Elytra 8

Monday 19 June 85AGF 5.45pm

 

A fluttering clicking broke through the silence, gathered pace, then slowed to two or three beats per second. It stopped. A dull glow penetrated the darkness, freezing several small shapes in silhouette. The glow increased in intensity, and as it did so the sound started up again, but from a different source. First one, then two, then four, then eight … the sound of fluttering became a cacophony, filling every corner of the space with harsh clicks which became harsher as the frequency decreased. The dull glow became brighter as the first was augmented by the others, and as it increased in brightness a face gradually took shape.

 

Friday 21 July 85AGF 5.30pm

 

The room I am led into is dark, and what little air there is carries a slight metallic taste. I inhale deeply, but can't place it. This new Clansman, the suit, Francis, seems to know exactly where he is going, stepping confidently inside, taking my slightly less assured footsteps further into the darkness, guiding me with subtle changes of pressure on my left arm. I stop as he grips a little tighter. Can I hear breathing? Light, sharp, shallow breaths quite unlike the deep appropriations of my escort. I turn around, involuntarily. There's a tension in the air, and that metallic taste is growing stronger and it's not the air, is it? It's me. I bit my fucking tongue and the blood is now beginning to pool in mouth, just behind my lips. But I'm right about the breathing. It's clear now. Shallow, excited breaths. Expectant breaths. The suit shifts his grip to my wrist, and pulls me backwards and down. I follow the direction of force though not out of choice and sit. My controlled fall is broken by a chair.

The chair is comfortable, padded and yet strangely unsubstantial. I sit impassive as he binds my wrists and ankles. Tightly. I wince, but my pain is either ignored or simply goes unregistered. My head is strapped to the headrest. He stands for a moment before leaving the room. The door shuts. The breathing is behind me.

For a minute. Two. Silence. The breathing neither moves position nor changes intensity. The darkness remains. The tension I felt, the anxiety, the fear, all these slowly melt away. Perversely, it is I who hold the power.

'Elytra.' The word so faint I'm not sure whether it comes from the space which breathes, or from within. It repeats. A little louder. A little more insistent. A little more malevolent. I am calm, so calm that the hands creep around my throat and I neither recoil nor made a sound. The hands linger for a moment, then slide down, caress my shoulders, stroke the tops of my arms. The breathing is now appearing directly in my left ear. 'That's a very interesting name.'

I say nothing, focus on the taste of the blood in my mouth. I rather think that the special guest was already here. I recognise him. Not merely by his voice.

'We are going to have some fun, Elytra.'

The lights flash on, blinding me temporarily. Someone else enters the room. My eyes adjust to the light, and it's him. My owner. My pimp. He walks towards me, blindfolds me.

He speaks. Goodness, he's angry. 'I thought I said …'

'Jacob, Jacob. You do worry so much.'

'You were to be delivered to her, not her to you.' I wonder does he know just how out of his league he is here.

'I changed my mind, Jacob, now do run along.' He turns away. 'Francis ... Francis ...' This is the suit, and I hear him enter the room and take Jacob by the arm. He meets with initial resistance that he overcomes with a look, at least, it sounds that way. As he escorts Jacob from the room the Doctor speaks once more, a little more loudly than before, but I feel his gaze, greedy, piercing, dangerous. 'Give the man a drink, Francis, then return.' He runs his fingers over my lightly stubbled head. Through the edges of the blindfold I can sense the lights dim once more.

Immobile and unsighted, I withdraw my other senses from the Doctor's touch as fingers, cheeks, lips, tongue and breath explore her surface. Indeterminate sounds break from deep within the throat. I feel my eyes tighten almost imperceptibly.

'Good, good.' The Doctor's voice, just below my left ear. 'You turn your attention inwards.'

The click of heels on floor and a pause, an intake of breath and words pass me by. Slowly, but with an undercurrent of malice deep enough to make me shudder. They hit their mark. The heels come to an abrupt halt.

'Is it entirely necessary? Can a gentleman not have five minutes' peace?'

'Apologies, Doctor, but time is rather pressing.'

'Ah, yes, time.' The voice is smoother, more emollient. A few seconds elapse and it changes once more. Now it is serious, business-like. 'You have done as I requested?'

'Yes. And more, just in case of, unforeseen occurrences.'

'Good.'

'One thing, though.' The suit is hesitant.

'Yes?' Another change in tone, and now impatience brews under the surface.

'If there's a problem, how will I know?'

'We have our code.'

'But if you cannot communicate in the code?'

'If I am read-only, you mean?'

'Yes.'

'Well, in that case, I'm stuck.'

'What should I do?'

'Listening would be a good start. I'll be stuck. Uncommunicative. Lavinia with hands and tongue but no way of using them. You won't know. So you'll do exactly what we have discussed. You cannot do otherwise.'

'But …'

'But nothing. You will not know. It's a risk I take. Not one that you take.' There's a slight breeze as the Doctor stands and turns. 'Now.' He says, his voice now steely, edged with finality. 'Shall we?'

The room goes quiet again. Breathing. A certain amount of settling. Footsteps. Something being unwrapped. A rustle. A sigh.

The footsteps resume, and come closer. I can't make out the sound but my arm is held and straightened, there's a sharp pain and then a wash of warmth flows up my arm then down, up and out, its outriders grasping at the edges of my consciousness as they seek to squeeze it into some sort of sleep.

Nothing more. A sudden flash lights up the room, leaking through the edges of my blindfold but I'm under siege. The breathing to my left changes intensity, from long, deep draughts to shorter, shallower grasps of air. The breathing slows gradually until it resembles that of someone somewhere beyond sleep.

The fog seeps into me with an almost irresistible sense of its own inevitability. I fight but I'm losing. A cold weight presses on the back of my neck. Constriction. And then an impact that feels strangely familiar.

It rips through my entire body, beginning on the back of my neck. Such force. My toes curl, her arms grip rests, back arches. A wave of pure emotion surges through my body, a wave that rips through the fog, a wave more intense than any orgasm I have ever experienced, or that my body could conceive.

It peaks and hangs at that level, suspended in time as if about to crash as tumultuously as it had surged, but instead it subsides slowly, the fog gathers itself and the metallic taste returns.

Becalmed, my outer edges still fog-bound, I struggle to make sense of it. There is no sense to be made of it.

'Hello.' The voice is shot through with an excitement that belies its steady, emotionless tone, and it comes from inside. But is not mine. 'Did you enjoy that?'

The bastard is inside me, compressing, squeezing, violating. Why?

'I'm going to watch you work, in a manner of speaking.' There's delight in the voice.

I remain silent, but I feel the blood seeping out of the corner of my mouth.