Chaos in Paradise

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  I know he’s being less formal for me, that he would be happy to discard his priestly robes so that we can forget all this nonsense, but I think I give him the strength to do what he must do.

  ***

  I am surprised to see the room glowing darkly with candles, and burning incense that is so smoky thick I can hardly see.

  The young priest, Andres, shows me where to lie. He nods to the odd shift, and I remove it. Gazing down at myself I see how my naked body glows in this light. If I look to the side I see Knowland and Keven Brannoch watching every move I make with eyes so focused I think I’ll melt from their intense stare. Do they have a clue how aroused I’ve become? Perhaps, even at a distance they can see the juice shimmering on my pubic hair, or notice how my thighs quake. I’m ashamed of myself, perhaps the first real shame I’ve ever felt—an extension of the humiliation and even remorse I feel for being such an unworthy bride for a priest. That he has to take these measures to make me worthy makes me wonder why he goes through this bizarre trial. I’m even more worthy of condemnation as I strut my sexual appetite before these holy men and this keeper of the peace in Utopia, the Provincial Lord.

  I kneel first on the bare packed dirt, and lay myself as instructed, arms stretched wide from my sides, my head pressed against the ground. The cool of the dirt climbs inside me where I’ve been warm, though the longer I lie in this repose, the more I can feel that earth pulsating at my groin and breasts, like a lover drawing me into its limbs. Every sense in my body is alive, darting daringly in a chaotic disarray. I worry that I’m grinding my crotch into the ground, and imagine I could easily cum just from the prickly tension in the air, and this piece of earth that seems to love me back without judgement.

  There are prayers being said, and then Andres lifts me to my feet and walks with me to the cross. Will Keven remember how he fucked me senseless against this crude punishment device? What was he trying to tell me with that reckless mockery?

  Hoisted on the bar, I think the thing will cut me in two, and yet it only serves to remind me how erotic I find this ceremony. With my legs tied wide and my arms splayed the same, I am fixed like an insect in some scientist’s lab, pinned to the wall for scrutiny. My body heats and I begin to sweat. There’s the scent of coals behind me, and I realize they are being readied for the branding.

  Even that arouses me strangely. I’m giving in to pleasure now, not purification. This lust must me written all about my burning body. I even moan now before the strike of the lash, and grind my pubis into this insufferable bar. It parts my labia and pains my clit, but I can’t help but wiggle when I feel a pulsing beat of desire rush through me.

  The lash strikes rhythmically, and from the start I feel it warm me from my shoulders to my ass and thighs. Without thinking, I rock on the bar, even happily, though there is a constant pain there. This priest is thorough with my purification, laying on without ceasing until I finally scream, pain supplanting warmth and eroticism. But how accommodating he is, pausing for a moment while my scream dies and I can catch my breath.

  “Gag her,” I hear Keven’s voice boom through the stifling air of the chamber. There’s such cold authority in his tone, I worry that with my screams I fail him. His priest quickly obeys the order, and I have a wooden ball thrust into my throat, opening my mouth so it’s stretched at the corners, suddenly leaving me only one way to response to this awesome punishment. I’m sure Keven knows this. I might be more inclined to hold back my physical excitement if I could voice my distress; but I am too far into sensation, and the pain is much too full for me to ignore. While my body sweats under the lash again, it gyrates with great wild movements, spasms shake my muscles, desire pulses in my veins. Every time the priest pauses, the air caresses me with loving hands, nurturing the sensation by the lack of it, until another round of leather drives madly into me. Thunderous contractions make my pubis bruise itself against the thick wood that impales my groin. I’m so thoroughly into the physical I don’t realize when the lashing suddenly stops. When I expect another strike to land, it doesn’t. I writhe more, hoping to catch the surges already powering through me. I am desperate to cum.

  Next, I feel a face at my face, the scent of a man fresh in my nostrils, and I open my eyes.

  Knowland breathes on me, his breath like fire. Grabbing my hair in his hand, he pulls it hard, scowling miserably before my scared eyes.

  “You want to marry my best friend, little bitch.”

  I can’t reply.

  “I should have had you ridden from this land for your contempt of it and our Brannoch priest. But he is strangely captured by these loins of yours.” He moves his hand to my ass, and grabs a handful of raw flesh that he kneads inside his mighty palm. I wince in pain. “You hurt him, you lust after another man in Utopia, you do anything to cause him harm, I will come for you and kill you.” He whispers his threat to my listening ear, making certain no one in the room can hear what he says but me.

  I know he means every word.

  “I am going to cane you, whore. For the next five minutes, I’ll be your priest. I want no mercy, not an ounce of gentility given to your sorry ass. You deserve much more wrath than you are seeing here today. Let what you receive be a sign that there is much more behind it if you fail him.”

  I see now he has a cane in his other fist. He plays with it, rolling the smoothly fashioned implement in his hand like it’s a child’s toy. This vicious rod makes my whole body start again in anticipation of its bite. My eyes stare fixedly, unable to waver their glance, though I realize Knowland sees my fright and chuckles, pleased.

  When he finally backs off, he doesn’t begin my final punishment until he uses the tip end of the cane like a poker. He jabs my side. Sticks the thing angrily between my ass cheeks, and draws a line down the crack with it, until it can go no further. Walking to my side so I can see the crafty grimace on his face, he prods a breast. The delicate flesh gives easily, and I worry that he’ll break the skin as he presses the tip hard to the surface,

  Then, with a “humph” he moves behind me again, standing appropriately at a distance to make a proper strike. This teasing seems as cruel as the punishment itself. Twenty-one will bite hard. Twenty-one will leave cruel marks. But if I’m lucky, these twenty-one will take me to that one last step of happiness. I pray for that and close my eyes.

  Oh, it seems I’ve forgotten what a caning means, it’s been so long. Cabot would cane me and so would Monsieur, but never Keven. I think back to the last time I’d been so punished and the memory appears as a fresh picture painted before my eyes. I can see myself from behind, my back side an expanse of wicked red skin waiting in anticipation. Caning is unlike any other torture I can recall. It means a startling half-second basking in the most pure anticipation a submissive woman could ever enjoy. It means hearing that frightful sizzle as the cane cuts the atmosphere in two. And it means feeling a bite so painful, I’ll find my teeth digging into this ballgag enough to leave an imprint in the wood.

  Knowland lets me enjoy the anticipation. And just when I think he’s about to strike, I suddenly feel his hand at my neck, forcing me to turn my face around.

  “Look at him while I do this, bitch!” he whispers softly. “Don’t take your eyes from his. Look at your Brannoch priest, your Keven, and don’t look away.”

  I feel tears well as he says this, but I obey him. Opening my lids, I see Keven’s expression. I sense he feels my fear—even though he still stares like a priest and observes this as his bound duty.

  When the first cut crashes meanly on my shoulders, I clench my eyes tightly in response as a hot burst of fire careens across my skin.

  Knowland barks at me, “Open them, bitch!”

  I am obedient above all and follow his order. This time when the cut strikes, I keep them wide and let Keven see the fire I feel.

  The next cuts glance off my shoulders rapidly, beyond my ability to count. The horror of the pain laces my expression, regardless of this hideous gag. As Knowland moves to my
ass, he repeats the caning, laying cut after cut on the mounds that now cease to smolder from the lashing. What eroticism might have been raised there quickly vanishes.

  Forced to keep my eyes on Keven, I see his expression vary little. With an air of righteous indignation he forces me to realize that I’m marrying a man who finds this act pious, my purification and this trial of woe, godly.

  With each cut that comes to vilely dispense its pain, I am torn inside and out. My body still rocks on the bar, though it is hardly gleeful. Only as it ends does the eroticism return. In one breathless moment between one travail and the next I stare into Keven Brannoch’s locked expression and know that I still love him, still quake to feel his hands on me in whatever form. That realization completes the moment, and the orgasm lifts right through my groin, pulsing ecstatically everywhere.

  With this response, I can’t imagine how we’ll survive this marriage.

  I couldn’t do this myself, not without allowing us both the full scope of the erotic desires contained within it. I know my Teagan struggles and so do I. Her muffled screams hurt me most, like fingers clawing inside the marrow of my bones. Such lewdness on the cross. I’ve never seen any woman quite as beautiful as this one. As Knowland approaches me with the hot iron, I take my eyes from her just a moment, seeing my insignia glowing red. I swipe the rod from his hand and move quickly to Teagan’s left flank. Her gaze remains toward the spot where I stood. And it’s just as well she doesn’t see this.

  The brand cools only to its perfect heat—the one to burn, but not the one to damage. Making little ceremony of this marking, I lay it firmly to her ass and let the searing implement do its dreadful work. My imprint will remain with her forever, regardless of what happens between us. Forever she will know me and think of me, no matter where she makes her bed. I pray her bed be with me, but I have no certainty. For a woman of submissive inclinations, the other spirits guiding her are tough and unpredictable. Even this morning Knowland called me mad for going through with this marriage. The brand was his idea, though it had come to my mind before he mentioned it. Still, we almost came to blows over his insistence. I was sure he would take me into the woods and the two of us would fist it out. Either I am a coward or a wise man, but knowing who would win that fight, I let myself agree to this. The truth is, it pleases me to have Teagan marked. I’m sure the tattoo, that public sign of her status, is even more demeaning, and that too will be etched into her skin before the day is over.

  The bold imprint looks very fair to me, and backing away from the cross, I allow myself one last look before I order Andres to take her down.

  ***

  We lay in the starlight, what streams through the window, and the glow of a tiny crescent moon. The soothsayers in the South say that it is auspicious to seal agreements under such a moon. Just as the full moon means chaos, this moon is the rising sun of something steadfast. My left side aches to lie against the very tender brand, and the marred skin is strange to touch.

  I remember almost nothing of the hour that followed my punishment and branding—I can’t call it purification since I don’t feel purified at all. I only feel more reckless and quick to mock this world in my heart. I’d so hoped to feel myself succumb to a mystery that those around me believe in. Yet nothing miraculous happened to me except that I orgasmed from a caning. How appropriate, I think. They all knew. Andres, poor child, must have been shocked, and Knowland? Well, I was happy to throw it in his face. But Keven, my dear Keven Brannoch. If he thought he’d transform me with his rituals, he knew right then, I’d be defying him my life long. The tattoo seemed almost silly, the mark a rather pretty design won’t be that difficult to wear. And the wedding, just words slipping from my lips to his. All I care is that it makes us legal in his world, and that the man I love can be mine without question.

  We made love for nearly two hours straight. He gave me several shots of liquor to quell the pain. We’ve slept in nirvana with the cool of the air and the stars and the sliver of a silvery moon to lull our minds into dreams of paradise without the chaos, into a world without the madness of these foolish rites, to a place where dreams are reality, and there is nothing put pleasure in pain, and pain for the fun of pleasure, and there are clear skies and shimmering streams and glittering stars like the ones above, and love.

  He stirs. Awake, I smile watching his body twitch. It twitches even more as I let my hand drift to the pouch between his legs. So soft, the puckering skin on his balls makes me giggly to feel it. The sac is like jelly to touch one minute and then so hard as I find the fragile orb inside and roll it against my palm. He stirs more, as my fingers play with his curly pubic hair. It holds the lovely, musty scent of him, and I move down under the sheets to enjoy the aroma. My lips taste cum from our last fuck, and find his rising prick enjoys the feel of me. I wish I could see it, but I can imagine it. I’ve worshiped the dreadful beast and know every popping vein and smooth surface. There is a ticklish spot about the rim of the head. I have to pull the foreskin down to do my best tongue work. As my mouth glides around the sensitive rim, I feel the blood rush into the organ making it more erect with each gentle lap. Taking the strong stalk in my hand, I jerk it hard and hear his first groan.

  “What are you doing, wife?” he purrs. He grabs a handful of my hair and jerks me off his groin and out from under the covers.

  He kisses my mouth, opening his mouth wide, then pulls me off.

  “You think I need to cum again?” he asks.

  “I need to,” I whisper sweetly.

  “You haughty bitch.”

  “Am I forever your ‘bitch’?”

  “Forever,” he answers, though he’s only being playful. “Go down on me again, I liked that.”

  I oblige him without a fight and find that his penis is fully engorged without my help. Drawing the covers away from him, I see it now in the starry light and smile before my mouth descends to please him. The hardness between his legs pulses in my mouth. Sucking hard, it’s nearly as good as having him fuck me. Each vigorous stroke sends a shooting spasm of need right through my crotch. I can feel my own tiny prick of a clitoris throbbing as I press it against the sheets and writhe as I work on his penis.

  Suddenly, Keven’s moving me off of him again. “I want breakfast between your legs,” he tells me and of course I oblige. I lay on my back with my legs spread wide, my toes tickling the cool of the early morning air. With my breasts undulating against my chest, I can see my nipples greet the new day erect. Keven raises my ass in his hands and presses his mouth to my pussy while I reach to my side and continue to stroke his cock. We certainly don’t want it going soft. My task seems simple at first, but then the ripeness of my blood-engorged cunt finds me moaning, my hips thrashing fiercely. His tongue probes deeply. Both my vagina and anus turn damp from his mouth and my responding desire. When he sucks at my clit, my back arches, so I thrust my molten hole against his face. Everywhere the most deliciously lush intensity floods me. I shudder, rock wildly and utter beautiful nonsense. My voice almost sounds melodic in ecstasy. My belly spasms with the end so very close. And then, just seconds away, Keven pushes my hips down to his erection and we lie side to side, legs scissored, penis in my snatch, fucking hard. We explode in a rolling thunder of ending. Oh, how this completes me, makes all that I devotedly endured the day before seem right and real and perfect.

  The brand is sore, my ass screams with pain again and my shoulders ache. The skin is tight and drawn from abuse. But I am as infinitely happy as I’ve ever been, thinking that all the travail is over and that we have this new beginning to our lives. As I lie in the luxury of his great priestly bed, I am sure I’ve committed no crimes, that I have been purified at last and all the rough work of womanhood is behind me. That is how flawless I feel in my husband’s arms.

  Chapter Twelve

  Perhaps I’ll remember these day because the aroma of Eucalyptus stings my nostrils. But then everything stings me. The air I breathe. The clothes I wear. Every picture I see befor
e my eyes of life going on without the kind of pain I feel. I see faces smiling, hear laughter and the sound of children giggling in the marketplace. My body is moved hearing the songs of the choir, and then those ardent and alive cries of a female being purified. I wish with all my heart I could experience one instant of joy again.

  Teagan has been gone three weeks now. I kept her happy for a few weeks, but then slowly, without my realizing what was happening, the happiness seemed to disappear a smile at a time. A moment of laughter suppressed, words left unsaid, a gentle touch not offered, one day ran into the next until our lives were no longer the same.

  I expected Teagan to understand how a Utopian wife acts, but she was not raised by a Utopian mother. The appropriate clothes are not Teagan’s clothes, her colors are too wild like the clothes of harlots. She showed too much breast and the thin textures revealed—as she always did—her flesh underneath. Men and women would look at her wondering what had become of their high priest. And small indecencies in her bold language sent my stern looks her way without my even thinking. It is the province of a husband to reprimand a wife, even in public; and though I’ve never been married before, the mantle of this new role was, for a priest, easy to assume. I shamed her more than once, forgetting that she came from a place where there was no shame.

  She blushed embarrassed and spent hours trying to fix herself. She bit her tongue so she wouldn’t speak with that irreverent speech, or upbraid me in the company of friends—even if it was only meant as gentle sparring. My wife withdrew from me. It was to be expected, as though like a vessel having its contents sucked dry under the heat of a burnishing sun, her fresh soul was becoming parched from the strain of too many rules. She spent her time in melancholy pursuits that are not like her. She missed her work—but it was not work for the high priest’s wife. The glow faded from her cheeks and any spark we shared in bed dwindled, exchanged for rote, mechanical passionless sex.

  Now she’s gone.