The King's Creed Ch.01

Then, I was done, and my plate was empty. The strange tunnel vision that I'd been experiencing dissipated as I leaned back in my chair. I gingerly set my knife and fork on the table and looked up at the women.

My gaze met two astonished faces. I looked down at their plates. Neither of them had taken a single bite. That wasn't an exaggeration either. They literally had all of their food still sitting in front of them.

Perhaps I had overdone it a little.

"Sorry I ate so fast. I was just really hungry all of a sudden," I said apologetically.

"Master," Sarah said slowly, "I don't think I've ever seen someone move that fast before."

I rolled my eyes.

"Ha-ha, very funny, my pet. I ate so quickly that my hands were a blur . . . There's a fat joke in their somewhere."

Sarah looked down, chastised.

"But they were, Master," she said quietly.

Carol made a small, muffled noise.

I looked up.

"Something to add, princess?" I said harshly.

"Uh," Carol said, hesitating, "they were blurs, sir. I saw you move that fast . . . when . . . well, when we were in the basement . . . with my father. You moved that fast then as well."

This was getting out of hand.

"All right, so I ate my dinner fast, for which I'm sorry. But there's no reason to make such a fuss. I apologize that you guys were so grossed out you could do nothing but watch me eat for a minute straight."

Sarah fixed her forest green eyes on me.

"That wasn't a minute, Master. It was more like ten seconds . . . It was incredible."

"Oh." It was all I could think to say at the time. My vision blackened at the edges, and I had to grab the table for support.

"Master?"

"Sir?"

"I'm not feeling so well," I said dizzily.

***

I came to lying on my stomach.

I vaguely felt that my shirt and pants had been removed, and I was lying on top of some covers that didn't quite feel like a bed. I also noticed I was naked. A soft, feminine hand rested gently between my shoulder blades.

"Master," Sarah said softly, "are you feeling better?"

I nodded into the sheets.

"Just a fainting spell. It was a long day," I said wearily.

Sarah pressed her naked body against my back. I was painfully aware of her soft breasts pushing into my skin.

"I know, Master, but it pains me so much to see you uncomfortable," she said.

"Thank you, Sarah dear," I responded. "I'm lucky to have you."

"You'll always have me, Master. I belong to you . . . I serve you."

There was something about the way she said it. As if the words were as true and certain as the rising sun.

"I'm going to give you a massage now, Master. Just let me take care of you."

"A massage?"

"Yes, Master. Let me rub your back . . . It will help you sleep. I've been told I'm good at this."

So many things I still didn't know about my angel.

"I've got some oil here, Master. I've heated it in the microwave."

"You didn't have to do that," I said softly.

"Please, let me do this . . ." she said, need creeping into her voice.

I acquiesced with a nod.

My red-haired beauty put her hands on my legs and pushed them so that they spread and my knees locked. Tingles marched their way down my spine.

"I'll begin with your back, Master," Sarah said. "The oil is hot enough to hurt as it touches your skin . . ."

My lower back quivered as heat erupted on my skin.

I groaned softly into the bedding.

"Close your eyes, Master," Sarah cooed. "Don't think about anything except my hands on your skin and the heat of the oil. Those are the only two things that matter."

I could almost hear the tender smile in her voice.

"My hands will relax your muscles. The heat will open your pores."

Sarah started to gently knead the oil up my back, her soft female fingers comforting my weary muscles as her hands danced over my shoulders and dug into my scapula. And my breath went in, and my breath went out.

The oil stung every time . . . but it was a good sting . . . a cleansing sting.

Sarah moved herself closer to me as the massage continued. She climbed onto me by swinging her leg over my torso. I could feel the soft flesh of her legs as they settled onto my back. She was naked, and I could feel her weeping sex as she pressed it against me.

"I just can't seem to get enough of you, Master," Sarah said softly. "Skin to skin, and it's still not enough."

Her musings didn't interrupt her glorious work on my back though.

She used the heel of her hands to press down on the muscles that connected my neck to my shoulders. Something gave just underneath the surface sending a wave of pleasure up my neck. My mind drifted in and out of consciousness, and still my woman continued her work. Her hands moved carefully yet powerfully as she took the flesh of my shoulders and gripped them tightly. While she worked, she gently moved her naked sex back and forth over the rise of my butt.

She moaned slightly to her own rhythm as her fingers trailed my flanks seeking out knots and slavishly attending to my pleasure. She paused every once in a while to get more of the heated oil. And my breath went in, and my breath went out.

With a small moan, Sarah climaxed quietly as she sat on my back. The strength left her fingers, and I felt a small puddle of girl-cum accumulate along the ridge of my back. Sarah gently lowered her body so she was once again pressed against my back.

"I'm sorry for climaxing during your massage, Master," she said with a whimper. "But I couldn't help it . . ."

With one lazy arm I reached around and pulled her off my back as if she weighed nothing. She moved effortlessly inside the crook of my elbow. I pulled her into my side and silenced her by putting her head right against my side. She moaned and snuggled into me like a content kitten.

Her breathing became regular, instantly, as she sailed into uninterrupted sleep.

Then, I succumbed to sleep as well.

Chapter 4

Unconsciousness is such a strange thing. We sleep because we must, but the act itself holds so much mystery. Science has uncovered the physical aspects involved. I've read about REM sleep and brainwaves and electrical impulses.

I've read about the new sleep chambers created by NASA . . . and how they can stimulate the segments of the brain that control sleep using light therapy and sound. I know these things, and yet many still struggle to sleep. Some even struggle to stay awake.

And everybody dreams.

We lie down each night and embrace a small death. We lay unmoving, as our minds press frantic images upon us that . . . for all intents and purposes, are hallucinations.

I awoke with a start.

It wasn't a normal awakening. I didn't drift up from slumber . . . nor did any audible alarm clock ring. I simply awoke, abruptly and perfectly . . . as if I were a machine programmed to start at a certain time. Perfect, clinical clockwork.

My body felt good. That massage had worked wonders.

I took a deep breath and sighed.

The house was quiet. It was the dead of night. Sarah lay next to me. Her beautiful red hair was fanned across the sheets, and her pale breasts rose and fell softly next to me, her whisper-soft breath escaping her parted lips. My eyes trailed across her face. She looked troubled.

It was then I noticed that we were not in my bed.

Sheets and pillows had been laid down in the middle of my living room floor to create a makeshift bed. The stolen bedding didn't really ease the hard press of the wooden floor, and I could tell the dainty professional model had never before slept in such conditions.

My leather couch would be more comfortable.

I slid my arms under her warm body and lifted her like a child. Her slight weight came up easily in my embrace. Sarah's throat gave a low hum of pleasure as her face turned in sleep to press against my chest.

Small moments are where true love lies.

The walk to the couch was easy, and in no time at all I had Sarah on the sofa with a blanket and pillow. Hopefully, her own sleep would be more comfortable now. I gathered up the rest of the bedding and stowed it in the laundry room. I found my clothes from the previous day hung up on the coat rack and slipped into them.

Now I had nothing to do . . . which meant I was going to start thinking . . . and that would take me nowhere I wanted to go.

I plodded into the kitchen with thoughts of having some granola and a sleeping pill. The time above the microwave read 3:04. My microwave was exactly four minutes fast . . . so it was 3:00. Strange. I didn't feel tired, or buzzed, or hyper. I was rested and focused.

I knew what would fix that . . .

I sat at my kitchen table and poured some whiskey into a coffee mug. Behind my off-white drapes, a city that shared my insomnia glittered proudly in the night. If I strained my ears, I could hear the car horns and club music that permeated the city's nocturnal crowd.

Hmm . . . enhanced hearing as well . . . no . . . dammit, stop thinking.

The first mug of whiskey disappeared before I knew it, and pouring a second was as easy as breathing. For a few blissful moments, I managed not to think for a while.

A car alarm shattered my composure, the repetitive beeping waking the neighboring dogs who joined their barking to the city's nocturnal symphony. The thoughts returned with a vengeance, and I was suddenly confronting that which I wanted to ignore.

Something was happening to me.

I wasn't stupid . . . far from it.

I was simply scared to confront the changes I'd been noticing in myself. My mind didn't want to go over these new abnormalities it kept discovering. Ronald Turner's threats of being a brain-dead zombie kept floating to the surface of my thoughts. What if that were still coming? What if my mind couldn't handle the extra stress this chip forced on my brain?

I had told the FBI that Turner had put a chip in me, but I claimed that it failed to activate. Turner wouldn't know any better, and Carol had said nothing to give me away during questioning.

More whiskey slipped down as I speculated. I was having trouble finding my usual buzz.

Then there were the calculations.

I still remembered those moments of unending clarity. Every aspect of my surroundings had been laid bare to me. It was almost like seeing the future, written out plain in the cold longhand of probability and percentages.

I had known what I needed to do and how to do it. The chip had turned me into a supercomputer . . . an omniscient being. Escaping imprisonment and killing two armed thugs had been child's play.

I owed this chip my life . . . But now it was changing the life it had saved.

I didn't want these changes. I didn't want anything to do with neural processors.

But then you would have never met Sarah, fool, my beast whispered. Don't be so melodramatic.

I winced. I loved that girl so much it ached. I wish I could fool myself into thinking we might have met in a coffee shop by chance . . . and had fallen in love that way. The fantasy fell apart before it had even started.

It would never have happened.

Still, I wished I could do something for her. Sarah needed a life that wasn't so tightly wrapped around mine. Her separation headaches needed to be properly resolved. And I really needed to try and figure out how to focus more on the love in our relationship and less on the dominance and submission.

You like the dominance.

Shut it.

I managed three coffee mugs of whiskey and no buzz before I decided coffee wouldn't be a bad idea. Time had crawled by at a maddening pace as I brooded at my kitchen table, but I had finally decided upon a few courses of action.

I would call Jim as soon as the office opened and ask him to bring me any diagnostics on the neural processors we currently had.

It would be foolish to expect too much. The FBI had yet to lay hands on a neural processor that wasn't currently attached to a brain stem, but I knew that a few of the women we had originally saved had agreed to a few noninvasive fact-finding tests.

With the dawn of Photon-Radio Screening or PRS, it was much easier to find accurate information about the human body than with the rudimentary x-ray or CAT scans. The diagnostics should be fairly informative.

I needed to know the basics of how these things functioned.

"Coffee," I said. "French Roast, black."

A small whirring in the corner of my kitchen started up immediately.

"Voice command understood . . . brewing . . ." came the mechanical voice of my coffee maker.

My ears picked up a gentle rustling in the room next door. I listened to the pitter patter of bare feet on hardwood draw closer to the kitchen.

I turned to greet my awakened redhead.

Sarah smiled softly at me. The morning's first sunbeams had just found their way through my drapes, and they illuminated her as if she were an angel. She gracefully sunk to her knees and stared down at my feet.

"Good morning, Master," she said.

Every time my mind wavered, all it took was the sight of this beautiful, trusting girl to turn my resolve to ashes. Her entire posture oozed submission and tranquility. Firm breasts sat like high teardrops on her chest, and true red hair trailed down her flawless, alabaster skin in artful waves.

The meekest man could look upon her like this . . . and desire to dominate her.

I reached down and cupped my hand around her cheek. My fingers traced the outline of her jaw as I tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

"Good morning, dear," I said.

My voice was the cold baritone of the beast. It came so naturally now.

A small shudder moved over Sarah, and I knew my tone wasn't lost on her. She leaned into my extended hand and kissed my wrist.

"I'd like to thank you for my massage last night, little one," I said kindly.

She kept her eyes down, but her smile grew.

"It was an absolute pleasure, Master."

"Brewing complete," came the harsh mechanical voice of the coffee maker.

That thoroughly destroyed the mood.

"Real life has a way of destroying the magic," I said through a small laugh. "I think the formality of our positions has been satisfied for now. Stand up, love. Let's get you some breakfast."

Her green eyes flicked up to me. I offered her a hand, and she put her slim fingers in my grasp. I effortlessly hauled her up and into a full, standing embrace.

***

Sarah insisted on making breakfast.

A huge omelet that must have been made of at least four eggs was placed in front of me, accompanied with toast and strawberries. This was all food I didn't remember buying. I gaped at Sarah at the ridiculous amount of breakfast she had whipped up.

"You need to keep up your strength, Master," she said with a sweet smile.

"Hmm," I grumbled. "What are you eating, Ms. Gale?" I asked teasingly.

Sarah shrugged and held up an apple and chocolate milk.

"Chocolate milk?" I asked with a snort.

"Protein shake, Master," she answered warily.

"Models really do starve themselves, don't they? Why don't you have some of this big breakfast?" I said with a raised eyebrow as I pushed my plate over to her.

She sat down across from me and bit into her apple.

"I'm a girl," she said. "I don't need to eat as much as you. I'm also trying to stay skinny."

The most beautiful girl in the world, and she still had these self-image problems . . . Or maybe this was simply what taking care of yourself looked like. I wouldn't know.

"Have you been picked up by that other agency yet?" I asked through a mouthful of toast.

Sarah nodded.

"They called to confirm if I could do a small perfume shoot this afternoon . . . I told them yes." She peeked up at me from under her lashes. "Was that okay, Master?" she whispered.

I sighed and set down my fork and knife; primarily so I could talk with my hands, but also so I wouldn't stuff myself anymore.

"Sarah," I said firmly, "I told you that I would never dream of interfering with your professional life. I keep my word."

She smiled at me and took another bite of her apple.

"Thanks, Jonathan." She blinked and shook herself. "Sorry, Master. I shouldn't call you by your first name. I don't know what came over me."

Was there still a war going on in there? Had the real Sarah Gale briefly been free of the neural processor's influence?

"Forgiven," I said gently.

Sarah looked slightly startled still.

"That was the first time since I've had this chip where I didn't get a headache from calling you by your first name . . . Why is that?"

"I honestly have no idea," I replied.

I paused. Thinking.

"Sarah," I said, "I believe that I'm going to ask Jim to swing by this afternoon with some files about these chips. I know some scientists have already been going over the structure of the processors, but I think I might have an insider's perspective . . . Don't you?" I ended that last part with a smile.

Sarah giggled.

***

"This is entirely against protocol, Jon," Jim said again as he handed me another file from his messenger bag. "We could both do some serious time in the darkest hole the government can find if these got out."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come in?" I asked as I shifted uneasily on my doorstep.

Jim raked a hand through his blond hair and looked past me into the house. For a brief moment he looked like he was considering it. The man looked dead on his feet.

"Sarah's gone off to a modeling shoot, and Carol won't come out of her room," I added. I knew that the situation regarding my recent house guests left Jim uneasy.

"No, Jon, I can't . . . really, I can't," Jim said in a rush as he glanced back at his idling car, one of the new luxury Lincolns that only needed its solar cube replaced every six months.

He was already zipping up his bag and shrugging it back over his shoulder.

"I really only came down because I know it's never a good idea to refuse you help . . . even when you can't come into the office," Jim said.

"The task force there already?" I asked. I wondered if they would make trouble over how I had handled Pietro Moretti.

"They swooped in last night looking to prove something," Jim said as his mouth turned down into a frown. "They asked for every file we had on the processors, booked an interview with their creator Dr. Elijah Briggs in the insane asylum, and told everyone else to sit on their hands until they tap them in."

Shit, they were every bit as bad as we thought they'd be.

"How's Jones taking this?" I asked.

Jim shrugged.

"Like you can expect, I suppose. He was planning on releasing the details of the UniCORP case this coming Friday in a press conference, but the task force insisted on keeping the processors classified from the general public."

What did we gain from keeping it classified? A few more weeks of avoiding panic? How would people react when they discovered that not even their minds were safe from technology's grasp? I tucked the files under my arm. I was itching to read them.

"Thanks for doing this, Jim," I said. "I'll make sure to call you with anything I can think of. Keep me informed about what Moretti says about his botched information."

Jim nodded.

"I'll do that . . . and Jon?"

"Yes?"

"People over at the Bureau—and the military—are getting pretty worked up about these chips. Be glad that yours was a dud."

A dud . . . yes, of course.

I smiled as genuinely as I could.

"They are pretty scary, aren't they?"

***

Nothing . . .These files told me nothing.

Perhaps to someone who had never experienced the neural processors these files would be shocking. But I had already intuited all these pages had to offer.

Processor fused to brain stem and spinal cord by nanofibers. Unknown how the information relays are transferred between organic thought and artificial design.