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Message-ID: <40684asstr$1044411006@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Crimson Dragon <dcrimsonp@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (New) Dawn of Time [009/157] (MF+, bond, control) {Crimson Dragon}
Date: Tue,  4 Feb 2003 21:10:06 -0500
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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 9

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(C) Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved

Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

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

"I don't want to do this," she whispered. Her fingers halted after
the first button had released.

He smiled gently, and spoke kindly, in contradiction to the gun he
still held on her.

"Sandra, I know. You've been nude before, every morning in the
shower. Every morning before you dress. In front of lovers,
doctors."

She shook her head.

"But ..."

Again he spoke knowingly. "But not in front of a strange man waving
a gun around. Would this make you feel better?"

He tucked the gun into his waistband. Sandra was sure that he could
retrieve it and shoot her before she'd taken two steps, but it did
make her feel better, so she nodded.

"You've been naked before, and it won't be forever. You won't even
remember it." His words made little sense to her, but she was beyond
arguing. She accepted his words, and continued to unbutton her
blouse. A flush overtook her face, but his eyes seemed to remain on
hers instead of watching her bra slip into view.

Her blouse, and then her slacks tumbled to the floor in an untidy
heap. She worked her shoes through the fabric, stepping carefully to
the side. She re-crossed her arms in front of her, looking up
hopefully.

"Satisfied. I did what you want."

He grinned. "Sandra, you must know better than that."

She did. He wouldn't be satisfied until she was standing there buck
naked, shivering.

"Please. My purse ..."

He motioned at her to continue. She sighed, willed back another
tear, and worked her arms up behind her, fumbling with the clasps to
her brassiere. She hesitated for a moment before slipping the straps
from her shoulders, holding the thin white fabric to her breasts
protectively.

"Please?"

He shook his head patiently. She took a deep breath, and finally
dropped the cloth to the ground to join her pants and her blouse.
This time, she wasn't able to control the blush, could see it rising
across the tops of her breasts.

"Sandra?"

She looked up, but immediately dropped her eyes to the floor.

"Lower your arms."

She shook her head.

"I don't want to hurt you. You will lower them eventually. Get it
over with." His voice was kind, belying the words that tumbled from
his mouth.

She gathered her courage and dropped her arms from shielding her
breasts.

"Oh god," she whispered.

"Panties, too."

Knowing it was useless to beg, she slipped her thumbs into the
waistband of her plain cotton briefs, and slipped them down her
legs. Her right foot flipped the wispy cotton into the pile. While
she stood, hands at her sides, she pressed her legs together in an
attempt at modesty. She suspected that her modesty was in for a
shaking.

"Shoes. Jewellery."

She looked up sharply. For some reason, losing her shoes, standing
barefoot in front of him seemed worse somehow than removing the rest
of her clothes.

"Shoes?"

"Naked, Sandra. I want you bare."

"Why? Please, why?"

He didn't answer her, and she suspected that even he didn't know.
She was beginning to believe that he wasn't going to rape her. He
wouldn't have waited this long, wouldn't have asked her to remove
her shoes and jewellery if rape was on his agenda. She was already
accessible, if he'd wanted to rape her, after all.

"Why?" she repeated. "I'm naked, aren't I? All the important parts
hung out for you to see." But his eyes were on her face, not her
body.

"Shoes," he repeated firmly.

In other situations, people saw her bare feet all the time -- in the
pool, at the beach, even walking around the house. But to be
barefoot here, in her office, in front of him? With a sigh, she
worked the pumps off with her toes, hesitating with the first, and
nearly kicking off the second. Without any hesitation, she worked
the watch off her wrist, the necklace from her throat, and the
earrings from her ears. She held the various gold metal in her palm,
offering it to him. Maybe he wanted the gold, not cash? He motioned
her to put in on the desk -- didn't take it.

Moving naked, in the office, surprised her, the sensations of the
carpet against her bare feet, the air moving around her skin. She
dropped her jewellery in a pile beside her blotter. So ordinary,
wasn't it?

"Satisfied, now? Can I get dressed?"

"Oh no, Sandra, you look much nicer naked. Honestly."

In a strange way, she was flattered, but not enough not to wish that
he'd let her clad herself again.

"Please?"

He shook his head.

"Clean up the clothes, Sandra. Give them to me."

"Huh?"

"You heard," he said with a little more threat in his voice. He
pointed towards the heap of her clothing. The pile looked too small
to have wrapped around her nudity.

Slowly she moved to kneel beside her scattered clothes. Her fingers
quickly folded the fabric as if it had emerged from the wash. Soon,
she had a stack lying in front of her on the carpet. She picked it
up and turned on her knees, her clothing cradled in her arms.

"Thank-you," he remarked. He'd watched her perform the ritual in
silence, and as she turned, he retrieved her clothes from her arms,
placing them on the file cabinet. Somehow, it made it worse, seeing
her clothes there, so out of place, so close, and yet so far away.
Sandra slowly climbed to her feet, her arms re-crossing
automatically across her chest. Her nipples, hardened by the cool
air, pressed into her forearms. He didn't force her to lower her
arms, this time.

"Why me?" she asked simply.

"Because you were here."

"You work here. In the lab, don't you?"

He nodded. He seemed to be humouring her, almost allowing her to
talk for a minute.

"You know me, even if I don't remember you, right? Have you been
planning this long? Have I done something to deserve this, withheld
pay, withheld funds?" The man remained silent. Sandra took this to
mean she was on the right track. "I. I can't control funds. If they
aren't there, they aren't. If I've done something to offend you, I'm
sorry. God, I'm sorry. I'll redirect funds to your program.
Somehow. I'm so sorry."

The man looked up, staring into her eyes. She involuntarily fell
back a step.

"No, Sandra. You haven't done anything to me, or my department. I'm
doing this because I can, and because most of the women in the
building aren't ... my type. You won't remember this. I promise. It
isn't happening."

But it was happening. The air against her bare skin reminded her of
it every second.

"I've done nothing to deserve this? I was in the wrong place at the
wrong time?"

Somehow that made it worse. She was innocent, but somehow still
naked and shivering in her office with a damn gun pointed at her.

"Right place at the right time," he said quietly.

She shook her head. "No."

He smiled, as if her opinion didn't really matter. She supposed that
it didn't. Not really.

"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly.

"I want you to crawl."

"Crawl?"

"On all fours."

"You're kidding. Why?"

He smiled again. "Sandra? Why isn't important. Not really. If you
want for this to end, you need to crawl for me. Once around the
office."

"Crawl," she repeated incredulously. "That's humiliating."

He nodded slowly. Oh, he knew. His hand fell to the butt of the gun
in his waistband. Suddenly, she was certain that she was getting off
easy, that this man was capable of hurting her, of controlling her
in far worse ways than to ask her to crawl around naked on the
floor.

A ball formed in the pit of her stomach, but in the end, she fell to
her knees, and rocked forward, hands and knees on the carpet. Naked,
she began to crawl slowly around the perimeter of the office,
breasts swaying beneath her, tears falling silently.

He watched her moving intently, a smile of remembrance on his lips.
When she completed the circuit, her knees ached, and her biceps
tingled with the unaccustomed motion.

"Can I get up now?" she asked.

Instead of answering, he moved towards her. On her hands and knees,
she couldn't move quickly enough to avoid him. His hands tugged at
the back of her head, and in surprise, she watched as her blonde
tresses fell to hang, unbound, beside her face. He released my hair,
she thought. Why?

In a moment, his hand was entwined in her hair, lifting it from
shielding her face. He tugged, and Sandra cried out in pain,
beginning to rise off her hands to alleviate the pressure. Then she
noticed that the pressure had a direction. Sure she would be
punished if she rose from the crawl, she threw herself forward to
follow the makeshift leash of her own hair.

"Please," she gasped. "That hurts."

He loosened the pressure on her scalp, but only a little. Slowly,
she crawled to the doorway. The intent was clear. She was to follow
him like a pet being walked, a naked, crawling, dog or cat. She
could feel the hot flush of blood rushing into her cheeks, and she
choked on relief that her face was hidden towards the floor.
Suddenly, she realised in which direction she was crawling.

Oh God, not into the main office. While she had been naked and
crawling in her own office, door closed, and somewhat private, while
embarrassing, she thought she could handle it. Not outside. No.

She balked, pulling back despite the pain his hand in her hair
caused. He tugged once, causing her to cry out in pain, but then
relented. She suspected that it was a mistake, but she rose to her
knees as best she could, her hair still grasped in his hand. His
form was close to her, too close.

He seemed to recognise the problem.

"Sandra? There's nobody but us. They can't see you out there, and I
can't leave you in here."

"Please. Let me go. I'm not a dog."

He tugged on her hair, hard, forcing her to fall back to a crawling
position. She cried out, again, but managed to stifle the real
scream that threatened to rise from her throat.

He paused after opening the door. Please let the invisible wall
prevent us from leaving. Please.

"If I want you to bark," he said ominously. "You'll be a dog."

And she believed him. Oh yes, she believed him.

The carpet moved silently past her eyes, stretching forever, as she
crawled over the floor, following the pressure from her hair,
transmitted incessantly from his fingers.


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