Nawashi

by Gray Miller

  --until Brian’s warm hands caught her shoulder and cradled the side of her head, his movement so sudden that she had not heard even the rustle as he’d slid over to her on his knees. He lowered her to the ground, gently, on her side, resting his hand there a bit longer to reinforce the connection, and brushing the hair back gently from her face before resuming seiza. She sent out a wave of gratitude to him, awareness expanded to include him again, and went back to her silent blending with Jonathan.

  You will fall. No matter. There are friends to catch you. She began twisting her legs as well, contracting and arching and rolling, arms drawing around to the side, trying to find knots, trying to reach through coils and exploit any tiny opening, any portion of the binding that might give any part of her skin escape. The robe had slid into disarray, and one breast pressed bare against the rope, the added sensation fueling the connection even more. The struggle is necessary. The struggle is hard. The struggle is exciting. The struggle is Pleasure.

  She pulled and twisted and fought the isometric battle until the loops of rope were pooled around her on the floor, evidence of dozens of tiny victories by her body over the binding, the assertion of her own power. She continued to move until she was slipping against her own limbs with the sweat of the exertion. Jonathan’s forehead also showed a sheen of exhaustion, belying his relaxed lean against the bar, and his eyes were completely unfocused, the beer now warm and forgotten in the cup in his hand.

  The struggle is hopeless. He gave a little shudder as he felt, unconsciously, the exhaustion in her body finally give in to the pressure of the ropes. Her muscles shook with the effort, and she felt the tears in her own eyes, simply from the intensity of the exertion, as she lay there, gasping, her legs still tightly bound together around her aroused vulva, arms still pulled back harshly by the ropes, no longer in neat and kind loops but tangled and harsh and, finally, unyeilding across her joints and muscles. Her breath was in shudders.

  Though he could feel none of the actual physical sensation, Jonathan had no choice but to share in the final desperation of Francesca’s fruitless struggle. There was no stopping the tears that came then, to him, even had he been aware of them. This strange excitement he’d felt suddenly, this wave of hope and empowerment that had so briefly bubbled up from somewhere, it had finally been revealed in brutal honesty for the inadequacy that it was, and the loss of the hope brought into sharp focus the gun, a Ruger his Dad had bought him four years before, and the inclination to load it, just like Mr. Heston himself had taught him, and lift it, looking down the barrel…

  The struggle is not all. He suddenly gasped as he felt something further come into this strange half-awareness, a sudden relief to the despair, like a bright and glowing line traveling off into the uncertain darkness.

  Brian had reached out and moved the hair from Francesca’s cheek, before lowering his hands to the hollow between her shoulder blades. There was a tiny square knot there, the rope twining back and through and over itself, which though pulled tighter and tighter by her struggles quickly loosened under his fingers. Her shoulders were moved forward a tiny bit by the change, and her soft sigh of release was echoed in the bar by Jonathan, though he had no idea why.

  Brian continued to draw the tails around and through the coils and bindings, gently letting them caress her even as they freed her, loop by loop. Occasionally he would rest his hand against the planes of her body, a hip, the small of her back, letting her feel the warmth of his hand, letting the strength of his grounding flow into her shuddering releases until the breath calmed. Her legs came free, finally, and the joy at their extension and release traveled through the connection to Jonathan who let out a sudden barking laugh at the pleasurable wave.

  As the bindings loosened, though, so did the energy dissipate and the connection begin to dim. Jonathan had no idea where the feelings had originated, where the ideas were coming from, but he clearly got the final message before he was snapped back into his body, aware that his cheeks were damp, his beer was warm, and his face had a huge smile.

  The struggle is not alone. So get to it, Man.

  He looked at his beer, shrugging and setting it on the bar in front of him. Suddenly he didn’t feel much like drinking. In fact, he felt the same sort of endorphin rush that he felt after a good run at that club, come to think of it. Always better than that synthetic trash his friend Boyd occasionally pushed on him.

  He looked around and saw her. Denise McCallister was the daughter of one of the lobbyists for the Sierra Club, a lobbyist Jonathan had often heard his father deride in the pool room and saunas they’d shared. She was about his age, and he’d once inadvertently been seated next to her at an awards banquet. He’d been surprised at how much he’d enjoyed talking with her, a genuine conversation developing between them until his date had found him, and he’d reverted to his role as Heir Apparent to his father. He could still remember her look of disappointment, and the way it had stung… until he’d buried it in a snide comment and laugh to his date as they walked away from the table.

  Now she looked profoundly uncomfortable at this party, standing against the wall, watching the hoi polloi bustle around her, obviously abandoned by whatever well-meaning friends had dragged her here. Jonathan stood straight, adjusting his jacket and grounding his feet (grounding my feet? What was that? Where did that come from?) before walking over to talk to her.

  She saw him approach, and he could almost hear the slam as her defenses came into play. She didn’t even let him say hello. “I really don’t feel like being made fun of right now, Mr. Allenton, and I’m sure there’s lots of women here who will give you exactly what you’re looking for, so why don’t you just move your pretty boy face along, eh?”

  He resisted the urge to snap a snide comeback, and was suddenly startled by the obscurely happy thought What? She thinks I’m pretty? He simply gave a little embarrassed smile, and plunged in. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was a real ass then. You deserved a lot better, especially considering how much I enjoyed talking to you. I hope we get the chance again sometime, so that I can not make that mistake again.” He held out a hand, palm up, then. “but whether or not that happens, doesn’t really matter. I really was just wondering if you would like to dance?”

  His sincere disingenuousness (Did Jonathan Allenton really just apologize to me?) took her off guard, and in shock she did what she would never have done if she’d had time to think about it: she gave him her hand, and together they walked out to the dance floor.

  Twenty three miles west, Brian held Francesca as she relaxed into the endorphins left over from the ritual. They were both sweaty, exhausted, but smiling at each other with the joyful grins of two kids who had just gotten away with some great prank. “Tentacle sex?” she murmured, and giggled.

  “Hey, whatever works for you, babe,” he laughed back at her, and squeezed her again, their skin warm against each other in the dimming candlelight.

  X

  “It’s not enough,” Brian repeated to Sullivan. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I know we did something. I couldn’t see it quite clearly, but I was enough a part of her to catch what she did, that she did something good.” They were driving back to the city, having said their goodbyes to Francesca. Sally had called from a hotel, and they were heading towards her.

  “But I keep remembering the men in the black suits with their little hypodermic needles. I remember my arm caught in their grip. And you still haven’t told me what they are, since they aren’t human.”

  Sullivan frowned. “Look, remember the coffee shop? How I told you that I’ve had friends, lots of friends, die?”

  Brian nodded,

  “Well, I didn’t enjoy that. All of those friends died because they were asking the same questions, making the same statements you’re making. And now they’re dead… or worse.” At Brian’s questioning look, Sullivan looked away. “There are worse things than death, Bucko. For all concerned.”

  “So I don’t ask. I don’t tell. I do
my part, I work on the rituals, I use my kink and my power to nudge a person there, to blind a ‘pressor here, but I never make waves, Brian. From what I’ve seen, that’s the quickest way to get to dead.” He frowned. “In fact, I don’t expect you to be around long, to be honest, because you, my friend, are a great big rock that is in the process of being tossed into a very small but deep pool.” He glanced back at Brian, face grim. “You want the honest truth, me boy, sure, I like you and all, I’ll help you—but really? I’m just trying to ride you out. It’s brutal, but it’s honest. Figure I owe you that.”

  Brian looked out the window at the passing countryside, turning slowly to cement and industrial complexes. “Ride it out. Yeah. Me too.”

  He found himself wondering if he would live to see his wife again. “Explain to me again what it is we have to do with Vashte? And how it is that Bec is involved?”

  Sullivan smiled. “Well, we could wait until she gets back, and just toss the three of you in bed together… I know Sally loves boobies, and from what I hear, your wife has—“

  Brian held up a hand. “Won’t happen. She’s not bisex—well, she’s had—that is, there have been a few times that—“ He stopped, giving up trying to explain. “It’s complicated. Suffice it to say, it’s not going to happen, and I’m much happier that way. Makes things a lot less complicated. But why does it have to happen? Can’t Sally and I do our thing, and Bec and I do our thing, and never the twain shall meet?” A thought occurred to him. “You know, it’s possible that Bec is a Focus, too… or something like that. Not in the same way as Sally… but she draws attention in a more subtle way… ”

  Sullivan glanced at him, and then back at the road. “Could be. I have to say, I’m certainly interested in meeting her, after hearing so much.”

  “Regardless. You really have to ask why? Isn’t it obvious?” At Brian’s blank stare, Sullivan sighed. “You know, for a smart guy, you can be really dumb sometimes. Look, you and Bec have a commitment to each other, right?” He didn’t wait for Brian’s nod. “And you and Sally have bonded in a different sort of commitment, different rules, different shape, but still a commitment, right?” Again he continued over Brian’s nod. “So don’t you think, given the nature of the sex magic you now find yourself involved in, that it’s important that the three of you have lines of support and strength, communicating the flow of power through each other for stability?” He harumphed. “Honestly, man, it’s basic Ethical Slut stuff, only with wild sex magic thrown in. Pretty obvious.”

  Brian had to admit that, put that way, it was obvious. “Yeah. I suppose. I’ll call her when we get to the hotel to pick up Sally.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I hate the idea of dragging her into this world, is all.”

  “Brian.” Sullivan’s voice was quiet. “She’s always lived in this world. So have you. You just never knew it. Now you get to dance on the demons of ignorance with the rest of us.” He gave a joyless grin. “Welcome to the party.”

  “Hi, hon. Having fun?”

  “Most definitely! We made it to the Museum of Sex! Finally!”

  “Ah… very cool. Get me anything?”

  “Ha, as if I could afford anything. Saw a lot, though.” Her voice lowered. “In fact, much of it was positively inspiring… I can’t wait to get home, but at the same time, just want to stay here. You know what I mean… ”

  “Yeah, I know exactly. In fact, I’m having a pretty… interesting time here, as well.”

  “Interesting in a good way?”

  “Ummm… well, mostly. It’s been very intense, and there’s a lot to tell you about when you get back—“

  “Brian. You’re worrying me. What’s happened? I can tell something’s bothering you… ”

  “You’ll have to just wait, love, Seriously, you’re right, there are things bothering me, but none of it has anything to do with you being there. I met some interesting people, and that led to interesting things happening, and… ”

  Long pause. “You’re talking about Chinese Curse kind of interesting, aren’t you?”

  “Partially. But not all. Some of it, in fact, is quite good.”

  “Quite good, eh? What’s her name?”

  “Hey!” He tried to sound offended. “You know, it could have been a ‘he’.”

  “No, I know what you sound like when you have a crush on a guy. Much less sure of yourself. Is she there?”

  “Not right now, no. Her name’s Sally.”

  “Short for Mustang?”

  “No, silly, short for salacious. And salivating. And salle-de-baine, where she is right now. You want details?”

  “No, not yet. You tend to have good taste. Glad you’re staying busy while I’m gone.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s part of why I called. I have a… somewhat kinky favor to ask of you.”

  Gasp. “Oh, heavens, no!” Her voice muffled as she cupped her hand loosely over the reciever. “Jake! My husband just told me he has a… a… kinky proposition for me! Whatever shall I do?”

  “You done now?”

  Her voice returned to full volume. “Yeah, I suppose. Is it something fun?”

  “Definitely. Not too hard, either. I want you to fuck Jake for me.”

  “Hmmm. When you say fuck, are you talking strap-on? We’ve not really… ”

  “No, no need to do anything new. It’s not the fuck that’s important, it’s the ‘for me’ part. I need you to actively go at it with him, as hot and heavy as you can, in whatever way you like… but I need you to do it for me. Not for him, not for yourself, but keep it in your head that you’re doing it because I asked you to.”

  “Oh… kay… sure, hon, whatever you like. Is this just for your own peace of mind? Or some kind of new fantasy?”

  “Something like that. Remember when we were talking about getting into tantra?”

  “Yeah, we could never get into the classes. This is tantric?”

  “Honestly, hon, I don’t know. It might be. But I just need to… try it. Oh! It also has to be at… ” He calculated furiously. “Nine p.m. your time.”

  Laughter. “Oh, really? And how long, exactly, does it have to last?”

  “Long enough for you to have a mind blowing orgasm. Him, too, I suppose, but it’s really important that you get off, love, and that you be thinking of me when you do.”

  “You know, it’s a good thing Jake is so secure. Because I think that would give most men a complex.”

  “Tell him I’ll make it up to him when you get back here, and you can fuck me while thinking of him. Hell, I’ll even turn my beard into a goatee. Don’t know how I can fake a foreskin, though… ”

  “Stop that!” she protested through her giggles. “You know I like them all sorts of ways. Whatever trips your trigger, hon. It’s weird… and you will be explaining it all to me when I get back… but I suppose, if you really need me to fuck Jake for you at nine tonight, I can bring myself to make that sort of ultimate sacrifice.”

  “Thanks, love. Sally’s out, now, so I’m going to go. And know that I will be thinking of you, too.”

  “She’s ok with that?”

  “More than that. She’s seen pictures of you. She’ll be thinking of you, too.”

  “Dammit, I’m not bisexual! She—“

  “I know, I know, dear. I told her. You’re not bisexual.” He paused a beat. “Only your body is. Bye, love.” He hung up on her sputtering indignation and looked up at Sally.

  “Will she do it?” the slim woman asked, her skin a ruddy pink from the terry cloth towel she was rubbing over her body.

  “Of course. It’s hardly the strangest thing I’ve asked her to do. Will it be enough?”

  Sally stopped with the towel over one leg, and looked at Brian with her serious silver eyes. “I don’t know. But I suppose it will have to be, won’t it?”

  XI

  Vashte and Sullivan sat on opposite ends of the room, nude, their bodies glistening with scented oil that reflected the flickering candlelight in organic curves. They were seated
in lotus, hands in mudras, delicate threads of incense threading the air. The walls of Vashte’s ritual room were more decorated than when Brian had seen them last, sculptures inset in the wall of couples in congress with each other, a vast array of improbable poses and rubbery limbs with full lips and wide eyes.

  In the center of the room, Brian knelt in seiza, a single coil of black rope laying next to him. He was also nude and oiled, his torso still covered with the white traceries of the mark Vashte had put onto him. He had seen, as they’d entered the room, pieces of the pattern, sections repeated in the sculptures and rugs, but never the entire pattern, never an exact match to the curves and segments and shapes that lined his body. When he’d asked Vashte, she had simply shrugged noncommittally and refused to answer. Brian suspected she was still somewhat embarrassed by the whole affair that had resulted in his power, and was doing her best to erase it by helping him now.