He had never before dared venture so deeply into the Sacred Circles from which his station and his scarlet robes forbade him. Not until this time, when boredom and the lack of new pleasure had driven him nearly to madness. So much so that he had dared it all. Dared to penetrate to the Eighth and innermost Circle. The Circle consecrated to the One and sacred to the One.
And now he hovered, frozen, though the magical waters that surrounded him and buoyed him were as warm as ever. As balmy, peaceful and devoid of the life that had once bustled, surely, even here. Even at the highest and most pure state to which it was possible for a mortal…or immortal…Akrotirian to aspire.
Rynom hovered, his feet barely touching the sand-strewn marble of the temple floor. Drawn up short with his heart lodged tight inside his throat while something else, something sharp-edged and fabulously visceral gnawed away at the lower and tighter areas of his body. The ones he’d given up satisfying with his self-strokings and self-ministrations using several highly unsatisfactory instruments he’d devised for himself in the fading hope of achieving sexual satisfaction just one more time.
He recognized her instantly, though of course he had never before seen her, being of his ilk and his deliciously dissolute persuasion and all.
He recognized the shimmering, celestial habit…the white robe and cowl…of the one true and sanctified virgin. The Eighth Pearl, Teacher of the Sacred Ring and Oracle of The One. Just as he recognized and felt an instant, unaccountable awe of the heavy medallion suspended from the slender tip of her nose, placed there as his own piercings had been, to mark her and rule her existence that would continue only as long as she wore it. Just as he recognized the icy blueness of eyes that darted quickly with fear or something else he could not read, taking in the scarlet of his robes and the dangle of golden chain between his nipples.
He had hardened instantly upon catching sight of her, still enshrined in her marble pavilion. Now he hardened more. Hardened purposefully, with a glee and an expectation that the thin fabric of his robe had never been meant to hide.
His nipples ached harshly with the need to begin the seduction, the desecration. Hot jolts rose in each of them, then flowed outward and transmitted a nearly electrical shock to the other. Bringing him alive. Bringing him into full rut just as the deeply embedded rings and fine chain had been designed to do.
He had not seen a woman in eons.
He could not remember how long it had been since The One, their God and their Protector, had betrayed them with his greed, dooming them all to this watery prison in a single instant of mushrooming pyroclastic cataclysm. Destroying with his absolute evil. The Azure City and all of Akrotiri. Laying waste to jeweled chalices and golden-gleaming diadems and rendering useless even the most powerful of the scimitars invested with the substance of sparkling dreams with a debauchery so base it had shocked even those of the most sin-riddled desires. Like himself.
But he was himself. And his body was humming. All of it humming. His golden piercings sent their magic sexual energy flowing throughout him and his member responded instantly. Violently. Standing straight in its attitude of the ordained conqueror, the insatiable sac below hanging heavy and hard between thighs that tingled dangerously. Tingled promisingly.
She was a woman and he would have her.
He hoped she would succumb willingly and easily to his blandishments and the electricity he radiated. He hoped she would so that he could take his time with her and find his absolute pleasure in her. So that for a moment or an hour, whichever Fate might decree, he could achieve release and surcease from the agony of not being able to fulfill his ordained office for far too long.
He must partner at all costs, and if she did not go willingly, he was prepared to take her by force. He had done so before. Often before. And he would do so again. Her office would not matter, and neither would the penalty even he knew would be extracted for defiling the most sacred and sacrosanct.
By all rights, he should be dead already. Simply for daring to wander this far into the Circles and to present himself before her.
“You are not of this Circle.” Her voice was cool. Uninflected and deadly.
But her eyes had wandered to his risen member and her gaze lingered there. Flashing again with that peculiarity he could not read. That odd and portentous mixture of something that might be fear along with something that might incredibly be…interest?
He should kneel before her. Should prostrate himself as much as the swollen hardening between his thighs would allow him to prostrate himself, and beg for her mercy.
He would not.
He wanted her. Wanted to feel the virginal smoothness of her around him. Wanted to feel it give way upon a scarlet burst of blood and a cry of terror.
Powerful, sexual, he could defeat her if he chose.
When he chose.
Rendered almost helpless by the singing sting of electrical currents at work upon and inside his body, Rynom stood straight before her, gazing directly into blue eyes surrounded by the smothering white of her nun’s cowl.
She was a part of The One. Possessing many of the Powers of The One.
And he would have her.
“Do you neglect your catechism?” she demanded in more of that cool and unyielding tone as her gaze, obviously reluctantly, drifted upward from the swollen magnificence with which the piercings and potions administered in his early childhood graced him.
Lifting his chin, Rynom did not take his gaze away from her.
“You are not of this Circle and you are With Sin.”
“I wear no body paint.”
“Aye,” she declared without hesitation, her tone growing severe. “And that is sin in itself. That you should appear before any being devoid of the coloring of your shame. The coloring you must wear always as the symbol and the warning of your willingness to destroy and befoul all that you touch.”
“And yet in the end, I destroyed nothing.” To Rynom’s singular amazement, a quality almost of wonder rose in his tones. “It was The One, not I, who was revealed as the ultimate sinner.”
“Nonetheless—”
“Nonetheless, I will not be branded. I will not—”
“And yet you cling to your piercings,” she mocked. “You cling to the power they give you to carry out your vileness and your—”
“As you cling to yours, my lovely lady. And no doubt for the same reason. Because for you, as for me, to attempt to remove or alter them would be to end your existence. And I have no desire to end. Not while opportunities remain for me to ply my craft. Not as long as a single unplumbed, unplucked bit of womanhood stands before me, helpless when I choose to make her so.”
For an instant fear, genuine and unmistakable fear, flickered in her gaze. Then it hardened, and from her deep-sapphire eyes floated clear threat. Clear anger.
Had he gone too far too soon?
Afraid for the first time, and rightfully so in the belief that death was soon to be his reward, he turned away abruptly. Even one as bold and reckless as The Adventurer should be afraid of hot light when it rose in those eyes, beneath that sacred cowl. Even he possessed sense to feel a flicking of terror when that look descended upon him.
“Thou art a cad,” she declared, surprised.
“And thou art pure.” Investing the word with all the scorn it deserved, all the contempt and fury he felt with those of her sex who would deny him what was rightfully his through the terms of his Office, he still could not make himself look at her. He still directed his gaze into distances where once cobalt towers had shimmered against a sky only slightly less brilliant. Where white-columned boulevards had gleamed in endless sunlight before enduring their subjugation to the twilit blue of deep-sea light.
He looked, and was angry. His member thundered with its ache for her, throbbing with its too long delayed readiness for the divine softness of her, and the inner shimmer of heavenly nacre with which she would mist and steam around him.
He would make her mist. Make her steam and,
ultimately, as in every lesser conquest before, he would make her scream for him. He would make her scream as her rent flesh poured itself out to him, make her scream in hot and languishing desire to give more to him. Surrender more to him until, ultimately, he would claim her as he had never failed to claim a woman before. He would own her. His scarlet would become her scarlet, and how glorious that would be! How wonderful and how appropriate, since she had stood next to The One, and therefore shared in His evil.
“Or did you Fornicate with Him?” It was the ultimate profanity. The ultimate expression of disrespect. One that even Rynom made a practice of using only in very special situations, and only after very careful thought. Even The Adventurer could be censured severely for allowing such words to pass his lips. He had grown cocky in his lust, and almost arrogant in his swollen, glutted suffering.
“You dare to address me so?” The Pearl’s voice rang clear and full through the deep-sea water, sharp with outrage.
He did not answer.
“Face me when I speak to you.”
Smiling slightly, taking the smallest fraction of a moment to arrange the smile to full advantage upon the even and handsome features with which he had been blessed, Rynom grasped himself before he did so. He took his member between his hands and clasped them around it. Supporting it. Making of it the weapon he intended it to be. Bracing it so that it thrust belligerently forward, in an attitude even The Pearl, theoretically celibate for life and untouched, untouchable, could not mistake.
Rynom turned. Slowly. Insolently. To face her. He thrust with hips and hands, urging the fullness of himself toward her.
Her lips were full. They were lush and lovely behind the heavy dangle of the exquisite medallion suspended from the tip of her nose. Covered forever by its pearl encrusted weight and made forever off limits to kissing, to knowing, or tasting or sampling, they were swollen.
Had they been so the moment before? He thought not.
“You dare to touch yourself in such impure manner in my presence?”
Her words were harsh. As, perhaps, was her expression between the pure folds of the cowl with which she sought to immure her head and the fair roundness of her shoulders. But the truth was in her eyes as they gleamed. As they glittered and shone fantastically.
“You have desire of knowing this,” he murmured, feeling the old rush of conquest and satisfaction in conquest. “You would have this between your holy thighs.”
She moved. Revealing the sculpted purity of the body beneath her robe. Revealing the subtle draping of garlanded pearls worn in tantalizing ropes at the smoothness of her breasts and in cascades of shimmering droplets at her waist, wrists, ankles. She moved very slightly on her marble dais. Just enough to part enchanting white folds of fabric and set them to swirling dreamily in the waves she herself generated.
She moved and Rynom wanted to scream. If the shockwaves that had destroyed their world had been severe, if the fireball of heat and flame and expanding, pressurized air had been unbearable even to those who’d been gifted with transcendent powers of survival, this was worse. This was insufferably worse.
Rampant desire overtook him. Between his hands, his member thrashed. Defying him. Defying control as it leaped, refusing to calm or be eased. His nipples ached again, their piercings hot with heavenly fire that made him aware, as he had not been since the instant they had been driven mercilessly through his unready child’s flesh, of the brutal sweep of narrow bands of metal into the tender points of nipples they kept aroused permanently.
Aroused so painfully that sometimes when he was alone, sometimes when there was no one to witness the ultimate shame his own pain inflicted upon him, he would whimper and tweak at them. Trying to find comfort where none was permitted and relief where none had ever been intended. And the fine chain that connected them in a taut and tugging line that inflicted even more punishment upon the pierced points, weighed tons. As if made of heavy, heated iron, his chain exerted killing pressure upon the risen bits of flesh it sought to rip and tear. It conducted the heat. More heat. From point to point and to point to point. Between points.
He was fully erect. Fully aroused, and he would have her. He would take her, use her and continue to use her for all of the foreseeable millenniums to come. In all the destructive, debased ways in which he was so practiced at using women and making even the most practiced of them, even the accomplished whores of the gray regions outside the Sacred Circles, beg for mercy.
She would be his. She would be powerless beneath him. Stifling his shriek with superhuman effort, numinous effort, he moved toward her. Only slightly. But it was enough to make her draw back. Enough to make her flinch visibly.
He hardened more. Smiled more. Allowed laughter to part his lips and the smile created and maintained so carefully for seduction to widen. This woman was sacred. She had long been decreed off limits and he could well imagine she enjoyed the suffering her status could inflict…did inflict. But that would end today. That would end now, when he…
“What manner of Office are you?”
The hoop that safeguarded the lush fullness of lips meant never to be kissed moved when they moved. It enticed in every way that they enticed. He should bow before her. He should genuflect, as respect and her higher Office demanded. But he could not move. The aching need within his shaft had grown intolerable and he found he could not convince limbs grown leaden to move.
Thrashing and potent, rage seized him. Rage seized the outraged length of the shaft that now parted the shamefully scarlet folds of his robe as it reached for her. How dared she think to deny him, deny anyone, the sweet white succulence of the most perfect flesh any man…any Numen…had ever been wont to imagine?
Rynom could scarcely contain his desire. He wanted to reach for the rings embedded in his flesh. He wanted to manipulate them in the way they had been meant to be manipulated. The way that drove him into sexual ecstasies so far beyond his range of control that there would be no going back. So far that the outcome would become irrevocable. Inevitable.
He wanted to tug at the chain that bound his one breast to the other. If it was his sacred duty to wear it and endure the agony of it for all eternity, he was ready to do that. He was more than ready to submit every inch of his aroused flesh to the singular things the weight and tension of that chain could do to him. The things that could be done to him with it.
His hands fluttered. Already reaching for the folds of his robe, even as he tried to warn them away. Beneath the robe, he was indeed unpainted. Centuries and eons of immersion in the soothing salt water had erased the last trace of the required scarlet from his flesh. Centuries and eons had left it as white as hers. As pure to the appearance as any. And that was sin against the ancient Laws of The One.
That was unspeakable sin, for which he could be eliminated without mercy. And still his hands fluttered. Rendered madly traitorous by the heat that surged and boiled within loins, shaft, abdomen and heart. “I am Rynom,” he murmured, managing to show the minimal respect of bowing his head. “I am The Adventurer.”
“You are of the First Circle
.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“You are my opposite,” she said, sounding suddenly thoughtful. “You are the most base form of existence. You are immoral and self-serving by your nature and in your practices.”
Unaccountably, that hurt. Rynom lifted his chin. No longer would he bow before her. No longer would he allow past training and long years of brutally instilled belief to force him to grovel before her…before anyone.
The old ways were gone. The old days were gone. There remained only the here and now, only the ruined city and the vast reaches of desolate and forgotten continent that lay beyond. He was The Adventurer. He was all that was sexual and uncaring in sexuality. If some called that base and immoral, so be it.
He called it life. The power of life. And it surged within him. Surged endlessly, relentlessly as at last he took his step toward her. Toward the purity that would fall
to his power and his life force before the next darkness overcame the shimmering sea.
Rising, his pierced nipples tightened the length of golden chain between them. Sending fresh rivers of hot agony from those swollen pinpoints down and down and down through every fiber and vein. Down and down and down into the very heart of him that was so magically connected by inner chains that were just as unbreakable, just as pre destined and mighty as the one on the outside. “I exist for Adventure,” he responded. “I exist for the pleasure of Adventure.”
“And you revel in such…pleasure.”
“I do, my lady.”
“And you dare to stand here before me.”
There was no answer to that. The answer was already obvious. So Rynom made no sound. No movement, other than in the shaft that shifted and reached uneasily, more determined than ever.
“You would refute the Holy Teachings and The Law of The One by bringing your presence, your shame, into this inner Circle from which you have long been forbidden.”
His chin rose again. Silently rose again, to an arrogant angle she would heed well if she knew its import.
“Face me.”
Her tone was demanding, yet oddly devoid of rancor or hostility. Her tone seemed almost…dared he think it?…willing.
“Face me.”
Flesh burning, he obeyed the order. The last he would obey from her or from anyone.
Her face was lovely beneath the pristine purity of her nun’s cowl. Her face was lovelier than the face of any woman he had known and used in his life. Lovelier by far than the polished beauty of any of the professional strumpets who had been so readily available in his world of sexual gaiety. It was lovelier than any face that had never borne the heaviness of the pierced medallion of deliberate purity.
She was lovelier by far than he’d ever been told. Or imagined. Shaking, his hands lifted to his robe. His hands fumbled momentarily with the vibrant scarlet billows of it as his brain wheeled and reeled, trying to remember why shame was supposed to rush through him in tidal floods for the careless way he’d lived his life. For the glory that had been granted him, to engorge himself, thrust himself forward in rigid anticipation of having everything he wanted.
Atlantis Allure Page 26
