68. Leandra
“Nethnakkē min ??āhā, w’nit?azzē b’kheshokhā d’nuhra.” Be cleansed of sin and be remade through the darkness into light.
I think I’m delirious, I think I’m actually dying. I must be now. It’s been too long, I’ve lost too much blood.
The world is a blur of pain and delirium.
My hands are numb, and pins and needles are crawling up my arms like tiny insects gnawing at my flesh.
My feet, I can’t feel them at all. They’re cold, lifeless, as if they’ve been severed from my body.
My head lolls forward, my braided hair heavy with sweat and blood, sticking to my face in a way that makes me want to scream.
I try to lift it, to see where I am, but my neck feels like it’s made of lead.
Shadows move around me. Are they angels or demons? I can’t tell. I think even if it were the dogs of hell, I would go with them willingly now. I would take their hand, step off this piece of wood, and meet my end without complaint.
“Leandra.”
I blink back, feeling like my throat is so dry I cannot actually form words.
I just want it to end. I just want to die.
The air is thick with incense, and the scent burns my lungs with every shallow breath I take. My vision swims, colours swirling around me in chaotic patterns that make me feel like I’m going to puke.
I try to focus on my surroundings and realize I’m no longer in the chamber where I was flayed and burnt. This room is different, larger, grander.
It hits me suddenly that I’m in a chapel.
The chapel. Where Konstantine covered me in the remains of his rotting wife and then fucked me with her bone.
I can see the altar, I can see the pulpit.
The walls are lined with stained glass windows, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the stone floor.
When did they move me?
Did they carry me here, still tied to this crucifix?
The thought makes my stomach churn.
There are five men around me, all robed in red cloaks that obscure their faces. Their colours swirl around them, flickering from one colour to another so quickly I can’t read them. One of them sits in a wheelchair, and I remember him, remember who he is. Zayn. One of the Guardians.
They’re chanting in Aramaic, their voices low and guttural, the words unfamiliar but filled with power. The sound reverberates through the chapel, echoing off the walls and sinking into my bones. I want to scream, to tell them to stop but my voice is gone, lost in the haze of pain and exhaustion.
Then he steps forward, he parts them like Moses parting the Red Sea.
A man in the golden cloak.
I don’t need to see his face to know who he is. To know it is him. I bet the bastard is smiling, bet under that cloak he has the biggest fucking grin stretched across his stupid handsome face.
My heart skips a beat as a strange mix of fear and something else, something I don’t want to acknowledge, flares in my chest. His colours are different from the others, brighter, more intense.
Gold and crimson swirl around him, pulsing with a raw, primal energy that makes my breath catch and my body feel hot in a way that is shameful.
He kneels at my feet in an act that almost certainly reverent. One of the red-robed men steps forward, holding a golden bowl filled with water. Lazarus dips his hands into it, cupping the liquid in his palms.
“With this holy water,” he says, and it’s hard not to ignore the obvious need, the pride too. “I cleanse your body.”
He washes my feet, the water cool against my skin. It’s a strange sensation, almost soothing, but it doesn’t ease the pain radiating through me.
I then watch as he stands and removes his golden robe, as he tosses it aside.
He’s naked beneath it, and those intricate tattoos that cover his entire body seem to shift and move in the flickering candlelight.
I stare at him, my mind struggling to process what I’m seeing.
It can’t be real. It can’t be. The ink on his skin looks alive, it looks like it’s crawling over him, twisting and writhing in patterns that make my head spin.
“With my body,” he says, his voice low and filled with promise, “I cleanse your soul.”
He steps closer, his hands grip and lift my thighs in a way that tells me exactly what is coming next. My eyes dart to the others surrounding us, to all these men. I don’t want them here, I don’t anyone to witness this.
I feel a surge of panic and shame too. “No,” I whisper, my voice hoarse and trembling. “Please…”
But he doesn’t stop. He spreads my legs, lifts them at enough of an angle that half the men get a good view of my pussy as he spreads me wide.
“Your cunt is glistening.” He whispers. “Are you as eager for me to fuck you as I am?”
I scrunch my face up, but as I do he pushes himself into me, he slams himself inside me so hard that I scream out.
The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pain and something else, something I don’t want to admit.
How can he feel like this? How can this feel so… no, I won’t say that word. I won’t admit that I like this, that I like… he starts sliding out, taking his time, as if he wants to feel every inch of me contract and then he slides back in.
“You feel fucking divine.” He groans. “Your cunt was made for me. Made by God himself.”
My face heats, my body shudders, and despite myself I can feel the effect he’s having on me; how I’m already becoming overwhelmed by this pleasure, overwhelmed enough to not give a fuck about our audience, to not give a fuck that this is wrong, all of this is.
The robed men chant louder, their voices rising in a crescendo that fills the chapel, echoing off the vaulted ceiling above us.
Lazarus groans, his hips moving against mine and I feel my body responding, feel my hips moving to meet his, feel myself grinding against him, desperate for more contact. More pleasure, more, more, more.
“That’s it,” he growls, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Come apart, wife. Prove to everyone here who owns your soul, who owns all of you now.”
I shake my head, tears streaming down my face, though I don’t know whether I’m crying from humiliation or pleasure now. I can’t stop the heat building inside me, I can’t stop the way my body is reacting to this.
His hand drops between my legs, his fingers finding my clit and I gasp, my body arching further against the ropes.
“No,” I whimper, but it’s too late. My orgasm crashes over me, my body convulsing against the crucifix as I scream his name.
He laughs so fucking triumphantly, and then I feel him come inside me, feel his body shuddering against mine. He slumps against me for a moment, his breath hot against my neck before he steps back, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that makes my heart stop but sets me on fire all the same.
The robed men step forward, closer to me, forming a queue. Their hoods are all raised so I can’t figure out which one is which, bar Zayn, who waits at the very end, in his chair.
I look between them, trying to figure out what fresh horror comes next.
The first man steps up, grabbing my legs, shoving his face right there, right in my pussy and then I can feel his tongue lapping at me, probing me, sliding inside me.
“What the fuck…” I cry out, shocked that he would dare, but my eyes find Lazarus and he is standing, arms crossed, clearly allowing this degradation to continue.
The man is not nearly as skilled as Lazarus, he sashays his tongue back and forth and I can feel him smearing all that come. Smearing it all over me, covering me in his saliva.
“Make her come, Brother.” The robed man behind him whispers.
I shake my head. I don’t want that, I don’t want his tongue on me, or any of this.
But he’s sliding a finger into me, curling it inside me and I feel myself slipping away, feel myself giving in to this moment.
His mouth is relentless, his tongue flicking against my clit in rapid, precise strokes.
I bite my lip to stifle a moan but it escapes anyway, echoing through the chamber in a sound that is more taunting than anything else.
This man doesn’t stop until I’m trembling, until my orgasm is crashing over me like a wave.
Then he pulls back, his lips glistening, and nods to Lazarus. “She is worthy.”
The second Guardian steps up quickly, his stern face poking out from beneath the hood, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. He kneels before me, his hands cupping my arse as he lifts me slightly, clearly trying to get a better angle as his tongue delves deep into me.
He laps at me hungrily, his nose brushing against my clit as it feels like he actually drinks from me.
His fingers tease my entrance, sliding in and out in a rhythm that matches the thrusts of his tongue.
I can feel Lazarus’s eyes on me, his approval radiating through the room.
This man’s touch is softer than the one before, but no less effective.
He builds me up slowly, taking his time in a way that is shameful and yet undeniably pleasurable.
His tongue and fingers work in tandem until I’m gasping, and my hips are bucking against his face.
When I come he immediately rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“She is pure.” He growls, nodding to the next man who is only too eager to step up.
His tongue is rough, not pleasurable but punishing.
He licks and bites at my sensitive flesh.
His fingers pinch and twist my clit until I’m writhing in a mix of pain and pleasure that takes me back to those memories, to when I was little more than a sex slave.
I cry out, hating this, but he clearly doesn’t care about my comfort; he only cares about getting the job done.
But even his cruelty can’t deny the pleasure he brings.
His tongue fucks me deeply, his fingers working me, demanding my body obey and I’m screaming, my orgasm tearing through me like a storm.
He then rises, bows to Lazarus and mutters “She is strong.”
The fourth Guardian waits until the third is completely out of the way.
He tilts his head, staring at my pussy as if he wants to memorise it, and it makes me wonder if he’s ever been with a woman before.
But of course he has, he’s a Brethren Lord, a Guardian.
He would have been taught to fuck, taught exactly how to use women for his own pleasure.
His touch is hesitant at first. He kneels before me, his hands almost trembling as he spreads my thighs.
Even his tongue is tentative, exploring me slowly, as though he’s savouring every inch of me.
His fingers are gentle, caressing me with a tenderness that I think I hate more than the pain.
He builds me up slowly, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony.
When I come it’s with a sob, my body shaking with the intensity of it.
He then rises, staring at me, his eyes soft with a reverence I can’t figure out.
“She…” He begins, then clears his throat. “She is sacred.”
He turns and joins the other Guardians who have finished their task, and I steal a glance at Lazarus.
He is staring right back at me, his eyes electrified like a man possessed, having to hold himself back.
I mouth his name and his lips curl. He then mouths back to me “one more.”
The fifth Guardian is Zayn. I know that much. His wheelchair doesn’t even make a sound as he stops in front of me.
I look down at him, and I realise that there’s no way his mouth can reach me. But two other Guardians appear, and while he holds himself up by his arms, they help move me too so that my body is pressed against his waiting lips.
His mouth is relentless, his tongue flicking against my clit in rapid, precise strokes.
He pushes one finger in, then another, teasing my entrance before plunging inside, curling against that sweet spot that makes me arch against the ropes.
He builds me up quickly, his tongue and fingers working in tandem and because I’ve already come too many times to count now, it isn’t long until I’m climaxing once more.
Zayn sits back, his lips glistening with what I know is his saliva and my come. He turns, looking across to Lazarus. “She is yours.”
“It is done,” Lazarus says, his voice filled with triumph.
“It is done,” the men reply in unison.
I don’t watch as all the robed men leave. I can’t do anything but hang here, completely and utterly exhausted by what they have done to me and what they have forced my body to do in response.
“You’ve done so well,” Lazarus murmurs, making me jump from his proximity.
He’s cutting me down, I realise. Finally, he is cutting me down.
I collapse into his arms, my body trembling so badly I can’t stop even if I wanted to, and he holds me close, his voice soothing. “You’re perfect.”
I want to protest, to tell him I hate him for this, but the words won’t come. And I’m not so sure what I feel right now is hate.
Instead I bury my face in his chest, and he carries me out of the chapel, his strong arms holding me in way that gives me a sense of safety despite everything he has done to me.
I hate him, but I also need him.
And that terrifies me more than anything.