Nawashi Read online

  “Good to meet you. I’m Brian.” He smiled and confidently shook hands with the four friends, their expressions both relieved at the introduction and curious as they watched Sally’s expression become annoyed. “I usually play north of here, but I heard about this place from some mutual friends. Very nice set up.”

  Ivan’s smile widened. “Thanks! I was chair of the dungeon committee, and it’s good to see we’re drawing new blood into the local scene.” His hand came up and rested on Betty’s neck, and Brian watched as her posture instinctively tilted up her chin, feet spreading wider and her hands clasping behind her back. “So to speak.” He turned and gave her neck a little nip. “You like new blood, don’t you, pet?”

  Sally gave a throaty chuckle and stepped forward, pushing her breasts to brush against Betty’s arched bust, rubbing them back and forth. “I’m so glad your tits are bisexual, Betty, even if the rest of you isn’t.” She had stepped directly in front of Brian, effectively shutting him out, again, from the circle, and continued the slight by adding, “I’m so glad there’s fun people here. I was afraid I’d be stuck with only this… decoration.”

  The two couples were beginning to realize that there was a tension developing between Brian and Sally, and their expressions became speculative as they looked at him, waiting to see his reaction. Brian looked calmly down at the back of Sally’s head, then up at the four of them. “I’d love to speak with you more later, but there’s some matters I need to attend to first. Please excuse us.” He quickly grasped the back of Sally’s slender neck, wrapping his thumb and forefinger around and up under her jaw at the nerve junction, forcing her head back. She gave an indignant shriek as he turned, drawing her with him, and started walking towards the stocks.

  She stumbled but managed to keep her balance on the spiked heels as he forced her up onto the small platform that the stock supports were set in. He let his bag fall from his shoulders with a heavy thud, and reached up to open the top slat, which hinged at the end and lifted like a parking gate. Sally had both hands up behind her head, grabbing Brian’s forearm but unable to get any kind of leverage. Her body arched back, and the resulting silhouette of slender curves lined with black velvet began to draw attention from the people in the dim outskirts of the circle of light which illuminated them. Brian could see the two couples that had only barely met him at the front of the gathering crowd.

  He drew his arm in, guiding Sally’s head towards the center indentation in the stocks. She was spluttering and starting to swear, first with variations of “What the FUCK do you THINK you’re DOING you BASTARD!” followed by “No! NO! I will NOT go in there!” as she realized where he was leading her.

  He got her head down into the stocks, guiding her firmly past the edge of the wood, his grip keeping her thrashing head from hitting the dark edges. However, he realized as he held her there—her legs kicking up helplessly in flashes of skin through the side slits of her dress.—that he had a problem.

  He could hold her head there, no problem. Likewise one arm, since he had a free hand. That left her other arm still free and entirely uncooperative, and he would still need to somehow close the stocks over her head and arms. He leaned forward and spoke low into her ear. “You need to be taught a lesson in manners, Miss Sally. And we will start with you granting a simple request. Put your arms in the stocks. Now.”

  She angrily turned her eyes to glare at him, her teeth bared in an animal’s grimace. “Fuck you!” she hissed.

  “Eventually,” he nodded, amicably. “But for now you simply need to put your arms in the stocks. It is, as I said, a lesson in manners. You were quite rude.” His tone was deep and calm, echoing the strength with which he held her immobile over the edge of the open stocks.

  “I won’t.” she hissed again, her eyes blazing at him. “You can’t make me.”

  “Of course I can’t make you,” he replied, again in the measured tone. “If I could make you, I would not ask. What I can do is make you regret your choice.” Abruptly he lifted her, straightening her body so quickly that she lost her balance for a moment and was only kept erect by the grip on her neck. He moved behind her, so that she was facing all of the crowd, her friends in the front row smiling up at the scene.

  The Wrinkled Man was smiling now.

  The Troublemaker had apparently been naughty in his youth. Several Tools had done the looking, and the Wrinkled Man had seen through their eyes even as they pulled up files they didn’t know they wanted, and whispered answers into phones that had never rung.

  The Troublemaker had been a nasty young teenager, and had fathered not one but two daughters on his girlfriend. More than that, he had stayed with them, through a divorce, military service, poverty, raising them to be—if the records from the school were any indication—more Troublemakers. They had a history of asking questions, of challenging the system. The Troublemaker had let them go once, sharing custody when the Mother had seemed to be marrying up into a better environment—but he had taken custody back in an instant when she was no longer able to sustain that charade.

  But the Wrinkled Man was smiling, because now he had the lever. He could stop the Troublemaker, possibly even turn him into a Tool, or simply use him to replace one of the wasted bodies outside his room.

  Because the Troublemaker loved his daughters. And love was the best lever of all.

  The Wrinkled Man called for the right Tools, two women who believed they were working for the betterment of their sisters, start towards a house. A house where the Mother and the two daughters were watching TV. Or reading. Or playing a game. It did not matter, for when the women arrived, the Wrinkled Man would choose what they would be doing for the rest of their short lives.

  He cracked a piece of skin off of his left thigh and popped it into his mouth. It crunched as he bit down, and he kept smiling.

  Brian held her there for a moment, swaying, letting her see herself put on display, feeling her skin warm as she flushed at the spectacle of helplessness, so different from the snobbish social air she’d had a moment before. He held her there for a few seconds, then focused on the small bump in her spine at the base of her neck. He pressed a finger there, gradually increasing the pressure until he was certain she was aware of it… then began to draw it downward, slowly, along the bare muscles and ridges of her back.

  Inch by inch he drew it down, watching the finger as it passed, letting the warm energy that burned in his Mark flow directly through that point as it traveled. The connection was quick and deep, his awareness encompassing her hard shell of resistance like ivy pouring over a wall, stopped by its apparent impermeability while at the same time flowing over and through it, sinking into the manifold chinks and crevasses and digging deeper. She had stilled during this process, still trembling, but with anger…as something else… stirring behind that wall.

  Finally his finger had traveled past the base of her spine to where the ebon fabric flowed to a point just above the swell of her ass. At that point Brian paused for a beat, then grasped the zipper of the dress and swiftly drew it down, the back of the dress turning into flaps of velvet that parted to reveal the cleft of her ass. Sally gave another indignant squeal and began struggling again, her hands flying behind her to try and close the flaps.

  He’d been waiting for that, and as her hands met behind her he suddenly released her neck, causing her to stagger, and in that moment he put a hand on each shoulder and drew the straps down, the loose front falling to her waist. Her nipples shone pink and hard in the yellow light, their tiny aerolae serrated by the sudden exposure. There was a smattering of applause from the observers, and Betty gave a loud cheer, “Boobies!”

  Brian moved again quickly while she was off balance, and drew the dress down over her hips and let it puddle on the floor around her spiked heels. She wore only a garter and stockings, her vulva a tiny orchid under a smoothly trimmed strip of pubic hair. “Such a pretty little pussy!” cooed another woman from the audience, and there was a tittering of laughter. Sall
y’s face grew more red, but she defiantly stepped out of the dress, hands at her sides, letting her pride serve as an anchor of resistance against Brian.

  He stepped back for a moment and let her enjoy her celebrity, full of hubris and beauty standing on the wooden platform. He knew that in a moment she would begin to try to work the crowd by doing some sort of dance or strut. He folded his arms, waiting patiently, aware that she was too busy basking in the attention of the crowd to realize that she was still within his reach. Sure enough, his dancer’s eye saw the shifting of her weight onto the ball of one foot, about to pivot—and that was when he reached up and grasped her neck again. She froze for a moment, then tried to move away—only to feel his thumb and forefinger digging again into either side of her jaw, the pressure on the nerve clusters causing her to be still in much the same way that a bit will temper a wild horse.

  He moved closer to her, until his lips were next to her ear, and she could feel the smooth cloth of his trousers brushing the skin of her ass. “Miss Sally. Observe one of the rules of body mechanics: where the head goes, the body will follow.” With that, he stepped off the platform, picking up his bag as he strode across the room, pushing her ahead of him.. The crowd laughed again and parted for the two of them, some wandering off inspired by the play, others following them, eager to see where their scene would lead.

  She was screaming at him again, hands waving in the air but unable to reach him or affect the grip on her neck. He did not respond to any of the comments. His body felt a foot taller, and every step seemed to be through waves of energy that eddied through the air, and he felt that his scars would burn through the shirt in a moment. At the same time there was a calm hereness in him. The fortress within her was still firm and entrenched, but he felt a small tremor come through their connection, echoed in her body as they walked across the room.

  Bringing her to a spanking bench in the shape of a leather-covered sawhorse, he gave a little twist, swiveling her while at the same time driving two fingers into the crease of her leg and pelvis. The sudden pressure didn’t hurt, but it caused her to jackknife down, and he unceremoniously picked her up with one hand between her legs, the other grasping her shoulder, lifting and lowering her over the sawhorse, feet and arms astride. One of her feet struck the hard wood, but with a slight adjustment he swung it over as she continued to swear. He kept one hand at the small of her back, pressing her down into the soft leather.

  The transition knocked the breath out of her, and she lay lengthwise on the leather for a moment, gasping. Brian enjoyed sight and feel of the curve of her body as she lay, gasping. He waited for what he knew would come next—not that he could have told you how he knew it, he simply knew that in a moment, she would—

  “BASTARD!” her scream rang out as her arms tried to push up from the sawhorse, legs and feet scrabbling for some sort of purchase to push up from. Brian simply kept his hand at the small of her back, pressing down, and she stayed pinned. She couldn’t reach him with a fist or foot, as he was standing just out of range of either, holding her helpless with one hand. After about a minute, she realized it was futile, and, gasping with exertion, lay her arms down on the small platforms jutting from the sides of the horse for that purpose. Her legs also rested, but Brian could feel the strength and defiance still in her, and knew that she was simply waiting for the next opportunity to break free.

  The two women neared the house, and as they rang the doorbell, they smiled at each other. Another sister to be saved, another victim of the patriarchy about to be rescued and join them in the fight.

  The Mother answered the door, her face suspicious of the two women, who were somehow very like the Missionaries she’d seen before. They spoke of Men, and the evil Men do, and of the dangers Men can pose, not only to women, but especially to daughters.

  The Mother was nodding, slowly. Their words were rhythmic and strident, a pounding rhetoric that strung a delicate logic supported by misdirection and that most useful tool of the persuader, statistics. The friendly sisters now, three in solidarity there on the porch, laughed in the strength of their reinforced view of Man as a whole.

  And where were the daughters? One asked, casually. Might we meet them?

  He lowered his lips to her ear, and spoke again in measured tones. “Miss Sally. You have been rude and inconsiderate to me, your guest. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She gave a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, I treat all idiots that way. You can be the big hulking barbarian all you want, you still can’t make me submit to you.”

  Brian smiled. “Right now, Miss Sally, I simply want you to notice a matter of control, since you seem so incapable of it yourself. By controlling your center,” he gave a little extra push to her middle, again forcing a gasp out of her, “I control your movement, your position, even your breath.” He increased the pressure a bit more, not on the spine directly but spread over the torso, letting her feel the sudden difficulty in drawing breath. Then he lightened the pressure, just a bit, and continued in his deep mild tone.

  “I admire your beauty, strength, and intelligence, Miss Sally, but that does mean I will tolerate being treated rudely by you. You could have chosen to take your punishment more easily—you recall, I gave you that choice?” Angry glaring eyes were his only answer. “Miss Sally. I will ask you again. You recall, I gave you that choice?”

  When she refused to respond again, he reached with his free hand into his bag and pulled out a length of soft red rope, coiled neatly with a knot he released with one hand. His fingers gripped the protruding bight where the rope divided in half, and he cast the rest out across the floor, feeling a surge of energy like a solar flare travel along its length as his fetish resonated with the beginning of his work.

  He fed the doubled rope through the hand at the small of her back, stretching it the length of her spine, letting the touch of it lightly brush her skin before pulling it taught. He could sense the power building in the rope now, and in his mind’s eye it had taken on a glowing pulse. It seemed eager, with a presence of its own, ready to wrap and bind her into the flows of power they were creating.

  Quickly he drew the rope up and over her back, looping it around each of her shoulders and passing across the back of her neck. Splitting the tails of the rope, he passed them through the doubled rope on each shoulder and passed it under the horse, front to back, keeping it loose but drawing up most of the slack.

  Throughout this he had kept his hand at her back, pinning her, but now he released her, watching her breathing ease up, seeing her muscles tense up in preparation for her leaping from the horse… and just as she pushed up with her arms, back arching up, he tightened the rope.

  Since he left her hands free, she was able to keep her face from quite slamming into the leather top of the horse. The ropes passing over her shoulders and across the back of her neck drew her down and pinned her as effectively as his hands had. He checked to make sure there was no pressure on the carotid, jugular, or windpipe, and then looped the tails around her ankles and through the D-rings on the foot panels of the horse. As he tied the square knot between her ankles, he could feel the loops flare with the resonance that simply felt right, and he could feel another tremor in the fortress of her inner being as she felt the increase of power over her. She only kicked once, discovering in the process that the loops of rope would cause the neck and shoulders to tighten more. Her hands tried to find a loop or slackness in the rope, but there was none, and there were no knots except the one between her ankles, far out of reach.

  Her energy flared with the sudden imprisonment, and Brian could feel the cycling forces of the erotic power spiraling up. He reached out, gathering the energy mentally in his hands, his awareness feeling the energy captured within the knot, and formed his fingers in the mudra Ada had shown him, blowing up and out with a soft puff of his cheeks.

  The first ward was cast.

  The daughters were playing frisbee in a park blocks away, laughing and finding joy in the cool breeze of the su
mmer evening as the disc floated magically between the two of them. Phina and Lisbet, a year and a half apart but often mistaken for twins, their merry grins usually contagious to those around them.

  This time, however, anyone watching them would have suddenly gotten a slight headache, or felt their eyes begin to water, and they would rub them, shake their heads, and find a reason not to look at them anymore.

  This is why the two sisters, walking through the park with eager eyes and small black leather pouches in their hands (though they were, in fact, not aware of them; these were now the Wrinkled Man’s tools) didn’t see them. They passed on the path near where the Daughters threw the frisbee, and Lisbet even had a moment of friendly alarm as it headed towards one of them. But a graceful leap and the disc was trapped in her hand, just the way Dad had shown her. He would have been proud.

  The sisters walked through the park again, looking for their targets, but they only saw the gay couple on the bench, and wrinkled their noses. Two Men. Worse than one.

  The Wrinkled Man was frowning again. Something was not quite right now. He felt as though they were there… but the tools were failing him.