The rich arabesque carpets were rolled back against the tapestry-laden walls. A hundred or more red tapered candles reflected off the glittering mirrored ceiling and crystalline interior.
Mr. Meu stood just outside the chalk circle he had drawn on the quartz floor of the spacious chamber. Cryptic runes embellished the ring’s circumference. Scattered within, like beggar’s diamonds, were sparkling shards of glass. They had once been a very old bottle of L’ Esprit de Courvoisier cognac.
Lounging on the divan next to him was the Countess de Winter. A bowl of poppy-blossom waste was aglow on top of the floor-length water pipe at her side. The hose of the hookah was pressed against her luscious lips. Little tentacles of smoke leisurely escaped from her delicate nose.
Delilah de Winter’s beauty would make the Saints writhe with desire. From head to toe, she was the dark fantasy of both man and god alike. Her fiery red hair was clutched in a halo of ringlets upon her head. It was drawn up in a loose bun and held in place by two crimson crisscrossed chopsticks in the fashion of the courtesans of Cathay. Loose locks lay curled over her ivory shoulders. She absently twirled a stray strand between her cruel and willowy fingers. They complemented, almost perfectly, the paleness of her skin. Its pallor was made even more so by the contrast of a black fleur-de-lis branded on her upper right arm. Her full bosom spilled over a form-fitting corset. The bustier was a mesh of raven and red and cinched tighter than comfort would allow. A short skirt of sheer black lace that barely covered her desirables was stretched tightly over her round bottom and shapely hips. Matching silk stockings, supported at the thigh by buckled leather garters, embraced her muscular legs. Little black booklets, also with buckles, were turned at the ankles and covered her milk-white feet. They sported dangerously thin stiletto heels.
At this moment, the Countess de Winter was an evil symphony in the colours of bone, blood and night and was easily any man’s undoing.
“When are you going to be finished, Meow-Meow? I am so utterly bored. I can think of much more pleasurable ways to spend our time alone,” she said through a ruby red mouth that upturned slightly at the edges. Her voice had a Hungarian inflection. “The skills of your kind in the boudoir are well known, my ebon tiger.”
“A most inviting offer, Delilah. Nothing is more desirable than a truly evil woman,” Mr. Meu offered back. A widening grin shone white against the dark fur of his face. “As I have stated on many occasions, I would be more accommodating of your wishes if it were not for the fangs that hide in the folds of your flower. The narcotic euphoria caused by the venom you inject while in the throes of passion is never again equaled. Though it is sorely tempting, I have not the inclination to become one of your mindless legions.”
“Oh, Meow-Meow, you know I would be ever so careful,” she promised. Her sly grin increased as the back of her hand brushed against the inner-thigh of her slowly spreading legs. “Besides, there are other ways.” She licked her full red lips. Her tongue was redder still. Her eyeteeth were very sharp and seemed just as deadly to the feline sorcerer. Still, the thought was tempting, and it grew ever more ubiquitous.
Delilah’s eyes, pale like cheap jade, rolled back in a mock la petite mort. The whites shone brightly against her dark mascara. Heavy lids fluttered and beckoned.
Her pointed teeth bit into her lower lip. A trickle of pink-tinged salvia slid down the left side of her chin. She was pulling out all the stops this time.
The room seemed to grow warmer. So very hot, Meu thought as he found himself moving closer to her. His silken robes were now a pile on the viridian floor.
He began to move toward her on all fours, like a panther stalking his prey. Supple muscles rippled under his silky black fur. His claws expanded to their true lethal measure, then retracted into velvet. A blend of growls and powerful guttural purring emanated from deep in his throat. The vibrations ran through de Winter’s outstretched body. Her wanton form began to convulse softly.
Mr. Meu could feel the blood rise in his loins.
The closer he got to the countess, the harder it was to decide who was seducing whom. Had the Huntress become the hunted? Mr. Meu slowly circled the divan, never taking his eyes off the beautiful witch. His mouth began to water.
“Meow-Meow, this is a side of you I have never seen before! Ooh, and I like it! Come and devour me, my big jungle cat!” Delilah smiled and bit her lip anew.
The excitement mounted as her own hands slid between her legs for a long moment then moved slowly upward over her now trembling form. Her delicate fingers trailed over the bustier that barely covered her smooth white belly. They slowly traveled up to her full breasts. She cupped and squeezed them together, tightly pushing upwards. The Countess moaned loudly as she smothered the top halves with tender, bloody kisses. Deliberately and without stopping, her eyes locked on Mr. Meu’s.
The seductress peered through long lashes at her would-be lover. She slowed her pace. Her succulent burgundy lips quivered, then parted. Crimson spittle bridged the widening gap between them. “Your turn,” she whispered breathlessly. The spittle never broke
Meu’s nostrils flared; her scent was maddening. The supernatural pulsations of his deep purrs grew stronger. They sent waves of pleasure over Delilah’s willing body.
The countess’s face was now slightly upturned and tilted. Her mouth was agape in ecstasy and framed in a lustful sneer. She reached out to him with her left hand; palm faced upward. Long svelte fingers beckoned.
Delilah’s other hand cupped her left breast while her slender forearm slid to the right. She continued to push and squeeze them upward. Finally, they broke free from the prison of her corset. There they were in all their glory—powder white, her swollen aureoles bright pink nearest the breast. The thick nipples were rose red, engorged with blood and near-bleeding.
“Kitties do love their milk,” she teased.
Graceful and deliberate, Meu drew ever closer. An unseen battle raged within him. He fought the urge to pounce as he fought the urge to stop. The inner-struggle was now evident in his facial features. Slowly he took a step back. She leaned in closer. Just inches before their eager bodies met the sorcerer did stop, as if turned to stone.
“Don’t, don’t stop, not now! I burn for your touch,” the countess pleaded. Her fingernails were a hair’s breadth from his face. Not since the bloody time of Samson was there such a war of wills. More than one wager of god and elemental was lost that day, but in the end, Meu’s inner strength triumphed, his disciplined determination just barely beating out his carnal cravings.
“Almost persuaded, seductress,” he said in through a sharp, toothy smile. The spell was broken, and she knew it.
“Oh pooh, you aren’t playing fair!” the evil enchantress said with a pout as she flopped back among the prop pillows. Regretfully but quickly she took matters into her own hands. She knew she would have another chance. And next time they played, they would play for keeps.
Pride mixed with disappointment as he took several deep breaths. He donned his discarded robe and rose back on his haunches. He turned back to the mystic circle. “Finish your business quickly. The others will be here soon and time grows short,” he said as he finally regained his composure.
As Mr. Meu began the incantation, he passed his paws over the pieces of broken bottle. His eyes rolled back in their sockets as his mouth uttered words that found no home in mortal ears. The jagged bits started to move slowly in a circular pattern. First, they veered to the right in a clock-like fashion, then in the opposite direction. Then they began to move in both directions at once. Faster and faster they moved.
The larger shards collided and broke into smaller fragments and those into smaller ones still. The sharp edged particles, now powdered glass, snaked this way and that. Ever faster they moved. Presently a shifting pattern began the take form. As it became a solid configuration, its movement slowed. Finally, it stopped completely. The powdered glass became a single word in the ancient tongue of the Hyperborean. Knocknafay.
“Knocknafay,” Meu whispered.
***
“Knocknafay!” Algol roared. “You cannot get there from here. My pearl is lost to me forever.” The inner circle, now gathered in Mr. Meu’s apartment, began to tense as the desert lord’s anger began to seethe once again.
“Calm yourself, my sultan. If I know McCraken, he will not stay in Knocknafay long. We will have to act quickly lest the trail grows cold—do as I request and she will be back in the harem before the next moon. I have a plan, but everyone must play their part. Madam de Winter, summon one of your dullards and have him fetch me an Irishman!”
“Where would you hope to find an Irishman in Tashram?” the countess queried.
“In the local equivalent of a pub or sporting house would be my guess. Now move quickly, Delilah, for time grows short. Travers McCraken does not keep the same ground beneath his feet for long.” Meu grinned like a madman. His eyes shifted around the room.
By this time, the countess had returned her pair of pale prisoners back to the cramped confines of their silken cells in her tightly-cinched corset. She exuded a self-fulfilled glow as she swished and swayed past Quelala. A well fed, rosy cast shone over his darkened face. He too seemed quite refreshed and satisfied since their last meeting.
Next to him crouched Ku’Kul Khepi. He looked to her like a gentleman’s bowler thrown over a six-legged stool. His jutting eyestalks were bobbling to and fro. He clicked and chirped excitedly as she passed by.
The great Sultan Amon Sin Algol stood still, his strong arms akimbo. His full beard bristled. The dark, wolfish eyes beneath his silken turban devoured Delilah’s flawless figure. Slowly, deliberately she sashayed by him to the open balcony at his left.
She at last cast a glance at Mr. Meu, smiling her good girl smile just as a soiled dove would look at her brothel owner before doing his craven bidding. Delilah was equally adept at being the dominatrix or the submissive. Either way, she always seemed to come out on top.
She turned back to the balcony. The windows opened inward. The aperture was quite large, but the ledge only extended a foot or so outwards.
The countess leaned over the waist-high railing head held high. She breathed in deeply. The morning star shone brightly from above. Its rays seem to touch only her for a moment, like a father embracing a daughter in a crowd of strangers.
Far below, gazing upward was de Winter’s legion. It was just before dawn, and half a hundred men and a small number of women as well gathered at the back of the palace wall.
This assembly of unfortunates was her mindless multitude. They followed the sorceress’s every move, hoping, nay praying to their gods for but a moment back in her arms. The truth be told, their numbers would be in the tens of thousands if many had not starved to death, forgetting to eat in their quest to be with their goddess but once again.
“Hey boys, why don’t you come up and see me?” the Countess invited. From deep between her breasts, still covered in crimson kisses, she produced a gossamer veil.
The Countess de Winter waved it to the crowd gathered below. They let out a deafening roar as she let the silken scarf loose. The desert breeze caught hold of it and carried it over the palace wall into the maddened mob. Frenzy ensued.
The remaining members of the inner circle gathered behind her to watch the fun. For many minutes blood and fists and flesh flew as the suitors vied for her favour. Screams and howls followed as a wiry boy, still in his teens, broke from their ranks. The passport to pleasure was gripped tightly in his blooded hand.
Over the forty-foot barrier he scrambled. His fingers dug into the stonework like a man possessed, for indeed that is what he was. He scurried down the backside almost falling several times on the scattered rocks below.
Briefly, he stared up at the smooth, hard surface of the glass palace. There was neither chink nor foothold in sight. Whether it was grim determination or that the silken token of the countess held magical properties one cannot say, but slowly he began to scale the sheer glass side of the sultan’s home like a housefly.
With the veil now in his teeth, her scent floated in his nostrils furthering his madness. He left a trail of red on the smooth surface, his fingers raw from the mortar of the high stone wall around the crystal structure. Nine stories he climbed to the open window of the chamber.
The young boy nearly fainted as slender hands wrapped around his wrist and helped him over the shallow balcony. It was her hands, her hands that touched him. He was beside himself with joy as he collapsed on the cool, shiny floor. His face was a mass of scratches and bruises. One eye was tightly swollen shut. It looked like an overripe plum. More than a few teeth were missing from what was once a boyishly handsome face. His fingernails were all but gone as well. If you would have asked him if it was worth it, he would have replied, ‘Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes!’ To him, it was worth any price to sit at the countess’s feet as she shone down upon his exhausted body, like the pale moon on the love-struck sea.
“I love you, I live for you, I would die for you, my beautiful goddess,” he said, gasping through a gap-toothed grin. Water flowed from his upturned eye. His tears turned to sobs of cruel ecstasy as she dug her sharpened heel into his bulging crotch.
“Would you kidnap, or even kill for me, my champion?”
“I would kill for you, for you…for you anything…anything,” he repeated over and over.
“That’s a good pet. Yes, yes time enough for that later, my sweetness. Now let’s see about getting you cleaned up. What’s your name, lover?”
“You…you don’t remember?” he asked, trembling with disappointment.
“Nix! Do not tax me, you whining cur,” she snapped, drawing up to her full height. Suddenly, her voice was cuttingly cold and distant. “Maybe I should find another who will live to serve, not question. Yes, maybe another among my legion will better suit my needs.”
“Phineas, Phineas Gage,” he screeched in horror. “My name is Phineas Gage.”
“Well, Phineas,” she said in a voice now syrupy sweet, “you do one little teensy, weensy favour for me, and I will grant your heart’s desire. Fail me and well…” Her voice trailed like a ragged moth floating on a gentle night’s breeze.
“I am yours to command,” said the wretched man-child.
“That’s my good, boy.” She kissed his bloody forehead. It sent shudders of delight down his battered body. “Now hand me your belt.”
“The belt, oh, rapture!” he squealed. Her more-than-willing captive did as he was told. A long moment passed as he waited in anticipation of a sound spanking. Instead, she made a makeshift leash and looped it over his head.
“Work first, Phineas, play later.” She gave a short cackle, sounding now more like a ragged hag than the deity of delight before him. She led her disappointed captive on all fours out the door to a common bath in an attempt to make him more presentable. She would send him out to bring back an Irishman before the noon hour.
The other members of the inner circle marveled at the spectacle that had unfolded before them.
Mr. Meu addressed the others. “I saw her do the same thing in Xanadu a few years back. Impressive, is it not?”
“Indeed, and grand entertainment as well,” stated the sultan. “I was wondering why you did not simply send one of my servants to fetch an Irishman. You have a flair for the dramatic, aye, Meu?”
Ku’Kul looked up at Amon Sin Algol and spoke to him rapidly in a series of excited clicks and chirps. Algol roared with amusement.
“What did he say, my liege?” the grand vizier inquired.
The desert lord pondered for a second, then said with an uncharacteristic smile, “A loose translation would be: “I wonder what she does for an encore.”
He began to chuckle once more. A chorus of sinister laughter followed. It echoed down the halls of the dark palace and sent a cold chill through all within earshot.
Mr. Meu stood just outside the chalk circle he had drawn on the quartz floor of the spacious chamber. Cryptic runes embellished the ring’s circumference. Scattered within, like beggar’s diamonds, were sparkling shards of glass. They had once been a very old bottle of L’ Esprit de Courvoisier cognac.
Lounging on the divan next to him was the Countess de Winter. A bowl of poppy-blossom waste was aglow on top of the floor-length water pipe at her side. The hose of the hookah was pressed against her luscious lips. Little tentacles of smoke leisurely escaped from her delicate nose.
Delilah de Winter’s beauty would make the Saints writhe with desire. From head to toe, she was the dark fantasy of both man and god alike. Her fiery red hair was clutched in a halo of ringlets upon her head. It was drawn up in a loose bun and held in place by two crimson crisscrossed chopsticks in the fashion of the courtesans of Cathay. Loose locks lay curled over her ivory shoulders. She absently twirled a stray strand between her cruel and willowy fingers. They complemented, almost perfectly, the paleness of her skin. Its pallor was made even more so by the contrast of a black fleur-de-lis branded on her upper right arm. Her full bosom spilled over a form-fitting corset. The bustier was a mesh of raven and red and cinched tighter than comfort would allow. A short skirt of sheer black lace that barely covered her desirables was stretched tightly over her round bottom and shapely hips. Matching silk stockings, supported at the thigh by buckled leather garters, embraced her muscular legs. Little black booklets, also with buckles, were turned at the ankles and covered her milk-white feet. They sported dangerously thin stiletto heels.
At this moment, the Countess de Winter was an evil symphony in the colours of bone, blood and night and was easily any man’s undoing.
“When are you going to be finished, Meow-Meow? I am so utterly bored. I can think of much more pleasurable ways to spend our time alone,” she said through a ruby red mouth that upturned slightly at the edges. Her voice had a Hungarian inflection. “The skills of your kind in the boudoir are well known, my ebon tiger.”
“A most inviting offer, Delilah. Nothing is more desirable than a truly evil woman,” Mr. Meu offered back. A widening grin shone white against the dark fur of his face. “As I have stated on many occasions, I would be more accommodating of your wishes if it were not for the fangs that hide in the folds of your flower. The narcotic euphoria caused by the venom you inject while in the throes of passion is never again equaled. Though it is sorely tempting, I have not the inclination to become one of your mindless legions.”
“Oh, Meow-Meow, you know I would be ever so careful,” she promised. Her sly grin increased as the back of her hand brushed against the inner-thigh of her slowly spreading legs. “Besides, there are other ways.” She licked her full red lips. Her tongue was redder still. Her eyeteeth were very sharp and seemed just as deadly to the feline sorcerer. Still, the thought was tempting, and it grew ever more ubiquitous.
Delilah’s eyes, pale like cheap jade, rolled back in a mock la petite mort. The whites shone brightly against her dark mascara. Heavy lids fluttered and beckoned.
Her pointed teeth bit into her lower lip. A trickle of pink-tinged salvia slid down the left side of her chin. She was pulling out all the stops this time.
The room seemed to grow warmer. So very hot, Meu thought as he found himself moving closer to her. His silken robes were now a pile on the viridian floor.
He began to move toward her on all fours, like a panther stalking his prey. Supple muscles rippled under his silky black fur. His claws expanded to their true lethal measure, then retracted into velvet. A blend of growls and powerful guttural purring emanated from deep in his throat. The vibrations ran through de Winter’s outstretched body. Her wanton form began to convulse softly.
Mr. Meu could feel the blood rise in his loins.
The closer he got to the countess, the harder it was to decide who was seducing whom. Had the Huntress become the hunted? Mr. Meu slowly circled the divan, never taking his eyes off the beautiful witch. His mouth began to water.
“Meow-Meow, this is a side of you I have never seen before! Ooh, and I like it! Come and devour me, my big jungle cat!” Delilah smiled and bit her lip anew.
The excitement mounted as her own hands slid between her legs for a long moment then moved slowly upward over her now trembling form. Her delicate fingers trailed over the bustier that barely covered her smooth white belly. They slowly traveled up to her full breasts. She cupped and squeezed them together, tightly pushing upwards. The Countess moaned loudly as she smothered the top halves with tender, bloody kisses. Deliberately and without stopping, her eyes locked on Mr. Meu’s.
The seductress peered through long lashes at her would-be lover. She slowed her pace. Her succulent burgundy lips quivered, then parted. Crimson spittle bridged the widening gap between them. “Your turn,” she whispered breathlessly. The spittle never broke
Meu’s nostrils flared; her scent was maddening. The supernatural pulsations of his deep purrs grew stronger. They sent waves of pleasure over Delilah’s willing body.
The countess’s face was now slightly upturned and tilted. Her mouth was agape in ecstasy and framed in a lustful sneer. She reached out to him with her left hand; palm faced upward. Long svelte fingers beckoned.
Delilah’s other hand cupped her left breast while her slender forearm slid to the right. She continued to push and squeeze them upward. Finally, they broke free from the prison of her corset. There they were in all their glory—powder white, her swollen aureoles bright pink nearest the breast. The thick nipples were rose red, engorged with blood and near-bleeding.
“Kitties do love their milk,” she teased.
Graceful and deliberate, Meu drew ever closer. An unseen battle raged within him. He fought the urge to pounce as he fought the urge to stop. The inner-struggle was now evident in his facial features. Slowly he took a step back. She leaned in closer. Just inches before their eager bodies met the sorcerer did stop, as if turned to stone.
“Don’t, don’t stop, not now! I burn for your touch,” the countess pleaded. Her fingernails were a hair’s breadth from his face. Not since the bloody time of Samson was there such a war of wills. More than one wager of god and elemental was lost that day, but in the end, Meu’s inner strength triumphed, his disciplined determination just barely beating out his carnal cravings.
“Almost persuaded, seductress,” he said in through a sharp, toothy smile. The spell was broken, and she knew it.
“Oh pooh, you aren’t playing fair!” the evil enchantress said with a pout as she flopped back among the prop pillows. Regretfully but quickly she took matters into her own hands. She knew she would have another chance. And next time they played, they would play for keeps.
Pride mixed with disappointment as he took several deep breaths. He donned his discarded robe and rose back on his haunches. He turned back to the mystic circle. “Finish your business quickly. The others will be here soon and time grows short,” he said as he finally regained his composure.
As Mr. Meu began the incantation, he passed his paws over the pieces of broken bottle. His eyes rolled back in their sockets as his mouth uttered words that found no home in mortal ears. The jagged bits started to move slowly in a circular pattern. First, they veered to the right in a clock-like fashion, then in the opposite direction. Then they began to move in both directions at once. Faster and faster they moved.
The larger shards collided and broke into smaller fragments and those into smaller ones still. The sharp edged particles, now powdered glass, snaked this way and that. Ever faster they moved. Presently a shifting pattern began the take form. As it became a solid configuration, its movement slowed. Finally, it stopped completely. The powdered glass became a single word in the ancient tongue of the Hyperborean. Knocknafay.
“Knocknafay,” Meu whispered.
***
“Knocknafay!” Algol roared. “You cannot get there from here. My pearl is lost to me forever.” The inner circle, now gathered in Mr. Meu’s apartment, began to tense as the desert lord’s anger began to seethe once again.
“Calm yourself, my sultan. If I know McCraken, he will not stay in Knocknafay long. We will have to act quickly lest the trail grows cold—do as I request and she will be back in the harem before the next moon. I have a plan, but everyone must play their part. Madam de Winter, summon one of your dullards and have him fetch me an Irishman!”
“Where would you hope to find an Irishman in Tashram?” the countess queried.
“In the local equivalent of a pub or sporting house would be my guess. Now move quickly, Delilah, for time grows short. Travers McCraken does not keep the same ground beneath his feet for long.” Meu grinned like a madman. His eyes shifted around the room.
By this time, the countess had returned her pair of pale prisoners back to the cramped confines of their silken cells in her tightly-cinched corset. She exuded a self-fulfilled glow as she swished and swayed past Quelala. A well fed, rosy cast shone over his darkened face. He too seemed quite refreshed and satisfied since their last meeting.
Next to him crouched Ku’Kul Khepi. He looked to her like a gentleman’s bowler thrown over a six-legged stool. His jutting eyestalks were bobbling to and fro. He clicked and chirped excitedly as she passed by.
The great Sultan Amon Sin Algol stood still, his strong arms akimbo. His full beard bristled. The dark, wolfish eyes beneath his silken turban devoured Delilah’s flawless figure. Slowly, deliberately she sashayed by him to the open balcony at his left.
She at last cast a glance at Mr. Meu, smiling her good girl smile just as a soiled dove would look at her brothel owner before doing his craven bidding. Delilah was equally adept at being the dominatrix or the submissive. Either way, she always seemed to come out on top.
She turned back to the balcony. The windows opened inward. The aperture was quite large, but the ledge only extended a foot or so outwards.
The countess leaned over the waist-high railing head held high. She breathed in deeply. The morning star shone brightly from above. Its rays seem to touch only her for a moment, like a father embracing a daughter in a crowd of strangers.
Far below, gazing upward was de Winter’s legion. It was just before dawn, and half a hundred men and a small number of women as well gathered at the back of the palace wall.
This assembly of unfortunates was her mindless multitude. They followed the sorceress’s every move, hoping, nay praying to their gods for but a moment back in her arms. The truth be told, their numbers would be in the tens of thousands if many had not starved to death, forgetting to eat in their quest to be with their goddess but once again.
“Hey boys, why don’t you come up and see me?” the Countess invited. From deep between her breasts, still covered in crimson kisses, she produced a gossamer veil.
The Countess de Winter waved it to the crowd gathered below. They let out a deafening roar as she let the silken scarf loose. The desert breeze caught hold of it and carried it over the palace wall into the maddened mob. Frenzy ensued.
The remaining members of the inner circle gathered behind her to watch the fun. For many minutes blood and fists and flesh flew as the suitors vied for her favour. Screams and howls followed as a wiry boy, still in his teens, broke from their ranks. The passport to pleasure was gripped tightly in his blooded hand.
Over the forty-foot barrier he scrambled. His fingers dug into the stonework like a man possessed, for indeed that is what he was. He scurried down the backside almost falling several times on the scattered rocks below.
Briefly, he stared up at the smooth, hard surface of the glass palace. There was neither chink nor foothold in sight. Whether it was grim determination or that the silken token of the countess held magical properties one cannot say, but slowly he began to scale the sheer glass side of the sultan’s home like a housefly.
With the veil now in his teeth, her scent floated in his nostrils furthering his madness. He left a trail of red on the smooth surface, his fingers raw from the mortar of the high stone wall around the crystal structure. Nine stories he climbed to the open window of the chamber.
The young boy nearly fainted as slender hands wrapped around his wrist and helped him over the shallow balcony. It was her hands, her hands that touched him. He was beside himself with joy as he collapsed on the cool, shiny floor. His face was a mass of scratches and bruises. One eye was tightly swollen shut. It looked like an overripe plum. More than a few teeth were missing from what was once a boyishly handsome face. His fingernails were all but gone as well. If you would have asked him if it was worth it, he would have replied, ‘Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes!’ To him, it was worth any price to sit at the countess’s feet as she shone down upon his exhausted body, like the pale moon on the love-struck sea.
“I love you, I live for you, I would die for you, my beautiful goddess,” he said, gasping through a gap-toothed grin. Water flowed from his upturned eye. His tears turned to sobs of cruel ecstasy as she dug her sharpened heel into his bulging crotch.
“Would you kidnap, or even kill for me, my champion?”
“I would kill for you, for you…for you anything…anything,” he repeated over and over.
“That’s a good pet. Yes, yes time enough for that later, my sweetness. Now let’s see about getting you cleaned up. What’s your name, lover?”
“You…you don’t remember?” he asked, trembling with disappointment.
“Nix! Do not tax me, you whining cur,” she snapped, drawing up to her full height. Suddenly, her voice was cuttingly cold and distant. “Maybe I should find another who will live to serve, not question. Yes, maybe another among my legion will better suit my needs.”
“Phineas, Phineas Gage,” he screeched in horror. “My name is Phineas Gage.”
“Well, Phineas,” she said in a voice now syrupy sweet, “you do one little teensy, weensy favour for me, and I will grant your heart’s desire. Fail me and well…” Her voice trailed like a ragged moth floating on a gentle night’s breeze.
“I am yours to command,” said the wretched man-child.
“That’s my good, boy.” She kissed his bloody forehead. It sent shudders of delight down his battered body. “Now hand me your belt.”
“The belt, oh, rapture!” he squealed. Her more-than-willing captive did as he was told. A long moment passed as he waited in anticipation of a sound spanking. Instead, she made a makeshift leash and looped it over his head.
“Work first, Phineas, play later.” She gave a short cackle, sounding now more like a ragged hag than the deity of delight before him. She led her disappointed captive on all fours out the door to a common bath in an attempt to make him more presentable. She would send him out to bring back an Irishman before the noon hour.
The other members of the inner circle marveled at the spectacle that had unfolded before them.
Mr. Meu addressed the others. “I saw her do the same thing in Xanadu a few years back. Impressive, is it not?”
“Indeed, and grand entertainment as well,” stated the sultan. “I was wondering why you did not simply send one of my servants to fetch an Irishman. You have a flair for the dramatic, aye, Meu?”
Ku’Kul looked up at Amon Sin Algol and spoke to him rapidly in a series of excited clicks and chirps. Algol roared with amusement.
“What did he say, my liege?” the grand vizier inquired.
The desert lord pondered for a second, then said with an uncharacteristic smile, “A loose translation would be: “I wonder what she does for an encore.”
He began to chuckle once more. A chorus of sinister laughter followed. It echoed down the halls of the dark palace and sent a cold chill through all within earshot.
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