***Thanks to everyone who has commented or given me feedback! I am humbled by the kind words and admiration!
...there is more to come, perhaps 1-2 more parts. Keep letting me know what you think!
-QP***
*****
Annika was in a room, large, with the same bluestone walls and high arching timber ceilings. It was undeniably a church, yet it had been transformed, for other means. At the altar, a large circular pit gaped darkly in the ground. Lord Nicholas Bloodstone and a group of men in black robes, including the old tall man, stood at its mouth. In the dark wooden pews facing the altar, townspeople sat solemnly. Some turned to view Annika as she was nudged from the elevator from the three washerwomen. Most of them did not look at her. They were dressed in black, serious, still. They seemed like mannequins. Annika thought it was like they were attending a Christian funeral and this realisation chilled her as she passed pews, taking it all in, wide-eyed.
Besides the elevator which seemed to replace the confession boxes, the altar was perhaps the most modified part of the church. The yawning abyss, perhaps two metres wide, lined with a bluestone lip, was concerning. It sat in the middle of the altar, close to the pulpit, which had black curtains and a gold symbol with what looked like a monstrous octopus embossed on it. Annika stared at it, thinking about what Chris said about the sea stories. Her imagination conjured a tentacle beast, redolent of a Kraken, desirous of human sacrifices and she cried out, "No!"
Annika was close to the pulpit and the grey-clad washerwoman with the blunderbuss hit her in the ribs, trying to silence her. She barely noticed the sting and she fell to her knees, staring at the priests, at Nicholas, who towered over her, menacing and powerful. She gasped for breath, looking around at the people in the pews, who seemed to be under a spell or within a trance. The moment was horrific, surreal. Her temples pounded and she wanted to be sick.
"Annika, my dear," Nicholas said, his voice like silk, gliding towards her with his hand extended. He was so tall; perhaps six foot nine inches in height and this added to his presence. At his feet, Annika gazed up, submitting. She allowed him to help her to her feet; cognizant that she looked wretched, with her hair tangled, her dark eye-make up smudged and her oddly fitting white antique dress. The Lord who had fucked her - perhaps against her will, but perhaps she had enjoyed every moment - took her hand delicately. She grasped his elegant white hand in both of hers and she wet her lips as she recalled how his long fingers had been skilled at rubbing her clit to an earth-shattering orgasm. She remembered him licking her and she was amazed at how composed he was, how statuesque he was in front of her. His cold black eyes regarded her with pity - and Annika loosened her grip on his hands as she saw a cruel smile curve his mouth. He was enjoying this! And a hot jolting instinct shouted at her that there was worse to come.
"Interpol have been notified," she hissed at him. "If you let me go now, I won't tell them that you touched me. Your little game is no longer amusing! So release me right now! Or else!"
Nicholas chuckled. "The whore threatens me," he mocked. "She wants to cry rape, although she clearly wanted it. But I need to be nice to you now. You are chosen, after all."
