Готовый перевод Ведомый / Follower: 9.

10.

* * *

The creatures that crawled out of the gap on the man's body were in a three-dimensional state for insignificant moments. They were immediately attracted, as if by a magnet, to the floor, walls, ceiling, door frame, and even the door, to any smooth and flat surface. They immediately appeared as pictures. Approximately the same as the one he saw in the apartment of his classmates, only these were even fresher, more mobile, as if pumped with force. The vessels of Elizaveta Albertovna washing in the shower blazed like three bright pearls when the wave of the Other Side abomination reached her, too. The Shroud in his pocket hissed, almost cracking from the strain, when the creatures together and in unison looked at Igor with their painted eyes, trying either to scan or curse. For a moment, a strange heaviness fell upon him, as if he had become weightless and flat, as if he was about to turn into a picture.

Well, yes, they took him for a complete lack of gift. He rolled up his protection into a closed form of disguise, and did not get out of it, and did not bother with this setting on the ally. Or rather, not in this iteration. That is why they tried to either captivate him, or immediately turn him into another creature, flat, flattened, living in a two-dimensional world, fervently hating all those who have three dimensions, wanting to tear and torment them. For a moment he felt this flatness, this alienation of being in such a state, and then the shine burned away the haze and obsession, returning consciousness to an optimal state. Not a moment had passed, as Igor simply slammed the door, stepping back, but not to break the distance, but rather, not wanting to make the battle public property. And let's be honest, not wanting to let the residents of the house get to know the flat freaks more closely, he already had enough of his almost dead classmates.

And it would be fine if the little man had stepped back, running away from the dangerous and powerful creature, but no! This impudent individual grabbed the door-asshole by the collar, piercing the dense and hard flesh with white glowing fingers, clinging to it as if it were ordinary fabric. And then he pulled the freak in after him, which caused not even surprise, but genuine bewilderment in the one who controlled this doll. Precisely a doll, since there was no life left in this walking portal, but there was a will, someone else's will, which Igor felt in his gut, pressing with its presence straight from the crack in the flesh. This will flow along with the stench of the Other Side, it pierced every single one of the picture freaks with a network, it was like viscous glue and mucus that holds this entire crowd together into a single and relatively effective mechanism. In general, it was felt even without heightened intuition.

And the modified eyes, it was only necessary to apply a drop of power that flowed from the Vessels to them, similar to how this power is applied to the reagents of ritual drawing, so in the head, there immediately appeared short images-markers describing his opponents. Well, just like in the system help, although without the help, it was more like an assessment of the degree of danger and a short distillate of nature-essence. So, most of the pictures that crawled along the walls or crawled through the cracks of the door from the entrance were described as "Careless Outline, Zero Step, Desecrated by the Mystery", but this is more about the first creatures that crawled out of the doors right away. The later ones, emerging right before his eyes, were denser, brighter, more dangerous, and were already called “Clear Outline, First Step, Desecrated by the Mystery,” and the door-man was even called “Fragile Easel, First Step, Desecrated by the Mystery.”

A muffled cry came from the shower, in which he seemed to hear something that he had never heard from Elizaveta Albertovna, and a moment later, she appeared in his field of vision, covered in soapy foam, covered with a thin robe put on over that foam. Igor was completely focused on the combat situation and only thanks to this, as well as the even greater increase in the characteristics of the body and spirit after the breakthrough to the first stage, he managed not to get stuck on the naked chest of the image of his teenage fantasies, which fell out of the robe and now delighted the world with its beauty. Instead of getting stuck on the boobs, he simply and unpretentiously kicked the easel-man, right in the side, breaking the ossifying body before his eyes, bending the portal body inward.

There is nothing there, in the portal, only a continuous surface of seething multi-colored paints, as if someone had poured it into the container, but for some reason, they do not mix. And this surface shimmered from the kick of a not very athletic young man, reinforced by the shine. Notes of whiteness appeared in it, which became a real toxic poisoning, since the paints immediately hissed, and the outline crawling through the portal seemed to fade right before our eyes, became covered in white spots, and died, releasing a little rainbow. A repeated kick, a fist, and even a bream with a palm chipped off the bone material of the easel-frame, introducing an even stronger imbalance into the portal, until it cracked, until it burst, dousing Igor and the surrounding environment with a stream of abomination. The abomination was stopped by the protection, having sunk its first layer by almost half, and the chosen protection was the one that Igor had set up to resist chemical and acid threats, curses, and temperature changes.

Well, yes, for all these types of damage at once. Yes, not as effective as using a single specification, but it only has five barrier layers, not five hundred. He hardly guessed even a little about the temperature differences, but the curse and purely chemical-poisonous abomination were definitely present in this shit. Throwing the cracking bone frame to the very door, Igor steps back when a huge picture-creature from a good ten outlines of the zero and a couple of those of the first Step suddenly froze, as if thinking, almost embracing the young man with its multiple tentacles. Paws of animals, limbs of people, and other phantasmagoria intertwined in one hybrid image, so it was unrealistic to recognize which images became the basis of the collective creature. He does not recognize it, only jumps back, mentally thanking his ally for pausing the creature in time. He jumps back and then picks up a shoe shovel, light and plastic, and throws it at the center of the creature, holding it in his hands for only a second.

In that second, he concentrated all the power of the shine in a piece of black plastic, conducting through it all the free force of the Vessel occupied by the shine. The shovel in an instant became not black, but blindingly white, and Igor even managed to adjust the damage of the whiteness to a minimum of physics and a maximum of energy damage. He hit. He also guessed the type of attack, because from the place of contact with the shovel, whole waves of whiteness went, as if a drop of white paint was poured into a glass of water. The creatures disintegrated into separate fragments instantly, but only one, the farthest outline, managed to survive at least the first second of poisoning by the whiteness. Igor appreciated this moment, even applauded himself, but Elizaveta not only appreciated it, but also extrapolated, pushing him in the shoulder and ordering in a demanding tone:

"Do the same for me!" Somehow, he immediately and clearly understood that she meant setting up the glow functions and, ignoring the first tentacles of ink that reached his amulet-covered legs, he carried out her order. "Now repeat after me!"

And she was the first to throw herself at the wall of the corridor, starting... to slap her palms on the paintings. For a moment, a shameful and very long moment. Igor is desperately dumbfounded before it dawns on him. And then he simply joins in the celebration. Hop. A slap of the palm on the woman in the torn polka-dot dress with the face of a marten crawling towards the ceiling, and she falls apart, eaten away by the whiteness. Bang. The textbook witch who eats children, flying in a mortar, bursts from the contact, because pieces of arms and legs are visible from her bag hanging on her shoulder, from which bones stick out and scraps of meat are visible. Smack. The cute hippopotamus with knives, saws, and other sharp objects sticking out of it spreads out like a puddle, trying to throw these inky projectiles at him, which become material at the moment of attack. Plop. A teenager in a spider web sweater with thin, thin teeth, as if made of whalebone, tears like a ball of chewing gum.

The creatures were crawling right at them, as if under a spell, as if they had no other purpose than to attack Igor and Elizaveta Albertovna. A wild contrast to how Yuri described "his" picture, but here, most likely, it was precisely the frame that served to control the creatures. And the creatures themselves were stuffed with power, but it seemed simpler than that zombie captain. A remake, so to speak, a fresh and untrained batch of aggressive images, damn. A couple of the Exalting Ones slapped, stamped their feet, and jumped up to the ceiling, touching the creatures that had climbed up there with their palms, trying to hit from a distance. The damned painted Cupid was staring straight into the eyes, such a bastard. It's not dangerous for the protection, but he reflexively cover himself and twitches.

The creatures also tried to curse. A whole series of attacks were burned by the shine when they passed the protection, like the trick of that weird guy in a magician's costume with a huge caramel lollipop. The lollipop had a toxic-bright hypnotic spiral painted on it, and he, like Elizabeth, got stuck on this crap for a moment before the shine burned out the effect. Many pictures had exotic properties, but Igor's trump cards simply had nothing to beat them with. A bunch of two shining Tablets was quite an imba.

Frankly speaking, the greatest damage was caused to him by the presence of Elizaveta Albertovna, who, of course, slowed down the fastest creatures with a pause, but her soapy breasts, not covered by her open and almost falling robe, distracted him now and then. Add to this the cramped hallway, where even two people can hardly pass each other, especially during active physical activity. In general, at that moment, when she, taking advantage of her height, jumped up and hit the drawings crawling there with her palm, he barely restrained himself from dislocating his neck.

No, he's not a pervert, but how they jumped!

Up and down.

Up and down.

Fortunately, nothing lasts forever, and neither does the supply of creatures that attacked them and didn't even try to escape. Or, perhaps, they simply didn't notice how some of the drawings were dumped in cracks and crevices, but Igor didn't want to think about it. One way or another, but at some point, both of them, breathing heavily and looking around in a daze, found themselves in the middle of a destroyed hallway, where everything was stained with paint that smelled of the Other Side, which didn't even touch their bodies, pushing off with a protection and burning with shine With a quiet crack, the bone easel of the walking variety stirred, spreading its arms wider, as if trying to turn around. In the warped and cracked frame, the ink portal began to bubble again, and a voice came from it. Not a mystical and terrible voice from the depths of the chthonic abyss, but an old, grumbling and trembling, quite human voice.

"I'll see you later, bitch-h-h-h." He streched last sound not like Voldemort in the film, but humanly, like an angry, panting asshole with a shortness of breath. "You'll end up like those two pricks. You too, you little shit. You know how her last crew died, don't you? I drew their sketches from their corpses! I questioned them well! You know what's in store for you, sucker, huh?"

Igor didn't know, but he certainly didn't want to maintain a dialogue with a freak who was obviously unable to attack, but wanted to at least shit. And he was also uncomfortable with the fact that Elizaveta Albertovna had turned pale from that voice and his words, looking almost frightened for the first time since the beginning of their interaction. He could not have imagined that the massacre, during which her partners had been killed, would have such an effect on the poor woman, who had hitherto shown exceptional composure and concentration. And he certainly did not want the woman who had done so much good to him and with whom he would fight side by side many times to be intimidated and morally crushed by some sinister scum who had sold himself out to the Other Side.

One, and he spent two vessels to activate the area protection overlaid all over the hallway, exactly along the line of the walls, closing the energy trace first of all. Two, and he casts a shine on a shoe shovel picked up from the floor, this time a different one, not plastic, but iron, but that will do. Three, and the shoe shovel-grenade that has become the portable source of the shine stops shining as he makes that shine as inert and dormant as possible. Four, and he throws the projectile straight into the portal, and it flies through it, straight through to the other side. For a moment, it has become almost the most ordinary thing, without toxic-burning properties. Five, he listens to himself, sensing his shineblade a few kilometres southwest of his current location. Six, he, without wasting a moment, activates the detonation function in its maximum active phase.

A blindingly bright and hard beam struck from the instantly collapsed breach-portal, leaving an ugly cut on the ceiling of the hallway. Igor hoped it hadn't reached the top floor, because it was a couple of palms deep. And if it did, he hoped that the neighbours from above had already successfully left the city and would not complain to them. A moment more, there were plenty of full Vessels, and he cast a new shine on the floorboards in the hallway, ensuring that all the paint began to burn in an invisible fire, sizzling and evaporating like ordinary water in a frying pan. The bone frame, by the way, also began to bubble, to fizzle out like a wax candle.

"I will direct most of the mist stream at you." He's already doing just that, using the active binding thread, distorting the exp as much as Modification of First Rank allowed. "You'd do well to build up your Step potential as soon as possible, it's a good way to deal with any shocks, and I'm thinking faster now. By the way, I'm sure I got the bastard, but if he survived... you might want to move somewhere else. Yeah, me, too, I guess. Oh, one more thing. I'm kind of embarrassed to say."

"What exactly do you want to say?" In a smooth and calm tone, in which I could sense great tension and even fear, the woman asked, while he stared at the wall and not at her, which made her darken and tense, as if she believed that he was about to send her away and say, "Let's run away, because your adventures are too cool for me. "I am listening attentively and ready to discuss any reasonable compensation....."

"Elizaveta Albertovna!" He interrupts her solely because the woman looks as if she expects him to kill her any minute. "Cover yourself, please!"

Judging by her reaction, she was simultaneously incredibly relieved, which he didn't dare ask, not wanting to be impolite, a slight shadow of embarrassment, and a fair amount of ironic amusement. But yes, she covered herself with her dressing gown and leaned against the wall, feverishly absorbing the rainbow mist directed towards her. Igor tried to send more of it to her, but considering that most of the creatures were destroyed by his contribution, even with the intentional skewing, he couldn't get less than a third of the mist. He could have skewed the division of shares more, but then she wouldn't have gained anything; he'd only be depriving himself of free and fairly earned exp.

They stood like that for a few minutes, waiting for a visit from the neighbours or the arrival of the special forces trying to take them by force, or something else. He didn't know what Elizaveta Albertovna was thinking. She didn't share her thoughts, but the young man tried to stop blushing, remembering how her huge breasts swayed in movement, crowned with dark-pink nipples tensed from the cold, the edge of the areola even now peeking out from behind the hollow of the not fully wrapped dressing gown. I tried to stop thinking about how beautifully they bounced. Up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down....

* * *

"Your bedroom is to the left, and mine is to the right." Elizaveta Albertovna points out in a businesslike manner as soon as they enter the apartment and throw their uncomfortable bags on the floor. "The Internet must be paid for, the Wi-Fi password is on a piece of paper, the piece of paper is on the kitchen door. Make yourself at home, make yourself at home."

It sounded ironic, considering the cramped and modest furnishings, which could not be compared with the well-furnished apartment of his partner. After all, this living space officially belonged to Elizaveta's former colleague, who was hanging out in Spain for seven years. The woman conscientiously paid for utilities and maintained the house in order, keeping it as a backup option in case living at the official address became undesirable, or even simply dangerous. Well, like now. As she said, any good lawyer should have a place where you can stay a week or two, hold an undocumented meeting, or store important documents while people in masks are operating in the office. And even if there is no such place, it is only because the lawyer is inexperienced and has not yet smelled the gunpowder of his hard work.

They got ready quickly, not waiting for the morning, because there was no guarantee that the blow from the shoe shovel had killed the damn portrait painter. Just as there were no exact coordinates of his lair. No matter how hard Igor tried, he could only localize the direction and a very approximate distance. Somewhere beyond the boulevard avenue, along countless streets and alleys. It was not even clear whether it was a multi-story building or a private house. It would take a long time to find a solitary and inconspicuous lair there, especially if there were only two of you. Yes, yes, Evgeny still hadn’t responded, the message wasn’t even marked as read. In a different situation, an Internet search might have helped, just to check if a destructive explosion with a white flash had been seen anywhere. But recently, the network had been working frankly badly, and local news portals, groups, and publics had simply stopped working or were blocked for distributing illegal content.

The city was increasingly moving towards a state of siege, patrols were already stationed in every alley in the center, and the outskirts were turning into zones for soldiers from nearby and not-so-nearby military units. Shots were heard regularly. Problems with heating and electricity were also multiplying; people were no longer even leaving, but were simply trying to escape from the city, as best they could. In the center, humanitarian aid points were appearing here and there, where they helped those who had no heat or electricity to warm up or recharge their batteries. Local and not-so-local deputies, of course, categorically used this as a PR tool and forbade pouring tea or coffee unless the logo of the ruling party, which had been in power for several years, was pasted on the coffee machine. Well, in general, pure classics. Oh yeah, and from all the channels still working, they were talking about the upcoming evacuation, the need to leave, climate anomalies, and a record high number of attacks by wild animals.

They tried to hide the mystical situation carefully, but something was still leaking out, no matter how hard they blocked the communication channels. Perhaps, the complete destruction of communication in the city could have helped, but the decision-makers were clearly afraid of panic. Or they simply did not dare, following the eternal and ineradicable "what if something happens?"

Tired and exhausted from the hassle, the two Exalted were barely able to drag their hastily collected things into the cold apartment and then take turns soaking in the shower. Igor got barely warm water. They were stopped a couple of times, asked about the reasons for their trip, and demanded some documents. They were lucky that the soldiers at the posts themselves clearly did not quite understand what they were demanding. So Elizaveta managed to slip into a tale each time about taking her nephew to her place. Since the heat in his house had disappeared. Igor, looking miserable and sleepy even without unnecessary pretense, only nodded in confirmation, after which they were let through and ordered not to wander around in the dark and not to wander around at all. Well, it’s better for them to come across gapers who don’t even check your passport than really meticulous officials with a notebook.

"Something must be done about it." That was all he said, sitting in an old but soft armchair, clutching a cup of black tea, strong and bitter despite the sugar. "A little more and we'll be stuck here, or we won't be able to leave without suspicion. I've already told you about the asshole with the pet Exalted checking the flats, but they might do something else. We need to close the Step, Elizabeth Albertovna, and then we need to get out of here. What about the Step, by the way?"

"A little over eight hundred out of a thousand." She answered grimly and impassively, glancing up with unfocused eyes. "That's a remarkable growth, young man. My sincere thanks to you. I share your point of view as well, especially given your Gift and the ability to develop the Tablets on your own, but it still seems a mistake to run away from here. This is where all the lines converge; this is where our future is, whatever it may be. Or maybe it's the greed in me, multiplied by a rush of adrenaline addiction."

" The artist has to shut his mouth anyway." He's talking about a very unpleasant subject, which he can't shut up about anyway. "If he actually managed to talk to the dead, learning from your dead partners what they knew, that's not good. He knows where you live, your appearance, and even your name. With a minimum of brains and a bit of money, an address alone is enough to find your details. Mine too, to be honest."

Silence wraps the time-worn living room in a heavy blanket, while each of them thinks about something else. Igor hypnotises the carpet on the wall with his gaze, the sheer beauty and pride of all Soviet wall carpets; Elizaveta Albertovna stares out the inky-black window. At some point, the streetlights stopped working, but he couldn't remember when exactly that happened. They had both discussed it before, while they were still getting ready, both realising that they needed to look for an artist after all. Both of them were reluctant to go into battle alone, and neither of them had been able to find anyone he knew. So, it will have to comb the area in which he sensed his bomb-shovel before detonation. Well, this is in the worst case, because Elizaveta Albertovna also made several calls to old acquaintances, looking for information about where exactly can live or hide mad artist who moved out of the house.

They initially destroyed his workshop, where he traded his works, sometimes giving them away for free. Then, having broken the remote puppet-molbert, the three of them went to his flat, because it was not difficult to find the address of this individual for someone with Elizaveta Albertovna's connections. And there, at the long-abandoned flat, which had been abandoned for at least a month, they were ambushed quite well. The portrait frames disguised under the pattern on the wallpaper turned out to be portals-breaks, and from the neighbouring flats also came abris, covering two militant comrades of Elizaveta, who, as it is supposed to a sensor, went last and therefore managed to escape. And not without wounds, blood loss, and a lethal dose of Other Side energy injected through the clawed paw. It was lucky the bastard didn't know how to attack through blood, or the blood started dripping in the car, initially absorbed by the thick down jacket.

They talked for quite some time. Igor even dozed off at the end, and then they went to their sleeping places, and Igor was sure that both of them would sleep with weapons at hand. In this house, the shoe shovel was long, half a metre almost, made of a thin strip of steel. If anything happened, the damage from one of those, even without the shine, could be fatal. The woman still had her pistol, which she also slept with, though not in her arms, but kept close to her on the nightstand. Lying in bed and looking up at the dark ceiling, Igor thought that he was, in principle, a very lucky individual. Simply because all those who were less lucky would have died ten times over in his place, no superpowers would have helped. And he is alive, healthy, free and has entered into an alliance with an excellent partner, and also saw her big naked tits ... that last thought came out like a quintessence of Spanish shame and cringe all at once.

However, it was impossible to unthink what he had thought of, and Igor's mind began to replay the moments of his interactions with Elizaveta Albertovna, in which he could appreciate her appearance, her figure.... He fidgeted on the spot, unable to sleep, struggling not with anxious thoughts, but sudden excitement. Wrapping himself in the fresh sheets of his bed, opening and closing the covers, he tried to banish the persistent images from his mind, but it didn't work. Glancing towards the open doors, both still open, for fear of not hearing a disturbing sound or something else, the young man reached for his smartphone, burning with shame. Judging by the flickering lights in the room across the hall, the woman he was thinking dirty thoughts about was also awake, but he was sure she wouldn't pay any attention to the noise he was making, nor would he.

Opening the archive of saved links in his messenger, he was about to select some suitable film composition, and was surprised to note a few recently saved files. Apparently, he'd downloaded them for himself and stored them in his memory to look at later. He couldn't for the life of him remember exactly when... oh, no, it was just a couple of days ago, after the brightening of the Tablets. Opening the first file and turning up the sound, Igor tries to get away from his thoughts, watching a simple plot in which a female psychotherapist hypnotises a patient and then rides him. Or, here, a sorceress- fortune-teller, enchanting with magic a guy who came to find out his fate, convincing him that she is his fate, and now let him get under the table and lick her magic pussy. Another file, now a comic book, in which a young archaeological scientist is taken captive by some jungle savages, subjugating him with voodoo sorcery and making him a tribal bovine. A story with illustrations, in the style of a Victorian mago-punk, in which a very busty milf in a lush corset, remotely resembling Elizabeth Albertovna, pours a love elixir to a young prince.

More, more, more...

Igor does not notice how he falls deeper and deeper into the ‘stories’, looking through the almost full memory of the phone with keen interest. The blanket is thrown on the floor, he sits on the bed and doesn't even try to hide his actions, for Elizaveta Albertovna doesn't hear him, doesn't see him, doesn't understand what he is doing. Even if she went into his room to look for some things in the wardrobe, he could not stop looking, not stop what he was doing, because she did not see his actions. If she did, then yes, he would die of shame, but she doesn't, and he keeps squeezing himself through the fabric of his pants as if trying to fuck those women in the videos, in the pictures, in the stories. Powerful and conniving, busty and beautiful, experienced and adult women.

"Thank you, sorry to wake you up, Igor. Good night." She says goodbye, stopping in the doorway and looking somewhere else, not at him, and he can only mumble something in reply, continuing to thrust and read another ‘masterpiece’ of someone's perverted mind. "Are you okay? Are you breathing weird?"

Oh, if she only knew the reason! If only she could see it, but he had no right to show himself to her as such a pervert, unable to stop hand-fucking even in the same room as her. He takes his eyes off the screen and looks at the woman standing in the doorway, looking directly not at him, dressed only in a thin tank top and pyjama shorts, sees how the tank top tightens around her breasts, how her nipples are translucent standing out in the cold air, how her palm strokes one breast with absolute precision while the other is hidden under the shorts, moving in a characteristic rhythm. He sees her lip nowhere bitten down in orgasm, her eyes slightly rolled back, her cheeks flushed, he sees her and can't stand it, for he's not iron after all.

"N-no, it's all good." The orgasm wasn't sudden, it was literally long-awaited, and it was strange to Igor that he hadn't cum sooner, spurting his semen right into the fabric of the underwear that hadn't been pulled down, spurting, it seemed, along with all his remaining strength. "It's just... it's a little stuffy... but it's all right now. It's good."

He falls asleep under her attentive gaze. Of course, she didn't see him orgasm. She still hasn't realised anything, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he even wants her to see it, to know how much he desires her, how much he wants her soft and so beautiful body. When he closes his eyes, of course, he sees her not leaning towards him, not picking up with a small handkerchief some of the viscous white mass that had stained the fabric of his fresh pants. Igor feels as good and calm as he probably hadn't felt in a very long time, since the beginning of all this strange madness, with the balls of Lots, end-of-the-world timers, and other bullshit.

A moment, and he sleeps a sweet dream.

Very, very sweet.

* * *

The dream is incredibly detailed. Igor sees it so clearly that it is impossible to even imagine. The dream seems even more real than reality, no matter how absurd it may sound. Igor sees a dream, but he does not see it at the same time, as if observing himself in a dream from the outside, from the third person. As if hanging in a golden web, weightless and imperceptible, but in each thread of such a web, there are hundreds and thousands of times more power than in Igor himself. And those threads, it seemed, are countless myriads, but Igor-who-is-aware-of-the-dream was not so much bound by them as supported, covered in a dense cocoon that seemed to him more reliable than a thousand shields. Igor sees the room as a business office in the law firm of Elizaveta Albertovna. In fact, this room is for them, and in it sit two people - Igor-who-does-not-know-that-he's-asleep and Elizaveta Albertovna herself in her own magnificent and busty person.

They talk, or rather, she speaks, and he listens. For she is his immediate superior, and he is her subordinate, so he listens to her, remembers her words, and, if necessary, answers the questions asked. He answers in great detail, openly, as if he had forgotten how to lie, as if he saw no reason to lie. She talks, and he agrees, acknowledges her superiority, her right to command. She does not need to convince him. He already agrees with this, to her considerable surprise and satisfaction, so this stage passes quickly. But the conversation continues, the topics shift, she asks about his life and plans, and he, as before, sincerely and obediently answers. At some point, one of the invisible golden threads that were supposedly part of Igor touches the back of the head of the sleeping-but-speaking woman, and she takes on a slightly thoughtful look. It’s as if she wants something, and at the same time, she is embarrassed by what she wants; she’s embarrassed, but she doesn’t deny herself the pleasure of fulfilling her desire.

They start talking about much more indecent topics. She asks him about his personal life and personal questions that the average Igor would not answer, certainly not so easily and openly. What kind of girls did he have? Did he like them? How many times did he jerk off, remembering her naked body, seen then, back in his distant childhood? How often does he enjoy masturbation, to what videos or pictures, and what stories does he like to read? Did she guess that he reads such prose? How would he feel about such a fantasy, for example? And what about this one? Would he like to see her in these fantasies? Oh, then let her show them to him, let him visit them himself.

The thread of gold touches her once more, Elizaveta freezes, rolling her eyes and unbuttoning her business suit, which yields to her actions so easily, as if the whole dream is under her control. Now she is naked. She let him look at her breasts. She let him touch them. She shakes them in front of the face of Igor, who is enthusiastically jerking off. She let him kiss and lick her nipples. Only let him desire her, obey her, think about her, let him not be ashamed of this, let such a desire seem normal to him. The sleeping young man accepts the latter surprisingly easily. He is happy to obey the one who knows exactly how it should be. He is happy to submit to her, to throw off responsibility. And if for this, she also let him look at these soft, large, and attractive breasts, then this is a win in all respects.

Elizaveta Albertovna just rolls her eyes at such words, and a moment later presses the young man into her bare chest, rolling them completely due to the sudden orgasm that has washed over her. She likes this conversation more and more with each passing moment. She likes how obedient this sweet boy is to her will, likes to play with him, seduce him, entice and tease him, promising a reward and still allowing him to achieve it. This desire gradually displaces more pragmatic and calculating thoughts from her head, but of course, does not displace them completely. She does not notice how she increasingly experiences a mixture of strange feelings for her obedient toy, which does not resist even her influence. She was ready to rewrite, bend, or even break, but the boy himself is happy to give up control and does not try to challenge her primacy even in the smallest things.

The scene in the office becomes more and more unbridled, more frank; the only clothes left on Elizaveta Albertovna are stockings with garters and an open shirt thrown over her naked chest. Igor kisses her entire body, covers her whole body with touches of his lips, from her bare feet to her tender neck, kneels and licks her pussy, brings her to frenzy. No, he is not some kind of magnificent lover, very inexperienced and inept. He is not like the usual partners, but she is turned on by the power over him. She is turned on by the opportunity to order, the to say a meaningless set of words, so that the young man begins to do what she wants, so that he does not even realize the unnaturalness of her orders and his own, only his desires, because he, deep down, was not at all against finding himself in his current very piquant position.

This power, passion, and thirst carry her away on wings of sweetness, carry away all remaining attempts to deceive herself and prove that she just wanted to make an obedient instrument, that she feels nothing for the boy. Because she is even afraid to admit it, afraid in front of herself, she cannot and does not want to let Igor become another meat puppet, devoid of reason and will. She does not want, desperately does not want to leave him to die, covering her escape. Because there is no cynical pragmatism in her that has always accompanied her path, no willingness to sacrifice. There is a thirst for power, there is a readiness to make decisions without asking other people's opinions, there is a clear intention to drive the boy under her heel and make her kiss that heel in pleasure. But there is also care, a desire to protect and give him the best, to keep him close to her and, having climbed to the pinnacle of power, to lay him at his feet, at the very foot of the magnificent throne.

Threads of gold touch her, touch her head, her whole body, dig into her tense nipples, entwine her fingers and toes, caress her buttocks, and pierce with needles the bud of her flower full of passion. Elizaveta Albertovna herself cums, commands the boy to cum, whom she has subdued, bewitched, whom she has deceived and whose trust she has taken advantage of, wanting to possess him and protect him, wanting to entangle his mind in a network of commands and suggestions, but, deep down, wanting him to love her sincerely and without any treatment. They lie right on the table in the office, which has long since turned into a luxuriously furnished bedroom, and this is not a table, but a soft bed with a canopy, and they are dressed not in work clothes, but only in their absent shame and the silk of the sheets.

She smiles at him as he stares blankly in front of him, jerking off without taking his eyes off the nipples on her breasts. She strokes his face and then kisses him, as tenderly and touchingly as she had never kissed anyone before. The moment of weakness, which she allows herself, passes without a trace. In her eyes again only imperious steel and unbending will, with which the woman commands her dream, changing the next scenery. The bed and the two lovers on it disappear, everything disappears, only darkness, cozy and all-encompassing, remains in their place. Darkness, and visible only to Igor-who only observes the threads of pure gold.

Change of scenery, now it's some kind of warehouse, where the two of them have just closed another breach to the Other Side and are now dividing the loot. Among them, some pieces would be perfect for both of them, but Elizaveta Albertovna asks to give all the important loot to her. She asks and reaches for the collar of the slightly inappropriate sweater, which seems to have nothing else underneath, as if intending to pull down its collar. Only her hands falter when Igor simply agrees to her request. The woman smiles, blushing slightly, as if ashamed of something, but not admitting it to her interlocutor, and then waves her hand.

The same scenery, the same loot, only Igor-sleeper doesn't remember the previous iteration of this conversation, and this time Elizaveta Albertovna points out that she will take all the loot, selling some of it for real money. Igor doesn't like it. He needs the same Marks of Valor, but he remembers how many good things this woman has done for him throughout his life, how many times she has helped him, helped him out with money or advice, and he agrees anyway. The woman again takes her hands away from the collar of her sweater, folding them under her chest, and blows a loose strand of brown hair out of her face in a frankly irritated manner, sharply waving her palm, as if erasing the whole scene and a piece of the unreal world with a single movement of her hand.

The same scenery and the same situation, but now the woman is pushing even harder, indicating that from now on, she is the only one dealing with the loot, and he just accepts what she gives him. And in the next couple of months, they will work on strengthening her skills and Steps, not on Igor, because he is strong enough as it is. He's not thrilled, but he understands her rightness and remembers all the good she's done for him, so he nods in agreement. There is a completely unreadable expression on Elizaveta Albertovna's face, which is frozen with her fingers gripping the collar of her sweater, in which it is easy to see something like “well, well, well, fuck me”, although Igor-sleeper does not understand why she made such a face. With a snarl of some kind of swearing, he had never heard her say such a thing before, the woman literally tore the dream to shreds, allowing the young man to hang in the darkness a little longer.

A new scene. Igor and his boss, dressed in a loose dress with a wide collar, are sitting in some brightly furnished kitchen, drinking coffee in the middle. The young man is careful not to squint his eyes at her cleavage when she asks him to make her a couple of sandwiches and a new coffee. Igor only nods, silently getting up and starting to make a snack, not seeing the woman exhale through clenched teeth as if she were very angry about something. The scene flashes, and now she's asking to wash a sink full of dirty dishes, because she's not the one to bother her tired back after work, right? Igor exhales tiredly, obviously wanting to say something, because he remembers that he washed dishes all last month, and they agreed that in the new month, it's not his turn. But he gets up anyway and turns his back to the woman, starting the big cleanup. His companion's face shows a twitching eye, and a slight frenzy thickly mixed with a kind of pleading and thoughtfulness.

The scene changes. Now, Igor is asked to help with the cleaning, and he helps. The scene is canceled, there is more junk around, and he helps again. The scene is canceled, the scenario is even more distorted, but he fulfills the request without waiting for it to turn into an order. Elizaveta Albertovna seemed to want to smoke, but instead she suddenly smiled, as if a light bulb above her head had flashed, as if a golden thread had given her the right idea. The new scene appeared much faster; it uses a recently shattered dream, in which Igor the Sleeper has already washed the dishes, and so the woman presses herself against him from behind, lets him feel the warmth of her body and the softness of her breasts. She thanks him, lets him grope her body, pulls down the collar of her dress, exposing her huge breasts to his face, and lets him kiss her a little. It's normal for her to thank him like that, right? He could always ask a similar favor from her for this or that favor, couldn't he? She will always allow him, if possible, never refuse him.

And this is true in reverse too!

The scene is in a warehouse, near a closed breach, but now he politely asks to leave one of the Lanterns and a couple of Marks for him. Elizaveta Albertovna agrees if he will, of course, kiss the nipples on her breasts, a hundred kisses each on the left and right. He, blushing and embarrassed, starts kissing. She gently and leisurely strokes his groin through his clothes, making him literally rub against her in imitation of sexual intercourse by the end of the “payment”, coming without undressing, smiling contentedly, ashamed of his desires, but knowing that she does not despise him, but only teases him lightly with playful mockery. A new scene where Igor is on his knees, covering his superior's pussy with tender kisses, thanking her for covering him in battle. And after that, she allows him to pull up her dress and take her from behind for the fact he covered her in the battle. She let him to put her back on the table, spread her legs and fuck her, covering her upraised feet with kisses.

A new dream. Igor is digging in the closet, trying to find the thing he needs, focusing on very incomplete descriptions but instead he finds only Elizaveta Albertovna's underwear, and she, being on speakerphone with him, speaks a meaningless set of words, after which Igor realizes that this is a great chance to release tension. Sleep accelerates. She catches him almost naked, with dark blue panties on his face, wrapping his cock in her white-and-white panties, having already cum several times. And he, wildly ashamed of his outburst of such understandable and logical but still shameful passion, immediately takes to apologizing, and the woman accepts his apology only by sitting on his face and then riding him, forcing him to look at her bouncing breasts, to look and not to cum until she has cum three times.

Scene, scene, scene, scene, scene....

In an instant, the dream is replaced by a heated battle. They both fight, they both retreat, they both fall short of the hundreds of creatures pursuing them. There is a choice - him or her, and Igor, as a defender and Standard Bearer should, silently stands in front of her, giving her a chance to retreat, relying on his зкщеусешщт and luck. Because he could not have done otherwise.... and what's the use, even if he sacrifices Elizaveta Albertovna. Іhe won't be able to hold off this mob in battle enough for him to get away. It's not “him or her”, it's just “him or both of them”. The scene seems to freeze, Igor the sleeper himself freezes, only Elizabeth continues to move and realizes this dream. She approaches the young man standing in front of her, and her face is a completely insane mixture of emotions.

She strokes his hair, and then, with a decisive decision, destroys the scene with the deadly choice. She destroys it completely, tearing it down, not preparing to rebuild it. They hang in the warm darkness, Elizaveta Albertovna looking at the Igor-sleeper, and Igor-watcher watching them. Several golden threads touch the woman's body again, after which she smiles a cheerful and slightly embarrassed smile, bites her lip, and begins to create a new scene. In this dream, Igor realizes that a special type of loot has fallen into his hands - a real mind-control amulet that can be used on Elizaveta Albertovna.... and he simply gives the amulet to the woman, asking her to be careful with this stuff. Elizaveta Albertovna just slapped her face with the palm of her hand, groaning muffledly, and with her other palm erasing part of the dream and remaking it.

The scene changed, and now the amulet had accidentally absorbed a drop of blood from the victim, who had not noticed how she had cut herself on the sharp edge, and the young man suddenly realized that she did not notice how she was following his commands. Not thinking long, he covers the woman with protection and shine, and with the same shine, crushes the amulet in his fist, returning the boss's free will. Elizaveta Albertovna chuckles a little hysterically, but before he can start calming her down and apologizing for the accidental mind-control, she erases the dream scene again.

This time, Igor did not immediately notice that his partner was under control and suddenly said out loud that he would like a melon with milk. Then he bulges his eyes, trying to understand why the hell he even said such nonsense out loud. But his eyes bulged even more when the woman, as if nothing had happened, put her breasts on the table and offered to taste her milk melons. Igor looks at those melons in his sleep and can't refuse her words, because he always obeys when he sees her naked and sweet milk melons. Then they both come to their senses a little, and he starts to destroy the amulet again, only it turns itself off, and Elizaveta Albertovna does not let him destroy it.

First, of course, she forced him to kiss her pussy, feet and buttocks long and affectionately as an apology for inadvertently taking advantage of her condition. To the sleeping Igor, lying on the floor while his mouth was covered by the toe of the woman's foot, it clearly seemed that the woman telling him off, ordering him not to stop jerking off but not to cum, was angry with him for a different reason. Another thing was important: now she demanded to use the amulet on her from time to time, because she saw how much he liked, the damned pervert, to hypnotize his good aunt Lisa, and she, in her kindness, did not refuse him. On all attempts to refuse such an honor, that, say, he did not want anything, followed only naked tits in the face and the demand to shut up and impose on her submission according to this scenario. And let him not even dare to suggest anything else to her, otherwise, she is not responsible for herself!

The scene changes to another scenario with the amulet, then payback for being allowed to use the amulet. Different clothes, different places, different situations, different everything, yet seemingly exactly the same. Scenes and scenes, passion and power, darkness and golden threads wrapping the web, weaving woman in a weightless golden net. Igor-who-watches, for a brief moment, almost gets the ability to think and evaluate the information he sees, but he cannot memorize what he sees, so he falls asleep again, closing his eyes to open them a moment later in the real world.

Waking up.

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/87876/586929

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP