The Tower

by Jean Johnson

  “Oh my,” the green-gowned woman drawled. “It seems things have gone quite a bit far. Some of you were very inventive in where you spanked, and very thorough in apologizing. Numbers 64, 78, 13, and 2 are to be penalized for not clearing their marks immediately. All four of you will go through the blue doors,” Senya stated, pointing at the back left doors, the ones which she had been carried through.

  Myal realized now that their frame had been painted blue, and the panels tinted that color. The others were red at the near left, gold at the entrance Myal and Kerric had used, purple by where they had dropped their packs, and green at the back right set of doors. The shrinelike closet with the single door, that wood had been tinted silvery gray.

  “You will submit to anything done to you in that room, for your punishment,” Senya continued. “The rest of you . . . I do believe it’s time to play Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let’s start drawing the numbers!”

  Kerric didn’t know whether to pray that they get paired together right away, or that they not be the very first couple. The way his body ached, seven minutes in the closet with Myal, unable to sate his hunger, would be seven minutes in a Netherhell.

  “Numbers . . . 53 . . . and 47! Oh, my, the two of you must really be on edge,” Senya teased, drawling the words. She held up the two tickets in her hand. “The selection picks the people who are the closest to, ah, ‘losing,’ as it were. Now remember,” she added as Myal slowly pushed to her feet, and Kerric gained his, “if only one of you sates their desire, you go to the green room, where the sated one will be punished and the unsated rewarded. If both of you do, you go to the red room, where you’ll both be punished. And if you hold out the full seven minutes without touching or trying to arouse each other even further . . . you follow the losers into the blue room, where you will be punished most thoroughly.

  “But if you do touch, yet do not sate . . . then you get the purple room.” A flutter of her fingers shooed the two toward the shrine room. The hostess turned her attention toward the rest. “While we wait to see if they’re in Heaven or a Netherhell, the rest of us get to play Move The Egg!” A clap of her hands summoned maidservants with baskets of eggs. “The object is to press them between you and your partner’s bellies, and ‘roll’ them up the body to the mouth of one or the other without crushing or dropping the egg or using your hands . . .”

  One of the loincloth-draped manservants opened the door to the richly carved room. Inside, there was nothing but a candelabra overhead dimly lighting the chamber with four flickering flames, a single padded stool, and even more lewd carvings than the outer walls held. Unlike the outside of the shrine, these weren’t just carved in stone; someone had taken care to paint every limb and curve in a full palette of colors.

  Worse, unlike a room lit by suncrystals, the candle flames danced in the breeze stirred by their entrance. That made the luridly erotic figures seem to dance and sway as the shadows cast by their relief-carved surfaces moved and shifted in correspondence. Kerric looked around at the images of men and women conjoined in exotic and athletic ways, of thrusting bodies and suckling lips, caressing hands and curled toes, and groaned again. “Oh, yes . . . I am in a Netherhell.”

  Licking her lips, Myal nodded slowly in agreement. Behind them, the servant closed the door, murmuring a polite, if wicked, “See you in seven minutes . . .”

  The moment the door closed, Myal grasped Kerric’s wrist. She pressed his palm to her breast, her eyes wide with both passion and determination. “We have to win. That means doing—enduring—whatever it takes.”

  “Right. Right,” he nodded, licking his own lips. “Just . . . ah . . . be careful on rubbing our loins together.” Catching her free hand, he pulled it to his chest, letting her palm cover his nipple. The way she blushed and shifted her hand, caressing him, made him give her a lopsided smile and gently plump her breast. Moving up against her, he looked up into her eyes. “This may be a Netherhell of unrequitable lust, but I’m glad I’m suffering it with you.”

  Myal snerked, caught off guard by his quip. She couldn’t help it; Kerric just made her laugh. Big guffaws, little snickers, it didn’t matter. She smiled down at him, letting herself enjoy that acknowledged fact. “Kerric, I cannot imagine anyone else I’d be willing to endure this kind of torment with, either.”

  Dipping her head, she brushed her lips against his brow in a kiss more tender than sensual. Somehow, that seemed the right thing to do. Abandoning his chest, she slid her hands up to his cheeks, tilting his head back so she could dust his face with little kisses. He lifted his chin, nuzzling her in return, peppering her throat and collarbone with little pecks, while his own arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.

  Eventually their lips met and nibbled, mingled, kissed . . . but the position put a strain on her neck. Pulling back, Myal looked around, gauged the height of the stool, and nudged Kerric over to it. The padded leather seat was tall enough that, once he hitched himself up onto it, their heads were level. Kerric pecked her lips and grinned. “Remind me to fetch out this stool for use elsewhere in the Tower, when we’re through.”

  She squinted at it a moment, gauging the faint glimmer to it that didn’t come from candlelight, then shook her head. “It’s an illusion. Copy the spell, and you can have it with you day or night, without having to carry it anywhere.”

  “Good point.” Pulling her close, he nibbled on her bottom lip, then rested his forehead against hers. “Does this mean I get to enjoy more of your kisses once we’re done with this run?”

  “I’d run a gauntlet to get to you for another kiss,” Myal confessed, stroking her fingers through his soft, delightful curls. Mendhite hair was long, and sometimes wavy, but never this curly.

  “I’ll see about keying you to access my quarters, once I’m back in control,” Kerric promised. Tilting her jaw with a caress of his hand, he nibbled on her throat. “I would run a gauntlet, too,” he murmured between suckling, slow bites. “But why should we bother, if we don’t have to?”

  A wicked thought made her chuckle and offer, “I think I’d like to run the Seraglio again with you.”

  He laughed into her neck, and swatted her rump. “Tease!”

  Her breath caught at the sting-and-throb. “Don’t do that,” she groaned, nipping at the curve of his ear with her teeth, evoking a groan of his own. “It’s making me ache for more.”

  He spanked her again, this time for daring to arouse him via his surprisingly sensitive ear. The angle wasn’t good for a truly throbbing hit, but it did tease the woman in his arms, making her catch her breath and moan. Spreading his knees, he pulled her firmly between his legs, loins and bellies and chests pressed together. Fingers buried in her hair, he tilted her head, angling her mouth for a deep, plundering, commanding kiss.

  Myal permitted it for a little while. His confidence and his competence pleased her as much as his sense of humor. But she wasn’t a doormat woman, content to always follow, never lead. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she tugged his head back and attacked his throat, licking it in long, lascivious strokes of her tongue . . . and attacked his ear again, this time suckling it.

  “Damn you!”

  Kerric hissed the curse, his hips jolting forward with the instinctive imperative to thrust. He could feel the tip of his shaft growing wet with need and knew he was getting too close to losing the game. Swiping his fingers up the inside of her leg, he cupped her mound and rubbed.

  “Don’t you dare make me climax just yet,” he growled, pressing her soaked underclothes up against the little nub sheltered in her folds. Her gasp soothed some of his anger, but he didn’t stop until her knee threatened to buckle, then he stopped his fingers. Just stopped them, until she whimpered and squirmed, instinctively seeking more stimulation. “That’s right, don’t you dare come. You will just whimper and beg me to finish. You will beg me and I will deny you.”

  That was a little too self-confident. Arrogant, even. Panting for breath, Myal struggled with her aching need. Afte
r a moment, she slid her fingers over his chest, and pinched a nipple. The curse that escaped him was a lot more graphic, and it made her chuckle. “We can’t do that just yet,” she purred into his ear, letting her lips brush against all those sensitive little nerve endings she had discovered. “We still have to endure our Seven Minutes in a Netherhell . . .”

  Knowing she was right, hating it, Kerric recaptured her mouth with his, kissing her deeply. The door opened behind Myal, spilling warm candlelight and fresh air into the room, along with the chatter and laughter of the illusionary party-guests.

  “Congratulations!” Senya crowed. She wasn’t the only one peering inside, but she was the hostess, so it was her place to speak. “Your seven minutes are up, and you’re almost in a compromising situation. There’s the purple door,” she added, nodding at the panels near their discarded things. “Now go use it. You’ve earned it. Come back here when you’re through, and we’ll have more fun and games to do.” Moving away from the shrine-closet, she held up her hands. “Alright, let’s draw another two numbers for Seven Minutes In Heaven!”

  Aching, Kerric eased himself off the stool. He followed Myal across the room as the numbers 17 and 5 were drawn, this time for a pair of men who blushed but headed eagerly for the closet. Even knowing they were nothing more than complex illusions, Kerric found himself envying the pair. He wanted nothing more than to make love to Myal in that closet, to stay in there and shut out the rest of the world until he could exorcise his need for her out of his blood.

  The only problem is, I think she’s seeping into the marrow of my bones, with the intent to stay there. It wasn’t an unhappy thought, realizing he was falling for her hard. Shaking his head to clear it, he stooped and gathered up his discarded belt and backpack. She picked up hers, they both checked the ground to make sure nothing was being left behind, and another servant opened the nearby doors for them.

  The room beyond . . . was a lot smaller than Kerric remembered. He blinked, swallowed, and cleared his throat. “Right . . . this must be the lethal version,” he muttered under his breath. “Whatever you do, don’t touch that bed.”

  “Got it,” Myal agreed equally quietly.

  The man at the door fluttered his hand, shooing both of them inside the modest-sized bedchamber. There were two doors, placed on opposite walls. The wall to the left held the head of the huge four-poster bed, and a night table to either side. The wall to their immediate right was just five feet away from the foot of the bed, the same distance given for the nightstands.

  Those little tables were delicate, flimsy, and placed right up against the bed. They were fine for holding a glass of water, but would break under their combined weight for lovemaking. At the foot of the bed sat a chest with a padded lid, but if they used that, they’d brush up against the footboard. The floor was an option, but it was cold hard stone with only a narrow strip of carpet.

  Myal narrowed her eyes. The double doors they had entered through were placed down by the foot of the bed and that chest, giving her a good view of their exact positions “Kerric . . . that chest isn’t touching the bed.”

  “Yes, but if we use it, we’ll brush up against the blankets or the footboard, and that counts,” he reminded her.

  Smiling, she shook her head. “No, it won’t . . . because all we have to do is pull the chest over to the far wall, and use that to lean against.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it, and tipped his head, acknowledging her point. “Brilliant. Simply brilliant. Be very careful in moving it.”

  Nodding, she dropped her pack in the nearest corner and moved to the far side of the chest, knelt down, and grasped it solely by the nearest leg, the one away from the bed. Kerric did the same on the other side, since the chest didn’t have handles to tug upon, and they hauled the heavy thing over to the other side. The effort cooled their mutual desire a little, but that was alright.

  Sitting down on the chest, Kerric tugged her over to him and guided her into straddling his lap. That meant her head was much higher than his, but that, too, was alright. It left her breasts at the perfect height for lovemaking; all he had to do was remove her remaining clothes. He would have to aim her padded vest into the corner with their packs of gear, not wanting even a single scrap of their clothing to touch that luxurious-looking, heavily trapped, potentially deadly-by-starvation bed.

  Realizing what he was trying to do in plucking at her vest, Myal dismounted from his lap and stripped, tossing everything at their packs. She, too, wanted to avoid the bed; she didn’t know how it would react, other than that it would bind whoever touched it, but she was too experienced an adventurer to risk carelessness even in the face of her still-high desire. He rose, too, and under her eager gaze stripped off the last of his clothing as well.

  As soon as he was naked enough, Myal pushed him back down onto the padded lid and climbed back onto his lap. “You do realize this room is a lot smaller than you promised.”

  “Well, I hadn’t seen the lethal version played before,” he murmured wryly, wrapping his arms around her waist. He started to bury his face between those luscious, tattooed curves, but she tugged on his hair.

  It wasn’t easy for her to think, given how his shaft was now resting between her folds; her body kept urging her to rock against it. But not for nothing was she one of the top female adventurers. Focusing through her desire, Myal asked, “What, exactly, are the conditions for successfully moving on from this room?”

  Her voice was breathless at certain points and her hips couldn’t stop moving. The sway of her breasts just a breath away from his lips was equally distracting, but Kerric was a fully trained mage, with a fully trained will. That, and the answer was exactly what he wanted to do. “We must take care to fully sate our desire for each other, without touching the bed. Once we are sufficiently sated, the far door will unlock and open.”

  He rolled his own hips, pushing up against her, prodding to find the entrance to her sheath. Myal moaned, head dropping back. “Thank the Gods. Something I can do without thought!”

  Kerric chuckled and wrapped a hand under her buttock. Lifting her a little, he positioned himself with his other hand, and then pulled her slowly down onto his shaft. “Tight . . . hot . . . can’t think, either.”

  She laughed, and the pulsing clench of her inner muscles was both subtle and perfect. Wanting more, Kerric tickled his fingers down her ribs, making her squirm and squeeze him again from her tensing. With a groan, he buried his face in the valley between her breasts, nuzzling her. Myal stroked her fingers through his hair, playing with his curls, and began rolling her hips to slowly, seductively capture the last few inches of him.

  Slowly didn’t last long. Not with his mouth tormenting her nipples, not with the feel of his shaft filling her down to the last little bit. She had only made love with him once, with an interruption before their second chance, and a long hour of erotic seduction before this moment. Just thinking about being here with him made her shiver with need.

  Bracing one hand on the wall for support, the other arm around his shoulders, she flexed her thigh muscles, rising and falling in hip-rolling strokes that made both of them groan. Kerric wrapped both his hands under her backside, encouraging her into deeper, faster movements. Sweat started to slick their skin as they moved. Feeling dizzy with mounting desire, Myal almost missed the uncomfortable tingling, until her kidney tattoo on her back flared hot in warning.

  “Poison!” she gasped, eyes snapping wide.

  He stopped moving, his concentration on his own pleasure broken by that one word. “What?”

  “Poison! Contact poison,” Myal explained, struggling to think through the mix of panic and pleasure addling her wits. The left tattoo had activated, which meant it was a poison or toxin of some sort, but the right one had yet to burn in the effort to cleanse her body of whatever it was, suggesting it wasn’t immediately lethal. “My knees—bench seat!”

  Kerric heaved both of them up off the chest. He was too aroused to pull out now
, and that meant carrying her. Shuffling sideways until he could lean against the wall for support, he cast out his left hand, the right tightly gripping her rump.

  “Faddershou spesifica!” Golden light zapped the padded leather top, sank in, then burst upward in glowing runes. He sagged against the wall in relief. His body clamored to pound into her, making it hard to think. “Thank the Gods. Just a lust potion. Activated by sweat . . . which explains why I’m, nngh, so hard right now. Nothing . . . nothing deadly.”

  “Good. Good,” she panted. She had wrapped her legs around him when he lifted them off the chest, but could feel his body straining to hold her up. Extending the left one, she touched the floor with her toes, curling them into the pile of the rug laid over the stone floor. “Don’t think the . . . the rugs are trapped.”

  Shaking his head, he rolled them along the wall, putting her back against it. That gave her support and allowed her to bend her knee a little, lowering her pelvis into better range for him. It meant he had to either ignore her breasts since they were now a little too low to nibble or free a hand to plump one up . . . except she did that for him, cupping one in the hand not busy holding onto his shoulder.

  Grateful, he returned to pleasuring it with tongue and lips even as he flexed his lower body. In this position, she didn’t have much leverage to move; it was all up to him. Kerric didn’t disappoint. There was something erotic about taking this gorgeous woman up against the wall. An erotic image crossed his mind, a future possibility. Leaning back a little, though he continued to thrust into her down at the hips, Kerric shared it with her.

  “I’m going to invite you to my office, here in the Tower,” he growled softly, “and show you everything . . . and then have my way with you just like this, up against a wall, where no mirror-scryings can reach . . . Dammit!” Frustrated, he pushed deeper, faster. “This potion . . . I was ready to explode when we came in here, but now I can’t!”

  Myal groaned, head thumping lightly against the wall behind her. She was glad he had put in the no-scryings caveat. The last thing she wanted was for all those patrons to watch her making love to the Master of the Tower. Still, it was a hot image. She’d have paid to be able to watch the two of them together, if only in a very private, exclusive viewing.