Temple of Cocidius - Book 2

by Maxx Whittaker

  Finna pushes my hands away and kneads me with her breasts through each stroke. She slips a hand inside her chest, flowing together but not completely. Something like fingers curl around my cock. She jerks it in short, sticky movements that tear a groan from my chest.

  “Enough!” Her arms trickle and solidify around my waist. “Off.” She smiles up at me from beneath her sweep of hair. “I’ve never had a mortal man. I want to try other things.”

  “And I’ve never had a limonymph. I don’t think I can stop.”

  “No?” Her word is breathy, faux incredulous.

  I can’t answer, just stroke into her cool, thick goo…

  Until she thins and runs over the bed’s edge into a puddle on the stone. She’s laughing before she has her shape back. “You’re not really in charge. I know mortal men think they’re the hero everywhere, even a woman’s bed...the books made that clear but-” She winks, “I have you, Lir.”

  “Then gods and all, have me.” My cock is wet, covered in globs of her slime that run to the root and trail across the sheets to rejoin her. It’s like being licked- slowly. It’s delicious torture.

  Finna makes a surprised sound. “You like to be licked?”

  “Stop doing that!” I thought only Meridiana could read my thoughts like this.

  “Don’t blame me.” She rakes me with a sultry, judgmental look. “You’ve lain with a succubus. And part of me is lost inside you after we crossed the swamp, so you’ve mixed your mythological beings. Your deviant tryst is to blame.”

  She shoves me back and puddles between my knees. “Did she use her tail?” Finna doesn’t wait for an answer. Even as she grips the root of my cock, a tentacle of her slime oozes up to my ass, firms, and presses half inside.

  In the tavern, in the camp, we used to mock men who enjoyed buggery or anything close. But this...a gorgeous woman violating me, pleasuring me? I have to eat my words.

  “What about her tongue?” Finna digs the tip of hers into the base of my shaft and drags. It flows around my cock and tugs the skin as she goes. My balls melt into her tits, rolled by the flow of her chest and bounced by quick strokes of her tongue that paint me in strings of purple goo. Finna’s lips part and her mouth gloves my shaft, my balls. She’s not sucking exactly; small thrusts of her head make a wet slurping sound, but the sensation is like flowing water and honey.

  I grip the sheet and twist.

  Finna hums against my length, a sound that grows quicker, more feral. Her head plunges down, sinking me impossibly deep, and she shudders on a last moan. The long sounds of pleasure come from inside of her, and I can feel them through her gel.

  “Gods damn. Did you...?”

  “I told you,” she pants, dripping now, barely the consistency of jelly. “Every part of me.”

  If mortal men and women could both cum from a man getting sucked off? I shudder. We’d be extinct in two generations. I’d be part of our downfall, no doubt.

  Finna oozes up my thighs until she’s astride. I’ve already been inside her, but when she lowers herself and I breach her thick barrier, I gasp again.

  She doesn’t move, but the goo around my cock oscillates, squeezes in a pulsing rhythm. My balls tighten, and I grind my teeth, trying not to spend already. Finna’s face tips down and she watches me inside her, seeming as fascinated as I felt the first time. She presses through her belly with two fingers and pinches the head of my cock.

  My body comes clear off the bed. This drives me deeper into her, and Finna shrieks her delight. She oozes over my hips in rivulets. When I grab her thighs she squishes through my grip.

  We fuck each other hard, Finna gelled to my cock while I pound her. Each thrust shakes her entire body. She wriggles, cries out, and a small gush of purple ooze spills hot onto my belly and thighs. She cums on me like this again and again. It adds to the vulgar, wet smacking and sucking of our bodies. Pleasure twists in my gut, tightens my balls.

  Finna bends and presses her mouth to mine. Her lips smell like roses and cling to mine like sugar syrup. Her tongue pours into my mouth and gobs of her seep into my nose. She’s filling me in and out, just like she did in the swamp. She comes on, almost forcing her way into me. Taut with near painful need, I let her fill me.

  Brief fear, excitement, and the surrealness of it push me over the edge. I cum hard, almost violently. I can taste her cum, like seawater and roses, and my own, and feel her convulse around me, inside me. We fuck each other from the inside, a few more thrusts, before she flows out of me and melts half puddled against my chest, jiggling softly.

  I can see my cock inside of her, the spurts of cum hot and cloudy in her translucent belly. The image will be with me for a long time.

  Chuckling against my chest, Finna dips a finger inside and trails a gooey string of my cum and her slime up to her lips. She sucks it off with a long mmmm.

  “The succubus,” she murmurs, breath cool on the sweat of my skin, “Was a creature originally compelled to be seductive. But the nymph?” She writhes, milking my spent, throbbing cock until I whimper. “We were insatiable by nature, and by choice.”

  “You do this because you enjoy it?” I’m so exhausted and still so turned on that I can’t form a more coherent response.

  Little gelatinous clumps run wild over my body, all the bits Finna lost to her arousal. “Maybe a little too much. I won’t tell you what happened to the dryad.”

  I stiffen under her.

  She chuckles again, flowing off me. “He was already countless millennia old when I was created. He didn’t return to the pantheon unhappy.”

  This terrifies and intrigues me, proving that a mortal man’s weakness will always be his cock. “Hey,” I muse, fumbling for my armor. “Still no door.”

  “Oh, it opens further back, near the lake, so far as I know.”

  “Then...why did you bring me up here?”

  Finna smiles wickedly. Her belly convulses and my cum ripples inside her. It’s thinning, dissipating, being absorbed. “I was afraid you’d run before I got my chance.”

  “I seriously doubt it.” But I also wonder if I should have.

  That poor fucking dryad.

  -The Garden-

  “So, how many others are waiting?” Finna asks as we pass into the garden.

  “Three. A succubus and an alicorn. Have you crossed paths with either of them before?”

  Silence.

  “Finna?” I glance back. She isn’t there. Not just invisible; she’s gone. Her door has closed.

  “What the-?” No one comes to greet us. Not even the Gardener. As I walk further out into the garden, I can see the change. No terrace, no chambers. The center staircase and double doors are gone. The temple’s inner ring is smooth, unscalable, impenetrable white stone. It should be afternoon according to the Gardener’s timekeeper, but the sun is noon-bright in a blue sky, turning the stone blinding.

  No voices, no shapes. “Hello?” I pass where the terrace should be. “Meridiana? Freya? Anyone?”

  Pass the south side of the temple, where the second four chambers should be.

  Blank and empty.

  I wander into the grove’s cool, loamy shade. Vines trail thick tree trunks and flowering bushes in shades of pink, red, and purple dot the glade, full blossomed and well kept. In the center, kissed by a shaft of sunlight, in a grassy mound. Atop it sits a stone reading stand.

  If I came here another time, I feel this would all be different. It has a surreal impermanence.

  The stand holds a single piece of rough paper.

  Sacrifico.

  It’s written in bold ink across the center of the page.

  The thing you fear most. I hear Finna’s caution.

  To lose everything. I lost everything before I came here and now it feels I’ve lost again.

  I take out the astratempus. Day still passes. Or night; whatever time it really is. The gold arrow has moved a few notches. A few hours left before the day ends, and so much temptation to give up. If time is passing, it mean
s I haven’t completed the day’s trials. My soul still hangs in the balance.

  I have to figure this out.

  Circling the wall again, I see a shadow I didn’t before; maybe because the sun has changed. A smooth stone hand extends from the wall, made of the same white stone. All the fingers are gently retracted but one. It seems to point at the ground. Nothing. Lush green grass and a cluster of small amethyst flowers. I rake through them. Poke the cool soil. No answers.

  At a loss, I circle further up, to where the staircase stood. A hand extends, flat and palm up.

  I don’t bother checking anywhere else. The next one should be in the center of the south wall; it is. This hand faces up, fingers flexed in a half-closed fist.

  At the east wall, a graceful hand pinches at nothing, thumb and forefinger barely parted.

  Now that I’ve seen all four I return to the glade. Nothing has changed. The parchment sits undisturbed. Sacrifico. My only clue.

  I struggle with the shape of each hand. Blood? My life would be a sacrifice. Potions? The Gardener already deprived me of a few and I’ve managed anyhow. Herbs? What?

  Making my way back to the first hand, I think hard on the parchment and the hand’s posture. Downturned, one finger extended beyond the rest, knuckles raised. It’s familiar. My father held his hand the same way during fealty ceremonies, offering his ring.

  His ring.

  Removing my pack, I reach for it. The signet strikes my palm.

  Its gold is tarnished, oval ruby dulled by time and travel, but its inscription is etched deep and eternal and in my eyes the ring holds no less power. A line unbroken.

  It slips over the finger’s tip, and although the stone looked thicker a second ago, my father’s ring fits it perfectly. The handed closes into a fist, and melts into a wall on a ripple.

  “No! No-” Clawing, pounding, punching until I’ve painted the white stone crimson. It’s pointless. The hand and my father’s ring are gone.

  I bartered with thieves and lords of the smuggler’s dens, and even murdered on occasion, to get something of my father’s. Fuck sacrifice.

  My hand is already healing as I grip the astratempus. A glimpse confirms that time is winding down. I can kick my feet all day, but I know what has to be done.

  The upturned hand. I drape my mother’s green and gold pennant over the palm. It bears a stag, part of my family’s crest. Her needlework was fine, gold tinsel thread flowing one stitch into the next, not a single pick or pucker in the green silk.

  The stone hand clenches, and the last of my mother’s work is gone.

  My father broke down a little during the execution. Being made to look on so much suffering before he died must have gutted him. But my mother...I can see her face as I cross the garden, rain spattered, beautiful long brown hair shorn but her eyes...so proud. So defiant. When Iden had begun to ramble about the new golden future of the people, she interrupted to ask him to please send the ax and spare her a boring last five minutes on earth. But she said please, because she was a fucking lady till the end.

  I’m not ashamed of the tears painting my cheeks when I reach the curled hand, but I hate that they come so easily, memories so ready after all this time to tear me apart.

  I spent a lot of short nights – shortened by long days of the discipline of monks and the lessons of sword-lords and magisters – crafting the tapestry of my vengeance. The last thread always knots with my death. Not because I can’t see another way; because I never wanted another way. I wouldn’t have to live a few more decades reliving the slaughter of my family. Esmanth would marry, bear children.

  The line unbroken.

  I don’t have to guess what to do here. My brother Tagan was rigid about is duties, dogmatic. He made it easy to be the wastrel, troublemaking, vice-ridden younger brother. But on our birthdays, or in the winter when all the world was ungodly cold and dead, we’d travel to Berheim for outrageous bets and even more outrageous women. He brought his dice of fortune, which everyone claimed were loaded. The trick was that they were not loaded; he was just that good. So he’d allow the dice to be confiscated, his opponent would lay a ridiculous wager, and Tagan would clean the man’s purse down to the lint.

  I drop the bone dice into the waiting palm. I can’t watch them disappear.

  Last hand. I feel relief at finally getting to the point of this puzzle, but nothing else.

  Esmanth’s slim hand, graceful like our mother’s. Her prayer beads sit perfectly pinched between the stone fingers, counting reverence to Dinnja. I hold them for a long moment as they rest there, and then let go.

  I take a deep breath.

  I haven’t lost everything. There’s still my sister to fight for, and this place may be absolutely mad, but what I’ve seen and done, the women I’ve met...life after my revenge doesn’t feel so bleak. Like maybe there’s something to live for, after.

  Esmanth’s prayer beads disappear, and my heart isn’t as heavy. They're just things, a sacrifice, but a worthy one, in the end.

  It feels like a dark shroud has lifted from my soul, and I understand the point of this trial.

  Overhead the sun dims. The sound of birds warbles faintly. Voices join the noise.

  The terrace phases in. A breeze, the pond’s easy slosh. The Gardener appears, sliding from the copse. She moves faster, and her form seems different. When she reaches the terrace, it shades sun enough that I can see her better. Her face and body have color, like a faded mosaic. Dull and primary, but her cheeks show a hit of pink, eyes blue, robes faded mossy green. Each defeated realm seems to improve her. I wonder what this means down the road, but don’t say anything. This place holds an element of chaos I’ll never completely trust.

  “Sacrifice,” she murmurs.

  “They were just things. They don’t bring anyone back, and they don’t change whether I have my memories.” Maybe this is dangerous to admit, that what felt like sacrifice turned out to me more of a cure.

  “Some would not have parted. Some didn’t. They perished.”

  The blue stain of her eyes seems to flick over me. It could just be a trick of the light. “A boon has been added to the astratempus.”

  The last boon turned out to be pretty fucking great. I wonder what this one is.

  The Gardner turns. “Prepare for the last trial of the North wing,” she instructs over her shoulder, already moving back toward the glade.

  “Wait! I have some questions...about Cocidius, about the man in Finna’s realm.” I know better than to ask about the boon, however.

  She turns, and her arms creak up into a wide vee as though she’s gesturing around us. “The temple is questions, with few answers. You will, for the most part, have to find the answers for yourself.”

  Great. That’s reassuring.

  Finna appears from around the lake’s bend. Just the sight of her, the soft quiver of her body as she walks, makes me swallow hard.

  “Where did you go? What happened?”

  “Uh…” I gesture at everything. “The temple happened. Sorry.”

  “Ah. I thought something happened to you. The others said it was probably the trial.”

  “You’ve met everyone?”

  “Mmhmm. The Garden is beautiful, and it’s strange and wonderful to be with other creatures again. Except the succubus.” Finna pouts. “She keeps poking her tail into me when I’m not looking.”

  The image of this stirs my cock. “I’ll tell her to stop.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Finna says brightly. “I just want her to know her place as lesser seductress before I allow her to poke me with anything.”

  Whew. So glad I have another trial ahead. This could get ugly. Really, really hot, but first? Ugly. “Good luck with your witchfight.”

  Finna giggles and we start toward the chamber lawn where the women sit.

  “Are you alright?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I respond reflexively, but I’m surprised when I realize it’s true. I am alright. It’s been so long. And I’m kickin
g ass, with three realms down. That’s something. I want to tell her, but something stops me.

  “You know I felt it, when we coupled. If you don’t want to say anything, that’s fine.”

  I don’t say anything. I want to, but I don’t know how. “I don’t know if you’d understand.” I sound like a dick.

  Her voice is distant, wistful. “You might be surprised. I watched my lake, the Great City, the world, and the creatures in it poisoned and twisted, destroyed. I spent year after year alone and hopeless. Sometimes more than that. What was done...it’s etched in the stone tablet of time. But here I am. Things are better. Hopeful.” Her sigh comes out as a soft gurgle. “For the first few minutes here, I felt angry, guilty. But that was silly. I didn’t cause the harm or make those choices. I’m here, and all I can do is move forward.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah?” She laughs.

  “Yeah.”

  Finna bumps me with her shoulder. It clings to my leather and tugs me. “Ancient creatures have a little wisdom for you mortals. We’re more than illicit couplings and curses and punishments that involve turning you into strange stuff. At least sometimes.”

  Meridiana is on her belly in a spill of small pink flowers, systematically plucking and tossing them.

  Freya sits against a column of the chamber where I’ve slept, holding a book in her lap. She raises it when she sees us. “There are books now! They just appeared.”

  “I know that book…” Finna bends to see the cover. “These are from the library in the Great City.”

  Of course they are. This place is batshit crazy. I glance up at the sun, then check the astratempus because I don’t dare trust my eyes. “I only have a minute. Just saying hello.”

  “It’s been a really wonderful day,” says Freya, getting up and taking her book into the chamber’s deep shade.

  I don’t miss her hint.