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Message-ID: <40712asstr$1044486604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Crimson Dragon <dcrimsonp@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (New) Dawn of Time [011/157] (MF+, bond, control) {Crimson Dragon}
Date: Wed,  5 Feb 2003 18:10:04 -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 11

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(C) Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved

Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

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

Sandra allowed him to wind his hand back into her hair. He wasn't
quite as insistent this time, and the makeshift leash wasn't as
uncomfortable against her scalp as it had been. She automatically
fell into a crawl. She idly wondered why she had to crawl, but at
this point, she merely accepted it, the same way that she was
beginning to accept her nudity in this strange world.

"We can't take the elevator," he said as they finally came to a
stop.

Sandra lifted her eyes. They had stopped in front of the fire doors,
the big red entrance beckoning.

"Get up, you can't crawl down stairs."

Warily, she climbed to her bare feet. His hand remained entangled in
her hair.

"Won't the alarm sound?" she asked.

He hesitated, one hand on the door handle. He released her hair with
his other hand.

"Who cares if it does?"

Sandra couldn't tell if he knew or not whether the alarm would ring.
If it rang, maybe someone will find them, firemen, police,
paramedics -- someone to help her? But when the door swung open
heavily to his touch, no insistent bells rang out, no saving grace.
She sighed and followed him into the stairwell.

The cold concrete scratched at her bare feet. He stood waiting for
her on the second landing; she envied him his running shoes.
Glancing up, she considered for a moment running, but to go up was
to be trapped, and she doubted if she would make two stairs before
he stopped her somehow. God knew what he'd do to her after that. He
smiled gently as she began to descend carefully.

She walked in front of him after the second landing, knowing that he
was watching her, but unable to do much about it. Her clothing
receded further and further away as each bare foot followed each
bare foot in methodical succession.

Twelve floors later, she hesitated in front of the exit door. She
wasn't used to taking the stairs, and her bare breasts rose and fell
rapidly upon her chest as her lungs worked to overcome the exertion.
Her thighs ached, but it didn't take long for her to regain her
breath. He waited patiently for her to recover, watching her. He
seemed to be normal, not breathing hard, or perspiring.

Eventually, his voice appeared, hot and threatening in her ear.
"The alarm won't sound. Push it."

"The lobby ..." she begged.

He smiled. "The lobby is full of people that can't see you or me."

She shrugged. If he wanted her out there, she was going out, whether
she wanted to, or not.

With a press of her shoulder, the door swung outward. No alarm
greeted her, but she really hadn't expected any bells. She stumbled
out into the brightly lit lobby, nearly colliding with a middle-aged
woman, with grey hair, in a blue business suit. The woman looked
like she was harried, walking quickly towards the elevator bank that
no longer functioned. Sandra paused, staring into the woman's face,
trying to see life down there in the blank eyes.

"Like her?" the gunman asked from behind.

Sandra kept silent, moving to the side and around the frozen woman.
She wondered if she should fall back to her hands and knees. The
marble of the lobby looked too cold and hard to crawl over, but she
suspected that the gunman wouldn't care about her discomfort.
Nevertheless, she hadn't been asked, so she remained upright.

His hand fell lightly on the back of her neck. She jumped, but
didn't turn around.

He guided her towards the security desk, not asking her to crawl.
For a moment, her heart leapt. Security. They would know what to do.
Then her hopes were dashed. They'd know what to do if they weren't
frozen.

A courier, with dirty wind-blown hair, and wearing biking equipment
and a backpack, stood at the desk talking to a grey-haired old man
dressed in a standard security uniform. The security guard sported
a beer-belly, and Sandra could see the handle of a gun protruding
from beside his right hip. She had a flash of hope, but then
quelled it. How to get the gun? Even if her captor let down his
guard, she was betting that guard's gun was frozen solid, with the
rest of the world. King Arthur couldn't have moved it.

"Stand here, and keep quiet," her captor said.

Obediently, Sandra stood, the marble of the security desk pressing
into the small of her back, her fingers wrapped lightly around the
smooth edge. She glanced through the plate glass windows out onto
the busy downtown street. If all the pedestrians, all the cars, were
alive, she'd have caused quite a stir standing here like this.

A noise caught her attention to the left. She watched, intrigued, as
the courier came to life.

"... need to get to the fifth ..." his voice trailed off as he
realised that the world wasn't quite right. "What the fuck?" he
swore as he turned around.

Suddenly, he became aware of Sandra, naked and lounging to his left.
She blushed, and raised her hands to cover her bare breasts
automatically. The courier, mouth open, about to bluster another
obscenity, halted as the gunman stepped nonchalantly between Sandra
and the courier.

"Who the fuck are you?" the courier demanded as he moved forward. He
stopped his forward motion at the sight of the gun. Sandra shifted
her weight. The gun was pointed towards the bike guy, and she was
behind the gunman. Her hands began to rise.

Instead of answering the courier, the man's voice floated towards
Sandra, low and threatening.

"Don't even think about it, Sandra."

Sandra started, but fell back against the marble, her hands falling
ineffectually back to her sides. With the gunman between her and the
courier, her body was shielded anyway. There really wasn't any need
to keep her hands up. She worked her toes against the marble,
watching them instead of whatever was about to happen to the
courier.

"Hey, man. I don't want any trouble. I don't even care why she's
nekkid, man." The courier was slowly backing away from the man with
the gun. "I didn't see nothing."

The gunman grimaced at the figure of speech.

"Didn't see anything," he corrected. The courier merely looked
confused. The man wagged the gun. "Over there," he motioned with
the barrel of the gun.

Obediently, the courier ran towards the front entrance of the lobby.
Unable to push the frozen revolving door, he finally spun and faced
the gun. Fear etched into his features, his breathing ragged.

"Come on, man," he blubbered. "I didn't do nothing." His eyes
shifted to Sandra, who blushed again.

Slowly, satisfied that the courier was far enough away, the gunman
turned to face the Sandra. She tried to shrink back, the small of
her back pressing ever more firmly into the marble of the security
desk. His expression was suggestive, almost maniacal. She
suspected that her words wouldn't make a difference, but she spoke
anyway.

"Please, don't hurt him, either."

Instead of answering her, he asked her a question, one that she
wasn't expecting.

"If I were to offer you freedom, in exchange for having sex with
him, would you? Willingly?"

She wasn't sure what willingly meant in this situation, but she
considered the question for a moment before answering. Her head
slowly shook negatively.

"Please no," she whispered.

The courier had heard the exchange; he spoke up. Sandra cringed at
the words, partially because of the crudity, partially because she
suspected that the gunman would do something drastic at the
suggestion, partially because she was afraid that the gunman would
listen to the dirty kid.

"Hey, man. I'll fuck the bitch for my freedom. She's a piece of ass,
man. A piece of ass."

The gunman whirled, the gun rising. The courier retreated until his
back pressed against the unyielding door. Her captor advanced three
short steps towards the courier.

"You want to die, my friend?"

The courier looked like he was going to faint with fright.

"No man, I ..." The idiot fell to his knees, babbling. "I don't
want to die. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The gunman smiled easily, the gun never wavering. Sandra stood
behind him, not watching.

"You don't have to apologise to me," the gunman whispered. His
voice carried across the mostly silent lobby, more powerful for its
lack of volume. The guard, and the people dressed in business attire
didn't seem to care about the drama unfolding in front of them.

"No man, I don't want to die."

"Don't you think the lady deserves more respect than that? A piece
of ass? Bitch? I don't remember asking you if you wanted to have sex
with her."

The words somehow warmed Sandra. Why would he protect her? She
didn't understand. Not a whit. She would have expected the bastard
to revel in anything that made her cringe. Forcing her to have sex
with the boy might have been right up his alley.

"I'm so fucking sorry," the courier babbled. "Please lady, I'm sorry
that I said those things. Christ, I'm sorry."

"Her name is Sandra. Not bitch. Not lady. Sandra."

The mention of her name removed an element of anonymity, and she
fought down another blush. Her hands again rose to shield the view
of her breasts.

"Sandra. Sandra. I'm sorry, Sandra. I'm sorry for calling her a
bitch. I'm sorry. Please. Please don't kill me."

The gunman turned to look at Sandra, his eyebrows raised in an
unasked question. She guessed what he wanted. She whispered.

"It's all right. I don't mind. Please don't kill him. Not for
this."

The kid remained on his knees, blubbering, a thankful expression
upon his features. Sandra wasn't sure, but she thought he might have
wet himself.

Her captor nodded slowly, then turned. The courier froze, on his
knees, head lowering towards the marble. His voice cut off,
mid-pleading.

"What did you do to him?" Sandra asked quietly, not really expecting
an answer.

"I slipped him into a slower time bubble." The answer didn't help
her, but she nodded. The gunman continued. "Can't return him to the
main timeline, he'd be in the way."

Puzzled, she waited, wondering what was next on this insane journey.
She stood quietly and watched her feet as the gunman began to
survey the lobby. Her bare toes looked out of place against the
pristine grey marble.


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