softly
( not wetly, not like
sallowman ) to the floor. He hears the
voices now, and the world of hurt and worry passes over him and
into him like a tidal wave of sewage and muck. Suddenly he is aware
of the burning in his shoulders, of the biting prick as the
hypodermic is taken from his thigh, of the soft agonizing friction
of the remains of the rope being unwound from his chafed wrists. He
smiles at this, eyes still closed, but it’s not the awful forced
happiness of the drug, it’s a tired, joyous smile, and so genuine
that it makes Sullivan—for it is Sullivan, after all, who has found
him and taken him down, Sullivan and someone with smaller but no
less strong hands—wonder aloud, “Drugs and dead men and dangling on
the end of the rope for I don’t know how long… what exactly are you
smiling about, bucko?”
Brian smiled a little wider, then lost it as he
tried to form the words. “It… hurts.” His voice got a little
stronger. “For a while it… didn’t. That was… bad.”
Sullivan chuckled even as his hands travelled over
the exhausted man’s body, assessing the damage. “Here I thought you
were a Rope Dom. You’re just a painslut in disguise, aren’t
you?”
Brian’s eyes flashed open at that, anger driving
away the exhaustion for a moment, but before he could rebuff the
big man, a soft finger was laid across his lips. He turned his head
to see who was attached to the other end, and met the intense gaze
of a young woman, not more than 20, with eyes as old as the world.
She looked intently at Brian, making sure she had his
attention.
“Sullivan’s just being his normal asinine self. Pay
no attention. You were lucky; he drove the needle in, but couldn’t
inject much before—“ with her eyes, she indicated the lump of
polyester and dead flesh that had been Brian’s torturer, “whatever
happened, happened. We still need to get that stuff out of your
system, and we need to deal with some of the damage that nasty rope
did to your poor wrists.”
Brian mumbled something, and she cocked her head
questioningly. It had seemed important to him. “I’m sorry, Brian, I
didn’t hear you. What was that?”
“Not… the… rope’s fault.”
She sat back, thoughtful, looking
at Sullivan, who was grinning with the satisfaction of a good
“I-told-you-so.” “You were right, Sullivan, I think we’ve got
a Nawashi here.”
She sighed. “Gaia help him and his. Let’s go.”
The two of them helped him to his feet, and they
walked out of the warehouse into the brightness of the Chicago
morning, the tails of the rope still trailing behind.
Brian actually lost consciousness in the car, his
head resting against the woman’s breast as her arm held a blanket
around him for warmth. He muzzily woke enough to be able to walk
with them when they arrived at a small house set in a neighborhood
filled with old-growth trees that, for some reason, had not been
chopped down by the developers. Brian didn’t notice much as they
helped him stumble into the house, but he did see a tiny cauldron,
about a foot high, at the start of the path to the house, and the
back of a sort of ceramic clam-shell. As they passed them, he felt
a slight resistance in the air, for just a moment, like the feeling
of pushing through cobwebs. He shivered, and for some reason the
“Walrus and the Carpenter” poem began running through his head.
“Sailing ships and sealing wax… ” he muttered in a stream of
consciousness blur. His head swerved just enough as they helped him
along the path to see the other side of the clamshell, and the nude
figure standing just inside of it. He realized it was a sylphlike
representation of the Birth of Venus, guarding the entrance to the
house.
Then they were in the door, and
there were more voices and hands helping the blanket off of him and
laying him down on a ( so
warm! ) comforter spread on the floor. His
nose plunged into the soft fabric and it felt so good that there
was actually some debate
( not wetly, not like
sallowman ) to the floor. He hears the
voices now, and the world of hurt and worry passes over him and
into him like a tidal wave of sewage and muck. Suddenly he is aware
of the burning in his shoulders, of the biting prick as the
hypodermic is taken from his thigh, of the soft agonizing friction
of the remains of the rope being unwound from his chafed wrists. He
smiles at this, eyes still closed, but it’s not the awful forced
happiness of the drug, it’s a tired, joyous smile, and so genuine
that it makes Sullivan—for it is Sullivan, after all, who has found
him and taken him down, Sullivan and someone with smaller but no
less strong hands—wonder aloud, “Drugs and dead men and dangling on
the end of the rope for I don’t know how long… what exactly are you
smiling about, bucko?”
Brian smiled a little wider, then lost it as he
tried to form the words. “It… hurts.” His voice got a little
stronger. “For a while it… didn’t. That was… bad.”
Sullivan chuckled even as his hands travelled over
the exhausted man’s body, assessing the damage. “Here I thought you
were a Rope Dom. You’re just a painslut in disguise, aren’t
you?”
Brian’s eyes flashed open at that, anger driving
away the exhaustion for a moment, but before he could rebuff the
big man, a soft finger was laid across his lips. He turned his head
to see who was attached to the other end, and met the intense gaze
of a young woman, not more than 20, with eyes as old as the world.
She looked intently at Brian, making sure she had his
attention.
“Sullivan’s just being his normal asinine self. Pay
no attention. You were lucky; he drove the needle in, but couldn’t
inject much before—“ with her eyes, she indicated the lump of
polyester and dead flesh that had been Brian’s torturer, “whatever
happened, happened. We still need to get that stuff out of your
system, and we need to deal with some of the damage that nasty rope
did to your poor wrists.”
Brian mumbled something, and she cocked her head
questioningly. It had seemed important to him. “I’m sorry, Brian, I
didn’t hear you. What was that?”
“Not… the… rope’s fault.”
She sat back, thoughtful, looking
at Sullivan, who was grinning with the satisfaction of a good
“I-told-you-so.” “You were right, Sullivan, I think we’ve got
a Nawashi here.”
She sighed. “Gaia help him and his. Let’s go.”
The two of them helped him to his feet, and they
walked out of the warehouse into the brightness of the Chicago
morning, the tails of the rope still trailing behind.
Brian actually lost consciousness in the car, his
head resting against the woman’s breast as her arm held a blanket
around him for warmth. He muzzily woke enough to be able to walk
with them when they arrived at a small house set in a neighborhood
filled with old-growth trees that, for some reason, had not been
chopped down by the developers. Brian didn’t notice much as they
helped him stumble into the house, but he did see a tiny cauldron,
about a foot high, at the start of the path to the house, and the
back of a sort of ceramic clam-shell. As they passed them, he felt
a slight resistance in the air, for just a moment, like the feeling
of pushing through cobwebs. He shivered, and for some reason the
“Walrus and the Carpenter” poem began running through his head.
“Sailing ships and sealing wax… ” he muttered in a stream of
consciousness blur. His head swerved just enough as they helped him
along the path to see the other side of the clamshell, and the nude
figure standing just inside of it. He realized it was a sylphlike
representation of the Birth of Venus, guarding the entrance to the
house.
Then they were in the door, and
there were more voices and hands helping the blanket off of him and
laying him down on a ( so
warm! ) comforter spread on the floor. His
nose plunged into the soft fabric and it felt so good that there
was actually some debate
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