by Poppet
“Drinks, sir.”
The footsteps recede and Kenan leans forward, bending over me, speaking softly in my ear, “He's gone. Here, this will remove the taste. You were a good girl, Candy. Good girls get rewarded.”
Sitting up to glare reproach at him, a peppermint liqueur is planted into my hand, and I drink it with urgency. The freshness of it is reviving and effective. He follows through with his own before plucking something off the tray and offering it to me on his open palm. It's a diamond pendant.
That can't be real. I'm so not that gullible.
He laughs at my expression, “I'd be dubious too but I assure you it's the real deal. Take it, it's yours.”
Pulling my shirt closed and redoing the buttons, I only meet his smile when I have my modesty back, “I'm not your whore. Don't treat me like one.” I'll keep the little point that I've just behaved exactly like one to myself.
His smile vanishes so fast that I find it alarming. Bending down, harnessing the back of my neck in his palm, he hisses in my face, “You are not a whore. You are my god given mate. You are the one I chose, you are the one I brought here, you are the one I will make scream in frustration and ecstasy and worship, you are the one I chose to cleanse of sin and offer redemption and you will not rebuke my good intentions for the sake of your pride. Accept my gift or you'll hurt my feelings.”
Like you didn't just hurt mine with that little fucked up display of dominion?
Not waiting for my reply he secures it around my neck. Then he picks up the coin and hands it to me, “Keep it. Let it remind you of the day I brought you home. The day I let you touch my holy body, the day you submitted to my authority.”
Folding my fingers around it, he stands, pulling his jeans and briefs up, and closing them with a zip of finality.
How dare you! How dare you assume I submitted to your fucking authority! Pushing up off the floor, yanking my skirt back into place, I throw the coin at him, “Fuck you!”
Stooping to pick it up, he flicks it between his fingers in a magician's roll before pocketing the coin and glowering at me. “I get it.” Cocking my head, the confidence in his voice has me feeling defensive. What does he get?
Stalking to me with aggressive strides he shoves me so hard I have nowhere to go when I lose my balance but back onto the footstool, where he proceeds to pin me down, pulling my hair so hard my scalp hurts, exposing my neck and ear to him. He lowers down, licking my throat, sucking my earlobe, shoving his hand up my skirt and right between my thighs. “Open sesame,” he laughs in my ear.
“No!” I argue, struggling to get him off.
Taking no shit he hauls me off the seat into his arms, his strength formidable when he reseats himself with me draped over his knees, my forehead now on the floor and my vision obscured with my hair.
“What are you doing!” I object, beginning to panic, writhing to get free.
My skirt comes up, his right arm holding me firmly on his knees with such force that it's stealing my breath, and he smacks my exposed ass with a very hard slap. My brain explodes with fuzzy drama, my ears block with shock, the brutality and pain enough to disarm me for a moment, long enough for him to strip my panties to my ankles, locking my feet when I kick and struggle, a hot hand cupping my exposed vagina, a dark gruff voice speaking softly to me, “Give to receive. You're smarter than you look, Candace. You're offended because I didn't reciprocate the way you wanted. Well hold on babes because you're about to be introduced to the might of a man's hand. God has invincible power in his hand and I'm made in his image. Succumb to salvation, fighting is useless darling.”
My head is pounding from hanging to the floor off such long legs, hazing logic and making me feel utterly helpless. I can't push up because my arm is caught underneath me. Then it begins, and it's relentless. He squeezes my clit, stroking up and down over my opening with a hand so hot it's obscene, circling and petting and caressing until desire wins. Okay, I fucking admit it, I'm turned on, but getting a spanking isn't my idea of foreplay.
I'm panting, I can hardly breathe hanging upside down, and I'm still terrified someone's going to casually stroll down the hall and bust us fornicating in the foyer.
The blood is pouring into my head and his pervy hand is having a profound effect on me. Fuck! This is so sexy in it's own fucked up way. Rubbed and warmed, heated wantonness now melting my insides out of me though the liquid centre, I relax, giving up, daring to enjoy it.
The moment I let go he stops holding me down, now using both hands, plunging a finger into me from beneath while his other hand continues rubbing my clit from the top. It's such an ache that it breaks me a little. I'm so turned on I just want release, I want it hard and hot and sweaty and screaming and fuck who hears us.
Another finger joins the first, giving me the delectable satisfaction of pressure. I love being stretched, it increases my pleasure and sensitivity.
The rubbing on my nub is firmer, faster, and I'm lost to the pumping fingers, to the friction, to the paradise of sensation burning a course through my body to coat his hand with female lubrication. The sounds are wet and sloppy and yet I can't seem to find it in me to be ashamed. Fuck shame. I missed my calling as a bad girl.
Holding my breath as dizziness spirals with an impending orgasm, the obliteration is a flicker on my senses, the high coming, approaching every time his hand pushes in, every time his finger runs back over that side of my clit.
Oh rhubarb and custard! Exhaling a squealed gasp, I sag, an odd burn replacing the high of climax, my pride crawling into the shadows, clinging to the walls as it abandons me.
His hands still but he stays where he is, looming over me like a dom with a chastised schoolgirl. “Candace,” he says, as if about to make some mundane inane conversation.
“Mmm?” I huff, now aware that all the panting and gasping and blood going to secrete lust out of the inner walls of sexual exploration has left my mouth a wasteland of bitter dryness.
“Tell me what's inside you.”
I shrug, trying in vain to plank off the floor so the blood in my head has somewhere else to go, “I dunno. Your hand I hope.”
“Yup. All of it. The whole hand. I had no idea you like fisting. You've been holding out on me baby.”
“I thought fisting was up the bum?” I blurt, forgetting to censor my runaway mouth.
“It can be if you'd prefer it that way, but this is biblical. Fuck, you're just perfect.”
Blast and damn but I get such a surge of pride from that statement. I am oddly pleased by his praise.
“How are you feeling about me now, Candace? Still angry and seething with misplaced vitriol?”
I shake my head, blackness blinding my eyes in the motion. I've been hanging for too long. I need to sit up.
“Tell me how you feel. Do you find this interaction has somehow stirred in you an emotion for me? A softening of judgment? Perhaps even curiosity to do exploring of your own?” he continues, as if musing to himself.
“Um,” I croak, needing to move. I really fucking need to move. “Yeah, I guess.”
It's true, I have softened in more ways than one, but I'm not about to tell him that.
Softly, unplugging my vagina with a wet schluck, the smell of my lust envelops me when he says, “My love thrust his hand through the opening and my feelings were stirred for him. It's in the bible, Candy. We just worshipped god together. And now your anger is gone, he has purged you of it with his divine hand.”
Hauling me upright, spiraling the room for me when my equilibrium tries to find balance and sends blood into a normal flow, the head rush makes me sag against him, my dignity as scattered as my legs are splayed.
“You need a drink,” he states. Rearranging us with his insane strength, he goes marching down the passage, coming back just as fast with two drinks and something in his closed fist. I look at that fist with tremulous horror. That was inside me? All of it?
Giving me a tall glass of something deliciously orange and alcoholic, he of
fers me a pink tablet, “Here, take this. It helps.”
I eye it warily, “It helps with what?”
Dropping to his haunches in front of me, he looks me in the eye, “It helps with your shame. You want to be ashamed, but I'm not going to let you fuck up something perfect with that level of ugliness.”
It's odd how a spontaneous act between strangers can shift perception. He makes this all sound like something wonderful, destiny, as if out of the blue a hottie can just decide on sight that I'm it, the one he wants, the one he wants to be more than carnal with, he wants to let me into his church to show me the glory of god being delivered directly through him. If this is a church and this is how they worship, I'm in! I want more of this. A lot more.
Discarding concern, living in the moment, I take the tablet with my awesome drink, accepting his hand when he pulls me to a stand, supporting me as I wobble with him to the end of the welcome channel. I'm all warm and giddy, lethargic in my thighs, the ache inside me not yet fully sated after all that sensual stroking. At least we won't be spending the night wondering what the other one looks like sans attire.
Now I know why the entrance art gallery smelled so strongly of sex. We aren't the only ones to fall off our pedestals when faced with ancient porn. I need to make a note in my diary to never ever play truth or dare again.
Stepping into a room of milling folks wearing cloaks, I frown up at Kenan. “This is weird.”
“Is it?” he smiles down at me, the wicked glint back in his eyes. “Maybe identity matters more than it should. Maybe obscurity is the path to real freedom. Maybe tonight isn't about names and faces and body types, maybe it's about exploring the potential that exists between the sexes. How high can we reach when we succumb to what comes naturally?”
“Hmm, it does, doesn't it,” I grin, looking around the room at strangers in hiding, at strangers taking liberties as they pass each other. Strangers kissing, squeezing, stroking, fucking. It's an orgy of sorts. A very odd conglomeration of debauchery.
Blocking my view when he steps in front of me, he braces an arm on the wall at my right, growling, “It does come naturally. It's how we were made. In their image. If you fight it you're going straight to hell. If you embrace it heaven is yours, on earth.”
Nicking my chin up, he murmurs across my mouth, “Don't you ever complain about a reward again. If you do, I'll do more than bring my hand down on your cute arse.”
Unable to hold his stare I close my eyes, instantly weak with the heat that statement causes to surge back into my panties. I hope he fucks as well as his hand does.
I almost can't wait to find out.
~ Chapter 4 ~
You open Your hand and satisfy
the desire of every living thing
~Psalms 145:16
Candace:
My education continues as we meander through the mansion, going from room to room while Kenan gives me the tour. The butler gave us masks to wear and I'm enjoying the masquerade of this bizarre soiree. I've had far too many drinks from the steady stream of hooded waiters, hence I'm now on the unstable ledge of too drunk to have any inhibitions or twenty twenty vision, and constantly find myself mesmerized by bold displays of ecstatic sex, amazed at how free and shameless the members of this church are. I envy them. I walk past couples having a live porn show, kissing fervently in shadowed nooks, copulating on tables, playing naked chess, dancing and indoor swimming completely nude, sucking each other off, drinking communion in more ways than one, everyone so unconcerned about their state of undress or the shouts of orgasm that it's enough to make me think that earlier I was in a mild situation in the welcome hall.
Most folks mull in ritual robes, but I've caught enough glimpses to know underneath they're stark naked, trawling for action. Velvet cloaks shroud every patron, except for those partaking in more carnal pursuits. The cloaks are cardinal red, reinforcing the car(di)nal of the color. A woman stands in the circle, a butler twirling her around and around and around, steadying her when she stops, her arm outstretched, pointing at the ring of onlookers, the butler playing referee as he selects the deviant stranger from the pack, the man her finger chose with an innocent point, pulling him into the center.
The circlet of guests tightens to close the gap and the lucky man, (he's clearly a man as his build and height suggests), pushes the hood off the woman's head, her mask one without eyes, rendering her sightless to her paramour's actions.
Pulling lazily at the red ribbon securing her cloak, he opens it so that it barely hooks on her shoulders, exposing thick black pearls glimmering against her pale skin, the necklace seeming too chunky for the gossamer gown adorning her petite frame.
Banging gongs from the overhanging balcony and I look up at the balustrade harnessing more onlookers, all holding walking canes with the authority of the king's mace, stamping the metal tips into the floor, in time, the beat a tribal summons for action.
One of the upstairs cloaked mysteries tosses a coin into the circle surrounding the couple. The man inside the ring stoops to collect it, examining the face of it he flicks it back into the air with his thumb. On instinct Ken's hand pumps into the air, catching the projectile.
He shows it to me, maintaining the silence of speech in this chamber. It's a coin like the one he handed the butler when we entered. Underneath his matte black mask he smiles and I'm left staring at perfect lips and eyes so shadowed they look evil.
Nudging his head to redirect my focus, I snap my attention back to the solemn ring of strangers. The floor rises beneath the couple's feet until they're on a raised platform with stairs fanning out on every side. They are elevated for all to see, the moment ripe with tension.
Her chaperone bows on one knee when a man in leather jeans and mask (only) stalks dramatically up the stairs, huge curled horns on his head like a weird Pan cap. In his hand is another set of black horns which he theatrically places on the man's head, hijacking the cloak the man wore, and retreating, leaving him standing on that stage as naked as a Roman slave.
He looks intimidating poised up there with a mask shielding his features, wild horns adorning his head, and nothing else. Now he's a beast turning back to his prey, his blind prey, shredding her flimsy dress and maneuvering her onto her knees, unwinding a leather strip from his wrist and using it to harness her neck.
That reminds me, Kenan has leather on his wrist just like that. I always thought it was hot when guys do that, as if they're secretly hiding their gang tattoo underneath the leather cuff, but now I think I was raised naïve and still have a lot more to learn about the uses for leather strips. Walking to her front, he traces her lips with the tip of his penis; her curious tongue extends out to lick at it.
“Son - of - Cain, son - of - Cain, son - of - Cain…” chants the circle, and an orchestra strikes up somewhere on the upper level, a voodoo drum added to the strains of haunting strings, setting a pace for the activity below. The audience seem to know the words to this mystical dance, chanting with the pounding, “Deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory… deliver us from evil, deliver us from evil, deliver us from evil … power… glory…power… glory… POWER … GLORY …”
It gains in volume, apexing on a crescendo, the stamping upstairs more violent, the drum now frenzied in gusto, every breath held and all eyes on the stage.
POWER.
Sucking on him until he's rigid, slurping the head of his erection the way Eve once licked off the juice from her plump apple, I squeak when I flinch at his sudden change in demeanor, slapping his palm so hard against her forehead that she falls back onto the solid stage, the checkered floor giving no grip, the force sending her sliding across the marble, stopped from plummeting off the other side when her assailant grips her ankle and aggressively yanks her back to him.
GLORY.
He makes it look effortless when he hauls her up, flips her over, bracing her knees on the first step of the platform, standing behind her, hands planted across her ass cheeks, t
humbs positioned and pulling her tautly wide open, the glisten evident even from here, and ramming his swollen hard cock into her.
POWER.
The pearls at her neck swing with her breasts, every shunt knocking her carefully coiffed hair forward, clouding across her eyes and the blood leaking from where she bites her lip with such intensity that it streaks down her chin.
POW-ER. POW-ER. POW-ER!
He's banging into her like a machine gun pumping bullets, exertion glistening wide shoulders, the veins in his arms so etched from the harsh hold on her hips, keeping her captive…
POW-ER!
The rein caught in his teeth drops and he loosens the hold of his left hand, buried inside her balls deep so she isn't able to pull back, the harness on her neck now yanked in his free hand with such tension that her grace is bowed, the leather strap in his other hand now utilized to slap her ass, her spine, her thighs… so hard it sounds like a whip crack cutting through the tirade of stamping, drumming, chanting, mania.
The horned man steps to the fore up above, shouting across the sea of spectators, “Then the Angel of the Lord said to her, 'You must go back to your mistress and submit to her mistreatment,' …”
The crowd of hooded crows shout back, “Genesis 16:9!”
Raising his hands as the pillars shake under the onslaught of thumping resonance, I feel like I'm losing my grip on reality, the room vacillating in and out, as if breathing in time with the beat, with the slap of sex, with the grunts of effort, with the hysterical pitch of voices in rapture …
