The Ascent to the Crucible
(apologies: still finding my way around the site. Posted in fiction before finding this section).
Just inside the Gate of Loyalty, three men of the Inner Guard stand. They observe the crowd gathering in front of them in the Assembly Room. They do not glance behind them: no-one would dare try to enter when the gate is guarded.
One of the three, tall and young, does not quite have the practiced relaxed-but-official stance of the other two. He speaks:
“When do the victims come in?” Another, short and with a lined face, replies:
“When the bell sounds. In a few minutes, I’d say.” The third, also young and with vacant blue eyes in a childlike face, asks:
“Who is it this time? Janron, you’re a cadet, you’ve got relatives in the class of lords, you must know.” The tall one replies:
“Thirteen Green Sisters. None of them overweight, I hear, or the crucible would be overloaded.”
“What did they do?”
“Terrible things, twice over. I can’t imagine why they were so stupid. First, they refused to sing hymns in praise of the Genius’ extirpation of the Iliri. He was measured and compassionate. The punishment he chose was for them to masturbate in front of him with their holy candles. They refused. The older ones and ugly ones were executed on the spot. The rest are for the crucible.”
“Religion does weird things to people,” says the older guard. “You seen a purification before?”
“Never,” the tall young man admits.
“Even I’ve seen three,” the vacant-eyed one says. “They come in, not bound or held or anything, just under the compulsion of the Genius’ greatness. They ascend those steps to the crucible. The crucible is fired. You get a few screams and a fun smell. Bit of a let-down, really. The best bit is watching them ascending the steps, that’s if they’re young and female.”
“You didn’t mention they come in naked,” the older man adds. “Green Sisters – they should be hot.”
“They’ll be hotter in the crucible,” says the vacant-eyed one. “Hello – that’s a turn-up for the book – the lads are setting up the second steps.” From the concourse rises a low platform; from the platform rises the gently-curving steps towards the graceful white cup of the crucible, itself rising on a gently-narrowing stem; but now a second set of steps, temporary instead of marble, pinkish-red instead of grey-white, are being extended. “Something special’s up, that’s for sure.”
“The perverted actions of the Sisters require exceptional measures,” the tall guard says. The new steps are erected, running alongside the others. Genii of the Household in their white robes ascend the temporary steps till one stands on each step. The guards wait. The vacant-eyed one exclaims:
“Great! Here they come.” Many people in the crowd had been chatting, though some were looking towards the Gate of Joy. Now all are looking. One Court Priest leads the way. Thirteen naked young women follow. The Green Sisters believe their bodies are temples, so keep fit, but in most other respects each one is different. Some breasts are magnificent; others, pert. Some legs are long, some quite short. Some rumps are generous, others small and tight. The old guard stares at their breasts; the vacant-eyed one stares at their rumps; but the tall one stares at their faces. Some look stunned and dull; more look resolute and one or two even defiant and angry. Human feelings are so interesting, especially those of women.
Breasts jiggle; buttocks bulge and swivel. The Sisters reach the bottom of the steps. The lead Sister, a stately long-legged woman of about 30, sets foot on the first step. The Genii draw canes from their robes. The victims ascending the steps is going to be even more interesting than usual.
The lead Sister gets a whack on her distinguished pear-shaped rump. The three see her flinch, but hear no cry; but then they are at some distance. On to the next step and a clever cut at her under-buttocks from the second of the Genii. The second, younger, plumper sister gets her first whack.
“She’s very fanciable,” says the older guard.
As the sisters ascend, cunts come into view and occasionally get caned. The vow of silence is broken. The calm and grace of the Sisters is disposed of. Sisters jump and squeal to the background of an appreciative murmur from the crowd. Bottoms that had been so smooth and carefully-tended are decorated with red lines.
Suddenly, there is a movement in the crowd like a flock of birds starting to take flight, like new water rushing into a river, disturbing the current. Faces no longer look towards the steps and the naked transgressors. The curtain has been drawn back from the Genius’ high alcove and the Genius himself is revealed in black and gold battledress. He receives raised arms pleading joy and prosperity. He makes a slow, wide gesture and the promise is received with thanks.
The lead Sister has reached the rim of the crucible. She hesitates and receives a second cut of the cane at the last step.
In a loud, strong voice, the Genius orders:
“Go, be purified!” She clambers over the rim, breasts gently wobbling, buttocks contorting, cunt offered, and disappears. Twelve sisters obediently and lewdly follow. No Sisters can be seen any more. Silence. Expectation. A bell hangs by the Genius. His rod of office is in his hand. He strikes the bell.
A moment of absolute silence except for the echoes of the bell. Then, absolute silence. No motion. Then a sound of rushing waters. Short screams and one drawn-out and agonised. A gurgling sound. A subtle and beautiful aroma. The crowd is unfrozen, relaxes, chatters. Some people clap and others frown at them. The Genius has gone from his place.
“Bit of a waste, really,” comments the old guard. “All those young cunts and arseholes. Thirteen of them! Well, 26 if you count them both together.” But the tall young guard replies,
“I feel sorry for you. Only we of the lordly class and the priesthood, and those who have won the Badge of the Rising Staff in battle, may taste the elixir of the crucible. I have tasted it.” Both his comrades respond.
“Good, was it?” asks the vacant-eyed one. “Personally, I’d prefer to fuck one of those Sisters, but if you ask me, hearing them die was even hotter.”
“Maybe I should wangle a Badge of the Rising Staff, then. I know one or two awards were a bit dodgy,” says the older man.
“Where does their, what the fuck, elixir go now?” asks the vacant-eyed guard.
“By pipes to the Preparation Room to our left,” replies the older man. “Then to the kitchens.”
The crowd begins to disperse; and the three guards have duty to fulfil, making sure they exit smoothly.
Genii stand ready in the Preparation Room by the chute and the receptacle known as The Bath. A gurgling sound. Warm, dirty water. Then, warm, tangled, naked flesh. Tangled living, contorting flesh, body jumbled with body as in passionate love. Bewildered, disoriented Sisters. Release from death, but not from The Genius. They have not been purified and the smell was concocted from the residues of previous purifications. They jumble into The Bath. The water in the bath is shallow, but one of the youngest Sisters has fainted or taken a knock on her head. Her face is underwater. Another young Sister rescues her. In doing so, she bends and presents her plump, red-decorated bottom to one of the Genii, who grabs a chunk and squeezes. She drops her friend., who goes below water again. Another Sister rescues her.
The Sisters are beginning to realise: they are alive. They have not been purified. That was a trick. A joke. The Genius has something else in store for them. It must be evil and humiliating. The Genii begin to drag the Sisters out of the bath, cursing from time to time as they lose grip on wet flesh. The lead Sister rises to her full height, puts her slim hands together, stares at the Genii and incants:
“In the name and presence of all that is holy, of all light, all greenness, all warmth, in the name of rivers and streams, of birds, flowers and fish, I call a Down upon you, that IAAAAAOW!”
“If she was going to proclaim a Holy Down on us, she shouldn’t have left her arse so close to old Goris, of all people,” a fat priest chuckles. The Sister does not repeat her defiance, even when Goris gropes between her legs. If the other Sisters had any defiance left, the easy breaking of their leader defeats it.
An old priest arrives with a big box. Clanking metal. The Sisters are fitted with handcuffs behind their backs, with collar and chain. On each left buttock, the mark of slavery is painted. They are lined up, defeated, compliant.
It is not often that a Purple Messenger approaches common guards, even of the Inner Guard. The three, on their way back to barracks, are startled.
“Which one of you is Ganarlkok?”
“I am,” says the older man.
“You have been given an award for long and loyal service. Come with me.” Ganarlkok has been trained to obey orders to the letter (and only to the letter). He goes. The other two stare at one another.
“What’s he done that’s so special?” the tall one asks. “He’s cleaner class and his mother was an Island Tribal, so I’m told.” The other made a face.
“He’s done long and fairly loyal service, so it could just be a scheme to improve morale, but I wonder if he’s being executed for something.”
Ganarlkok is not to be executed. He is receiving a long service reward and his Captain has recommended this as best reflecting his priorities. He finds himself in a plush hall. The Messenger gets him a pass. He is led into a bare room with an odd long curving ridge towards one side, where some twenty people, nearly all men, have gathered and a few more are following. He recognises a former cadet now a Lord Sectioner. The Sectioner recognises him and waves him over.
On a low dais, the thirteen naked Sisters stand in line, chained and cuffed, with numbers round their necks and dangling over their breasts, facing the crowd.
“Congratulations on your award, old fellow. No-one in the Inner Guard would more deserve it,” says the Sectioner. “Did you suspect these whores weren’t really being cooked?”
“I’ve had my doubts sometimes, but the misdeeds of this lot were just so blatant, I was sure they were going for elixir.”
“Oh, the Genius sometimes likes to play with the worst offenders because they show more defiance. Remember when we raided Alyssium, took some of their Noble Defenders captive, and then their famed Special Princesses tried a rescue? The Noble Defenders were cooked and the Special Princesses were enslaved. Now, in a moment, we’ll all be picking a whore to fuck.”
“But there must be thirty, at least twenty-five people here, not including the Sisters, of course.”
“Five women, 24 men. Twelve whores. Two men to each whore.”
“Twelve? Aren’t there – yes, I count thirteen.”
“One is for the Genius.” And at that point, the Genius himself appears, resplendent in battledress. All were silent – the crowd in reverence, the slaves in helpless fear. He stalks along the line, staring at each slut. He returns to the once-defiant lead Sister.
“This one.” She is led off for him. The Senior of the Genii makes an announcement.
“Honoured and subservient guests! One by one, as I point you out, advance and choose your slave. The High Captain here will keep a tally, so that no slave is overburdened.” A few laughs. He starts to point people out. A loud scream from outside the room puzzles most people for an instant, but they realise: the lead Sister is getting it extra rough from the Genius. Ganarlkok has selected is choice, the curvy young bitch who ascended the steps behind the lead whore – her favourite acolyte, maybe, her chosen successor or just her regular bit of tail. A pale lord in the most exquisite fashion, selects that girl. Ganarlkok grows restless. It just needs one more person to choose the one he wants and he’ll have to settle for another. About half the people have been called. A bit more than half. His girl is definitely one of the sexier ones, to his eyes anyway. He is pointed out. He takes a moment to realise and react. He marches up to the girl. She looks at him beseechingly, as if to ask him to be gentle. Like fuck he will.
“This one,” he says.
The selection is complete. The just rape begins. The girls stand, legs apart, with one man on each side. Ganarlkok chooses the rear and is not disappointed. The girl whimpers most attractively as though she’d never had it up the arse before, not even with a candle or a carrot. Her plump, buttery arse squelches and bounces under his thrusts.
The lord finishes first and they change places when Ganarlkok is ready. Ah, cunt. You can’t beat it really, whereas you can beat an arse. That’s a joke he’s used many times. She’s young, tight and juicy. That she was a Sister instead of some kind of open whore or tavern girl excites him even more. Well, she’s not going to be a Sister any more and that amuses him. The lead Sister is probably going to be a court whore for the Genius’ personal use, offered occasionally to important guests and favoured ministers. This one will be a reward for tired soldiers, executioners, hard-working common people like that.
A few girls are already bent over the long, soft-topped ridge clearly designed for this one purpose. Ganarlkok and the pale lord lead their slave to it. She walks compliantly as in a dream.
“Distinction - you first,” says the lord politely.
“Gratitude is.” So he gets another go at the young slut, bent over, her fat arse staring him in the face, a choice of two delicious holes. Is it not wonderful how the stupidity and pointless beliefs of these Sisters has led to so much pleasure? He’s not religious, but surely the hand of that old bastard the Fate God can be seen in this, in a good mood. Or maybe, he thinks, the hand of the Genius in his inexpressible wisdom, to have demanded things from the Sisters that, in his wisdom, he knew they would refuse? Ah, how beneficent, how wise, is their great leader!
Maybe, for even occasional soldiering was getting a bit much, he could wangle a lowly court position, Fifth Fellow of the Shit or something like that, and from that, manoeuvre and arse-lick his way up, till (was it not a strange and wonderful thought?) he could be Genius himself? He’d teach the lords’ wives and daughters and those pretty teenage Pages of the Plate and the Book a thing or two. Oh, stop your sobbing, slave who was a Sister. He’s released all he has to give. Over to you, Lord Something.
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