She was a young woman, still but a girl. She felt very young as she stood, waiting to experience something the thought of which quickened her heart and moistened her woman's core. This was her first time. A solo test that, if she passed, would allow her to join that elite group of women at the Palace. The Choir. Many tried. Few passed.
She did not fully understand why she had put herself forward to join the Choir. There were riches to be had, but there were also many bad things that could happen to her. There were so many things she did not know, but had heard whispered. Pleasures beyond endurance for those who were good enough. She did not know why the Choirmaster had decided to allow her a chance to show whether she was good enough to become part of the elite. He was an old, crumbling man with hands that felt like damp tree bark on her smooth, young skin. His voice had been cold and empty as he had told her to undress. During his first assessment his rough fingers had lingered on her breasts and pubis. His dark, lizard eyes had stared into hers as he slipped his finger between her vaginal lips, feeling for her nub and tracing its size and profile, as if he was academically appraising a precious artefact. She had shivered inwardly in repulsion, but she'd refused to flinch or show embarrassment. When he had finished he stood back and looked into her eyes. She returned his stare with youthful boldness, and saw what might have been a shadow of respect flit across his ancient features.
Now, three days later she had once again left her family and her home in the village, and had approached the rear entrance of the Palace. She was met by a nervous young male servant who led her through writhing corridors to a room where he told her to bathe and changed into a dress. He watched her from the door, told her that he had to so that she did not escape to parts of the Palace that were forbidden. She dried herself and put on the dress, moving with young, innocent grace. There were more corridors that finally uttered into this place where she now stood. The Performance Chamber.
It was smaller than she had expected, more a large room than what she might have called a chamber. The walls were hung with velvet drapes in blue and purple. The curved row of thirteen Performance Chairs were a mere ten paces from the Prince's Choosing Throne. Next to the Throne was a low, wooden platform which she knew from her preparation studies would become the Bed of Devotion each night the Prince required a Performance of the Choir. A spicy musk scent hung in the air of the room, something ancient and primitive.
Here was the Choirmaster again, in his blue silk robe. Tall and still upright, despite his heavy years. She had heard scandal that his son was unlikely to be made his successor. There were rumours of his secret meetings with more than one member of the Choir. Was this why the old man looked so cold and inhuman? Like a living corpse. She shivered, although the room was warm, heated from a fireplace on either side of the room. She calmed herself by closing her eyes and listening to the soft crackle of burning logs.
She was startled by the percussive clap from the Choirmaster as he dismissed the young man who had brought her here. She had noticed the man lingering in the doorway, giving her curious glances. Before he turned to scurry away he stared at her. There was wonder in his eyes, and something else, a widening that could have been fear. For her?
The Choirmaster gestured for her to move towards the left hand Performance Chair. If she passed this test this would be the chair she would use when she sang with the Choir for the Prince. The thought made her heart beat quickly and her breath caught in her throat. Stop! She must no allow herself hope. Not yet. She forced her breathing to slow.
Silently, and as if from nowhere her Performance Partner appeared. He was perhaps five years older than her own seventeen summers. He was tall, strong and sleek. Naked to the waste. Beautiful. Her eyes dropped lower, drawn like doomed moths to the huge bulge in his fine white silk trousers. She felt his eyes blazing at her, but she could not meet them. She could not bring herself to lift her head or she knew she would be drawn to his mouth, as a wild animal stares at succulent food inside a deadly trap.
And yet she knew she must now step forward and form the Bond with this strong, hard man. The protocol demanded that such a Bond be formed between all Choristers and their Partners. She knew that, because she was new, he would have been chosen for his expertise. She held on to the same determined courage that had first brought her to the Palace, and took the two steps needed to press her body against his warm, perfect skin. He responded to her approach, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into him. She felt his firm muscles through the fine black silk of her performance dress, the only item that clothed her. She closed her eyes as she raised her head to him, surrendering, waiting for the touch of his big, hot lips upon her own mouth.
This was her first kiss. She had read about the Bond, knew that this was a necessary part of her initiation. But no instructional text had described the sensation she felt now, as his lips caressed hers. The sensual power of him made her gasp, and with the parting of her lips she felt his tongue glide inside her mouth with an intoxicating mix of strength and tenderness. The tip of his tongue traced patterns over the surface of her own. The sudden intimacy of it was overwhelming. She felt wet tension in her loins. The feelings that ran through her were strange, and delightful. His bulge pressed through the fine fabric of her garment, pushing hard into her moist softness. He was kissing her, but slowly, she began to know that she was returning his kiss, as their lips and tongues brushed and curled in gentle copulation. What had started as an act of necessary acceptance was becoming something more mutual. Something that made her legs quiver and her insides throb. A pleasure she had never known. Until this moment.
The sigh from the Choirmaster was almost inaudible, but its authority caused her Partner immediately to pull his lips from hers and to step back from her. Now she looked into his eyes. Yes, they blazed. A primordial blue. Her gaze could not leave them as he led her to her Performance Chair. She finally broke her locked stare and looked down at it. It was made from finest, oiled walnut wood and did not resemble a normal chair in any way. She sat down on two round disks that were a hands width apart. She made sure that she did not sit on the fabric of her short dress, but that it hung behind the backs of the discs. It felt strange, but not uncomfortable. The discs projected towards each other from an outer frame. At the front of the frame was a bar just above the surface of the Performance Stage. Her Partner knelt and tied her ankles to this bar so that they were spread apart by perhaps the length of her forearm. The straps were made of finest calfskin, soft but very strong. Now he tied her thighs, just above her knees, to a different part of the frame. A wider strap went round her lower stomach and pulled her tight into the wooden back of the Chair. Finally her wrists were tied to another bar of the frame so her arms were pulled out almost straight, at breast height.
She knew the final part of his preparation required her to sit very still. Firstly he placed a small, sticky pad either side of the softy, curly hairs of her pubis. Wires from the two pads led to a small box on the wooden frame. She had read that one of the greatest sins during a Performance was to falsify a Song. These sensors would indicate that her Performance was genuine in every part and a light on the Chair would illuminate if it was not.
The final and most intimate part of her preparation was about to begin. Her big, beautiful Partner lay down on his back and reached under her. She felt the soft grip of what she knew were rubber tongs closing round each of her labia. He adjusted something which pulled them apart very slowly. At the point where she tensed with discomfort he wound the adjustment back a little. The whole preparation had taken perhaps two minutes. Enough to allow her anxiety to build, but not enough for her to start thinking of what was about to happen to her. Now her Partner moved beside her, bent forward, kissed her again with his sweetness. Her helpless vulnerability heightened her excitement and her lions began to ache with need. But for what? She did not know.
The Choirmaster dusted at his gown as her Partner moved behind her. She heard the sound of a mechanism sliding and then felt his breath under her, blowing hot, intoxicating wafts against her most private place. A place that was now utterly exposed. To him. She gripped the bar in front of her to steady her head as feelings and anticipation of unknown desires whirled inside her.
The first touch of his tongue upon her made her cry out softly. Her mouth opened involuntarily. She knew that the muscles in his tongue would be mightily powerful, built through years of training. If she had anticipated anything it was that she would feel that strength against her. But she was not ready for this! This glorious stirring of her very core. A slow, licking caress that made her shudder with pleasure and arousal. His hot, wet strokes rasped against a part of her body that she herself had only touched by accident while washing herself. That self touch upon the strange nub had felt nice, but her watching mother had looked with disdain, so she had never explored herself further, believing it to be forbidden.
Now the tip of his tongue traced circles around her nub, probing other intimate parts of her. She fell into a swoon of sexual delight. His tongue pressed more firmly against her now, and began to lick her with a rolling rhythm of pure ecstasy. His stroking of her gradually became faster and faster, building huge, oily waves of sensation inside her that caused her to squirm in her chair. It was too strange. The intensity was too much. She wanted to push his mouth away, to give herself respite for a moment. But there was no rest for her. Only his long, tormenting tongue, stroking faster and faster. Something was building inside her, like a giant coil of rope being wound tighter and tighter. The heat from his mouth seemed to burn upwards through her soaking passage and into her womb. She began to cry and moan in time to the building waves. His eternal, infernal licking grew faster and harder still. She was slipping, falling.
