Nawashi (2 page)
Authors: Gray Miller
Tags: #thriller, #action, #bdsm, #sex magic, #rope bondage, #kink, #graydancer
That had been two hours
ago. Now his shirt was in tatters, his arms were burning from the
strain of holding them up, and he was realizing that she wasn’t
going to stop with the slicing of his shirt.
Hell, she might not stop with the slicing of your skin, buddy
boy.
But his cock was still visibly
excited, starting to ache from the strain of being hard for so
long. There was no sexual pleasure, it simply was there, oblivious
to the increasing pain and tension in the rest of his
body.
“Look,” he tried again to
put a reasonable, and authoritative tone to his voice. “I’ve got to
give you lots of credit for edge play. You’ve pushed every limit I
have and then some. But regardless of what my body is showing,
I’m
telling
you
no. This has to stop, now. I am not consenting to any further play
of any kind with you. If you let me loose now, I will not press
charges, or even mention it again.”
He drew a breath. “But if
you continue, I will tell you that the full wrath of the law will
come down on your beautiful head with a fury that you will
not
believe. See, I may
be kinky, but I’m also the son of a sheriff, and if I turn
up”
missing
he
did not say “hurt, they will come after you. And you know how many
people saw us at the club… ”
smile get wider, and he realized that she was not intimidated. In
fact, she was enjoying watching his struggle for self control. As
he watched her face, that had seemed so erotically exotic in the
club, it became something other than human—less or more he could
not say. His arms shook a little from muscle fatigue, and his legs
were long past discomfort and into the burning sensation of lactic
acid buildup. She drank it all in as she wove the knife in strange
patterns thru the air, occasionally flicking close enough to his
skin for him to feel the air move as the blade passed by his skin.
His head fell forward for a moment, and as he looked down his torso
he saw the pattern of small decorative cuts, each ornamented with a
line of his blood, and realized that the blade was not actually
missing him at all. It was simply so sharp that his skin did not
have time to register the pain before it was sliced open. He let
out a low moan.
She laughed, and brought the blade suddenly
up to his face, causing him to desperately jerk his head back to
avoid losing a piece. She held the blade vertically before him, and
drew her own face to within inches of the blade, staring into his
eyes around the edges. She was so close that her eyes seemed to
merge into a weird cyclopean blur, but Brian didn’t misunderstand
the cruel patience there. It was a calm sadism he recognized. He’d
felt it himself while playing with others, but always tempered with
a clear recognition of his play partners as humans, as people, as
friends and usually much more.
In her eyes, there was
none of that. He was simply Man, to her, and that seemed to be
little more than a slab of meat to be prepared.
Ah, so you’re a FLAY partner, then
the little voice contributed, and then gibbered off into his
silent subconscious, and he couldn’t help it. He
giggled.
faltered for just a moment, and in that moment, Brian saved his
life.
He felt the tangible
weight of her gaze slip, somehow, in much the same way as the
balance of an
ukemi
sparring partner in aikido will begin to falter during the
beginning of a throw. The
nage-
thrower - learns to recognize that moment, that
precious moment
between
when the will of the opponent is suddenly not a
factor in the position and destination of their body.
gentle push to help them lose their balance. And just as Brian had
felt her gaze grip him, he felt his laugh send her somehow off
kilter, just for a moment, and he went with it, not really
understanding how or why or even what it was he pushed with. All
the same… he pushed.
She stumbled back for a moment, still
holding the knife up, and shook her head, as if to clear it. “Man…
” she hissed again, but less sure than she had been a moment
before. She raised the knife again, beginning to draw patterns in
the air in front of him, taking a step closer. The step did not
have the graceful aggressiveness of before, however, because she
looked again at the Man. And the Man was grinning at her.
Brian felt fantastic. More than fantastic.
In that slight shift where his laughter had thrown off his
tormentor’s momentum, he had felt the power she’d been wielding
somehow flow into him, like a cold infusion of water down his
spine, enervating his entire body with a rush of strength and
sensation that washed the pain away and replaced it with a calm
radiant readiness. Suddenly he was standing balanced and strong,
his arms in the wrist restraints seeming to hold the rack up rather
than being restrained by it. His his mouth was turned up in a
smile, eyes were bright and fastened on hers, and burning with
anger.
His cock was still hard. But it felt as
good now as the rest of his body.
This time it was she who
was trying to break the gaze, and could not. The patterns of the
blade in the air faltered once, twice, and then her hand fell to
her side, as she saw his entire body seeming to grow somehow
bigger, drinkig in more of the power that had filled the
room,
her
power.
“You can’t… ” she whispered, disbelieving. “The power is Kali’s…
you are Man… ”
low and cold. He looked down again at the cuts on his chest, and
she gasped as she saw the cuts she’d inflicted close themselves,
all at once, leaving tiny white scars like the brocade pattern of
her headband across his white skin. He looked up at her again, and
she felt his gaze pushing deeper this time, and with an involuntary
wail she dropped the knife and lifted her arms out to either side
in a Y-shape, her hands writhing, fingers forming shapes seeming of
their own accord, tips meeting and pulling each other in various
directions.
“I see.” His hands in the restraints
mirrored hers, and both of the straps holding his wrists loosened
and his arms came down, flowing into a relaxed curve on either side
of his hips. Her arms fell as well, and she gave a little shudder
backwards as he stepped towards her, a bubble of force like a
self-contained shockwave pushing into her. The candles didn’t even
flicker as he moved, but it felt to her as if she were being
buffeted by a hurricane wind.
If Brian had been conscious of what he was
doing, he would have lost. But his attention was completely
focused; on her, on the conduit of power she’d opened with her
ritual which now filled him. If he could have wondered how it
flowed into him, or where it came from, it would have broken and
tossed him aside.
But there was no room for
wonder at that moment. He took another step towards her, and she
let out another small scream as her body went limp. She would have
fallen, except that he did not want that to happen—and so she hung
there, suspended in the air, as the power between them grew more
tangible. Brian felt as though the coursing strength and flow
through him would explode out of the top of his heads and hands and
cock all at the same time, and it felt
great
; there was nothing he could
not do, and this woman who had been in power over him a moment
before was now barely conscious and moaning as she slowly bobbed in
the air in front of him.
hands to reach for her.
Brian never was able to say what he would
have done if he’d reached her. He liked to think that he would have
simply shaken her, or at most torn her shift off in return for her
violation of his clothes.
The fact was, though, that down deep he
knew that the power that had been flowing through him then was far
beyond his control at that time. She had opened up a gateway to an
energy that wanted to do more than teach a lesson, it wanted to
conquer, possess, and ravish. And he knew, deep down, that no
matter how much he hated thinking of himself as a rapist, he would
have taken her forcefully and without hesitation.
If he had reached her.
Instead, he got hugged by a bear.
The crash of the window
breaking open did not distract him, nor did it wake her. He
distantly heard the voice, but it was not until much later that he
would remember that it said “Oh, Vash, that is a
fine
mess you’ve gotten
yourself in this time, isn’t it?” in a jovial baritone. His eyes
never left her face, now slack with exhausted resignation as she
hung in the air before him.
body that he suddenly became aware of the man standing in front of
him, merry eyes glowing behind tiny red glasses looking at him with
friendly speculation. The man’s arms were bare, muscles
disappearing into the sleeveless shirt he wore, tribal pattern
tattoos seeming to glow along the curves and sinews as the arms
pulled Brian tight against the man, and the power seemed to all
suddenly drain out through the arms, going… somewhere.
But it was no longer in Brian, or in the
woman, who now did collapse with a sullen thud into the carpet.
Suddenly the candles were just candles, the thickness of the air
was only incense, and Brian’s legs returned to their state of
exhaustion with a vengeance. If not for the arms of the man holding
him up, he would have joined the woman on the floor in sudden
collapse.
Instead the man lowered him gently,
muttering something on the way down. It took Brian a while to find
enough reserves to be able to actually vocalize as he lay on the
floor, and so the man had his back to him, re-arranging the woman
into a more comfortable position on the floor, when the word
finally came: “Who… ”
The man finished putting a pillow under the
woman’s head, and turned with a sigh to sit crosslegged next to
Brian.
“Who am I? I’m Sullivan. The woman behind
you is Vashte, and she really should know better. You, on the other
hand, are the mystery boy of the moment. But that’s ok. It’s the
mystery that makes us all alive, after all.” He sighed, and looked
past Brian’s body at the wall with the mandala on it. “But one
thing’s for sure. Whoever you are, you just made things a helluva
lot more complicated.” He looked down again at Brian. “That’ll keep
for later, though.” He drew his hand through the air, swiftly
gathering a fistful of nothing. He unfolded the clenched hand
before his mouth, and blew a puff of air towards Brian’s head.
“Sleep now."
And Brian did.
It is a fuzzy grayness of the conscious, a place of waiting and
accepting where the rational has no reign. Sounds and even
half-seen visions do not intrude on the serenity of the mind in
this state; they are simply registered, accepted, and let loose.
This state of enlightenment is a pleasant place to be, usually,
except for its proximity to the land of dreams. It is a suggestible
state, a place where a stray sound of a dog barking can lead to
wolves chasing in the woods, the scent of coffee brewing can become
a feast with Alice, or a shadow of a tree on the wall can become
the knife of Kali’s acolyte reaching towards you to draw once again
across your skin..
In Brian’s case, it was
the sound of fucking that broke the thin membrane between his
induced sleep and a muzzy half-wakefulness. It was the unmistakable
liquid sound of penis entering vagina rhythmically and regularly,
the soft
thwap
of
thighs meeting and separating, the slightly heavier and faster
breathing of two people in aerobic congress. It caused a brief
lucid dream, of the club the night before. But in this dream the
goth boys and girls were not wildly dancing and gyrating; their
clothes had been altered, revealing their genitalia, breasts, and
asses, the pale globes and curves reflecting a sickly green or
amber or fuschia glow in the lights. In the dream, Brian saw them
begin to engage with each other, mechanically adjusting their
bodies to spread cheeks or labia or lips, kneeling or perching as
necessary, moving with a jerky, resigned motion, fingers and cocks
and tongues sliding lackadaisically into and around the proffered
orifices. The lights moved, and Brian could tell the music was
still playing, but he could not hear it, could not even feel
it.
As they moved in their slack orgy, he realized a
strange thing: none of them were looking at their partner (or
partners, in many cases). Their eyes showed no recognition of
anyone outside of themselves, no realization or joy in the
connection of their bodies, even as the pace of the unheard music
increased, the tempo of their fucking speeding up gradually. Brian
found it inutterably sad and a bit horrifying at the same time, and
turned to try to find a way out—and almost tripped over the slender
waif kneeling in front of him, her lips open in a blank hunger as
they reached for his cock. He tried to push her away and found his
hands tangled in leather straps, and heard the voice of the Indian
woman from the night before suddenly loud in his ears…
Fucker.”
Brian jerked his eyes open
suddenly, still on the kilim rug where he’d been laid by the
bearlike man. He turned his head, an effort that seemed to shake
loose his scalp due to a brain grown large and sodden with sleep,
and his eyes slowly focused on the source of the voice and the
sounds. The bear—Sullivan, he now remembered—was sitting nude and
cross-legged, with the woman from last night (
Vashti? Something like that
)
straddling him, legs wrapped around his waist. Her hair swung from
side to side down her back, revealing soft musculature curving into
her ass, rising up and down slowly and rhythmically. Brian could
see the slight pale shade of the condom on Sullivan’s cock as it
disappeared and reappeared beneath her.
