time he truly felt naked was when his beard was gone), they tanned him into a semblance of glowing good health. But they knew, just as well as he did, that he was forty-three years old and had been punishing his body with drugs for at least fifteen of those years. It showed. And for a first-time slave, that was not good.
It was established from the start that he had no useful skills. His comprehensive knowledge of wine and scotch is rendered moot when no Master will trust him around their bar. He’s never had to do any hard labor, indoors or out. He knows no more about computers than your average person with e-mail and access to a search engine. Which left being a body slave.
“And who wants an old druggie body slave?”
“Shut up, Shia.”
To the potential buyers strolling along past the mirrored wall (he could hear their murmurs, though they were otherwise invisible), he and Shia were just chatting quietly, passing the time while waiting on their knees for the Masters’ pleasure. As long as they kept their faces straight and the appropriate pose, they could talk as much as they want.
Well, Shia could talk. Robert just concentrated on not turning and breaking the little snot’s nose.
“Seriously. I don’t know which Commerce fuckwit thought—“
“Shia!” Ashley and Thomas hissed a warning at the same time without actually moving their lips. Robert didn’t blame them. Commerce had eyes and ears everywhere, and never more than where their product was bought and sold. Shia might have had a reputation as a fine body slave (and many other things), but here with the other last-chancers, if Commerce decided he was getting too full of himself...well, they’d deflate him.
They were a motley, if pretty, crew. Ashley’s routine plastic surgery messed up the symmetry of her face--no longer ‘in style’, her mistress (Lohan, he’d heard) abandoned her at a Commerce office without a qualm. Thomas balked when told to service his Master’s best friend, and landed here on his ass faster than he could blink. Vanessa was an orphan, sold by uncaring relatives who insisted that the funeral costs for her family necessitated her sale. Shawn’s mother sold herself and him to Commerce to pay for his father’s medical bills, then shot herself when he died and the agents came for them. Poor Billie was a British ex-pat who still couldn’t adjust to the fact that her home government’s changeover meant they wouldn’t take her back because it would mean ‘negotiating’ with the Empire. And Shia, with his curly hair and sweet-sullen smile and all his notoriety about being the reason Lord Cruise and Lord Crudup are no longer speaking to each other, he started thinking he had the right to speak up. He still thought Lord Cruise would come buy him back, after the tabloids lost interest in the story. Robert couldn’t be bothered to try and correct him. All of them here, in what he’d heard Agents call the Charity Ward, available for any Lord or Master who took a fancy to them and didn’t feel like going through the drawn-out formal purchasing process. No couple of days in Escrow, no initial run-throughs or demonstrations of ability. Just point, pay, and take them home.
Robert had lost count of how many slaves he sold back to Commerce on a drunken whim, how many times he dismissed a man or woman because they weren’t as pretty as they’d been, weren’t accommodating enough, had hiccupped at a bad time. This was clearly karma coming back to haunt him.
“Any word from your father?”
Elizabeth, on his other side and still pretty enough to attract a good owner, gave him something else to think about. Nothing pleasant, but at least something else. He took a quick look to make sure Shia was distracted before answering. He didn’t want to give the little prick any more information. It would be in the gossip rags soon enough, God help him, but for a little longer it was his news to give out. “Yeah. Disowned. Stricken off the family pages and everything.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
“He always said he was going to do it. I guess I was too damn drunk to hear the time he actually meant it.” That described the last few years, actually. Drunk when he made the bet that cost him everything he had, drunk and stoned when he signed himself over as collateral to try and pay the accruing debts, drunk and stoned off his ass when Commerce arrived to inform him that his collateral was being called in. There was apparently a limit to the number of times a Downey could do stupid shit and count on being bailed out. He hadn’t believed it until the furor two weeks ago, when his father’s house slave had said, gently, that Lord Downey had no son, and hung up on him.
The line had to have been tapped; they’d dragged him off to training while he was still stunned. Reduced to just his first name—then, in the clinical forced intimacy of training, even less, to a body whose willingness (or lack thereof) mattered to no one. At least the training left him no time to think about it all. Only these stretches in the viewing rooms, naked and doing a fair imitation of humility, ever gave his brain time to remember what he’d had.
“Don’t listen to Shia.” Elizabeth could convey a friendly hand-squeeze just with a smile. “Having older, dignified body slaves is coming into style among the more refined Lords and Masters. That gives slaves like you and me a chance at really good owners, the ones who won’t run us ragged or starve us or make us party favors.”
He never did those things. Well, not the last two. He might have run a few ragged with his demands for clothes, girls, another drink or five. Somewhere, Joe still probably cursed his name. “You’ll get lucky. You’ve earned it. I’m going to end up scrubbing floors or ironing someone’s closet of dress shirts.” Hopefully he could fake that kind of thing. He couldn’t remember much of his brief comprehensive lessons in housekeeping, distracted as he was at the time by the aftereffects of his lengthy comprehensive lessons in being a fucktoy. “At least there’s no chance Lord Cruise will be interested in me.”
Her lips pressed in, hiding the smile and laugh no slave would show while on the floor. “Or me, thank God.”
A muffled, faintly accented voice came through the glass. “Good God, that’s young Lord Downey!”
He flinched before he could help himself, then forced his muscles into stillness and the flush of shame down off his cheeks, ignoring Shia's snicker. That’s not me any more. Not me.
This was just so bloody fucking awkward. Paul concentrated on keeping his small polite smile in place and nodding at appropriate intervals while Jennifer asked the Agent what he assumed were important questions regarding the purchase and care of body slaves. The place made him nervous, all neutral colors and white lights, and people (slaves and Agents, yes, they were still people) who scrupulously tried not to make eye contact.
It seemed he couldn’t escape scandal. He--rather, he and Jennifer together--had caused one when she eloped with him at the end of her year in Oxford. He’d quite honestly expected Lord Connelly to have him drawn and quartered, but he’d been welcomed into the family reassuringly fast. It got stirred up again two years later, when he’d applied for Empire citizenship and officially ‘turned his back’ on Britain. Oh the drama, the press conferences, the buckets of red tape. The handful of British visitors he met now would barely speak to him. And now the latest teapot tempest, his ever-so-shocking lack of an attendant slave. After the third insinuating article in People, Jennifer had taken him aside.
“It’s expected, you know. I’ve had Mia since I was twelve. Your being originally British is one thing, but we’ve been married for six years. People are starting to talk.”
“Look, I’m happy to pay the fines to Commerce. You’ve got Mia, and we’ve got Gina for housekeeping and Bradley to cook. We don’t need another slave.”
“Paul.” She was using her practical voice, the gentle matter-of-fact tone that always came out when she tried to explain the facts of life in the Empire to her foreign-born husband. “I know. I feel the same way. But it’s all about the look of things, it always has been. And for Lord Bettany not to have a body slave of his own just looks wrong. We’ll keep Commerce off our backs, you’ll have fewer snide comments directed at you, and I’m sure Gina and Bradley won’t mind another pair of hands around the house, especially with Stellan running amuck.”
That made it...not all right, but a more tolerable thought. “And maybe we can split some of the home duties between them, so if he needs minding some afternoon when we’re both gone—“
“Exactly. If you just can‘t stand him after a month, I‘ll arrange something with Lady Union-Slater, and we‘ll try again. There‘s hardly a shortage.”
“You’re a dear, understanding, terrifyingly practical woman.”
Jennifer had laughed when he suggested direct purchase—“It’s the equivalent of adopting a found puppy from the animal shelter, Paul!”—but she was relieved enough that he’d agreed to it to give in almost immediately. And he’d read about the slaves left behind with no good record on their provenance, through no fault of their own. If he had to have a slave, he’d pick one who needed him. Maybe he would be so grateful that he’d overlook or ignore his new owner’s cluelessness.
No one had warned him, though, about the place. There was no hope here, only desperation on the part of the slaves and complete uncaring on the part of the Agents. He’d heard a few faint yells from some halls and stairwells, only to be assured by their Agent that those were the new arrivals being cleaned and processed. His imagination cheerfully filled in all kinds of details. Now they were walking down a window-lined corridor, studying the slaves up for immediate purchase through faintly-tinted glass. The Agent refused to discuss any but the most basic information about them and what had dropped them here, but he had Jennifer to fill in the blanks.
“That little blonde, she was one of Mistress Lohan’s body slaves. Her ‘matched pair’, do you remember that party? I honestly thought about throwing something at her.”
“I think that was one of the ones I bowed out of early. You’ve had to suffer through more of those than I have, my Lady.” Lohan went through body slaves like she went through boyfriends and girlfriends. He felt for her little discard, and for the girl beside her with tear tracks still faintly visible on her cheeks. But body slaves were traditionally the same gender as their owners, and Jennifer was the only woman he wanted doing small intimate things for (and to) him. And these girls were so young. The boys, too. “Isn’t that Lord Cruise’s boy?”
“Shia? Until last week, he was.”
“And then he hit puberty.”
“More or less. But he had some kind of outburst, which was as good an excuse as any for him to be sold. I had no idea he’d been dropped here...” Her brow furrowed. “I’ll send an e-mail to Gabrielle as soon as we get home. Unless you want him, Paul?”
His first reaction was a vehement NO, which he edited before it left his brain. “He’s probably an excellent slave, but God only knows what Cruise has conditioned into him.” He moved on down the line, squinting against the lights and trying to glean scraps of personality from the kneeling forms and bowed heads. Too young, too young, clearly terrified, much too young, conditioned for sex...”Good God, that’s young Lord Downey!”
The kneeling man inside flinched almost imperceptibly. Jennifer gave him a sharp, quelling look, then peered through the glass with an expression of mild surprise. “I haven’t seen him in years—not that we ever really moved in the same circles. How did this happen?”
The Agent’s poker face never faltered as he answered. “The slave came to us through gambling debts. His family refused the option to buy and pay out his debt for him, so we took him and applied the cost of his training to his debt as well. Given his age and condition, we really couldn’t sell him through the usual market.”
“Not with his family still ranked as they are,” Jennifer murmured. “A body slave, though? At his age?”
“It seemed the only skill he was qualified for.” The Agent must have seen the look on his face. “He’s still very new to his rank, Lord Bettany, and given his past...recalcitrance, I wouldn’t recommend him.”
“Thank you for your completely unsolicited and unwanted advice.” Six years in the Empire had taught him how to talk down to people. “I doubt he has much of a provenance, but have it drawn up and printed.”
“Yes, Lord Bettany. If you’ll give us an hour, we’ll have everything ready.”
Jennifer, to her credit, did not immediately ask if he was crazy. She waited until the Agent was gone, and spoke in an undertone. “You realize if he fucks up in public, it will reflect on you?”
“He won’t.”
“You’ve never dealt with a slave who wasn’t born to it, Paul. You don’t know how they can--”
“I wasn’t born to this, Jennifer, and I’m muddling through. You’re the one who says I need this. Trust me to know precisely what I need.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “All right. Sorry. Mia and Bradley and Gina will help him adjust, and you can do some practice training with him.”
“You’ll have to tell me how.”
“We’ll work on it.”
Title: Custom of the Country (1/?)
Author:
miladygreySummary: Foreign-born Lord Bettany has his very first body slave--the former Lord Downey. Neither of them know quite what to make of each other.
Pairings: RPF: Lord Paul Bettany/Lady Jennifer Connelly-Bettany, Lord Paul Bettany/Robert Downey, Jr., Paul/Jennifer/Robert
Rating: Starts at PG-13, will likely wander into NC-17 before all's said and done.
Disclaimer: This is not real. This is so far from reality, they do not exist on the same map. This is RPF/RPS, nobody belongs to me, and this is not for any profit whatsoever.
Notes: This is set in the Kept-verse created by
poisontaster, where slavery is legal and accepted. Thank you for letting me play here! As for continuity with the other stories, it's probably happening around the same time or shortly after "A Kept Boy" and "A Question of Compromise".They ruthlessly dyed the grey in his hair back to black, they waxed and shaved him (the first time he truly felt naked was when his beard was gone), they tanned him into a semblance of glowing good health. But they knew, just as well as he did, that he was forty-three years old and had been punishing his body with drugs for at least fifteen of those years. It showed. And for a first-time slave, that was not good.
It was established from the start that he had no useful skills. His comprehensive knowledge of wine and scotch is rendered moot when no Master will trust him around their bar. He’s never had to do any hard labor, indoors or out. He knows no more about computers than your average person with e-mail and access to a search engine. Which left being a body slave.
“And who wants an old druggie body slave?”
“Shut up, Shia.”
To the potential buyers strolling along past the mirrored wall (he could hear their murmurs, though they were otherwise invisible), he and Shia were just chatting quietly, passing the time while waiting on their knees for the Masters’ pleasure. As long as they kept their faces straight and the appropriate pose, they could talk as much as they want.
Well, Shia could talk. Robert just concentrated on not turning and breaking the little snot’s nose.
“Seriously. I don’t know which Commerce fuckwit thought—“
“Shia!” Ashley and Thomas hissed a warning at the same time without actually moving their lips. Robert didn’t blame them. Commerce had eyes and ears everywhere, and never more than where their product was bought and sold. Shia might have had a reputation as a fine body slave (and many other things), but here with the other last-chancers, if Commerce decided he was getting too full of himself...well, they’d deflate him.
They were a motley, if pretty, crew. Ashley’s routine plastic surgery messed up the symmetry of her face--no longer ‘in style’, her mistress (Lohan, he’d heard) abandoned her at a Commerce office without a qualm. Thomas balked when told to service his Master’s best friend, and landed here on his ass faster than he could blink. Vanessa was an orphan, sold by uncaring relatives who insisted that the funeral costs for her family necessitated her sale. Shawn’s mother sold herself and him to Commerce to pay for his father’s medical bills, then shot herself when he died and the agents came for them. Poor Billie was a British ex-pat who still couldn’t adjust to the fact that her home government’s changeover meant they wouldn’t take her back because it would mean ‘negotiating’ with the Empire. And Shia, with his curly hair and sweet-sullen smile and all his notoriety about being the reason Lord Cruise and Lord Crudup are no longer speaking to each other, he started thinking he had the right to speak up. He still thought Lord Cruise would come buy him back, after the tabloids lost interest in the story. Robert couldn’t be bothered to try and correct him. All of them here, in what he’d heard Agents call the Charity Ward, available for any Lord or Master who took a fancy to them and didn’t feel like going through the drawn-out formal purchasing process. No couple of days in Escrow, no initial run-throughs or demonstrations of ability. Just point, pay, and take them home.
Robert had lost count of how many slaves he sold back to Commerce on a drunken whim, how many times he dismissed a man or woman because they weren’t as pretty as they’d been, weren’t accommodating enough, had hiccupped at a bad time. This was clearly karma coming back to haunt him.
“Any word from your father?”
Elizabeth, on his other side and still pretty enough to attract a good owner, gave him something else to think about. Nothing pleasant, but at least something else. He took a quick look to make sure Shia was distracted before answering. He didn’t want to give the little prick any more information. It would be in the gossip rags soon enough, God help him, but for a little longer it was his news to give out. “Yeah. Disowned. Stricken off the family pages and everything.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
“He always said he was going to do it. I guess I was too damn drunk to hear the time he actually meant it.” That described the last few years, actually. Drunk when he made the bet that cost him everything he had, drunk and stoned when he signed himself over as collateral to try and pay the accruing debts, drunk and stoned off his ass when Commerce arrived to inform him that his collateral was being called in. There was apparently a limit to the number of times a Downey could do stupid shit and count on being bailed out. He hadn’t believed it until the furor two weeks ago, when his father’s house slave had said, gently, that Lord Downey had no son, and hung up on him.
The line had to have been tapped; they’d dragged him off to training while he was still stunned. Reduced to just his first name—then, in the clinical forced intimacy of training, even less, to a body whose willingness (or lack thereof) mattered to no one. At least the training left him no time to think about it all. Only these stretches in the viewing rooms, naked and doing a fair imitation of humility, ever gave his brain time to remember what he’d had.
“Don’t listen to Shia.” Elizabeth could convey a friendly hand-squeeze just with a smile. “Having older, dignified body slaves is coming into style among the more refined Lords and Masters. That gives slaves like you and me a chance at really good owners, the ones who won’t run us ragged or starve us or make us party favors.”
He never did those things. Well, not the last two. He might have run a few ragged with his demands for clothes, girls, another drink or five. Somewhere, Joe still probably cursed his name. “You’ll get lucky. You’ve earned it. I’m going to end up scrubbing floors or ironing someone’s closet of dress shirts.” Hopefully he could fake that kind of thing. He couldn’t remember much of his brief comprehensive lessons in housekeeping, distracted as he was at the time by the aftereffects of his lengthy comprehensive lessons in being a fucktoy. “At least there’s no chance Lord Cruise will be interested in me.”
Her lips pressed in, hiding the smile and laugh no slave would show while on the floor. “Or me, thank God.”
A muffled, faintly accented voice came through the glass. “Good God, that’s young Lord Downey!”
He flinched before he could help himself, then forced his muscles into stillness and the flush of shame down off his cheeks, ignoring Shia's snicker. That’s not me any more. Not me.
This was just so bloody fucking awkward. Paul concentrated on keeping his small polite smile in place and nodding at appropriate intervals while Jennifer asked the Agent what he assumed were important questions regarding the purchase and care of body slaves. The place made him nervous, all neutral colors and white lights, and people (slaves and Agents, yes, they were still people) who scrupulously tried not to make eye contact.
It seemed he couldn’t escape scandal. He--rather, he and Jennifer together--had caused one when she eloped with him at the end of her year in Oxford. He’d quite honestly expected Lord Connelly to have him drawn and quartered, but he’d been welcomed into the family reassuringly fast. It got stirred up again two years later, when he’d applied for Empire citizenship and officially ‘turned his back’ on Britain. Oh the drama, the press conferences, the buckets of red tape. The handful of British visitors he met now would barely speak to him. And now the latest teapot tempest, his ever-so-shocking lack of an attendant slave. After the third insinuating article in People, Jennifer had taken him aside.
“It’s expected, you know. I’ve had Mia since I was twelve. Your being originally British is one thing, but we’ve been married for six years. People are starting to talk.”
“Look, I’m happy to pay the fines to Commerce. You’ve got Mia, and we’ve got Gina for housekeeping and Bradley to cook. We don’t need another slave.”
“Paul.” She was using her practical voice, the gentle matter-of-fact tone that always came out when she tried to explain the facts of life in the Empire to her foreign-born husband. “I know. I feel the same way. But it’s all about the look of things, it always has been. And for Lord Bettany not to have a body slave of his own just looks wrong. We’ll keep Commerce off our backs, you’ll have fewer snide comments directed at you, and I’m sure Gina and Bradley won’t mind another pair of hands around the house, especially with Stellan running amuck.”
That made it...not all right, but a more tolerable thought. “And maybe we can split some of the home duties between them, so if he needs minding some afternoon when we’re both gone—“
“Exactly. If you just can‘t stand him after a month, I‘ll arrange something with Lady Union-Slater, and we‘ll try again. There‘s hardly a shortage.”
“You’re a dear, understanding, terrifyingly practical woman.”
Jennifer had laughed when he suggested direct purchase—“It’s the equivalent of adopting a found puppy from the animal shelter, Paul!”—but she was relieved enough that he’d agreed to it to give in almost immediately. And he’d read about the slaves left behind with no good record on their provenance, through no fault of their own. If he had to have a slave, he’d pick one who needed him. Maybe he would be so grateful that he’d overlook or ignore his new owner’s cluelessness.
No one had warned him, though, about the place. There was no hope here, only desperation on the part of the slaves and complete uncaring on the part of the Agents. He’d heard a few faint yells from some halls and stairwells, only to be assured by their Agent that those were the new arrivals being cleaned and processed. His imagination cheerfully filled in all kinds of details. Now they were walking down a window-lined corridor, studying the slaves up for immediate purchase through faintly-tinted glass. The Agent refused to discuss any but the most basic information about them and what had dropped them here, but he had Jennifer to fill in the blanks.
“That little blonde, she was one of Mistress Lohan’s body slaves. Her ‘matched pair’, do you remember that party? I honestly thought about throwing something at her.”
“I think that was one of the ones I bowed out of early. You’ve had to suffer through more of those than I have, my Lady.” Lohan went through body slaves like she went through boyfriends and girlfriends. He felt for her little discard, and for the girl beside her with tear tracks still faintly visible on her cheeks. But body slaves were traditionally the same gender as their owners, and Jennifer was the only woman he wanted doing small intimate things for (and to) him. And these girls were so young. The boys, too. “Isn’t that Lord Cruise’s boy?”
“Shia? Until last week, he was.”
“And then he hit puberty.”
“More or less. But he had some kind of outburst, which was as good an excuse as any for him to be sold. I had no idea he’d been dropped here...” Her brow furrowed. “I’ll send an e-mail to Gabrielle as soon as we get home. Unless you want him, Paul?”
His first reaction was a vehement NO, which he edited before it left his brain. “He’s probably an excellent slave, but God only knows what Cruise has conditioned into him.” He moved on down the line, squinting against the lights and trying to glean scraps of personality from the kneeling forms and bowed heads. Too young, too young, clearly terrified, much too young, conditioned for sex...”Good God, that’s young Lord Downey!”
The kneeling man inside flinched almost imperceptibly. Jennifer gave him a sharp, quelling look, then peered through the glass with an expression of mild surprise. “I haven’t seen him in years—not that we ever really moved in the same circles. How did this happen?”
The Agent’s poker face never faltered as he answered. “The slave came to us through gambling debts. His family refused the option to buy and pay out his debt for him, so we took him and applied the cost of his training to his debt as well. Given his age and condition, we really couldn’t sell him through the usual market.”
“Not with his family still ranked as they are,” Jennifer murmured. “A body slave, though? At his age?”
“It seemed the only skill he was qualified for.” The Agent must have seen the look on his face. “He’s still very new to his rank, Lord Bettany, and given his past...recalcitrance, I wouldn’t recommend him.”
“Thank you for your completely unsolicited and unwanted advice.” Six years in the Empire had taught him how to talk down to people. “I doubt he has much of a provenance, but have it drawn up and printed.”
“Yes, Lord Bettany. If you’ll give us an hour, we’ll have everything ready.”
Jennifer, to her credit, did not immediately ask if he was crazy. She waited until the Agent was gone, and spoke in an undertone. “You realize if he fucks up in public, it will reflect on you?”
“He won’t.”
“You’ve never dealt with a slave who wasn’t born to it, Paul. You don’t know how they can--”
“I wasn’t born to this, Jennifer, and I’m muddling through. You’re the one who says I need this. Trust me to know precisely what I need.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “All right. Sorry. Mia and Bradley and Gina will help him adjust, and you can do some practice training with him.”
“You’ll have to tell me how.”
“We’ll work on it.”
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Date: 2008-11-14 12:16 am (UTC)Angie
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Date: 2008-11-14 03:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-14 03:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-14 03:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-14 03:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-14 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-14 03:31 am (UTC)All I can think of is Joe shaking his head, and saying, "I told you so."
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Date: 2008-11-14 03:47 am (UTC)*grins* If you can think of a situation where Joe and Robert might meet, maybe we can write it. After Robert has some adjustment time, of course.
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Date: 2008-11-14 05:07 am (UTC)Oh and yep! Have Joe meet Robert...please!!!
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Date: 2008-11-14 04:00 pm (UTC)If
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Date: 2008-11-14 07:52 am (UTC)Looking forward to the rest! :-)
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Date: 2008-11-14 04:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-15 05:46 pm (UTC)