69. Lazarus
Her body is limp, her breathing shallow, her skin slick with sweat and blood. I carry her through the dimly lit corridors while her head rests against my chest. She looks like a martyr, a saint, a queen. My queen. And she is mine. Finally, mine.
I push open the door to my chambers and the scent of lavender and sandalwood greets us, having already been prepared.
The room is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the flickering flames casting shadows that dance across the walls.
I lay her gently on the bed, her body sinking into the softness of the silk sheets.
She stirs slightly, a faint moan escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake.
Her skin is marked with the remnants of the ritual; bruises, scratches, the outline of the crucifix burned into her back.
She is strong. She endured. And now, she is mine to care for.
I fill a basin with warm water, adding a few drops of lavender oil to soothe her.
I dip a cloth into the water, wringing it out before bringing it to her skin.
I start with her face, wiping away the dirt and blood, my touch as gentle as a whisper.
Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t wake.
I move down her neck, her shoulders, her arms, cleaning every inch of her with reverence.
She is a masterpiece, a work of art and I am the artist, restoring her to her former glory.
When I reach her back I pause, my breath catching in my throat. The crucifix is raw and angry, the skin red and blistered. I dip the cloth into the water again, pressing it gently against the wound. She gasps, her body jerking slightly but I hold her steady, whispering soothing words into her ear.
“Shh, my love. You’re safe now. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
I reach for the ointment; a salve made from aloe and honey and carefully rub it into her skin. She winces, her body tensing but I continue, my touch as light as a feather.
“You did so well,” I murmur. “I’m so proud of you.”
Her breathing evens out, her body relaxing under my touch.
I lean down, pressing a kiss to the base of her neck, my lips lingering against her skin.
She smells of sweat and blood, but beneath it all there’s the faint scent of her, sweet and intoxicating.
I move lower, kissing the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her spine, the swell of her hips.
Each kiss is a prayer, a vow, a promise. She is mine, and I am hers.
I turn her gently onto her back, her body limp and pliant.
Her breasts rise and fall with each breath as though teasing me, and I can’t resist the urge to touch her, to feel her warmth beneath my fingers.
I cup her breast, marvelling at the softness of her skin, the weight of her in my hand.
She stirs, a soft moan escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake.
I lean down, taking her nipple into my mouth, sucking gently, teasing her with my tongue.
Her body responds instinctively, arching into my touch as her breathing quickens.
I move to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, my hands roaming her body, exploring every curve, every dip. She is perfect. Flawless. A gift from God.
I spread her legs gently, my hands trembling with need.
She is wet, her arousal evident even in her unconscious state.
I stroke her cunt, my fingers sliding through her slickness, teasing her entrance.
She moans, her hips lifting slightly, seeking more.
I oblige, slipping a finger inside her, curling it against that sweet spot that makes her gasp.
Her body responds eagerly, her muscles clenching around my finger, her hips rocking against my hand.
I add a second finger, stretching her gently, preparing her for me.
She is tight, her body still recovering from the ritual but she takes me willingly, her moans growing louder, more desperate.
I lean down, pressing my lips to her clit, sucking gently, teasing her with my tongue.
Her body arches, her hands gripping the sheets, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
I can feel her orgasm building, her muscles tightening around my fingers, her body trembling with need.
“Come for me,” I whisper against her skin, my voice thick with desire. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
She cries out, her body convulsing as her orgasm crashes over her. I continue to stroke her, drawing out her pleasure, savouring every moan, every gasp. When she finally stills, her body limp and spent I pull back, my own need burning through me.
I strip off my clothes, my hands trembling with urgency.
I kneel between her legs, my cock hard and throbbing.
I guide myself to her entrance, pressing against her.
She moans softly, her body arching into mine, seeking more.
I push inside her slowly, inch by inch, feeling the way her body welcomes me home.
I move inside her slowly, savouring every thrust, every moan.
Her body responds eagerly, her hips rocking against mine, her hands gripping my shoulders.
I lean down, pressing my lips to hers, kissing her deeply, pouring all my love, all my devotion into the kiss.
She moans into my mouth, her body trembling with need.
“I love you,” I whisper against her lips, my voice thick with emotion. “You’re mine. My queen. My everything.”
She moans, her body arching into mine, her muscles clenching around me.
I can feel her orgasm building, her body trembling with need.
I thrust into her harder, faster, desperate to bring her to the edge.
She cries out, her body convulsing as her orgasm crashes over her.
I follow her over the edge, my own release tearing through me, my body trembling with the intensity of it.
And as I lie there listening to her breathing, I know what my next steps are, what I now have to do.
I have my queen, now it is time to secure my throne.
Now it is time to deal with Ezekiel fucking Sewell.