by Ryder Stacy
But what of the others with her—those strange men? Couldn’t they have been messengers that heaven sent to deliver Sandra to Death City. No, they must have been a group of surface people that had seized the Goddess, and were about to take her for their own. Manion was not entirely sure, so he had thought it best to not kill them where they lay overcome with the gas of sleep. They would awaken and they would be afraid and leave the area. Yes. They would not try to follow—and even if they found the entrance, there were patrols in the tunnels. Still, he was uneasy. Perhaps he should have killed them . . .
The entourage bearing the sleeping woman reached a cavern, and a huge brass door with carved figures of a titanic bear stood before them. Manion, as was his duty, went to the gong and took up the stick and rang it twice. Responding to the sonorous ringing, the doors slowly opened.
In the flickering flame-lamp’s light, twenty meters beyond the door, stood the ten-story-high solid gold statue of Renquist. Manion made a prostration, and then those behind him set down the sedan chair and also made obeisance, their foreheads to the stone floor below them. The Fire of Eternity set before the huge statue flared up. “A good sign,” Manion interpreted aloud. “Renquist is well pleased.”
The Goddess was paraded before the statue, the gossamer covering of the sedan chair removed so that He could see. Then Manion ordered that the Goddess be taken to her new quarters, to be bathed in milk and honey, to be dressed properly, so that all might be fulfilled . . .
Rona regained consciousness shortly after being deposited on a vermilion silk bed. The awakening was soft, and slow. Rona had dim memories of a sweet dream, of beautiful milkmaids combing out her long tresses, bathing her, caressing her, stripping her of dirty garments and bathing her in milk. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright. Where was she—what had happened? She started to rise, and felt her body, shorn of her khaki outfit, nearly naked, slide across the silk. She gasped when she saw that all she wore was a scanty, jewel-encrusted brassiere and a stingy bikini bottom. The flimsiest gossamer transparent skirt hung from that bottom, hiding nothing of her long legs.
She saw an ornate gold-framed mirror in the corner of the large empty room. No doors or windows visible. This must be a dream. She went to the mirror. There she was, her hair neat and clean, in the bare-midriff costume. There was a ruby-encrusted tiara on her head. She took it off. She felt along the walls for a door. Nothing. Had the milkmaids been real? Was this real? She looked around. There was the dresser and mirror, the brocaded silk sofa-bed, a carpet that belonged in an antique store—a sumptuously appointed Louis XIV type room. It was subtly lit by recessed bulbs in its rock ceiling.
There were giggles. Watchers in the walls—somewhere. She went to the bed and tore off the bedspread, covered her scantily clad body. She stood there, for a long time, almost breathless. Nothing. Rona lay back down again and closed her eyes. The bed sure felt real enough. She touched the jewels on her bikini bottom. Hard. Real. She moved her hand to her perfumed left nipple, which, due to the briefness of the brassiere, was half exposed, and squeezed. “Ouch,” she exclaimed aloud, “This is real. Where the hell am I?”
No answer. Then, from the dark corners of the room, squat, heavily veiled figures crept forward silently. Rona gasped, stood up on her bare perfumed feet, and took a karate stand, hands made into cutting, crushing instruments of death. “Who’s there?”
Giggles. One figure came forward a bit further, into the light. It was a short wide woman of about thirty years of age, hairless, and dressed in a set of coarse shapeless veils of a light blue cotton-type material from neck to ankles. “I am Verna, Your Majesty,” the woman said, and bowed deeply.
“Where am I?” Rona said. She did not change her kata position. “What is this place? Who dressed me—undressed me—”
“We, your handmaidens prepared you. Your Majesty.”
“Prepared me for what?”
“You are to achieve your destiny, oh Sandra, Mother of All.”
“Huh?”
Rona whirled as the hidden door opened again. In stepped a bald man in muttonchop beard and moustache. He looked much like those nineteenth-century portraits of the scions of American capitalism—except that below his face he wore not a pinstriped suit but a blue bejeweled tunic of some sort. Kind of a Roman outfit.
He too bowed deeply. Rona thought, At least I get some respect around here, wherever here was. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Where am I and who are you?”
“Your obedient servant, Jefferson Manion, at your service,” the man said. “Sandra Renquist, Your Exalted Goddess, Your Supreme Majesty, you are in Death City, your people have brought you here. So that you may be joined with He Who Is Eternal.”
He bowed again.
“I’m going to kick you in your stupid face unless you—”
The man raised a small stick he carried and a flickering ray jumped from it into the mid-forehead of the captive. She paused in mid-sentence, and a beatific smile errupted upon her face. Rona felt good—very good. She couldn’t remember what she had been angry about. All these people were so nice and respectful. Did it really matter where she was?
“That’s much better,” Manion said, lowering his weapon of delights. “You will remember soon, Your Majesty. We will teach you what you must have forgotten on the awesome journey down here from the heavens above. All will be as it has been written.”
The high priest Manion led bemused and scantily clad Rona down the corridors outside her sumptuous room toward the great metal door with the bear emblazoned upon it—he led her to the Temple of Renquist, the holiest place in Death City.
Once inside, amid the thousands of candles and before the enormous statue that was of a man in a suit, a man with a gold muttonchop beard and moustache, Manion said to Rona, “He wants you, and he will have you.”
Rona was unsteady on her feet, her elbows supported by two handmaidens. However, her mind was clearing from its pleasant indecisive state. And she was putting two and two together. The gas she’d seen erupting from a popping shell. An attack. Then awakening in the strange room—the nonsense about her being Sandra.
She had been kidnapped by the Death City Cultists. They thought she was this Sandra, somebody they worshipped. They were planning something for her—possibly a sacrifice to their damned god, the Renquist. Well, that would not happen.
Quickly the near-naked Freefighter gauged the situation. Manion, the handmaidens—pushovers. But in the flickering light of the candles—a dozen or more helmeted guards, all with guns of some sort bolstered at their waists. Not good. Play along for a while, find out what gives here.
“Please tell me—the things I must do,” she said, still playing bemused, complacent Sandra. “Please tell me so that I might do the right thing and please the Renquist.”
Manion smiled. “That’s better, much better—I was worried for a while that you, despite your appearance, might not be the Sandra, the One for Renquist.”
“What would happen were I not the Sandra?”
“Immediate torture-execution for defiling the sacred Temple. Your bones would join the bejeweled skulls and femurs that make up the punishment mound in the Sanctuary of the Snake.”
“I am the Sandra,” Rona said with utter conviction in her voice.
“Then, I will show you what is to be for you. What your sacred duty will be after the remarriage.”
“Lead on, oh priest Manion,” Rona said. Remarriage? What’s that about, Rona wondered, as they left the temple by a small side door and plunged into a steeply slanting tunnel that grew increasingly cold. She noticed footsteps. The dozen soldiers had fallen in behind their small party. Damn.
It became even colder; they threw a smock over her. The handmaidens each placed a bejeweled slipper upon each cold foot.
“These are ice caves,” she observed, looking around at the giant color-bright ice stalagmites on both sides of their route. “What happens here?”
“Here is preserved the blessed seed of the Re
nquist. For use after your marriage ceremony.”
“Seed?”
“Yes, the frozen semen of our Founder-God Renquist. You will again be his wife, his Goddess Queen. And you will be impregnated with his seed. The Renquist stored his seed here—in the ice. He called it, ‘Eden Sperm Bank.’ You will bear his child to become our prince. Though the Renquist has left his human body these past hundred and five years, yet he will bear us a leader—through you, Sandra.”
“What a privilege,” Rona muttered. The guards, or whatever they were, were double the original number now, and she was deeper into this damned cold place. This was worse than the time she’d been kidnapped by the Nazis and they’d mistaken her for Eva Braun, Hitler’s mistress. The Nazis at least hadn’t expect her to bear a dead man’s child.
But being tortured to death seemed the only alternative. At the moment.
Seventeen
Rona had to do something, anything. So what she did was, at a section of the slanting cold corridor that bent and narrowed, stumble. It was not a real stumble; Rona was catlike on her feet. It was a pretended stumble, to lurch her closer to one of the soldier-monks. She let his hands come up from his bolstered long silver weapon, then she made a grab for it. The damned gun, or whatever it was, was so long—about two feet—that she hadn’t cleared the holster with it before the iron grip of Manion’s hands stayed her move. Then she was hit across the face by the guard who she had lunged at, a glancing fist to the jaw that made her see stars. She was wrestled to the ground by the two handmaidens, who were stronger than they looked.
Cursing a blue streak, the hellcat Freefighter did her best with the mob of restrainers, but she felt her hands being drawn behind her back and being lashed securely together with some sort of smooth strong rope.
“Now,” said Manion, gasping for breath as he lifted Rona to her feet, “We will proceed. I do not understand this behavior, but I hope you are not injured. Why did you do this?”
Her answer was full of ripe Freefighter expletives; she kicked out and struggled like a banshee. Then Manion lifted his red flickering trank-stick, and aimed it at her. The broadest smile of benevolence she’d ever worn came across Rona’s angry flushed face. She forgot what the tumult was about. Rona complacently moved along, happy suddenly to be in the company of such fine folks.
They went through an open set of bronze doors into a darkened chamber. Torches hung on the wall lit the scene of macabre elegance—chairs of carved stone, elaborate wall decorations of large snakes, intertwined. As a matter of fact, the whole chamber was snake-motif.
And dimly, in the smoky incense-filled far end of the rectangular high-ceilinged rock chamber, stood the full-length standing statue of the Renquist. The statue was of stone, a pale pink marble several stories high. The statue was dressed in a size-300 cloth pinstripe suit—as if it were a real person, to be well dressed for a board meeting. Several bald men were bowing and scraping in front of the statue, at some sort of hump. As they approached the hump, Rona saw that it was a mound of irregular shape, some four feet high. It was composed of cemented-together, jewel-encrusted bones. Human bones. How nice, she thought, in her dreamlike state of bliss.
They led her around the hump, and the maroon-robed keepers of the chamber took her, one by each elbow, without struggle, to the statue of a snake, a six-foot-tall standing cobra of black onyx. The snake’s mouth was wide open, and was hissing out some sort of icy breath. There was a rod in the mouth of the snake, all covered with ice, buried in the length of the snake’s body with just the end sticking out, like a forked snake-tongue.
“Behold,” said Manion. “The sperm bank, the seed of the Renquist, preserved for one hundred and six years for this blessed moment.”
They removed her coverings, so that she stood shivering in her gossamer and scant bikini and bra, to the right side of the stone snake. Manion went over and bowed before the immense Renquist statue, and took up a book—a Bible—and headed back solemnly to stand before Rona, who was drawn by the monks to stand beside the stone snake. Manion opened the Bible and lifted his hands in a genuflecting gesture that made the sign of the star. He intoned, “Who gives the bride?”
And he answered himself, “I do.”
“Do you, Sandra the Renquist, again take as your lord and master and husband this God, the sacred Edward Renquist, as your lawful and divine husband, till the end of time?”
Rona said, “What?”
“Say yes,” Manion whispered in exasperation.
Rona was woozy; she thought she was in Century City’s chapel with Rockson, all six foot two of his manly presence, standing next to her. She was getting married. Good. It was about time.
“Yes, I do,” She said firmly.
Manion smiled, “Then by the power invested in me as chief priest of the Sacred Holiest of Holies, I pronounce you God and Goddess—proceed with the chastisement and impregnation.” He slammed shut the Bible and tossed it to one of the monks, who caught it and placed it back near the statue.
They led her away, through the near darkness, with strains of organ music played on the stalactites echoing eerily around her. “Hey, doesn’t Rock get to walk with me? Where the rice?”
She was coming out of it. Why were her hands tied behind her back? “Say, what kind of a wedding is this, anyway—who—”
She started struggling, wriggling. She was held firmly by her elbows. This time by powerful soldier-monk’s hands.
They took her to the mound. The mound was about six feet in diameter and curved up to a maximum of three feet off the floor in the center. It was made of semiprecious stones—agates, turquoise, coral—all cut into one-inch-square mosaic tiles. Rona could see the depiction of a coiled cobra snake on it. It took six of them to bend her over, stomach down, on the mound. They untied her wrists, only to retie them to some rings set at the edge of the mound. They likewise, spreading her powerful legs wide, affixed her ankles to some golden rings set in the floor. She found herself spread-eagled, firmly tied—struggle was useless.
Manion came over and put his ugly fat face down close to her and whispered, “You, Sandra, are so beautiful. Even in those awful khaki combat clothes I could tell your beauty. If it were not sacrilege, I would have this honor, but alas you are the Goddess, and must be mated with the Renquist.”
He stood up, and in a strong voice said, “You, Sandra, goddess-consort of the Renquist, must now be strapped—with the sacred whip.”
“No, wait—why?”
“Do you not know why? A cloud of forgetfulness must have passed over you on the surface, oh Goddess. You must be strapped, and severely. The chances of bearing a male child will be increased by the pain—that is why. It is the way . . .”
A gong was sounded by Manion.
Thus was the Amazon-like Freefighter prepared for what was to come. Her winsome body firmly secured, exposed to whatever whim the priest and his cohorts had in mind.
“Let the ceremony of the Blessed Honeymoon night begin,” the high priest intoned. “Cut her clothing from her.”
“No.”
The two handmaidens took small knives and quickly snipped off the flimsy bra and bikini bottom from the struggling bound redhead.
Thus stripped of the last shred of protection, Rona’s upthrust backside, spread wide by her ankle bindings, revealed the deep crease between her firm tan thighs. Every detail of her female anatomy was exposed in the most lascivious way. Many a male would have yielded to the temptation of plunging his manhood between her startlingly full and jutting posterior globes. But the high priest and the soldier-monks—aside from their viewing it as sacrilege to take from Renquist what was his—were likewise sexually incapable. Only the ritual concerned them. All the nuptial rules must be observed; their God, Renquist, must have his honeymoon privilege. Through the sacrament of the insertion of the snake-rod.
“Let it commence.” Manion solemnly intoned. “Now, before the sacred impregnation, the chastisement must be rendered.”
She
shouted, “You can’t do this.”
Manion went to a dark recess of the room and returned holding a long slender whip, the kind formerly used to hasten reluctant carriage horses. He tested the long cord in the air. It snapped viciously in the darkness near her body.
“Oh no, please, don’t.”
The second blow was for her. Heeding not her entreaties, Manion moved into action. The long birch rod swished viciously down across Rona’s pinioned posterior. She let out a cry as the sudden blow stung across her bottom, sideways.
“Stop. No. Oh God, it hurts,” Rona shouted. Before she could say another thing, the leather cord swished down again, and then a third time. She screamed out as much in anger and frustration as in pain, and she frantically wiggled her backside in a vain attempt to avoid the blows.
A dozen telling strokes placed expertly from her lower back to the tensed thighs followed, and then Manion started the whip blows back up towards her back once more. Rona cursed and strained at her bindings, twisting in a frenzy every time a blow was launched, but to no avail. Why were they doing this to her? Why? She screamed as loud as she could, which was plenty loud, every time a telling blow of the rod was delivered. Maybe somebody would hear, maybe Rockson was looking for her. He would, he would come—somebody had to come.
Manion paused to inspect his handiwork. And was pleased. Sandra’s tightly stretched nether-globes were crisscrossed with red weal marks. Hardly an inch of her firm flesh had escaped the horizontal scourges he’d delivered.