Gender: Male Age: Secret Location: N/A
|Introduction: A secret society which counts among them some of the most powerful men in the world welcomes a new crop of girls to their initiation ceremony. But even as the old guard celebrate their hedonistic traditions, the emergence of two new members heralds a new epoch for the order, and the true destiny of their chosen flock shall be revealed.|
The Templar Belles
by Bleeding Rainbow
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and parody, to be read only by individuals aged 18 or above. The events depicted herewith are fantasy and do not reflect real world events or persons in any way..
Foreword: This story is a parody or fan fiction of a number of real-world celebrities. Rather than spam XNXX with a whole bunch of chapters at once, I elected to put them all into one single story instead. It is meant to be read as a whole, but the subject matter varies from chapter to chapter. The major, overarching themes include mind control, teens, romance and the supernatural. In addition to the codes already listed, the overall story codes are as follows:
M/F, M/f+, f/f, teen, mind control, plot, romance, incest, BDSM, non-sexual violence, supernatural
And the following is the content breakdown by chapter:
I. THE ARCHBISHOP (world building, no sex)
II. BELLA (world building, brief sexual accounts, incest)
III. CHLOE (M/Ff+)
IV. BELLA (M/f)
V. THE ARCHBISHOP (M/Ff, young, BDSM)
VI. ELLE (M/Ff+, femdom)
VII. THE PAINTER (world building, brief sexual accounts)
I: THE ARCHBISHOP
“...who work in silence...”
“...and naught but silence can express.”
With those words, so began the débutante ball.
The great white double doors at the top of the balcony swung open, revealing this year's crop of initiates to those in the gallery below. Tradition demanded that each participant don a mask like those of a masquerade to keep their identities hidden from one another, but for the initiates and their accompanying chaperons, its importance in modern times had faded into a mere formality. For the figures below, however, there were stricter measures in place to ensure that none of them would know each other beyond the moniker they had chosen for themselves.
The effect of two dozen gazes falling simultaneously upon oneself was a daunting prospect even for the well-prepared initiate, and the diminutive young lady at the vanguard could be seen inhaling sharply as she felt the heads below turn toward her in open appraisal. Sensing her nervousness, the girl's chaperon squeezed her hand reassuringly, prompting the initiate to take a step forward and begin her descent into the gallery.
Conversation was frowned upon during the solemn procession, but grunts of approval and sighs of appreciation began to ripple through the crowd as they recognized some of the initiates. While no walk of life was to be excluded from the pool of potential candidates, it behooved the organizers of the ball to choose only those with the most desirable physical attributes to be among their crop, as they were themselves the benefactors of their own reaping. As such, the ranks of the débutantes usually were filled with many actresses and singers, as well as the progeny of those who once had been in the public eye; their numbers were then bolstered by the daughters of modern royalty—heiresses of capitalist empires and figurehead monarchies.
The man who called himself the Archbishop smiled as he kept his eye on the first girl, meeting briefly with those of her chaperon—the girl's mother, in truth—as they walked past. He had arranged personally for the fiery-haired actress to be in this year's ball, having gone as far as planning her trip to the Emirates, lending her every assistance in her quest to retrieve an ancient artifact from yonder soil. That honor would be more than enough to earn him the deference of his peers to the right of First Claim, no matter the outcome of the lottery.
The Archbishop was old; too old, perhaps, for pursuits such as these if his compatriots knew his true identity. They went against the canon of his teachings as well, inviolable laws the preaching of which he oversaw. But the older he grew, the more enamored he became of the these arcane customs. The fact that this secret society existed in its current state was evidence enough that there was no longer a higher authority to judge him, alive or dead. He was at peace with knowing that he taught falsehood to his followers. There was no Hell in which he would burn for engaging in what amounted to the rape of minors, no great book of sins before a set of pearly gates in which the murders he had committed would be recorded. If there was any kind of authority on Earth, the Archbishop wielded it in his hands, and with them, he would take the reedy hips of his young prize and mount her from behind as he had done to many others of her ilk.
He had turned his attention to the other initiates when an unpleasant noise broke his revelry. The laughter rose behind him, but he did not have to look to identify its source.
Membership to the society was awarded not by committee but rather by sponsorship. Electing themselves to a council would contravene their paradigm of a decentralized structure, and therein lay the genius of the system in place; although only a single sponsor was needed to introduce new members, few existing members would have reason to add to their number and expand the lottery pool indiscriminately. Fresh blood, or “leeches” as the Fruit Peddler used to call them before his passing, seldom found themselves taught the proper signs required to enter the secret premises where the society's meetings were held. When the débutante ball was last called, however, the society saw no less than two new members added to their ranks. The one who had chosen the guise of a dark-haired young man had called himself the Painter, and the other, a scruffy, barrel-chested man who was presumed to be his acquaintance was known as the Historian. They very nearly had made fools of themselves by carrying on with the air of upstarts, but fortunately they fared poorly in the lottery and were excluded from the choicest girls.
It was the Painter whose laughter had been heard. “Hey, it's her,” he pointed with a free hand while cradling a near-empty champagne glass with the other. The tall blonde actress who was his target looked at him and made a face before her chaperon subtly corrected the girl's etiquette. “Ain't she the one you've been after?”
The Historian stood next to him, draining his own glass and taking a fresh one from a cowled servant. “I'm hoping, man, I'm hoping. Your girl's looking adorable as hell tonight, too.”
The Painter turned, and the Archbishop could see that he was looking at the fiery-haired girl—the prize that was meant to be his. He could not help but grin in satisfaction, knowing the irritating leech was going to be disappointed.
The Proctor, a randomly chosen member whose task was to conduct the proceedings but had no actual authority, rapped his ceremonial staff on the floor and intoned, “Brothers, please observe the customs and keep silent until all the initiates have been presented.” The two leeches nodded cordially and looked toward the Archbishop of their own accord; somehow, they had sensed that there would be competition for the hand of the young red-haired girl.
At last the presentation was over, and the débutantes were allowed to mingle with the guests. The Archbishop shouldered his way past his brothers and cast as wide a berth as possible around the girl he desired, warning away all others who came near. This phase of the ball was meant to give the men a chance to make their acquaintance with the girls, as most of the débutantes were known only by name. The Playmaker had once described it as a period for “wheeling and dealing,” where the men could negotiate trades with their fellows once the order of claimants had been determined, if they should find certain girls more desirable than the rest and wished to improve their chances of winning one of them. Strangely enough, the leeches made no overtures toward the fiery-haired girl, choosing to fraternize with as many of the initiates as they could instead.
Left alone with his soon-to-be prize, the Archbishop approached her with all the confidence of a man who controlled his own destiny. “Welcome, Bella,” he said, caressing the girl on the cheek. Edicts forbade him from doing more, but his brothers must know already that tonight would be his night, and that his claim over the girl was strong enough for him to do as he pleased. “I've been waiting for you. You know me by another name, outside, but in here you will address me as the Archbishop. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Archbishop, sir,” the girl replied. She was unusually nervous, especially for an actress not known to be discreet and whose older sisters had been débutantes. The Archbishop liked to think that his very countenance had reduced the normally outgoing girl to a quivering shell of herself. His pulse began to race as he thought of undressing her in his chambers. Her sapphire gown was cut modestly as befits the formal occasion, yet there was still plenty of shoulder and bosom on display, more than enough to suggest what she would look like once she was commanded to step out of it. She would have no need of the corset pushing up her small breasts once his hands took its place.
“Good. I can't order you to not speak with my brothers, but I would ask that you try to keep to yourself if any of them should talk to you.” He looked at the girl's chaperon and added, “Tamara, don't let her talk too much about herself. It is your job to make them look elsewhere.”
The woman curtsied respectfully. She had often tasted of his patronage as well as his cock, and she belonged to him as much as her daughter soon would be.
Assured of his success, the Archbishop retreated into a corner and observed the interactions of the other débutantes. Many centuries ago, ownership of a girl was permanent, but as those in the brotherhood were wont to swap their charges in order to sample a wider variety of delights, the rules were changed so that a girl's rights could be given to another. While it was rare for virgins to be traded, he knew that a number of girls in his stable were lusted after by some of his brethren; perhaps one of them could be enticed into parting with a maiden in exchange for a girl he no longer cared for.
He found at least one girl other than Bella whom he would like to deflower: Elle would make a perfect addition to a harem that included her sister. The Archbishop would have set his eyes on her had Bella not been a débutante this year, but it would behoove him to maneuver into a position to claim both tonight.
At the moment, however, the junior couturist appeared to be conversing with the detestable Painter. The man looked all too comfortable in his tailored Armani suit, even squatting on his haunches as he was, staring up at the reserved young blonde and bantering with her until she dissolved into a fit of giggles. Charisma was a weapon seldom used in these quarters when the men held absolute sway over the initiates, being that it was only good for relaxing the girls and making their deflowering a more pleasant experience. The Archbishop saw it as a sign of weakness; he would find a way to use this against the leeches.
Next he sought out the Historian. The man had chosen for himself a form taller than any of his peers, enough that he was easy to spot. The Archbishop guessed that he must be making up for some manner of inadequacy; few in the brotherhood were eager to draw attention to themselves, at least outside the confines of their private quarters. The diminutive creature to whom he was speaking was named Kiernan. Her eyes were fixed upon him as he gestured theatrically, sharing whatever pedestrian humor in his forte. The girl's chaperon, herself an actress whose duty it was to ensure that the rules prior to the draw were followed, seemed to be caught up in the man's antics as well. While members of the brotherhood were prohibited from fondling the initiates sexually, there were no such restrictions on their chaperons. It was rare for the men to pay them as much attention as to the initiates, but here the Historian was taking every opportunity to involve January in the conversation, even going as far as to grope her bottom overtly. In the Archbishop's eyes, she was displaying a shameful lack of decorum, setting a horrible example for the débutantes. This was neither the time nor place for it, but he decided that the woman would have to be punished for her indiscretion.
Soon the Proctor's staff rang against the floor once again. "Brothers," he intoned, "the time of the Drawing is upon us." Prompted by the declaration, the chaperons began to usher their young charges away from their admirers and arrange them in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder, across the breadth of the hall. The Archbishop always had wondered what it would be like if the girls had not been hypnotically conditioned over a long period of time. Without the proper behavioral attunement—a delicate balance between a complete brainwash and individual autonomy—the initiates would undoubtedly be gripped in a state of panic and shame. As it were, each girl's personality was left largely untouched to preserve their "flavor," but otherwise their loyalty to the brotherhood was entrenched firmly in their subconscious.
It was one of the reasons why the girls could not be initiated all at the same age; some children were more susceptible to the indoctrination process than others, and rare was the specimen that did not first achieve puberty before being considered suitable.
"We have been blessed with another fine bounty this year," the Proctor recited once the initiates were in place. "Now we shall reap the rewards of our labor. As was ordained, this shall be the order in which the first phase of the draw is done." The list established the order in which the men would pick a small sphere from a sealed box; inside the spheres were wooden balls with numbers etched upon them, from one to however many members were in attendance. The seal itself was an arcane thing, impossible to breach without destroying the box's contents, and the penalty for attempting to tamper with it was harsher than the trouble was worth.
One by one the men were called forth and bade to draw their lots from the box. The Proctor of the previous débutante ball always went first, as those chosen for the role in the current year must always be the last to claim their sphere as per the rules. Naturally, if the last Proctor had won First Claim, he would be relegated to second last in this phase of the draw. Luck, therefore, played an important role in determining the final draw order, and while many in the brotherhood were skilled at manipulating chance in their favor, the seal on the box rendered all such efforts futile.
The remaining guests went in reverse of the order which they had claimed their débutante in the previous draw. When the Proctor himself had taken the last sphere in the box, he signaled the end of this phase and led his brothers in a brief chant. "May the fruit of my labors be wrought in what I seek," they called in unison before breaking open their spheres.
Commotion during this portentous moment always was inevitable; the men who had drawn the poorest lots wallowed quietly in their misfortune, while those among the first dozen were wont to cheer their good luck. The Archbishop was slow to break his own sphere, knowing he could leverage the recovery of the artifact into the position of First Claim if necessary. Before he could read the number inscribed on the ball within, however, a loud cheer sprang up not five feet away from him, drawing the attention of all those present.
"Oh, fuck yeah!" the Historian's voice boomed, spilling joy through his dour mask. "Number two, baby! Number fucking two."
"Oh yeah?" the Painter chuckled next to him, raising his ball and waving it proudly before his friend's eyes. "I got number one!" Bellowing excitedly, the Historian bumped fists with his friend and hugged him, jumping together in mad revelry.
Their behavior was farcically sophomoric, but the bewildered guests recovered quickly enough to approach the two and congratulate them. The Archbishop suppressed his mild irritation at this turn of events and examined the number on his ball: three. He would have to deal with the leeches after all, but armed with such a favorable lot, it should not be very difficult to persuade his brothers to advocate his desire for a trade once he presented the artifact.
First, however, he would gauge the Painter's intent for himself. The leech had expressed an interest in Bella, to be sure, but there were other fine candidates in this year's crop, and if he knew what was good for him, he would accept the Archbishop's proposal and walk away with two girls instead of one.
He faced the Painter and extended his hand. "Congratulations," he offered. "Only your second débutante ball, and already you get to feel what it's like to have First Claim." The Painter stared momentarily at the proffered hand before accepting it. The grin on his face grew wider as he shook the hand enthusiastically.
"Thanks, man, I appreciate it." His grin wilted as quickly as it had grown, vanishing from his masked face as he gazed into the Archbishop's eyes. "But if you're thinking what I think you're thinking, then the answer is no."
The rebuff was as cavalier as any the Archbishop had ever been given. If he were any less of a man, he would have flinched and let his anger show. Instead, he allowed the handshake to break of its own accord and showed his lot to the Painter, making sure that the number on it was visible. "I am offering you a chance to take any one girl from my stable and claim another girl today," he stated calmly. "Not only would you come away a winner, but you would also earn my appreciation. Surely you can see the wisdom in that."
The Historian was not privy to the conversation as he had been approached by others seeking to trade for his lot; the Painter, keeping pace with his friend, rolled his eyes at the Archbishop's counsel and said, "Listen. There's no way in Hell I'm giving her up, so save your breath and pick whomever you want with your number three ball."
The Archbishop felt a murderous intent rise within him. His face betrayed nothing but disappointment, but a cold rage had begun to simmer in his gut. Turning aside, he began to plot his next move while pretending to listen to other offers.
After the negotiations were over and the trades were settled, the time came for the second and final phase of the Drawing. Although the Painter had announced his own victory earlier, no one except the Archbishop knew if he would trade his lot with someone else, and the mystery would linger until the winner was called forth by the Proctor.
"Let the most blessed among us come forward," he cried, punctuating the moment with his staff. The Painter strode forward proudly and presented his ball. The Proctor examined it briefly, nodding his satisfaction at the object's authenticity. "The Painter has won First Claim," he announced. "Brother, which of these initiates do you choose to take into your charge?"
"A moment," said a voice within the crowd. A slight figure emerged and proved himself the speaker by adding, "My apologies for interrupting, but I would make aware of a piece of joyous news which, perhaps, we all should hear before our brother the Painter graces us with his selection." The Archbishop smiled. The man who had spoken, named the Aperturist, was an ally in his camp. For appearances' sake, the Archbishop had bided his time waiting patiently for someone else to speak up for him. Events appeared to be unfolding according to plan.
The Aperturist continued, "Our brother the Archbishop, too humble to claim this honor, has delivered unto us an artifact which we have sought for many years. Brother, would you deign to give us a glimpse of it?"
The Archbishop waited until all eyes were upon him before he spoke. "I was going to present it after the ceremonies were over, but since our brother is so eager to see it, I have no choice but to oblige." He gestured for the servants to bring the item forward. Two cowled individuals bearing an object covered in cloth came forth and placed the item on the table next to the box. The Archbishop himself unveiled the artifact to a litany of gasps.
"Behold! The Gift of Utnapishtim," the Archbishop declaimed, waving a hand over the small stone tablet that was revealed.
"What the fuck is that supposed to be?" the Painter asked aloud to the apparent amusement of the crowd.
"The Epic of Gilgamesh, man," the Historian explained. "I'm guessing he thinks that the secret to immortality is written on that piece of rock."
"It is," the Archbishop countered stoically. "Using the coded formula inscribed on this tablet, we will be able to derive an elixir which will sustain our life force for all eternity."
"I'll believe it when I see it," the Painter said, unfazed by the derision leveled at him by his peers. "Anyway, what does this have to do with picking our girls?"
The Aperturist once again spoke on behalf of his ally. "Brother Archbishop has done much for us in the past, and he has surpassed even his own deeds this time. For retrieving the Gift of Utnapishtim, I would propose that he be given First Claim."
Other voices—ones that the Archbishop knew would support him—added to the motion. "I think he deserves it," said the man known as the Sandworm. "Give it to him," said another, and another.
"Bullshit!" the Painter exclaimed in response. "I don't care if he raises fucking R'lyeh right under our feet. Nothing in our doctrine says that I have to give up First Claim."
"True," the Aperturist conceded before launching into his retort, "but it has long been our custom to honor those who have sacrificed much for the advancement of the order as well as the Great Work. You would disgrace yourself in our eyes should you refuse to yield."
"You're wrong, brother," argued the Dragon Rider, a new voice and one of the few to have remained neutral. "The Drawing is a sacred rite, and no one should be motivated to work against the will of the draw regardless of prestige."
The gallery was on the verge of chaos when the Proctor slammed his staff into the ground. "Enough!" he proclaimed. "As Brother Dragon Rider pointed out, there is no cause for which Brother Painter must yield his claim to another. Whether he exchanges his lot for that of Brother Archbishop's is his choice alone. What do you say, Brother Painter?"
The Painter ignored his peers and placed his ball back in the box, affirming his claim. The gallery went silent as he showed his defiance. "I'm keeping First Claim," he shouted, meeting their eyes and settling on the Archbishop's furious glare. He raised his arm and pointed at the fiery-haired girl. "And I am picking Bella Thorne."
Bella's heart caught in her throat as the Painter pointed at her. She'd been shaking since the men started bickering, growing more nervous by the minute, but it was the culmination of her life's purpose that made it almost too much to bear.
She couldn't remember a time when her destiny was unclear, if there had been one at all. There was a long stretch during which her dyslexia made life difficult, but Mom and Dad had always promised that the pain would go away once her true masters welcomed her into their fold. It all started with those weird bedtime stories, which evolved into fairy tales about how the world was really run by a group of people in secret. When she became a teenager, she believed in it wholeheartedly. Dad died when she was still a kid, but Mom never lost faith in Bella. With her help, she became a television star and managed to catch the eye of the brotherhood. Fame is fleeting, Mom always said, but initiation is forever.
The toughest part of the process had been to keep her true aspirations a secret. In addition to being hidden to outsiders, the order's doctrine also prohibited potential candidates from identifying themselves to one another. As such, although her siblings were mercifully in the know—Dani and Kaili both made it to the initiation stage but neither were claimed by a master—there was no one else in whom she could confide. It sucked that her best friends had to be kept in the dark, but since her indoctrination rarely interfered with her professional and social life, the stress of living with her secret was manageable. And while she really did like the boys she dated, in the back of her head she knew that her knight in shining armor wouldn't be among them.
She wasn't surprised to see a lot of girls in the business in the convocation room where they were summoned prior to the presentation. They were all dolled up like herself, dressed head to toe in designs from Alexander McQueen to Zac Posen, stuff she'd love to keep after this was over like the Jean Schlumberger clip in her freshly highlighted hair. She recognized a few through their meager disguises right away—Chloe Moretz looked like she wanted to hug her, for one—but as they were forbidden from interacting with each other, she couldn't go up and talk to them. Worse, she discovered that none of her besties were among the initiates; she hated keeping this part of herself from them, and it would've been so much fun belonging to the same secret society with her BFFs. Still, she saw no reason why she couldn't make friends with them once they returned to the outside world and were allowed to hang out as initiates.
When she first saw the men in the gallery, a sense of relief coursed through her; finally one of them would take her under his wing and reveal to her the deepest mysteries of the order. She had been taught that all men were equal among the brotherhood and that it was a privilege to be chosen, as not every initiate to the débutante ball were so fortunate. Neither Dani nor Kaili knew the comfort of belonging, even though they were often summoned to the brotherhood's meetings to serve. Yet Bella could see that the men were distinct individuals, and she could feel their differences in her gut on top of their varying appearances and poise.
The choice wasn't hers to make, but as she led her fellow débutantes down the stairs, she began to entertain the idea of being claimed by someone she liked. The two guys who spoke up caught her interest instantly, particularly the one who supposedly thought of her as “his girl.” She wondered if he might be someone her mother knew, maybe even the same person who had initiated her sisters, but Mom showed no sign of recognizing him. In fact, when Mom realized that she'd been staring at him, she squeezed her daughter's hand and made her look down.
It was already too late; the man's fierce green eyes were burned into Bella's head. Not knowing his name, she decided to call him Cat Eyes. She imagined what it would be like to kiss the hard lines of his jaw beneath the half mask, to nuzzle at the short, thick hair atop his head. She thought he smelled really nice, too, when she walked past him. He wasn't the tallest guy in the room, but the way he carried himself in that tailored suit made it irrelevant. He might have been twenty five or thirty five—old enough to make it creepy to outsiders, even if everyone else in the gallery probably was older—but the teenage boy she called her boyfriend in the outside world just didn't compare.
Bella had always wondered what it would be like to have sex with an older man. She had practiced abstinence her entire life, knowing there was no chance in Hell that she would be chosen if she let someone else other than her future master take her virginity. But she was far from ignorant; her family was very supportive and made sure she learned as much as she could without allowing penetration. Dad’s passing made training a little more complicated, but once her brother Remy was old enough she was practicing on him every chance she got.
They trained whenever and wherever, but a lot of times they would make it a family thing whether it was at home or at the hotel by Six Flags. Dani had the most experience with the men of the order, followed by Kaili and then Mom. Even though they had not been claimed, members of the brotherhood often invited Dani and Kaili to personal excursions or group ceremonies—orgies, pretty much. Her sisters would come back and talk about how they sucked this guy off together, or was put on fluff and rim duty while he fucked this big Oscar winner who had been an initiate in her red carpet dress, or how they ate out this country singer’s cream pie at the behest of her master even though the girl wasn’t that comfortable with lesbian stuff. It sounded like a lot of fun.
Remy was the luckiest one, of course, being a guy and all. If he distinguished himself, he might become a servant of the order some day, but already he was reaping many of the benefits of being the only male in a family of initiates. His cock was the first one that Bella sucked, although it was Mom who swallowed his first load, just after his twelfth birthday. The girls loved to tease their brother. They took turns invading his shower every morning, sometimes all three together. They pulled him aside sometimes while he went on dates and blew him behind the girl’s back, except Bella when he was dating Pia Mia because she felt bad about making her brother cheat on her bestie. They thought it was hilarious when he started dating a girl also named Bella, because it was obvious that he had a big crush on his little sister. She thought it made perfect sense, considering they’d been playing with each other since they were kids, and he’d always wanted to put his cock inside her even though she wouldn’t let him. Still, he performed his duty as man of the house by keeping Mom satisfied. He was an awesome brother to have.
She was still lost in her memories when one of the other men approached her. She heard his introduction and realized that he'd been the one her mother had told her about, the man in the brotherhood who had sent her to the Emirates to retrieve the stone tablet from one of his agents. The Archbishop looked strong and dignified, but there was an off-putting vibe about him; Bella compared the experience to Katniss from the Hunger Games meeting President Snow for the first time. She tried to picture herself kissing him, but Cat Eyes' face would always reassert itself. From the way he spoke it was clear that he intended to claim her, and she grew nervous when she thought he might be able to see what she was thinking.
With Mom busy fending off most of the claimants looking her way, Bella had plenty of time to stare at Cat Eyes. He and his tall friend were clearly different from the other men, charming their way through the initiates while the rest of the brotherhood checked them out like jewelry or slabs of meat, knowing the girls had no say in the matter. She began to feel jealous of the other girls he approached, especially when he started to flirt with Elle Fanning and made her laugh. Bella was only a television star, after all, and Elle was a movie star, taller, and blonde; it stood to reason that Cat Eyes would like the slender young actress more. She wanted to scream when the Proctor announced the next phase of the draw suddenly. He hadn't so much as looked in her direction!
She only felt worse when Cat Eyes shouted that he'd won First Claim. She loved the way he and his friend celebrated when they won the first two claims, because they showed genuine emotion instead of being dopes like their brothers. Yet with so many beautiful girls available for his choosing, her chances of winning his favor appeared astronomically remote. Despite the insinuation earlier that he wanted her, she had ended up being one of the girls he ignored. The insults she had heard all her life, the awful names she'd been called, never cut her deeper than they did now; to everyone in the room, she was just a stupid, uncoordinated, talentless slut.
When the Archbishop disputed his right to First Claim, Bella was caught between her obedience to the order and her yearning for the Painter—thanks to the Proctor's pronouncement, she knew how to address him properly at last. One of the strongest edicts impressed upon unclaimed initiates was loyalty to the brothers of the order, and to look upon each man as though he were already her master. Thou shalt not be disloyal to the brotherhood—Mom had made her recite those commandments every day since she learned to talk. And they weren't meaningless prayers; there was real power in them that made it hurt to even think about violating them. Siding with the Painter amounted to insubordination because it implied disloyalty to the Archbishop, and the more she wanted to cheer for him, the more nauseous she began to feel.
Fighting the knot in her gut, she tried to shut their voices out and closed her eyes, consoling herself with the knowledge that once the Drawing was over, the Archbishop's claim, or anyone else's for that matter, would compel her to forget the Painter ever existed.
Then she heard him speak her name. Just like Mom and Dad had told her, the pain disappeared.
When Bella opened her eyes again, she saw her master's finger pointing straight at her. She could almost feel his hands gently soothing away the agony even as she walked up to him and took his hand. No longer did she have to pretend that he wasn't superior to his peers; Cat Eyes, or the Painter as he was called, had chosen to become her supreme authority, and the dissonance of having to obey the brotherhood equally was silenced by the euphony of knowing that she would be loyal to him above all.
Chloe remembered him as the guy whom she'd made a face at earlier. She would’ve laughed when the man they called the Painter upstaged everyone, were she not so scared out of her mind. She could tell that things were usually run a lot more smoothly, because it didn't make sense for the brotherhood to subject them to this kind of torture; for every moment they argued, more girls doubled over in pain. With her chaperon's help she managed to stay on her feet, though she saw that Bella was on the verge of collapsing, whereas Elle was already on her knees.
But the Painter's declaration for Bella turned a nightmare into a magical moment. It brought relief to Chloe and the other girls, though judging by the look on the redhead’s awestruck face, it brought her that and much more.
To piss off the Archbishop, he made a grand show of claiming her, sweeping Bella off her feet and kissing her deeply. Every little thing on that girl’s face spelled excitement, from the fluttering of her eyelashes to the shy little smiles on her lips between kisses. Chloe was happy for her, but she doubted that she’d enjoy being handled the same way herself.
Ignoring the disdain of the crowd, the Painter started to sweet-talk his initiate as he spun in a circle slowly, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not giving you up to anyone. Not to him, or him.” He cocked his head at each man, chuckling when he finally faced the angry Archbishop. “And especially not to him.”
The Painter’s tall friend stepped up and slapped him on the shoulder. “Congrats, buddy!” he said. The impact startled Bella, and he took this chance to talk to her. “You won’t believe how long this guy’s been crowing about you. Just think about it. He could have had anyone in that asshole’s harem and someone else from today, and he told them all to fuck off because he wanted only you.”
Chloe wanted to gag, but Bella seemed to eat it up, judging by how red she was under her mask when the Painter pulled it off gently. “Thanks, but I don’t need a wingman. Now go and pick your girl.” The crowd parted for him as he carried his girl off into the distance, with her mother following behind.
The Proctor beckoned the tall man to approach. “Brother Historian, which of these remaining initiates do you choose?”
The Historian rubbed at the number on his ball as he swept his gaze over the girls, giving Chloe a start when he stopped on her. Not that she really gave a shit about how he and his friend were behaving earlier, but they were at least partly responsible for hurting the girls. Unlike Bella, she didn’t have stars in her eyes for any man, and even though she had to obey them, she wasn’t exactly thrilled about being indentured to a stranger.
She felt a different force tugging at her when the Historian finally made his choice. “Let me have that saucy blonde,” he said, crooking his finger at her. The sensation began to envelope her slowly as though she were sinking into a pool of water, leaving her with just enough time to wrinkle her nose at the man before her legs carried her forward, affecting a catwalk strut of their own accord. Once she was submerged completely in that feeling, however, Chloe was relieved to find that she could still think for herself, and her opinion of the man was little improved.
“Hey there little girl,” he said, smirking at her. “Wanna come home with me?”
Playing along, she slipped an arm around his waist and put her other hand on his chest, bumping him with her hip. “My name,” she cooed, “is Chloe Moretz.”
“I know who you are, Hit-Girl.” He pulled off her mask and pinched Chloe's nose playfully. She bit her lip to stop herself from sassing him, but it seemed odd that she was able to resist him even that much when it should have hurt like a motherfucker to defy him mentally.
She glanced uncertainly at her chaperon and saw a grin on Eva’s face. What was that about? she thought, and then it dawned on her. Her lessons had included some boring material on how the bond between a master and his initiate worked. It was almost as if they’d intentionally made it as dry as possible to put her to sleep, but she retained a surprising amount of information even though she couldn’t understand most of it. While it is impossible for an initiate to disobey a direct order, the metaphysical nature of the bond often exhibits counterintuitive, quantum characteristics. Specifically, this predictive ability allows the initiate to choose her response based on an indeterminate outcome as decided by the master, often before he is aware of his own preference. Chloe thought she might have been eating out Eva during that lesson; her chaperon’s pussy was anything but dry on most occasions.
Confusing as it were, Chloe now had an idea of what was expected of her. She and her chaperon followed the Historian deeper into the gallery, away from the gathered crowd. Each guest was supposed to have a private room to himself, but it looked like her master and his friend were content to play out in the open. Bella was nestled in the Painter’s lap, making out in the apparent absence of her chaperon. She had to admit that they looked like a cute couple, especially now that the Painter had removed his mask and jacket, showing off a face that looked like it belonged on a CW show.
Her heart began to race when the Painter started to unzip Bella's corset. The redhead straightened her back to make it easier for him, pushing her boobs forward as the top part of the gown fell away, leaving only the black strapless bra underneath. She gulped involuntarily when the dark-haired man began to knead Bella's breasts together. They definitely looked bigger than her own.
“You like to watch?” asked her master's amused voice while his hand groped her ass. Chloe gasped and looked up, noting that her chaperon was tangled up with him at the same time, only on the opposite side. He had Eva by the waist, pulling the woman close even as his fingers clung to a champagne glass. She could smell cigarette smoke, saw it drift out of the Historian's mouth and nostrils as he exhaled. She realized that he'd removed his mask, too. He looked scruffy, brutish, arrogant; he looked straight-up pimp.
“So what if I do?” Chloe shot back, trying not to wither under her master's smoldering gaze. Caught between the sight of a half-naked Bella and the Historian's suaveness, she didn't need to be compelled to feel horny.
The Historian dangled a cigarette between his lips and seized a handful of her skirt. He yanked so hard on it that she nearly fell over backwards, but the violent tug split apart the dainty Valentino from the hip down, leaving her legs bare to the world. Teetering on her tall heels, Chloe yelped and clung to her master for support, then covered herself with both hands while glaring at him reproachfully. “Why’d you do that for?”
His subsequent nudge pushed her awkwardly close to Bella and her master, who were too preoccupied to notice her. The redhead’s bra was still on, but the Painter had popped her breasts out and over it, making her swollen nipples that much more inviting. The Painter’s mouth harried his girl’s delectable nubs across her teenage mounds, making a game of putting them just out of reach as his hands mauled and pushed her breasts into different shapes.
“You know why,” the Historian’s voice urged from behind. “Go on, don’t be shy. My friend won’t mind if you joined in.” She was still fidgeting when the Painter suddenly smiled at her. He reached out and pulled her into his antique armchair. Her pulse beat a deafening drumbeat in her ears as the man guided her fingers toward Bella’s wet breasts. A delicate nipple yielded to a gentle push from her fingertip, eliciting a gasp from Bella as she turned to look at the newcomer. There was nothing in her eyes to indicate that she was perturbed by the interruption; in fact, her chest was heaving from the excitement of being joined by a familiar face. Chloe found herself fondling Bella’s boobs without the Painter’s guidance, giving him the opportunity to strip her down to her underwear.
Her parents had requested that Chloe’s training be overseen by her chaperon. She wasn’t sure if that or growing up with four brothers had a bigger influence, but while she had no aversion to guys, she liked girls a lot more. They were prettier, softer, smelled better; she understood how to make them feel good, and she knew how to make them reciprocate. Men were a different kind of beast. Her brother Trevor had no complaints about her oral skills, but whether she could perform as well during sex was still a question for which she had no answer.
As she leaned forward to meet Bella’s lips, Chloe gained a new appreciation for her own master’s wisdom. She was being eased into her role as his servant, the same way Eva had taught her to touch another girl, particularly virgins, with her fingers. She was being manipulated into becoming more obedient to him without the brute force of the bond, and she couldn’t help but love him for it.
She was naked except for her jewelry, her shoes and her underwear, the remnants of her dress having been shed while she was busy tasting Bella’s tongue. Chloe had met the girl before, and while she wouldn’t really call her a friend, she liked the girl’s bubbly personality. And she was so hot; Chloe was absolutely enthralled by the way she looked naked, lean and soft with a hint of olive to her complexion. Bella’s master didn’t seem to mind that Chloe was monopolizing her time, caressing the both of them with his big, warm hands while they made out in front of him. He’d left behind enough of Bella’s lip gloss after kissing her that Chloe could still taste it in abundance, that minty, strawberry flavor teasing her palate. Balling a little spit on the tip of her tongue, she let the redhead suck some of the sweetness right back into her own mouth.
The Painter elected to leave Chloe and Bella in the chair, slipping out from underneath and giving them room to cleave to each other. With nothing standing between them, Bella began to fondle Chloe's breasts, and the girl's deft fingers were reminding her of just how hard her own nipples were. She was getting wet in her panties, but when she sneaked a hand between Bella's legs, she was surprised that they weren't both enveloped in steam. Greedy for that fevered taste in her mouth, she began to forge a path from Bella’s neck to her chest, nipping at her throat and collar impulsively. Bella’s hair tumbled over her boobs as the Painter reclaimed the mouth of his servant, kissing her as he loomed over them, but Chloe simply brushed the bright copper tresses aside and started to bite around one nipple, causing Bella to squirm and sigh between breaths.
She was beginning to trust Bella’s master as well. She couldn’t tell whether he was controlling the girl’s behavior in some way, but it made no apparent difference to Bella, who was enjoying every minute of being at the center of attention. Figuring that she would relinquish Bella's upper body to the Painter's care, Chloe went on to nuzzle at her taut belly, distracting the girl as she hooked her fingers into her panties. It seemed that Bella was just as eager to be rid of her panties, because she lifted her legs and cooperated as Chloe slid them off for her, taking care not to disturb the heels on her feet.
Now for the really fun part, Chloe grinned inwardly as she brushed her lips lightly across the front of Bella's hips and over the top of her thighs. She wanted to taste Bella badly—as it were, she was tingly enough to finger herself through her panties while teasing Bella—but Eva had always taught her that just the right of amount of frustration went a long way toward putting a girl under her spell. Bella's master appeared to share the same idea; rather than let his servant give Chloe directions with her hands, he held them by the wrists and folded her arms across her chest, gently but firmly arresting her struggles while keeping her content by playing with her breasts together. Chloe gave him a knowing wink before nudging Bella's thighs open, sinking her face between them and working her way ever closer to the girl's hot little cunt.
The musky scent hit the back of her throat even before she laid eyes on its source, making her flush like a sniff of wine. Bella's mound was immaculately smooth, picked clean of hair to emphasize its virginal quality—the same Brazilian waxing that Chloe had to endure. She hated going through with it, but seeing the results on someone else made a world of difference. Bella was squirming harder now that her pussy was exposed to room temperature, but Chloe ignored her whimpered pleas and nibbled along her inner thighs instead, fighting the girl's thrusting hips and her own desire to dive between her labia.
The closer she came to kissing Bella's pussy, the louder the redhead whimpered. When the noise reached a certain pitch, she knew it was time. She decided to make one last pass over the girl's tummy when a blur of movement caught her attention. Peeking over the armrest, she saw her chaperon's head bouncing in the Historian's lap. They were seated on a sofa nearby, and Eva was sucking his cock expertly. Her master was working on a fresh cigarette, watching the threesome through narrowed eyes. There was another pair of hands fondling his genitals, too, belonging to Bella's chaperon who had returned in time to watch Chloe duck between her daughter's legs and make the girl shudder violently with a firm lick.
Bella’s moans reflected no small measure of relief now that Chloe was fulfilling the promise of her kisses, but the redhead had only just begun to articulate her desperation. The girl bucked her hips and squeezed her thighs around Chloe’s head, intending to trap her there in case she tried to pull away. That little slut! she thought, though not in a malicious way as she pushed Bella’s legs into the air. Her own pussy was on fire, forcing her to divert one hand to placate her own lust while reassuring Bella that her mouth wasn’t going anywhere. She began to nudge the thick part of her tongue into the girl’s shy but swollen clit, letting the rest of her appendage bathe in the juices bubbling out of that sweltering crevice. Gradually Bella began to relax, eschewing her wild bucking for a calmer gyration while allowing Chloe to splay her legs open.
Having won the girl’s confidence, Chloe slowly added her fingers to the fray. Ultimately, only the Painter knew what he wanted out of the threesome, but judging by his interactions with his servant earlier, she could tell that he wanted to make love to his girl. Just to be sure, she stole a peek above and saw that Bella was savoring the length of the Painter’s cock. His dick was jutting out of his pants, parting his shirttails and riding over the lips on Bella’s upturned face; its sheen suggested that she’d been nursing on him for a while. He was substantially thicker than Trevor, a quality that made her worry if the taller Historian might be even bigger. It was shaped like a baseball bat, too, thickest near the tip and tapering off toward the root; it was definitely going to hurt Bella.
She decided to take it upon herself to make the girl ready for him. The fact that her vagina resembled a freshly-blossomed rose, whose smallest petals were still curled up within the bud, was enough to remind Chloe that she needed to be gentler than with Eva; that woman’s demands alone made her wince occasionally. Luckily the redhead was wet as can be, and she had no trouble slipping the first digit into her slit. She doubted that it was Bella’s first time being fingered, but the girl shuddered from the invasion nonetheless, showing just how sensitive she was. Stopping just short of the first knuckle, Chloe began to work her fingertip in a circle, touching every contour on Bella’s delicate labia. As the girl’s natural elasticity began to adapt, she nudged another finger inside and widened the circle.
Chloe was so absorbed in eating Bella’s pussy that she didn’t sense the presence behind her until a pair of hands seized her suddenly, tugging under her arms and pulling her to her feet. She wanted to protest, wanted to tell them that she wasn’t finished, but another, larger hand had already usurped the place of her mouth, cupping her playmate’s mound from above and slipping its middle finger inside. She couldn’t help but feel jilted when Bella gave no indication that she missed her, but her master’s voice assuaged her jealousy.
“It’s his turn with her now,” his deep voice resonated in her chest, “and mine with you.” Chloe was still watching the Painter kiss and fondle Bella when she was pulled off to the side to fulfill his desires.
The chair was very comfortable, but she could’ve been sitting on a bed of nails and still felt like she was in Heaven.
The Painter had put her there. Cat Eyes did; she liked having her own pet name for him. Whatever his name, he was her master, the guy whom she'd wanted to pick her the most.
Bella felt ashamed that she hadn't said anything when he showed her off to the crowd, or when his tall friend came over and told her he'd been talking about her. She felt guilty about doubting him. She should've thanked him aloud for choosing her, the same way he had bragged about keeping her.
But he didn't seem mad at all. In fact, he was nibbling on her ear as he carried her away from everyone, with Mom following behind in a state of shock. She couldn't have been too happy about failing her patron, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
They found an armchair in a corner. Before they settled into it, he whispered something in Mom's ear and sent her off. That was just fine with her; she was hoping to spend some time alone with her new beau anyway.
He set her down and shrugged out of his jacket, craning his neck to let her loosen his bow tie. She reached for his belt buckle next, but he just smiled and made her take his mask off instead. He looked every bit as cocky as he’d acted earlier, but she could tell that he had the substance to back it up. It made her want to stand on her tiptoes and kiss every inch of his face, but her legs had suddenly turned to jelly, and it wouldn't be until they both sat down that she was able to reach him.
He laid her across his lap, gathering her layered skirts over her legs so that he could caress her thighs. She could feel a lump pressing against her leg, prompting her to wriggle her butt against it; she wanted him to know that he didn't have to take it slow with her. Cat Eyes chuckled and brushed at her bangs; he seemed to really enjoy staring at her, and she would have let him do that for days on end, too.
“I didn’t mean for you to panic,” he told her sincerely, his voice cascading through her like waves on a beach. His eyes drifted below her neck, watching her chest heave as his hand slipped between her thighs. She wanted to tell him that it was all right, but all that came out was a whimper as he touched the dampness on her panties. His tone had implied the start of a conversation, but now he seemed more interested in fondling her, drawing his fingers firmly along the length of her slit. Whatever he had to say, he chose to express it through action in lieu of words.
Bella couldn’t have been more thrilled. Pulling his face close as much as she pulled herself forward, she cleaved her lips to his and coaxed his tongue into her mouth, tantalizing her palate with his taste and filling her lungs with his masculine scent. It felt wonderful to have him inside her, even if it was just his tongue. She let his essence sweep aside the memories of her boyfriend, let his fingers unravel the doubts in her heart. She unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hand inside, tracing his nipples through his undershirt and reciprocating as best she could. His heart beat a strong, steady rhythm under his chest; she wanted badly to know what he felt inside, who he was and how he came to choose her. But more than anything else, she wanted him to fuck her.
First she had to get her gown out of the way. The Vera Wang was the prettiest thing she’d ever worn, but Cat Eyes could have ripped it to shreds right then and she wouldn’t have made a peep. She regretted the absence of his hand from her crotch when he started to undress her, but having him pull down her bra and play with her breasts felt just as nice. Already her nipples were hard as pebbles, and they grew harder still when he teased her with the heat of his mouth, making her gasp at the occasional, solid bite delivered to whichever lucky nub was within his reach.
Someone else had gasped, too, a girl’s voice nearby. Her heart fluttered when she realized that they were being watched, but she felt safe in her master’s presence. She was proud to be his; she would have spread her legs wide open and let him finger her while the entire brotherhood looked on.
Whoever the source, she had crept close enough to be on top of them. As Cat Eyes turned to greet the girl, Bella leaned forward and bit him passionately on the earlobe. She could sense that someone else was about to join in, another warm body with whom to cuddle and share in the joy that flowed over her.
She was only too happy to see the leggy blonde her master reeled in was none other than Chloe. It didn’t bother her at all to play with other girls, and if it pleased her master to make out with her, then she was going to drive him crazy by making it as hot as she could.
Better still was that Chloe seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Bella discovered that there were differences to being fondled by a grown man and by a girl of the same age, but she appreciated the attention all the same, whether it was her master’s vigorous mauling or Chloe’s attentive thrumming. She moaned exultantly into her new playmate’s mouth, swirling her tongue around that of Chloe’s and sharing the sweet taste of their lip gloss. Coupled with her master’s insistent touching, the pleasure became so intoxicating that she had to draw breath consciously to keep the dizziness at bay.
She caught herself protesting mildly as her master slipped out of the chair, taking away the warm lap and the hard lump underneath her. It gave her slightly taller playmate the advantage of higher ground, but Bella fought back by cupping Chloe’s breasts and rolling her nipples between her thumb and forefinger. She grinned inwardly when the blonde squealed in surprise, but her efforts were trumped a few moments later when Chloe retaliated by sticking a hand between her legs. It just wasn’t fair when her body wanted to surrender so badly, when she was so heavily inclined to lose.
As much as she had learned from her family, they couldn’t have prepared her for this journey of self-discovery. For all they could teach Bella about pleasuring others, only her master could teach her what it was like to be pleasured. Only Cat Eyes could dig deep enough inside her and make her realize that she liked being submissive.
He didn't need to hurt her or humiliate her to do it, either. All he had to do was hold her firmly by the wrists while her blonde playmate kissed her way between her legs. Chloe was avoiding that aching, throbbing spot on purpose, too, nibbling all around the inside of her thighs after pulling off her panties, teasing the shit out of her. She was helpless to keep from moaning out loud when the girl's tongue lashed across her vagina. She wanted to whine to her master, to show him what an adorable brat she could be and persuade him into letting go. She struggled against his grasp, tried to squeeze Chloe's head between her thighs; she started to suck eagerly on his tongue, offering him head in exchange for freedom.
By the time Cat Eyes took up her offer, she was no longer so eager to be freed. She had thrown her tantrum, and when it didn't work, the frustration that had been building up transformed into contentment. She kept up the pretense of resisting by testing them intermittently, but she was beginning to enjoy being pinned to the chair, unable to move while they tormented her.
As if to reward her good behavior, her master pulled her hands toward his belt and let her pry it loose. Her vision was a haze as she looked at his bulging crotch, and her frustrations threatened to return when her trembling hands failed to solve the buckle right away. Luckily, her master was just as eager to let her finally play with his cock, and with his help she was able to reach inside his pants and fish out her prize.
Her first impression upon touching him was one of awe. Bella was surprised that he’d been able to keep it inside for so long. She knew what boys looked like when they were excited, but her master was anything but a boy. Rather than point straight in the air, it weighed heavily in her palms, more than filling both her hands. She kissed its tip reverently and began to stroke its veiny length, sighing in exhilaration as the significance of the act struck her. I am going to make you cum so hard, she thought, flashing him a coquettish look.
She recalled her training and attended to him accordingly—lick behind the corona, tease the frenulum, pout your lips and let him see how wet they are. But the longer she played with him, the less she had to rely on it. Cat Eyes had grabbed her by the hair and showed her exactly where he wanted her mouth to be. She had to adapt quickly to his demands, whether simple as rolling his balls in her mouth, or challenging as suppressing her gag reflex when he fucked her throat. He didn't hold back on account of this being her first time with him, and she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Chloe was doing a great job of indulging her below as well, using fingers in addition to her mouth. As always they felt tight initially, but as she started to loosen up, the sensation yielded yet another layer of pleasure to the experience, more subtle than her tongue lashes but coming in steadier waves, too. Each gentle stab of those fingers helped to propagate a need to be filled, driving it deeper into her pussy until it spread through her abdomen.
Perhaps it was the urgency with which she hugged her master's hips, or the fervor in her hips as she humped Chloe's face, but Cat Eyes could tell that she was ready. The mouth between her legs was replaced by his hand, bridging the blonde girl's absence as he moved to the front of the chair.
As her gaze climbed toward his features, she began to pant with anticipation the likes of which she'd never felt before. She was naked with her legs spread in front of a relative stranger, a man who had demonstrated that he wasn't afraid to exert his authority; yet she felt only love and lust for him, her mind devoid of shame or doubt as she reached out imploringly. His exquisite frame bore down into her open arms, drawing her eyes into his own. She opened her mouth to gasp, her body growing taut as he slipped the head of his cock between her labia.
She felt him pin her firmly to the chair—and the pain followed shortly after. She winced at the sudden pressure, whimpering and squeezing her thighs together involuntarily. A bead of sweat broke out on her temple as she shivered in distress, but all it took was a kiss from her master, a small but reassuring gesture of his affection, to dull the sting of her torn hymen. Soon the pain was consumed by her lust, allowing her to relax and take his cock deeper inside her, satisfying her need to be filled by him at last.
Bella was glad to feel her master so close to her again, as he had been when she was in his lap. She loved the feel of his weight and warmth upon her, adored the heat and girth of his cock as he stretched her out. She wanted him to put the whole thing inside her, not only because she thought it would please him, but also because she was feeling just a bit possessive; she wanted to be the best fuck he'd ever had.
Judging by his demeanor, he was enjoying it as much as she. He started fucking her with steady strokes as soon as he managed to work enough of his cock inside her, growling into her ear as his hands reflected much the same bestial fervor. He even smelled faintly like an animal. She was probably going to sport bruises the next day, mostly on her breasts and on her neck where his fingers were squeezing the hardest. When she retaliated by clawing at his back, Cat Eyes bit her on the neck and gave such a hard thrust that she screamed.
The chair itself began to rattle as her master drove himself into her, making her scream again and again. But she wasn't screaming from the pain; she was screaming because it felt absolutely glorious. He was fucking her as though she were a grown woman, treating her like a lover worthy of his passion. She was too weak and pinned too tightly beneath him to complement his movements, so she did the next best thing with what little breath she could spare.
“Fu—fuck me, Daddy,” she wailed. There were no other words to express how much she wanted him, no names more intimate. “Fuck me!”
He granted her wish, moaning her name and sending her into a fit of delirium with a series of aggressive strokes. As his crotch slapped steadily against her own, the hot, tingling sensation between her legs began to intensify. Her own impulses began to take control, and she happily surrendered to them, letting her own body determine how deeply she should breathe and how fiercely her muscles should clench. When she gave herself to it entirely, a sweet numbness began to rise from the tips of her toes, sweeping over her legs and hips, insinuating itself into her tummy and her chest, rushing at last into her brain and turning her thoughts white with bliss.
Bella gave a sob and rode the waves of ecstasy through her master's relentless pummeling. She had to remind herself to breathe, but once the air rushed back into her lungs, she was able to relax and savor the continuous pleasure coursing through her body. She pawed at his ass cheeks and clung to him as dearly as she did to the sensation, feeling his muscles start to grow taut. As he buried his throbbing cock into her one last time, she shuddered and soared to another climax, vaguely aware of the thick cum exploding out of him.
After a while, the tension in her body began to unwind, leaving behind a warmth that lingered pleasantly. Her lungs burned as if she'd just danced for hours. Her heart felt much the same, and her limbs felt like they'd been filled with lead. But she had no inclination to move at all; she just wanted to be held like this by her master forever.
Bella had expected to feel conflicted about addressing her master the same way as she had addressed her late father, since she loved her real daddy so much and would always cherish his memory dearly. But the way Cat Eyes had made love to her, how potent and unpatronizing he had been, convinced her that she could come to love him, if she were not already deeply infatuated with him. Whoever he was, she wanted to believe that he also felt a mutual desire to be that elusive figure in her life: a man who could be her daddy when she needed a hug, her best friend when she needed to share a laugh or a secret, or her master when she needed discipline and direction. Already he’d proven that he could be her lover when she needed to be fucked. He could never replace her father, but she would make room in her heart for the both of them.
Cat Eyes must have thought that he was crushing her, because he picked her up gently and sat down in the chair with her still in his lap, leaving his cock inside to maintain their bond. She grumbled only a little about being moved, knowing that he would have felt too heavy eventually. He made up for it by caressing her from head to waist, nursing the pleasure in her body while she nipped at his face and neck. Although she could hear sounds of people fucking nearby, she was far more interested in cuddling with her master, and by the time she realized that Mom was part of that other group, he'd started to grind into her again, making it impossible for her to think about anything else but him.
V. THE ARCHBISHOP
On the surface he was the epitome of patience. On the inside he was boiling with anger.
Losing his bid to a relative newcomer was undoubtedly humiliating, yet he was not alone in his ignominy. After the leeches made their choices, most of the men who had supported him avoided making eye contact, preferring to stare at the lots in their hands or feign conversation with a neighbor. They had expected the leeches to know better; no débutante was worth the enmity of so many of their brothers. Whoever had sponsored the two men had made a grave mistake, and while it would take some effort to discover his identity, the Archbishop vowed that he would root the man out and destroy him.
He remained most concerned with the loss of Bella. Not only did he desire the girl physically, but she was essential to other plans he had set into motion. She and her chaperon knew little of the details short of the parts in which they played, yet without the girl’s loyalty, any further manipulation of her would be difficult. By contrast, the leeches were mere bumps in the road. Their fates were sealed the moment they spoke up against him. It would be only a matter of time before the Archbishop could reassert his claim over the fiery-haired girl.
Upon these things he contemplated, watching but not quite seeing his chosen initiate being undressed by her chaperon. Although he had been robbed of the girl he wanted, no one could deny him the company of a worthy débutante in a year whose crop yielded such fine bounty. There were many jealous looks in the crowd as he spoke the name of Kiernan Shipka, and the fact she was being chaperoned by January Jones promised that he would have a pleasant time exorcising his frustrations tonight.
Many would agree that he had ended up with the better girl. She was undeniably pretty and mature beyond her tender years. She boasted an impressive résumé despite being younger than her peers, and her family was fully committed to the cause of the brotherhood. Unlike Bella, this one could be worth keeping in his harem for a long time.
“Turn her around and let me see her,” he commanded between his steepled fingers. The girl and the woman standing stark naked next to each other finally had registered in the baser parts of his mind. With one hand at her side and the other in January’s grasp, Kiernan spun in place slowly, completing a full circle before coming to a stop as she faced her master. The smile she wore was shy but eager; the Archbishop prided himself in being able to exert such precise control over his girls, to maintain the delicate balance between adoration and respect. It was model behavior for all pets, after all.
Even in his advanced age, his meditative exercises enabled his cock to stiffen readily at the sight of the nude preteen actress. She was a diminutive creature who had yet to develop her womanly features, but the appeal of such forbidden fruit often lay in the hints of potential rather than their palpable ripeness. That was true for most men in the brotherhood, though few of them would reject the charms of a matured beauty outright. Their tastes were ever decadent even as the world evolved around their order.
The woman had borne a child for a member of the brotherhood some time ago—there were no fewer than twenty possible fathers including servants, so his identity was never pursued—and her impressive breasts were heavier than ever, jiggling freely as she moved. She eschewed her flirtatious behavior at the Drawing for a frosty demeanor, affecting the dispassionate veneer for which she was best known. Combined with her experience, they were the keys to her popularity as a chaperon, endearing her to the families of initiates who wished to raise the value of their candidates. Little Kiernan was above such artifice, but January had personally requested to be her chaperon, and she was only too happy to accept her co-star's offer.
In the privacy of his own chambers, the Archbishop had adopted a different illusory disguise, though he had permitted the girls to behold his true form momentarily. The débutantes were always too young to know him, expecting kindness from one of his grandfatherly mien. It was the shock on their chaperons' faces in which he took particular delight whenever they recognized him, seeing through the innocuity of his big, round spectacles. Most were reduced to quivering puddles of fear, and some even began to express their regret at having sacrificed their dignity for this life of honored servitude. There were always exceptions, however, and January was among those select few who reveled in the knowledge that they were serving a man of his ilk. The evidence glinted between her legs, in the moisture beading on her golden fur.
His new form was intimately familiar to both girls. The finely-combed coif, the ravishing good looks, the immaculately pressed suit; he was the spitting image of Kiernan’s on-screen father, painstakingly duplicated and mockingly accurate. He let his erection jut lewdly through his pants as he circled the girls, fondling them impulsively to feed his lust. The child was certainly the softer of the two, but the years had been kind to the woman as well, blessing her with a firm, youthful complexion, leaving her breasts and hips to flourish in motherhood. She remained stoic through the groping, enduring hard pinches to her nipples without so much as a blink. He managed to make her chest heave only when he drove two fingers into her cunt, but her silence remained unbroken.
Kiernan, however, squirmed most exquisitely with every touch, from the lightest graze behind her ear to the sternest thrumming between her legs. She averted her eyes from the Archbishop during his examination, looking straight ahead or squeezing them shut when she felt uncomfortable. Mentally he had nudged her toward a state in which smiling was her prerogative, and the expression began to waver in the absence of his control, melting into frowns whenever she was able to perceive shame. He paid her small breasts due attention, flicking at the pale, pink nipples sprouting from mounds that fit in the palm of his hand, but it was the suppleness of her preteen cunt that intrigued him the most.
She was nowhere near as wet as January, but he remedied that by spreading some of the woman’s own juices over her bald young slit. He likened the differences in their cunts to art from two separate eras; January was the pinnacle of Realism, whose folds each bore intricate details to be perceived tactually, while Kiernan was a child of Impressionism, painted in broad, guileless strokes, alluding to contours yet to come. He enjoyed the challenge of locating her clitoral hood by pumping his fingertip along her slit, juxtaposing the sensations with those gleaned from the hand between January’s legs.
Gradually he pushed deeper into the girls’ slits, crooking his fingers to dig between their lips. He was actively testing Kiernan’s boundaries by applying the same pressure on her delicate flesh as that on January’s sturdier vulva, and with only a fraction of his psychic dominance to limit her freedom, the young girl soon began to whimper. Contriving her disobedience, the Archbishop pressed the attack, cupping her mound with his hand and driving two fingers into the orifice until he encountered her hymen. The girl began to lean away from him, fighting to suppress her own body language but eventually succumbing to the instinct to retreat.
“You moved,” he said, drawing upon his simmering anger and infusing a credible amount into his tone.
Kiernan needed no further elaboration to recognize the severity of her misstep. She bowed her head and struggled to keep her quivering lips still.
“Well? Explain yourself.” He leveled her head by the chin.
“I-I’m sorry, Master.” Her round doe-eyes were wet with fear. “I don’t…I don’t know why I moved.”
He turned to January to take up the line of questioning. “Kiernan, do you hate your master?”
The girl shook her head at her chaperon. “No, I don’t hate him,” she pleaded sincerely.
“Do you reject him?”
“Then you know what’s got to be done.”
Kiernan glanced at the wall. Everything about her surroundings gave off a domestic air, but that one wall’s trappings were pain given form. She nodded in resignation and waited for January to lead her toward the instruments. The woman glanced at the Archbishop and chose a leather collar at his discretion, which she fastened around the girl's neck. Sometimes even the subtleties of indoctrination must give way to more barbaric methods to appease the senses; this was one of his many vices.
The girl's wrists were bound together by a pair of leather cuffs as well. Metal hoops were sewn into each of her bindings, allowing January to string a chain through them, linking her hands to her neck. She was free to move her hands along the chain—itself attached to the wall—so long as she kept them in front of her. Standing awkwardly in her restraints, Kiernan looked disconcertedly at her chaperon. Although her mind was conditioned to trust her master and, by extension, her chaperon, her loyalty was now being tested against the novelty of her predicament and the instinct for self-preservation.
Savoring the girl’s distress, the Archbishop approached her from behind and gave her buttocks a solid tap. The supple flesh rippled from the impact, briefly leaving a white impression where his palm had struck. The light blow caused Kiernan to inhale sharply, but she made no other sounds. He snatched greedily at the closer half of her ass and commanded the chaperon to take up the spanking on the other half.
“You’re one of the younger initiates this year,” stated January as she delivered a stronger slap. “But that doesn’t mean less is expected of you.” Smack! “In fact, you’re supposed to do your family proud by setting an example for the older girls.” Smack! Smack! Smack! The crisp percussion reverberated through the room, filling the young girl’s eyes with tears and her master’s cock with ardor.
“I…I’ll do better,” Kiernan promised. Her conviction was clear despite the breaking of her voice.
The pledge earned her only another slap. “You’re obviously not paying attention,” said January flatly. “Your master didn’t ask you to say anything. If you’re going to be a disobedient, mouthy little bitch, then you’re going to be treated like one.”
January was putting on a show for the Archbishop. He had only to give her subtle hints as to his wishes, and she acted as though provided with an annotated script. To make good on her threat, the woman selected a simple bar gag which she fit between Kiernan’s teeth, strapping the implement to the back of the girl’s head. A tear shook loose from Kiernan’s red-rimmed eyes and rolled down her cheek as the severity of her punishment escalated.
Growing more aroused at January’s unreasonable and unrelenting punishment of his servant, he relinquished his half of the girl’s ass cheeks and began to fondle himself, allowing the woman to equalize the damage across Kiernan’s tender rear end. The girl remained quiet against her gag, but her once-pale cheeks began to scream a deep red hue as her spanking continued. She began to shift her weight from one foot to the other as the use of her gluteal muscles became painful. The Archbishop fished his cock out at last and let January stroke it against the girl’s tender cheeks, lathering his precum over the bruised skin.
Presently the Archbishop poured over the selection of whips on the wall. The brotherhood had no lack of medical expertise whether conventional or holistic, but even the most potent ointment could not reverse time. As eager as he was to hurt Kiernan, he had to be mindful of toughening her twelve-year-old ass prematurely. Passing over the more wicked instruments, he chose one of the softer switches and slashed the air with it, knowing that it possessed more bark than bite.
The sound was having a noticeable effect on January as well. Her lovely skin was flushed with color, her eyes sparkled with intent, and her breasts heaved their invitation to be touched. Though she maintained her stoicism, her jaw clenched visibly when the Archbishop seized one of her breasts and dug his fingers into it, molding the globe to his grip. He continued until her swollen mammary began to lactate, spilling warm milk all over his hand. First sampling the sweet, nutty fluid in his mouth, he coaxed more milk out of the woman and made her suck his fingers clean.
The mother’s milk filled him with sensuous vitality, and after bidding January to kneel and suck him, he took aim at Kiernan’s backside and delivered a sharp blow.
The switch kissed the young girl’s cheeks savagely, caring naught for its prevailing trauma and leaving its own bright mark amid the bruises. Whimpering against her gag, the young actress’ knees gave out almost instantly, but she managed to push her legs straight slowly as she fought against the pain. The Archbishop tested her resolve with four harder stripes, crisscrossing the breadth of Kiernan’s buttocks with marks that soon became welts.
The absence of music allowed the revelries of pleasure and torment to permeate the room, a feature that the Archbishop enjoyed. The chain rattled as Kiernan hopelessly sought a comfortable posture while the deep stinging on her rear end screamed, her own sobbing making no small amount of noise. There were no discernible syllables amid her whimpers as her subliminal conditioning drowned out the urge to plead. Her distress peppered the texture of January’s sucking, adding to the iniquity of the composition as the woman debauched herself at the girl's expense; she was too busy slurping testicles and slamming fingers into her own greedy cunt to offer succor.
Still, as he added welts to Kiernan's thighs and the small of her back, the Archbishop wondered what could have been. He imagined that it was Bella chained to the wall, squirming and stamping the ground in agony as he strapped her, with a belt, a riding crop or worse; he would not have treated the fiery-haired girl any less stringently.
The thought incensed him further. He would have her still, but she would come to him unclean, tainted by the leech who called himself the Painter. For that, he would truss her up and let her taste the switch, too, to show her what it truly meant to be owned by a master. It was the little whore's fault that he would have to trouble himself with eliminating the leeches. Fratricide carried a severe penalty, but he did not become the Archbishop by stumbling over such obstacles.
For every stroke she had allowed the leech to deliver inside her, he would flog her with equal strength. For every kiss she had accepted, he would drive his own cock into the back of her throat until she retched. For every minute Bella had been with the Painter, the Archbishop would make her suffer.
He suddenly realized that Kiernan had fallen silent. January was still sucking him, but the girl was hanging from the chain, unconscious, her back a map of ruin from shoulder to calf. A small pool of urine had pooled between her feet, and the switch in his hand had snapped in half. In his rage, he had forgotten himself.
“Take her down,” he told the whore on her knees, yanking her head off his cock with a fistful of her hair. Avoiding his eyes, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and proceeded to free Kiernan from the chain. No sooner had she laid the girl on the ground than he issued another order. “Pick one.”
January shivered, but her blank expression never wavered. She went over to the toy rack and hovered a hand over the various instruments. Her fingers brushed over the remaining switches, hesitated over the crops, and wrapped momentarily around the handle of a paddle. In the end, she abandoned it and claimed a heavy metal scourge from its perch instead, which she delivered reverently into the Archbishop's hands.
He played with his cock as he watched the woman expertly don an iron collar and a pair of wrist cuffs. She chained herself up the same way as Kiernan and proffered her ass to him, spreading her legs wide. Her lower body glistened from crotch to knee, and when he prodded her clit with the scourge's handle, she pushed her hips out even further and moaned wantonly.
“You were supposed to warn me,” he told her. “Now she's going to need at least a month to recover. There might be scarring.”
She threw a look over her shoulder before bowing her head. He could see her biting her lower lip. He let the scourge's tails dangle toward the floor before slashing upward with it, whipping her cunt with the studded tassels. She yelped and began to purr in its wake. He flogged the same spot again, and again, and again, and again. Her vulva began to clench after the third lash, and suddenly she was spraying juices everywhere. Her legs and buttocks shook as she climaxed on her feet.
For all her frigidity, January Jones was a very loud screamer.
Her master was a bit weird, but she didn't let it bother her. Each man in the brotherhood had their own kinks so far as she could tell, and while his first command was to lift up her dress and show her what she was wearing underneath, to Elle Fanning it wasn’t any more unusual than having sex out in the open, like that group of people was doing.
She’d heard a lot about the society from Dakota, who said they were an order of Knights Templar, but there were so many of those around. These guys are the real deal! she remembered her saying. Could they do magic? Well, not really. Could they predict the future? I don’t think so… Then they weren’t all that special.
It wasn't until she felt sick while the men were arguing that she started to think there might be something to their power, but her skepticism returned when she realized that the Painter and the Archbishop were fighting over Bella Thorne. Elle wasn't jealous so much as she was incredulous; she had nothing against Bella, but by rights she should have been First Claim. Her sister was going to have something to say about getting picked ahead of her during her initiation.
In the end, Elle got picked right after Kiernan Shipka. She didn’t have to wait for her master to show his true form to guess what sort of man he was. He called himself the Neovangelist, and wanted her to call him “tōchan.” She was used to rich and powerful men asking her to behave like a little girl for them, so she did a little pirouette, flourished her hair, and whispered in his ear, “Tōchan daisuki—!” in as saccharine a voice as she could muster. He groaned and rolled his eyes happily when she threw in a sunny smile on top of everything else. It wasn’t overacting if the occasion called for it!
He sat her down in a chair in the gallery and slobbered over her feet for a few minutes, stripping off one shoe and keeping the other on for variety. He seemed like such a nice man, but that got boring real fast. She’d come here expecting to get her cherry popped, not the other way around, and she wouldn't be surprised if he did ask her to take a strap-on to him if this kept up any longer. She tried to strike up a conversation with Sofia, her chaperon, but she shook her head and reminded Elle that it was her duty to focus on her master. However, the woman also hinted to Elle that she wasn’t entirely powerless.
Sofia had a good point. Elle leaned forward and wriggled her toes in her master's mouth. “Tōchan,” she chimed sweetly, “I see something fun happening over there, can we take a peek, pleeease?” The man nodded profusely and put the shoe back on her naked foot, assuring her that she could do anything she pleased. In return, she pecked him on the cheek and dragged him closer to where the Painter had taken Bella. She was definitely curious as to what the fuss was about.
She discovered that Chloe Moretz and her master were there, too. Now there was a girl worthy of being her rival. The tall guy who claimed her looked pretty hot, too, or at least his illusion did. She was a little less impressed by his friend, the man who'd picked Bella, but after a second glance she had to admit that some of it was sour grapes. Elle had thought for sure that he was going to take her with First Claim after flirting with her. Maybe she should have kept her red hair instead of going back to blonde.
At least the man knew how to have fun. He had both Bella and Chloe in his lap, and his hands were all over the both of them while Chloe's chaperon, that French lady Eva Green, sucked off his tall friend. She saw how big and round Bella's boobs were and figured the Painter must have been a breast man—the one attribute that the Fanning genes lacked.
The girls were lezzing out pretty hard, groping each other and snowballing spit like they actually meant it. Then the Painter scooted out of the chair and let them really go at it. She caught herself biting her lip when Chloe pulled down Bella's panties and exposed her pussy; that girl was never going to be tall enough to model Elle's future designs, but she was undeniably sexy. She almost didn't feel her master's hand fumbling between her thighs until she reached down to touch herself. Sighing and knowing he wouldn't see it, she put on a darling look and asked him nicely to help unzip her. The Rodarte and her underwear crumbled around her feet a minute later.
If she was going to spend the majority of the evening watching, then she might as well put her master to work at making it more enjoyable. She pulled him in for a kiss, a short one so she wouldn't miss any of the action, then parked her butt on the edge of an authentic Louis XIV marquetry table. Picking between her lips, she let her tongue slip out just far enough to wet her fingertip, then slid her hand down to her crotch which she'd hidden cleverly behind her knocked knees. That was all it took for her master to prostrate himself before her, and while he was busy trying to kiss his way between her thighs, Elle turned her attention back to the impending orgy.
A red-haired woman had joined the Historian's side while she was distracted. It was Bella's chaperon; they looked so remarkably alike that she must have been the girl's mother. Mrs. Thorne looked a bit subdued until the tall man took the cigarette out of his mouth and kissed her. He shrugged out of his jacket, yanked his tie loose and deftly unclasped the buttons on his shirt, allowing the woman to slide her hand inside and fondle his chest.
Elle's eyes darted between her fellow initiates' masters, watching them being pleased by their servants while her own master serviced her; she was learning way more from those two than him. From the Painter she learned to squeeze her legs together when the Neovangelist sneaked too close to her pussy, denying him the opportunity to sniff her crotch while keeping him come close enough to smell it, mimicking the way Bella's master had restrained her arms. From the Historian she learned to take control of her master's head, nudging it along her inner thighs and sometimes pressing it firmly against the edge of her butt cheek, just like the way he sometimes planted his leg on the nearby sofa and forced Eva to lick behind his balls. She didn't have the right boy-parts to teabag her master, but smothering him under her ass might be just as entertaining.
She got very wet when Chloe was pulled away to play with her own master and to let Bella have sex with the Painter. She'd never actually seen anyone lose their virginity before, but it looked like she was about to watch two girls get their cherries popped. It made her desperate to share the experience. She'd put two fingers down there, taking deeper and deeper breaths each time she flicked at her swollen clit or rubbed at her labia, freeing the rich musk hidden within. Her master's tongue started to thrash as the scent from her pussy grew stronger, but still she managed to keep it away, forcing him to lick up the juices clinging to the underside of the table instead. He moaned sharply from that teensy little taste alone.
The sight of the Painter's cock poised to enter Bella's pussy didn't help matters any. Its girth, its stiffness, the very shape of it—Elle could feel its substance from her perch, feel the urge to be filled by it as she watched it wedge apart the redhead's puffy lips, nudging them aside and out of shape. She kissed her teeth as the Painter bucked abruptly, flinching when she saw the blood on his shaft as he cocked his hips for another thrust. Would she have yelped just as loud in Bella's place? Probably, especially if the Painter liked to hear scream. The thought made her clench her jaw and rub hard between her legs, and when that wasn't enough she pulled her master's face in for a quick burst of licking, finally letting him have what he wanted.
The table was beginning to creak dangerously, so she stood up and cleaved the Neovangelist's face to her butt, muffling his ecstatic moans between her cheeks while she teetered on her heels. The shift in position allowed her to tear her eyes away from the Painter and see what had become of Chloe and her master.
Elle bit her lower lip and stifled a moan when she saw the girls swarming over the Historian. He was naked and lounging back on the sofa, breathing smoke into Mrs. Thorne's face as she stood over him from behind, running her hands down his chest and nipping behind his ear. He alternated his lone free hand between Chloe and Eva, pushing down the head of whomever happened to be sucking his cock at that time while the other vacuumed a nut into her mouth. As the size of his cock was proportional to his height, there was plenty of room for the both of them to lick his shaft at the same time. She felt her own throat tighten as Chloe was forced to take him deep into her gullet; she could see the blonde's throat swell as she tried to contain it all.
These men might be wearing magical disguises, but just how much of it was illusion, how much of it mirage? Could an illusion make it look like Chloe was taking a cucumber up her throat? Elle had to find out for herself. She shoved her master to the ground, leaving Sofia to take care of him as she approached the Historian. She didn't try to catch his eye or ask for permission; she just stooped between his open legs and started nuzzling at his balls.
The texture and taste of his nuts were as real as anything she'd ever put in her mouth. His smell was mixed in with that of the other girls, but the scent of his musky precum was sharpest. Elle inhaled a lungful of it as she tucked one nut under her tongue, puckered her lips and sucked the heavy globe between them, pushing her chin as low as she could into the upholstery to leave room for the other girls.
The Historian grunted his approval as she knew he would. A guy like him would never kick a girl like her out of bed, regardless of whether he was stepping on another master's toes. Still, she made it clear that she wasn't competing with Chloe by taking whichever part of his cock was available, even relegating herself to licking under his balls occasionally.
He eventually rewarded her by pushing his cock forward, free of interference from the other girls. “Let's see what you've got,” he said, laughing when she flinched at being hit in the face by it. This guy was unbelievable! She met his challenge by snatching control of it away from his hand, then rubbed her cheek along its length, keeping both eyes open and staring at him defiantly. It felt hot and solid against her skin as she slid it across her face, letting it ride over the bridge of her nose and poke into her hair. When she finally sheathed it between her lips, she had to make a conscious effort to push her jaws open. It was like trying to swallow a sub sandwich; illusions just weren't capable of making people feel like that.
Elle had gotten her answer, but the hand on the back of her head seemed to have questions of its own. She wasn't going to disappoint the man who was going to fuck her properly later on; she relaxed her throat and let him push her further down his shaft, testing her gag reflex with every inch. As much as he might enjoy it, she wasn't prepared to throw up all over his lap.
Fighting the rising dread, she proceeded to ease the entirety of his cock down her throat, conceding half an inch each time she gained one. The difference between training and actually deep-throating someone this big was like diving and drowning, and she came close to floundering several times before her lips finally brushed against his pubic hair. That was her limit; she was out of breath and her gullet was demanding to reject the foreign object stuck inside it. Struggling against the pressure on her head, she narrowly avoided choking on his cock, sputtering just as it slipped out of her throat.
She threw the Historian a cheeky look even as she blinked tears out of her eyes, and like a trooper she swallowed the mouthful of saliva rather than let it all spill out. Looking between her and Eva, he shared a laugh with the woman before she took up the task of attending to his cock. “Not bad,” he quipped amid the woman's slurping, “I'd expect nothing less from a Fanning.” Elle blushed duly at the compliment; the man was not afraid to speak his mind.
Evidently Chloe Moretz was less than impressed. Upon hearing her master's praise, she surged forward and kissed him possessively, leaving no room for Mrs. Thorne. The Historian welcomed her into his arms and allowed her to swing her leg over, straddling him as Eva Green ducked out of the way. The girl began to ride the length of his cock while her chaperon switched from using her mouth to her hands, stroking the underside and pushing it into the cleft between Chloe's legs. The shaft had been glistening from their combined saliva, but now it dripped profusely after only a few revolutions under Chloe's gyrating hips.
Even the Historian couldn't endure such sustained and aggressive teasing, because the girl was soon flattened on the sofa, tossed onto her back like a rag doll by the much bigger man. Chloe squealed but let her leg drop over the edge of the sofa, allowing her master to jam his fingers into her crotch and rub vigorously at her slit. The brusque stimulation sent her into spasms, and she whimpered deliriously as he alternated between using his fingers and the tip of his cock.
Elle inhaled sharply as she realized what was about to happen. She crept closer with the intent to help, not knowing how or if she was welcome at all, but a pair of hands held her back. They were her master's, she saw over her shoulder. Had he had enough of watching her throw herself at another guy? She didn't feel any jealousy in the kisses he planted on her neck, or even in the way he gently nudged her forward until she was on her hands and knees. Her new vantage point gave her an excellent angle from which to watch the Historian's cock drive downward into his servant's pussy, but it also made her want to be in the other girl's place that much more. She wanted to be pinned on the sofa like Chloe, wanted to scream as she did when her burly master ripped into her; instead, she felt the Neovangelist's mouth nuzzle into her crotch, licking and poking with tongue and fingers both. The intent was clear in his touch; she moaned appreciatively, then pulled his face deeper between her legs.
She was horny to the point of being feverish, and once she'd let her master get close to her pussy, he proved that he was great at eating it. Like Chloe had done for Bella, he was helping to prepare her for the Historian. She didn't know why and she didn't care. All she wanted was to ride his tongue while she waited for her turn.
Above her, the foursome was a tangle of arms and legs; apart from Chloe being pounded into the sofa by her master, the other two women did everything they could to placate the Historian's insatiable appetite, attending to every last bit of flesh they could reach. If Elle had been in a clearer state of mind, she would've noted the absurdity of Chloe being fucked by someone this big and this rough, but there she was clinging to her master, yelping sharply each time he jabbed deep inside her. Somehow, Eva kept up with his rhythm and rimmed him from behind, swapping places with Mrs. Thorne when she wanted to share the taste of his ass with Chloe at the front.
Soon Elle was cumming on her master's face, and as she gasped for air she became vaguely aware of the Historian pulling out of a ragged Chloe, leaving Mrs. Thorne—or was it Eva?—to comfort the trembling girl. The next thing she knew, she was being hoisted into the air and dropped in his lap, turned away from the burly man to face her master. It took her a moment to find her legs, but once she did she gave the prostrating man the taunting smile he would've wanted, spreading her legs wide so that he could watch the Historian wedge his cock into her pussy.
That she was able to lean over her shoulder and kiss the Historian meant she still had her master's blessing. Free to give her virginity to anyone she pleased, Elle submitted to the man beneath her, sinking her hips into him as he kept his shaft steady. When gravity alone failed to thread the thick head through her narrow slit, the man took matters into his own hands and wrapped her up by the torso, plunging her deeper into his embrace. She had just enough time to set her jaw before the pain tore a hole in her blissful haze.
Her first instinct was to reach back and push, crying out to let him know how much it hurt. A moment's reprieve was all she earned, and in spite of how wet she was, the thing that was ripping into her still made her sting like hell. She could see the distress on her face reflected in the eyes of her master below, saw the lust and concern on his face; for the first time since she was claimed, Elle felt his willpower flow through their bond, dulling her sensitivity to the pain. The Historian took advantage the instant she relaxed, stretching her as far as she could take. The moan that came out of her mouth when he bottomed out was the sluttiest she'd ever dared to give.
Bracing herself against his knees, Elle gradually assumed control from the Historian's hands, sheathing his cock at a pace dictated by her own instincts. The first flurry of strokes were straightforward, squats going up and down, to let the friction satisfy the tingling between her legs; when Chloe sprung up and nibbled on her ear, she began to throw her hips toward the girl each time she sheathed the burly man's cock, sliding their sweating bodies together.
There were hands on her breasts, fingers on her clit, lips on her face, her neck, her shoulders. She flailed out with her own hands, too, caressing what she could of the girl next to her and the women nearby. As the waves of heat surged through her body, she seized the momentum and bucked against the man aggressively, riding him until she went numb with pleasure.
Eventually she lost count. She came when he fucked her on the floor, when Chloe, Eva and Tamara ate her out and fingered her. In return she made each of them cum just as hard as she did, throwing herself into every confrontation between their genitalia. She had a cream pie eaten out of her, snowballed a load dribbled into her mouth from Chloe's pussy, took another square in the face as the two of them begged for it like baby birds.
Her master took her back to his room after they were done. She was exhausted, but she insisted on making out with him and making him cum in her mouth before finally snuggling up to him under the sheets. He might never fuck her as good as someone like the Historian, but he was her master, and Elle Fanning was going to make sure that he would be as happy with her as she was with him.
VII. THE PAINTER
His suite's balcony overlooked a busy stretch of the city. Even at this ungodly hour, the lights from the vehicles below still buzzed like fireflies, a parade of souls being funneled through the streets toward their own destinies. The bustle of urban night life wove a soothing hymn to his ears, sung by voices of an unwitting congregation to a pantheon beyond their perception. He took a deep breath and exhaled luxuriantly; every detail was exactly the way he'd imagined it.
The Painter touched the spot on the railing where Bella had been a little while ago. They'd had sex twice more after withdrawing from the gallery—once in the shower, and again after they came out to the balcony. The soapy conditions in the shower had led him to suggest that she let him fuck her up the ass, and the gauzy dress she'd worn out on the balcony was simply too great a temptation for him to resist.
Vitalized as he was, he wanted only to cuddle with his baby for the rest of the night. But before he could sleep, there was one last piece of business to conclude. Until that was taken care of, he and the Historian kept their girls in the back room while they waited for an inevitable guest.
He strolled back into the living area and joined his friend on the couch, flopping down next to him after snatching up a handful of popcorn. Del Toro's “At the Mountains of Madness” was playing on the television. The film's visual genius was such that even a “blind albino penguin” looked marvelously grotesque.
“How many times have you watched this?” the Painter asked between mouthfuls of popcorn.
“A couple,” came the reply. “Come on! This is really fucking good.”
“Yeah, but I'm still curious about Scott's interpretation of 'Roadside Picnic'...”
The Historian rolled his eyes theatrically. “Tarkovsky's already done it, and that's a stupid title for a film anyway.” He glanced at the clock and then at the door; a firm rapping upon it followed almost immediately. “That's your cue, bud.”
The Painter went to answer the door. As expected, the Archbishop stood on the other side, wearing his Templar robes and a contrite smile. Cradled in his hands was a gift in the form of an ornate crystal decanter.
“Good morning, brothers,” said the man as he peeked into the room. “I realize how late it is, but seeing as we will be going our separate ways once the sun is up, I'd like to clear the air regarding what happened earlier. Do you have a moment?”
The Painter responded with a dubious look, withholding his invitation just long enough to border on rudeness. “Come on in,” he said flatly, stepping back and allowing his fellow master to enter. The man nodded at the Historian and took a seat across from the couch, setting his peace offering on the table.
“I want no misgivings between us,” the Archbishop stated with emphasis from his open hands. “The truth is, I have coveted Bella for a long time. I didn't expect...such fierce competition.
“There's nothing I can tell you about the brotherhood that you don't already know; your presence here is proof of that. But sometimes, those of us who have been members for a very long time forget what it's like to be new. The expectation is that new members will curry every favor with the old guard in order to fit in. It is in our nature to form cliques, after all, even among the Templars.
“It was never my intention to alienate a new brother—new brothers. What is the worth of one initiate compared to the harmony of our order?”
The Painter, who had gone to retrieve three glasses during his guest's exposition, returned to his seat and filled them with scotch from the decanter. “And what if I said she is worth starting a shit storm over?” he asked, swirling the deep maple liquid in his glass.
“That is your prerogative,” the Archbishop shrugged, dismissing his confrontational tone. He claimed his own glass and drained it with a satisfied sigh. “Our brotherhood has survived persecution, plague, war, the death of the occult, and the dawning of the age of knowledge. No great turmoil in this world has ever shaken our foundation, because we have always been the harbingers of strife. The Ordo Patricius will still be here when many of us have turned to dust.”
“But that's not entirely true anymore,” interjected the Historian. “We've got the Gift now. You said so yourself: once we decipher the code, we'll be able to achieve immortality.”
“There are many years of hard work left before the dream is realized. The synthesis of such an elixir will be a monumental endeavor; the limits of our knowledge will be tested. I could be dead by the time it's ready. And who's going to benefit from these efforts? Will I? Will you? Who sets the criteria for godhood?”
Here comes the pitch. The Archbishop's words were overflowing with subversion. “What do you want from us?” the Painter pursued.
His guest gave it plainly. “I need ambitious young allies like you. Independent thinkers. Men with backbone.
“Earth shall cover earth, and truth tested by time; the brotherhood endures, but not by benefit of inaction. You saw how eager they were to follow my lead. Most of the brotherhood have grown soft, decadent. They are content to rule their own little empires, push their own causes and bed their endless supply of young girls. Thus we have allowed society to fall to chaos; all over the world, the plebeian many have risen against the noble few.
“We have conceded much to protect what we have, yielding again and again to the vox populi. When 'power' became a dirty word, we resorted to the pursuit of wealth. Now 'wealth' also has become a dirty word. What then is left for us?”
The Archbishop snorted. "Is that why the two of you joined the brotherhood? For knowledge and enlightenment?"
The Painter grinned. He didn't have to point out that his guest was proposing a coup; the idea alone was enough to warrant expulsion from the order. In days past, the punishment meant being cursed with impotency in the hermetic arts—to be silenced and rendered deaf to the ears of angels and demons alike—but even in an age where their individual powers had diminished greatly, few survived the simple fall from prince to pauper.
“Why come to us? Why not state your case to the brotherhood?”
“As I said, power should reside with the few. The time has come for the order to evolve again. Dead flesh must be pared away.”
“How do you know you can trust us?”
The Archbishop's eyes glimmered with intent. “I have never seen a fellow Templar compete as hard as you did for an initiate. Bella Thorne is more than a servant to you. You will do whatever it takes to protect her, and if there is a power struggle within the brotherhood, you'll want to be on the winner's side. Like you said, she is worth starting a shit storm over. That is my gambit.” He left unsaid his suspicions on the Painter's tampering of the draw.
“Hey, what about me?” The Historian leaned forward and jabbed a thumb at the Painter. “If you think I'm going to stick my neck out for him, you can fuck right off.”
The guest calmly turned his focus onto the tall man. “I'm told that you deflowered Elle Fanning in addition to Chloe Moretz,” he said. “The Neovangelist likes to whore his girl out to another master on the first night, and this year he happened to pick you. But what if you could legitimately claim more than one girl every year?”
The Historian cackled, launching backward in his seat and slapping his friend on the shoulder. “He's got a point.”
The Painter poured another round for everyone, then left his seat to pace around the room. He knew it would be futile to threaten the Archbishop with revealing his plans, as the man would not have come without planning for all contingencies. Megalomania aside, the poignancy in his arguments was undeniable.
The order styled themselves as caretakers of humanity, makers and molders of history from their inception. Their primary doctrine was that human evolution could be assured only if the species was challenged constantly. They believed that achieving utopia was anathema to ascension, and strove to test humanity through various means. Sometimes their involvement was subtle, touching society only with the weakest and most distant of ripples. Sometimes their touch was severe, and millions perished. They were gods after a fashion, and the mercy of gods was often misconstrued as cruelty by lesser beings who lacked their grand perception.
In recent times, however, greed and complacency had begun to weaken the brotherhood. It wouldn't be the first time—the glory of the Templars had waxed and waned many times throughout their existence—but it was always troubling to see members of the order succumb to the judgment of earthly courts, gods toppled by mere mortals and sent into exile. As far as the Templars were concerned, leaving the fate of mankind to the will of ignorant masses was tantamount to leaving a garden untended, allowing it to be overrun with weeds where only the most beautiful species should bloom. Rather than permit themselves to be strangled by bramble, it was time to cull the obnoxious growth and restore the garden's splendor.
“You're right,” the Painter sighed. “We've neglected our duty as Templars. I don't like the way things are going, in here or out there.
“Here's what I think of your proposal. I think, if you're being honest, then I would be stupid to refuse.
“I want to keep Bella safe at all costs. Because of that, I would be an idiot to reject your offer.
“But the thing is...” He turned toward the Archbishop and cocked his head. “I know when I'm being played.”
If the Archbishop was perturbed by the accusation, he showed no sign of it. “Go on.”
The Painter held up a finger. “First of all, I know the Gift you gave to Bella, the one you had her bring home, is a forgery.
“While we were all busy fucking, I had Tamara sneak a photo of the tablet for me. My buddy here, he might look like he should be busting some heads in an octagon, but he knows more about old things than anyone else on the planet. What do you think? Is it the real deal?”
The Historian yawned. “If you followed the formula on the tablet, you could make some damned good Kool-Aid.”
“Secondly,” the Painter continued, adding another finger, “I know about 'the other guys.' You stole the tablet from them.
“I imagine the real Gift is still in your possession. You gave a fake to Bella so that they would think the Templars were behind the theft. You wanted to be Bella's master because you needed control over her, so that in the event she was captured and interrogated—which I'm sure you were going to arrange—you could force her to repeat some bullshit story. When you lost Bella to me, you decided to switch it up and try to implicate us instead by making us join your 'cause.' That is a pretty dickish move.”
The Archbishop rose to his feet and applauded slowly. “Impressive,” he laughed. “If you know that much, I trust you also know what I intend to do.”
“You bet your ass I do. The reason they haven't synthesized an elixir from the tablet, even though they've had it for so long, is that you need flesh harvested from the serpent in the legend. And it's all the way at the bottom of the ocean—where those things sleep.
“We do what we can to nudge humanity along, but we’re also here to protect them from threats capable of destroying them entirely, whether it’s indigenous or extraterrestrial. Neither the Templars nor the other guys would allow you to take a risk like that.”
His guest was turning a ring on his finger idly. “The Illuminates are such fools,” he uttered in disgust, “content to hide and endure for all eternity in spite of all their power. They've been sitting on that fucking tablet for hundreds of years. It's time we did something with it.”
“You probably had help from the inside,” ventured the Painter, “people who think like you, who want the Templars and the Illuminates to destroy each other so that you'd be free to dig up the serpent and whatever the hell else is down there with it.”
The Archbishop's face was a mask as he looked between his hosts. He picked up the half-empty decanter and took a swig directly from it. “You seem to know everything.” He tipped the bottle and poured the rest of its contents on the floor. “I wonder if you also know that we already have trawled up a few things.” His arm swept upward, and something sprang out of the small puddle of scotch in the wake of his gesture.
“You left me no choice,” he added, backing away from the glistening monstrosity he'd summoned. “Had you accepted my offer, you could have had more time to spend with your beloved Bella. But your fairy tale ends here.
“Have no fear, I will take good care of her once you're gone. In the morning, my brothers will discover that you and your reckless friend had stolen the Gift during the night, and when you attempted to use its knowledge without the proper precautions, you inadvertently summoned this creature and met your demise at its hands.”
The repulsive, maggot-pale thing grew in size until it pressed against the suite's tall ceiling, forcing the Painter and the Historian to back away and shield their faces from its dripping mucus. A slug-like trunk anchored its mass to the floor, and at the end of a neck sprouting from its anterior was a massive pod shaped like a pair of hands, cradling a thousand cilia between its clawed lobes. It pushed itself along the floor using thin tangles of flagella—extensions of its entrails protruding through its translucent skin, whipping through the air and against the ground—intent on swallowing its victims through the yonic maw located at the center of its lobes.
To behold a beast of its eldritch nature was to invite madness. It was an impossible thing, defying the laws of physics by its mere transition from the depths of the ocean to open air. Having shed the memories of its ancestors when such nightmares ceased to walk the earth, the mind of the modern man was left defenseless against the presence of their ilk. Considering the method by which the creature slowly siphons flesh and blood from its victims to leave behind desiccated sacks of skin and bone, to suffer insanity prior to being devoured was a welcome mercy.
Yet for all its terrifying qualities, neither man showed any fear toward the creature. The Painter even began to whoop as he ducked its flailing tendrils, throwing excited looks at his friend.
“That thing smells like shit,” exclaimed the Historian as he pinched his nose.
“Pretty awesome though, ain't it? I wonder how it deals with the drop in pressure...”
“Just deal with it, man. I'm fucking tired.”
Somewhere behind the creature, the Archbishop laughed. “I'd like to see you try. Only I can banish it, and firearms will not harm it.”
“That depends on who’s firing them.” The Painter shouted over his shoulder suddenly, “Bella, you can come out now.”
The bedroom doors swung open at his command, and on its threshold stood a red-haired girl dressed in gleaming plate armor over a flowing white cassock. In her hands was a shining longsword, its blade resting across her shoulder. She was even more beautiful than he had conceived—a Waterhouse vision come to life.
Yet Bella was just a young girl, and no weapon or armor could fortify her against the sight of a horror such as that in the middle of the suite. Her sanity remained intact by the grace of her master's protection, but still she shrieked as the Painter joined her side, the sword slipping her grasp as she clung to him fearfully. He caught it by the hilt and leveled the blade at the encroaching monster.
“Daddy,” she sobbed, peeking apprehensively at the creature, “I'm scared...”
“Be brave, Bella,” he told her reassuringly, guiding her hands back to the sword. Once she'd regained its hilt, he nudged her limbs into a plow stance and kissed the top of her head. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, baring the nape of her neck. Propelled by her racing heart, her pure scent cut through the stench of the creature, reminding him of the intimate hours they'd shared earlier. “I won't let it hurt you. Remember what I told you: this is what you were meant for.”
She nodded, and he dabbed her tears away with a corner of his shirt. In the eyes of the Painter, the monster was a minor threat, an annoyance to be erased at will. For the inexperienced girl, it was an excellent first challenge. She would need all the training she could get, because things were only going to get harder from this point on.
The creature had stopped its advance momentarily as the Archbishop observed the turn of events. “Who are you?” he demanded in a tone that approached anger.
For an answer, the Painter smiled and made a sign. The gesture was a simple one, but its meaning was enough to drive his guest back in fear.
No longer restrained by its master, the monster lunged forward and tried to seize Bella in its lobes. She gave a shout and sidestepped the attack, slashing upward in her wake. The blade tore through the creature's flesh, leaving a wide gash and forcing it to retreat. Noxious ichor rained from its wound as it shook violently, and from its maw a silent howl erupted that stung the ears of all those present.
The girl gaped briefly at herself, in awe of her ability to wield the weapon and move swiftly in her armor at the same time. But the power lay neither in the sword nor the armor; rather, it was the blessing of her master which gave her the strength and skill to fight, bestowing upon her the ability to harm entities of a supernatural nature.
Far more than a means by which initiates could be controlled, their indoctrination and subsequent bonding to a master symbolized their dedication to protecting humanity. Over time the tantric tradition had been corrupted, reduced to a mere tool for the brotherhood's sexual gratification; as it used to be known, the Painter was resolved to dignify the Holy Communion once more.
Gaining confidence by the second, Bella set her jaw and raised her sword, sliding her feet apart as she entered the ox stance. “I'm ready, Daddy.”
He couldn't be more proud of her. “Knight-crusader Annabella Thorne, I command you to defend this temple and slay the abomination.”
Bella began to flank the creature as it resumed its attack, leaning toward the side where she had injured it. She warded off its tendrils with her sword as they lashed out at her, severing them as she pressed her assault. Her dancer's training gave her the balance suited to close-quarters combat, allowing her to weave through its defenses and open numerous wounds in its lobes and body. But its flagella seemed to regenerate endlessly, and no matter how many cuts she made on its flesh, the creature stubbornly refused to die.
The door to the suite suddenly burst open. A shadowy form darted toward the creature's rear, bouncing off its back as swiftly as it had approached it. It howled, crashing into the ceiling as it reared in pain; as its pod swayed back and forth, the Painter could see a pair of holes oozing ichor on its back.
Behind the monster stood Chloe Moretz, dressed in a black cat suit and twirling a pair of long daggers in her hands. The Archbishop, however, was nowhere to be found.
“Hi everyone,” she piped cheerily, “sorry about being late, but I was told to make a clichéd delayed entrance by my master so that somebody could hog all the glory.” She giggled at Bella's pout. “I'm just kidding!”
“All right, enough of that,” the Historian blared as he lit a cigarette. “Knight-valiant Chloe Moretz, I command you to stab the living shit out of this thing. Get it over with.”
“Can't I just shoot it?” asked the girl as she tugged at the guns holstered under her arms.
“I'd rather not have you discharging firearms inside the temple.”
“Fiiine. Bella, you occupy its attention, I'll find a weak spot.”
Bella had already engaged the monster again. She bore the brunt of its wrath bravely, launching herself at its maw whenever it threatened to turn and face Chloe. Black marks began to appear on her armor where the tendrils had scored the metal, but the girl was relentless in her assault; she was bent on showing her master what she was capable of.
Her efforts gave Chloe plenty of time to strike from behind. The blonde sprang forward and dashed across the back of the creature's body, delivering a flurry of thrusts to the mantle between its pod and trunk. She grunted in disgust as a torrent of fluid began to spray out of the ragged hole, and as she leaped from her precarious perch, Bella shouted a battle cry and brought her sword down in a heavy overhead chop, cleaving its maw wide open. That was all the damage the creature could sustain; its flagella twitched and fell limp, and its body began to wilt, deflating like a punctured zeppelin until it lay still.
The girls stayed vigilant as they watched it die, but the Painter knew it was dead. He moved to Bella's side and helped her dislodge her sword from the creature's body, giving her a congratulatory squeeze on the shoulder. “It's over, girls,” he said. “A little messy, but not bad for your first kill.”
Bella sagged as she exhaled the tension from her body. “What...what happened to the Archbishop?” she asked, panting from excitement and exertion.
“He's gone,” answered the Historian as he walked over to Chloe, pulling off his shirt to wipe the abomination's mucus from his servant's face. “I know we'd all like to see him dead, but once he brings news of us back to his splinter group, they won't so much as jerk off without making sure the coast is clear first.”
Ever wrought crudely, his joke helped to lighten the mood nonetheless. Giggling, Chloe circled around the monster's liquefying carcass and gave it a kick. “What was that icky thing, anyway?”
“A nereiomorph,” the Painter stated, “a minor type of deep terror. They're the least of what you'll be up against if the Archbishop and their group have their way.”
Bella frowned at the sound of that. She slipped an arm around her master for comfort. “The least?”
He laughed softly and gave her an eskimo kiss; there was something very endearing about the way she crinkled her aquiline nose. “You girls will get a lot stronger yet. Soon enough you'll be killing these things with your eyes closed.”
That was assurance enough for her, who smiled despite blushing at Chloe's grin. “Speaking of which, what's going to happen to everyone else?”
“We tell them nothing, at least not yet. They'll be safe so long as the splinter group stays in the dark about how powerful we are. Until we figure out who's on our side, we can't let everyone in on the secrets of the old traditions. I don't think the Archbishop had time to take Kiernan and January with him, so we'll need to get them settled. Since the brotherhood knows which girls belong to whom, he probably won't try to contact them in case he thinks we're monitoring them.”
“Those poor girls...”
“Don't worry, we'll take good care of them.” There would be time to elaborate later. “You girls go check in on your mom and Eva in the other suite. I need to see someone about cleaning this mess up.”
“Yes, Daddy.” The two young knights, mere initiates no longer after completing their first challenge, ran off toward the Historian's suite together. As they disappeared down the hallway, he could hear Chloe's voice mimicking Bella’s as she teased her for addressing him in such a way.
The masters went in another direction. This particular temple consisted of the topmost floors in a downtown hotel operated by the brotherhood, and each penthouse suite was designed to contain even the loudest of noises for the sake of privacy. If anyone had heard the commotion inside the Painter's suite, there was no sign of it in the hallway. There was, however, one man waiting for them to knock on his door.
They were invited into the Dragon Rider's rooms. Seeing that they were no worse for the wear, the Templar smiled grimly and shook their hands. “Everything went according to plan, I gather?”
“Pretty much. Left a bit of a mess, though. I'd appreciate it if you could round up some help to clean it up.”
“So he really was the traitor. Is he gone?”
“For now.” The Painter looked up as the bedroom door opened, yielding an enchanting, blue-eyed young woman from within. Her gaze flinched as it fell upon him, but she swept the awkward reaction aside quickly, approaching her master's friends and receiving them with a respectful curtsey.
“Master,” Saoirse Ronan addressed the Dragon Rider, “Sasha's asleep. Ms. Riley is keeping her company.”
He nodded. “Summon the servants. The Painter's suite is in need of housekeeping.” The excesses of the masters were such that the temple's lowliest servants were conditioned to be emotionless and unable to retain any memories of their activities on the premises. Saoirse gave the Painter a disapproving look before she went to fulfill her task.
The Dragon Rider turned back to the Painter. “She's very reluctant to learn the old traditions. She thinks I'll end up like the Fruit Peddler if I agree to continue helping you.”
“She has the aptitude. The Peddler gave the ultimate sacrifice, and we can't let his efforts go for naught. Look, tell her to go with the servants to my suite. Let her have a scare so she can see for herself what we're up against. Then she can choose whether you die a slow death, or are eaten by that thing we just killed.”
“You are a cruel man, Brother Painter.”
The Painter turned to leave, but he paused at the door to give his fellow Templar a final word.
“By the time this is over, you'll be glad I am.”
She had picked out something modest for this premiere. The atmosphere was a little more family-friendly, and she'd given her audience quite an eyeful over the last little while. Having to hide assets like hers wasn't easy; she was proud to be a curvy girl, and she had no qualms about being ogled or having her picture taken. She knew in her heart that she was the sexiest starlet among her peers, and she welcomed the opportunity to prove any detractors wrong.
More difficult was keeping sex off her mind after checking out the selection on the red carpet—the boys and the girls—but there'd be time for that after she was finished here. The person she was looking for was just a ways down; she was wearing a carnation pink dress, cut low enough to show plenty of cleavage. She was beautiful, and if she ever grew breasts like her sister...well, that was assuming she would live past the year, and those chances were looking slim now that they'd sent a stalker after her.
She caught up with the girl just inside the theater. “Hey, Bella!” she called out to draw her attention.
Bella Thorne turned and gave her stalker a wide smile. “Ariel! Wow, you look great as usual.” As the two girls shared a brief but fierce hug, Ariel pressed the ring on her left hand against Bella's skin, letting the device do its work. She would have to decipher the readings taken with it later, but the girl had clearly become a woman. The truth was written in the confidence in her strut, the grace in her mannerisms, the sparkle in her eyes; there was no need for machines and algorithms to figure out that she'd been with someone she loved.
“So how've you been?” pressed Ariel as she walked alongside Bella. “How was your trip to Europe?”
The girl betrayed nothing in her expression. “Oh god, you won't believe the time I had,” she said excitedly. “We went to so many places in such a short time, I was so worn out by the time we got back...”
And you got fucked so good, Ariel smirked on the inside as she nodded at each turn in Bella's account. She had a perfect alibi for every place she visited. That was how the Templars operated—if she was in fact part of their organization. It wasn't like them to slip up and expose one of their own like they had with Bella, but the number of secret societies with the resources to pull off the tablet's theft could be counted on one hand. It was her job to gather as much information as she could so that her teachers could ascertain the nature of their enemy.
But one thing was for sure: when it was time to take Bella in for questioning, Ariel was going to insist on being her interrogator.
Author's note: Thank you for making it this far. This story literally has been a labor of love (and a heaping dose of self-indulgent storytelling), and I hope it's been as enjoyable to read as it was to write it. It is meant for entertainment purposes only and does not necessarily reflect my own beliefs. The names of the masters are meant to be used with artistic license and, consequently, do not contradict the fact that they are supposed to be anonymous to one another. I understand that the setting could be somewhat confusing, but if I have a chance to continue the story, more of the background will be revealed as part of the characters' points of view. As always, feedback or questions are welcome.
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