by Gray Miller
Submitting.
Brian set down the whip and strode to her, entangling his fingers in the hair at the base of her neck and dragging her to the edge of the alcove, where a bench was sitting. He knelt her up in front of it, about a foot away, and then she heard a sound that sent shivers through her.
She heard the distinct sounds of his belt loosening, his zipper coming down… the soft rustle of clothes, and then he was in front of her, she could see the cock she had only felt before, lifting strong out of a thatch of pubic hair. She could see the shiny tip glisten with seminal fluid, and licked her lips in sympathetic desire. He made himself comfortable on the bench, leaning back against the wall, and looked at her kneeling, gasping. Quite deliberately he unwrapped a condom, sliding its bright latex over his cock in a sensuous downward sweep of his palm. She watched it unroll across the length, lending a smooth elegance to the rough veins, reminding her of a fine marble sculpture. He finished, and sat back.
That’s all. He simply watched her, and as her body came out of the waves of pain and despair, she found that she wanted only one thing: to please him, to bring him some kind of joy with her body. This is what submission is, she thought, and leaned in to service him with her mouth.
Which was a mistake. He knew from their first conversation how much she enjoyed oral sex, and he growled “No, slut. You do not get the satisfaction of initiative or pride in your skills.” He drew her across his lap and lay down ten quick, hard strokes, no pause as she cried in helpless pain, the burning spanks deepening the hunger in her body. Suddenly he stopped and pushed her back to her knees, standing and forcing his engorged cock all the way into her mouth, her lips straining around it as it pushed deep bringing tears to her eyes. He held it there, hearing her breathing around it, his hand holding her head precisely at the point short of choking on him. When he finally withdrew it, he pulled her up and threw her facedown on the bench. Leaning in behind her, he whispered a question: "Are you ready, now, for me to fuck you?"
She was torn. She was exhausted, broken, and tearful, but somehow her vulva didn’t seem as ready as it had been before. Suddenly his cock, which she seemed to still feel stretching her mouth, seemed more than she could handle. She chose to answer honestly: "I... I'm not quite sure that I'm... that she... is ready, Sir."
He paused, stood up and took a step back. She breathed a small sigh of relief... too soon. He grabbed her hair again, pulling her up to her knees, and then shoved her torso down roughly so that her ass was again presenting, her labia a dark wet purple. With a menacing voice, he challenged, "You know how to answer that question." He stood over her, waiting.
She paused, drew breath, and hung her head. Suddenly it all came clear; she did, and the knowing was the final crackling tumble of the walls of her defiance into dust blown away in the winds of power that suffused her. "Not unless it pleases you, Sir," she said, the phrase finally giving her complete submission, body and spirit.
With that, he took her roughly, and the energy found the conduit it needed. With every drive of his cock into her, the energy built, and she felt it whirling faster through her as her body responded. With a wailing scream she threw her head back and screamed with pain, joy, and pure wanton pleasure, the orgasm running through her shuddering frame as the torrent of energy shot forth, guided by the pattern inscribed by the rope on her flesh and the scars on his, up and into the Wards. Their combined power flowed strong over the miles to the place where it was needed.
The first Maul had smiled as Lisbet approached nervously, then casually grabbed her arm in a painful grip, twisting it again in the arm lock that both immobilized and presented a target for the needle.
On most people it would have worked; Lisbet, however, had arms that hyperextended at the elbow, and so where he expected the arm to lock, she still had a good six inches of wiggle room.
Which she used, immediately, doing as Sensei had taught her, kicking first at his kneecap, then sliding the side of her shoe down his shin in a scrape that tore skin, her booted foot pounding into his instep with an audible crunch.
On most people it would have worked. Unfortunately, this was not people; and so he merely pushed the armlock a little further, popping out her elbow.
She did the second thing Sensei had taught her. She screamed.
Phina saw a dark shape coming at her from the left, as the other Missionary Man reached for her, and she moved and ducked, not quite fast enough. He snagged her coat neatly, then hissed in fury as she simply shrugged it off and ran up the steps, yelling for Mother.
Then Mother came out of the door.
The Maul holding the coat blinked up at her. She was not the tired woman they’d seen inside a moment before. Her eyes were wide, pupils the sharp points of a hunter as she bared her teeth at the black suited figures in front of her. The Maul holding Lisbet paused with the needle just touching her skin, a tiny drop of blood forming where the point began to tear into her. He squinted at the Mother, who was suddenly very, very hard to see. She seemed somehow connected to the second Ward.
The Wrinkled Man frowned in his room. He could see the Ward was filling with power, power lost to him, but that was the least of the concerns. He could see the power flowing into the Mother… the Mother whose child was being threatened.
Then he was only seeing through one set of eyes, as she had shoved the forks in her hands, still soapy with dishwater, into the eyesockets of the Maul holding the coat. With a wordless cry it lifted its hands up to its ruined sockets, turning and stumbling down the block, a muffled scream like seashells scraping together coming from its throat.
The second Maul lasted a moment longer, but only because the Mother reached out to snap the needle away from Lisbet first. He let go of the girl, and reached out to grab the tiny woman who glowed with such power it made him wince.
She broke his arm in three places before twisting his head 180 degrees and, as he fell, kicking his ribcage into a flailed chest. As had happened in the coffee shop, this did not stop him. She was holding a sobbing Lisbet, still feeling that strange and glowing strength flowing through her, and she saw the pieces of his chest begin to push up, snap back into place, the head turning back up towards her. In his room, the Wrinkled Man grinned ferally.
“Stay here a moment, Honey.” She patted Lisbet’s back once, and got up and walked across the lawn to where the Missionary was reassembling himself. Along the way she picked up a croquet mallet. “Stay away from my daughters, motherfucker,” she said, and with a long circular sweep drove it into his skull, once, twice, until the skull was empty.
As she walked Lisbet up the stairs to join her sister, the crows came and began to feast on the gray delicacy spread on the lawn.
The Mother didn’t know what had come over her. But of all the emotions rushing through her, it was the strongest that was the most puzzling.
She was really horny.
When it finished, Sally collapsed on the floor, unable to move. Brian cradled her in his arms, picking her up and gently stretching her on the bench, where she lay like a limp and wasted rag. But a smiling rag, at that. He loosened the ropes, now nothing more than damp hemp.
“Sally. We did it. They’re safe.” He whispered to her softly, coiling the ropes respectfully next to her and reaching out to stroke her hair, dark with sweat. She looked at him, eyes wide, and this time he did not hesitate, allowing himself to fall into them, to fall and fall and never worry about where he might land.
She cried softly and reached out to him, burrowing into his shoulder, clinging to him. “Oh… love, love, love… Thank you. Thank you for not letting me stop, for not giving up on me.”
They held each other as the rooms slowly emptied, and long afterwards.
IX
“So that’s how it works, eh?” Brian looked at Sullivan as they sat on his porch. “We don’t know what we’re fighting, we don’t know how we fight them, and we’re probably losing?”
Sullivan took a long swig of his drink. “Yep, that ab
out sums it up.”
Brian paused, looking at his beer, then up at Sullivan. “That sucks.”
“Yep,” he repeated. “That about sums it up. But as the man said, doesn’t matter if the game is rigged. If you don’t play, you can’t win. Besides, you can’t really complain, bucko. You made out pretty well.” He held up a hand and began ticking off the fingers.
“You saved your daughters. You hid yourself and your power from the Repressors, at least for now. You have bonded with a Focus who has, I might add, one of the hottest asses in this hemisphere. You have some sort of weird confluence of power between being a nawashi and the mark that Vashte gave you, which may or may not burn your dick off but sure as hell impresses every mage I know.” He looked up at Brian. “Am I missing anything?”
“Yes,” Brian sipped his beer. “I’ve still got to explain all this to my wife when she gets back from New York.”
“Oh, pshaw! You’re worried about explaining sex magic and your new sub to your wife who is returning from a week in NYC with her Master? Jeez, man, you worry too much.”
“Look, Brian, we may be losing, sure. What do you expect? We are a disorganized bunch of fuckers—literally—fighting against the inertial weight of moral apathy and chosen ignorance.”
“It’s more that that!” Brian’s voice had an edge to it. “Moral apathy didn’t try to fry my balls with an electric pompom from hell. Ignorance didn’t have its ass kicked by my ex-wife.” He grinned for a second. “I have to admit, though, I’m glad I never threatened our daughters. Damn, she really fucked him—it—up… ” His expression turned serious again. “What was it, Sullivan? If things like that are after us, why aren’t we dead or—what is it? Strokin?- for the man by now?”
“I told you, Bucko, I don’t know what the fuck that whole bit about ‘Strokers’ is about. As far as why we aren’t dead yet, well, as you saw, the ‘pressors are tough, but they can be overcome, distracted, misdirected, and sometime just plain fucked up with a croquet mallet. And we have the advantage, because our hearts are pure and we have the stench of ten.” He sniffed an armpit. “I do, anyway. I think I’ll shower before you and Francesca get started, so that there’s hot water left.” He stood and took Brian’s bottle, still mostly full. “What the hell? You got something against beer?”
“Only before a scene—er, that is, ceremony. I’ll finish it after.”
“Bullshit. I’ll finish it now.” Sullivan tilted his head back and drained the bottle. “We’re still alive, my friend, because I for one am a coward who runs away from the ‘pressors every chance I get, and keep a low profile. I would highly suggest you do the same.”
He looked up as a car pulled into the driveway, a blonde woman wearing surgical scrubs getting out. “Ah, good, looks like Francesca’s here. This’ll be good practice, and I think you’ll get a better idea of just what kind of work needs to be done. And as a side benefit, you’ll like Francesca, Nawashi. She’s quite the ropeslut, and while I wouldn’t say she’s in the KKK-“ Brian winced, sensing what was coming “-she’s a wizard under sheet!”
“You read too much Heinlein as a child, Sullivan,” Brian said. “I don’t know. Yeah, we won, this round, anyway. Somehow, though, it doesn’t seem enough. You sure we can’t just get to the bonding with Bec and Jake?”
“Sorry, Nawashi. Aside from the fact that you know Sally needs some rest, Vashte and I have some preparing of our own to do, as the Initiators of that ceremony.” He patted Brian’s shoulder consolingly. “Take the time to develop your art, friend. It will be better in the end. And be happy that we are holding fast.”
Brian shook his head as the woman walked up to the porch, smiling. “Holding fast isn’t enough.” Extending a hand, he smiled. “Francesca. I’m Brian. Pleased to meet you. Sullivan says we have some work to do… ”
Brian sat in seiza in the prepared room, knees folded and spread, his palm resting on each thigh, back straight and his eyes looking at the center of the room. His focus was on his breathing, slowly letting ten beats pass as he inhaled, holding for ten, releasing for ten, hanging in that state of empty no-breath for ten, before repeating the cycle. The effort of maintaining the breath discipline had cast a slight sweat across his upper body, and his skin was a soft gold contrasting with the matted black of the cotton trousers he wore.The tiny voice of his monkey mind was silent, though it couldn’t help a feeling of pride leaking out that he was no longer counting breaths, but simply feeling them.
He ignored it, and instead focused the energy of his breathing into the three neatly coiled ropes laying on the floor next to him. They reflected silver sparkles in the candlelight, and he felt them grow in his awareness as he charged them with power through each breath
Francesca entered the room and stood in the center, her toes curling into the lush kilim rug. It was a deep maroon, woven with the symbols of the “monster foot” and “wolf’s head”, believed by the Turkish women who created it to be protection from evil. Don’t think it’s going to help much, she thought briefly, but every little bit helps.
She wore a silk robe, its deep azure sheen ending just over her knees. The feeling of the fabric hanging draped over her breasts had cause her nipples to stiffen, she noted absently, and was grateful for the simpler pleasures of life.
Her eyes relaxed their focus, letting the flickering candlelight from the room blur and stroke her perceptions with softened layers of shadow and flame. Her awareness went inward, inspecting her body with her mind’s eye. Her breathing deepened, became more regular, slowing to a fraction of its normal rate, and she felt the muscles throughout relax as she adjusted to a more efficient use of the oxygen (with just a touch of nag champa, as well, thank you, Brian) it drew in.
When Brian could feel her entering the surface-level meditation, he emerged from his own trance, placing both hands on the floor in front of him, first finger and thumbs meeting in a diamond shape as he bowed low to the floor, a respectful kowtow to his partner. He straightened and pivoted on his knees to face the coiled ropes and bowed again, acknowledging their part in what was to come. Reaching out, he took up one of the shorter coils, and held it against his hip as he pivoted once more to face Francesca before curling his toes and smoothly rising to his feet. He stood there for a moment, letting his eyes slowly rise to hers.
Francesca felt rather than saw Brian’s eyes as they met hers, and there was a sudden physical shudder as they linked, and began to share their environment, aware not only of their own bodies but, for the first time, directly aware of each others, as well.
Brian kept looking into her eyes as he unwound the wrappings of the rope in his hands, finally flinging out the coil to fly across the floor behind her, the tails dancing and flashing in the light as they hit the carpet. He held a fold of rope in one hand and reached up, very deliberately, to her shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her body permeating the smooth coolness of the silk covering it.
He held the contact for a moment, giving them both a chance to completely feel the first physical connection, then drew her around towards him. Reaching down, he pulled each of her wrists to meet in the back. With a slight pressure he indicated that she should keep them there, resting on the curve of her buttocks under the silk. Francesca suddenly found herself hyper-aware of her hands, every waft of air seeming to caress and travel through her fingers, and realized that the sensitivity had begun. Faster than ever before, a small part of her noted, clinically. I wonder if that’s him, or me… or the two of us. Then the small part was quiet as she felt the first two loops of rope slide over her hands, her wrists, gliding smoothly over the fabric of her elbows all the way to the tops of her shoulders, where they rested like straps of a backpack.
Brian adjusted both strands to cross over her trapezius muscles, and smoothed the cloth of the robe where it had been bunched by the rope. Every motion, every breath, was deliberate as he continued to loop the ropes down her back in pairs, each set binding her arms further back as he tightened the knots. Her shou
lders were rotated and pulled back further and further as the bindings traveled down her arms, her elbows drawn together almost—but not quite—touching.
Francesca shifted her focus behind her, feeling the flow move up and down her spine as the energy from her breath poured into the already charged ropes. Each set of loops, beginning with the ones on her shoulders, felt cool, somehow, counteracting the heat of her body… no, that wasn’t quite right. The cold energy of the ropes complemented the lush warmth of her skin, in a burning reaction that seemed, in her minds eye, to send steaming tendrils of reaction everywhere they pulled against her muscles.
As Brian bound the final loops around her wrists, the shifting of her torso caused her silk robe to fall open, and her awareness of the ropes was distracted by the sudden exposure of her nipples to the cool air. Brian sensed this, and without any break in the smooth motion reached around to the front and drew the folds of robe back over her breasts. There was no sense of modesty or propriety in the motion, it was a simple matter-of-fact necessity done with no more or less gravity than when he slid his fingers under her hair to lay it across the front of her neck. Francesca sent a feeling of gratitude towards him, no words needed in this shared moment of consciousness, and again began to breathe around and through the ropes traveling down her arms.