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From: Crimson Dragon <dcrimsonp@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (New) Dawn of Time [082/157] (MF+, bond, control) {Crimson Dragon}
Date: Fri, 23 May 2003 18:10:07 -0400
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Author's Shortened Preface:
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In the interests of reducing bandwidth the full preface is now 
available at:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www

I would encourage you to read it at least once. If you ignore
the full preface and end up offended, you have nobody to blame but
yourself. Caveat emptor. The really important bits:

This is a work of erotic fiction. As such there may be scenes with
nudity, sex, and even questionable non-consensual bondage. If you
are a minor, or you are irresponsible at any age, you shouldn't be
reading this -- find somewhere else to play. I won't be offended.
If you are looking for a quick stroke story, this probably isn't
it. For a piece of writing of 157 chapters, there is remarkably
little sex. You've been warned. Twice.

This is an original work, copyrighted by the author, Crimson Dragon.
Please do not use it as if it were your own. Enjoy the writing, but
do not archive or sell it in any manner without my written
permission. I'm easy to contact if you wish to redistribute my
words.

Lastly, I thoroughly enjoy hearing from people reading any of my
stories. Feel free to contact me with raves, rants, encouragement or
dissertation (note the lack of invitation for spam). I do try to
reply to all who are kind enough to drop me a note.

Now, if you are still with me, onto the story,
 - Crimson
   (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www

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Dawn of Time - Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

Chapter 82

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(C) Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved

Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

====================================================================

The leather of the chair felt cool against her bare skin. It molded
to her body, but she could feel dampness, her own light perspiration
clinging to the slick surface of the chair.

"He controls time, somehow," Blake said to her in that fatherly
voice. He seemed concerned about Johnson's moaning, but not as much
as she. The gunman stood to his right. "He told me he was going to
do it."

"You let him break Johnson's jaw?"

Blake looked mournful. "Miss Pelletier, dear, there isn't much I can
do to prevent it. I asked him to use me instead. He said that it
would prevent me from talking to you, and presumably him." Blake
paused for a moment. "But, Johnson's pain -- it might help you."

"Help me? Practically killing a man? How?"

"Someday, you might understand. And you didn't even like him."

"I promise you, I won't understand."

"He asked you if you'd have sex with me."

"I would. God, I would," Monique said quietly. She honestly wasn't
sure if she wanted to, of if she would merely do it to prevent the
gunman from sending another gun handle into Johnson, or worse, Blake
himself.

"Would you really? You are a beautiful young lady, and I -- I'm an
old man. Pleasures of the flesh don't hold the same sway with me
that they used to, when I was Johnson's age even. But nevertheless,
I would have been satisfied if he had made you love me."

Monique let a quick smile grace her lips, but a moan from Johnson
beside her quickly erased it.

"You'll be tested, I fear, and I cannot help you further. The path
you travel with this man won't be easy."

"What the hell are you talking about?" In her former life, Monique
wouldn't have dared speak to the old man like that, but it already
seemed different to her. She wouldn't have dreamed of sitting in
his office naked, either.

"Keep your integrity, no matter what this man makes you do. He
cannot take that from you. And remember the people outside of
yourself, no matter how much you hurt. That is why you are willing
to have sex with an old man, and this man, he will test you. I know
you. I've always known you since you began here. Just remember. For
me."

"Stand up," the gunman ordered her. She did, making sure her eyes
stayed away from Johnson and his bleeding broken mouth. She watched
Blake instead. The old man kept his eyes on her face, not dropping
to ogle her.

The gunman stepped towards her, grasping her cheeks again. The
fingers dug in. She resisted a moment, then spoke between clenched
teeth.

"All right. All right. I'll look at him." She did. Johnson wasn't
nearly as interested in her nudity as he had been. He moaned, head
hanging limply towards his chest. His shirt bore a large red stain,
as if he'd been shot in the heart.

"You didn't need to do that to him," Monique said.

"Actually, I did. Otherwise you might not believe, or understand."

"I don't understand anything," Monique said quietly.

"Watch."

She felt a tingling in her skin that was akin to the radiance of a
bonfire from afar. Then Johnson moved slightly, bending forward to
hunch back over the phone. The blood disappeared from his shirt, and
the angle of his jaw returned back to normal. His moans silenced.
The handcuffs that had held him immobile clattered to the floor.

"Christ," Blake whispered.

Without waiting, Monique stepped forward, oblivious to her nudity.
She cringed as her finger traced along the previously broken
jawline, the cold dead feeling flesh sending jitters down her spine.

"How?"

"Time," Blake said quietly. "I see."

She didn't see, but she did understand that Johnson wasn't hurting
anymore. For that, she was thankful.

"He's returned, whole, as if this had never happened to him," Blake
said.

The gunman nodded assent as Monique straightened. Blake nodded
thoughtfully.

"May I?" Blake asked. The gunman nodded, and Monique remained more
confused than ever.

"Monique?" Blake called her name. It was the only time she could
remember that he'd ever used her given name. She glanced at the
gunman, who shrugged. Slowly, and without threat, she slipped past
the gun, and made her way around the desk to stand at Blake's side.

"It'll all turn out fine. Just try to calm that stubborn streak in
you, and help when you can."

Monique didn't understand, but she bent and spontaneously kissed
Blake on the cheek. His cheek was leathery and wrinkled, but she
didn't mind. He glowed.

"I'll be fine," she whispered. "Somehow."

"I know you will," he answered.

                         <---===***===--->

She stood by the door, staring wistfully at her former clothing
lying folded neatly on Blake's desk. The gunman stood partially
obscuring her view of her covering. He was talking to the old man.

"... other female associates?"

Blake shook his head carefully. "You know I can't tell you that,
young man. I know too well what you might do."

"I'll find them anyway," the gunman said.

"I know, but I will not have to live with the guilt of exposing
them. They are -- like my family."

The gunman sighed, turning. He walked to Monique and grasped her
upper arm. She cried out as his fingers dug in. She stumbled across
the room, only to be pushed to her knees beside Johnson's chair.

"Would you like to reconsider?"

"Or what? You'll wake Johnson? Make her give the man a blow job?"

Monique was surprised that the old man knew the term, but in
retrospect, she was more surprised that he had used it in front of
her.

"And I might leave the two of you awake, one with a broken jaw."

Blake sighed, and swivelled in his chair. "I suppose it truly
doesn't matter. Let her up."

The pressure on her shoulder eased, and Monique carefully climbed
back to her bare feet. The old man smiled at her, a smile of hope.

"Amber and Heather. Two new law students. They'll do, I suppose. But
even though I know it will be temporary for them, I would ask that
you don't hurt them. Please."

The gunman nodded. His fingers traced down Monique's upper arm, and
she shivered at the touch.

"And her as well. Miss Pelletier is a special, very special lady."

"I can tell," the gunman said. "I'll take care of her."

"I would hope that is your word, as well."

The gunman nodded. Something passed between the men.

Monique walked with the gunman to the doorway, conscious of the
barrel of the gun pressing lightly into her bare ribs. The old man
pursed his lips, about to say something to her, but then decided not
to. Monique knew what it was.

"I'll do my best," she whispered. The old man nodded and smiled. And
then shifted slightly in his chair, suddenly frozen and listening to
the phone.

"He'll be fine, won't he?" she asked as the gunman opened the oaken
doors.

"He won't even remember this all happened."

Monique turned again, closing her eyes. The image of her crawling
around the office, naked like an animal shifted into her mind's eye.
She shuddered. Somehow she knew that such indignities were minor.
She had to keep her head. Somehow.

She opened her eyes again. Her clothing beckoned to her.

"Please. Can I at least dress?"

"You know the answer to that, Monique," the gunman said quietly.

"I suppose. But that jacket and skirt were so expensive."

"Doesn't matter."

She supposed that it didn't. When one could freeze people at will,
and wave a gun around with impunity? What did the cost of her
clothing really matter?

"Please, then, just my underwear? Something to cover up?"

"I don't want you covered."

She didn't understand, but she did. Resigned, she crossed the
threshold, for the first time stepping nude out into the larger
world. She shivered, even though she suspected that only the person
that had made her strip could see her.

The door clicked shut, her clothing gone forever.

A single tear traced down her cheek, but she held her head up, and
walked with him towards the lobby, her bare feet whispering across
the plush office carpet.


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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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