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Message-ID: <40547asstr$1043194205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Crimson Dragon <dcrimsonp@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (New) Dawn of Time [002/157] (MF+, bond, control) {Crimson Dragon}
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2003 19:10:05 -0500
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There is story below the rather long preface. Page down if you must,
but don't blame me if you end up offended. The preface was written
for a reason. Ignore it at your own risk.

====================================================================
Author's Preface:
====================================================================

Four years ago, I wrote a novel that some of you may have read,
entitled "Time Out Of Time". In the following four years, some have
been disturbed by the work, and some have been enthusiastic. Some
have even requested a sequel.

"Dawn of Time" is not a sequel, in a strict sense, nor was it
intended to be. In some ways, I think "Dawn of Time" is a more
mature piece that investigates different themes, and provides a new
perspective on fantasy and reality, and things that might or might
not be. I hope that I have learned a little by some of my failures
in "Time Out of Time". But you'll have to judge the effectiveness
of that yourselves.

Please be warned: "Dawn of Time" is unlike my other works. It is
harsher and grittier, necessarily differing from my short stories.
As writers, sometimes it is necessary to explore ourselves in unique
ways. If this kind of writing is not your cup of tea, please pass
this story by. Despite its novel length, and the sweat that went
into its creation, I will not be disappointed if you decline to read
it. It is not my wish to offend anyone. To make one think, perhaps,
and to make one consider the implications of strange situations,
yes, but offend -- no.

This story does contain scenes with sexually charged content. It
contains situations that are questionable in terms of consensual
behaviour and eroticism that are probably only suitable for adults,
and then only to a subset of those that happen to understand
responsibility. Please don't assume that a scene described in a work
of fiction is safe in reality. Play safe. Please. (Do I really need
to hold your hand and tell you this?)

Like my short stories, "Dawn of Time" is not overly explicit. There
is more to Eros than pumping hydraulics and instant gratification,
and this novel encompasses this. For a piece of writing of 157
chapters, there is remarkably little explicit sex. If you are
looking for a quick stroke piece, you should probably wander
elsewhere.

Unlike many serial stories posted here, "Dawn of Time" is complete.
It took me the better part of a year to write and self-edit it -- an
exhausting but fulfilling endeavour. While I choose for sanity
reasons to release it slowly, be assured that all 157 chapters are
complete and will be posted. Please also note that this was not
proofed by outside counsel due to its length. I wouldn't push such a
task on anyone voluntarily. However, as readers: caveat emptor. I've
probably missed many silly language mistakes.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or
dead, is purely a coincidence. Well, for the most part anyway.
Those that lived through the story are very unlikely to admit it.
The universe does not accept paradox.

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

(C) Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved

Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

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

She lay naked over the bedclothes, her bare feet idly rocking back
and forth through the air as she read. The steady beat of the shower
cut off suddenly, and she raised her eyes from the text for a
moment. At last, she sighed, pushing the book to the floor with a
clatter, its pages akimbo on the hardwood floor. It came to her as
a tuneless whistle faintly crossed through the closed bathroom door.
She shook her head, a line of resignation gracing her full lips. She
didn't want to do this. Not tonight. But no matter her loneliness,
no matter her desires; tonight was the night. Realisation had hit
her with the suddenness of a winter snowstorm. The book on the floor
stared accusingly up at her.

She carefully lay her head onto the pillow, her hands cradling her
cheek. With an effort, she stilled her feet, laying them carefully
to the bed sheets.

"You look good," John remarked as he stepped from the bathroom, a
towel about his waist. His hair was slicked to his head, still wet
from the spray, like some 60's greaser. A cloud of steam followed
him from the bathroom.

She smiled, but didn't feel the twinges that she'd felt when they'd
first met. Yes, she was warm, and yes, she enjoyed his company, but
John was ... well ... John.

His eyes flit to the book lying on the floor. As he bent to pick it
up, he grimaced.

"John ..." she began.

"A Brief History of Time? Stephen Hawking? A cripple?"

"John ..."

That was the other thing. He never could understand. He had never
understood. He never would understand.

She sat up, eventually folding into an easy kneeling position, her
thighs resting against her heels. Her body moved slowly and
sensually. His eyes rose from the book for a moment before dropping
back to it with a sigh. Suddenly, she was self-conscious, her arms
crossing, hiding her bare breasts, her legs primly together.

"Why?" he asked simply.

She considered for a moment, before answering.

"I need to, John."

"Need what? To be smarter than everyone else?"

She slowly shook her head. Her blonde hair raked across her
shoulders. No matter what she said, he wouldn't understand.

"What do you need to prove? Huh? It's just the two of us. A King
novel? A Straub novel? A freaking romance? That I can understand.
Anything but this shit."

"John ..." Tears began to well up in her eyes.

He stood smouldering at her. She inhaled deeply, conscious of her
breasts rising beneath her arms, confused by his anger. Perhaps he
could sense something, her reticence. Slowly, her fingers rose to
twirl around a strand of her hair. Her voice was quiet, almost
serene. This wasn't the first time she'd had to perform this dance,
and it wouldn't be the last.

"See this?"

John nodded.

"And these?" With an act of will, she pulled her arms from her
chest, and pointed to her bare breasts, her nipples crinkled.

John nodded again, but more flushed this time. She wasn't sure, but
the towel around his waist seemed to rise, just a little. She
controlled the flush of her own arousal, pouring freezing water on
it mentally. Her body only partially obeyed, but she continued
relentlessly.

"All my life, John, I've been the pretty one -- the Princess."

He shook his head, but then dumbly nodded.

"The blonde hair, the body. She can't have a brain, can she?"

He found his tongue. "But, you are beautiful, and you're smart. Why
this? Why more? It's never enough. Never." He pointed at the book in
his hand. "For Christ's sake, we just fu ... made love. Most girls
want to cuddle, talk. Not you. No. You read about astrophysics.
Fuck."

For just a second, she contemplated addressing that. She couldn't
remember the last time he had wanted to talk, afterward. Cuddle?
That was a laugh. Even though this time, he hadn't simply rolled
over and begun to snore, he had left the bed for the shower. In the
end, she held her tongue. Besides, she knew that this had nothing to
do with her wanting to talk or cuddle.

Guys would never change. Never. They all wanted the pretty one, oh
yes, but give her a mind? Nothing worked faster to pour that
freezing water on a relationship.

"John?"

At the sound of her small voice, he reacted badly. Perhaps, he knew
where this conversation was inevitably flowing. The book crashed
against the wall marginally missing the headboard that a mere hour
ago, her head had collided with in the midst of passion. The book
fell to the pillows, a few pages and the cover torn. His face
contorted with anger, the act of throwing the book seemingly
fuelling his emotion. She began to feel the first tremors of
uneasiness.

She picked up the book without looking at it, her fingers idly
caressing the cover back into place. She'd known it would come to
this, always known, it always did -- though usually minus the
petulant temper tantrum. She raised her eyes, fighting back hot
tears, wishing that she'd dressed while he'd been in the shower.
But then, she hadn't really planned on this, had she? At least not
this reaction.

"John ... I think ..."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. But she could see in the incomprehension
in his eyes, the denial, the insincerity. If he could grab the book
from her fingers, he would probably rip it into shreds before
stomping on it and lighting it on fire. But he didn't hate the book.
Oh no, not the book.

"I think you'd better leave." She re-crossed her arms in front of
herself.

For a second, she was sure that he was going to turn and leave her
room in the towel, but at the last second he snatched his jeans from
the floor, turning his back and slipping them over his hips. Despite
the tension, she couldn't help admiring his ass for the fleeting
moment that it was visible. An ass. That's all he was. She sighed.

His shirt hung loose from his shoulders, his hair no longer in
shining slicks across his scalp. He paused at the door.

She didn't know why her mouth always managed to get her into
trouble. Ten seconds, and he would have been gone from her life.
Ten, short, seconds.

"John?"

He paused by the doorway, hand on the knob. She could see, by the
set of his shoulders, that he was debating ignoring her, turning the
knob, leaving with a modicum of pride. Instead, he slowly turned.
The intensity of his gaze, bordering on rage, made her pause, but
only for a moment.

"Have a nice life," she whispered.

Her eyes darted to the clock on her bedside stand. The red
illuminated numerals there changed from 12:02 to 12:03. When her
eyes returned to the doorway, John was already half-way back towards
the bed, fists clenched and beginning to rise. Her unease began to
transform into fright. She began to feel threatened, unsure of
herself. A short scream escaped her throat, her hands rising from
her breasts to protect her face.

But it was far too late. The first blow sank easily into her bare
midriff, doubling her over, fighting for breath. Another scream
escaped her, louder this time. She tumbled off her knees, falling
half on and half off the bed, toes scrabbling at the floor weakly.

She looked up, cowering. A low whimper emerged as she pushed herself
backwards. A hand grasped her hair, pulling.

"Have a nice life with this, you fucking bitch."

He forced her to look up. With his left hand, he snapped the top
button on his jeans. To her horror, his penis floating in front of
her, erect and ready. She twisted, but her hair betrayed her.
Slowly, she returned her gaze to him.

"The problem with you, bitch, is that this," and the book appeared,
hiding his nakedness for a moment, jammed into her face. She tried
to back away, was unable to. The stink of newsprint filled her
nostrils. Slowly the book retreated from her face. Her eyes focused
on the print there.

"Time is fluid," she read from the paragraph so close in front of
her eyes.

"What?" John bellowed.

The bedside clock clicked silently to 12:05.

She raised her eyes, a sense of quiet anger, pain, serenity and
defiance filling her body.

"Time. Is. Fluid," she repeated monotonically.

And the world fell apart, for only a moment.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she somehow realised
what had happened, and the wonder of it overrode the pain in her
scalp as she fell to the right. Nausea overwhelmed her, bright
lights danced in front of her eyes. John's hand released her with a
jerk of surprise as she felt her shoulder connect with the floor in
a flash of pain. For a second, John stood completely immobile over
her, not even breathing.

In a moment, it was over -- whatever it was, she couldn't hold it.

But it had been enough. She watched from her skewed perspective as
John, a frightened look upon his face, hurriedly pulled up his pants
and ran for her door. As he ran, she heard him mumble:

"What the fuck ..."

And then he was gone, her door slamming hard enough to dislodge her
Escher print, the impossible ducks merging and flying downwards onto
the floor, shards of glass settling in a pool beside her.

The girl gulped air, still fighting the nausea, fighting the pain in
her scalp and her belly and her shoulder.

At last the pain subsided somewhat, and she began to shake and
shiver as though she had emerged from a high fever, tears falling
unashamedly down her cheeks to pool against her skin pressed to the
floor.

"Oh my God," she whispered.


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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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