The rain was even crazier by the time Harold maneuvered his tiny little car down the ramps to the garage's exit. He swallowed, nervous, as the arm rose like a red flag and he pulled forward and into the storm. The Kenguru was built low to the ground to make it easier to wheel into and out of. Now that aspect of the vehicle was not an asset but a liability, as the water sheeting off the streets was higher than he'd ever seen.
More than anything, the noise of the downpour against the roof of the vehicle caused Harold's stress levels to kick up a notch. The little car did fine, losing traction only once, as it slipped through a pond at an intersection. Harold had the feeling he wouldn't be able to use it again, though, until he and Wendy figured out how to stop the rain.
The hospital's parking garage was full. An attendant was putting out signs in front of all the entry gates. Harold rolled down his window and yelled out, "Hey! Can I fit my car somewhere? I'm in a wheelchair!"
The attendant nodded and opened one of the gates for him, handed him a pass when he pulled forward.
"There are a few handicapped stalls left, sir," the attendant said.
"Thanks," Harold said, "I appreciate the help. Wasn't looking forward to trying to roll myself down the sidewalk out there."
"I wouldn't be, either, you'd be liable to float away. You have a good day, now. Stay safe."
"Will do," Harold said.
Harold parked at the first handicapped stall he found and wheeled himself across the garage and into the hospital, his chair kicking up water streaming from a broken downspout.
This time around he wasn't sure he'd be able to get in but, when he rolled up to the front desk, the receptionist told him Wendy had been moved to a private room and gave him the number, saying she'd put him on the visitor's list.
Harold made his way up two floors and down a few corridors before he found Wendy's room. It was large, with a floor-to-ceiling window at the far end that looked out over wet rooftops, the shoreline of Lake Michigan beyond, streaked and blurred.
Wendy sat upright in her bed, watching the rain, the IV bag and pole like a silent sentry at her side. She turned to look at Harold when he opened the door.
"It's the Nile," Wendy said, gesturing at the window and the storm beyond it.
"Well, we've got the rain part down," Harold said as he wheeled himself over to her far side, "Thank goodness it's late Spring and all the snow's gone already. Though maybe, with all this, we need to talk to Satis or something, see if she's already gathered a tear from Isis."
"I've been thinking about that. What if the story of Satis predates the story of Isis? What if the poem is a prayer to Satis, or even calls her into being?"
Harold looked thoughtful, his fingers rubbed at the edge of the flap of his bag.
"I don't know. You know me, I'm more of a specialist in the later dynastic periods. I'm comfortable with demotic glyphs but, take me any further back, and I'm kind of lost. I mean, I know about the Naqada, but not much."
He glanced at Wendy's face. She was still looking out at the rain, her face bright and beautiful. He followed her gaze to see the view, large, fast raindrops picked out and shining in the low sun.
"Show me what you have," she said. Harold's brain automatically sorted through the multiple meanings of her words, even as he opened his courier bag and withdrew the box and the digital tablet.
"When I called Peter to get the phallus he said no, then called Pierce, to warn him, I guess. But Pierce got it out of the truck and gave it to me, himself. He supports you."
"Rewards for the good and punishment for the bad," Wendy said, waving her hand dismissively. "Unwrap the phallus."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Harold asked, "The last time you picked it up--"
"I'm not going to touch it, slave, you are."
"Okay," Harold said meekly. He broke the tape on the box with his car key, pulled back the flaps and lifted the phallus, hidden in a swath of bubblewrap. He used the key again to break the tape and unrolled the plastic sheet to reveal the stone cylinder. His dick gave a little leap, grew a little harder.
"Oh, Pierce, what a good boy," Wendy breathed. Her gaze was glued to the phallus but she kept her hands clasped in her lap. Harold didn't dare touch the thing. There was a layer of bubblewrap between his hand and the stone and he hoped it protected him; the cotton gloves he'd worn at the Repository certainly hadn't. He put it back in its cardboard box and felt his hard-on relax slightly, as if disappointed.
"I also brought my tablet from work. I copied the glyph matrix onto it, thinking we could use it to translate the brand."
"Good. Give the tablet to me."
Harold dug around in his bag until he found the tablet. Once Wendy had it and turned it on, she held it up.
"Take the phallus out and turn the stamp end toward me so I can photograph it," Wendy said. Harold carefully extracted the stone item from its box, still using the bubblewrap as protection, and held it horizontally, the butt end facing Wendy. Again, his hard-on grew more rigid. Once she had caught a clear image of the brand's design Harold put it away again, and he felt his dick dip a little with regret.
Wendy held the tablet so they could both look at the image. It looked almost like a flower, with a outer ring of stylized petals framing a more intricate and inscrutable pattern.
"Rather like Arabic," Harold said thoughtfully, "if you tied it into a Celtic knot."
"It is very fluid, very script-like, for such an old artifact."
"Older samples of Cuneiform tend to be more rounded," Harold said, "maybe this is from a related culture."
"Yes, but Cuneiform from 3000 BC was also more realistic, more like pictographs. This is highly stylized and abstract. Anyway, the current thinking is that hieroglyphs developed independently of other logographic or phonetic writing."
"Can we split the screen to see the image next to the glyph matrix?" Harold asked. Wendy nodded and used the stylus to bring up the matrix. They were silent, focused, Harold chewing at his lower lip while Wendy tapped her chin with the stylus.
The brand was symmetrical along both the horizontal and vertical axes, delicate loops and lines weaving through each other, adding to the difficulty of untangling the meaning, if there was any. Harold reached over to touch the screen, double-tapping on the image to enlarge it again.
"Maybe we need to tease out the glyphs," he said, "Or at least just get rid of the duplicates caused by the symmetry."
Wendy nodded and said, "You've got Tracer on this tablet, right?"
"Yeah, let me bring it up for you." Harold reached for the tablet. His fingers found Wendy's. She gasped and he jumped at the shock and the pleasure of her touch. He moaned as his hard dick gave an involuntary leap.
"I'm-- I'm sorry," he stammered. Wendy turned her gaze to look into his eyes. She looked hungry, almost predatory.
"Strip."
"I'm-- what?"
"You heard me, slave," Wendy said, "We need each other's energy."
Harold lifted the flat strap of the courier bag over his head and shoulder, then put the bag on the floor. He stood and removed his coat, hung it on the back of his wheelchair. Wendy watched intently as he unbuttoned his shirt. He found himself trying to make it sexy, turning his body a little to show her the profile of his ass and his hard cock.
Turning the act of disrobing into an show of desire was new to Harold. He felt awkward, but also less self-conscious. It was similar to how he had felt in the Repository, as though he wasn't completely in control of his body and emotions.
He shrugged, causing the collar of the shirt to fall away and reveal his shoulders, the delicate curves of his clavicles, then slowly unbuttoned the cuffs--more slowly than he had the other buttons--before swinging his arms down to let the entire shirt slip off and to the floor.
His gaze on Wendy's face, he hooked a finger under the tail of his belt and tugged it free of a loop. An inspiration took hold of him and he raised his free hand to cup the back of his head as he undid his belt, snap, and zipper one-handed, his hips thrust forward. Wendy's expression changed from quiet interest to watchfulness to lust.
Whereas his dreams had given him women to objectify, now he was the object of desire. The realization caused precum to ooze from the tip of his dick, seeping into the black boxers he wore. He felt no guilt at being on the receiving end of Wendy's gaze. With a little shake of the hips, his trousers shimmied to the floor. He wasn't sure how to make sock removal sexy, but he was so horny he didn't much care; he just wanted to be naked and in Wendy, over her, under her, even if it was simply under her feet.
Harold brought his other hand down, hooked a thumb in the waistband of his boxers. The hand that had undone his pants now held and stroked his hard cock through the fabric. He licked his lips slowly. Wendy, entranced, mirrored him, licking her own lips, rubbing her own sex through the sheet and the modesty gown she wore. Goddess and slave moaned simultaneously.
"Show me what you have," Wendy demanded, and Harold complied, one hand on the bed to steady himself as he stripped off his boxers and socks. The linoleum floor was cold on his foot. He climbed up onto the narrow bed, straddling her calves, his hard cock exposed and bobbing in excitement.
Wendy pushed down the sheet and pulled off the modesty gown. She was different than he remembered from the Repository, when her skin had been bronzed, her hair electrified and her face transformed by the power of the ancient stone phallus. Here, now, she looked human--both fragile and powerful--and that made her even more desirable to Harold. He wanted to worship every inch of her dark skin, meditate on the beauty and meaning of its subtle shading, sift through the multiple translations of unique and personal history written there.
Harold looked into Wendy's eyes. She nodded the smallest amount, looking every inch the queen, and reached a hand up to stroke his hair.
"Touch me," she said.
"Where," he whispered.
"Everywhere."
He slowly slid his hands over her skin--her knees, her thighs, the tight curls over her mons, out to her hips and up her soft stomach to her full breasts. His gaze shifted from meeting her eyes to watching her skin dip and return under the soft pressure of his hands.
She sighed and closed her eyes, arched her back to press her breasts more firmly into his hands. Harold cupped them, brought them together and pushed them up, then pushed his hands up over them to continue the journey to her collar bones. He traced along their lengths, out to her shoulders, and down her arms, the insides of her elbows, to her forearms, careful not to touch the IV tube that terminated at a needle taped to her skin.
Harold froze for a moment, looking at the needle, and Wendy opened her eyes.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice soft and full of concern.
"I-- I'm sorry," he said, wrenching his focus away from her forearm and the drip, "It's just-- the-- What's happening to me? I used to need dialysis."
"Shh, slave. Stop."
Harold took a deep breath and let it out. He felt himself falling into Wendy's beautiful black eyes.
"You've been healed in order to serve me. You do want to serve me, don't you?"
"Of course, goddess. Yes, yes, I do."
"Then trust me. Serve me."
"Yes, okay," Harold said. At the back of his mind, a small, nervous voice was still chattering away, enumerating all of his fears, but the rest of him was mollified, pulled back into the moment, aware of the pleasure of touching Wendy.
"There's a good slave," she moaned as he smoothed his hands over her, up her arms and over her shoulders and neck to cup her face. At her words his flagging penis reared up again, ready, undistracted by his brain's petty concerns.
Their lovemaking was tender and slow. Harold followed Wendy's lead, learned what each gesture meant, each involuntary reaction. He sank into her private world, became an extension of her will, of her desire to be pleasured. When she came he felt the contractions around his cock like a strong hand, pulling his own orgasm up and out of him. He closed his eyes and willingly allowed his goddess to take what she wanted.
After a period of silence Harold opened his eyes to find Wendy staring up at him, smiling. He smiled, too, amazed and entranced. The sun had set but the room was brightly lit from time to time by lightning. The white, square bandage on Harold's chest caught Wendy's attention. She bit her lip and sat up a bit straighter against the back of the hospital bed.
Harold pulled his flagging cock from between her legs and sat back on his haunches, watching her, waiting for her to tell him what to do next.
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