She was busy, as usual, and barely noticed when he entered the guest room. He cleared his throat and tossed the cuffs on the bed. “Take a break, Tucker,” he said. “Cuffs. Scrubs, no undies. Unless you fancy having them cut off. And wear your high heels for a change.”
Surprised, she looked up, first at him then at the cuffs. Was he kidding? It was only morning. They had work to do. “Um, maybe later, sir? There’s a lot to do, and, um… you know, maybe later?”
“Now, Tucker. The work will still be there. My office, please, when you’re ready.”
‘What is he thinking? We don’t have time for this,’ Lacey protested silently. She shed her scrubs, annoyed, — shit! — and removed her underwear, then put the scrubs back on — shit shit shit! — and buckled the cuffs on her wrists and ankles. When she got to Ketchum’s office, carrying her heels, she was fairly boiling. Then she saw the chain suspended from the ceiling and paused. He had put some thought into whatever was happening. Then she noticed the OBP. She had never seen one and it was not yet fully assembled, but the basic idea was clear.
Ketchum had her put on her heels and stand on the OBP platform under the chain. She asked politely, hiding her impatience (she hoped), “Is this going to take long? We, um, have a lot to do.” Ketchum laughed and continued his work. “Relax, Tucker. You’ll thank me later.” He clipped her wrists together, then raised them over her head, pulled the chain through them and locked it to itself with a small padlock. There was just enough slack for a slight bend at the elbows. Then he gagged her, which he had never done before, and screwed the shaft of the OBP onto its base. The ‘spear’ was topped by a rabbit vibrator and came up just past her knees when Ketchum finished.
Next he clipped her ankle cuffs to fixed loops on the base before snipping a hole in the crotch of her scrub bottoms. He untied her drawstring and lowered the bottoms part way. He fed the dildo through the hole in the bottoms, then let them drop to her high heels. He paused to give her pussy a squeeze. “Hey, I forgot to tell you — Lacey looks terrific shaved!”
Ketchum talked as he finished his work. He loosened a set screw in the spear with an Allen wrench, then raised the telescoping shaft up to her pussy. “Oops, almost forgot the lube.” He painted the dildo with lube and checked its position before easing it up and into her vagina. It was cold and she shuddered. “Now, this part goes right into Lacey, and this other bit is for her clit — she’ll like that.” Satisfied with the fit, he tightened the screw and pocketed the wrench. “Now you can’t go anywhere. Cool, huh?” He moved behind her and, after applying more lube, popped another vibrator — egg-shaped with a stem — into her butt. “This one’s for Lucy.” He patted her ass with a chuckle, then pulled her scrub bottoms back up to her waist and tied the drawstring. “Almost finished.” He lifted her top and pinched her nipples to stiffen them. Lacey moaned through the gag. Satisfied, he retrieved a slender chain with nipple clamps from the desk. He clipped a clover clamp to each nipple and tugged gently to make sure they were secure. Then he pulled her top back into place. Clamped, chained, plugged, gagged and impaled, Lacey could barely move. She had stopped thinking about work. Though she trusted him, she was nervous.
Last of all, Ketchum blindfolded her. He left to fetch her phone and returned to snap some photos. Then he placed his phone, hers, and a tablet on the desk and began tapping screens. One by one Lacey felt the vibrators come alive. Dear God, vibrators. Ketchum fiddled with the controls and the vibrators responded, shifting modes and intensities. At one point, Ketchum said ‘testing’ and watched Lacey for a reaction. She, meanwhile, sank into a trance, with the toys just active enough to induce a sweet, suspended oblivion. She didn’t need the blindfold; she would have closed her eyes anyway. Ketchum then moved Lacey’s phone and the tablet out of sight on a shelf and left with his own phone. She barely heard the door close.
Lacey stood in a languorous stupor for fifteen minutes before she heard the doorbell. It brought her sharply out of her sexual fog and into a semi-panic. It had to be Rose returning. Please, no. What if she comes in?
It was Olivia. She glared at Ketchum when he opened the front door. “Where’s Lacey?” she snapped and stepped past him into the house. “Do come in,” Ketchum said mildly. “Is she expecting you?”
“Where is she, asshole?”
Ketchum indicated the closed door to the study. “I don’t think she was expecting visitors.”
Olivia did not reply but strode to the door and pushed it open. “Lacey! Jesus!” Immediately the vibrator buried in Lacey buzzed louder. She moaned and squirmed a bit.
“Lacey! What the fuck!!” The buzzing grew again. Olivia had a nearly overwhelming urge to find Ketchum and punch him, but instead rushed to Lacey’s aid, removing the blindfold first. When Lacey saw her, her eyes grew wide. Olivia removed the gag and Lacey blurted, “Liv, shit! What are you doing here?” The buzzing in her pussy intensified again, and now the egg in her ass jumped as well.
“You told me to come! You texted me!” The vibrators sang.
“Oh God.” Lacey responded to the stimulation. Then she said, “No, I didn’t,” trying to process what was happening.
“The fuck!! Shithead did then! Where is he?” she demanded. More buzzing.
“They’re voice activated,” Lacey said carefully.
“What’s voice activated?!” The toys jumped and jerked in a swelling chorus.
“The toys,” Lacey said, in a near-whisper.
“What toys?” Olivia demanded in exasperation. Lacey twitched when the toys responded yet again.
“In me.” She could barely speak. “Lacey and Lucy. Oh Jesus,” she moaned.
“WHO THE FUCK IS LUCY?!!” Olivia fairly shouted, but she was beginning to figure it out — Lacey had a vibrator or something buried in her in addition to the obvious visible restraints. Awakening to the situation, she looked for ways to be useful, to free Lacey. But how?
Olivia’s last outburst had sent the egg into a mad fit. Lacey clenched her eyes shut; she knew what was going to happen and decided she ought to enjoy it, or at least pay attention to the sensations Ketchum had engineered.
“Try lifting up with your arms, maybe you can get off of it.” Olivia suggested. Lacey ignored her. She didn’t want to get off — at least not in the way Olivia meant. She wanted to come and knew it wasn’t that far away. Oh…shitshitshitshitshit…
“Fuck me…” Olivia muttered, watching — with fascination — as her impaled friend slid toward a climax that was fast becoming inevitable.
“Liv…” Lacey said quietly.
“Yes. What?” Lacey didn’t respond. “What?!” Olivia repeated. The vibrators leapt again.
“Take my shirt off,” Lacey managed to blurt.
“The fuck? How? You’re tied…”
“Rip it. Cut it… whatever. Just get it off!”
Olivia looked around and saw scissors on the desk. She grabbed them and cut the scrub from the bottom up to the V and discovered the nipple clamps. “Jesus.” She tossed the scissors back to the desk.
“Is it off?” Lacey gasped.
“Yes. Well, it’s open. Yes.”
“Liv…” Lacey was distracted by the orgasm that was stalking her.
“Yes! What?!” The vibrators intensified.
“Liv…”
“Jesus. Yes, I’m here, what?!”
“When I tell you, pull them off.”
Olivia knew about clover clamps and understood what Lacey wanted. “Okay.”
“Okay?” as if Liv hadn’t heard, and to make sure.
“Yes, goddammit, okay!” The toys went berserk.
Lacey never opened her eyes but mumbled a train of random obscenities. At last, the wave hit her. Afraid she was too late, she shouted at Olivia. “NOW!” Olivia ripped the clips off and Lacey’s tits caught fire where the clamps had pinched her. Her orgasm exploded. SHIT!! She hadn’t been too late. She convulsed. She was squirting. Or peeing. Or both. She didn’t care. She shook and sprayed spasmodically. Her scrub bottoms turned dark from the flood. Lacey’s whole body jerked — “Mother FUCKER!!” — just before her knees buckled. Her face was twisted, her mouth open, she threw her head from side to side making guttural noises. Olivia watched with awe. From the other room, Ketchum figured the peak was passing and tapped his phone to begin easing down the three vibrators.
When Lacey eventually calmed down, Olivia asked, “Are you okay?”
Lacey hung from her wrists, her scrub pants still dripping. Now she understood why Ketchum had suspended her; he expected her knees might not hold her. Eventually, she managed half a laugh. “God. Am I still here?”
“I’m not sure I can get you off that thing,” Olivia said cautiously.
“It’s okay. I’m good. I’m… oh, sweet Jesus, Liv…I’m good.”
Olivia was persuaded to leave after Lacey promised to call if she had any problems. Ketchum, seated in the living room, watched Olivia make for the door to let herself out. At the door she turned to confront him. “That was…okay, that was…Jesus…” She stopped, unable to say what it was. She shifted to a threat. “If you ever hurt her…” She pointed a threatening finger, but finally dropped it to ask, “Where did you get that thing?”
Ketchum smiled. “It’s called a one-bar-prison.”
“I know what it is. Where did you get it?”
Ketchum was vague. “The internet.” Olivia left in a huff but was impressed.
Ketchum walked to the office to free Lacey. When he came in, carrying a robe and towel, she managed a drained smile. He smiled back. “I told you you’d thank me.” She closed her eyes and nodded. “You did. And I guess I do.” Then she added, “I’m sort of messy. Sorry.” He freed her from the OBP and removed the toys and wet pants but left her in high heels, suspended by her wrists. Stepping behind her, he cupped a buttock. “Can Dan say hello to Lacey?” he asked. “Lacey would love it, sir,” she replied.
They both sighed contentedly as Dan took his pleasure. When she thought he might be close, Lacey interrupted. “Permission to speak, sir.”
“Yes?” Ketchum paused mid-thrust.
“Um, can Lucy have a turn, sir?” Ketchum obliged and Lacey used what little slack there was in her bindings to bob and squat on Dan until he and Lucy were satisfied.
There followed mundane cleanup chores — Ketchum restored the office to a utilitarian workspace while Lacey showered and donned clean scrubs. The subsequent transition back to work was surprisingly brisk. Each finished a project already begun; Lacey completed agreed-upon changes to an essay while Ketchum reviewed her notes about the ‘dialog’ between two essays. Then both moved to new chores. Lacey assembled makings for supper — chicken legs braised in wine with mushrooms and herbs. Ketchum returned at last to his research on Sophie.
They started supper late. By then they were so far beyond the recent nympho adventure that it was hardly mentioned. Ketchum commented that he hoped Olivia hadn’t been scarred by it. Lacey laughed and predicted that Liv had already ordered ‘one of those gizmos’ for herself. It was Ketchum who brought up Sophie.
“So, you were right,” he began. “The only source for Sophie’s so-called limitations is Novalis’s biographer, who was also a close friend. Everyone cites him, or someone else who cited him, or no one at all. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” Ketchum cautioned. “He knew everybody — he was there for everything.”
Lacey sighed. “Okay, sure, he was there. But he was Novalis’s friend. He probably hated her, was jealous of her. So one man disses her — one man — and all of a sudden she’s a half-wit.”
“She was at least uneducated, Tucker. She was twelve, she was a child! Novalis supposedly undertook to make something of her during their engagement. Sort of a Pygmalion project.”
Lacey slapped the table in disgust. “When did Mozart live? He was a contemporary, right? Same time, same place?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Was he ‘educated’ when he started composing at five? He was writing operas at Sophie’s age. Who educated him? Why is he a genius and she’s a dope?”
“Okay, fair point. But Sophie didn’t write operas. She wasn’t writing anything. Hell, Novalis wasn’t either. Sophie was already dead before he wrote anything significant.”
Lacey shook her head. “You say that like it proves something, Ketch. But think about it. Here’s this guy, he produces nothing significant. He meets her and he’s gobsmacked. Possessed. She dies and all of a sudden he’s the great Novalis. He didn’t make her — she made him.
Ketchum was silent. Lacey pressed her point. “When did he write the Hymns, Ketch? Right after she died, right? Granted they’re not ‘about’ her, but they are hers.” When Ketchum did not reply, Lacey offered another take. “Look, I’m not taking anything away from Novalis, okay? He got it. He understood her better than anyone. And he’s been trying to tell the rest of us for 200 years.”
The conversation petered out because Ketchum was thinking about it. It was disorienting. It took effort to grab and organize the ideas that flitted into his thoughts. Satisfied that he was thinking, not sulking, Lacey left him alone. When she left for the night, she said plainly, “I’m not trying to be a witch, Ketch. I just think there’s an opportunity there.” He was mute, but agreed.
The Last Week
Lacey returned home, but for the first time, they worked together through the weekend. There was a steady stream of texts and emails and two long phone calls. There was also a deadline — Ketchum had informed her at supper Friday that he had only a week of leave left. The following Monday he had to be back in the office for some all-hands bullshit.
As Ketchum’s ideas crystalized, he realized that he needed to revise almost everything he’d already written. He caught glimpses of Sophie everywhere, especially in the essays, but even in the translated poems. To change a word in a poem is significant; to change a line is huge.
It was slow work. Ketchum walked. Not for a break, but to concentrate, to examine his thinking. He never went far in case he needed to hurry back to the laptop. He began carrying a notebook and pencil, lest he forget or misremember a word or phrase that came to him. He would not have known it was Monday except that Lacey showed up. She quickly perceived his state and tried to remain unobtrusive unless he sought her out.
By Tuesday he hadn’t slept much, but he had gotten a lot done. As he made revisions, he turned each piece over to Lacey; once in a while he would urgently demand it back to make yet another change. Though he had done a lot, there was yet more to do because he had begun a whole new essay. Unsure of where it was going or even whether he would finish it, he didn’t tell Lacey about it until Tuesday evening at supper, during a fortifying break she insisted he take. “I don’t know if I’ll finish it,” he warned her, as someone does who fears an unavoidable disappointment. Lacey nodded. “Okay, we’ll see,” she said simply. It was kinder to be non-committal than to offer phony reassurance. In any case, she knew the larger project was secure. What he’d already completed was impressive enough.
Ketchum worked through Tuesday night, Wednesday, and Wednesday night. He would sit and think, sit and write, walk and think, start over. Sometimes he walked for as much as an hour before writing a sentence. Then walk again. It occurred to him Wednesday night that he’d not tasted Scotch since last Friday.
When Lacey showed up Thursday morning the house was quiet. Was he out? Sleeping? She walked through the rooms, seeing signs of his having been there, but not finding him. She stopped at his bedroom door and knocked softly. “Ketch? Are you there?” She heard a stirring. “Are you okay?”
Ketch’s voice came back, surprisingly clear. “It’s done. It’s on the drive.” A moment later he added, “I need a little nap.”
Lacey read the new essay while Ketchum slept. It was, in most respects, unlike anything she could have expected. It was written in the first person, but the voice wasn’t Ketchum’s, it was Sophie’s father’s, von Kühn’s, writing 35 years after her death — 30 after Novalis’s — as he was stalked by his own demise. It told of a father’s anguished search for his departed daughter. His daughter, who by fate had encountered the man von Hardenberg, a man who perceived in her a spark of the universal and who pursued it, pursuing her. His daughter, who had given the man vision and hearing and understanding. Had she not, truly, given birth? His daughter, who by God’s faultless will had suffered and most painfully died. And who, dying, bequeathed to the man a soul, the soul of Novalis. Novalis died also, but his soul lived, and his was hers. The voice shifted then to von Kühn’s mortal despair as his life’s journey reached the punishing end ordained by God. It would end, he knew, before he found her. How must he seek her after his own death, how may the dead seek the dead? How does one search the ether? What souls hide among the stars? And would Sophie vouchsafe to her poor father, who wept for her still, a sliver, a kernel, a gleaming mote of the eternal? He feared not, and knew it to be his damnation.
Lacey sat in the kitchen with the essay, rereading bits and thinking for a long time. It was weird but felt authentically old and German. She heard in it von Kühn, Novalis, and, at last, Sophie. Staring at her screen, she also saw something new. The idea became clearer and she rose suddenly. Standing at the counter, she transferred the essay to a new file and began cutting and pasting.
She was nearly finished when Ketchum woke. He went to the kitchen intending to get water and discovered Lacey. She glanced at him and raised a hand, asking for patience. Ketchum went to the living room and sat where he could watch her. As he watched, Dan stirred, and the longer he gazed at her, the harder and more insistent Dan became. Pursuing an impish urge, Ketchum doffed his trousers and boxers and stole into the kitchen. Lacey knew he was there but did not look up. “I’m almost done,” she pleaded, when Ketchum pressed himself into her back, making sure Dan goosed her. She couldn’t stifle a giggle, “Seriously, I’m almost done…” Dan wiggled insistently and she succumbed, saying, “Oh, all right! Just a quickie.” And dropped her scrub bottoms. “Lacey or Lucy, sir?”
Ketchum eased her panties down and Dan slid politely into Lacey. Ketchum ached to be inside her just then, but he was gentle. Dan explored Lacey tenderly, holding nearly still except for the steady throbbing of the vessels than engorged him. Slowly he began to rock, in strokes barely perceptible, as though breathing rather than fucking. A little deeper, then more gentle breathing. And more still until Dan finally, quietly, spurted in Lacey’s soft embrace. Ketchum left Dan where he was; Lacey didn’t move either. At length he sighed, withdrew, and pulled up her panties. She raised her scrubs bottom and neatly tied the drawstring.
Gratified by the interlude, both were silent until Lacey pointed at her computer. “I’ve been going through your seventh essay, the last one.”
“And?”
“It’s different. Perfect, sort of…It’s just not…”
“Yeah, I know…”
“Well, I decided it’s not really an essay.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it’s a poem. You wrote a seventh Hymn, Ketch, not a seventh essay. Look,” she stepped to the side and pointed at her screen. “All I did was reformat it. Like blank verse. It practically scans.” He stared at her screen, reading. Watching him, she asked, “You didn’t know that?”
“No.” He smiled weakly. “An accident, I guess.”
“Look, Ketch, it’s amazing, like I said. But I can’t edit it. I’m not qualified, and I don’t want to mess it up. The right editor needs to see it just like you wrote it…”