by John Ringo
"Okay."
Christel looked around the room and then under the workbench.
"What is that big bucket?" she asked.
"That's sort of the junk left over," Megan said. "I'm going to have to have it hauled out sooner or later, but there are two hogsheads for it. They're plastic lined, so they won't leak."
"Okay," Christel replied, looking around and shaking her head. "You really do surprise me, Megan."
"Thank you, ma'am," the girl said as the older woman left the room. "I certainly hope so."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Megan was frowning at the latest bill for cosmetics when Paul suddenly appeared in the office. She let out a slight shriek and the paper she was holding flew across the room.
"Jesus, Paul!" she snapped. "Ding a bell when you're porting or something!"
"I'm sorry," Paul said, then frowned at her, looking at the papers scattered across the desk. "What are you doing in here?" he added severely, the frown creating a furrow between his eyebrows. He had lost weight even in the last few weeks and was so thin his ribs showed. His clothes weren't as elegant, either. Actually, he looked like a walking corpse.
"I'm doing the accounts these days," Megan said, waving at the papers and worrying about the change in his appearance. Paul dying from malnutrition was not part of her plans. "And other things."
"What 'other things'?" Paul asked, dangerously. There was an almost feral light in his eyes as he stared at her. "And why are you doing the accounts?" he asked, harshly.
"The 'other things' is making perfume," she said, coming gracefully to her feet and walking over so he could smell the underside of her wrist.
"Nice," Paul said, mollified. "You make it?"
"I have to." She frowned in turn, returning to the desk, and sitting in the graceful motion Mirta had taught her. "Do you know that there's not a single perfumer in all of Ropasa? Saving me, of course. You want to make some money instead of spending it for a change?"
"Making perfume?" Paul snorted.
"Perfume was a major trade item in preindustrial days, Paul," Megan replied, hotly. "Given what I'm paying for cosmetics for the girls, I could make a killing if I was still on the outside. Setting up a perfumery would be expensive, but I'd recoup the investment in a year!"
"You're not getting out of here, Megan," Paul said, kindly, squatting by the desk. "You have more important work to do. Don't . . . don't make the mistake that some have made."
"Paul, I'm not trying to escape, okay?" Megan replied, wondering and fearing at the truth in the statement. "I don't even know where we are. Okay, I got up to a window, that I couldn't fit through, and looked out. We're in a castle. Big surprise. We're in a castle on a mountain. We're in a castle on a mountain that has a valley down below and other mountains in the distance. Paul, I could be anywhere in Ropasa, okay? And I got enough of a look to see that there are about a billion Changed guarding the castle. There's a town in the valley. Why do I think it's probably crawling with your forces? Paul, I'm not trying to run away. I'm just saying that you're leaving money on the table, here!"
Paul looked at her for a moment and then laughed, finally sitting down on a pillow, some of the tension going out of his face.
"You've changed," he said, still chuckling.
"What do you mean?" she asked, cautiously.
"Where's the meek little Megan that I found by the side of the stream?" Paul said. "Meek, scared little Megan. She's disappeared and been replaced by a coldhearted business woman who wants to make a killing in the perfume business."
"Little Megan is still here," she said, smiling. She shook her head at his appearance, though. "Paul, what have you been doing to yourself? You look like a damned ghost. How long has it been since you've laughed?"
"Too long," he admitted, frowning. "The world is such a terrible place right now, Megan. That bitch Sheida and her lackeys . . ."
"Paul," Megan said gently. "You need to get some rest."
"There's too much to do," he said, almost wailed. "I'm holding on with both hands, as tight as I can, and I can feel it all slipping away!"
"Paul," Megan said, severely. "Go take a shower, maybe a bath. No, wait . . ." She thought for a moment and then nodded. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere. Promise?"
"Promise," Paul said. "But why?"
"Why do you come here, Paul?" Megan asked.
"Because I have a duty . . ." Paul started to say.
"And we have a duty, too," Megan replied, cutting him off. "More than just to make babies. You're the most important man in the world, right now. Our duty is to make sure you can do yours, and we've clearly been falling down on the job."
"That's what Christel says, but . . ."
"Christel, Schmistel," Megan snorted. "I'm sorry; she's good for keeping the girls in line but there's a reason I'm doing the accounts. Face it, Paul, she's not the brightest leaf in the tree. I know what you need, and you're going to get it. So you wait right here."
She got up and walked into the main room, pointing at Shanea, who was talking to Mirta, and then at Mirta. She walked over to Christel and squatted down.
"Paul is here and he looks awful," she said to the woman.
"In the office?" Christel said, flustered and getting to her feet. "He'll want to check the books . . ."
"I'll handle it," Megan said, laying her hand on the woman's arm. "Let me handle this, okay? He needs rest. You've tried your arguments, let me try mine, okay?"
Christel looked at her, and at the door, frowning.
"Christel, I don't want your job," Megan said, softly. "I don't want to try to keep the girls in line. I don't want to hold the whip. I don't, okay? But what happens if Paul kills himself from neglect?"
The woman gulped and shook her head. "I don't know, I suppose . . ."
"You suppose what?" Megan said, softly but fiercely. "That Chansa would take us under his wing? Not hardly. We'd probably go to Reyes, who goes through women like a shark though a school of fish. Or to service the Changed. Or be Changed. Maybe even turned over to Celine." The latter council member was the source of most of the monsters that had been created for New Destiny's war. Most of them had started off as human beings. Under the rules pre-Fall they still were human beings. But nobody who had seen them or heard of them could think of them that way.
"They wouldn't . . ." Christel said, desperately.
"Yes they would and you know it," Megan replied. "So we have to make sure that Paul survives. You were right all along; we're here for Paul's needs. But he has more needs than the 'duty' to turn up from time to time and inseminate us. And I'm going to prove it to him."
"Go," Christel said, finally. "Try it."
"I will," Megan replied. "Shanea, Paul is in the office. Go get him. Take . . . Velva. Take him to the baths. Bathe him, don't let him do a thing for himself. Don't have sex with him. If he says he wants to, tell him 'not now, later, just bathe now.' Got it?"
"Give Paul a bath," Shanea nodded, gulping. "Don't have sex with him, even if he wants it. What if he really wants it?"
"Really tell him, 'later.' When you two are done, bring him to his room in a robe," she turned to Mirta. "Mirta, get Amber into her costume, then go to the kitchen door. Get a platter. Light foods. Bread, fruit, cheese, a small carafe of wine. Then bring it and Amber to Paul's room."
"Paul has . . . problems with Amber," Christel said. "Are you sure . . . ?"
"I'm sure," Megan said, looking around. "Girls, go get into your new costumes. When Paul comes through from the bath, I want you to stand up and move in around him saying nice things. Nothing important, just that we're glad he's here. Don't be suggestive. And don't try to follow him in. If this works out I'm going to keep him here for at least a couple of days."
She looked at Shanea and Mirta, then gestured. "Go."
Megan stood for a moment, pulling at her hair, then turned to Christel.
"I have things I need in the workroom," she said. "If I could . . ."
"Go," Christel said, "y
ou're doing fine. I think you're right, okay? Girls, what are you doing just sitting around? Up on your feet, go get dressed . . ."
* * *
Megan rushed to her room and grabbed up various pots, then to the abandoned still-room. Shanea had taken to watching the bubbling substances for her but with the girl otherwise occupied Megan turned down the heat on all the crucibles, grabbed some bottles and headed for the toilet.
There were other girls in there jockeying for position in front of the mirrors but Megan shoved one of them out of the way with her hip and carefully deposited her bundles on the countertop.
"Ashly," she said, looking over at where the blonde was brushing her hair in front of a mirror. "My next-stage perfumes; they're a little more concentrated. And I need somebody to mix something for me while I do my makeup."
Ashly looked at her as if she had grown another head, then nodded.
"Okay, Karie, you do the mixing," Ashly said, walking over to look at the bottles and pots. "What is all that?"
"Perfumes, oils, massage creams," Megan said. "Karie," she continued, opening up a jar and dropping a few milliliters of oil onto the cream inside. "Mix that up for me, please?"
"What is it?" Karie asked, sniffing at the contents.
"Almond massage paste, the oil is sesame," Megan said, looking in the mirror. "I don't have time," she muttered, picking up a flat of eye shadow.
"Vita, do her hair," Ashly said. "Megan, calm down. What the hell is wrong?"
"Did you see him?" Megan asked, turning to the girl. "He looks like a zombie."
"I saw. Megan, don't tell me you're falling in love," Ashly said, smirking.
Megan closed her eyes and decided not to "explain" to Ashly the facts of life, again. But it was tempting.
"No, I'm not falling in love," Megan replied, wondering if it was a true reply or not. "But if Paul dies, all this will go away and very bad things will probably happen to us, okay? I don't want that to happen. Do you?"
"No," Ashly said. "I hadn't thought . . ."
"Neither had Christel," Megan replied as Vita combed her hair and Ashly took the eye makeup out of her shaking hands.
"What are you going to do?" Vita asked. She was brushing Megan's hair up and out to make it appear larger.
"I'm going to make him the one happiest son of a bitch in the world," Megan replied. "I'm going to make him never want to leave. And then I'm going to convince him that, for the good of the world, he shouldn't for a while. A few days at least. And we're going to feed him up and primp him and pamper him until he's able to take care of himself again."
"And if you can't?" Ashly asked, brushing on the makeup expertly.
"Lightly, please," Megan said. "Then we might as well all cut our own throats. Do you want to be turned over to Reyes? Or the Changed?"
"Oh, God!" Vita said.
"Right, so we'd better make him really happy," Megan said, looking in the mirror. "Got it?"
"Got it," Ashly replied.
Megan picked up the pile of cloth at her feet and put on the new "outfit" that Mirta had made for her; a bikini bottom with a long "loincloth" front and back and a tight matching top like a sleeveless shirt that completely covered her breasts except for a swelling that dropped out from the bottom. It practically begged to be pushed up.
"You look like . . . well you look good," Ashly said.
"You all need to get dressed, too," Megan replied. "Hurry."
She picked up the pots, nodding at Karie and Ashly and practically ran out the door.
* * *
She dropped the pots in Paul's room and then ran back to the office, getting the synopsis of all the accounts that she had prepared. She knew that Christel usually covered them with Paul but that had to stop soon, too. There were too many inconsistencies that Christel, bless her black stupid heart, wouldn't know how to explain.
She piled the reports by the pillows and then assumed a modest position and waited. Before Paul got there Mirta came in with the platter of food and Amber. As Mirta left, she settled Amber in place, positioned the tray of food and wine, with the addition of a carafe of water, which was smart thinking on Mirta's part, and settled down to wait again. She had barely had time to rearrange the pillows when she heard a murmur from the main room and the door opened up. She could see that the girls were all in their finest and as Paul came in the room she imperceptibly waved at Velva not to follow him in. The girl looked nonplussed but closed the door behind her.
"Megan," Paul said, weakly, "this is all quite unnecessary . . ."
"Hush," Megan said, standing up and unbelting his robe. "Lie down."
"Megan," he said, looking at the other two girls.
"Have you bedded each of us?" Megan said, pushing him down.
"Well . . . yes . . . but . . ."
"Hush," she replied. "No talk. No work talk, no talk at all."
She rolled him over on his stomach and positioned Shanea and Amber on either side.
"Like this," she said, taking up a fingerful of the massage cream and dabbing it on his upper arm. She took Amber's hands and pushed the thumbs into the muscle, working down the arm. "Slowly and firmly, all the way down the arm. You understand? Don't pinch."
"Down the arm," Amber said with a nod, pressing into the flesh of his triceps. "Don't pinch."
"Shanea, you do the other arm," Megan said, rubbing the cream into his back, then beginning to massage.
"Oh that feels good," Paul murmured.
"You need to take better care of yourself, Paul Bowman," Megan replied, pressing into his muscles. They were firm from work but he was so skinny. "What happens to us if you die?"
"I won't die," Paul said, starting to push up.
"Don't you dare get up," Megan said, sternly. "We've barely gotten started."
She worked his back as the other girls worked on his arms and shoulders, then the three of them worked down his legs. As they massaged he began to relax and at one point gave a faint snore. He started at that and began to rise.
"And you haven't been getting enough sleep apparently," Megan said, pushing him back down. By then they'd worked most of the way down his legs and she pushed on him to roll over. She began massaging his pectorals and nodded downward at Shanea.
Shanea looked at her with a happy grin and slid downward, taking him in her mouth.
"Megan!" he said, his eyes flying open and his arms coming up.
"No, Shanea," Megan grinned. "Now lie there and enjoy."
"This isn't right," Paul said, lying back anyway. "People are starving and . . ."
"And if you die, who will care about them?" Megan asked. "Chansa? Celine?"
"You have a point," Paul admitted.
She slid over and propped his head in her lap, then gestured at the platter. Amber had to think about it for a moment but then her eyes lit up and she slid the platter over, taking a plum from it and offering it to Paul.
Megan picked up a loaf of bread, still warm from the ovens, and broke off a piece. As soon as Paul was finished with the plum she handed him the bread and he tore into that as if he were starving.
"Softly," she said. "Slowly. You need to build your strength back up. And I'll tell you something, Paul Bowman, you are not leaving this . . . building until you are looking better than when you came in. And you had better be back soon for more pampering."
"This isn't right," Paul muttered, but he also didn't try to rise.
"My neck's getting tired," Shanea admitted. "You never give me enough practice at this, Paul."
"See?" Megan said, trying not to either laugh or cry. "You've been neglecting Shanea shamelessly, forcing her to lose the best of her arts."
"Oral sex does not get babies made," Paul pointed out.
"Babies won't get made, or have a protector, if you don't take care of yourself," Megan said, ruthlessly. "Amber, can you remember . . . ?" She pointed to where Shanea was idly stroking at his member.
"Yes," Amber said, moving down to replace the other girl. As she started,
Paul groaned and reached out a hand to her.
"Amber," he said, sadly. "Of all the things I've done, I feel the worst about you."
Worse than throwing the world into barbarism? Megan thought, surprised at the sudden intensity of her anger.
"I think she's probably happier this way," was all she said. She picked up another piece of bread as Shanea snuggled into his side.
"Sometimes the caged nightingale won't sing," Paul murmured stroking the hair of the woman who was fellating him. "Did you know she was a . . . friend before the Fall?"
"Like Christel?" Megan asked, neutrally.
"Yes, I care for our daughter as well. But Amber could not adjust to the confinement I had to impose on her." He looked up and back at Megan. "You seem to have adjusted well."
That's because I'm working on the key to the lock at this very moment.
"Some people can't handle change," she replied, picking up another piece of bread and feeding it to him. Shanea had slipped out of her top and was now lightly licking his chest, and he groaned again.
"Amber," he said, breathlessly.
The suit Mirta had made for the brain-drained girl covered her almost entirely, somewhat like a jumpsuit. But it was made of nearly transparent material that shifted in color and opaqueness as the light hit it, hiding and revealing in apparent randomness. It also had well-placed buttons and ties, and Amber obediently opened up the bottoms and mounted Paul.
He groaned again as she began to stroke and then came quickly.
"This is all too much," Paul said as Amber lifted herself off. Shanea picked up a cloth and wiped him clean, then ensured the job by lowering herself onto him again, working the area with her tongue, her head moving like a cat.
"This is all too much," Paul murmured again, then his head lay heavy in her lap.
Shanea looked up with an unhappy expression when she heard the snore.
"Stay here with him," Megan said, slipping his head off her lap and deftly sliding a pillow under it. "When he wakes up, send Amber to me and give him whatever he needs. No, let me make that clearer, when he wakes up, make sure he comes again, one way or another. But send Amber to me first."
