Mist filled the valley, winding and ribboning through the woods and caressing the buildings of the village, dank with the river's breath. It shivered as it slipped through the gaps under the doors, filled with barely-seen shapes and a faint murmuring, heard by infants and the very old. It swirled along the roads, hurried along by unfelt breezes that were tinged, now and then, with the sharp bite of brimstone.
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In the simple room above the inn, Webster turned over in his bed, teeth clenching as he listened unwillingly to the sounds from the next bed, the roughly woven linen curtain drawn between them blocking nothing of the moans and grunts of his partner's nocturnal activities.
He was far from a eunuch or lover of men, he thought, back arching involuntarily as he heard the woman's shaken groan behind the curtain, his partner's low laugh. He acknowledged the edge of sour humour that was almost undoing his desperate attempt to keep his increasing arousal locked in his throat. Gage knew he would hear. He sometimes wondered if the hunter deliberately drew the loud responses from his women to ensure that he'd hear.
It wasn't that he'd taken vows as the monks and priests did either. His hand slid down the long muscle of his thigh, almost without volition. He merely thought that their quests would be served and aided by the higher powers if they didn't cavort in the muck and chaos of being so ... animalistic.
Shivering as his fingers ran along his length, his eyes screwed shut, his imagination feeding him an image of the blonde, leaning over him, her fingers stroking him. Heat uncoiled deep in his groin, his shaft thickening as another long, low moan behind the curtain was accompanied by the faint squeaks of the bed being rocked. In his mind's eye, he saw the blonde's face slack with pleasure and her big breasts shuddering with every hard thrust.
His chest hitched slightly as he forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly. His hand curled around the base and he squeezed slightly, trembling as he drew it up slowly, his body rigid as he tried to keep the sounds that the sensation generated held down behind his teeth. Liquid dribbled from the head and he smoothed it down the length, speeding up a little, the gasps and cries of the blonde woman fuelling his imagination and hardening him unbearably.
"Oh, sweet, fucking vixen," Gage's deep baritone voice rumbled from behind the curtain. "Dear god, yes!"
Mother of mercy, what was he doing to her – or she to him, Webster wondered, his body trembling as his grip tightened and he quickened, pulsing waves of pleasure beginning to wash through him, in involuntary rhythm with the noises across the room.
He couldn't help the low groan, thigh and back muscles contracting sharply as his balls filled and stretched and lifted and his cock throbbed against the fierce grip of his hand, hearing Gage's low laugh with a barely registered flash of anger that dissolved in the shuddering burst of incoherent pleasure, his seed spilling over his fingers and his hips jerking upward helplessly, driving himself hard into his hand.
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All Hallows Convent
Father Martin walked around the girl, his eyes narrowed and considering as his stare raked every inch of her bared body.
She was lovely, in the manner of some mortal beings, delicate and fine-boned, her womanly curves neither lush nor lacking, but proportionate in the manner of good breeding.
High, firm round breasts, the nipples standing out with cold or embarrassment right now, the areoles a dusky rose that matched the colour of her lips. Her hips, still with a girl's narrow curves, were pleasingly wider than the slender waist and she was soft yet slim, with the coltish aspect of youth. His imagination too easily furnished an image of those long, straight limbs wrapped around him, those slim hips driving against his. Her hair, freed from the confines of wimple and coif, was long and silky with a curl that became more pronounced at the ends, a shade something between ripe wheat and redder hues of barley. Her skin was pale as milk, smooth and unlined, unmarked by a single blemish or line that he could see. His fingers twitched, impatient to touch it, and he closed his hands into fists.
"Patience, go to the desk and lie back on it," he told her, his voice calm and even.
To his delight, she obeyed instantly this time, turning and walking to the broad, mahogany desk, climbing onto it and lying on her back, her legs pressed close together, her hands held rigidly by her sides and her hair spread like late-afternoon sunshine over the edge behind her.
He followed her slowly, letting his eyes feast on her. "Open your legs, child," he said quietly, stopping in front of her knees. "To be suitable as a bride of God, all must be pleasing in form and function."
"Father, I –"
He leaned on the edge of the desk, looming over her. "Do not presume to understand the necessary requirements for the life you have chosen, Patience. You will not question what I must do, nor will you question your feelings of such things. With meditation and prayer, you will come to understand all of this, and that understanding will furnish the depth of commitment that must be in your heart when the time comes to give yourself over to your Lord."
His fingertips brushed her knees, trailing from outside to inside with little more pressure than a cobweb's brush and she trembled under them, easing her legs apart slightly, then a little more as Father Martin moved to stand between them.
"More, please," he said softly, his eyes on hers as he moved that ghostly touch higher, and her shivering increased. "What use is renunciation when one knows not one is renouncing, Patience? Chastity is the gift of women to their God, but a true vow takes a deep knowledge of the sacrifice being offered."
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Patience closed her eyes, feeling the lids screwing tightly shut as the priest's featherlight touch slid up her thighs. Her body was shaking, with fear, with shame, with the unknown sensations that were drawn from her skin, transmitted through nerve endings to what felt like the centre of her being, building a heat and a craving there that seemed to be spreading like sun-warmed honey through her limbs and organs.
"God has given us a mighty gift," the priest was saying, although she could hardly hear him above the pounding of her blood in her ears and she could hardly make sense of his words through the ever-deepening ripples of tormenting pleasure that felt as if she was being liquefied inside.
"The ability to create new life, to procreate," Father Martin mused, brushing the deep honey-coloured curls of her sex aside. "For most creatures it is a mechanical act, driven by instinct. Not so for us, my dear child."
She froze, her muscles becoming completely rigid as he slid a finger along the folds of her sex, and the liquid feeling inside of her shook and spilled, letting his slow exploration of her glide across her heated flesh. She could feel the moisture trickling down her folds, could smell now a faint odour, tinted with musk. Was that coming from her, she wondered incoherently? She didn't dare open her eyes, look up at the man who was generating those reactions.
