The Bells That Toil Part 5

The day has been long. Pyotr and Hasmet have been doing the rounds, visiting the border fortresses, checking the numbers, the readiness of the troops and their weapons, keeping constant communication with Scouts, who report that the Pruczian army has stopped a day and half away, and have encamped, with no sign of them moving forward. The thinking is that they are waiting for reinforcements. The Pruczians know that if they are to attack the Galatai, they must come equipped with a sizeable army.

Guards have been posted double strength in and around the Dungeons. There is talk that Pruczians might infiltrate the borders in stealth to free Gergiuze.

Meanwhile, Pyotr's mind has been on Gergiuze. A sickening feeling, of weakness of self-betrayal hounds him. He cannot help thinking of her, even when he tells himself that she is not worthy of his time. Yet, there she is, the hollows of her underarms, her resplendent breasts, her flat, svelte stomach, and the soft incline down between the two burnished rivers of her legs.

These things cannot be erased. Never has woman been born so beautiful. Even this thought is a kind of betrayal and he is wracked with guilt. How could he face Maimun tonight, who has been given his instructions to be ready to serve him when he returns. He knows, like a faithful dog, she will be waiting for him.

Tonight, the guards are on high alert, and will be for the next few days. The night is eerily calm, but he knows, in its cavernous darkness, a menace brews, stirs, waiting for an opportunity to reveal itself.

When he enters the house, the serving girl kisses his hand, and kneels, waiting for instructions. The house is quiet. Not a soul stirs. He wonders where Maimun is. Or even Elzabete, his second wife, young, and shy, and loyal like Maimun, but Pyotr finds her needing a tenderness that he cannot muster just yet. Too much is on his mind. Only the mental sturdiness of Maimun can see him through this, even if he is feeling guilt course through his veins.

Where is Lady Maimun?

She awaits you return, Lord.

He nods silently. Get to bed. Rest well.

Very well, my Lord, and she scurries off.

As he ascends the stairs, his thoughts unwittingly return to Gergiuze, and the hatred he has for her is mingled with an uncontrollable desire he cannot erase.

In he steps into his bed chamber, the light is subdued, a soft scent emanates. He knows this to be her scent. He senses the scent before he sees her, she is kneeling, her thighs parted, her upturned palms placed on her knees. She sits upright, shoulders pulled back slightly, so that her back arches, and this pulls up her breasts, her flesh shimmering in the light of the candle.

As he enters, she looks up at him, and her thighs spread wider, and she leans backwards, her palms circling back to support her frame and she stretches out, like a platter, opening herself for his perusal.

It is as if he has been struck by a force so excruciatingly terrifying, he does not know where he is. Somewhere from the night, another image crashes into his consciousness, an image of a woman in chains, taunting him, just as Maimun is tormenting him now. Maimun's display of love, of complete obedience and submission to his lust, a willing receptacle of his manly desire, now seems like a mockery, a stark reminder of his own guilt, his own betrayal of Maimun.

He would give anything to erase this moment, to erase this image. His rage builds, but he fights to control it.

Stand, he says.

But is as if she doesn't hear him. She remains stretched like this, offering herself opening herself to him, her sex parted, her breasts capping the stretched and straightened torso of perfection, an invitation to sup on her canvas.

He says again, Stand, and this time, she returns to her original postion of presentation, the formal pose all women take when they declare their allegiance and submission to men.

Why do you wish for me to stand when I know my lips await instructions to pleasure you?

Why do you wish for me to waste more words, when you know what I want from you, woman?

She is surprised by his tone. A slight crease in the forehead reveals her puzzlement. But she also knows it has been a trying day. News has come from Hasmet, who has happened to speak with Elzabete, and she knows her husband has been called into action. She knows he must be carrying a burden no one can imagine.

Silently, a smile now on her face, she rises, gracefully, and raises her hands above her head, and as she does so, she lifts her breasts, for his viewing pleasure, a symbol of her undying devotion, a gesture that says, You own me, You have me, I give myself to You.

He looks at her, paces around her naked form, the form he has used and abused over and over again adding to both their pleasures. He circles her, wordlessly. She remains in this position, she does not change. She knows his ways well enough, and remains on display, to be used, in any way he wants, whenever her is ready to use her.

He wants to ask her, do you mock me with such a display. He thinks twice, though. The only reason he wishes to ask this question is because of what it reminds him of -- Gergiuze's display at the Pora. But he does not voice his thoughts, because he knows she has always presented herself to him this way in the privacy of his bedchamber. Yet, Gergiuze's image, her presence is in this room.

I do not want your cunt.

Two seconds pass, the words hovering, and she registers them, and without a word, she bends forward, her knees bent slightly, and she arches her back, and places her hands on the cold floor before her, and presses her cheek to the floor, propping herself up by the shoulders that also press against the cold floor. She reaches behind to the upturned arse, and parts her cheeks.

The handmaid, Maimun's personal girl, kneels in the shadows of the chamber, ready to assist the act, this ritual of savage love, when called upon. Now she is called upon.

Undress me, he says.

The girl rises, also wordless, while her Mistress exposes herself on the floor, her body gleaming under the light, her receptacle ready to receive him. The handmaid works fast, undoing his clothes, then his boots, then his pants. She gasps at the bulge that is revealed, and then when she pulls down the undergarment, the member, strong and radiating heat, slaps her face gently, and gasps, and pulls away, not wishing to touch his sacred body anymore than she has reason to.

She moves to get the cream, made from the seeds of the Corca tree, pummelled to pulp and mixed with honey, a concoction the Galatai use as lubricants. But he holds her hand, stops her, and shakes her head. The handmaid's eyes widen, then casts them down to the ground, nods, and scurries back to the shadows.

He steps towards the waiting arse of his wife, and without warning, without lubricant to ease the way in, he holds her waist tight, digs his fingers into her flesh and rams into her, feeling her flesh part, tear at the impact. He knows how her body will react. She convulses in pain, instinctively trying to pull herself away, but his grip holds her steady, and he stays deep inside, thrusting and thrusting until all of him nestles into a her brown passage. Her body shudders, convulsing, her screams echoing through the House, like the whimpering of a dying animal.

Then he lifts her off the ground, like a rag doll, attached to him merely by the pin that pierces her through her nether regions, and bending his knees to gain firm footing, he holds her steady by the waist, and pounds his phallic lust into her. She screams, a forlorn scream, but soon the pain is so overwhelming for her that her screams stop, and she descends into a semi conscious state, suspended by his arms.

When he is done, he retracts himself from her, throwing her onto the ground. The handmaid rises to run to Mistress' aid, but Pyotr stops her with his glare. She is moaning, curling into a ball, spasms running through her.

Who are you? He asks.

I am nobody, I am what you make of me. She mutters these words, somehow, amid the pain coursing through her. His phallus is still erect, still rearing to go. It has not finished.

Stand, he says.

It takes her a few minutes to stand, and once she finds her feet, and steadies herself, she raises her hands again.

He stands behind her.

I do not want your cunt.

And once again, she bends, positions herself, a willing dog to her Master's pleasure. They say dogs are loyal even to their deaths. Pyotr knows this bitch will never betray him, though one is never sure about women.

Three more times he drills into her. Each time, she loses more and more consciousness, but each time she stands again, and receives him. She is nobody, but what he makes of her.

The handmaid is sent away when he is completely spent, and when they lie together, he spoons her, kisses her neck, caresses her shoulders her hair, her buttocks, her waist, kneads her breasts. He says nothing else, but she knows, this is his language of love. Soon they are asleep.