Devil's Fire (21 page)

My fingers ventured farther up my cunt. I gazed blatantly through the altar cloth, goaded on by fear of discovery as well as this revelation of a most unusual couple. Hortense still writhed against the abbot’s prick, appearing very near the point of no return, while Brother Christy’s hips flexed uncontrollably beneath his tunic. The squelching of her wetness and their desperate moans echoed in the miniature chapel, driving me towards another climax as I spied upon them. Frustrated with the limitations of my fingers, I cautiously eased back on to the mannequin.

Hortense cried out, emitting a string of epithets no proper lady would utter in a church. Just the thought of her rutting against Father Luc sent my hips into a frenzy against Hyde’s wax erection, and it was all I could do not to thrash about so loudly she’d hear me from the other side of the altar.

Her gratification waned quickly, however. ‘Well, if you’re going to take so damn long,’ she muttered, ‘you’ll have to finish with Elvira. A peculiar bird like her is all you deserve, if —’

‘No, please,’ Brother Christy pleaded. ‘I’m so close, so very —’

‘Tell your troubles to Jesus. Now get your sorry self over here.’

Mrs Goodin strode to the wax model of Elvira and whipped the brown tunic up over its backside. This brought her so close I could’ve touched her sturdy black shoes, but instead I held my breath, trying not to writhe. Hortense stood like a teacher chastising a tardy student, holding the robe up with one hand while beckoning to Brother Christy with the other.

‘Finish what you’ve started,’ she ordered. ‘Gawk at Sybil like the dribbling nitwit you are — like you do every time you see her — and blast away at Elvira here. It’s the best you’re going to get, Mr Goodin. You know my rules.’

Brother Christy looked desperate for release, and when he turned to obey her, I caught sight of his privates. He was hung like a proverbial horse, sporting a thick, blunt pecker that jutted ahead of him by several inches. With a groan, he shoved himself up the mannequin’s hole, pumping so hard the altar rocked noisily. From where I lay atop Hyde’s waxwork, I marvelled at the way the friar’s ponderous balls slapped against Elvira’s backside as he put forth a Herculean effort to release himself.

It occurred to me then that the sculptor had erred: where his other work was uncannily accurate, he had fashioned Elvira with a pussy, complete with a neatly trimmed bush that formed a triangle. But I didn’t have time to gloat over my superior knowledge of the kitchen assistant’s anatomy: Mrs Goodin, never content to let well enough alone, was giving more orders.

‘Ram it into her,’ the housekeeper muttered. ‘Feast your eyes on those tits Sybil thrusts at everyone, like the slut she is, and dream your way into her tight, wet pussy. You think you’re in love with Mary Grace — and the two of them make a pretty pair — but it’s Sybil you’ve always wanted to fuck, isn’t it?’

The monk moaned, writhing frantically against Elvira’s waxen buttocks.

‘Answer me so I can understand you, Christopher.’

‘Yes! Yes, I want her!’

‘Then why don’t you take her? She puts out for everyone else.’

Brother Christy stiffened, reaching a new plateau of stimulation. ‘Because I belong to you, dear Hortense,’ he rasped.

‘That’s right,’ she replied, and to emphasise her point she slapped his quivering arse. ‘And why else don’t you fuck her, little man? You’ve lusted after her for years.’

‘Because…because…’

The monk appeared on the verge of a cataclysmic orgasm, and it took all my strength not to thrash noisily against the shaft rammed inside me. I had a clear view of his thrusting into Elvira’s cunt, and the bulging veins of his cock, and the reddened testicles that appeared ready to explode, which fed my own excitement. My juice was puddling in the hollow of Hyde’s abdomen, and I felt ready to scream with my climax.

‘Don’t you dare come before you answer me! You know the consequences.’

His eyes clenched shut and he rocked back with the effort of withholding release. ‘I don’t…fuck her because…she’ll see your name tattooed on my cock…and laugh at me!’

His last agonised phrase echoed in the vaulted chamber as the spasms broke over him. Humping like a man possessed, Brother Christy squirted streams of thick, pungent cream into the mannequin’s slit. It ran down the white thighs and splattered against the altar, some of it landing on my face. My pussy clenched around the warm cock, and I gave in to the shudders as quietly as I could, hoping the monk’s outcries covered my own.

For what seemed an eternity, the man beside me convulsed like a tortured soul. It was probably best that he hadn’t approached Sybil — or anyone else — because once his climax finally broke loose, it seemed more torrential than a normal partner could withstand. I didn’t know the circumstances of his tattoo, but Hortense had certainly left her mark in ways that guaranteed her husband’s fidelity.

As his climax subsided, Mrs Goodin dressed. All signs of her own passion had vanished, and putting on her corset brought back her inflexible disposition. ‘You can thank me for this later,’ she muttered as she stepped into her black skirt. ‘Now mop up this mess! If I catch so much as a whiff of sex on these people or their clothing, you know exactly where I’ll be using my scrub brush!’

‘Yes, darling,’ Brother Christy sighed, still catching his breath.

‘I expect you to carry on as always,’ she continued, ‘so that no one suspects I’m even remotely connected to such a useless booby of a husband.’

‘Quite right,’ he rasped, brushing his hair from his sweaty brow. ‘Why would any woman tolerate a man who prefers buggering his own waxworks? It’s a waste of your lovely cunt and my equipment, as well, Hortense. I’m a lucky man that you’ll even cast eyes upon me.’

‘That you are. But you’re also a fool, Mr Goodin.’

The monk’s body jerked as though she’d swatted his butt again. ‘What have I done now? If you ever want me inside you, you only have to —’

‘I want nothing of the sort!’

My mouth went dry as I watched her through the woven parament. Mrs Goodin was gloating as she fastened the button at her starched collar, gazing steadily at Brother Christy’s feet…and beyond them. ‘You should’ve known better than to bring Miss Michaels among your cherished friends. Your misplaced affection has now compromised you both! I’ll be taking her upstairs for correction, so the two of you can contemplate the error of your ways.’

Brother Christy sucked air with the same terror that struck my heart. ‘But I had offered her fabrics from —’

‘Idiot! Do you really think she can keep these secrets to herself?’ the housekeeper hissed. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t come down here looking for you, after what I witnessed in the grove?’

The staccato of her heels on the hard floor sounded like the driving of nails into my own coffin. I glared up at her as defiantly as I could, but she had the advantage and she knew it.

‘Get up, you shameless whore!’ she barked. ‘Apparently my first cleansing didn’t go deep enough! Father Luc has long suspected your subversive behaviour, and I can now confirm it — and bring about your just reward!’

Faster than I knew what was happening, the housekeeper hooked her hands under my armpits. I yelped, scrambling to get my feet beneath me, tripping over the life-sized form with its perennial erection. ‘Please! I won’t breathe a word about —’

‘No, you won’t,’ the waspish woman assured me, ‘because where I’m going to hide you, you’ll have no contact with anyone until time for the rites.’

With a strength I never knew she had, Hortense Goodin yanked me into a walk. Again I stumbled, gasping when I kicked the mannequin’s head, which went rolling across the floor…a nasty omen about my future with Hyde, it seemed. ‘I — I don’t understand,’ I protested, looking over my shoulder for help from Brother Christy.

But the monk was already wiping the altar clean of his semen.

Mrs Goodin’s smile sliced like a knife. ‘I suppose he told you about the Rosen girls and Martin Crowley? How they were selected as honoured guests at our seasonal celebrations?’

My eyes widened. Brother Christy’s allusions had left several things to my imagination, none of them good. ‘He said they were much-loved.’

‘And their popularity earned them the part of celebrant in our pageants. A role none of them lived to tell about, incidentally.’

She pivoted abruptly, her lurid gaze following the lines of my bare body as we approached the crimson curtain. ‘Father Luc thought you perfect for the part the moment he laid eyes on you, Mary Grace. Your angelic face and religious upbringing — even your name, which suggests such purity! — are the ideal foils for the depraved soul that lurks within you! Oh, yes, the abbot will dearly love planning your debut — your coming out, in two weeks — at the rites of the vernal equinox.’

M
rs Goodin shut me into a dungeon room, with only a slit for a window and space enough beneath the door to slide a daily tray of food. Spending the next two weeks here, awaiting my fate as celebrant, frightened me out of my mind. I passed my time wrapped in a scratchy blanket, sitting on a palette that smelled of mildew and unwashed bodies — or pacing, when the meagre sunlight allowed.

My confinement gave me time to ponder the mysteries confronting me since my arrival at Heaven’s Gate, and my hurried walk past the vaults had added one more: some of the clothing Brother Christy had promised me dated back to before the discovery of America. As Hortense escorted me past costume collections any theatre troupe would’ve envied, I’d seen French silks and fine Irish lace; doublets reminiscent of the Renaissance; ermine capes that appeared Russian; ball gowns of brilliant textures and hues that dazzled me, just as the monk said they would.

Had these ensembles belonged to former residents? Or were they costumes for the abbey’s pageants? Although I’d had no chance to study them, the mustiness and faded appearance of the more common clothing led me to believe the first assumption. After all, Brother Christy had already put my striped dress to use. It would follow that the other garments had been preserved down here in the crypts, just as their owners were.

But how could this be?

‘I really must return to my work,’ I protested as Mrs Goodin rushed me past these clothes. ‘It’s a part of my bargain, to sew three more quilts before —’

‘Silly bitch!’ she muttered. ‘Father Luc doesn’t need your money! If he never collected another cent, the monastery would go on as though you never existed. It was your idea to sew, and Hyde’s idea to bring you here. You should’ve returned with him when you had the chance!’

Her malicious laughter filled the little cell she thrust me into, followed by the thudding of the door and the jangle of keys at the lock. Once again I felt like a Gothic heroine at the whim of her captors, whose only hope was the hero’s realising something was amiss. Hyde would expect me to greet him as usual next Friday, and he would demand explanations from the abbot until he found me. Then he’d take me home.

This plan gave me strength as the days crept by. I spent the hours lost in fantasies of how it would be when I returned; I vowed to never again despise the morbidity of Mount Calvary, if only Hyde would keep me and love me. Days blended into nights, yet as I sensed the end of my first week of captivity, my spirits flitted like a butterfly. It had to be Friday soon, and Mr Fortune wouldn’t tolerate the mistreatment these people had heaped upon me!

When my next tray come under the door, I said, ‘Wait! What day is it, please?’

I’d spoken to my food-bearer every afternoon, without response, but this time a familiar voice replied, ‘It’s Wednesday. Are you all right, Mary Grace?’

‘If you cared, you’d let me out of here — I’ve talked to you before, but —’

‘This is the first time Hortense has allowed me to come, and she has the only key,’ Brother Christy replied dolefully. ‘I’m sorry about all this. I had no idea she was watching us when I brought you down here from the grove. If I could —’

‘Why hasn’t Sybil done something? Surely she’s asked about my disappearance!’

He cleared his throat nervously. ‘She — along with everyone else — has learned you’re to be the celebrant at the upcoming rites. And she realises that pleading on your behalf, or protesting your captivity, will inspire the abbot’s vengeance. She doesn’t know where you’re hidden, anyway. I’ve been sworn to absolute secrecy, and I think you understand why I’m not crossing my wife!’

‘She’s right. You
are
a booby,’ I muttered, wrapping my blanket more tightly around me. ‘If this is the first time she’s allowed you down here, she’s got a reason for it.’

The friar sighed from behind the door. ‘I’m supposed to tell you I’m going down the mountain this afternoon, so Hyde won’t visit, and therefore won’t know of your predicament.’

‘And you think he won’t suspect something? What sort of idiot do you take him for?’

The silence made me wish I could see Christy’s face, to determine whether he was lying, or merely testing my reaction so he could report it to his wife.

‘Seems Mrs Goodin has already considered that, and is sending a note — one you allegedly wrote — to convince him you no longer love him, nor do you wish to leave Heaven’s Gate.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘I really must go, before she comes down here. I’ll return every chance I get, to keep you apprised of the situation.’

‘You do that,’ I spat, and then I burst into tears. The fantasies that had kept me sane this week had been ripped to shreds by the feline woman who toyed with me as though I were her mouse. Yet before I lost contact with the tormentor she’d sent me, I had another question.

‘Brother Christy!’ I shouted through the door. ‘Are you really a monk? A man who’s promised himself to God?’

I’m not sure what my agitated mind intended to do with his reply, but I was relieved to hear his footsteps approach my cell again.

‘Why do you ask, dear Mary?’

‘What else do I have to do, but to puzzle out what’s happened to me here?’ I replied pitifully. ‘At this point, your answer won’t change my fate, so what will it matter?’

He chuckled. ‘So you’ve seen through the discrepancies? I knew it wouldn’t be long, bright as you are, so —’

‘Just answer me, dammit! Do you want Bitch Goodin catching us?’

There was silence, when I think he was listening for her. ‘No, I’m not a monk,’ he admitted, so softly I had to press my ear to the door. ‘We maintain the image of a monastery because it sells our products. We also support the Home for the Friendless, so Hyde believes we are doing the Lord’s work.’

‘So that means Father Luc isn’t —’

His fading footsteps marked the end of the conversation, and presented more questions for me to ponder in my solitary state. I refused to believe Hyde would fall for Mrs Goodin’s note, because he knew me too well…and because I couldn’t face the future if Brother Christy convinced him it was true. So I wrapped my hopes around that subject as though it were a gift I could give myself later, when other mysteries were resolved.

It was slim satisfaction that over the past two months, I’d come to realise neither Father Luc nor Brother Christy ever quoted Scripture, or spoke about God the way any true clergyman would. While Ahmad and Christopher Goodin often alluded to spiritual matters, they didn’t discuss the principles of Christianity. And who observed the commandment concerning adultery? Sexual gaming was the primary focus of the people here, when they weren’t tending the orchards, cooking, or otherwise maintaining the idyllic lifestyle of this mountaintop retreat.

As I huddled beneath my blanket, I also pondered the mysteries of the perpetual spring weather. I’d been imprisoned without my tunic, and had taken it off several times for outdoor encounters, so I was grateful the wintry conditions in Colorado Springs didn’t exist here. I wondered if Heaven’s Gate had always posed as a monastery, or if the clothing I’d seen in the vaults indicated other types of communal situations over the years.

And what of Father Luc? If Brother Christy and the others weren’t monks, did this mean their abbot was only pretending, as well? As his narrow face came to mind, framed within that close-cropped beard and sinister black moustache, I shuddered to think who he really might be. I told myself Sybil didn’t know him any better, so couldn’t warn me that the abbot’s cover might differ from the book inside. I didn’t want to believe that she too, had betrayed me, used me for her own wayward pleasure.

Then my thoughts wandered back to what Brother Christy had said about visiting Hyde. Did my lover know me well enough to suspect the story and note were fabrications? Would he drive up the mountain anyway? He trusted the angelic-looking monk — just as I had — so perhaps he’d believe the lies Mrs Goodin had written. My best chance was that, while settling details of my parents’ funerals, he’d seen more of my handwriting than Hortense had, so he might recognise hers as a forgery.

Or was I fooling myself? Was Hyde just playing along like the others — supplying new members occasionally, for the enjoyment of those who lived here? I’d been all too willing to share my quilting profits, when Heaven’s Gate was apparently self-sufficient. And I’d certainly gone along with their erotic suggestions, swallowing explanations about pent-up energy and fertilising trees that now sounded hollow to my wiser heart. I didn’t know what to believe any more, or who to believe in.

When I took a slice of bread from my tray, however, a fluttering piece of paper made me grin. It was a note, signed by Sybil, who must’ve scribbled it when she saw Brother Christy was to deliver my meal today.

‘My dearest Mary Grace’, the precise script began. ‘Keep up your strength and your spirits! I have a plan for seeing you safely through the rites — Hortense and the abbot be damned! We all miss you! Your Sybil.

P.S. Here’s something to entertain you. Dream of me as you enjoy it.’

Oh, how I wanted to believe her — to believe my room-mate, rather than the warped woman who imprisoned me, had actually written these words. The tray was arranged like any other day, with two large slices of bread lying on top of some ham, and an apple alongside. When I picked up the second slice of bread, however, I laughed out loud. She’d sent me a chocolate cock!

Clear syrup oozed from its hole, so I put the candy to my lips. The sweet smoothness of the chocolate was spiked with a peppermint liqueur that tingled on my tongue. Its warmth blazed all the way down my throat as I sucked, closing my eyes dreamily. The dingy cell faded away. I imagined Sybil’s sly smile as she’d tucked this under my bread — imagined what she would do with this chocolate novelty, if she were here. And if the syrup was making my mouth feel so warm and alive…what might it do to my privates?

I leaned against the wall and spread my thighs. The first contact with the candy had me exhaling blissfully, calling to mind the wax erection I’d straddled on Brother Christy’s copy of Hyde. The peppermint sang delightfully wherever it touched my sensitive skin. My mouth went slack. I rubbed the tip of the cock around my inner lips, circling my clit until it throbbed to life.

It seemed a shame no one was there to lap at the chocolate as it melted around my pussy, but Sybil wouldn’t want this to stand in the way of my enjoyment. I envisioned her kneeling between my legs, guiding the dildo around my hole, which ached at the thought of her gazing there, teasing me with just the right pressure. As the chocolate softened, mingling with my juice, I imagined my room-mate licking the sweetness from me with whimpers of desire — which, I then realised, came from my own throat.

I shoved the cock inside me, thrusting to meet Sybil’s tongue and insistent lips. I squeezed the cylinder with my inner muscles, relishing its minty heat as my quivering began in earnest. In and out, quickening as my need rose, harder and faster I pumped, dreaming of the red-haired siren who’d enticed me so many times. She would be grasping my arse-flesh as she flicked her wicked tongue around my clit, still driving that shaft inside my eager cunt. My honey mixed with the melting candy, dribbling between my thighs as I worked myself to the point of climax.

With a series of soft cries, I succumbed. As the spasms began, it was Hyde I imagined, plunging deep into my pussy as he thumbed my clit. His cinnamon eyes burned into mine as the peppermint pleasure enveloped him. With a clenched grin, he drove his cock into me until we both convulsed in a wet ecstasy that smelled like he’d used a huge candy cane. I climaxed with a shriek that sounded very loud in the little cell. The only noise I’d ever heard from above was the rumbling of the pipe organ, so I felt confident no one could hear me.

As I fell back against the wall, however, the hinges creaked. My eyes flew open as my hand instinctively covered my dripping slit.

Father Luc stood in the doorway. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, while his gaze took on an unsettling glimmer. In the fading light of afternoon, those eyes glowed like coals as he ogled every exposed angle of my body with obvious intent. The door shut behind him with an ominous thud. He then dropped the key ring to the floor, to kick it back through the slit.

Someone on the other side picked it up. Was Mrs Goodin, the keeper of those keys, his accomplice? Or had Brother Christy escorted the abbot down here, betraying me yet again? Father Luc’s expression told me he’d heard every moan and shriek while I’d pleasured myself, and that he felt compelled to follow that same sweet path to his own satisfaction.

‘Move your hand.’ His gaze remained between my legs as he stepped closer.

I shuddered with the chill that suddenly filled my cell.

‘I said move your hand!’ the abbot barked, his eyes flaring with the volume of his voice. ‘Your modesty fools no one, Miss Michaels, so we might as well stop playing games. I’ve come to make you an offer, but I must be obeyed!’

My heart thudded as I drew my hand up my abdomen. The candy cock remained in my slit, with chocolate syrup and my own juices dribbling out around it. Father Luc knelt, and then deftly removed the dwindling dildo with his thumb and forefinger.

‘I can give you so much more than this,’ he murmured, rubbing the melting pecker around my hole. ‘In fact, I’ve come to invite you to be my protégée, Mary Grace. Along with this privilege comes a reprieve from the rites of the vernal equinox, where you’d be pawed and mauled beyond your worst nightmares…perhaps beyond your endurance. Although I sense you’re nearly as insatiable as Sybil and the rest of us.’

I shifted, trying to disguise my arousal. ‘You’re saying that if I accept your offer — to become yours, and yours alone — I won’t have to serve as celebrant?’

‘That’s correct. And since your fear of that role is so strong I can smell it, you should seriously consider accepting.’ The abbot continued to circle my slit with the chocolate cock, his face tightening with need. ‘It’s a generous offer — and I wouldn’t hold you to making the rest of those quilts. You could live here without obligation, except to satisfy my desires. But I’m not leaving this locked room until I have your answer.’