(Note: all characters are 18 and over)
Grayson Nichols found an unmarked package sitting on the porch. He clumsily juggled it and his college textbooks and struggled up the stairs. He threw it all on the bed and went to take a piss. He limped down the hallway with his leg sliding. In the bathroom mirror, he saw a wide-shouldered, decent-looking guy. He had been robbed of so many possibilities. Perhaps he would have been an athlete. No one would ever know. A decade ago, a bully threw him down a drainage ditch and shattered his leg. The knee shot pain down to his foot, which seemed to ricochet back up to his neck.
His stepsister's voice rose above the sound of his stream. "Goddamn it Leggy, I need to use the bathroom. I have to get ready for a date."
Ugh, this fucking slut
. "Whatever."
Later, he decided to open the unmarked package. He pulled out a copper box covered in ornamental carvings. He hinged it open, and inside was a statue of a meditating person holding a bowl. Under the statue was a clay tablet with strange writing in a strange language. He blinked. No, it was English, and it was in normal print. Jesus, he needed to get better sleep. He read the tablet.
Fill the bowl with sand and write a command.
The command must be legible.
Write as many commands in a day as you wish.
A person cannot be commanded more than once a day.
A person cannot be commanded for more than 137th of a day.
A person must be properly identified.
He did the math on the fraction of a day, which came out to a little more than ten minutes. It sounded so stupid. What kind of joke was this?
That night, he was about to toss it in the trash when he paused. Shit, might as well give it a try. For the fun of it, of course.
There, he knelt in the backyard, grabbing a handful of sand. He struggled back to his room. He had to wait a minute as the pain rubberbanded up and down his body.
He let the sand filter out of his fist into the little bowl in the arms of the statue. He took a mechanical pencil and wrote one line, a command to his stepsister.
Amy Nichols will come into my room completely naked in the morning and stand for one minute
.
He had struggled to write the whole line in the sand. It wasn't easy to get down a lot of words. Anyway, it didn't matter. Soon, he went to sleep.
When his eyes opened, the light behind the blinds painted his room in bright bars. The calls of robins disturbed the dawn. He put a pillow over his head, and his alarm peeled just as he began to drift away. There was nothing worse than the morning. He sat up, his calf threatening to cramp. His back hurt like hell. God forbid he have a decent morning.
Amy walked into his room. She had a halo of light blonde hair around an arrogant but lovely face. Her cold blue eyes looked frightened and confused. The shadow of the binds lay across her fair skin and bent along the curves of her body. Her ghost nipples stuck out in the chill. They were marvelous nipples. Her pussy lips were right there, no less visible through the light hair than if she had been shaved.
