Silently, two acolytes grasped her arms, turning her back on the grotesque statue. Now the cut of her dress became clear. As they forced her back, she struggled, but they were ready, clamping their hands around her wrists and upper arms with the power of ten men. Never had she known such relentless strength. Four more acolytes came forward, grasping her ankles, her knees, and her thighs.
Against her will, they lifted her, bending her body, forcing her to sit upon the statue. Without any fabric around her bottom, all they had to do was place her over the shaft, then slide her down. The Harvester god’s cold phallus plunged into the slick heat Kerrick had created. Without such preparation, she knew the stone, despite the smooth contours, would have scraped her. Then she wondered if they had prepared him for her, for she sensed a great slickness over the rock. Once her thighs touched the statue’s thighs, the acolytes released her, stepping back.
Ariss ordered her body to rise up, but nothing happened. Somehow, the stone god held her in place, forcing her to sit upon him, with his icy cock plunged so deep inside she felt the chill all the way to her heart. Her nipples, already tight and aching from the cold air, puckered even more as the mighty statue encased her within his frigid arms. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself sitting upon him, his leering face triumphant as he plunged within her body, the moment of that first penetration frozen in time. The gemstones glittered along her cheeks, flashing dots of brightness into her eyes, clouding and confusing her vision.
The collection of acolytes bowed as they backed away. Ariss had no idea how long she was supposed to sit here, or what she would do while forced to mate with a statue, but she kept her mouth closed. As long as she lived through this, she would be grateful and suffer whatever punishment she must. She listened to the beat of the drums, feeling the same pulse in her sex. To her shock, her cunt grasped the phallus, cradling the contours, as if she welcomed the Harvester god’s unyielding cock.
From her position, the rest of the temple glowed eerily blue, the shapes unrecognizable as the drugged air caused her to hallucinate.For all she knew, she was already dead and all this was nothing but a tangled dream of Jarasine.
Into her line of vision came the guard who had shown the flicker of anger at Ambo’s rude comment about Kerrick. The same man who had knelt when she’d prayed. He kept his face lowered as he approached, stopping an arm’s length away from her. His scent—spicy, male, but clean—penetrated into her primal brain. She wanted to lick him, to taste the salt of his sweat, then the heavier thickness of spice that lay under his sparse clothing.
“I have come to pay tribute.” His voice was deeply timbered, causing a strange vibration in the rock she sat upon.
Ariss had no idea what he meant.
After a brief hesitation, he asked, “Will you accept my tribute?”
She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. From the darkest recess of her mind came the correct answer. “I will accept your homage.”
Tension slipped from his shoulders as he knelt. In practiced movements, he removed his loincloth, exposing his genitals. He was flaccid, but still impressively large, and Ariss waited breathlessly for what he would do. Clearly, with the statue plunged inside her, she wasn’t supposed to mate with him. Although, there were other places he could put his prick.
“May I look upon you, Harvester?”
Again, from some forgotten place in her mind came the answer. “You may cast your gaze upon me.”
Looking up from a lowered face, his eyes met hers, cautious and respectful. His gaze held hers for a timeless moment, then dropped to her exposed breasts. Without conscious direction, she thrust her chest out, lifting them, displaying them for his questing gaze. Her sex spasmed around the phallus, as if to draw it deeper inside. When she glanced down, she discovered the guard’s cock had hardened, his strong hand helping the transformation.
“By my honor, it has been almost a season since I’ve given tribute.”
Her body tightened another notch. He had not found release for almost an entire season? What was he saving himself for? Ariss let the questions loose in her mind, but not past her lips; she wasn’t here to inquire of this man, but to accept what he would willingly give. When he looked up, she knew; he had been waiting for this. This man waited for a moment where his pleasure would have meaning, not just a climax to ease the pains within his body, but an ejaculation for a god.
Slowly, his hand worked along the length of his shaft, his movements calm and controlled. White light sparkled in his short hair and all over the hair that dusted his body.
Pinning her gaze upon the display before her, Ariss barely noticed the cold of her position. His passion, his sincere desire to pay tribute to her, warmed her from her core to the very tips of her toes and fingers. Ever so slowly, her body heated the statue.
Ariss wanted to ask his name, but refrained. This was not personal; this was what he wished to do for his god. All palace guards were once recruits. All of them once vied to become the Harvester. When they failed, they became enslaved to the empress, their might became hers, their bodies given up in service to her command, but Ariss had no idea some still worshipped the god that had abandoned them. How they reconciled their feelings, she didn’t know; but this man, he truly believed in the prophecy, and the rituals surrounding the Harvest. By giving her his sincere and heartfelt tribute, he blessed her, and hopefully placed her back on the righteous path. This was not a tawdry exercise in lust; this was a blatant demonstration of sacrifice.
In a rush, Ariss understood her punishment. The stone phallus within her was the cock of the Harvester, in this case, Ker-rick, and she could derive pleasure from him, as any healthy woman should, but she should not forget the meaning of their mating. Simple pleasure was not their goal. Procreation, the power of joining the male and female, is what ascended their passion beyond the mindlessness of the masses. Ariss had thought that was why she was seeking out Kerrick, but she wasn’t being honest. He, too, should understand the meaning of their duty. Moreover, she should not use her duty as a tool to escape Ambo.
The guard’s fist tightened over his shaft, turning the tip even darker despite the shadows. He tried to keep his face downcast, only looking up with his eyes, but rising pleasure lifted his face until the white light bathed his chiseled features. When he climaxed, jetting a stream of pure white into the air that arched gracefully to land near her feet, Ariss climaxed as well, her body pulling at the cold stone, heating it with her orgasm.
Spent, he lowered his head, drawing in slow, measured breaths. Without shame, he grabbed his loincloth and placed it around his hips.
“Has my tribute pleased you, Harvester?”
Filled with understanding, Ariss lifted her voice, and said, “You have pleased me greatly.” For he had. Through him, she understood the nature of her duty, and the meaning of her punishment. All she could hope for now was that Kerrick would understand his.
A small smile of satisfaction darted across the man’s expressive lips as he stood. With one last glance into her eyes, and a simple but subservient bow, he left her upon her sinful throne.
Before she could even recover her breath, another guard came before her. Scars riddled this one. He kept his face low with respect but also disgrace as he descended to his knees. She didn’t need to be inside his mind to know that he didn’t think he was good enough to offer tribute. His posture, the shameful slump of his shoulders, spoke louder than any words.
“I have come to pay tribute.”
Despite his massive body, his voice was high and tight.
“Look at me,” Ariss commanded.
Confused, he lifted his gaze to hers, his dark eyes made black by the shadows. Forcefully, he kept his eyes locked with hers even though he wanted to look down at the straining tips of her artfully displayed breasts.
“I want you to look at all of me.” Lifting herself through the chest, she arched her back, thrusting her breasts out.
His breath grew labored, but each time he tri
ed to look down, he winced his eyes closed. After several attempts, he whisper-hissed, “I am not worthy to behold such perfection.” Clenching his eyes shut, he wrenched off his loincloth, exposing his semihard penis. Short, but shockingly thick, his cock was not the source of his shame as she had suspected. Very softly, so that only she might hear and the gods might miss it, he said, “I cannot stop myself. It has been barely hours since I …” His voice trailed off into nothingness, his shame apparent. He couldn’t stop masturbating for his own pleasure. Apparently, the guards were expected to refrain and offer their climax only to the gods, but Ariss felt the wrongness of this ideal.
“When you find your pleasure, what do you think of?” Ariss asked, keeping her voice low even though her sense was that they were entirely alone. This was a sacred passage between her and these men; none would dare to eavesdrop on her exchanges. To do so would be to incur the wrath of the gods.
“Perversities,” he growled, making his self-loathing apparent. “Men with other men, women with other women, all of them with me.” He shook his head. “I cannot stop thinking of such debauchery ever since I watched over one of the empress’s parties.” His eyes sought her out, tortured and confused. “Before then I was strong, able to go an entire season without indulging. But since.” He hung his head in shame. “The elite, they are …” He bit his lip, afraid to say the word, then whispered, “Depraved.”
He hadn’t told her anything she didn’t already know. During her reign, Empress Clathia had hosted numerous parties that included plenty of secluded places for the elite to ply one another with erotic acts, drugs, and implements. The empress had disdained same-sex unions, which only made them all the more taboo to the iniquitous elite. The threat of censure simply compelled them to seek out such trysts with greater passion and more clandestine efforts. Clathia’s daughter, Kasmiri, hadn’t ruled long enough to continue the tradition; however, now that there was no empress, Ambo had stepped forward to carry on the custom of wild celebrations.
“It seems perverse to me that they would do these things before men they had forbidden to even touch themselves.” Below her, the rock trembled as if in agreement.
The guard’s gaze locked on hers.
“You have committed no sin.” Only the ungati, those servants devoted to providing pleasure to their masters, but only allowed to climax alone with ritual strocation, should have to endure such austere restrictions. From her education, the god of the Harvesters was a lusty god. She sat upon clear evidence that the acolytes knew him best, portraying him as perverse throne. He would not wish his followers to suffer forced abstinence from pleasure. Just the opposite; he would want them to find release daily and in any way they could.
“You will accept my tribute?” his voice was awash with shocked wonder.
“The offering of such a virile man would please me greatly.”
A relieved smile turned up the edges of his lips, softening the harshness of his scars. Lifting up onto his knees, thrusting his cock proudly into the light, he began by gripping his shaft firmly and squeezing several times in quick succession. His cock grew not so much in length but in thickness, causing her sex to quiver in response. This man would truly stretch her beyond endurance. Such a thought only caused her to squirm upon her tawdry throne. Lowering his other hand, he cupped his balls, squeezing them with the same pulsing rhythm until he grew fully erect.
He didn’t ask permission to gaze upon her, but she didn’t censure him. As a new and strange hunger filled her, she lifted her hands to her breasts, twisting her nipples between thumb and forefinger, pleased when he growled in response. He began to stroke his hand in fast, short strokes down his prick as he thrust his hips in time.
Tugging his hand down toward his rocking hips, he continued to arch back until the light bathed his entire upper body, showing off twisted white scars that crisscrossed his entire form. One of his nipples was gone, lost in the path of a knotted string of scar tissue. About the only place on him that was unmarked by weapons was his cock.
As he worked his prick in his hand, Ariss realized that he would not be as quick as the man before him was. This man knew his body and took his pleasure often, which allowed him tremendous finesse and control over his own climax.
Each time she thought he would ejaculate, he brought himself back from the brink. Only a small drop of moisture would pearl at the tip, a leak in the wall of desire waiting for the release of his masterful touch. He teased the slickness over the tip of his cock with his thumb, sliding it around and under the sensitive ridge until the tip grew ever darker.
Ariss discovered her breath matched his, and her hands grew firmer around her breasts, her fingers twisting almost hard enough to cause pain. When he climaxed, he bellowed, prompting her to gasp as her cunt clamped so tightly around the stone cock she feared she would snap the phallus off.
A powerful stream of pure white blasted from him, but he angled his cock down, so his ejaculate splattered at her feet in a great gush. Several drops hit her bare feet, gratifying her need to have some type of contact with this most intriguing man. In the back of her mind, she speculated that if this deluge were after he’d climaxed once before, a delay of only a few days would make the volume almost overwhelming.
Falling back on his heels, curling in and bowing his head, he took a deserved moment to gather himself. Ariss realized her hands still cupped her breasts and she gently lowered them to the stone arms of the Harvester god. When she found him warm, she glanced down, stunned to find a slight grayish glow just below the surface. Convinced it was a trick of the light and the still-wafting sweet smoke, she shook her head. Once she dismissed the scar-riddled guard, another entered, dropped to his knees, and begged to offer his tribute.
She had no idea how long she’d sat receiving tribute, but her body grew weary. Her eyes were burning from the smoke and from gazing upon hundreds of men. Briefly, she let her lids settle, just to rest her eyes for a moment, and that’s when she felt the stone arms of the statue lift from his knees and wrap around her waist.
Stretching up, he straightened his body, forcing hers to mold against his. Ariss relaxed into his embrace, allowing him to pull her higher until clouds swirled around them. Huge stone hands cupped her breasts with surprising gentleness as he moved his hips softly against hers. His mouth cupped her ear, whispering, telling her secrets and truths that she heard, understood, but only at the subconscious level.
He told her to call him Tavarus, and she did, pleased at the way his name rolled from her lips.
Trailing his massive hands down her body, he spread them against her hips, holding her steady for him, yet he didn’t increase his rhythm. Caught up in the sensual movements, Ariss climaxed, lifting her hands up and back to wrap around his neck. He growled with the sound of rock against rock and climaxed, filling her with a stream of molten lava that didn’t burn her, for she was living stone, too. As he released her, he whispered, “You will always belong to me.”
Ariss blinked her eyes open only to discover a guard before her with a shocked expression on his face as he backed away. Cock in hand, he scrambled backward, falling, and then rising hastily to his feet. Within moments, a group of acolytes stood before her, their faces slack with awe.
With a halting voice, one said something in a language she didn’t comprehend.
On the verge of demanding an explanation, Ariss looked down and realized the entire carved Onic statue that had been the darkest black, was now colorless. The lighting crystal of pure white that hung above shot bolts of brilliance clear through, then bounced back, lighting the room with shards of brightness.
Ariss sat in the center of it all.
13
Kerrick had surfed swelling waves of flame protected by the thinnest membrane. He’d jumped off plunging precipices with only a small parachute strapped to his back. He’d even dodged a spinning blade-covered puck. But he’d never really been afraid. Not until now.
Bent over with his forehead pressed into the
metal floor of the gannett, Kerrick discovered that his lungs were slowly filling with fluid, making it ever more difficult to breathe. His head pounded. Every muscle in his body protested from lack of movement. He had no idea how long he’d been here, because time ceased to have any meaning. The only good thing was that because of Sterlave and Chur’s interference, the recruits hadn’t been allowed unfettered access to his exposed and horribly vulnerable ass.
“You can simply walk away.”
Chur’s voice was soft, but his offer sounded almost like an accusation. Kerrick had always disappeared when things grew difficult. Three times he’d been forsworn to various women, but in each and every relationship, he’d let himself be caught with another, so that his intended would reject him, demanding his departure.
Kerrick hated to admit the truth, but he knew the amazing coincidence of his chosen showing up at just the right moment, in just the right place, at just the right time to catch him with another woman was no accident. Always he exhibited shock and head-hanging shame, but in the back of his mind, he knew he’d carefully orchestrated his undoing so he could escape any responsibility.
The whole point of coming here and becoming the Harvester was to ultimately become the magistrate: a position with massive power and probably many nagging responsibilities, responsibilities that he could foist onto a subordinate. He could have all the prestige with little actual work. Mostly, Kerrick had wanted authority over his father. Even though he hadn’t seen him in ten seasons, his rejection still rankled. As the magistrate, Kerrick could make or break his father. But what once seemed so important to him, now seemed pathetically juvenile. For all he knew, his father was deceased, or had long since retired from importing and exporting goods to Diola.
This whole mess really started one drunken night on Isela Five, when he and several other velto players engaged in a game of one-worse. Each man tried to give a more horrific story of life with his father. When Kerrick relayed his tale of a father who basically ignored him, except to tell him how worthless he was, and what a disappointment he continued to be, the others laughed. They said his experience wasn’t that bad. Kerrick’s father was cruel, but at least he hadn’t beaten him. Or worse. Still, thinking of the past had stirred up long-buried memories of old hurts. That’s when Kerrick became determined to repay his father for all he hadn’t done for him. On a whim, he’d returned to Diola, a planet he swore never to set foot on again.
[The Onic Empire 03] - Sinful Harvest Page 16