Taro (mother2012) wrote,

Frozen in Time, chapter 13 of 18

    This chapter all het.
    You can look at this chapter as nothing but a PWP. Or it just might be the very center and reason of the entire story.
    Rated: Series: NC-17 or E, Chapter 1: E (Explicit)

    Series: Non-con sex. Unconsciousness. Threesome, het and slash sex.
    Toward the end there's some philosophy.
    Contains opinions, assumptions and situations that some might find offensive.
    Medical issues are based on my experience with frostbite, information from the internet, and common
sense. They are pretty much correct, but I have ignored a thing or two. It is, however, a whole lot more accurate than "Forever Young."

    This is entirely written, so you don't need to worry about whether it gets finished. However, while I certainly appreciate that not everyone gives feedback to every chapter (including me), if I don't get much of any positive feedback, I will probably lose interest in posting.

Type: RP het/slash
Pairing: EW/DM/OFC
Disclaimer: This is fiction. And not intended even to be wise. While some of these characters may be based on real people, I don't personally know them. I made it all up out of my perverted little head.
    No, I don't make any money at this.
Archive: No, please.
Feedback: Please feed me. Praise is lovely. Constructive criticism is valued. If you find nothing of value in it, though, please don't bother telling me. You wouldn't be the first person.

Beta: The wonderful elfellon111, whose amazing perception has inspired me to be a better writer.

Frozen in Time
A DomLijah Story

by TaroDragon

Part 13
 ... (God) also means protection...
- Elijah Wood (from some TV interview, don't know which one)

She had brought in a tray of supper that Becky had fixed, and they ate together, she practically feeding him to keep him lying down. And they had played Magic and talked some more. About philosophy, music, what makes a good story, the place of organized sports in modern society, power of attorney, Dom's condition, and whether or not to paint action figures. He was flirting outrageously, she knew, hinting. But she ignored it as though she didn't see. She had plans.

Finally she said, "It's five o'clock. You should sleep some more."

"I'm not really sleepy." Looking at her charmingly out of the corner of his eyes.

"I want you to build your strength." His lip twitched and he looked down.

       What have I done wrong? It frustrated him, irritated him
       even. After so clearly wanting him, after declaring that
       she intended to continue, when he was blatantly hinting that
       he was ready for more, why was she being obstinate and going
       all nurse on him?

She stroked his face, ran her fingers along the jaw line, through the little hairs. "I'll sing to you, if you can stand my voice." He hesitated; that might be really nice, and may lead to more intimacy. Giving up the flirting, he leaned his head against her. She readjusted her position, encouraging him to put his head in her lap.

She stroked his eyelids closed. "Sleep now, for a little bit. Gain some strength."

       He wondered about her motives. She had said that she didn't
       intend to walk away without more. Was she really still that
       concerned about his recovery she thought it more important
       that he sleep some more? He had hinted for a couple of hours.
       Should he have simply said, "Hey, let's fuck now," and been
       brutally honest about his desire? She certainly hadn't needed
       much encouragement before!

She sang The Rose, stroking his face tenderly as she sang, "... and you it's only seed." And a few other songs. He listened to the words, wondering whether she was simply singing favorites, or trying to convey some message. But his body really did need the rest, and he was soon asleep again.

She sat still a long time, looking at him, stroking him, feeling like she could battle cave lions for him. When she finally slipped out, he didn't stir.

She went toward the bedroom to check on Dom, but paused in the living room, where Mary was talking with the others. "How's your patient?" Ellen asked her.

"Okay. I think he's going to be all right now. I took the restraints off."

"Had anything to eat?"

"No. Doesn't seem to be hungry yet. He's sleeping now."

"How's Elijah?" Cleo asked.

"Okay. I'm not really worried about him anymore. We played cards for awhile. He's sleeping now, too."


Ellen stood over the bed in Mary's room, looking down at Dom sleeping. He really is cute, she decided; he looked so innocent with his face relaxed in sleep. She thought of the two of them together, arms wrapped around each other in just such an innocent sleep, and suddenly it seemed right. She felt a slight chill, signal that she was thinking a true thought. They belong together. The thought brought her up short. What had she been thinking? Had she supposed she could keep Elijah? No, actually she hadn't allowed herself to think beyond tonight. One endless night - two, and a day - to last the rest of her life.

Was this some larger plan? Had the universe brought them together for some purpose? And could that purpose have been just as easily filled by some other passer-by? Would someone else have had just the right knowledge, the right timing, motivation? Had the boys been stranded there by chance - by someone's error; or had the Great Intelligence seen fit to bring her into their lives? She was of one thing certain now - that she was not supposed to come between them. Had she already trespassed on that? Yet she didn't feel particularly guilty about it.

Dom turned in his sleep, bringing her awareness back to him. This was the man that Elijah loved. A man who had gone through the rapture and hell that was part of the New Zealand experience of making the movies. Who could understand that experience, who undoubtedly had inside jokes about it, shared experiences, shared memories. He was an actor too, he would understand the need to be away for days, weeks, even months at a time, while shooting a movie.

Cute, but not beautiful like Elijah. She had thought of Dom as a lesser light, that his quirky face wasn't worthy of Elijah's ethereal beauty. But now, looking at him with new eyes, she realized that their different forms of attractiveness were just right for each other. Elijah who was beauty in every move, every nuance of expression, every thought, every action. Dom, on the other hand, expressed the joy and love of life, an abundance of emotion, almost raw, immersing himself totally in his commitments.

"What is it that I'm supposed to do?" she murmured. If Anyone thought that she would turn away from such opportunity, the fulfillment of her heart's yearning, then They weren't being very realistic. Maybe she did feel a little guilty, looking at Dom who lay sweet and helpless and completely unknowing of what the man who was supposed to be committed to him was doing. But she was sure of one thing - that she would take advantage of this opportunity to the fullest that Elijah would allow. It was Elijah's call, after all. He wasn't a child to be protected from his own decisions. Whether or not he was free to have sexual relationships besides Dom was not hers to decide. She headed back to the guestroom, softly closing the door.


He really is like a girl, she thought, standing looking down at him. Small and beautiful, artistic and sensitive, fragile-looking but tough. Wanting only approval and appreciation. To be dominated is to be fondled, loved, protected. And, God! Do I want to protect him!

She contemplated the ropes, still connected to the four corners of the bed. Do I dare? she thought. But she knew she'd already made up her mind.

Stealthily, she took up a loop from the bottom of the bed, slipped it under the covers, found his foot and imprisoned it. She would need to wait until he changed position to do another one. Meanwhile, she found her eye mask, meant to be worn at night to keep out traffic and street lights; she seldom used it but kept it in her makeup kit. She hesitated, but she knew she couldn't do this if he was looking at her. Do you trust me enough? I think so, but ... She stroked his face, as she had been doing only a few minutes ago. No reaction. Gently she slipped the mask on him. He sighed, turned. Now his hand was close enough to the top of the bed. Caressing gently, she placed a loop around it, then waited by the other top corner, loop ready. It was a long wait, but it seemed as though she held her breath the whole time. Finally he turned onto his back, bringing his hand almost close enough ... she moved it just a little to ensnare it. Then, quickly, before another move could make him aware how limited his range had become, she brought up the other loop, moved his foot into it. And waited.

It didn't take long. He tried to move the foot back where it had been. There was a moment of stillness as she could feel him wakening, questioning. He pulled his hands against the restraints then, suddenly, panicked flailing, gasping, tossing his head. Ellen had a moment of alarm, hastily deciding she had been wrong. She reached for his hand to still it, to calm and reassure, to remove the rope, but before she got there he abruptly stopped struggling, so she froze, held her breath, waiting, as his chest heaved, his muscles strained.

       He awakened to the sense of someone in the room, a stealthy
       presence that alarmed him. Finding his limbs restrained confirmed
       the sense of danger, and he yielded to a moment of panic,
       nameless, bypassing reason, and he grabbed at the air, trying to
       find purchase, trying to tear through the darkness.

"What the fuck ...!" he cried forcefully.

She wanted to remind him what she had said earlier, "Any time you want me to stop, just say so," but to tell him that now would be to give him back control. The whole purpose of being confined is the lack of control. Lack of control means lack of responsibility for the outcome. To say anything at all would be to rob him of some of the experience.

       Reason kicked in; slowly he relaxed, made himself breathe normally.
       Whatever was happening, panic wouldn't help. Bit by bit, incident
       by incident, he rebuilt the recent past. Coming to restrained
       was not new. Last time, he had been able to see. Inability to
       move his cold-numbed hands had not been one of his first sensations.

       But now that he had it in context, he knew. Or thought he knew.
       Ellen was doing further exploring after all. The thought of her
       standing there anonymously was stirring, exciting. The hairs of
       his arms stood on end with the delicious fear. What was in store?
       What would she do? It even occurred to him that she could do
       anything. She could choke him, cut him ... anything could be
       explained in the context that she had saved his life. He didn't
       really know her at all.

She gently peeled the blanket back off him, and stood looking at him in wonder; imprisoned, quiescent, surrendered to her will. She had really expected his capitulation, or she would never have tried it. She had not expected how much she would be moved by it. For a long time she just stood, appreciating the moment, his body laid out like ... like a sacrifice. To what?

The irony gave her pause. This was his real life: his beauty on display for all, no secrets, no privacy; his hands bound, unable to protect himself from the public which adored him.

And the sacrifice? What did the angels save him for? Was he to be offered up for ... for what? Gay rights? She had a feeling that the sacrifice he made for humanity might be difficult. The higher the soul, the greater the contribution expected. "God," she prayed silently, "whatever he is here to do, let it not be too hard."

       He felt the blanket being removed and shivered with the uncertainty.
       Why didn't she speak? Why didn't she touch him?

"Ellen?" his voice was so very small, timid. She didn't answer, didn't trust her judgment at the moment. She had intended merely to give him an erotic experience. Well, all right, to give herself one, too. To lay something mystical on it would spoil the innocence of it.

To break the spell, she reached out and touched a nipple. Reached through the bright aura that seemed to surround him, burst it like a soap bubble. He gasped and wriggled delightfully.

       He was certain now, finally. Yes, it was Ellen. Yes, she would
       do something thrilling and unusual. Yes, he trusted her.

Where to start on this feast? She decided that this time there would be more skin contact, and took off her clothes, glad he couldn't see the sag of age. Her figure looked tight enough in bra and jeans, but time will have its way. Now she knelt on the floor at his feet, began with his toes – rubbing, massaging each one, digging into the sole of his foot, rotating the ankle, while Elijah hummed with pleasure. She worked her way up to his knees, probing, kneading, stroking. Sometimes she used her fingernails lightly, making faint pink and white lines down his legs. His tentative, almost fearful "Aahh" told her she was achieving the effect she wanted. When she was finished exploring each bone, each ligament in his knees, she moved to his hands, giving each one, each arm, the same treatment as his legs. She worked all the way up to his shoulders, allowing his arms and hands occasional contact with her bare skin as she progressed, as though by accident. He moaned softly with pleasure.

       His cock was hardening. He felt her fingertip stroke up it once,
       up the underside from root to tip, and he felt it jump. Again
       he caught his breath and murmured his enjoyment.

       But then the stimulation stopped. There was nothing, no sound of
       movement, nor of her leaving. He couldn't even detect breathing,
       and didn't know whether she was there or not. He tried to imagine
       what she was doing, what she could be doing in the dead silence.
       Again he thought, she could really hurt me, and I couldn't do
       anything about it.
But he wasn't gagged. If he cried out,
       someone would come.

       Wouldn't they?

Now she just sat back and watched him, watched his penis go flaccid again, quietly keeping time by her watch to make sure she let at least five minutes go by. Then she started with his toes again, this time with her mouth. He startled, gasping, as she sucked his big toe into her mouth, sucking each one, licking each bit of skin, exploring the geography of his feet and ankles; up his legs, washing each hair with her tongue.

       This treatment he just enjoyed, expressing his gratification with
       vocal breathing, each exhale a tiny murmur of pleasure; and
       occasionally a spastic twitch to his hips. He felt her tongue
       coming up his hands and arms, was amazed that these sensations
       could be so erotic. He realized he was gasping, moaning out
       his pleasure.

       The wet trail climbed up his arms, under his arms, tonguing
       the hollow, nuzzling the soft skin. He struggled against this,
       hating being tickled. He tried to get his hands in to protect
       himself, strained against the ropes.

"No," he gasped. "Don't..." And she backed off immediately.

       Again there was nothing, and again he questioned her motives.
       But after a minute of sensory deprivation, it dawned on him
       that he had made a request and she had immediately obeyed.


But she didn't answer him. Let the anticipation build. Biting on her finger to cool her own excitement, which made her aware that he was prevented from chewing his nails. She grinned, a feral, predatory grin. She leaned over him and, being careful to make no contact except with her lips, she kissed him. She meant it to be light but he hungrily sucked in her tongue, strained upward to her. He pulled against the ropes, trying to reach for her. She broke off, breathing too hard to be silent. Her clitoris tingling, she wondered how long she was going to be able to prolong this. His erection was soft, did she want to speed that up? Better not. No 'premature ejaculation' this time.

       The unexpected kiss was reassuring. This was 'normal', with a
       normal way of responding. He invited her tongue in. Invited
       her in. Strained toward her with a need to touch, to regain
       confidence of her good intentions by holding his body against
       hers. Then suddenly his desire was granted, and he felt the
       length of her body, the suddenness of it almost too much
       stimulation after the delicate touches.

Maximum contact now; crawling down his body, hands spread out on either side of his waist, she brought her face into his belly, pushed her tongue into his navel, let her breast rest against his. Lapping at his stomach with one cheek or the other sliding against his skin. She grabbed one fine little belly hair between her teeth and yanked it out, eliciting a cry of surprised protest. Tempting to go into a 69, but she wouldn't allow herself that. Not likely he would find that erotic. Fellatio anyway? Not this time. She washed his whole torso above the triangle of hair up to his shoulders, avoiding the nipples, nudging into the aureole just enough to tease. Then she raised up and let her nipple touch the corner of his mouth. Just like a baby, he turned to it, locked on to it, sucked it. And as though it were a baby sucking, every bit of erectile tissue in her body contracted. God, what a high. She let him suckle a little, feeling love for him washing over her in waves. Wishing he really were her baby, her son... Well, not really. She slipped a finger into his mouth to break the vacuum, pulled away. He sucked her finger. She let him do that, enjoying the sensation, while she bent to take his nipple in her mouth.

He was panting now, writhing, straining at the ropes, his twitching arousing her more than any physical stroking could do.

But she backed off again. She didn't want to hurry this. Wanted to know every unique contour of his body intimately. She moved to his head, licked behind his ears, one then the other, soaked his beard, washing it with her tongue, raised a strawberry on his neck. Covering his eyes with her hands she raised the mask and licked an eyelid, feeling the ridge of eyelash, stroked lovingly down from the bridge of his nose, under his eye and up to the temple, leaving a wet trail. Pulled his eyebrow into her mouth and soaked that. She became aware as she treated the other eye that she was now stretched out against him, leg to leg, breast to shoulder. And that she was digging rhythmically into him, insistent pelvis against his hip. And that he was responding in the same rhythm. Gasping for breath, she replaced the mask and backed off.

       He was getting tired of the pauses. He wanted action. He had
       never been more turned on than he was now, and she hadn't even
       touched his cock. Or anything in that area. He was eager to
       see what she would ultimately do, and wanted to get on with it.
       "Please," he murmured, but didn't know how to ask for what he

She crouched on the chair, waiting. Waiting for his breath to steady, for her own to slow. But his almost pitiable request was suddenly enough. "Hell," she said out loud.

She came up between his legs, and he pulled them up as far as the ropes would allow, opening to her as he would to Dom. She paused at that, awed by having this man-child invite her in. She was momentarily distracted by that bottom view; touched that sweet cheek, fingertip just covering his anus. His cock spronged to attention as though she had turned on a switch, and she stroked its length with a finger.

Throwing all her intentions to the wind, she explored his maleness. She had meant to not touch the genitals at all until taking him in, to keep the sensation as fresh as possible. But here it was in front of her, his private gems, the part of a man most vulnerable and fragile while at the same time the most male. She cupped his balls and brought them to her mouth, licked them gently, sucked one in her mouth as he groaned encouragement. Abruptly, she remembered how easily he had come last time, and she withdrew. With a last stroke down between his perfect cheeks and a sobbing exhalation, she returned to her purpose, straddled him, knee on either side, and without touching him with her hand, came down on him slowly. He mewled surprised pleasure at the tight warm wet. She sat still, motionless on the outside, while she concentrated on stroking him with her internal muscles. He was crying out softly now, "Ohgod ohgod."

       He seldom topped; for his cock to be the one inside was an
       uncommon experience, and the knowledge of doing something
       foreign, illicit, something he had expected never to do,
       intensified his perception of the feeling.

       It dawned on him that she was literally on top. It had
       somehow never occurred to him that the woman would ever
       be on top; it almost seemed like a contradiction in terms.
       But he was suddenly very glad that she had chosen this
       situation for their encounter - he didn't know how well
       it would have gone if he hadn't been restrained.
       Undoubtedly he would have attempted to be on top,
       which wouldn't have been his normal position and
       apparently not hers, either.

Slowly she lay down on him, swinging her legs between his knees. Finally in the position she found natural, she began to stroke, slowly, languorously, then faster and faster, pounding into him as though she wielded the sword and he the sheath.

       As he felt her stretch out on top of him, her breasts against
       his chest, her arms enfolding him, her weight bearing down on
       him, the word 'covered' occurred to him. She covered him.
       She protected and claimed him, physically and symbolically.
       The helplessness of his position, the knowledge of being
       desired, the sweet tenderness and rough passion, sent him
       crashing over the edge.

The feel of him pulsing inside her, his seed spurting, the sounds of his ecstasy, set off her own climax. She kissed him as she rode with it, sucking his tongue into her, this time. Sucking hard, pushing hard, not caring, for the moment, if she bruised his lips. Or hers.


She lay on top of him, not wanting to move; not wanting to separate her flesh from his. After a time she realized that he was still restrained, and she reached up to free a hand, then the other, but she didn't want to get up, to leave him.

She dozed a bit. Woke at the feel of his arms around her, pressing her close. He doesn't want to separate, either.

It was full dark when Ellen opened her eyes. Checked her watch: seven o'clock. I have slept awhile. She raised up on her arms and was surprised to find the mask still across Elijah's eyes. Gently she removed it, flung it in the general direction of her makeup kit. Drank in the beauty of his sleeping face. Then reluctantly she got up and went for warm washcloths. She took the ropes off his feet, washed him gently and thoroughly. He woke and smiled at her. She tucked the bedclothes around him. "Why didn't you take the mask off?" she asked.

"That was for you to do."

"Oh, Lij. It will be so hard to let you go." It filled her heart, that simple statement of trust.

"Come with me," he whispered impulsively.

"Come with you?"

"To LA. Stay with me." The hopeful light in his face faded as she shook her head.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. " I can't seem to control my mouth today."

"Oh! Don't be sorry!" Chagrined to have caused him a moment of discomfort, she sat down beside him, stroked his chest.

"Today," she emphasized, "is a special day. A moment frozen in time. Like all mortal things it will end, and there isn't much time for the Dance. If we can't be real with each other, then we will lose the miracle. I'm glad you said that.

"But, first, what would Dom think? And second, what would my husband think? Actually, I'm not against a menage-a-trois, but I think we've got one too many husbands here.

"God, Elijah, all things being equal, there is nothing I would like better than to snuggle myself between you and Dom. Except to snuggle you between my husband and me. And that's not going to happen either."

"No, I see your point." For the first time he reached up and stroked her face. "But I don't want to lose you. You said you'd be my ... refuge ... what did you call it?"

"An ashram."

"My ashram, then. I need that."

"Well, we're luckier than star-crossed lovers of the past. We have the internet. You will never lose me, unless you choose to. Not ever."


He turned on his side and pretended to go to sleep, enjoying the feel as she caressed his back until she thought he was asleep. But he was thinking about it, about wanting to hold her love, to love her in return. He had learned long ago that he couldn't return all the love that fans sent his way, but he wanted to. Sometimes he loved them all so much it hurt. He wanted to shake every hand, hug each fan who came up to him, exchange the warmth of humanity with them. Crawl inside them, become part of them, and they part of him. Yeah. Like I was just inside her.

That thought shook him. Was that what he really wanted? Sex with each and every person who came along? It certainly had been satisfying this time. The intimacy, the satisfaction of a loving touch, the connection it engenders. But I love Dom!

Is it so wrong to love more than one person? He could think of a dozen people easily that he truly loved, and with most of them he would not be averse to a physical relationship. Was that so wrong?

Would it have been so wrong for Sean and me ...? He knew the answer - Christine might have been hurt, might not have understood. And he still resented it. But this one. There must surely be enough room in the world to love this one, whose love for him in return was so surprising and so pleasant.
Tags: frozen
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